The Bird

This is my horoscope for today. "If you feel fed up over something, you need to make sure that you're not just blowing up at whomever is closest. If you can track down the right person, your anger can serve a good purpose."

Does that mean the fact that I tracked down the name of the President of the Versus tv network last night, Jamie Davis, and wrote him a real snail mail letter, expressing my extreme displeasure with his network's incompetent engineers, will solve my problem of no video during broadcasts of NHL Stanley Cup play-off games? E-mailing hasn't worked, and after the 5th straight game of audio with no video, I decided it was time to go to the top. I also pointed out that the phone number on his company website is incorrect. It has 1 too many digits. Obviously they don't want customer feedback.

Since I couldn't watch the game, I tried turning to the Style Network to watch Tom, from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, on his new show Tacky House. I had video on that channel, but no audio. I couldn't believe it. All the other channels worked fine. It was only the 2 channels that I wanted to watch, out of approximately 70, that were experiencing technical difficulties.

I hate Charter Communications. If you have a problem with tv broadcasts and attempt to complain to them, you get absolutely nowhere. Their only solution is to schedule an appointment to send someone to your house. Clearly if it's only certain channels that aren't broadcasting properly, coming to my house isn't going to solve the problem. You need to get your engineers busy troubleshooting because someone hasn't flipped the right switch.

I know what I'd like to flip both Versus and Charter.

Eight is enough

Dillon and I just got back from his regularly scheduled vet appointment. He's showing no ill effects from yesterday. No signs of swelling or pain. While we waited, he focused intently on the closed exam room door, tail wagging. When the door opened, the tail wagged harder, thumping my legs. As soon as they called his name, he charged for the door and went straight to sit by the counter where the jar of dog treats is kept. The vet tech immediately told him he was a good boy and handed him a treat. It was the first of at least 8 that he received through the combined efforts of 2 vet techs and the vet.

He had his nail clipped, his anal glands expressed, a fecal sample and blood work done, and got his yearly vaccines. He kept trying to sit, both because that's what earns him treats and because he figured if he was sitting on his butt maybe people would stop poking and prodding and doing rude things to him back there. They finally finished and pronounced him to be in good shape. He does still test positive for heartworms. Apparently he has some really stubborn ones that continue to hang on despite the monthly preventative. Usually after 6 months to a year of preventative, dogs test negative for heartworms. Not my boy. But since his heart sounds good and he appears healthy, exhibiting no outward signs, the recommendation is to continue to give him the preventative and not do the stressful treatment that would kill all the heartworms.

I'm thinking he'll probably have a lazy day. Vaccines can sometimes make a dog droopy. I never got my workout yesterday since our schedule turned topsy turvy. So instead of Dillon getting his walk, I'm going to get my workout. We'll hit the Canal Trail again tomorrow. It'll be interesting to see if he goes right back to sticking his head into the brush or takes a more cautious approach from now on. Regardless, we'll definitely need to walk off those 8 dog biscuits. Eight, really?!

Counting my blessings

This is Dillon’s anniversary day. I adopted him one year ago. He’s such a sweet dog. In way of celebration, we spent this morning at the vet’s. Yesterday when we went for our walk, he went nose to nose with a copperhead. As soon as I realized what had attracted his attention, I yelped and then started urging him to “come on, come on, come on.” Luckily, the copperhead didn’t strike and Dillon emerged from the encounter unscathed.

This morning, we started our walk along the Canal Trail. Dillon trotted along with occasional forays into the overgrown areas on the side of the trail, occasionally sticking his head down to explore an interesting smell or sight. All of a sudden, he sprang straight up in the air, like a cartoon character, and leapt back onto the trail, staring down at the brush he’d had his head buried in a moment before. I’ve never seen him do anything like that before. He didn’t yelp, or shake his head or lick, but something didn’t seem right. He wasn’t pulling ahead and didn’t appear eager to keep walking.

I knelt beside him and started looking for fang marks. My fear was that a snake like the copperhead we’d encountered the day before had bitten him. I couldn’t find any puncture wounds or blood, but he’s got such a thick coat that it’s practically impossible to get down to his skin in a lot of places. We cut our walk short and headed back for the house. When we got through the gate, he didn’t take off like a rocket for the porch as he usually does. When I tried to examine him some more on the back porch, he just lay down at my feet and partially closed his eyes. Once inside, Dillon just wanted to lie down and didn’t get up to greet Dad when he returned from an errand.

