On the Beach

How fast can you say, "she sells sea shells by the seashore" without getting your tangue all tongled?

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (and below the Mason Dixon line), our three children, my Dear Professor and all his books, and I lived in a huge city about 2 hours drive from the beach. My Dear Professor's sister, The Counselor, her spouse, The Wild Cajun, and their three children lived several hundred miles south of us, also located about a 2 hour drive from the beach.

Our visits to south Texas always included wonderful family meals (MeMom, my Dear Professor's mother, was an incredbile cook), family stories and jokes from Uncle Bern, going to the movies with Aunt Mellie, a trip to the ranch, and a day when The Wild Cajun and My Dear Professor would find something important and manly to do while The Counselor, our combined six kids, and I would pack a picnic lunch and drive to the beach. We built sand castles, chased waves, went swimming and all other sorts of beachy things.

(4 of our 6 combined kids and The Counselor, my sister-in-law)

But the high point of the trip was always wading out to a shallow sand bar and looking for sand dollars.

Sand dollars come in all sizes. The souvenir stores had some gigantic ones. But the sand dollars native to this stretch of the Texas coast were less than a half dollar in circumference (there was a time, my dears, after crossing the prairie in covered wagons but before the psychedelic 70s, when US currency included 50 cent coins which were larger than the familiar 25 cent ones). The waves tossed and battered these fragile treasures, so it was a treat to find them intact.

When we had plundered the sand bar of all the sand dollars we could find, our attention turned to the various shells on the water's edge, or an occasional crab claw or hermit crab desperatedly trying to get back to the gulf. A few times we discovered tiny star fish, and created special little pools near our castles to scientifically examine them in a "natural" environment.

As the day wore on, and we wore out, we visited the public showers to remove the sand and grit which now covered everything, and to rinse off our booty. Now, by booty I mean treasure or plunder, as in pirate, not a body part. (although I am sure that pirates possessed that body part.). We brought our shells home and enshrined them in glass jars.

When we moved to the Frozen North, I brought with me a few jars of the gifts from the sea that the children (yes, and me too---especially me too!) had kept as souvenirs of those sunny days on the beach with their cousins. The intricate shell patterns and varying sizes and colors still fascinate me.




Holding them in my hands, I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face, and hear the waves crashing on the beach behind the delighted squeal of children's voices announcing their discoveries. Those were wonderful days. Those are wonderful memories.

Anyone out there game for a picnic on the beach?

Heartwarming Wednesday and a Question

I declare today to be Heartwarming Wednesday. (It is Wednesday, isn't it?)

If you are like me, and information challenged, then you may not have discovered this yet. If you already know about it, I'm sure you won't mind seeing it again.

It's the story of an underdog, an average 47 year old Scottish woman from a wee village who has a huge voice (the woman, not the village). A story of heart, determination, drama, surprise, good music, and something we can all identify with, the fairy tale of the ordinary proving extraordinary.

It also has a villain, Simon Cowell, but every good story needs a nasty villain. Although, in this case, even Simon's nastiness is tempered. Take a look here.

The cynics have said there was some staging going on--the panel was aware of what was to come (that has been denied in an interview), that a voice like that doesn't come out of nowhere. Well, if it was only good theatre, it is still something that touches our hearts in a deep place.

Did it touch you? Why? Let's talk about it.

(You can hear more music from Les Miserables here.)

My Big Screen TV

Across the room from my computer is my big screen tv. It was a real bargain--it came with the house.  It is environmentally friendly, energy frugal, and has an endless list of channels.  My favorites are:

the Weather channel,
 

the Bird channel,
 

the Traffic channel,


the History channel,


and the Home channel.
 


I may put my digital converter up for grabs-- the analogue reception seems to be just fine.

Principessa

Principessa is our middle child, the sandwich filling between our two sons, and the owner of our two grandkitties, Chester and CC.  She is as incredibly sweet as she is incredibly beautiful.  I can say that in all honesty because other more objective people have said so.  Complete strangers have stopped me on the street and made that very comment, much to my delight. 

All right, maybe not complete strangers, but at least other family members and friends.  Do they count?

Here are a few pictures of Principessa in various stages of her life.  (The cute little boy in some of the photos is her big brother.)



I think sailor outfits increase a child's cuteness factor by at least 20x.



Principessa led a long and successful campaign to add a cat to an historically pro dog family.  My Dear Professor was concerned that we would be stuck holding the bag, or the kitty, once Principessa went off to college.  He was right.



