Farewell 2010

Times Square, New York City 

It is that time of the year.  A time for reflection and deep thought about what the heck happened over the past year.  Since I am a glass half full kinda girl, I'd like to reflect on mostly good things from 2010.

The very best thing about 2010...drum roll please...I actually got a paying job!  Yes, it is part-time and yes, it is an iffy situation at best, but gosh darn it, I love getting a paycheck (even a small, measly one).

Just a joke y'all!

The absolute worst thing of 2010...I had to get a part-time job.  Sigh.  Small mom and pop businesses are struggling all over the country and we are no different.  We hope and pray things pick up, but we have changed our business plan in an effort to adjust to the circumstances we find ourselves in. 

Another good thing...I attended the Crossroads Writer's Conference in Macon and wormed my way into a great local writer's critique group.  I have learned so much from this group and have met some wonderful writers.  Even though I have missed some meeting recently (see above worst thing), I look forward to joining them in the new year with the revised revision of the second draft of my novel (just the first five pages...y'all don't worry).

Sweetie joined a hunting club in the next county which was a really good thing.  We have met some really nice friends and he has a home away from home during deer season.  Their covered dish dinners are yummy! Sweetie hasn't seen a live deer in his hunting area yet, but he assures me they are out there.

I discovered Myron Bolitar, Harlen Coben's amazing character quite by accident and now I am devouring Coben's delicious books.  I have also been re-reading Jane Austen and can't believe how much I had forgotten.  Every so often I re-read my favorite novel, A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford.  I like sweeping family dramas about strong successful women. 

Ad Hudler's novels made me laugh out loud, especially Southern Living, which is set in a fictitious Southern town suspiciously similar to my hometown of Macon.  He is working on a memoir that, after hearing him in person, I know will be a hoot!  I can't wait for that.  I'm also anxiously waiting on Mary Kay Andrews latest novel.  Rick Hutto's recent book, A Peculiar Tribe of People, about a nefarious Maconite unveiled a seamy tale of murder and mystery...can't wait to find out who and what he wants to write about next!

On the down side, a little story I wrote a few years ago about Christmas was officially rejected several times over.  I've put it aside for now because I know it needs a lot of work.  The bitter, biting sting of rejection from numerous little pinpricks slowly eased into my soul in an effort to suffocate my creativity.  But I put on my big girl panties and with the help of Chunky Monkey and booze (not necessarily in that order), I survived each assault.

I will keep writing daily.  That is my number one resolution.  I will refrain from Chunky Monkey UNLESS two rejections arrive on the same day.  Resolution number two.  There will be no mention of cocktails on my resolution list.  I will share my other resolutions on another post in the new year.

Back to the best, maybe the bestest yet...starting this blog!  I have thought about it, dreamed about it, and finally, buckled down and just did it!  I plan to make some changes in the new year to Pine Trees and Random Morning Glories, but I will continue to post. 

I continue to surprise myself by learning new ways to communicate  Who in the world thought I would ever tweet?  I love to tweet!  And I am a proud Facebook friend, happy and thrilled to find old and new friends across the country. 

I wish a Happy and Healthy New Year to all of you and I want to thank y'all for reading my posts.  My blog has been visited by folks from across the world.  I am amazed, truly humbled, and much obliged. Thank you so much for visiting with me and I do hope y'all will come back again real soon!

Welcome 2011 and please have a safe and happy holiday!

Merry Christmas Y'all!

Every day is a holiday with the Hollidays! 

My family used that phrase often, especially during the holidays.  One Christmas we received a message on the answer machine.  It was a man singing, "Happy holidays, to the Hollidays," in a deep, Frank Sinatra-style voice. We never found out who it was.

This will be a short post...Mama's here visiting and she's about to drive me crazy (and it's only been 30 minutes)!

This is my dog Presley.  I think her expression says it all...

Merry Christmas y'all!

Santa's Coming!

I worked for Belk-Matthews at the Macon Mall in the mid-1980's.  I started in the visual merchandising department as a temporary Christmas employee and went on into their management training program.  I became a buyer in the Vidalia store, then a department manager in the Macon store.

Working in retail means working a heck of a lot during the holidays.  It means working at night and weekends right up to Christmas day, then back again the day after.  But this is not about the hours or the weird customer problems encountered.

This is about Santa.

As a treat during the holidays, I would splurge on lunch or supper at the mall, usually going over to the Macy's store when there was a restaurant in the department store.  A group of us would meet there and relax for a while until it was time to face the shoppers in our store.

As I crossed back over to Belk's one day, I noticed the mall Santa walking toward us, headed for his throne which that year was on the lower level between Belk's and Macy's.  I smiled and waved to Santa, laughing with my friends.

"Hey Santa!  I've been a good girl this year," I grinned as he waved back to me.

"I know Fran, I've been watching you," Santa called out as we all stopped in our tracks, my friends staring at me.  He kept going toward his area where the elves and a long line of parents with excited children waited.

Was it a case of Santa stalking...or...is he real?

Road Trip - Part 4 A Nice Ending

Beautiful, huge, pine trees

Oregon is a beautiful state.  The interstate scenery is quite majestic.  We finally made it to Oregon City, which is a suburb of Portland and is where Chuck and his wife live.  Our first stop was to his workshop to unload the big truck then on to his home decorated for Christmas.

Oregon City was also the end of the Oregon Trail, the trail that many settlers took across the country.  We had a couple of days to tour Portland and we thoroughly enjoyed the visit.  Chuck took us to a vibrant, bustling shopping area which reminded me of the way Ingleside Avenue used to be in Macon.  This busy area was several blocks long, filled with shops and restaurants.  We saw many sweet refurbished, older bungalow-style homes on the small streets surrounding it.

Portland, Oregon skyline

There were several antique shops and as we checked them out, I found my Christmas present.  In one of the shops, there was a salesman's sample of an Empire chest.  Sweetie and I collect Empire furniture and I immediately knew I had to have this. 

Sweetie agreed, but asked how was I going to get it back to Georgia.  No problem, I assured him, I'll carry it on the airplane.  Now, let me add, I had just spent fifty plus dollars at UPS to ship my books, pillow, and additional presents I had purchasedduring our trip, in a really big box to ship to Georgia. We planned to travel lighter on the flight home.  Really.

Sweetie paid for the chest and when we got back to Chucks, I gently wrapped bubble wrap around my little chest and slid it into a large Boston Market tote bag with handles that Chuck's wife found.  Perfect fit!  I was good to go! 

And ready to go.  I'm a home body and we had been away from home a long time.  Hello Delta, take me home.

Not so fast.  First thing, we were flying standby on a 6 AM flight from Portland to Atlanta.  Which meant we had to get to the airport by 4 AM.  Which meant I had to get up at 3 freaking AM.  We are not morning people.  Since we were running slightly late, I did not have a chance to get my coffee.  Yikes!

Chuck said not to worry, Portland's airport is not really large and usually is not so busy.  Well, he was wrong.  When he dumped us out at the Delta check-in, the line was out the door.  We finally made our way to the kiosk, figured out how to validate our tickets, checked our suitcases (thank goodness this was pre-bag fee), and rushed to go through security (pre-revealing x-ray and/or touchy-feely search).  As our coats and my pocketbook, briefcase, and Boston Market/Empire chest went through the x-ray and Sweetie and I stepped through the metal detector, they called our flight.

We grabbed our things, shoved our feet in our shoes, and headed for the gate.  Then Sweetie asked if I had his boarding pass.  No, I did not.  He had it when he went through security, but somehow had lost it.  Great.  We turned around and dashed toward the security desk.

