Musical Memories

Over the weekend I got an email from the Georgia National Fair sharing what their musical acts this year will be.  One of the bands listed was the Marshall Tucker Band.  I told my children, “Yeah.  Cap enjoyed their music.”

And then I started laughing.

When I was growing up, we always tried to get Daddy the perfect gift.  For his birthday.  Father’s Day.  Christmas.  And it was always a challenge.  One year we knew he had said something about really liking the music of one particular group.  Between us children and Mama, all we could come up with was the name started with M.

We looked and searched and listened to the radio. (This was pre-Google by the way.) And then, after hearing the latest hits, we knew.

Thank goodness.

Men At Work.

Of the “Who Can It Be Now?” and “Land Down Under” fame.

Ahem.

Daddy was very gracious about it.  He even liked the music on that cassette tape.

But no–I’m not sure how it eventually came out, but it was the Marshall Tucker Band he’d originally mentioned.

Now if you’ve heard music from both, you understand just how gracious he was.

Because they are very different.

I love this memory for so many reasons.

Another trip down Memory Lane happened when Aub was playing music for Cooter to help him focus on his lessons yesterday.  They are both trying to convince me he learns better when music is playing.  I don’t know.  I thought so at one point, but when some songs come on, he jumps up and starts singing and dancing and yeah.  I’m thinking not so conducive to the learning in those moments.

When I heard the beginning notes yesterday, I knew.  And I went back in time almost 38 years.

My brother was a baby.  Daddy had just taken him out for his first ride in Daddy’s old pickup truck.  Mama was cooking supper, listening to the radio, when the song came on.

“Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” by Willie Nelson.

She knew what a big moment this was for Daddy and my brother and when the lyrics played, I think she let out something somewhere between a laugh and a cry.

“Don’t let ’em pick guitars and ride in old trucks

Make ’em be doctors and lawyers and such…..”

She knew it was all over then.

And the song always made her smile.

The two big concerts this Fall at the Fair are going to be Alabama and Rascal Flatts.  Aub said she thought she wanted to go to both–that was a proud moment for this Mama with eclectic musical taste–“but I think I should probably go see Alabama.  I mean, who knows how much longer they will be playing…..”

“I thought they’d already done a Farewell Tour,” we both said at the same time.  And then we laughed together.

I love how music is such a part of our memories and our lives.

Tonight I’m thankful for a Daddy who was gracious and never ceased to amaze me with his “outside the box” appreciation of music.  I think I know where I got my eclectic taste from.   Daddy really enjoyed old country, but over the years “You Are” by Lionel Richie, “True Colors” by Cyndi Lauper, “Total Eclipse of the Heart” by Bonnie Tyler, “Reason to Believe” by Rod Stewart, and even “Karma Chameleon” by Boy George and Culture Club, for goodness’ sake, were added to his list of favorites.  This doesn’t even include the alternative musicians he listened to and enjoyed.

He used to say anytime he heard “You Are” by Lionel Richie, “I don’t know if he did or not, but he should’ve gotten an award for that one.”  And my Daddy was not one to repeat himself unless it was really important.

Tonight I’m also thankful for parents who surrounded us with music of all kinds and recognized the value of listening beyond the sheer pleasure of it.  I am thrilled that my children have inherited a rich musical legacy of listening to all types of music and that they are able to develop their own tastes.

Wishing you all a day filled with music you love, with one or two new ones to try on for size thrown in there as well.

Love to all.

The album cover I remember from growing up.

The album cover I remember from growing up.

The Stranger and the Orange Chair

Tonight at Evening Prayer we were talking about strangers.  In the middle of listening to the story of Abraham and Sarah greeting a stranger and the story of the men on the road to Emmaus coming upon a stranger, one thing came to mind.

The orange chair.

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My rendition of our orange chair. It was given away years ago.

 

In our little five-room house on Boy Scout Road that we lived in from when I was not quite three until I was nine (when we had six people living there and my parents decided enough was enough), we had an orange chair.

Perhaps I should explain this was back in the 70’s.

Orange was the old black back then.

It sat by the door to the little hall in the center of the house.  The one where the space heater sat.  The chair was upholstered in a lovely fabric.  I’m sure it wasn’t silk but it had a neat feel to it.  It was built all square and quite comfortable.

