Lots of Luck Coming My Way!

            Ever wonder why extra good fortune has not come your way in double handfuls. The explanation is simple, really: no black-eyed peas and no cabbage. In addition, Christmas decorations remain throughout your home and on your lawn and upon your house, laden with the dust and trappings of 2014. There’s still time to correct the ‘faux-pas.’

To ignore this good luck protocol is like defying the Southern Lady’s Handbook Rule regarding the wearing of white shoes after Labor Day.

           Since the cradle, I’ve eaten black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day.  Imagine what my life would have been like had I not eaten them! I shudder to think!

One December day, a friend asked me if I ate Cabbage for Cash on New Year’s Day.  Alas!  Alak!  I don’t even like cabbage, I told her. She explained with patience and understanding how to make nasty smelling cabbage morph into a delicious side dish.  It involves butter, onion, bacon, and a black iron skillet.  She furthered her comments to assure me that cash had not been withheld from me, but, “Imagine how the dollars would dash into your life if you would begin your year with cabbage!”

            Each New Year’s Day those seated at my table gobble black-eyed peas, cabbage, cornbread, and ham or pork chops.  My 2015 is destined to be lucky and rich!

           

        Furthering my good fortune is the removal of all Christmas decorations PRIOR to New Year’s Day.  Removing the glitter, sequins, Santas, and sheddings from 2014 leaves plenty of room for all new, good vibrations for the New Year.

       Preparations for welcoming New Year’s Day include beginning work on a humongous jigsaw puzzle.

       New Year’s Day traditions celebrate the future, new beginnings, and optimism!

Let's Go Christmas Shopping...for Mom

             Remember those Christmas presents we shopped for as children. One story lives in my family lore:  a bulky wool-knit brown sweater with an over-sized cowl neckline. All along the large sweater neckline hung some kind of imitation animal tail, soft and fuzzy .

“Oooooh, Nana,” said David with delight. “This is beautiful. I’m going to get this for my mommy.” Mother directed his eyes elsewhere and he brought home a surprise that was wonderful and not quite as itchy.

Mother would love an Evening in Paris

            I imagine the same “gift-redirect” happened when I was a gift-giving child. My mother didn’t receive the “Evening in Paris” perfume I wanted to give her. I’d seen it displayed in all its glory at the drug store. The bottle was a deep blue and the stopper displayed a blue-fringed tassel. The advertisement pictured a glamorous woman in a deep blue ball gown.

           The perfume represented my belief that my mother deserved an “evening in Paris.” The fragrance was divine, an extra shot of Eau de Toilet. Daddy told me that it was very pretty but Mother already had plenty of perfume. “Let’s look for some pretty jewelry,” he advised.

           Rarely was Daddy out in left field, but he missed the point that time, just as my mother did when she directed David away from the animal-tailed, brown sweater.

          Mothers deserve the best gift their children can give them, something beautiful in the eyes of the children, something as beautiful as Moms will always be.

I've Got Rocks in My Head, and Visions of Sugar Plums, Too

In an old 1920's Presbyterian Cookbook from my grandmother's collection is a recipe for Christmas Cookies containing candied fruit.  But, it's not a recipe for Rocks. Only the Gordon Girls have a recipe for Rocks.

Handwritten on the back page of this cookbook is the family recipe, with the title "Rocks" inside quotation marks.  It's in my grandmother's handwriting. I can see her write it. I can sense the warmth of the kitchen at the big house. I can see my mother and my cousin cutting the fruit for the batter. Pecans need chopping and I'm up for that.

Rocks in the Raw

The Gordon Girls were Tea-total-ers and never drank liquor, except for medicinal Mogan David wine, Bourbon laced Egg Nog, and splashes of Jack in the recipe for Rocks. It's the bourbon that gives the rocks their darker color: the more liquor, the darker color. Bourbon flavoring purchased from on-line sources can do the same.

Wal-Mart, however, can ruin a full batch of Rocks. The major retailer sells pre-cut candied fruit in large tubs. I bought some, as I have done in previous years. Trouble is, the fruit was dry and old.  I discovered this fact when as I tasted a cookie, fresh from the oven. I had not taste-tested prior to dumping the entire tub into the batter. What a big mistake. The fruit was like...pebbles...ah, rocks.

About to rid the house of the contents of a large cookie tin of Rocks after sampling cookies from random batches to prove that all the fruit was bad, I was stopped at the trash can by a hand. Marvin said, "Don't throw them out. They are not that bad; we just have to be careful not to crack a tooth! You know I'll eat anything you cook and call it delicious. So will your boys."

