It was 50 years ago today.

50 years ago, Tom and I moved in together.  We had no money, jobs, skills, or education. In fact, at 19 years-old we had hardly any brains at all!  

When we decided to give it a go we had been an on again, off again couple for two years; never exclusive, rarely in the same city at the same time. I was indulging my creative imagination, seeking revelations, finding my self. Tom was a traveler, a hitchhiker, an adventurous Lost Boy. We were perfect for each other!

Ours has been an alternative love story, complicated and edgy. It isn't a simple romance, or even a particularly appropriate tale to tell young, impressionable grandchildren. The late 1960s and early 1970s were outside of time for some of us. But for crying out loud, we beat the odds.  

Trees and Memory

Certain of my mother's grandparents came from Germany. Mom grew up in a home where German was still spoken. In later years, when Mom was especially frustrated, she would let loose with a heartfelt "Mein Gott im Himmel." Hearing my mother speak German gave me pause. It didn't happen often because she only remembered a few phrases her father used.  Now I only remember this one. 

Oh wait, she also said "Ach du lieber" or something like that. Again, there were strong emotions involved. Maybe there's more. I should consult my memories. They are all there, somewhere.

I have written before about my mother decorating the tree. Her father put the tree up on Christmas Eve, after the children went to bed. Waking up to a shining tree was the ultimate magic of her Christmas morning. They used real candles, so Grandpa got up early to light them before waking his Katholisch horde.  

That's how it is with me and Christmas. I have my memories and I store my mother's, too. It seems I save some of her father's Christmas memories, as well.  I'm a computer hard drive. A storage unit. Mnemosyne, daughter of Heaven and Earth.  Mother of the Muses.

I would rather be Demeter so I could sleep all winter long.  

https://mythologysource.com/mnemosyne-greek-goddess/

  

I love and hate Christmas

I love colored lights! The Surly Republican across the street goes all out decorating and illuminating his house. Every night I open the door and walk out on my porch to savor the display. I told him I enjoyed it. He barely answered, didn't make eye contact, and walked away. Sucks to be him.

Going through ornaments and thinking about the why or the who is always a profoundly moving experience. I hold them in my hand, thinking hard about people who gifted them to us. 

I enjoy giving presents. I realize gift giving is a poor excuse for showing love, but when it comes to that particular emotion I throw caution to the wind.

I'm heartened by the softening of hearts, opening of wallets, and end-of-the-year donations to the poor. I wish we were always open hearted, but at least we have this season to remind us how good generosity feels.

OMG! Consider the yummy cookies and scrumptious meals we only make at Christmas. These foods are precious because of their limited availability.  I'm like a little kid. I can't wait!

I hear from so many loved ones my heart nearly bursts. Wide open. Phantasmagorical blood spurting everywhere, y'all.  Ouch.  

Which brings me to the "hate" part of Christmas. I am emotionally overwhelmed. The stress of buying the right presents sets my head spinning. And I worry about eating and drinking too much over the next 3 weeks. Because I will. 

Find your voice

I'm a strong woman and I'm proud of it.  I don't swallow my anger because I don't care if my anger is perceived as not being "ladylike."  I don't care if some people don't approve when I speak out. I don't aspire to join the bourgeoisie.  I don't care if traditional men or women don't find me attractive.  I don't find them attractive either.

I care about truth.  I care about justice.  I care about respect.  In fact, I demand respect.  You can disagree with me, but never roll your eyes when I speak.  

Find your voice.  Make it heard.  

In the words of the great Maggie Kuhn:

I don't even

Blogging has many challenges.  One is circumventing the cultural nuances of colloquialisms.  I'm not one to be too careful about what I say.  I often think I'm funny, and laugh loudest at my own jokes.  Sometimes I'm the only one laughing.  Not a problem for me.  However, I need to remember that words and phrases that resonate with my friends in Indiana, New York, or Florida have different connotations in other places.  

Recently I responded to Robbie at Tone Deaf.  He is sometimes outrageous and hilarious, often prone to honest self-reflection, and almost always British.  His post was hilarious.  I commented "I don't even know what to say." 

In the context of my life and reactions to others, that was a compliment of sorts.  It translates roughly to "I surrender," or "okay, you win."  In real life it would likely be said to my brother "Big D" with one hand on my hip, and one eyebrow raised.  

I think Robbie thought I was scolding him.  