Dad agreed that Dillon wasn’t acting normally. I called the vet and they said to bring him in and they’d take a look. I was lucky, my 2 favorite receptionists were on the desk and my 2 favorite techs were working. Michelle saw us when we walked in the door and as soon as I told her what had happened, she motioned me to an exam room with no waiting. By now, Dillon was starting to drool, something else he never does unless he’s waiting for a particularly tasty treat. Michelle couldn’t find any puncture wounds either, but she thought his lip seemed swollen. Judy came in to check him out and opened his mouth to stick her fingers inside telling Dillon, “I wouldn’t stick my fingers inside just any dog’s mouth.” He just looked at her pitifully.

The vet didn’t think he’d been bitten by a venomous snake because after an hour, there would have been a more visible outward sign. But she agreed that he appeared to have been bitten or stung by something that was making him feel bad. She gave him a shot for the swelling. Then she decided she should give him a shot of antibiotic as well since, “his mouth might hurt too much for him to take a pill from you.” “His mouth didn’t hurt too much to eat the 2 cookies I fed him a couple of minutes ago,” Michelle informed her. I assured the vet that if I coated the pills with canned Easy Cheese, he’d swallow them with no problem. We went home with a mini-pharmacy; pills for pain, pills for swelling, and an antibiotic.

I guess the shot did the trick, by the time we finished lunch, Dillon was acting like himself again. When I came home tonight, he seemed fine, no noticeable swelling and he was acting normally; barking through the door for me to hurry up and searching for a ball to take outside with him. So I gave him only the antibiotic. We have a regularly scheduled vet appointment for a heartworm test and yearly vaccines tomorrow, so they’ll get to check him out again.

By the time we’d finished with the vet this morning, there was no time to cook lunch. I’d started marinating a pork loin last night, so I decided we’d have sandwiches for lunch and I’d cook supper. I made Dad an egg salad sandwich. When he sat down at the table, I folded my hands for the blessing. “We’re blessing sandwiches now?” he asked incredulously. “I cooked it, you bless it,” I responded. He shook his head, but said the blessing.

When I got home from work tonight, I started cooking supper. It didn’t take that long to cook, but for someone who always claims he’s not very hungry, Dad was certainly impatient for it to be ready. When everything was finally on the table, I sat down and folded my hands for the blessing. “Two blessings in one day?” he groaned. “We blessed lunch. Wasn’t that enough?” “I cooked it, you bless it,” I replied. He kept grumbling. “You’re slowing up the process,” I told him. He said the blessing grudgingly.

After we finished eating, he had seconds of the pork loin and the potatoes, he complimented the meal saying, “That was pretty good.” “So it was worthy of a blessing?” I asked. “Well, I don’t know about that,” was the response. “If you’re not careful, God’s going to send you in the opposite direction from where you expect to wind up when your time comes,” I warned. He just walked out to his room to catch the end of the Lehrer News Hour on PBS.

Tipping the scales

Sunday means breakfast at Oscar's. The weatherman started announcing yesterday that we could expect thunderstorms, some of them severe, beginning Sunday morning. I warned Dad Saturday night that if it was storming Sunday morning, we weren't going to breakfast because I was not going to leave Dillon home alone during a storm. The poor dog is terrified of thunderstorms and while he doesn't seem to get much comfort from my presence when it's storming, I have to believe it would be worse if he was home alone. He might finally manage to dig his way through my closet wall or the bottom of the bathtub.

When we got up this morning it was overcast and windy, but not storming. Dillon went outside for his morning bathroom trip with no hesitation. His behavior is a pretty good barometer of whether there's a storm approaching or not. So I got ready to go to breakfast. When I got in the car, Dad asked, "We're not going to get rain today?" I answered that yes, it was supposed to rain. "But not this morning?" he queried. "Yes, it's supposed to storm this morning," I replied. "But we're going to breakfast," he said, plainly confused. "Well it's not storming NOW," I answered, exasperated.

Clearly Dad has resigned himself to the fact that Dillon comes first in my calculations, not realizing that I do in fact try to balance their needs and wants. I informed him that God obviously wanted him to have breakfast that morning, so he'd held off the thunder. Of course, Dad gets concerned about Dillon's feelings too. When we left the restaurant after breakfast, it was really gray and windy. "Looks like we got finished just in time," Dad commented. When we turned on to our street, he stated again that it was good we were getting home then.

