It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like.....

What I'm Loving Wednesday -- HOT TEA!

Okay, so it's not like I didn't already like tea a whole lot, but since I started taking a cup of chamomile in the evenings to help me sleep, the gentility of tea prepping and sipping has become something to which I look forward every night. I generally have a cup of herbal tea with supper, and one of chamomile with a little squeeze of lemon at 9:27 p.m.

I confess here that my tastes are not sophisticated: I am neither ambitious enough to steep loose tea, nor interested enough in starting the practice to invest in the tools of the trade. I'm quite happy with my bagged tea, thank you. The latest variety I'm enjoying is a pomegranate blend. I didn't even know I liked pomegranate, but I bought it by accident and was hooked from the first sip.

Acquisitions of new habits spawn new desires, I have found. I ran across this fine tea set a few days ago. I find I would very much like to have it. Too bad I can't remember where I found it!

What I'm Loving Wednesday -- TREES!

A word of preamble is in order here.

I am not a big Christmas Decorator person. All the years my boys were growing up, one or the other, or both, would accompany their father to pick out our tree which I always insisted must be SMALL. Our oldest son lost interest in the process when he got to be a teenager, and it fell to my husband and youngest son to be the tree picker-outers. As time passed, and we all got busier, and I got less interested in decorating AT ALL, we grew a new tradition -- we would wait until the last minute -- when trees are reduced to $5 (adjust for inflation here, if you must) and they would go find the sorriest, saddest tree out there and adopt it. We'd dress it up when it got here, and the transformation became a part of our Christmas tradition.

The last few years, though, we've done without a tree at all. No wreaths. No nothing. It wasn't that we didn't look forward to Christmas, it's just that nobody here had TIME to make the effort anymore, and it was just another stress to add to all the other things that we just decided we did not need.

And then a baby got born. 

Not THAT one. THIS one.

Rosemary McCord Lucas

Last year at Christmas she had just turned one. She wasn't exactly into the whole spirit of the day, but I said then that I could sense a time was coming when we would want to make the effort again, for her. 

Last night, following a hand bell rehearsal at church I sat in the parking lot and pulled my phone out to call my husband to see what I might pick up at the grocery for supper. I checked Twitter first, though, and saw this post from my daughter-in-law:  "Let's all pray for @henry3012 with a 'happy' RML on a Christmas tree outing!"

Uh oh.

And then this got posted, by @henry3012 (aka "Pop"):   "Lookin' for just the right tree."

Shortly thereafter, I was home sitting on the sofa and heard the jubilant cries of SEVENTEEN! (somebody's new favorite word) outside the back door, and I was pulled off my sofa to come out and look.

Yep.

You're looking at the 2011 Christmas Tree Committee. 

And I am, despite a year of difficulties, major changes we didn't wish for, and ultimately the heartbreak of losing my Mama less than two months ago, finding myself looking forward to Christmas again for the first time in a very, very long time. 

And a little child shall lead them, indeed. 

That's what I'm loving this Wednesday. 

What I'm Loving Wednesday -- Implements!

I love pens.

I most especially love free pens, and have an enormous collection of them courtesy of friends from all over the country who have sent them to me from their own or local businesses, or hotels from all over the world in which they've stayed, or other assorted places that advertise through writing implements.

I haven't bought a pen in probably 20 years.

I'm very particular about them. They have to fit well in my hand, the ink has to flow evenly (I toss pens without passing "go" if they skip or leave clumps), and I know I am hooked to a particular pen when I go looking for it even when there are others right at hand.

Now I find myself deeply conflicted.

The Office Depot pen you see up there? The good people who own the bookstore in which I work bought a box of them recently, and I have gone quite dotty on them. They are almost perfect, but cannot meet my criteria for True Pen Perfection for two reasons.

You shouldn't have to buy pens that advertise a place of business.

And the only way I'll wind up with one of these in my personal possession is if I pilfer it.

Even I draw the line somewhere.

But when I'm at work? I'm loving these.

What I'm Loving Wednesday -- Breakfast

Yeah, I know. 

Oatmeal.

Wouldn't touch the stuff, even 6 months ago. 