One rainy (Sunday?) night, we heard something outside.  The edges of this memory are hazy, but I know I was very young.  I remember the open door revealing a dark night, with the exception of the street light, and the rain pouring down.  And the young man who was coming into our house.

We didn’t know him.  Only that there’d been an accident.  Right in front of our house.  He had been riding his motorcycle and what with the rain, he’d laid it down right about the time a station wagon was coming from the other direction.

I don’t remember there being anyone there at that time besides him, and I don’t think it was a hit and run either.  I guess the station wagon wasn’t involved in the accident, but it was a part of the story.

Mama led him to sit in the orange chair.  He was pretty shaken up.  And hurt.  I remember a bustle of activity.  Mama went to nursing school before she started college, so she knew the basic things to do for him.  Or maybe that was just her Mama know-how kicking in.  I think she or Daddy must have called for an ambulance because I vaguely remember others coming in, and I don’t remember Daddy leaving to drive him anywhere.

What I remember most is him sitting in the chair.

And I remember what I saw after he left.

Little drops of blood.

Over the years the chair had one or another “chair cover” thrown over it.  I guess it was because of those little blood stains.  Or because it was orange.  Maybe a little bit of both.  We had some fancy ones–ones with fringe and that foam backing so it didn’t slide.

(Respect the chair cover.  Mama could redecorate anytime she wanted.  Well, when there was one on sale.  Not that she did. But she could have.)

Tonight when I remembered that chair, I realized that was the first time I remember seeing my parents help out someone they didn’t know.  Giving.  Caring.

But it wasn’t the last time.  Not at all.   And the lesson stuck.

When it comes to someone in need, there is no such thing as a stranger.  When someone is hurt or lost or broken or hungry, you sit them down in an orange chair and you do what you can with what you have to change their circumstances.  For the better.

And never mind how messy it gets.  As Mama reminded me on many occasions, “They’re just things.  Things can be replaced.  People can’t.”  And so she threw a chair cover over the orange chair and kept on–helping, caring, and making this world a better place.  (And not just by hiding the orange.)

May we all have the opportunity and heart to welcome a stranger this week.

Love to all.

 

 

The Mushrooms Said “I love you”

Today after we wrapped up our morning lessons, the littles flew up the stairs and into their rooms and all around the house in a flurry of activity.  At some point (I’m not sure when) they had consulted and decided what they wanted to do together after they were done with school.

And it wasn’t begging to play on electronics or watch a video.  That was a wise decision today.

Princess came out in my eighth grade graduation dress that my Mama made special for the occasion.  Yes, she’s three years younger than I was at the time, and yes, she is as tall or taller than I was at thirteen.  Thank you for asking.  Cooter came out wearing his repurposed and embroidered Chef shirt I made over for him from a GW Boutique purchase Christmas 2012.

They explained to me that they were opening a restaurant, and that I was to come place my order.  This was timely as it was lunch time and I needed to throw something together for their lunch, but their minds were set.  Their restaurant, my order.

Princess had set up a wooden TV tray table at the foot of the stairs complete with a menu and prices (so convenient–don’t you hate it when they don’t have the prices–that never turns out well).  She was a lovely hostess, and as I placed my order for pizza and sushi (hey, I was hungry), she wrote it all down.  She told me it would be ready soon, and I was dismissed.

I heard some hollering back and forth–it was hard to decide if this was fine dining or a diner–and some skerfuffling and a few minutes later, Princess called out that my order was ready.  I was a little taken aback, if I’m being honest here, because I thought she had told me my food would be brought to my “table.”  I expressed my concerns, and the lovely hostess apologized and said it would be brought right out.

I was sitting in my comfortable spot, when Chef Cooter brought out my tray himself.  What a good chef!  He wanted to see the joy on my face himself, I guess, which I thought was sweet until I saw the twinkle in his eyes.

What?

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Ah yes.  The pizza.  He had put mushrooms as the topping.  Just for me.  And I realized this, just as he was about to force feed me a “bite” of the pizza, giggling harder and harder as he approached my mouth with it.

Because mushrooms.  Just no.

As I’ve shared before, I did not care for them growing up.  Acting ugly about them or turning my nose up at them was not tolerated.  I was expected to eat them just like everyone else.  Until I was grown.  And then Mama wanted my picked off/picked out mushrooms.  She loved them, you see.  We were a perfect match when it came to eating a veggie pizza.

