Somewhere Out There is a Fence With My Name On It.

Tomorrow is Friday... and it will be the second Friday in three weeks that I will be waiting for a fence guy to come here and take down two old wrought iron fences and put up a new wood fence. Is that such a big thing to ask? And I'm willing to pay for this work, of course. You would think I want these chores done for nothing, judging by the response I'm getting from The Powers That Be in the World of The Fence.

On the first Friday that I waited, a nice guy named Pablo told me that he'd be here between 9:30 and 10:00 a.m. to take down the old and put up the new. He had been here two days before that to measure and give us an estimate. He showed up for the estimate on time, so why would I think he'd not be showing up for the actual work? By 10:30, I was on the phone with Pablo. Are you still coming here this morning? Of course, he said-- I have the material for your fence right in my truck. I will be there within the hour. Fine, said I.

At noon, I was on the phone with Pablo. Are you still coming here this morning? Of course, he said-- I'm at the entrance to your sub-division right now. Fine, said I.

At 1:00, I was on the phone with Pablo. Are you still coming here this morning? Of course, he told me-- I made a left instead of a right and I ended up outside your sub-division. Fine, said I.

At 2:00, my husband was on the phone with Pablo. He told him not to bother coming here. Are you sure, said Pablo-- I'm right outside your sub-division.

So much for Pablo. I got out the Yellow Book again. I called three more companies. Two of them wouldn't take such a 'small job,' the third didn't work with wrought iron-- not even to take it down. Back to the Yellow Book...... I finally found a company who not only would take down the wrought iron fence but would build a wooden fence and gate.

Guillermo said he'd be at my house at 5:00 pm to give me an estimate. Wonderful, said I. At 5:00, my phone rang--- he'd be at my house at 5:30, would that be okay? Fine, said I.

Promptly at 5:30, my bell rang. Guillermo. Ah... a man of his word. He looked at the wrought iron fences. He looked at the spot where I wanted the wood fence. I had an estimate in my hand. I told him I'd speak to my husband and call him that night. Which I did. I am a woman of my word.

I told Guillermo which fence we decided on. He already had the measurements. He told me he'd be here not last Friday, but this Friday, which is tomorrow. I told him over the phone to please call me if that date had to be changed for any reason. Of course, said he.

I tried to call Guillermo this afternoon, to confirm tomorrow's work. After the Pablo circus, I wasn't going to take any chances. I dialed the number and a woman answered. She didn't speak enough of my language, I didn't speak enough of hers, hence we couldn't connect. Hence, no fence tomorrow... possibly. I have no other number for Guillermo. I don't know if he will be here tomorrow. He said he would. I believed him to be a man of his word. By 10:00 tomorrow morning, we'll see just how good that word is.

This is so frustrating. We've lived here for eleven years and this is not the first time I've had this problem with workmen since moving to Texas. When I first moved here, I expected workers to show up when they said they'd show up. But I was used to the New York way--- New Yorkers know that if they don't show up on time, there will be someone there in the next heartbeat to get the job done and collect the money. Competition is the way of the world up north.

When I first moved here, I quickly learned the southern way: "If it doesn't get done today, then it will get done tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then maybe the next day. Unless, of course, it either rains or the crab-nets need to be emptied."

I tried to get used to that theory. I know there's more to life than work. All work and no play.... I know how that old saying goes. But honestly, when something needs to be done and you're waiting for workers to show up and you're more than willing to pay for their labor... don't you think some sort of time-table is in order?

All I want is a wrought iron fence taken out of my driveway so I don't have to open and close it every time I want to put my car in the garage. I also want a short wrought iron fence and gate taken away from the backyard deck... and a high wooden fence put up in its place. I need to be able to let my dog and my cats play in the backyard without giving them access to the driveway. Is that too much to ask?

Do you hear me, Guillermo? Please be a man of your word. I'll see you in the morning. (From my lips to God's ears, as my dear friend Blanche always used to say.)

Things That Go Thump In The Attic...

I am hoping that the thump I heard up in our attic last night was not a raccoon. And if it was indeed a raccoon, then I pray it was a lone bachelor raccoon needing a quiet place to sleep, not a mama raccoon who needs a nesting spot for her baby.

