tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-172359892024-03-07T01:46:12.577-06:00SusieQ's PlaceMrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-1128657887554054572016-12-31T22:11:00.000-06:002017-01-01T00:09:28.547-06:00Why SusieQ?I chose the name SusieQ for this blog as a tribute to my Aunt Sue. SusieQ is what family members, most are deceased now, called her years ago.<br />
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Aunt Sue is a remarkable woman. She is 92 years old, lives independently, and is in excellent health. One thing that amazes me is that her handwriting is beautiful. She told me that she went for her annual checkup recently. The only thing the doctor could find wrong with her was a buildup of ear wax.<br />
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Aunt Sue has devoted grandchildren, however her husband and both her children have passed on. Just a few years ago, her daughter died in her arms after a brief, heartbreaking battle with brain cancer. Despite these losses and the pain associated with them, Aunt Sue is happy. Having grandchildren who love her and keep her involved surely makes a difference. You can tell that she is happy. She gushes with enthusiasm when she talks to you and, when she becomes tickled over something, she giggles like a school girl. SusieQ is a fitting name for her even today.<br />
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If you were to ask my Aunt Sue why she is happy, I would expect her to tell you that it is because she trusts God and knows there is an afterlife where she will be with her husband and children again someday. She waits for this cheerfully.<br />
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Is it any wonder that I want to pay tribute to this woman?<br />
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(I wrote this piece in late 2005, but kept it as a draft for years. Today I attended Aunt Sue's funeral. She was 103 when she passed away. I celebrate her departure from this earth, because I know she is with her husband, her children and a great-grandchild who went before her. It is time to publish this tribute to her.)Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-6555753811189819312010-06-10T20:00:00.001-05:002010-06-11T19:42:29.963-05:00My Husband The Father(This is a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">repost</span> from a couple of years ago in which I honored my husband on Father's Day.)<br /><br />Our children adore him and have utmost respect for him.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZbff56hlSRZRc_zE8kotZmbQD9LQKmLTqt-Z3JOg5RhE8w4z6egNJL2eDmUzd9iEH1-dcSu2SB7NCgo395sx2EGSFtBN5X7zORuBeQSYoA50xIsF0UqtH1L-cyeFGUpXT26xE/s1600-h/margaret's+card.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077147728428559698" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZbff56hlSRZRc_zE8kotZmbQD9LQKmLTqt-Z3JOg5RhE8w4z6egNJL2eDmUzd9iEH1-dcSu2SB7NCgo395sx2EGSFtBN5X7zORuBeQSYoA50xIsF0UqtH1L-cyeFGUpXT26xE/s400/margaret's+card.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> Hallmark card</span><br /><br /><p>Our younger daughter stopped by today with this card for her Daddy. She chose this card carefully. It represents memories she has of sitting on her Daddy's lap as a little girl in an orange chair we had at the time clutching her Teddy which after all these years still has its stuffing and is on display in her home. She had kind, loving words to say about her Daddy today...and about me. We thanked her. It felt good.<br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguf7OoUr-Gf0WmYgezm-Ic-aQVXNUf-15Gt_1gy7xbpufc60o7Lwq-sOTxTB1nCrvtV4KuakywssuQl7khzL-Z1LRo9bLvA7geJORFaXLGasz1BYJWf6XFHeOK5aldMWFAyJ0P/s1600-h/Gene,+chris+1967.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077147423485881666" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguf7OoUr-Gf0WmYgezm-Ic-aQVXNUf-15Gt_1gy7xbpufc60o7Lwq-sOTxTB1nCrvtV4KuakywssuQl7khzL-Z1LRo9bLvA7geJORFaXLGasz1BYJWf6XFHeOK5aldMWFAyJ0P/s400/Gene,+chris+1967.jpg" /></a> This is my husband with our first child Christina. See the warmth and pride he exudes as he looks at our daughter. Early in our relationship I recognized qualities in him that convinced me he would make a good father. I was not wrong.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN9He7Cc1pOwFgxGEVWGu66P4-VGdYPfU7HBhK9AS5HDo4mHR8_Lkw2oaf5zTaH40BGGobbqNti8WuPN-8mOdVZxWiG8yzNyODM8cQr2ovD8Ui_rVv4IY13-61FEhDgTNtFwry/s1600-h/Gene,+chris+baby+grad+pic.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077147277456993586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN9He7Cc1pOwFgxGEVWGu66P4-VGdYPfU7HBhK9AS5HDo4mHR8_Lkw2oaf5zTaH40BGGobbqNti8WuPN-8mOdVZxWiG8yzNyODM8cQr2ovD8Ui_rVv4IY13-61FEhDgTNtFwry/s400/Gene,+chris+baby+grad+pic.jpg" /></a>This is my husband and daughter Christina again on graduation day...his graduation day from college. He worked hard to get his college degree. He obtained most of it while serving in the Air Force. After serving his time he had about a year left to go in order to finish his degree. But we had one child and another on the way. Still we decided it needed to be done. So, my husband took a job working the night shift at a local mental hospital so that he could attend college during the day.<br /><br />A few weeks after our son was born, my husband graduated from college. Unfortunately I could not attend the graduation ceremony, because our son had serious health issues at the time and I could not leave him or take him with me. I was very proud of my husband though and shared in his joy and relief that it was over. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFaxFzUGr-ycNmcfRZWaxOhBnNmZU2igt7pq0NcSEWg1iYmW5fcqhLTXnliEekkIJRcL79hpANfsXhRSrm-6lPx18sBCD9REw_32J9mlN4BSsoJ6cidNOkpjiHzJ5tmAH1dt13/s1600-h/Gene,+me,+kids+1971-2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077146912384773394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFaxFzUGr-ycNmcfRZWaxOhBnNmZU2igt7pq0NcSEWg1iYmW5fcqhLTXnliEekkIJRcL79hpANfsXhRSrm-6lPx18sBCD9REw_32J9mlN4BSsoJ6cidNOkpjiHzJ5tmAH1dt13/s400/Gene,+me,+kids+1971-2.jpg" /></a>A few years later our third child was born, a girl. She completed our family. Here we are all together, my husband, myself, our two daughters, Christina and Margaret, and our son Buddy.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4vi6LPxk_rL9SLgU8-tnyfLXv2fCf1YP2ZijOcYiKJgCfhGxNlwK6JKwdEhHOIG5DcYv5aegYN6oG49Rehti6xkwdEJrqjubD1OmqwSSS9kcnFMLLhZ9QHuO5_nWBg8aEFypU/s1600-h/Gene,+kids+1976.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077146719111245058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4vi6LPxk_rL9SLgU8-tnyfLXv2fCf1YP2ZijOcYiKJgCfhGxNlwK6JKwdEhHOIG5DcYv5aegYN6oG49Rehti6xkwdEJrqjubD1OmqwSSS9kcnFMLLhZ9QHuO5_nWBg8aEFypU/s400/Gene,+kids+1976.jpg" /></a> My husband and our three children one Easter when leisure suits were the thing and most men were trying to grow beards in celebration of our country's bicentennial.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9OmU7yZQPt9YiHEwtDutktHA8AgHyDsgiAsrwiDPFtwiRLFl-1R4KcQJ7nElCvoJPZVL88z1AGHhfURMENdHDPcfWz-5u4ClZbF0JPYYn1zMOqxjVoKPeq90Q8quT7ag6QQct/s1600-h/family+portrait+1983.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077146590262226162" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9OmU7yZQPt9YiHEwtDutktHA8AgHyDsgiAsrwiDPFtwiRLFl-1R4KcQJ7nElCvoJPZVL88z1AGHhfURMENdHDPcfWz-5u4ClZbF0JPYYn1zMOqxjVoKPeq90Q8quT7ag6QQct/s400/family+portrait+1983.jpg" /></a> Our family portrait taken in 1983 when the children were all teenagers and in high school. Our son was all bulked up for football. As you can see, we are animal lovers with our two dogs and our cat. We couldn't get the fish to pose for the picture though. (snicker..) <div><div><div><div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRbHM5t4bn2FSPdIbPnksPNVIrMxeEx1mJV_I_QyqRZ3T-T41AA5cj7wNFOHWoUsTftzSlbtAGAcgCGHC2_CfdLOagPECRm2Q8hY-alCN7G9dW2CZZYrdlTw-xrKgm6cSS8FL8/s1600-h/gene,+me,+kids+toast.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077146414168567010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRbHM5t4bn2FSPdIbPnksPNVIrMxeEx1mJV_I_QyqRZ3T-T41AA5cj7wNFOHWoUsTftzSlbtAGAcgCGHC2_CfdLOagPECRm2Q8hY-alCN7G9dW2CZZYrdlTw-xrKgm6cSS8FL8/s400/gene,+me,+kids+toast.jpg" /></a> This is a goof-off photo we took of our family the Christmas of 1985 with one of those cameras that has a timer and can sit on a tripod. I love this shot. I included it because it is an example of the kind of fun time we had together as a family when the kids were growing up. My husband and I did a lot of talking with our children about many things. He reminded me not too long ago about the summer nights all of us would spend outside on our patio talking and talking about everything under the sun...or maybe I should say under the stars.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-XymNwbCqCc6ph9VpfWjvHp16MtyLbHaFPQy1EGvT4lA2Vc-FjaCl19Slz9ODS9p2bFfw5mCbdtwYOyNalo1znjBdW5962o-xlWlbeTZB3bKJTaAEwK_KkQbih4Eyl9-CZp7/s1600-h/our+25th.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077146143585627346" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-XymNwbCqCc6ph9VpfWjvHp16MtyLbHaFPQy1EGvT4lA2Vc-FjaCl19Slz9ODS9p2bFfw5mCbdtwYOyNalo1znjBdW5962o-xlWlbeTZB3bKJTaAEwK_KkQbih4Eyl9-CZp7/s400/our+25th.jpg" /></a> Here we are together as a family in 1987 when my husband and I celebrated our 25<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span> wedding anniversary. At that point our three children were in college. Not too many years later one by one our children started getting married and beginning families of their own.<br /><br /></div><div>It has been seventeen years since our first grandchild was born. We were privileged to be there to witness her birth. Now we have 14 grandchildren and my husband is the proud papa to all his grandchildren who love and adore him.<br /><br /><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9DbK9LJUKRZaePqNnpyrbWzkVqbymt07Vz4T6nETChaslYlO-b2gHK63LGWbvUUFtis101cuxpYLKUzLQW_bGGfw3K4LOYkL9Uik_sopmBI8izo12OwOmzay9idhaBclzzIl6/s1600-h/8-29-2006-384.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077145284592168114" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9DbK9LJUKRZaePqNnpyrbWzkVqbymt07Vz4T6nETChaslYlO-b2gHK63LGWbvUUFtis101cuxpYLKUzLQW_bGGfw3K4LOYkL9Uik_sopmBI8izo12OwOmzay9idhaBclzzIl6/s400/8-29-2006-384.jpg" /></a> This is Papa (my husband) and our granddaughter Sarah. See the warmth and pride he exudes as he looks at our granddaughter.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div>This morning on the kitchen counter I had his oatmeal ready and waiting for him to come down to breakfast. I had his super-duper smoothie there which I make for both of us practically each morning. It is chock full of good things (apple, banana, blueberries, orange juice, protein powder,....<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">yada</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">yada</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">yada</span>) that I hope will keep us healthy and going for many more years. This Father's Day table-scape included the gift I gave him, which is one of those fancy fork thermometers he can use when he grills meat, and a Father's Day card.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>The card I selected for him says it better than I could myself. It talks about how we watched as first steps became first days of school for our children. It talks about letting go and letting them grow, but with hearts that still hold them tight. It talks about how time flies and how here we are just the two of us. But what this card said that spoke to me the most is that he, my husband, is my home. So I signed the card "To a wonderful daddy and papa. You have always been the good father and you will always be my home. All my love..."<br /><br /></div><div></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><strong>Happy Father's Day dear husband!<br /></strong><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZTsqHOPwPZEokO1DH7B21I6usGZ_jd965RchtzIelffjfi_7BRGUIHqWOCDYEOl2gldlZm-hAazdCyC-sfqBO75aQVi5q2v1qYP7Mlv9psDyELL1aNXB9bB9gj2VRT1TkOF6O/s1600-h/8-29-2006-388.jpg"></a><div><br /></div><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-14021343102793801822010-04-20T21:00:00.000-05:002010-04-20T21:26:51.047-05:00Remembering Mother - 2007<span style="font-size:130%;">(This is a repost of a post I wrote in 2007 in memory of my mother.)<br /><br />Mother's Day always brings back many memories for me of my own mother. The ones that stand out the most in my mind at present and almost beg me to write about them involve her humorous ways.<br /><br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1LIjt7j0MF0GE0UYnEakwt6lexumGJ3LDJiS5Eoim6GATofedktTkzY1Gl8lJ8sNZbLeL8Pplj-0vQWXp8cMqc605PQnp0slna1AzXnFpc_blJ1ltHXJtb-4_9AISwWZQLP75/s1600-h/Mother+daddy+1950%27s.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; FLOAT: left; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063812708006257378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1LIjt7j0MF0GE0UYnEakwt6lexumGJ3LDJiS5Eoim6GATofedktTkzY1Gl8lJ8sNZbLeL8Pplj-0vQWXp8cMqc605PQnp0slna1AzXnFpc_blJ1ltHXJtb-4_9AISwWZQLP75/s320/Mother+daddy+1950%27s.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">(Mother and Daddy taken during the 1950's)</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">No doubt you are all familiar with our nation's various domestic wars. The War on Drugs. The War on Crime. Mother had her own personal domestic war going on. It consisted of many battles on many fronts.<br /></span><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>MOTHER'S WAR ON OPG<br /></strong><br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">The battlefield was any motel room, hotel room, or vacation home where our family was going to be staying. The enemy was <strong>OTHER PEOPLE'S GERMS</strong>. Our germs were okay. We knew them. They were family. But other people's germs, well, that was a different story. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">I do not recall our family ever taking a vacation for which Mother was not prepared with her arsenal of weapons: pail; mop; scrub brush; ammonia; bleach; soap; and rubber gloves. My sister and I were not allowed to step foot inside these places until Mother had thoroughly disinfected them from top to bottom. Once she got done the place was so clean and germ free that you could have drank out of the toilet bowl. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">Mother's determination to do battle with OPG carried over to public restrooms as well. If she could not disinfect, she labored to create this protective paper barrier between the toilet seat and my little tush or my sister's which ever was the case. It was my mother who taught me how to dress the toilet seat in a public restroom with layers of toilet paper and how then to approach said toilet seat without disturbing this protective barrier. Much to my mother's dismay, the approach was a feat I never quite mastered.</span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">THE WORST DROUGHT IN HISTORY</span></strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">Mother was good about keeping things for that proverbial rainy day. She had a cedar chest in her bedroom which she kept locked. Once when I was a little girl I decided to unlock it and see what was inside. I was surprised to find a treasure trove of beautiful linens neatly wrapped in paper. These were wedding gifts which Mother and Daddy had received. I asked Mother why we didn't use these things. Her reply was, "Oh, those are for a rainy day."