2005 Newsletters from |
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2005 Newsletters from |
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My Own Treasured Friends, I can write this letter in January because our choir did a spectacular job performing our last cantata. For those unsure as to what a cantata is, we define it as half a dozen Christmas themed songs of mild to moderately difficult four part harmony, which are meant to inspire and entertain. As I surveyed the congregation once we'd concluded our sing, I saw women and a man or two dabbing their eyes dry. There was even one lady redoing her makeup in the powder room afterward because she'd managed to scrub it all off while hearing us. I report this in the most optimistic spirit. I reluctantly admit there are times when Bruce, my husband and partner in song, are never sure our long hours of practice will result in inspiration or hilarity. Mind you, Bruce has perfect pitch, so he's a real giggle to sit next to whenever someone sings off key because he makes faces. We recognize this is rude. However, we always strive to be gracious and properly hide our smirks behind paper programs. This may sound mean-spirited, but when it comes to my vocal abilities, let's just say they're limited. Therefore, I recognize an off-note rather readily since it takes one to know one. In all the years and all the notes Bruce and I have shared, he has never complimented me nor bragged to his friends or enemies that I can carry a tune. While I'm sure I can sing, at least I think I can, I do realize I was not born for solos because I was born a blender, which is to say I'm aces in a group. As for our choir members, they are all lovely people, but ... I don't want to sound superior though I have just stated I can carry a tune and am therefore not part of the problem. Occasionally, some "other" members are so far off the mark, I sometimes think somebody moved the whole darn target. When I watch the tenors and basses practice, all sitting in a row, I easily imagine them as devilish rapscallions now grown and masquerading as adults. I'm just waiting to be hit in the back of the head with a spitball as one of them hollers, "Basses rule!" Truth be told, that crack comes mostly from my husband because Bruce's lower range is an entire octave lower than the other guys. He's so low that when he sings, your chest vibrates! And I mean this in the most ladylike way. The tenor, bass and alto parts are always more difficult in four part harmony since they rarely carry the melody. That's where the sopranos come it. And that would include me. I could sing alto, at least that's how I was categorized in junior high school. I choose to sing soprano - except for the highest notes - because, frankly, it's easier, and I want to have fun. Oddly, our wonderful director worries most about pronunciation, "No Rs! It's Fatha, not Fatherrrrrrrrrrrr." She seems less than stricken when our dulcimer tones are more oblong than perfectly rounded. Why does she settle for those dull F sharps and stumpy high Cs? How can she endure our screeching and sliding year after year? Being the only professional in the gang, she must know more than we do because it always comes together in the end. Oh, and don't ever think our choir parties are dull. All I can say is that they requested we bring a double batch of Smoking Bishop yet again. And that Smoking Bishop always makes for sweeter sounds, particularly after a second mug. Wahoo! Love from Florida's Amelia Island, PS Congratulations to Carol Drury of http://www.cdrury.com, the winner of our Goodbye Lie Golden Dreams necklace.
My Own Treasured Friends, Since our garage is filled with a car, there is little room for a workbench. Of course, having no workbench makes the perfect excuse for putting off repair projects. Still, since I am always adding to my husband Bruce's Honey-Do List of chores, we really needed something. After the most delicate of hints [major nagging], Bruce, our esteemed Marketing Wizard, accepted my suggestion to build a drop leaf workbench. Appreciating the challenge, he backed the car out, set up the collapsible sawhorses and began the week-long construction project. At the end of that time, he let me enter his he-man space to see what he had built. There, flat to the wall, was the table. Bending down, he lifted the front edge, located just above the floor, and raised it up to shoulder height. As he did so, the two support legs (attached with chains), came up. Bruce set the tabletop down upon the legs. Tadah! Before us was a perfect, unblemished work bench on which to build more things, repair broken items, and do my crafts. In the interests of recycling and not wanting to mar Bruce's masterpiece, I produced a large plastic mat, formerly a wall calendar, to protect the pristine workbench surface from paint. Bruce was touched by the obvious respect and awe I was showing for his precious masterpiece. Wiping a tear from his eye, he reversed the tabletop procedure. Magically, the workbench was again out of the way and flat to the wall. Next Bruce announced, "It's your turn to set up the workbench." I scurried over, reached for the edge of the table closest to the floor and ... and ... alas, I could not lift it. Bruce had engineered the workbench to hold the weight of a wheel barrel filled with bricks plus three elephants. It was so heavy, I, the little woman, heavy on the "little" in this instance, was unable to raise it higher than my ankle bones. I heaped on the praise and exited the garage, leaving Bruce to ruminate on a solution. Drilling and pounding could be heard inside the house and after several hours, Bruce called me back to give workbench raising another try. This time, I was able to lift the table with one hand. Bruce had cleverly rigged his unused barbell weight to a rope and pulley attached to the ceiling. As a counter weight, the barbell worked wonderfully!
please click on the photos of Bruce's masterpiece to enlarge them I was so proud of him as he glowed with the sheen of success. Naturally, our next act was to call forth the neighbors to come have a "look-see." As a matter of fact, whenever we have new visitors, one of the stops on the tour of our home, which we lovingly call Stately Martha Manor after our website mascot, Martha Bear®, is that of the garage. Several people have suggested we charge admission into the garage, but we're saving that idea as financial backup in the future, just in case … Love from Florida's Amelia Island, PS In the interest of family harmony, Nancy would like everyone to know that her husband Cary, our DF, recently fixed their garbage disposal. She hopes he will accept this acknowledgement and stop remarking about his great achievement to strangers in elevators. She warns, however, that anyone who has the misfortune to sit next to Cary on a plane must take their chances with regard to topics of interest if they are foolish enough to engage Cary in conversation.