Mittens the Destroyer was the bane of our existence for 15 years.  And we all miss him terribly now that he is gone.

I could tell you some pretty embarrassing facts about Principessa, how she thought for the longest that an area rug was an Ariel rug, and that others couldn't hear her when she hummed.  But I won't.

Because today is Principessa's birthday.  (cue party horns and confetti!!)

Won't you join me in wishing our Principessa a Happy Birthday?

And to help celebrate, here is our darling daughter caught in a reflective mood more recently.



Hehehe.  Get it?  Reflective mood?  Reflection in her glasses?  Oh, never mind.

Happy Birthday, Principessa!

Loveyalots, Mommo.

Good Stories

I took the back way home from town yesterday. It's a tad longer, but I had no pressing appointments and my camera was begging for some action.

I am continually amazed by the surprises that can be found in a viewfinder. I had stopped to take a quick picture of a round bale of last year's hay and found mister goose patrolling the area. His significant other must be setting on a nearby nest.

As I looked to the left, I found this reflection in an otherwise nondescript swampy area. We have quite a few swamps in these parts. I'm wondering what kind of summer it will be for pesky mosquitoes. One rainy summer they were out in droves in the middle of the day!

The shadows were lengthening and these weathered bales from last year stood sentry like ancient ceremonial stones in a field showing new growth.

There is usually one lone tree in every field. This one looked both stately and mournful.

But even more mournful was the shape of this once prosperous barn. Elderly barns and elderly people have a lot in common. Both are composed of equal portions of grace and frailty.

When we moved to Iron Acres seventeen years ago, we hired George, a neighbor and handyman, to help us put up some fencing and add a little onto our tiny barn. George packed a lot of gumption and grit on an old frame much like the barn above. He was a prisoner of war held by the Japanese near where the nuclear bombs fell that ended World War II. He lived in this rental property that belonged to Miss Alice, our neighbor across the street.

Oh the stories old George and that house could tell---the history they both have seen.

George and Miss Alice are gone now. Perhaps someone with vision and love will befriend that old house. It would be a shame not to. I know it has some good stories left.

Peace, man

My Dear Professor and I were commenting last night on the difference in our upbringing.  He was reared in a small south Texas town (population 300), and realized at a young age that his future lay elsewhere.  Thus began his journey from Agua Dulce to the University of Texas, then on to the bright lights of the big city where we met (Houston).

I was reared in that big city.  I grew up with the town.  Never in a million years would I have guessed that my future was anywhere but Houston.  (Or anywhere north of the Mason Dixon line for that matter.)

The curious thing is, we both now find ourselves in a small town and loving every minute of it.  In fact, we have another small Texas town in mind for our retirement when we finally leave the Frozen North to return to our homeland.  (For the uninformed, all Texans see themselves as Texans first, US citizens second.  It has to do with our great state once being a republic.)

As I have said before, we both love the quiet and simplicity of rural living (skunks, mice, wasps, septic tank, water well, and eccentric neighbors attempting spousal murder by washing machine aside.)

Either that, or we are both late blooming closet hippies.

Peace, man.

I Started a Joke . . .

Yesterday I compared raising golden retrievers and children. Sort of.

Our youngest, Son 2, has always marched to the beat of his own drum. His second grade teacher told us he kept everyone in the class in stitches with his stories. They were not made up. Unfortunately, they were all true.



Except for that joke he got from his Uncle Bernie.

What can I say about Uncle Bern? He also marched to the beat of his own drum. Perhaps Son 2, even at his tender age, recognized a kindred spirit. Uncle Bern was my Dear Professor's father's younger brother. (Should I draw a genealogy chart for clarification?)

Uncle Bern sort of stepped into the role of family patriarch when our dear Daddy Britt passed away at the "young" age of 65. Where Daddy Britt was quiet and stoic, Uncle Bern was the life of the party. There was always a twinkle in his eye. He delighted in telling family stories, like the annual family reunion that he claimed was "the largest gathering of the ugliest people he had ever seen."

Uncle Bern was quite a sentimental fellow. (wink, wink)

Our trips to south Texas for family gatherings at MeMom's house(DP's mother) were sure to include Uncle Bern. During one night of hilarity, UB shared one of his favorite jokes with us. (Mothers of young children, this is a cautionary tale!)

I am firmly convinced that multitasking was born not out of the invention of super computers with mega memory, but in the brain of a young child who can appear to be completely absorbed in play while his brain is recording every word within earshot.