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">Well, that rainy day never arrived in our household while I was living there. It was one long drought instead. I remember well how our bath towels were so worn at times you could practically see through them while thick thirsty ones sat in Mother's cedar chest. Did that rainy day ever come for her? Did she ever get around to using all those beautiful towels and pillow cases that filled her cedar chest? If she did, then she waited till after I got married and had left the nest. </span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">COTTAGE CHEESE CONTAINERS:</span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">MOTHER CORNERS THE MARKET</span></strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">After Grandpa passed away and it was time for Grandma to sell the big house and move into something much smaller, my parents helped her prepare for the move. I will never forget the big deal Mother made over Grandma's gigantic collection of clothes hangers. It was excessive for sure. It looked as if Grandma had kept every clothes hanger that had ever made it into her life. But maybe Grandma thought clothes hangers would go up in value as time went by. Who knows. Who knows what in human beings causes them to keep things that come into the house on a regular basis when these things have no real value or have limited usefulness. I suppose we all possess this pack rat mentality to some extent. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">Mother's thing was cottage cheese containers. My father loved cottage cheese. He ate it every day. It had its own place at the kitchen table right there along with the butter and the salt and pepper. Eventually cottage cheese came in plastic containers with nice snap on lids which made these containers perfect for storing leftovers and other food items. So, people started saving them. People, including my mother. The years went by and Daddy kept eating cottage cheese that came in plastic containers with nice snap on lids...and Mother saved these containers diligently. My guess is that she saved every one of them. Eventually she had a collection of cottage cheese containers that rivaled Grandma's collection of clothes hangers. She had cornered the market. Personally, I do paper bags and shoe boxes. </span></div><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063812360113906386" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8SEP9NLCl018ns-wFI1LXf5zx1cGBXTjFqnlOrgVNovqhxh7EKhMkyPaxbIIfKixBlndsyB_Msnr4tt7n2XD39auhzeVoYxk78ZpSddgTQil_SpC12f3Qt14qOcPPbIpM3qxY/s320/Mother+elderly.jpg" /> <div align="center"></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">(Mother, a fine lady - age 69)</span></div><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">Mother passed away in January, 2001 twelve weeks to the day after the love of her life, my father, passed away. The following spring after their deaths, a particular pair of butterflies kept flitting around our yard and coming up onto our deck and landing on the railing which surrounds it. Butterflies are a sign from loved ones who have passed on...they say. </span></p><p align="center">**********************************</p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">Mother had a reputation for being a lady. She took great pride in being a lady. It is with deep love that I wish this fine and fair lady a Happy Mother's Day.</span></p><p align="left"><br /></p><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063835376843645682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidoeMHtlBu6TNzCG-KYtYQbBzyMKcEElWSIdGam7JjeteALrRxktWzrggUX5cmkoq0dxQ_fenIl35EBRC_Jpr4LbJX_953sS4HZscazQ09gMK-q_1QXC1V09ouxovoyk0jQhF7/s400/butterfly.jpg" /><br /></p><p></p>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-1145120844251279842010-04-02T08:35:00.000-05:002010-04-02T09:18:36.560-05:00EASTER GREETINGS<div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/363/1120/1600/j0384891.0.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; DISPLAY: block; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/363/1120/320/j0384891.jpg" /></a><br /><strong><em>I BELIEVE IN THE RESURRECTION.</em></strong> </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><br />(I have posted this Easter Greetings several times in the past. I like its simplicity.)</div>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-1132896751729156052010-03-21T23:00:00.000-05:002010-03-21T22:59:18.683-05:00A Sad Day For Mugsy!<div align="center">(THIS IS A REPOST FROM FIVE YEARS AGO.)<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/363/1120/1600/j0262250.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; FLOAT: left; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/363/1120/320/j0262250.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span>I'm forlorn!<br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">She remained in a stupor, that SusieQ, </span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Induced by yesterday's feast.</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Sprawled out on the sofa, she snored away</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Not one concern in the least.</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">It occurred to me "What an opportune time</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">To email a friend or two!"</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">So I scampered along to the den in haste</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Without further ado.</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">I pounced on her chair in front of the screen</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">And began to paw at the mouse</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">When what should come up but Susie's blog</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Where I learned I live with a LOUSE!</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Yes, a LOUSE! I say! SusieQ's a LOUSE!</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Not once has she mentioned her Mugs</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Though she writes about everything else in the world. </span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">So much for her kisses and hugs!</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">I'm OFFENDED! I'm HURT! As well as APPALLED!</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">And rightfully so, I'd say.</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Afterall I'm simply a FANTASTIC cat </span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">That's PERFECT in every way.</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">In fact, I believe I deserve a blog</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Devoted strictly to me</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Where Susie would write post after post</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">About moi exclusively.</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Fat chance for that. Her true colors she's shown.</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">That idea I can shelf.</span><br />Hey! I don't need her. I can get the word out.<br /><span style="font-size:100%;">I can start a blog myself!</span><br /><br />Hm! How shall I fit this blogging thing in<br />With all that I have to do<br />Such as primping and purring and lounging in sinks<br />And eyeing that cockatoo?<br /><br />I'll give it some thought, this blogging thing<br />For the world has a right to know<br />About the most wonderful cat on this earth<br />Though SUZE may not think it's so.<br /><br />Wow! I'm tired of all this rhyming and stuff.<br />It's time to put it to bed.<br />So, I think I will go to my slumbering Suze<br />And recline on the LOUSE'S head!<br /><br />Good Night All!<br />Mugsy </div>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-88493887922549937592010-02-03T21:12:00.005-06:002010-02-03T21:27:04.607-06:00One reason why I love this dog<div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">This is Max.<br /></span><br /></div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_lP3X2cssPs5Ke3m7nbUSyYG-mpMVOPbQPUyZ7oB4k2VtUP56dLFZD-2R-NmEa9a29xoKuKbnSVumb6N4naqEC29_CZhpEmpMkCR8NckXsaGvPqWm5WR9qkmw_j21I08wRunv/s1600-h/DSC00141.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434221108614569346" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_lP3X2cssPs5Ke3m7nbUSyYG-mpMVOPbQPUyZ7oB4k2VtUP56dLFZD-2R-NmEa9a29xoKuKbnSVumb6N4naqEC29_CZhpEmpMkCR8NckXsaGvPqWm5WR9qkmw_j21I08wRunv/s400/DSC00141.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> Let me tell you about our collie Max. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Collies are known to have sensitive stomachs. So I depart very little from his dietary regimen of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nutros</span>' Natural Choice formula for sensitive stomachs. But for a long time I had been giving him an occasional treat in the form of a few pieces of raw carrot. He loved it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">A few years ago Max developed an aversion to the sound that my potato peeler made whenever I peeled potatoes or carrots. Whenever I began the peeling process, he would drop whatever he was doing (that usually involved taking a nap) and he would race into the kitchen and to my side at the sink where he would begin this horrid high-pitched, ear-piercing whining that would evolve into an outpouring of rapid barking. I took this to mean that he was begging me to abandon the project due to the noise. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">One day while I was peeling carrots I decided that maybe I could get him to shut up by giving him the carrot peelings. It worked. It works with potato peelings, too, except I am careful to give him only small amounts of raw potatoes. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Now whenever he hears the sound of the potato peeler, he rushes into the kitchen and stands quietly alongside me there at the sink waiting for his treat. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">This is one reason why I love this dog. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </p><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></p></span>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-10750328770400653982010-01-25T16:30:00.006-06:002010-01-25T16:38:39.773-06:00Rep. Sue Myrick videoRepresentative Sue Myrick of N.C. talks about Enemy Combatants. Please pause music on the right so that you can hear Sue speak. <br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ueUO6GaNaYw&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ueUO6GaNaYw&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="330" height="340"></embed></object>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-38508154446314525032010-01-14T20:04:00.005-06:002010-01-25T16:41:30.209-06:00Haiti EarthquakePlease open your hearts and your purses for the Haitian people in their time of great need. I strongly encourage you to donate to the following charity.<br /><br /><a href="https://donate.doctorswithoutborders.org/SSLPage.aspx?pid=197&hbc=1&source=ADQ1001E1D01"><img border="none" alt="Support Doctors Without Borders in Haiti" src="http://www.doctorswithoutborders.org/images/donate/button-haiti-earthquake-480.png" width="360" /></a><br /><br />Double click the image above to go to the website of <strong><em>Doctors Without Borders in Haiti </em></strong>where you can make your donation.<br /><br />Keep the Haitian people in your prayers throughout the coming weeks.Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-75002703760838734432009-12-28T19:50:00.012-06:002009-12-28T20:34:20.247-06:00CLIMATE CHANGE...A SKEPTIC'S POINT OF VIEW<div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>December 26, 2009<br /></strong><strong>Chicago, Illinois</strong></span></em><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbrxN4ITJUcbyniar7IKBm_xX3SIc5aV8epZAmrSW-btLDXzJZ6wwAolvX5HtbknhY9knGnuH3N7pEvCBltnzSgRjUqWCRplCfVy_HLoiVSnh-bH71F7XIq5rVPs-fQkc8Tii/s1600-h/DSC03181.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420473536748486562" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbrxN4ITJUcbyniar7IKBm_xX3SIc5aV8epZAmrSW-btLDXzJZ6wwAolvX5HtbknhY9knGnuH3N7pEvCBltnzSgRjUqWCRplCfVy_HLoiVSnh-bH71F7XIq5rVPs-fQkc8Tii/s400/DSC03181.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:180%;"> <strong><em>Our home</em></strong></span></div><div align="center"><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPBnLEX511GGxMYCdCXpcf70iJqPfyrFD9I56FGdkNdOwg9YgGbNv30vIymDgDkXXqSoVrZ71oQcJZbf1FpaUze5xCBQGdQ23XW6tniG6xOnw9Y_ww71vXSzkz5Qb22WNsHaM/s1600-h/DSC03173.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420473181084769442" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPBnLEX511GGxMYCdCXpcf70iJqPfyrFD9I56FGdkNdOwg9YgGbNv30vIymDgDkXXqSoVrZ71oQcJZbf1FpaUze5xCBQGdQ23XW6tniG6xOnw9Y_ww71vXSzkz5Qb22WNsHaM/s400/DSC03173.JPG" /></a><strong><em><span style="font-size:180%;"> Our deck</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /></span></em></strong><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikj12lQuVR4YBsN11EuXqmnf7BAAQz_KQPiETOt0m9JS_Aaodluiu5OW8VLBou9_XfQfE086f-pKhL1QjZsMe9ao-_rB4dSgu7cJPChXYrxMzkdf6NdKJ3UDtomkCvUbpA7pnC/s1600-h/DSC03170.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420472909564458322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikj12lQuVR4YBsN11EuXqmnf7BAAQz_KQPiETOt0m9JS_Aaodluiu5OW8VLBou9_XfQfE086f-pKhL1QjZsMe9ao-_rB4dSgu7cJPChXYrxMzkdf6NdKJ3UDtomkCvUbpA7pnC/s400/DSC03170.JPG" /></a> <strong><em><span style="font-size:180%;">Our woods<br /></span></em></strong><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8kbEs1vYaExMCoRs0tCqqmDYxotUY_pO8T5OBZjDfnlsOKd0wbDtRLbuxvllv2thVGK2mbBR0Slgdxg490FT7QFoyXoKKXozFldm3JIhgp6x6rcoDF2EUMUwJJj7h6WgxwRfy/s1600-h/DSC03185.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420472520817982578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8kbEs1vYaExMCoRs0tCqqmDYxotUY_pO8T5OBZjDfnlsOKd0wbDtRLbuxvllv2thVGK2mbBR0Slgdxg490FT7QFoyXoKKXozFldm3JIhgp6x6rcoDF2EUMUwJJj7h6WgxwRfy/s400/DSC03185.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:180%;"> <strong><em>Old Glory</em></strong></span></div><div align="center"><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT5IEtrrFIQ_fyKedlTKlsl8Ycba6h9UnwmcAEqc05UJ93xztbnYktsTEkVvPiJUff2g0ML0wEqs2qXbUfowZhBsnPwKpTNkRgbZanCjnmojzu39EsNxIXmZCN4LiLKKdki2TI/s1600-h/DSC03174.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420471946835328210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT5IEtrrFIQ_fyKedlTKlsl8Ycba6h9UnwmcAEqc05UJ93xztbnYktsTEkVvPiJUff2g0ML0wEqs2qXbUfowZhBsnPwKpTNkRgbZanCjnmojzu39EsNxIXmZCN4LiLKKdki2TI/s400/DSC03174.JPG" /></a><strong><em><span style="font-size:180%;">Our driveway</span></em></strong> </div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLVKzD0xKXO2Zcap3Jx3QxPRDwo4CXvrpKAhXL-phTvzSjXKz9jf98ijzf9NUCGR_w_Sy1lXRoAn6pIDcIRGEv7V176ejsKeaFob-EotORTLUY689quiiw4zbUHVe-ruOSXEgO/s1600-h/DSC03225.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420471604726773250" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLVKzD0xKXO2Zcap3Jx3QxPRDwo4CXvrpKAhXL-phTvzSjXKz9jf98ijzf9NUCGR_w_Sy1lXRoAn6pIDcIRGEv7V176ejsKeaFob-EotORTLUY689quiiw4zbUHVe-ruOSXEgO/s400/DSC03225.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:180%;"> <strong><em>Our dog Max laying in the snow</em><br /></strong></span><br />(A picture = a thousand words.)<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDnPCtWAYWAGYHTgLkIX_px8Ex1ZhnYY0rsk5bm6iV2pVs_Ob06XUkkttUKOREH9UTyyDn53NWhe0fvoFnmIAj10b85j8ndrsanci8aH7ZI5mPbNtkon4pJIaqsdmmVkOMzwOH/s1600-h/DSC03173.JPG"></a></div></div></div></div>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-23045257227403049812009-12-25T22:31:00.028-06:002009-12-25T23:54:48.653-06:00Christmas Eve<div align="center">We were twenty-five in number on Christmas Eve at Nana and Papa's home. The children scoped out the presents under the tree as soon as they arrived. It was no time until they were asking when we were going to open the presents. Forget about dinner, forget about all those games Nana thought up to entertain them. What was important were the presents. But I made them wait till after dinner. Call me Scrooge. </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo39G1gFk7Xbe6hVyI0D6b9ALABGUbsPMtQJ1flMtEz_CJQaqANApQ5Fb_VFA51R9GlE11_ZL0TZYxk083nbz5OzLoTB25gEiJ5PyPgafuFa5Y3ymXTs_IS5fKf8hVPfh_DqNw/s1600-h/DSC03096.