Right when we arrived back there, someone had turned his boarding pass in.  Hallelujah!  We high-tailed it back to the gate.  Everyone had boarded except us and eight others flying stand-by.  The ten of us huddled around the gate agent while he perused his computer.  Then he told us to have to seat while they did a head count on the plane.  Very scientific, I must add.

By now, I'm fine with taking a later flight.  I knew the next flight left around noon.  I envisioned a big cup of coffee, maybe a Cinnabon or even a real breakfast. Sweetie paced around the waiting area.  He was really ready to get home.  Well, we were called and inched our way through the plane packed with people.  We found an empty overhead bin and stuffed the chest inside with our coats around it. 

A few minutes later, a flight attendant, looking for additional overhead space, pulled the Boston Market bag down and loudly asks who did it belong to.  I raised my hand and she handed it to me, nicely ordering me to slide it under the seat in front of me.  Well honey, it would not fit.  So it sat on my lap while they made their final walk-through.

"Ma'am, your bag will have to go under the seat," the flight attendant stopped at our row and frowned.

"It won't fit," I smiled nicely as the man sitting on the aisle rolled his eyes. 

"Let me take it," she demanded as I handed it over.  "What is it?" she asked, realizing it's not a bag of food.

"It's a salesman's sample of an Empire chest," Sweetie explained.  I knew he was thinking he might sell it before we touched down.  Wrong.

"It won't squish down," I added nicely, again.

"No problem," she whisked it away and I craned my neck to see it go into Business Class.  Damn, we're stuck in the back, packed in like sardines and my little chest is riding home in Business Class.  What's wrong with this picture?

We arrived in Atlanta, no worse for the wear, and we waited while the pack of other sardines made their mad dash off the plane.  We gathered our belongings and headed toward the exit where several flight attendants and one of the pilots anxiously waited for us to leave. 

"Bye-bye," one said blandly.

"These are the ones," another said as she handed Sweetie the Boston Market bag.  "The nice ones," she  said, "our best passengers today!"

"Thank you!" I smiled my most charming, Mama raised me right, smile. 

We finally made it home!

Mr. Itty Bitty posing next to salesman's sample Empire chest

Road Trip, Part 3 California Dreamin'

California is a really big state.  Well, duh!  It took our small caravan three days and two nights to transverse the state, heading for Oregon.  Sweetie Pie and I in the big Budget truck following Chuck in his truck pulling a small enclosed trailer.  Somewhere near Los Angeles, Chuck calls to say he needs to pull off Interstate to refuel. 

Since we had just been inching along in late afternoon California traffic, it was time for a potty break too.  We exited into a business area that had seen better days.  By the time Chuck found a filling station that sold diesel fuel too, I had changed my mind about leaving the truck.  Potty time could wait.

He pulled into a very small station and Sweetie squeezed the truck past a woman sitting in a car blocking most of one side who glared at us.  We had to wait for a pump, so Sweetie tossed me the keys and told me to move the truck when the pump was available.  Yikes! 

I jumped down and dashed around to the driver's side.  A bevy of young men standing behind the small store were yelling at someone, hopefully, not me.  Since I couldn't understand yelled Spanish, I sat there and waited to inch forward so we could fill up. 

Sweetie came out and motioned to me to go around the building.  The young men had been trying to tell me the diesel pump on the other side was open.  Ohhhhh!  Boy oh boy, was I embarrassed by my instant, wrong judgement call.  Proves the point that people are nice just about everywhere, if you pay attention.  I smiled my best and charming, little ol' Southern lady smile as I waved and backed the big truck up and pulled on the other side. 

We finally made it through suburban Los Angeles and headed North on Interstate 5 where we stopped for the night at one of the nicest Ramada Inn's I had ever stayed in.  Comfy mattress, nice, thick towels, and a working television.  What more could I ask for? 

Day two in California found me amazed, simply amazed at the vast agricultural acreage that stretched for mile after mile.  I had forgotten that California produces a lot of the fruits, vegetables, and nuts we see in our Kroger in Georgia.  We also followed the aqueduct system that serves most of Southern California as we headed North. 

I love farmland, farms, and anything to do with farming.  I guess that's why my major at the University of Georgia was Agriculture-Journalism.  I bet y'all didn't know that about me!  There is something about freshly plowed dirt and acres of green pastureland that speaks to my heart.  Can't explain it.  I was not raised on a farm, so no one can explain why I can get teary when I drive past a beautiful farm.

Later that afternoon, we took a slight detour and drove toward San Francisco.  We followed Chuck across a bridge as he called back and told us to look to our left.  The Golden Gate Bridge in the distance was on our left.  The thing was, well, it was foggy that day on the water, so we didn't really see it.  I guess we took about an hour or two and who knows how much fuel to not see the Golden Gate Bridge, but that's alright.  It was fun seeing how the houses seem to grow out of the hills and mountains around the city.  There were lovely flowering vines spilling over walls and down the mountains as we rumbled past.

We made it back to our planned route and kept truckin' on North.  The landscape had changed in the course of two days from the arid, desert area of Southern California to a lush, green, heavily wooded Northern California.  It was breathtakingly beautiful!

We finally stopped for the night in Yreka which is almost to Oregon.  It was FREEZING.  Literally.  The small swimming pool at the motel was frozen over.  We were in the mountains, dark, looming mountains that I knew were right outside of our motel window, but I couldn't see in the darkness.  Then the motel clerk said they were expecting snow in the next few days.  SNOW! 

More to come...

Road Trip, Part 2 - Signs of the Times

Texas is a darn, big state.  Two years ago this week, Sweetie and I drove a big Budget rental truck across this country, headed for Oregon.  There were two things in Texas that stood out.  First of all, in the rest stops along Interstate Twenty, there were tables set up around the restroom area where American Indians were selling jewelry.  Not just one or two Indians, but a dozen or so.  Entire families at some tables.  Several generations, babies to grannys.  But the jewelry, and I am no expert, looked to me like any jewelry you might see at Smiley's Flea Market in South Bibb County.  I'm just saying....

Of course, Sweetie and Chuck did not let me linger too long for my research.  It was back in the truck and keep on driving.  Interstate Twenty dead ends into Interstate Ten and before I knew it, we were in New Mexico.  Here's my second thing about Texas.  I did not see a single cowboy riding the range as we drove through mile after mile of open range.  I did not see a cowboy anywhere, and believe you me, I looked.

I love cowboys.  My life-long romance began when I first saw Roy Rogers on TV.  It was love at first sight.  I guess it's something about a man on a horse or maybe I fell in love with Trigger.  I've always loved horses too.  My parents always believed I would out-grow my obsession with horses.  That did not happen, sorry folks.

By the time we got to Phoenix...yes, I'm a big Glen Campbell fan but Sweetie made me stop singing out loud in the truck.  I started looking for something a little different.  We stopped at another rest area on the interstate.  (With the big truck and another truck pulling a trailer, we rarely left the interstate other than fuel stops.  The easy off and on rest areas worked best for potty breaks.)  I had just jumped down from the truck when a small sign next to the sidewalk caught my eye.

"Please watch out for rattlesnakes"

"What?" I pointed to the sign, as Sweetie and Chuck dashed toward the men's room.  "Y'all, look!"

Needless to say, it was hard for me to enjoy that bathroom break.  My head rotated back and forth as I searched the stall, under the sink, behind the trash can, and around the rocks for a snake.  It was probably the fastest bathroom visit in female history.  For once, I was thrilled to climb back up in that truck!

