Quote of the Week

Feelings are much like waves, we can't stop them from coming but we can choose which one to surf.  

- Jonatan Mårtensson

Madeira Beach, FL

If we look at feelings like waves that keep rolling ashore, we want to choose the ones that will give us the best ride and be least likely to cause a wipe out.  In other words, focus on the good feelings, ones that uplift you and keep you on an even keel.  Otherwise you may find yourself treading water.

Verbal Confusion

OK, so we get in the car to go for lunch.  The A/C is on and it hits hubby right in the face.  Now I drove the car last, and even though he is some 9 inches taller than me, the seat height adjustment puts our faces at approximately the same level.  That means that when I have the three closest vents pointing at my poor, overheated face, he gets a face full the next time he drives.  "You have all three vents blowing on your face?"  My explanation is this:  "Well, when I've been out and I'm hot and I'm stuff."  "So is that a roundabout way of saying that you're hot stuff?"  At which I laugh so hard I could barely breathe.  

Isn't it great when you can have a good laugh at yourself?

Shattered Dreams

Photo courtesy of  Magpie Tales

It was a house like any other in this quiet, upper-class, suburban neighborhood...or so it would appear.  With fresh paint and new cedar shingles, it nearly glows as the evening sun dips low in the sky.  On the inside, the setting is spacious and elegant.  It exudes a kind of an old world charm with furnishings from across the globe.  However, in the fall as the trees lose their leaves and the moon is full, the house takes on a different air.  If you look through the windows you may see an eerie glow moving around the room.  It lasts but a few minutes, and then disappears as if snuffed out.

The house was built some 75 years ago by a wealthy man for his young bride.  It was built from the finest materials that money could buy.  The furniture was custom made in England, and was shipped over by freighter, along with china and crystal.  There were Persian rugs upon the polished oak floors and chandeliers that sparkled like a thousand diamonds.  It was a dream come true for the young woman, for her life with her handsome husband to be lived out here.  They would throw lavish parties, raise beautiful children and grow old together here.  

However, fate is cruel, and on a trip to purchase yet more trinkets for his lovely wife, the train he was riding violently derailed.  The cars were nothing but twisted steel and mangled bodies beneath the fullness of the moon.  At home, his bride awaited his return with a candle upon her desk by the window.  All night she waited, alone and worried.  She had received no word, and knew not of the wreck.  The next day a telegram was delivered.  The terse message conveyed only the barest details of the accident, and that her husband was among the dead.  

Clutching the telegram, she sobbed uncontrollably and staggered up the stairs.  She had almost reached the landing when, in her grief, she missed the last step and tumbled back down the steps.  As she lay at there in her last moments of life, her mind returned to the past night when her husband was still coming home to her.  Each fall, around the time of her death, when the moon is full, her candle can be seen as she wanders through the house waiting for him to come home.

After the death of the young couple, the house was sold, fully furnished.  The new owners and their children and grandchildren have lived in harmony with the former resident.

Written for Magpie Tales #29.

Those Who Read Blogs Together

Have some odd conversations.  Here's a couple blurbs from last night.

Hubby said, "Redhead had a new one 8 hours ago."  

Me:  "Yeah, I read it, the one about..." 

Him:  "eHarmony Fail."  

"Yeah, that one."  He reads for a minute then asks, "what about that guy she had the date with?" 

"I don't know - someone asked the same question, but I read, commented and moved on.   I haven't been back yet to see if she said anything about it." 

Next:

"Did you read Babs Beetle?"  

Me:  "I did."  

Him:  "She has closed angle glaucoma."  

Me:  "Same as me." 

As he read through the comments, he noticed one where someone using eye drops not only missed her eye, but actually missed her entire face.  As he started to remark on that, he realized it was my comment, and said "I thought that sounded familiar", and I said, "that would be me."

I blog and he reads.  I think he got into it when I showed him the now famous Junk Drawer.  Any of y'all share your favorite reads?

