A strawberry patch sits in the middle of my flowerbed. I leave the luscious strawberries for the critters. I love it when this little guy comes to call.
I have one flowerbed with dewberries that get the full attention of birds and squirrels. They also love my mulberry tree.
I think a man thought I was trying to pick him up in the garden center yesterday. Like me, he was perusing the bargain plants. When I noticed he’d snagged a magnificent hydrangea, my plant lust kicked in. I fear he thought I was after him, rather than his plants. I merely coveted his hydrangea,not his person. He fended me off by hastily telling me his wife had just loaded his buggy up. Scorned, I assured him I was only after his hydrangea, not him. Fortunately, I found one of my own, so his was safe. It was the fifth one , I’ve been lucky enough to get this spring, hydrangea, not man, I mean.
I have a voracious appetite for plants but must restrict my expenditures in the interest of staying married, I make frequent visits to the markdown area where my favorite garden center typically marks plants down fifty percent, an extreme temptation. This frequently includes overstocks., a true blessing. My landscape plans are directly influenced by these bonanzas. For example, I had envisioned a purple and fuchsia scenario for one front bed but realized I could be equally happy with the numerous showy pots of purple and gold Wave Petunias I greedily grabbed.
I must confess. Plants lead me into deception. I do my best to keep them out of Bud’s direct view till I get them in the ground. I unload them in the front yard so as not to assault his sensibilities as he pulls into the garage. I’m not always in the mood to discuss the landscaping imposes on our budget. I understand it’s perfectly obvious that I’ve bought plants once they’re in the ground but I still practice this pointless subterfuge.
Gardening also interferes with my writing. I can’t wait to get out and get my hands in the dirt in the morning. My mind totally clears as I dig, plant, and ponder where each plant will flourish. Should a plant look unhappy, I look till I find it a happier niche.
For me, gardening is the purest joy.
Wave Petunia
Emma spent the night and eased Anya’s concerns about baby care and breast-feeding. If she thought Anya seemed less than experienced, she voiced no concerns. “Don’t worry. It’ll all come back to you. After you’ve had six or seven, you’ll be nursing one, luggin’ one on your hip, an’ swattin’ one out of trouble without turning a hair. You sure birthed this one easy. You don’t look like you got child-bearin’ hips, but she didn’t give you a bit of trouble. I got a lot wider hips than you, but when I had my Marthy………..” Anya enjoyed the tenor of her friend’s conversation, but was lost in admiration for the tiny baby. Her ears perked up when Emma moved on to a discussion of the baby’s size. “I do believe that’s the smallest, healthy baby I ever seen. My Melvin would’a made two of her, but he was a big ol’ lunker. I swear, this baby could sleep in a shoe box.!”
Joe looked alarmed. “But she’s big enough, ain’t she? I’m a big feller, but my ma never weighed ninety pounds and she could’a whooped a bear.”
“No, Joe. She’s breathin’ fine, her color’s good, and she’s nursing like there ain’t no tomorrow. This baby’s just little, not puny.” Emma laughed at his concerns.
Anya acted huffy. “Now don’t go making my baby out to be too little. Give her time and she’ll set you straight. I ain’t never been big as nothin’ but I can take care of you two if you keep picking on my baby.” She smiled and nuzzled its sweetness.
Emma laughed and Joe looked alarmed. “I ain’t talkin’ against the baby. I just got worried when Emma said she was too little.”
Emma threw a towel at him. “I ain’t never said nothin’ was wrong with being little. I was just saying she’s smaller than them buffaloes I birthed. I think that was right smart of Anya to cook up a little one.” They all got a good laugh out of that. “I do believe I’d keep her away from other folks till she catches up a little so she don’t catch something. What do y’all reckon on naming this big ol’ gal?”
Anya looked to Joe. He thought long before speaking, “Well, if you ain’t opposed, Anya. I’d like to name her after two of the finest women I ever knowed, Rose for my mama and Anya for you.”
Anya looked at him with love. “I’d be right proud to call her that.”
My son learned to his sorrow not to try to rescue a piece of chicken his two Akita’s were fighting over. Unfortunately, the lesson cost him a finger.
Fortunately, John is eccentric and sees the bright side. He said the biggest problem was having to convert from a base ten counting system to a base nine. One day at work a woman chastised him! “Stop doing that! You’re creeping me out trying to make it look like your little finger is missing!”
“My little finger IS missing!” He told her. John has really enjoyed crafting all types of prostheses for his finger as well as decorative ones for holidays. I doubt any are functional, though.
This is his favorite, with a small hook.
This one is for drinking tea.
This gold digit is for Mardi Gras
This one is for making a good impression in gloves.
The collection, The orange finger in center has not been perfected yet. It is articulated with strings to make it move.
John and Watson
What does it mean to be a kid at heart?
A kid at heart feels joy at the quirkiness of life even if incapable of acting like a child. They are not jaded. They are still awed by the miracle of sunrise and sunset. Every newborn brings promise. A kid at heart appreciates fun, love, and life. A kid at heart is vibrant.
“I still need to find Grandma.” Lou remembered, reaching for her backpack. “Oh no! I left my phone in my backpack. How can I call Grandma, now? Can I use your phone?” she asked, reaching out to Lynn.
“We don’t have a phone. The lines don’t reach this far out in the country. When Mother has to use the phone she goes to Mr. Jones’s store and pays him fifteen cents.
“Your grandma is probably up at the house with Mama, anyway. There’s nowhere else to go, It’s a mile to the nearest neighbor.” Lynn bounced up and pulled down an old bag swing attached to a rafter. She gave a huge push and raced high up the hay. “Swing it again!”
