Stick Horse Cowgirls

Who knows where this post will meander.  I sit to write, but I have no idea where I’m going; I just want to write.  Do you do that?  Ah, I see now where I’m headed…I want to know about your writing rhythms.  And share about the stumbles in mine. I read all these wonderful blogs, and it seems like everyone has something to say all the time.  Maybe my life just isn’t all that interesting.  Pretty routine, actually… I realize this is all an illusion…that the pauses between writings of others are not so noticeable to me as my own, naturally.  And some of you will occasionally announce a hiatus from writing.  Those are encouragement for me—sad, because I miss some of you who temporarily suspend writing, but encouraging for the thought that you, too, have moments of no words. MIL is discouraged about her own writing.  Immigrant Daughter has given her a lot of joy in sharing with her family and others about her life.  Now she is in a bit of a funk, and last night confessed that she

Yes, I’m stuck on childhood memories lately.  I had someone recently share about their family’s discipline practices some decades ago.  It was similar to my own.  We both endured the “pick-your-own-switch” order. It was a day and age when spanking was not frowned-upon—not even given a second thought as to whether  it might be wrong.  I don’t think I was harmed one bit by my mama’s discipline habits.  I admit that there are those of us who probably should not spank their kids because of anger problems, but that was not an issue in my home. My mother would, indeed, use a switch on us, and I recall that the little, skinny ones were the worst—they’d wrap around our legs, making us dance.  Sometimes, there’d be one handy on the top of the refrigerator.  She’s also gotten after us with the fly swatter (which I hated because I imagined those little fly legs c oming off on my own) and, let’s not forget the handy paddles provided by those paddle-ball toys. Having said that, please don’t g

Yes, another Ayn Rand Quote.  Still in Chapter one of Atlas Shrugged (and  it is a loooooong book!) we find Eddie thinking: He wanted no sadness attached to his childhood; he loved its memories: any day of it he remembered now seemed flooded by still, brilliant sunlight.  It seemed to him as if a few rays from it reached into his prese nt: not rays, more like pinpoint spotlights… What do you think of as your “typical” child hood day? You know I can remember rainy days, alright; and I recall bundling up against the cold winter.  I can bring to mind events of other seasons.  But when I think of my childhood, my mind immediately goes to summer; to days free from school schedules and days of play, mostly with V. Really, the summer memories dominate; they are far and away more disproportionate in the ranking I give them in childhood memories than in time actually spent.  I think of summer play days, running into the the house occasionally for a swig of ice-cold water from my p

I began re-reading Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged recently simply because it was easily downloaded onto my I-Pad (and the electronic version is oh so much easier to carry around!).  It has been over twenty years since I read this book, and I am anxious to see what I think of it with a little more ahem “maturity.” I am running across some thought-provoking passages, and I’ll try to space out my posts about them so that you don’t get “Ayn Randed” to death.  The potential is there; it’s a very long book. Chapter one, “ The Theme ,” contains a marvelous description of adult Eddie’s memories of childhood and of a giant oak tree. He felt safe in the oak tree’s presence; it was a thing that nothing could change or threaten; it was his greatest symbol of strength This passage started me thinking…it being a “thought-provoking” passage and all…what is there about life that I feel is something “… that nothing could change or threaten… ?”  What are my symbols of strength?  Where is my gia

In another time, a fantasy life if you will, I could have been a china merchant in a quaint little shop that specialized in antiques but did NOT smell musty! Only fellow dishaholics like Suzan of the oldgreymareprimitives.blogspot.com could understand. It was her recent post about her "white bowl love" that inspired me to write this post! I love old things; objects that others have owned and passed on that have a history to them. I love vintage dishes--I have lots of dishes and glassware passed down from family members and acquired on the cheap at thrift shops. I wish I had time to entertain so I could really use them more, but they are eye candy to me! I covet English white ironstone, brown transferware, and Johnson Bros. Friendly Village. I adore French Quimper pottery, Polish pottery, the ever humble but charming Blue Willow, and the rainbow assortment of Fiestaware (although I don't have any YET. I fondly recall my late mother-in-law's set of lovely pine con

It’s my friend P’s fault….she said “ I can’t believe you don’t have one yet …” Really, I think maybe the blame lies with Mother-in-law, who I took to Best Buy the other day to buy her a new computer.  She said, “ C’mon, C, you deserve this.  And it’s so neat! ” No, absolutely,  it’s my brother-in-law’s fault—he kept e mailing me with tidbits of how productive I could be if only I had one.  Here’s an actual snippet from an e mail (one of several on the subject) from him: “ Not only are they ultimately cool, they are extremely convenient. ”  See how bad he is? And “ultimately cool” and convenient  is just too small a description for my new I-Pad.  BIL did not steer me wrong!  I am in love, love, love with it and I have only had it six days.  I know that it will be my companion every where I go.  After all, it fits in my purse or my file folder! I keep up with you blogging friends on it (much better than my itty-bitty I-Phone), and I have loaded  all the apps to give me everything