Quote of the Week

I'll think about it...right after my nap.

To think too long about doing a thing often becomes its undoing. 
 - Eva Young


Sometimes we can over think a problem until we are so overwhelmed by the process that we make 
no further progress.

Night Terror

Photo courtesy of Magpie Tales

It was late, and darkness filled the room like death creeping in through the cracks in the old wooden floor.  The only light was that from a candle on the vanity. The silence screaming inside her head was deafening.  She suddenly had a strange, creepy feeling.  Barely breathing, she moved her eyes left and right, peering into shadows.  "I'm alone", she kept telling herself, "I'm alone.  I locked the doors and closed the blinds before I came up here." 

The old iron tub was quite the challenge to get up that narrow stairway.  The workmen were cracking jokes about rich gals and bubble baths as they lugged it up the steps.  She and her husband had bought the old house to restore, and the tub was one thing she insisted on.  Now, alone in the house for the first time since they moved in, she thought she would enjoy a long soak in her tub. 

But now she felt a chill even through the warm water.  It was then she heard the first creak.  It's an old house she thought, it will crack and pop from time to time.  It's OK.  In the hall, the floor creaked again.  Fear began to settle into her heart.  Maybe I'm not alone!  She looked around the room, trying to see anything that could help her.  There was no phone, and nothing to serve as a weapon.  She had refused to keep a gun in the house.  Only the innocent get killed with their guns, she had said.  Now here she lay, naked in her bubble bath in a dark room, in a big empty house, with a psycho killer on the other side of the door.  Maybe it's just a robber and if I stay quiet, he'll take what he wants and leave.  Please, God, don't let him find me.  Her heart was beating so loudly in her ears she was sure he'd hear it.  Then there was a footstep just outside the bathroom, and the rattle of the old glass door knob as it turned.  The door squeaked as it opened slowly.  Eyes wide open, she stared through the dim light toward the door.  As a dark figure entered the room, something glinted in the light from the candle.  It was a knife, the blade long and thin. The killer waved it menacingly at her.  This was it.  She would die here in her tub.  Now, oddly detached, her last thought was "I'm glad I had a pedicure".  She screamed one hoarse scream and slumped back into the now cooling water. 

"Lily, wake up.  Wake up, you were screaming."  It was her husband, gently calling her back to reality.

A fictional story written for Magpie Tales #28

Blogging: The Value of Comments

We all want more comments on our blog.  But why?  Is it just a matter of boosting our egos, showing our popularity, or just making us feel good about ourselves?   Let's take a look at how valuable comments really are to both the reader and the author.

Validating the Author

Every time you read another writer's post and leave a comment, you are validating the writer.  You are saying - I have read and enjoyed your work, and found it to be entertaining, informative, or helpful.  This encourages us to continue writing and to put forth our best efforts.  So when you read something you really enjoyed, that made you laugh or even cry, please let the writer know.

Feedback

Not only are we validated by comments, but the feedback will help us with future posts.  As we build a relationship with our readers, we gain insight into what they relate to, or connect with the most.  With this knowledge, we can write more effectively to our audience, and our posts will have greater meaning than if we just write 'hit or miss' and hope someone finds it interesting.

Forming Friendships

As you receive and respond to comments, conversations spring up, and friendships are formed.  Although we may never actually meet our "blogging friends" face to face, the friendships are real, encouraging and supportive.

Promote your Blog

Here's where we get to the "me" part.  It's the old give to get concept.  Commenting on others' blogs will likely get you more comments on your own blog.  If you leave a sincere comment on someone's post, along with your "return address", they will probably come visit your blog, and hopefully leave you a comment in return.  The more active you are with reading and commenting, the greater the opportunity for others to discover you.

The Results

Whether given or received, comments provide helpful feedback, insight into your audience, new friends and, ultimately, more comments.  So next time you read something you like, give the writer a heads up.

