Memorial Day weekend.

So hard to believe that it's Memorial Day already. Celebrating this holiday always means the year is half gone, and Thanksgiving and Christmas are going to sneak up before you can say Boo! for Halloween.

The baby barn swallows on the back porch left their nest early this morning. They seemed to be ready yesterday, but they were just perched on the edge of that nest as they looked around at their new home. Look at that mesquite tree! How do we get there? Do these wings really work?

I kept watching them from time to time yesterday-- the binoculars always ready on the book table by the kitchen windows. The cats were watching the birds, the birds were watching the cats. The adult birds from that nest have swooped down on Sweet Pea countless times-- so close that he came running to the back door one day. I'm hoping that cat has been feather-threatened enough to stay away from the baby birds.

Mickey Kitty, my Marco Polo cat, hasn't been exploring lately. His last adventure was a couple of weeks ago, when he went trotting down the hill, staying close to the fence line but aiming for the pond in the front pasture. I happened to see that little black tail of his when I went out to check the mailbox and I stood in the middle of the road so he could see me clearly and I called his name. Mickey Kitty! Where do you think you're going? He turned around and looked at me, sat down in the going-to-seed wildflowers, then ran back towards the house. He cut across the lawn and jumped up on the porch, by-passing me altogether, most likely thinking that if he got near me, I would pick up his furry cat-self and bring him into the house. That little cat worries me. As small as he is, he looks even smaller outside, and Mickey has no fear. None whatsoever. I don't know if that's being brave or being careless.

The chickens...... they're having a fine time in the coop these last couple of weeks. We had an old abandoned ladder in the barn, and rather than throw it away (since it wasn't safe for us to really use) my husband carried it into the coop and we set it up there for the hens. They were confused at first-- anything new in their coop brings them to looking sideways at things. Within a couple of days, however, both Scarlett and Prissy were trying to establish just who was going to be sleeping on the very top of that ladder. I don't know who wins, because when I lock up the coop, they're both still pecking at one another, and when I open the coop in the morning, they're waiting by the gate to get out for another day of adventure.

The other hen of this year's group of three, Mammy, flies up to the roosting bar and just watches her two hen-sisters debating and pecking on top of the ladder. Mammy just couldn't be bothered with such details. Audrey, our oldest hen from last year's chickens, has been sleeping in the same spot on the roosting bar for all the time she's been with us. Audrey is the true coop-boss, but Scarlett and Prissy just don't know that. Nor do they care, because they spend so much time trying to out-do one another, whether they're on top of the ladder or out in the yard.

We have five plum trees near the barn, and they are all heavy with fruit now. We have been picking the plums-- little purple-skinned sweet red plums. Very sweet, delicious. The birds love them, the bees are attracted to them, and the hens peck at the over-ripe plums that fall to the ground and split open. I'm sure the raccoons and skunks are having a plum-party out there on the grass every night because there are hundreds of half-eaten fruit pieces in the yard every morning.

We're picking the choicest of the plums and I'm freezing them for the holidays. My husband makes Old English Plum Pudding every December, and this year's baked pudding will be made with the plums we're picking now, as well as with the pecans from our trees. I cleaned and peeled and sliced hundreds of plums this morning, and there are now six containers of plum-pudding worthy fruit in the freezer. When I was done, my fingernails were purple and red. It took me twenty minutes to get the color off, using countless cotton balls and half a bottle of nail polish remover. As soon as my hands were good and clean, I wrote "thin latex gloves" on my shopping list.

The weather has been very hot, with noon-day temperatures in the mid to upper 90s. The one-hundred degree mark isn't that far away. I cannot remember the last time we had a good rain. Not a sprinkling or a drizzle, but a good rain. Our corn plants are as tall as I am, and so are the tomato plants. We're anxiously watching the corn, to see how the cobs form and grow... and wondering how the stalks will support the corn as it grows. The tomato plants--- so bushy and full and green, and just one tomato has ripened so far. There are green tomatoes waiting their turn out there, but for the size of those plants, you would think each of the four would be carrying at least a hundred tomatoes. But what would we do with 400 tomatoes anyway?

