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QUOTATIONS

"A true gift is not just the object itself; it is a demonstration of understanding and caring, a reflection of both the individual who gives and the one who receives."  Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson,  House Corrino (Dune: House Trilogy, Book...

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December 2006 Newsletter

My Own Dear Friends

'Tis the season when we share a few experiences from our ever-fascinating year.

The sheer excitement of reading this letter always stimulates long-lost relatives and flakey acquaintances to find their way to our slamming screen door here in north Florida.   Those planning on dropping by for a week or twelve are asked to contact our dear cousin, Cousin.   Since his therapy, Cousin has returned to his passion, flattening aluminum pie plates.   He is the only one who wants to work the reservation hot line out back of the tool shed.   Father replaced the twine on Cousin's tin can for incoming calls, just to make sure he gets them all.   Cousin has improved so much, Father is considering sharpening his pencil.

Mother and Father are better known these days as Grammy and Grampy.  They are often seen about town marching by order of Grandbaby who has learned this skill in Baby Burps School. Grammy and Grampy are so proud the newest generation is learning all the social graces.

Along those lines, Father is anxious to enter the beer-drinking contest at Baby Burps.   He is interested in the affair from a scientific standpoint.   In particular, will beer foam more or less when drunk from a sippy cup?   If more foam is formed, he plans to save the extra for Mother to feed the wild rabbits.   He is sure the hops used to make the beer will help them with their leaping.

Brother has taken up cooking.   He thinks he is better at it than Sister since he's had to call the fire department only four times to her seven.

Ever encouraging the domestic arts, Mother is tired of repainting.  She is considering black as her new signature color

Whenever Mother flies somewhere, she always turns the individual air conditioning vent on full blast.   She is doing her part as a good American to save fuel by assisting in the plane's liftoff.   Mother advises her fellow passengers to do likewise, but she finds most are not as patriotic as she is.

Mother says it's high time the family moves into the 21st century. She has made her own laptop from a sweatshirt box, painted it gray and drawn the alphabet for the keyboard.   She is anxious for Father to solder the old hedge clipper plug on so her links will be hot.   Father tells her to go to the grocery store for her hot links, and she does.   The freezer is filling up.

Last February, Father flew to Silly Noodle, PA, for the Spider Web annual convention.   He was thrilled to change planes fourteen times, the most ever.   He knows he is on a lucky streak because he only had five flat tires and six episodes of irritable bowel syndrome this year.

Mother is busy saving the shavings from her fingernails and feet scrapings.   She is forever telling the children how everyone needs a collection of some kind.

Father purchased a case of copy paper.   He opened each ream and checked every piece to make certain all the blank sheets were in the correct order and face up.   Father likes to get his money's worth, you know.

The lid to the pressure cooker blew off while Father was boiling potatoes.   Mother did not complain because the taters on the ceiling look a lot like her decorative popcorn.   She says it sure beats having to replace the popcorn, one kernel at a time.

Grandbaby has 45,403,553 hairs, give or take one or two, according to her Grammy.   Sadly, Grammy has developed a bit of carpel tunnel from all the hash marks she made while counting.   Not to be deterred, she says she can always hold a pen with her toes.   Of course, Father has to sharpen the ax so she can trim her toenails first.

Happy Holidays from Amelia Island

October - November 2006 Newsletter

This is Not the Seasonal Autumn Leaves Letter You Expected
or How We Got Our New Trellis

We have a privacy wall around our home, Stately Martha Manor, named after our mascot, model and spokesbear, Martha Bear®.   The wall has a swinging wooden gate and over the gate, I have always had a trellis.   Many years ago, it was metal.  With the salt air of the Atlantic Ocean rapidly rusting everything outdoors, that trellis fell apart in a scant three years.

Next, we had a wooden trellis built.  Since my sweet husband, Bruce, loves the smell of Confederate Jasmine when it blooms, I planted a bush on each side.  Within two years, the jasmine had covered the trellis.  So much so, its seeking tendrils reached wildly outward, leaving the appearance of someone desperately in need of a whole bottle of Don't Cha Frizz hair tonic.  I barbered the thing, balancing or trying to in the sand on a six-foot ladder, all the while wielding electric hedge trimmers.  Did I mention the milky, sticky sap dripping from the shorn branches conditioned my hands to fly paper? 

Bruce does not get the honor of pruning, or as I call it "feeling like a magnetic dirt cushion," because he has a torn rotator cuff, and it hurts his little self to lift his arm.  His response to my grumbling was to hire the landscapers across the street to whack back the green jasmine monster when I was away playing author.   (If I can do something myself, I do not like paying for it, but I admit, it was nice coming home to a neatly groomed arbor.)

Then the wind and rain from one of the named hurricanes in 2005 broke a few slats on the trellis.   Since the vines were so tangled and strong, the trellis was still relatively stable, and to reinforce that stability, Bruce secured it to the wall with plastic-covered cables.  We were set, or so I thought.

What did in that wooden trellis was a handsaw.   While I have been known to graciously whine once or twice in my life (some might call it nagging), I would not have demanded the removal of the jasmine covered trellis without good cause.

Yup.  I saw a snake.  Don't like 'um, never will.

And I got to talking with friends who told me how snakes could live in the vines.   Can you imagine walking under that arch when some pointy serpentine head comes out to greet you?   I THINK NOT!

With the wooden trellis gone, the front gate and wall looked buck-naked! The answer was simple.   We would replace the snake-infested trellis with a white vinyl trellis without any type of climbing plants.   If the trellis were pretty enough, it would only add to the pristine curb appeal we try to maintain despite heat, hurricanes and blowing sand.  

Finding the right width trellis to straddle our extra wide sidewalk became a quest.  I finally got one on the Internet.   The shipper said it would leave the warehouse in the Mid-West within 24 hours.  That would have been great because our Our Chief Inspector at GraciousJaneMarie.com, brother Bob, was due for a visit.  He could help Bruce install the trellis, but Bob was already back home in in Erie, Pennsylvania, when I discovered it took two weeks for the order to reach the warehouse and then that 24 hours until shipment countdown would begin.  Grrr.

When all 70 pounds of trellis arrived, Bruce and I set aside a weekend afternoon to get the job done.   Little did we know "some" assembly required meant "complete" assembly required.   Out of the seemingly hundreds of pieces before us, none was numbered.  Worse, they were all white!

The grounds of our manor are minimal.   With the grassy front yard on a slope and flowers and bushes inside the courtyard, the only place to lay the thing out out and play Guess the Piece, was in our driveway.   To prevent scratching, I laid old blankets, sheets and rugs on the cement, and we went to work.

We took a crack at reading the directions, unbelievable as that sounds.  The copy was useless.  The drawings were a smidge better.   After we fitted the pieces together by laying the trellis flat, upon a closer look-see at the picture, we realized it was all backwards.  We got down on all fours, dismantled and reassembled the trellis. 

We baby-stepped the heavy trellis near the gate and leaned it against the wall while we dug four holes in the sand for the aluminum anchor thingies.  Instead of a shovel and hand trowel to dig down the 20 inches it took to bury the legs, I had found a long handled spoon and matching ladle.  Uncovering a tape measure in Bruce's toolbox of all places, I told him to cup his hand in the digging monkey position so I could gauge the depth we needed to dig on his arm.  20 inches on him was to the middle of his shoulder muscle.  On me, it was up to my neck.  But I was not the one with the torn rotator cuff, so there I was, wearing mismatched garden gloves, my face inching closer to the sand as my arm disappeared into the bowels of the earth.  When my face lay in the dirt, I guessed I was done digging.

But Bruce's meauring arm said, "You're not deep enough," and night came upon us.   More digging in the dark until, as it does every evening, our front flood light came on, illuminating our American flag and gate.  Usually quite jovial, Bruce was not in the best mood to appreciate the passersby on foot who offered colorful comments on the position their recently elected city commissioner was taking to measure hole depth with his good arm.

"Down and dirty politics, is it?"

"Have you sunk so low that you crawl on your belly like a …?"

You get the gist.

At dark-thirty or whatever time it was, Bruce called a halt.   "The holes are good enough. Let's drop 'er in. "

We dropped 'er in.  As he eyeballed and leveled the trellis, I packed sand down around the legs.  He lifted and leaned on it.  I poked and stomped on the surrounding ground.   When we finally thought the trellis was straight, we gathered our "tools," hosed the sand and dirt off each other, and headed to the shower.

