Shipwrecked, Part 1

One day, while the clouds were gathering, and the Sprittles, their Beautiful Mommy, and Principessa were making friends on the beach, I fell into a time portal that transported me back over the last 13 years' history of our rental cottage.

It was as if I had walked into Nicholas Sparks' family diaries. And it was addictive.

The owners of the cottage had provided a warm and welcoming atmosphere and invited visitors to write about their stay in a guest book. And write they did.

Most of the entries were repetitive--had a nice time, plan to come back next year, thanks for the use of your cottage. But some were very personable. There was one entry by an elderly lady who came upon the location by accident on a North-South road trip. I would love to meet her. She described the awareness of her own mortality in an upbeat way--"I don't buy my bananas green anymore"--and ended with "but God willin', and the creek don't rise, I'll be back next year."



I wonder if she made it.

Some added artistic flourishes to their signatures,



while others offered snippets of poetry to ponder. This is a Walt Whitman excerpt.



One story was about a "very special Marine" meeting his fiancee and family after a tour of duty in Iraq. The joy in his stepmother's words was palpable.



But all was not a bed of roses. There were entries that spoke of having a good time despite the drownings, shark sightings, and tropical storms. I'm glad I wasn't with their party!

The most memorable entry I almost missed. It spoke of a much earlier time, and was written on fragile, yellowing paper. The story of a shipwreck... (to be continued)

Important Lessons

My Dear Professor and I returned to the Frozen North from our marathon Texas vacation (did I mention it was really hot down there?) just long enough to check our mail before heading back out on the road again (am I the only one hearing Willie Nelson?) for a North Carolina beach and a week with our precious Sprittles. (OK, The Preacher and Beautiful Mommy were there too.)

We had driven maybe 30 miles down the road when I realized to my utter horror (dundunduh!) that I had left my camera at home. I panicked and immediately called Principessa, who was already frolicking on the beach with said Sprittles, to ask if she had packed her camera.

Folks, I was going through some serious camera withdrawal. I had already planned a good number of beach/Sprittle shots. I breathed a major sigh of relief when Principessa assured me she had indeed brought along her camera.

That would see me through Wednesday. However, Principessa was leaving early to get back to work, and that meant I would once again be camera-less until we left on Saturday. Beads of sweat started forming on my brow once again. But sometime Thursday afternoon I had a duh! moment and pulled out my cellphone.

And what did my tiny cellphone camera manage to capture? I never dreamed the NC beach was so spectacular, or that we would actually see dolphins and loggerhead turtles and man eating clam shells.(yes, that's the actual name of that type of humongous shell.)



We did a lot of frolicking in the sun, sand, and surf the first three days. Then the rains came, so we visited the aquarium and saw lionfish, jellyfish, and pirates, oh my!



In Morehead, I found a mermaid weathervane, (just trust me on this, the cellphone camera does not have a zoom feature) and we dined at the Sanitary Fish Market where we discovered that pirates like hushpuppies. A lone seagull also made an appearance.



I love shelling, and had risen early a few mornings to comb the beach for treasure to no avail. And then, toward the end of my final foray, I spied a beautiful blue gray whelk lying on the sand. That's our 3 year old Sprittle, Bee, "Vanna Whiting" the find.

I learned some important lessons at the beach--the Atlantic ocean has the highest salt content in the world , our Sprittles are even more precious than I had remembered, and I can survive without my camera.

At least for a week.

With the Sprittles to distract me. (Mommo loves you more than Texas... or my camera!)

Go fly a kite

When I was growing up, kites came in a kit consisting of thin, diamond shaped paper that you glued on the accompanying thin pine dowels.  You were left to your own devices for the tail, which contemporary wisdom said was necessary for optimum flight. 

Once everything was assembled, we would run down the middle of the street hoping our kite would climb quickly into the sky.  Sometimes it did, often it just dragged behind us, scuffing the wooden dowels and our hopes.

Kite science has come a long way since then.  The lightweight, triangular shaped plastic kites available now (and when my children were experimenting with flight) are much easier to assemble and get airbborne. One of the first things that caught my eye here at the beach in North Carolina (where we are spending a week with our  dear Sprittles, Son #1 The Preacher and Beautiful Mommy, Principessa and Son #2 The Dreamer) was a wonderful, green, three dimensional plane kite. 

A quick trip to the Emporium, a few minutes of assembly, and voila!  Our Sprittles were at the business ends of My Little Pony and 101 Dalmatians kites.

Flying kites at the beach is fun!  All you do is let go, hold on, and watch that puppy (or pony!) soar into the clouds.