We finally made it to California!  It was a rocky, desert, deserted desolate stretch, not the swimming pools and movie stars I expected.  As we headed toward the Los Angeles area, where we would pick up Interstate Five to go north, I noticed a sign.  "Chuckawalla Valley State Prison, next exit".

About a half mile past that sign was a small sign along the road.  "Do Not Pick Up Hitchhikers".  Really.

To be continued...

Road Trip

Our backyard in Blue Ridge, 12/01/08

December the first, two years ago, it snowed in Blue Ridge.  I remember that because that was the day Sweetie Pie and I were leaving on a cross-country trip.  I was so excited, I had not slept the night before.  I had never driven across the country in my life.  I was thrilled.

Ok, it wasn't a vacation or anything fun and exciting.  Sweetie Pie and a buddy had been helping a guy, I'll call him Chuck (not his real name) move to Oregon from Atlanta.  Sweetie had already made two cross-country trips, driving trucks to move him.  One trip they flew back, the second they drove a motorhome back.  Sweetie warned me that it was work, hard work, up at dawn, driving all day, and repeat it for the next four or so days.  I was still excited about going.

Chuck and his wife had driven the motorhome from Atlanta to Oregon to move their pets, two elderly dogs and several cats.  Sweetie and his buddy drove a big Budget truck with their furniture.  That was the second trip.  Each time they had gone the Northern route and I heard how beautiful the countryside was. 

On the first trip, they drove through mountains, looking down on fields of sunflowers in the valleys.  The second trip the mountain tops had snow.  That is why we were going the Southern route.  And this time, I was the tag-along, extra driver (I am a good truck driver).

So we climb into the cab of the huge Budget rental truck, in several inches of snow.  My suitcase was squeezed on the back of the truck and my carry-on full of books, cross-word puzzles, maps, and snacks, plus my pillow, my heavy coat, gloves, scarf, hat, and what have  you were shoved on my side of the cab.  Oh, and we had a small cooler for refreshments between us (I used it as an arm rest).  I do not travel light.  Sorry.

Chuck was driving his truck, pulling a small enclosed trailer and we are following him.  Our first stop was in Montgomery, Alabama to pick up some furniture he had in an antique mall there.  Of course, I found some things to buy.  I had to do my Christmas shopping!  So my small box of things were crammed into the back of Chuck's truck while the two guys grumbled about my shopping.  Get over it, please, we still have a week or so to go. 

We spent the night in Montgomery at a Drury Inn.  I don't want a big breakfast, but at the Drury, it is included.  Sweetie and I usually stay in more modest accommodations when we travel and are lucky to get a muffin in plastic wrap for breakfast.  This was a deluxe breakfast buffet and I swear to you, the very best scrambled eggs I have ever eaten were on that buffet.  They were fluffy and light and seasoned just right.  Yummy!  Note: I have just started eating scrambled eggs in the last few years.  Most of my life, I did not eat any kind of cooked eggs, scrambled, fried, omelet, whatever.  Anyway, these scrambled eggs were divine.  I had to find out what the cook did to make these so delicious.  I found the cook in the kitchen, ignoring the employee's only sign, and asked her.  She would not tell me.  I begged and pleaded, in my best charmingly way.  No luck.  She followed me out to the dining area and watched me heap another helping of scrambled eggs on my plate.  I gave it my best, I won't ever tell another living soul, spiel as I daintily shoveled the eggs into my mouth.  I complimented her cooking ability.  I really laid it on thick.  I made Sweetie and Chuck get third helpings.  Nothing worked.  Oh well.  Some mornings I still dream about those scrambled eggs...

The Southern route that we took, Interstate 20, is not very exciting, but I was thrilled as we passed from Alabama to Mississippi to Louisiana.  I had never driven through Louisiana, so that was a first for me.  Plus I got them to stop before we crossed the Mississippi River, so I could sight-see.  They gave me five minutes.  It was muddy that day.

By day three we were still crossing Texas.  We hit Dallas-Fort Worth at rush hour and Sweetie made me drive that portion.  It felt like we were in Atlanta traffic.  We stopped in Abilene that night and found a really good Tex-Mex restaurant that served late.  We were back on the road early the next morning.

To be continued...

New Thanksgiving & Old Bulldawg Memories (Who you callin' old?)

Mama visiting - picture taken last year

Thanksgiving is OVER and I survived a five day pre-cleaning, pre-cooking sprint; the actual day of marathon; and the three day after-party.  And all I got was a lousy cold.

But I survived the first in-law visit to our humble abode and, as God and my friend Laura as my witness, I was on good behavior.

Unfortunately Laura left before the future in-law, I'll call her Sadie Sue, removed her dentures to enjoy an early evening second Thanksgiving meal.  But Laura was there for the other 'delightful' happenings (I'm gritting my own teeth here).

Laura was my ears and eyes as I was stuck in my tiny kitchen ("Where is your dishwasher?" Sadie Sue gasped as she stared at the dishes piled in the sink.)  I accepted her somewhat distracted help then shooed her outside with the others so Laura could get the full effect of Sadie Sue. 

It was not pretty.  I will not go into details, but suffice to say my concerns are not out in left field.  By the time Sadie Sue and her family climbed back into the silver Hummer, Sweetie and I breathed a sigh of relief.  Thanksgiving was over...but Mama was coming to visit.   (Cue the theme from "Jaws")

Just kidding!  Mama's visit was very nice and brief, just a three day, two night sleepover.  By the time she arrived after I got home from work on Saturday, I was actually looking forward to seeing her.  Sweetie was, well, happy too.  Really.

We decided to take a break from Thanksgiving left-overs and headed toward town to our favorite Chinese restaurant.  Knowing it was Saturday night, we were surprised to find we were almost the only diners there.  Then we remembered "The Game" was on and this place did not have a television set anywhere (which is why we like it).  The food was delicious and we still made it home to see the second half of "The Game".

Daddy graduated from Georgia Tech, so the first 18 or so years of my life, I was a Rambling Wreck from Georgia Tech.  The first cuss word I learned was 'hell' from their fight song.  I remember singing it at the top of my lungs.  Daddy LOVED Tech and had season tickets for years.  I knew how much he hated giving them up when it became obvious that he was unable to physically attend the home games.

I even had to talk to the representative from Tech when it was time to think about college.  Now, back then, Tech had very few women although the nice representative blithely told me Tech was the fastest growing girls school in the Southeast.  Now it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out.  Going from a few to several in a few years time would increase your percentages.  But I'm not a rocket scientist and I told the nice Georgia Tech rrepresentative that math was not my best subject. 

Ok, so I went to the University of Georgia and became a Bulldawg.  Daddy tried to talk me out of it, but I think secretly, way deep down, he was thrilled I was going to Athens.  I knew for a fact, Daddy enjoyed going to UGA games whenever his buddies invited him.  By then, Mama and Daddy had the Green Machine Motor Home, so I became the designated parking place holder when they were headed to Athens.

The favored parking spot was on Ag Hill in a small lot near the Science Library.  Late on Friday afternoon before game day, I would park my blue Pinto (1973 model - did not explode) in the exact, designated spot Daddy desired.  Then on game day morning, I would receive a call at the crack of dawn telling me that they were leaving Macon and to be ready to move my car in two hours. 