Dillon greeted us at the door, barking, as usual. When I checked, my bed was rumpled, so obviously he'd taken his customary morning nap there as opposed to cowering in the bathtub. The sun even came out a little later, which is bad because that will make the atmosphere more unstable and strengthen potential storms. But I took advantage of that window of opportunity to get Dillon's walk in.

So both the males at my house have had their Sunday morning treats. Yesterday I cooked, baked Dad a pan of reduced sugar brownies, and cleaned. By rights, the rest of today is mine.

Feeling Puckish

I've been thoroughly enjoying the start of The Stanley Cup play-offs. It doesn't get much better than 2 hockey games a night, every night, for over a week. Well, it would be better if the Hurricanes were paying hockey instead of golf, but I still find teams to pull for or against. I particularly enjoy listening to the games announced by Doc Emrick and Eddie Olcheck and of course, the Hurricanes' own John Forslund.

This afternoon's game featured a one for the highlight reel moment. After the Blackhawks' goalie stopped a puck in front of the net, and the play was whistled dead, they couldn't find the puck. The officials searched everywhere for it. They looked in the back of the net, they looked around the dashers, they started patting down the goalie. He'd stopped the puck by essentially sitting down on it. They finally did everything except strip search him on the ice. They pulled his shirt up, pulled his pads down, pulled his pants out at the waist and peered inside. When they still hadn't located the puck, they started the process all over again. I've never seen anything like it. It went on for several minutes.

They couldn't start the game without finding the lost puck because if it suddenly reappeared from wherever it had disappeared to during play, the officials and the players wouldn't know which puck was in play. The league officials in Toronto even phoned in instructions at one point. I'm not sure exactly where they finally found the puck because the network was showing a replay of the goalie making the original save that started the whole thing and when they went back to live video, the official had the puck in his hand. Too bad, I was kind of looking forward to seeing them actually make the goalie drop his pants on the ice. They were definitely moving in that direction.

I love ice hockey.

The Telephone

The Telephone

by Louis Jenkins

In the old days telephones were made of
rhinoceros tusk and were big and heavy enough
to be used to fight off an intruder. The telephone
had a special place in the front hallway, a shrine
built into the wall, a niche previously occupied
by the blessed virgin, and when the phone
rang it was serious business. "Hello." "One if
by land and two if by sea." "What?" "Unto you
a child is born." "What?" "What did he say?"
"Something about the Chalmers' barn." The
voice was carried by a single strand of bare wire
running from coast to coast, wrapped around a
Coke bottle stuck on a tree branch, dipping low
over the swamp, it was the party line, all your
neighbors in a row, out one ear and in another.
"We have a bad connection, I'm having trouble
understanding you."

Nowadays telephones are made of recycled
plastic bags and have multiplied to the point
where they have become a major nuisance.
The point might ring at you from anywhere, the
car, the bathroom, under the couch cushions...
Everyone hates the telephone. No one uses the
telephone anymore so telephones, out of habit
or boredom or loneliness perhaps, call one
another. "Please leave a message at the tone."
"I'm sorry, this is a courtesy call. We'll call back at
a more convenient time. There is no message."

My grandmother's telephone was in the front hall for years. It sat on a heavy oval table with a chair next to it. That phone was heavy and could easily have been used to knock out an intruder, if you were strong enough to raise it above your head.

I don't know what happened to the phone, but that table is now in my living room, covered with family photos. I wonder how many of the people pictured in those photos once called on that telephone and talked to my grandmother while she sat, or stood, beside that table in the hall?

I also remember party lines. My great-aunt, who lived in the country, had one. You knew if the call was for you by the number of rings. I always wondered how many other people were listening up and down the line.

In those days, you mainly called with important news. That news had to be carefully weighed to see if it merited the expense of a long distance call. Now people seem to talk on their phones incessantly. I'm constantly amazed at how much they seem to have to say.

He can be hardheaded

The plumber’s helpers finally came yesterday afternoon to caulk my tub. I asked Dad what Dillon did while they were here. “He wanted to stay in the bathroom and help them,” he said in disgust. “I told him to come twice and he wouldn’t listen to me. I finally grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out. I think he held it against me. He wouldn’t have much to do with me for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Was this before or after snack time?” I inquired. Dad has regularly scheduled snacks at 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. “It was before.” “So, what happened when snack time rolled around?” “He came over then. He wasn’t going to let a little thing like being mad at me interfere with his food,” came the quick reply.

