tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2497637127594012122024-03-13T11:01:12.578-05:00La TejanaShellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.comBlogger218125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-35196685559947871402020-09-14T16:11:00.004-05:002020-09-14T18:21:39.921-05:00Butterflies<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Hellloooooo!!!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I'm giving this a limited try and seeing if I remember how to work in Blogger again. I’m also looking forward to enjoying your blogs once again as well as discovering new ones.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The first photo below is a Giant Swallowtail in our yard this morning, and the second photo is an Old World Swallowtail I photographed in Israel last year. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I hope to add more to this neglected blog later. I’ve missed you all and I miss writing. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLulQ1FJ64sO0Ox40erON5NbHUQzYA_N9goZiuVCzFL22_gCFZlLzb2buWFPoJVdyknA_hqbcv-0sjZEqd09W-GORF9k4yZwBZ7Yw-RvH7uJj5AxfHR2J-8bAyIiO9dp_VHevpRH4HRFY/s1766/6FE53C76-0457-4A3D-94EF-E9E28620CEA8.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1629" data-original-width="1766" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLulQ1FJ64sO0Ox40erON5NbHUQzYA_N9goZiuVCzFL22_gCFZlLzb2buWFPoJVdyknA_hqbcv-0sjZEqd09W-GORF9k4yZwBZ7Yw-RvH7uJj5AxfHR2J-8bAyIiO9dp_VHevpRH4HRFY/s320/6FE53C76-0457-4A3D-94EF-E9E28620CEA8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirDWkJ-Sgjhlk3a75HTWvP4fmEQccV_Dk1ZpGTO1jB8UumMkBZntyCRjEOcGFBRnyczlfm4lUUze0DB3BVamO6LXvbLc5arPmsrhL_1KBUz6wPWlx_a4Y39yjHXot1qNx5UPV8wTZPTpE/s960/B5C8B73B-81F1-4BB8-B355-F5782FA2B15D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="872" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirDWkJ-Sgjhlk3a75HTWvP4fmEQccV_Dk1ZpGTO1jB8UumMkBZntyCRjEOcGFBRnyczlfm4lUUze0DB3BVamO6LXvbLc5arPmsrhL_1KBUz6wPWlx_a4Y39yjHXot1qNx5UPV8wTZPTpE/s320/B5C8B73B-81F1-4BB8-B355-F5782FA2B15D.jpeg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-21152102594605371742015-04-16T08:53:00.000-05:002015-04-16T08:58:51.939-05:00The Art of Overshare<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was younger, my friends and I had great conversations.
We laughed together, cried together, and shared the stuff of life. However, not
once did I ever see a picture of what any of them had for dinner. Nor did we
ever have a moment to moment journal of what our pervading emotion of the day
was, complete with an emoji or two. Shoot. We didn’t even know what an emoji
was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, though, in this enlightened age, all I have to do is
turn on my computer, swipe my phone, or pull out my tablet and all this information
and more, oh, so much more, is eagerly available. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me be clear. I love people. A people
person I am. Put me in a room with strangers and I’ll find a way to start a conversation
with most of them and find out more about their lives.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I do believe we have entered into the age of overshare. Whether it be stark details of an elementary
school classmate’s colonoscopy, the political rantings and hate speech of a
distant relative, or the vivid picture of a crusty sore on the arm of a former
colleague, I feel I know too much these days. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Social media has swerved into a realm no one could have
predicted. It is a world where personal boundaries are stretched, where what used
to be intimate information is put on the plate for public consumption. In a
doctor’s office recently, I sat a chair over from two young women who were
going through the medical history form. They worked through it interview style,
with one conversationally asking the other the questions on the form, then writing
down the answers. They took no pause for even the most private questions,
keeping their vocal registers at the same level they’d use for a talk in a loud
bar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An older gentleman cleared his throat abruptly after one
particularly personal detail from the interviewee echoed off the brightly lit
walls. The twentysomethings, though, plowed on, even as the questions begat
answers that would their mothers cringe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Close to the end of the second page, the interviewer stopped
and laughed. “Can you believe these questions?” she asked as she swept her hand
over the sheet with her handwritten answers. “I’ve got to get a picture of
this.” She pulled out her phone, focused and snapped a few pictures of the
almost completed medical history and then moved in close to her friend, held
the phone in front of them and after they’d both mashed their mouths into duck lips,
snapped several more. She showed the phone to her friend, who swiped her finger
across the screen and nodded. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s fine for Reddit, but on Instagram, be sure you use
that collage frame with the really cute bandaids on it. That way they’ll know
the torture we’re having to go through at the doctor’s office!” They chortled
as the phone holder fiddled momentarily with it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We’ve already got eight likes on Facebook,” she informed
the other. “Maybe we’ll break 100 before you are done with your appointment!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I put it to you, dear friends. Are we in an age of
overshare, or am I stuck in the past, thinking a little mystery about a
person is a good thing? <o:p></o:p></div>
Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com55tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-88599048263908924052015-03-19T10:59:00.003-05:002015-03-19T15:51:14.935-05:00Doing the Mashed Potato<div class="MsoNormal">
I hardly noticed when he came into the classroom, engrossed
as I was in the writing exercise I was modeling with 4<sup>th</sup> grade
students for 4<sup>th</sup> grade teachers in a language arts
class. However, as I made my rounds of the students working in their small
groups, I saw the latecomer again. He still fumbled through his backpack,
unable to pull a pencil out of the overflow of crumpled papers, notebooks, and
library books. His teacher patted his shoulder and asked, “You awake yet,
J.C.?” The boy blinked a few times, as if trying to shake off sleep’s stupor. He wiped his mouth, failing to completely erase the remains of the white milk
mustache from the cafeteria cereal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked up at the teacher, smiled until deep dimples broke
out on his sizeable cheeks, and shrugged. “Come on, son, let’s get moving,” the
teacher encouraged gently. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later on a break, I asked the teacher about this nine year
old. She explained he lived with an odd assortment of relatives, though none
were his parents. He was left to his own devices for putting himself to bed and
waking himself up. Multiple calls home as well as visits produced little
improvement. “He used to live with a
grandmother, but she passed away during the summer. He’s with relatives in this
house, but is pretty much on his own. Cooking, laundry…he does it himself, when
it gets done,” she explained. “It’s frustrating. We’ve called the authorities,
but he doesn’t meet their criteria for abuse or neglect. We have gotten
together to get him clothes and help out as we can, but it’s never going to be
enough. There’s an older student from the family at the high school, but he’s
pretty much in the same boat.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next week when I visited this campus again, J.C. was in
a group I had targeted for intensive work. He was largely silent, his mop of
overgrown, uncombed curly hair bobbing wildly when he nodded and shook his head silently for answers. While other kids in the group laughed openly at a lame joke I threw in,
J.C. carefully considered what I’d said, a slow flush of red beginning at the
top of his forehead and spreading downward, his mouth widening out into a small
smile, then growing until those dimples anchored giggles he couldn’t
stifle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only time he spoke was when I asked them what
their favorite food was. He was quick to answer at his turn: mashed potatoes.
Shyly at first, and then with growing passion, he described them. “I love the
cafeteria’s mashed potatoes. They are thick, hot, and they put a little butter
on top that melts. I watch the cafeteria lady when she puts the gravy on them.
I think she likes me because she puts extra gravy on mine.” Startled that he
had revealed so much, he looked downward, cheeks flaming red.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Those sound delicious,” I told him. “Maybe we can find out
when the cafeteria is serving those mashed potatoes again and I can eat with
you. Would that be OK?” He didn’t look up, but nodded his head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day his group filed in. He held a brown
paper bag that looked as if something had leaked on the inside, staining the
bottom of the bag a dark brown. He beckoned me over to his table and whispered,
“I brought some.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I raised my eyebrows, trying to figure out
what it might be. He cracked open the bag and I saw a bowl with aluminum foil
over it, a white substance oozing out. “It’s mashed potatoes. I made them this morning. These are the instant kind I made in the microwave. I got up early so I could get them finished before school.” He frowned.
“I don’t know how to make gravy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My voice caught in my throat. I was speechless as he continued. “The cafeteria didn’t have them on the menu and next week is spring
break, so I made you some. Can you eat with me today at my table during lunch?