Editor's Note: Frequent visitors to our pages might think Jane Marie and I spend all our time taking photos of buffalo statues or promoting "The Goodbye Lie." While we can't deny we do keep busy - as you can see in the photo of Jane Marie at a recent book signing at Alexander's Books in Fernandina Beach, Florida, this month's newsletter shows we had other things on our minds. Speaking as new great aunt, I can only say it's been a very long nine+ months of silence. We are so glad to be able to share our joy. Happy Spring (or Fall if you live south of the equator)!
My Own Treasured Friends, One of my favorite I Love Lucy episodes is where Ricky Ricardo sings, "♫We're having a baby, my baby and me,♫" to his wife, Lucy. Well, guess what? I joyfully sing a similar refrain. "♫My baby's had a baby!♫" My baby daughter, now a successful career woman, has just had a baby, and I'm so thrilled. I simply had to share the news with everyone! Barbra and husband Mark, told her father, Bruce, and me they were expecting over the phone one weekend because we don't live in the same town. Well, she didn't actually tell us.
"Mom," said Barbra. "Are you both on the phone?" "We are," said I. Then there was silence. And I knew. We come from a long line of Irish weepers so that explained why she couldn't speak. But I could, about four words worth, "Barbra, are you expecting?" Had we each had tear vials like the Victorians carried, they would have overflowed, our elation was so great. As for the men listening to all this, since we were in different rooms as well as cities, I can only assume their optical irrigation systems were working just fine because they, likewise, were silent. Eventually we all recovered. Through sniffling and laughter, the chatter flew. I don't remember the specifics because happiness sometimes does that to you. I do remember making sure Barbra was feeling well and asking when the blessed event, and I do mean blessed, would be. In eight months, I was informed. Barbra said she wanted to be certain she was pregnant. She giggled as she explained she'd spent $50 on pregnancy tests. Not believing the first positive result, she bought two more, the last being something she called, "Pregnancy Test for Dummies," where the results read "Not Pregnant" or "Pregnant." As soon as they read the 3rd verification, Barbra and Mark called us, even before going to the doctor. "When can I tell everybody?" I asked, chomping at the bit to spread the word. In a most mature manner, she told me, "Since the first few months are the most precarious, I think it would be best not to say anything until we know for certain that things are on track. I don't want to make any of the rest of our family sad if, heaven forbid, something goes wrong." I was stunned at her complete regard for her relatives. Then she added, "But you can tell your friends. I don't know any of them." Barbra had forgotten how many friends I've made through the Internet. When I reminded her about newsletter subscribers and website visitors, she suggested I wait. This was frustrating but sensible. I did share the news with my Amelia Island friends, the incredible people who helped with Barbra's wedding. They chuckled at Barbra's comment, understanding she gets her logic and forgetfulness from me. The next day, I ordered three baby books and a DVD of Father's Little Dividend with Spencer Tracy and Elizabeth Taylor for the happy couple from Amazon Books Home Page. We had all watched the original Father of the Bride (remade with Steve Martin) with the same cast when the kids were going to be married.
