Daybreak in Alabama by Langston Hughes

April is poetry month. Today's daily poem from Knopf Poetry is particularly poignant in light of the devastating tornadoes that tore through Alabama. So many broken hearts at this daybreak.

Daybreak in Alabama

When I get to be a composer
I'm gonna write me some music about
Daybreak in Alabama
And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it
Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist
And falling out of heaven like soft dew.
I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in it
And the scent of pine needles
And the smell of red clay after rain
And long red necks
And poppy colored faces
And big brown arms
And the field daisy eyes
Of black and white black white black people
And I'm gonna put white hands
And black hands and brown and yellow hands
And red clay earth hands in it
Touching everybody with kind fingers
And touching each other natural as dew
In that dawn of music when I
Get to be a composer
And write about daybreak
In Alabama.

It's Dillon's Day!

How can you not love that face?



It was two years ago today that Dad and I went to the beach to pick Dillon up. His adopted family had to give him up for health reasons, theirs not his, and my friend Debbie needed someone to transport him back. In return, I had first dibs if I wanted to adopt him.


Despite the fact that he threw up in my backseat as we pulled into the driveway, he had a firm grip on my heart by the next morning. As I told friends the next day, "It'll take an act of God or physical force to take this dog away from me." Thank goodness neither has happened to date. Adopting Dillon was one of the best decisions I ever made.


Happy Dillon Day, sweet boy!

Happy Easter!

I'm pretty sure this was my first Easter. Doesn't Dad look dapper in his bow tie? Neither of us got quite that dressed up this Easter. We did both get Easter candy though. The Easter Bunny brought me a box of chocolates wrapped in gold foil with the prettiest green voile polka dot bow. Dad got the same felt basket as last year, he liked it enough to return it for a refill, with sugar-free chocolate.

I celebrated the holiday by cleaning out my closets. It was impossible to squeeze one more thing in either the bedroom or study closet. That meant it was hard to keep the clothes I actually wear wrinkle-free. Something had to be done. Since I didn't think Dad was likely to let me have any room in his closet, I had to start weeding through the things hanging in mine.

I just hate to let anything go even if I haven't worn it in years and probably never will again. How likely is it that I was ever going to feel the urge to dress up like a watermelon again? Time to get that old Halloween costume out of the way. It felt good to clear some things out and Dad will be happy to take the bags to Angel's Closet and get a receipt to deduct from his taxes next year.

In between emptying out the contents of my closets and listening to the hockey game, I cooked Easter dinner. I debated whether I was going to or not. Sunday is my day off from cooking. I like holiday food, dressing and sweet potato casserole are wonderful, but I figured they'd be just as good cooked next Saturday.

Still, it didn't feel right not to have Easter dinner. Dad was appreciative. Sweet potato casserole is his favorite food. We may have Chick-fil-a tomorrow. I deserve a day off.

It's so frustrating

I spent the afternoon trying to straighten up my study. I swear the clutter just gets out of control. I made progress, but I doubt anyone other than me can really see much of a difference. There’s still a ways to go before the job will be complete. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm for the project is greatly diminished even if the clutter is not.

I shredded so many old papers that the shredder overheated and quit working several times. It’s too bad I don’t have anything to mail because I have plenty of shredded packing material. Instead, I keep trying to dump it into plastic grocery bags and always manage to drop a good number of bits and pieces in the process. Sometimes I think I’m creating more of a mess than I had when I started.

My search for summer sandals continues. I’ve already bought and returned four pair. The fifth came today. They’ll be going back tomorrow. I liked all of them, but they either didn’t fit properly, were uncomfortable, or downright dangerous.

Platforms are very fashionable this summer. I ordered a really cute pair yesterday, very retro looking and classy. I put them on, took two steps and almost fell off the platform. They’re not super high, but the sole is narrow and if I really tried to walk in them, I’d need an orthopedic surgeon on speed dial.

I’m beginning to think I’ll soon be reduced to wearing the Clarks 3-strap sandals that little old ladies are so fond of. Arghhhh! I did discover that sandal now comes in more fashionable colors like bronze, yellow, and magenta, but I still don’t want them on my feet.

He won that round

Katie and Holly were never allowed on the bed. Furniture is for people and they had their own beds. I tried enforcing that same policy with Dillon. You can see how well that worked. According to Dad, when I'm away from home, Dillon spends most of his time on my bed, waiting for me to come back.

For all that Dillon is submissive and timid about some things, he can also be stubborn. For example, he holds his ground. I could move Holly and Katie out of the way with a gentle nudge of my knee. Not Dillon. He stands firm and he's immovable as a rock. It takes a shove rather than a nudge to get him to move.

