A Good Fish Story

      Just in time for celebrating Finding Dory, today I'm thrilling to the antics of our goldfish and koi. Over the years, we've struggled with water quality in the fish pond because it was first designed as a water feature with potted water plants. Over the years, the plants' containers turned over and the bottom of the pond became a, pardon me, cesspool. A home for anacondas.
     We've babied the pond and worked with it for these eight years, had good years and not so good years. This year, we totally cleaned it out, making a habitat for the fish and vacuuming out the crud.They find cooling shelter under outcroppings of slate and rock: the waterfall adds necessary oxygen to the water. Finally, we're making headway. We have a grand design scheme in the first stage of imagination.

Vacation Bible School at Rector 1st Baptist: Dive In!

     Our pond is about a million times smaller than the koi pond at Garvan Woodland Gardens, but just as entertaining for us.
     We name our koi: Scout, Butterfly, Green-weenie, Dreamsicle, Sugarlips, and our goldfish: had one named Billy Ted Exxon back in the day (now deceased, once belonging to David McAlister), and my favorites (also now gone on to fish heaven) Goldfish named Lucy and the Beta known as Cake (Red Velvet Cake). You get the picture.
     Habitat is so important for fish friends and while many goldfish would make great aquarium additions,we'll give friends several of these robust beauties for their decorative fish ponds. The message of Finding Nemo registered heavily with me.
   Do you name your fish friends? Have you a good fish story to share? Reply on the comments.

Southern Beauties Don't Like to Sweat

        Ladies from the South glow in the Summertime. Ladies do not sweat. And, if they can possibly avoid fanning themselves, they will sit politely and radiate beauty.
        Hydrangeas are the same. They don't mind the heat so much, but they beg to be out of the direct sun for any lengthy period of time. The blue hydrangeas are on the north side of the house where they flourish. We cut back the spent and dried blossoms and lopped off the sticks, so this year, they are vibrant and showy.
        The Small pink hydrangea is three years old and is in the little secret garden at the side door, beside my family heirloom mint stand that has given every home its flavor and protection from mosquitoes. This pink plant graces the plot in front of a decorative iron piece retrieved from an abandoned house in Memphis.In this secluded garden area the plant gets morning sun, but by early afternoon, the area is shaded. This pink plant's blooms will shrivel under excessive heat, perhaps like you, certainly like me.
        Huge multi-petaled hydrangea blossoms love morning light plus shade and water. They, like you or I, would die of heat stroke if subjected to direct sun all day long. They are southern ladies, showy and beautiful, and they don't like to "sweat."
                 Thank goodness for Marvin's magic watering system and the occasional rain.

Pizzazz in Pink

“The pool is open!”

Look who showed up to add more splashes of color to the modest little flower garden! He has a friend who arrives with him each year - birds of a feather, you know. The whimsical pink flamingo arrives like clockwork and gives pizzazz to the Lower Deck. 
It's time to refresh, relax, chill, and swim.

            Swimming is the only sport, other than miniature golf, that I am any good at. I can float like a pro. Very much later in my life, I learned why I can float so well and determined that was not necessarily a skill, but a by-product of female anatomy.

            The crystal clear, sparkling water, water that shimmers and ripples holds summer magic.The once gag-me green water invites a dip.We followed Keith’s Pool Kare procedure.That and a yeoman’s job on vacuuming, and the pool transforms. Today, it called my name. 

            The sun’s rays warm the water to a perfect temperature so all I need is the blue and gold mesh lounger I bought at Leslie’s Pool Supply in Bartlett before we retired. It's on the pool apron in the top photo...adjustable, suitable for relaxing and use as a flotation device when performing kick-laps.

     For color to the area, we added purple, red and fuchsia pinwheel, deep purple petunias to the large terracotta pots around the apron and Marvin’s magic watering system gives them a little drink every morning around 8 AM (and waters the hanging baskets, too). Sarah Geite of Geite Nursery and Landscape sent me a super morning sun cluster flower that has found its happy place.

