The lilacs are blooming...

We have a big lilac bush in the backyard, which has only bloomed twice since we moved here. The lilac bush had been planted by the previous owners, but I didn't know what it was till it started blooming the first time, which was about five years ago. Since then, just lots of green leaves with no blooms.... until last week when I noticed the purple buds bursting out all over, along with a contingent of happy little bees hovering around the flowers.

I have a soft spot for lilacs because my father had dozens of lilac bushes growing in our backyard when I was a kid. I know I've typed this before, but it bears repeating.... my dad used to cut the lilac blooms and bring them to the nuns at my school, and they would put them in vases and place them around the altars in the church. When I went to Mass on Sundays, I would look around at all the purple lilacs and feel a certain sense of pride because I knew that daddy's lilacs were all over the church. The smell of lilacs is pretty enough, but when paired with burning candles and incense, the resulting aroma is what I always thought heaven would smell like.

So last week's discovery of the blooming lilacs was truly a nice surprise. My dad has been in my mind a lot lately... his birthday was last week (he would have been 97); I recently found a painting of Saint Theresa in an antique shop and couldn't resist buying it because she was daddy's favorite saint; I filled up a glass Christmas ornament with bits and pieces of letters that my dad wrote to me over the years; and I just ordered a Saint Theresa medal for myself, to replace the one that daddy gave me many years ago. With all of that going on, plus the lilacs.... I stood out there in the yard the other day and looked at those purple blooms and I just knew that they were a sign from daddy... he's happy that I have the Saint Theresa painting in my sitting room, and he's happy that I'm finally replacing that lost medal.

I know that all of the above sounds trite and somewhat ridiculous, and I'm putting a lot of stock into one blooming lilac bush, but.... it's what I believe, and that's good enough for me.

Our Gray Gatsby

We were up and out very early this morning to take our cat Gatsby to the vet. I noticed yesterday that his balance was off, he couldn't walk in a straight line, and his head was tilted to the side.  I should have realized right away that he wasn't feeling well because he wouldn't come out of his bed yesterday morning, but I just chalked that up to the cold temperature. Gatsby sleeps in the garage with Mickey at night, and both of them are usually waiting inside the door when I go out there in the morning.

Gatsby is getting older now (12 years) and I thought he was just having a chill-out sort of day. Not exactly so. I looked up his symptoms on the computer, and called the vet's office to confirm what I had been reading: vestibular disease, which can affect both dogs and cats. It can start as an inner ear infection, which can easily be treated, or it can be a stroke-like problem within the brain, which is not so easily treated.

Thankfully, Gatsby's problem is in his ear, which caused his head to tilt towards one side, which impaired his balance, which kept him cozy in his bed for most of yesterday. During the car ride to the vet this morning, my husband and I heard a faint 'meow' coming from the back seat as we drove towards town. The last time Gatsby was in a cat-carrier in the back seat of a car, he had gone to the vet's to be fixed. Not exactly a happy memory for our Gatsby.

Nearly $150.00 worth of examinations and medications, the three of us drove home, with a meow-less cat sleeping in his carrier in the back seat of the car. Gatsby's feline dignity was all but destroyed this morning by the insertion of a thermometer, the punctures of two epidermic needles filled with antibiotics and steroids, and a thorough prodding and touching of every bone in his 14-pound body. Gatsby, always the most gentlemanly of cats, was not amused, but he suffered through it with very few meowing protests while he was on the doctor's examining table. I would imagine that once a male cat has been neutered, there's not much else that can destroy their confidence once they're toted into the vet's office in a pink plastic carrier with a little window on one end.

I have seven days of medication to give to Gatsby and the vet assures me that all cats love that liquid because it's cherry-flavored. I don't know if Gatsby likes anything that's cherry-flavored, but I'll find out in about an hour. If I come back into the house sprayed with cherry-colored cat saliva, I will dispute the vet's opinion on the red cherry cat medicine.

We were prepared this morning to give the vet permission to 'put Gatsby down' if the prognosis was not good. With all the cats we've had over the past 20-something years, we've learned that prolonging a cat's life only so he can suffer through extra days to make us happy and clear our conscience is definitely not a good thing. Better for a cat to slip away quietly and peacefully than to be attached to tubes and machines and hopeful wishes.