That is what happened on this occasion. Son 2 and the rest of the "wrecking crew" (as Uncle Bern loved to call the group of kids represented by the three cherubs belonging to my Dear Professor and I plus the three belonging to my Sweet Sister-in-law and her Wild Cajun Spouse) had retired to the den while the older folks continued to sit around the table after the meal and palaver.

The family stories were piling high when Uncle Bern pulled out his favorite joke to the delight of some and the discomfort of others. All I can share in polite company is that it involved an abundantly proportioned lady riding on a train, an uncomfortable and sudden attack of Montezuma's revenge, a handy open window, two cowboys sitting on their horses while watching the train pass, and a reference to big cheeks and foul smelling chewing tobacco.

The men in the group found this joke highly entertaining while a few of us ladies swooned . . . ok, yes, I laughed. Are you happy? We all promptly forgot the incident on the way home. All, that is, except Son 2.

We found this out after he told the joke, in its entirety, at the first show and tell opportunity he was afforded in second grade. I know because his teacher reported it to me.

Do you have any idea what it is like to convince the witness protection program that you need to be relocated because of a joke?

If I had it to do all over

My Dear Professor had a philosophy professor whose wife once told us she wanted her tombstone to read, "if I had it to do all over again, I would have raised golden retrievers." She thought that would have been easier than rearing their children.

I can't say the same. I enjoyed our children, most of the time.



If I had it to do all over again, I would have been a better parent. More aware of who these little people were, what they were feeling and seeing, how their tender hearts were being shaped, instead of being preoccupied with trying to modify their behavior so they wouldn't embarrass me in public. Isn't it ironic that parents are concerned with their young children embarrassing them in public, then when those same children become teenagers the shoe is on the other foot? Or is that just one of life's little gifts?

Somehow they managed to turn out pretty well in spite of our parenting awkwardness, for which I am truly grateful. One is married, the father of our 3 sprittles, and a bivocational pastor(church on Sun, high school math teacher the rest of the week); one is the chair of the social studies dept in a large southwestern high school, and one just graduated from college. (Can you figure out who is who from the photo above?)

I love them all, and am incredibly proud of who they have become and what they have accomplished.

I just wish I had taken more time to be a better Mommy.

But then, what Mommy doesn't?

More Attractive

One of the fascinating things about living in western Pennsylvania is the Amish. Somehow they manage to preserve some semblance of their historical culture in the midst of the modern world. But underneath the outward differences, their lives are really very similar to ours.

They deal with traffic.



They buy used vehicles.



They farm.






(Can you see the dogs helping out in this picture?)



Their children go to school.



And they live in houses in the country.



They just do it all without electricity and pneumatic tires.

I have to admit, sometimes their way looks much more attractive than ours.

She Has a Good Heart

Sometime during our first year at Iron Acres we adopted a dog. He was a year old Springer Spaniel named Bandit who had proven much too active for the city. Bandit was the product of his show dog mother's, ahem, indiscretion with an opportunistic dog of unknown breed.

Here is a picture of Bandit guarding part of our first hay harvest 17 years ago, along with my Dear Professor and a very exhausted Son 1. Now that was a learning experience!



I loved Bandit, and he loved me. He thought he was a lap dog. I took him everywhere. He was beautiful and smart, the first dog I ever had that did more than dig holes in the yard and bite the mailman. (sorry mailman!) He learned how to jump through the tire swing, shake, roll over, even climb a few rungs on a small ladder.

But Bandit had an aggression disorder--whatever he laid his mouth on was his. He also suffered from occasional catatonic spells. Every now and then his eyes would glaze over and he would stare into space like that character in Silas Marner. After six months he was banished to the back yard and chicken guarding duties after biting my Dear Professor on the hand while I was out shopping. Although Bandit was smart, he was not smart enough to know not to bite the hand that feeds you, literally or otherwise.

One summer, after age had taken its toll on his hearing, Bandit passed away while on "varmint patrol". I want to go like he did, napping in the sun.

The following summer we hired a young man from down the road to look after our critters while we were in Texas. At the end of the first week he reported an alarming number of chickens missing, and suggested setting up traps. By the time we returned, he had captured several raccoons, a few possums, one skunk, and a barn cat. I think the barn cat was the only critter to get away with just a slap on the paw. I cannot vouch for the others--I didn't ask, and he didn't tell.