I spent the rest of the day going through the attic, the closet with the bustles and other hidey holes. I pulled out all of Barbra's own baby clothes. Though we have moved several times over the years, those boxes traveled with us from state to state because one day I knew Barbra would treasure the stained undershirts and sun suits the same as I do. I also found items I hadn't seen in decades, her first Christmas and Easter dresses, the I Love You striped t-shirt, the plug-in serving dish that warms three different baby food at once, her first brush, her first spoon, even the knitted bonnet and sweater with the lavender ribbon she wore home from the hospital. Although I found dresses up to size three and Barbra's childhood books, I will refrain from bringing those things down from the attic until the child can at least focus her eyes. I promised to hold off reading bedtime stories until the baby was is three days old and smart enough to understand every word. 16 years ago, I made a French heirloom Christening gown for my niece. I lengthened it by 12 inches for Barbra's baby to wear with the yellow edged hand crocheted bib given to infant Barbra by my mother, Martha Marie. As you have probably figured by now, I couldn't wait. This child makes four living generations in our family, with Barbra producing the first great grandchild for my father. Writing to you after all this time has been wonderful. I won't ask you to forgive my sentimentality because I wish the same for you. Be it a child of your own, a grandchild, an adopted child, a relative's child or the neighbor's child, watching the open, wondering face of that little one and seeing the light of innocent love and listening behind their wide eyes, brings the desire to teach the good, the right, and the proper. That's our job, after all, because we have gone before and broken ground already. Besides being a huge but welcome responsibility, it's an even bigger honor, and any of us who takes it on is the better and happier for it. Thank you, God, for our little Ava. Love from Florida's Amelia Island,
My Own Treasured Friends, Our daughter has accused her father, Bruce, and me of being electronically challenged. Worse, whenever we go to their house, Barbra and her husband, Mark, enjoy watching us fumble with the controls on their TV. While I don't know how to do much on a computer beyond writing and saving my stories and articles on Word, that's enough to qualify me, in my mind at least, as being computer literate. Bruce, however can't turn on the monitor, let alone the system. He keeps threatening to move past the manual typewriter and on to the electric, but so far he's all talk. Recently though, we had a satellite dish installed. I was not home when the installers came. I arrived at Stately Martha Manor only to find the new satellite dish mounted on the inside of the front wall of the courtyard. You know by now I'm not one to often make much of a fuss - just ask me - so it was with deliberate resolve that I refrained from pointing out the fact that the saucer was highly visible on the outside of the wall. Talk about your curb appeal. Forcing myself to avert my eyes from the ugly electronic monstrosity that is now a permanent fixture, I entered the manor in search of the positive side of this travesty. But I found Bruce in the parlor, mumbling a string of colorful nouns, adjectives, verbs and a few adverbs I'd never before heard. His grumpy-speak and deadly glares were directed toward the blank screen staring back at him. He couldn't figure how to turn the set back on after the installers left. "The guy said all I had to do was push TV, then POWER, then SATELLITE, then ..." Bruce returned to grumbling. After changing my clothes, I rejoiced at the sounds of music coming from the parlor. Bruce was leisurely sitting back, his feet up in his easy chair, happily pushing buttons, intently watching the channels stream by. "Look," said he. "It goes up to Channel 999! That's a lot of TV!" How anyone could watch, let alone keep track of 999 television channels was beyond me. Nevertheless, I asked to play with the remote control. With the push of a button, I managed to turn the rollicking music of an Elvis flick into the eardrum shattering sound of snow, the stuff that shows up on the screen with no picture or color. Talk about your white noise from hell! "What did you do?" Bruce asked accusatorily, as if my diabolical plan all along was to keep him away from the Elvis movie. "I don't have a clue," I smartly responded. "You figure it out!" That's the way our television watching has gone thus far. Sometimes we get a picture. Sometimes we can't turn the set on. Sometimes we can't turn the thing off. Sometimes we end up watching nothing but basketball games narrated in Spanish. As for the 999 channels, half of them are pay per view, and even if we wanted to, we wouldn't know how to give them our money. And I just know you’re dying to find out about the VCR. Ha! I may never again be able to time record my soaps. As we await either the expiration of our year's contract or conquer the beast called satellite, we will continue our quest to find the mute button in a speedy fashion to blot out all those annoying car commercials that fuzz our minds. But then, our minds are already full of fuzz. What's a little more? The world has come so far in the wonderful world of electronics, and we will, too, as soon as Barbra and Mark come to give us a lesson in ON and OFF buttons. Love from Florida's Amelia Island,
My Own Treasured Friends, As I sit here, I realize how blessed we are. From the anticipation of the arrival of four generations - the first time we've all been together in six and a half years, through the silliness, seriousness, and love at the gathering, to the photos I am anxious to put into my scrapbook, it was been one heck of a wonderful week.Advance planning called for a month of strategically scheduled landscaping and internal house preparation. I admit to being very proud of my courtyard garden. The roses, day lilies, petunias, plus a myriad of other flowers and trees, dotted the green foliage with color to make a tranquil paradise upon which the eyes could rest.Finally, Bruce, my husband, and I declared Stately Martha Manor, named for the mascot of our site, Martha Bear, ready for company. Not to be left out, our Florida Feline Force did their best to undo what we had accomplished to make the place free from cat hair. Animals can always tell when something exciting or different is about to happen, so the critters did the most shedding I have ever seen. Thanks guys. From Pennsylvania, Oklahoma, Kansas, Virginia, and Florida, the relatives came. Some by air. Some by automobile. Most of their luggage was overflowing with essentials like personal pillows, favorite snacks, four or more outfits per day for the teenage girls, CDs, DVDs, cell phones, books, potions, perfumes, polishes, retainers, portable cribs, diapers, eight outfits a day for the littlest ones, bottles, more potions, baby food and formula, video