And Cooter knows all of this.  And he deliberately put the mushrooms on that pizza for me today.

Yuck.

And yet–

I felt loved.  So very loved.

That sounds crazy and counterintuitive, I know.  And I’ve thought about how to write about this so it made sense for hours now, and yet I still don’t know how to do it justice.

But when he teased me like that, with that giggle and twinkle in his eye–I knew three things.

He knows me very well.

He loves me so much to tease me and make me laugh like that.

He is so comfortable with me that he knows I will laugh at this thing he did and not take offense.  And he really wanted me to laugh.

As I pushed the pizza away with all the drama and disgust I could muster, we were all three laughing and Miss Sophie was dancing around, wondering what all the excitement was about.

Mushrooms, Sophie.  And so much more.

Tonight I’m thankful for the love and laughter.  For being known.  For parents who loved me and for the children who continue to make me smile and laugh and give me a reason to look forward to another day.  For their fun and creative spirits and joy-filled hearts, I am grateful.  And most of all, for twinkles in eyes and that the teasing that came with living with my Daddy is carried on, I give thanks.

May you all have someone who teases you with a twinkle in the eye and who makes you laugh and laugh.

Love and laughter to all.

 

 

Paper Plates and Mac n’ Cheese–Making the Most of the Time We Have

My dying friend once chided me, “You need to use paper plates more.  Why are you worrying so much about always using real dishes?”

Her niece had visited with us, and I guess the sweet girl told her Aunt that we hadn’t used paper plates.  At all.

It was precious that my friend was so concerned.  And ironic.  Because the only reason we hadn’t been using paper plates is because we had none.

None.  Not a one.

It was summer, my favorite paper plate season, so yeah.  The fact that I hadn’t been using them had nothing to do with a “standard” or anything–it was actually because I was too lazy to make a special trip to the store.  And quite forgetful when I was actually there–so no paper plates made it to the house for a while.

So doing the dishes it was.

I get what her concern was.  Now more than ever.  Life is too short to worry about fancy plates.  Or to be doing dishes all the time. Or not to use the fancy dishes when you want to.  For no particular reason at all.

I’m all for being environmentally sound.  Our recycling bin is the fullest one in our neighborhood.  But, paraphrasing Ecclesiastes, there’s a time and place for paper plates.

Like when you have a houseful of folks and the dishwasher is already being run three times a day.

Paper plates are good in times like that.

Mama got it.  In later years, she brought out the fancy “china” (ette) for Thanksgiving dinner.  And Christmas Eve supper.  And other big get togethers.  As her energy waned and her time was occupied with taking care of Daddy, she gave herself grace for the first time in her life to serve us frozen macaroni and cheese.   You know, after it was baked in the oven.

My crew still calls it “Maemae’s Mac n’ Cheese,” and they love it better than anything homemade I’ve ever tried to make.

Because of things like frozen macaroni and cheese and paper plates, my Mama was able to enjoy more time with all of us.  And us with her.  Same thing with my friend.  Sadly, she heard the clock ticking and wanted to make the most of the time she had to be with folks.

I was thinking about this earlier this morning when I saw I was down to one paper plate.  I thought about all the ones we used over the holidays with folks in and out and enjoying many meals together.  And I am thankful for every single one.  I’m weaning myself off using them now that all have headed home and my big girl is back at college.  Real dishes are the right choice.  For now.

Tonight I’m thankful for the invention of paper plates.  They are awesome when you have a crowd of folks.  Or a headache.  Or for making masks or using as paint trays.  So versatile and some are quite lovely too.  I’m also thankful for my friend and how much she must have cared for me to chew me out about how I needed to use paper plates.  It was a bigger lesson and though it took me a while, I’m finally getting it.  I give thanks for the example Mama set for me too.  It’s important to cook healthy for my family (and she did for oh so many years), but it’s also important sometimes to put the priority on being together and take a shortcut or two to make the most of the time we have.

Wishing you all enough paper plates when you need them and a frozen macaroni and cheese or two in the freezer.  For “just in case” and “whenever.”

Love to all.

 

My very last paper plate.....it's time.

My very last paper plate…..it’s time.