      
      The sun, the solitude, and the sanctuary offered by this Lower Deck oasis give me a case of summertime smiles. 

       Share your summertime thoughts, favorites in the comments.

       The pool is open.
       Yes, you're invited.

       

            

"No More Cloudy Days" - The Eagles

Playing over the airwaves at shops I frequented, even at the dog groomer, and the music that came on the radio beside my bed to awaken me was this lovely melody. The lyrics filled my heart's soundtrack. "I believe the sun is gonna shine. Don't be afraid to love again. Put your hand in mine.
No more stormy nights.
Nor more cloudy days.
It was the summer of 2005.

The Eagles - No More Cloudy Days (Live 2005)-----------Glenn Frey

No More Cloudy Days

Sitting by a foggy window
Staring at the pouring rain
Falling down like lonely teardrops
Memories of love in vain
These cloudy days, make you wanna cry
It breaks your heart when someone leaves and you don't know why

I can see that you've been hurting, baby I've been lonely too
I've been out here lost and searching, looking for a girl like you
Now I believe the sun is gonna shine
Don't you be afraid to love again, put your hand in mine...

Baby, I would never make you cry
I would never make you blue
I would never let you down
I would never be untrue

I know a place where we can go where true love always stays
There's no more stormy nights, no more cloudy days

I believe in second chances
I believe in angels, too
I believe in new romances
Baby, I believe in you
These cloudy days are coming to an end
And you don't have to be afraid to fall in love again

Baby, I would never make you cry
I would never make you blue
I would never turn away
I would never be untrue
I know a place where we can go where true love always stays
There's no more stormy nights, no more cloudy days

Coconut Pie Recipe

What would a post about coconut pie be without the recipe.
Here it is!

3/4 cup sugar (you can always add more or use Splenda.)
2 T cornstarch (helps make the filling firm, keeps the pie filling from running all over the plate)
2 cups milk (or half-half, or coconut milk)
3 large egg yolks (save the egg whites for real meringue)
pinch of salt (to bring out the flavor)
3 T butter (like Imperial or Parkay)
1 cup coconut (flakes like in package that can be refrigerated for later use)

Cook the custard concoction until it thickens. Let it stand 30 minutes to set. Spoon it into a prepared (pre-baked pie shell).
Chill for 30 minutes.
Beat the egg whites (add cream of tartar for still peaks) to make the meringue
Dollop onto the chilled pie and smooth out. Then create peaks with spatula.
Sprinkle with coconut flakes.
Run this beauty into the oven to brown the tips. Watch the spectacle.

Voila! Coconut Pie that'll make you slap-yo-mama.

This recipe is at the conclusion of Chapter 10 in Sunrise in a Lemon Sky

Gimme a Slab of Pie

            Should it come down to a vote, would you choose pie or cake for dessert?

Not like making a bad choice whichever way you go as in the national political scene. We’re talking casting a vote with deliciousness on one side and also on the other. But, you can’t have both. It's a dilemma. Don’t straddle the fence, now. Choose.

            My vote would be for pie, even with Causbie’s Signature Strawberry Cake only 10 miles away from my front door. Never having thought about it that much, I came upon some research and found it to be quite accurate. Have you ever heard of a “cake chart?”

            The equity in pie servings is a plus; with cake, people vie for the end pieces, the ones with all the roses and icing. The middle part of the cake is often left to dry out. Pie never dries out and is delicious, all the way around, even slices, unless a misguided soul says, “Give me just a sliver.”

            “Give me a slab of cake,” a most unsophisticated request, would never be requested with a pie. Requesting seconds would be more genteel. A piece of pie, with the point turned away from the diner, is just the ticket. Never turn the point of pie slice right at the gobbler’s stomach (how gauche).