and digital cameras, binoculars. You know. You've packed those same necessities yourself. Stately Martha Manor is what one might call "compact,” so only our daughter's family could stay in the guest room with baby Ava sleeping in our now perfectly organized office, Story Central. I have a silent bet with myself to see how long we can keep the office in order. We're going on eight days now and, trust me, that's a record. A nearby hotel housed most of the rest of our guests. Except, that is, for our college girls. Our lovely Irish neighbor, Maggie (referred to in our teddy bear stories as Next-Door Maggie), not only opened her guest room to the girls, but darting between water droplets from our sprinklers, she also delivered a delicious chocolate cake with mint frosting! Maggie's utter generosity at housing complete strangers will be remembered forever by my family. Eating remains a major family pastime. For many weeks I studied grocery ads, looking for the twofers, you know, buy one, get one free, since we would have just shy of 20 people to feed on and off for four or five days. I went through my tried and true recipes, looking for the best ones - Pasta Salad, Three Bean Salad, Strawberry Fluff, Deviled/Angeled Eggs, brownies with chocolate frosting, ham, lasagna, hamburgers and hotdogs, all the standard American favorites. One day, sun block slathered on, we hit the beach for a picnic. We'd reserved a covered pavilion with tables from the city of Fernandina Beach because the main entrée was peel-and-eat-shrimp. The day was sunny, the wind mild, and the ocean's waves tickled the knees of swimmers who dared enter the water. Two days earlier, the beaches had been closed, county-wide, because of sharks - a rare occurrence - and rip currents. We worried the mid-westerners would be unable to get a taste of salt water, but thankfully, that mini-crisis had passed by picnic day. I had dusted off a Winnie the Pooh kite unearthed in the garage, and Bruce and brother Bob took a shot at getting it to fly. Since I'd forgotten a kite tail, they improvised by tying a stale sleeve of crackers (fit only for sea gulls) to the bottom of the kite for weight. After several tries to get it aloft, I heard Bruce shout, "Too many crackers!" whereupon Bob removed three or four and tossed them into the air for the gulls. The relation of air to kite was perfect, and the kite flew. I have the video to prove it! Speaking of feeding the birds, there I was - though you'll have to trust me on this one - throwing more crackers up into the air with gulls all around me. I yelled to Bruce and brother-in-law Dennis to take a video of the scene. Apparently, they failed because when the DVD is viewed, you can hear Dennis say, "I don't think it's even on. The battery must be dead." Now I'm not one to criticize. I mean, I have forgotten to take the lens cap off the camera a time or twelve, but the men's attempt at taking my picture with the gulls is hilarious. The sometimes blurry scene captures the wooden deck, parts of the house across the street, the sea oats flapping, and a brief and completely accidental shot of unidentifiable person. I think it's me. Pictures, videos, and more pictures. Photos of a tiny bare Ava on her tummy, blackmail material for later in life, were snapped. So were those of her laughter whenever she spied her cousin Jack. His "booga, booga" technique could not be duplicated by any one, though try we did, to make Ava repeat her giggles. Oh, and we continued a tradition of sorts. We held what we loosely refer to as a talent show. Cartwheels, singing with and without hand gestures, stiff legged dancing, violin playing - no one ever did guess the well known tune played by my husband, my old standard on the harmonica, Oh! Susanna (no embarrassing corn kernels came out of the harmonica this time - don't ask), and sister Peggy on her knees pushing the pedals of the pump organ while her husband asked if that was his wife's talent. The highlights of everything for me, next to being with those I love, were the celebration of our father's 88th birthday along with the christening of my new grandbaby, Ava. The baby angel wore the French heirloom hand sewn gown I'd made 16 years before and slept through the entire ceremony. The picture of my father, daughter, granddaughter, and me plus the group shot of us all, are already on display in our parlor thanks to the wonderful world of digital photography. Instant gratification works every time in my world! Well, they've all come and gone now, back to their own lives. That's the way it should be. I miss them all terribly. Being together like that reminded me of when we were little and our relatives would come by for every occasion. Our immediate family members don't have the luxury of living near each other, so visits are spaced apart in months and years instead of weeks. Maybe that makes our gatherings all the more special. We can't take them for granted. All I know is I have the photos to remember the details, but I won't ever forget the warmth generated in my heart just by thinking about each special person. Whether you have a large family or a small one, I wish for you the same tender thoughts of them that I have for mine. Love from Florida's Amelia Island, PS We're still polishing off the watermelon that no one had room to eat. I'll bet they could all use a slice right about now. Guess they'll just have to come back down for a visit. It can't be soon enough for me. PPS We've notified the winner of our Goodbye Lie Magic Nights contest. Congratulations!
My Own Treasured Friends, OK. You're wondering what this letter is all about. Boils on the backside would call for some sort of creative sitting posture, as would splinters from an old wooden teeter-totter. No, it's nothing like that. I'm writing about babysitting in a resourceful and ingenious fashion. Sure, anyone can feed a hungry baby, change a diaper, and rock an infant to sleep. Or so I thought. our main page for babies and children One Saturday afternoon, my husband and I were caring for our six month old granddaughter Ava. 99% of the time, Ava is a happy little girl, all giggles and smiles, making me feel like the most beloved grandmother ever. Also, she whines when I'm out of her sight. She likes the way I play with her - non stop. On that particular day, Little Miss Ava was not the happiest of babies. Now what, I asked myself, was different? I had not changed the formula. I had not added any new food to Ava's diet. She had no fever, no sunburn, no rash, no sniffles, no tummy ache, no gas, nor any teeth trying to pop through, so far as I could tell. On the contrary. Since the introduction of real food to her diet, what we once fondly referred to as Ava's "sha-poopy* explosions,” we now called "sha-poopy bombs.” However, since Ava's latest odoriferous challenge had been detected and removed, I guessed her affliction was pure stubbornness. She was so tired her eye lids were pink. The circles under her eyes were darkening by the moment, but she would not give into the sandman.