My husband talked to one of the men at the Farmers' Market this morning. This particular man has written a book on Texas farming and growing, and he thought that maybe the big beefsteak tomaotes just aren't suited to our soil and our yard. He gave my husband some suggestions for different tomato species for next year. For now, we'll just keep watch on the tomato plants we have, and wait for those green ones to get red and ripe. So far, the night-time wildlife hasn't bothered our vegetable gardens.... probably because the plum-picking is too easy and too sweet.

Another day on the ranch. Another Memorial Day. Last year at this time, we were sitting on the front porch waiting for the two moving vans to arrive with our furniture and the 200+ boxes of stuff that we moved from Clear Lake to the Hill Country. And we never got to pick one single plum last year because we were so busy unpacking and settling into the new house. What a difference a year makes.

Giant.

That's the title of the book I'm reading....... Giant, by Edna Ferber..... vintage, classic story of Texas and the ranchers who have called it home since they "stole it away from the Mexicans."

I have found quite a few hardcover books on Texas at the local resale shop, and for just one dollar each, I can't seem to just leave them there. I bring them home (rescue them) and read them, each book giving a lesson in every chapter. I found an excellent copy of Texas by James Michener, but I haven't read that one yet. I'm sure Michener didn't include that line about stealing Texas (or Tejas, as it was called), but I'm anxious now to read his account of this state. One of my favorite books by Michener was Hawaii, which I read shortly after we traveled to Hawaii a few years ago. I wish I had thought to read that book before we went there because I would have looked more closely for certain things and places.

Texas is certainly a land of its own...... a "country" of its own, as Edna Ferber wrote. The land, the cattle, the people, in that order--- that's what counts here. The land is everything, and the more you own, the more it owns you.

Hollywood made a movie of Giant, with Rock Hudson in the lead role. It was one of the late-night movies that I saw with my Aunt Dolly in the living room of my grandparents' house. "The Million Dollar Movie," on Channel 11, I think it was, after the 11:00 news. Everyone else had gone up to bed long before the news came on, and by the time the news was over, Aunt Dolly was finished with everything in the kitchen and the pantry, and it was her time to just be. And Aunt Dolly loved the old movies........ "Made when Hollywood was a destination, not just a big white sign," she would say. I wish I could remember more of that particular movie, but I just can't, and I don't even think I've seen it since those days in grandma's living room in front of the old black and white television.

My Aunt Dolly will be 97 in a couple of weeks. She's still "as healthy as a 97-yr-old lady could possibly be," she says. She sounds wonderfully strong, alert, with-it....... her new life in Florida (more than two years now) is finally agreeing with her. Or maybe it should be the other way around-- she is agreeing with it.

When I call Aunt Dolly on the phone these days, I no longer have to shout to be heard. She finally accepted the fact that she needs "a little help" with her hearing. My cousin S took her to an ear specialist who fitted her with "teeny-tiny" hearing aids that "are so small you can barely see them." Aunt Dolly was more excited that they couldn't be seen than she was to finally be able to hear conversations without reading lips-- which of course isn't even possible over the phone.

One thing that Aunt Dolly is disappointed in these days-- she says she's "getting shorter." She said she can't reach things if they're too high up. I told her that I can't either but that doesn't mean I'm shrinking, it just means the things we're needing have been put too far out of reach. "Put the things you use the most down lower," I suggested. "If I do that, I'll be tripping over everything I own," she said. "I don't like being this small," my Aunt Dolly told me.

Small? Aunt Dolly... who rocked every baby born into our family, who cooked delicious meals seven days a week, who turned holidays into major celebrations that we all still talk about to this day, who loved us all without question, who was always there with a smile, a hug, a suggestion, an encouragement. Who saved bits of ribbons and greeting cards and pretty papers and cute little boxes and who could always turn a nothing-day into an adventure. My Aunt Dolly isn't small. She is the giant in the family, the glue that held us all together. And she still does, because those of us who grew up with her have carried her traditions forward, using some of her magic and adapting it to the lives we have now. We know through her teaching that those little tid-bits of magic are the difference between the ordinary and the extraordinary. Love is in the details.