I even brought two spoons.” I took a deep breath, struggling to maintain control. He whispered again, “Don’t worry, I washed the spoons.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*********************************************************************************<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next week when I return to that campus, I’ll have more than
just writing lessons with me. I’ll have my mom's mashed potato recipe, with measurements spelled out and instructions carefully elaborated.<br />
<br />
I’ll
have a large bag of Idaho potatoes, and real butter and whole milk and
the other ingredients. There’s a new potato masher going, too. I’ll be
making a stop at the high school first, to talk with the brother/uncle of my
dimpled lunch companion. I’ll take an iTunes gift card as a
small bribe for this high school fellow to help his smaller relative with the
boiling of the potatoes and to sort through the steps of the recipe. And I’ll
have a large container of finished mashed potatoes as well as the gravy I learned
to make from my grandma. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Doing the mashed potato never had better
meaning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-69708571729648652402015-03-10T09:49:00.001-05:002015-03-10T10:11:02.347-05:00The Kingdom of the Locker Room<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The locker room in my gym is a place of utilitarian
necessity to me. I go there to change, to store my purse and other accessories,
and sometimes catch a startled glance at myself in the vast array of mirrors
placed at every possible vantage point. I have learned some things about the
citizens of the locker room. Allow me to introduce them to you.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></b>
<b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Queen Selfie</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">: Her royal courts are the locker room. She is found, wearing impossibly cute workout gear, hair perfectly pulled back under a thick, multi-colored headbands, in full makeup, ready to workout. Her warm-ups begin in the locker room and include raising and lowering her arms, smart phone in hand and clicking away, for the first round of the pre-workout selfies she will publish to social media before stepping out of the locker room. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">She continues her warm ups by moving from mirror to mirror and taking more pictures, mooshing her mouth into duck lips in one, smiling brilliantly in another, then finishes with a sad faced little girl pout in the last. Once in the gym, she sits on the recumbent bike, motionless except for the zealous movement of those fingers, tagging herself in her pictures and captioning them that she is a "gym beast". Her workout is over once she’s received the tribute of responses from her followers and she heads back to the locker room, wearied but with a sense of accomplishment, to add a few more post exercise selfies to her albums.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<b><br /></b><b>Houdini</b>: She is so modest she prefers to change
in one of the few restroom stalls or showers. If those are occupied, though,
she accomplishes a feat of agility so extreme it is praiseworthy. It unfolds
like this. She sits on a bench in her professional attire that includes skirt,
blouse, and jacket. Then she swathes several towels around herself so that only
her head and her legs below the knees are visible. After a few mysteriously
furious movements under her towels, she throws them off and emerges completely
clad in her gym wear, without having exposed one additional centimeter of skin.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Eve</b>: The polar opposite of Houdini, she dries
herself in the shower and steps out, sans towel, sans everything, to style her
hair and put on her makeup in the buff. She takes her time, so comfortable in
her middle aged skin that surely everyone else must be comfortable with it,
too. She eschews personal space boundaries and gregariously approaches people
seated on the bench to share a joke or professional observation, her pendulous
private bits in close proximity to the faces of those ensnared in her
conversations.<br />
<b><br /></b><b>Oversharer</b>: She is always accompanied by a twin
oversharer. They loudly recount their escapades of the night or weekend before
with each other. The twins amplify their voices to such a level that no one has
to resort to eavesdropping. Their vivid
descriptions are replete with names, details, and bodily embarrassments. Once
outside the locker room, though, they mumble their names so unintelligibly to
the workers at the desk they have to be asked to repeat themselves.<br />
<b><br /></b><b>Regular,
Everyday Sweaters</b>: This would include myself and most of the other citizens of
the gym. We're a motley crew, indeed, but anyone who is willing to inflict pain and discomfort upon themselves and drip sweat in the process has to have some good things going on.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-80167929648445846922015-03-02T09:22:00.000-06:002015-03-02T10:23:55.342-06:00An Eleven Word Story<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s an eleven word story. Why eleven words and not ten?
You might need that one extra word for an appropriate denouement. And if you care to, I eagerly
invite you, my talented friends, to include your own eleven word story here. It's not as easy as it appears, but it turns out to be more satisfying than it should be. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Don't feel obligated, but don't be shy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is mine, in eleven words.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">She finally learned to make the journey a lavish joy ride. </span></i><o:p></o:p></div>
Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com52tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-49017036411830634912015-02-09T13:59:00.002-06:002015-02-10T06:13:12.932-06:00Wrinkles<div class="MsoNormal">
The insistent ringing of the doorbell startled me. The only
unannounced visitors at our rural home are people who are lost and Jehovah’s
Witnesses. I set down the clothes I was folding and hustled to the front door,
wondering if I’d forgotten someone who'd said they were coming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A rapid knocking at the back door swung me around in my
tracks. I headed through the kitchen to catch who this was. I
cut a glance through the kitchen window on my way through and saw a lifted ¾ ton
diesel truck in the driveway, outfitted with the off road tires popular with
young guys. A couple of shotguns rested on a rack inside the back window of the
truck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pursed my lips and frowned, something I try to avoid so as
to prevent new wrinkles. I imagined a hot shot young dude wanting to go dove hunting
on our land, something we don’t allow because of the proximity of our cattle. Even
my husband, an avid hunter, doesn’t shoot in our pastures.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now whoever-this-was couldn’t wait for me to even get to
the front door? I grimaced, thinking of other encounters with guys like this
who wanted to hunt for free, tear up pasture land with their big tires, and shoot
irresponsibly near the cattle. I loaded up my verbal armory, determined to
teach this fellow a lesson in manners. I ditched my caution of wrinkling and steeled my face into a scowl.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pulled the door open and a twenty-something man in
a flannel shirt tucked neatly into a pair of jeans that were tucked neatly into
a pair of <a href="http://www.gandermountain.com/modperl/product/details.cgi?pdesc=Danner-Mens-Pronghorn-GTX-18-Snake-Boot&i=705481" target="_blank">snake boots</a> pulled his cap off and held it in both hands.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ma’am, we’re sorry to bother you. I’m Rick, this is my
brother Oscar.” His brows furrowed. “Last night we were muddin’ down at our
cousin’s place over there.” He pointed vaguely to the southwest. “My two
dogs got loose. Have you seen them?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shielded my eyes from the sun’s glare with my hand and
thought. Something in me softened and I stepped back and invited them into the
kitchen. I motioned for them to have a seat at the table.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thank you, ma’am. We’re really anxious to find them, so we
won’t keep you long.” I offered them some ice cold bottles of water. “They’re
<a href="http://images.search.yahoo.com/images/view;_ylt=A86.J3YREdlUTAkAzLYPxQt.;_ylu=X3oDMTBsOXB2YTRjBHNlYwNzYwRjb2xvA2dxMQR2dGlkAw--?p=catahoula+leopard+dog&back=http%3A%2F%2Fus.yhs4.search.yahoo.com%2Fyhs%2Fsearch%3Fp%3Dcatahoula%2Bleopard%2Bdog%26type%3Ddsites0101_ag241%26param1%3D1%26param2%3Dcd%253D2XzuyEtN2Y1L1QzuyCtDtAyC0D0DtAzyyE0DyE0B0BtD0CyBtN0D0Tzu0SyByDyEtN1L2XzutBtFtBtFtCyDtFtCyCtAtCtN1L1CzutBtAtDtC1N1R%2526cr%253D1910201883%2526ir%253D2301gc%2526elng%253Den%2526elcl%253Dus%2526a%253Ddsites0101%2526f%253D4%2526cat%253Dweb%2526ulng%253Den-US%25252Cen%25253Bq%25253D0.8%2526sid%253D8a47493504b8d85f690a51653b9d9e51%2526stype%253Ddsites0101_ag241%2526sesid%253Df2448586a4f15866606fc84376b5315e%2526abid%253D78%2526abg%253D241%2526csr%253D0%2526ipblock%253D0%2526b%253DChrome%2526bv%253D40.0.2214.111%2526os%253DWindows%252B8.1%2526cc%253Dus%2526ip%253D184.203.141.226%2526pa%253Dmysearchdial%26hsimp%3Dyhs-fullyhosted_003%26hspart%3Dironsource%26ei%3DUTF-8&w=450&h=619&imgurl=cdn-www.dailypuppy.com%2Fdog-images%2Fsookie-the-catahoula-leopard-dog-2_50328_2010-10-05_w450.jpg&size=71KB&name=sookie-the-catahoula-leopard-dog-2_50328_2010-10-05_w450.jpg&rcurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.dailypuppy.com%2Fpuppies%2Fsookie-the-catahoula-leopard-dog_2010-10-05&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.dailypuppy.com%2Fpuppies%2Fsookie-the-catahoula-leopard-dog_2010-10-05&type=&no=4&tt=120&oid=0b60909a942c61b221ecfa20ab803a88&tit=Sookie+the+Catahoula+Leopard+Dog+Pictures+664722&sigr=12d7gq2ns&sigi=12ubeno61&sign=11sb5d2h7&sigt=103vg5ole&sigb=1l1aooo4e&fr=yhs-ironsource-fullyhosted_003&hspart=ironsource&hsimp=yhs-fullyhosted_003" target="_blank">Catahoula</a>/ <a href="http://images.search.yahoo.com/images/view;_ylt=A0LEVjBJEdlUYn4AfDoPxQt.;_ylu=X3oDMTB0dmRibmhwBHNlYwNzYwRjb2xvA2JmMQR2dGlkA1lIUzAwMV8x?p=blue+heeler&back=http%3A%2F%2Fus.yhs4.search.yahoo.com%2Fyhs%2Fsearch%3Fp%3Dblue%2Bheeler%26type%3Ddsites0101_ag241%26param1%3D1%26param2%3Dcd%253D2XzuyEtN2Y1L1QzuyCtDtAyC0D0DtAzyyE0DyE0B0BtD0CyBtN0D0Tzu0SyByDyEtN1L2XzutBtFtBtFtCyDtFtCyCtAtCtN1L1CzutBtAtDtC1N1R%2526cr%253D1910201883%2526ir%253D2301gc%2526elng%253Den%2526elcl%253Dus%2526a%253Ddsites0101%2526f%253D4%2526cat%253Dweb%2526ulng%253Den-US%25252Cen%25253Bq%25253D0.8%2526sid%253D8a47493504b8d85f690a51653b9d9e51%2526stype%253Ddsites0101_ag241%2526sesid%253Df2448586a4f15866606fc84376b5315e%2526abid%253D78%2526abg%253D241%2526csr%253D0%2526ipblock%253D0%2526b%253DChrome%2526bv%253D40.0.2214.111%2526os%253DWindows%252B8.1%2526cc%253Dus%2526ip%253D184.203.141.226%2526pa%253Dmysearchdial%26hsimp%3Dyhs-fullyhosted_003%26hspart%3Dironsource%26ei%3DUTF-8&w=450&h=701&imgurl=cdn-www.dailypuppy.com%2Fdog-images%2Fkiah-the-blue-heeler_56796_2012-05-13_w450.jpg&size=100KB&name=kiah-the-blue-heeler_56796_2012-05-13_w450.jpg&rcurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.dailypuppy.com%2Fdogs%2Fkiah-the-blue-heeler_2012-05-13&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.dailypuppy.com%2Fdogs%2Fkiah-the-blue-heeler_2012-05-13&type=&no=6&tt=120&oid=01745b1b4de699cca144b675395135d2&tit=Kiah+the+Blue+Heeler+Pictures+897175&sigr=11upmqdih&sigi=12gthdu2c&sign=11efq5trp&sigt=103vg5ole&sigb=1knctjos1&fr=yhs-ironsource-fullyhosted_003&hspart=ironsource&hsimp=yhs-fullyhosted_003" target="_blank">Heeler</a> mixes.” I smiled as I thought of the splash of spots and colors