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419408345048367922" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo39G1gFk7Xbe6hVyI0D6b9ALABGUbsPMtQJ1flMtEz_CJQaqANApQ5Fb_VFA51R9GlE11_ZL0TZYxk083nbz5OzLoTB25gEiJ5PyPgafuFa5Y3ymXTs_IS5fKf8hVPfh_DqNw/s400/DSC03096.JPG" /> <p align="center"></a>We were twenty-five in number and each person had a stocking hanging from the staircase in the foyer. Children can be seen scoping out the stockings too.<br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFhwC3Gc6j88xkwtgpZhcnyVWQcmotiWJgNyC4xtaecY-vYHdXvtCv2DR064qssJf9zsz55sLSDgSvGkHO0TBvtcqWJMhhaSh0zyqfUSTp9oGAnyWT-wEVYtJBcq8AYI_71tZ/s1600-h/DSC03168.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419408207669672450" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFhwC3Gc6j88xkwtgpZhcnyVWQcmotiWJgNyC4xtaecY-vYHdXvtCv2DR064qssJf9zsz55sLSDgSvGkHO0TBvtcqWJMhhaSh0zyqfUSTp9oGAnyWT-wEVYtJBcq8AYI_71tZ/s400/DSC03168.JPG" /></a></p><p align="center"> </p><p align="center">Dessert became the Grand Finale to the event. But I remember seeing young hands snatching a cookie or two before it was time.<br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_9fX-DFbdJVw3sY8P5Gd-ezLrnV352ReHVFllHqrpnRC-4WniLDEoumflfCGt-7l1P4POju5aY6y1cTemZ_MlPqxX7Yp6CRSLGNC8CrUuNqmg1t6nfDJiOImG5Gum-Mz00zl_/s1600-h/DSC03107.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419406877062293154" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_9fX-DFbdJVw3sY8P5Gd-ezLrnV352ReHVFllHqrpnRC-4WniLDEoumflfCGt-7l1P4POju5aY6y1cTemZ_MlPqxX7Yp6CRSLGNC8CrUuNqmg1t6nfDJiOImG5Gum-Mz00zl_/s400/DSC03107.JPG" /></a> </p><p align="center">Dad helps Miquel with his talking cowboy from Toy Story.<br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifs3NW11uclap3ai7qKiqXbBBiAemjT6ULBqeVX3H_m9naSjCuoxExfmHWB2o885xrSTevDTv7VYdff_oByxIrcedl4w2NbB86E6EyyYP3TIXimRokGfp5OEd6qthttvzbb31e/s1600-h/DSC03125.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419406444116242050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifs3NW11uclap3ai7qKiqXbBBiAemjT6ULBqeVX3H_m9naSjCuoxExfmHWB2o885xrSTevDTv7VYdff_oByxIrcedl4w2NbB86E6EyyYP3TIXimRokGfp5OEd6qthttvzbb31e/s400/DSC03125.JPG" /></a></p><p align="center"> Benjie had a runny nose that day. He seems a little bewildered by everything.<br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsU8mZ3TGAuNFT1Jb7JCj3_PCY_BTbGenWZXVBEbA8zJ_8FBHa7BwVB6pn6eKnpBi0vdKtpLG3doQPtVGh0qpQkmVq251RgMTyR8xYtYPXi_1vlVJyiihvcP7p9mI-uSXNSgMK/s1600-h/DSC03123.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419406251886221586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsU8mZ3TGAuNFT1Jb7JCj3_PCY_BTbGenWZXVBEbA8zJ_8FBHa7BwVB6pn6eKnpBi0vdKtpLG3doQPtVGh0qpQkmVq251RgMTyR8xYtYPXi_1vlVJyiihvcP7p9mI-uSXNSgMK/s400/DSC03123.JPG" /></a></p><p align="center"> </p><p align="center"> Ricky showing his enthusiasm for his gift.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYM3vCo-Aa1YrZ1kSUEBp3A_GWW_hHYwLEWiGxtu3ST6PjPNkS4TJ0SCRf7nLC3nU0BmZjZ1AMTPDq1A_QJxNNkz67TH_cG97TpdS4BYfOcrZMf7yWjYIleytwpxgnDPzEQ7o/s1600-h/DSC03136.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419405988541871410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYM3vCo-Aa1YrZ1kSUEBp3A_GWW_hHYwLEWiGxtu3ST6PjPNkS4TJ0SCRf7nLC3nU0BmZjZ1AMTPDq1A_QJxNNkz67TH_cG97TpdS4BYfOcrZMf7yWjYIleytwpxgnDPzEQ7o/s400/DSC03136.JPG" /></a></p><p align="center"> Maggie and her cousins struggling to get into a packaged toy.<br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrRqk-2YXWYKY3CpKbZSBJN_Us-Gb3CUEWlq_NthInNjmAVAyqiJ5Gmzo-nehqVuokr9xoXY-9x2IC4z0EK2EjKGH9_znT6oXjelBmCPwo7-8KyEAhzL1uszcBz5LRi2hNq_K3/s1600-h/DSC03138.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419405832195585698" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrRqk-2YXWYKY3CpKbZSBJN_Us-Gb3CUEWlq_NthInNjmAVAyqiJ5Gmzo-nehqVuokr9xoXY-9x2IC4z0EK2EjKGH9_znT6oXjelBmCPwo7-8KyEAhzL1uszcBz5LRi2hNq_K3/s400/DSC03138.JPG" /></a></p><p align="center">Jakob reading the letter I wrote to him.<br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuFVuA3ktUSA3GeDVk-Qxh7v6vuLtV1ActyFwmhdhyFHQrhm6jBBmsRo2vQxOO8KuNrbgZzeQuDEeWqoJGpCLxnAT6V6vWbtsZ0DVs5ioFU8IbawWSwKlQtJkBPjVqqXzi_vn-/s1600-h/DSC03148.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419405668286863490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuFVuA3ktUSA3GeDVk-Qxh7v6vuLtV1ActyFwmhdhyFHQrhm6jBBmsRo2vQxOO8KuNrbgZzeQuDEeWqoJGpCLxnAT6V6vWbtsZ0DVs5ioFU8IbawWSwKlQtJkBPjVqqXzi_vn-/s400/DSC03148.JPG" /></a></p><p align="center"> Jackie opening her present<br /></p><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFWAoX3kRwbohUtlIOX4_m2CzaAcIdHZr2BtwZk60A1M7DUlv5iZ5S84tI5gui3TAs1zog5Kw1NcvSoXvdyskalUYub1_-3s-SA7_PWEceVGmuJmyk5jaqk1M6__SJK4Ek2w_P/s1600-h/DSC03152.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419405493110843986" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFWAoX3kRwbohUtlIOX4_m2CzaAcIdHZr2BtwZk60A1M7DUlv5iZ5S84tI5gui3TAs1zog5Kw1NcvSoXvdyskalUYub1_-3s-SA7_PWEceVGmuJmyk5jaqk1M6__SJK4Ek2w_P/s400/DSC03152.JPG" /></a><br /><br />Rachel opening her present.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXwdQ_rhOrXlCHTl5zy5w6AdfrPR_UAkU3dzjhyuvB-TtQdqkpj_3zkcL0lWiM_MVkOVikFnTPMXSaJ-omkA_hal-v7caOT-Xv0XCCPgjisiwOOuPFIPBVkGcf2G1gJkNC9Ng_/s1600-h/DSC03154.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419405353137185602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXwdQ_rhOrXlCHTl5zy5w6AdfrPR_UAkU3dzjhyuvB-TtQdqkpj_3zkcL0lWiM_MVkOVikFnTPMXSaJ-omkA_hal-v7caOT-Xv0XCCPgjisiwOOuPFIPBVkGcf2G1gJkNC9Ng_/s400/DSC03154.JPG" /></a><br /><div> </div><div>Jessie hugging her Fancy Nancy doggie with Justin and Zach in the background.<br /><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419405146525808754" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyQYp29kpLsaUXUp4vaboFCWXg8btppYbBFBnaysufw4ZSk-qzH2Qoea9geT4eIy3axBOvD3YZ4z4D3Jr6bPyHeRYyXALwQEXazhcPXbEH83PxeTJVjk7ohZQa3uzwYBPwkzJi/s400/DSC03151.JPG" /> </div><div> </div><div>Erik with his present<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90PkXDnLIJ4H4k8zAEIbtXOofKCCv-nH7Yeadp_YJlOms0NVt2fFZd0j8GWQs9ERxcRbwwVmkV1U0Lwl3J46U2jpZTvqhHBq-ui2uCCUoPd_qJR_gCsq_Vn1MEau8PNlhU_FQ/s1600-h/DSC03159.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419405000219658946" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90PkXDnLIJ4H4k8zAEIbtXOofKCCv-nH7Yeadp_YJlOms0NVt2fFZd0j8GWQs9ERxcRbwwVmkV1U0Lwl3J46U2jpZTvqhHBq-ui2uCCUoPd_qJR_gCsq_Vn1MEau8PNlhU_FQ/s400/DSC03159.JPG" /></a></div><div> </div><div>Josh all smiles and pleased with his Legos<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8jh_PFkuM9iauQpvx13g5nDCD_JNckZ2Zk67ItuDc3RzwRp7AHH2upggs2Hfd1j2MKibpTsKoToPa2RwPoRjlGJbSpq-Ls6NFYOsHDqcVUsvOTP6xltYMXgTWC6fiWo5360n/s1600-h/DSC03143.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419404853193398306" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8jh_PFkuM9iauQpvx13g5nDCD_JNckZ2Zk67ItuDc3RzwRp7AHH2upggs2Hfd1j2MKibpTsKoToPa2RwPoRjlGJbSpq-Ls6NFYOsHDqcVUsvOTP6xltYMXgTWC6fiWo5360n/s400/DSC03143.JPG" /></a> </div><div align="center">Nikolas perhaps a little disappointed in his present. It is hard to please them all. </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jiFSToZw7CfjqxW95iOp3Oi-WLgoG0f6TFFg4Klv9eRvMz6loVqu3zChqchjXagKHsylh4lG6vcv3ahytQ60tYROeOhAcNJgVpL-K3hWuAgEJN8yT936gh5ZuYsfVuNRoRer/s1600-h/DSC03161.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419404618840837874" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jiFSToZw7CfjqxW95iOp3Oi-WLgoG0f6TFFg4Klv9eRvMz6loVqu3zChqchjXagKHsylh4lG6vcv3ahytQ60tYROeOhAcNJgVpL-K3hWuAgEJN8yT936gh5ZuYsfVuNRoRer/s400/DSC03161.JPG" /></a></div><div> </div><div>Justin and Zach.<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhy0Cdz7A6Hr4nZGdIAOkQlWTj2GsZmxUtE7YZkeBh1-0aVUEAuR03Wfb-VK92t-P_oYXfUTCMiPjZOeWqapPD0_u9yaw5vr8v9Vkelcr1UWt6cfpKLppkIOngNc37jvsurm1/s1600-h/DSC03156.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419404425403814066" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhy0Cdz7A6Hr4nZGdIAOkQlWTj2GsZmxUtE7YZkeBh1-0aVUEAuR03Wfb-VK92t-P_oYXfUTCMiPjZOeWqapPD0_u9yaw5vr8v9Vkelcr1UWt6cfpKLppkIOngNc37jvsurm1/s400/DSC03156.JPG" /></a></div><div> </div><div>Chris and her family.<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmbIFzTXJU9cclqzh4ssxKxJM3pjgsP5r7uO2QHC69JKC6mRhk-DuQqjeCZG9ewA0zf2HJfTGpf4_5U70kMq5LBF2KjY_FGUJq-l2u2xH4utIS5-KQ2PbCp0hX8ubLf3rAhb6/s1600-h/DSC03167.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419404213733170306" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmbIFzTXJU9cclqzh4ssxKxJM3pjgsP5r7uO2QHC69JKC6mRhk-DuQqjeCZG9ewA0zf2HJfTGpf4_5U70kMq5LBF2KjY_FGUJq-l2u2xH4utIS5-KQ2PbCp0hX8ubLf3rAhb6/s400/DSC03167.JPG" /></a></div><div> </div><div>Chris and her boyfriend Bob<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFB6z-eL9bE8By1e8qMgI5qxf25Wt4u7aQKl2FJ-P9R57AzBuvLNsrTY2TdQYJ_BMGTbvvmJYARIsGO_1SH2o1Pr5SHvdDnW-PiymPmoKy_0x-_o0hJL2YGOY9E4znKzhXWQG7/s1600-h/DSC03113.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419404017782641026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFB6z-eL9bE8By1e8qMgI5qxf25Wt4u7aQKl2FJ-P9R57AzBuvLNsrTY2TdQYJ_BMGTbvvmJYARIsGO_1SH2o1Pr5SHvdDnW-PiymPmoKy_0x-_o0hJL2YGOY9E4znKzhXWQG7/s400/DSC03113.JPG" /></a></div><div> </div><div>Tali, Christian, and Ricky<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8bL3Rfj9i5exmt8wJgYAgBpq-CeHIbH2DAyC9b2lOkkr1aptkzRpFtMzAivUzM5jBD6Amd9MnbuZKuNGpLXcOVfrWHDJqawcAido6pSDRRhxFrFC0vXODJ9onz2vFEG8PLJXb/s1600-h/DSC03145.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419403757675072866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8bL3Rfj9i5exmt8wJgYAgBpq-CeHIbH2DAyC9b2lOkkr1aptkzRpFtMzAivUzM5jBD6Amd9MnbuZKuNGpLXcOVfrWHDJqawcAido6pSDRRhxFrFC0vXODJ9onz2vFEG8PLJXb/s400/DSC03145.JPG" /></a></div><div> </div><div>Sweet little Ellie May ready to wrap things up and call it a night.<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-aJEekPJ9TJ0j2PXo6XCv-N6EC8ljcDjlmsxgtCDXkVazKpjqD_rxCih3C30o0EVvoBLcv5zZ_n4vZATrIcN76Y5d87MawdTOKshcwIMjDXfJt6Za2mMZ6y_4wZbIQ1VofeM/s1600-h/DSC03104.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419403407863842530" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-aJEekPJ9TJ0j2PXo6XCv-N6EC8ljcDjlmsxgtCDXkVazKpjqD_rxCih3C30o0EVvoBLcv5zZ_n4vZATrIcN76Y5d87MawdTOKshcwIMjDXfJt6Za2mMZ6y_4wZbIQ1VofeM/s400/DSC03104.JPG" /></a><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><br /></div>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-89106226014987527952009-12-12T16:04:00.008-06:002009-12-12T19:03:27.537-06:00Merry Christmas - SusieQ does the Santa Dance<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFV3Tjdnyh6SoOqF1aDAC-QoZc85vnU2nyt2bnJL8QmK6o5rU9YLa7Hto6a3PCvjaifJvwNTwhUHRFzLnfzhpVb_e1syt_81IkXTLNb0pFmwRJXO_pdwRFcQr9_3VooERC85Sj/s1600-h/j0387155.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414502541541667810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFV3Tjdnyh6SoOqF1aDAC-QoZc85vnU2nyt2bnJL8QmK6o5rU9YLa7Hto6a3PCvjaifJvwNTwhUHRFzLnfzhpVb_e1syt_81IkXTLNb0pFmwRJXO_pdwRFcQr9_3VooERC85Sj/s400/j0387155.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I've been practicing the Santa Dance for over a month I want you to know. So I hope you click this link and <a href="http://www.dancingsantacard.com/en/?santa=852469">Watch SusieQ do the Santa Dance</a><br /><br />Merry Christmas to all my readers (whoever is left out there).<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-50742927410460437382009-10-13T23:46:00.027-05:002009-10-20T20:49:19.556-05:00The Birthday Party<div align="center">(Based on a personal experience)<br /></div><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs2LvRmV3nFTvLIZnFfz7dJZWM7Un7KYxScUNiFcAlqGSCN_jeXPYtJpcNi7rZCpqKfC9Chyphenhyphenu0Ba9Mp4ryaGNZetqrsXRupbMpr_nzZviNUwAAdiFf7VcQkCFRGyxfApw9Vot2/s1600-h/birthday+party.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 260px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 338px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386730937586433842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs2LvRmV3nFTvLIZnFfz7dJZWM7Un7KYxScUNiFcAlqGSCN_jeXPYtJpcNi7rZCpqKfC9Chyphenhyphenu0Ba9Mp4ryaGNZetqrsXRupbMpr_nzZviNUwAAdiFf7VcQkCFRGyxfApw9Vot2/s400/birthday+party.jpg" /></a></p><br /><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">Some birthday parties have such an impact on you that you remember them for the rest of your life. The one I will never forget took place in 1949. </span></em></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">*****************************<br /></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>The Illinois Central Railroad cut a wide swath through our small town dividing it into two sections. Most of the town was on one side of the tracks. Anita lived on the other side of the tracks. S</em><em>he was about to turn ten that year and she wanted a birthday party. She had written out invitations on scraps of yellow Goldenrod tablet paper and handed these out to some of our classmates. </em></span></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">"Joyce Ann,...hold still!" Mother said as she fussed with my banana curls. She always used both my first and second name whenever I frustrated her and tried her patience. I was shifting from one foot to the other that day and showing other signs of being fidgety. I had not wanted to go to Anita's party in the first place, but Mother insisted. She may have sensed that it would be important for me to be there. </span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">With Anita's gift tucked under one arm and my coat neatly buttoned down the front, I walked out the door of my house to go to the party. I left behind the clean smell of freshly ironed clothes that had been allowed to dry all day the day before on our clothesline in the backyard. I knew Mother would steal a few moments away from her ironing to peek out the front window so that she could watch my shiny brown banana curls bob up and down with each step I took. She was in her glory whenever she could send me out the door with spirited banana curls cascading down my back. </span></em></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>I</em><em>t was damp and cold outside. I pulled the collar of my coat up around my neck to keep warm. A gust of wind picked up some leaves left over from autumn and whirled them around before releasing them back to their home on the moist sidewalk. It was gloomy like a gray Sunday afternoon in February when there is nothing to do and no one to play with. The trees looked wicked without their leaves. Barely yielding to the force of the wind, their rigid branches reminded me of a witch's gnarled fingers. They were without grace unlike when they are full of leaves and sway back and forth in the wind as if dancing with each other. </em></span></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">I walked to Main Street, which was only a block away from my home, and turned left toward the post office. A few blocks later I crossed Main and walked to the tracks which were right across from Main. I stood there in front of the tracks for a while half paralyzed. They frightened me. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Streamliners</span></span> could appear out of nowhere and streak through town at lightning speed. Not only that but I had seen too many movies at the Darb Theatre in which someone got their foot caught in between the tracks with a train coming toward them. I hesitated a long time at the tracks looking to the right and then to the left more than once before crossing. </span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">Anita's house faced the tracks on the other side. She could sit on her front porch and I was certain she could feel the rush of air the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Streamliners</span></span> caused as they streaked by. I walked up the steps of her house and knocked on the door. The door opened wide and Anita appeared. Her face glowed. Her black eyes expressed all the excitement that had been building up in her as she waited for her birthday party to begin. The barrette in her hair was doing its very best to hold back a bunch of her thick black hair and keep it from falling in her face. She was wearing a brown plaid cotton dress that tied in the back. It was too small for her and one of the puffed sleeves had torn away from the bodice of the dress in front. </span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">"You're the FIRST one!" Anita gushed with delight. "Come on in!." She stood on her tiptoes stretching to look beyond me to see if any others were coming down the street. </span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">I walked past Anita and into the dark living room. It was lit by one small lamp on a dusty end table. Someone had written something in the dust. The room smelled odd. It reminded me of the way my grandparents' basement smelled after Grandpa had been down there smoking one of his cigars. An accumulation of newspapers and magazines were scattered around on the floor and furniture. Some apple cores, shriveled and brown, had fallen to the corners of the sofa. I did not notice Anita's little sister Betty and her brother Tommy until one of them ran to me and shouted, "Boo!" causing me to jump and then laugh. </span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">"Here's your birthday gift, Anita." I said as I handed it to her. I had gotten her some Esther Williams paper dolls and a puzzle. "Oh, thank you." She chirped. She laid the gift down on the sofa. Then she grabbed my hand and said "Come and see my cake. I made it all by myself. It's CHOCOLATE!" </span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">"You made it yourself?" I said in amazement. I had never tried to make a cake all by myself. I was impressed.</span></em></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>A</em><em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">nita</span></span> led me into the kitchen which was as dark as the living room. The only light came from the window over the sink. There sitting on the kitchen table among some dirty dishes was Anita's birthday cake in an oblong pan. I stared at it for a long time wondering what I could say. Finally I said, "It's real nice." Anita stroked the side of the pan and replied softly, "Yes, and I made it all by myself." </em></span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>But it wasn't nice. It wasn't a nice cake at all. It was burnt and sunken in the middle. It had no frosting. It had no candles. It was a sad cake. I started to think about the summer before and the cake Mother had made for me. She had written </em><em>"Happy Birthday, Joyce" across the top. I had a big party. It was held outside in the vacant lot between our house and the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Clarks</span></span>. There were folding tables and chairs and colorful streamers and balloons. My friends and I played games and ran around and laughed a lot. </em></span></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">Anita reached over and took my hand again, "Let's go see if anyone is coming yet." We hurried to the front door and stepped out onto the porch. Anita's little brother ran out there with us and started to make faces at me. "Tommy, stop that and go inside." Anita insisted sternly. But instead he let out a loud "hoot" and leaped onto the ground from the top step and ran around to the back of the house. "Boys!" Anita said shaking her head in disgust.</span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">We looked up and down her street, but there was no sign of anyone at all. With a puzzled look on her face she said, "I wonder where the others are." </span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">"I know...let's go back inside and you can open the gift I got for you." I said. "Maybe we can play a game while we wait for everyone." </span></em></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>Anita liked the paper dolls I had gotten her. It wasn't long before we had everything cut out and had begun to play with the dolls. We had been playing for about 20 minutes when her dad shuffled into the living room from a bedroom in the back. He had been sleeping. His hair was messed up and his whiskers were showing. He needed to shave. He worked the night shift at a plant in a nearby town. "That is why he is sleeping in the middle of the day." Anita explained. He said something to us in a husky voice before turning and walking into the kitchen for a drink of water. Then he went back to bed. </em><em>After that Anita talked softly to me and told her sister and brother to be quiet too.</em></span></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">I had no idea what had happened to Anita's mother. I didn't know if she had died or if she had disappeared or if she lived in another town. I was afraid to ask Anita about her mother. All I knew was that Anita and her sister and brother lived with their dad. He was the one who took care of them. </span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">An hour had passed and Anita and I were growing tired of the paper dolls. Still no one else had arrived yet. I was the only one. Finally Anita jumped up and said to me "Let's get our coats and go outside." She had an idea. We would go up and down the street knocking on doors inviting any children inside to come to her party. So that is what we did. We knocked on doors and invited other children to come. But no one could come. So we gave up and went back to her house and sat on the steps for a while. </span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">"I don't understand." Anita turned to me and said. </span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">"You don't understand what?" I replied.</span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">"Where is everyone? Why didn't anyone else come to my party? I don't understand."</span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">"Oh, gee." I said as I struggled to find the words. "You know what. I bet they forgot where you live. Or....maybe some of them are sick. Don't you think?" </span></em></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>She sighed. "Maybe." Then she stood up. "</em><em>I guess we should go ahead and eat my birthday cake now." We went inside. </em></span></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">Anita had no candles to put on her cake. Her little sister and I went ahead and sang "happy birthday" to her anyway while her little brother made faces at all of us. As I watched Anita work the pieces of cake out of the pan with a table knife, I decided that her cake was the saddest looking birthday cake in the whole wide world. She handed each of us some to eat. We ate in silence. We just stood there around the kitchen table and ate in silence. When I was finished, I told Anita that I needed to leave and go home. By that time I was missing home a lot. </span></em></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>As I was about to walk down the front steps, I wished Anita a happy birthday again and told her that her cake tasted good...even though it hadn't. </em><em>At the bottom of the steps I turned around and waved goodbye, but she had already gone back into the house. </em></span></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">It was almost dusk. I crossed over the railroad tracks without giving any thought to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Streamliners</span> or feet getting stuck in the tracks. The trees looked even more wicked than they had before. The damp air of the day eventually took its toll on my banana curls that Mother had carefully formed. They had all fallen out. The wind snatched a lock of my limp hair and pulled it around and over my eyes. I brushed it away. </span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">"Step on a crack and you break your mother's back." I heard myself saying out loud as I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">maneuvered</span> around the cracks in the sidewalk. "That's just a saying." I said to myself. "That's just a stupid saying." The closer I got to my house, the faster I walked. Then when I turned down my street I began to run. I ran as fast as I could. I forgot all about cracks in the sidewalk. </span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">My house, small and modest, came into view. When I got there </span></em><em><span style="font-size:130%;">I leaped onto the concrete stoop and opened the front door. I took a deep breath filling my lungs with the clean smell of freshly ironed clothes. "Mother?" I called to her. "I'm in the kitchen dear." She answered. Her voice warmed me like nothing else po<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">ssibly</span> could at that moment. I ran into the kitchen to find her washing some dishes. She turned around and wiped her hands on the flowered apron she was wearing. "Did you have a good time at Anita's party?" She asked. </span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;">I went to her. I wrapped my arms around her. </span></em></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">©</span></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em></p><p align="center">************************************</p><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">What inspired me to write this story is the memory I have of attending a school friend's birthday party when I was a young girl. My friend did live on the other side of the tracks in town. She planned her own birthday party. She baked her own birthday cake. It was sunken in the middle and it had no frosting and no candles. I was the only one who attended her birthday party although she had invited others. She and I did go up and down her street looking for other children to invite to her party. But no one else could come. She and her sister and brother lived with their father who took care of them. To this day I do not know what had happened to my school friend's mother and why she was not there.</span> </p>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-64527795103258261412009-09-20T20:33:00.013-05:002009-10-20T20:50:11.971-05:00Summer's End<span style="font-size:130%;">In a few days this summer will come to an end officially. I will miss it.<br /><br />I will miss the hours my collie and I spent together on our deck. What a terrific companion this dog is for me and my hubby. As I took in the backyard scenery this summer and listened to the birds sing and gazed at my beautiful flowers, Max maintained his usual watchful eye and keen ear in case of trouble.<br /><br />The only real trouble that came our way out on the deck happened one night while Max and I were sitting quietly in the dark. Our resident raccoon, unaware Max and I were sitting nearby, decided to check out our gazebo. Once I realized something big was nosing around the grill that sits in the gazebo, I let out a series of hisses causing the raccoon to scurry toward an exit. Max rushed toward the gazebo in hot pursuit of the intruder. Too late, Mr. Raccoon escaped to safe quarters in an oak tree close by surviving to snoop around another night.<br />(Double click the following photos for exciting detail.)<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvprXNHyLK1VBa9ktLCZNZEdwURx0pQqlLlNmxKqbvLSnB4rbObIFiOVXtBPxLq623c7-EleTXuaWSXVS0RXxrBGsxFAFv-H22J5YbwFOjDdulCgtlkBhm1rtyFEZGBNLQQAb/s1600-h/DSC02862.JPG"><p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></a></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvprXNHyLK1VBa9ktLCZNZEdwURx0pQqlLlNmxKqbvLSnB4rbObIFiOVXtBPxLq623c7-EleTXuaWSXVS0RXxrBGsxFAFv-H22J5YbwFOjDdulCgtlkBhm1rtyFEZGBNLQQAb/s1600-h/DSC02862.JPG"><span style="font-size:130%;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383733164813597266" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvprXNHyLK1VBa9ktLCZNZEdwURx0pQqlLlNmxKqbvLSnB4rbObIFiOVXtBPxLq623c7-EleTXuaWSXVS0RXxrBGsxFAFv-H22J5YbwFOjDdulCgtlkBhm1rtyFEZGBNLQQAb/s400/DSC02862.JPG" /></span></a> <span style="font-size:130%;">The wildlife in our backyard go about their daily business. They pay us no mind in the process. The squirrels chatter back and forth to each other as if they might be in disagreement over something. No one seems to care that Max and I are sitting there. I suppose the wildlife looks at us as just two more members of the backyard gang. </span><p><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">What a treat when a particular hummingbird pays us a visit. He flutters in mid air effortlessly while he takes a sample from first one flower then another and another before flying off to perch on a limb in our woods.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_f7z1_ylEnKTBy7PFRKElG6wtOZk7-3uL-LmYDyYxGUmTuNRbb5n8R227EK4O3mfvQ16PHOyp1RsaW71Xbm6fWJvcY2zr8EEg2lM9qq2Ad0XBcv7PXCO0gOONyEsFQeUrPxeh/s1600-h/DSC02861.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383732711853080946" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_f7z1_ylEnKTBy7PFRKElG6wtOZk7-3uL-LmYDyYxGUmTuNRbb5n8R227EK4O3mfvQ16PHOyp1RsaW71Xbm6fWJvcY2zr8EEg2lM9qq2Ad0XBcv7PXCO0gOONyEsFQeUrPxeh/s400/DSC02861.JPG" /></a> <span style="font-size:130%;">My flowers! They are like my babies almost. I pamper them. I worry about them. Do they need a drink? How about a little pruning</span>?<br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Zj44i4S_byX7vb9a6drMfuxgsPVSoEZNJOhNK69KnJT736A4_tZtVgvQqSih3nk35IJReLLX1zkQB0wxuLt7GVUpqRrPlmFKcERh1HT9ycTYu2PVG-4p0M-xyVGS6CHpFoGQ/s1600-h/DSC02856.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383732273638924850" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Zj44i4S_byX7vb9a6drMfuxgsPVSoEZNJOhNK69KnJT736A4_tZtVgvQqSih3nk35IJReLLX1zkQB0wxuLt7GVUpqRrPlmFKcERh1HT9ycTYu2PVG-4p0M-xyVGS6CHpFoGQ/s400/DSC02856.JPG" /></a> <span style="font-size:130%;">I call these two rounded mounds of impatiens my flower girls. Normally they are hanging from hooks in the gazebo. But the day I took these photos I had them down on the floor because our son was staining that side of the gazebo. I call them my flower girls because they scatter their petals on the deck floor as if they are in a wedding and promenading down the aisle preparing the way for the bride.<br /></span><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAR4fukfqm3u3kIqVf7QzIuEIzEFPbhBHMJsualW4tSo9-qCYy3dFrVRUB5sIny3G0M9QZyZF3ftaYXNjJmgbwRzgph-9PN6aggXpzwqtA_3CjAX4kNfWCr64PgzJqNucg0bYz/s1600-h/DSC02855.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383731900290778658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAR4fukfqm3u3kIqVf7QzIuEIzEFPbhBHMJsualW4tSo9-qCYy3dFrVRUB5sIny3G0M9QZyZF3ftaYXNjJmgbwRzgph-9PN6aggXpzwqtA_3CjAX4kNfWCr64PgzJqNucg0bYz/s400/DSC02855.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">The lovely orange/red begonias below were an afterthought on my part this summer. I had these extra begonias left over from another planting. I shoved them into this pot and, more or less, let them know they were on their own from that point forward. Usually I am much kinder toward flowers and fuss over them nearly to excess. But not these. Yet they managed. Even though they had to fend for themselves without my doting, they turned out great. This makes me think that all my doting is not really needed anyway.<br /></span><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGrIWPwg2N61jD6vaglxsfiiRQm3BDouFcrWKw8yYM19FVrre2VX2AuR8HNvxbgN45biaBYD0jTTxQJqGsLkm-ZCVz_MRHrG1_zeSuKMo4yTGuHRsph0UuKWLvMg6WJjf5vffQ/s1600-h/DSC02854.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383731393292663378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGrIWPwg2N61jD6vaglxsfiiRQm3BDouFcrWKw8yYM19FVrre2VX2AuR8HNvxbgN45biaBYD0jTTxQJqGsLkm-ZCVz_MRHrG1_zeSuKMo4yTGuHRsph0UuKWLvMg6WJjf5vffQ/s400/DSC02854.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> The fuschia flower (below) is new to me. I never had one till this summer. Their blooms are most delicate and intriguing.<br /></span><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn-k91XP2DCl8UM_KHQ653qpL4BaXaggREuJwgygt8Ss06_Lt_z0R9YRdB6chP-maR_rc_MHOvw3YUY71DcefgrOdPOy47QhXPQ2_2eAQPCt-vPLdFM1je7ldsYQfjhzkGDttV/s1600-h/DSC02853.