That experience made it very evident that we did, indeed, need another dog.

And that is how Misty (part hound, part Weimaraner, part ?) the freecycle wonder dog came into our lives. A farmer friend found her in the listings and made arrangements to go pick her up. I had some misgivings initially. She wasn't socialized (read: she displayed fear aggression toward other dogs), and her owners were giving her away because the wife was preggers and the husband was afraid of her. (Misty, not his wife, although pregnancy hormones have been known to cause terrifying behavior.) But my farmer friend, who is highly experienced in all things dogly, assured me that all Misty needed was some love, exercise (Did I mention she was part Weimaraner? That means ADD!), and walking with an experienced dog. (I've written about this before, here, but one of the luxuries of being sixtysomething is that I am expected to repeat myself. One day you'll find that out for yourself. Don't say I didn't warn ya.)

Our initial walks consisted of Misty gasping and pulling at the lead while I flew behind her. She is one powerful doggie! My farmer friend was right. After only a month of walking with my FF's highly trained farm collies, Misty was not only friendly with other dogs, but also capable of walking off leash and actually coming when I called . . .if she was looking at me when I called.

Misty may not be as beautiful as Bandit, but she has a good heart.

And isn't that more important anyway?

Some Beauty

I'm looking forward to the day when my times on the computer will no longer be accompanied by the sound of the furnace kicking on in the background. (Our thermostat is set at 60*F, to give you an idea of what the temp must be.)

The daffy down dillys (uh, that would be daffodils to normal people) and colt's foot have begun to bloom. But my heart is still back in Texas with the bluebonnets.

Let's take a poll. (please leave me a comment below). Which would you rather see, this?



Or this?



Not sure? I'll give you some other options. How about this--




Or this---



(I'm beginning to feel like an optometrist fitting you for glasses!)

Whichever you decided upon, I hope your day today is filled with sunshine and warmth.

And some beauty.

Murder, Charm and a Bevy

I was terrified and permanently scarred emotionally by Hitchcock's film The Birds. It doesn't help that situation to live in the country where a murder of crows (odd, isn't it, that this is the proper name for a group of them?) sitting on the telephone wires is a common sight. I much prefer a charm of red or yellow finches that compete with the bevy of doves and host of sparrows at our feeders. Or a gaggle, skein, flock of geese.



This last winter was eerily silent. I was concerned that a cast of hawks had taken up residence in the woods along our property line. I had seen one or two actually land in the tree near my window bird feeder.

Then the weather started warming up a bit, and along with the sound of the peepers at night, I began hearing bird songs awakening the day. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed the trills and whistles until I began hearing them again.




I suppose I should go clean out and fill the feeders to insure they stick around.

While I'm doing that, you are invited to mosey over here to find out more interesting names for groups of animals. You didn't really think I knew all that on my own, did you?

Rainbows, Ice, and Clouds

I couldn't believe my eyes. A rainbow halo above a white, fluffy cloud. I took off my glasses. Nope, still there. Cleaned off the polarizing filter on my camera. Nope, still there.

Either someone spiced my peach mango tea, or I was witnessing a wonderful phenomenon of nature.



A couple of days ago my Dear Professor and I visited our favorite retreat center. I'm all about running away from my life for a brief time every now and then to get perspective and rest from the hectic chaos we call living. So, we are in the habit of taking a step back, inhaling a deep breath, and living very simply with our thoughts and some beautiful scenery for a few days.

Try it, I know you'll like it.

(If you want to find out more about our retreat, go over there on the right hand side and click the square button thingie that says "iron acres now". It's a new blog dedicated to thoughts on the meaning of life.)

I couldn't wait to get back to civilization(read: the internet) and do some research. I found a couple of references to something called an ice cloud. If a certain type of cloud is a certain height in the sky and filled with certain flat shaped ice crystals and the ice is sitting a certain way in the cloud and the sun is shining from a certain angle, VOILA! Ice cloud rainbow. There are other pictures on the internet (here or here) that are certainly more spectacular than mine, but that's ok.



I like mine just fine. Yesiree bobtail!

What Time, Technology, A Few Sheep, and Some Smart Dogs Can Accomplish

I know, you have probably already seen this.  It is all over the internet.  But everytime I see it, it makes me smile.  I'm still trying to figure out if it's real (it certainly is in the realm of possibility) or a hoax.  I've decided I don't care.  I love it anyway.



Now, if I could just get Misty the freecycle wonder dog to learn some of those moves . . .