The first time I found him on the bed, I told him to get down. He did. The second time I found him on my bed, I told him to get down. He complied more slowly. As time went by, he became slower and slower to comply with spoken commands to get off the bed. I had to physically drag him off. He finally won me over or wore me down. He looks so darn cute up there.

It's not as if he's going to hurt anything. I bought the comforter for $19 when Katie was a puppy. I have started putting a sheet over the comforter because it's easier to wash. I've been wanting a new bedspread, but I've about decided what I really need is just a pretty new sheet. That's all you really see.

I do draw the line at sharing the bed. Dillon gets it in the daytime. It's mine at night. I have noticed that when we go into the bedroom at night and I get into bed, he's started standing in the middle of the floor, gazing at me as if waiting for an invitation or considering the odds of jumping up to join me. I just give him a stern look back. He must have realized that no matter how cute he is, I'm not sharing the bed because he turns away and slowly walks to his bed.

You have to draw the line somewhere.

Dorothy, you can have Kansas

Well, Saturday was a day to remember if you live in North Carolina. Dillon’s bigger than Toto, but now I have an inkling of how Dorothy felt before she woke up in Oz. We were really lucky, no damage at all. I didn’t realize how lucky until I watched the news on Sunday. The damage across the state is incredible and heartbreaking.

Dad and I were watching the tv Saturday afternoon, monitoring the storm and the radar and it looked like a tornado was headed towards us, but we thought it missed us. Then Sunday morning I turned on the news and WRAL was showing damage in RR. Turns out the tornado came down 2-1/2 miles away from us, destroyed several businesses, and damaged 20 homes and a nursing home. Fortunately, no one was killed. The Employment Security Commission building was destroyed. Two of my bell ringing buddies work there, so they don't know where they're supposed to go on Monday.

I told Dad, only partly in jest, that maybe I should get cable installed in the bathroom. We would have been smarter to have been huddled in the bathtub instead of watching the tv in my bedroom, but then how would I have known what was going on? Given a choice, that's where Dillon would have been. He’s a very smart dog and always heads for the bathroom at the first hint of a storm, climbing into the tub if it starts to get severe, but I'd crated him so he was in the room with me.

We have a basement, but no way to access it from inside the house. You have to walk around and enter from the outside. I suggested that maybe Dad should have a trap door and steps installed in his closet so we can get to the basement in times of emergency. He looked at me like I was crazy. I wasn’t really serious, but I like to run what-if scenarios. I hope that we won't see another day like this, but if I lived in a tornado-prone area, darned if I wouldn't do both those things.

Instead, we foolishly stayed in my bedroom watching the tv. When I told Dad this morning how dumb that was, he said, “But we were more comfortable in the bedroom.” “Yeah, well how comfortable would we have been if the walls and ceiling had crashed down on us?” “You have a few seconds warning before a tornado hits,” he replied. “They say your warning is the sound of a freight train approaching. By the time I got you to understand what I heard, and got Dillon out of his crate, we’d be dead.” “Well, then we wouldn’t have to worry about it,” he said. I guess you become fatalistic when you turn 85.

Maybe I should start looking for some ruby slippers. Just in case.

The Birthday Girl

That was me 50 years ago. Who wouldn't be smiling with a beautiful cake like that? Mom did an excellent job, didn't she? I don't know what flavor it was, but I bet it was good.

This year's cake is brighter and came from Food Lion. I skipped the candles. No point in making the smoke detector go off.


Dad gave me a whole box of little Mickey Mouse trinkets and memorabilia that he bought at an estate auction. It was sold as a lot and has everything from a pencil sharpener to a Pez container and a couple of Mickey-themed objects that we can't identify.

He also bought me Mickey and Minnie bridal figurines. When I first opened the box, I couldn't exactly figure out why they appealed to him or why he thought I needed Mickey and Minnie bridal figurines.


They're not something I'd ever have purchased for myself, but they tickle me. They're bobble heads and they have magnets in their noses so when they face each other, their heads stick to each other. I guess that's the Disney mouse version of a kiss.

He also gave me a Talbot's gift card. He has been paying attention!

Death and taxes

On April 18th, the news reporters will be interviewing people who waited until the last minute to mail in their tax returns. I used to be surprised to discover that among those procrastinators were people due a refund. Why on earth did they wait so long I’d wonder. Then I became one of them.

I dislike doing my taxes. Even though I use TaxCut software so the actual work is pretty much done for me, I still dread it. So, I buy my software early, when it’s on sale and I get a Target gift card with my purchase, but then I let it collect dust until I finally give in and do my taxes.

