Happy Elf and Cat's Afire!

As you certainly know, it tends to get a little crazy between the end of October and January first. In addition to the usual holiday shopping, I have kept busy making paper for wedding invitations, jewelry for my daughters, and marbled paper for no good reason whatsoever.

Now that things are starting to wind down, I find myself needing to write, and wanting to tell you just a little about our Christmas vacation this year. But I still don't have much time, so I'd better hurry.

On Christmas day, I realized my family life could easily make up a series logic puzzles. You know the ones that say things like "Harry had three events to attend over the holiday season. His friends were named John, Sally, and Pete. They lived in Dover, Dallas and Denver. The parties were on Saturday, Monday and Wednesday...you get the drift. So, briefly, I'd like to tell you my Christmas day puzzle:

Deborah has five daughters. Some came home for Christmas, one lived in town and one could not leave home. They all gave their men presents. Three were hand made gifts. Which husband slept on the Ab Lounger throughout dinner, which one cried when he saw his handmade gift, which daughter was pregnant, and which one caught the cat's tail on fire?

I'll have to make that into a bunch of puzzles on day, if I can find out how to do it so it would work! In the meantime, let me assure you that the cat is fine. One person suggested we rename him "Singe", but the cat didn't find that suggestion humorous or attractive in any way.

Meanwhile, I just wanted to say hello and post a couple of photos of our first white Christmas here in Hickory. (No, it didn't snow on Christmas; it rained. However, we had snow on the ground, so we figure that counts!)

Happy Holidays! And a Blessed New Year!

deber
Oh, yeah. The cat's fine. His fur is so thick it hardly singed the top. He was just mad we made him get off the table.

Halloween Thelma Style

I've got to make this quick, because it is already Halloween, and I was just talking to my oldest daughter about how my mother loved to celebrate Halloween. She said, "Mom, you should blog about that." Well, I'm running out of time, and I don't want to wait a year to share this with you!

My mom was a pretty funny character. She had this thing about Halloween. We five kids were allowed to Trick or Treat until we got to be teenagers. Once the word "teen" came after the number in our age, we were doomed to become the greeters and official candy-disher-outers to all the lucky little kids who came to our door.

Well, I say "lucky", but actually that was only if one was under the appropriate 13 years of age, or if one was short enough to easily pass for being 12 and under.

You must understand my mom's point of view; there were lots of kids in our predominantly Catholic neighborhood, and candy was expensive. Older kids had the advantage of speed over little treaters, and as far as my mother was concerned, she wasn't going to run out of candy for the little ones just because teenagers were beating them to the door. That wasn't right.

The original Halloween of Trick the Teenager fame was a holiday of extreme delight for my dear mom. The first teenagers to darken our doorway on that memorable night were clearly older than 12. As a matter of fact, Mama suspected that the vampire, Frankenstein and ghost were at least 16 years of age. And as I said, that was against the rules. In our house, anyway.

So the tall, lanky ghouls held out their bags and said in deep, crackling voices, "Trick or Treat!" Mama excused herself, and came back with her hands behind her back. She could not disguise her obvious delight as she swept her arms forward and dropped something heavy into each bag. Whatever it was, it hit the bottom of the bags like a lump of coal. Heavier than apples, but lighter than lead.

The ghouls, looking bewildered, peered into their bags. What the heck was that, anyway? Thanking Mama properly because they were yet young gentlemen, they quickly exited our yard.

Mama shut the door and had to sit down, she was laughing so hard. She was infinitely satisfied with her cleverness.

Now you're wondering what it was that gave my mom such delight to drop into those bags.Well, the night before, she had served the family Southern drop biscuits. I don't know if you've ever had such biscuits before, but I can assure you that after 30 or 40 minutes, drop biscuits are hard as rocks. Let alone, a day or two. Our dog wouldn't even eat them.


So began Mama's tradition of always baking a few extra drop biscuits the night before Halloween.

I just thought you'd enjoy it. And by the way, if you were one of the ghoulish recipients of my mother's Halloween prank, the answer is yes. It was my mom, and it was you...you don't think anybody else's mom gave out those things, do you?

Trick or Treat, ya'll!

It's Five O'Clock! Do You Know Where Your Camera Is?

This is a beautiful Autumn! I am in love with Autumn, too. Have I ever told you that? If not, then perhaps you will enjoy reading my post from my art blog, "Little Pink Spaceship Gazette" on http://www.deberklein.com. You'll find out how I love this colorful and mysterious season. You might even get a good laugh out of it.  It was later published in Fine Art Views, Clint Watson's art blog, and remains one of my favorites.