The Magician's Assistant

Dad was born with a camera in one hand and a book of practical jokes in the other. His favorite trick(or maybe mine) involved his brother and the family outhouse. It seems Uncle Frank, Dad's younger brother, was constantly waking Dad up in the middle of the night to accompany him to the outhouse. Dad took his job as older brother seriously. So seriously that when he happened upon the lifeless body of a snake in his mother's garden, the well oiled machinery of Dad's mind sprang into action.

That night Uncle Frank indulged in his routine middle of the night outhouse run, waking up older brother to accompany him with a flashlight. Dad was prepared. The lifeless body of the snake found earlier in the day had been carefully positioned in the place calculated to bring the most terror and consternation upon his younger brother. Dad waited patiently until Uncle Frank was "nice and comfortable" and then nonchalantly aimed the beam of the flashlight in the snake's direction. Much to Dad's delight, and that of his co-conspirator mother watching silently by the back door, Uncle Frank jumped up and hit the outhouse door at least five times before getting it open.

It was, I suppose, very natural, then, for a young practical joker to find meager fame and fortune as an amateur magician. Professor Hocum did it all, and he did it aided by a special proprietary ingredient called "woofle dust".



A very popular Easter custom back in that day was the gifting of baby chicks, ducklings or bunny rabbits to young children. For that reason, at five years old, I found myself the very proud and nurturing owner of one small, white, New Zealand rabbit. Little did I know that the bunny's real intended use was as a prop for Professor Hocum.

Years of therapy have proved unsuccessful in erasing that horrible day from my still quivering mind. I was happily watching my Daddy attired in a white jacketed tuxedo with red cummerbund as he entertained a large crowd of folks in the community room of a downtown department store. Everything went well with the card tricks, the fan into a bouquet of flowers trick, etc. But the scene quicky changed. All of a sudden, there on the stage was my Daddy and my bunny. Professor Hocum took the bunny and placed it in some sort of container. (Selective amnesia has been kind in shielding me from many details of that agonizing moment.) With a flourish of his magician's wand and a sprinkle of woofle dust, my dearly beloved rabbit disappeared.

I panicked. I cried. I screamed, "where is my bunny?" How was my five year old little brain to know that Professor Hocum was well intended, that my bunny would be promptly returned from the nether world to which it had vanished? As Professor Hocum(AKA Dad) liked to tell it, The crowd laughed uproariously. They thought it was part of "the act".

I failed to see the humor in the situation. To this day I have a fear of being sprinkled with woofle dust and an aversion to men's formal attire.

I suppose I should be grateful a snake wasn't involved.

The Chronicles of None-ia

This is a chronicle of things that are gone. Me things. How I've changed.

1. My waist.
They say that of all the things you lose, the mind is the one you miss the most. Not me. I miss my waist. I don't know where I misplaced it. I noticed it taking vacations after the birth of our first child. The vacations became longer after the birth of our second child. After our third child's birth, my waist went AOL. It did come back briefly just to say goodbye the summer of 1991. I think Angelina Jolie borrowed it. Hope she remembers to bring it back when she is finished with it.

2. My hair color.
My long, shoulder length dark brown hair has given way to short and grey. My eyebrows are a faint reminder, but they are slowly succumbing too. I think this began shortly after the birth of child number three. Hmmm. Is there a pattern developing here?

3. My height.
The delightful Principessa recently noted she that she now appears to be an inch or two taller than me. I assured her that she is NOT growing, I'm shrinking. Have I turned into the incredible shrinking woman?

4. My eyesight.
At the fortysomething mark, a very rude optometrist informed me that the muscles in my eyes were aging and could no longer focus sharply. How dare he! I was in my prime! And I was turned the wrong way. Yeah, that's why I couldn't read the big numbers. It was his fault.

5. My mental agility.
Lightening repartee was my signature move. Now I have trouble between the noun and verb of my sentences. If I'm lucky, I can remember the object. I find that short naps in the middle of a sentence help, but only if the one with which I am conversing is tired too.

6. My keys.
I just had them a minute ago. . .


see more Lolcats and funny pictures

What Do You See?

I have written a lot about clouds and sky recently, and I must admit I was rather curious myself as to why. All I know is that when I walk outside, something in my brain says, "look up and pay attention." After sixtysomething years living with this brain which, by the way, is shared with a friend who shall remain anonymous (but they know who they are), I have learned that when it says pay attention, I should.