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383731045994706098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn-k91XP2DCl8UM_KHQ653qpL4BaXaggREuJwgygt8Ss06_Lt_z0R9YRdB6chP-maR_rc_MHOvw3YUY71DcefgrOdPOy47QhXPQ2_2eAQPCt-vPLdFM1je7ldsYQfjhzkGDttV/s400/DSC02853.JPG" /></a> <span style="font-size:130%;">This is my "Grand" hibiscus. I bought this darling for nearly a song early in the summer. It has brought me much pleasure. I plan to prune it back some and bring it into the house for the winter and sit it in a sunny window in my dining room. It would not survive our winter outside.<br /><br /></span><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZaZy4nkUn6Ilr44fuVIqdptX_l7qcY3_k1Pq8EoBjjqJwbnNVAKhPcdnXGpytIBZsnSVwEnUm2qDsV-jcoAm_0fGfRhe67KulN3AqW3dP7Z-GsTl05sp3DU-qoz1SaOJux32/s1600-h/DSC02852.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383730643090310114" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZaZy4nkUn6Ilr44fuVIqdptX_l7qcY3_k1Pq8EoBjjqJwbnNVAKhPcdnXGpytIBZsnSVwEnUm2qDsV-jcoAm_0fGfRhe67KulN3AqW3dP7Z-GsTl05sp3DU-qoz1SaOJux32/s400/DSC02852.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> If you double click the photo of this hibiscus plant you will be able to see more clearly the pair of angels sitting near the edge of the pot in front. After both my parents passed away, I spied this figurine at a garden shop. It reminded me of my parents. So I bought it in honor of them. They loved their flowers.<br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Fall is coming with all its brilliant colors. Although I will miss my summer days, I look forward to fall. I am a four-season gal. I like them all even winter with the challenges it presents. I thank the Lord for it all.<br /></span><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGEgZLu_W9nL3ZYdHEwHp5h3Tw4I5k_vspRw2rRV9J8fRD_6LFsnIpLI8V3ehsy4slY6deMiMRBb1GDCLUTTEoZeZpoTi_kCKYy7s1gOw5Q9JSK6r-aICBDVE9c-Pi4n9x92t7/s1600-h/DSC02852.JPG"></a><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-71657500408510379462009-08-12T23:03:00.003-05:002009-10-20T20:52:25.774-05:00The Mosaic - One With AllMy son the artist is pictured below with the mosaic he created for author Brian McClure. I have no idea how many pieces went into this mosaic, but I can assure you it was thousands. The theme of the mosaic is one of universal unity. For a close-up, be sure to enlarge the photos by double clicking on them.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOHfSI52WKvd7lyPcRqJGxgbsywdzCAwDP2de5pIBHm22I7dr02J_-YxsJ7RmdsEGUNyWM8hgdCY1sjx-a6i0CXbTVUORVPZl7RR9rXWzBX4dzYn2c_V2zsjjTdd0kzKCZWAJa/s1600-h/DSC02416.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369294842231458034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOHfSI52WKvd7lyPcRqJGxgbsywdzCAwDP2de5pIBHm22I7dr02J_-YxsJ7RmdsEGUNyWM8hgdCY1sjx-a6i0CXbTVUORVPZl7RR9rXWzBX4dzYn2c_V2zsjjTdd0kzKCZWAJa/s400/DSC02416.JPG" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdLgM7N_dsqMxA5uxW9gYIl_rQOMdBotCLMcMCuiVbBTEp6t3oc39I-J2lH7_InNtqvyaPR138ri-F7qsMJYKpbqdFOfdZ0NLLYD8YEE6mpFhPq-1DPSRCrxtI5Ibmw0s1LN8/s1600-h/DSC02413.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369294613510471298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdLgM7N_dsqMxA5uxW9gYIl_rQOMdBotCLMcMCuiVbBTEp6t3oc39I-J2lH7_InNtqvyaPR138ri-F7qsMJYKpbqdFOfdZ0NLLYD8YEE6mpFhPq-1DPSRCrxtI5Ibmw0s1LN8/s400/DSC02413.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div></div></div>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-63148251523680298412009-06-26T14:53:00.010-05:002009-06-26T15:35:57.433-05:00A floral feast for the eyes<div align="center">Here are a few photos of my favorite flowers in my garden this year. </div><br /><div align="center">Below are two photos of my Heirloom Hollyhock known as Nigra Hollyhock made famous by Thomas Jefferson who cultivated them. As you can see, the deep purple flowers are almost black in color.<br /><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEHOPAanR91WsjTMqeTHSNg9GR0H7PNDuHokViWJ4qFnMOXLEt4gShoNqyFK__d6wwW3ViiBsmVrSSDnCAR6jYpGD9zrQR2ZW_PLvet53j4nTGpmFLo8JZOLpJ8hP3BnnugW1n/s1600-h/DSC02185.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351731065605996242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEHOPAanR91WsjTMqeTHSNg9GR0H7PNDuHokViWJ4qFnMOXLEt4gShoNqyFK__d6wwW3ViiBsmVrSSDnCAR6jYpGD9zrQR2ZW_PLvet53j4nTGpmFLo8JZOLpJ8hP3BnnugW1n/s400/DSC02185.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiwgIfhSqRpfarVbZBT6zBU5UpgZlUpbb9PlH-RnqQNQaasc9dvD9y53KaMmyruMfpGJbGFm7Z-ynYmzomUU7lp_qSK-90FFNSFbD7KszFhwtQ7BZXzL4yq5QANxzRa_OG6mSX/s1600-h/DSC02192.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351730916372448194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiwgIfhSqRpfarVbZBT6zBU5UpgZlUpbb9PlH-RnqQNQaasc9dvD9y53KaMmyruMfpGJbGFm7Z-ynYmzomUU7lp_qSK-90FFNSFbD7KszFhwtQ7BZXzL4yq5QANxzRa_OG6mSX/s400/DSC02192.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UyWZTxz0WdLbqq5rPmC-BenRP78HGVYNvXWT6iVufaaOkDKGMR4ERsBx9zKSSuLKMru_uWRWPaB2CXnAgvI8-5l_eL0L8Zkutl53gszRsuw5UGbLTNWcEdou-E2VjXmBi35r/s1600-h/DSC02189.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351730682393362514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UyWZTxz0WdLbqq5rPmC-BenRP78HGVYNvXWT6iVufaaOkDKGMR4ERsBx9zKSSuLKMru_uWRWPaB2CXnAgvI8-5l_eL0L8Zkutl53gszRsuw5UGbLTNWcEdou-E2VjXmBi35r/s400/DSC02189.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a>I was not able to catch the spectacular detail of the spikes of this astilbe plant.<br /><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX1lx8oh_DRusDAfm1fJSlsQczUMJpH8vmLV-ZVbr_HXmExGEW7_QbB8ymUe5G2sZ8BxoZC_Lwpeb3FW7nKqKP-P5b0ZSoZIrh0z9QujWxJK7n9kh6Z9UZXHNHmxuVgqgiCulX/s1600-h/DSC02186.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351730381899249522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX1lx8oh_DRusDAfm1fJSlsQczUMJpH8vmLV-ZVbr_HXmExGEW7_QbB8ymUe5G2sZ8BxoZC_Lwpeb3FW7nKqKP-P5b0ZSoZIrh0z9QujWxJK7n9kh6Z9UZXHNHmxuVgqgiCulX/s400/DSC02186.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a>My pretty pink impatiens.<br /><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZtTvVvU1aeDbX5EPUMt1c0LYt_IA2VmqZSSnOz0w8meMAgerUQbG1BoZiP-T1mW5iLUTX4jVH9WjffQi5YKaO5Vq6mn5TST8SbDO4OQO2v5KfqsXfKnvAfhuc8Mr-BHEE8N8/s1600-h/DSC02187.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351729982566870322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZtTvVvU1aeDbX5EPUMt1c0LYt_IA2VmqZSSnOz0w8meMAgerUQbG1BoZiP-T1mW5iLUTX4jVH9WjffQi5YKaO5Vq6mn5TST8SbDO4OQO2v5KfqsXfKnvAfhuc8Mr-BHEE8N8/s400/DSC02187.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a>My stunning salmon hibiscus.<br /></p><div align="center"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiynl9JES0VOYDZ002BmR9LA9pOwUI7EY3F4ScBWi_k62gSwQ77HoleARxdcaN_vYSlqNJAPlXs0_F4Gc-v5VRqz5Zj5MAy1VZ1zFAu1c60cI08BgKJjUoYV2EA4WFDaF4zdKUe/s1600-h/DSC02192.JPG"><br /><p align="center"></a>(Double click each photo for a close-up.)<br /></p><p align="center"><br /></p>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-8151626949121133622009-05-14T22:47:00.009-05:002009-10-20T20:54:34.302-05:0050th Class ReunionWhile part two of Zucchini Nation continues to go through its gestation period, I thought I would share some photos of my 50th High School Class Reunion which I attended last fall. I am the one with the silver hair. The biggest surprise for me that night was learning that the brain of our class, whose destiny was never realized (she should have been a scientist), raises goats today. She was not in attendance.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLQNkV1nv2sgKFX3GVnGEAfWUbWar_jCpUh2-u0sp_wuhzZFQPizomYoBdIMwHEnny4DE-l0gOpI6_cnoh4l9-SkOxbZpa-HlBJTFCYzHl9InQC5kC91E-LWTbCQmOab5GLxL/s1600-h/Copy+of+DSC01658.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335893921602246690" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLQNkV1nv2sgKFX3GVnGEAfWUbWar_jCpUh2-u0sp_wuhzZFQPizomYoBdIMwHEnny4DE-l0gOpI6_cnoh4l9-SkOxbZpa-HlBJTFCYzHl9InQC5kC91E-LWTbCQmOab5GLxL/s400/Copy+of+DSC01658.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JGCimCDUo2gXizcIwgVraDb0J0sR0rRRWOnBOwIO8sb3ogZ6pbcFQ5nZBJAquINNA7wUGUAHErs3_lZqVaCugj3mcljM_B4RZfvTKU2DhQscPLNgwmdQ08hF2PZZsXk6lojo/s1600-h/Copy+of+DSC01656.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335893728117363074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JGCimCDUo2gXizcIwgVraDb0J0sR0rRRWOnBOwIO8sb3ogZ6pbcFQ5nZBJAquINNA7wUGUAHErs3_lZqVaCugj3mcljM_B4RZfvTKU2DhQscPLNgwmdQ08hF2PZZsXk6lojo/s400/Copy+of+DSC01656.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBznEWMLza7DwJt2foabSfVfVtH61fwZKsHW9giFAR3asoLGqbhXjnXTCKDmnSWmHRNA2IzBI8MU0zW4PBsOXiaDFe6gQVleY_qSLorz4S0wzTXjdIAC5vuFJSTPo8KWgZqA3/s1600-h/Copy+of+DSC01653.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335893561084082274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBznEWMLza7DwJt2foabSfVfVtH61fwZKsHW9giFAR3asoLGqbhXjnXTCKDmnSWmHRNA2IzBI8MU0zW4PBsOXiaDFe6gQVleY_qSLorz4S0wzTXjdIAC5vuFJSTPo8KWgZqA3/s400/Copy+of+DSC01653.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNlz5sSp709sibUWgOAaauLaRv-ezHeZziQQGGXiC5JjEba_3DHntgShsgUowUh6hpMYDWcTRIJUvey5bWK2gLVeA8Z_i2dRnPjgUzCZZuOEcyjodcMJGPnU5_D_3FV9vdcv3P/s1600-h/Copy+of+DSC01639.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335893367012597842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNlz5sSp709sibUWgOAaauLaRv-ezHeZziQQGGXiC5JjEba_3DHntgShsgUowUh6hpMYDWcTRIJUvey5bWK2gLVeA8Z_i2dRnPjgUzCZZuOEcyjodcMJGPnU5_D_3FV9vdcv3P/s400/Copy+of+DSC01639.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlEcXVDf3XOcUjH_NmLZUV1Rb_4DLUT7xeMIxXoWjUI7tgxA4GT0XaFZni1iFTDxGmpLThHE0K1yvT3nU8k5LGL6kOxk253uXsYYcxhx1y_M7c1l83_DT4NWJALposlueELeOE/s1600-h/group+photo.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 321px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335893211569857010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlEcXVDf3XOcUjH_NmLZUV1Rb_4DLUT7xeMIxXoWjUI7tgxA4GT0XaFZni1iFTDxGmpLThHE0K1yvT3nU8k5LGL6kOxk253uXsYYcxhx1y_M7c1l83_DT4NWJALposlueELeOE/s400/group+photo.jpg" /></a><br />We had a very small graduating class. These are some of our graduates from the year 1958. The man in the black blazer was our principal. Can you find me in this photo?<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZXwuwmbIwN5kzWgJKNeHx6qXPBBHyCKYTSF6Ox1Bh7t6iAk18ny3tSCl-aP6e8gMNnMPhHQA4qYx6oyAowovq-2zunkE7EQztTVg1Ia7Ch4ziQfIJeT_r7SDAQRcg9XWGLuu/s1600-h/DSC01639.jpg"></a></div></div></div></div></div>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-19548007210784331982009-04-13T16:24:00.018-05:002009-04-13T16:51:25.928-05:00THE EASTER EGG HUNT AT NANA AND PAPA'S<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVgJdQdgbU9sHXDOtq8sYonKuFWKU5735dlSN9XvCt1E5F7_THti-Sjc2prVCPwXjeUlIukBG88Rt5tyI3JjDun2OWU1WiEWh9k6VNuJk-q65DahzQaSZ5nhR270L4PwHGY2n/s1600-h/DSC01882.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324295361776753234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVgJdQdgbU9sHXDOtq8sYonKuFWKU5735dlSN9XvCt1E5F7_THti-Sjc2prVCPwXjeUlIukBG88Rt5tyI3JjDun2OWU1WiEWh9k6VNuJk-q65DahzQaSZ5nhR270L4PwHGY2n/s320/DSC01882.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7LbQaBiY52ihhvXA-WwRBSlt2jTBEwMW3cowHjcsiNCFJC1ZC0V1U2id8Vqn0x7z-1pNWyFgd471R39bRfRzIacic2k6GDwTVuiScBSA0Msij6n1_hOOr4IpqK-tGZKwnhWU/s1600-h/DSC01899.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324295042851849682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7LbQaBiY52ihhvXA-WwRBSlt2jTBEwMW3cowHjcsiNCFJC1ZC0V1U2id8Vqn0x7z-1pNWyFgd471R39bRfRzIacic2k6GDwTVuiScBSA0Msij6n1_hOOr4IpqK-tGZKwnhWU/s320/DSC01899.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkxC_74wfk4S7Em1R0hLHSWF1X0pftDK0Na8wiStK1K69QXZbuLrCuiWOiBT3ClEBvO9oDLJlp_LpPI0jADu1u7Ih-Cl_8QEgNa01dlk1RjV8yLDc2MSsNc2tO_BGdrg1Nz35/s1600-h/DSC01880.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324294595930878162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkxC_74wfk4S7Em1R0hLHSWF1X0pftDK0Na8wiStK1K69QXZbuLrCuiWOiBT3ClEBvO9oDLJlp_LpPI0jADu1u7Ih-Cl_8QEgNa01dlk1RjV8yLDc2MSsNc2tO_BGdrg1Nz35/s320/DSC01880.JPG" border="0" /></a> <div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPGnhuQGxnBxpNfxUlHLBYRKDnp_zYW5Tif3zPUL9LRSZCDF2crxDoK0tVBzEp7U5Uj4uiuSXBnvXEwwJbhlXShUN-tdpCcdLTA-qVqKnHBw5GAOS3rJ22QV6bUVlND7f-znC/s1600-h/DSC01887.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324293716572813938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPGnhuQGxnBxpNfxUlHLBYRKDnp_zYW5Tif3zPUL9LRSZCDF2crxDoK0tVBzEp7U5Uj4uiuSXBnvXEwwJbhlXShUN-tdpCcdLTA-qVqKnHBw5GAOS3rJ22QV6bUVlND7f-znC/s320/DSC01887.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDV9x4rMjmawt1SLG-b3UjIAygf48_cZhQ3l8dly_vURAjKV5xyhXnHqYmRuxM0bBiwWserE52rEg6mB3rcQYvVqDHqDhJL8LSDzNuk0piyK4OPcsKwchhfjvaWJm1_5Qmrj8/s1600-h/DSC01895.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324293512811123474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDV9x4rMjmawt1SLG-b3UjIAygf48_cZhQ3l8dly_vURAjKV5xyhXnHqYmRuxM0bBiwWserE52rEg6mB3rcQYvVqDHqDhJL8LSDzNuk0piyK4OPcsKwchhfjvaWJm1_5Qmrj8/s320/DSC01895.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzaxYjl1UT2wVtsQjqCaBu9Drb25o4CieKvSpAW_EPM941L5DepR90y6whaIA0YQsFrcGgnjE3evKDwgxlIwYhlHaOEtPdbwEFchvFCYTnwDeibSt8abmY7bx242KDmuuPq-ko/s1600-h/DSC01893.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324293334238671026" style="DISPLAY: block; 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MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN99Mdhe3xxAI3L7QCaVxBnDy7EpSJueE3ufCgdJgMUSVrhLYSijkxtvgF9TjX5wOvSyadhp9eaBqxZVh-x_YRUiAf_a9p9JBSQczyWuQsJ-iMPAhOecztS-Bt8Nx-sRT0U24b/s320/DSC01901.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9zxjf1iiK9bx7Qa0QD4NyETYJr2QigXceB7YEliVoJyyEdJRLoG3dHJqyOVbSSZYK2AwavMn8Uv4NOEYFF2-8uZekshFdR6M4rRMsZKc-li3ALZjC6XgDfjHgPTXJyp4ajiru/s1600-h/DSC01907.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324291559243622034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9zxjf1iiK9bx7Qa0QD4NyETYJr2QigXceB7YEliVoJyyEdJRLoG3dHJqyOVbSSZYK2AwavMn8Uv4NOEYFF2-8uZekshFdR6M4rRMsZKc-li3ALZjC6XgDfjHgPTXJyp4ajiru/s320/DSC01907.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33FzzM0oTd3miAARPN4MFLoMXcGyiSL9g8yl6BBGz7NiHSmrkGHoIACCSrHfumG-n8ad5M3hwlzrFIYchNgBr8W_Swa281nUPjs8xuTGdJyiHhgrbKq0rQoecOAygE0csy24B/s1600-h/DSC01913.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324291342460718866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33FzzM0oTd3miAARPN4MFLoMXcGyiSL9g8yl6BBGz7NiHSmrkGHoIACCSrHfumG-n8ad5M3hwlzrFIYchNgBr8W_Swa281nUPjs8xuTGdJyiHhgrbKq0rQoecOAygE0csy24B/s320/DSC01913.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIa1DbYxGZR4ruyV35kOBOYiIxUcIp4NN3NevMUdzdd1PqdiKwYLIGTq_DCMLKWvxt1qT33nxT46O66HFrDrfRmlHIkzCVAkNGWnOSaHjsmacvhuzZzLodVM6T0Zv373_jYbJ/s1600-h/easter+2009+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324291135884817106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIa1DbYxGZR4ruyV35kOBOYiIxUcIp4NN3NevMUdzdd1PqdiKwYLIGTq_DCMLKWvxt1qT33nxT46O66HFrDrfRmlHIkzCVAkNGWnOSaHjsmacvhuzZzLodVM6T0Zv373_jYbJ/s320/easter+2009+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW86WvIb-G9ixqsQthl9Gn0zbhI3X56RG48WO2cMXffG_MJNnuEt4v3r6rQKY2YxDlE_iIjUJDZBBvozXoESJ7utZs6kkkLZcnnDQtTME5v_oXWT3810HA-flfARfSQQHcj4vI/s1600-h/DSC01885.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324290975944167106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW86WvIb-G9ixqsQthl9Gn0zbhI3X56RG48WO2cMXffG_MJNnuEt4v3r6rQKY2YxDlE_iIjUJDZBBvozXoESJ7utZs6kkkLZcnnDQtTME5v_oXWT3810HA-flfARfSQQHcj4vI/s320/DSC01885.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8JzCgU7Oke5uY-yAYa1_vS34psj8POyN2r2NVtSCp_IkSRVnjry4AkzyKpyaGZeYRQVcEl_zti0ape2a17CdQ_9b_wt1Hne_ocqkQsi1Nay9nG5vEYCCK5u54JzM61wOz-F6/s1600-h/DSC01882.JPG"></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkVk4k6jStMmLWTNQ92K9uyxqPiBsz3tCCstnqHk52MTAZINhpTZtfAvTIFLObu9rlEdL3M8ofqzxtVlkyho22-95M1DnarUhT8mKSUVJkvuhalF97roulF5I96mR_sE5iqWuN/s1600-h/DSC01880.JPG"></a><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-60490450673462204562009-04-10T21:14:00.006-05:002009-04-10T21:50:11.699-05:00EASTER BLESSINGS TO ALL<em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsH2q0IeNmq2LbS3S5NyNTfZeUU9b8OLuqWNbWb2AF7c8LKUUw7m2PSrfBQYm7vOmOEW4glxh-pToGUKRIdOwl9XuiodT0LeXsEhCy_B0lDMwvi5_kAoKCmyQ_HckcQHO_r-eX/s1600-h/easter2007.