As I approach the end of my
50th 49th year, I contemplate my looks and wonder how to keep the ravages of time at bay. I managed to keep a size 8 figure well into my 30's but now sport size 12 as I end my 40's. As far as wrinkles go, I have been blessed, in spite of the daily assault that the sun in Florida provides, I still receive compliments on my complexion. I no longer smoke and, this vice given up in my 20's. I have been known to cadge a cigarette while intoxicate. I have not given up the demon liquor but restrict my intake to weekends only and the only 3 glasses of whatever is being served. I quit wearing makeup long ago and restrict my daily ablutions to moisturizer and a swipe of Burts Bees colored lip gloss. I pluck my brows at random.
My hair definitely gives away my age. I tried coloring it when the gray manifested itself. The results were alway unflattering, the maintenance tedious. I developed a white streak at the part at my forehead and decided that my looks were not so repulsive as to turn strangers heads, so I have decided that gray is the new blond.
Gray hair was the topic of conversation in our small office. My two colleagues color their hair. I have also decided to grow out my tresses, one more time for old times sake. This is where the rub come. I was told that this decision would seal my fate in the aging department. I was told you had to have stunning good looks to get away with a mane of gray.
This sent me to the nearest search engine to prove them wrong. I found countless articles on women abandoning the peroxide and the hair dye in order to embrace the hair they were destined to have. Apparently, the streets of Manhattan are teaming with baby boomer's sporting silver, platinum, and all shades in between.
On a recent visit to Barnes and Noble, I noticed a book on the new release table called Going Gray: What I learned About Beauty, Sex, Work, and Motherhood, Authenticity and Everything Else That really Matters, quite a statement in the title alone. I have not yet read the book but it has received a fair amount of press and favorable reviews. Two tables away I found another book called Going Gray, Looking Great: The Modern Woman's Guide to Unfading Glory. Maybe I was onto something. Maybe women are finally embracing their age. After all, we've earned it. Does it matter what others think or is it about how we feel?
I've come to the conclusion that I still have friends, men still pay attention, and I can still gain employment, in spite of looking my age. My gray gives me a quiet self assurance and peace in how I perceive myself. The salad days of my youth are long gone but I have the wisdom of years to look forward to.
Even Barbie had to age sometime.
I have always enjoyed the English language. I have a fairly well rounded vocabulary and the good fortune of speaking another language fluently. Taking on a blog has given me a motive to think about a theme and compose an entry.
I keep a dictionary and thesaurus close at hand. My favorite tomes about grammar are witty books written by Karen Gordon. I adored Lynne Truss' Eats, Shoots & Leaves.
To round out the word play, I subscribe to Anu Garg's Word a Day email and am an avid listener of Grammar Girls podcast. For an office break amusement in between kitchen drawings, I play on the Free Rice site. I enjoy playing along with The Sunday Puzzle, on Sunday mornings, and I try to work a crossword puzzle at least once a week.
Evidently this has not help my writing abilities.
I caught up with some past posts at How About Orange.... A recent entry detailed running her blog through this site to test it's reading level. I thought that I would follow suit but much to my consternation, my blogs reading level tested Elementary. Needless to say, I was crushed, humiliates, chagrined, deflated demoralized, and shattered. I checked the Flesch-Kincaid statistics on my entries. Evidently, I write to the reading level of a twelve year old. The Gunning FOG scale confirmed these statistics. I average 1.48 syllables per word, have an average sentence length of 13.21 total words and have a 68% readability (standard) level for adults. At the last check I raised the bar to the reading level of a 13 year old.
I ran some of my favorite blogs through the test site. I was surprised that I was in good company. Why not play along?
MS Word has a tool to test the Flesch-Kincaid level of a paragraph as you write. Just access the Tools menu on the to of the Word screen and choose Spelling and Grammar. Once you've proofed you article and made the appropriate changes, you'll see a screen titled Readability Statistics. That where the rubber meets the road and the reading level of writing is revealed. The Reading Ease score should be 60 or higher to be considered eighth-grade reading level. My program, Grammarian, compares the chosen paragraphs to classics such as Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Red Badge of Courage. Heady stuff!
So, if you're feeling masochistic, take your blog for a test drive.
I enjoy reading the various blogs that I have collected over the years. They have become so numerous that keeping up with all the updates can be a daunting and time-consuming exercise. More often than not, these journals offer personal glimpses into the lives of the writer. I particularly enjoy all the photography that show the small glimpses into the home.