Sharing Stories Around the Picnic Table

On New Year’s Day, over Maemae’s Swedish Christmas Ginger Cookies in the shapes of Star Wars characters with a side of sparkling cider, I got to share stories with my nephews and my littles.  They sat around the picnic table I bought and brought home and painted on one of the occasions the Fella was out of town years ago.  Bless him, he never knows what he’ll be coming home to.

It was a beautiful day to sit by the fire and share stories.  I suppose I had an ulterior motive, but too many stories left this world with first my Daddy and then my Mama, so when I have the chance, I’m gonna tell ’em and they’re gonna listen.

We talked about superheroes.  This crew knows their stuff.  They named several I had no idea whom they were talking about.  Superheroes are cool, able to do amazing things that we can’t.  I remember thinking about what one superpower I’d want if I were offered such as that–it would be to be able to discern at a glance whether any food allergens were present.  But that’s another story.

Then we talked about real-life heroes and how they were real whereas the superheroes were not.  They named the standard police men and women, fire and rescue teams, ambulance drivers, military members, sheriffs, teachers, doctors, nurses…..and so on.  They had this down too.

I told them I wanted to tell them about two of my heroes.   Our Princess piped up, “Maemae and Cap!”  (Way to mess with my momentum, baby girl.)  I looked down at her, eyes blinking, for a moment.  She smiled and shrugged. “You told me they were your heroes one time.”

Well, she’s right.

They are.

I explained to this bunch of little people who had just had such an awesome week playing and imagining and running around together that the two people they all had in common are my heroes.

“You know why?”

The shook their heads.

“Because they were kind.  They didn’t leave anyone out.  They loved everyone.  What’s the first thing Maemae always did when you walked in her back door?”

My brother’s oldest piped up, “Give you a hug!”

Spot on.  Absolutely right.  That woman loved her hugs.  Giving and receiving them.

Before I could nod and confirm his answer, his younger brother shouted, “Ask you to take off your shoes!”

Ha.  Well yes.  Yes, she did.

And that was another thing that makes my parents my heroes.

They took care of what they had.  We did not grow up in a disposable household.  There was none of this, “oh well it’s okay if it breaks, we’ll just get another one.”  You took care of what you had–clothes, shoes, books, toys, dishes, everything–or you didn’t have it.

My parents were good stewards.  They saved and when they did spend it was well thought out and rarely on something frivolous.  They were good stewards of their money, of their home, of their time, of the land, of their children.

They took care of their things and of others.

And there was one more story I wanted to tell my little people.

“They also told the truth.  They spoke up for what was right, and what came out of their mouth was the truth, no matter how hard it was for them to stand up for ‘right.’  No matter how unpopular it made them.”

And now, as a parent, I can respect that so much more than when I was an embarrassed teenager.

A few weeks ago, my crew and I were watching an episode of “Girl Meets World.”  The daughter was struggling because, as a middle school student, she wanted to be popular with the “in” crowd.  In defense of her changed behavior and dress, she told her mom, “I’m popular with at least five people.”  Her mom (Topanga, for those of you who remember “Boy Meets World”) replied, “Well is one of those five you?”

Well.

That kind of truth is what I was raised with.  Speaking truth and living true to who we are.

It is interesting that to this day, the ones I hold in highest regard and admire as heroes (a word I don’t use lightly) are kind, take care of all that is around them, and speak the truth, no matter how difficult that may be.

After I shared about why Maemae and Cap are my heroes, the littles had their own stories to share.  It was neat to hear the memories all the littles had of my parents, their grandparents, and it was just as important for me to listen to their stories as it was for them to hear mine.  I think that is what family does best, when they sit down together and just “be”–they carry on the stories for those who have yet to come to hear.

Wishing you all someone to share your stories with, and someone to share their stories with you.  Those are really the only things no one can take away from us.

Love to all.

 

 

An Anniversary, ee cummings, and Christmas

December 17, 1967.

It was forty-seven years ago that my parents said their I do’s and joined their lives forever.   With close friends and family present, and Mama’s best friend from school and my Daddy’s Daddy standing up beside them, they joined hands and hearts and stories.

Forever.

I’m convinced they are up at the House sitting on the back porch, side by side.  Mama will reach out her hand as they watch the beautiful sunset and Daddy will take it.  And though it might be quiet between them, they love each other more than any two people I’ve ever met.