I gently swung her in my arms, back and forth, so she didn't have a chance to focus on anything. It had always worked before this. We tried for 20 minutes to calm the screaming child, including playing or trying to play one of three of the hottest DVDs for little ones called Baby Einstein. With far too many remotes and clickers, Bruce, the ever-patient grandfather, pushed button after button. The result was Baby Einstein music with no picture. While he was proud of his partial success, Ava would have none of it. Bruce did what many a husband would do at this point. He settled back to watch the news on television. I, the nurturing woman, continued trying to calm the screaming baby. But Bruce had pushed so many buttons, he'd confused the television itself, and his news refused to come on. Nee, nee, nee, nee, nee. Since my taunting was less than gracious, I covered Ava's tender ears. I decided to take Ava for a walk in her stroller. She has always enjoyed that, I assured myself. And then, like badly timed fairy magic, down came the rain and washed my idea out. Not to be deterred, I asked Bruce to bring the stroller inside for kitchen use. After loading up the baby, I pushed the stroller or tried to push it, but there was not enough room. Success. There I was in the kids' bedroom, pushing the stroller four inches forward and four inches back, since that's all the room there was - just Ava, me, and good old reliable Lawrence W. Whatever Ava's problem, she calmed down immediately once she heard the strains of the champagne music and saw the accompanying bubbles, drifting off in minutes. I feared that transferring her from stroller to crib would be our undoing, but the child clung tight to her baby dreams and didn't stir. I looked down at my precious grandbaby with her jammy pants unfashionably pulled up to her armpits to prevent her shirt from coming out and exposing her tummy to the freezing cold of air conditioning, and adjusted her nightcap and hand socks with great love and tenderness. (Ava is forever scratching her head or face with her fingernails, hence her alias, Ava Scissorhands. We're trying everything to prevent this, including the nightgowns with the fold-over cuffs, but she manages to wiggle those fingers out anyway. Socks on her hands are working temporarily until the cotton mittens we ordered arrive.) While Ava was snoozing to Lawrence Welk, I told my story to her mother and father who had called to check on her. They weren't crazy about having the stroller on their cream-colored carpet, but we wisely saved further discussion of that matter for a later time. One of the things they revealed was they have only two Baby Einstein DVDs. The third was actually a CD. This explained why Bruce couldn't get the accompanying picture to come on. There wasn't any! Bruce, eventually got the TV to play the news with sound, however. The last I remember of that chapter of electronic farce was the scene of him drawing a diagram of the clicker, notating which button was which. He'll be ready next time. Or maybe not. Love from Florida's Amelia Island,
PS Finally! Our new contest ↑ has begun. Win our Goodbye Lie Island Rose Necklace (This contest has closed.)
My Own Treasured Friends, People ask me lots of questions. One of the most frequent after "Where do you get your ideas for stories?" is "How do you stay organized?" I could fib and say something like, "I have files cross referenced with subject and date,” but I try to avoid misleading folks. I do have a few tricks that have gotten me to this point. (Be nice and don't ask me to define this point.) Folders and a battery box. "Huh?" you ask, (well, not about the manilla folders with messy and much-used identification tabs). You ask the "huh" about my battery box. This is actually a plastic box that resembles a large car battery with a handle. It is big enough to hold those folders plus a small tape recorder and a couple of boxes for photo disks, current and future articles, and pictures of Martha Bear, our mascot and spokesbear. The top of my plastic box has a small compartment for business cards, pens, paper clips, stamps, receipts, etc., all the little junk necessary to run the Southeastern Branch of a world wide corporation, like our own greenlightWRITE. Let all those fancy executives out there have their huge mahogany desks and leather chairs, their titles on their doors in gold leaf, executive administrative assistants, yada, yada. I'm a simple kind of gal. Give me a plastic box and I'm set. I tote my box everywhere, even on out of town trips. So there you have how I run my part of our writing show. Or do you? Since we're all good friends, I think I can confide in you about my secret weapon. The one real, actual, up to the moment item that keeps me on top of things - more or less - is … is … insert drum roll here. … The real deal for me can be explained in two words: sticky notes. Yes, sticky notes, those yellow squares with just enough adhesive to attach them temporarily to something. They are everywhere in my life. I am forever worried a strong breeze or someone walking past too quickly will blow those precious gems of info off my computer. Some sticky notes are curled with age and dusty, but remain, as they contain the correct spelling of words I find to be a constant challenge to get right, like porte-cochere or hors d'houvres. Then there's my shorthand notation of the step by step process of how to delete a temporary internet file, plus drawings or attempts at drawings to remind me that quotation marks not only go before a word but after the period. Come to find out, Nancy thought I automatically knew that stuff. To the shock of everyone / no one, I confess I don't have perfect knowledge. Seemingly a random