The next morning, we were greeted with a sparkling white new trellis, albeit, a smidge or two – or three, out of plum.   Bruce said he would rock it back and forth and straighten it soon.  He thinks I'm obsessing when I remind him.  It has been four weeks.  Maybe we will have it aligned in time for Christmas.   Maybe not.   No matter.   Odds are folks driving by at 25 mph won't be holding a level out the window to check.  Then again, small town, slow news day …

Love from Amelia Island,

Jane Marie

September 2006 Newsletter

Free is Best

My Own Treasured Friends,

If sales are great, free is best, and as Martha Bear® always says, "That's a better thing!"

Card Heaven

Once upon a time, Bruce, my husband, sold water skis. Yes, somebody actually sells water skis, and he was the lucky fellow. To our great joy, someone also had to demonstrate the skis, so we did. And all summer, too! Sigh. Those were the days.

Bruce kept his ski samples in one of those warehouse places with individual garage-type units you rent. One day I went along with him to weed out the useless junk he was also storing in his space. When he came back from the trash bin, he told me, "There must be a greeting card sales rep renting one of these rooms because the dumpster is full of last year's samples." These days, I am much more aware of germs. I'm certainly no Howard Hughes (the late millionaire/aviation pioneer is the poster boy of the anti-germ crowd), I do carry a bottle of hand sanitizer with me most times. But while I can't imagine me doing this today, that day, temptation won out. In the beat of a heart, I sprinted to the dumpster.

With very little effort, I climbed into the dumpster and began glorying in all the cards! Every occasion was covered, and since there is no expiration on a greeting card, I took as many as there were, along with their envelopes. What about the garbage in the dumpster? Happily, it was a relatively new dumpster and used mostly for dry trash as opposed to nasty spoiled food matter. At least, that's what I told myself. Oh, and I never licked an envelope - still can't to this day. Must be some residual fear of roach eggs getting lodged in my tongue.

Free Funiture

Yes, Bruce is often with me when I encounter someone's junk that will become my prized booty and he usually goes with the flow. Did he get up one morning hoping to drag home a battered army trunk or rejected kitchen cupboard lying on the roadside curb just waiting for me to disinfect and paint? Maybe not. Yet, why does he haul hideous (but with potential) junk around for me? Could it be my charming ways and gentle touch? Sure, that's it.

"Take a tour of our timeshare condo, and you will receive one easy chair per family," said the voice in the phone. How could we not participate? Since our Florida Feline Force, aka our cats, has masterfully manicured their claws on our furniture, we needed a new chair. After enduring a promotional movie, we took the condo tour. Telling the sales people, "no thanks," we joined all the other suckers waiting for information on how to order our choice of color and style of recliner. That's when a woman came in carrying our chair. Yes, carrying our chair, our recliner chair. The disappointment was similar to anticipating the last drop of a chocolate milkshake about to roll down the inside of the malt glass your waiting mouth without the milkshake. There is never more milkshake, and there was no new recliner. Silly us. It was all our fault. We'd trusted them. We failed to listen closely enough to the name of the recliner. We thought they said a Lazy Boy. Double shame us. It was an Easy Boy, which translated to a small blue chair without legs you lean against at the beach. I don't have to tell you we only fell for that gimmick once. Okay, twice. The second time we got a showerhead instead of the hydro-massaging-something-or-other-glorious spa machine we envisioned.

I just told Bruce I'm investigating a free trip to Vegas. Funny thing is, he's developed what seems to be a somewhat permanent condition. He shakes his head back and forth quite a lot these days, almost as if he's telling me no. That can't be it. Not my Brucey. He just must be getting older, the dear boy.

Love from Amelia Island,

Jane Marie

August 2006 Newsletter

Due to a death in the family, we didn't publish our August issue.  Thank you.

July 2006 Newsletter

Bumps in the Night

My Own Treasured Friends,

Have you ever gotten “the creeps”?   Has the hair stood up on the back on your neck?   "Oh my, oh my my," as Martha Bear® likes to say.