They loved children–their children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, great nieces and nephews.  They loved all children.  They kept copies of “Our Animal Friends at Maple Hill Farm” by the Provensens in the trunk of their car to give to children or parents they met whom they thought might enjoy reading it.  Daddy sometimes carried Matchbox cars in his pockets to share with little boys and girls he came across, especially at the doctor’s offices.  When he left this world, he left quite a few he’d collected yet to be shared.  He loved cars and children just that much.

The last few years before Mama passed, she enjoyed picking out Christmas or winter stories for the children in her life. Last year, our first Christmas without her, I decided to carry on that tradition–the picking out of the holiday story.

I really enjoyed myself, and I was so happy when I found the right book and felt like Mama was there, giving my choice a thumbs up.  (Patricia Polacco’s “Uncle Vova’s Tree”)

This year I started earlier, reading and searching for just the right book.  I found several good ones.  My crew have really enjoyed the daily readings in “The Yule Tomte and the Little Rabbits: A Christmas Story for Advent.”  But what one story would wrap up all the joy and delight and emotions of this Christmas season?

This past weekend I found out that my Aub, home from college, has a newfound love of ee cummings.  Sunday evening I took a few minutes to reacquaint myself with his poetry.  As I was reading some of his work, I found one he wrote called “Little Tree,” which has been published more than once as a children’s story.  I found a copy illustrated by Deborah Kogan Ray, and it called out to me.

Could it be?  Could this be the book for this year?

My copy arrived today.

I had already read the poem, and it touched my heart, but when put together with Ms. Ray’s warm and whimsical illustrations, it became a new favorite.

Just like that.

The littles and I read it together.  When we finished, they both sat still for a moment.  I asked if they liked it.  Both nodded.  Our Princess said, “It’s really almost like a Christmas poem, isn’t it?  It’s so beautiful.”

Yes.  Yes it is, as a matter of fact.  On both accounts.

We hunted for our Christmas trees in the woods on my Granny’s farm most of the years I was growing up.  Such great memories of beautiful afternoons wandering around, finding one we liked, but continuing on just to be sure. And then trying to find our way back to the one we’d chosen at the very beginning.  Daddy was so patient with us.  We never chose the “perfect” trees as there was an unspoken understanding that those belonged to the animals and the woods.  (Well, maybe I did speak it a time or two when someone dared to suggest us getting that perfect one.)  We usually looked for the ones that the deer had rubbed their antlers on.  Daddy taught us how to look for those trees, and he told us there was a chance that those wouldn’t make it.  So we chose one of those each year–we called them corner trees, which was perfect since we always put our tree in the corner of our living room.

Perfectly imperfect.  And every year Mama would say it was the prettiest tree yet.

That made me happy.  And I was quite sure it made the tree happy too.  Daddy taught me the word anthropomorphism many years ago, and it suits me.  I like to think that the trees have feelings and are happy or sad to be chosen or not.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons that ee cummings’ poem spoke to me.  I’m sure it was, but when I read the line–“and there won’t be a single place dark or unhappy”–my heart was home.

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from “Little Tree” by ee cummings and Deborah Kogan Ray

 

Yes.

This beautiful book will find its way onto our shelf after the 12 days of Christmas, but it won’t be forgotten throughout the year.  This timeless poem turned children’s book is one that can bring back memories whenever it is opened and read. It is too lovely to be tucked away for very long, dreaming of when it might be able to share its story once again.

Tonight I’m thankful for this story I found (thanks Aub!) which brought back memories that were such a big part of my Christmas each year.  Those tree hunts with Daddy were a tradition I love and dearly miss.  I am also thankful for the story that began 47 years ago tonight, celebrated after all had gone home over cups of warm Pepsi, because they had heard it was so good.  I give thanks for the two who loved us and taught us and encouraged us.  And I’m thankful for their love of books and generous spirits.  They left some mighty big shoes to fill.  While I cannot fill those shoes myself, I can walk along the path they left, and do my best to live up to whom they raised me to be.

Happy Anniversary to my parents, and Happy Everyday, as my Mama would say, to everyone!

May today be a day that you will always remember joyfully in the years to come.

Love to all.