So far, the medications given to Gatsby this morning seem to be working. Every time I go into the garage to check on him, Gatsby is waiting by the door and ready to go outside. I've tried explaining to Gatsby that the vet told us to keep him safely in the garage and the attached fenced-in coop until we're sure that all of his vestibular symptoms are gone. Gatsby is not amused... and I would swear that his plaintive meows this afternoon translated to something like "What does that vet know? He even believes that cats like red cherries!"

Ex Libris

Paper bookplates... 'Ex Libris' stickers... "From the Library of" -- these rectangular-shaped labels have always been interesting to me. I love to find vintage bookplates in used books... they're like a small announcement to the world at large that the person who once owned that book was truly a book-lover and appreciated every word printed on each page bound between the covers.

I spent part of last year searching for and collecting vintage Ex Libris stickers on eBay. There have been hundreds upon thousands of designs over the years (many of which I have posted on my Pinterest page titled Ex Libris) and the only limitation to bookplate design is one's own imagination and creativity.

When I first started the bookplate hunting on eBay, I couldn't decide which of my favorite designs to focus on. But then I got to thinking that there really isn't a rule that says I need to have just one design, and sometimes you simply have to break some long-standing rules anyway.

I found cat bookplates for my collection of cat books, which seemed to make perfect sense to me. For my collection of children's books, I found a design featuring a mama cat reading to her kittens-- once again, perfect sense. I wanted something British-looking for my collection of books by Beverley Nichols, and I came upon a bookplate picturing an open library window looking out onto a beautiful garden. (Nichols would be pleased with that selection.)  For my non-fiction books, I have two designs.... a vintage library with comfy chairs and book-filled shelves, and an old gentleman up on a library ladder engrossed in the book he chose from one of the top shelves. For my books on the Royal Family and British History, I have bookplates featuring a very English-looking library complete with cozy flames in the fireplace.  The bookplates for my Christmas books picture a little mouse asleep in his bed, which is just plain cute.  And for my collection of fiction, I have a whimsical assortment of bookplates featuring cats and books and library shelves.

I found more than enough bookplates during my eBay search last summer... and then in mid-September, we got our puppy Savannah (who is now 10 months old). While we were on puppy-time, not only was my reading time more limited, but my bookplate-pasting time was non-existent. Until now.

Every day for the past few weeks, I've spent some time up in my third floor library with my books and bookplates... one shelf at a time, as time (and puppy) allows.  I've completed the non-fiction side of the library.... all of those prized and very cherished books now have their unique bookplates.  The next time I'm free to play in the library, I will begin on the fiction side, starting in the cute little "Children's Corner."

My husband thought I'd lost my mind last year when I told him about my quest for bookplates. He knows that I very rarely let anyone borrow my books. I give extra copies of good books away all the time, but I 'lend' very very few.  My own books may leave the third floor, but they hardly ever go out on our own porch, much less go to someone else's porch. Even when my husband borrows one of my books, all sorts of rules go along with him:  Don't leave the book on the floor. Never bring the book into a bathroom. Do not bring the book to work. Never bring my book on a business trip. Do not use my book as a coaster, a plate, or a doorstop. Never leave my book close to an open bottle of soda or a cup of coffee. And if you value your life, do not ever fold down a corner of a page or use either flap of the dust-jacket as a bookmark.

As a result of all of the above, my husband very rarely borrows my books. He says I'm like The Library Of Congress-- too many rules.

"But some of my really good books cannot be easily replaced," I told him.
"You don't need a library filled with books... all you need is a Kindle... and then you wouldn't even need bookplates," he replied.

Well. Where's the fun in that?

Besides that, if we ever have to live in a world without electricity, I can always read my books, but his Kindle thing would just be a dead piece of plastic.

Manilow... One Last Concert in Houston

We drove into Houston last night to see Barry Manilow. Sigh. Big Sigh. His last concert for Houston. Another sigh. We have seen Manilow in downtown Houston and up in The Woodlands and even at the Houston Rodeo... we've been to concerts in NYC and on Long Island... and we flew out to Las Vegas one year when Barry had a long-standing show at one of the big hotels. In total, I think last night's concert was #9 for me.... and it never gets old.

