Favorite Things Friday--License Plates

It's all Dad's fault. If he hadn't saved every bloomin' license plate since the year of my birth, the wall over our den couch might be artistically decorated, our three children would all be classical musicians, we would be living in Tuscany, and I would have retained my girlish figure after childbirth.

It's all Dad's fault. Well, perhaps just the decorating part. I just may have gotten a little carried away. Thanks for listening.

On that fateful day that Professor Hocum woke up and decided he wanted to cleanse and purge the garage, I intervened, snatching the 50 years of license plates that festooned the garage walls (and probably kept it from falling down) from a fate worse than death in the dust bin. (Do we have dust bins this side of the Pond, or do the Brits hold the copyright on that? Let me know, please. That will bug me the rest of the day.)

The tin treasures were carefully divided between their heiresses, myself and my baby sister iPodite. I don't know what iPodite did with hers, but mine are on the wall above the couch in our family room, along with a few other tin signs, one from the chain link fence that was put up when I made my debut into the world in an unsuccessful attempt to keep me safe from the evils of the bayou,



the south Texas cattle raisers sign that includes a genuine (in Texas, that would be pronounced gin-yu-wine) original bullet hole, not a sticker, (it once graced a gate in south Texas that entered some property owned by my Dear Professor's family)



a plate from my birth year (can you believe I let that one slip?),



a few plates from places we have lived





our favorite place,



and memories of vacation spots.



We may not have communed with flesh eating dinosaurs, but our family vacations did tend to be adventurous.

But I'll save that story for another time. Right now I need to go get gussied up for a date with my main squeeze.

What are some of your favorite things?

Austenolatry

It has been a very rainy day here in the Frozen North, just the kind of weather that encourages curling up on the couch with a good book and an apple. Or perhaps a laptop. Or better yet, an Apple laptop.

You would be surprised how many hallowed classics are on the internet for your perusing pleasure. One of my all time favorite authors, and, it appears, favorite of many others as well, is Jane Austen.

You would be surprised by the variety of Austentatious stuff that is available. Here are just a few of the many:

1. Forget ordinary cursive writing and download a free Jane Austen font here.

2. Find out which Austen heroine you are by taking this short quiz here. (I'm Elinor Dashwood of Sense and Sensibility--"You are practical, circumspect, and discreet. Though you are tremendously sensible and allow your head to rule, you have a deep, emotional side that few people often see."

3. Visit the Republic of Pemberly, where you can read novels online and find all other sorts of things pertaining to Jane. My personal favorite are the quote magnets in the Pemberly Store: "I am sorry to tell you that I am getting very extravagant and spending all my money; and what is worse for you, I have been spending yours as well."

4. Join the Jane Austen Society of North America. I have a peculiar affection for this organization, no doubt based upon sharing a few particular letters of which I have become fond. (jas)

5. Check out a contemporary screenwriter's reflections on his adaptations for PBS, "The Men and Women of Jane Austen" on YouTube.



I leave you, gentle readers, with milady's own philosophy of writing,

"I have got so many things to say, so many things equally important, that I know not on which to decide at present, and shall therefore go and eat."

Beautiful Mind

(My Dear Professor in the 70s, when helmet hair was a unisex look)

If we are still together after this post, my Dear Professor and I will celebrate our 35th year of wedded life this December. We have survived raising 3 children (Son#1 The Preacher, Principessa, and Son#2 The Dreamer), DP's mid life career change, graduate school (I have supported him through not one, not two, but three degree programs--the man has more degrees than a thermometer!), two geographic moves, and admitting to ourselves that we have grown old enough to have our wonderful grandchildren (and grandkitties!)

I married him for his mind, his beautiful mind.

And because he was taller than me.

And because he asked me. (Hey, at 28 I was at the point in my life where it was first come first served.)

I have never regretted marrying him. To be truthful, though, there have been times when I did consider murder. (Love ya, darlin'!)

What I did not know when I fell in love with this tall, intelligent, handsome lawyer from south Texas was that I was marrying his books, too.

All of them.

I realized very early that if one of us didn't back away from the Barnes and Noble counter, we would easily surpass the Library of Congress listings in five years. Being the gracious, humble, loving wife, I volunteered to be the sacrificial lamb.