But then one morning I had fixed my granddaughter an instant packet of the Publix brand Organic/nothing added oatmeal into which I'd stirred some strawberry yogurt, and she wasn't interested in eating so I was trying to entice her by remarking about its utter deliciousness which, of course, meant I had to actually put some of it in my mouth -- and lo! and behold....  

It wasn't godawful.

It wasn't great, either. Just not horrible. 

As the weather has begun to cool, and I've been trying to retool my daily food routines a bit, I decided I'd fiddle around with oatmeal again, especially since fresh pineapple was so cheap at the grocery these last couple weeks, and really, with enough fresh pineapple the world is a better place. I discovered that as quick and easy as the instant might be, it just didn't hold up to the wonderfulness that is pineapple.

So I bought myself an actual box of regular ol' oatmeal, and 1/2 cup of grains, a cup of water, a dash of salt, 5 minutes in the microwave at half power, and some cut up pineapple later.....

....I'm still not exactly  loving it, but as I eat it I realize that the health benefits and the fact that it really does stick to my ribs a little better than my usual breakfast of cold cereal did makes it a reasonable and not unwelcome addition to the morning food rotation.

So, maybe not love, but I have got a pretty healthy crush going here.

What I'm Loving Wednesday - Gnomes!

Can you spot all the gnomes?

What I'm Loving Wednesday -- WORDS!!

Many of you already know this, but our sweet granddaughter Rosemary, who will celebrate her second birthday on Thanksgiving, has been characterized as speech delayed. Although we've all heard many reassuring stories about other late talkers (my own Aunt, for one, who never said a word until she was 3, and then began with complete sentences), when it's your child, your grandchild, it's hard to not have some anxiety about this.

When both of my sons were little bits, it seemed there was always somebody coming out of the woodwork to point out that their kid was smarter, cuter, faster, more whatever than mine were. They weren't making a point to be cruel, of course -- parents brag on their kids. It's what parents do.  But that didn't make it sting any less.

In this time of social media, though, I think my son and daughter-in-law have felt this particularly hard. Friends with children Rosemary's age and younger are -- understandably -- tickled to post about all the wonderful, bright, cute things their children are doing, and God love 'em, they have a right to do that! We've all enjoyed watching those sweet milestones. Goodness knows I have posted tons of stuff recording Rosemary's least little accomplishments, but it just has made the pressure a little harder on my little family, highlighted the differences more acutely with each passing week, sometimes.

To her great credit, my daughter-in-law has not let this make her completely crazy. She went through appropriate channels to get some help, and patience has been her strong suit.

And much to our delight, words have begun to come, though, and right along with them, apparently, some skills in basic accounting.

What I'm Loving Wednesday

I was wandering through Blogville a couple months ago and found a blog wherein a woman had a regular feature called "What I'm Loving Wednesday."  I enjoyed looking at her Wednesday posts, which were full of serious things, silly things, products she had tried, movies/books/music she'd enjoyed, and it struck me as a brilliant exercise -- plus an easy way to come up with an idea to keep writing.

And then my mother became ill and died, and although during all those horrible weeks there were still things I found to love and enjoy, the writing about them just didn't happen. Mama was one of the regular readers of my blogs, and frequently commented on them (mostly anonymously), and after her death I ran across an e-mail she'd sent a friend with a prayer I'd written, with the addendum that she was proud of my writing, and wished I would "do" something with it. 

I figure if reading what I wrote gave her joy, or pride, or an occasional raised eyebrow, I would dishonor her memory if I quit doing it.  I have begun another blog that deals specifically with her death, and my grieving, and all the little landmines (some devastating, some funny) that have come my way, and because I know they will continue to, that will be an ongoing concern. If you are interested in that blog at all, the link can be found to the right of this post.)

Anyway, today begins a new thing, then.  I hope you'll enjoy!

***

WHAT I'M LOVING WEDNESDAY

BANANAS

The art of banana selection is complicated. Buy too many when they are ripe and you will end up with a freezer full of banana bread makings. Buy too many that are too green, and, well, yuck. 