mess, my sticky notes are not so to me. As for the other fifty or so notes piled in slovenly fashion on my desk or filling several envelopes in my drawer, no one is allowed to move them. They contain reminders of clever turns of phrases, small jobs that need to be done and chapters and page numbers of loose ends that need to be tied up in the current novel I'm working on, among other things. Last, but equally important, are those sticky notes in the pockets of my trousers. As I dress down after a day away from home, I unload the notes from my person onto the bedroom vanity each evening. I toss them away only after a particular mission is accomplished, a thank you card is sent, or a date is written in my birthday book. Like everyone, my life is a whirl of information, and those sticky notes help me organize that information. Where others rely on notebooks or pop up reminders on their monitors, I rely on my friend, the sticky note. Yes, sticky notes are a vital necessity to this woman who entitles one of her speeches, "Random Ricochets off the Backsplash of My Mind." That explains a lot! The real question is: Why don't I have stock in a sticky note company? By George, I'll write that question on a sticky note to remind myself to check into it! Love from Florida's Amelia Island, PS We're thrilled to announce the appointment of Bonnie Shivley as our Official Ozark Oracle (OOO - think of Bonnie, think of hugs). Bonnie has been a Contributing Editor for some time, but we've given her the title of OOO because we love her to death and because she's become a valuable member of our team. Thank you, Bonnie, for all you do. PPS You've probably noticed the new ads at the tops of many of our pages. Each one represents a chance for you to help fund our site when you simply click on something that interests you. As always, we appreciate your aid in supporting our online efforts to share wholesome entertainment and knowledge around the world. God bless! JM and NK PPPS We're very proud to announce we won the Christell Award from Christell Publishing. This prestigious award, first given in 2000, is a proud reminder of our commitment to a gracious future for all and a tribute to the very best of the past. more awards PPPPS Next time you buy a postage stamp, consider spending 45 cents for the official breast cancer stamp. The US Post Office passes the proceeds (minus costs and postage) to breast cancer research. Over $37 million has been raised for breast cancer research so far.
My Own Treasured Friends, I don't know what it is about words and their variations, but I'm fascinated by dialect with its colorful phrases and ear-catching pronunciations. I moved from Erie, Pennsylvania to Dallas, Texas to northern Florida in the mid 1970s. One of the first things I noticed was folks down south had accents, different ways of pronouncing words from those I was accustomed to. When I met my husband Bruce in Texas, I thought he had one heck of a strong southern accent. He informed me that being from Joplin, Missouri, and having traveled, he considered himself to have a Midwestern-Texas accent. My father thought Bruce sounded like a cowboy - whatever cowboys sound like. When you marry and start living full time with a person from a place other than your hometown, you notice differences in speech very quickly. Bruce says in' sur ance, where I say in sur' ance. He says dis' play and I say dis play'. It's the same with ice' cream and ice cream'. He also says drougth (pronounce the th) for drought and hurrican for hurricane, a sad subject we'll be talking about for quite a while with the tragedy of Katrina upon us. (While we all donate as we're able, it seems so little compared to what they're going through. Bless all those who are suffering.) Donate: American Red Cross Article: Choosing a Charity I've heard mirrow for mirror, chimley for chimney, let me hug your neck instead of let me give you a hug, make your picture instead of take your picture, put up the laundry instead of put away the laundry, wait on her instead of wait for her, I like to have died instead of holy cow! It's all a delight, but I'll never forget a knock on our Dallas door. There stood a little boy wanting our daughter to come out to play. He was taken with the matching jackets (remember, it was the 70s) Dad had given to us. The boy asked, "Where'd y'all get y'alls' jackets with y'alls' name on 'um?" Talk about cute and charming! As you might guess, listening hard to speech comes naturally to me. Apparently I'm a pretty good mimic. In fact, I've had born and raised Southerners ask me if I'm from the South because they think the dialect in my Goodbye Lie series rings so true. Talk about the ultimate compliment for a writer. Bottom line: Dialect is different from the norm just as my norm is different from yours. It makes for an interesting and entertaining world. Just think of the actors with gifts for dialect or natural accents that enthrall us all - old favorites like Caesar Romero, Omar Sharif, Sophia Loren, Rex Harrison, Katherine Hepburn, Butterfly McQueen and today's stars such as Jude Law, Russell Crowe and Antonio Banderas to name a few. I for one enjoy them because of the way they speak, not in spite of it. How about you? Love from Florida's Amelia Island,
*di·a·lect (d
Editor's Note: Jane Marie had several titles in mind for this month's letter, but the minute I read it, I wanted to steal the title from a short story by the late, great P. G. Wodehouse. Not only is the Wodehouse story one of the two funniest short stories I've ever read, but his title (titles cannot be copyrighted) "Goodbye to All Cats," seemed perfect to me, a dog person. Since Jane Marie loves her kitties despite their faults, we used one of her titles.