(My Dear Professor as co pilot for Boo's first flight)

The only problem was getting equal time for the Sprittles--the "adults" in the group wanted to fly!


(Principessa and Son #2 The Dreamer showing Bee how to bust some flight moves.)

The Secret Life of a Canary

I came across a piece of disturbing news while on vacation in that place I promised I would not write about again for awhile. (hint--it's hot down there, and no, I am not referring to the final resting place of people who refuse to turn off their cell phones in movie theatres.)

Because of the urgency of the information, I feel it my civic duty to report it. And notice how I have avoided mentioning the T word (Texas. Ooops!)

That important breaking news story is this--Canaries have secret lives. (dundunduh!)

In a small community near a major metropolitan area, the police busted a nasty ring of Canary fighters. Yes, you read that right, Canary fighters. I managed to interview one of the offending birds, who has entered the witness protection program and shall remain anonymous.



Me. Whatever caused you to enter this sordid occupation?
Bird. Speak to the tail.



Me. There has been a lot of speculation that these fights were fixed. What is your response to these allegations?
Bird. You'll have to talk to my lawyer.



Me. Are you afraid of retribution from the fight promoters? There are some reports that organized crime is involved.
Bird. No comment.

Well, there you have it. He refused to sing. I think he was afraid of being labelled a stool pigeon. Birds of a feather flock together, and no self respecting Canary wants to be confused with a pigeon.

Who knows why the caged bird won't sing?

Cool Green Joy

After a month in Texas, I forgot how green and cool Pennsylvania can be in the summer. This morning I took my camera for an explore and this is what we found.

One tiny, battered butterfly/moth eating breakfast from a clover blossom. This picture is much larger than the little winged creature was in person.



The bumbly bees preferred chicory blossoms. They must have been looking for a coffee fix and found this alternative.



Queen Anne's lace was everywhere. Everywhere. I love its various stages. First are the whorls of tightly closed pink and white....



...followed by the beautiful snowflake like blooms. I want to cut and dry some to place on our Christmas tree this year.



But I think my favorite was this daisy, hugging the ground and underneath a group of Queen Anne's Lace. I remember my delight when I found them blooming in a highway median this Spring. I didn't realize they continued to spread their joy all through the summer.

Bicoastal?

Our 2009 marathon Texas vacation is just so many gigabytes memory on my portable hard drive now. You must be as sick of hearing about Texas as I am of the heat. (Did I tell you it was hot down there?) This will be the last blatant Texas entry for at least...a week. I will try to focus on other things (the Sprittles come to mind!), but there are so many pictures on that portable hard drive and you know what they say about pictures and words...

Here are a few things I learned about Texas (and myself.)

1. Walking is a good exercise only between the hours of 6am and 7:30am or 8pm and 9:30pm. Any other time of day you risk heat stroke or becoming a crispy critter. (I recall a conversation with Principessa about walking somewhere later in the evening when the temperature had gone down a bit. Her response was a long, loud laugh and "Mom, it doesn't get any cooler!")

2. A swimming pool helps you cope with the Texas heat. A new neighbor with a new pool is even better. A new neighbor with a new pool and a shared, unlocked gate is heaven. A new neighbor with a new pool, a shared, unlocked gate, and an open invitation is a saint (you know who you are!)



3. Raus' dry pencil sausage is addictive. (Principessa thinks crack cocaine is their secret ingredient.) Anytime of day, with a little string cheese. Yummo!

4. Cacti like to grow in strange shapes and places. I can't imagine how it got up in the branch of that tree (chased by an armadillo?)



5. Certain family members who live in suburbs of the big city (I will not use your name, iPodite) take offense at my depiction of life in Texas as being stereotypically wild and country as opposed to refined and cultured. May I go on record (as a big city girl gone country) that Texans are both.



(that last pic is of two sisters, who will remain nameless, posing as Terra Cotta Warriors after attending the Museum of Natural Science exhibit. Who says we ain't got class?)

6. I'm too 60something to be a rock band star, but not too 60something to keep me from playing rock band with my daughter and niece (Principessa and Mrs. Fer) into the wee hours of the morning. Can we say rock band hangover?



I must admit it was comforting to hear Principessa say that she, too, was feeling the after effects when she remarked, "I feel like I was hit by the tour bus!"

7. Coyotes howl at train whistles. Young coyotes howl at their parents because they can't keep up with the rest of the pack. (in my case, this coyote was howling to keep up with my younger peeps in the rock band.)