in·teg·ri·ty /ɪnˈtɛgrɪti/  1.adherence to moral and ethical principles; soundness of moral character; honesty. 2. the state of being whole, entire, or undiminished: to preserve the integrity of the empire.  3.a sound, unimpaired, or perfect condition Do you ever have epiphanies of basic, simple concepts?  I’d like to say that I have flashes of genius in areas yet unexplored and undefined.  But, no, my “flashes” lead me to exclaim, “ Eureka! Look what I’ve discovered!  The sky really is blue!” Only to see others shrug their shoulders and say, “Yeah, what else is new?”  I had one of these flashes recently on the definition of “integrity.”  I have a wonderful long-time friend who is so supportive of me.  And, yet, I found out that he is also supportive of my husband.  You know, the husband who has stolen money from my mother, who has abandoned his entire family, and who has left me with a butt-load of debt?  Yeah, that one. I found myself wishing that my friend had told me upfro

My brain gets a workout each and every day; my body, well, not so much.  I have always loathed physical exercise.  I don’t mind long walks—although they take too much time, of which I am alarmingly short.  I love horseback riding but, alas, no longer have horses (that time thing, again).  I know that I need regular exercise. To that end, I fixed up my little screened porch off my bedroom with a treadmill (MIL’s—traded for my stationary bike) and even put cable television out there to keep my mind occupied while I walked.  This was in June.  Do you think I’ve been out there?  Even once?  No.  I am utterly incapable of being in charge of my own exercise regime.  That’s where my son comes in.  He has cracked the whip at me once again.  Yesterday I went back to the YMCA after work.  It had been long months—too long—since I had been there.  Son was determined.  He called at the office to remind me.  So I trudged over there. I did my time on the treadmill and then moved through the u

I had a young woman in who had a really bad husband—really bad.  They are now divorced several years and we are still dealing with him and the aftermath.  They seem so paradoxical now, yet by all accounts they looked like a golden couple when they married; perfectly suited for one another.  They had met in church.  He seemed wonderful—courted her.  She is so stable.  A caring young mother with a college education.  I won’t go into detail about what broke this young couple up because I cannot violate her confidence, but I will say it is unusual and that it would shock you.  You would not dream it up; and certainly she never expected it.  Let me say that in 31 years of practice, I have never seen anything quite like it.  The details indicate a personality/character disorder so ingrained that I have little hope that ex will ever be reformed.  I feel certain that this disorder did not occur after their wedding, during their short marriage.  No, it was lurking there all the time, just not

In his marvelous little book Tribes , Seth Godin defines a a tribe as …a group of people connected to one another…connected to an idea.  For millions of years, human beings have been part of one tribe or another.  A group needs only two things to be a tribe: a shared interest and a way to communicate…People want connection and growth and something new… Last night V and I responded to the tribal drumbeat sounded by Kyran Pittman of Notes to Self.   We made the ritual trek to the “high place,” an 18th floor swanky room just perfect for our gathering.  What we found there was, indeed a tribe: about 25 young women (yes, we were the elders) who came together solely because we are members of the same tribe: Arkansas women bloggers.  V and I had not previously met any of the attendees, but when we walked into that room, it was clear that we belonged.  We had a common experience with each one of these women: blogging.  It was magical; and although our tribal interest centers aroun

At the end of a pressure-cooker day, I come home sometimes and “veg- out.”  It is as if my brain has to go from the very serious, almost acrobatic performance, to complete rest.  Usually this is in the form of television.  Sometimes I rest my brain with the news just whirrrrring in the background as white noise.  I just kind of check in and out mentally to see the headlines.  At other times I turn the tube to “brain candy,” which would be embarrassing for anyone to catch me watching.  Thinking about all this started me thinking about my “guilty pleasures” of all kinds;  you know, the kind of things that you’re not especially proud of—the kind of things that just don’t measure up to your fantastic intellect or your careful diet or whatever other benchmarks you set for yourself. So, I thought I’d share a few of mine in hopes that you would, also, spill beans on yourself. First, there’s “Real Housewives of New Jersey.”  Yes, I’m blushing as I write this…I need to admit something

Sleep is so mysterious to me.  I realize that this is no news flash, but I have found that the amount and quality of my sleep is deeply entwined with both my productivity and my mood.  Without enough sleep, I become prone to depression and excessive worry.  Those little hills I face at work begin to look like insurmountable mountains.  I can’t tell you the times I have come home from work worried to death about how I was going to deal with an upcoming problem.  After a good night’s sleep, not only was I refreshed and re-energized to tackle it, but often I have new, good ideas about the situation; it’s as if my brain was working on things while I was asleep.  I believe that is exactly what happens, so often do I have this experience. In looking through some of the on-line sources about sleep I find that one of the major points made is that sleep is not idle time.  There is some suspension of sense, and it is restorative and restful.  Studies show that sleep allows your physical body