I've been in charge of banana buying for my father for the past many weeks. He eats 2 each day, and he likes them on the greenish side. And small.  Over all these weeks I have learned an important lesson.

The greenest bananas -- so green that you frequently have to read the sign to even know they are bananas -- are at Winn-Dixie on Carter Hill Road. 

The best overall selection of equal parts green and ripe bananas is at Publix on Zelda Road, although getting a good mix is hard on Wednesdays.

The ripest bananas can be found at Super Foods on McGehee Road. It's a perfect little trip around the corner when you realize that the green ones you bought haven't ripened enough to eat. 

**

So, what I'm loving this Wednesday is bananas. 

The eating of. The buying of. The writing about. 

Letting the day speak for itself.

We remember.

You're doing what???

I took my first Tai Chi class last night at our local Taoist Tai Chi Society Center. This gentle martial art has been on my radar for a long time: a customer of mine who suffered for years with lupus was a devotee up until her death just a couple of years ago; and another customer is an instructor. Of course, I've seen the same sorts of glimpses you have --- groups of (it seems) often mostly older Chinese folks moving so slowly, so gracefully, so peacefully that even watching them seems to have a relaxing effect.

I'd done a great deal of studying about this, and what I heard during a break last night from those who have practiced for varying numbers of years confirmed what I'd been reading. Folks who suffered horribly with arthritis are enjoying more flexibility and lives without pain as a constant companion. A woman there shared her story of having a "frozen" shoulder that caused her to have very limited range of motion for years now has no evidence of any of that problem. One woman even said that when her sinuses are giving her trouble she does some sets of Tai Chi and finds the relief to be truly extraordinary. Too many to count credit Tai Chi with correcting problems with balance -- and that's literal as well as figurative.

My husband will testify that there are evenings, especially after stressful or particularly busy days, when my balance is so off he worries about my every step. There are still days when I struggle with cognitive difficulties and speech blips. At this point the why doesn't even matter. I have employed as many work-arounds as I can to cope with these things, and I began to wonder if, perhaps, Tai Chi might offer me something wildly different and beneficial.

After one class, of course, the verdict is still well out on that score. What I do know is that I will not be one of those folks in the videos who seem weightless, and move seamlessly from one beautifully fluid movement to another for a very, very, very long time.

I know this because there were mirrors everywhere in the center.

And I know this because the instructor, whose name was Scout (which means I already liked her a ton, of course), never, ever said to anyone, "You're doing that wrong, you ox!" Nevertheless, I could not help but notice that in the whole large group of students, she always seemed to stand near me and lock eyes and say very gently, "Let's all try that again" after I had botched something up badly.

And I know this because one of the other students, a young man who is a yoga instructor and wants to add Tai Chi as another dimension to his overall skillset, started off standing behind me. I jokingly said to him, "You probably don't want to do that. I'm so uncoordinated that I am the only person in the history of the University of Montevallo ever to get an "D" in square dancing, and that only after my partner dropped the course, and I was tapped to be in charge of the record player, thus managing to bring my grade up ever so slightly."

He was polite to a fault, and held his ground.

After the break, during which we enjoyed jasmine tea and assorted decidedly un-Asian inspired snacks left over from the recent Dragon Boat races, Mr. Yoga moved all the way across the floor from me.

Bless his heart.

I bought some comfortable pants to wear for this new enterprise, by the way.  If I could embroider, I'd put the letters "L" and "R" on the appropriate legs of those pants, just above the knees, before my next lesson.

My husband, who loves me even though I cannot dance or change albums well, said he would get me a BFR to take with me next week. He will not tell me what those letters stand for, but referred to his military career, and what uncoordinated soldiers placed in one pocket before it was time for them to march in formation to help them remember which leg to start out on. I have my theories about those initials, but I am too polite to share them.

We learned three moves last night. I can do the first one in my sleep. It consists of standing very still and slowly raising your arms so they are parallel to the floor. Nailed it on the first try, I did.

So there is hope for me, right?

This is Taoist Tai Chi founder, Master Moy Lin-Shin

Life is simple in a sandbox.

Wordless Friday

Columbus, Ohio is fixing to be a brighter place.

A Day in the Life

For many years now we have been a three cat family.