 

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I will be giving away a copy of the book “Little Tree” by ee cummings to a lucky reader.  The winner will be chosen randomly at 12:01 a.m. EST on December 18th.  To enter, comment below with your favorite Christmas book or like the “I Might Need a Nap” Facebook page and comment on this post on that page.  For handwriting practice for the week I will have the littles write your names down, put them in a hat, and we’ll let Miss Sophie draw out the name.  I will send the book out to the winner on Thursday, and it should arrive before Christmas, barring anything unforeseen happening.  Good luck!  Only one entry per person please.  

More of the story of the two who became one can be read here.

To Dust or Not to Dust

My number one chore growing up?

Dusting.

Ugh.

We all took turns unloading the dishwasher.  Somehow the bathroom was always clean or, well, mostly.  I remember washing out the tub regularly, but it was never MY chore.  We rotated vacuuming and things like that, but dusting?

When you said dusting in our house, folks automatically thought of me.

Every Saturday.

Back in the days of Saturday morning cartoons, I would run out during commercial breaks and do as much as I could in another room, posting my baby brother as a sentry to “holler” when the show was coming back on.  It’s amazing, and you might not believe it, but that living room was the best dusted room in the house.

The others?

Not so much.

I had some “viewing” to do.

I miss Saturday morning programming.  (Thunder?  Isis?  Shazam?  HR Pufnstuf?  The Jetsons?  Those were great shows!)   But I digress.

Occasionally I had the choice of staying inside and dusting or going out and mowing.  I didn’t let the door hit me as I raced outside.  I wasn’t sure who picked up my slack inside at the time, but now I have an inkling.

No one.

I may hear differently from Sister, Mess Cat, or Bubba, but I learned in just the past few years that perhaps Mama was overdoing it, having me dusting every. single. Saturday.

A few years ago we were on the phone.   She used her special word that she and my great Aunt would say when they had done something they really didn’t want to do, but now felt awesome about having done it.  “I’m feeling pretty sanctimonious,” she said.  “I just dusted the whole house.  It’s been a few weeks.”

Excuse me?  Mama who had me dusting every week say what now?

Yep.  She no longer dusted the house weekly.  Which is why I’m pretty sure she let it go when I was out there mowing.

And I thought I was getting the better end of the deal.

Eh.  Considering all the stories I made up in my head while I was out there, I probably did.  I loved mowing grass.

Last night my dearfriend whose name is not Shirley jokingly complained that someone she’d hired to come sit with her Daddy did housework and even dusted her house while she was there.  “And I just wanted her to sit with my Daddy!”

“Yeah, who wants their house dusted?” I laughed.

“I know.  I had it all set and ready for Halloween,” she joked back as she waved bye.

Huh.

You know, that’s an idea.

Today I noticed, as I was looking for our copy of Be Nice to Spiders on our bookshelves, that it’s been a little while since I dusted.  Probably even longer than Mama ever let her house go.  And we all now know she was a slacker when it came to dusting.   Yep, it needs a good dusting job.

But wait.  There’s Halloween coming.  It does lend a spooky sort of air to things.

So I decided to wait until next week.  And then I saw someone post how few Fridays there are until Christmas (just stop it y’all), and I thought about how cute it would be to have the dust there where little elves could leave footprints or write messages in it.  Maybe Santa will even leave a print himself?

Perfect!

So of course no dusting before Christmas, right?  And I can’t on New Year’s Day because whatever you do that day, you’ll be doing all year long and well, we canNOT have that.  At all.

Dust makes me think of a light dusting of snow too.  Perfect decoration for January.  And–best part–absolutely free.

And when February rolls around, we can all leave little love messages on the shelves and end tables and what not…..won’t that be sweet?

That’s really as far as I got in thinking about how useful it is to have a dusty house. (I mean, now I’m thinking about how deprived I was growing up.  A dust-free house? So sad.) But give me time.  I’m sure I’ll come up with something for March too.

And then spring housekeeping will hit.  Maybe that will be the perfect time to dust?

Tonight I’m thankful for the laughter I hear in my heart that I am sure is my Mama.  She and Daddy always called me on my procrastinating, and I know she’s shaking her head at me now.  “Just go on and get it done, T. Annie,” she’d be saying, I’m sure.  “You’ll feel so much better after you’re through.  You might even feel sanctimonious.”

Ha.  I just might.

In the meantime, I’m worn out.  Coming up with valid reasons not to dust my house has slap worn me out.

Wishing you all some silly fun and well-intentioned procrastinating success.  Love to all.