they must be. “One is named Chico and the other is Chula. Chico’s got on a handmade
leather collar and Chula has on a pink camo vest.” Oscar nodded silently at his
brother’s description.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We haven’t even gone home to sleep. We’ve stopped at every
house in a five mile range. Some people have kicked us off before they even
heard what we were doing. We’re not going to stop, though, until we find them.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I explained we hadn’t seen them yet, but that we’d surely
keep an eye out for them. They stood with their bottles of water and carefully pushed the chairs back under
the table. I walked them out the back door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thank you so much, ma’am.” Rick’s raspy voice was testament
of their long night. He turned back around. “And ma’am, if they do show up,
they’re really friendly dogs. If you hold out your hand to Chula she’ll shake
and give you a bow.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched through the window as they headed out, but then they
quickly stopped. Oscar climbed out with a shovel. He moved to a rut in the side
yard the truck had cut when they backed up and carefully smoothed the damp
earth back into place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled and patted my cheeks. The best wrinkle prevention is watching good folks in action.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i>And if they do find their dogs, I will be sure and update this. I'm praying they do.</i></div>
Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-48393382158984542202015-02-02T10:15:00.000-06:002015-02-02T20:55:15.943-06:00Neruda, the Beach, and Line Dried Sheets<div class="MsoNormal">
An apology, of sorts. I left my blog with a post in October,
and without fully intending to quit, I did. Without a further word. And for
that, I am sorry. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anything not used is going to atrophy, but left unused too
long, it will also leave an ache, a vague sense of grief for something lost. It
took me a while to pin it down, but I realized writing meant more to me than I
had ever admitted. I needed to get back to it, even though it felt like I was
wrestling body, soul, and spirit to get something down on paper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My wise and delightful blogging and Facebook friend, <a href="http://pearl-whyyoulittle.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Pearl</a>,
came to Texas and we spent a weekend on the beach to write. To throw around
pleasing words. To read and reread exquisite sentences from Neruda and Chabon. To laugh at talking grackles, muse about lutefisk, and enjoy the passing stream of humanity.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I slipped out onto the balcony with notebook in
hand just as the sun pushed its way above the horizon, with chilly air and a faint
salt spray opening my nostrils and loosening those channels I had plastered
over in October, I was ready.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrote longhand in two notebooks. I scratched through
words, used arrows to insert new ones, and filled more than 26 pages in a rapid
cursive/print hybrid. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I breathed in deeply at a pause and remembered. In our home,
which had also been my grandparents’ home, my husband and I left intact a small
cabinet filled with my grandma’s dishtowels, aprons, and other things. I rarely
open it, but when I do, I bury my face deeply in those towels and aprons. I inhale until my lungs are full. It smells like them. I can still faintly detect
my grandma’s perfume, the aromas of her Sunday dinners, their line dried
sheets. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That is how it felt on this balcony in those early
morning hours. I inhaled deeply and caught a whiff of something that is just as much a part of me as those Sunday dinners and my grandma's perfume, as my grandma and grandpa and those line dried sheets.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so I’m back. Good
to see you, friends.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<i>To read Pearl's account of how we got lost on the beach, go here: <a href="http://pearl-whyyoulittle.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">I Think I Recognize That Dune</a></i></div>
Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-14950714635088522892014-10-23T15:26:00.003-05:002014-10-30T08:02:56.335-05:00When Gabriel Blows His Horn<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>(As I've been cautioned to do, I'll neither confirm nor deny the truth of this. I will say I've heard this story, from different sources, for many years. I've put it all together into a story form, and although it's a departure from the stories I usually write, I felt it needed to be told.)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The burly man chewed the wad of tobacco in his mouth
impassively and spat suddenly into the dust, splashing the dark brown liquid
onto the worn boots of the teenaged boy nearest him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The boy flinched but didn’t take his eyes off the large man
on horseback, who was now talking, even though it was in English, a language
none of the twenty teenaged boys standing before him could understand. He turned to a shorter man, also on horseback,
with a handlebar mustache that curled almost from ear to ear on his plump face,
and said, “Gabe, tell ‘em.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The stout man, Gabriel, began to speak, and the boys’ faces
relaxed in relief as he repeated what the first man said, this time in the
native Spanish the boys understood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He says for you to listen, because he’s not going to repeat
himself. You come with us to work this roundup. It’s three months work to bring
all the cattle in from the northern pastures, branding, dehorning, castrating,
and anything else that needs to be done. You’ll work seven days a week. The
ranch will give you use of a horse and your grub, but you supply your boots and
clothes. You may carry a knife on you, but no weapons.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You come across any outlaws or wild animals- you either
take care of them with the knife or hope that your horse can outrun them. You’ll
get your pay, $15 a month, at the end of the three months, but only if you work
hard. If you turn out to be lazy Mexicans, you’ll get what a lazy Mexican
deserves.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As Gabriel finished, the tobacco chewing man rode his horse
silently in front the new ranch hands. He stopped in front of one, Rico, and
spat a virulent stream with precision just short of the boy’s booted toes. He
turned to Gabriel and said, “Ask him where he got those boots.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gabe looked at Rico’s boots even as he began translating.
They were polished and hand tooled, things of beauty amidst the dusty, misshapen
footwear pocked with holes sported by the others.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rico kept his gaze fixed on the ground as he answered
softly. “They were my grandfather’s. He was a master saddlemaker in Nuevo Leon.”
What Rico didn’t say, but what filled his mind was the scene from the night
before, his mother sobbing as she gave them to him. Since his father had been
killed by bandits on the road to town the year before, 16 year old Rico
struggled to help get enough food on the table for the younger sisters and
brothers who sometimes cried in their sleep, they were so hungry. When this
opportunity to work on a large ranch on the U.S. side of the Rio Bravo came up,
he couldn’t pass it up for the sure money it would bring them, even though his
mother was broken hearted by his decision.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Son,” she’d said quietly, “take these with you. They were
made by your grandfather and worn by him until he died. May they keep you safe
with every step.” Rico nodded as he somberly accepted them. She stroked his
cheek even as tears streamed down hers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now, questioned about the boots, the only sign Rico
showed of the struggle within to steady his composure were small pink patches
of color on his cheeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although Gabriel had already turned away from Rico after
translating his answer to the boss man, Rico added, “I will be a good worker
for you. I’ll work hard every day. You’ll see.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ragtag group of boys set off on foot behind the mule
drawn wagon that would lead them to the base camp, twelve miles distant.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And just as the boss man had predicted, the work was bone crushing
hard. They slept with their head on a saddle each night, curled under a saddle
blanket to leach some warmth on the frigid October nights. Their days began
well before the sun rose and continued until the darkness staunched their
vision. They ate quietly most evenings, too exhausted to even banter. Rico,
though, would not go to sleep until he’d buffed his boots to a sheen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the other boys finally asked him, “Why, why spend
time on those?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rico answered, “Because when I get back home, I’m going to
give my mother the money I’ve made and put these boots away for the son I’ll
have someday. I want to keep them as nice as I can for him. I’ll tell him of
how hard I’ve worked here and that I’ve also worked to keep these boots for
him. That way he’ll know I was thinking about him, even before he was born.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other boys chuckled at that as they drifted off to
sleep. They couldn’t even think of the next day, their thoughts devoured by
exhaustion, much less of the sons and families they’d have in the future.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, the end of the three months came. The cattle had
been branded, dehorned, castrated, and safely moved to their winter pastures.
The boss man came by that evening, Gabriel by his side. “Tomorrow will be your
last day on the job. When you hear Gabe blow his bugle, you line up here and we’ll
settle up.” As Gabe translated, he held up his bugle from his Confederate Army
days. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ranch hands once again laid their heads on their saddles
that night, but now with lighthearted laughter punctuating the crisp air. Plans
for their trips home to Mexico floated through the night. None of them had ever
had so much money in their hands before as they would have tomorrow. Rico,
though, continued his nightly ritual,
polishing his boots, adding a little saddle wax, until his moonlit reflection
illuminated the burnished leather.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Early the next morning, Gabriel’s bugle pierced the morning.