Now I just stand at the door and incredulously shake my head each time he returns from a conference with bags of books. BAGS of books. They are like Lay's potato chips--he can't buy just one!

He has books on theology,



philosophy,



politics,



the Civil War (hmm, how did George Eliot get in there?),



history (especially Texas--I wonder if that's where Homer got the idea for his Illiad?),



and aliens. Wait, aliens? ( Honey, do we need to talk?)



Imelda Marcos' shoe collection(dated boomer historical reference--wife of former Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos, and poster child for excess) is a drop in the bucket compared to my Dear Professor's book collection.

His books have a fertility rate that far surpasses that of wire coat hangers. (You do know that wire coat hangers propagate at night in the dark? That's why the closet is always in a tangle in the morning, and there are twice as many hangers as there were the night before.)



I am grateful that DP has an office in which to store many of his treasures. But that will not last. In a few years, my Dear Professor will be retiring. You know what that means. All those office books come home.

And I will assume my new career as his personal librarian.

Or, maybe, if the price of heating goes up, we may use the fireplace more often. (Hold on, DP, don't get excited, it was a joke, just a joke, ok?)

A beautiful mind can turn ugly awfully fast, especially if you're messin' with his books.

Horsin' Around

It was a warm sunny day in the neigh---borhood. My Dear Professor was enjoying a leisurely lunch, high in fiber, when I came running around the side of the barn, making an awful fuss.



My Dear Professor mumbled a startled, "huh?" as I ran past.



The garbage truck was lumbering down our road and we had forgotten to set out the recyclables.



"Wa-hai-hai-hait" I cried, running as fast as my long legs could carry me.



But the driver motored on, oblivious to my protestations. My Dear Professor, still not fully comprehending the recently transpired tragedy, inquired as to the cause of my consternation.

I sighed, "The recycle bin is overflowing and it will be another two weeks before they're back." I turned and walked slowly back to the house.



"Oh." And with that My Dear Professor returned to his lunch.

Because it's June!

The air today is heavily laden with a mixture of perfumes: dog rose, phlox, and peonies. Almost overnight the blooms have burst on stem and vine.

You know what that means, don't you? (with my sincerest apologies to my favorite musical team, Rodgers and Hammerstein.)

C'mon, sing with me--

"June is bustin' out all over,



All over the meadow and the hill!



Buds're bustin' outa bushes



And the rompin' river pushes



Ev'ry little wheel that wheels beside the mill!"

And it is glorious. The 100 days of summer have begun.

I am fixing to (Texas speak, the equivalent of "readupping" in Pennsylvania speak) get ready for our annual pilgrimage to the promised land (Texas.)

What are your summer plans?

Our College

My Dear Professor professes at a small, private, Presbyterian affiliated college in the nearby town. Some of his colleagues live much closer and can walk or ride bicycles to work in good weather. DP drives the long and winding road into town everyday. As I have said before, it's a tough 6 minute commute, but someone has to do it. (DP is such a wonderful guy!)



His first office was on the third floor of one of the older buildings on campus, in a very tiny, closet like space. He has moved four times in the last fifteen years, each time to a larger place.

I love this campus. It is the college of my dreams, brimming over with well manicured lawns and classic ivy covered buildings. And the scent of manure in the spring. The local farmers are gifted with shredded waste paper to use for bedding their dairy cows, and they reciprocate by supplying tons of bovine, ahem, products for the lawn. When the bovine product spreaders have been busy on campus, the usual frisbee fields are suspiciously absent of barefooted college students.

I attended two college campuses back in the day, one was new and looked like my high school, the other old and built by committee, like a camel. My Dear Professor's campus is more storybook.

There is a lovely green quad flanked by dormitories and a beautiful gothic Presbyterian chapel.



Between the chapel and my DP's first office is a veteran's memorial.



Lest we forget.



In recent years, a few new buildings have gone up, but great care is taken to see that they fit in with the traditional architecture. The uniformity of construction lends a very pleasing aesthetic, much like Napoleon's Paris, but without rendering anyone homeless.

A new student activities building . . .



. . . stands behind the main campus and across from a state of the art technological suite of classrooms, lecture halls, and offices.