Dad spent a lot of time this week digging up, and replanting, the iris in the backyard. This afternoon, he informed me that Dillon had been molesting his plants. “What exactly does molesting your plants mean?” I asked. “He was over there sniffing and pawing around in the dirt. They’re not buried very deep in the ground now, you know. He knew he was wrong. He hung his head and slunk off when I caught him.” Dad's lucky Dillon didn't lay down and roll over on his back in submission, right on top of the iris, like he's prone to do when scolded.

Dad and Dillon are having a trying week. Of course, Dad was laughing when he told me both stories. He still thinks Dillon is a wonderful dog. Dillon is a wonderful dog, but he’s also stubborn. He’s like those people who smile and agree with you while continuing to do exactly what they wanted to do to begin with.

What's your boiling point?

Despite the weather being beautiful yesterday, sunny and cool, Dillon got no walk. That was because I was waiting for the plumber that Dad thought was coming back on Monday. I had morning duty and Dad was responsible for the afternoon. When I got home from work, Dad suggested that maybe I should call the plumber and find out what was going on because he knew he said he was coming on Monday. When I pointed out that on Friday, he claimed not to have understood what the plumber said, he responded that he'd told the plumber we'd see him on Monday, but no, he hadn't understood the plumber's response.

I went to release some of my frustration with a workout. I was still afraid to leave the house because last time the plumber called at 5:30 p.m. while I was on the trail with Dillon. At supper, I suggested to Dad that next time he didn't understand what someone said, he ask them to write it down instead of waiting until I got home to tell me that he didn't know what the person said. I ask you, if you had a choice between looking foolish and/or annoying a contractor or having to live with me when I was seriously annoyed, possibly for a number of days, which choice would you make?

I called the plumber this morning and surprisingly enough he called me right back. He'll be here sometime tomorrow. When I gave Dad the news, he announced that he was going to the nursery to buy another dogwood. He's determined to kill himself digging holes to plant trees. Well, at least there's no estate tax this year.

Then he told me that he was going to trim the camellia japonica bushes on the side of the house. They're huge and when they bloom, they're covered with gorgeous pink blooms. I immediately asked how much he was planning to trim. He assured me that I'd hardly notice, but he thought he should run it by me since, "You seem to have firm opinions about these things." Gee, he finally noticed.

Perhaps it was the arctic tone of voice when I asked why he'd whacked off part of the magnolia yesterday. Once again, he was screwing with my favorite section of the yard. Given that this was the same magnolia that had been his excuse for butchering my favorite tree last summer, I didn't understand why he was now whacking off parts of the magnolia that was supposed to need room to grow.

Wonder what new way he'll find to annoy me today? I heard a segment on NPR this morning about how the brain ages. Supposedly as we age, our boiling point rises. So we're not as quick to anger. That's true for Dad. Unfortunately for him, my brain insists on retaining a more youthful outlook. Wish the rest of my body would follow suit.

Spring is blooming

Saw my first hummingbird of the season this afternoon. He came zipping across the back porch. Guess it's time to get out the feeder. In the meantime, he can enjoy the honeysuckle on the back fence. I planted it specifically because it's supposed to attract hummingbirds and butterflies.

The Sweet Betsy is blooming. Mom loved it so much that she transplanted it from Granny's yard. I don't understand why because the blooms are such a dark maroon shade that they look dead and I can't detect any fragrance.


Some of the rose bushes have started blooming too. I snipped a beautiful pink rose when Dad wasn't looking and put it in a crystal vase, a gift from Dad several years ago, on my computer desk. Mom swore that in Charlotte, when Dad came home at night, he'd count the tulips in the flower beds to make sure they were all still there. But if he didn't mean for me to cut the occasional bloom, why did he give me a crystal flower vase?

What did I expect?

When I was vacuuming earlier this week, I discovered that the carpet at the corner of the tub in my bathroom was soaking wet. I had the same problem a number of years ago, when Katie was a puppy, and the plumber then discovered that the faucet was leaking behind the wall, the water was running along the edge of the tub and soaking the floor in that spot. I called the plumber yesterday, but he didn't get here. He left a message on my answering machine that he'd be here today, but he'd call before he came to make sure someone was home.