My fear is another mama raccoon losing her tiny baby inbetween our walls, which happened two years ago. That particular female raccoon got into our garage because I used to leave the door open for our cats. From the garage, she found a spot in the rafters that led to our attic via the breezeway between the garage and the house. Into our attic she wandered, till she found just the right spot for her nest. Mama raccoon and baby raccoon, snug and safe and hidden.

Of course, had I not left the garage door open a bit for our cats, mama raccoon wouldn't have gotten in there in the first place. And wouldn't you think that my cats would have the territorial instinct to shoo away the raccoon? Little did they care. As long as the raccoon wasn't dining in their dinner bowls, I guess they were willing to allow her access to the attic.

A few days after mama raccoon moved into the attic, I saw her out in our yard and figured that she'd had enough of our attic and was ready to move on. So when she left our yard, I shut our garage door tight and told our cats that the door would remain shut from then on. Little did I know that mama raccoon had left baby raccoon up above us. And how did I find out? Because for the next five nights, we didn't get any sleep. Mama raccoon tried everything she could to get back into our attic. Up on the roof she went, shaking the vents and making a racket. Onto the deck in the back of the house, turning over bird-feeders and the cat's water dish.

I can remember my husband and I out in front of our house at three o'clock in the morning, looking at that mama raccoon sitting up on our roof. Her eyes shone in the moonlight as she stared back at us. My husband got a few golf balls and tossed them up on the roof--- not aiming them at her, but just trying to make a racket so she would just leave. It didn't work... she just sat there watching the little white balls rolling down our roof and into the gutters.

The morning after the golf-ball tossing, my husband and I heard a scratching in the kitchen wall. We stood quietly and listened to it..... we scratched the wall..... and we heard a scratching right back at us. Good Lord...... mama raccoon left baby raccoon in the attic and baby had fallen inbetween the studs and lodged itself in the wall.

We called the police department. The firemen. The wildlife service. No one would come out here to rescue the baby raccoon. What to do? Open the garage door so mama raccoon could get back in? If we did that, she might bring in her friends and extended family so everyone could see the new baby. No. Too much of a risk. We couldn't let the mama back in, so we had to get baby out.

My husband went next door to our neighbor to borrow some tools. "B" has a garage filled with every tool that's made by Craftsman and Black & Decker. We have a hammer, two screwdrivers, a pair of pliers and some duct tape. When "B" heard our raccoon story, he not only grabbed some of his tools but he came back here with my husband to see what could be done.

They listened to the scratching again. They discussed the options. As they were developing their plan of action, baby raccoon made it nice and easy for them. As the three of us stood in my kitchen, we heard baby raccoon sliding and slipping and scratching as he fell further down into the wall. Judging by the sound, baby landed at the bottom of the wall behind our dishwasher.

Easy as pie! All we had to do was get the dishwasher out from underneath the counter-top, cut a hole in the sheetrock behind the dishwasher and baby raccoon should be within reach. My husband and "B" got right to it. I have to admit that I didn't even flinch at the thought of a hole being cut into our wall. We needed that baby out of there. Let it stay, and mama raccoon would never leave our yard and our roof. And the baby wouldn't survive much longer in that wall without food and water.

Out came the dishwasher. Into the sheetrock went a utility knife. We soon had a good-sized hole to get the baby out. Our neighbor "B" handed my husband a pair of work gloves. "What are these for?" says my husband. "Well, you don't want to reach in there with your bare hands, do you?" says "B." Two men.... standing in my kitchen looking at a pair of workgloves and a hole in my wall. Neither one of them making a move to get down there and get that baby raccoon out.

Then I heard the teeniest, tiniest whimper of a sound coming from the hole in the wall. I grabbed the gloves, put one on, and stuck my hand into the hole and there was baby raccoon. I pulled him out of there and wrapped him in a dish towel. He was no bigger than a "Beanie-Baby."

By that time, "B's" wife had come over to see what was going on. When she saw how lethargic the baby raccoon was, she suggested we get some water into him quick. And how to do that? "V" went next door to her house and was back in a flash with a doll's bottle. Her two girls had long since grown up and didn't play with dolls anymore, but "V" just couldn't part with some of their toys. And how lucky for the raccoon! We filled up the doll's bottle with water and it worked like a charm.

As soon as we had gotten the baby raccoon out of the wall, my husband called our friends "A" and "D." They lived just three streets up from ours and had just moved here from NY. We figured we had to get them in on this, and let them see the rescue of the baby raccoon. So there were six of us here that morning, all oohing and aahing over this tiny baby raccoon drinking water out of a doll's bottle.