The tail gate party was supreme and I was thrilled to be included.  One game, I ditched my student ticket when Dr. Popejoy invited me to sit with him in primo, expensive seats with arms next to the press box.  It seems that Mrs. Helen was unable to go at the last minute, so he had an extra.  I think the seats were actually Mr. Comer's.  it was indeed the finest, forty yard line, covered by a deck, seats with arms seat that I have ever had the pleasure of enjoying.  And I could see Larry Munson as he called the game.  It was really neat!

These days watching "The Game" at home is just as fun, if not better because of the amazing camera angles and shots that fans in the stands might not see.  But I do get tired of the constant chatter from the announcers and I miss the roar of the crowd as the team takes the field and the Redcoat Marching Band music in the stands.  Television does not do justice to the wonderful sounds of University of Georgia Football.  Goooooo Dawgs!

Thanksgiving Anniversary

Jack & Corky Holliday, Spring 1993

Happy Thanksgiving Y'all!

Sixty one years ago today, Cordelia Dessau married Jackson Riley Holliday.  It was a small, at-home wedding.  The Methodist preacher stood in front of Grandmother's living room fireplace as the guests gathered around. The black and white photographs show a happy couple.  They drove to Florida for their honeymoon then returned to Macon to make their home together, first on Clisby Place, then in the house Daddy designed on Vista Circle.  We always called it 'The House That Jack Built'.

They celebrated their Golden Anniversary in 1999 with Sweetie and me in Atlanta.  It was also Thanksgiving Day and we were setting up at the Pride of Dixie Antique Show.  Set up was always on Thanksgiving and the show opened on Friday.

Mama decided that they would drive up and take us out to eat after we unloaded and set up our booths.  Since most, if not all, restaurants were closed by late afternoon that day, she made a reservation at the Simpsonwood Conference and Retreat Center located on the Chattahoochee River.  It is run by the North Georgia United Methodist Conference and is a beautiful and idyllic location.  It was overcast and cold late that afternoon as the four of us drove over the river and through the woods to get to this place.

We were pleasantly surprised and delighted to find such a lovely venue for our Thanksgiving dinner.  There were two other large family groups celebrating Thanksgiving there and they graciously welcomed our small group into the dining room.  The various families included several young children who all were well behaved, thank goodness.  The food, turkey with all the trimmings, was amazingly good for such a large, banquet-style facility and we all enjoyed the fellowship we shared. 

As we walked out after our pumpkin pie dessert, a member of one of the families stopped us to ask if we could be related to him.  Were we from Uncle Joe's side of the family, he politely asked with a twinkle in his eye.  We all chuckled, knowing the answer.  We were the only white guests that evening!

It's a Hooo, Hooo, Hooo

Late this afternoon as I walked Presley up the hill in our usual walking direction, I heard the soft hooo, hooo, hooo from across the road. We stopped walking when she paused and looked up. I followed her gaze and watched an owl land on a pine tree branch above our heads. The owl was a mottled brown and as I stared at it, it blended into the pine bark. I blinked a few times, trying to focus fifty some odd year old eyes. This must have been the owl I had just heard.

By now, Presley is sniffing around the pine straw so I was about to cluck to her to move on (I know, clucking is for horses but old habits die hard). I glanced back up in the tree and another owl landed on a branch above the first one. Wow! Then the first owl took off, headed toward the lake and in a few seconds the other one followed. Their wing span was surprisingly large. They were larger than I realized.

Thanks to The University of Georgia, Museum of Natural History for their Georgia's Wildlife Website, I discovered that these were Great Horned Owls, common in Georgia and the largest owl in the Southern United States. Their call is a long series of hooo's (the website used 3 o's).  They live in wooded areas and hunt mostly at night.

Presley and I continued out walk as daylight slipped away, enjoying the almost full moon that rose over the quiet lake. And as we walked through the dark woods, I called out a long series of hooo's, hoping for an answer.

The Electric Horseman (1979) - Stealing the horse (HQ)

Enjoy a tidbit from the movie.

My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys - Willie Nelson

This is the opening to the movie The Electric Horseman.

Be Still My Beating Heart

Now that I'm working part-time, yippee, my off days are busier than ever, but I did manage to sit down yesterday afternoon to watch The Oprah Show.  I wanted to see Robert Redford.  Oprah's guest was Barbra Streisand and Bob was the 'surprise guest'.  Barbra is a fine entertainer, but enough about her.

When Robert Redford walked out to the stage, my pulse quickened and my heart started beating just a little faster.  Yes he is older, but he seems comfortable in his appearance.  My questions are about his hair.  It looked blond with grey around his face.  Does he color it or was it a really good toupee?  Has he had plastic surgery?  Hmmmm.  Don't care.

According to my research, Bob is 74 years old now.  He was 37 when he played Hubble in The Way We Were in 1973.  That was 37 years ago.  He was a fine 37 then, he is a fine 74 now.  That was a good movie and I've seen it often, but it is not my favorite Redford movie. 

My favorite Redford movie is The Electric Horseman with Willie Nelson and Jane Fonda.  Bob plays Sonny Steele, a rodeo star who sold out to big business, gets fed up, steals a then-million dollar horse and takes off in the desert.  Jane Fonda plays a reporter who is trying to get the story. Willie Nelson plays Sonny's sidekick and that was his screen debut.  The horse is beautiful.  The scenery is beautiful.  Bob is, well, you know.  That movie was made in 1979 when he was 43.  

I do like other Robert Redford movies, but put him on a horse and I'm a goner.

What Did You Do In The War Daddy?

Jackson R. Holliday

My brother and I often asked Daddy about the war. World War II. He proudly served in the Army Signal Corp. Mama still has his Army trunk in the basement, but she gave his uniform, pins, and training manuals to a World War II museum that wanted memorabilia from the Signal Corp, with our blessing.

His trunk was in my Grandmother's attic for years, along with my Uncle Pete's trunk from the Navy. I lived in the Hines Terrace house twice over the years and stumbled over those trunks many times. It is a wooden trunk and heavy as lead. Ask Sweetie Pie. He had to bring them down when we sold the little brick house. I want that trunk, but don't really have room here; hopefully Mama will continue to store it.

 Daddy went into the Signal Corp while at Georgia Tech. He was sent to the University of Maine for training. He had graduated from Lanier High School in the ROTC program, so he knew how to march a platoon. After a few days, he was tapped to march the men although he was a lowly Corporal (I think that rank is right. Forgive me if I'm wrong. It's too late to call Mama.)

When Sweetie and I married, we honeymooned in Maine and drove up to Orano and walked around the University campus. It was beautiful and I think Daddy was thrilled that I took the time to visit. He and Mama had made the trip up there a few years prior and found the dorm the Army used when he was there.

After training, Daddy was put on a troop ship and sailed through the Panama Canal. The ship was crowded and the sea was rough. Rations were limited. Daddy, a healthy member of Tech's swim team, wasn't bothered by seasickness. He and a few buddies would sit at table during meals and gently sway together, causing less hardy boys to hastily jump up and leave the mess, leaving their uneaten rations and more food for them.

Sailing through the Panama Canal was a highlight of Daddy's life. He was fascinated by the engineering feats involved to transport the huge ships from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific Ocean. He talked about it the rest of his life. He saw the world in the Army and was also intrigued by his visit to Japan. It is hard to imagine the awe these young men felt, most of whom had probably never been out of their state, much less their country, when they arrived on foreign soil.

I wish I could sit down with him again and ask him about the War as an adult. We are fortunate that there is a video of Daddy talking about his life. It was a project through Georgia Tech and in it he talks about his service to his country. I took so much for granted, his memories and recollections of a time long ago I had only read about in books and seen in movies. I'm sure all of his stories were sanitized for children's ears, but we loved to hear them over and over.