The eager boys scrambled up, pulling on their hats and boots. Rico gave his
boots one last swipe with his shirt sleeve before he hurried off to from the lateral
line the boss man expected from them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gabriel sat on his horse on one side, still panting from his
bugle call, and the boss man flanked the other side of the boys. The boss man
spat, and said, “Look straight ahead, right there into the sun, while we get
what we owe you.” The boys squinted and stood as tall as their frames allowed,
proud of their hard work and expectant of their reward. Both men on horseback
moved back to a stand of brush about ten yards behind the boys and the boss man
dropped his arm in a signal. Ten men stepped from the brush behind the boys
squinting into the sun, pistols drawn.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
A fusillade of gunshots tore into the boys, so fierce and
unexpected that even the horses reared and snorted. As the dust floated in the
sun’s early rays over the fallen boys, the boss man rode through the bloody quagmire.
He stopped at one body where polished boots shone in the early day like a beacon. Over his shoulder, he called out to Gabriel, “Pull
the boots off of that one. They’re too good to waste on a dead Mexican. And
make sure you burn those bodies good this time. Don’t want no coyote problems
like we had with the last batch.”<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com64tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-16433000833345701302014-10-16T06:43:00.003-05:002014-10-16T06:43:46.097-05:00Three Words...What is your best advice to the world in three words or less? I'll include mine in the comments.Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com66tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-31469816919482440592014-09-22T08:12:00.001-05:002014-09-22T08:53:50.869-05:00Secrets of Honor- Carol Kilgore<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><i>I was honored when a terrific Texas author, Carol Kilgore, asked me a few months back if I'd host her on a blog hop about her new book, Secrets of Honor. Carol is a very talented writer, and the setting of her book, Corpus Christi is close to my heart. I hope that you will enjoy Carol's writing as much as I do!</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Thank you, Shelly, for hosting me. You tell such
great stories here that I’m a little nervous about telling one of my own.
You’ve set a high bar, but I promise to do my best.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Once upon a time, there was a little girl who loved
the world inside her head. She was a very good little girl who usually minded
her mama and daddy. She liked school and made good grades. But she liked
daydreaming more than anything else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">On days when the weather was nice, she walked home
from school with one of her friends. One friend lived in the little girl’s
neighborhood about a block away. The streets were all straight, and each block
was filled with white frame houses. The view never changed. The little girl was
supposed to always walk with this friend because The Mothers knew each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But the little girl sometimes walked with another
friend, who lived outside the neighborhood in an old, two-story blue house with
a big yard. Between the school and this friend’s house was The Woods, which was
forbidden by the little girl’s mother. And beside The Woods was The Creek,
which was not only forbidden but warned against with the shaking of head and
finger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But the little girl loved The Woods and The Creek.
The path beside the creek had been walked by many feet for many years, so much
so that the earth had been worn down into a smooth, rounded indentation that
made the little girl’s feet feel safe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">She always wondered who had walked the path before
her. Where had they lived? Did they fish in the creek? Did their children play
in the woods? Did fairies and witches live in the woods? A princess waiting for
her prince? Bambi? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The little girl knew if her mama found out she
walked the path between The Creek and The Woods, she would get in trouble. But
it was worth taking the risk. The answers to all her questions turned into
stories and played out in her head as she walked with her friend. She never
told those stories to her mama.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The little girl was me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">As an adult, I can totally understand why my mother
wanted me to take the safer route home. I now realize the risks that may have
lurked on the secluded path, but I’m still glad I took that way home every once
in a while. And the adult me is forever grateful not to have faced or even
known about those grown-up dangers at that point in my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Perhaps the forbidden path of yesterday explains why
I write Crime Fiction with a Kiss today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">SECRETS
OF HONOR<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By
the end of a long evening working as a special set of eyes for the presidential
security detail, all Kat Marengo wants is to kick off her shoes and stash two
not-really-stolen rings in a secure spot. Plus, maybe sleep with Dave Krizak.
No, make that definitely sleep with Dave Krizak. The next morning, she wishes her
new top priorities were so simple.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As an operative for a covert agency </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">buried in the
depths of the Department of Homeland Security, Kat is <span style="background: white;">asked to participate in a matter of life or death—locate a kidnapped
girl believed to be held in Corpus Christi, Texas. Since the person doing the
asking is the wife of the president and the girl is the daughter of her dearest
friend, it’s hard to say no.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kat and Dave quickly learn</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> the real stakes are higher than they or
the first lady believed and will require more than any of them bargained for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
kicker? They have twenty-four hours to find the girl—or the matter of life or
death will become more than a possibility.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kindle:
</span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Honor-Carol-Kilgore-ebook/dp/B00NH0QTO6"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">http://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Honor-Carol-Kilgore-ebook/dp/B00NH0QTO6</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Paperback:
</span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Honor-Carol-Kilgore/dp/1500522031/ref=tmm_pap_title_0"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">http://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Honor-Carol-Kilgore/dp/1500522031/ref=tmm_pap_title_0</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">AUTHOR
BIO<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Although
Carol has deep Texas roots, she’s lived up and down the eastern seaboard and in
other locations across the U.S. as a Coast Guard wife. She sees mystery and
subterfuge everywhere. And she’s a sucker for a good love story—especially one
with humor and mystery. <span style="color: #2e74b5; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 191;">Crime Fiction </span><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">with a Kiss</span></i> gives her the latitude to mix and
match throughout the broad mystery and romance genres. Having flexibility makes
her heart happy. You can connect with Carol here:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Under
the Tiki Hut blog: </span><a href="http://www.underthetikihut.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">http://www.underthetikihut.blogspot.com</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Website
with Monthly Contest: </span><a href="http://www.carolkilgore.net/"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">http://www.carolkilgore.net</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Facebook:
</span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/carol.kilgore1"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">http://www.facebook.com/carol.kilgore1</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Twitter:
</span><a href="http://twitter.com/carol_kilgore"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">http://twitter.com/carol_kilgore</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Goodreads:
</span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6094110.Carol_Kilgore"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6094110.Carol_Kilgore</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Amazon:
</span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Carol-Kilgore/e/B008FRCXQY"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">http://www.amazon.com/Carol-Kilgore/e/B008FRCXQY</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-74000428727489635912014-09-09T10:39:00.000-05:002014-09-10T07:25:17.938-05:00Out to Pasture<div class="MsoNormal">
I am retired from a profession where I never made much
money, but for over 30 years, felt like I was being a productive member of
society by educating children, promoting love of obscure grammar rules, and
hiding Shakespearean insults in the district website I maintained. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But now that I live life on a more relaxed plane, volunteering
in places that make me smile, going to the gym whenever I want, and spending
more than 22 minutes on lunch, I sometimes wonder if I am slacking, not pulling
my weight in the cosmic load. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Recent incidents confirm to me that I still have a place in
the stuff of life, albeit to a different, smaller, and simpler tune.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Incident #1: Fresh out of the nail salon with a new set of
my favorite French tipped acrylics, I hurried through the grocery store before
the bulk of the Friday crowd hit. I spotted a friend I hadn’t seen in a while,
her 20 year old son in tow. In the year or so since I’d seen him, nonverbal, severely
autistic and struggling with violent outbursts, he’d grown even more, dwarfing
his petite mom. I felt a new wave of admiration for my friend and her husband for
their sacrifices in keeping him at home.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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She smiled and hugged me. “Shelly, it’s good to see you. We’re
so wrapped up in all that we have,” she glanced at her son, “that we don’t get
out much anymore.” She continued sharing that it was more and more difficult for her to calm
him when he became agitated because he was now so much stronger than her. Her
son, uninterested in our conversation, circled slowly behind me, making me a
little nervous. He emerged within my field of vision and knelt beside my arm,
staring intently at my hand. My friend stopped talking and we both became wary.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Her son rose slowly and
grasped my hand, never taking his eyes from it. He turned awkwardly and put my
hand on his shoulders. Not sure what to do, I held it there, waiting for him to
make the next move.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He moved his shoulders up and down and back and forth,
wiggling. He looked back at me, smiled, and shimmied his shoulders again, making
sounds of encouragement. A look of understanding flashed onto his mom’s face. “It’s
your nails! He wants you to scratch his back with your nails!” He clapped his
hands as I obliged, gently dragging my nails back and forth over his back. He
closed his eyes and lapsed into a peaceful stillness for the next five minutes
while we continued our conversation. Later that day, she texted me for the
number to my nail salon. “We’ve never seen him so calm. A regular backscratcher
doesn’t do it, either. It has to be nails. I’ve never had long nails, but this
is working so well for him I’m headed down to get a set.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Incident #2: At the close of a college football game, I
wandered down out of the bleachers while my husband caught up with a hunting
buddy in the stands. The school mascot, a six foot tall blue javelina (think
something like a wild hog) with large tusks ambled near, greeting children and
adults alike who wanted a quick picture with him. A man with two little curly
headed girls, perhaps four and five years old, pulled them close to the mascot.
“Look! I can take your picture with him,” he said excitedly to the girls as he
pulled his phone from his pocket. The older girl, eyes wide, smiled in silent
awe as the mascot reached his hand/ hoof out to her.<br />
<br />
The younger girl, though,
dug her heels in, pulled back on the man’s hand and whimpered, “No, Daddy, no!”
Terror drained her face even as her sister crowded close. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The man said nothing but pried the little fingers off his
hand and turned his back to her to take pictures. The younger girl, now without any island of safety and with her sister firmly in the clutches of the mascot, screamed chillingly.
The man paid no attention as he continued to snap pictures. Quickly, the tiny
girl bolted straight for me, ran behind and grabbed my leg in a death grip. Her
curls bobbed at my waist as she buried her head in my thigh and sobbed, “No!