We learn so much from each other.  

The Glass Ceiling

 I love the sound of breaking glass!

This election will never end!

I hope by writing this title down I will jinx the "Endless Waiting."  I'm using a little of that "reverse psychology" my old sainted Mother used to swear by. Also, I'm desperate for this to end. I have a bottle of expensive champagne in my fridge that I would like to drink in celebration sooner rather than later. It calls to me with a siren's allure.

We need to remind the Fates (those dangerously potent ladies) that this election has a life of it's own. Clotho has done her work, but Lachesis seems to be savoring her moment. Atropos can cut the thread and seal our destiny. Although, who am I to question Lachesis?  
 
Yes, I AM a little nervous that I've garnered the attention of the ancient Moirai. I guess I should include the words please and thank you. Please, ladies, don't let the lying liar who lies steal the election. Thank you.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.  

The three Fates spinning the web of human destiny, sculpture by Gottfried Schadow, 1790, part of the tombstone for Count Alexander von der Mark; in the Old National Gallery, Berlin.  From the Encyclopaedia Britannica. 

Stress Eating

When I'm nervous, I eat. I'm stress eating cold pizza for breakfast right now, and I will likely eat more for lunch. I fully realize it is counterproductive; however, I don't want to stop. If Biden wins, I'll start a healthy diet and exercise program Wednesday morning. If Biden loses, I don't know what I'll do.  

Wait a minute, I DO know what I'll do.  I'll start a healthy diet and exercise program. I've got 4 more years of resistance fighting in me.  I'm almost sure of it.

P.S. Halloween didn't help.  I tried to socially distance with the candy giving.  Only 2 trick or treaters showed up, 4 if you include the 2 mosquitoes that died and I found floating in my margarita.  Now I have all that candy left, somewhere in the house.  Tom hid it from me.  I love that man.  

Yes, I sat outside on Halloween blaring the Carmina Burana by Carl Orf, eating bbq potato chips and drinking margaritas.  Seemed appropriate.  Maybe a glass of wine, too.  Nobody complained.  I'm outta control.   

Here's the real thing.  

Apprehension and then some

It isn't that I don't have anything to say.  I am simply paralyzed by apprehension* about the upcoming U.S. elections.  

Here are this morning's Florida numbers for people who have already either early voted, or voted by mail.   Please note this just lists the information by political party.  It does not indicate who each person voted for.  And there are over 14 million registered voters in Florida.  Still, it gives me hope.  

2,076, 621 Republican's have voted to date.

2,440,470 Democrats have voted to date.

*Apprehension
noun

1 he was filled with apprehension: anxiety, worry, unease, nervousness, nerves, misgivings, disquiet, concern, tension, trepidation, perturbation, consternation, angst, dread, alarm, fear, foreboding; informal butterflies, jitters, the willies, the creeps, the shivers, the heebie-jeebies. ANTONYMS confidence.

A Trumpkin

I sure would like to make some of these in other languages.  If you can translate into any other language than Spanish, English, French, or German please send me the translation in a comment below.  Many thanks.  

Preference?

I'm not religious. I know I sound like it sometimes, but that's because I was indoctrinated at an early age, and I often think in religious terms. I was raised Catholic (pre-Vatican II) and I know the mind set, the dogma, the mystical beauty, as well as the disturbing elements of this religion. You might say I am "culturally Catholic."

Amy Coney Barrett, the woman currently undergoing confirmation hearings for RBG's spot on the U.S. Supreme Court, recently referred to LBGTQ as a "sexual preference." If she was really a woman of faith, she would accept that God has created some segment of the population as LGBTQ in all countries all over the world since the dawn of time. It is not a "preference." If there is a God, it is Her will. I'm gonna trust in God's wisdom on this one.

Senator Klobuchar Has Had Enough

I had too much to dream last night

I had a disturbing dream, one wherein I was losing my short term memory.  I guess that must be a concern to me or my unconscious mind wouldn't torment me with it while I slept.  

In the dream I was talking to a friend.  I was supposed to meet Tom afterwards.  I once knew where I was to meet him, but as I talked to my friend a wall went up in my dream mind and I simply couldn't find that memory.  I knew I had to meet him, but I had absolutely no memory of where.  The memory was behind a wall.  

I wonder if that's what it is like to lose short term memory?  The insurmountable wall.  