Some time ago, I read an entry the author penned detailing a favorite corner of her home. Since I am attempting to post daily and fulfill my NaBloPoMo commitment, material can be difficult to come by and writer's block sets in.
Today my entry will give a glimpse into my kitchen's bookshelf. The kitchen is my favorite room in the house. I spent many hours pouring over cookbooks and magazines planning meals. The cupboard that houses my books reaches to the ceiling and the doors are lead came glass that I brought back from Germany. The glass made it intact. The lead cane, however, was brittle and broken in many spots. I elected to learn the art of stained glass using lead came. I was able to fabricate four doors, two of which grace my bookcase.
The top shelf holds the books that I use the least. The next two shelves hold my favorite books.
The little plaster cookies and milk were made by my son many years ago as was the wire angel that sits on the flower frog.
The bottom half of the cupboard holds my little repair kit. A multipurpose hammer, the handle filled with screwdrivers and a Leatherman tool.
Below that the many Martha Stewart Living magazines that I have collected since the premier issue in 1990. I haven't had the stomach to part with them, and the issues organized so I can pull out a stack and refer to them by month.
Now that I've studied my cupboard in depth, my chore for the weekend will be to cull the shelves and pare down the books to those that I use the most. The rest I'll donate to the library so that others can derive the pleasures that lie in their pages.
Knitting the Red Light Special hat was such a joy, that I had to try another hat. I have been an ardent admirer of Jared Flood's knitting. I saw his new beanie, Koolhass on his site and was pleased to see it included in the Interweave Holiday Knits magazine. I was determined NOT to order the yak yarn and use up something in out of my stash.
After rooting around in all my baskets, I came up for air after finding a couple of skeins of Elann Peruvian Highland Wool in dark grey heather. It was the perfect weight.
I was able to complete this hat from cast on to completion in less than a week.
As always, Connie stuck her head out for the photos.
After Thanksgiving heralds the bi-annual washing of the window. My favorite formula for streak free windows comes from a German website called Frag Mutti.
My tools are as consist of a window washing mop, professional squeegee, and newspaper (only the black print).
My window washing formula consists of warm water, a half cup of isopropyl alcohol (91%), and just a drop of dish washing soap.
First we remove all the screens and place them in a galvanized tub filled with water and some dish soap. The exterior window get a hosing with a strong jet of water. Then a thorough wash with the window mop and a few swipes with the squeegee.
To make the glass streak free and sparkle, I crumple newspaper into balls and finish off the job.
After the insides have been cleaned, we replace the screens. The tracks get a squirt of oil for lubrication then we sit back and enjoy the view.
Once the Thanksgiving meal has settled some take the annual trip to the malls and shop. In the past few years, our family has tried our best to reduce the amount of consumer goods that enter the house.
So, instead of visiting the malls, Erik and I decided to go Geocaching at the new recreational facility that the county poured our tax monies into. The facility is huge and was built to be a storm water runoff. It houses several ball fields, tennis courts and bike paths. It is also home to a seven caches called the Chain Gang.
Geocaching is fairly simple. I joined Geocaching.com several years ago after listening to an NPR broadcast. All you need is a membership and a hand held GPS. I have an inexpensive Garmin eTrex that has served me very well for 5 years or so. One plugs in coordinates, latitude and longitude of various hidden caches listed on the web site.
Caches can be found all over the world and are listed by zip code or city. Once entered, follow the GPS and root around for the treasure. We found all four that we were looking for. The caches are all sizes and contain all types of trinkets. The rule is if you take something, then leave something.
Once found, log your visit into the logbook that accompanies the cache. Then replace it in the spot that it was found. That's it. This activity has been a great and inexpensive way to explore our area. We have downloaded caches hidden in places that we've traveled to by boat.
I find it a great activity that I can still enjoy doing with my 16 year old son.
We enjoy the hunt and the stealth involved. Check out the site and type I your address and see what's hidden in your neighborhood.
Happy Thanksgiving to all!
We were eighteen around assorted tables and feasted on the traditional as well as the new. The evening ended early on a tryptophane hangover, altough I only had a small portion and a sliver of dessert.
Plans to spend the day outdoors are being formulated.
POINT OF VIEW
Thanksgiving dinner's sad and thankless
Christmas dinner's dark and blue
When you stop and try to see it
From the turkey's point of view.