Posted below it are this year's photographic gleanings.

by deber klein on 11/7/2008 9:26:22 AM

"Mower in the Midst" or "Mowing Over the Speed Limit" It's Autumn and the fall colors are truely awesome this year. Three days ago as I headed toward the grocery store, I noticed a tree so red that I about ran off the road looking at it. Actually, I'm a safe driver (a very good driver, Rain Man!).  But it was tall tree, a little awkward in it's shape. It stood alone by the busy roadside flaunting it's vibrant red leaves much like old ladies who swagger about with those feathered red hats atop their heads. I was instantly inspired. I must paint that tree! But where was my handy dandy brand new fancy Canon camera, my friend? At home on the kitchen counter. Of course. And the afternoon light was changing so fast that I couldn't go back and grab it in time. I would have to wait for another late afternoon, hoping the rain or wind wouldn't come and knock off all the leaves before another opportunity arose. Thank goodness yesterday, only two days later, was a perfect fall day. So I grabbed my camera around 2:00 PM and headed out for my annual autumn photo fest. The tree would still be there in all its glory. It was a little early, so I saved my special red tree for last. I always do that anyway, save the best for last. Driving all over the neighborhood, I photographed other red trees and yellow trees, families walking hand in hand with their kids at the park or walking their best friends on leashes. Oh. And that one wildman mowing the park lawn at an obscene speed, dust flying up behind him obscuring everything in its wake. Nothing at all. Hmmm... At last I swung Bullet toward the grocery store. (Bullet is my trusty little red Subaru.) As I came around the corner where the tree had been or where I thought the tree had been, there was nothing.  Nothing at all. Hmmm... It was just a little strip of land between an old neighborhood and the main road, so I turned onto that road thinking that the leaves must have fallen or I'd mistaken the location and may miss the moment again. Well I missed the moment all right. I stopped and asked a man about the tree and he said, "That ol' red tree? The one 'at wuz right over there? They cut it down yesterday." I was like, "No they did not! Not yesterday? Were they crazy? It was gorgeous! They should have at least waited...'till the leaves fell off." I mean, just between you and me, I wouldn't have been able to do it to a tree who had such zest for life. It's like having your dog put down 'cause he's getting old and his eyes are a little hazy, but he's still running around playing tug of war with the cat. Then seeing the man's expression, I realized he figured he knew who the real crazy was, so I did my usual explanation of being an artist and blaa, blaa, blaaa. I mean, I like trees but I don't hug them, you know. He just turned his back on me and went into the house shaking his head. It was just a tree. It was a red tree, though. And now it's gone. All this is just to say that those of us who go around taking hundreds and thousands of photos of charming but insignificant things for the purpose of possibly wanting to paint them some day must realize our secondary roll in all this. When we take a photo, whether it is of a crooked old tree or a 150 year old dilapidated broken down two room shack with no doors on it, or some big wild fella' mowing the lawn at fifty miles an hour with the sun behind his back making his head glow like that of an angel's, we are recording a moment. A moment that will never be again. I often go through my photos, finding something wonderful in it's antiquity and charm that no longer exists. I pass by places and remember when the light was amazing and the shadows were long and mysterious and I missed it. Why? Well, maybe I was too busy to turn my car around or too shy to ask if I may take a picture. Maybe I was slow on the draw. Or maybe...I didn't have my camera with me at the time. So, my advice to you, my friend, and to moi self? Never leave home without your camera. Never! Unless you have one of those photographic memories that only liars and other fishermen have. As for me, I am getting a purse big enough to hold not just my wallet, but my camera as well. In the camera case of course, since I have been known to be little reckless. Me and that mower dude. And next time I see a rickety old tree showing off just for my eyes and mine alone, I'll do it the honor of recording its unique beauty. Right then and there. For eternity.

It's Fall and I'm Still Falling In Love!

 I'm always and eternally falling in love with Fall! Here is my annual sampling of one of the best wonders of  good ol' Planet Earth.

Just a pile of dry leaves...or a small fall pleasure? I especially love the sound they make as I walk among them, but alas, you'll have to take my word for that.

This big old show-off is one of those trees that deserves an annual photograph, just like the ones they give little kids in school. The squirrels seem to like it, too.

What would any fall photo series be without a picture of this classic Autumn show-off pretending to be a Karate Dude. But fear not, dear friend. It's just my Bill, and he's just your average, ordinary brilliant business executive, enjoying cooking out on the back deck with his best friend, Moi. (You should see the pics I didn't put in.)