While my husband and "B" closed up the hole in our wall and got the dishwasher back in place, the rest of us decided that baby raccoon needed a name. Being that I was the one who was 'brave' enough to stick my hand in the wall, I figured it should be me who christened this creature. He looked like any other raccoon that I had ever seen, except one of his ears was bent way back and looked to be folded back permanently. Guess it was the way he fell into the wall that did it, because every time we tried to straighten out his little ear, it just flopped back again so it looked like he had only one ear.

One ear? Of course! I christened him "Vincent Van Gogh." Vinnie for short.

We kept Vinnie in our breakfast room for the entire day. I made sure the dog and the cats didn't come near him. Our dog barked at and chased adult raccoons, so I didn't want to find out what she'd do with a baby. And our cats were jealous of other cats, so heaven only knows whose feelings would get hurt if one of them thought we had adopted a new baby for the house.

The more I fed Vinnie, the more I wanted to keep him. After he had taken in enough of the water, his eyes got a little brighter and he was happy and alert. I cleaned him up a bit, washing away the dust that got on him during his wall-time. I wrapped him up in a clean dish towel and Vinnie snuggled down for a snooze right there in my lap, with his head tucked into my arm. Have you any idea how adorable a baby raccoon can be?

My husband took one look at me and said "No way. Don't even think about it." He knows me too well. "We have one dog and three cats. The inn is full. Vinnie needs to go back to his mama." Of course, he was right. My cute, adorable little Vinnie would be growing into an adult Vinnie and would out-weigh our cats and out-run our dog.

As soon as the evening sky turned to dusk, we sat by the windows in our breakfast room and waited for Vinnie's mama to find her way into our yard. Sure enough, just as she did on all those last five nights when she kept us awake, over the fence she came, headed straight for our garage. I was ready for her. I had a laundry basket out on the deck. I quickly said good-bye to Vinnie and brought him outside and put him in the basket. Just as quickly, I got back in the house and into my chair by the breakfast room windows.

My husband and I watched as mama raccoon sniffed around the laundry basket. After determining that my Vinnie was really her baby, she grabbed poor little Vinnie by the back of his neck and took off with him through our yard and up over the fence and she was gone. Poor Vinnie cried and screeched the entire way. He had it easy with me. All bundled up in a soft towel, taking naps on my lap and being bottle-fed warm milk and fresh water. Now he was back in the hands of not only his mama, but Mother Nature herself.

That was two summers ago. Not a sign of a raccoon in our attic since then. Until last night. That thump. A good-sized, loud thump. Could a raccoon somehow have gotten thru one of the vents in the roof and landed in our attic? The garage door is never left open anymore, so there's no entry that way. When I told my husband about the noise, he didn't seem worried. All he said was "Maybe Vinnie came back for a visit so he could show his kids where he started out."

88 Keys

Tuesday is piano day around here. Piano lesson in the morning, practice in the afternoon. By Tuesday evening, my piano is lucky that I can't pick it up. I'd have it out on the curb on more than a few Tuesday nights. By Wednesday afternoon's practice, my husband is known to have said "You're killing me......." more than a few times. By Friday's practice, he's wondering himself if he can pick up the piano. By Sunday afternoon's practice, either we're both more than willing to try and get the piano out to the curb, or we're both enjoying the week's lesson because I have mastered it.

My first piano lessons began when I was five years old and in the first grade. In a Catholic school. With nuns. Not only did the nuns teach all the classes, but the piano teacher was a nun. I learned quickly. Having a black-and-white-suited nun using a three-foot wooden ruler to point out each note is a great motivator.

My piano teacher now is my friend "K" -- not a nun, doesn't even dress in black and white, and there's not a ruler in sight. At her house, I play on her beautifully rich ebony grand piano. I'm sure there are Tuesday mornings when she wishes she could pick me up and put me out on her curb.

I don't remember it being so hard to learn how to match written notes to the 88 keys on a piano. I think it's harder to learn something new when you're older. There's just so much more stuff already in your brain and having to squeeze in new things just causes confusion in the brain matter. Before this past summer, my lessons were going along at a steady pace. But summer being summer, my husband and I went away a few times, and "K" and her husband also took vacation time. There were weeks of this summer when I didn't play, practice or even see a piano.