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323251917191162610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 366px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 333px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsH2q0IeNmq2LbS3S5NyNTfZeUU9b8OLuqWNbWb2AF7c8LKUUw7m2PSrfBQYm7vOmOEW4glxh-pToGUKRIdOwl9XuiodT0LeXsEhCy_B0lDMwvi5_kAoKCmyQ_HckcQHO_r-eX/s400/easter2007.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>THE DREAM</em></span></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br />I had a dream once years ago. </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">I was walking in the clouds in the dream. </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">I saw a figure walking toward me through the mist. </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">I wondered who it could be.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">As the figure drew closer, I seemed to recognize the person.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">My heart leaped.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">I called out "Is that you, Jesus?"</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">The mist cleared, and then I knew.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">I ran toward him.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">When I reached him, I threw my arms around him.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">He held me tightly.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">I could feel his robe against my face and my arms. </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">It was red. It seemed so real.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br />The dream faded away and I awoke.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">I laid there in my bed thinking about the dream. </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">It seemed so real.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:100%;">"Was that you, Jesus?" I whispered into the night. </span></em></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"><em><br /><br /></em></span></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em></div>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-83259229981626575112009-03-09T22:45:00.001-05:002009-03-09T22:48:13.231-05:00It's a wonderful world!Something beautiful to watch till part 2 of Zucchini Nation arrives. <br /><br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Rooyt3ptNco&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Rooyt3ptNco&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-59317023138402582872009-02-08T19:15:00.047-06:002009-02-18T08:39:08.292-06:00ZUCCHINI NATION - A case of Gardeners Gone Wild<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-CAKulQ6mBUEVtMXK1PgdniFpX_A6HU848XK7andkVqerBgQdKHPFSeHjHyC10dcU2nHNfWia4R0H9B_pm3OlAbkrkn6IjU5HfOCBDHwA_8gWfLstxt7oAwjqQ-JcbM-Ho2I/s1600-h/zucchini.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300600238543083122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 309px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-CAKulQ6mBUEVtMXK1PgdniFpX_A6HU848XK7andkVqerBgQdKHPFSeHjHyC10dcU2nHNfWia4R0H9B_pm3OlAbkrkn6IjU5HfOCBDHwA_8gWfLstxt7oAwjqQ-JcbM-Ho2I/s400/zucchini.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Dear Mr. Burpee,</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">We want to compliment you on your catalogue's exquisite photos showing luscious red tomatoes that one might be willing to die for, sweet corn so yellow so succulent looking, bright orange crunchy carrots...well we could go on and on about your fine garden produce. In a word, the photos in your catalogue are intoxicating. Too intoxicating for some of us.<br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Now we are sure that 99.9999% of your customers have no problem keeping in check any tendencies they might have to indulge themselves and give in to every gardening whim that crops up in their minds while they thumb through your catalogue. Unfortunately, we belong to that minuscule percent of customers who can not keep such tendencies in check. Maybe it is because we are new at this gardening thing. We don't know the underlying cause of our problem. All we know is that we have a problem.<br /><br /></div></span><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">You can readily see from the humongous order we placed with you earlier this year that we have a problem and are prime candidates for some kind of intervention although we do not think such a program is in place yet anywhere in the world for gardeners gone wild. Consequently we are on our own in that regard and must devise our own curative measures for dealing with our excessiveness. We will begin by asking you, no begging you, to please not send us any more of your seed catalogues. We can't be trusted with them.<br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Sincerely,</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Mr. and Mrs. P</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:130%;">...............................................................</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em></div><p></p><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">This was the letter we should have sent the Burpee Seed Company at the close of 1975. We were more than just budding gardeners back then. We were budding gardeners gone wild. We overindulged ourselves. We didn't know when enough was enough and we didn't know exactly what we were doing either. That year has gone down in our family history as the year of the zucchini. But it could easily be known as the year of the tomato too. And the year of the sweet corn. And the year of the potato. </span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300639604424832242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht4L3-aX9XpTs2RWu0DPgXmQkwcj8vVHD91cJyYdmYrUBR2UCd4VzKYbGxawb4lGAyvA3q9rOlyvY8TwjAyC6VS83S6R4DILZdjUehuYWkzQpnln87ktJ1p1O5jMwT4uoctppk/s320/snow+scene+3.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">It all started with an especially drab and dreary winter that year. It snowed a lot, but it wasn't pretty snow. It was the kind of snow that melts a little and then looks messy for days. The skies were a constant gray. A chilling mist that makes the bones ache seemed always to be seeping from overhead. You just wanted to hole up inside the house and let cabin fever have its way with you.<br /><br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">What made it worse is that we lived out in the country where the nights can be pitch dark and the only lights you might see are yellow specks in the distance coming from other farm houses. You get to feeling abandoned by humanity during those dismal winter nights and you start asking yourself "Is anyone really out there?" It plays havoc with your mind.<br /><br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">It was our second winter on our small plot of land and our second summer was coming up when we planned to get really serious about gardening. We had decided a few years earlier to buy the house and the parcel of land out in the country so that our children could be close to nature. A goldfish bowl and a few brightly painted bird houses hanging in our backyard in town might have sufficed. No, we wanted our children to experience chickens and goats and cats and dogs and field mice...and gardens.<br /><br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">So there we were struggling under the curse of this winter spell and showing significant signs that cabin fever indeed had set in when one day what should appear in our mail box but none other than the Burpee Seed Catalogue America's official reminder that spring is coming. You could almost smell April showers on its glossy cover. The catalogue seemed like a gift from heaven. A blessing from above. An answer to prayer. But the devil would be in the details that followed.<br /><br /></span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicChRRG_DQ4f58t3736LKKfgUgYYBlj3uWwcn8ioCo6inBip7ChcEBq0M199QTFyhzvdMpNLvPVMb-v6ag1GRHykvxcf7LBFY2GJBiVP6l3Rj3c4OQB42m2ObGgLhoMq26BH8U/s1600-h/mailbox+in+snow+seed+catalogue.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300640724689766594" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicChRRG_DQ4f58t3736LKKfgUgYYBlj3uWwcn8ioCo6inBip7ChcEBq0M199QTFyhzvdMpNLvPVMb-v6ag1GRHykvxcf7LBFY2GJBiVP6l3Rj3c4OQB42m2ObGgLhoMq26BH8U/s200/mailbox+in+snow+seed+catalogue.bmp" border="0" /></a> <div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">With the seed catalogue in hand, it was not long before its vivid colors of red tomatoes, yellow corn, orange carrots and green spinach splashed across our gray world. With each turn of a page, we gradually were lifted up out of our winter gloom and cast into the bright healing light of glorious spring. Enthusiasm took root in us and we began planning and plotting and drawing diagrams of our gardens to be. Yes, that it is not a typo. It is gardens. We ended up that year with three big gardens plus four acres of sweet corn...our cash crop. We needed the money from the cash crop to pay f0r all our gardening.<br /><br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">As I recall we ordered practically everything from A to Z out of that catalogue. Not one vegetable lacked the power to lure us. Not even those we had never heard of before. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></div></span><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">"What's a zuk chin ee? " I asked my husband Gene as I studied the photo. </span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">One vegetable that we had never heard of before and knew nothing about was the zucchini. But like all the rest, it, too, seduced us. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">"Maybe it's a cucumber. I don't know for sure, but let's order it too." He replied. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;">"Yes, why not." </span></p><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">That winter we ordered a wide array of vegetable seeds for the spring planting and in considerable amounts. There would be consequences.<br /><br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></div></span><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">TO BE CONTINUED......</span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-25431542738937628892009-01-23T13:30:00.006-06:002009-01-24T20:35:25.873-06:00Cooking 101 with Jackie and NanaSeveral months ago I promised to post something about the cooking lesson I gave Jackie, one of my granddaughters, in the summer of 2007. I taught her how to prepare the chicken and rice dish most veteran cooks are familiar with. We invited her family over for dinner that night. She has six brothers and sisters. The table was packed. It was fun. We took pictures of the event which I turned into a photoshow put to music. I got a little goofy with embellishments to the photoshow and that made my music selection of one of Bach's Preludes most appropriate. The musical piece has a silly touch to it.<br /><br />The photoshow is more enjoyable when viewed with a full screen. So be sure to choose that "full screen" option. Also, if the music is muted, you can easily change it by pressing the sound icon. You sure don't want to miss out on Bach's psychotic accompaniment to this dubious masterpiece of mine.<br /><br />Hope you like this.<br /><br />Susie<br /><br />P.S. I am trying to ease back into blogging without it swallowing up too much of my time. Wish me luck.<br /><br /><div style="WIDTH: 466px"><object height="375" width="466"><param name="movie" value="http://content.photoshow.com/psp_assets/exbed_player.0.2.0.swf"><param name="FlashVars" value="showCode=nz8Kd3wt&systemConfigUrl=http://content.photoshow.com/publish/system_config.0.2.1.xml&viewerWidth=466&viewerHeight=375&autoPlayBack=true&muteOnStart=true&useWidgetMaker=false"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="quality" value="high"><br /> <embed src="http://content.photoshow.com/psp_assets/exbed_player.0.2.0.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="showCode=nz8Kd3wt&systemConfigUrl=http://content.photoshow.com/publish/system_config.0.2.1.xml&viewerWidth=466&viewerHeight=375&autoPlayBack=trueOnStart=true&useWidgetMaker=false" allowfullscreen="true" quality="high" width="466" height="375"></embed> </object></div><br /><img style="VISIBILITY: hidden; WIDTH: 0px; HEIGHT: 0px" height="0" src="http://counters.gigya.com/wildfire/IMP/CXNID=2000002.11NXC/bHQ9MTIzMjc*MjgyODkyMSZwdD*xMjMyNzQyODY4ODEyJnA9MjY4NDEmZD*mbj1ibG9nZ2VyJmc9MSZ*PQ==.gif" width="0" border="0" />Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-23504881975850889272008-12-01T17:30:00.008-06:002008-12-02T19:00:43.087-06:00My Midnight Mass<div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivRMNf7zH0EFvM9qpEZT4avbP06Fvmt9Y76Lx2ftpCxE1EdoTv6NMH27Z9iDJh_DeqWd-fDr1nxNb1llQfbw_1ZrKICwb5RA5KQ5gZxbZolio6v_FeOPULC8ypjN5nvmec_qP2/s1600-h/Mangerscene2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275018237573236146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 282px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivRMNf7zH0EFvM9qpEZT4avbP06Fvmt9Y76Lx2ftpCxE1EdoTv6NMH27Z9iDJh_DeqWd-fDr1nxNb1llQfbw_1ZrKICwb5RA5KQ5gZxbZolio6v_FeOPULC8ypjN5nvmec_qP2/s400/Mangerscene2.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div align="center">A letter to my grandson<br /><br /></div><div align="left"><em>(My grandson will be attending a religious retreat this coming weekend. He is fifteen. Family members and friends of the family were asked to write letters to him encouraging him in his spiritual growth and expressing their love for him. At one point during the retreat he will be given these letters to read in private. Below is the letter I wrote to my grandson.)</em><br /><br />December 1, 2008<br /><br />Dear Jakob,<br /><br />At this important time in your spiritual growth, Papa and I want you to know that we love you more than words can ever convey. It is a love that resembles the love God himself has for you. It is unconditional love we have for you. It is love without strings attached. You did not earn our love and you will never need to earn it. It is free and yours forever and ever just because you are our Jakob. May this thought always be a comfort to you.<br /><br />I have a special gift for you Jakob dear. It may take you a while, perhaps years, to fully appreciate it, because it involves heavy duty spiritual stuff. It is the story of my Midnight Mass. I hope it is an inspiration to you.<br /><br />When I was a young girl of fifteen, your age exactly, I had an unusual experience during a Midnight Mass at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in my home town of Manteno, IL. The year was 1955. That night at that particular juncture of the Mass the church was dimly lit by candlelight. The manger scene was situated in front of the Blessed Virgin’s altar. It was all decked out in Christmas greenery that perfumed the air inside the church. I was part of the Christmas choir and like everyone else in the choir I was dressed in a long white flowing gown. We looked like angels that had come down from on high to sing to mankind about the good tidings of the birth of the baby Jesus. Our choir stood alongside the manger scene. We faced the congregation as we sang.<br /><br />The religious event had all the right ingredients in it for stirring the human heart, and at fifteen my heart was especially tender and easily stirred. So when our choir began to sing Silent Night, a lump started to form in my throat that would not go away. Soon after that my eyes welled up with tears and I found myself fighting the urge to cry profusely. Quickly I hid behind another choir member to escape notice. I didn’t want anyone to see me crying. Then suddenly I realized I felt deep affection for the congregation and even for people beyond our church, people I didn’t know, people all around the world. For a few moments in that dimly lit church with the smell of Christmas in the air, I loved all of humanity. As I struggled to keep my emotions in check, I realized something else. I realized that I felt very close to God. I realized that in a profound and mysterious way which I would never be able to fully explain to anyone, I was experiencing God’s presence.