Peacocks, owls, and ants

Several years ago our son and his wife lived next door to a family who owned peacocks. They were lovely and colorful and fun. Until nightfall. That's when they would make these loud, scary calls. It didn't help that the house was a rental with poor lighting outside. Or that the peacocks had full run of the entire area. They were allowed to stop traffic, visit neighbors, ride on the backs of four-legged animals if they wished.

Oh, and the yard. Not a "yard" so much as a former field that had been converted into a pecan orchard, that had been converted to a place. There were holes from crumbling railroad ties, dips that held ATVs hostage, and mounds of....well, wait for it. Walking to or from the house was an obstacle course that often caused your body to suddenly twist into a convoluted pretzel. 

At precisely the right time, an owl would hoot in those creepy sounds that big owls make. You know that sound: low and deep and breathy. The ones that echo off the pecan trees. Those ones.

Sometimes you stepped on a soft mound of freshly ground dirt. To which your response had better be high stepping at a fast clip before something below smelled your flesh. 

Red fire ants in Louisiana tromp up your foot at the same time, like a troop of Roman soldiers, they search out their field of attack under socks and pants, so when the officers yell "charge," they take one synchronized chomp. There is no pain like the burning pain of Southern fire ants, but Louisianans are bound to secrecy so as not to discourage tourism. I can say no more.

Inevitably there would be a hole waiting for the step immediately following the drop into the ant hill. It worked in the order of sinking ant hill, high step, high step, hole, drop. "Hoo hoo hoot." And an onslaught of slapping at your ankles until the realization that you're the one flaying around.

Of course, during this attempt to remove the monsters eating you alive, your legs were still working. Once in motion, they just went. Nothing in your brain signaled them to stop because everything in your brain is working at the ants. Once a body is in motion, the body stays in motion, remember? The problem is that your body  forgot the laws of motion while traveling at 3.1415 miles per hour. Something had to give. 

The knees are the first to go, remember? One knee caught your body weight in a thud, while the other foot pawed the grass in an attempt to get ahead of the rest of you. That happens instinctively. But it never works. The only time instinct really did any good was much later. After you'd clawed your ankles, broken your knee (the good one) and had a slight heart attack. The good news is that a slight attack kept your heart pounding. Ah, you could race to the door on one bad knee and no ankles. Any door would do. 

More likely than not the door would be locked, but still, it was a door. It's possible to jerk a locked door open if your heart is pounding hard enough to get adrenaline to your hands. You'd had that attack...there was adrenaline.

Of course, getting to the door required running on air. As in not touching the ground. You see, at night pecan tree roots rise out of the dirt in an interlaced course with the sole purpose of grabbing a toe. The roots were easy to evade: one need only raise the toe of each shoe just ever so much higher than normal. Everyone knows that tree roots are harmless under the foot. Feet are too big for roots. However, tree roots can grab toes; thus, the toes are in danger. But if you run fast enough, you can hover above the roots and get to the safety of any door.

Or you could be a big brave person, puff out your chest, and let your husband go to the car to turn on the lights.

Goodbye, Gold: A Horror Story

WARNING: This post may be a little gross.  Parental Guidance Suggested - some material may not be suitable for children. AL (Adult language) DS (Disturbing scenes)

I have had gold in the back of my oral cavity for years. And years. This gold cost us dearly at a time in our life when we could ill afford rice or other, much less important, staples. It's been mentioned as a source of equity, though we've never had to cash in.

Until recently. Apparently the price of gold has risen. Enough that the crown decided of its own volition to spend itself. While eating a Little Debbie Swiss Roll, I suddenly bit down on something hard and frightening. Despite the Swiss Roll deliciousness, I spit out the offending rock. The rock was golden and gross. In its place was...nothing. Immediately I became upset at the thought of this great loss and prepared to throw the contents of the paper towel into the trash. My husband insisted that I carefully place the golden rock into a zipper-type bag. Of course, only a freezer-grade gallon-size would do as there were no other containers. 

At what must have been 4:00 a.m., my husband roused me from my sleep and insisted that we see a dentist. Gold rock in hand, I sheepishly sat in the dentist's chair and showed him the bag. 