There are no suckers or losers in the U.S. Military #3 - last one, I promise

 There are no suckers or losers in the U.S. Military.

My 5th great grandfather, Jesse Rector, served as a foot soldier in the Revolutionary War. Jesse and his older brother James both participated in the siege of Yorktown, culminating in Lord Cornwallis' surrender to George Washington on 19 Oct 1781. According to the Yorktown national Historical Park literature, "The American victory at Yorktown, the last major battle of the American Revolution, secured independence for the United States and significantly changed the course of world history

One of his son’s, Isaac Rector, applied for membership in the Sons of the American Revolution based on Jesse’s service. He wrote as follows:

“My knowledge of my father’s service as a soldier in the Revolution is derived from what I have heard him say on the subject. I have often heard him speak of being a soldier in the Revolutionary War. He belonged to a Virginia regiment of militia organized early in 1781 and disbanded soon after the surrender of Cornwallis. He served with his regiment at the siege of Yorktown and was present at the surrender.

I have heard him say when his regiment reached Yorktown our lines were six hundred yards from those of the British, and that before the surrender they were moved up to within three hundred yards. He said that at the latter distance our troops could hear the crashing of the walls of the houses within the town as they were knocked down by our artillery. He said as the British General Cornwallis marched up through Virginia, he gathered up all the good horses he could find. After the surrender our troops found he had many of the horses killed or driven into the river and drowned to prevent them falling into our hands; that the tide washed many of them ashore and that the air was foul with the odor of their decaying carcasses.

He said he saw the British troops march out and stack their arms and spoke of the angry manner in which some of the soldiers put down their guns. He also spoke of the fine music he heard by the bands on the French fleet after the surrender."

--Isaac Rector, 1891

There are no suckers or losers in the U.S. Military #2

My father enlisted in the Navy in 1943. He participated in the Campaign for the Liberation of the Philippines in 1944. His ship was at the second engagement in the Battle of Leyte Gulf. One of the hallmarks of this particular military campaign was the Japanese introduction of kamikaze pilots. Kamikaze is a Japanese word meaning "divine wind" and these suicide pilots sank 17 U.S. ships and damaged 50 more in the battle for Luzon in the Philippines as they flew obsolete planes into American ships, hoping to do considerable damage to the U.S. fleet.

As a machinist, Dad worked below in the ship. He remembered hearing a kamikaze plane hit the ship next to his, which sunk as a result of the attack. He said it was extremely loud and the ship he was on shook so much that he thought it was his ship that had been hit. When he realized it was another ship that was hit, he ran up 3 flights of stairs to see what was happening. Men from the damaged ship were jumping into the water to escape the fire on board. My father volunteered to help rescue them and spent the rest of the day pulling men both living and dead out of the Pacific. One rescued man was burned over 90 percent of his body. Although he did not know the man, Dad volunteered to stay by the man’s side. For three full days and nights he stayed with the stranger, changing his bandages and simply not leaving the man alone with horrible pain. The man died, but not alone.

Fuck you, Donald Trump.

Do you have a story to tell about a brave U.S. military man or woman from your own life? Does it hurt your heart to know our president thinks they were suckers and losers for serving their country? I'd love to read about it. Democrats need to reclaim the moral imperative in the U.S. We have been misunderstood for too long.

There are no suckers or losers in the U.S. Military

 There are no suckers or losers in our military. All should be honored for their service.

This is my Uncle Joe. He served in World War II. He was stationed at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii with what was then known as the Army Air Corps. On 7 Dec 1941, he was walking back to the barracks after attending mass when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. The heel of his shoe was hit by flying shrapnel, but Joe was not hurt. After Pearl Harbor, he was assigned to Canton Island, a South Pacific coral island, where he helped to operate one the first radar facilities. Later, he received a transfer to Europe. Joe was a tailgunner, flying bombing missions over Germany. The first week in December 1942, on his 13th mission, the B-17 was shot down over the Black Forest. The crew parachuted to safety. All survived but the pilot. Joe hid in an abandoned farmhouse for 4 or 5 days. He melted snow to drink, and in one of the houses he found one egg, flour and sugar. His feet froze, and he wrapped them in old rags. He decided to try to make it back to the American line. He was dressed up as an old lady, and the Germans spotted him crossing a river. He was captured and imprisoned at Stalag Luft 4 POW Camp Gross Tychow, Germany. He was liberated at the end of the war. Fuck you, Donald Trump.