<br /><br />Our Christmas carol came to an end eventually. I managed to regain my composure as our choir filed back to our designated pews. Someone flipped on all the lights in the church. The Mass proceeded and then it came to an end as well. But the experience I had that night has remained fresh in my mind and heart all these years. Whenever I have had a strong need for a lot of spiritual sustenance, I have returned in my mind to my Midnight Mass and have relived those moments when I felt intensely close to God.<br /><br />We are taught, Jakob, that God is everywhere at all times. I believe this with all my heart. The experience I had at that Midnight Mass has helped me to appreciate this. I am more sensitive to God’s presence in the most ordinary situations, too, as a result of my experience. A baby sleeps and I sense that God is there. A mother hugs her child and he is there. Someone hurts and he is there. I notice that he is with us always no matter the circumstances. He is with us in our joy and in our sorrow. He is with us when we succeed and when we fail. When we come and go, he comes and goes with us. He never abandons us. He is our constant companion, whether we are aware of it or not, and he is always available to us when we need to talk to him. I pray that with each passing day you become more and more aware of God and his presence in your life and his perfect love for you. I pray that you are drawn to him and that you come to cherish the time you spend talking to him or merely being with him.<br /><br />The scriptures tell us that God is love. I believe this with all my heart too. I believe that God’s love is a forgiving love and the very life force in the Universe. This forgiving love is what overcomes all obstacles. This love is the good and the beautiful that triumphs in the end over the bad and the ugly. When we spend time in God’s presence, when we talk to him, we expose ourselves to his forgiving love and we gradually evolve into vessels through which his love flows. This is according to God’s plan as I see it. I pray that you become a vessel for God’s love.<br /><br />God is Mystery. I believe this too. I have another special gift for you. His name is Mortimer Adler. But I will save this special gift for another time.<br /><br />God bless you, my dear grandson.<br /><br /><div align="left">Love,</div><div align="left">Nana </div></div>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-59045441557201118542008-03-22T22:38:00.002-05:002008-03-22T23:50:28.355-05:00EASTER BLESSINGSTom, you have been so good about stopping by my blog from time to time to check up on me that I am breaking my vow to abstain from blogging till I get caught up with stuff in my life so that I can wish you and anyone else who might happen by Easter blessings.<br /><br />I also want to very briefly update you and others regarding my grandson <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Nik</span>. Actually he is doing quite well. He has adjusted nicely to his new school (alternative schooling). He is making good grades (A's and B's). His very best friend started attending this very same alternative school about a month ago and is in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Nik's</span> classroom. This makes <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Nik</span> super happy. Things are looking up for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Nik</span> I believe. <br /><br />I am always on the lookout for grandchildren who could use a little TLC from their Nana. Sure enough shortly after things improved with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Nik</span>, along came Sarah who is four and having a tough time adjusting to a new baby brother. From time to time I take her under my wing and relieve my daughter-in-law of the headaches Sarah can cause her. My son has aptly named me the patron saint of troubled grandchildren. It makes me feel needed. <br /><br />Even though it is tempting to get back into blogging what with the politics the way they are right now so that I can express my political opinions along with the rest of you, I have to keep blogging on the back burner for a while longer. When I left blogging in order to have time to help my grandson <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Nik</span> and his family, I discovered a multitude of other things that I had been letting go for months. These things have been calling out to me. I have to get them done before I return to the world of blogging. That is all there is to it.<br /><br />In closing I have to tell you how I was more than pleasantly surprised recently. On March 9<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">th</span> I had an Open House for my husband to celebrate his 65<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">th</span> birthday. I put a lot of work into it and was appropriately exhausted when it was over. The house that day was full of family and friends including 25 children. We had a great time. But I decided that I could not manage another huge get-together for Easter on the heels of such a big event. So I told to my adult children that we would not get together at our house for Easter since we had been together for my husband's birthday so recently and, consequently, there would be no Easter egg hunt this year at our house for the grandchildren. I assumed this would be okay with the grandchildren. I thought for sure that the older ones anyway would be tired of the Easter egg hunt. We have had one at our house every year for the past 15 or so years. I could not have been more mistaken about how this news would be received. It was the older grandchildren in fact who were the most disappointed. Why? Because it turns out that the Easter egg hunt that I thought was of little importance to the older grandchildren was a family tradition that they cherish. We are having the Easter egg hunt this year after all except we are all gathering at my oldest daughter's house for it and a light meal. My husband and I made 30 sandwiches tonight for the meal. Plus, I am bringing along a few salads I put together today. <br /><br />Many blessings to all of you and your families on this most wonderful of religious holidays. <br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">SusieQ</span> (Patron Saint of troubled grandchildren)Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-55250363443463622662008-01-10T22:29:00.000-06:002008-01-10T22:30:51.388-06:00I almost forgot how to sign in...<em><span style="font-size:130%;">I see I need to update all of you, answer your questions, and respond to your comments about Nik. How time has been flying by for me during the holidays and beyond.<br /><br />Wow! I have been away from my blog for so long now that I almost forgot how to sign in tonight. I don't like the feeling of being that out of touch with blogging. I could not help it though. This past month has been a busy one for me due to the holidays and the birth of a new grandchild.<br /><br />For most of this week my husband and I have had our son and daughter-in-law's three children (ages 6, 3, and 2) staying with us while she was in the hospital giving birth to their fourth child. Miguel who is 2 is into everything. So we had to watch him like a hawk. Chasing him around like I did and wrestling with him to change his diaper, which he did not want me to do most of the time, showed me just how old my body really is. Durnit anyway!<br /><br />Benjamin was born late Monday evening. He had a little trouble with his breathing at first. However everything is normal according to the tests he was given. But he has had to stay in the hospital longer than usual waiting for the test results to come in. It looks like he will be able to come home tomorrow which is Friday. We are all looking forward to seeing him...and holding him. Benjie is our 15th grandchild. So we have been focused on these grandchildren lately and have had to delay for a while getting involved again with Nik to any great extent. </span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:130%;">We had Nik and his sister for several days and nights over Christmas break though. I took that opportunity to continue our reading of the Spiderwick books. We finished book three and it is on to book four now. Nancy I know you are right about the importance of Nik reading every day. My daughter who works full time and is single with four children meets herself coming and going most days. It is hard for her find the time each night to sit down with Nik and read with him. She does the best she can under the circumstances. I wish so much that we lived closer to our daughter and her family so that I could just run over to her house and see to it that Nik gets in his daily reading. </span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:130%;">I am considering doing his daily reading with him over the phone. I think we could pull it off with the speaker phone capabilities we both have. I intend to run it past him in the coming days and see what he thinks. Yes, and reading will increase his vocabulary Nancy. The Spiderwick books seem to be rich with unusual words that he doesn't run across much if at all. One that intrigued me was the word "bespectacled." I try to keep a good dictionary close at hand when I am reading with Nik so that we can look up these interesting words.<br /><br />Nancy I like your suggestion that Nik be encouraged to write. I will talk to him about that. He is artistically talented. Maybe he could create a book for himself with writing and illustrations.<br /><br />Josie you asked if Nik had ever been assessed for autism. That was considered in the beginning way back when he was five years old, but it has been ruled out for several reasons from what I gather. His noise sensitivity could involve something associated with his eardrums. After reading up on that recently I asked my daughter to take him to a hearing specialist and have that checked out.<br /><br />We took him and his sister to the movies (Water Horse) over Christmas break. He was reluctant to go because movie theaters have a bad habit of turning the volume up so high that it becomes nearly intolerable for some people even those who don't have a problem with noise sensitivity. In fact one time my husband and I went to the movie theater and the volume was so high that I could not stand it. I went straight to the manager of the theater and complained. He turned down the volume pronto. There ought to be law. Seriously! Anyway, we promised Nik that we would sit next to an exit and if the noise became too much for him, we would leave. That seemed to satisfy him. Afterwards he admitted that the noise at times was hard for him to tolerate, but he never asked to leave the theater. The movie was fascinating enough to keep him there I suppose.<br /><br />Josie, what is interesting is that Nik's half brother is autistic (Asperger Syndrome). I believe you mentioned earlier that your daughter works with autistic children. I would be interested to know what she thinks might be the cause for the escalating number of cases of this disorder. It was a rare disorder at one time. Now I believe one in every two hundred children suffer from it.<br /><br />As far as what I want to do for Nik in the future aside from helping him with his reading, I'd like to help him gain some self-respect and self-confidence. He thinks so poorly of himself at times. He feels like such a failure at times. He gets down on himself whenever he loses it. I want him to respect himself and recognize his many personal assets and put those to work for the betterment of himself.<br /><br />Earlier this week I watched an interesting documentary on PBS (Frontline) about the medicated child. As you know I am seriously concerned about the medications Nik has been on since he was five years old. If you did not catch it on your PBS station, you can watch this show by going here: </span></em><a href="http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/medicatedchild/"><em><span style="font-size:130%;">http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/medicatedchild/</span></em></a><em><span style="font-size:130%;"> Be sure to check out the discussion section too. There is a very interesting mix of letters written to Frontline reflecting the different experiences parents, teachers, therapists, and physicians have had with these drugs and children. <br /><br />January is a busy month for me even without grandbabies arriving and grandchildren needing my attention. This is the month in which I get all our records in order on the business for our accountant. He wants this info by the 20th. Let's see, that gives me about 10 days to get my act together. Gulp! After I am done feeding this info to the accountant, I promise I will around to the different blogs such as Tom's and Paul's....and Nancy's and the other Susie Q's.....and Jenni's....and Josie's.....and Wreckless's. Have I left anyone out? Didn't mean to.<br /><br />Thanks for stopping by. Finally, any suggestions as to how I can help our Nik (with self-esteem, self-confidence) will be greatly appreciated.<br /><br />SusieQ<br /></span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:130%;">YOUR COMMENTS WERE: <br /></span></em><br />Susie, just did a post that’s on topic – here’s the <a href="http://www.originalfaith.com/blog/2007/12/spirit-of-transfiguring-love.html" rel="nofollow">permalink</a>. Just something to read "whenever," I know you're not doing much blogging right now -Paul<br /><a title="comment permalink" href="http://nanasrocker.blogspot.com/2007/12/in-response.html#c6353607475662304804">December 20, 2007 7:16 PM </a><a title="Delete Comment" href="http://www.blogger.com/delete-comment.g?blogID=17235989&postID=6353607475662304804"></a><br /><a name="c6768059781968724282"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/17431717152727352230" rel="nofollow">patterns of ink</a> said...<br />I'm going to be away from internet access until after Christmas day, but I wanted to stop by and wish you and yours a Merry ChristmasThank you for those words. I may take the liberty to cut and paste the parts not about cancer to my comment section so Mom can read them. She would be encouraged by what you said. Nik et al seem like a great bunch of grandkids worthy of every minute you and your husband are investing in their lives.<br /><a title="comment permalink" href="http://nanasrocker.blogspot.com/2007/12/in-response.html#c6768059781968724282">December 21, 2007 5:44 AM </a><a title="Delete Comment" href="http://www.blogger.com/delete-comment.g?blogID=17235989&postID=6768059781968724282"></a><br /><a name="c4926299950430748077"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/06979114933441527890" rel="nofollow">Josie</a> said...<br />SusieQ, I just read your post about your little grandson. He sounds like such a nice little boy. Has he been assessed for autism? Often children with high functioning autism are not able to tolerate noise or too much stimulation, or too many people around them. Has he been assessed for that?My heart goes out to you. He is one lucky little boy to have you in his life!<br /><a title="comment permalink" href="http://nanasrocker.blogspot.com/2007/12/in-response.html#c4926299950430748077">December 28, 2007 11:01 AM </a><a title="Delete Comment" href="http://www.blogger.com/delete-comment.g?blogID=17235989&postID=4926299950430748077"></a><br /><a name="c5551540639246865589"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/17431717152727352230" rel="nofollow">patterns of ink</a> said...<br />Happy New Year. Well, the holidays are over, but I know your duties probably still call. I trust you and your husband and family are well. Did you get any of this snow I've been traveling in?