This is Big Louie in 2008.

He's the elder statesman. 

He is named for poet Robert Louis Stevenson, on account of the obvious name for a gray kitty is Shadow, as in 

"I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see...."  

which is a poem by Mr. Stevenson that my Mama used to recite to me. A Whole Lot. I have tried not to take it personally, lo, these many years.

***

This is Dusty Cat, in 2007.

We usually name our cats after people, but we made the mistake of letting one of the boys name her, and this is what whichever one that was came up with.

We signed whichever one that was up for some Creativity 101 classes shortly thereafter, and he has turned out just fine.

***

And this is Weird Uncle Gus, circa 2009.

He earned that name by being like the guy at the family dinner that sort of stands in the corner and just observes in a way that borders on the creepy. Everybody knows he's harmless, and he has never been anything but gentle and kind, but, well, he's just weird, is all. 

***

Yesterday morning I went out for my walk, starting off down Crawford as usual. It was a really pretty morning, nothing out of the ordinary at all save a Squirrel Who Had Seen Better Days laid out in the middle of the street. 

I was gone just a little more than an hour, and as I approached my starting point I spotted something out of place in the yard that's catty-corner from ours. 

It was a black and white cat. It was very, very still. 

I called out, "Gus!  Gus?" 

Nothing. 

***

Inside my home, fast asleep, was my son, Thomas, who leaves tomorrow on his way for Columbus, Ohio for a year. Thomas is the only person Gus really has ever had much to do with. In fact, I've only ever met one cat in my life who didn't prefer Thomas to every other person on the planet. He just has a way with them. 

I just knew I could not send Thomas off on such a sad note, so I started taking a series of deep breaths and thinking about what in the heck to do to insure he wouldn't find out. 

Normally, my husband is in charge of this sort of thing, but he was already at work. I didn't think it would be prudent to ask him to come all the way home to take care of what needed taking care of. 

I also could not bear the thought of calling the city agency that removes such. I just didn't want Gus handled by people who didn't care about him.

Time was ticking away. I began to worry about kids walking to school, and hated for them to see sweet kitty Gus like that. I realized that I was going to have to do What Needed to Be Done -- and quickly.  I thought that if I really hurried I could get this done, figure out what to do with Gus before Thomas got out of bed, and then I would just spend the next couple days avoiding answering the inevitable, "Mom? Have you seen Gus?" 

I figured I could answer truthfully.  "Why, yes! I have!"

There was just one little hitch in my plan. 

Thomas made an unexpected appearance, and plopped his fine self down in the den. All my Cat Corpse Recovery gear I'd have to sneak by him. I managed to either escape his notice, or he wasn't entirely with the program yet, but I got by him with no problem.

***

Picture now, if you will, a raggedy looking, sweat-soaked woman crossing the street busy with school traffic, garbage bags stuffed under her arms, bright latex gloves on her hands, then stooping down and picking up a dead cat and then running back across the street with it. It is a vision I feel certain some passers-by will never fully eradicate.

I hid the evidence (not very well), then came in the house, grabbed my cellphone, and went ALL the way to the back of the house into my closet, and called my husband to ask him where in the world I could hide Gus until he could get home to HANDLE IT. We settled for the area behind his workshop: even if Thomas took a notion to cut the grass or something, he wouldn't see anything back there. 

Back out I went, grabbing the now triple-bagged Gus, running across the back yard with him lest Thomas started to wonder where in the world I'd gone and come out there.... and then hid Thomas' sweet friend in the shade.

***

I came back in the house, and needed desperately to unload all this raw emotion on somebody and decided to contact a couple of folks via e-mail to let them know what had happened.  Here's what I sent. 

As I was returning from my walk this morning I saw our kitty, Weird Uncle Gus, dead in a neighbor's yard. He is Thomas' baby, so I knew there was no way I was going to tell him before he leaves (it's not unusual not to have seen Gus for a day or so).... so I decided to steady my nerves a minute and then head over across the street to pick up his body and figure out what in the hell to DO with it before Thomas would wake up.

EXCEPT HE GOT UP.

