...on the Atlantic at 6:26 a.m. Delicious!
After a supposedly nine hour drive from New Orleans, (I took the touristy Beachfront Blvd across the Panhandle), I finally arrived in Daytona Beach Shores Saturday night.
Yesterday, I sat at the pool and drank my coffee and watched the ocean. That's it. Just watched the ocean. It wasn't going anywhere but I couldn't take my eyes off of it.
After that, a brief jaunt to check e-mail.
And then down to the beach to sit in my lounger under my umbrella all day. The first thing out of Cindy's (the beach chair lady)mouth was..."I bet Cindy (my aunt) is so mad at you!" And of course, I said "Yes, and I'm rubbing it in!" Then she instructed me to call to let her know how beautiful of a day it was on the beachfront. :)
At 2:30, the rains came. At 3:30, it was sunny again.
At 5:30 I came in and fell asleep on the couch watching Pretty Woman. At 7:30 I woke up, showered, and went down to Caribbean Jack's for dinner and Bananas Foster. I made friends with the valet guys, and they recommended the Ocean Deck. I've never been there, so that's on tonight's schedule.
So...that was my first day at the beach. Enjoy work this week Cindy and Caron and Dad! And Lindsey and Jordan. And Tonya and Whitney. I guess I've just covered my readership! :) haha. I will be thinking of all you while I'm snoozing this afternoon. Well, maybe not. I've just finished one book and starting a new one today. :)
Monday, July 16, 2007
Thursday, July 5, 2007
the miracle of life...on sale at Wal-Mart
It was the 4th of July...a hot, breezeless Wednesday. Montana and I had packed up the car for a day at Aunt Cindy's pool and an evening of fireworks. A stop for gas in Mountain Grove ($2.59! YAY!) and a brief entrance into Wal-mart. (Don't worry...I left the car running with the AC full blast for Montana.)
I followed a couple in through the double doors. I was in a hurry. They were not. Bickering back and forth, she was limping, pushing a cart with two barefooted, dirty-faced children in it, and he walked with a cane and carried a diaper-clad boy. I wanted to rush around them when they stopped mid-stream...in the foyer...between the entrance doors and real entrance doors.
Their attention to their left made me look too. Between the quarter motorcyle ride and the 50 cent "Claw a stuffed animal" game lay a tiny Pug dog. "Wow, Mama! That thing sure is fat!" one of the barefooted kids in the cart shouted. Mama replies "Look at that thing, Denny...it's bloated." Denny, looking closing, says "She's not bloated, she's having a baby" and using his cane as a pointing stick he adds "look at it's butt." And sure enough, this little Pug dog was laying, pregnant on the cool tile of the Mountain Grove Wal-Mart, giving birth to little Pug babies on the Fourth of July.
Oh, the chaos that ensued. I felt for this little girl, now an exhibition. Wal-Mart employees were quickly notified, and by the time I left the building, the floor was being disinfected and the Pug lay outside under a parking lot tree with kids surrounding her watching the miracle of life...for free.
Monday, July 2, 2007
i've been googled...
I feel kind of bad for not writing anything recently. I haven't been on my blog much because of the Writing Project (which doesn't even make sense) and I've been trying to catch up on commenting on that blog, reading Janet's blog (and all my other blogging brothas and sistas), and blessing, pressing, or addressing pieces on the NWP's E-Anthology.
But I just checked my blog and SOMEONE out there was trying to find me. That's awesome! :) (Wink if you know who you are!)
In the last couple of days, my blog visitor number has jumped up dramatically...I've been googled twice...and someone else came to my blog by searching for Kermit the Frog! Sweet. I don't have the answer to why there are so many songs about rainbows...but there is some semi-good reading in bits and pieces throughout the blog.
So today Grandma and I at at Ocean Zen (my first experience) and, yes, Cindy, the California rolls were pretty dang good. Grandma overloaded on wasabi, but we didn't have to resuscitate her or anything. I enjoyed, ????, hmmmm, something so good I forgot what it was. Chicken with fresh pineapple and mandarin oranges and jasmine rice. Scrumptious. Grandma, nearly cleaning her plate, had Shrimp Fettuccine.
After a stop at MSU, Caron's, Bass Pro, Sears, Penney's, a mall walk, and Barnes and Noble, we headed back to Sparta with a cup of Cinnamon Sunset tea...just in time to watch Wheel of Fortune.
But I just checked my blog and SOMEONE out there was trying to find me. That's awesome! :) (Wink if you know who you are!)