Calling before he came wasn't going to do any good if he called after I left for work. Since Dad doesn't hear well on the phone, he simply refuses to answer it. Period. So, I left the plumber a message that someone would be here all day. Of course that was only half the battle because Dad also doesn't hear the doorbell and Dillon doesn't bark to alert you that someone's there. Dad wanted to work in the yard, so I taped a note to the door that he was out back, to come on around.

That should have handled things except that when I was ready to leave, Dad was sitting in the den reading a book. I pointed out that when the plumber read the note and went to the backyard, if Dad wasn't there, the plumber was going to leave for his next call. Dad claimed he'd see him. Given that his back was to the porch and his nose was buried in a book, I didn't see how.

He kept assuring me that he'd see the plumber or the plumber would find him. I kept arguing that neither thing was going to happen and the plumber was simply going to leave when he didn't see Dad. That's what happened last year when we were waiting for the A/C repairman. I finally got emphatic enough about it that he went outside. What's so awful about sitting on the back porch and reading on a nice day?

When I got home, I asked if the plumber had been. The answer was yes, but it went downhill after that. The drain got cleaned out, but the plumber couldn't find a leak. He did say the caulking around the tub could probably use replacing, but it has to be completely dry before it can be done. I haven't used that shower in 2 days, how dry does it need to be? Dad thinks that the plumber will be back on Monday, but he's not sure that's what was said, regardless, I'm not supposed to use that shower until the plumber comes back.

"I'm not so sure your problem is going to be fixed," he said. "Well, did you tell him what the cause of the problem was last time?" I asked. "No, I figured he'd remember." It wasn't the same plumber and it's been 11 years, so odds are even if it was the same plumber, he'd have forgotten by now. Since Dad had brought up the details of the previous occurrence to me, I couldn't believe he didn't mention it to the plumber.

So, I can't use my shower. I don't know when the plumber is coming back. When he does comes back, who knows if Dad will hear him. My problem may not be fixed even after the caulking is replaced. I walked out of the den, disgusted, and went to do my workout. Then I hauled all my stuff down the hall to use Dad's shower again.

Needless to say, I'm seriously annoyed. I don't know why I expected it to be any different. Dad uses his hearing as an excuse to absolve himself from responsibility for, or avoid, any number of things. I guess I'm going to have to start leaving notes and requesting written responses since I can't rely on Dad to get things straight. It's frustrating trying to find the balance between treating him like a responsible adult and acknowledging that he frequently doesn't want to accept responsibility.

Our morning walk

I really need to start always taking a camera with me when Dillon and I go walking. This morning there were over a dozen yellow butterflies flitting this way and that among the red clover covering the lower field of the NC Power right-of-way. A box turtle the size of a salad plate ambled to the edge of the retention pond and paused, head up, waiting for Dillon to exit the pond so that it could safely enter. We had the trail all to ourselves. I always feel rich, like a Rockefeller with my own private lands, when Dillon and I walk along without encountering another soul along the way.

Hip, Hip, Hooray!

When I arrive at work each afternoon, there is a pile of folders and papers waiting on my desk. Tom attaches sheets of instructions or post-it notes indicating what I'm to do with each item. Friday, we finally received a long-awaited document. There was a green post-it note instructing me as to who was to receive copies. The first line of the note read, Hip, Hip, Hooray! I sat there with a big smile on my face thinking, God, I love my job.

A spring in my step

Since warmer weather has finally arrived, I'm back in open toed shoes and flip flops. God, I love spring and summer! Monday and Tuesday, I wore an older pair of black strappy White Mountain wedge mules, really comfortable and dressy enough for work. I kept noticing this wonderful springy feeling with every step I took. I was amazed at the amount of cushioning I seemed to feel in the heels of the shoes.

I stopped by the grocery store on the way home Tuesday and on my way across the parking lot, I happened to glance down at my shoes. That springy feeling of sinking down on impact was being cause by my shoes literally collapsing as I walked. The soles and heels were made of molded rubber/plastic, with the inside of the heels apparently being hollow. The heels had split on the sides and chunks of rubbery plastic were either protruding or falling off with each step I took.

I tried to walk primarily on my toes for the length of time it took me to finish in the grocery store. I kept wondering if anyone at work had noticed. Gosh, I hope not. I imagined a trail of black plastic chunks leading to my desk. As soon as I got home, the shoes went in the trash, which is a shame because I really liked those shoes. This is the third pair of White Mountain shoes that I've worn until the soles literally gave out. Naturally I haven't been able to find new pairs of the same style. They just don't make them like they used to.

