It was difficult to find a small ten-to-twelve-pound bird and he had been on the lookout.
“Thank you,” I said kissing him on the cheek.
“If the label said Old Turkeys would anyone buy one?” He wore a humorous expression.
“Isn’t an old turkey a Tom turkey?” I visualized Old in bold letters.
“No, a Tom turkey is a male turkey.”
“So, if a male turkey is call Tom, what’s a female turkey called?”
“Gertrude?”
This is how we amuse ourselves.
I went on line. Sciencing.com to confirm what to call a female turkey.
“Wild female turkeys, or hens, weigh from 5 to 12 pounds and range from 30 to 37 inches long. Hens bear less colorful feathers than males, with rusty brown, white or gray-tipped breast feathers. Their heads are either white or blue-gray, with small feathers on both head and neck. Their wattles, snoods, caruncles and spurs are small. Hens make vocalizations such as yelps, clucks and cuts. Approximately 10 percent of hens possess a “beard,” or elongated chest feathers. Hens do not strut or fan their tails. Females can lay from nine to 13 eggs, which they incubate for around 28 days. “
Yesterday, I transferred the turkey to the refrigerator to defrost, arranged the flowers and made cranberry sauce.
It’s a very forgiving recipe. I boil cranberries in orange juice, add raisins and diced apple. Sometimes I sprinkle sugar during the cooking process to counter the bitterness.
Today I’ll make the pies, stuffing and roast vegetables.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
. . . just saying
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Zipping along, writing without a clue . . . The words flew
A minor dental procedure was the first undo
Follow by pain in my hip, x-rays and a walker too
Then vertigo . . .boo-hoo . . . once the crystal where out
There was something else to do
Physical therapy not to walk like a drunk
Add to the stew . . . cataract surgery.
And . . . there’s still more explaining to do?
But I’m not feeling blue and please don’t you.
. . . just saying
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Are you tired of the same conversation or afraid to have any conversation about vaccines, politics or the wacko world we live in?
Me too! Here’s something of interest. The article appeared in The Daytona Beach News Journal about this art collector, turned house designer.
“Stepping foot into Rob DePiazza’s house is like winding back the clock to the height of the 1960s’ pop art revolution.
All Andy Warhol- and Keith Haring-style prints, bold patterns, primary colors and mid-century mod design, the structure DePiazza has designed looks and feels like a museum exhibit dedicated to all of those cultural influences.
Oh, and then there’s the fact that it’s all housed in nine shipping containers — proudly rusted out, mind you, as far as DePiazza is concerned. The display certainly stands out in this sedate residential neighborhood populated mostly by modest old Florida stuccos or split-level ranches off U.S. 1 in St. Augustine.”
. . . just saying
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I remember Halloween Parties at our home on Linwood Avenue in Newton, New Jersey. The kids lined the walkway to view the adult only arrival. The partying probably started in 1984, and continued for about ten years.
The pictures are in no order and some of the best may be missing. Where are you Clark Kent?
My favorite of Bob, my husband as Mr. T cannot be found.
We had party crashers, one who in costume scared several women and was asked to leave unless he revealed his true identity.
Some day I’ll make a photobook.
. . . . just saying,
Happy Halloween
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(A friend confided her memory of a dance recital and wearing a red dress in detail. Regrettably, she had no childhood pictures of herself. I wrote this poem for her.)
It’s not in the foyer, on a desk, or anywhere else.
The treasure lies deep inside my mind.
A girl . . . in a magenta dress!
Dancing the flamingo.
Swirling . . . Twirling.
Her feet stomp the floor.
The red taffeta bodice clings to her chest.
The crinoline and chiffon flounce and cheer for more.
The white poka dots stand and applaud.
She smiles.
There is no where to look.
Nothing to find.
The treasure lies deep inside my heart and mind.
. . . just saying
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(This paragraph was recently published in the October 2021 Florida Writer Magazine. The prompt was an airport setting.)
Flowers lined the roads to the airport. Overhead signs with arrows attempted to direct motorists to arrival or departure ramps. Inside the airport, a sparkling glass atrium housed the Hyatt Regency Hotel.
Passengers hustled around large planters filled with Bromeliads then waited in line for a security check.
Lynette filled two plastic bins with her stuff. When called she stood, her feet shoulder-width apart, with her hands held above her head as the metal detector circled. After gathering her belongings, she found a seat to put on her shoes and notice a man watching her.
He wore a blue plaid shirt and attempted to return his foot to an athletic shoe without undoing the laces. She ignored his smile and walked to the tramway.
The doors opened.
She got on and waited for the doors to close.
They did, but not before the man in the blue plaid shirt slipped inside.
The train jerked. Lynette clung to a metal pole and dug her heels into the floor for the ride.
When the doors opened, people scurried into the Southwest terminal as though late for their flight. She lingered. So did the man in the plaid shirt.