My family got to talking about things that scared them.   My husband, Bruce, told us how, once, while traveling, he nearly jumped out of his skin.   He had just returned to his hotel room one night after seeing The Exorcist, the scary movie with Linda Blair.   He always leaves a light on because he doesn't like to walk into a dark room, but when he unlocked the door, the room was black as pitch.  He felt his way around the bed to turn on the lamp and there was no electricity.   Or the bulb had burned out.   Stepping to the window, Bruce felt for the cord that would open the opaque curtains.   As he turned, he saw the silhouette of a man sitting in a chair at the table.   Nearly dropping his teeth (to use language less colorful than his), instinct took over.   Bruce jammed his hand into his pants pocket to retrieve the small knife he always carries.   Instantly unfolding the blade, he demanded in a mostly brave, threatening voice, "What do you want?"

The vicious criminal gave no reply.

Bruce said, "Answer me. I have a weapon.   Don't make me use it!"

Still no reply.  

Fearing for his life, Bruce dropped to the floor, making himself a smaller target, and threw the knife.   In a snap, he heard it harmlessly bounce off the wall, sparing his attacker.   In another snap, the power came on, and Bruce was guilty of the attempted murder of his own sport coat, draped on the back of the chair.

My story is more recent.

I was driving home after a long and always enjoyable day of book signing and  Secret Pebble™ selling.  The sun was setting and traffic wasn't bad, so I was at peace with the world until I felt something move beneath the seat of the car.

Living in Florida, I could think of only one thing.   A snake.   Dear Lord, what could I do?   If I jerked about in any fashion, I would disturb it more than merely squashing it when I first sat down. I was on a busy highway, so I couldn't jump out unless I wanted to take out the on-coming traffic with my still hurdling car, not to mention breaking most of the bones in my person as I hit the hard, harsh pavement.

I made my decision.   I would drive the remaining three miles home, dodging all potholes and manhole covers so as not to jar the creature below.

I must confess my deodorant was on the verge of a complete breakdown when after agonizingly long minutes, I pulled into my driveway.   I sprang from the car, leaving squealing brakes and the still running engine's hum to mark my arrival.   The car door behind me flung wide, I dashed into our courtyard and pounded on the front door.     

"What the -?" said Bruce, calmly curious as to my flushed and none too flattering panicked appearance and humidity-flattened hair.

I could only push past him and point, squeaking, "Snake.   Car."

Being the superman he is, he chuckled and said, "You're kidding, right?"

I answered him with a deadly glare, my fangs showing now.  Understanding my meaning at once, he headed out the door, which I slammed and locked for safekeeping.   He was on his own for having doubted my sincerity.

I collapsed on the couch, my eyes fixed on the the delicate wall clock over the mantle.   I watched the second hand drag its way around the dial.   Nearly seven minutes passed.   Did I dare look out the window? Might I find my beloved prone on the drive, a victim of venom?   Should I call 911 to save him?   Or was it too late?   And if I did venture out, to where might the creature have escaped?   What to do?   What-to-do?

I scraped my courage into one small pile and tiptoed to the door to check on my champion.   My eyes preferred to remain squeezed shut, but I forced them to look out the sidelight.   I'd forgotten the wall around our flower garden hid the driveway from my line of sight.   Rats!   I would have to go outdoors to discover the horror of my husband's doom.   Bamboo-leaved umbrella in one hand and antique cane in the other, I hushed  Bird in her cage who stands sentry, and opened the door, peering cautiously for any slithering enemies.

In a valorous mosey to the gate, I stamped my feet to alert the enemy of my presence.   One deep breath for stamina before I opened the gate, then open it I did.

What horror did I behold?   My husband in the yard of our neighbor, Next-Door-Maggie, talking to her husband Bob and laughing.   He not only had the nerve to not be dead, but he also held an object in his hand.   I briskly dashed to my husband's side, ever graciously excusing myself, as I tugged on his arm for a private moment to wring his neck.

"Don't worry if Bob hears us, honey," said Bruce.   "He knows all about it.   Oh and I found your creature.   Here it is."

Bruce held up a white can of sanitary hand wipes.   "I found it rolling back and forth under your seat."

I left Bob and Bruce chuckling at my expense, not quite able to see the humor in all of this.   I don't know if my continued foot stamping added to their glee, but heck, I live in Florida, and you can't be too careful.

