Dear Sirs

 You and your party are behaving like the over-indulgent parents of a spoiled toddler--parents that are afraid of said toddler and turn a blind eye to his terrible behavior and ongoing mental and physical breakdown. I'd like to call Family Protective Services on you.

But the toddler in question isn't playing with toy soldiers and plastic boats. He's gambling with lives and burning through our nation's store of weapons in his war of choice. Gas prices, food prices, everything is affected by the toddler's ego-driven war. 

And just as an out-of-control toddler might smear his feces on the walls and furniture of his house, your toddler is moving to desecrate our nation's capitol with his glitzy makeovers. And like a toddler with a magic marker, he's attempting to smear his name everywhere.

This is so far  from presidential behavior that I am amazed that the GOP, which controls both House and Senate, as well as the Supreme Court, has made no effort to rein in this demented toddler-in- chief.

I look forward to midterms and the coming of some grownups who aren't afraid to tell the toddler a resounding NO.

Morning Light

 

Test Your Vision!

 I believe that the more we post these numbers  (8647)that mean to throw the Orange One out of office, the more ridiculous his lawsuit against Comey becomes. Will he sue everyone? DUMP TRUMP! 

What Goes Around . . .

A quarter of a century ago, when the quilting book a friend and I had written was published and being written up here and there, a woman I didn't know contacted me and asked if I'd like some fabric, as she no longer made quilts and needed to get rid of an accumulation.

Well, of course I would, and with visions of some really interesting fabrics from the past, my friend and I drove to Etowah on the other side of Asheville.

 What it was was a PILE of fabric in a back room full of junk. It didn't look especially promising --lots of synthetic stuff--but the lady was so nice and pleased that we were there that we loaded up most of the stuff and hauled it off, stopping at a Goodwill to offload the polyester pieces.

And now, here I am, no longer making quilts (my back won't let me sit at a sewing machine for longer than twenty minutes) but possessed of lots of interesting fabrics. I've been going through the collection and weeding out a first round but then I wanted to find a good home for the pieces, most too small for big projects but fine for patchwork or scrap quilting.

I  could just take it to a thrift store but then I bethought me of a quilter Facebook friend in the area. I asked if she'd be interested in 3 boxes of fabric and she said yes! Plus she's part of a quilting guild and can share with them.

Perfect!  

I still have lots of fabric left. As well as lots of unfinished projects. Maybe Josie will be interested in making a quilt. We'll see.

But it was strange to think how I've gone from trying to get fabric to trying to get rid of fabric.

I saved so much that, as I went through the various boxes of different colors and types, I found countless  tiny scraps which I consigned to a garbage bag.

I'm evidently in danger of being something like the old lady in a story John reminded me of: when she died, her family found a box labelled String Too Short to Save. It was full of short bits of string.

 

May Day Rabbit, Rabbit

 

Miss Birdie and the Mysterious Jake Aaron (a Re-post)

 

 She slowed at the sight of a shiny black car  coming across Miss Birdie’s bridge. The driver, a dark-haired man who looked irritatingly familiar though she couldn’t call his name, threw up his hand and nodded before turning onto the hard road and disappearing around a curve.

Who was that? I know I’ve seen him before but not here at Birdie’s. A salesman?. . . too late in the day. . . odd, I thought I knew all of Birdie’s friends.

Miss Birdie was sitting on the front porch in one of her red-painted rockers. Her head was bent, one hand covering her eyes, as if she were praying, and she didn’t move as the jeep rattled across the plank bridge.

Closer to the porch, it seemed as if Miss Birdie was having a conversation of some sort.

Oh, dear. She’s been so sharp for all these years. . . I wonder… is she beginning to wander in her mind . . .

The old woman looked up as her visitor approached. “Why, honey, how good to see you. Reckon you thought I was just a-talking to myself like as if I had that Old Timers. Get you a chair and I’ll tell you what I was studying on.”

She drew a long breath and stared off across the road to the mountain beyond. “That feller was here just now. You might say he’s an old friend.”

Her wrinkled face gathered into a bemused smile. “ Yeah, buddy, an old friend is just what he is. Jay Caron . . .Jay Caron. . .that’s what he goes by now. I was saying it over and over so’s I wouldn’t forget.” Her brow furrowed. “When first I knowed him, back when I was a little un, he was Mr. Aaron, the peddler. And then, it was a few years back of this when Calven was tangled up with that no good feller his mama was living with, me and Dor’thy saw him up at that fancy place over beyond Burnsville--he was Jake Aaron then and his hair was just as siiver-

The old woman shot a sharp look at her visitor. “No, I ain’t a bit confused. When I was but little, when I was a young woman, and just now--hit’s the same feller ever time, no, not his son nor grandson. You got to understand, Mr. Aaron—Jay Caron-- ain’t like most folks. Names and looks might change but it’s still him. With him time don’t matter. He holp me out of an awful fix back before Luther and I wed and I’m right certain he had a hand in helping Calven get away from that evil feller they called Pook.”

The old woman fell silent, her eyes distant, gazing into memory. At last she roused herself and turned to speak.

 “I been studying on things my Granny Beck told me many a year ago. She said that time was . . . in the old days the crossing betwixt one world and another was more frequent and seldom remarked upon. Not much was thought of it if the Little People—them the Cherokee called Yunwi Tsundi --sheltered a child for a night. . . or a year. . .  those of the other world walked among us. And a man might walk in and out of Time.”

What is this? She doesn’t sound quite like herself. She sounds like she’s dreaming or as if someone-something?—is speaking through her. Though heaven knows, some of those stories she’s told me up in the graveyard. . .I wonder. . .