Sunday dinner isn't sunny
Easter feasts are just bad luck
When you see it from the viewpoint
of a chicken or a duck.
Oh how I once loved tuna salad
Pork and lobsters, lamb chops too
'Til I stopped and looked at dinner
From the dinner's point of view.
My evening ended with a spontaneous visit from two of my favorite old friends. We quaffed a little wine at the shop, a perk when one works in a family owned business.
The talk hadn't ended and we adjourned to a local restaurant and bar for a bite and some pre Thanksgiving Day camaraderie and to share Thanksgiving Day plans.
For me Thanksgiving always starts with a fire and the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. I stay in my pajamas until noon and drink liberal amounts of coffee. Then the cooking begins. Desserts have already been made the night before.
Our small family of three have always been lucky to grace the table of many different families over the years. During the holidays, we have enjoyed may types of meals including duck, goose, and fried turkey. The last few years have been spent with my dear friend, colleague, and employer and her family. Her table groans with treats from all the extended friends that are lucky enough to garner an invite. She always prepares the turkey and the mashed potatoes. I make the gravy, cranberry relish, green beans, and the pumpkin cheesecake. I also sprinkle the meal with a new recipe that inevitably catches my eye. Last year's winner was a chocolate ganache tart.
This year someone is bringing couscous, cheese, broccoli salad and and other assorted dishes. Part of the joy of this meal is its casual atmosphere that we enjoy while we visit, graze and nibble until dinner is served. The dogs are shut up in the garage but always howl to be let out and enjoy the festivities. Every year the dogs win. This year we're adding Lexi to the mix. We'll be eighteen around the hodge podge of mismatched tables. A potpourri of people from all walks of life and all ages, assorted couples and families, some married some not, a few new faces as well.
Thanks for old friends and new.
Just when NPR's Marketplace was running its week long series on consumerism and just when I read and concurred with Good magazine's article on the Compact, IKEA Orlando opened its doors. For those of you that haven't heard of the Swedish megastore, IKEA is 330,000 square feet of conspicuous, yet stylish consumption for the house and beyond. All at an affordable price, but not just any price. IKEA's words, not mine.
I have a long acquaintance with IKEA having lived in Europe. The store is a fixture in all but a few European countries. Each store has the indistinct quality of looking exactly alike from the vivid blue and yellow exterior to the grand foyer with an escalator leading the masses to the upper sales floor and over winding paths of concrete marked with arrows through every furniture department and roomscape. Clever Swedes! The items are eye catching and plentiful. All have distinctive names, Billy, Ektorp, Lack and a chair called Poäng.
The products are available by the millions probably billions in IKEA stores everywhere from Singapore to Orlando.
IKEA wants you there for the day. Drop the kids in the play area, get a beeper and you have 45 minutes of childfree shopping. If you're hungry, the cafeteria serves up plenty of Swedish meatballs complete with lingenberry sauce. The 3 of us ate a hot lunch complete with desserts and lingenberry juice for a mere $30. If thats too much for your pocketbook, 50 cent hot dogs are available downstairs.
Oh, I almost forgot to mention, this is how we spent our Sunday. We couldn't resist the hype. I plotted the best route taking the back roads of Orlando and arrived early. We parked, courtesy of the dozens of event staff directing traffic, in the cast parking lot. We headed toward the big blue and yellow box . It didn't seem as though the crowds were to plentiful until we stepped around the corner and saw the throng's of people waiting to get in. After a 15 minute wait the line wound into the store and we grabbed our big yellow bag and herded, er headed up the elevator. We wound our way through the maze of rooms and stuff, then headed for the next long line. The line for the meatballs. I have to admit, worth the wait.
Erik didn't think so.
After lunch we replayed the upper floor and put a few things into the big yellow bag. Several more hours were spent downstairs in the market hall and the bag slowly filled. We really didn't need the colander, apron, cutting board, or shoe organizer, but we had to buy something. Soon we headed through the warehouse area to the next mega line at the checkout. Another 15 minutes elapses and I start to fish for my wallet. I fish a little deeper and slowly start to empty my bag onto the cardboard box next to me. No wallet, no money, no credit cards. I looked at my husband and he looks back with disbelief. He had no wallet either. We slowly slunk out of line and ducked behind the huge shelves and abandoned our meager purchases in a stray cart.