Love from Amelia Island,

Jane Marie

June 2006 Newsletter

They Call Me Madame

My Own Treasured Friends,

After several intense months, my husband Bruce has been elected to the Fernandina Beach City Commission! I am so proud of him.

His successful campaign began over three years ago when he was narrowly defeated in another election. Like any unsuspecting wife, I assumed he'd given politics a shot, lost, and was done with running for office. Silly me.

Little did I know Bruce stored his huge campaign signs and what was left of his yard signs in the attic of the local funeral home, a beautiful Victorian house where he worked for ten years before retiring to become a high school substitute teacher. It was his rascally plan to run for the same seat again, thereby saving money on new signs. Once the old signs were brought out of hiding, I could see Bruce's determination, later described as "a fever in his belly," and supported his efforts to try again.

I have been described as tenacious, like a dog with a bone. Having been married to me for over two decades, Bruce knew I would do everything I could think of that was gracious as well as legal to get him elected, so he pressed me into service as his campaign manager. I can hear you asking, "Are you nuts?" The obvious answer is yes.

As adviser and director of all things campaign, I let Bruce tend to such menial tasks as his platform. I, on the other hand, did the really important stuff, like taking his picture for newspaper ads, etc. And a great picture it turned out to be! I call it his Cary Grant/Long John Silver pose. For those unaware, Bruce lost 99% of the sight in his right eye a couple of years ago when his retina shredded. After four operations, he must wear a patch to keep out the one percent of light, which gives him double vision in his good eye. Rather than dwell on this handicap as a sad thing, he came up with the positive slogan, "VOTE FOR BRUCE MALCOLM. HE'LL KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR YOU!" Frankly, I was worried about offending those with sight in only one eye, but he reminded me that Amelia Island,our home, had been visited by many a pirate in times past, the local high school mascot is a pirate with a patch, and since he, a man who must wear an eye patch, found humor in an otherwise negative situation, who could complain?

Next came the ads. Nothing negative. While the instinct is there in all of us, negative advertising is not smart or gracious. Bruce's opponent agreed, and no unkind words were uttered. Besides, my Brucie is a stand-up kind of guy who has been performing community service, particularly on the Historic District Council for nearly 20 years, and there was plenty of positive material to work with.

Grooming before the election was important, as it always is. No ratty old t-shirts were worn during quick trips to the grocery or hardware stores. No five o'clock shadow, please. Oops. Time for another haircut. You don't want to look shaggy.

We ordered more yard signs and placed them on all the lawns of property owners who requested them. Did the signs do any good? Who knows? It's tradition.

There were debates to attend. There were fliers to hand out as we walked neighborhoods and rode around town in a borrowed Model A car with a VOTE MALCOLM sign on the trunk and magnetic signs on the bonnet (hood). A local parade was a hoot, with Bruce sitting on the top edge of the front seat and waving to encouraging crowds on both sides of the street. I was in the rumble seat doing the same while counseling him not to make the V for Victory sign while both arms were raised lest he be associated in voters' minds with former President Nixon who was pilloried for this very action and his infamous words, "I am not a crook."

We walked, we stood on street corners and waved like goofballs, even in the rain. We did it until our arms resembled ever-flapping wings. I was there with Bruce every wave of the way as were some of his students, friends, our kids and even our grandbaby, Ava, who wore a VOTE MALCOLM button on her Winnie the Pooh hat.

Then came the mailings. To save money, we did much of the "licking and sticking" ourselves. When you have 2500 fliers to get out, it takes a long table, willing fingers, dear friends and lots of pizza and pop and chatter. We did it, only to find that the dots Bruce bought to seal the edge of each tri-folded letter were peelable! We had to remove those that hadn't already fallen off and redo all of them with clear tape.

Election Day came early in the morning for Bruce and me. How early, you wonder? Try 3:15 a.m.! Since Bruce couldn't sleep anyway, being excited and all, he decided we needed to get to the polling place as soon as possible for the best placement of his yard signs, which we had picked up all over town the previous night.

We arrived with one little pickup truck and one Model A, both adorned with VOTE MALCOLM signs. By 4:15 a.m., 27 yards signs covered the patch of grass parallel to the street, and we were ready and waiting for the polls to open at 7. The opponent's people turned up at 6 a.m., better rested, for sure.