"Ah, good," he said, "it is perfect. We'll have you back together in no time." The dentist cemented the golden rock back into it's rightful place, but that would not do. I could not eat for the worry that the thing caused. Within the hour my entire face hurt and my teeth could not reach the food I funneled in. Swallowing whole forkfuls of rice and gravy cause a horrid aching in my throat. By the next morning I was crying to return to the kind man and beg him to remove the golden piece. 

"No, no, I can save it," said he. "It is a quick, painless procedure." To set things right the dentist used sandpaper to grind the gold like coffee beans from the crown's smooth top. 

Ah, but he was a mean, deceitful adversary and, while he took some of the gold, he left sharp edges, a piece of shovel and one small, pointed fork. Below all this hardware was a void that the remaining gold would use to store sustenance while it conspired to escape once more. 

First it allowed the tongue to pry and push, but many hours later the tongue became exhausted and gave up the work. Next the gold set its sights on the cheek. This cheeky fellow pretended to help, but the gold saw through the its impudent ways and gave it a good lashing. Like a child the cheek would not learn on the first offering. It often interrupted the workings of the gold by getting in the way, laughing at it's attempts, or sleeping alongside the gold when it rested. 

Thanksgiving turkey quickly found the void and proved itself useful in strengthening the gold. Christmas ham with its salty properties calcified the cement. However, it was the January fireworks which caused the grinding and clenching that would bend the golden savage. Suddenly, the void gave way to an avalanche of crumbling, calcified cement smashing and cutting into gums, tongue, and cheek. Yet, the golden rock remained in its place.

"The crown must be removed," I cried. "I can take it no longer."
"No," said the dentist, "I can save it." But I knew he could not.
Once more he tried in vain to convince me, "It can never be replaced. You must let me try."
"No," I responded with tears in my eyes. "I shall see an oral surgeon who will do whatever it takes to remove this insidious gold."

Two days later I received the call. "Today. 3:00. A place called AOS. Do not be late," said a sinister voice. I know not whom.  Though it required much investigation, I deduced the place where the surgeon does his barbarian work and begged my husband to drive me.

"I cannot go alone. I am terrified and fear that I may not return," I cried. After much begging and pleading on my part, he relented and angrily snatched the keys from my hand.

We arrived at a large, dark building in the middle of the city. I know not where as there were many twists and turns, and I could not see out the window crouched on the floor as I was. After much cajoling, followed by many curses and threats, the love of my life forced me from the car. 

He then pushed me into the building where the windows were tinted and covered with heavy blinds. Tears streaming down my face, I signed form after form. Perhaps I am signing my life away, I pondered, but nothing mattered save the removal of the golden rock.

I alone was allowed beyond the heavy door and lead down a long hallway. I was placed into a machine that spoke to me in an eery, other-worldly voice before enclosing my head in a contraption that swirled and turned until I was dizzy. "Open your eyes," said the tomb-like echo, "and back away from the machine." In a trance, I did as I was told. 

Before I could gain self-control, I was taken to a closeted room where I was interrogated for what must have been hours. Relenting, I provided the answers they wanted and was moved to another, smaller room with a couch where I was to lie in stillness. Without warning, the chair moved and I found myself in a position akin to hanging upside-down. I held onto tiny bars, knowing I would land on my head should I fall.

A man laden with instruments of torture, calling himself "Dr. Smith" entered the room. I squeezed my eyes shut. The woman next to me forced my mouth open and placed a vise between my teeth. Ratcheting my mouth open until I was certain my jaw would break, she said something incoherent to the surgeon. The words they spoke were of another language; I understood nothing. 

Dr. Smith proceeded to stick me with what may have been needles for I felt them probe deep inside my gum, beyond the area of the gold. My brain bursting, I lay quietly, though surely I trembled in fear, tears forever streaming. 

I never lost consciousness and sensed that I was aware of everything that transpired, though I can remember nothing of the episode from the time that Dr. Smith began his hideous work. There may have been some sensation of pressure or pulling, but I will never be sure.  

At some point, I was brought upright and Dr. Smith questioned me further. There was an abyss where the gold had once been. It bleed but strangely I did not feel pain. Eliciting my secrecy, someone gave instructions for my care and showed me the door and I wandered into the bright sunlight, where my husband found me mute but seemingly whole. As we sped from this place of agony, we looked at each other stupefied but, speaking not a word, we wondered...where was the gold?