Anyway, here I was mindlessly looking for one thing when I stumbled upon a link to something else. (The title of this blog really should be "one thing leads to another.") Curious of the title "Cerulean Sanctum", I hit the link button. I couldn't help myself. Those are two of my favorite things (anything blue and anything in Latin). Consequently I never did manage to complete the first task but I did come up with an explanation for my recent obsession with all things celestial. (I do my best work in distraction).

There is a passage in the New Testament, Luke 21:12-28, in which Jesus talks about all the bad stuff that will go down for his disciples and that when it does, they should look up. Help is on the way. (That's the gist of what is said, but if you question my translation, feel free to look it up in its entirety for yourself here.)



For me, it's just a tad more than coincidental that I walked outside my back door and took this picture just a week before Easter Sunday. I see more than just an incredible juxtaposition of sky, cloud, landscape and sun; I see a powerful metaphor of the redemption of the world by the God who sent his Son to be its Savior.

What do you see?

I'm Going On a Diet

I'm going on a diet. And it's all because of a blog.

Until yesterday I was perfectly happy with, uh, my physical proportion. Okay, maybe not perfectly happy. Maybe more "reconciled to".

And then I stumbled on this website.

I have seen(and enjoyed) a lot of food porn on the internet. Those are the places where they have such incredible recipes and pictures of food that you want to lick the screen. Places like Food Porn Daily, or Slashfood, or even this Flickr site.

These sites have been great for the rest of my family because they resurrected from the dead my desire to walk into the kitchen and prepare a meal for them.

This site was different. It made me want to run screaming from the computer and do 500 laps around the farm. Now, that's a considerable amount of motivating for a body that is genetically opposed to movement. Don't believe me? Take a look for yourself. Just click here.

And don't say I didn't *shuder* warn you.

PS After much pulling of hair and editing of code I have FINALLY succeeded in getting that little comment thingy button to show up at the end of my posts. You now have a voice. Please use it! . . . With discretion. . . . And please be honest but kind. Remember the terror of seeing a mark in the "needs improvement" column on your report card under the "plays well with others" category? Have fun!

What a Wonderful World, Part 2

I am not a scientist, but I am a crap (pardon my language) savant. That is, someone who for no explicable reason absorbs trivial facts (like the names of small tree frogs in different regions) but can't remember important facts like trash pickup days. (Sigh) It's a burden, but someone has to bear it.



I have been struck by the beauty of what is hanging over my head atmospherically in the last two weeks, and whilst tagging my photographic finds on Flickr decided to check out what the names for the different cloud types were.



It was then that I made this discovery. (dun dun duh!) Earth talks to the sky. No, this isn't a conspiracy theory, it is pure science.

About 40 years ago scientists discovered these little microbes called ice nucleators. They are a type of bacteria that are in dust, and serve as the foundation for formation of ice and snow crystals in clouds. They get kicked up by a farmer plowing his field and carried into the clouds by wind. Ski areas use a type of these things to create artificial snow.



I still can't tell you the difference between the lus-es, be they strato, nimbo, cumu, or their higher flying cousins, but I am fascinated by the fact that earth and sky communicate via those teeny little ice nucleators. Ice nucleators are our friends. Peace, out.

What a wonderful world!

(cue Louie Armstrong again.)

What a Wonderful World

Even though our last frost date for planting is June 1st up here in the Frozen North, our recent weather has been spectacular. I walked outside to gather up my freecycle dog Misty in the late afternoon and was greeted with an incredible display of light, landscape, and clouds.



People, please keep in mind that this is straight out of the camera. Spielberg couldn't CGI (computer generated imagery) anything better. And he rates an Oscar. What could we possibly give to God in recognition of this?

Misty and I proceeded to the local park for walk with a friend and her dog Kolby. Kolby is a young black Lab. We had fun watching his short legs trying to keep up with Misty's long ones.



I have found that stopping to take pictures is counter productive for the exercise value of a walk, but when I slowed to allow Kolby and his friend to catch up, I caught a glimpse of blue and white canopy above the still naked trees.



Walking in the park is a great exercise for dogs and humans alike. And a wonderful opportunity for good conversation. But mostly it is a sacred time to relate to everything around me, to breathe in the grand scope of nature, the trees, the critters, the ground, the sky. A time for reflection on how all this came to be and continues to function in breathtaking symmetry and synchronization.

Louie Armstrong said it best,
"And I think to myself, what a wonderful world."