8. I never knew sage was so beautiful, or that butterflies and bees loved it so much.



9. A garden shop in Austin has the largest wind chime I've ever seen.



But that's because...



10. An African gray parrot at the same garden shop stole my heart.



11. So did a friendly pair of horses. *sigh*



12. Boredom can make me do even stranger things than usual.


"Frankly my dear, I don't give a dung beetle!"

13. I took WAY too many pictures in Texas. (note to self: enroll in a digital photography 12 step program IMMEDIATELY.)

14. I love my Texas family...

15. And I missed my friends in the Frozen North.

Does that make me bicoastal?

Boredom

When do you REALLY know boredom has set in? When your wonderful, college educated, brilliant daughter, sitting across the room from you, engages you in a conversation on Facebook that goes something like this:

Principessa--hello, Mommo
Mommo--you silly
Principessa--whatcha doin'?
Mommo--back AWAY from the ip[h]one

Hey, I was typing on a strange computer and very irritated that she was making fun of me TECHNOLOGICALLY.

It's bad enough when your adult children reach the age that they see you in the same category as dinosaurs, it's even WORSE when they use the internet to prove their point.

All I can say is, be nice Principessa, or we boomers will overrun Facebook with pictures of us in monokinis and thongs. THEN you'll be sorry!

(note--Mommo is the name by which I am known to my precious Sprittles who wouldn't even think of casting aspersions on my person. At least not for another 5 years.)

Kafka's Locust

If you've ever heard a chorus of locusts (would the plural be locii?), their deafening sound ringing through the air, then you already know that they are the Ethel Mermans of the bug world, in addition to plaguing Egyptians and Mormons. No, wait, I think it was grasshoppers that plagued the Mormons. I'll ask the next missionary duet that rings my doorbell at Iron Acres.

There are plenty of locusts in Texas. This is one Principessa found recently on one of our jaunts to a local herb garden. Sadly, he/she had succumbed to the heat. (Have I told you it's hot in Texas?)



When I was a little girl growing up in the big city and dreaming of country life, I would often discover the "shells" of a matured locust. We would have fun grossing out younger siblings (sorry, iPodite) by perching the fragile, but solid, shed skins on our noses. (Actually, I think iPodite took part in this as well, so I am retracting that apology.)

I found two "shells" a few days ago in the wilds of Washington County and imagined a conversation between them with the help of some movie dialogue you might recognize.

Just humor me, will ya? Our vacation's almost up, and there's not much else to do to pass the time here in the wilds of Washington County. We've done all we characteristically do each year--eaten too much Blue Bell Ice Cream and barbecue (the local delicacies), played too many hands of Phase 10 (my Dear Husband's sister's favorite game), and visited every relation in the county we can think of.



Of course, the local library display of graphic novels including one of Kafka's Metamorphosis had nothing to do with this, nothing at all. Nothing...at...all...



"As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again!"



"Rhett, Rhett! Rhett, Rhett... Rhett, if you go, where shall I go? What shall I do?"



"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a dung beetle."

Biblical Proportions

It's confession time. I am a certified member of the couch potato society. I put the "couch" in couch potato. My body's natural state is at rest in front of a book, a movie, or the computer. If my body were as active as my mind is, I would probably weigh about 50 pounds. Let's just say I weigh more than that.

Let's just say I was born in the wrong era--I could easily have qualified as Peter Paul Rubens' star model.


"Venus at the Mirror" cropped for modesty's sake

Except I would have had a little trouble posing so scantily clad. And my hair used to be dark brown before it turned, ahem, "naturally frosted."

This is where Principessa comes in. Not only does she love art, but she's also fitness conscious. She encouraged me to get a pedometer and use it. (Principessa knows how to appeal to my genetic propensity toward gadgetry.) We have a friendly competition for the most steps in a day, every day.

But somewhere between the civilized streets and rivers of San Antonio



and the wilds of Washington County,



I misplaced my nifty gadget. I hope to find it when I unpack at home, but in the meantime I have no admissable evidence of my exercise. I could take a picture of the soaked bandana I wear(this one's dry, it's my "for show not for blow" bandana)



--a la Willie Nelson Rambo--everytime I walk in the evenings, but that would be gross and doesn't count. It does keep the run off from my head out of my eyes so I can determine if I am close to stepping on a snake as I rambo, I mean ramble.

I do dislike snakes. Principessa doesn't care for them much, either. And I make a pledge to you right now that because of my herpephobia(is that a word?) I will never knowingly post a picture of any of those slithery creatures on this blog.

So help me, Saint Patrick.