Link Ups! 

A finish, though not a quilty one.

Crazy Mom Quilts (Finish It Up Friday)

Confessions of a Fabric Addict (Can I get a Whoop! Whoop!)

Hats Off, Hats On

Last weekend I decided to attempt a cloche hat. I've wanted one for quite a while despite the fact that I really don't look good in hats. I like hats. I have even been known to wear them. But wear them well? No, actually.

Exhibit A
There will be no Exhibit B.

The hat almost works. It's a little big, but it covers my head. I just don't like it as much as I thought I would. Mostly it's hot. 

I guess I'll have to wait until this business of the middle-aged heat wave finally passes. I had hoped 57 would be the magic number but apparently I have to get "upper" in age. 




Ah, I digress. Apologies. The cloche is my dream hat. Not the straw hats that I must wear in the Louisiana summer. Cloche hats are cute, sexy, and fun. Straws are utilitarian, sun fighers, blah if you will. 

I mean, who doesn't love a straw hat when the rays are hitting the part in your hair at 100 degrees? Ever had a sunburn on your head? The part-in-your-hair part of your head blisters. When the heat is that bad, the tops of your ears melt. Nothing short of a straw hat the size of a tree can handle that job. 

Preferably a well-worn, beaten up old straw hat. One with a string so you don't lose it when you pass out. Because in the South, passing out is the only thing you're allowed. God forbid that you whine a little (or a lot). 

Inside band and label

When the temps are 105 degrees, you are most likely sizzling on metal stadium seats. Trees don't grow in those kind of places; they have more sense than that. 



Southerners? Oh no, we don't have the sense of a tree. We go to little league games, Nascar races, football and soccer games and all manner of sit-on-a-hot-metal-seat events. Hats come in handy at those places. Hats and umbrellas. And sunscreen. Don't forget the sunscreen. Oh, and water. A towel to put on the seat. Yeah, that towel is pretty important to the hiney-end; no one wants a cooked hiney. 

Years ago (okay, many years) our boys were teenagers. They are athletes. As parents of three boys, we've bleachered every sport. In wind and rain, in sweltering sun and, once, in a November ice storm. The ice storm was bad. The August sun shining in my eyes at three in the afternoon--the bleachers absorbing heat all day long--was the absolute worst. 

Thank my lucky stars, I'd remembered my entire ensemble: a big red straw hat, a reflective silver umbrella, water, sunscreen and towel. I was the only momma in the stands. (Really. It was a scrimmage and some distance from home.) I did pass out (it's a requirement, remember?) during which time, my ears and eyelids melted.  Soon after, the seat of my pants burst into flames. Yep, I got a little hot but a big red hat saved my life. Too bad it couldn't save my toosh.

Mardi Gras: the real story (Pt 3 Going Home)

Part 3 of 3. Read part 1 here.  Read part 2 here.

Packing up. Getting out of the city, any city, every city, is difficult. That is until you attempt to get out of a Mardi Gras city. Mardi Gras cities are a whole other conundrum. One best left to the minds of those who know the streets. You just want to get out. It won't happen until you cry in distress. Crying when you sit in the car is cheating and will only make your head pound harder. You can easily get in, find a parking space, go along on your merry way. 

Try to get out when you've had enough. Not going to happen. Streets along the parade route are monitored by former KGB personnel. Know that every parade uses the same route. Along those streets are miles and miles and miles of barricade. No vehicle crosses the barricade once the go-time is signaled to the KGB officers. No vehicles will cross the barricade until the end times signal reaches the KGB officer. Sit in the car with the AC running so the kids will not whine and you are certain to run out of gas or overheat the car.

Going home. The moment that the KGB guy signals you to leave, every person in the car will pass out except the tiniest of criers. You will listen to her heart-piercing cry until you drop the child off. Miraculously, you will arrive at home. All that's left is to cart the children and trinkets inside.

Part 3 of 3   Go back to Part 1 here.  Go back to Part 2 here.

Mardi Gras: the real story (Pt 2 The Parade)

Part 2 of 3   Read Part 1 here.

The parade is getting near! When you can hear the police sirens, the teens will miraculously appear. They just do. Expect a few extra teens to show up and expect to feed them. About this time the younger kids get antsy. They will begin to jump around, insist on fixing their perches--the wagon, the ice chest, the barricade, your chair, your shoulders--whatever will raise them 8" off the ground. They will then whine because they can't see anything. 