No!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I dropped my purse to the ground and knelt as best I could
with her clamped onto me and put my arms around her. I told her the mascot was
actually a silly fellow inside of a costume and that he would never hurt her
and that she was safe. The whole time, the man never looked back,
never took his eyes off taking his pictures. By the time they finished, a weak
smile broke through my charge’s teary face, and she laughed as I told her funny
stories of times I had been afraid and then found out I didn’t need to be. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As her father made his way over to us, pumping his fist in
triumph at all the pictures he’d taken of the mascot and the older girl, I
whispered to the little sister. “Remember, Honey, you are a brave girl. You are
going to help so many people in your life because you are full of courage and you are
going to help them not feel afraid.” She nodded her head, sighed and let out one last sob as her
father reached for her hand.<br />
<br />
“You were such a little chicken, weren’t you?” he laughed as she
put her head down.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Actually, she is very brave, and I think you should be quite proud of her and her sister, " I told him quietly. I patted her on the head. “You
remember, you are brave, Honey. You don't have to be afraid because it's right there inside of you for whenever you need it. You are going to do such wonderful things. All your life, you remember that.” She nodded
her head as other family members joined them. They walked towards the parking
lot and I could hear the father laughing and recounting, “She just took off and ran behind
this lady and wouldn’t let go of her…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The little girl, tightly clutching her father’s hand, looked
back one last time and shyly waved goodbye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the mascot. He held his
arms open wide and pulled me in for a tight hug.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I may be out to pasture, but there's still plenty to do in that pasture.</div>
Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com58tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-15644521807445771762014-08-26T09:52:00.001-05:002014-08-28T08:42:57.316-05:00A Hospital Tale<i>(I ask your pardon if I've been slack in visiting your blog. I spent most of last week in the hospital, hosted by my ruptured appendix. All is on the mend now, and I'm working as fast as all my little meds will allow me to get caught up. There's no place like home.)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The small taps on the door stirred me from the quasi slumber of the surgically repaired.<br />
<br />
Even as my eyes worked to focus in the early morning hours, the door pushed open carefully.<br />
<br />
"Good morning, hon, my name is Wanda and I'm with the hospital volunteers," an elderly woman with a lacquered beehive introduced herself as she moved towards my bedside. She consulted her clipboard and flipped a few pages, tapping an area at the bottom of a sheet.<br />
<br />
"And you are George, " she proclaimed with a sweet smile.<br />
<br />
I was drug addled, hooked to more lines and tubes than I knew what to do with and unsure of the day and year, but I was pretty sure I wasn't George.<br />
<br />
"Um, no, I'm Shelly. But it's nice to meet you."<br />
<br />
She frowned and underlined several things furiously on her clipboard. She pulled cat eye glasses up from the chain on her neck, fixed them on her nose, and carefully studied what was written there, tapping again in finality.<br />
<br />
Slowly, with the enunciation of an elementary teacher, she said with a determined smile, "You...are...George...Morris."<br />
<br />
I'd seen myself accidentally in the mirror the night before. I had hobbit hair, an odd swipe of Betadine on my neck, no earrings, no mascara, no lipstick, but...but...George?<br />
<br />
"No ma'am, I am Shelly. Shelly."<br />
<br />
She leaned in a closer. "You are in room 439?"<br />
<br />
I exhaled and smiled. "Well, this is actually room 438."<br />
<br />
She shook her head in small swipes side to side and made soft, disapproving tsks with her mouth.<br />
<br />
"Hon, you'll need to call the office here and straighten things out. They have you under the wrong name and in the wrong room!"<br />
<br />Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com64tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-83478358239476920092014-08-18T22:36:00.000-05:002014-08-18T23:02:02.306-05:00EdgyMy stomach spun like a top at my first glance. I inhaled deeply, all the way to my toes, and forced my eyes open again. There. There it was, in all its immutable, ageless, and very deep glory, the Grand Canyon.<br />
<br />
My husband, equally enthralled but not a bit bothered by the height, was already moving quickly from rock to rock, taking a frenzy of pictures.<br />
<br />
I remembered back to two days ago when we'd stopped in the Davis Mountains in West Texas for the first leg of our vacation. The sense of accomplishment I felt at having scaled two peaks was still throbbing in me; not for the physical feat of it, but for quashing my raging and robust dislike of being anywhere high. I took courage in that as we set off on the trail at the South Rim of the canyon.<br />
<br />
The crisp, rich air made even breathing feel luxuriously decadent. Although we moved quickly on a trail without a guardrail, with only a couple of feet of dirt and sometimes trees separating us from the steepest drop off I've ever seen, I kept my mind off the height by focusing on the dazzling views as well as the melange of people we passed on the trail. English was sparsely scattered in the languages we heard. French, Japanese, German, Portuguese, and others were delectable listening treats.<br />
<br />
We stopped at picturesque points on the trail, both for photos and appreciation.<br />
<br />
"Be careful," I called to my husband, forcing my voice to stay nonchalant as he ventured out much too close to the edge of one of these rocky outlooks for my comfort.<br />
<br />
"It's OK, Hon, I'm fine," he called back. "This is beyond words- just amazing!"<br />
<br />
I took photos of him and of the undulating cliffs and of the tiny Colorado River visible from the safety of my vantage point just beyond the trail. Something small to my left bobbed in my peripheral vision as it moved past me to an area where there was an immediate drop off just past the trail. I turned to look and saw a small boy, no more than three, with a new scooter he was trying to push with one foot and steer with both hands while wobbling dangerously close to the drop off.<br />
<br />
My breath caught in my throat as I moved quickly off the trail in his durection and worked to stay calm. No other adults seemed to be near and I didn't want to leave him to try and find who he belonged to.<br />
<br />
"Hi there! That's a really neat scooter you have there, " I told him brightly as I crouched to get closer without startling him. He stopped for a moment in his jagged journey off the path.<br />
<br />
"Mine. It's mine. I big boy!" He puffed himself taller.<br />
<br />
I held out my hand to him, as there was no more than six inches now between him and the edge.<br />
<br />
"Can you help me get up? I would love to see that scooter, " I encouraged, as I stretched my hand closer and wiggled my toes to get a better angle if I needed to lunge for him.<br />
<br />
"I strong. I got big muscles," he said as he stretched out his chubby hand to me. I quit breathing as I clasped his small hand in mind. "Come back here on the trail and let's take a look at the scooter of yours," I said, my voice suddenly high pitched and having to suppress an urge to sob in relief.<br />
<br />
Just then, a woman with two girls under ten following her came around the bend in the trail ahead of us.<br />
<br />
"Jeremiah! Jeremiah! What have I told you?" She covered the yards between us quickly and grabbed his hand from mine. "Stranger danger! You NEVER go with a stranger, " she angrily enunciated as she glared at me.<br />
<br />
Although I was still emotionally wrought by how close we'd come to tragedy, I straightened up and said, "Ma'am, he was past the trail there, trying to steer his scooter and he was just inches from the edge when I got him to give me his hand." And proving stronger than my will power, tears started to stream down my face. "He almost...he was this close..."<br />
<br />
She looked at me carefully, her eyes squinting. She looked down at him, grabbed the scooter with one hand and in one motion pulled his arm to match her long strides away from me.<br />
<br />
She took one last look at me and snorted. "Humph!" They moved quickly back down the trail the way she had come.<br />
<br />
<i>Um. You're welcome.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com65tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-22344540895668399362014-08-01T05:19:00.000-05:002014-08-02T15:10:26.172-05:00Knock Knock....Who's There?Hey...psst...over here. I'm putting my toes back into the luxurious waters of blogland once again. Is it cold? Has anything interesting washed ashore while I've been gone?<br />
<br />
And I did a terrible job of keeping up with all the blogs I love. It would make me happy if you could leave me a link or two for your favorite posts from the last two months. That way I can read and enjoy your part of the world once again.<br />
<br />
And I'm going to try restructuring my blog a bit. Although I am a storyteller through and through, I know stories can get a little old for the reader. My life is as sedate and boring as a half used tube of toothpaste, so I'm not good at giving a recounting of my day, either.<br />
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But I will try to mix in short question pieces, like this one, with a few stories now and then, since stories are what make my soul tick.<br />
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I have some new projects in the works, and my time reading blogs is going to be a bit more limited, but I do plan to read yours at least a couple of times a week.<br />
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OK. Now for your question. What is the best meal you've eaten in the last two months? Don't be spare in your descriptions. I'm on a diet and this will be the only way I can enjoy really tasty food.<br />
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Teenaged Daughter taught me what chunkin' up the deuces is. (I think/ hope it means see you later.) I don't know why the picture is backwards, but I was driving here while she was posing.<br />
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<br />Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com70tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-89364083054643875692014-05-27T23:00:00.001-05:002014-05-28T16:12:07.429-05:00Of Richard Nixon, Hurricanes, and Old Time Fans<div class="MsoNormal">
I dropped my bag and purse on the kitchen counter and
dragged myself into the family room. The morning’s bootcamp had delivered the
rigorous workout it promised, but left me looking a mess. Coated in a thin
layer of dirt, shirt heavy with sweat, and blood still seeping from a few
scrapes on palms and a knee, I didn’t want to mar the furniture with myself, but
still wanted to gather myself before falling into the shower. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spread my towel on the carpet, dropped to the floor, rolled
onto my back, and pushed the button on the remote control switching on the oscillating
high velocity fan that, coupled with the energetic ceiling fan and central air
conditioning, delivered cooling comfort on this 95 degree day. I closed my eyes
and let the waves of refreshing wash over me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The only sound was the whir of the fan as it swept back and
forth. My mind drifted. Fans, hurricanes, Richard Nixon…they all fit together
in one particular July and August of my youth. That summer we had been driven
out of our home by extensive damage and flooding from a hurricane. My