Erik was waiting at the other end, his purchases of sparkling lingenberry juice and chocolate bars made. At least someone brought cash.
The flip side...
It's that time of year again and I'm preheating the oven and starting the holiday cookies early. My all time favorite cookie is a simple butter cookie recipe that has been a staple in my house for years. It is also the most requested.
You can spritz, roll and cut, or shape this cookie into whatever your imagination can come up with. I used my trusty cookie press to make about 6 dozen butter cookies.
Assemble the following:
2 cups of butter, softened1/2 teaspoon saltPreheat oven to 350 °. Cream together butter and sugar. Add egg yolks and vanilla, mix well. Sift together flour and salt, beat into butter mixture until well mixed.When ready to bake, place cookies onto an ungreased cookie sheet and bake for about 10 minutes.
Technology is a mysterious thing at times. I have not been able to reply to my emails for days and the sending of messages has been sporadic for months. Upon awaking and trying to reply to those kind readers who have left comments, I finally got fed-up and called my Internet provider for help. Since was early this Saturday morning, I was quickly speaking to a gentle voice, probably in India. This exceedingly polite young man, who called me Miss Patricia, told me that he had limited experience with a Mac but together we would solve the mystery.
We checked all possible areas of opportunity but I still could not reply to my messages. I could browse the Internet to my hearts content, my messages stayed put. He suggested I look at my modem, but only one green light winked back at me. In unison we checked the network connection and, indeed, I was connected to someone else's wireless connection. My connection had taken a holiday and I was cruising along on some poor schleps network. It was not secure and still bore then name "Netgear".
This could have continued for months without my every knowing except that my replies took several days to exit my outbox. I was ready to blame the email client. So, forgive me for my radio silence. I appreciate all the comments that anyone who finds themselves here care to make. I generally reply to everyone.
The range of the my Airport connection reach farther than I could have imagined and it pays to double check your security settings. Do you know who is hitchhiking on your network?
Our little knitting circle met upstairs in the bakery today. We talked and shared the various projects we'd been working on and when it was Mary Beth's turn, she pulled out her wonderful Norwegian Christmas stocking. This project has been her constant companion for the past few months. It is a traditional fair isle pattern knit in a Norwegian wool.
It is beautiful; everything a Christmas stocking should be. Mary Beth said that when she was a young girl in North Dakota, her classmates were mostly of Nordic origin and the families had many traditions that she envied, among them the hand knit stocking.
Her telling this story took me back to my childhood in Canada and my parents who clung to their strong German roots. We participated in many of the German Christmas traditions. One of those was Advent and the Advent calendar. My brother and I were each given a calendar, a colorful picture of angels and gingerbread house, covered in glitter and little windows to open, one for everyday leading up to Heiligabend (Christmas Eve). Our coffee table held an Advent wreath that my mother made from Douglas Fir branches cut from the trees in our front yard. We would light a candle every Sunday evening for the first four weeks prior to Christmas.
One of our other traditions was to wait for Nikolaus on Nikolaustag, December 6th. In Germany children are told to clean their boots and place them outside the door. If you were good your boots would be filled with sweet and oranges, the bad children would receive lumps of coal or a pile of sticks.
While in Canada, we hung stockings on the door knob and eagerly awaited the bang on the back door signaling Nikolaus’ arrival. My father was always curiously absent on those evenings. I have to laugh when remember our stockings, they were made from red mesh and bound in a red and white striped fabric. No hand knit stockings for us. Fortunately, our stockings were always filled with mandarin oranges wrapped in red tissue, marzipan pigs, home made cookies, maybe a small toy. I remember a dictionary in my stocking one year. This evening also heralded the arrival of Patty Page, Dean Martin, Nat King Cole on our hi-fi, sprinkled liberally with German carols usually sung by various children’s choirs.
I am sorely tempted to knit stockings for our family. We have the mantle to hang them on. I regret not having kept up with our families tradition of my childhood. When I married and had a child of our own, we started new traditions not steeped in those of the old country. We hit our local Publix for their annual holiday hor derves sample evening, drive to Disney and check out all the hotel lobbies decorations, take our Christmas cards to Christmas, Florida post office for the postmarks, and enjoy soup and chili night in our neighbors driveway on Christmas Eve. This year we added a cookie swap to the mix. Welcome to the new world.