What's for supper?

Dad cooked my birthday dinner. That’s literally true, but not the whole story. We usually have our big meal in the middle of the day and then just have a sandwich for supper. He offered to take me out to eat for my birthday, but we had plenty of food at home and he can’t hear a word I say when we eat in a restaurant, so I declined. Still, I thought I deserved more than a pimento cheese sandwich on my birthday.

I wanted to get in a workout before supper, might as well start out year 52 on the right track. If I didn’t get supper in the oven until after my workout, we would have been eating around 7 p.m. which is a little late for Dad. So I prepared the stuffed hot dogs and baked beans, one of my favorite meals, turned on the oven, and wrote Dad’s instructions. All he had to do was put the 2 dishes in the oven at the specified times. Of course, first we had to synchronize watches. He believes in being precise.

I worked out, took a shower, and by the time I was back in the kitchen, supper was ready. Everything was properly heated. I told him he could tell everyone that he cooked supper for me. “Next thing you know, they’ll be asking me for recipes,” he answered. “I assume you’ll say that those are a family secret, as opposed to admitting that you don’t actually know any recipes,” I replied. He just laughed.

Happy Birthday to me!

It's fifty years later, but I'd still give that cake a big thumbs up. Chocolate icing with all those decorative flowers, yum!

Dad gave me 4 boxed sets of Berta Hummel porcelain Christmas ornament figurines. He probably made the local Hallmark store's week. At Christmas, I had a collection of mini Disney waterglobes sitting on the kitchen windowsill. I hated to take them down because I enjoyed having something decorative to look at while I was working at the kitchen sink. That was the inspiration behind Dad's gift.

"I figured they'd fit in the kitchen window," he said when I opened the first box. Being Dad, he didn't stop at one, but apparently bought the entire collection. How sweet is that?!! Mom, ever practical, would have been shaking her head and thinking of the dusting involved and viewing them as a useless gift (with a nod to Dylan Thomas). I'll treasure them and think of Dad's thoughtfulness every time I see them.

Of course, I'm also going to live in fear of knocking one off the windowsill and breaking it. The Disney waterglobes were JCPenney promotional give-aways. If one got knocked into the sink it wouldn't be a catastrophe. The potential for disaster makes the gift even more surprising. Dad's always been careful to preserve his collectibles in mint condition, in their original packaging when possible.

One birthday, he gave me a Disney watch mounted on a wooden Disney toy train. "It'll be worth more if you leave it in the box," he said. Consequently, I never wore the watch and it was years before I finally took the set out of the box and put the train, with the watch still attached, on my bookshelves where I could see it. This gift is clearly meant to be displayed for my enjoyment, not stored to increase in value. We're both improving with age.

We are family

We went to a family reunion of my mother's family yesterday. Good food, good company, good time. It was fun to remember old times, meet the newest family members gained through marriage or birth, and eat lots of good food. The dessert table was groaning under the weight of all those cakes, pies, and cobblers. Ben didn't really need to cook a pig, although that was delicious too. We all knew that was just a prelude to the real main course, dessert.

We had a great turn-out and glorious weather. Adults congregated under the shade trees or tent, kids of several generations played ball in the side yard with Elvis the dog playing in the outfield, and a couple of the youngest had a grand time making mud pies. It was wonderful, but bittersweet too. My mother and aunts would have loved it. It was also a testament to the 3 strong women who built the foundation of family ties that still draw us together years later.

One of Mom's cousins has done a very impressive job of tracing the family history. He brought us a copy of the family tree from several generations back to the present. Mike talks with great authority about our ancestors, relating stories that frankly fascinate, but confuse me. I can't keep them all straight. If I remember correctly, this is a picture of my great-great grandfather. If that's not right, add another great or two. None of the ladies present yesterday would argue with the description.

Argh!

I attempted to download the latest Microsoft Windows updates last night. For some reason, Microsoft is protecting me from their own downloads. I get an error message saying the window is being prevented from opening for my own protection. Then a set of instructions supposedly tells me how to solve the problem. Naturally, the solution didn't work. I rarely use IE anymore since downloading Mozilla Firefox to use for Blackboard online classes, but I still like to keep it updated because occasionally I come across a site that won't work properly with Firefox.