Manilow's talent is pure music with some magic sprinkled into the notes. His concerts are always spectacular, always a party (especially in the front center with all of his loyal fans). We all know the routine... stand up when Barry comes on stage and stay on your feet until he sits at his piano for a ballad, then we all sit... only to jump up again when Barry gets up and walks around the stage. And we all sing along because we know all of the words because we've been singing along with Manilow since the early 1970s and the songs with each decade have become more nostalgic and even more beautiful and heart-searching.

But Barry is tired now... at 72, he's tired of the traveling and the touring, but certainly not tired of the singing and definitely not tired of his fans.  Last night was the 5th time we've seen Barry in Texas and he was so appreciative of his fans here that his eyes puddled up a bit when he talked of his upcoming retirement. And all of our eyes got misty as well. No more Manilow concerts to look forward to? Well, all good things must come to an end, and all extraordinary things will live on in your heart forever.

And without a doubt, Manilow has an extraordinary talent. He has respect for good music and perfect lyrics, and Barry's humility is beyond belief because he's the first to admit that without the 'greats' who came before him, he would not have been so inspired to continue on with their legacy and keep music as it should be: music, pure and simple. And Manilow is, simply put, a nice guy. A nice guy from Brooklyn who made it big and kept his standards and his music close to his heart, even back in the 1970s when the critics were without mercy even though his fan-base continued to grow from Day One into the mega-Manilow-mania that continues today.

Manilow has always been there for all of his fans who "get" him, and all of his Houston fans were there last night at Toyota Center, standing when Barry was standing, sitting when he was sitting, and singing every note along with Barry for what was his One Last Time in Houston.

Manilow will be missed in the concert venues, but his music will be with us forever.

Happy Hearts Day

We had a quiet Valenine's Day here... I've had a cold which has kept me sniffling and sneezing. I shouldn't complain because this is the first cold of the 'winter,' if you can refer to this sunny, breezy weather as 'winter.'  My cousins on Long Island sent me eMails telling me that it was near zero when they woke up this morning, and in the words of cousin F--- "0 is not a typo."

Not only was it zero on the Long Island thermometers, but they had a mixture of snow and ice, so putting the shovels away is not yet an option up there. I keep telling my cousins that they're living in the wrong zip code, but they're not listening. (And they're also telling me that I am the one with a head cold, not them.)

We went to the Chinese buffet restaurant in town on Valentine's Day... wonder of wonders, our little town has a really good restaurant (translation: exactly one) that does not play country-western music and does not offer sixteen kinds of BBQ on the menu along with a bowl of unwrapped toothpicks by the cash register. (Yes, I am a restaurant snob, and proud of it.)

When I opened up the boxes of Valentine's decorations at the beginning of this month, I picked through everything carefully and sent a bunch of things to my cousin's kids, and put some of the items into my booth at the antique shop, and then used the rest to make our living room and dining room a bit festive for Valentine's Day. When the ladies came for tea last week, they might have noticed the vintage heart candy boxes and the two Valentine trees... but probably not, since we were busy with paper crafts and tea.

I've made peace with the fact that we don't have big parties for Valentine's Day up here... ditto for both St. Patrick's Day and Easter.  When I put away what remains of our Valentine's decorations this week, I will look through the decoration boxes for St. Patty's and Easter... and mail some to my cousins' kids... and put some into the antique shop.... and consider myself lucky that I will have more room in the storage closet for Christmas decorations. (Translation: one can never have too many decorations for Christmas.)

Saint Theresa

So there I was yesterday, checking my booth at the antique shop in town... dusting this, re-arranging that, taking out old stuff and adding new items. I'm in there every week doing the same routine to keep my displays from getting same-old/same-old.

I had some extra time yesterday so I decided to walk around the shop and look at the spaces and booths of the other dealers. I hadn't really done that since before Christmas and a little look-see was long past due.