            Now, I’m better at baking a cake because I can simply buy a box of cake mix, add some water and oil and an egg. Or, I can make Mother's Easy (ha!) pound cake. Whip it up, pop it in the oven, and Voila! Cake!  A pie takes some skill to keep the filling from running all over the plate. The woman who can bake a pie is a culinary genius. The nursery-rhyme song with the line “Can she make a cherry pie, Billy-Boy?” is right on the money. Make it “a-la-mode” and it’s a palate pleasing, culinary spectacle.

           

           Coconut pie is my all-time favorite, made with real custard filling combined from coconut flakes and some coconut milk and other perfectly chosen ingredients. With meringue browned on the tips and some additional coconut flakes on top…ooh-la-la. Not the kind that comes in a box, frozen, the kind that has to thaw out. We’re talking warm and perfect, slap-yo-mama coconut pie.

            If you had to choose, had to vote one way or the other, which would it be? Pie or Cake?

The Miss Pie

    Not spoiled as a child or a teen, I nonetheless knew I was a cherished by my daddy. I treasured him as daughters do their daddies. Or should.

    He called me Janie Pie.He was the only one to ever call me a pet name until Coach John Clary called me Margo so that I could learn math without fear.

     Perhaps when Daddy found himself with more time on his hands that he was accustomed to, he decided to build a boat.Not commissioned by God, he still designed and built a family boat. Not a speed boat, not a John-boat, but a high-sided, dark green vessel suitable for cruising Mustin Lake or the Ouachita River.

I do remember riding in it a few times...not much after that...don't even know what happened to it.

I remember hanging out in the garage with Daddy while he hammered and nailed. I wandered around, picking up nails, learning the basics of electricity.

The boat sported a deep green color, green like turnip greens stewing in a pot. That deep, rich color of greens was a close as Daddy ever got to greens unless his own mother made them for him. I don't blame Mother for that refusal.

But he didn't name the boat after her, did he?

What a thrill as I watched him paint on the ship in white script: 

The Miss Pie.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe...

“You can look now,” said the kid who encouraged me to uncover my eyes.

We’d found two seats in the packed venue, two near the front. Loud, thumping rhythms mimicked my heartbeat. “Daa-duh…Daa-duh…” The theatre was pitch-dark, except for the screen’s lighted, toothy image.

I was a quick study; when the music cued the shark’s appearance, I covered my eyes. It was June, 1975. Now, everyone knows to get out of the water when that sound track plays.

The sad commentary for this week is not a shark, but an alligator. Where was the sound track? Was there no sinister warning, no ticking sound coming from Disney’s alligator?

Walt Disney World. Disney offers a magic kingdom where the hype suggests families are protected and safe, especially at a private Disney resort. On a Disney beach, the feeling of safety while on vacation seems a promise. Far from the realm of possibility is a real-life alligator snatching a child who plays at the water’s edge.

Wendy and her brothers, even the little one with the teddy bear, lined up to walk the plank as Captain Hook stood guard. The horrid alligator circled, ticking a warning, with a wind-up clock in his belly. The audience understood that sinister, red-eyed menace, the one licking his toothy chops, would eat stuff. He could eat Wendy and the boys and the teddy bear, for that matter. I covered my eyes.

I was terrified, then…at the alligator’s evil intent, the warning: tick-tock, tick-tock. No tragedy, though. A rescue, instead.

I was jumpy in the movie theatre when Daa-Duh...Daa-Duh…blasted from the surround-sound. I covered my eyes.

That’s when the kid got my attention and told me I could look.

Jaws eating a boat is not real. In fact, he now hangs at WDW-Universal Studios and Rich and I’ve been photographed beside him.

The alligator that made his way down the aisle during Playhouse on the Square’s production of Peter Pan was not real, but Rich changed seats in a heart-beat.

Terrorists are real. 9/11 was real. And all the other tragedies we've had to face lately have been very real.