There are several memorial pavers in the courtyard that connects these two buildings, something I discovered just last week. You will find inspirational quotes



as well as personal remembrances.



Now go ahead and admit it, you said "awwwwww" out loud too!

The buildings and grounds are very well kept, but I have fallen in love with the floors. They are the first things I noticed seventeen years ago. They're like butter. I would willingly eat off of these floors. And this from someone who doesn't believe in the three minute rule, the clean food nazi. The woman who believes in a kosher kitchen, and I am not Jewish. Are you beginning to get the picture here?

These floors are a work of art. I want whoever does them to come live at my house.



I make reference to all my Dear Professor's books in the "about me" information at the bottom of this page. Here is a glimpse of just one wall in his office. One wall.

He has three more just like this, floor to ceiling.

And two more long walls at home. And even some stacked on the floor by the bed.



My Dear Professor does love his books. (Love ya, darlin'!)

Watercolors

Starry, starry night...I love the song "Vincent" by Don Mclean, just as I love the paintings by its subject, Van Gogh. And deep inside I have harbored a desire to paint--without losing any body parts in the process.

Our Principessa is a very talented artist. When she moved, she left behind some small canvases and acrylics to get me started. That was a few years ago. Perhaps this will be the summer we paint together. I think that would be a great mother/daughter activity.

Anyway, in the meantime, I have been playing with Photoshop and faux watercolors.



I love the ferns in the woods at the park where we walk. They are so lush and green and stand out against the browns of the trees. Their fiddleheads are completely unfurled now, and make such a verdant, soft, graceful addition to the forest floor.



Just down the road is a corn field that looks like it will have no problem being "knee high by the fourth of July" or more. I can't decide which version I like the most. The one above or the one below.



Our old apple tree looks like it is going to abandon tradition and produce a bumper crop of apples two years in a row.



The traffic on our road just gets busier with every passing day. I wonder why everyone seems to be in such a hurry. This reminds me of an illustration in a children's book, but I can't remember which one.



Now this is more my speed.



My favorite is the sunflowers from a few years ago. Vincent loved sunflowers, and I do too!



These all have something in common. Can you guess what it is?

My Life in the Movies--Camelot

With little fanfare but much wringing of hands, a bit of Camelot shone down on my part of the Frozen North recently.

It was the "Lusty Month of May." I didn't have to "Wonder What the King was Doing Tonight," I knew. He was kicking himself for getting a PhD in Philosophy instead of learning the trade of plumbing.

The kitchen sink had developed a COUS (clog of unusual size, but that's a different film.) My attempts at repair had at least ruled out a minor stoppage in the trap underneath. The problem was obviously somewhere in the bowels of the basement, a place those faint of heart did not dare to go.

Do you have any idea how catastrophic 48 hours without an operable kitchen sink can be? Needless to say, when Sir Wrenchelot of Plumb arrived on his shiny white steed,



I was overcome with more than "The Simple Joys of Maidenhood." "Follow Me" I called over my shoulder as I led him to the field of battle.

After dealing with the dragon in the bowels of the basement and chasing away the COUS (clog of unusual size), Sir Wrenchelot returned everything under the sink to its former glory. All was now shiny. (name that canceled Joss Whedon scifi epic) Literally.



In gratitude, I felt my heart being drawn away from my king, though only for a moment. I wracked my brain for a suitable second quest and came up with this.



Ladies (and gentleman, if there be any reading this), just trust me. If your pipe looks like this, it needs replacing. The true test is if you turn on the water and it gushes forth from the side of the pipe instead of through the faucet thingie at the pipe's end.

Once again, Sir Wrenchelot sprang to my rescue, artfully wielding wrenches with the grace of fencing foils and wearing plaid.



I was convinced he knew "How to Handle a Woman," or at least her plumbing problems. A thought came to mind, "What Do the Simple Folk Do?", but was brushed aside as the knight handed me his bill. Evidently, the upkeep on shining white steeds is a bit pricey these days.

As he rode off into the west, uh, actually east, I waved my hanky in his direction and turned my attention to washing 48 hours of dishes piled in one side of the sink. The work went quickly as I sang wistfully, "Don't let it be forgot that once there was a spot for one brief shining moment that was known as Camelot."