Dressed in our bright yellow t-shirts with blue lettering, the Fernandina Beach High School colors, we waved at every car, bus, truck, motorcycle, pedestrian, dog, feline, and even one bobcat whose path crossed in front of us, be they registered voters or tourists. We didn't know or care. 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. was our last chance to get the word across that Malcolm was the man for the job.

One final touch, my idea, was we all should wear black "victory" eye patches. We got lots of thumbs up and laughter from folks pulling in to vote. We only hoped they were laughing with us and not at us.

People ask if we celebrated Bruce's victory with a huge party. After phone calls to out of town family and friends, a sip of champagne from a bottle left off by a supportive neighbor, we fell into bed about midnight. It was a wild ride to that point, and just the beginning of a three-year term for Bruce. He's looking forward to serving the fine people of our wonderful town. They all know him by his eye patch these days, and he enjoys being stopped just about everywhere to listen to the concerns of local citizens.

Since the election, I've been called "Lady Jane," "Mrs. Commish," "First Lady" and "Madame". It's sweet because I realize people do it out of respect for Bruce and the office to which he's been elected. Once upon a time folks used the phrase "she married well." I am blessed to include myself as one gal in that group because my husband is honest and honorable, and you can't do better than that. Fernandina Beach is lucky to have him.

Bruce is such a wise man. He prepared Chicken Fried Steak for my recent birthday.  It's delicious and so fattening, but we don't eat it very often. Bruce always reminds me I shouldn't go on a diet on important occaisions. He's always thinking ahead like that. You can see why he's a leader among men and (hungry) women.

Love from Amelia Island,

Jane Marie

I was digging through my overstuffed closet, looking for the birthday presents I'd stashed for my granddaughter, Ava.  Happily, I found them!  Guess what else I found?  My husband's Christmas presents.  Yes, Bruce, the poor lad, had endured long months without benefit of an on-sale dehydrated instant washcloth.  Yup.  Just drop the rooster shaped novelty into a glass of water, and voilá, it opens into a terry cloth square with which to gently cleanse the face, though the texture might be better suited for scouring whitewall tires.  

Hey, Bruce loved his unexpected Christmas in May.  He always likes my unique presents that, this time, included I Love Grampa boxers and new cinnamon-smelling in-soles.

Then yesterday, while rubbing the green bruise on my forearm I received from tripping over the pile of shoes that lies in wait just outside the closet door, cleverly hidden from view by the end of the dresser, I spied yet another present for Bruce.  I had completely forgotten all about it.

But something looked a tish off as I examined the 5"x7" rectangle.  On its front was an interesting listing of events that had taken place in Bruce's birth year.  As the gentle scent of rose petals assaulted my nose, I examined the Victorian illustrations adorning this sachet to realize this item was probably not exactly what most people would choose as a manly man's type of gift.  Worse yet, it was printed with the wrong date.  It was three years off from his actual birth date!  I can't explain why I bought it except IT WAS ON SALE!  

Speaking of sales, I yearn for the days of "a penny a yard" lace.  Before the sun had awakened, I would drag my sweet child, Barbra, who was too young to stay home alone, to the fabric store.  Usually, the first or second in line, we'd stand in front of the shop door, ready and waiting for the clerk inside to open at six a.m. sharp.  When the magic moment struck, I'd clutch Barbra's hand tightly as we dashed straight toward the table in the back covered with small bolts of on sale lace.  I would get all that was allowed up to a dollar's worth.  Thin lace, thick lace, gathered, flat, eyelet, single edged, double edged, white, ecru, burgundy, green, crocheted, embroidered with flowers, whatever they had.  Eventually, the offers ended because either they ran out of lace or the clerks were so bloody and bowed from the onslaught of customers, they couldn’t take the twice a year ordeal any longer.  No matter the reason, twenty years later, I am still using the last of that lace.

It's on nearly everything I've made, past to present  from ornaments, ragballs, easy dog jackets and my apple head doll to robes, framed pictures, pillows and  vests.  Check out Martha Bear's lace collar.  It came about because I'd made a garter according to pattern that ended up as big as a horse's leg.  It was much too large for Barbra when she married.  Since I like to recycle and Martha Bear® does, too, she requested I let her wear it as a necklace of sorts.  Now she wears it for all formal occasions, which, to this gentle bear, is every day.