This stuff happens...sad stuff, scary stuff, horrible stuff.

Florida’s alligators do not care about Walt Disney World’s rules.

They are real.

This world is so real, sometimes, I don’t want to look.

Camping vs. Vacationing: Polar Opposites

            When my to-be-husband and I began to date, I thought it best to be up-front and crystal-clear about a few things, give him the short version. He had asked, “How’d you like to drive over to Hardy this fall? The leaves will be beautiful there.”

            “I’d love that. Before we go any further, though, I must tell you: I don’t camp.”

            “Did I say anything about camping?”

            “Just in case you wondered, or would consider it someday. I do not camp,” I repeated.

 I do love the beauty of nature, but my strength lies in communion for short bursts of time. When the weather is too hot or too cold or there’s a Bigfoot encounter, I’m done.  I told him, “I sleep inside a nice room in a well-respected hotel. Truth be told, I’m a Girl Scout drop-out.”

           

I do admire those who enjoy camping. The aura of the whole thing has me wishing, sometimes, that I did enjoy it. I’ve been known to get caught up in the campfire light, the Kum-Ba-Yah moment. The beauty of the starlit night with s’mores can turn a girl’s head. Come bedtime, though, I’m homeward bound or in misery, certain that creepy-crawly things are doing their creeping and crawling up my legs or into my hair.

            I’d consider an RV trip in a motor home, like the ones featured on The Travel Channel. Camping in one of those vehicles is the ideal definition of camping – not being at home, not being in a hotel, eating a camp-fire roasted weenie inside a bun. Throw in a couple of s’mores and a bed, pull up the covers and snuggle down in an air-conditioned, potty-included house on wheels, and I’m good. I have called myself a naturalist in one sense: a natural mosquito magnet and a natural spider stomper.

            Should I happen upon an article about camping, one that contains a serene, gorgeous lake-view campsite photograph, I’d peruse it. I did that lately and found fifty-one tips or reminders for novice and experienced campers with eight specialty tips for camping with children. Given this extensive list, I’d suggest camping and vacationing are polar opposite adventures.

            Tips for vacationing include: 1. Make a reservation at an All-Inclusive Resort, 2. Pack appropriate clothing and beachwear, accessories for day and evening, 3. Tuck in a paperback beach-read plus a shopping/touring guide, and 4. Forget your worries – Be Happy.

            Tips for camping include: 1. Make sure the camp ground is open, 2. Don’t pack many clothes because they will smell like the campfire and you’ll wear the same ones over again, 3. Take a hefty tent with a patch kit, a first-aid kit, shovel, lighters, channel-lock pliers, leather gloves, hats, sunscreen, insect repellent, and a portable table. 4. Make all meal preparations prior to leaving home. Mom should chop, slice, dice, package, and prepare the cooler. Even if Dad serves tacos every night, with beef cooked over an open flame, preparation is the key.

            The ultimate deterrent to any camping adventure would be the unexpected, the unplanned encounter. With the possibility of unexpected rain or heavy Arkansas humidity, and the certainty of no Wi-Fi, no amount of bug spray, Skin-So-Soft, or marshmallows and graham crackers will lure me into befriending varmints.

            The camper tips that spoke to the heart of the matter are these:  1. Put coolers and trash inside your vehicle at night so critters (!) won’t bother either, and 2. Keep tent flaps zipped. Whether you are inside or outside, secure the tent. Insects (!) and snakes (!!) don’t know how to work a zipper.

A Little Girl, her Daddy, a Spider, and a Beer Cooler

“Can I go to the lake, too?”

            “We’re going fishing.”

            “I can stay at the lake house.”
            “What would you do there?”

            “Listen to my records. Read.”

            “It’ll be a long afternoon.”

            “I don’t care. I wanna go.”

            “OK. Get ready.”

            Mother must have been involved with brother. Nana must have been assisting.

