This has to be the longest postcard I've ever seen. Twice. Mainstream Breckenridge looks a lot like my hometown downtown; the first building on the right was the pharmacy. Hancock Drugs. Hardy Hancock Hospital kept it in business, and was across the street and down the block a bit. I was born there. Dr. Ryder Stockdale was our family doctor. He signed my grandfather's death certificate because he was also my grandparents' family doctor. I never knew my grandfather. I loved Dr. Stockdale so much. He was the only adult who seemed to know what being a small child was like. I believed he would be our doctor forever. I didn't know that doctors died too. That's how young I was.
The last time he treated me, I had pneumonia. My father was home from Germany, and he took Mama and me to the clinic; the nurse had to tell him I needed to undress in private. But not before my mother saw the silk stocking I'd used to shorten my slip. She was embarrassed; the nurse was so kind. She said I'd taught her how to keep her own slip from showing. I think I was twelve. Writing this now, I feel the same pain in my right lung, and how it felt to struggle for breath. Scoliosis often recreates those feelings. It makes me sit straighter, which is good. It also causes me to sit less and move about more; which causes me to want to sit more and walk less. Oh, it's a circle.
I forget how many times I've told the story about me thinking our Aunt Jo was rich. She had beautiful diamond door knobs you see. So did Mrs. Tucker in Alabama. Erin sent this photograph because, "I remember how much you love door knobs like these."
Not having seen the full photo, I wrote back, "OMG! I would buy those three! Including the round brass!"
She said, "They're at this place called Architectural Artifacts. . . . I could go back and ask for the price." . . .
And she sent this . . . A mellow yellow mail box.
I discovered on my own that a Flow bookplate makes a fine address label.
The back looked rather forlorn so I included part of a little story about songbirds and a grand old hawk that put on a concert for a human friend's birthday celebration. In silver ink no less. A notecard goes out under separate cover.
I cannot resist buying books for children.
I read the review but had no idea I'd be drawn to the cover at first sight. I like the fonts in Norton. The dog looks like he's made from a Clorox bleach bottle. The large size, while Norton looks like he's made from a white paint can. Um, the book is mine. It takes all of five minutes to read the weak story; it's the drawings that make the experience worthwhile. Don't buy it.
Perhaps this was an orange and green day. We know I didn't need either color, right? But if I wore nail polish you can bet I'd paint my toes green and my nails orange. Some purchases cannot be explained. JC didn't get it even when I told him, "But it's Spring!"
Open the book about Norton and Alpha and there's orange bursting out all over!
Oprah's skirt is simply beautiful. The details surprise you. I'd never had chosen that top to go with it, but somehow it works. Still and all? I'd have gone with white. This is the first O Magazine I've bought in . . . I forget when. It's worth wading through all the adverts for expensive useless products. I've read almost all that's worth reading. Okay, that pose looks awkward, but then . . . awkward is as awkward feels, right?
I'm saving "Let's Talk About Race" for last because I don't want to be disappointed again. More people are writing about the topic lately but no one says anything new, and those interviewed say very little. It's the same old hash that's just rehashed and served up lukewarm. There's a page called Reality Check where there's a questionnaire for fill in the blank answers. One is: I have ______ friends of an ethnicity different from my own.
"One Step Forward, Two Steps Back" makes me shake my head. It also makes me Google facts. Life is . . . learning. And letting the learning change you for the better. I could have said all this in a letter. Right? But it would take at least a week's time to repeat myself over and over and over again.
If I knew who among you might like to discuss the bog man, why I'd scan and print the story and photos of this guy, write a long letter about the wonder of it all . . . But since I don't know, I'll share bits of the story and images here.
He looks asleep doesn't he? Like he put his head on a scrunched up pillow and fell asleep like Rip van Winkle. The blue light makes his face . . . The blue light brings to mind the color of woad. I made up a little "well I wonder if" about why he was sacrificed. The village people always sacrificed a ginger when the crops failed. He drew the short straw that year. So they hung him and lay him on his side in the bog. He looked . . . peaceful. The other part of me wants to believe the bog vegetation turned his hair red. Which theory do you prefer?
I have a new sea foam green mobile. It needs a place to hang where it can play tag with the wind. Can you see me taking it outside each day just to hang it from the patio umbrella? I'd have to bring it in each evening too. So, as you can see, there hasn't been much to write about in Limnersville. I always think of Hootersville when I way that. I never liked anyone in Hootersville.
Look at the time! We have a guest visiting for the weekend, and here I sit. I should be dusting or something. More or less.