Lou pushed it hard. Then again. Lynn and hopped onto the swing at its peak, her legs wrapped tightly. The pack of dogs went wild barking and snapping at the swing as it skimmed over their heads. Lynn flew high enough to kick the top of the open doors, scoring an exciting ride till it fizzled to a stop.
Jumping off, she shouted. “Your turn! Climb up on the hay!”
Climbing the hay was the easy part. Lou’s head almost touched the tin roof of the barn. The rain pounded just above my head. Lynn pushed the swing till it gained enough height for me to jump on it. The dogs anxiously waited for their turn to jump at her.
“I’m scared! If I miss, I’m a goner!” Lou complined.
“We do this all the time! You’re not gonna fall…..and if you do, you’ll probably land on a dog.” assured Lynn.
That made sense. There were dogs to spare. As she swung higher and higher, Lou grabbed the rope, held her breath, and jumped, wrapping her legs tightly. Wild horses couldn’t have pulled her off. That leap was the biggest thrill of her life. Laughing hysterically, she kicked the top of the barn doors wishing she could fly forever. Lynn pushed Lou over and over, then jumped on with her. The dogs joined in the fun, chasing and barking.
Though Lynn is lots of fun, Lou didn’t forget she needed to find Grandma as soon as the rain stopped.
Marzell was back in ten minutes. “I don’t guess I can go. Mom said we didn’t move the fishing poles and tackle box.
“That’s okay,” Charley reassured her. “We’ve got plenty. Sometimes we all go. If Ginny catches us, she’ll have to tag along, so we’ll take an extra for her. You can dig a few worms while I fetch the gear. Don’t run off squealing.”
“I’ll be fine. I eat worms for breakfast!” Marzell quipped.
Charley ran in just long enough to get some pants on and yell to Cora. “Cora, I’m going fishing. Tell Ginny to come on down if she wants to.”
“Okay, but don’t be late for supper. Here’s a couple of apples to hold you over.”
“Better make it three, Cora. A friend is with me.” Charley told her. Cora smiled to herself, glad to know Charley had a companion. It had been a long time. Ginny burst in the back door, banging her books on the kitchen table. “Ginny, I ‘m going fishing. Come on down to the creek if you want to.”
“Okay!” Ginny answered as she grabbed a couple of cookies.
The girls dropped their lines off a five foot embankment into to sandy-bottomed creek. Small sunfish were tempted by the worms dangling before them, but were too small to get the bait n their mouths. Occasionally, a nice white perch took interest and was added to the stringer. Eventually, seven white perch and a catfish hung in the cool water. “I’d better get home for supper,” Marzell announced, starting to get things together.
“Can you stay for supper?” Charley asked. “Cora always cooks my fish for me.”
“I’ll have to ask Mother.” Marzell replied.
As soon as they got back to Charley’s, Charley told Cora they had fish to cook. “I thought you might.” Cora laughed. I’m just about to put some chicken on to fry. Bring me them fish as soon as they cleaned and I’ll fry them up for you. Marzell, call your mama and ask if it’s okay for you to stay to supper.”
Cora set an extra place for Marzell and set a sizzling platter of fried chicken and fish In front of Charles and the girls. “Dr. Charles, you can thank the girls for this nice mess of fish. Charley, you know catfish is my favorite, so I am taking that one home for my supper. Next time, you’d better catch two if you want one. You girls don’t forget to clear away and I’ll do the dishes in the morning.”
Charles was delighted Charley had a guest, but was careful not to make much of it. “I thank you girls for the fish. I could each fish every night. Maybe you’d better go every day.”
“I’d a heap rather fish very day than go to school,” Charley answered.
“Me, too!” said Marzell. “School can be a pain.”
Ziegler’s obituary also mentions his love for the “morons and mental patients” that he served with as a fireman, sending tasteless internet jokes, potted meat and his “alcoholic dog Judge”.
While this obituary is full of humour, Ziegler’s daughter shared with the Times-Picayune the meaning behind the hilarious obituary saying that her father would always email funny obituaries he found online so that they could have a laugh.
All jokes aside, the obituary ends with a heartfelt, “He will be greatly missed.”
Full Obituary
“William Ziegler escaped this mortal realm on Friday, July 29, 2016 at the age of 69. We think he did it on purpose to avoid having to make a decision in the pending presidential election.
He leaves behind four children, five grand-children, and the potted meat industry, for which he was an unofficial spokesman until dietary restrictions forced him to eat real food.
William volunteered for service in the United States Navy at the ripe old age of 17 and immediately realized he didn’t much enjoy being bossed around. He only stuck it out for one war. Before his discharge, however, the government exchanged numerous ribbons and medals for various honorable acts.
Upon his return to the City of New Orleans in 1971, thinking it best to keep an eye on him, government officials hired William as a fireman. After twenty-five years, he suddenly realized that running away from burning buildings made more sense than running toward them. He promptly retired.
Looking back, William stated that there was no better group of morons and mental patients than those he had the privilege of serving with (except Bob, he never liked you, Bob).
Following his wishes, there will not be a service, but well-wishers are encouraged to write a note of farewell on a Schaefer Light beer can and drink it in his honor.
He was never one for sentiment or religiosity, but he wanted you to know that if he owes you a beer, and if you can find him in Heaven, he will gladly allow you to buy him another. He can likely be found forwarding tasteless internet jokes (check your spam folder, but don’t open these at work).
Expect to find an alcoholic dog named Judge passed out at his feet. Unlike previous times, this is not a ploy to avoid creditors or old girlfriends. He assures us that he is gone. He will be greatly missed.”
Published in The Times-Picayune on Aug. 12, 2016.
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