Son #1 The Preacher

It was just thirty-one years ago that my Dear Professor and I were driving the 45 minutes to the hospital to welcome Son #1 The Preacher into this world. In those dark ages the baby's gender was not determined until they came out of the chute, so to speak, so we didn't know during that fateful ride whether we would be bringing home a boy or a girl.

One thing I did know. I wanted this over. Fast!

I had been in back labor for what seemed like 48 hours. You just don't know what to expect the first time you're expecting. We had taken a Lamaze course, so we were prepared for the delivery. Or so we thought. When the time came, my Dear Professor was so awestruck by the events unfolding that the attending nurse had to take over as birthing coach!

We only had one "slight" complication. The Preacher had a huge head. I mean really big. How big, you ask? Big enough that the physician needed a screwdriver, a four foot pipe wrench, a bottle of whiskey, and four Oiler linebackers (remember this was the dark ages, back when the Houston Oilers were in Houston!). Actually, it was ME that needed the whiskey. "Natural childbirth" was "in", I was convinced that doing this "cold turkey" was most healthy for our baby.



And perhaps I am exaggerating a bit. Perhaps all the doctor needed was a pair of forceps. All I remember is that I found a voice I didn't know I had. My parents, sitting outside the delivery room with my Dear Professor's parents, didn't know I had that voice either. There is an unconfirmed story that citizens of the next county were responding to what they thought was an air raid siren.

Son #1 The Preacher, before we knew he would be a preacher, arrived shortly after the forceps and the siren. It was then I knew I was in trouble. They wheeled him into my room and left him there. With me. Alone. I came face to face with my worst nightmare. I had never changed a diaper before. At least not one on a real baby. Somehow, in the midst of the exercises, and breathing, and focusing, they forgot that little detail.



Things worked out, though, as long as you don't count the Trevi fountain incident. It happens to every family of a baby boy at least once. Hint, never leave a male infant unattended or uncovered in the nether regions while changing their diaper. White boy babies may not be able to jump, but they can "squirt" remarkably high.

Son #1's most important claim to fame is being the husband of our second daughter, Beautiful Mommy, and the father of our three Sprittles (Mommo loves you Boo, Bee, and Colonel Mustard!) That, and the incredible support he was for his Mom the day his grandfather and namesake, my Dad, died. He threw his arms around me, gave me a hug, and told me the exact words of comfort I needed to hear.



Mommo loves you, too, Son #1. Very much. Happy Birthday!

I'm a dropout, I think

Early in February of this year I joined Project365 on Flickr. It sounded easy enough, a daily journal entry of one photo per day. I could do that, I thought. It would help me become a better photographer, I thought. And I kept at it for 27 days.

And then the unthinkable happened.



I started a blog. I started a blog with pictures that chronicled my day. I became a better photographer. I started taking more pictures than Imelda Marcos could shake a shoe at. As I understood more about blogging, I created a second blog, just for pictures. And a third blog just for my thoughts on the deeper meaning of life. And a fourth blog for recipes.

It must have been somewhere in the midst of this post that it happened--I dropped out of Project365. At least that seems to be about the right time. I was so immersed in my four blogs, I forgot all about it.

Or did I?

I think that even though I didn't keep the letter of the law over at '365, I may have kept the spirit. I did take(and still am taking) pictures every day. Believe you me, I took pictures every day. Just ask my little hard drive that is doing its best to keep up. The '365 group allows you to play catch up. I could easily do that from my picture blog.

So, the question remains, am I a dropout, or not?

If you are interested in hopping into the action over at Project365, I don't think it's too late. You have over half a year to go!

(Thank you to Shutter Sisters for this post that made me stop and think about Project365 again.)

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?