Next I decided to update to the newest version of Firefox. The older version that was compatible with Blackboard has been replaced and isn't a supported product anymore. Downloading the update went smoothly. Except when I went to check my bookmarks, I discovered that they'd been rearranged. I could live with that, but for some unknown reason some of them had also disappeared! That really upset me. I can't figure out why they were eliminated and I didn't have all of them memorized, so I couldn't retrieve them all. ARGH!!!

DIY vases

I'm not that much of a DIYer. My projects rarely turn out looking like those of the experts and it's discouraging to waste time and money when the reason you probably undertook the project to begin with was to SAVE time and money. That being said, I thought these DIY glasses (follow the link to a step-by-step video) were pretty cool. I just might be temped to give them a try.

Follow the yellow brick road

Our road may be asphalt, but it's definitely yellow. The pollen has suddenly exploded and is covering everything with a fine yellow powder. Yesterday there were footprints in the pollen coating the gray concrete dock at the rear of the office. It looked exactly like someone had walked through a light dusting of powdery snow. This morning, Dillon left tracks across the yellow covering my back deck.

I had the windows open overnight to let in the cool air, but closed them this morning when I realized that if all that pollen came inside, I'd have to dust everything and wipe down the blinds. The weatherman says that if it gets windy as predicted on Thursday, visibility may be limited due to blowing clouds of pollen. Sounds like a dust storm right out of the old West.

There's a price for everything and I guess pollen is our price for all the other beauties of spring. Of course along with spring you also get ticks, mosquitoes, and snakes. Winter is becoming more appealing all the time. Just kidding. I love spring even if I do already have 2 tick bites on the same leg.

Keeping with the movie theme, last night was almost, but not quite Hoosiers II. Butler played a heck of a game and kept it within a couple of points right until the very end. In the movies, Gordon's last second shot would have rattled around and gone down for 2 points and the win. Those kids were impressive. I hope they'll look back on their NCAA run with more pride than disappointment.

Go Dawgs!

I'm pulling hard for the Butler Bulldogs to beat Duke tonight. I'd be pulling for anybody to beat Duke, but Butler is a smaller school, their coach is adorable, and their mascot is a real, live dog. How could I not be pulling for them, as long as they're not playing Carolina.

Dad is outraged that the game doesn't start until
9:30 p.m. That's way past his bedtime. Of course, he'll probably get in a nap when he falls asleep in his chair at some point between now and then. When I told him that I was excited about the game and was going to be pulling just as hard for Butler as I would if Carolina was playing, his response was that they'd need somebody to pull hard for them, preferably someone from a higher place than I reside.

For the record, I think even Dad would like to see Butler win. He usually always pulls for the ACC team, but he's not a fan of Coach K and he figures that Butler probably won't get another chance at the Final Four. Of course he doesn't expect Butler to win. I keep telling him that's the reason they play the games, because sometimes things happen that he doesn't expect.

Monday musings

We had a very nice Easter. The weather was sunny and warm, actually HOT! We went to Oscar's for breakfast where the new waitress, she's been there for about a month, kept forgetting to bring me any coffee. I really think the size of the tip should be reduced when I have to continually fill my own coffee mug.

Then for some strange reason, I was seized by the urge to clean. So after Dillon and I went for our morning walk, I washed the sheers in my bedroom and study, and scrubbed out all the windowsills. Mom would have been very proud. Dad's sole contribution was to comment that I sure was working hard. It would have been more helpful if he'd been around to lend a hand when I was taking down the sheers in my study.

In the process, I managed to bring down the whole curtain rod which fell on a glass of water I'd stupidly left sitting on the trunk below the window. The water made a huge waterfall that drenched my chair and the surrounding carpet. Mom would not have been proud of the expletives I shouted during the ensuing chaos. Dad was already out in his room in the garage and Dillon would have liked to join him. Fortunately the sheers went back up easier than they came down, so I guess all's well that ends well.

On our morning walk, we encountered a family which included a little girl of about 4. She had dark hair and was wearing a bright pink top. Her mother said the child loves dogs and she gave Dillon a good petting. He stood there, tail wagging, head lifted to her face. She ended by wrapping both arms around his neck and laying her head on his. It was really sweet. I told her she'd made Dillon's day.

Dad and Dillon have a morning routine. Dillon sits at attention, watching with unwavering concentration, while Dad fixes his cereal. No cooking student ever watched an instructor more intently, which is funny since Dad's culinary skills pretty much consist of slicing a banana for cereal. Dad always leaves Dillon part of his banana. This morning, the first slice was smaller than usual, so he had to go back to cut off another piece so that Dillon would get his usual share. They both appeared satisfied with the final portion.