When my Aunt Dolly turned 75, my cousin S arranged a big party for her. Friends, family, nearly everyone was there. My dad missed that party, and so did I... life got in the way for both of us, and we just couldn't be there. A video was made of that celebration, though, and I got to see it when my cousin L sent me a tape of the party. At the very end, the last song that was played was a Kenny Rogers' favorite-- "Through The Years." Family and friends got into a big circle, and Aunt Dolly was in the center, and everyone was singing along with Kenny Rogers, and Aunt Dolly was trying not to cry, and there didn't seem to be a dry eye in the place as she went from person to person for a hug. My cousin Anthony was at the very end of the circle, and as Aunt Dolly went up to him, Anthony picked up my Aunt Dolly the same way she had picked up every single baby born into our family. Six-foot-something Anthony cradled five-foot-nothing Aunt Dolly in his arms as if she were a baby, and he danced around the circle with her just the way Aunt Dolly used to rock all the babies.

I watched that part of the video and just cried. Tears just streamed down my face and dripped on my neck and I was mesmerized as I watched, not even able to move my hand to grab a tissue. Thinking of it now, I can see the circle of family and friends.... I can see Anthony holding Aunt Dolly, and in my mind's eye, it was just the most loving, most beautiful gesture. There was a rainy day when I watched that video again with our young friend Miss C, and she cried also at that part-- and she hasn't ever met Aunt Dolly. When the video was over, C said "There should be a rule that every family has to have an Aunt Dolly." Indeed.

I don't know how my fingers got to typing about Aunt Dolly when they started off typing about a book on Texas. Maybe it was the word giant that did it.

Baby-bird karma.

The barn swallows outside aren't happy, and I don't blame them. In the past four days, they have lost two of their baby birds to our cats. Needless to say, the baby-bird karma floating in the air outside isn't going to be on the positive side.

A few days ago, I found a fully feathered baby bird out on the grass. With all the grass here, it was a small miracle in itself that I happened to see it, but there it was, with its two tiny feet pointing towards the clouds. Dead, without a doubt. I put it into the trash can and when I walked up to the porch I saw two bird feathers in Mickey Kitty's food dish. Oh my. Guilty party found. Since he was a tiny kitten, Mickey has been leaving his toys in his food dishes when they're empty. Never the water bowl, always the food dish. And there were those tiny feathers, stuck to teeny bits of Fancy Feast that had coagulated in the corners of the dish. It made me sad that Mickey had "graduated" from butterflies to baby birds.

This afternoon, the two adult barn swallows from the back porch nest were screeching and yelling and flying over the low bushes at the back of the garage. When I went to have a look-see, there was Sweet Pea, deep in those bushes, jumping from one bush to the other like a rabbit, his eyes never once looking up at me. Very faintly, I could hear the peep-peep-peep of the baby bird. I couldn't reach Sweet Pea, and even if I could have, I wouldn't have put my hands into those bushes, for fear of hidden snakes and scorpions and lizards. I tried to get Sweet Pea away with the broom, but he just jumped over it, his eyes on the birdie-prize. Then I went into the house and came out with a can of Fancy Feast, opening the can inches away from the bushes where Sweet Pea was hunting-- not even the familiar sound of the pop-top disturbed that cat's mission.

By that time, the two adult birds were sitting on the blades of the ceiling fan of the side porch... watching Sweet Pea, watching me, not a peep out of either one of them. At the sound of the pop-top on the can of Fancy Feast, both Gatsby and Mickey Kitty came out from their hiding places and were sitting by the back door. Is it dinner-time already? My, my, my... how the day does fly.... just like a baby bird.

Sweet Pea eventually came out from underneath the bushes, without a bird or its feathers in his teeth. I don't know what happened to the little bird, but I'm sure he didn't eat it because he was too hungry after his little adventure. And, sorry to say, I'm not going to be searching for it in those bushes.

I could, of course, keep the cats inside till after the baby birds have left their nests. But then I'd be having major problems with the cats who are now used to going outside every day, rain or shine. (Precious little rain these days, but that's another story.) Plus, with all the bird houses on this property, all occupied by birds in various stages of egg-laying, egg-hatching, fledgling-feeding, and first fledgling-flights, the cats would be in the house for the rest of the summer.

And I, for one, am getting very comfortable with not having to clean litter boxes all day long, not breaking up a cat-fight because Sweet Pea is napping on Mickey's favorite chair, or because Mickey wants to play with the one toy that Gatsby happens to be interested in on that particular day.