The creek that runs through my yard is babbling this week; probably about how refreshing life is when you're a little creek sporting a carpet of mossy rocks and yellow leaves on this nice fall day.

My magnificent "Champney's Pink Cluster" rose, now climbing at least 12' high above "Lady Banks'" tall canes, can only be enjoyed through the close-up flower taking lens of my newest camera, my Nikon something-or-other, which is very handy-dandy, indeed. I just wish she'd bow down and let me get a little whiff of her wonderful fragrant perfume.

How sweet is the color of this Japanese Maple with the sun at her back.

Below: My favorite geranium loves to sip from the spattering fountain when I'm not looking. Like me, she thrives in the Autumn weather.

What do you do when you plant a species rambler on a cute little arching metal arbor in your front yard? Well once you realize that that nice yellow rose gets to be 20' or more high, you prop the dang thing up until your dear gardener hubbie can build some sort of "arbor" for it to creep out on, to shade the parking area in your yard. This is what I call making the best of a situation...not a bad situation, but an unexpected one.
  

This is how the taller mountains looked two weekends ago. Yes, honey, that's snow and I love the stuff! Especially when it creeps up on me unexpectedly...

Who Needs Peace and Quiet, Anyway?

I crawled out of bed this morning at 9:04. Bill had been up just long enough to brew some coffee, so he brought me my first cup, as is his tradition. Then he disappeared, as is his tradition. I remembered him saying last night that the leaves are all in color out back, so I hobbled out in bare feet to the back deck with my coffee in hand to enjoy the beautiful Autumn leaves. That's why I live in North Carolina. So I can enjoy the change of the seasons. Right?

The two dogs followed me outside. They also wanted to sniff the fresh fall air and survey the back yard.

I crossed the deck to the table, barely (tip of toes) avoiding stepping full footal in a wet little plop of rained on doggie poop which evidently had gone undetected from a couple of days back. Great. Rinsing my toes off in a handy puddle of rain water, I thought, "Whew! At least I didn't step right on it! That would surely have distroyed my moment of peace and quiet." Nevertheless, I was headed back inside to bathe my five stinky little piggies in some of my sister's handmade soap when suddenly there was a terrible commotion.

The two dogs had cornered a poor little squirrel. Probably the one who's shadow had been dancing across the wall yesterday when I grabbed my camera only to find she'd already departed. Now she was running this way when one dog would grab her. Then she'd escape and go that way, and the other dog would nab her. I shouted frantically at the dogs as they and their prey skitterd hither and tither. I ran around flailing my arms wildly. "No, dogs! Bad! Bad!"

"We hunters," they proudly barked. "Squirrels bad!"

The door to my bedroom remained agape, and I realized the squirrel was eyeing it as a means of escape. She was headed that way, but the dogs were on the job. Still I screamed, "Stop! No! Stop! Bad dogs!"

Finally I got the dogs in and the door closed. The poor squirrel just lay there, breathing heavily. She was injured, but I couldn't tell how badly. At least no blood was evident. I thought I'd give her a moment to recover.

That's when the cat walked up. As is his habit, he wanted in so he could eat breakfast. Then he saw the squirrel and thought, "Oh! Breakfast Delivered!" He wouldn't go in, so I had to capture him, slamming the door behind him as I tossed him inside.

Then I let the dogs out front and the second of our three cats came in. Though Layla can jump the fence, she can't get onto the back deck because of a gate. Whew! Only one cat to go.

But alas, peace was not yet in my grasp. Somehow, clever and relentless Bo managed to escape the fence. He was determined to get that squirrel, yet. Both dogs ran barking to the back gate. Discovering it locked, they just ran amuck about the yard for a while, chosing to bark at neighbors and the mailman instead of the victim still recovering on the back porch.

Thank goodness that the one cat left outside was Little Kitty, who has FHDS...Feline Hunting Deficit Syndrome. I'm not too worried.

But an hour and a half later, I'm still concerned about the squirrel, because she hasn't gotten up and scampered off. What am I to do with her, poor thing? I'm thinking it would have been more merciful to let the dogs just do her in. It would have been swift, and thus more humane than letting her die out there, suffering for hours.

As I write, Bill just found Little Kitty locked accidently in my studio overnight. My hero. (That's what you get for sneaking in my studio and hiding, as is your tradition, you little...)

I'm going for more coffee. Maybe I'll get dressed, too, and hang out with my husband for a while...and check on the squirrel again and again and again. I should take her to the vet. Dang. Dangdangdang!