“What did he want? Now I couldn’t rightly say. He’s a nice spoken someone and we had a little visit. He was asking about my arthuritis and how was Dor’thy and Calven. Just a-chit-chatting, you know. He said he’d taken a notion to see me again, something about. . .what was the word. . . mitzy ? . . .something foreign. Then he hopped up and was off just before you come, saying he had other visits to make before dark.”

“Now, I see that look on your face. Don’t you fret none—not about that feller nor about my rememberer. I know what I know and Mr. Aaron ain’t never brought me nothing but good. He's been what you might call a guardian angel.”

The old woman stood, straightening up and taking a few tentative steps. She stretched out a gnarled hand, flexing her fingers and rotating her wrist.

“What’s more, honey, I believe that old arthuritis done gone off with him. I feel right peart now.”

 

NOTE:Jake Aaron, or later Jay Caron, pops up several times in my writing. He first shows up in Lydy’s tale (In a Dark Season) as a pack peddler Lydie meets in an inn just before the Civil War.

In Day of Small Things—spanning almost a century in the telling—Mr. Aaron’s a peddler with a mule, a mysterious someone with a car and driver, and a retiree living in a gated community.

He’s in Crows—at the beginning and at the end.

And, in an unpublished short story I’ve written. he’s an artist living in present day Marshall.

I don’t think I’m done with him yet . . . or maybe, he’s not done with me.

And while I’m talking wo0-woo (paranormal stuff,) I’m reminded of James Suttles who makes a present day appearance in In a Dark Season and helps out Sim in Crows. Could be a descendant/ancestor thing but on the other hand . . . (cue Twilight Zone theme music.)

 

Wordless Wednesday

 

A Flame in the Woods

 

The wild flame azalea in the woods above our road is putting on a magnificent show this year. Over the years I've bought and planted and lost half a dozen "tame" flame azaleas, so this unassisted reappearance is particularly welcome.

I think I remember Clifford, the man we bought the place from, telling me that he'd dug the plant up from high on the mountain and transplanted it down here so his wife Louise could enjoy it. 

I know that years ago, back when I could climb our mountain, I saw a flame azalea blooming near the top.  Who knows, there may be more.

But seeing this one in glorious bloom, just across from the pond, feels like a gift from nature . . . and Clifford.

Dear Sirs

 

Of course the attempted attack on the various government officials should be condemned. We are already sliding into third world status, but we should certainly not condone violence as a means to a political end.

Of course people feared for their lives--just as school children in the many school shootings have. Hearts pounded as they hid under the tables--no one should have to endure such fear. And yet our schoolchildren and their teachers are never free from the threat of another school shooting. Practice barring the door and hiding in a closet--if there is a closet.

POTUS argues that this incident proves he needs a bunker disguised as a gilded ballroom. I argue that until school children have the same level of protection, he should make do with his Secret Service.

Or, and here's a thought, perhaps we could have some serious gun control nationwide.

Like a civilized first world country.

A Much Needed Rain

 

At the Pond

We took a bottle of bubbly and some herbed brie and crackers down to enjoy the early evening at the pond. The scent of the wisteria was intoxicating.

Along with the wisteria, the yellow flags (irises) are putting on a show.

Many years ago, before the property next door had anyone living on it, I pulled up a couple of yellow flags growing in a boggy spot just past our fence line and transplanted them to our pond. They have done well.

It's such a beautiful and peaceful spot. There were butterflies and red winged blackbirds. As we sat there, sipping the wine and enjoying the surroundings, the thought came to me that the pond would be a perfect spot for my ashes to be spread someday. And a minute or two after I'd silently entertained that thought, John said, You know, I think this is where my ashes could be spread someday.

When you've been with a person well over sixty years, this kind of simultaneous thought happens quite often

The pond is a fine respite from the news of the day.

                                                    

                                   We'll be back.

 

Oh, Robert!

As I continue going through our many bookshelves, deciding what to donate to our library book sale, sometimes I just have to re-read a book before consigning it to the pile of donations.

I have a bunch of Robert Heinlein's novels--mainly well-worn paperbacks but a few hardcovers. I think I started reading him in junior high. I was a big fan of YA sci-fi. Heinlein could tell a good story and imagine so many futures. I was hooked.  Farmer in the Sky, The Rolling Stones, Citizen of the Galaxy, Double Star, Time for the Stars, Starship Troopers, and many others are still quite enjoyable to me.

Stranger in a Strange Land came along when I was an adult--and I loved it. But at some point Heinlein's adult fiction took a turn. Still interesting plots, for sure, but the main characters began to seem all alike. Alpha males and perky yet submissive females. Lots of casual nudity, a touch of incest . . .oh, nothing truly awful, but kinda annoying. (If the male protagonist threatens to spank his girlfriend one more time . . .)

I found on rereading these two that my reaction was much the same that caused me to toss my James Bond books. I'd really enjoyed those stories fifty years ago but time, social mores, and I have moved on.

These two will go to the library sale. Job has an interesting, if confusing, premise, but it revisits so many old Heinlein tropes that it had me groaning. It does, however, have an fun take on the Rapture, Heaven, Hell, and various gods. (Who knew that Jehovah had a Jewish accent?)

The Door into Summer was written earlier, before Heinlein got so repetitive. (He wrote 32 novels and 59 short stories so one sees how this might happen.) It has a great twisty plot with corporate theft, the "long sleep" (suspended animation to allow the sleeper to skip thirty years,) and time travel which allows for the righting of wrongs. It was a quick fun re-read, but I don't foresee wanting to read it yet again. Into the library pile with it.

You can see why this de-accessioning is taking a while.

 

In Iris Time