Uncle Joe with his mother and his youngest brother after he returned from the war.

Down, but not out.

 I'm having a hard time writing blog posts. It's more inability than reluctance. 

I like to write first thing in the morning. However, I also try to exercise (biking, walking) in the morning as well. In the heat of the summer it is imperative to get out there very early, so my early morning creative routine is kind of shot until the Florida heat and humidity subsides.  

I will admit to being "a little" shell shocked of late. It's hard for me to focus. I should relax, ignore the political noise and re-center my self in this beautiful, yes beautiful, world.

Still, that hateful Trump and his evil cohorts try to distract us from beauty and goodness every damn day.  The unrealized poet in me is convinced he is the Devil, the anti-Christ. I am gobsmacked that people who think they are good Christians follow someone like him. In my fevered dreams they follow him straight to Hell.  

My Tennessee Grandmother was my own personal Pentecostal saint. She was known to talk in tongues when the spirit moved her. My Grandma was the personification of goodness, and she worked hard at understanding the difference between good and evil. She would never have voted for Trump. Like Kamala Harris, she knew a predator when she saw one.

Grandma taught me to say "Get behind me, Satan" when I was overwhelmed with worry or distraction. I haven't said that phrase in a long, long time. But I'm saying it today.

I strive for balance

I find myself thinking of my grandmother. She was kind, good, and loving. I want, so much, to be the kind of grandmother to my grandkids (and great-grands) that she was to me. But I have a mean streak. I think it comes from her husband, or maybe her son. They were both troubled souls. I don't want to be like them.  

So I try harder to be good, saving the meanness for those who deserve it. Who knows, perhaps fighting back is a gift? Am I diminished or enhanced by trying to control this darkness? Anger has proven both useful and righteous from time to time.

I know I cannot swallow my anger whole or I would lose my mind. It is important for me to digest it bit by bit. I sing to it until it falls asleep. Then I try to put it to bed without waking it up.

A walk around a small lake

Many housing developments are built around small lakes in Central Florida. One in particular, called Oakland Park, has done a terrific job of protecting some of their green space. A beautiful walk around their lake is open to the public, and we often bike there in the morning to take that walk. One of the highlights is the preponderance of little blue herons that build their nests and raise their young in cypress trees surrounding a wooden dock.  Let me take you on that walk:

cypress knees

hibiscus

a couple of sandhill cranes walking around the neighborhood

probably a night heron hiding behind some Spanish Moss

yellow canna, pickerel weed

very old, very big live oak

beauty berry

here's the momma little blue heron with her new born fluff balls

and here is the daddy little blue heron, a few yards away

muck reflecting green leaves

Try to imagine.

My daughter and son-in-law's a/c went out the other afternoon in this terrible heat and humidity. They had to wait until 10:00 pm for the repairman; he was that busy. The poor guy went to the wrong house (next door to M&M, where the crazy Christian neighbors live) The neighbor man got all freaked out that a black man was knocking at his door at 10 pm. He yelled at the a/c tech and called the repairman the n-word.  

The a/c man was quite shaken by the overt racism. But still, he found the right address and knocked on THAT door to fix the problem and finish his day. My son-in-law went with him to check on the a/c components outside so that no one would freaking shoot him. 

It is my white privilege that even allows my mind to be boggled. This is what people of color have to endure every damn day. 

A day that is completely mine

I woke up about 7:00 am this morning.  With my eyes still closed, I allowed myself to stay in bed.  I slowly came to consciousness, awakening to a day that will be completely mine.  Sleeping without an alarm clock is one of the big payoffs in retirement.  It just never gets old.

Tales of Bullying and Meanness: The Marathon Man

My tormentor was the faculty chairman of an academic department at the university. He disliked me, but when I asked if he wanted me to find another job he said no. He wanted to bring me down, teach me my place, perhaps destroy me. He would come into my office, shut the door, and harangue me for hours. Not every day, but certainly every week. He was afraid of the other faculty, which included his wife. Berating me was his only avenue for achieving authority. 

Because I was the manager, he was my supervisor for the 3 year term he filled. There was always a new chair, every 3 years. I could hold on. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of chasing me away. Perhaps I should have left, but I didn't. Call me foolish, but I like to win.