Parades move slowly (there is nothing to see until after the police escort). That means every kid will jump on and off his/her perch several times. You'll have to help them up and help them down, occasionally separate them from each other, and watch kids in all 360 degrees around you at the same time. Other adults cannot be expected to watch their children. They may have "walked a bit" which is code for beer drinking. 

The parade arrives! You'll now spend the next hour standing behind children so they don't fall off the unsteady perches and get crushed. If you're good, you'll have a kid sitting on your shoulders during all this. The real job, however, is to catch beads, candy, small toys, etc. to give to those many kids. Be fair--give more to the smallest ones whose bigger siblings snatch stuff out of their hands. It helps to raise your hands up high and shout, "Throw me something, mista!," at the top of your lungs. 

Between parades. About the time that the first parade ends, everyone will need to go to the restroom. You should escort them to the nearest bank of porta-potties, approximately 1½ miles away. There will be two kinds of lines: one line of potties, many lines of people. When you arrive, put the bigger kids in lines near you so that you can steal the advantage when one of them finally gets in. 

Regardless of what others say, when one person gets a pot, pull the troops back and stick everyone in the same potty. It's the only way to pee and keep tabs on kids. No one is allowed to touch anything, so the big kids should hold the little kids. As soon as one person is finished, "wipe and roll" as in roll out as quickly as possible, keeping a butt on the pot at all times which prevents the smell from wafting up into the room. 

You will do all this again, perhaps three or four times. Pace yourself. Try to keep tabs on your people.

Part 2 of 3   Go back to Part 1 here.    Read Part 3 here.

Mardi Gras: the real story (Pt 1 On the Road)

Part 1 of 3  

NOLA Mardi Gras

Even though Richard and I rarely go to Mardi Gras any more, I have been many, many times. In fact, there were years of tears when I could not go because a child was sick or I had to work. Then there were the years of going for momma, who loved a party! Her Alzheimers had gotten to that middlin stage of knowing she had the disease but was still fighting it. One way she fought was to do everything she loved.

All that said, I thought I'd share my version of the experience with you. It's a long convoluted "story" of one day. Not one particular day, mind you, just any ordinary, Fat Tuesday parade day. We generally go to Lafayette as we know the city well, and it feels safer than the crowds of New Orleans (NOLA).

Gear up--clothing. You'll get up and prepare your gear for the day. That, of course, depends greatly on the weather. On cold days with a slight wind, you will not have enough clothes and warm socks. Plus, you'll feel compelled to share half of your clothing with a half-dressed child.  On hot days when there's a slight wind, you will swelter in February and get a serious sun/wind burn. It's Louisiana.

Supplies. You'll also need to drag a lawn chair, umbrella (for sun or rain), bottled water, all the kids in your family and a minimum of two extra kids whose parents are laughing it up at work. Bring any drugs that may possibly cure the following: headache; upset stomach; sprains, bruises, and cuts; nausea; migraines. Also bring hand sanitizer. It helps to put a few drops of bleach in the bottle and stir. Some cooties are tough customers.

Additionally, bring the following: snacks for all the kids; money for food because kids don't like to picnic so much; and money for trinkets because although people will throw free trinkets from the floats, you will pay for other trinkets; and totes or trash bags to put a ton of worthless trinkets in, so you can haul it home to throw away when the kids finally go back to school. 

Options. Some people bring ladders to sit on so they can be above the crowd. This gives them the advantage of being seen and catching throws. We don't do the ladder thing. We do generally have a wagon to pull the ice chest and anything else that can be piled on: chairs, blankets, etc. After everything comes out of the wagon, the kids can stand in it to give them a step up in the crowd. Decorate it like this? No. We're happy if all the wheels make it through the day.

Set up. Arrive early to get "a good spot," meaning find a place big enough for your entourage and your stuff. Set up by opening all the chairs and forming a semi-circle behind the police barricade. Someone must volunteer to watch the spot and smaller kids so others can walk around. Be that person. Those walking around generally have an hour or so before the parade begins to spend money, listen to music, enjoy the scene, and spend money. 

