Monday, December 3, 2012
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
As the rain falls,
She can almost hear it whisper her name.
Drops softly caress her skin
The worries of the day are washed away
Peace comes over her
Head thrown back, arms to the sky,
Her laughter echoes through the night
As her dance, with the rain, begins.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Friday, November 9, 2012
My friends here know that Mitzi is no longer with us. She died of cancer before their first anniversary. Cherie is right....the best quality isn't always the best shot.
Friday, October 12, 2012
My take on Contrast...light and dark. This shot was taken at St. Johns in Savannah. This church is so beautiful. When I saw the light coming in through the window, I wanted this shot. I loved the way the light was hitting it.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
The following was written by Robert Hogan. He gave me his permission to use this anytime. It was in my blast for a while.
Feeling allows pain, but feeling allows love. It's a trade off. I can deal with pain, I could nor would not want to numb myself to love.
When I read this, it really touched me. It actually changed the way I viewed some things. I have been blessed to know much love in my life. Family and friends. I've known the romantic love. I have loved very deeply. Sometimes the love we feel isn't returned but, I think that having the ability to Love is a wonderful thing.
I don't know if I'll ever give that kind of love to anyone again. Honestly, it scares the shit out of me. I don't fall in love easily but, when I do, I fall hard. I have known the pain of love but, I can't say that I regret the times it was in my life.
What I really think is, I'm tired. I haven't slept much the past few days and I just have too much stuff rolling around in my head. Since I have to get up at 4 AM, I think I'm going to try to call it a night.
Hope you all have had a great weekend.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
This is the note she left me:
When my girls were young, the band-aid was a magical thing. No matter the problem, a band-aid always seemed to be the fix. That or a kiss to the offended area. Still works with the grandmonsters.
It was a cure-all for everything it seemed. Skinned knees, scratches and sometimes even when there seemed to be no evidence of a ...
As they got older the magic of the band-aid receded. Walking out of childhood into the teenage years and growing into a young adult, the power of the band-aid was lost. Sad isn't it, the things we lose from childhood.
A kiss seemed to have the same affect. I always tried to kiss the hurt away. Once, when Brandy was young, she literally busted her arse. Admist the tears, she began to laugh. She looked at me and said kiss it Mama. The little shite. It's a moment I'll always remember. Laughter through tears....
It seems the older they get, the harder it is to kiss the hurt away. We watch as our children go through the pains of life and most times, there's not much we can do. I feel so helpless sometimes and long for the power of the band-aid.
When they suffer the trials of life, we can love them, be there for them, give advice but most times we just have to let time heal the wounds.
Being a Mother is the hardest job there is I think. But, it's also one that's full of rewards.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
The Word of the Day for September 9 is:
lugubrious \loo-GOO-bree-us\ adjective
1 : mournful; especially : exaggeratedly or affectedly mournful
2 : dismal
Katie's friends guessed immediately from her lugubrious expression that she and her boyfriend had broken up.
"Then beneath that lugubrious lament comes a kind of gentle chugging rhythm, like the clickety-clack of a train, against which Sweeney thumbs his nose at the sentimentality established at the start of the song." — From a review by Steven Leigh Morris in LA Weekly, June 14, 2012
Did you know?
"It is a consolation to the wretched to have companions in misery," wrote Publilius Syrus in the first century BC. Perhaps this explains why "lugubrious" is so woeful—it's all alone. Sure, we can dress up "lugubrious" with suffixes to form "lugubriously" or "lugubriousness," but the word remains essentially an only child—the sole surviving English offspring of its Latin ancestors. This wasn't always the case, though. "Lugubrious" once had a linguistic living relative in "luctual," an adjective meaning "sad" or "sorrowful." Like "lugubrious," "luctual" traced ultimately to the Latin verb "lugēre," meaning "to mourn." "Luctual," however, faded into obsolescence long ago, leaving "lugubrious" to carry on the family's mournful mission all alone.
The above is copy and pasted from my daily email. I love words and enjoy learning new ones. This one, however, seemed to fit the moment. The atmosphere in Multiply is "lugubrious." The time is coming when we won't be here. I don't remember feeling this way when 360 closed. Maybe, my connections there weren't as strong as the connections I've made here. There are friends here from 360 still, but many have fallen along the wayside.
There are a few friends I made here that I haven't heard from in a long time. Emm is one. I miss her so much. I worry about here and she's in my thoughts often. I do have her on my messenger and an email address, so I'll still send a note now and then, just to let her know I'm thinking of her. I did have her phone numbers, but it was in one of the phones I drowned. I really need to invest in an address book.
It's the same with Pam, or Vamp as most knew here. She pops in occasionally just to let me know she's still breathing. The last I heard, she was very happy and on her way to becoming a blushing bride....LOL She would kill me for that. People didn't always understand her and couldn't see how she and I could be friends, but we clicked.....and a bond was formed.
Some of the friends here have gone on to FB. I'm not a big facebook fan, but I can keep up with them there. Rach, Claire, Linda B, and Holly. Many of you are there also. Becky, aka Mop, I keep with me wherever I go. One of these days I'm gonna get that Chic here or Morticia and I are gonna have to make that trip.
I'm hanging here till the end.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Friday, August 31, 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
December 11, 2009
December 11, 2009
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
I was at the corner grocery store buying some early potatoes... I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily apprising a basket of freshly picked green peas.
I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes.
Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller (the store owner) and the ragged boy next to me.
'Hello Barry, how are you today?'
'H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas. They sure look good'
'They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?'
'Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time.'
'Good. Anything I can help you with?'
'No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas.'
'Would you like to take some home?' asked Mr. Miller.
'No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with.'
'Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?'
'All I got's my prize marble here.'
'Is that right? Let me see it', said Miller.
'Here 'tis. She's a dandy.'
'I can see that. Hmm mmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?' the store owner asked.
'Not zackley but almost.'
'Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble'. Mr. Miller told the boy.
'Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller.'
Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me.
With a smile she said, 'There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever.
When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, when they come on their next trip to the store.'
I left the store smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to Colorado , but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering for marbles.
Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died. They were having his visitation that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them. Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could.
Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts...all very professional looking. They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket.
Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket. Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one; each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.
Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and reminded her of the story from those many years ago and what she had told me about her husband's bartering for marbles. With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket.
'Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about.
They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim 'traded' them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size....they came to pay their debt.'
'We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world,' she confided, 'but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho ...'
With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.
We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds. Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath.