The temperatures have dropped in Florida and today, I wore a coat outside to enjoy my coffee in the dark at 6:45 A.M. I made pumpkin bread to celebrate. The recipe was from a Lafayette Cook Book published in 1995 as a fundraiser for the historical society. It called for two and two-third cups of sugar, too high for me, so I reduced the sugar to one cup. The reason I baked vs bought, was to control the sugar.
The chopping and measuring took time because I’m 75 years old and things. . .take time. I have to remember if I put in the baking powder in or not; and loose count of the cups of flour. Then need to be extra careful not to burn myself, etc., but it makes two loafs.
So, I purchased a box of pumpkin bread at Aldi’s, and other than the amount of sugar, and prep time about fifteen minutes. It was marketed as a limited edition item. That caught my attention.
This lower left picture is the dried pumpkin coming to life once introduced to liquid. The middle, ready to go in the oven and the third, a comparison of all three breads. You can see, we sampled the loaf bread because the pumpkin smell was, well like_____ Fall in New Jersey.
The box pumpkin bread smelled like Fall in New Jersey, too.
…just saying
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Remember when you hated peas and you did what your mother told you? Along side of Eat what is on your plate, children are starving in China; was If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything.
Little did we suspect the declarative statements were precursors to waste management and bullying. I never cared for being slapped in the face, going to bed without supper or sent to my room and abide by the assertions which have remained in my head.
Where am I going with this?
Well tonight is the first Republican presidential debate, and I’m wondering how much trash talking there will be.
The debate will be aired to a select audience and streamed. Trump will NOT debate; however, he will sit for an interview with Tucker Carlson prior to the debate with his fellow contestants, oops, candidates.
In the past the atmosphere has been one of character assassination with the promise of debating the issues.
What do you think will happen?
. . . just saying
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The pedaling of an old man riding a wide-tire bicycle grabs my attention as I drive Acoma road. The methodical around and around of the bike’s wheels is mesmerizing. I press the car brakes, slow to a crawl and drop back, to give the senior space, as we approach the corner stop.
He wears red Keds, and a large droopy straw hat shades his face from the morning sun. He sports a long sleeve plaid shirt and hazardous baggy Dockers. The blue and chrome fender bike has no basket or hand brakes.
Behind him rides a man in a metallic Speedo shirt, and black skin-tight shorts. He wears a helmet and mustache, and he does not pass abruptly. Instead, he moves to coast gently beside the elder, a solid traffic barrier. They ease the corner, two abreast, like dancing a Minuet synchronized to Chopin.
I stop at the corner. . . rather than go straight. I turn right. . . and follow them, absorbing their relationship.
They are a pair. Paternal. Their head, back, and shoulders are a younger/older version, of the other. The son deliberately peddles ahead, never looks back, but hoovers; and allows his father to ride independently. The old man’s bike wheels don’t wobble. The handlebars do not shake. There is an air of pride accompanying his movement.
As they resume their single file adventure, I drive by, see his wrinkled face, and guess the elder is eighty. I catch a glimpse of the son’s full head of peppered gray hair, and face with minimal expression lines, when passing, and guess . . . he’s nearing sixty.
My mind conjures a past Father’s Day,
I imagine it is 1958, the father wears the same plaid shirt, Dockers and Keds. The son, is dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt. The father, leads the way with subtle protectiveness and allows the son to celebrate his newly acquired skill, riding a bike.
“Daddy, look at me!” He yells with a big smile.
Today is Father’s Day 2012. I watch the pair celebrate with the simple act of being together. Pedaling their bicycles, and needing each other in a different way.
. . . just saying
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*Post was originally published in 2012, over ten years ago.
Easter is a significant Christian holy day, although many of the traditions and symbols surrounding the day have roots in agnostic celebrations.
Can you imagine Easter without the Easter egg and Easter Bunny and all the other what not? I can not.
Some historians maintain that the word “Easter” comes from Eostre, or Eostrae, the Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring and fertility. Others explain Easter is a derivative of a Latin phrase alba or dawn.