Not a good thing. Because when you get yourself back on schedule with regular weekly lessons, you can find 'middle C' on that piano, but blessedly little else. And believe me, I tried. So much that my piano seemed to be begging for mercy. And on one really bad practice afternoon, my youngest cat jumped up on my piano bench, put his front paws on the keyboard (I think he hit an 'E' and an 'A') and he grabbed my music sheet with his teeth and ran into the bedroom. No lie--- I can show you his teethmarks on the second page of "It's A Wonderful World."

I'm determined to get over this little rock in my piano road. Even if I have to beg "K" to put on a nun's habit and hold a long wooden ruler. All those piano lessons years ago... beginning at 5 and ending at 9 when we moved and couldn't take the piano because there was no room for it. My grandmother had a piano in her living room, but you need to practice every day, not just on Sundays between dinner and dessert. I tried to keep playing at least one song on Sundays back then, but without the daily lessons, I wonder now if my grandmother sometimes wanted to put her piano out on the curb.

So there I was last year.... room for a piano.... the money to buy one.... the time for lessons. Everything just seemed to fall into place. Ah, but the brain. Filled up with such stuff. Is there room for 88 keys up there? I'm begging...... let me learn these blessed notes. Whole notes, half notes, sharps and flats.... and now octaves. Music has no mercy.

It's Greek to me....

After an afternoon of listening to a beautiful CD of Greek music (a gift from my friend "F" up in NY) I met my friend "A" for dinner tonight and we went to a local Greek restaurant. Wonderful little place in Clear Lake called "The Greek Deli." As soon as you walk in the door, the aroma of home-cooked foods just hugs your soul and you know whatever comes out of the kitchen will be great. Lucky for us, there is another Greek restaurant not far away, in Kemah, called "Skipper's." The same thing happens there when you walk in the door-- the aromas from the kitchen just wrap around you and invite you to quickly find a table and look at the menu.

When we moved to Texas, I didn't think we would be able to find a Greek restaurant. Like all "Yankees," we thought that Houston would be filled with cowboys and horses and cows. So wrong. Downtown Houston has many fine Greek restaurants, and we've tried just about all of them. But for a quick neighborhood dinner out, "Skippers" and "The Greek Deli" have everything from lemon soup to baklava. And then some. And they're just as good, if not even better, than the fancy downtown spots.

All these years of going to Greek restaurants and I still can't walk into one without thinking of Lou. Dear Lou. He owned a little coffee shop (he spelled it shoppe) up in Long Island, NY. With its antique wood and brass fixtures, original soda fountain, and vintage stained glass windows, Lou's was a well-preserved relic of 'old New York' in the middle of Long Island. I went there for lunch every day when I was working at the library. Sometimes, I would go for dinner also, rather than going straight home to my apartment and cooking for myself. (Those were the pre-married days.)

Lou's coffee shop served breakfast, lunch and dinner. His customers became more than friends, they became part of his family. Lou would get into the store, as he called it, around 4:30 every morning. He'd get the soup going (Thursdays was always split-pea day), then he'd get the muffins baking, then get started on the day's special. Always a different kind of meat for each day, with potatoes or rice and vegetables. And on really special days, he'd make one of his Greek meals. Spanakopita.... moussaka.... or pastitso. I don't eat meat, so the spanakopita was my favorite. And those of us who loved it would hope that it didn't sell out on the day he made it so there would be some left for the day after.

When I knew we would be leaving NY and moving to Texas, I begged Lou for his spanakopita recipe. He didn't want to give it to me, for the simple reason that he never gave out his recipes. I begged and pleaded for a few days, then gave up. But during my last week up in NY, when all my boxes were packed and the moving van was booked, I figured I'd give it one last try. I told Lou to have a heart... I said I'd be going to Texas, where the only thing they probably did with spinach was put it in a dip. (So I thought.) I told him I was moving there to live, not to open a Greek restaurant. He was worried that I'd be giving out his recipe to everyone "out west." I told him that Texans eat beef, not spinach, so they wouldn't even care. The spanakopita-gods were with me. Lou told me to get my pen and paper out because he wouldn't tell me twice.

Lou and I sat there, in the last booth on the left side of his store, not a soul in the place except his son, and that man whispered the ingredients to me as I wrote them down. Then he told me his method-- the order in which I was to add each item to the mix. Each word whispered so softly that I had to bend myself over the table to the point that I was no longer sitting on the seat. When he was done, he told me "There it is. Save it. Keep it to yourself."