I love a bargain.  Some may call me cheap.  Some may call me tight.  Our father always said our mother was frugal.  Just remember, there’s no bargain if you don't need it.  And of course, I needed all 10 jars of sour-smelling hand scrub marked down to a mere dollar each, the Carmon Miranda tutti-frutti clock for $3 with a broken hour hand, and my four-foot cement bunny with no ears named Norbert. (see March - April letter below)

 Love from Amelia Island,

Jane Marie

PS  Mom used wooden clothespins to hold wax paper in place as a protective covering for the kitchen curtains whenever she made homemade French fries.  When Nancy’s friend Tom saw this, he exclaimed, “Good Lord, Marie!  You’re washing and drying wax paper for re-use.  No one is as cheap as you are.” 

March - April 2006 Newsletter

Rabbit Letter

My Own Treasured Friends,

I love to prowl garden stores to get ideas.  If I can make it or buy a less expensive small version and grow it into a tree, I do.  I have great tenacity and patience. 

One thing I can't make is a four-foot cement rabbit.  Actually, I suppose I could if I had a 48" rabbit mold and upper body strength, of which my husband, Bruce, says I have little.  A person would need a lot of muscle to lift the heavy bag of powdered concrete to pour into the wheel barrow, add water, stir and then pour the resulting stuff into the mold and let it harden.    In this case, so much for patience.  Instant gratification was better. 

I saw him.  I loved him.  I wanted him.  (Hubby and rabbit are interchangeable here.)  He, the rabbit, stood in the back patio of the shop beneath a wilted hibiscus plant.  Dirt and dead leaves swirled about him.  Not wanting to scare him off, I softly asked why he was hiding?  He didn't answer, and I stepped closer.  A breeze blew the dried leaves from his face to revel he had no ears.  I spied them lying off to the side.  With or without ears, he would be mine.  I couldn't let him live in isolation like that.  Who could and say they had a heart?  So, I scurried, yes, I scurry when I'm excited, to find the manager.  A brief round of bargaining gained me my treasure.

Two young men lifted the rabbit into the trunk of our car.  I made sure he was secure and wouldn't roll around.  He still was a silent Sam.  He'll talk when he feels the need, I told Bruce.  Heck, he didn't even know where Amelia Island, our destination, was so I explained that in hopes of reassurance.  I grabbed his ears and laid them near his head so he could see them.  I don't think I will ever ask him how he came to lose them.  Does it really matter?  Do I really want to learn the horror? 

The burning question on the way home was, what should we name him?  I forgot to mention Bruce has always said he'd go along with just about any pets we want to bring into our home, so long as he can name them.  And, he usually does a pretty good job. There's Doug, Pansy, Laverne, and Gilbert, our cats from the past; the Yorkies, Gracie and Pootie; Trivet, Barbra's three- legged hamster, so when he suggested Norbert for the rabbit, Norbie for short, we knew we had a winner. 

click on the photo to enlarge it

It took the both of us to get Norbert out of the trunk and plant him inside our courtyard wall among the daffodil and narcissus bulbs, just in time for spring.  With two ducks at his feet, he was set, except for the minor matter of his ears.  I left that to Bruce. Sure enough, within a couple of days, I came home to find my rabbit standing eight inches taller because his ears were back on!  I loved him either way, but it's natural for him to want to be in one piece.

It's still a tish chilly outside.  I thought Bruce and I might have to carry Norbert into the house until the weather warms up for good.  Then again, our dear friend Bonnie Shivley suggested I leave the rabbit outside year round if he's heavy to tote because she wrote, "Why would he want to come in?  He won't feel the cold.  I promise. (hee, hee)."

Bonnie did have a point.  Still, Norbert needed to meet the other plaster, concrete, and ceramic animals who stare straight ahead like he does and live indoors with me - Nester, the bunny with the broken foot tied with a rag on his hurtie part; the fat bulldog named Edna; the father, mother and baby pig; the little whitewashed orange rabbit who jumped into my hand at a yard sale; not to mention the family of dust bunnies under my bed.  Norbert is just so much bigger than everyone else, he could do sentry on the hearth in our parlor and be a back up for Bird, our cockatiel, as GraciousJaneMarie.com's Director of Security when she wants to take a day off from squawking everyone's arrival and departure through the front door.