Driving home I noticed another great sky filled with swirls of clouds, the sky shaded from azure to a pale pink and a sliver of moon. Unfortunately my camera is not always at the ready. Here are some sunsets and sunrises that I have managed to capture over the past few years.
Enjoy my little NaBloPoMo break.
I was racking my brain for todays post. Having serious writers block, I started reading the Ravery forums and hit upon a post from a fellow Raveler who wasn't felling the sock love. Samantha, if you find yourself reading this post, send me a Ravelry message and send me your shoe size and I will knit you a pair of socks, but meanwhile I have to respond with...
While growing up in Germany, I often observed my Tante Birgitt knitting socks for my uncle and my two cousins. My uncle wore nothing but hand knit socks. My cousins probably appreciated them less. As socks go, they were pretty basic, either tan, brown or loden green. Just a simple stockinette stitch, turned heel, etc. I was very impressed, mesmerized by the intricacies of the gusset, turning of the heel and the decreasing toe. Although I knit, pot-holders, simple scarves, headbands, socks were so out of my league.
As I grew older I switched to crochet. The triangular shawls were all the rage in the 70's as were white cotton bucket hats and I even crocheted a hot pink bikini that I wore several summers.
Fast forward to Amerika. I reconnected with a friend that I made here while in my early '20's. We used to love to cross stitch together and I taught her to crochet. During our years apart she learned how to knit and when we were back in touch she shared her love of the Six Sox Knitalong. I had never heard of a knitalong, let alone for socks. But I was intrigued and took a look. I signed up and began my first KAL sock, Chutes and Ladders. I found out that I could knit socks; and better yet, if I had any sock knitting questions, I had a host of sock knitters to ask, including my old friend.
I fell in love with socks and the wonderful sock yarn in all fibers and colors. I quickly developed a stash and then join two sock clubs and now my sock basket runneth over. I fell in love with these little portable knitting projects. I can splurge on the most luxurious yarn and not break the bank. I am able to try out crazy colors, unusual fibers, and endless stitch patterns. I can knit cuff down, toe up, sideways. The heels and toes also provide endless challenges. Best of all the socks are knit in quick time. Whats not to love. I am now knitting socks for the family and sending them overseas.
My Tante Birgitt came to visit last year and she paid me the highest compliment. She told me that my knitting skills were far beyond hers. She was genuinely impressed and I was touched.
I do not live in a climate that is conducive to wool hosiery of any kind. I mostly spend my days in sandals. My socks linger in a drawer only to be taken out on occasion to show off my skills to anyone interested in looking. But, when the weather dips into the low '70's, cute pedicure be damned, I wear those socks, a different pair each day of the week.
Life in Germany during the '70's brought many freedoms that my son will never have, at least not if I can help it. At age 17 I was going to school, working at my second apprenticeship, and had a job washing glasses at the "Pilsstube", a local pub on weekends. I was able to afford a room at Sonnenbergerstasse 11, a street strewn with old villas on either side of the avenue. Most had seen better days and all were subdivided into flats. My building must have once been luxury apartments during the Belle Époque. The building faced the Kurpark and probably housed guests taking the "cure" in its heyday.
My garret room was on the sixth floor, a climb of worn marble steps spiraled around an ancient black cage lift. Once at the top, to the right was a large wooden door that housed a utility sink and cleaning supplies and small stairs into the upper attic. To the left, down the hall were further rooms and ever changing tenants. We all shared a large cold bathroom with 14 foot ceilings and peeling paint, an archaic toilet and a huge rusted claw tub. The boiler that provided hot water took 1 Mark pieces and provided 5 liters of boiling hot water that barely filled an inch of the tub. Sitting in the shared bath was not an option for me anyway. Instead I would stand and hose down in the time 5 liters of water provided. To the right of the landing was my quarters. A heavy wooden door led into a small room, furnished with an old horsehair sofa, round table, armchair, wardrobe, small bed under the slanted wall and small sink that dripped cold water. I thought it was heaven. I painted the walls bright yellow and decorated with meager possessions. The garret window that was up so high that all I could see were the roofs of the neighboring houses. A small radio to keep me entertained and I often had friends over, and we'd play Spades and drink B&B into the wee hours.