"But," I said, "I can't serve these to the general public! And I won't serve them to Santa!"

Cookies for Santa (Gordon Family's Rocks)

So, I bought more candied fruit and cut it up myself and made a fresh batch of Rocks.  They are delicious. Perfect. The Family Rock Recipe for Christmas has been Preserved.  The Tradition is Secure.

Christmas Day may march forward. Santa can fill his sleigh and head our way knowing that the little plate "Cookies for Santa" will have those few special cookies:  Rocks in the old-time Gordon Tradition!,

Press-on Nails, False Eyelashes. and Sticky-Bows

            Sticky bows are similar in aesthetic to press-on nails and adhesive lashes. Cousin Eddie wears blue leisure suits, a dickey under a V-neck sweater, and wraps presents with sticky-bows. His wife wears a sticky bow as a hair ornament.

            A friend and co-worker raised my consciousness concerning the inadvisability of any faux beauty technique, except subtle hair color. She not only decries the use of “sticky bows” but also gives a deep sigh when addressing the topic of bargain priced, easy-rip wrapping papers.

            For those uninformed about “sticky-bows” digest this morsel of education. Sticky-bows are fashioned of thin, shiny ribbon in various colors and are in no way kin to delicious sticky-buns.  They are created by looping ribbon around and over with a well-positioned staple plus a peel and stick backing. Available in all colors and sizes, sticky-bows also may be purchased in bulk. Like Twinkies, their shelf-life has yet to expire.

Christmas Candy Theme

              My friend, who alphabetizes her spices and canned goods, orders her wrapping paper to coordinate with her Christmas Tree and home décor. She has never worn an ugly Christmas sweater in her life, even when the rest of the world wore them, unaware. She purchases ribbon in various widths and in blending hues, again festively matching the overall theme of the home’s Christmas trees. 

               I was inspired, but not before I was shocked, aghast, in fact. I never imagined how out of touch I had become. Guilty of purchasing bags of bows for ease in wrapping many gifts in the wee hours of the morning, I had no idea that I had participated in a great holiday faux-pas.  Our collective group of educated women and power-mamas was equally unaware. We became hysterical in thinking about our gaffe.

                So, since she deserved it so richly, we fixed her right up with a Sticky-Bow extravaganza, all in good-natured fun. We sticky-bow’d her office in its entirety. Every flat surface was pasted with a sticky-bow, including the computer monitor. The plants grew sticky-bows on each branch.  We poured them from the bag into her filing cabinets and covered her office door from bottom to top with a multitude of varying size sticky-bows. It’s one of the highlights of our Christmas memories and lives in office lore. She was still finding sticky-bows at Easter.

                   My conscience was raised nonetheless. I have delighted in creating a different kind of Christmas Tree that I place in our living room/hallway area.  It is themed “White Gold” which in the Arkansas Delta translates as Cotton. At Target I found several wrapping papers that also coordinate:  white flocked paper, brown textured paper, a snow-glittered copper colored paper. 

The ribbon is wired, glittered  in gold, silver, white, brown, and highlighted with green and turquoise, accent colors on the tree and in the living room/den.  To add the final touch, several packages have cotton bolls attached. 

                   

            Our Christmas Tree and the packages underneath are beautiful, inspired, tasteful, elegant, and color-coordinated.

                         I owe the inspiration to a sweet friend, The Sticky-Bow Gift-Wrap Queen.

Listen up, Santa Baby: Now, that's what I call Fun

"Come and trim my Christmas tree
With some decorations bought at Tiffany;
I really do believe in you
Let's see if you believe in me

Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing, a ring
I don't mean a phone, Santa baby,
so hurry down the chimney tonight

Hurry down the chimney tonight"

Santa Baby is looking like I've worn him out with Christmas shopping. Here's the truth: We went on a MAN'S SHOPPING EXCURSION yesterday. This is how it works: Go into store, get the item discussed, pay, leave.  Boom.  It's done.
That's not even fun.

Here's a sample of fun: Santa Baby and I went with a group of retirees to the Hickory Log Restaurant in Dexter, MO. The Christmas Decorations are astounding.  It's worth the drive to experience the immersion in Holiday Lighting:  How to Over-do to Perfection. The barbeque ribs would be a bonus.


Tomorrow is Friday! I'm going to be wrapping gifts, baking cookies, listening to Christmas Carols turned up loud for all to hear.
Now, that's what I call fun.