            I must have been out of my very young mind. Nonetheless, I ran around gathering up a library book, some of my 45 records, maybe a Betty and Veronica comic book.

             Daddy opened the lake house, flipped the breaker for electricity and the window unit whirred to life. The lamp switch brought illumination, and I settled in for the afternoon.

Down at the lake, Daddy and his fishing buddy got the boat ready for launch. They loaded it with rods, reels, tackle boxes, beer coolers, bait, and a stringer. I could see them from my perch atop the iron bed’s ticking-covered mattress. Then, I saw It.

            It was Godzilla the Spider. He and I were about to be cooped up together for one long, hot afternoon.Who knows where he might show up next. He used all zillion furry legs to scamper across the floor, underneath the bed I was sitting on. I stood on the mattress and made my second decision of the day. Run!

            “Daddy!” Arms wildly beating the air and feet running as fast my legs could carry them, I called again, “Daddy!”

            “What is it?”

            “A spider!”

            “Of course, there are spiders; it’s a lake house. It’s not going to hurt you. Just stay out of its way or step on it.”

            “I can’t stay there.”

            “Well, I’m not unloading this boat and taking you home. You have a choice. Go back into the house and stay cool, read your book, or get in the boat, sit on this cooler, and be quiet while we fish. What will it be?”

            “I’m going with you.” Easy decision.

            For one afternoon, Daddy and his friend fished and I sat on the cooler in a cute outfit with white shorts and an orange life vest. They took the boat under trees where water moccasins hung, snakes that could fall into the boat. Daddy admonished,“If one falls in, stay still. I’ll get it, but it’ll be hard to pull us and all this stuff out of the water if you start wiggling and yelling. There are moccasins there, too. See that one swimming over toward the boat?” I nodded, still as a statue.

            Water moccasins to the left of me, above me, to the right of me. Spider in a house in front of me. The choice was never a difficult one.

I’d rather be with my daddy. I knew for certain that wherever he was, I would be safe. 

Even if my white shorts bore the plaid pattern of the beer cooler, heat transferred after such a long afternoon, Daddy and I made a forever memory. 

The Happiest of Days

“Oh, Mammy,” said Melanie, “the happiest days are the days when babies come…

”

And so, today is the day that Aubrey’s little sister, Renee and Will’s second daughter was born. She’s a beauty at 7 lbs.7 oz., 21 inches, with a head full of dark hair, like Renee’s. She seems to know exactly how to be a baby since she pooped and pee’d all over everyone as she was born. This baby is Marvin’s eighth grandchild, the baby of his youngest child.

As we were leaving Germantown Methodist Women’s Pavilion, walking through the family waiting area, we heard the faintest of chimes, thinking it to be a cell phone ring tone. Instead, the volume increased just a bit and it became a tune: Brahms Lullaby. The tune announced a birth. Smiles came to every face in the large lobby area, including ours. 

We immediately inferred that “when you hear that sound, somebody’s baby has been born. A new life has graced our world.”

A baby is a true miracle of God and we got to hold her today.

Those Precious Years-Those Precious Sisters

            Jane had been wondering so she asked, “What was it called when the members rousted us pledges out of bed at 5AM, let us get a jacket and shoes, added blindfolds, and loaded us up into cars and took us out to the middle of nowhere?”

            “I don’t even remember that.”

            “How could you not? We hitched a ride back into town in the back of a pick-up truck. The members had planned a swanky breakfast for everybody, but had to find our little industrious group. We weren’t where they left us.”

            “They’d call that hazing today.”

            “Oh, yeah, they would. Then, it was a tradition. Dangerous, though.”

            “Do you think Miss Freeman knew about it?”

            “Didn’t we have breakfast at her house?”

            “Well, for sure Dean Smith didn’t know anything.”

            “Lord, help us if she did.”

            “Look at this,” Donna said. She handed Trudy a square piece of paper with small print and initials.