Be Safe! Have everyone find a partner even if they stay in groups so no one gets lost. Every child must be partnered with an adult. Insist everyone stay on the parade route. Share phone numbers with the extra kids. (Don't be the guy who loses someone else's kid. That's difficult to explain.)

NOLA addendum. None of this is possible in New Orleans. Your group should hang out together behind the police barricade. Even so, people will push your group into a small circle that consists of half the space that your feet need. This means the odd-looking drunk guy with the size 15 steel-toe boots will be next to you. Keep the children in front of you, near the barricade to protect them from the weirdos and steel-toe boots. If you're the nervous type who can't handle crowds, prepare to count your people every 23 seconds. Occasionally look at faces and make sure you're counting the right people. Seriously.

Part 1 of 3     Part 2 is here  and Part 3 is here

Puppy Struggle is Real, Y'all

A puppy's struggle that is. Some people just can't possibly understand how difficult a puppy's life can be. I thought I'd tell you what it's like to be a five pound puppy in a family this size.  

And in THIS house, it's almost unbearable. After all, we are made to do all manner of chores. We have to keep a close watch over the family. Intruders are always a problem--you just don't know when to expect some marauding squirrel or cat. 

Don't think it's all that easy. I have to check the entire house. That means every time a door is opened, I run in and search in every corner, behind every door, under things, and in things. 

Nothing can be left unsearched. You just never know where a squirrel or cat or (worse) a mouse might be hiding. We've even seen opossums, foxes, and armadillos running round outside. What if they were to come inside?

If something makes a noise, we all jump up immediately and go after it. It doesn't matter what's going on or what we're doing; our job is to snap and snarl and bark and yap to scare off whatever made the noise. We don't like making all that ruckus, but it's important to our people. Sometimes they join in and help us make noise. That must be when they are really scared.

My special job is entertaining and making people laugh. But the people around here are a hard sell. Plus, you never know when they might expect to be entertained, so we are on 24/7 and have to keep appearances up at all times, just in case.  It's not easy doing all that grooming. 

Oh sure, they take pretty good care of us. They feed us well and we get lots of attention. Sometimes we have to take baths, but who wants to smell like a human? If possible, we go straight outside and roll around in the grass or, when we're lucky, something smelly. It's the best way to get rid of the people smell that no one likes. 

Sometimes one of us gets into trouble, like the time I tried to climb up on the dresser. I was stuck for a little while but not long. Another time, I went under a rocker and was afraid to get out. We are all really smart but it happens anyway. 

We just have to be patient and wait for someone to come help. I never whine or cry but other puppies do, sometimes. 

I like to take naps when there's not much going on.  I rarely get to take naps but at my age, but I have to try. Most puppies can find a few hours to rest or nap. 

I have to work really hard to find a perfect spot. But sometimes I get on a soft chair, or a puppy bed. Other times, I curl up in a lap.  I can't sleep just anywhere like the younger puppies, but I can sometimes get comfortable even in odd places. 

In fact, I'm ready for one of those naps right now. I think I'll go find one of those comfy spots and snooze. 

 It might be difficult to find the perfect spot but when my mom gets home from school, we share her big chair and there's nothing better or more comfortable than her lap. So I'm going to climb in her favorite chair and keep it safe and warm for her so we can rest when she gets home.

 What do you do when you want a nap? Do you have a special place to nap?

The Garden Wars: A Ship Sinks

Google image

Mayday! Mayday! THE ANTS ARE COMING! THE ANTS ARE COMING!

Ahh, well, there's only one way to take out the enemy...with full gear and enough ammo. Really it's the only way. Men, you know.

So we've had a great deal of rain. Flood stage and higher. People have lost homes. Rivers overrun their banks kind of rain. Darn sky!

With rain come the ants. Fire ants. Sugar ants. Red ants. Flying ants. Ants with no name. They are allowed on my kitchen cabinet. Actually, that's a problem but it's my problem. The garden, however, is scared ground. Remember the Garden War has begun. Ants may cause a gardener to lose to another gardener. So we can't have ants in the garden. Or aphids. Or chickens. Or anything that may eat a leaf. Leaves are good. Ants are bad. Simple. 

Google image

But ants invade, although this wasn't really a tactical move, they were flooded out. So in their defense, it really was the sky's fault. Darn sky! But they should have moved to the pasture. Or my kitchen cabinet. Somewhere safe. Instead, they moved two feet from scared ground. They had to go. 