And what did I find..... a very old and very pretty painting of Saint Theresa which was framed in black walnut. The frame alone was outstanding, but the picture just took my breath away because it was so unexpected. Saint Theresa was my dad's favorite saint... he prayed to her all the time, bought countless medals and cards of this saint for everyone in the family, and he swore for years that Saint Theresa got him through World War II without so much as a scratch (not counting some very nice claw marks from a mama cat whose kittens my dad saved from a bucket that had overturned much too close to an open well somewhere in France).

I stared at the painting of Saint Theresa.... very poignant, very pretty and serene... priced at $36... did I want to spent over thirty dollars on such a picture? Not really... I'm more spiritual than religious, and I don't feel the need for crosses and pictures of the saints. But really... Saint Theresa.... I could hear daddy whispering in my ear.... "Thirty-six dollars? You're kidding me, right? You're going to leave that picture there?!"

I walked away from the painting and proceeded to look at all the booths of the other dealers... then came back to Saint Theresa.  Very peaceful expression on her face.... bits of glitter here and there on the picture... an open book near her hands... a little angel up in the sky with a sparkling halo... daddy's favorite saint.

I took the picture off the wall and brought it up front to pay for it.  Saint Theresa now hangs on the wall of my sitting room, over a pink velvet sofa. She looks quite comfortable and right-at-home, as if she's been there forever.  If my dad were still alive and in this house, he would be down on his knees in front of that painting, saying prayer after prayer after prayer, and then kissing the gold Saint Theresa medal he always wore around his neck.

Now.... today. This afternoon when the ladies came for crafts.... JAS brought boxes of iridescent glass ornaments for our latest project:  fill the ornaments with keepsake or fun items and then bring them back next week or the week after and show everyone our finished ornament.  I had decided to go through the old letters that my dad had sent me over the years. My thought was to cut out different parts of each letter and then roll them up and put them into the ornament. Daddy's handwriting was spectacularly ornate (more like calligraphy than the old 'Palmer' method) and the result would be a very special ornament which would preserve important parts of his letters and then I could discard the sentences regarding weather, lottery tickets, card games, Texas shrimp, New York pizza, and his next-door neighbors.

I went through my dad's letters tonight... I cut out the lines that said "Dear Larrie" and "Love always, Dad" and the lines with our Texas addresses written on the envelopes. There were special lines that said "I will always love you" and "To my dear daughter Larrie."  In one particular envelope, my dad had written "Thank you for the article about Saint Theresa."  I remember that clearly.... one of the local churches had sacred relics on display that were said to have belonged to Saint Theresa. 'The Houston Chronicle' had printed a very long article about the items, along with photographs. After reading the story, I cut out the pages and mailed them up to my dad.

Now what are the chances... the day after buying that framed painting of Saint Theresa... I read through my dad's letters and find the note thanking me for that newspaper article and telling me about his belief that he "got through the War because of her."

When I was looking though daddy's letters tonight, I was sitting at the little table in the breakfast room. When I got to that note about Saint Theresa, I went upstairs and stood in front of that framed print and read that particular letter out loud.  No one is home at the moment but me.... so reading aloud a letter written nearly twenty years ago by my father was a bit ludicrous.

But maybe not. Quite possibly, Saint Theresa heard me. Quite probably, and I choose to believe this, daddy heard me as well.

Not exactly Mickey Mouse...

When one lives in the country, there's always something...

I was going up the stairs this morning with a stack of clean laundry and as I got near to the top of the stairs and the second floor hallway, I smelled something. Not a good something, but a foul-smelling odor that you just couldn't ignore. I asked my husband if he smelled anything weird and he said no... but he was doing work at his computer and he tends to focus on just what's on the screen.

I walked around the rooms on the second floor and when I got to the last room (my husband's office) the smell was intense. How could he not have smelled that? Walking around the room like Nancy Drew, I knew for sure that the smell was coming from one of the ceiling vents for the heating and air-conditioning. And directly below that vent, there were brown spots on the carpeting. I had just vacuumed the second floor yesterday, and I didn't see any spots at all.

As I started to clean the carpet under the vent, the smell of the cleaner mixed with the odor of whatever made those spots really got to stinking quite badly, and finally, my husband asked me what on earth made that awful odor.  I pointed up towards the vent, and my husband noticed that the vent itself was soiled with lots of brown spots.