Happy Easter!

This was Easter 1966. Back when Easter meant a new outfit, white gloves, hats, and corsages. The real miracle here was that all 3 of us were actually smiling for the picture. Usually by the time Dad got the camera focused and was ready, we'd completely lost our patience and our tempers.

Mom's childhood Easter. She's the oldest girl on the right.

The Easter basket I gave Dad this year.

The $1 felt basket came from Target. Isn't it cute? I filled it with assorted sugar-free candy. I got one for myself too and filled it with chocolate eggs filled with coconut or caramel. I even bought a whole bag of malted milk balls. I hadn't thought about those in years, but when I was perusing the candy selection at Walgreen's, I spotted a bag that brought back memories of Easter's past and couldn't resist. When I mentioned them to Dad, his face lit up and he commented that they used to be really good. Maybe I'll share one or two with him. They're not sugar-free, but how much harm could 1 malted milk ball cause?

One of my favorite childhood memories of Easter is of the hard spun-sugar eggs that had a little window that allowed you to peer inside at a miniature Easter scene. I don't know if they even make those anymore. I didn't see any in the stores. I also used to get a big coconut cream filled chocolate egg that would take days to eat.

We spent a lot of childhood Easters in NC. I still remember coming home one year and finding a second purple foil Easter basket waiting in my bedroom. I was thrilled that the Easter bunny had visited me in both places and felt like I'd really hit the jackpot.

Uncle Wade used to give us a Lance box filled with brightly colored, individually wrapped hard sugar eggs. They didn't taste very good, but they were perfect for Easter egg hunts. We'd hide them in the backyard and have our own egg hunts all through the spring and well into the summer.

Trees are poems that earth writes upon the sky... Kahlil Gibran

This is the view from the window in my study. Isn't the redbud tree spectacular? They're my absolute favorite flowering tree. The picture below is of a redbud tree in my backyard that Dad practically destroyed 11 years ago. Apparently, he wasn't familiar with redbud trees and he was in a mood, like men sometimes get, to cut something down.


I tried to tell him that it was really pretty when it bloomed in the spring. "I've never seen it bloom," was his reply. I tried again to explain that he'd never been here when it was in bloom, but it was beautiful. I thought I'd won the argument, if my sainted sister, Linda, had made a similar comment the tree would have been deemed sacrosanct.

I couldn't believe it when I came home that evening to find the tree chopped down and stacked at the curb. I've never completely forgiven him for that even though by some miracle the stump sprouted branches. It's now more of a misshapen bush than the graceful tree it was before he attacked it.

My personal history made the following folk tale feel very familiar.

“The Red-Bud Tree”
Traditional folk tale

Once upon a time four young princes heard a story about a certain wonderful tree, called the Red-Bud Tree. No one of them had ever seen a Red-Bud Tree, and each prince wished to be the first to see one. So the eldest prince asked the driver of the king’s chariot to take him deep into the woods where this tree grew. It was still very early in the spring and the tree had no leaves, nor buds. It was black and bare like a dead tree. The prince could not understand why this was called a Red-Bud Tree, but he asked no questions. Later in the spring, the next son went with the driver of the king’s chariot to see the Red-Bud Tree. At this time it was covered with red buds.

The tree was all covered with green leaves when the third son went into the woods a little later to see it. He asked no questions about it, but he could see no reason for calling it the Red-Bud Tree. Some time after this the youngest prince begged to be taken to see the Red-Bud Tree. By this time it was covered with little bean-pods. When he came back from the woods he ran into the garden where his brothers were playing, crying, “I have seen the Red-Bud Tree.”

“So have I,” said the eldest prince. “It did not look like much of a tree to me,” said he; “it looked like a dead tree. It was black and bare.”

“What makes you say that?” said the second son. “The tree has hundreds of beautiful red buds. This is why it is called the Red-Bud Tree.” The third prince said: “Red buds, did you say? Why do you say it has red buds? It is covered with green leaves.” The prince who had seen the tree last laughed at his brothers, saying: “I have just seen that tree, and it is not like a dead tree. It has neither red buds nor green leaves on it. It is covered with little bean-pods.”

The king heard them and waited until they stopped talking. Then he said: “My sons, you have all four seen the same tree, but each of you saw it at a different time of the year.”