Photoshoppin' Phreak

I've been wandering around Iron Acres the past few days taking pictures of stuff that would normally mortify me (cobwebs in the dirt floored coal room under the den, dirty windows, bark fungus, you get the idea.) And it's all because of something called textures and layers in Photoshop.

I won't go into the gory details here in deference to those of you who aren't interested in this sort of thing. Let's just say that for the camera hounds in the group, it's fun to go from eeeeeeeeeewwwww using a picture of greasy grimy gopher gutsy cobwebs like this---



and a closeup of a glass of iced tea like this,



and a butterlfy, to aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh creating a purdy picture like this---



or this---



It lends a whole new meaning to before and after, n'est ce pas?

If you have a use for it (web template background, powerpoint, etc), feel free to download the purdy ones. And you can always download the "ugly as homemade sin" one, too, and save it for Halloween. Just right click on the pic and do a "save as" to your computer.

Here and here are just two of several Flickr groups dedicated to providing free, downloadable textures along with tutorials. I'm still learning, but I have a few here.

Who knows, you may turn into a Photoshoppin' Phreak like me, too! (just don't say I didn't warn ya!)

That's not a hill I want to die on

I've always had a soft spot in my heart for this beautiful painting.

It's so idyllic, so bucolic,
so. . .peaceful.

But after this month, I am taking a closer look at nature's shadowy underbelly, and it ain't pretty.

There must be an expiration date on the "great Penn's famous treaty made." At least that's what it looks like in this corner of his woods.

This was the year I decided it was time to find homes for most of our critters. The llama and goats and 7 goslings left for greener pastures leaving only a trio of adult geese plus 3 goslings, 4 muscovey ducks, Misty the freecycle wonder dog, and the Great Bundini to roam Iron Acres.

I was enjoying the peace and quiet. But it didn't last long.

This is also the year the wild animal kingdom declared an all out assault on Iron Acres. I had no problem at all with the robins that made nests in the lilac and apple trees,



but I draw the line at the Peter Cottontail who invaded the garden, decimating the broccoli and cabbage (where's Farmer MacGregor and his hoe when you need them?),



one raccoon who took up residence in the attic, another who tried to gain entrance to the kitchen via the breezeway, the kamikaze honeybees who committed suicide in the den,



a young grackle who fell through the chimney into the fireplace, and the ground hogs leaving their holes and, ahem, "calling cards" in the pasture and yard.



This evening on my way home from the park, I was musing about all these goings on and thought about the one animal that had yet to engage in the battle of Iron Acres. A wily foe, puny but pungent. I was continuing these ruminations as I strolled down to the barn to check on the sitting ducks. I glanced into the barn and found the goose family to have taken up residence a few feet away in the open air. Normally they vigorously protest my approach, but tonight they were curiously calm and composed.

As I peered into the darkness, trying to discern the black and white outline of a mama muscovey, I spied instead a black and white outline with more of a plume than I remembered. It was then that I realized what I was watching was not mama muscovey . . .



. . .but (dundunduh!!) this!



Yes, gentle reader, Iron Acres has been officially skunked. Mr (or Ms, for reasons I am sure you will understand, I was in no hurry to solve that mystery) Skunk was too engrossed in duck eggs and the poultry feed to notice my attentions. THANK GOODNESS!!!

I wished Pepe(or Pepette) Le Pew a silent good night and stole away in the opposite direction.

That's not a hill I want to die on.

Stained Glass Reflections

Today we are motoring down to visit friends in the Big City. I invite you take a look at my images with accompanying thoughts here.

See ya Monday!

It's easy being green

That great philosopher, Kermit the Frog, once said it wasn't easy being green. Although I have much respect for Mr. Frog, and his human Jim Henson, I beg to differ. The reverse is true.

Being green is easy. Especially if you live in the country. In the northeast. And you have a really wet spring.

It's the middle of June and our grass is going crazy. Of course, this is the first time in 17 years that a trip of goats wasn't keeping the lawn in check. (believe me, goats really ARE a trip!)



I cannot tell a lie. This is not my lawn, it's a nearby Amish grain field, but my lawn looks a lot like this. Just ask my garden tractor. We just finished a two hour argument over the lawn. JAS--"you can do it." LT--"Are you CRAZY? You need to bale this stuff."

Of course, the Great Bundini is happy, very happy with her daily wad of luscious greens, aren't you Bundini?



I told you about these hidden lawn beauties here when I wrote about their sad demise.



But others have moved in, and they are just as wonderful to behold.



Of course, today they went the way of their predecessors. (thank you, Mister Lawn Tractor.)

Tune in next week for the next exciting installment of "American Idle."

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'!)