My apologies to the barn swallows and the wrens. My apologies to the sparrows and the cardinals, the bluebirds and the purple martins. Apologies go out to all the baby birds who are learning to fly on our twenty-three acres. My advice to all of the adult birds--- please don't build your nests on top of the porch columns. I have three cats who will try to capture your babies as soon as their tiny wings hit the air for the very first time.

Baby-bird karma. As I said, it is not going to be good.

Chicken-sitting.

The past week has been a blur...... and each day has disappeared quicker than the last. One of our neighbors is recovering from an operation, and the rest of us have pitched in to take care of their cat, their chickens, their mail.

One cat, twenty chickens. The cat is very lonely, meowing and weaving in and out and around my ankles every time I go in there. She is desperate for company, and cats being cats, she is very unhappy that her routine has been changed. Our neighbor J lets her out in the morning, but then she's "stuck" outside till I go there in the afternoon to let her back in. On the hottest of days, I've found the cat with her front paws pressed up against the back door as she peers through the glass looking for someone -- Open this door! I'm broiling out here! And in she prances, her fluffy tail as high as it can go, then she begins the weaving in and out and around my ankles.... Thank you! Thank you! I was about to get a case of the vapors out there!

Then the chickens....... twenty of them, all about eight weeks old. Bigger than little chicks, less than half the size of my own four full-grown hens. The neighbor got them the week before Easter, and they were only a day or two old. He had to coddle them and keep them warm and safe and away from the yard till they were big enough and feathered enough to put out into his coop. They are all used to be touched and handled, and we're able to pick each one up and they're very content to just sit in your arms or on your lap.

As little as they are, they are establishing a pecking order. It's funny to see-- two chickens, beak to beak, not blinking an eye, both trying to intimidate the other. I guess the one who blinks first is the loser. I've gotten the chicks to follow me into the coop as I hold two slices of white bread in my hands (which they can clearly see). As I walk towards the coop, I make a clicking/tsking sound with my tongue. Somehow, it works-- especially the white bread, since the neighbor said that his chickens don't like whole wheat or rye.

I've gotten into the habit of doing a head-count when the chickens follow me into the coop in the late afternoons.... which is a lot harder to do than checking to make sure my own four are in our coop. The smaller the chickens are, the more likely they are to bunch up together, wing to wing, feathers to feathers, in a football huddle of poultry. Yesterday, one of the chickens managed to steal half a slice of bread out of my husband's hand and she ran into the corner of the coop with it. My husband, not to be outdone by a chicken, got the bread away from the bird and made her share it with the others.

Out of those twenty birds, there might be a 75% chance that most of them are roosters. When you buy young chicks like that, there's no telling what sex they are, unless they're old enough to do a sex-test on them, which drives up the cost of the flock considerably. So our neighbor took his chances...... just ordered 20 chicks, and he'll know in time how many are hens and how many are chickens.

And what will he do with an abundance of roosters? "Chicken soup, fried chicken, roast chicken," was his answer. "No, really..." said I. And he repeated "Chicken soup.... fried chicken....." So I guess he wasn't kidding.

I was thinking about getting a rooster........ if the neighbor ends up with too many roosters, maybe he would give us one. I tossed that idea around with my husband. He doesn't think a rooster would be a good idea. First of all, we'd have the constant crowing-- roosters don't only crow their chicken-hearts out in the morning. Secondly, we would have to put the rooster into our coop with the hens.... and our hens are quite happy without having a rooster in there with them. As our neighbor says-- "Roosters are only interesting in two things: fighting and ----ing." (You can fill in the blanks.... not exactly the King's English, but those are his words, not mine.)

Taking care of other people's pets.... it's not for me. Of course, I do it for friends and neighbors, but I could never make a business out of it, and I have so much respect for those who do, like our old pet-sitter back in Clear Lake. We would leave the house and go off on a trip, and he took care of our pets, our mail, our home.... took out the trash, put on lights, played with the cats, walked the dog, cleaning up after them all and taking pictures of them and making them feel safe and loved and not alone. He has made a successful second career of this....... so much so that he's had to turn down new clients because there's only one of him and only 24 hours in a day.