So bring him inside, we did.  It was Martha Bear®, our spokesbear and my dear friend, who got him to talking.  Now Norbie's a regular blabby rabby.

The bearlings are reading my Rascally Readers' short teddy bear stories to him. They engage in fine literature that way, and Norbie learns all about the family he's joined.  Hey, he's one more critter to include in our adventures in beardom!  Welcome home, Norbert! 

Love from Amelia Island,

Jane Marie

PS  I told my husband I was writing a rabbit letter, and he said, "Ok."

I thought about his response for a moment and realized I do so many strange-sounding and fun things in my adventures in gracious living, the mention of a rabbit letter left him unphased. 

Then I asked Bruce what a rabbit letter was while he was reading the paper. He tore himself way from the copy to say, "I guess it's some kind of computer thing, like when you want to send out e-mails to lots of people."  That seemed logical to me.  But in an effort to keep people from falling to the floor and rolling about in hysterical laughter when Bruce suggests they do a "rabbit letter" instead of a mass mailing, I explained I was writing about Norbert. 

"Oh," he replied and returned to his paper, again unphased, for he is a man in control.  Computer illiterate, yet in control. 

I think I like him that way.  I know Norbert does.

January - February 2006
Anchors Away*

* "Anchors Aweigh" download

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Termites - Ugh! By Nancy Kamp We just spent well over $1000 to have our home treated for termites and to repair the damage they did.We found signs of infestation in the sheetrock under bubbling paint.Periodically check your home for the following: Dry, crumbly wood

No one likes to use poisons in their home (or spend a ton of money) but listen up.  It could happen to you.

Bob's Retirement Ceremony

click on the invitation to enlarge it

I have a pretty good imagination - just ask Martha Bear™ and her critter buddies.  I readily admit my expectations of an official navy retirement ceremony fell far short of the actual event.  The only word I can use to describe the "big show," as Bob refers to his retirement, is magnificent!There were enlisted and officers, all in crisp uniforms, gold ropes swagged between huge shell casings lining both sides of a red carpet, and a stage with double podiums and chairs for the speakers. They announced Chief Harkins' arrival by piping him "aboard"  while a dozen sailors saluted.  The color guard carried in the American flag, the national anthem played and there was a benediction. Then the commodore spoke unscripted words of praise.  He was followed by the guest speaker, Bruce.  Bob's brother-in-law, came through so brilliantly more than one sailor asked him to talk at their retirements.Before Chief Harkins began his speech, he  passed out handkerchiefs to his sisters, girlfriend and her mother.  (Just in case.)  After receiving a lipsticked kiss on the cheek from his lady, and happily leaving its rosy imprint in place, he set a small yellow rubber ducky** on the edge of the podium.  As he talked, I found myself leaning forward so as not to miss a syllable.  When he assured all that, "the Navy, my Navy, is in good hands" with the sailors still on duty, the tears streamed from the eyes of one and all. Bob stood to attention while the poem The Watch was read and Irish Minstrel played in the background. Then we heard, "Shipmate ... the watch stands relieved.  Relieved by those YOU have trained, guided, and lead.  Shipmate, you stand relieved.  We have the watch.  Boatswain, standby to pipe the side.  Chief Harkins is going ashore!  Boatswain, pipe Chief Harkins ashore." And my brother, generous of spirit and honorable of men, walked out the door and into his next adventure, whatever it might be.Thank you, Bob, and all of the  forces that protect the good, the innocent, and the helpless.  Congratulations on a distinguished career.  As they say in the Navy, "Well done!"

**Chief Harkins was a sailing instructor at Annapolis Naval Academy.  While out at sea, he was heard to say, "Duck overboard!"  Directing his crew to change course, they scooped up a small yellow rubber duck.  The little fellow eventually found a home on Bob's office deck.  Evermore, Bob was gifted with oddly fashioned rubber ducks.  He will forever be known as, "The Ducky Lama."