My Own Treasured Friends, It is 6:45 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and I'm groggy from lack of shut-eye. I stayed up until nearly 1:00 a.m to watch a comparison of The Big Sleep with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, the pre-edited version versus the final released cut. I had hoped to sleep in, but silly, silly me. When will I learn our cats will not permit any slug-a-beds in their family? At 6:15 a.m. or there abouts, they let us have it with a not so subtle knocking on our bedroom door. Actually, it wasn't a knocking because cats don't have knuckles with which to rap. It was more of an insistent, not to be ignored stroking on the lower portion of the wooden door panels. Sigh. We growled, yelled, and otherwise weakly attempted to discourage the reveille. Those feline beasts gave us approximately three minutes between door rattlings, which, to their minds, was most charitable. But it was just enough time for us to begin to drift back to sleep before they began again. And would you like to know the reason for their early up-and-at 'ums? Well, I'll tell you. They all wanted a drink of water. Okay. You think you have the solution. Put a water bowl out for them in another room, right? Wrong. We maintain cute and colorful cat water bowls in both the kitchen and in the front bath. We also have one in the our master bath off our bedroom. And that's the problem. For some reason we have yet to figure out, the water dish in our bathroom holds the most tempting water. Sadly, access to it is through our bedroom. If that isn't bad enough, we are still having late night fetchings. Two out of three cats, baby Button, alias Little Naughty, and Spew, her big brother, fetch. While this might be an interesting oddity and fun to participate in during waking hours, in the middle of the night fetching holds no appeal whatsoever for humans. Examples: They have a favorite red string thingie, formerly resembling a mouse. In the dark of night, I far too frequently feel a jostling of the bed caused by the weigh of a cat or two, munificently, to their pea minds, including us in their play. With eyes refusing to open, I blindly reach about for the nasty mouse-thing they've brought. Sometimes I actually find it without having to sit up. When I get my hands on it, and I always do because they won't leave me alone until I do, I throw it out into the room somewhere. Unfortunately, they retrieve it as any good dog would. This is repeated several times until my lame tossing of the object is no challenge in distance or search, and the cats, to my extreme pleasure, give up. Other times, I cleverly hide the mouse between the box springs and mattress. Just as cleverly, the cats sniff it out mini-seconds after I've drifted off to sleep again, and the cycle continues. Until I give their precious mousy to the garbage gods as an offering, I remain helpless against the single-mindedness of our feline entertainment junkies. Where was my husband all this? Was he participating? Was he awake? Was he disturbed at all? Heck no. He was dead to the world unlike me, his princess. (Remember The Princess and The Pea. I feel and hear all as any light sleeper does.) While Bruce snored on, I heard the rustling of aluminum foil. In the middle of the night, you ask? Yup. You see, for a recent family reunion, we replaced our two 20 year old recliners with new Queen Ann burgundy recliners. I absolutely love how their delicate legs elevate them from the floor, making our small parlor appear a bit more spacious. The rub is I have only seen them for one entire day when our company first came. Why? Because in order to remain the pretty rich burgundy they are, the chairs must be covered with burgundy sheets to protect them from the deposits of hair left by sleeping cats - like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs, cat hair is dropped wherever the cats walk. Back to the rustling of aluminum foil: Button has taken to sharpening her claws on the back edges of both new chairs. When I'm awake, I generously spray her with water from the always handy squirt bottle. Trouble is, Button is the kitty who likes to play in water. Remember we once found her peeking out of the toilet bowl? Mmm. So appealing. My solution was to pin aluminum foil to the backs of the chairs in hope the crackle of the foil would discourage her. Of course I'd only had the foil on one night when Bruce informed me he found a few shredded pieces on the floor along with some scattered straight pins Button had plucked from my magnetic pin cushion and left in our path for bare feet to tread on. As you can tell, our cats are ever victorious, but so long as there is the human desire, need, and right for a good night's sleep, I will never give up! "Hear that, cats?" Love from Florida's Amelia Island and Stately Martha's House of Cats,
My Own Treasured Friends, Sister Nancy, partner and dispenser of wisdom (a bit of flattery keeps her happy), suggested I share a brief overview of our brilliant design system. I'm not referring to Nancy's handmade jewelry in her Goodbye Lie Collection, which pays homage to the women in my historic suspense novel series, or her other jewelry collections named for famous women in history. I'm talking about designing our T shirts, mugs, mousepads, baby bibs, clocks, wooden boxes, aprons, sweatshirts, etc. Nancy calls me the artist in the family. I readily admit to having painted a humming bird that is identifiable as such as well as a small rabbit, a daisy face and any number of whimsical non-specied flowers, no two ever alike, for my fun, unique and sweet Secret Pebbles™ offerings. (I smiled modestly as I typed this.) I have also boldly designed, drawn, and/or photographed many of the images you see on our web pages. Jane Marie's drawing of Mr. E. A. Whickers, Proprietor of Martha Bear's Old Fashioned General Store & Online Emporium The resident Marketing Wizard at Stately Martha Manor, alias my husband Bruce, is the official arbitrator of what is and isn't appealing. Is it because his taste is exquisite, his mind as sharp as broken toilet bowl porcelain (that's another story coming soon to these pages), or is it because he's often in the next room and available to answer questions from me, aka The Questionmeister?