I've made spanakopita a thousand times. I've shared the recipe with no one, and I don't plan to. How could I? All I see when I make spanakopita is Lou's face as he sat across from me in that booth, whispering ingredients and telling me to keep it a secret. My spanakopita can't hold a candle to Lou's. It's good, mind you, but Lou just had that special touch that I guess I haven't discovered yet.

Lou's best spanakopita was made for a wedding dinner. The dinner to celebrate the day my husband and I got married. During all those lunches and dinners I had in Lou's store, he would tell me to "Get married, get married, for goodness sake, and I'll make you a dinner and a party. Right here in my store."

When I first met the man who would become my husband, he invited me to lunch. He wanted to drive me out to Jones Beach for seafood. I met him in December. Was this man out of his mind? We were on Long Island, not Key West. And besides, did he think I'd get in a car with him and drive all the way out to the beach? I'd never seen this person before. I told him I'd meet him for lunch, but I asked him to meet me at Lou's. I got there early, so I could sit in that back booth. Lou could see the booth from the little window looking out of his kitchen. I figured if this guy was some kind of lunatic, Lou would be the first one to see.

That day wasn't a spanakopita day at Lou's. It wasn't even a split-pea soup day. We both ordered omelets. Lou made great omelets. I never found out how he kept them so fluffy. After I got the spanakopita recipe out of him, I wasn't about to press my luck.

My date and I talked for hours. Talked for so long that our omelets got cold and we didn't finish them. Lou stuck his head out of his little window. "Something wrong with those omelets?" Another half-hour went by and Blanche came over to the booth. "Something wrong with those omelets?" (Blanche was Lou's left hand in his store. His son was his right hand. Blanche greeted customers and knew everyone and added a gracious woman's touch to Lou's store. She worked the cash register and just plain made everyone feel at home. Lou's son worked the tables. He knew everyone so well that he had a fresh cup of tea or coffee ready for you just as you took your last sip of the first one. Lou's 'store' was a well-oiled machine that never broke down.)

The first day that I went into Lou's for lunch, after the non-omelet-eating lunch date, Lou stuck his head out of that little window in his kitchen that gave him a perfect view of the whole shop. "That guy who let the omelets get cold? Marry him. I'll make you a wedding dinner. Spanakopita, moussaka, whatever you want."

Two years later, we did get married. And we had our wedding dinner in Lou's store. In all the years of going to that coffee shop, never had I seen it so sparkling. Don't get me wrong-- it was always spotlessly clean. But the day of our wedding dinner, there wasn't a fingerprint on any of the brass fixtures, nor a smudge on the stained-glass windows. The soda fountain gleamed. The wood display cases were dazzling. The floor was so polished up that you could see your reflection. Linen tablecloths and napkins and fresh flowers had transformed a coffee shop into a wedding palace. We had such a beautiful night surrounded by our friends and family.

And the food..... Greek food lined the buffet table from end to end. A Greek feast indeed. Lou and his son were dressed in black and white, with bow-ties and jackets. I don't think I'd ever seen Lou with such a close shave. He was positively beaming. My husband and I sat in the same back booth for our wedding dinner that we had sat in for our first lunch. My best friend "A" had arranged to have our wedding cake made in the shape of a fan, going along with the Victorian theme of our day, and matching the fan I carried instead of a bouquet. Lou sliced that beautiful cake like a surgeon and served it as if it were made of gold. As he gave me a slice, he whispered: "That recipe? Memorize it. Don't keep it written down on that paper."

Lou passed away a few years ago. We were living here in Texas. I sent flowers and cards to his family. I called his son and his wife. I didn't go up north for the funeral. I didn't want to see Lou that way. I had gone into his store for lunch or dinner every time we went up to NY to visit family and friends and we kept in touch. I had seen him alive and well. I didn't want my last view of him to be anything other than that. He kept his promise to me. ("Get married... I'll make you a wedding dinner.") I will always keep my promise to him. ("Memorize it.") There hasn't been a time in all these years that I have taken a bite of spanakopita, whether it be his recipe or Skipper's or The Greek Deli's, that I haven't thought of Lou. I can see him beaming still.