grandparents welcomed us to their home, which stood on higher ground. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Back in the days of only three television channels, the
Watergate hearings consumed all of day time TV. Although I wasn’t particularly
interested in politics, Richard Nixon became as reluctantly familiar to me as Mike and Carol Brady. The floodwaters still lapped up to the front porch, so our
activities were confined indoors. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The only oasis of refuge from the steamy South Texas heat was
the air conditioned front room, and that was tempered by my frugal grandfather’s
desire to keep the electric bill down. Even through the warmth, I
systematically devoured the books from my grandma’s large library, and when
only a few of those remained, I set into my grandfather’s <i>Southwest Cattle
Breeder</i> and <i>Dallas Cowboy Today</i> magazines. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While the days were filled with Nixon, reading, and trying
to stay cool, the nights became a treat to me.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sister and I shared a large back bedroom there. The house
had been built many decades before with the heat in mind, and so the large
banks of windows that could be cranked open stretched forth wide into the night
air. Screens kept the mosquitoes out but lured in the intoxicating late evening aromas
of the gardenias my grandma cultivated under them. And if I turned my head just
right, I could see vast reaches of stars through the treetops.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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In our own modern house tightly sealed for central air conditioning,
I never heard any of the night sounds, but here they were a symphony beginning at
sundown each evening. The cattle lowed nearby as they settled in for the evening
and then the coyotes picked up the call with their drawling howls. The frogs
croaked their contentment while the crickets chirred in harmony.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The two old fashioned oscillating fans we turned on each
night before jumping into bed whirred with gentlest tranquility. My grandma
told me she’d bought them new, back in the late 1930’s, even before they had
electricity in the house, because she so looked forward to feeling the soft breeze from them. And now, laying there in the dark, lulled by the finest of outdoor
concerts, the sweet anticipation of the coming drafts of cool air from those
fans was enough to make my sister fall asleep almost immediately. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I, though, loved to stay awake longer, just to enjoy the swaths
of exquisite, unflappable breeze from them. And sometimes, sometimes, when
those fans were on just the right course, set at just the correct angles, the
air streams converged at exactly the same time on me. Magic, pure and unrivaled.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I don’t remember much about political scandals and weather
disasters. But ask me about two little oscillating fans and I can tell you
much.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com64tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-89899800337379265902014-05-18T23:34:00.002-05:002014-05-19T09:29:04.899-05:00Queen of the Small Things<div class="MsoNormal">
If I were Queen of the Small Things, I would:<br />
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">1. Equip cars to deliver a small electrical shock to drivers’
bums when they fail to use the turn signal.</span><br />
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">2. Incorporate self service kiosks in all clothing
stores that scan a customer’s lower half and instantly print the perfect fitting
pair of pants/ jeans with a 3- D printer in the customer’s choice of fabric, color,
and style.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
3. Have unknown
folks who do uncommon good as headliners on the news and in entertainment
magazines. The Kardashians, Miley Ray, and the Beibs would be sent to live and
work on Amish farms for a year.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[endif]--> 4, Gift every dwelling with a fruit, vegetable, or
flower producing plant.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[endif]--> 5.Install a steadily moving conveyor in airport
security lines. Each passenger sits in a chair on the conveyor. A foot masseuse
removes the shoes and gives a swift but effective foot massage whilst the
passenger moves steadily towards the scanners. On the plane, passengers who
kick the seat back in front of them more than once will also receive a small electrical shock to the bum.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[endif]--> 6. Give every child a week in the summertime with
my grandparents.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now you. If you were King/ Queen of the Small Things, what
is something you would do?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And I am commenting on your blogs, but I find the email notifications are coming back to me and not to your inbox, for some strange reason. I do see them on your blogs, so please don't think I'm neglecting you. Blogger has a case of the hiccups again.</i></div>
Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com68tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-82341218942872289342014-05-08T08:47:00.001-05:002014-05-08T12:35:00.941-05:00A Dead Sea Chronicle and the Winner of the Giveaway<div class="MsoNormal">
The chatter that overflowed from the changing room faded as
gravity drew us down the sloping wooden ramps to the water. The beach, not quite
sand and not quite dirt, yielded beneath our water shoes with small crunches.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I inhaled the salty Dead Sea air deeply, pushing it down into
my toes while my daughter arranged her towel near mine under the tent shelter.
The sun, exquisitely restrained, still pressed ancient light under every ledge
of the soul, warming from the inside out on this crisp day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We waded in and the kinship with the countless others
throughout past millennia who had done the same thing we were doing beckoned me farther. My daughter laughed with her friends as they settled onto their backs,
buoyed confidently by the unfailing water.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knelt in knee deep shallows, pulling up handfuls of the
black Dead Sea mud and coating every inch of exposed skin with it. It worked
gently with the sun, hardening while softening. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still clutching the solid salt crystals I had dredged from
the bottom with the mud, I sat back and let my feet be pulled upwards until I,
too, floated effortlessly on my back, rocked and soothed by the gentle lapping
of the water.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perfection is anywhere you choose to find it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And the winner of the
giveaway from my last post is Amy from Funny is Family. Amy, if you’ll get me the
address where you’d like me to send your book, I’ll get it on its way to you.
Congratulations!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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And here's the dirty aftermath, while trying to get the mud off~</div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com66tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-51885418089597976802014-05-02T07:53:00.000-05:002014-05-02T09:08:41.750-05:00The Cucumber Baby was Both Practical and Delicious, and a Giveaway<i>Mother's Day is coming up. Yep,and pretty soon. My blogging friend, Pearl Vork-Zambory, has a doozy of a piece published in a new anthology on moms. Not you as a mom, but on our moms, those who birthed us and raised us. Called Moms Are Nuts, this is one of the funniest books I've read in a while. And in about a week, I will be giving away a copy of this book to one person who comments on this post. In the meantime, ordering information for the book as well as information on the hilarious Pearl is below. She's graciously agreed to give us a taste of her delicious writing in this piece, which has me craving cucumbers at an incredibly early hour.<b> </b>(And a little side note- I'll be out of town a few days, but I'll get back to commenting and responding when I return.) Enjoy!</i><br />
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<div>
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“Mumma, why don’t you take Pearl here out to the garden, see if you can’t load her up?” </div>
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<div>
I have gone to my parents’ place for the afternoon. My father, having discovered that the inside of my windshield has the transparency of an executive board’s decision-making policy, potters off in search of Windex<br />
<br />
My mother grabs a knife. </div>
<div>
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<div>
The garden, a gated affair that succeeds in keeping the deer out and the veggies in, teems with ripe and ripening flora. It is mid-September in Minnesota; and while Minneapolis itself remains green, two hours’ north the change of the seasons is in the air, the maple tree on their property beginning to turn. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Snow is not far in front of us. </div>
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<div>
We wander amid the rows, pulling up beets and onions. The green beans hang in chandeliers, slim and tolerably fuzzy. The tomatoes wink, in varied shades of green and red, from within their cages.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My mother is bent in half, her hands at work. “How many cukes?” she calls.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“As many as you can spare,” I say.</div>
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<div>
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” she says, her voice muffled by the vegetation. “I was just out here yesterday, and would you take a look at this one?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She hoists a particularly ambitious cuke aloft, a green dirigible against the bright blue sky. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There is a hollyhock off to the side of the garden. “You know,” I say, “it seems to me that I remember Grandma making me a little doll out of hollyhocks. Does that seem right to you?” </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My mother straightens up, smiles. “Yes,” she says. Her dark brown eyes shine. “A little blossom skirt, a bit of green, and a little blossom bonnet.”</div>
<div>
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“I think that’s why I love hollyhocks.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
She looks down at the extra large cucumber in her hand. “We used to make dolls of these, you know.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I cock my head toward her, a quizzical gesture I know to be one of hers.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“We drew little faces on them,” she says, wistfully. “And wrapped them in little receiving blankets.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I laugh. “You played with cucumber babies?” </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She nods. “Me and Sis and Patti and Janice, we all had our little cucumber babies.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She grins. “And then for supper, we peeled them and ate them with a little salt and pepper.” </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She tosses me the cuke. “Let’s go see what your father is up to, shall we?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<div>
<b><i>Now about the book:</i></b><br />
<span style="background-color: #f7f7f7; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 12.288000106811523px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<i>Emmy winners, magazine editors, comedians, TV personalities, bestselling authors and social media superstars team up to bring you a laugh-out-loud book not about being a mom, but about having a mom, grandmom or mom-figure. And while it's not OK for someone else to make yo-momma jokes about your momma, it is perfectly healthy — even downright hilarious — to find the humor in your own upbringing. In fact, these writers highly recommend it. So if you think your mom is nuts, pull up a chair. You're in good company.</i><br />