What did you do in the War Daddy?

Trouble Sleeping?

The other night a Facebook friend posted that she could not sleep.  I know that feeling too.  I'll toss and turn for hours it seems, trying to find a comfortable spot, trying to stay warm.  Suddenly I'm too hot, so I kick the covers off.  I definitely can not sleep if the room is too hot.  Studies prove we all sleep better when the air is cooler.  I agree with that.

When I can't sleep, I try to stay quiet and calm so not to disturb my Sweetie Pie.  He is not so calm.  I can always tell when he can't sleep.  He's up and down, walking to the kitchen, to the bathroom.  That causes the animals to shift and move too.  And by morning the covers on his side are twisted up like a pretzel. 

Presley in her bed with my books

We like to read in bed at night, before lights out.  I have a huge stack of books in my 'waiting to be read' pile next to the bed.  I have to make sure the pile doesn't topple over onto Presley's dog bed.  She doesn't like it when that happens.  Recently she has been staying in the bed with us.

I finally managed to get their picture on here!

Reathie is on the left, Otis on the right

That is funny to me.  When Sweetie Pie and I married, my two dogs Reathie & Otis slept on the bed with me.  First of all, there was room, since I had been sleeping single in the double bed (ok, it was a queen size), there was room for both of them.  After we married, our first real fight was over the dogs in the bed.  He won, I cried, the dogs got over it.  So now when Presley hops up, instead of chasing her off the bed, he loves on her and acts like she is the best thing since sliced bread. (Ok, she is. Really.)

I have recently discovered the author Harlan Coben and I am officially obsessed with his character Myron Bolitar.  It has just been in the last few years that I ventured out of my comfort zone of reading and I have to admit, I missed some really great books.  Thank goodness for Kema's Bookstore in Gray!  It is a wonderful used bookstore and Kema will find whatever she doesn't have in stock.  

That's the problem when I read at night.  I will stay up late, late, late when the book is really great!  Just one more page, just one more chapter.  After Sweetie complains for the umpteenth time, I'll reluctantly put the book down and try to sleep.  Good characters stay in my brain while I'm trying to relax and sleep; currently Myron is barreling through my thoughts.

Here are two remedies I practice when I have trouble falling asleep.  For years, instead of counting sheep, I count jumps. I'm riding a big, bay Thoroughbred jumper and we are racing through a rolling, green course.  As horse and rider approach the first jump, I can feel the horse gather himself under me as he sails through the air and over the jump.  One.  Now we gallop down a small grassy hill and again, I feel him shift as he leaps across a wide stream.  Two.  And on and on. (btw...I never rode jumpers, but I think it would be a lot of scary fun)

This is me on Darby Dare, 1970

He was definitely the prettiest horse I ever owned!

The second one is more personal to me.  No, it's not what you think!  In my mind I walk into the barn at Ficklings Farm and down the wide aisle to Darby's stall.  Darby Dare was my second Saddlebred and I boarded him for a while out on Rivoli.  I can visualize every inch of that place.  So, I grab a lead, hook it to his leather halter and lead him up to the cross-ties.  Then I begin grooming him, brushing his bay coat until it gleams in the sunlight like an antique mahogany table.  His grooming routine is from head to tail, ears to hooves.  Then I walk to the boarder's tack room and grab my saddle.  He grunts as I tighten the girth around his belly and I have to remember to check it before I get on.


Then I go through the process of bridling him.  I can almost feel his soft mouth as I slide my finger in the back recesses of his mouth to get him to open for the bits.  Hopefully, by this time, I'm drowsy enough to relax into sleep.  Most of the time I don't make it past the grooming routine.  And for the last resort, I'll get up, grab my book and head to the living room where I can read for hours undisturbed.  Sweet dreams y'all!

Then Sings My Soul

Happy Sunday!

A favorite from a good ol' Georgia boy, Alan Jackson.  When I was in the seventh grade Sunday school class at my Methodist church, our leaders were all male.  That was the first time I ever had a male teacher.  All my teachers so far had been female in Sunday school and in grammar school. 

Unfortunately, I don't remember the gentleman's name who was our song leader, but I can see him as clear as day as he sat down at the old, beaten up up-right piano in that small Sunday school classroom and started to play.  We sang old hymns every Sunday and thus began my life-long appreciation for traditional gospel music. 

The other thing I clearly remember was that my neighbor was one of our leaders.  Now, I had seen Mr. Neighbor almost daily for the past few years and his children were close neighborhood friends.  He was a fine man and I was fortunate to know him personally as well as through the church.

Sunday evenings in our little neck of the woods would find several neighbor families hanging out together.  As the adults enjoyed their cocktails, the kids watched Ed Sullivan.  We ate take-out pizza from the Shrimp Boat up on Vineville.  That was the only pizza I ever had until Shakey's opened on Riverside Drive.  Those Shakey's sing-alongs always reminded me of my seventh grade Sunday school class, except for the pitchers of beer our parents shared.

Maybe we'll have pizza for supper tonight!

Giant Dog Lurking Behind Fridge

I glanced up from my computer and noticed this.  To me it looks like a giant dog's head.  I normally do not like anyone to see my messy house, but in this case, I thought this was too funny not to share.

Can you figure out what it is?

Divorce, Halloween Style

Twenty-three years ago on a beautiful, sunny, but cool October 31st, I got married.  For the first time.  It was a lovely wedding and I was blessed to have my family and friends surrounding me with their love and support.  The wedding was at noon so we had brunch type food at the reception.  My favorite picture from that day was my Daddy, finally able to sit down after we left the reception, and he was holding a huge ham croissant from the buffet, just about to take his first bite!  My other favorite picture was of Mama and her two sisters.  The three were all wearing precious hats that had been their mother's.  It's a scream!  I wanted to share those photos with y'all, but I'm having issues with downloading and/or scanning photos right now. 

Many of my mother's friends questioned why we would choose Halloween for our wedding, but listen, that year, 1987, was an off weekend for the University of Georgia because they were to play Florida the following weekend AND Georgia Tech was playing an away game that evening.  So the only thing that got messed up was some early tee times...

Alright, so here's where the story gets twisted.  Seven years later, I filed for a divorce.  I know, it was bad, and honestly, he's a nice guy and all, but he was a crummy husband.  I have a distant cousin who lives in Warner Robins and she is an attorney.  She said she would handle the divorce.  It was a no-frills, no fussing over anything, standard, if divorce is standard, divorce.  She said once it is filed, it would take thirty days to be final and she would call me to give me the date.

About a week or so later, she called and calmly said, "Fran, your divorce will be final on October 31st."  I was kind of speechless, then I started laughing and told her that would have been my anniversary.  She offered to have it changed.  I said, "no, it's perfect!  My anniversary will be my divorcerary! How's that for a strange, but true story?

Ghost Story, Part 3

Happy Halloween Eve!  Here in Milledgeville, trick or treaters will be roaming the streets Sunday, October 31st.  If I rationed correctly, I'll have enough candy left to handle the 4 or 5 neighborhood children that I expect will knock on my door.  I try not to buy candy too early in October because I would hate to have to run out tonight to buy another bag of Reese's cups. 

When I lived on Stanislaus Circle in Macon, Halloween got a little out of hand due to big kids, not in costume, who would pound on my screen door, not even say 'trick or treat', but hold their backpacks out for me to fill them up.  Then they would leave without a 'thank you' or a 'kiss my @#%'.  I stopped staying home on Halloween. I would leave the dogs inside, leave all the lights off, inside and outside, and hightail it over to a party somewhere.  Oh, those were the days...