Sunday Breeze

Gorgeous day here. My husband and I drove to Kemah for lunch. The restaurants there are set up along a boardwalk overlooking Galveston Bay.... very pretty views. Lots of sailboats going up and down the canal-- we usually pick out the ones we like. Then we make excuses why we won't be shopping for a boat: too much maintenance, too expensive for gas, insurance rates too high. But it's fun to look. I'm not a boat person anyway. I'm not a great swimmer, having just learned two years ago, and I've yet to swim very far in water that's over my head. I'm not exactly sea-worthy, to say the least.

So there we were, enjoying the sun (which wasn't too hot), the breeze (which wasn't strong enough to qualify for a bad-hair day), and the peace and quiet of a southeast Texas Sunday. And what do we hear? Rap music. Loud rap music. (I guess there's no such thing as soft rap music.) And where was it coming from? The huge speed boat sponsored by one of the Kemah restaurants.

This "cigarette-style" speed boat holds about 50 people and goes up and down the Bay every half hour or so. It's painted with bright colors worthy of Disney World, but the music that was coming out of that boat was enough to shatter your soul. Usually, they play the Village People's "YMCA" song, or the theme from "Gilligan's Island." Both songs will get people's attention as they stroll along the boardwalk and hopefully make them want to pay $8 for the ride. And those songs are fun and easy to take. Today, however, before noon on a glorious Sunday, the music of choice was rap. (I don't know what 'rap' stands for, but in my opinion, it's short for 'rotten angry protests.')

The rap music lasted for about 12 minutes. Not very long, but long enough to make the ice cubes jump around in the glasses and the seagulls screech in horror as they flew away from the dock. And I swear the resident cat who always sits at the edge of the restaurant's deck waiting for scraps was twitching his whiskers to the beat. Bomp-baa-baa-bomp, bomp-baa-baa-bomp.

Thankfully, whoever was in charge of the boat's music switched to "Gilligan's Island" as paying customers started to get on board. On a busy day in Kemah, that boat goes out into the Bay with every seat taken. This morning, for its first run, there were less than a dozen people sitting there in orange life-jackets. The boat always has a crew of four--- one is steering, one is watching the passengers, and two are in charge of the entertainment.

Entertainment being either the "YMCA" song or the "Macarena" music. Usually, they pick high-spirited people for that job who can keep going with the dance movements to those songs for the entire boat ride. Just one crew member this morning was in charge of the entertainment, being that the passenger list was so small on their first run of the day. The pony-tailed girl stood at the front of the boat wearing blue shorts, a blue top, and one large white Mickey Mouse glove. One glove? Walt Disney wouldn't approve of a single-gloved mouse, but we're in Kemah, not Orlando, so I guess the Disney rules do not apply.

As the boat pulled away from the dock, they turned up the volume on the music and the Village People belted out "YMCA" as the one-gloved girl tried to get the crowd into the song. Try as she might, for as long as we could see them as they pulled away from the dock, not one person was either clapping or following along with the Y - M - C - A movements. Miss Pony Tail jumped higher and higher... she clapped with such enthusiasm that we were waiting for her Mickey Mouse glove to go soaring into the bay. And the passengers sat. And sat. And sat. It was very sad. Miss Pony Tail seemed oblivious to their non-participation. To her credit, she kept at it. Very unusual to have such a quiet crowd on that boat, by the way. Usually, everyone really gets into it.

Life on the speed-boat got just a little better on the way back, however. We watched as the boat made its way back into the canal so it could go down to the end and turn around and re-dock. Near the back of the boat was a life-jacketed little boy, sitting on his mother's lap. I'm guessing he was less than two years old. But he was doing the Macarena with all of his might, keeping up with Miss Pony Tail and her white glove, and bouncing on his mother's knees for all he was worth.

Walt Disney was right: "It's a small world after all..."

Rain for most of the day today, so my next-door neighbor "V" had cabin fever. Her good friend from college is visiting her this week, so she called to ask if she could bring her over here for a tour of our home. "V" is always bringing her house-guests here for 'a tour.' Especially during Christmas, but any other time of the year is also subject to the tour. I don't know how this started with "V" but she comes in here looking to see what's new or what has been re-arranged. She just seems to love antiques, and she appreciates all the Victorian touches here. I've offered to help her do the same sort of things in her home, but she refused, saying then she'd have to "take care of it all." So I guess our home gives her the thrill without the work.