Jane, Linda, Trudy, Donna, Sandy

            “Oh, my gosh! It’s a Call-Down!”

            “What for? Did y’all have a messy room?” another asked.

            “Who, us? Actually, it was for Noise!”

            “Noise?” Laughter erupted. “Are you kidding?”

            “No. Look. It’s got Trudy’s name on it.”

            “I can’t believe you saved that.”

“Oh, yeah,” Donna continued, “I have a piece of pine straw that was included in the letter Miss Amy Jean wrote to me before we got to campus.'

            “Do you remember when Marta cooked onions in my popcorn popper? Nothing ever tasted the same after that,” Linda said.
            “Oh, whose room is that? Are we making those weekly football spirit cards that were all creative and colorful? Didn't you make the pattern, Trudy?”

            Jane replied, “That’s Judi and my room. See my arm pillow?”

            “Oh, there’s sweet, little Judi. And our Shelby.  So, so sad.”

            We did not discuss classes we took, papers we wrote, jobs we had. While we became strong women whose confidence was raised by the experiences in Alpha Xi Delta, we took all that as a "given." Together we accomplished anything set before us. We learned. We grew. We grew up, together.

Sandy, Linda, Leesa, Donna, Nancy, Trudy, Jane, Jann

             We talked about driving Trudy’s light blue flower-power mustang to get a pizza. We talked about staying up late, talking, even when the girls whose room we were using had to go to bed. We recalled pranks and rush week. They call it “recruitment” now. We mentioned bid day and initiation, Mother-Daughter Weekend, and talked at length about our common bond: a Sisterhood.

Many of us could not remember the specifics of the days at Henderson, but we treasured the friendships we made during those four years. While some of us graduated early, the years in the dorm and with our sorority cemented our love for each other. The common bathroom area down the hall, the small rooms constructed with concrete block walls, and the years we had three girls in a room built for two were just some of the memories of our collective journey from age eighteen to twenty-one.

The reunion (about 40 alumni) called Summer Sizzle 2016 was a terrific experience and opportunity to reconnect with women who shared those precious years.

Southern Hoodoo in My DNA: "Hoo-ca-shoo-poo!"

           Educated people laugh up their sleeves, snicker at old wives’ tales, and raise an eyebrow at stories about Hoodoo’s prevalence in the South. Not designed to conjure evil, research indicates that Hoodoo uses spices, roots, candles, and readings. Hoodoo should not to be confused with voodoo or the vampire universe. Hoodoo sounds uncomfortably familiar.

            I’m an educated person. On reflection, however, I’ve lived surrounded by Southern Hoodoo and have come to realize that spells and incantations are part of my Southern DNA. When my father was alive, he was known to throw out a hex or two if he received bad service at a restaurant. One such restaurant burned the very weekend of his curse. The official cause of the fire was a smoldering kitchen grease fire; we had our doubts.

           

I’m no stranger to techniques that ward off bad luck. My grandmother and a friend were driving home from a day of shopping in Little Rock when a black cat ran across the road. Nana pulled the car to the side of the road and both women got out and began to spit. Upon seeing ladies dressed in their shopping finery at the side of the road, men began to pull over to offer assistance. “No need. We’re fine. We just need to spit thirteen times each and we’re too tickled to spit!” The more they tried to complete the task, the drier their mouths became. At home, they explained their delay and family understood the situation.

            Mother believed in lighting candles and calling on the saints, especially during Razorback football broadcasts. The lighted mascot candle with its snout turned toward a potential touchdown played a major role in the team’s success.

If a rival pulled too close or went ahead by any margin, the phone would ring. “It’s time to call on the saints,” Billy Newton, die-hard fan and forever friend, would say. The saints were those dearly departed Razorback fans who’d gone on to Glory, certain to be Calling the Hogs in Heaven. Sometimes, it worked and the Hogs would pull out a last minute victory.