It's nerve-wracking for me, worrying about twenty little chickens running around the neighbor's yard all morning and afternoon--- and there have been days when I've driven over there and locked them all into the coop extra-early because I've seen hawks flying over the property there. I don't want any os their chickens disappearing on "my watch." And the cat..... so terribly lonely, so confused.... I sit there and play with her, and I start talking to her the minute I walk in the door.... "Where's my Heidi girl? Look at that beautiful cat.... how are you today... let's go see what's in that litter box of yours.... this is the highlight of my day, Heidi-girl..... let's give you some fresh water.... and where's that little purple mouse of yours....." And Heidi will look at me, with the saddest of cat-eyes, with the saddest of meows.... Where did my momma and daddy go? And when are they coming back?

As I've said before...... I am all petted-out these days...... in one way or another, these pets, whether they're yours or someone else's..... they just keep putting little cracks into your heart till it just breaks in two. And the neighbor's cat.... it's a big fluffy cat, with a big fluffy tail..... doesn't have blue eyes like my AngelBoy did, but she prances and walks with that tail up high and preens like a ballerina, which was exactly what my AngelBoy did. Jeez..... I cannot believe how much I still miss that cat. There was a tiny person inside that cat of mine, and he is still haunting me.

Christopher's.

We celebrated our anniversary yesterday with a very nice lunch at a fancy-dancy restaurant. Fancy-dancy for the Hill Country... about par for the course if we were in the Houston area. I didn't know where we were going till we got there. My husband found the restaurant on-line and made reservations but didn't want to spoil the surprise.

Of course, the first question I asked was "How will I know what to wear if I don't know where I'm going?" That sort of thing never occurs to a man. They pull on a pair of slacks, take a shirt out of the closet and they're done. I figured the restaurant wouldn't exactly be on "Diners, Drive-ins and Dives" if we needed reservations. My husband wouldn't give in on the location, but he did show me a picture from the on-line site so I got to see what one of the dining rooms looked like. It didn't look like a jeans-and-boots sort of place.

I think I spent nearly an hour pulling clothes out of my closet the night before, trying on this and that and the other.... clothes that haven't seen the light of day since we left the Houston/Clear Lake area. It was too hot for a skirt and stockings, so I opted for black slacks and a silk top-- it was too hot for a silk top, but it was sleeveless and a pretty shade of blue, and I topped that with a short white jacket so I wouldn't be cold in the restaurant's air-conditioning. Out came the high heels... something else that doesn't get to see the light of day here. It probably took me longer to pick out an outfit than it took my husband to find the restaurant, read the menu, and make the reservations. When my clothes were all picked out and set, I polished my nails, which I haven't done since my birthday in January.

Christopher's is in Bryan/College Station, which is a fairly good drive from here. The two towns of Bryan and College Station are side-by-side, with Texas A&M University smack in the middle of the two. Personally, I don't think many people even know where Bryan begins and College Station ends, so everyone more or less just says "BryanCollegeStation" as if it's all one word and all one town. I don't know which of the two towns the restaurant was in, but there is was, a very pretty place in the middle of not much else.

The parking lot was filled with cars, which is always a good sign. They had lots of small dining rooms and a couple of larger banquet rooms. The menu was very nice... selections of French, Italian, Spanish cuisines, with a bit of Tex-Mex tossed in for good measure. We made sure to get two different menu items, rather than both ordering the same thing. We settled on stuffed shrimp with crabmeat, and almond-crusted snapper, and both of us had half of each. Each entree came with mashed potatoes, mashed sweet potatoes, grilled tomatoes, asparagus and zucchini, and sauted spinach. I saved the mashed potatoes for my husband, he saved the sweet potatoes for me.

We splurged on an appetizer-- a fondue of crab, shrimp, cheese and artichoke hearts, served with garlic bread. Totally decadent and delicious. Then after the dinner, we splurged again on dessert--- flourless chocolate cake (which we always used to get at Babbo Bruno's in Clear Lake). They wrote "Happy Anniversary" across the serving plate with chocolate sauce... very nicely done, with such beautiful script. "Too pretty to eat," we said...... so we looked at it for a while before we put the forks into it.

On the way home, we decided that rich roods and decadent desserts don't mix well with a 45-minute drive.... we both got sleepy during the drive home. We don't usually eat such rich foods... and even though the menu at Christopher's was tempting and luscious, it's just not a place that you can go to every week unless you want to indulge in the heavy sauces and gooey desserts. (I wouldn't drive all that way for just a salad, and no one makes better salads than I do anyway.)