He had to give me a final performance evaluation about a month before his term ended. It lasted, on and off, for a day and a half. I'm not kidding. Hours and hours of him asking me questions he could then use my answers against me. It was quite odd.

I reminded him a performance evaluation is a time for a supervisor to review the employee's work performance, and give constructive feedback to help the employee improve. Instead, we danced around his hatred for me. Just him and me. On and off for 2 days he asked me questions, and I tried to answer them very carefully.

Finally, he asked what I thought about working for him. I replied "Working for you is like running a marathon in 90 degree heat, with the flu." He was a runner, so I knew he'd understand. That ended the "review." A month later his term was up, and I had a new department chair who was quite wonderful.  I won, sort of.

Alligator's Delight

9:22 am
The powers that be re-opened the wildlife drive near me, where there are scads of alligators and birds to view safely from one's car. It had been closed because of the pandemic. Apparently the alligators are more plentiful than ever, and lie in the road now. IN the road, not alongside it like the pictures below. After a couple of months with no cars, they think they own the place.

We usually go for a bike ride (or a walk) every morning.  Today my knee is "hinky" and I'm going to take a day off to rest it.  My husband took this as the opportunity to bike on the aforesaid drive, which I am usually reluctant to do. He's there now. I KNOW he's going to ride his bike around the lounging gators. 

I told him to be safe.  That's code for "don't underestimate the alligators." He laughed and said he would.  Sheesh.

11:53 am  He's back, He was careful.  Yay.

I remember turning 2

I distinctly remember turning two. My oldest sister had been preparing me for the event. She was a very earnest 7 year old, the kind of sister who took being older quite seriously. 

It was 1953. My father was sitting in his underwear at the kitchen table, as he was wont to do in the mornings. White t-shirt, white boxers, he sat enthroned wearing the working man's at-home uniform. 

Both my older sisters were in on the fun.  They guided me to his chair and pushed me forward.  My father asked me "How old are you today?" and I held up two fingers in front of my face.  I held them up like a premonition, for they were displayed like a peace sign, like bunny ears.  It wasn't the last time I made that sign for either meaning. However, it was the last time I told my father I was two years old. He laughed and told me I was a good girl.

I knew I was loved.  

This flowering bromeliad reminds me of belonging to a family

A sign at a Chicago protest

Poetry in Motion

The horror of racism

This morning I read 37 Paddington's blog post entitled "I can't breathe" wherein she describes George Floyd's pointless death.

The horror!  

This murder diminishes us as a country. If justice is not served, then there is no justice. Don't look away. George Floyd was our brother. Racism is the great evil that divides our country. If all we do is "care," then we are allowing this evil continue. 

What do we do?  I'm trying to figure that out. Feel free to share ideas, but we white folks need to do this for ourselves, because if goodness is an achievable goal, then this is the right thing to do. 

I googled "How can I combat racism" and it said there were 29 million results.  

The anger of Cúchulainn

Now THIS is angry:

When Cuchulain went into battle, he would go into a frenzy. His cry alone would kill a hundred warriors from fright. His physical appearance—namely, that of a handsome man—changed completely. Cuchulain's hair stood on end, one of his eyes bulged out while the other disappeared in his head, his legs and feet turned to face backward, his muscles swelled, and a column of blood spurted up from his head. His body became so hot that it could melt snow.
http://www.mythencyclopedia.com/Cr-Dr/Cuchulain.html

The Táin. Cúchulainn in warp-spasm is a 1969 work by Louis le Brocquy. It is not currently on display in IMMA. It is part of the IMMA Permanent Collection.

An unpleasant encounter

Sunday was Mother's Day. We rode our bikes to a park to see how many alligators we could count. We rarely see mature alligators in this spot, but there are usually some baby alligators sunning themselves at the foot of water plants at the end of the lake. 

At one point I walked around a young father and his little boy. I realized with horror the father was teaching his young son to throw rocks at the baby alligators. 

I said "Please don't throw rocks at the alligators." Honest to God, I said it calmly. He told me to mind my own business. I replied "This IS my business, you are hurting animals." He instructed me to keep walking. By then my husband was at my side, trying to explain to the man that this was not lawful, and there is a fine for this action. The man again told us both to keep walking and mind our own business. 

I'm sorry, but when I become angry, I lose my mind. I am emotionally unable to walk away from a fight. I've always been this way. I can't help it. Grown ass morons brutalizing children or animals is a huge trigger for me. I'm not bragging, folks. Sometimes my reactions scare me.