Quote of the Week

Buckeye Butterfly

 "Just living is not enough," said the butterfly, "one must have sunshine, freedom and a little flower." 

- Hans Christian Anderson




So often we get caught up with our busy lives and forget to appreciate the little things like the joy of just watching the butterflies.

The Beach Cottage

Photo courtesy of  Magpie Tales

"Francine, do you realize we've been coming to this same cottage for 20 years", cackled Edith as her sister turned into the sandy driveway and past the mermaid mailbox?

"Has it been that long," Francine pondered?  "Um, now that I think about it, I guess it has.  We started coming here right after Chester passed away.  He would have liked it here - you know he always loved the beach.  I don't think it's changed much over the years, do you?" 

"No, I guess just they patch the shingles and slap on a new coat of paint every couple of years.  I wonder how they get the color matched so perfectly after all these years."

Edith yawned, stretched and pulled her suitcase out of the trunk.  "I don't know, I guess it's all that new technology.  As the kids are always saying, 'there's an app for that'.  So, do we cook or go out?  I say we go out.  It was a long ride, and I'm tuckered. There wil be plenty of time to shop for groceries tomorrow."

Francine, agreeing that they should let someone else do the cooking tonight, said "OK, I think I'll go for a swim before dinner just to relax a bit.  Want to join me?"  

"Sure" Edith answered from the hall, "but I'd like to get a few things put away first.  Edith began to put her stuff into the drawers on the left side of the dresser.  Francine always used the right side.  It's funny how little things become habit after so many years.  The dresser's faded finish showed its age just like the old faucet out back where guests have been rinsing the sand from their feet for decades.  The storms and salt water are hard on the pipes.  They are rusted and showing some patina, but like the sister's reminiscence upon arrival, not much had changed over 20 years, including the old rusty water pipe.


This was written for Magpie Tales #27

Jelly Jar Mojo

Have you ever pulled the jelly jar from the fridge and grunted and strained to get the lid off?  Only to find out that the lid is stuck worse than an elephant in quicksand.  That's when you know that Mongo has been there.  Mongo is what we call the mysteriously powerful critter that sneaks in and super-tightens your jar lids.  You never know when he'll strike.

Jelly jar and my tools.

There wasn't much to choose from for lunch the other day, so I decided on a PB&J.  Bread-check, peanut butter-check, and then I reach for the jelly.  It's just ordinary grape jelly in an ordinary jar.  That is it used to be ordinary.  Now it it's been Mongo-tized.

After some grunting and straining it's still not budging, so I pull out my strap wrench.  This handy-dandy gadget didn't come from any fancy kitchen store.  Nope, hubby got it from the plumber who was working on the toilets at work.  He asked the guy where he could buy one.  Plumber said it's part of the kit and they're disposable.  Well, it got disposed of into hubby's hands, and then into mine.  It usually works like a charm but not this time, all because Mongo snuck in and put his mojo on my jelly jar.  So I went old school and whacked it with the kitchen scissors (Mom's method for loosening stubborn jar lids).  Strange, but it works.  Then I popped the strap wrench back on and... success.  For a moment there I thought I was going to need the jaws of life just to open the jelly.  

Does Mongo ever wreak havoc on your jars?

Quote of the Week

Most of the shadows of this life are caused by our standing in our own sunshine.

 - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Whenever we feel down or overwhelmed perhaps we should look inside ourselves to see if we are casting a shadow over our own happiness.

The Rose Garden

This magpie is building on last week's poem "Through the Door" and is a work of fiction.

As my cousin Gerald and I were reminiscing about the past, Aunt Abigail came to mind.  Gerald spoke lovingly of his mother, but with much sadness as he related his recent visit to his childhood home.  I had known her well when I was younger, but like most of us, I grew up and drifted away.  She was tall and thin with wispy white hair, and always wore an apron.  For all her apparent frailty, she had the vim and vigor of someone nearly half her age.  She worked in her garden every morning before the heat of the day, weeding her precious roses.  Some of them were descendants of roses from the Royal Garden of Queen Elizabeth, which had been sent to her over 30 years ago. She had tenderly cared for them all those years.  Her most prized bush was the yellow rose, called the Spirit of Freedom, that was presented to her by her husband (known to everyone as "the Duke"), the year before he died. 