Granny's Garden

One of the things that I remember about my Mom is her garden. She tended it like everything else in her life, with lots of love. Here is my favorite picture of Mom, aka Granny, aka Momma, with two of her five grandchildren.



The eldest niece (on the left) is now grown and in the throes of wedded bliss and new home ownership. Mrs Fer's Mom, iPodite, and I have agreed that in the terrible event of the unthinkable happening--divorce--we get joint custody of Adorable Hub. He's just that adorable. Mrs Fer and Adorable Hub have recently returned to Texas, the motherland, from New York City, the foreign mecca.

Mrs Fer tells me she was inspired by my gardening post to go out and build one for herself (a garden, not a post), using only her bare hands, a few power tools, and her Adorable Hub. They chronicled it all here.



I responded that what she was feeling was not inspiration, possibly indigestion, but most certainly her grandmother's latent garden muse springing forth. Let me explain.

(at this point the screen gets all wavy and watery to simulate going back in time, WAY back in time. Just humor me, ok?)

It was the dawning of the age of aquarius, whatever that means. I don't remember what iPodite was into then, but I was a closet hippie. (after bearing three children and 30 years, my hips are no longer in the closet. They're out there. Way out, dude.) Imagine granny glasses, long brown hair, and a wardrobe that tended toward corduroy, denim, lace, and a shocking pink pantsuit that I will never live down.

The counter culture revolution was trickling down, deep down, into the heart of a 40something conservative, naive, country loving Georgia peach. (That would be Mom, aka Granny, aka Momma.)

When Mom and Dad first moved into the home where they spent the rest of their lives, there was a little creek at the bottom of a big ditch which ran behind and parallel to the backyards. Of course, we didn't call it a creek. In that part of Texas we called it a bayou. (pronounced slowly, and with lots of syllables between the first and second part, bah-yoo)



The bayou was a (dundunduh!) forbidden zone for us kids because it was a breeding ground for water moccasins and copperheads. Of course, that meant the bayou was exactly where we wanted to play. (Sorry Mom and Dad, it was just too tempting.) And somehow, we never ran into any snakes.

What Mom and Dad did not know was that the snakes feared the kids more than the kids feared the snakes.

It was the city department of public works that ended the standoff between parents, kids and snakes by bringing in huge concrete pipes and filling in the ditch/bayou. The easement now became extra backyard for all who lived along it. And we were gifted with a big manhole on our part of it.

Mother was out mowing the yard one day and heard a moving, hissing sound underneath the manhole. The public works department sent out two workmen who removed the cover so they could say they "looked into" the situation, and then replaced it without further investigation. There was some mumbling about the possibility of alligators working their way through the slimy, wet darkness. Hey, it was a bayou.



Anyway, after falling under the spell of JI Rodale, Adelle Davis, and a local gardening expert named Bob Flagg, Mom decided she wanted to plant an organic garden on the back forty (feet, not acres.) I think maybe she was just tired of mowing the extra lawn.


(Mom's gardening notes. I loved her handwriting.)

There was a flurry of activity involving tillers and dirt and planting, and the second year that manholed grass covered alligator alley of a city easement had turned into a 30 by 50 foot organic garden. In the late afternoons, Mom would grab her handled basket, don her gardening hat and gloves (a proper Southern lady always wears gloves), and disappear to the back 40 only to reappear 10 or 15 minutes later with a basket full of okra, beans, tomatoes, corn, or cucumbers.


(first okra plant, picture taken with an old Argus 35mm film camera by a young amateur photographer who shall go unnamed.)

Mom loved her garden. Somewhere I have a short video filmed after we had moved away to the Frozen North. Our Principessa, still in her nightgown and barefooted (a proper Texas native spends most of the summer barefoot), had followed Mom out to the garden and I managed to film a second or so of conversation before Mom realized what I was doing and protested.

And so, my dear Mrs Fer, although I appreciate your thanks, it's not me but Mom/Granny/Momma you should thank for the gardening inspiration. We are both, in a sense, flexing her green thumb in our dirt filled endeavors.

Here's hoping our gardens will be filled with as much love as hers.

(note--the younger niece, the Animal Whisperer, has a different garden I need to tell you about sometime.)