In the last couple of days, my blog visitor number has jumped up dramatically...I've been googled twice...and someone else came to my blog by searching for Kermit the Frog! Sweet. I don't have the answer to why there are so many songs about rainbows...but there is some semi-good reading in bits and pieces throughout the blog.
So today Grandma and I at at Ocean Zen (my first experience) and, yes, Cindy, the California rolls were pretty dang good. Grandma overloaded on wasabi, but we didn't have to resuscitate her or anything. I enjoyed, ????, hmmmm, something so good I forgot what it was. Chicken with fresh pineapple and mandarin oranges and jasmine rice. Scrumptious. Grandma, nearly cleaning her plate, had Shrimp Fettuccine.
After a stop at MSU, Caron's, Bass Pro, Sears, Penney's, a mall walk, and Barnes and Noble, we headed back to Sparta with a cup of Cinnamon Sunset tea...just in time to watch Wheel of Fortune.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
For the good of the people...
Liz sent me this site to rate my blog...and I'm rated "G" for all general audiences. I was curious if Dirty Santa would hurt me...but he didn't...although I did get docked for the word "kill."
But Liz...she uses big words like herion and murder. So you can't visit her blog until you're 17. :)
But Liz...she uses big words like herion and murder. So you can't visit her blog until you're 17. :)
Mingle2 - Online Dating
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
post by Caron (response to "i see her in my hands")
Response to “i see her in my hands”
Note: This is a sestina, a 39-line poem, but the formatting of the blog reconfigured the lines of the poem. The shorter 2- to 3-word lines should be connected to the line prior. I think you'll be able to still understand the poem although the formatting is skewed. FYI: This is in response to an assignment dear Sister gave me earlier today. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this. I'm the closet writer in the family--nevertheless, still a writer. I prefer the avenue of poetry. And with no further ado... I present to you:
yet i see her in my cheekbones and eyes...
I don’t see her in my hands; I see her in my features, most specifically in the brown eyes
I inherited from her. Those who knew her, really knew her, when they see me see a ghost
from the past. Her girlfriends who learned first-hand she was pregnant with me – their faces reflect their memories of her. Just by seeing me. I love that their non-verbals speak with such boldness
and clarity. They don’t see their own transparency. But it’s obvious what they revisit -- their memory
of her as well -- is a pleasant one. I smile at the common statement: “You look just like your mother.”
Long ago, as a youth, I was uncertain how to respond to that statement. Looking like one’s mom
serves as a great compliment, but for a young woman, who still felt in some way responsible, the eyes
too often reflected the anguish, the thoughts, the wonders – the notions of those haunted by memories
of a woman dead too young yet present in my high cheekbones and rich brown eyes. For them, a ghost
of decades past. For me, years pass before I understand human development. With a boldness
unseen, she circled an article on dating in a most recent Seventeen magazine. At 41, I reflect
on how difficult that was to have “the talk” with your 15-year-old daughter as you reflect
on your own life, your own choices. At 15, she would not know she would be a mother
within 3 years, yet she [and dad!] welcomed me to the world 11 days into 18, with a boldness
of spirit. My memories of those early years are filled with tenderness and love; her eyes
comfort me. She slips on the ice going to Fred and Bessie’s, yet her arms guide me to safety. Ghosts
of winters, springs, summers, falls past… they all dance with such ease across the fabric of memory.
It’s Sunday morning in the newly-built house in Gainesville. Orange counters pervade this memory.
I roll biscuit dough flat for cinnamon rolls. I lean in from the bar side as mom, as I reflect,
is across from me on the kitchen side. White flour sifts across the countertop. To this day, this ghost
flits in and out of my psyche as I relive this moment, among many others cherished with my mother
as we grow and live and be. We have such varied remembrances, Casey and I, of this brown-eyed
woman who loved the Beatles, “Love Me Do”, 45s, vacations, and chocolate-covered cherries. A bold
woman, she experienced childbirth, graduation as a wife and parent, factory work. With boldness,
she began a college transcript, relocated, supported her husband’s career, developed new memories
as she established herself as the central pole of support for her young family, the one on whom all eyes
fell, whether we were chasing bats in Thayer or tarantulas in Gainesville. Through her, I reflect
on my childhood of yarn ribbons, banana-flip haircuts, Johnson’s No More Tears, and my mother,
this woman who made sure I made ballet class, learned the step-ball-chain, and discounted any ghosts
that I thought I saw in Grandma’s old house in Sparta. To relieve my fears, she showed me my ghost, the literal yet proverbial coat hanging on the coat-tree at the end of my bed. With a tender boldness, she showed me the tiger stalking outside my window, allaying my childhood nightmares. This mother, this woman whose life in some way was symbolized through red cowgirl boots, held memories
we’ll never know, resources we’ll never tap, intelligence we’ll never learn. Of sixteen years I reflect;
just shy of half of her life. At this stage, it’s almost 1/3 of my life. The years pass before my eyes.