This ghost story happened in the little Stanislaus house.  I have to remind y'all that I did not live in one of the Big, Beautiful Stanislaus homes, but in a small bungalow, on the back corner, across from where the new Kroger is.  That's funny.  I guess it will always be the 'new' Kroger to me.  My house was across the street from the house on the corner that backs up to the railroad tracks.  Now that entrance to Stanislaus Circle is walled off, completely blocked off.  When I lived there, I called it the demilitarized zone.  The small houses were the buffers between the Big, Beautiful homes and the rest of the world.  But I loved living there.

When Sweetie Pie and I married, he moved in with me on Stanislaus.  He was working at the Methodist Children's Home, just down the street, so I think he married me because he was less than five minutes from work verses the hour or so drive in from Milledgeville.  I was using the third bedroom as a den, so we decided to change it back to a bedroom for the weekends when his children stayed over with us. 

He had a bed that had been his mother's and we put it in that room for his son.  It looked great in the room with the nice, boyish green, burgundy, and gold plaid comforter and bed skirt.  The bed had been in the house several weeks and the kids seemed to like visiting with us for their Daddy weekend as we all adjusted to being a new family.

There was a hallway from the three bedrooms to the kitchen and I usually left our bedroom door open at night so the dogs could come and go.  Their beds were on the floor on my side of the room.  When I was between husbands, they slept on the bed with me, but Sweetie Pie put a stop to that.  That was our first fight.  He won.  I cried, but I understood.

So one night, I woke up in the dark.  It was three forty seven.  My heart was pounding.  I sat up in bed and noticed that both dogs were up, alert, but not moving.  They were looking out of the bedroom door.  I had the strangest feeling that someone was in the hallway.  Did I say my heart was pounding?

I punched Sweetie a few times and whispered that someone was in the house.  He reminded me that our security alarm had not gone off and no one could have come into to the house without setting off the alarm.  I asked him to go check anyway.  I won't repeat what he said, but you can imagine. 

As my feet hit the floor, I snapped my fingers and both dogs followed me to the hallway. I flipped on the hall light as both dogs silently walked to the kitchen.  No one was there.  No one was in the house.  Otis and I patrolled the entire house (that took 3 minutes).  Otis was the larger dog and could look menacing, but he was really a cream puff.  Reathie dashed back to her bed in our bedroom.  The alarm was still armed.  I went back to bed.

Later, weeks later, Sweetie mentioned that his mother passed away in that bed.  I asked what time did she die.  He said it was in the middle of the night.  I might be wrong, but I think his mother somehow came back to check on him, on us, and her bed.  I hope she was pleased.

Spanish Tomatoes

I wish I had leaned how to speak Spanish at some point along the way.  Way back in time, at Alexander IV Elementary School for Boys and Girls, Mrs. Greenway would come to our class and converse with us in Spanish.  Her daughter was in my class and was the only one who understood what she said.  They had just moved to Macon from somewhere like Puerto Rico and were exotic and temperamental.

Home grown tomatoes are a staple in the South.  Everyone agrees that nothing tastes finer than a slice of fresh tomato with a dab of mayo on white bread.  I have tried to like fresh tomatoes.  Almost every day this past summer, I made a tomato sandwich for Sweetie Pie for lunch.  I do not like fresh tomatoes and I  think I know why.

In Mrs. Martin's second grade class at Alexander IV Elementary School for Boys and Girls, the exotic and temperamental Greenway girl (I'll try to keep her anonymous, but we all know and love her) decided one afternoon to pitch a little hissy fit.  In Spanish.  I can't remember why she was so upset, but she stood up in the aisle, she was in the front, I was a few desks behind her (alphabetically, of course) and while screaming something in Spanish, up-chucked her lunch. 

It went everywhere! Up and down the aisle.  Under desks it spread, creeping down closer to me.  She must have eaten a tomato sandwich for lunch.  Little red chucks inched their way toward me as I held my feet up, my knees almost hitting the underneath part of my desk.  I think I had repressed that memory.  And that is why I can not eat a tomato. 

Oh, why I wish I knew how to speak Spanish.  Today at work, Carlos and his helper were there to move furniture.  I was there to show them where to place everything.  My boss was there to be in charge.  Bobby, who is hearing impaired, was there, well, because he's there all the time.  So I'm nicely making suggestions to my boss about what needs to go where.  Boss, he's rolling his eyes big time.  Carlos is telling his helper, well, I'm not sure.  They talked and laughed and talked some more.  I sure do wish I knew what they said...

Ghost Story, Part 2

Officially, I am now obsessed with Ghost Adventures on the Travel Channel and I have discovered a possible faked scene.  I am not a bona-fide historian, but I love history.  So when the guys from Ghost Adventures began looking for ghosts in Gettysburg, PA at the battlefield, I was interested, if not a little afraid. 

I've always heard stories about ghosts in battlefields around Georgia.  The radio personalities from Alabama, Rick and Bubba, sent one of their guys to the Chickamauga battlefield and he was totally freaked out.  I used to watch their radio show when it was on Turner South.  I loved that channel!  Especially the show Junkin'.  I am aware that Rick and Bubba are not bona-fide ghost hunters, but you have to admit, they are pretty funny sometimes.  But I digress.

It came as no surprise to me that ghosts and spirits exist at Gettysburg.  The tv show went to a house that is on the edge of where the battle was fought.  A young woman who lived there was killed by a stray musket ball as she worked in the kitchen.  Supposedly, her fiance, a Union soldier, had been recently killed in another battle, so she was in mourning for him when she was killed.

Well, these guys go into her house in the middle of the night and using some of their super-duper ghost hunter equipment, cameras and audio recorders, start asking her questions.  One question was if she had anything she wanted to tell her fiance before he died.  The audio recorder allegedly picked up a voice saying "I'm pregnant". 

OK, wait a dad-gum minute.  First of all, I would like to suggest that young women in the 1860's would not use the word 'pregnant'.  I believe they would say 'I am with child' or 'I am carrying a child'.  Second, I don't believe a young woman who may or may not be carrying a child out of wedlock would announce to anyone, much less the spirit world that she was in that condition.  She lived in the 1860's, not the present day.  Is it possible that these guys are "enhancing" their ghostly experiences?  Will I be frightened if I watch it again?  Stay tuned...

Ghost Story

Last night I watched back to back episodes of Ghost Adventures.  I made Sweetie Pie stay in the room with me until the second hour was over.  I know that they probably use special effects and ghostly experiences are rigged or staged, but I was creeped out.  I hate to tell y'all, but I'm a wuss when it comes to scary things.  I don't usually watch that kind of thing, but I found it as I was clicking around the channels and I was kind of curious.  Is it real or not?  Do ghosts or spirits hang around?  Maybe...

Years and years ago, I was a volunteer at The Hay House as part of my Junior League placement.  That year, I was a Sunday docent, working twice a month.  Now, I need to back up and tell y'all about my Grandmother Holliday.  She was a Sunday tour guide at The Hay House for years, before The Georgia Trust became the owner of Macon's landmark home.  Grandmother was a friend of Mrs. Hay, and she and other friends were dedicated to helping the Hay family when they opened the house for tours.

Many Sundays we (Daddy, Mama, my brother, and me) would pick up Grandmother for lunch after church.  She attended Vineville Baptist, we attended Vineville Methodist, so we would swing down Hines Terrace where she would be waiting on the sidewalk in her Sunday dress, pocketbook on her arm, gloves on her hands.  Brother and I would squeeze together in the back of Daddy's Pontiac so she could get in.

