Gardens and lotteries and picnics … oh my!

Tammy's Lettuce

Tammy sent this pic of her beautiful, naturally grown lettuce; I am so envious. In front of the lettuce seems to be a row of radishes for me and a row of purple, delicious beets for Mark.

Carolyn bought five Mega-millions lottery chances; we’re still broke.

I went to have blood work done yesterday for RA doc; the phlebotomist came out to the car and stuck me so I wouldn’t have to crutch along; I thought that was very nice. She has been drawing my blood for many years.

Not far from the house, I saw a pic of an old, blooming apple tree I wanted but Carolyn wouldn’t stop; the light was good but not great. On the way home, she did stop but the sky had clouded with an approaching thunderstorm. The light made for excellent color saturation but a lack of shadows cause a flat look to the scene. I will post one of the pics later on. Jola posted a new pic on Flickr from her most recent Podlasie trip and I hope she will allow me to use it here.

Tomorrow we plan to picnic at Wilbur dam on the Watauga River. The weather is a bit iffy but unless it is raining constantly, I’m a goin’.

Weekend salutations, my friends.

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Published in: on March 31, 2012 at 10:37 am  Comments (4)  
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You know …

Limestone, Tennessee

I like my new mouse; I can type and edit my words again.

Only in southern United States can a simple three-letter word like “get” be made to sound like it has two syllables: “ge.ut” or “gi.at”. Hillbilly pronunciation is “git”. Only in southern conversations does each sentence of a statement sound like it ends as a question. It is the way we say “you know” like athletes do when they are interviewed on TV, i.e.; “I just, you know, drove for the basket you know, and the lane cleared you know and I made the easy shot, you know.” The difference is that we southeners begin the sentence like any other statement, but by the time we finish it, our voice has changed slightly in pitch or something to where it sounds like we are asking for confirmation, i.e.; “I’ve been working in the garden all day long and I just can’t seem to make headway?” Italics is where the voice change from statement to question comes in. You know.

I thrice tried commenting Mark’s blog this morning but blogger was contrary and gave an error message written in super-secret hyper code and I’ve lost my genuine Cheneyman decoder ring. Sorry, Mark.

Have a best weekend!

Published in: on March 30, 2012 at 9:37 am  Comments (4)  
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’53

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Response to Tammy’s comment concerning my most recent post: ” … I think there is something magical about being raised in the country and I think it allows for a child to develop in a very unique way. The running all day long with my brothers in the woods, drinking from the garden hose, dirty feet, pet goats, barn owls, orange blossoms perfuming the air, fresh oranges picked straight from the tree for a snack, tire swings, tree forts, bee-bee guns, bareback horse riding across the field, etc. I also, yearn for those times in my young life. It was the happiest most carefree time I have ever known and I’d go back to it if I could. There is a connection with nature deeply ingrained in my soul and when I am barefoot in the garden a whisper of it brushes my hair to remind me. I understand your thoughts on this. I am sad for children who spend too much time indoors in front of a TV set – they miss out on so much.”

I surely miss my country life as a child and until a lot of walking became a challenge, I still enjoyed “playing” in the woods and fields of my youth, even as late as 10 years ago. If I could go back to a permanent summer of … say 1953 when I was eight, I would be very tempted. Life with my mom, my grandma, and my two irreverent uncles was good, probably too good because all the chores I did were voluntary and I have never been good at stepping forward. My dad was around, but our relationship was more one of semi-peaceful status quo therefore he doesn’t figure greatly in the things I remember best in that time period; later years were much better with he and I. The year 1953 was warm mornings of grandma chopping weeds in her large garden or she and I in the berry patch at first light; she insisted that while the air was cool snakes would be in bed and not bothering us. In all my years in berry patches in two counties, I never saw a snake at any time of day although I suppose many of them saw me. Concealed hornets nests and buried yellow-jacket wasp’s nests were a different thing; seems I always found them. The pain of the stings have mostly faded from my memories and worn from my hide, and I recall those days with fondness, too. Yes, the honest connection with nature is everlasting and transcends human religion in my heart. The scents of fresh-plowed earth from a turned garden, mown hay goldenly basking in rolling fields under a curing sun, decaying leaves and tree stumps in the woods, and all the wildflowers which spring from the soil are still smiling from my most revered reflections. Birds, bees, and butterflies; autumn spider webs across my path which all seemed to be built face high and unseeable until my mouth and eyes were full of buggy silk; sled-riding in deep snows down hills so steep I wouldn’t climb them in summertime; mushroom hunting in spring; these are all precious memories. Going back to “then” and staying there forever would be excruciatingly tempting, actually; I truly don’t know if I would or would not abandon everything that has happened since to enable myself to invade what have become beautiful memories of a personal Camelot. Perhaps though, everything wasn’t so good in the summer of ’53 … I never had a tire swing. Thanks, Tammy.
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I am breaking in a new mouse; my old Logitech unit lasted six years, being used mostly for photo editing and correcting typing mistakes … in other words, heavily utilized. My crooked fingers need certain “modifications” made to the mouse, and the new Logitech is designed in a way which is making alterations difficult. I will.
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Thanks to Jola for allowing me to use her photo.
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Have a memory-inspired Thursday!

Published in: on March 29, 2012 at 11:51 am  Comments (9)  
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Hometime

Going home

You are aware that I write about my childhood memories and I do try to keep most of them as accurate as possible. Like most everyone, I tend to see those innocent days through rose colored glasses and at times I write what I think my life was instead of what it probably was. However, most of the old-time recollections are true, but at times I take a biblical cue and say them in a metaphorical sense. Every once in a while I wish I had a time machine to take me back and have a look at myself in the first half of the 1950s and then bring me back to the present. It is a mental exercise only as it is obvious that backward time travel is very, very improbable. If it were possible, it seems we would be up to our ears in tourists from the future and I’ve never met one of them I knew for sure was time-traveling although I’ve suspicioned a few; maybe inside their own heads some were. Anyway, if I could go back why would I want to return here; I love each and everyone of you but if my memories of a Golden Age of misty spring morns, honey bees and apple blossoms, sunny lilac days, and lingering, honey-suckle evenings are even half-way accurate, I would say a teary adios and—hopefully—never glance back this way unless one of you hits a big lottery. But, as author Thomas Wolfe wrote, “you can’t go home again”. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to live the same life over and I don’t cavort with paradoxes. So be it. If you’ve never read Wolfe’s book, think about putting it on your “to read” list.

Have a great mid-week!

Published in: on March 28, 2012 at 9:41 am  Comments (10)  
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Sappy

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We had a few spots of frost on the back lawn this morning; hope it didn’t freeze hard enough in the mountains to hurt the apple crop. Does anyone besides me know that ripe Winesap–Staymen–apples are the best there is for fresh eating? My mom and my grandmother knew it. Grandma’s biggest apple tree was a Winesap and much of her apple butter was made from its fruit. A fresh, ripe Winesap has a mostly red skin, crisp, white or light-yellow flesh which is sweet but a bit tart, makes great pies, and keeps well in a cool place. They ripen in late summer and early autumn in our hillside orchards. If you should decide to grow your own Winesaps, be aware that the trees do not make their own pollen and must be paired with another variety of apple tree, usually a red delicious or golden delicious.

Sammy was here yesterday; he is Spoiled! Not my fault, though.

Have a Tuesday!

Published in: on March 27, 2012 at 9:50 am  Comments (12)  
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