            In addition to a genetic predisposition toward Hoodoo, it is possible that the burial mounds at Chuccalissa Village in south Memphis cast a wide net and I could have been influenced by their proximity when I lived there. I have been known to sit aligned with a bathtub while playing cards, setting myself up for good cards and a winning night. Wearing pajamas inside out could bring on much needed snow days. The performance of a snow dance complete with arm and hand motions as well as chants once caused a record number of Wicked Wednesday snow storms.

            During the time I was having difficulty conceiving, Mother brought out the big guns; Lydia Pinkham’s tonic promised “a baby in every bottle.” I swigged that nasty stuff that tasted worse than Ny-Quil. After draining multiple bottles of the putrid concoction, I decided on a different strategy.

           

Needing no help from Lydia’s bottle, friends awaited delivery of their babies. About six months into the pregnancy, it was time to find out the sex of the baby. In the mid-1970’s, finding out whether the baby was a boy or a girl could be accomplished at a Drano Party. The pregnant lady would spit upon a tablespoon of Drano crystals placed before her on a safe surface. Either they bubbled and boiled or they didn’t. The determining factor for boy or girl I have forgotten but the success rate for this hooey procedure was right at fifty-fifty.

            A recent piece of Made in the South Hoodoo evidence was related to the sale of my house. A charming cottage in a family-friendly neighborhood should have sold quickly. I was lamenting my situation and two friends offered advice. One explained that General Dollar sells several specialized room fragrances packaged in tall, color-coded aerosol cans. On one can is the picture of a Native American in full warrior headdress. His presence on the can suggests a fragrance concocted of special roots and spices prepared by an authentic medicine man. I bought several cans that promised alluring scents for the home. Another friend suggested I visit the Catholic book store and purchase a molded replica of a particular saint. This patron saint provided good vibrations for anything related to a house. She suggested I bury the little statue facing east, next to the Crye-Leike Real Estate sign. I figured if one crazy ploy was good, two would be better. I sprayed Native scents throughout my house and buried a Catholic figurine in the front yard. The house sold, but the offer came much later than the friends’ suggestions predicted.

            The funniest event involving supposed Hoodoo chants came when several girls traveled to Kentucky for an antiquing adventure. After a day of shopping, we slid into a booth at the hotel’s grill and our collective cuteness brought out the crazies. A staggering gigolo approached and mumbled, “Hoocashoopoo!”

            Aghast, we replied, “What did you say?”

            He repeated, in a louder voice trying to be heard above the music, “Hoocashoopoo! Hoocashoopoo!”

            Certain that our days were numbered, we signaled for the waitress. She said, “What’s wrong?”

            “That crazy man is chanting and putting a spell on us!”

            “Oh, he’s one of our regulars and he’s drunk. Actually, he’s asking ‘Who can shoot pool?’”

The People's House: a home for rats...

   

     Did you miss this fact, too, or am I the only human who did not know that the Arkansas Governor's Mansion is falling in on itself. Over the past few weeks, I've read with interest the articles reporting rat infestation, rot, and mold, those issues being minor to some.
    The so-called GM commission should have had everything that was in disrepair addressed when they had the chance, when the Huckabee family moved into a Triple-Wide, parked on the lawn (or grass as we say in Arkansas).
    The Arkansas Governor's Mansion is a public building, first and foremost. Its first floor is for public meetings and receptions, dinners, and other public events. Adjacent is an annex serving as the Governor's offices. I didn't know that. I've never toured the Mansion. With one central staircase, the First Family, it is reported, could be trapped in the Governor's Residence upstairs (a far cry from Mansion) when the first floor public spaces were being used.That has been rectified.
    Take a truck-load of pictures, save artifacts (including a petrified rat, I would suppose), pull out the trim that is historic, salvage as many historic elements and furnishings as possible. Then, implode the place.
     Money would be better spent in a budget for a new structure that would last for the next 100 years. It could be modeled after the beautiful Georgian architecture of the current Mansion, the one that is home to rats, no pun intended.