So we had a wonderful 15th anniversary dinner there, but I think I'd rather leave the silk tops and the pearls in the closet and just enjoy a dinner of salmon and salad here while looking out over our fields and listening to the baby birds singing and the chickens screeching because the cats are chasing them.

Baby birds and young chickens.

The baby barn swallows in the front porch nest have taken wing...... their first flight was this morning. I missed seeing them leave the nest for the first time, but I did see the three babies, along with the two adult birds, perched up along the woodwork underneath the eaves of the porch. It was windy today-- not exactly the best flying conditions for such tiny birds, but I guess they were okay. Barn swallows aren't very big birds to begin with, and the babies are quite small. Perfect prey for the hawks that fly around all day long, and I'm hoping the younger birds stay in the smaller trees and under the eaves till their wings are strong enough to carry them away from the talons of those hawks.

The eggs have hatched in the barn swallow nest on the back porch, and both adult birds take turns catching bugs and flying things to feed the babies. One adult bird goes off bug-hunting, and the other stays to guard the nest. When the hunter-bird comes back, the guard-bird flies off. They never seem to leave the nest untended for more than a couple of seconds. I was on the porch yesterday and one of the adult birds swooped down so close to me that I could hear the sounds of its wings. I guess I was too close to their nest. Don't they know by now that I'm not a threat to their just-hatched babies?

This afternoon, I went across the road to see our neighbors' chickens. They have 20 chickens, about nine weeks old now... red ones, black ones, black & whites, brown & whites. D still doesn't know how many are hens and how many are roosters, but the odds are that there will be more roosters than hens. Not a good thing. The roosters will bother the hens... all of the roosters will fight with one another.... and all of D's roosters will end up with yet another neighbor who will possibly keep one or two for his coop and then make fried chicken with the rest. Ouch.

As we watched D's chickens this afternoon, we saw them trying to establish a pecking order. Two chickens would stand beak to beak, so close that you couldn't fit a blade of grass between them-- and then the staring would begin. It was amazing to see... two chickens, eye to eye, without blinking, each one as stubborn as the next. Does the one who blinks first lose the match? D said that they started establishing the pecking order within days of being introduced to his coop. He cannot guess which hen

will be the Queen of the coop over there but he said the chickens will determine that within the next week or so.

I never would have thought that all of this drama could go on in the confines of a chicken coop. "As The Coop Turns?"

D told me the other day that I should be saving the seeds from the cantaloupes-- he says the chickens love them. He also suggested that I put out watermelon and cantaloupe rinds for the hens-- he said they will peck at the fruit and just leave the rinds. So of course when I went to the supermarket today, I made sure to get a couple of cantaloupes. When they're ripe, I will scoop out the "guts" (as D calls them) and bring them out to the hens.

As it is, the hens get a lot of left-over bits and pieces of food (excluding onions and garlic-- unless you want the eggs to smell like onions and garlic, which I don't). So far, my hens haven't refused anything at all, except for the hardest part of the broccoli stalks, no matter how finely I chopped them up. D told me that his chickens will only eat white bread-- not whole wheat, not rye. I told him about Scarlett eating only the center of the bread slices, but not the crust, and he thought that was very "southern" of her.

Just another day on the ranch...... standing in the hot breeze and comparing coops and chickens with the neighbors.

Wildflowers and turtles.

The fields here are changing every week now. The Bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrush have gone to seed. Before they were even at their peak, the Yellow Texas Stars were sprouting up and ultimately growing to nearly three feet tall (or so it seemed). I didn't exactly go out into the pastures to measure, for fear of snakes. There is truth in that saying that goes "...a snake in the tall grass..." (I forget what the rest is, but that's the part I don't want to forget.)

Queen Anne's Lace took over after the yellow wildflowers began to drop their petals, then orange and yellow daisies grew as tall as the Texas Stars. We now have purple thistles growing-- their leaves are prickly and dangerous to touch, but the flowers look like the fuzzy purple bloom in the "Horton Hears a Who" story by Dr. Seuss. Soon to follow will be the purple "basket flowers," which have a fuzzy purple top and a green base that looks like a woven basket. Looking out over the fields from the upstairs balconies is a treat every morning.... the patterns and the colors keep changing and the breeze blowing across the pastures is just amazing because it sways the flowers to and fro as if they're dancing. Unbelievably beautiful to see.