We usually went to the Elks Club on Mulberry Street for their Sunday buffet.  Marshall would greet us and pull Kennedy half dollars from behind our ears.  Amazing!  Marshall was another Macon landmark.  By the time Brother and I were thinking about the dessert table, Grandmother would be checking her watch.  She was due there at two and hated to be late.

We rushed through dessert and dropped her off by the front steps where Chester would open the door and help her inside.  Chester had worked for the Hay family and was the official greeter there for years.  Several times we tagged along and listened to Grandmother as she gave tours through the beautiful home.  I think her dedication to The Hay House was the impetus to my volunteer involvement when I returned to Macon after UGA.

So, one Sunday afternoon I was at The Hay House.  I'm not sure of the date, but it was winter and a cold, drizzling rain had kept most visitors away that day.  The regular docents were back in the kitchen to stay warm while I manned the desk and waited for the doorbell.  The house was quiet.  I could hear their murmurs from the kitchen and the rain as it hit the windows. 

I knew there were only the three of us in the house.  The earlier guests had been long gone, but we had about another forty-five minutes to stay open.  As I sat there, I thought I heard someone in the front parlor.  I walked through the marble hall toward the front door and glanced in the parlor.  There was no one there.  I looked through the pocket doors to the next parlor.  There was no one there.  The house was quiet, but I had a really creepy feeling as I glanced over my shoulder to the marble hall.  I was still alone.  I had to get the hell out of Dodge.  I turned and briskly walked through the rooms to the dining room and burst through the swinging door, startling the docents who stared at me.

"It's really coming down now," I gamely said as I shivered and stepped in front of the heater.  I wasn't about to explain that a ghost or something chased me back there.  Now, I know y'all are thinking it was just a branch brushing against the window or the rain pelting down on the steps.  There must be a rational explanation.  I agree with you on that.  There must be some explanation.  Maybe...

Friday Nights Alright

I'm working part-time now in an antique shop over at Lake Oconee.  More about that later; I'm still the newbie there.  I only work Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, so today is my hump day.  The middle of my work week, so to speak. 

As I drove home (it's 23 miles door to door), I realized most of the people I saw around me were excited because it's Friday night and the end of their work week.  There was definitely more traffic as people headed to restaurants and movies.  I guess Friday will always be date night.

Sweetie Pie and I don't go out much and we rarely ever have a date night.  Back in the good times, we traveled a good deal for our antique business so when we were home, we preferred to eat at home.  Plus it's a heck of a lot cheaper!  We also don't like to travel on holidays.  Our rule: if you want to see us during a major holiday, come to our house.  Mama doesn't like that rule very much, but she enjoys visiting us.

One plus for living in a small house is guests don't hang around.  We have one full bathroom in our bedroom and one half bath in the extra bedroom.  And the extra bedroom doubles as a storage room too.  There is a path around the bed and to the door and to the half-bath.  Oh, and the half bath is also the laundry room and utility room and home to the cat's litter box.  Every room in a small house must do double duty!

Back to date night.  I want to see the movie Secretariat at the movie theatre, so I'm lobbying for a date afternoon.  Sweetie Pie would rather go hunting.  Maybe I'll just have to go see it by myself.

There's No Cryin' in Writer's Groups (until I showed up)

This morning when I walked Presley, I heard her!  In a light drizzling rain as my dog and I walked toward the road, I heard my neighbor's horse whinny.  I smiled as I pictured the smallish roan mare leaning over her fence, waiting to be fed.

We have lived here over a year now.  When we first moved, I discovered that a neighbors kept a young mare in her yard.  I was thrilled.  This neighborhood is almost rural although we are close to the lake and close to very expensive lake real estate.  Finding a horse living so close to me was an unexpected blessing.  Most of y'all know how much I love horses.  That love goes way down deep in my soul and although I do not own a horse at this time, I will always dream about them.

When we lived in Blue Ridge, in the North Georgia mountains, I walked at the county park around a one mile track that followed a small creek and circled baseball diamonds and soccer fields.  Across the creek was a farm.  When we made the difficult decision to leave Blue Ridge and move from the most wonderful place I have ever lived, I wrote the following essay.  I hate to be a crybaby, but when I read this at a writer's critique group I attend, I couldn't finish reading it aloud. I forgot that there's no cryin' in writer's groups!  I wanted to share it with y'all.

All This I Will Miss...

Early morning walks at the county park where the walking path circles the ball fields, the sounds of recreation stilled for now.  The path follows a creek three-fourths of the way around; during dry times it is a picturesque bubbling brook, sliding over creek rocks as it winds through the valley.  In wet seasons, it turns into a roaring thunder of mud-colored water, obliterating tranquility as it rushes past my steady gait.

The parks department recently paved the path making the mile a smooth, flat course.  Now I share the path with mothers and strollers, youngsters on small bicycles or scooters, and the occasional jogger.

And always walkers with dogs, all sizes and breeds.  My dog is afraid of other dogs so I have to warn my fellow walkers that mine is not dog-friendly.  To humans, especially children, she invites pats and kisses.  My warnings makes me seem unfriendly too as I watch the other dog walkers recognize us and scurry to the far side of the wide walkway as we pass with just a nod or a small wave.

Across the creek is my escape from the quicksand of my life.  As I walk, my worries and troubles are put aside for a few precious minutes as I look across the creek to a gently rolling pasture where horses graze in the lush green field.

At first I was amazed that no fence defined their border; magnificent creatures freely roam along the creek side.  Now after several years of watching the small herd, I realize in this case, the grass is not greener on my side.  My side is loud in the mornings with yard maintenance equipment; their shrill motors running tractors and week eaters.  And loud in the afternoons when the hundreds of players and their entourages arrive to play soccer or baseball or softball or football.

Many times I have stood still to gauge the depth of the creek.  Could I jump across?  Could I wade across?  Could I leave my human world and leap into the peaceful pasture with this beautiful herd of horses?

The red chestnut with the wide white blaze down her face raises her head as I whistle to get her attention.  She gazes evenly at me while my small dog is afraid of that these are really very large dogs.  The mare and I make eye contact and she shakes her head, her flaxen colored mane flopping around her neck.  Her mane is matted with small sticks and grass and she ducks down to scratch her head on her leg. Then she returns to her grass, grazing and slowly moving across the pasture, leaving me and my dog on the human side of reality.

I watch the small herd of horses graze their way toward the far reaches of their pasture, their soft nickers are familiar as the bay gelding calls to the palomino whose pale gold coat has been lightened from the warm sunshine.  One blows and the other snorts, startling my dog who is unaccustomed to the horse noises of contentment.  I smile.

Then I continue on, around the path, but I turn back several times to see that they are still there and not a wonderful dream.  In my dreams, I am a carefree and happy child, riding the red chestnut mare, galloping across the grassy field.  The wind in my face makes my eyes water.  As I cross over to the parking lot, I wipe my face, perspiration or maybe tears cloud my vision.  We are moving this weekend.  We are moving and leaving this wonderful place of my dreams.  All this, I will miss.

Satilla River Revisited

This is a print of the Satilla River Club by Jo Erbele, now Jo Fabian. I have hung this print in every house and apartment I have lived in, now five houses with Sweetie Pie. It hangs with an actual photo of the house that Daddy took but I can't seem to transfer the scan to the blog.