Looking forward to Ryan's Hand: Leila Meacham

      She's a retired English teacher who lives in San Antonio, Texas. I adored her book ROSES.  I liked TUMBLEWEEDS less and have not read SOMERSET.
     Leila's novel TITANS  is set in the early 1900's, the beginning of the oil boom in east Texas. That's why I bought it for my Kindle. I dream of being an oil baroness. I felt a kinship with the title.
    The characters are true to themselves and behave as one would expect in that era, though the pace of the novel was slowed considerably by especially polite behavior and well-kept secrets. While secrets are interesting in a novel, the honorable characters kept the secrets and because of that, the lack of resolution, lack of forward action became frustrating. Much narration was needed to keep the reader from losing the thread of the story, but the narration was tedious and caused the novel to drag.
     The novel's touch points for me were family dynamics, the oil business, love stories, and the hook: how in the world the complications inherent in the first section of the book would play out.
     Meacham confesses that keeping multiple characters active in two settings with multiple story lines became overwhelming. I felt the weight.
     At the end, the story lines were all tied up in a neat package. I did not get to experience the concluding high drama and deserved to do so after going through all the plot twists. I wanted excitement; I wanted a couple of the bad girls to get what was coming to them and I wanted to experience the thrill. I missed the emotion of a family reunion, after such a long story to get the fragments together.
     Mrs. Meacham has a new book coming out in July, 2016. I'll probably buy Ryan's Hand, because another captivating book like ROSES might be within the pages of her next novel.

A Goat Boy When You Need One

     Along the Jersey Shore, at Ocean City, New Jersey, is a family enjoying "A Day at the Beach." With Nancy and Timmy in tow, the coolers, blankets, toys, chairs, tents and more add comfort to the experience. As the sun sets, it's time to pack up and go home. Easier said than done.
    Thus, this young husband and wife team latched on to the Uber-inspired app idea and created a Beach Caddy service. For a fee (what would YOU pay?), a muscled, able-bodied teen will cart your beach essentials to your vehicle or house or condo. It can also work in the reverse: the whole kit-and-kaboodle caddied down to the shore. Astounding.
     Samantha skills and Jeanie head-bobs become obsolete.
     Some of my favorite memories of the beach were made perfect by Goat Boy...or is it Tote Boy?
A tent, several beach chairs, blankets, and a cooler were all set up in a perfect spot just down from the condo. The arrangement was completed by my friend's husband, affectionately named Goat Boy. We toted ourselves, our reading material, sunscreen, hat, and diet soft drink.
    He loves her a whole lot.
    When Goat Boy stayed at home and only The Beach Queens occupied the condo, we divided up the duties and made multiple trips down and up, up and down, down and up, wearing ourselves out from the back and forth. The set-up,though, was priority One on day One, and worth the effort. The condo we rented for the week was located on a friendly strip of beachfront where nobody bothered anybody or anything. We could leave the tent and beach chairs for the next day and the next.
     Every morning of our week in paradise we awoke to see our oasis awaiting. Coffee on the deck started the day. By mid-morning, we had on our suits and hats, we'd applied sunscreen, gathered our reading material, and readied ourselves to tote the cooler. At the end of the day, it was the reverse.
     The worst thing, though, was on the evening of day six; we had to take down the castle. The late evening sighs resonated as we boxed up the trappings, packed the suitcases, and hauled it all to the vehicle, readying it and ourselves for the gloomy morning of our departure.
     Beach Caddy should expand services to come more in line with the Beach Queens and their Goat Boy. Here's the business plan.
    The day before the Beach Queens' arrival, the new service, GB Enterprises, would provide set-up. Beach Queens would arrive and enjoy the week. Upon their departure, GB Enterprises would follow-up and remove the beach essentials, storing and readying them for the next royal adventurers.
     Now, that's a service I'd pay for.