"How would this drawing of a worn down shoe with bunions swelling the sides look for a T shirt or baby bib? Doesn't move ya? What about if I change the caption from stinks to smells? (Mini tribute to The Philadelphia Story staring Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn for you movie buffs.) 1940 "Still no? Let's try solid puce for the background color and lose the polka dots. Would you like it better then? You would? You're not just saying that because you want me to make you a Chocolate Oatmeal Semi-Smoothie for breakfast tomorrow, are you?" I try and read his eyes. Does he truly love my efforts? Or is he so full of beans, he's lost his usual good taste and will say anything to get rid of me so he can go back to watching the ballgame. If it's not difficult enough to get my designs past him, you should try Nancy! The dreaded "I don't like it" from her is like the blue screen of death to a computer. As you might have deduced, my idea of what's clever versus the rest of the world's may differ. The trick is to appeal to myself and everyone else on the planet. Picture this for a shirt. A boy deer and a girl deer are standing in the woods. There's a white rectangle on a post between them. Music notes are all around. The caption above in red lettering says Lets Taste the Salt Lick and Prance." Get it? Inspiration for this pearl came from an old Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers movie where they sing Let's Face the Music and Dance. 1936 Nancy said the joke was too obscure although she did think it was semi-clever. "Don't fret," I tell myself. "You know your brain is a bottomless soup of spinning colors, rhymes, and ideas. All you have to do is wade in and randomly pluck out whatever you can grab." Ever encouraged, I always try and focus on Nancy's quote, "If you don't get it right the first time, just shuffle the cards and deal again." With so much practice, that could explain why I'm a whiz at playing Go Fish!
Check out two of my favorite Nancy and Bruce approved creations: and a Teddy O™ special featuring our rascally teddy bear mascot, displaying his handsome self with one of his favorite slogans. I believe I've just managed to work a record number of shameless plugs into one short article. I didn't say I'm always perfectly tasteful, just gracious - or I try to be, well, most of the time. Anyway, you know "It's a better thing" when you spend time on our site. Can you tell I have fun doing whatever it is I do? And this is the important part for you. You can design your own goodies too! For free! We have over 20 shops on Café Press. We just upload the designs, and they do all the work. We never have to pay anything or buy anything, and we can sell our stuff to you at a very small profit! So if you want to dress your family in shirts you designed yourself or make a mug for Uncle Frank, click on the banner above and get started now. Why should I be the only creative genius online? Love from Florida's Amelia Island, PS We've been publishing this newsletter for four years! We thank you, dearest readers, for your priceless support.
My Own Treasured Friends, Big news this year! Mother and Father are grandparents for the first time. Grammy, as she prefers to be called, is forcing feeding photos to family and former friends who are now enemies. But Baby Girl is so cute Grammy is certain hearts will melt in reconciliation. Naturally, Grampy sent a postcard off to Peace, Alabama, suggesting Mother win their Nobel Peace Prize. She Who Must Be Obeyed Sweatshirt at Acorn! Father has begun doing a little substitute teaching on the side to keep him in wingtips and Baby Girl in leather booties. One of his favorite high school classes is Spanish. Since he's familiar with the basics, like tacos and guacamole, he says it's a breeze. Daughter is already back in shape after having Baby Girl. She's in a charitable mood and is giving all her fat clothes to Mother. Mother is eating extra helpings of Au Gratin Potatoes, mac and cheese, and fresh baked bread just so she can fit into them. Mother is always ready to step up to the plate for a good cause. Son-in-Law, at first, felt silly wearing a bag on his chest to carry Baby Girl. Since his wife told him she thinks fathers with little ones are sexy, he wears it all the time. Now his Mrs has to fool him by substituting a rubber doll so the real child can take a nap. Son-in-Law never notices because he's always trying to perfect his golf swing. Actually, he finds the extra weight on his chest lessens his slice to the right. Father often volunteers to do the household chores for Mother. He washed her burgundy parlor pillows spotted with baby drool, and they exploded, expanding to 18 times their original size. Mother is pleased at the extra head space she'll have for napping once she captures all the feathers blowing about the house. A family reunion was
held with all in attendance. Everyone wondered who the lady with the green
tooth, long nose hair, and scaly feet was. Mother suspected she was
Father's Aunt Enda, and Father suspected she was Mother's Cousin Cleebo.
Daughter was sure the lady was a man, and Son-in-Law didn't care because he
was busy trying to lure Baby Girl off the roof. Her leather booties get
great traction. When the party was over, the electric toothbrush, electric
nose hair trimmer, and pumice stone were missing. Father is very loyal to
family, whoever she might be, and refused to call the police, saying charity
begins at home. Thanks to the light-fingered green tooth lady, he knows
what to get Mother for
That's the exciting news from Amelia Island, Florida. Happy Holidays to You and Yours from all of us on Florida's Amelia Island and in glorious Oklahoma City,
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