Off went the computer, out came the step-ladder and tool box, and my husband proceeded to unscrew the heating vent... and as soon as he got the vent loose from the ceiling, a dead mouse dropped down to the carpet. I didn't exactly scream, but I came close. I'm not afraid of mice, but I certainly don't want them inside the house, alive or dead. I got a trash bag to put the mouse in (my husband did that part) and then he took the vent outside for a good cleaning. Apparently, the mouse had been up there for quite some time.

Living out in the hills here and surrounded by fields and pastures and woods, there is just no way to keep critters away. You would think that we wouldn't have any mice at all, with one inside cat and two outside cats, but all a mouse needs is a teeny-tiny opening and they can come and go at will. And with a house that's over one hundred years old, I'm sure we don't have a shortage of teeny-tiny openings.

Every once in a while in the middle of the night, we will hear a scurrying sort of noise in one of the walls. We know it's a mouse but in a home this size, how does one go about finding where it is? Usually, the mouse will find its way back outside and off he goes into the pasture, probably to meet his fate with an owl or a hawk. I doubt very much that my well-fed cats even go looking for mice these days, as they're both on the shady side of their nine lives.

Well, the mouse that dropped from our ceiling vent this morning is now encased in a plastic grocery sack and will wait outside in the trash can till pick-up day on Tuesday. I guess I should be thankful that it was only a little mouse because the day a snake drops out of a ceiling vent in this old house, I'm out of here. And I do mean Out. Do not pass Go, do not collect your city-shoes, just Go.

Surprise, surprise...

We had a visit the other day from friends V and S... we lived around the corner from them in Clear Lake and they've been up here for our parties and other visits since we moved.  V and her husband were driving north of us for a funeral that day. When V realized how close she was to us, she used her cell phone to call me as they were passing our exit on the highway, and asked if they could stop by on their way home later that afternoon.

I told V to come on by, hoping that they would stay for a visit instead of just a quick hello/goodbye. They got here in mid-afternoon, along with two of V's friends whom I had met before when V's son got married up in Austin a few years ago. My husband and I have met most of V's close friends over the years, at various parties and family gatherings, and never have I met such a joyful group of people. One of V's friends is The Dancing Queen... at V's son's wedding, G was up and dancing every time the bank struck a note... didn't even matter if no one was dancing with her... she just loves to dance and she dances well.

V's friends hadn't been here before and they wanted to see the house, so we went room by room as they oohed and aahed over this hundred-year-old home's quirks and charms. It's a pleasure to look through this one-of-a-kind house, and I do truly love its Victorian rooms and original flooring and fixtures and stained glass. One of the ladies told me that it must have been "easy as pie" to leave Clear Lake for this, and I stumbled all over my words as I answered that.

How to even explain this without sounding ungrateful for this home. I do love this house. I do not, however, love the location. When we first saw this big Victorian, I was enthralled with everything... the property, the trees, the pastures, the big old barn, the little guest cottage... everything just said 'Welcome Back to The Past.'  We bought this house and I was thrilled beyond belief to be here. I missed our friends in Clear Lake but I was still just so happy to be living here. I didn't miss the Clear Lake house at all after we settled in, and I surely didn't miss the traffic and congestion in Clear Lake as it grew and grew into a city-ish part of Houston proper.

But... be that as it may... I do miss the bookstores, the museums, the galleries, the shopping, the ethnic restaurants, and the pure convenience of living within thirty-minutes from Houston on one side and forty-minutes from Galveston on the other side.

I was so enthralled with this vintage house when we first saw it that I didn't give a thought about the wildlife, the insects, the night-time creatures, the 12-mile drive to a grocery store, the serious lack of a good bookstore, the absence of a great shoe store... not to mention all of our city activities in both Clear Lake and Houston that are two hours away from in this little town.

Oh well. Here we are, and here we'll stay. In this big old house that I loved the minute I saw it.  I have to remember that, and I really did as V's car backed out of our driveway this past weekend... they were waving, we were waving back... and it took everything in me not to just run after their car and tell them to take me with them.

Must. Change. Attitude.