At Hudson’s News Stand, she window shopped, then went inside to peruse the magazine section. And the man did too.
She confirmed her departure gate on a screen. So did he.
She used the lady’s room. A camera flash drew her attention as she exited and she looked up to see a young family, all wearing Mickey Mouse Ears posing for a picture under a welcome to Orlando sign. She smiled.
Lynette was early for her flight to Atlanta, where she had a short layover before her destination flight to New York City and plenty of time to stand in line at Starbucks. So, she did.
The man in the blue plaid shirt stepped in line behind her.
“Do I know you?” she asked him.
“You look like my wife,” he replied.
Lynette didn’t know how to respond but said, “I get that a lot.” Then stepped to the counter and placed her order.
She was stirring cream into her coffee when the man joined her at the desk. His cell rang.
“I found your mother,” he said. “Well, she’s not dead . . . I don’t care if I miss the flight. I’m not leaving your mother.”
He handed the cell to Lynette.
“Mom?” said the voice of a young woman.
“I’m not your mother,” said Lynette.
“Well, you certainly look like my mother.”
“You can see through the phone?”
“No. Dad sent me a picture of you by the restrooms. We thought you were dead.”
“I’m not your dead mother.”
“But you look like my mother.”
“Just because I look like your mother doesn’t make me your mother.”
“Really? Caffe Americano with room for cream and the chocolate-dipped Madeleines.”
Lynette peered at the cookie packaged she’s stashed in her tote. Her patience was wearing thin.
“Do me a favor . . . please, Mom.”
“Don’t call me Mom.”
“Accompany Dad to his gate. Pretend you’re his wife, my mother.”
“What’s his name?
“Arthur.”
Lynette repositioned her tote bag on her shoulder, grabbed her cup of coffee, and said, “Okay, Arthur. Where are you going?”
They waited at a recharging station near gate 25.
Lynette drank her coffee, occasionally taking a bite of the chocolate-dipped Madeleine cookie.
Arthur watched.
“Lynette, it’s time to board,” Arthur said when the final call for Flight 1214 to Atlantic was announced.
“How do you know my name?” she asked.
“You’re my wife, Lynette,” said Arthur.
The End
* * * just saying
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Last week, sunny skies and lots of red, yellow and orange foliage were abundant in Maine. I visited a dear friend, and to tell the truth, it was perfect. Ellen asked me on the return ride to the airport, what the highlight of the week was. It wasn’t difficult to decide.
The nature boat ride in Bar Harbor took first place.
Followed by dinner at Chart Room
We drove to Greenville, for lunch at Kelly’s Landing on Moose Head Lake and viewed a covered bridge along the way.
The next day it was Lobster Rolls at Youngs and movie Saints of Newark, Belfast Movie Theater, afternoon senior ticket was $5. We left after the power saw incident as the film lacked plot and character development. It was nothing but violence. Although the scenes of Newark, New Jersey Riots were riveting.
The last day it was brunch at Traci’s Dinner in Belfast, some shopping in Rockport and Camden then rooftop tapas dinning at The View, appropriately named because of the harbor view.
Evenings we absorbed the sunset view from Ellen’s townhouse and watched Netflix.
Sunset on Penobscot Bay
Truthfully, the cooler temperatures and fall colors re-energized me. .
The world is more difficult to navigate, post covid; especially travel. Flying on Allegiant Airlines I paid a $35 fee to carry-on a carry-on, and offered a bottle of water for $3.
At the security, we were informed computers didn’t have to be taken out of luggage after I had unzipped my suitcase and removed the device.
“Do I have to take off my shoes?” I asked.
“Are you 75?” asked the agent.
I lied and kept my shoes on.
Then stood like a convicted criminal with arms raised and feet apart in the circular scanner; patted down, and hands powder checked.
Luckily I wasn’t a serious threat and allowed to board.
To tell the truth . . . it was a great trip. Thank you Ellen.
. . . just saying
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FYI (The pictures were taken by either Ellen or myself)
Lynn stood on the sidewalk and could not remember who she used to be.
It was a horrible feeling.
She strolled casually to a nearby bench and sat to quiet the feeling.
The weather was mild. The sun strong.
It was not the present that disturbed her.
Having silly thoughts, she hummed an old Peggy Lee song, “Is That All There Is?”
She came to buy Christmas gifts, or so she thought.
Instead, she window shopped and tried on clothes in an upscale woman’s store; attempting to find a new identity.
Norman Rockwell’s picture of the golden-brown turkey on a large platter surrounded by family flashed across her mind.
Her romanticized past was painful to watch.
She had been the women wearing the plaid apron, trying to fulfill other people’s dreams. Okay, perhaps they’d been her dreams too.
It was hard to remember, things were different.
. . . just saying
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