<span style="background-color: #f7f7f7; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 12.288000106811523px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f7f7f7; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 12.288000106811523px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<b><i>You can order the book here:</i></b><br />
<span style="background-color: #f7f7f7;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="background-color: #f7f7f7; color: #3e454c; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 12.288000106811523px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Moms-are-Nuts-Amy-Vansant/dp/0983719128/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1397219681&sr=1-1&keywords=moms+are+nuts" target="_blank">Moms Are Nuts</a></span><br />
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<a class="linkTitle" href="http://www.amazon.com/Moms-are-Nuts-Amy-Vansant/dp/0983719128/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1397219681&sr=1-1&keywords=moms%20are%20nuts" rel="ignore" role="button" style="color: #333333; cursor: pointer; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Moms are Nuts</a></div>
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www.amazon.com</div>
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<b><i>And now a word about Pearl~</i></b><br />
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<i>Humorist Pearl Vork-Zambory speaks at Minneapolis’s Metro State University, where she shares her thoughts on the creative writing process and the self-destructive behavior found in starting a raw food diet days before speaking to a crowd. She is the author of I Was Raised to be A Lert and The Second Book of Pearl: Cats; and her Monday-Friday blog is thought by many to be a fine example of someone writing to the best of her ability.</i><br />
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Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com50tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-81551290955988311522014-04-24T07:36:00.002-05:002014-04-24T09:50:06.728-05:00Back from a Middle Eastern AdventureSince I was last here, I've traveled thousands of miles and seen things I never thought I'd get to see. Israel was all I'd imagined it to be, and more.<br />
<br />
I've missed you all. I'm so happy to be back and to get caught up with your great blogs. I will mail the postcards I promised you the next time I am in town, and the winner of my Middle Eastern giveaway is......Christine from <a href="http://wwwchristine-christine5.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Endless Ways</a>. Christine, if you'll let me know where you want me to mail your olive wood carving from Bethlehem, I'll get it sent to you.<br />
<br />
The folks over at Retirement and Good Living asked me to submit another piece, and today they've published a story I wrote of an encounter in Jerusalem that profoundly moved me. If you don't mind, it would make me so happy if you could go over and read it and then comment on it: <a href="http://retirementandgoodliving.com/the-soldiers/" target="_blank">The Soldiers</a>.<br />
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I will be writing another post later about this trip, but in the meantime I will leave you with two pictures I took in Israel.<br />
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This is from atop Masada, looking down onto the Dead Sea. And Pearl, yes, there is something different about the light in Israel. It was exquisite.</div>
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Sunrise on the Sea of Galilee</div>
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Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com82tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-88546984272417631292014-03-24T09:23:00.000-05:002014-03-27T09:02:15.711-05:00A Middle Eastern Giveaway and a Blogging AbsenceI'll be leaving very soon on a trip to Israel. Teenaged Daughter is a senior in high school and has wanted to travel there for a long time, so we are going. I'm excited, too, and I look forward to seeing the ancient sights, riding a camel, and eating exotic foods. At one point we'll be so close to the Syria they say we'll be able to hear the sounds of the warfare, but I do NOT plan on crossing that particular border.<br />
<br />
I'll be out of the blogging world for a while and will probably be back to our great blogging community around the end of April, but I am also hosting a giveaway, something from Israel (I don't know what yet, but when I get there I'll find something neat). All you have to do to enter is leave a comment and include where you've never been before that you'd like to visit. I'll draw a name when we return and announce the winner. It's not too late to enter. It will be too late only when you can't see this post anymore.<br />
<br />
Also, if you'd like a postcard from Israel, email me your address at morfam@hotmail.com or message me on Facebook. If I can't mail it in Israel, I'll mail it when we get home. And it's fine if you don't live in the US. I'd be happy to mail you one wherever you live.<br />
<br />
<i>(And for those of you who asked, I'm going to try and get an English translation of the poem that was given to me in last week's post up before I leave. I will include it in last week's post.) </i><br />
<br />
Over and out, friends~Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com76tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-44871493486083534652014-03-19T00:27:00.001-05:002014-03-19T19:07:01.086-05:00Of Poets and Empanadas<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman sitting next to me at the half moon table in the
dining room of the nursing home clutched my hand and caressed each nail slowly.
“How pretty,” she said with a smile, then turned her hand over, showing me her
newly lacquered red nails. The other three ladies at the table with my
mother-in-law nodded in turn as I admired each one’s manicure. One of the
women only stared mutely and offered me an empty coffee cup when I turned to look at her nails. Behind us, two men commiserated with each other so loudly and animatedly in disconnected sounds that it echoed off the walls while cafeteria workers cleaned up from lunch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Although I was there to visit my mother- in- law, I was glad
to see these other ladies, each over 90 years old, who had befriended her. We
talked of the empanadas (Mexican fruit filled pastries) I had brought for their
merienda (afternoon snack) and one of the ladies commented while patting the
bag of empanadas that it was nice to find such treasures with wonderful fillings in a nursing
home. My mother in law pushed off in her wheelchair to get some napkins. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As quickly as Alice falling down the rabbit hole, though,
the woman I assumed didn’t speak suddenly picked up on the word empanada, loudly
turned it into a similar sounding Spanish word that has a slang, sexually
vulgar meaning, and the conversation took a deep swerve into a direction I’d
never anticipated, complete with loud chortling and thigh slapping by the
formerly silent woman.<br />
<br />
Since I've never talked with 90 year olds about sex, I was caught momentarily speechless by the intimate questions
two of these nonagenarians now felt free to pepper me with. They interpreted my dumbfounded state as innocence and both chimed in, trying to educate me on advanced topics in the birds and the bees. My mother- in- law pulled
up behind me and whispered in Spanish, “They can be so immature! Let’s move to
another table.” Even as their laughter continued, I stood and we looked around
the room for another table. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The elderly man who sometimes thinks he is my husband waved excitedly
as we turned in his direction, gesturing us over with fervent ooh’s and ahh’s
and bouncing in his wheelchair. I smiled at him but scanned the other side of
the room quickly, and another man with a short crew cut and dark rimmed glasses
beckoned us to his empty table. I reasoned we didn’t have much to lose, so we
headed his direction.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d never met him before, and smiled a hello as we settled
in. The two men who were loudly communicating with each other with an array of booming sounds were now closer to us and it was difficult to hear anything else, but
our new table mate extended his hand and introduced himself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I am Oscar Hernandez Ortega (<i>name is changed</i>). I am her second cousin on our mothers’ side,” he said as
he patted my mother in law’s arm. “I was a double major, English and Spanish,
in college. That was 70 years ago when I graduated,” he added. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Were you a teacher or professor?” I asked as I mentally
calculated his age. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Actually, I’m a poet. I worked other jobs to put food on
the table for my family. My last job before I retired was as a newspaper
editor, but I’m a poet. You can’t retire from a passion, you know,” he added
genially.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I nodded appreciatively as I shared I had just retired as an
English teacher. A nurse’s aide came to retrieve my mother- in- law for her
bath. “Ahhh, if you don’t mind, could we talk of poets and poetry for a while? I really
miss that in here,” Oscar Hernandez Ortega confided. So for the next half hour,
we talked of Donne, Plath, Lorca, shaped verse, free verse, and meter, in what was the
most satisfying literary conversation I’ve ever had. <o:p></o:p></div>
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They wheeled my mother in law back in and he held up one
palm. “Please wait- don’t go until I can get back. I have something for you,”
he asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I assured him I wasn't moving as he wheeled himself down the hall.
My mother-in-law was munching on her empanada happily when he maneuvered his
chair back to the table holding a creased piece of paper. “This is the last
poem I wrote before I came in here. I’d like for you to have it because I think
you’ll give it a good home.” The neatly typewritten poem on the paper sat atop
a shaky inscription to me, and was signed Oscar Hernandez Ortega.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
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And indeed the treasures in a nursing home are filled with wonderful things. <o:p></o:p></div>
Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com62tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-84823210861160059852014-03-06T10:34:00.000-06:002014-03-06T23:14:52.649-06:00Rock of the Aged<div class="MsoNormal">
My sweet father in law passed away suddenly last week. He
was the youngest of 14 children, born when his mom was 46 years old. They are a
remarkable family. Incredibly, he still has an older sister, 88, and an older
brother, 93, who survive him. Their dad was 98 when he passed away and their
mom 103, so it was understandable when Tia (Auntie), the older sister, lamented
that my father in law was “taken too young” at 86.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She still lives by herself and although she sits on two fluffy
pillows to see over the steering wheel, she drove herself in her new car over two
hours to get to the services. I love to be around the elderly, and I especially love her. She taught for 43 years
and worked for the district in different capacities for another 20 years after
that, only retiring in 2012. These are nuggets of wisdom straight from her
mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><i>On passing
several police officers whose belts and clothing strained to contain large
overhangs</i>: Why is it men these days have such huge bellies? (<i>She rolls down her passenger side window</i>)
Honey, you need to put down the cerveza (beer) and pick up some dumb bells!