The History webpage linked above explains in detail all the popular non-religious Easter traditions, including Easter eggs, and related games such as egg rolling and egg decorating. The egg represents fertility and decorating them a way to celebrate of life.
The Easter Bunny? No one can say for sure. . . although there is the metaphor; to multiply like rabbits.
In Florida, things will be quiet. But I have wonderful memories of Easter Sunday mass, baskets, new dresses and bonnets, egg hunts and searching for the golden egg.
It is a celebration of life, new beginnings and hope in the world.
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“Do you like doing nothing?” The question, posed by fellow blogger Kim is intriguing and 67 people commented.
Kim said, if you’d like to do more of nothing; start small, plan unstructured vacations, and choose soft fascination, aka go for a walk. She quotes three University of Michigan psychologists to support the point that nature heals.
Most comments favored doing nothing, I disagree.
Once I start doing nothing, I’m stuck and can’t return to doing something. However, my nothing was not their nothing and many comments addressed the definition of nothing.
The doing nothing discussion was really about the self-imposed lack of unstructured vacations or leisure time.
I can remember only one unstructured vacation for our family of ten.
What I do remember is being sent outside to play after breakfast with strict orders to be home for lunch. Playing cards under our Weeping Willow tree and walking to the pool by ourselves in the afternoon. If I really had nothing to do I’d search for a four-leaf clover.
. . . just saying
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A chartreuse pillow similar in shape and size to a to a large dog bone sat on a purple couch in the hotel lobby. The clerk was all smiles telling us we were early. So, we sat on the purple sofa and waited, mesmerized by a carpet cleaner. The bubbling steamer was pushed back and forth by a housekeeper determined to suck up its remains. The noise and disinfectant smell quickly drove us outside into the Florida heat and sun, which was worse. So, back inside. . . we stood, as the lobby was now crowded. An audience of turning heads as though attending a tennis match watched silently, and I wondered if they would applaud.
Upstairs, I loved the room and fantasized about living in a Tiny House before we headed out to dinner. The restaurant was with-in walking distance, but we decided not to walk hearing thunder, once downstairs.
So, my husband took the elevator to get his car keys, but returned saying the room key didn’t work. He held out the key to examine and discovered he was using a hotel business card to open the room door.
The sky opened-up with what is called “Big Rain” in Florida, as we drove to the restaurant and although wet, we eventually we had dinner.
Day one of the vacation from hell.
. . . just saying
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Bob and I have returned from a “vacation” in Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons. It is a long story that I am working on. In the mean time I hope you enjoy my poem, written some time ago. Its a favorite of mine.
The Itsy Bitsy Bug
Red White and Blue
Can an itsy bitsy bug be patriotic? His red, white, and blue symbolic, A political view Understand freedom . . . be equal too
Like a school age kindergartner Raise his hand to hold the flag Chosen, glad with honor Knows to say a prayer
Can an itsy bitsy bug be patriotic? Puff his chest, recite the pledge Listen to a voice within Battle for the helpless, or let the bullies win!
Stand side by side with those who care Silently and stare Misty eyed while taps is played for those who dare Think America is beautiful
Can an itsy bitsy bug be patriotic?
. . . just saying
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Pictured above, Aunt Carol with leucite handbag, sister Judy, Mother (Pregnant with sister Abigail), sister Mariellen, Me, Grandmother, and standing at attention sister Martha Gertrude
Easter Hats and Egg Hunts
As Easter approaches I find myself reminiscing about days gone by, holidays I tried to duplicate for my kids and grand-kids that only slightly mirrored mine.
In Florida, the smell of spring and Easter that signaled renewal by a burst of color on Long Island is missing, but memories of blooming Dogwood trees linger. The Weeping Willows wore yellow-green buds to announce the occasion.