I am at fault since I warned a gardener to be careful and not stand in the anthill while we were on the daily admiration walk to admire the plants, the leaves, the heights, the vegetables. Then admire the garden in general. Kneel and say a pray for good weather, good harvest, and a kicka-- win. Walk to the next garden and repeat. There are several boxes, remember? It takes a while. 

This particular day, however, I noticed The Anthill. Easy fix. Pour an oil-based liquid on the hill and strike a match. It's what country boys do, you understand. Oil-based liquids are easily accessible, make whooshing sounds, and cause havoc. All three of my boys are reliable pyromaniacs. I, myself, can start a campfire with one match and the items I gather in the woods. It's written in the official "True Southern Rite of Passage Handbook" (section 5, article iii, line 6) True Southerners must be "capable of building a safe fire without harm to human, animal, live vegetation, or self using only natural materials and no more than three matches." It goes on to say blah, blah, blah, blah...

Google image

Adam met that standard at about the age of two, maybe three. He was toddling around gathering wood, so he couldn't have been very old. Today, he can start a safe fire with a wet brick. So he started a fire. It's an interesting way to de-ant a garden. 

That the ants weren't actually in the garden was just a small sticking point. They were around the tall creosote pole that held the electrical wires to Adam's shed. The wires weren't connected to the shed. They were just holding the pole up. Maybe one day they'll carry electricity all the way from the transformer to the shed. Maybe not. 

Google image

But the electrical pole was not the problem, the ants were the problem. So Adam poured paint thinner around the pole, not on the pole, it was to be a safe fire, and struck the lighter. It was a little disappointing that the paint thinner didn't whoosh, but it did upset the ants. In fact, it was upsetting enough that the boy poured on more paint thinner. 

Hmm, there wasn't enough oil-based liquid, so he got out a small can of some other Napalm-like liquid and poured. The fire got hotter. Ahh, now the ants were climbing out of the depths of the nest. They were toast and soon the fire died down to barely a smolder. Not even smoke. Everyone safe. See, a safe fire. That was Saturday.




On Sunday it was easy to explain to the electrical company why the electrical pole was lying on the ground. The wires were faulty, you see. They got scared of the little bitty (safe) fire and let go of the pole and, unable to support itself, the pole crashed to the ground. 

Google image

Here's your chemistry lesson: paint thinner--flammable; burns like a chemical grenade capable of seeping into small cracks. Creosote--enzymatic chemical; can burn without oxygen. In fact, it can create a fire out of itself. And that, my dear readers, is what happened.  A week later and there's still a smolder of laughter.

300 and counting!

http://asisterlyconnection.blogspot.com

This post is my 300th!  Wow, what a milestone.  It's amazing to think of the life changes that have occurred since I began putting my crazy thoughts in a forum that the world can read.  It is, indeed, a world-wide forum.....I've had the pleasure of meeting people from almost every continent.   


Some have become friends with whom I share surprisingly close-to-my-heart ideas.  Some stop by regularly and leave a note; others visit every now and again.  But the community that we've built serves as wonderful inspiration, sacred blessings and great karma!  I am extremely grateful to every one.  

http://bayouquilts.blogspot.com/

Of the many people I've met, a few ladies deserve, at the very least, a mention and a special thank you from me.  They have been wonderful inspiration and encouragement. Please visit them and say hello.  


You can find them by clicking on the link below the photos, which all come from these extra-special, bloggy friends.

http://cherryredquilter.blogspot.com/

Jan-Maree at Cherry Red Quilter and Aussie Hero Quilts who is unbelievably prolific when it comes to helping others and making beautiful quilts; 


Dana of Lambs and Ivy Designs who is a master at fabulous ribbonwork; 


Jenclair of Bayou Quilts and Dolls writes about her doll-making, reading, quilting, and inspiration; 

http://lambsandivydesigns.blogspot.com

Diana and LaDonna at A Sisterly Connection who are all about family and quilting.


And I want you, readers, both regular visitors and every-now-and-again folks, to know how much I appreciate your spending some time at Fleur de Lis Quilts, your inspiration, your kind responses, your appreciation of my craft.  You are the reason I'm still here!  
Happy Quilting,
Mary