"V" also pulls the weeds in my flower-beds when she's stressed out. Her oldest daughter has recently left for college, so the stress level next door is really high. I told "V" that if she doesn 't calm down soon, there won't be a weed left in all of Clear Lake. When her younger daughter started taking driver's ed, there wasn't a weed left in my flower bed closest to "V's" driveway. But before she could get to the flower bed on the other side of my yard, her daughter passed the road test and those weeds stayed put. (My theory with weeds is that if it's green, it stays, and if it has the teeniest bit of what even looks to be a bloom, then I call it a 'wildflower.')

To get back to the story... it turned out that "V's" good friend from college used to live up in NY, not far from where both my husband and I lived years ago. To add to the small-world side of this, the friend's husband went to the same high school as my husband and graduated the year before my husband. When he heard this, my husband went to one of his bookshelves and got the yearbook for that year and there in all of his long-haired 1970's glory was the friend's husband.

On top of all of that... because it was still raining and we were all still talking... "V's" friend has a long-time good friend still living in NY who works at the same library where I worked for 15 years. I asked for that person's name and was surprised because not only did I recognize the name but I distinctly remember that woman. I remember when she started working there, I remembered her husband and her kids....... and of course, my husband got the yearbook out again because the husband of that library-worker had also graduated the same year and his photo was also in the yearbook.

Now honestly, what were the chances for all of us to have found that out on this rain-soaked day in Clear Lake? I've told "V" time and again that she is a source of wonder and surprise. Maybe that's why I've never minded her request for the 'tours.' When she leaves, I'm left at the door with either a smile on my face or I'm standing there just shaking my head over one of her stories.

Her story today, by the way, was about one of her classes-- she teaches at our local high school. She keeps a few stuffed animals in her classroom, for 'teaching aids' as she calls them, since she teaches biology. Which I don't understand, being that she teaches ninth-graders, not second-graders. The stuffed animals, she said, are always in different positions when she walks into the classroom. Some of these positions are, shall we say, suggestive in a sexual way.

Now of course, it's not "V" who is artfully re-arranging the stuffed creatures, it's the students who not only are doing it but calling it to her attention when she pretends not to notice. I just cannot, for the life of me, imagine "V" in that classroom with all of those ninth-graders, trying to disentangle stuffed limbs and assorted furry body parts from embarrassing positions while remaining calm in front of her class.

But, "V" being "V," I'm sure she must handle the ninth-graders with the same motherly instinct that has successfully shaped her two well-mannered, sensible, mature daughters. Then she comes home to our quiet street and stands in my flower-beds and pulls weeds without mercy.

And heaven only knows what happened in her classroom about a week ago. I was walking my dog around the neighborhood and I spotted "V" and her dog. Only they weren't walking. Her dog was resting on a lawn two streets away from ours while "V" was knee-deep in the front flower-bed there. After I said hello, I asked her who lived in that house. "I have no idea," said she, "But their flower-beds have more weeds than yours."

True story. Now honestly--- do you think I could make this stuff up?

Simple Wisdom

I read a wonderful little book last night called "Oseola McCarty's Simple Wisdom for Rich Living." I found this little 5x6" hardcover in our local Half-Price Bookstore--- it was on their clearance rack for just 99 cents, for goodness sake. I hadn't heard of Oseola McCarty before, but her picture is on the cover of this little book and she has such gentle eyes... I had to buy the book.

Oseola lives in a small Mississippi town. She had to leave school when she was 12 and she took in laundry and ironing to do her part in helping to support her family and their home. For the next 75 years, she washed and ironed from sun-up to sun-down and then some. Proud of her work and she did it perfectly and was content and satisfied every day.

After all those years of living simply and saving grandly, Oseola's bank account grew to $280,000.00 -- amazing! Even more amazing: she established a scholarship at the University of Southern Mississippi. Just because she never had the opportunity to continue her own education, she saw the need to help others do just that and she simply did it.

Of course, by doing so, the media got interested. All of the major TV stations carried her story and she was interviewed by Barbara Walters. (Was I under a rock at that time?) Oseola was awarded the Presidential Citizens Medal, the Wallenberg Humanitarian Award, the Avicenna Medal from UNESCO, and an Honorary Doctorate of Humane Letters from Harvard.

After reading this book, I'm sure Oseola was overwhelmed by all of the attention, but it was noted in the book that never once did she appear to be anxious or nervous or unable to speak to anyone honoring or interviewing her. Such confidence comes only with a clear mind, a generous heart and a contented soul. If you can find this gem of a book, you will see all of those attributes in Miss Oseola McCarty's gentle eyes.