We woke to Easter Baskets filled with love made by our grandmother. Hollow chocolate eggs squiggled with confectionet sugar peeked out of cellophane surrounded by squishy marshmallow chicks called Peeps and jump ropes, jacks, pink Spaulding balls, and socks trimmed with lace, for the girls and for the boys; army men, matchbox cars, baseball cards, and cool shades.
Great Granny B and 4 month old great-grand son, Tony
My grandmother also baked trays of cookies, some made to look like an Easter baskets, by adding a handle, shredded coconut, and jelly beans. She used cookie cutters for Bunnies with chocolate ears, and cherry jelly linzer cookies, egg white cookies laced with walnuts and her famous chocolate chips cookies.
We usually had new dresses and shiny black patent leather shoes, bought by Aunt Carol at Macy’s Herald Square. The shoes fit perfectly because Aunt Carol would trace our feet on card board, cut the pattern out and bring it with her to the store where she and a shoe salesman determined the correct size.
Aunt Carol always carried a pretty handbag and a tasteful hat, similar to these:
After opening our baskets my mother dressed us in order of our behavior, and told to, “Sit on the couch, and don’t move, or else!” And we didn’t.
Drew, the youngest at the time, was dressed, after my mother dressed, and held by the hand until he was in the car and Mass over.
The Easter Bunny hid real hard-boiled eggs dyed the day before and shortly after company arrived on Easter Sunday, a whistle was blown, and we ran, desperate to find THE GOLDEN EGG, a chocolate egg wrapped in gold foil. Little did we know my brother Victor searched ahead of us, yes cheated, while I prayed to find the Golden Egg . . . . just this once. The prize was one dollar.
Although Easter was about baskets and dyed eggs, it was really about hats. as seen in the above picture and I remember shopping at Montgomery Ward’s, the day before Easter in a panic then thrilled, to find the hat I am wearing, an exact match to my homemade celery green coat. My sister, Judy, was ecstatic with hers, the red band makes the outfit pop, and sister Mariellen’s perfect in classic white.
Don’t we look marvelous?
Now if I only had that hat.
. . . . just saying
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It’s far from cold today in Florida; not even chilly. The temperature will climb to the mid-eighties.
I miss the snow.
Christmas doesn’t feel like Christmas when I’m wearing shorts and sandals.
My poinsettias won’t get the recommended sunlight inside our house so they are spending time outdoors. However, they might experience wilt since they prefer air temps between 65-70.
The local newspaper gave detailed instructions on how to care for the plant and suggested that, with a bit of work, they would bloom again. It sounded like a lot of work to me.
I’ve never had them bloom again, in Florida, but was successful in New Jersey, when I threw them off our deck.
Miraculously sometime during spring cleanup they were in bloom
. . . just saying
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Those of you who have had cataract surgery know what I’m talking about; the world is brighter. I see the walls in my house as cream, not mustard. And my hair, isn’t dingy grey. I’m hoping after the second eye is corrected, I’ll have fewer wrinkles.
Rumor was the regiment of daily drops three days before surgery and up to one month after was the most annoying part.
They were right.
Although, I had to strip naked and wear a surgical gown three times too large; told to use the restroom which was locked, and consequently, had to sneak into the hall with my butt exposed.
The surgery was everything promised. After the doctor marked my forehead to indicate the left eye was to be operated on, I didn’t feel a thing.
In recovery I overhead the nurse’s discharge instructions for the patient in the next bed; no driving, DO NOT bend at the waist, and no alcohol.
However, she did not include the no alcohol in her discharge spiel to me, nor mention the difficulty one might have walking. One eye is new and improved, but patched and vision in the other eye is cloudy and compromised. A glass of wine was in my future.
After dinner I poured myself a glass of wine and watched the level rise in the glass, carefully, not to over do it. There was no rise in the glass and I thought the glass could be cracked, only to realize I had been pouring the wine on the counter.
Fortunately, it was inexpensive wine.
Fortunately, the spill didn’t travel to the floor. I would have had to bend at the waist.
Note to self; in preparation for the second eye surgery, buy straws.
. . . just saying
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