Geez, Louise. I just snuck out, scooped Gus up, and he is hidden behind Henry's shed (wrapped up), and then I went back in my closet to call Henry, who will come do something with him as soon as he can.

If I weren't so sad about sweet Gus, I'd probably have to laugh. 

***

You can probably tell right away that there was room for some misunderstanding, what with that whole "he got up" thing. 

One of my friends wrote back, in part.....

"...can I share something with you that I think will make you smile? When you said up above "and then he got up" the first time I read that I thought you were referring to Uncle Gus, and that this story was about to go in a whole nother direction!  My heart is still racing!"

The other wrote this back, which made me fairly well bust a tear duct. 

"If that's not a true vision of a mother's love to protect her son from sadness, I don't know what is."

E-mails continued back and forth, and we all had a good laugh about the misunderstanding, and I was ready to face the day, Gus-less.

***

I spent the day thinking about Weird Uncle Gus, but satisfied that I had done the right thing. We went out for a family dinner at our favorite restaurant so Thomas could make his goodbyes to his brother, sister-in-law, and niece. I was a wreck, watching him hug folks goodbye. 

It was nearly 9:30 when we got home. 

I hadn't seen Big Louie nor Dusty Cat all day, and so to my great relief, Big Louie was first in the door, followed closely behind by Dusty Cat. My gray babies were safe and sound. 

I held my breath, waiting for Thomas to wonder where Weird Uncle Gus might be, turned around and saw THIS:

Answer to your first question: Yes. That's exactly who you think it is.

Answer to your second question: I have no idea.

Some days just bookend better than others. I'm sorry for the owners of the Cat Who Looked Just Like Gus, but I really needed the deep, hard, snorting-through-my-nose laughter that I got at the end of the day. 

I'll just leave you with this....

Sharing

BFFs sharing a grilled cheese sammich.

Be the One

Yep. There's one in every crowd.

Be the one. 

Breaker, Breaker

Way on back in the summer of 1978 while attending the University of Montevallo, I stumbled across this guy.

He introduced himself to me as Henry.

All his friends, which pretty included every breathing being in Shelby County, called him BlueJohn.

His Mama'n'em called him Lin.

It would be fair to say I took one look at this man with all those names and that was all she wrote.

****

He had a car at that time that he fairly well loved.

She was a 1974 Spirit of America Chevy Nova.

And inside this car was one of these.

For those who are too young to remember having to get up to walk across a room to turn the TV down, this is a CB radio. With these things you could tune in to a channel and find other people who were in their cars or trucks or big rigs (that would be an 18-wheeler, child) and talk to them.

While you were DRIVING. Like, down the road. 

It was a marvel, let me tell you.

Folks didn't use their names on these things, of course. 

They had "handles," which were, I suppose,

 the early incarnation of "screen names." 

Henry/Bluejohn/Lin had a handle. 

It was Captain America.

I did not have a handle, until he gave me one. 

It was Kid. As in "young goat." As in stubborn. 

I do not know why.

****

What I do know is that we still call each other Cap and Kid, but he's picked up a couple other names since then.

Like Daddy.

And Pop.

He answers to all of them. He is not, as they say, "particular."

Tonight we are going to see Captain America at the movies. We'll have fun. We don't travel, so movies are our vacations. We'll share the largest box of popcorn we can carry and whatever candy off the top row of the candy counter appeals to us, 

and we will call that supper. 

And I'll remember the good ol' days, and that old Chevy Nova and that CB radio, and be so very, very grateful for the summer of '78.

Yabba Dabs.

I have long been addicted to this stuff:

It's a weakness, I know.

But yesterday, because I was out and the variety I really like the most was out of stock at the drugstore I picked up this replacement brand. I like everything else I've ever used by Aveeno, so why not give it a whirl?

Well. In the midst of my post-walk shower this morning, 

I opened it up to get the post-sweat salt mines off my face.

It smelt oddly familiar, and when I say oddly, I mean oddly.

Like THIS:

At first I was repelled, but the longer I washed my face, 

the groovier the whole thing began to be. 

I mean, lordamercy, I was a chewable vitamins junkie back in the day.