A Dream Remembered: Christmas Eve - 1966

           As Rhett and Scarlett maneuvered through back alleys and collapsing buildings, the inferno that was Atlanta radiated in orange and red to cover the cinema screen. The horse and buggy made it to the edge of town.

          Prior to that moment, Rhett waxed prophetic.

“Get a good look, My Dear. You can tell your grandchildren one day how you watched the Old South disappear one night.” Rhett was talking about the end of the ideals the Old South stood for, the way of life, a South that became “no more than a dream remembered.” 

           Christmas Eve, 1966. Camden, Arkansas, my hometown. Ferdinand, the alert system for the fire department, sounded the downtown code. We counted the blasts but continued to unwrap our “one present” on Christmas Eve. Seated in our robes around the aluminum tree decorated with single color red glass balls, we were distracted, but not deterred until another blast from Ferdinand, indicating a 2 or 3 alarm fire.

           Downtown. 

           Daddy pulled back the sheers at the front window and peered toward town.  The glow was unmistakable.“Downtown is burning,” he said, “Get dressed.”  

         

           We had primary interest in downtown Camden. The drugstore was not far from that intersection. The Post Office, the Court House, the Library, the Methodist Church, and all downtown businesses were in jeopardy. The drive to the scene of the fire escalated my fear. I shook, trembled.

          We parked blocks away. I did not want to get out, but Daddy was not leaving me alone in the car. Our family joined throngs of huddled citizens witnessing fire departments from Camden and surrounding towns as they battled a fire that consumed at least 4 buildings in a downtown city block. Their task became keeping the rest of Camden from burning to the ground.

         Tears streamed down my face, because I knew that from this point on, we were not safe from unnamed villains who could attack anyone, anywhere, when we least expected it.  Life as we knew it changed. 

        Christmas Eve, 1966: The night I watched as the Camden I had known and loved disappeared.

The Grinch's Lesson

Last night I selected 5 Angels from the Angel Tree.  Written on each Angel were items to fulfill a child's Christmas Wish List. Nowhere on any of these lists were visions of sugar plums. No Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Men.

Instead, one Angel identified a "Ninja Turtle Bike."  Granted, that was all that was listed, but still...specifically a Ninja Turtle Bike. A young mother standing next to me wondered aloud if the child would be too disappointed in "any bike" since all the Ninja Turtle Bikes are sold out - even online. I did not choose to fulfill that wish.

My, oh my, how times have changed. The 5 Angels I chose had wish lists such as tops and pants for a 3T, nail polish for an 11 year old, some hair bows for a 6th grader and some art supplies.
One toddler boy wished for "fire-rescue" items.  A young girl wanted a "Frozen" DVD. What is a DVD doing in the Frozen Food department, I pondered!  (I know, I know.)

Today, I'm heading to the store to fulfill the wishes of some needy children in this area.  When the gifts are delivered to the parents, wrapping paper will be included so the Moms and Dads can "have a part in creating the wonderful morning" for these children.

I'm so taken aback by the expectation and must give great effort to keep my spirit one of generosity. God's commandment is that we Give, as He gave, without reservation, giving throughout the year, not just at Christmas time.

And so, it's off to the store so that my Christmas spirit can also know, "Christmas...indeed, means quite a bit more!"

And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow,

Stood puzzling and puzzling: “How could it be so?”

“It came without ribbons! It came without tags!

“It came without packages, boxes or bags!”

And he puzzled three hours, till his puzzler was sore.

Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before!

“Maybe Christmas,” he thought, “doesn’t come from a store.

Maybe Christmas … perhaps … means a little bit more!”

The Elf at My House

"I don't want that Elf coming to my house!" said the three-year old little girl.

I can just hear her wheels turning, "Mommy, Santa Claus, and the Elf must be in cahoots.  She keeps talking about Elf and how she tells Santa stuff. Like whether I'm bossy or have a little 'snip' in my voice."

"Come to think about it," thought Nana, "I don't want that Elf coming to my house, either!"

Sunshine After the Rain

Goodness Gracious, Girl! has redefined itself. Still promoting the concepts from Sunrise in a Lemon Sky, the topics categorize around Faith, Family, and the Future.

Fit IN does not mean Fit INSIDE

            The question remains, “Will skinny jeans make me skinny?”  Or to amplify, might a pair of super-skinny jeans rearrange my body, squashing the bottom portion upward, suggesting an illusion of a skinny hip and thigh with a suddenly voluptuous bosom?