We went to lunch yesterday, to J & J's house. They invited B & G, and S & D, so the eight of us had a nice Sunday meal together. We all talked about the flowers, of course, and the dead snake that was in the road for two days before the vultures carried it away. I drove past that snake twice, each time slowing down so I could look at the color and pattern on it. I knew it was dead, but I didn't walk those two days because I didn't want to get that close to it. "Just a chicken snake," the neighbors said. "Can't hurt you, unless you're a chicken." And that I am, when it comes to snakes.

We also talked about the turtles that seem to be in everyone's pond. And occasionally, we've all found a turtle in the middle of the road, traveling from one pond to another, we're guessing. I've stopped my car on the road to pick up those turtles and carry them to the other side. We don't get much traffic on the one road coming in and going out of here, but still, I wouldn't want to see a smashed turtle on my way to the main highway. One of the neighbors said that when I pick up a turtle to move him to safety, I need to make sure his head is facing me and his "hind parts" are facing away from me. J said that a turtle's defense is to let out a "long stream of pee that will cover you from waist to knee in about three seconds." Well... who knew?! Thankfully, the three turtles that I've picked up in the past few months haven't been so rude.

A lesson every day here..... a blessed lesson every day.

Baby birds & Ladies' Night Out.

There are now three baby barn swallows in the nest on the front porch ... three tiny little heads peeking over the edge of the nest when I walk by there. The two adult birds are flying back and forth with food for them-- I watched them yesterday as they flew over the front pasture and caught insects in flight, then flew back to the next to feed the babies. I can't even imagine how many bugs they have to catch on a daily basis to keep the babies satisfied.

The swallows in the nest on the back porch are still waiting for their eggs to hatch. The mama bird is still sitting on the nest day in and day out, taking just short breaks to drink some water out of the fountain in the front of house, and I'm sure she's catching bugs and insects for herself along the way. Her mate sits close by and guards the nest, swooping down towards the cats if he thinks they're getting too close. Within a few weeks now, all the baby birds will be perched up on top of the porch columns, ready to test their wings and see if they really work. If all those baby birds come back to these same nesting places next Spring, we're going to have a porch filled with barn swallows.


I went to dinner tonight with three of the ladies who live nearby. S called yesterday to ask if I would like to do a "Ladies' Night Out" dinner, along with B and J. Seemed like it would be a fun thing to do, and we went into the next town to the Mexican restaurant there. They had been there before (promising that the food was as good as any of the Mexican restaurants in Houston)-- and they were right. Everything was homemade, and the menu choices were clearly marked with the really super-spicy items so you didn't have to take your chances.

The inside of the restaurant looked like a kaleidoscope ... so many bright colors, surrounded by heavy carved-wood tables and chairs. Definitely the place to go if you want Mexican food in this area, and I'd definitely go back there.

We talked about city-life vs. country-living, being that all of us once lived within the Houston city limits. What did we miss about the city? Full-service gas stations (only self-service here). SteinMart and Chico's for clothes (best we can do is Palais Royal in town). Grocery stores being within ten minutes from your house (takes you more than ten minutes to get from our road to the main highway, then it's 12 miles to the nearest supermarket). Wearing high heels when you went out for dinner (high heels just aren't practical here because you never know if you'll be walking on cobblestones or pea-gravel). The downtown museum and theatre districts (we have one of each, both minuscule). The ethnic restaurants (does our one Mexican restaurant count?). The endless choices for home-repair service companies (at best, we have a handful -- not counting the husbands).

We all agreed, though, that there's no place we would rather be. Even if we do have to pump our own gas and our "dress-up" clothes are now a good pair of jeans that we don't wear out in the yard.

May la Third.

In our family, this day is always called "May la third" because it's my cousin R's birthday, and when she was a baby, my grandmother taught her to say the third of May in Italian. The Italian words proved to be too hard for her, so the phrase got shortened and edited along the way to May la Third. Whenever my cousin R writes this date down, her pen will spill out May la 3rd each and every time.