<br /><a title="comment permalink" href="http://nanasrocker.blogspot.com/2007/12/in-response.html#c5551540639246865589">January 05, 2008 3:08 PM </a><a title="Delete Comment" href="http://www.blogger.com/delete-comment.g?blogID=17235989&postID=5551540639246865589"></a><br /><a name="c3268103550298101417"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/09004141713017997665" rel="nofollow">Nancy</a> said...<br />I thought you were not blogging now so I had not stopped by in a long time. I am sorry to hear about your grandson's problems but admire you for trying to help. I did teach for 32 years but mostly in the kindergarten age range but I do know that you are correct about his reading. Just keep him reading everyday and continue to encourage him. The more he reads the better he will get. Try to find something he is interested in to keep him engaged and read with him, as you have been doing. Even read for him when he gets tired. Reading aloud to him is an excellent way to increase his vocabulary and his attention span. Bless you for taking the time to do this. I will keep all of you in my prayers and try to stop back often to look for updates. Hang in there... it will be worth it.<br /><a title="comment permalink" href="http://nanasrocker.blogspot.com/2007/12/in-response.html#c3268103550298101417">January 07, 2008 12:35 PM </a><a title="Delete Comment" href="http://www.blogger.com/delete-comment.g?blogID=17235989&postID=3268103550298101417"></a><br /><a name="c6229912248610795402"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/09004141713017997665" rel="nofollow">Nancy</a> said...<br />I thought of one more thing that may help... WRITING! Let him write without worrying about conventions like spelling/grammar etc... He will say he doesn't know what to write about but try to think of something exciting the two of you have done or maybe even how he feels about your dog. He may even write about the explosive times that he has had which would be good therapy. Let him just sound out the words and put down how he thinks it is spelled. This experimentation will spark him to watch for word patterns and spellings as you read together. Encourage him to read it to you and ask him if he sees any words that need help. Let him guide you with his questions when he has finished with a piece (which may only be a sentence or two) but the more he writes, the better he will read, and the better he will write. I is a wonderful cycle that builds confidence. If he uses the computer maybe word processing could help or even a good typing program which teaches him the correct finger keys. He can always use grammar and spell check. Good luck- my heart aches for him as it did for so many when I was in the classroom. My own daughter did not read alone until she was in 3rd grade and I worked with her constantaly. The one thing I did right- I never gave up on her. We read and wrote everyday and by 8th grade she was on grade level. Today- she teaches kindergarten with the same passion I had. So, hang it there Susie, it will be worth it.<br /><a title="comment permalink" href="http://nanasrocker.blogspot.com/2007/12/in-response.html#c6229912248610795402">January 07, 2008 1:09 PM </a><a title="Delete Comment" href="http://www.blogger.com/delete-comment.g?blogID=17235989&postID=6229912248610795402"></a><br /><a name="c4979682822603212951"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/05409181005277092632" rel="nofollow">wreckless</a> said...<br />They are lucky to have you.I will continue to think and pray for you.<br /><a title="comment permalink" href="http://nanasrocker.blogspot.com/2007/12/in-response.html#c4979682822603212951">January 10, 2008 3:20 PM </a><a title="Delete Comment" href="http://www.blogger.com/delete-comment.g?blogID=17235989&postID=4979682822603212951"></a>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17235989.post-64140080836334386172007-12-17T23:20:00.000-06:002007-12-17T23:33:34.242-06:00In Response...<div><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>...to your comments.</strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>I have decided to paste your comments in the body of this post, because they have stirred in me a lengthy response that is more suited for this format rather than the comment section. </strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>I'll start with Tom:</strong></span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/17431717152727352230" rel="nofollow"><span style="font-size:100%;">patterns of ink</span></a><span style="font-size:100%;"> said...<br />SQ,I just happened upon this and can't comment at length right now, but I am so thankful for the update. It sounds like you have been busy investing in very important things and showing the kind of love only a grandmother can pour out.I had mentioned that www.hope139.com site some time back. This may or may not be beyond the sort of help they can provide. We'll continue to pray for you and your husband as you meet this need. I loved your alertness to the dorky pajamas--good call!If you ever have time to read—understandable if you don’t—my project is wrapping up but has probably suffered from a lack of your kind, editorial prodding.Don’t mention this at POI because my mom reads there, but her cancer is worsening and she has resumed radiation and chemo (though she had previously decided not to). She thanked me over Thanksgiving for making her feel like her life made a difference (by writing about it). I share this only to say that what you are doing for your grandson is making a huge difference! It's a wonderful story of love.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><a title="comment permalink" href="http://nanasrocker.blogspot.com/2007/12/update-on-grandson-and-family.html#c9055082004548298549"><span style="font-size:100%;">December 06, 2007 10:02 AM </span></a><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">I was so very sorry to learn that your mother's cancer has returned, Tom. She has been on my mind ever since I read your comment. I will surely keep her in my prayers. I have had so many family members and friends come down with cancer. Most of them died from it, but not all. After my father went through surgery and then further treatment for his colon cancer, it returned and attacked his liver. He didn't survive in the end. I wish I could say otherwise. It would be wonderful to still have him around to shoot the breeze with over the phone each day which was our practice. But I must say that in many respects I feel closer to him and also to my deceased mother since their deaths. </span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">I did check into the Hope139 website, but feel that it is not what is needed for our Nik at this time. Thank you for bringing it to my attention though, and if you have any other ideas please share them with me. </span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Once Christmas is over I plan to visit your blog and catch up on your continuing story about your parents. As I recall the last entry I read was about her being pregnant. I love your story about your parents. Tell your mom for me that indeed her life has made a difference and in mostly hidden, far reaching ways. This seems to be the case for most of us. We don't always know the good we do. I would say that rarely do we recognize when we truly have been an instrument of Providence. </span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">I like the way that works, because then we are not tempted to become full of ourselves. </span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">About Nik, my husband and I have even thought about trying to home school him ourselves. Our daughter can't because she has to work in order to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads. I just don't know if home schooling would be the right thing for Nik though or if we would have the energy for that task. He doesn't like school work. That has been his major problem in the school setting. But the school he is attending now passes a wand over each child before they enter the school in order to detect any weapons on them I assume such as knives and guns. So, I ask myself if that is a good environment for Nik to even be in. Maybe homeschooling would be a better choice. I don't know if my husband and I could handle it though. We will have to wait and see how things work out for Nik in this new school environment. The people who work with him seem to be very nice according to my daughter. </span></strong><br /><br /><a name="c5852315066652407029"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/14794242370675997002" rel="nofollow">J_G</a> said...<br />Gosh Susie I'm so stuck for words beacuse I know some of what Nik and you have been through. As I have told you before my brother has a similar type of learning disabilty and there was no one that could help him like you and your husband have helped Nik. I still keep Nikolas in my prayers a couple of times a week and will continue to do so. You and your husband are very special people.<br /><a title="comment permalink" href="http://nanasrocker.blogspot.com/2007/12/update-on-grandson-and-family.html#c5852315066652407029">December 10, 2007 11:40 PM </a><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Jenni, I remember your talking to me about your brother and the problems he has had over the years due to his learning problems. I hope the educational system is well enough equipped in the end to help our Nik and deal with his "yet unidentified "learning disability. I don't have much faith in the system at this point. Although there have been well intentioned people all along who have worked with him over the years, I think it has been a case of too little too late. I have always thought that what he has needed is less medication and more therapy. Therapy is hard work and time consuming though for both parties. Thanks for your prayers and continued interest. </span></strong><br /><a name="c5377036640974488207"></a><br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/05409181005277092632" rel="nofollow">wreckless</a> said...<br />I have visited and thought of you often, imagining but yet knowing you were doing exactly as you described. Grandparents do have a magical calm. My nephews still gravitate to my parents still after they were the only ones confided in in a nasty divorce years ago.Quiet, refuge, stability, structure, and consistent focused atttention are all found in your place.He is blessed to have you.I will continue to pray and think about you.<br /><a title="comment permalink" href="http://nanasrocker.blogspot.com/2007/12/update-on-grandson-and-family.html#c5377036640974488207">December 11, 2007 7:37 AM </a><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Wreckless, it is true that Nik does best in a structured, calm environment. He is eleven now, but when he was about seven a social worker was visiting our daughter's home each week trying to help her gain some control over Nik. At that time he was pretty unruly. In that regard, he is much better today. The social worker stressed, among other things, the importance of structure in his day. She also stressed the importance of consequences when he misbehaved which is essentially the same thing as punishments except it sounds nicer. My daughter was teaching at the time. With papers to grade in the evenings and four young children to take care of, she could only dream about being able to provide the kind of structure to Nik's day that the social worker seemed to think he needed at home. It was also very hard for her to enforce consequences when Nik misbehaved, because of the time it took to do it. This has been part of the problem. There has not been enough time at times or enough human resources (enough helping hands) in the household. Thanks for your prayers. </span></strong><br /><br /><a name="c815190807013419316"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878113034866113803" rel="nofollow">Susie Q</a> said...<br />Dear Susie Q...you are a blessing to this young man. I am no expert at all but the consistency and quiet and structure you give is just so important.How lucky he is to have you two.I will keep you all in my prayers and thoughts...Hugs,Sue<br /><a title="comment permalink" href="http://nanasrocker.blogspot.com/2007/12/update-on-grandson-and-family.html#c815190807013419316">December 12, 2007 9:19 PM </a><br /><br /><br /><p><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Thanks for your prayers, Sue. I am no expert either. I have had to rely heavily on instinct or my gut much of the time in dealing with Nik. Of course, I touch him a lot. Give him lots of hugs and pats on the head and arm and hand. I tell him I love him. In turn he is very affectionate with me. We had all the children with us this weekend because our daughter was going to be out of town for the weekend. She dropped them off at our house Friday evening. When the doorbell rang and I opened the door, Nik was standing there with a big grin on his face. He said to me, "Finally, I get to hug you!" So, I have been affectionate with him, but also I try to explain things to him in order to help him understand the true consequences of his actions or lack thereof. He listens to me and usually he ends up seeing things in a different light one that is enlightening. </span></strong></p><br /><p><a title="Delete Comment" href="http://www.blogger.com/delete-comment.g?blogID=17235989&postID=815190807013419316"></a></p><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/14770384445526387065" rel="nofollow">Paul</a> said...<br />He's really lucky to have that support from you and your husband. I've seen that happen quite often as a school counselor - grandparents playing key roles in this sort of situation.<br /><a title="comment permalink" href="http://nanasrocker.blogspot.com/2007/12/update-on-grandson-and-family.html#c6115366703978903289">December 16, 2007 11:04 PM</a><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Paul, when I was bringing Nik to the behavioral hospital so that he could participate in the day program there, I noticed that many of the other children had grandparents who had brought them there too. Grandparents are so important in a child's life. But I never dreamed that I would be playing this vital a role in the life of any of my grandchildren. </span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">I am ever so grateful that my husband and I are able to be there for Nik and our daughter. I do not know what our daughter would have done without our help all these years. We have been able to help her in many ways and we are glad. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">I thank everyone for your prayers and support. I still plan to lay off blogging till well after Christmas except I might sneak over to Tom's blog and read the rest of his story about his parents. Aside from Nik and our daughter's needs, I have so much to do around here. I can't believe I have allowed things to get so disorganized in my house. I am a prime candidate for help from Operation Organization (think that's the name of the TV program). </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">May your Christmas celebration be blessed with joy and may all your wishes for the new year come true. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145180699017598306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJtdO-DRliS6Utb-TcuD1h5S51VBYZYjUihYgj_dfza3lIuncjIyFCkqkq7FASjACnrX-BkRlaye8PW73VBUav2x_h7E8mFZ0Lt4kKmbS7-GRZAu10FeritibvggJ1-xGNj3A0/s320/christmas2007-86.jpg" border="0" /></span></strong></div><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Nik is in the forefront of the photo. He is wearing a yellow shirt. Rachel is seated in the rocker. Erik is to the left in back and Jakob is to the right in back. They are all very sweet children. </span></strong>Mrs. Geezerettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17957440812143446191noreply@blogger.com7