What I love about using tax preparation software is that I can run various scenarios to see what my taxes will be if I make an IRA contribution of different amounts. This year I discovered if I made no IRA contribution, I owed taxes. While I’m definitely not a member of the Tea Party, I see no reason to give the government any more of my money.

I went to work calculating the refunds I could get depending on various levels of contribution to my IRA. I still invest in the traditional IRA. I’ve always been a pessimist and I’d rather get the tax benefit now, just in case I don’t live to see later. I also don’t trust Congress not to change the rules.

Depending on how much I contributed to an IRA, my refund grew significantly. By simply switching some savings from a bank account to an IRA, I’m essentially getting an 18% return on my investment. You can’t beat that.

I waited until after the threat of a government shutdown was past before I made my IRA contribution. I figured that if the government shut down, the stock market would probably go down too. No point in losing part of my 18% gain right off the bat.

I guess I’ll mail my tax returns tomorrow. Why wait until the last minute? Especially now that the government owes me money.

Dear Miss Manners

We had shrimp scampi for lunch yesterday. Dad loves shrimp and takes great pains to pick out as many shrimp as he can get away with while taking only the absolute minimum of the accompanying pasta. I had mixed the pasta into the skillet of shrimp and sauce so that it would be well coated and flavorful. To serve, I just placed the entire skillet on the table with a pasta spoon. Yes, I know, Martha Stewart is taking gas at the very thought. She’s not the one washing my dishes.

When Dad was almost finished with his first serving, he asked if it would be okay if he picked the rest of the shrimp out of the remaining scampi in the skillet. I told him he was welcome to more shrimp, but there were more left in the skillet than he realized and no way could he eat all of them. He looked skeptical. I told him again he could have as many shrimp as he wanted, but he wasn’t going to be able to eat them all.

I had just taken another mouthful of my own scampi when he asked, “Do you mind if I use my fork to get the shrimp?” Since that would be the same fork with which he’d been eating, yes, I minded. He was already getting ready to dip into the remaining scampi. “Yes,” I choked out around a mouthful of pasta while nodding my head vigorously. “Yes, you mind?” he asked. “Yes, I mind,” I said, louder and more clearly although I still hadn’t managed to swallow. Time was of the essence here, manners be damned.

“There’s enough pasta left for another serving. I don’t want to eat it after you’ve combed through it with your used fork,” I complained. Dad just shook his head. “Then how am I going to get the shrimp out without the pasta? You can’t separate them with the serving spoon.” “Then get a clean fork out of the drawer, but you don’t use the same fork you’ve been eating with,” I instructed.

He finally managed to get the shrimp he wanted, convinced that I’d been much too picky. There were three spears of asparagus left in another bowl. I reached in and started transferring them to my plate using my dinner fork. I caught Dad’s raised eyebrows. “The difference is that I’m going to eat all of the asparagus. I’m not leaving any behind for possible consumption by someone else. That’s why it’s okay for me to use my fork,” I lectured. He just kept shaking his head.

It’s a good thing that Miss Manners and Martha Stewart aren’t invited to dinner. I doubt they’d survive the experience.

Going for broke

Dad had just stuck him head in the door to announce that he was going yard saling this morning. He headed down the hall on his way out the front door or so I assumed. The next thing I know, I hear him yelling something from the kitchen. I didn’t understand the words, which isn’t unusual because he mumbles and doesn’t speak loudly and clearly even when raising his voice, but this was unusual enough to send Dillon and me hurrying down the hall. I thought that perhaps there was something outside that he wanted me to see. I don’t know what thoughts were running through Dillon’s head.

Dillon beat me to the kitchen. I got there just in time to see Dad dropping one of my cereal bowls to the floor. “What are you doing?” I demanded. “I had a piece of banana left from my breakfast,” he laughed as Dillon inhaled it. So, he couldn’t simply toss the piece of banana to Dillon or hold it out in his hand? No, apparently he thought that it made more sense to drop another one of my bowls to the floor from knee height so that he wouldn’t have to bend over too far or kneel down and place it on the floor.

Given that he’s already broken one bowl this week, I was less than pleased. Since the bowl appeared unharmed, I bit my tongue, no point in starting the weekend off with a disagreement. I swear to God, sometimes he acts like he’s two.

Well, that'll wake you up

This morning promptly at 6:55 a.m., Dillon leapt up from his bed doing his best Hound of the Baskervilles imitation. I don’t know what set him off, but he’s better than an alarm clock. Thankfully, I was already awake, so he didn’t wake me up, but he sure did startle me.