“I see her in my hands… but I lose her in my green eyes” opened a lot of vaulted ghosts
as we were asked to reflect on her, Carolyn Sue Johns Daugherty, an action requiring boldness
as we took a moment to relive memories and praise this woman, this wife, this mother.
Note: This is a sestina, a 39-line poem, but the formatting of the blog reconfigured the lines of the poem. The shorter 2- to 3-word lines should be connected to the line prior. I think you'll be able to still understand the poem although the formatting is skewed. FYI: This is in response to an assignment dear Sister gave me earlier today. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this. I'm the closet writer in the family--nevertheless, still a writer. I prefer the avenue of poetry. And with no further ado... I present to you:
yet i see her in my cheekbones and eyes...
I don’t see her in my hands; I see her in my features, most specifically in the brown eyes
I inherited from her. Those who knew her, really knew her, when they see me see a ghost
from the past. Her girlfriends who learned first-hand she was pregnant with me – their faces reflect their memories of her. Just by seeing me. I love that their non-verbals speak with such boldness
and clarity. They don’t see their own transparency. But it’s obvious what they revisit -- their memory
of her as well -- is a pleasant one. I smile at the common statement: “You look just like your mother.”
Long ago, as a youth, I was uncertain how to respond to that statement. Looking like one’s mom
serves as a great compliment, but for a young woman, who still felt in some way responsible, the eyes
too often reflected the anguish, the thoughts, the wonders – the notions of those haunted by memories
of a woman dead too young yet present in my high cheekbones and rich brown eyes. For them, a ghost
of decades past. For me, years pass before I understand human development. With a boldness
unseen, she circled an article on dating in a most recent Seventeen magazine. At 41, I reflect
on how difficult that was to have “the talk” with your 15-year-old daughter as you reflect
on your own life, your own choices. At 15, she would not know she would be a mother
within 3 years, yet she [and dad!] welcomed me to the world 11 days into 18, with a boldness
of spirit. My memories of those early years are filled with tenderness and love; her eyes
comfort me. She slips on the ice going to Fred and Bessie’s, yet her arms guide me to safety. Ghosts
of winters, springs, summers, falls past… they all dance with such ease across the fabric of memory.
It’s Sunday morning in the newly-built house in Gainesville. Orange counters pervade this memory.
I roll biscuit dough flat for cinnamon rolls. I lean in from the bar side as mom, as I reflect,
is across from me on the kitchen side. White flour sifts across the countertop. To this day, this ghost
flits in and out of my psyche as I relive this moment, among many others cherished with my mother
as we grow and live and be. We have such varied remembrances, Casey and I, of this brown-eyed
woman who loved the Beatles, “Love Me Do”, 45s, vacations, and chocolate-covered cherries. A bold
woman, she experienced childbirth, graduation as a wife and parent, factory work. With boldness,
she began a college transcript, relocated, supported her husband’s career, developed new memories
as she established herself as the central pole of support for her young family, the one on whom all eyes
fell, whether we were chasing bats in Thayer or tarantulas in Gainesville. Through her, I reflect
on my childhood of yarn ribbons, banana-flip haircuts, Johnson’s No More Tears, and my mother,
this woman who made sure I made ballet class, learned the step-ball-chain, and discounted any ghosts
that I thought I saw in Grandma’s old house in Sparta. To relieve my fears, she showed me my ghost, the literal yet proverbial coat hanging on the coat-tree at the end of my bed. With a tender boldness, she showed me the tiger stalking outside my window, allaying my childhood nightmares. This mother, this woman whose life in some way was symbolized through red cowgirl boots, held memories
we’ll never know, resources we’ll never tap, intelligence we’ll never learn. Of sixteen years I reflect;
just shy of half of her life. At this stage, it’s almost 1/3 of my life. The years pass before my eyes.
“I see her in my hands… but I lose her in my green eyes” opened a lot of vaulted ghosts
as we were asked to reflect on her, Carolyn Sue Johns Daugherty, an action requiring boldness
as we took a moment to relive memories and praise this woman, this wife, this mother.
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