So this unpleasant encounter escalated into a war of words, screaming even, as we walked away. I feel guilty about the little boy.

Right and wrong.  So easy to say, so hard to figure out.

Academic Freedom?

Academics don't write for the masses. They don't even write for students. They write for each other. Academic writing is densely dry for the rest of us, kind of sucking the joy out of learning. 

I asked a Classics professor why he didn't share his knowledge and write books accessible for everyone. He replied that if he did, his colleagues would no longer take him seriously. 

I understand the pressure to conform. Hired as assistant professors they have virtually no independent voice, because after 6 years they must submit themselves to a grueling and soul destroying review of their work. If they pass, they become Associate Professors, with full tenure. If they don't pass, they are fired. Then the successful ones have the choice to come up for another peer review in their career if they want to become full professors. 

Don't kid yourself.  If any of these tortured souls tried to do something radical before achieving full professor, their peers would become jealous and or judgmental and the younger academic would not be promoted. Silence is a game they must play for many years. But once these scholars have achieved "tenure" they cannot be fired. They have a job for life.  When they become full professors, there are no further peer reviews. 

Surely some could continue their serious academic writings and still find time to write a popular summary for those of us who don't want to inhale the moldering dust of academic tomes. Well, that was mean of me, wasn't it? Sorry. But books that go unread often make me sneeze.

And knowledge not shared is what my mother would have called a sin and a shame.

I live in a country where intellectuals are considered elitists, distrusted and reviled. In turn, intellectuals look down on the uneducated rabble. Gee, how did that happen?  More to the point, how can we change that?

I am so tired of living among people so poorly educated that their only pastime is to drink themselves into oblivion while watching bad TV.

I'm going to have to think more about this

Is there something wrong with me? I'm enjoying this time of social distancing and staying at home with my husband. I am virtually anxiety free and feel like this is the most important vacation I've ever been on.  What if the world was slower, quieter, and simpler?

This feeling of contentment is new for me.  I'm not sure if it is good or bad. I wonder if it will last once the quarantine ends? I'm going to have to think about this before I write more. 

And P.S., I'm sure I'd feel differently if I was alone.  

No space and time

I'm thinking of that place where there's no space and time.  In particular, those free-spirited days from 1967 through early 1971. I had so few responsibilities, and could devote myself to whatever crack-pot, beguiling notion entered my head. There was plenty of room in that head. It needed to be filled, and only real life with all its wonders could fill a head that empty. 

In the early days, psychedelic drugs were not taken for "fun." I still don't quite understand the notion of taking it for "fun." Altered reality is often a terrifying place. Sometimes, however, it offers beautiful and mystical experiences. It opens one's mind to new ideas and alternate consciousness. It puts many in direct contact with the creative imagination.  

We were foolish and naive, thinking we could shortcut the quest for numinosity and creative bliss. We played with fire, wide eyed and unprepared. The Old Gods were awaked by all that ecstatic devotion. Those primitive forces are both good and bad. They act according to their own nature. People died. But the music from that time period was most certainly inspired.

Word of the Day: April 17, 2020

 Cockwomble
(noun) A person, usually male, prone to making outrageously stupid statements and/or inappropriate behaviour while generally having a very high opinion of their own wisdom and importance.

Hahahahahahaha.  Love it.  

How N spends his time in quarantine

He is such a glorious goofball.  Notice the pile of whoopie cushions next to him.  I miss him.

Getting creative with technology during a global pandemic

We FaceTimed our great-granddaughter, Sweet C, in Kentucky the other day. She was SO cute, and seemed interested in the two old folks yammering at her on the screen. I sang to her, and played pattacake.

Grandson N received his first cell phone so he can interact with the outside world. (When he is allowed to use the phone) he has been texting us with hilarious messages containing no periods or commas. 

I sent a New York State friend photos of our current Florida flowers. She sent me back photos of old friends like blood root, bleeding hearts, and daffodils poking their heads out of the cold, dark NYS soil. Spring is coming!

Great Grandpa, pulling out all the stops to entertain Sweet C
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My correspondence with N.  My comments are in blue.  I'm trying to figure out if he is being a smart aleck when he says "That's fascinating"
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Bleeding Hearts, lifting our spirits as life returns to the frozen northlands

Sometimes

Sometimes I just don't know what to say.