I headed for the kitchen to let Dillon out and start my coffee. I was reaching for the faucet handle when I caught a glimpse of something brown and furry sitting on the windowsill. I jumped, thinking we had a mouse, before I realized it was a small brown bunny figurine. Dad has this habit of setting things out and waiting for them to be discovered as opposed to saying, “Look what I got you.”


I’ve never particularly appreciated that method. I prefer someone hand me a gift as opposed to waiting for it to be discovered. I particularly object to unexpectedly encountering something the same size, shape, and color as a mouse before I’ve had my morning coffee. When he came back in from fetching the paper, I told him he was a little late for April Fool’s Day. He just laughed.

A little while later, I was drinking my coffee while reading my morning blogs on the computer in my study. I heard a crash from the kitchen, which I decided to ignore. The next time I ventured in that direction, Dad was sitting at the table eating his bowl of cereal. “Nancy,” he began. It’s a shame when you start to cringe the minute you hear your name, but the only time my father ever starts a sentence with “Nancy” is when he wants me to do something or he’s going to tell me something he knows I don’t want to hear.

“I knocked the box of cereal off the counter,” he began. I knew where he was headed and started glancing around, taking inventory. Mickey and Minnie were still sitting on the bar. My Easter egg flower vase was still in one piece. I breathed a quick sigh of relief. “When I tried to catch it, I knocked the cereal bowl off and it broke. I think I got up all the pieces, but you might want to check.”

Why would he try to catch the cereal box? It wasn’t going to break and since he doesn’t vacuum, it wasn’t like he was going to be the one cleaning up most of the mess. He’s not quick and coordinated, so the odds of him catching it were slim at best. I guess I should just be grateful he didn’t spill the entire quart of milk while he was at it.

I’ve had enough excitement for one morning. Oh, and just in case anyone’s curious, Wednesday is laundry day at my house. Once you put Dad on a schedule, you have to stick with it. The shirt I washed for him last week is still hanging in the laundry room. I’m going to wait and see exactly how long it takes before he realizes that the introductory offer of free shipping and handling has expired.

Terrific Tuesday

My new favorite things are hinged paper storage boxes from Michael’s. (They're 40% off this week.) They look like books, but they’re hollow. The lid is hinged and has a magnetic closure, so you can lay them flat or upright without having to worry about the contents spilling out. I’m using them to corral my clutter so that now I not only look organized, but erudite.


I realize this picture would have looked better if I'd moved the indoor/outdoor thermometer. But those things are notoriously sensitive and since it actually works right there, I don't move it unless absolutely necessary.

It may be gray, windy, and rainy outside, but I’m having a great morning. Dad has a doctor’s appointment in Rocky Mount, so I don’t have to cook lunch. A roast is in the crock-pot for tonight, giving off a lovely aroma, and I’m enjoying a leisurely second cup of coffee. The only down side is that Dad’s appointment is for an annual checkup with the dermatologist. That woman always finds something suspicious that requires a biopsy, which leaves me once again playing Nurse Nancy.

There was an e-mail in my in-box this morning that Endless.com is having a sale on sandals. I’ve had my eye on a pair of Clark’s. I’m really glad that I waited a couple of days. I like Endless.com. They have free overnight shipping and free return shipping and they’re quick to credit your account when you return something. Since I’m the queen of returns, that’s important.

Fingers crossed that these sandals fit and are comfortable. I have a terrible time finding comfortable shoes and all my good summer sandals are at least 5-7 years old. I’m not concerned that they’re not the current style, I’m afraid they’re going to start falling apart before I can find replacements.

Holly

I've mentioned several times how much I love Kimberly Kelly Santini's pet portraits. I gifted myself with one of my first dog, Holly. The actual painting is even better in person than the onscreen version. Kim did a wonderful job of capturing Holly's personality as well as her image.


Some might find it strange to commission a portrait of a dog. Since my father would probably be among that group, I haven't shared it with him. One of his first questions would be, "How much did it cost?" which I find very rude.

I figure I can not only enjoy the art now, but when I'm old and gray and in a nursing home having culled my belongings to the bare minimum, I can hang portraits of my dogs on the wall and remember.

My plan is to eventually have paintings of all 3: Holly; Katie, who after 11 years joined Holly at the Rainbow Bridge; and my current dog, Dillon, a 6 year-old (?), much-loved rescue I adopted a year and a half ago. They're all black labs, but the similarity ends there. Each has been different and special in their own way.

But Holly had to be first, just as she was in life. Because she was the foundation. She's the dog who with patience and trust and love and forgiveness for my mistakes, taught me the joy of owning a dog and how to be worthy of their devotion.

Kim titled the painting, The Birthday Girl. She even makes it possible to purchase greeting cards of the original.