Now where was I? Oh yes, bandana. That bandana comes in even more handy here in Texas than in the summer heat of the Frozen North. Of course, the summer heat of the FN isn't even on the same scale as heat down here in Texas. In Texas, heat assumes Biblical proportions. In the Frozen North, heat assumes Rhode Island proportions.



Oh, by the way, did I tell you it's hot down here? How hot is it? It's so hot we had to install a quick and dirty soaker system to keep the liveoaks in the yard from drying up and keeling over stone dead. I saw a little lizard scurry toward one of the tiny emitter thingies and drink long and deep from his own little water fountain.

It's so hot and dry down here even the lizards are parched.

But in the name of fairness to all of Texas, I will admit that there are places where the lawns are green and well watered, the streets are paved, the houses are suburban, and the shopping choices are endless (as opposed to where we are in the wilds of Washington County and the choices are Walmart or the Dollar stores.)

iPodite, my baby sister who lives in one of those humongous urban metropolitan areas,  took objection to my portraying all of Texas as wild and wooly. Yes, there are pockets of New York City style civilization, and Babylonian style hanging gardens, but at its heart, Texas is wild.

At least that's my story, and I'm sticking to it!

Truckin' Texas Style

Texans do love their trucks. And they like them big. Do you have any idea what it is like to try to park between two Texas trucks? I'll tell you. It ain't easy (or for the faint of heart or depth perception challenged either!).

Here's an illustration using twin Toyota Tundras parked outside the local Blockbuster.



And this is what a normal car looks like parked on the other side of one of the Tundras.



See what I mean? You almost feel like a participant in a monster truck rally pulling up alongside one of these babies. Here's a curbside view of the suspension on an F250 looking up from Principessa's "humble" Toyota Camry. And this isn't even the biggest model Ford makes.



Texans take their trucks SO seriously that car manufacturers make special editions for the Texas market.

There's the King Ranch edition with the King Ranch brand logo (based on the desire for every Texan to own a piece of the largest ranch in Texas, even if its just a copy of the brand on the side of your pickup),



the generic Texas edition Ford,



and the Texrolet, sporting the Texas flag in the Chevy logo.



Now I ask you, do any other states enjoy the same sort of brand homage? Rhode Island? Iowa? Alaska? California? I think not.

Texas is just a whole 'nother country.

My guess is, if the government gets really serious about reducing carbon footprints and fossil fuel use, Texas will secede from the Union. Who's gonna argue with all those big trucks?

Did I mention they all come equipped with gun racks as standard equipment?

Too Bloomin' Hot!

Despite the fact that it's really hot down here(have I told you that before? *wink wink*) and we've had 42 consecutive days without rain, some flowering plants are still attempting to bloom. Our neighbor has a small garden of old Cecile Brunner roses that are pretty spectacular against the dust and prematurely brown liveoak leaves.



Of course, these dainty pink blossoms rely on irrigation provided by a quintessential Texas windmill. I love that windmill!



Outside my Dear Professor's sister's gate, is a magnificent cenizo or purplesage, a shrub that has attractive lilac flowers. At least, I think they are attractive, and the number of butterflies fluttering around them the day I took this picture seem to agree.



A few years ago, this big city girl was introduced to this plant on Daddy Britt's ranch in south Texas. I decided I'd like to transplant a small specimen to our yard in Houston. Daddy Britt, always a man of keen insight and few words(my Dear Professor comes by it honestly) invited me to go ahead and "try". Although it was a small plant, the roots went deep looking for water in a very dry country. It was like pulling teeth out of concrete, but I somehow managed. I think Daddy Britt found that very entertaining!

Last year I saw fields and fields of blue bells around here. The numbers were not as great this year, but that just made the blooms we saw even more special.



When I was a child, my sister and I would play with the trumpet vine flowers whose advancing tendrils harrassed the fence and tall pine trees around our home. She calls them "witchy fingers". Imagine the blooms perched upside down on our fingertips. "I've got you, my pretty! You and your little dog, too!"



What I miss most living in the Frozen North are the crepe myrtle trees that line the streets with beautiful, lacy bunches all summer long. They come in many colors--red, several pinks, and white. These were found on an overlook at a nearby lake.



I can't help but enjoy this weed that ranchers hate. It reminds me too much of its distant cousin, my favorite sunflower. These grow in waste places and on the lawn at the local Popeye's Chicken franchise. If you look, beauty can be found anywhere, even at a fast food drive through.



I think it's a tribute to Texas gardeners (and plants!) that they can produce so many wonderful blooms when it is just too bloomin' hot!