A Magical Time

                                                                                     

The star magnolia, forsythia, and flowering quince know it.

                                                             

  The tender green of the weeping willow flutters in the breeze.

                                                            

The weeping cherry is awash in palest pink.

And in their rocky nook, the hellebores reach for the sun.

And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all shall be exceeding well.  Julian of Norwich.

Of course, it could still come a freeze--but nothing can take the beauty of this day from me.

                                                         

Dent de Lion (repost)

  

Is it a weed or a wildflower? Dandelions are showing their cheerful sunny faces all over our farm just now.

Its jagged edged leaves, which account for the name “Tooth of the Lion,” pop up in gardens and lawns everywhere. Perfectionists deplore the dandelion but herbalists  value its diuretic powers. (An old name for dandelion was ‘Piss-a-beds.') 

In earlier times, the young leaves were a welcome Spring addition to the diet as a salad (or 'sallet' in the old time speech)or briefly sautéed with bacon and seasoned with a little vinegar.

And, of course, there's dandelion wine. It sounded so magical-- all summer in a bottle--in the Ray Bradbury tale of the same name but was truly foul in my one (failed) attempt at making it years ago.

Have any of you ever tasted -- or made dandelion wine?

 

Gateway to Spring

                                                                           

Table Garden

                                                                                   

                                                                                  

                                                                              

Why Are These Two Laughing?

                                                                     

I've probably told this story before, but yesterday, as I was sorting through boxes of old photos, I came upon two that, I'm pretty sure, document said story.

                                                    

Here's a slightly earlier photo to set the scene. Breakfast at my grandparents' house. It's around 1979 and the boys and I are visiting. On the trip down, I had talked with the boys about proper Tampa behavior--no peeing outside, particularly, and certainly, n0 using naughty words, even if they had heard their parents using them. 

They seemed to understand.

All had gone well, and we were enjoying a quiet breakfast when darling little Justin looked over at me, and, out of the blue said, "We don't say sh*t."

Thankfully, my grandmother was deaf, and my grandfather was crunching cornflakes so neither heard him.

But Ethan and I did.

                                                    

                                                     

Signs in the Blood Revisited

                                                                                     

I wrote SIGNS, my first published novel, over twenty years ago. It came out in 2005. I was thrilled, as a rank amateur, to be published by Bantam Dell, a divission of Random House--one of the biggies. It was the beginning of a wild rollercoaster ride and five more Elizabeth Goodweather books. 

A few days ago I began rereading this, my first-born. I was delighted to discover that it was better than I remembered. More than that, it captures so much of my life twenty years ago--the farm, the garden, the dogs . . .

But I had to laugh when I realized that in this book, Miss Birdie is 81--as am I.

I was in my early sixties when I wrote this book and, originally, so was Elizabeth, But I dropped her age back to 52, hoping to give her a bit more zing in her possible romantic life. As for Miss Birdie, 81 seemed incredibly ancient. 

And now, here I am. I've had people address me as Miss Vicki and, while I try to be gracious, I really dislike it. I named Miss Birdie after an old (!) woman I once met, never thinking that someday I too . . .

Life is weird, the longer it goes on.

                                                                                      

Rainy, With a Chance of Forsythia

                                                                       

                                                                                       

                                                                                    

                                                                                     

FB Outage, Oh No!

Yesterday's massive Facebook outage got me. as it did so many others. Repeated attempts to log in, only to be told it was the wrong password and then, when I tried to make a new password, to be told an error occurred--frustrating to say the least. I quit trying, as I had housework to do.

So. while dealing with dishes and laundry and dusting and such, I had time to think. How important is FB to me anyway?

I joined, at the behest of my publisher, years ago. But now that I don't have a new or recent book to push, why stay?

Well, for one thing, I have a number of FB friends that I would miss hearing from. Some I've never met in person but they are important to me. For another, I get a fair amount of news and information of local interest.  And there's always someone to answer questions about local matters. Plus, it's a great resource if a dog goes missing. Not to mention all the pretty pictures of places I'll never go.

Ever since Covid, I've gotten quite used to socializing online, rather than in person. Even without the risk of Covid, online is easier, what with my increasing deafness and limited mobility. 

                                                    

Still, (are you listening, Zuckerberg?) if suddenly FB became a pay-to-play site, I'd quit. I figure all the ads that FB shows me are keeping Mr. Z in running shoes and yachts. 

This blog--also begun at the behest of my publisher--will probably continue for the foreseeable future. I was always rubbish at keeping a journal, but the blog has become a habit--and a handy way of looking up what was going on in my life on a particular date.

 If at some time in the future you can't find me on FB, look for my blog. The blog abides.

 

Josie at the Art Show

                                                                   

There was an art show at the Arts Council and there was art from kids all over the county. Meema and I went after school to look for my picture.

                                                  

I found mine!

It is a picture of Kittyland where kitties can talk and understand people and help them out. There is also a cardinal and some butterflies.

                                                        

It was a HUGE show--the walls were full of pictures and there was other stuff kids had made.

I love being an artist!

                                                            

Second Thoughts

                                                                             

A photo of an undisciplined dog--that's why I took the picture.  But when I looked at it, I had some second thoughts. Second thoughts about the book in the picture.

I started re-reading Michener's The Source--for the who-knows how many-eth time--and a third of the way through, I began to find it unusually heavy going.

It's Michener's take on the land that would become Israel, and the many peoples that have lived and fought and died there.

But . . . but, it's difficult for me to read of the heroic and troubled past when the terrible present is in the news daily.

The attack by Hamas was horrendous; the response by Israel is looking more and more like genocide. 

May this god-troubled land find peace somehow.

Meanwhile, I'm going to have to find something else to read.

Into the Woods

                                                                          

Old Times They Are Not Forgotten

                                                                                                                                                                    

More old photos--I can't identify any of the people. Some white folks touring Florida (possibly one of my great aunts)--at Bok Tower and in an orange grove. Accompanied by a Black woman--who, at that time, would not have been allowed at a tourist attraction except as a uniformed adjunct to a white employer.

I love her earrings--and her dignity.

Here she is again. Contrast the expressions of the three women. 

The Civil War was long over. But Jim Crow laws in the South meant that Black people were still condemned to a quasi-slavery--which, in turn, enabled whites of modest means to turn over childcare, housekeeping, yard work, and the like to people of color. 

Ah, that gracious Southern living--built on inequality and suppression.                                        

What's the story here? A young man stands at attention while a toddler has his picture taken. What were that young man's thoughts? What were his aspirations? What did his future hold?

Rabbit, Rabbit

                                                                          

from a photo (unattributed) taken in Wensleydale, Yorkshire