I also have a great group photo of all of us standing in front of the house from a weekend down there years ago with the Ficklings, Treadwells, Dischers, Kallays, and Adams families and all their children. That was the last time I visited, but I'm glad Sweetie Pie was with me. It must have been about thirteen years ago. All those cute children are in college now. Man, I feel old....

Last night, Sweetie and I went to the hunting club and had a wonderful time with everyone there. What is it about a hamburger cooked on the grill in the great outdoors that makes it so delicious? Yummy!! And again, it brought back so many memories of spending time down at Satilla.

One of my Facebook friends and long-time family friend Kay, read my last Satilla post and reminded me how the kids were all frightened by scary river stories. I had forgotten about it, but I realized that story was probably the reason I imagined all sorts of crazy things whenever I stayed in that house. I never got a good night's sleep because my over-active, crazy, imagination kept me staring at the ceiling, thin sheet and blanket clutched up to my neck, fearing psycho-ax murderers creeping down the sandy, dirt road, coming in through the un-locked front door and pulling me out of the bed. Really.

This is the first time I have ever admitted that I am a scaredy cat, but it's only at night, in a dark, wooded area with an unlocked front door. Ok, so I walk through a wooded area on my daily dog walks and in the very early morning, before the sun climbs over the pine trees, I hear those psycho-ax murderers creeping through the woods. Thankfully, there few times during the month that I have to walk THAT early, but when I do, I talk loudly to Presley in order to keep the creepies away. It works.

Another Facebook and Macon friend, Patty commented on my last post and mentioned hunting armadillos. That was quite the activity when we were in our teenage years. If I remember correctly, several of those armadillos were caught in late night sieges. I had heard that armadillos were moving north, and sure enough this spring Presley and I crossed paths with one on our morning walk. He was quite unperturbed about us, but Presley was beside herself with excitement. I haven't seen him again; I guess he was moving north.

Finds

This is photograph I found stuffed behind the bottom drawer of a maple child's wardrobe Sweetie Pie has painted. It was rolled up and kind of smushed a bit. The photo is on thick paper and has faded almost to a negative-like image.

It looks to be a river with a small dock on the left side and woods lining each bank. Tree limbs hang over the top, shading the water.

Over the years, we have bought and sold hundreds of pieces of furniture, but rarely find anything other than bobby pins, pennies, chewed chewing gum, and decks of playing cards. Once we found a joint in the drawer of a buffet but we figured one of the guys working at the warehouse in Tennessee where we picked it up hid it there and forgot about it.

Occasionally we find old black and white photographs in furniture. I like to keep the photo with the piece so the buyer has a bit of history with it. My favorite photo was one of a German Shepard dog standing in a yard that we found in a mahogany secretary. Another was a photograph of a house with lots of flowers growing around it. We found that in a walnut dresser.

We've heard all sorts of stories about finding money stuffed and hidden in old furniture, but rarely does that happen. Antique dealers might tend to exaggerate the truth a bit! Sometimes we find old clothes, a stray sock or pantyhose (ick!). To me, old photographs are the best treasures.

Why was this old photo was stuck in a child's wardrobe? We'll never know. We got the wardrobe along with five other pieces in South Carolina several weeks ago. I imagine this river or creek was a special place to someone who used this unique wardrobe. We'll save the photo and it will be placed in the top drawer for the next owner.

Puzzled

Today is National Coming Out Day.  I just heard about it on TV and it was mentioned on Facebook this morning by one of my FB friends.  It comes on the heels of the horrific deaths of several young men who chose to end their life due to their struggles with their sexuality.  My heart breaks for the families of those who took such drastic action.  The debate about homosexuality is on-going. 

My thought: Judge not lest you be judged.

It puzzles me how someone can preach God's love, but exclude those who might not share the same lifestyle or background.  Aren't we all alike in the eyes of the Lord?

People Watching 101

Every second weekend of the month, we set up three booths at the Scott Antique Market in Atlanta.  We sell refinished and painted furniture.  I would love to say that we like selling painted furniture, but truth be told, it's a job.  Times are changing and if you do not change with it, you are left behind.

Being self-employed in a down economy, it is necessary to do whatever it takes to earn money.  Next week, I'm starting a part time job to help out.  But this weekend, I'm selling at Scot's.  We do have a few pieces of refinished furniture, but compared to a year ago, the painted pieces outnumber the refinished ones.

Sweetie Pie is the furniture refinisher, but most recently, he's the custom paint finisher.  I am proud of him everyday, but especially when customers walk past our booth and compliment his work.  He works hard to make each piece stand out.  His attention to detail is obvious. 

My job is to sell it, so I'm in the booth or nearby.  Many customers stop, but are not buyers.  That's alright.  We welcome lookers.  Lookers can become buyers in a month or maybe even a year.  I enjoy talking to them, even if it is just a smile and a nod.  I spend all day watching a parade of people pass the booth.

And what a parade it is!  Young and old.  Thick and thin.  Couples.  Singles.  Groups of friends.  I see many of the same faces every month and although I do not know their name, we smile and nod.  An old Lakewood friend is set up a few rows from us and it was wonderful catching up with her and her family.  A dealer who set up behind us before we moved to our new location is not there this weekend.  His son was tragically killed in an accident this week.  Although I do not know him or his son, I grieve for his family. 

Strangers become acquaintances.  Acquaintances become friends.  There is a dealer across from us this time who is from Maine and has the most wonderful accent.  I do not know his name yet, but it's just Friday.  We have two more days to move from stranger to friend.

Satilla River

Last Saturday night we attended a covered dish supper at Sweetie pie's hunting club in a nearby county. This was my first "official" visit when other members were there. Over the summer, we traipsed around the place to check things out. Sweetie is a new member. During hunting season, families hang out at the camp and share meals and stories. Members have small trailers parked under huge pine trees and most have built porches and even entire rooms attached to their trailers. It is somewhat primitive, but there are bathrooms with flushing toilets. I'm not a 'squat in the woods' kind of girl! We had a great time and met some very nice people, as well as their families. Sitting around a huge bonfire after the supper was delightful!

It was Sunday afternoon as I drove home from a visit to Macon that it occurred to me. I felt comfortable at the hunting camp because I spent so much of my young life at the Satilla River Club with my family and their friends. The Satilla River winds through South Georgia and as a child and teenager, we spent many weekends down there. I think we were some of the first tubers on that river. Oh, the stories...

I have so many wonderful memories of Satilla. As we enjoyed a shared supper Saturday night, my thoughts went back to when we sat around a long table on the side porch at Satilla as platters and bowls of delicious, home cooked food were passed around. In cooler months, meals were served inside with heat from a wood burning stove. I loved to hear all the stories and jokes passed around with the platters.

A screened porch completely circles the two story house at Satilla and heavy, large rocking chairs line the front and back. How many hours have been whiled away in those wonderful rockers? How many tall tales and truths have been told in those rockers? Hmmm...

(I have been unable to upload a picture of Satilla, but I'll try to post one soon.)

We plan to move our small travel trailer to the camp soon and I would love to build a covered screened porch next to it. We have some rockers from our Blue Ridge house that would be perfect there. Maybe Sweetie would be willing to build me a screened porch so I can visit and rock the time away while he is in the woods. Hmmm...

My spinach casserole was a big hit and it was decided that I should always bring that to share. That suits me, it's easy and delicious and can also be used as a dip with crackers or chips. This past weekend I met several children who seemed to be having a good time. I hope for them that their experiences under the pines in a somewhat primitive hunting camp will bring them wonderful memories that will last a lifetime.