            Several weeks ago, I attended a fall fashion show which showcased long sweaters, chunky jewelry, Big Budda bags, and skinny jeans. 

“She wears this festive top paired with skinny jeans,” the announcer repeated enough to cause me to ponder the skinny-jean question once again. Hmmm.

            High-fashion jewelry and a dramatic hair style move the eye from bottom to top. The eye will admire the flashy decoration, but (pun intended), the eye always travels back to the bottom, especially if the jean-wearer is about to explode from a buttoned and zippered denim fabric girdle.

            I’ve often pondered the sane person’s judgment in taking outdoor living to the extreme: why would a person want to bake a potato in the ground if a good oven is available. The same logic is beyond me when a larger-than-life diva asks, “Do y’all carry skinny jeans in my size?”

            Not only are these jeans more expensive (duh! heavy-duty material and more of it), the price is meant to discourage the purchase. In size 6, skinny jeans cost $26, but in size “Too Big,” the price is $46. The price tag screams, “You SHOULD NOT purchase these jeans.”  Someone needs to save us from ourselves and our desire to “fit in.”  "Fit in" does not mean “fit inside” the jeans that are meant for a small framed young lady who has not yet experienced the pull of gravity.

I prefer Chico’s size chart.  When in my life did I wear a 1 or a 2? 

As a toddler, maybe!  “What size, Honey?”  “Oh, I wear a ONE!” Whoo-hoo! Chico’s has a line of slimming jeans that is cut for the older diva. They sell sweaters and tops that are not meant to be dresses. They do not sell leggings.

When I am tempted to buy a pair of skinny jeans, I look into the Magic Mirror and a vision chants the alarming truth, “Dearie, You might have the fairest front in all the land, but have you looked behind you lately?”

Too Young For My Own Good

Today I was glancing through a Southern Living magazine and happened upon a beautiful ad for Grove Park Inn.

A group of friends and I plus our "keepers" spent one night there when we were too young to know where we were and they were too old to realize we would not appreciate it at all.
We were too busy playing tricks on friends, like folding them up in the roll-away bed or making crank wake up calls.

That chuckle called to mind the wonderful tour of the White House during the Camelot era when Mrs. Kennedy had refurbished it.  The Blue Room and all the other great places we rushed through like we had dinner reservations with Troy Donahue.

 We were too occupied with the new guys we were standing in line with.  That and hurrying back to the bus to get the best seats in the back.

Then, there was that wonderful trip to Annapolis, the home of the Naval Academy. My group made beauty shop appointments and had our hair done because we might see some midshipmen who would be over the moon for us when they took one look at our glamorous "make-overs." One of them might turn out to be "an officer and a gentleman."

Oh, yes, I was far too young to appreciate the real value of this trip. But I was just the right age to make great teenage memories.

House Blend

This week many accomplished writers inspired me. We gathered at Hemingway-Pfieffer Educational Center in Piggott, AR.  From Maryland to California, from Louisiana through the corners of Arkansas, we came together for a marvelous adventure with Dr. Pat Carr, our mentor. Not only did I have the pleasure of meeting these other writers, but I heard them read their initial workings for books they plan to publish. Only 2-3% of writers ever make a living doing what they love, but the creative process is beyond measure.

In fact, a new book came to mind listening to Pat explain various strategies for writing point of view. I've learned much lately about the Gordon-Ritchie family and I've discovered things I never knew.  It's very difficult to know a person's story from a set of dates and random newspaper reprints.

I can write this story from a the point of view of each of the women:  Jane Elizabeth Tooke Gordon (Thomas Bullock Gordon), Jane McBride Campbell Ritchie (John Calhoun Ritchie),

Ella Jane Ritchie Gordon (Charles Thomas Gordon).

 I have learned much through research and remember stories Mother told about these women and their children. The mentor, Pat Carr, encouraged me to start.

                                                          Ella Jane Ritchie:  Age 14

Gratitude in a Trailer, Down By the River

Disclaimer:  Gratitude.  Every day.  Every moment. I’m grateful for my life and the lives of those I love. I’m grateful for friends through writing, like Dorothy Johnson and her Blog “Reflections from the Ridge.”  I’m also grateful for my peculiar sense of humor that borders on sarcasm, the lowest form of humor.

Down by the river.  In a field. In a trailer that was behind the Tastee-Freeze in Married Student Housing. There I learned gratitude in a peculiar kind of way.

I’m grateful for mouse-traps.