Photo courtesy of Magpie Tales

Gerald had moved up north after graduation some years ago.  Now with both his parents gone, he was the sole heir to the house and grounds, and had returned to dispose of the property.  Her garden is hidden behind a high wall, and the gate has been locked since her death last year.

He took the rusty key and slowly opened the lock, stiff from exposure to the elements. 

He opened the gate and stared into the garden. It was overgrown with vines, and small trees sprouting from nuts buried by squirrels.  There upon the stone wall leading to the gardener's shed sat his mother's old watering can.  It was half full of water just as if she were tending her precious roses, her solitary companions these last years.  Gerald glanced around the garden and spotted his mother's yellow rose bush among the weeds.  It had one beautiful yellow blossom that shone with beads of water, creating a miniature rainbow in each drop.  As he turned, he saw a fleeting figure with wispy white hair and an apron freshly smudged with dirt.  

"Mother?"

A Stinging Situation

How about those yellow jackets?  Those nasty, mean,  ground-dwelling attack bees? (which aren't really bees at all but rather members of the wasp family). Well, I tangled with some a few weeks ago.  After a long dry spell, we got rain, and the grass began to grow again.  You know how it is in the summer, either feast or famine in the weather department.  In spite of the sweltering heat and humidity, I gassed up the mower and started pushing.  I made one pass down along the fence, turned and started back up the yard.  Ouch...a sharp pain in my leg.  Mower must have picked up a rock or something.  Ow, smack on the other leg - what the heck?  Uh oh...now my ear, I'm in trouble.  I had just mowed over a yellow jacket nest.  

Eastern Yellow Jacket Queen

At that point, I left the mower in its tracks and made a mad dash to the house where I was dancing around, swatting, and hollering like a crazy person.  I'm sure it was a hilarious sight, but there was no one there to witness it.  There was some momentary concern since I'd just been stung three times, and  I'm somewhat allergic to honeybees.  What would yellow jackets do to me?  Hubby was working so the only person to look after me was me.  Isn't that when most stuff happens?  A bee flew past my head, I shrieked and flailed some more.  Afraid there might be more on me, I yanked off my T-shirt and threw it on the floor, charged through the house and back, picked up the shirt - no bees, put shirt back on.  

I tried to e-mail hubby, but I didn't have my glasses and my fingers weren't working too well, all that shaking going on I guess.  I grabbed the cell phone instead, and pushed the quick dial number...it's ringing.  I looked down and saw that there still bees on my pants.  Freaking!  Phone off, pants off inside out, left lying on the kitchen floor with one dead bee still attached.  I charged back through the house for more pants.

Sometime in the midst of all that commotion, I had the good sense to swallow a Benadryl.  With all this racing around, I was out of breath, huffing and puffing like a freight train, so when I got hubby on the phone, it took a couple of minutes for him to get the whole story.  Hubby: "I'm leaving now."  Me: "I didn't call you for you to come home, I just wanted you to know what happened."  Hubby:  "I know, but I want to be there".   

Now for the first aid - I made a paste of meat tenderizer and water to neutralize the pain and swelling (which, when compared to honeybee stings, was relatively minor).  Hubby asked me to call him every 10 minutes as he drove home to make sure I was all right.  Needless to say, I didn't finish the mowing.

Have you tangled with these little nasties, and how did you fare?

Quote of the Week

A smile is the light in the window of your face that tells people you're at home.

- Author Unknown


Just as you aren't likely approach a dark house, you are less likely to approach a frown than a smile.  So what are you saying to people?  Is your light on?