Shortly before I called my cousin R this afternoon to wish her a Happy May la Third, the mailman came with a package from my cousin L. I knew the package was on its way, but I didn't know what all the contents were until I opened the box. There were some gifts in there for my January birthday-- delayed in mailing because L was sick with the flu, then she moved into her new apartment, then she was busy unpacking, then she got sick with a virus which lasted for weeks. Too many down-days got in the way of mailing out the package and I kept telling her not to worry, that I wasn't exactly thrilled about my latest birthday numbers anyway.

The package also held two surprises that were very nostalgic and made me reach for the box of tissues. The first is a tiny St. Theresa medal that my dad had given to my Aunt Edie (his sister, L's mother) as a birthday gift one year. In the 1960s, my dad bought just about everyone in the family a religious medal, mostly St. Theresa medals. They were all 14-karat gold, all very pretty and they meant the world to my dad because he carried a St. Theresa medal with him during World War II and he swears that medal of his brought him home.

My dad had given me a gold St. Theresa medal in 1961. Mine was the second one he bought, after replacing his tattered silver medal with a gold one identical to the one he gave me. I wore it every day for years and years and years. In the late 1980s, when the price of gold went through the roof and my life changed drastically and finances plummeted, I sold every piece of gold that I had in order to survive from paycheck to paycheck. Five years later, when my life was back to normal, I regretted selling that St. Theresa medal, and the gold scripted-name necklace that daddy had given me on my 16th birthday. I went so far as to check with the jeweler I had sold them to-- of course, they were no longer there, having been either re-sold or melted down.

So finding that little gold St. Theresa medal in the box from L this morning was a wonderful surprise. I have a very thin gold chain that fits the medal perfectly and even though this one isn't the one that daddy gave me in 1961, I'm thrilled to have it.... Aunt Edie has passed away now, and I was very touched that L would give me her mother's medal to keep for my own.

The other bit of nostalgia in the package was a photo album from my grandparents' 50th Wedding Anniversary, celebrated on Sept. 29, 1958. My grandparents had a large-sized album filled with professional photographs from their celebration, and each of their children received a smaller-sized album with photos of the family.

The first photo in this book shows my grandparents walking into the reception hall. They are holding hands, and Grandma is just half a step or so behind Grandpa. Grandma is wearing a full-length lace gown with elbow-length gloves, and Grandpa is in a black tuxedo. They knew about the party that had been planned for them, but judging by the expression on their faces, I don't think they knew how many family members and friends and neighbors would be there.

There is a photograph of my grandparents surrounded by all their children..... their four daughters to the right of Grandma, their three sons to the left of Grandpa. They had two other sons who had passed away years before that celebration, and there were two miscarried babies before they celebrated their 5th anniversary. (A very prolific Italian-Catholic family, which was about the norm when my grandparents got married in 1908.)

There is a photo of my cousins dancing, and behind them you can see my dad dancing with my mother. I'm sure that in the album that was given to my parents, there would have been more pictures of the two of them. I have no idea what happened to that album... lost or discarded along the way, just like their marriage, unfortunately.

In two of the other photographs, I can see myself with my parents. I was six years old that year, and I remember that dress so well because I just loved it.... silver lace over blue satin. I wore that same dress two months later when my mother's sister got married.... and then it became a Sunday-only dress until I out-grew it.

I called my cousin L today to tell her that I got the package, and to thank her not only for the birthday gifts but for the little St. Theresa medal and the album of photographs. I told her that I loved everything she sent me but would have been content with just the medal and the photos and she could have saved herself a lot of shopping. I asked L why our cousin R wasn't in any of the photographs and L said that she was probably running around the reception hall instead of "staying put" with the family. R was always a "butterfly in flight" as my grandmother used to call her (in Italian, of course), and Miss May la Third is still the same.

Looking through this album makes me both happy and sad. In 1958, everyone was content and smiling, young and healthy, everyone was together. Did it cross anyone's mind then that within the next fifteen years, divorces would fracture the family and forever change the dynamics of future gatherings and celebrations?

Probably not. On that day in September of 1958, five generations of a family gathered to celebrate 50 years of marriage for Angelina and Frank. Being just six years old, I didn't understand the significance of that... I was just thrilled with that silver lace dress and my new black patent-leather shoes.