Gratitude blossomed in a tiny trailer and came to me on little mice feet.  Not little cat feet.  Not as Carl Sandburg wrote, but as I heard.  Every night, above our double bed sandwiched between two walls and topped with a drop ceiling.  There between the roof and the ceiling they scampered, danced and pranced, sounding like a herd of steroid filled lab rats. Upon hearing the last act of what would eventually become River Dance, I decreed that husband was not to return to said domicile without traps.  I would remain encamped in the green sofa chair, feet raised, until the hero returned.

I’m grateful for green electrical tape.

We had a dog.  Duke.  As in Duke. Duke. Duke. Duke of Earl. Duke’s tail, which wagged constantly, could knock open the bathroom door and clear the coffee table with one swoop.  A growing puppy, he was ravenous, all the time. He teethed on lamp wires when he was not eating the arms off the sofa.  Which was green. I reupholstered the arms of that green sofa with matching electrical tape, and no one could ever tell the difference in green tape and green pleather that covered the luxury sofa in a trailer, in a field, in Married Student Housing.

I’m grateful, most of all, for a dose of Nyquil and The Wash House.

Illness.  Deep, dark, nameless illness.  “Here, drink some of this.” Rational thought goes out the window with high fever. Like “here, Dearie, eat this apple.” She took a bite; I drank. It was a vile, disgusting concoction of venom. Named NyQuil, it’s deep, dark green and causes black outs, if not death. Before I passed out, I mumbled something about needing to do the laundry.

In a trailer, in a field, down by the river, in Married Student Housing, there are no washer-dryer combos.

The mice-killer said, “I’ll do the laundry because I’m out of underwear. How do I do that?” In my last conscious words, I said, “Go to the Wash House.  They’ll help you.”  That’s all I remember.

After what must have been a half-day, when I came to lucid thought and it was dark outside, I heard the following words mumbled through clenched teeth with raw exasperation, “The first things we’re buying when we get a house is a washer and dryer.”

And that’s why I’m grateful for NyQuil and The Wash House in a town where I lived in Married Student Housing in a trailer in a field down by the river.

Things That Go "Bump" in the Night

         I’ve never been much for scary things. While I’ve seen the “light” on the train tracks and walked past the Witch’s House when in Kindergarten, that’s pretty much it.  

             The thing in the sky with a red tail was not Rudolph, so I hid until Daddy made me come outside to see what scientists called “sputnik.” Who in their right mind would knowingly go outside and search for something hovering in the sky, just overhead, something with a red tail that glowed. Seriously?

          Sputnik came on the heels of Miss Maud’s vanishing act, probable murder, with her remains most likely in my closet or under my friend’s bed.  We were sure of it.  That, or it was an abduction. 

           Walter Akins took Suzanne and me to a space invader movie at the Rialto and, in confession, I have not been the same since.

         My Halloween costumes never resembled anything frightful.  I have been a Gypsy (with gobs of Mother’s costume jewelry draped all around) and a little Indian maiden, complete with a feather in my hair and a fringed brown skirt. No store-bought costumes and not much door-to-door candy gathering, either. Fun was the school carnival at Cleveland Avenue School where I once won a cake at the Cake Walk.

          Another good part about Halloween is, of course, the candy. Giving “the good stuff” is important in a neighborhood. You don’t want to be remembered as the house that gives little boxes of cereal, or Band-Aids.

         Funny thing about Halloween,though.  Now, it’s as much of a grown-up holiday as any other, perhaps more.  Adults use any excuse to bring tricks to work or fill the break room with treats.

         Still the wimp when it comes to creepy things, I’d just as soon get the candy straight from the bag.

          Things that go bump in the night would be me and whatever gets in my way as I exit any version of a Haunted House, especially one where Boo Radley might have lived.

Good-bye Boutique, Hello Chico!

It’s been years since it dawned on me that I had been hammered with UKS.  I realized that Ugly Knees Syndrome is inherited, dreaded, and forever. That and PFA.  Plague of the Fat Ankle.

Regardless of how skinny my upper portion might become, for every inch of upper body I lose, UKS and PFA roll on and on and on.

I would so love to wear leggings, skinny jeans, or tights with a tunic top. Peeking from the hemline of the tunic top would be UK, ugly covered in leggings, skinny jeans, or tights.  No cover can make them pretty, or slim, or non-existent.

Boots help.  The tall ones with tall heels.  Ankles and tree trunk legs can be disguised in boots, but sometimes the PFA is squeezed northward and the fat squirts out over the top of the boot, contributing to even more unattractiveness.  There is no win.