Galveston Lone Star Motorcycle Rally

I forgot to mention that my husband and I drove into Galveston yesterday to see this Motorcycle Rally. Not that we ride cycles, but we do watch "Orange County Choppers" every week. Listening to Paul Sr. and Paul Jr. go at it does add a bit of brouhaha to our normally quiet house here.

We got to shake hands with Vinnie and Campo (from OCC) and we saw Cody coming out of the OCC truck. Vinnie and Campo signed an OCC poster for us, which featured their NYC Fireman's cycle and a great shot of the Manhattan skyline. We didn't wait around to see Paul Sr. & Paul Jr. and Mikey. It had to be 106 degrees out there..... I'm sure Sr. & Jr. were in their air-conditioned truck, and we heard that Mikey wasn't around.

I have to say that I felt out-of-place with all of those motorcycle people. I mean, really-- there I was in a bright white shirt from Disney World. Complete with Cinderella's castle on the front of it, sprinkled with sparkling fairy-dust that caught the sun and seemed to shout: This woman doesn't belong here. Really stood out in a sea of bluejeans and leather and fringe, let me tell you. And how they could be wearing leather in the dead-heat of a hot day in Galveston is just beyond me. Don't motorcycle people sweat? And doesn't leather get slippery when it's wet?

There were thousands of impressive cycles there. Of couse, we spent most of the time at the OCC location. And OCC was the only motorcycle group there with hundreds of people waiting to meet and greet the guys. The NYC fireman's cycle was there...... glorious. We watched them building that cycle on their show. But that didn't compare to seeing it in person. There's a small piece of the World Trade Center steel on that bike..... takes your breath away and brings tears to your eyes.

We went there hoping to see all the guys from Orange County Choppers. My husband even thought we might invite them to lunch. Not a chance. Way too busy there. We were lucky to get on the line for the meet-and-greet as early as we did because when we went back later to see if Paul Sr. or Paul Jr. was there, the line was six times as long as it was when we shook hands with Vinnie and Campo. Vinnie seemed to be impressed that my husband was wearing one of the OCC shirts from their web-site.

I think they call them bikes, not cycles. What do I know. I'm the one who was wearing the Disney World shirt with the glittering Cinderella's castle, remember?

Houston, we have a 'blog.......'

Ah....... first 'blog' on a new laptop. Until yesterday, I'd never heard of a blog. May as well try it. What's to lose? A few minutes a day at the keyboard? I'm here anyway.

My husband thinks this is crazy. Well, maybe it is. An on-line diary, he said. You're going to bare your soul, he said. Moi? Nah.

"Sprinkles." I used to write a newsletter under that title. Had to quit. It got too frustrating, between the writing, the printing, the mailing, finding new subscribers, keeping track of subscriptions. Plus a little thing like 'life' got in the way and I just got too busy with other things that made more money. Like eBay. Ever since The Powers That Be at eBay decided to advertise that great 'bargains' can be found on their site, however, bidders are really looking for bargains now and the bidding wars of days-gone-by are just a memory. Would you believe that I once sold a rhinestone necklace to a woman who kept bidding the price up just because she thought the colors of those faux stones would make a wonderful collar for her calico cat?

Today's Oprah show was interesting, by the way....... wives changing places with other wives: a Manhattan millionaire goes to rural New Jersey. Now honestly........ why? Did they have to pay her for doing that? And if they did, how much? She can spend $4000 a day shopping in Manhattan. Actually, you can spend that in ten minutes in Manhattan if you're in the right store. Why on earth she'd want to try to run a household in New Jersey is just beyond me. She looked as if she could barely deal with a run in her pantyhose. But at the end of the segment, she was in tears because the woman from New Jersey that she traded places with suggested to her that the hour she saved for her three kids just wasn't enough. One hour out of 24. For three kids, who are usually taken care of by her three nannies. So at the end of Oprah's show, the Manhattan millionaire promised to spend more time with her children. I hope she does. Keep the nannies so you can have "me time." Keep the chef and the chauffeur. By all means, keep the husband so you can keep on shopping. But treasure the children. For more than one blessed hour of every day.

Enough blogging for the day. And I didn't bare my soul. My husband will be pleased. Now.... can I have $4000 to go shopping? Three? Two? Okay.... $400 and that's my final offer.....