Those criminals aren’t going to slow down to a walk to let you catch them!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><i>On a much
younger relative who has started wearing dread locks: </i>Such a shame he has
done that. Is he trying to be one of those rapping stars? Balding plus those braid
things…they just don’t go together. He needs to look for his lost common sense
the next time he looks in the mirror.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><i>On the small,
pearl handled pistol in her glove compartment, for which she has a permit</i>:
My daddy taught me to shoot when I was 6 years old and I haven’t ever
forgotten. Don’t worry, I don’t pull it out too much anymore. It’s just if
someone tries to rob me, or if I see a good buck at the ranch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><i>On New
York City, where her only child, a son, is a physician and hospital
administrator</i>: I’d always heard people from New York are unfriendly and
rude. But I solved that. I just look them in the eye, smile, and say, “Aren’t
you beautiful!” And I nearly always get at least a little smile back. People
need someone to tell them that, at least once a day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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</span></span><!--[endif]--><i>On how
active she is: </i>I exercise every day. I even put on some shorts and a cute
t-shirt when I do, even though it’s always at home. I turn on the music really
loud and I move. That’s the key to anything you want to be successful at,
especially living. Keep moving and don’t ever stop.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com88tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-66107268367167001822014-02-26T20:30:00.001-06:002014-02-27T09:00:07.472-06:00Hearing Voices<div class="MsoNormal">
When I read your blogs, I imagine you speaking the words to
me. Some of you have slow, drawling voices, while others have faster paced
cadences with accents different from mine. I won’t tell you which blogger I’ve
dubbed with a Daffy Duck voice. (I kid! I kid!) Of course, all of these voices
are made up in my imagination because I’ve never heard a blogging friend
actually speak, that is until this weekend.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was thrilled to have a wonderful phone visit with a dear
blogging friend who’s asked me to collaborate on a writing project with her.
Not only that, I will be getting to speak soon with another amazing blogging
friend who’s asked me for my opinion on parts of one of her novels.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve been thinking about our blogging community. Some scoff
and say it’s not real; the virtual world is a sad excuse for socialization.
However, I’m with the other group who fervently backs the idea that the
blogging neighborhoods are just as real and vibrant as any other social
network. Only two people in my daily life know I blog, or even that I write
anything other than grant proposals. You all know me much better in a literary
sense than most of my friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And even though I will never get to attach the real voice to most of my blog neighbors, I count each of you as friends. That’s what blogging has
done for me: connected me with incredible people I would never have met
otherwise. <o:p></o:p></div>
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How about you? Have you ever spoken with any of your
blogging friends you didn’t already know, or even met up with some of them? Is
it something you’d like to do if you haven't?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>And I put up a short recording of my own voice on a past
post, in case you’d like to hear it, although the giveaway I talk about is already over. Click here: <a href="https://soundcloud.com/shellysm/blog4-recording-on-wednesday" target="_blank">Shelly's Voice</a> (This will take you to a Sound Cloud page. It should start playing automatically when you open the page.) Yep, that’s a sure fire Texas accent all
the way through it.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com80tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-84979090703970039492014-02-18T05:21:00.002-06:002014-02-23T20:43:52.255-06:00Getting Dirty or Spring, Wherefore Art Thou?<br />
<i>I miss green. I miss the lushness of soft grass underfoot, of trees fully dressed in nascent finery. It's coming, but like a celebrated diva making a glorious entrance, spring is going to wait until she has everyone's full attention, or perhaps when everyone is chanting her name. Here I go: Spring, spring, SPRING! A repost from my first year of blogging, to remind us what it is like when spring makes her long awaited debut.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The hum of the tiller harmonized with the birds singing their gossip from the tops of the trees. Several stray bees danced a dizzy pattern near my head and I ducked to avoid them. The muscles in my husband's back knotted and twisted through his sweat soaked t shirt as he forced the swirling tines deeper into the ground, causing a pinwheel of black loam to churn outwards.<br />
<br />
I used the rake to claw loose the detached strands of grass, pulling them into a heap at the corner of the large patch we were preparing for a new planting of featherweight flower seeds. The green aroma stored in the now mangled blades of grass saturated the air with fragrant liberation.<br />
<br />
I knelt to dislodge a few rocks from the loose soil and the velvety softness of the fine earth captivated me. I plunged my hand further downwards until it was covered to my wrist with the rich blackness. Deep stillness and peace infused me.<br />
<br />
A wiry grass snake, disturbed from his resting place, did not even fluster me as he undulated past my arm in pursuit of more settled surroundings.<br />
<br />
A few more swipes with the rake and then the temptation overrode everything else. I slipped off my shoes and let my toes sink into the supple cushion of sod, more lush than the finest fabric. The rake fell away and I dug my feet all the way in. The warm top layer of dirt gave way to the cooler, moist layers. If I had paid for a spa treatment, I couldn't have been more luxuriously cosseted.<br />
<br />
I knelt all the way down and inhaled deeply. The dirt, something I fight so heartily indoors, whispered gently to me. Old as the planet itself, it spoke of stability, of constancy, of the life that used to be and of the new life yet to come.<br />
<br />
I plunged my hands in once more and felt something small and smooth. I pulled it up. It was a winsome brown button. I smiled. This was also a plot where my grandmother and my great grandmother before her tilled their gardens.<br />
<br />
And that great continuum of what they put into the land and what it gave back to them, and what I was putting into the land and what it would give back to me, moved onward through its steady course.Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com66tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-249763712759401212.post-63891825213520547492014-02-03T09:59:00.003-06:002014-02-04T08:27:40.342-06:00The Fog Creature<div class="MsoNormal">
He blinked a few times and squeezed his eyes shut as he tried
to clear the miasma that lingered from the night before. The heavy fog outside
the deer blind that early morning rivaled that which engulfed his mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
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His hands tightened around the rifle, although it was
unloaded and he’d brought no ammunition with him. This deer blind on his ranch
was a place of solitude for him, a place to reflect and shed the after effects
from the fraternity reunion the night before. He and his frat brothers still
got together regularly and although several decades removed from college, they
partied like they were still 18. He shook his head ruefully. He might just be
getting too old for that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He peered through the small rectangular opening on the north
side of the blind, and although ten feet off the ground in this simple wooden
box of a blind, could see nothing but the fog, that blasted fog everywhere. His
head throbbed on both sides, with Jim Beam sledgehammering his left temple and
Pearl Beer driving her pickax through the right.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He raised the rifle to his shoulder and steadied his gaze
through the scope. A slight ripple in the fog just to the west made him
instinctively hold his breath. He heard a slight rustling and then the
distinctive, methodical pushing of branches that was a clear signal something
was headed towards him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was not here to shoot this morning, just to watch, and
now he wished he’d brought a camera, because he judged from the approaching
sounds that this was a buck of size. It stopped near the blind, just outside of
the small area clear of fog around the blind. He could hear it breathe, but what
slowly penetrated his slow thought processes was this wasn’t the small
controlled breaths of an unaware deer. These were heavier, deeper. Perhaps this
wasn’t a deer at all, but a feral hog, or a javelina. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Whatever it was had noticed the blind. It scraped closer to
the bottom posts and he caught a glimpse of fur. A light brownish gray, it was
not a hog, javelina, or any other animal he’d ever seen in South Texas. It disappeared
from his sight and was now directly under the blind. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An unearthly shriek that penetrated the thin plywood floor
and into his very soul paralyzed him. The blind vibrated. This..this…thing, this
creature, this fog being, was pulling on one of the support posts under him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His rational mind fought for logic. Maybe he was having a
hallucination, brought on by last night. Maybe this was not happening at all,
and he was dreaming. Maybe…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A sudden jerk so hard that it made him drop his rifle
confirmed his reality, though. He could not jump because that would throw him
right into the grasp of…what? What was this?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A hard thump on the side of the blind loosed a panic inside
him that oozed from his control. The thing was climbing up the blind. His
breathing pushed out in audible yips and he almost cried as he prayed a long
forgotten prayer. Another thump and it was now on the roof of the blind,
pounding a staccato beat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That piercing shriek came again, immediately followed by a
sight he would never forget, one that seared so deeply it was probably all the
way down in his DNA. There at the small opening was a red face, one so hideously red and
ugly it didn’t seem real. The next happened so quickly it was hard to patch
together the disjointed images. In the red were dark eyes, and then a mouth
that screamed again, and teeth, fangs…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He tumbled headfirst out of the blind, landing on his side
and rolling, not even caring he didn't have his rifle. He didn’t quit running until he got to his truck, jammed the keys
into the ignition and floored the accelerator. He screeched to a stop at the
small convenience store seven miles away. He was already sure of his course of
action by the time he turned the engine off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two men in the store watched as the truck careened into the
back corner of the parking lot. They raised their eyebrows as a disheveled man
quickly jumped out of the truck and pulled two bottles of whiskey out of the cab
of the truck, opened them, and poured them out onto the ground. They continued
to watch as he opened beer can after beer can and poured all of those out onto
the ground, as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The grizzled owner looked at the customer and shrugged. “To
each his own, I guess…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The customer shook his head as he handed the owner a flier. “That
was just plain weird.” He laughed a little. “I do appreciate you posting this
for me, though.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The owner looked carefully at the picture on the flier,
advertising a reward for the return of an escaped snow monkey from a nearby
exotic game refuge. “Those things sure are ugly- those red faces and big teeth
make ‘em look like something out of a horror movie.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They really are beautiful animals,” the customer replied, “but
if you’ve never run into one before, it can be kind of startling to see for
the first time.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgep0R4Czdd5ySQCknrH0Sf5B-E54ig6VsLKMNQOGfh7Z3mJ0Znnvgk1US8wakchbYDTqtTma5MfHMyx9VV8MN3PefCPg8YmqF413qQV7CVQffdt9tfduhyphenhyphen8dalT8Ar4CB-kUJnLWec5Zc/s1600/snowmonk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgep0R4Czdd5ySQCknrH0Sf5B-E54ig6VsLKMNQOGfh7Z3mJ0Znnvgk1US8wakchbYDTqtTma5MfHMyx9VV8MN3PefCPg8YmqF413qQV7CVQffdt9tfduhyphenhyphen8dalT8Ar4CB-kUJnLWec5Zc/s1600/snowmonk.jpg" /></a></div>
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Shellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930262815304757150noreply@blogger.com86