During this time, I had made some American acquaintances. I had a date to have dinner and see a movie at the local Air Force base. Michael was a young army soldier who had just arrived in Germany from Los Angeles.He couldn't speak the language, was fascinated with the area that I lived in and wanted to see my room. It was very late, around midnight, but I acquiesced. After a marathon climb to the top floor, he caught his breath and looked around. The place looked even shabbier in the light of the few bulbs housed in sconces and a single bulb that hung from the ceiling in the landing. His curiosity overtook him and he had to see what was behind the heavy wooden door. The utility closet was always dank and smelly and I was horrified when he swung open the door, flicked on the light and saw the body of a man, his torso wrapped around the iron railing leading to the attic. I would have chalked it up to accident except that his upper body was clamped between an old wooden folding ladder. That I had never seen the man before didn't enter my mind at the time. Michael freed him, he was still breathing and I ran from floor to floor in the hopes that someone had a telephone. Finally someone, many floors below, agreed to phone the ambulance. I recall the Doctor rushing up and examining the man, then running to the balustrade to stem the flow of emergency workers huffing up the stairs with their oxygen tanks and gurney. "Don't bother, he's dead," he hollered down the stairwell. I heard the relief well up as emergency workers were spared the climb with all the equipment. The doctor chided us for having moved him and assumed a punctured lung was what lead to his death. The police were summoned, and questions were asked. I had no idea that he was squatting in the attic above my room. I avoided eye contact with the other tenants as most were unsavory and transient. The suspicious death was never solved.
When my mother found out, my days of freedom quickly ended. I was moved back home for a short time. As for Michael, he left after the inquisition and I never saw him again. Who could blame him. I wonder if he recalls his date with me so many years ago. I wonder how he tells it.
The Brownie Promise
I promise to do my best:
To do my duty to God, the Queen and my country.
To help other people every day, especially those at home.
Recently I was doing my hour on the gyms elliptical and listening to Brenda Dayne's guest essayist talk about being a Brownie in Canada in the '60's. I instantly perked up and listened intently. She was speaking to me.
"This is the trail to Brownie land
At the end you'll find a magic band.
Before you'll be allowed to go,
Here are the magic things to know!"
Being a Brownie shaped my childhood in more ways that I could I have ever imagined. I grew up in 1960's Canada joining the local Brownie pack was a right of passage. Our pack was large, consisting of 25 girls. We were divided into Sixes, smaller groups within the large pack. Brown Owl, our leader, was a lovely red head named Mrs. Wren. She was our fearless leader and with the help of Tawnie Owl, whose name I can't remember, kept us on task earning badges, teaching us the social graces, and how to play well with others.
The Brownie Law
A Brownie is cheerful and obedient.
A Brownie thinks of other people before herself.
I remember my uniform well. A special brown dress, perky beret with a crest. orange and white maple leaf kerchief tied in a reef knot, brown panties, socks and shoes. Our Six was docked points if we appeared without our uniform neat, pressed and complete.
We learned about Lord and Lady Baden Powell, our great Commonwealth, and Brownies around the world. We were taught to be cheerful, obedient, after all a Brownie thinks of other people before herself.
The Brownie Motto - Lend a Hand
Meetings were filled with activities ranging from Semaphore, learning how to wrap a package for mailing, use a compass, make simple meals. We we schooled in the Brownie handshake, the brownie sign, the Brownie smile and Good Turn. We sat in the Brownie Ring and ended meetings with the Grand Howl. We also learned how to knit.
I already had the basics down. My mother was German and taught me all the necessary steps to accomplish my goal of knitting a potholder.
The Brownie Handbook directed that in order to earn the knitting badge one had to cast on, cast off, do the garter stitch, and follow a printed pattern. We were to start knitting easily and do a little every day, keep our work neat and tidy in a plastic bag or tissue paper. Oddly, I never earned the knitting badge and I can't remember why.
I did knit a potholder during those halcyon days. It was a small cable owl that my mother sewed a silk lining into. I found it many years later among my mothers possessions.
I look back fondly on those unpretentious times. Life skills were clearly written out and simply illustrated in our Brownie Handbooks. All the secrets of the universe to a seven year old.
"Did you find a helpful Brownie hidden in your treasure chest?
A little girl with eyes like yours, who's really done her best,
Who's learned to work for others, to think and make and do?
You can take her through life with you. Know who it is?
It's been a busy week and I would love to unwind and take you through a walk through my garden and show you some of the flowers that are in bloom. I am blessed to have an abundance of blooms to enjoy in spite of it being November. One of the perks of living in Florida.
I hope that everyone is taking some cleansing breaths before the holiday rush sets in.