Raise your hand if you ever popped a handful of these things in your mouth just because they were the only vaguely sweet things 

your Mama would allow you to have.

"But MAMA!!  They are VITAMINS!!"

Later in the morning I went into the kitchen to get the 

RDA's "they" tell me are good for me these days. 

They were not as much fun.

Wordless Wednesday

helping hands

click here to enjoy more wordless wednesday

Weekend With Oopsy Doodle

Last weekend was about the most fun we have ever had with our granddaughter. The evil molars had finished painin' themselves into her gums, and she was giggly and playful and mischievous and full of curiosity.

Because there was a good bit of rain (thank you, Lord!) we were sort of confined to the house -- until I remembered that playing in the rain is very, very, very good for wee bairns.

Getting her bearings.

Wet sand on belly - fascinated, she was. 

 It doesn't taste all that great, though.

This look is what we call "grinnin' like a mule eatin' thorns."

What good is a little sand if you can't exfoliate?

Although it's true ladies oughtn't spit in public, some rules
are made to be broken.

C'est la vie!

*********

There was so much wet sand in her hair it seemed like a good idea to do a little pre-bath bathing....

As you can see, of this she was not much of a fan. 

I was waiting with a towel to take her in. She seemed to have had quite enough of this foolishness, but after we pulled her now-soaked diaper off she absolutely REFUSED to come inside with me. She went back to her Pop, stood in the puddle just off that step, and  would not budge.Her Pop thought maybe if he turned that hose on again -- since she clearly hated it -- that she would give in and run to her Grandmama. 

Nuh uh. 

***

After a time she chose to relent and I got her all clean and dry and dressed and we decided to have a very early supper at Zoe's Kitchen . Oopsy Doodle had the cheese quesadilla with SunChips and ice water. 

She was not impressed with the ice water. 

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.....

But she was diggin' on that quesadilla. 

One of my most favorite things in the world to do is to simply just watch her. I love knowing that so many things we fail to notice are utterly new to her. I love knowing she is too young to be jaded.

After our early supper we went for our customary frozen yogurt, then decided to stroll around the shopping center a bit before loading back up to come home. The rain had stopped, and there were plenty of little puddles just perfect for splashing in, and even a couple of fountains that held her fascination. Because it was a Sunday and there were few businesses open she had nearly free rein to run and check out her reflection in all the shop windows. She was having a ball. Even in this setting her Pop found something of nature to help her discover. 

One of my other favorite things in the world to do is just to simply watch the two of them together.  

"There are no seven wonders of the world in the eyes of a child.  

There are seven million."  ~Walt Streightiff

Inches, Feet, Yards, Miles: My 180 Life

I hope you'll enjoy this post from my walking blog. If you're inclined to share, that would be great!

Inches, Feet, Yards, Miles: My 180 Life: "One Thought My Daddy ran. My Mama played tennis. My brothers played baseball, basketball, football. My sister was always on the move doi..."

A Thrill a Minute

Let's just file this under Utterly Random Posts, shall we?

Our oldest son was just a little older than his daughter is now when Michael Jackson's Thriller video premiered in December of 1983. I am not ashamed to tell you that I loved that whole album. As mortified as he will be to hear this, if I had a nickel for every time I danced him around the house on Cherry Street while it was playing in the background I'd be rich. He loved it, too, and he'd come out from wherever he was, saying "Do 'again, Mommy!" and off we'd be in our own little world.

He was absolutely terrified of the video, however, and in those days, MTV played it nearly non-stop. Nothing would send him running down the hall as fast as his catching a glimpse of it. It has taken him decades to get over it, but to this day he has an unhealthy fascination with Zombies.

I only think about that now because of this video that went out on wimp.com recently.

Obviously, this little boy did not have similar issues.  Enjoy!

Rock of Ages

I am growing increasingly disappointed and saddened by friends in faith who would have been perfectly happy if Casey Anthony had been found guilty in less than a day, and therefore subject to the death penalty, but who are outraged over a finding of not guilty in that same amount of time. It has all taken on the tenor of a lynch mob, and the anger doesn't seem to be directed solely at her. The jury is being vilified, and Nancy Grace (how's that for a last name full of irony?) is leading the charge.