I live with the ongoing dread of being photographed and posted on People of Wal-Mart, with my Ugly – as in “U-G-L-Y, You Ain’t Got No Alibi, You Ugly!” Knees hanging out from under a darling dress designed for someone half my age.

It does not help that between my ears, I think I’m 24. I’ve been 24 most of my life.  To say I’m shocked when I glance in the mirror would be an understatement.  After years of seeing my mother peering back at me, you’d think I would have gotten the message.

Sometimes I think I’ll just buy a larger size, as in a Size L top to cover the bulges.  Wrong!  I look like someone walking around in a circus tent. Better to wear something more form fitting, but not too tight, as in “the correct size.”  That varies from store to store and style to style. 

I refuse to buy anything with an X in it.  Since Mother tried to clothe me in a 6x in my younger years, I have known what X represents. X = Not Good.  X=X-Lax.  X=wrong answer.  X=Do Not Enter –Crime Scene.

                                                                                                                                                                  I have not worn any skirt that hits well-below my knees since a less-than-tactful son told me I looked like a Pilgrim. He had in mind the somber ladies who fed the Indians and stoked the campfire. Fashion in Black, White, and Dull.

With the Thanksgiving holiday approaching, I have to be very careful in wardrobe selection. I tend to keep wardrobe from the ancient of days. Fashion Rule: If it's been in 3 closets, it's time to discard, let someone else enjoy its elegance.

So, what’s a girl to do when overwhelmed by UKS and PFA? I cannot bring myself to wear what’s hot, regardless, as I see so often in women who stroll the aisles of the grocery store, the retail giant, or enjoy dinner at the local restaurant.    

I’ll continue my search for fashion forward outfits.  No orthopedic shoes and no QEII handbags. No Pilgrim labels, either. 

I’ll search out fashion designed with a nod toward age-disguise and not disgrace.

A Walk in October

Friday is still a favorite day of the week, regardless of retirement status.  Years of working relentlessly gave me such a perspective.  Friday: a day for reflection on the week, preparation for the next, and an evening of relaxation.  It used to mean no cooking.

On my morning walk, during which I practice my dance-team moves to my favorite Walking Songs on the IPod, I ponder things past, present, and future.  If I’m lucky, I’ll remember my plans when I stroll into the driveway.

This morning, as I do each morning, I whispered first a prayer of Thanksgiving. Bottom line: a prayer of joy in thanks to God for breathing, walking, loving, and living. I think of the brave woman, Cathy Frye, who survived in the Big Bend Ranch State Park. The last lines of her story told in series and final Reflection this week (Arkansas Democrat-Gazette): “Love and Faith brought me out of the desert.  Love and Faith brought me home.  I thanked God for giving me more time to be their (her children) mother.”

And I pray for my family in supplication for their health and safety.  And so it goes as I walk.

The sun sifts sparkling through the tree branches.  Festive fall decorations greet me at each turn and I smile.  All the while, the IPod is pumping out quick paced walking rhythms and I obey.

Soon, several pops-classical tunes fill my ears and heart.  It’s "Rhapsody in Blue" and I drift into making plans for the day and the week and the month. Stopped short,  I thank God, again, for the opportunity to share my life with family and friends. The opportunity to plan anything.

And thus, with a heart and soul filled with wonder and thanksgiving, I hurry to put my thoughts on paper to share with those of you who might relate to my story for today.

Campfire Sentiment

I was a Girl Scout Drop–out, but I did learn a few things.

I treasure the sentiment in one particular campfire song.

Make New Friends But Keep the Old

One is Silver the Other Gold.

Both friend-categories shine with value.

While new friends will never recall the memories of countless years past or remember the depth of shared experiences, they are quite valuable in this life.

New friends know that life is too short to be petty, too sweet not to be shared.

New friends are quick to embrace a friendship because everyone has learned the positive value found in shared lives.

I’m so very fortunate to have friends that are "old" with memories like mine.

And friends who are new- ready to embrace the day and willing to include me in it.

Hometowns

           Memory and sentiment wrap me in a hand-stitched quilt. 

I sigh in remembrance of the warmth I find there. 

Like most memories, images play against a grand backdrop elevated by fancy. 

Yet, the feelings of security and peace are real. 

          It’s best to leave those memories to their swirling fancy and let reality keep to itself. 

Time is a thief that robs the past of its glow, introducing reverie to the glare of clarity. 

The beautiful memories are recollections, made lovelier through dreams.