Ms. Grace is an attorney. She should know better than anybody else that a verdict of not guilty doesn't mean that the jurors believed she was innocent -- it never means that. Years ago my husband served on a jury for a trial dealing with the theft of a window air conditioning unit. I should explain here that he has always struck me as a "hang 'em high" kind of guy, so you could have knocked me over with a feather when he told me after it was all said and done that they found the guy not guilty -- but that everyone in that courtroom knew he was. The state had not proved its case. They had clearly shown Point A and Point C, but had neglected to provide a Point B. (And do not think for a minute that I'm putting the death of a child and the theft of property on the same level.)

Hate it all you want to, but when the State decides to charge a person with a crime -- particularly one in which death at the hands of the State is an option -- then they had better have a Point B.

It doesn't matter whether I think/believe Casey Anthony did any or all of the things for which she stood accused. If she had been found guilty, and sentenced to death I can well imagine that there would have been a cheer go up amongst the bloggers who were frothing at the mouth for her to come to justice. They might very well have called it God's justice, as though He requires us to give him the go-ahead for such.

You either believe God is a God of justice, even when you don't understand how or when it's going to work, or you believe that the mob should decide, and you're hoping construction starts on some new coliseums very soon.

In all of this, I have found myself wondering, what would Jesus do? How would He have me respond?

Seems to me that when He was confronted by an episode of mob justice He squatted down, picked up a stick, and began to write in the sand.

Go ahead. Pick up the rock.

I dare you to sling it. 

Inches, Feet, Yards, Miles: Guilt Free Potato Salad

Inches, Feet, Yards, Miles: Guilt Free Potato Salad: "Today's walk was all about 'earning' a little extra holiday BBQ, potato salad, and a cold beer. Sometimes that's as noble as it ..."

Garden Report, Week Ending July 2, 2011

The garden is just a hot mess. Literally.

This is why I am not out there taking pictures so much. It's just hot, and the mosquitoes have begun to laugh at Deet. I mean it. You could put me in a tub of that stuff and turn me loose in the backyard, and I would still come inside covered in bites.

It is my sweet disposition, I know. It's a heavy burden to bear.

Saturday morning, though I took a little hike -- early -- and when I got back, here's what was waiting for me!

 

That basket holds okra, carrots, and an assortment of peas and or beans. (You know I can't ever seem to remember.)

But we were most excited about the tomatoes, and I don't even eat 'em. Well, I mean, as a rule I don't eat 'em. Unless the man I love grows them for me, then I'm pretty much all about the tomatoes.

Therefore, I am interested in those tomatoes.

And these, too. These are staying right there until after the 4th of July Food Fest.

Now, can we chat for just a minute about those carrots in that basket?

I realize they are teensy. We were so sad when we pulled the first big batch of them up. We felt obligated to eat one, though, just as a way of honoring root vegetables.

Well, let me tell you, these things may be little, but they pack an unbelievable punch. I just wash 'em off and toss 'em in whatever I'm cooking. They take no time to get done.

When I eat them cooked like that I think of my Grandmama, and how she loved cooked carrots, and what a kick she would get out of these little midgets.

She had a little sign in her garden about God being nearer to us in a garden than anywhere else on Earth. I think He puts a whole lot of love in the stuff He lets us grow out there, that's for sure.

Have I digressed again?

***

We need about a gazillion more of these out there. They enjoy eating mosquitoes.

They also think they hide well.

I'm keeping him.

I named him Gomer.

 

***

This next bit has nothing to do with gardening.

Henry has fired up both smokers for the 4th of July.

Here are two pictures of one of them.

The other one didn't look this exciting.

It smells real fine out there right now.

 

***

This is a pretty dreadful picture of one of our sunflowers. Things were getting a little dark out there, and I was at the sort of angle that real photographers laugh behind your back when they see you doing it, but I don't care. There was just something about this I liked anyway.

You are free to disagree.

There are, however, no refunds.

By the way.... this is the little fun thing I put together last year about Henry and his smokin' butts.

This is exactly what the next couple nights here will look like.

Enjoy!