Well, I must away, my fellow squirrel lovers. (And to you squirrel haters? I know you're out there, and I don't even want to hear it.)

Autumn Blessings to all,

Deber

Squirrel update: Bill assisted the squirrel off the porch where she fell into an empty pool. (Again, My Hero.) Bill thought she'd broken her leg and was headed down there to check, but she was gone when he got down there. So I think Bo bruised her leg when he had her in his mouth but not so badly that she couldn't scale the walls of the pool. All I can do is sigh and shake my head. What a way to start the day.

Also, our friendly mailman caught Bad Bo and put his hiney back in the fence. He loves Bo. Thanks Mr. Mailman. You're my other hero of the day.

At last. Peace and Quiet. I shall enjoy!

I'm Still Here

Just a little note to let you know that I am still alive. Not that there is any reason I wouldn't be...that I am aware of, anyway. But I have been very busy with moving one of my daughters, keeping one to four of my grandkids, depending on the day, and getting the shutters designed and made on the front of my little house, plus buying fabric and unwrapping things from my dad's house. And visiting with my sister, Nancy, and her hubbie, Pete. This is the fate of a woman who came from a large family and then wanted her own large family. They grow up but they don't go away, and to further complicate things, they multiply. Thank God. I love it.

Updates: The weather is getting cooler, so my "old roses" which bloom once are actually getting ready for a fall bloom, and I can't wait to see them. Most of them are newly planted, but my noisette, Champney's Pink Cluster, has bloomed all summer. Alas, I can't get close enough to her to enjoy the sweet odor because she crept up through the middle of a very tall Lady Banks. She's happy, though.

The roadside rustled rose is doing alright. I am still watching and waiting. There still appear to be two different types of leaves on her. She's just a little shy while in recovery. Next year I hope to see her show off a bit.

Gotta go throw dinner together. Bill's probably coming down the street as we speak.

See you soon.

deber

Remembering September 11, 2001

In five days, it will have been eight years since my mother died. She was quite an extraordinary woman, and I miss her.

But the reason I remember her today is because 9/11 always reminds me of the day I was getting ready to go to Florida and stay with her for that last time. Sisters Ellen and Nancy were already down there, and sis Jeanie was on her way to my house. The plan was that she would leave her car here. I'd drive us down to Florida (because I always have to be the driver. I insist.). But as fate would have it, we didn't leave that day.

Because I was packing, I didn't turn on the television. Normally, I am obsessed with checking in with the morning news, but I was only concerned with Mama. Until that is, I got a phone call from a friend telling me to turn on the TV. An accident had happened and the World Trade Center had just been hit by a plane. I immediately tuned in and observed the horrors unfold, alone at first, but together in spirit with the rest of you. And you know what happened. As things unfolded,  we all came to the realization that that first plane was the beginning of an attack against the people of the United States and not an accident at all.

I don't remember the sequence of everything; it was incredibly traumatic even to those of us far from the attacks. My children were dismissed from school early that morning, and the grown ones who lived in town came to my house so we could all comfort and strengthen one another. Jeanie arrived, having heard about it when she was almost to my house. I met her in the driveway, and we held each other and cried for all those people.

To people like my husband who were at work with no access to television or radio during those awful first hours, the reality didn't set in until they reached home and saw the events played out again and again on television. But it did happen, and eventually it became very real to everyone here in the United States of America.

There are those who for whatever twisted political reasons, attempt to put the blame for this unprevolked act of war onto the shoulders of the people of the United States. I've seen the shows and read the accusations, and have concluded that in order to believe such things, one has to really want to believe. Such theories can only survive in a mind wide open to suggestion or one already poluted with anti-American sentiment. It requires both faith and fantasy to believe in something so foundationless.

Don't think I'm just skipping down the Yellow Brick Road of Life, oblivious to lions lurking in the shadows. Like all countries, the United States is not a perfect nation. Surely we have made many mistakes. But we have also done many good things. Many good things. On September 11, we the citizens and lovers of the United States must remember those good things.

Americans have paid for the freedom of many with the blood of our people. Yes, it was for us (US); you, me, and our children. But it was also for strangers in faraway places whose lives were saved and their countries made free. 

Some are now insisting that it is time to move on. Let it go, they say. Time heals all wounds and its been time enough. But deep wounds leave scars to remind us of what happened. Every now and then we need to take our fingers and retrace the path of those scars so we can remind ourselves what we've been through, and be strengthened knowing how brave and united we became in a time of trouble.

God bless America. Pray for our nation, my friend.

Rose Rustlin' Update!

Pictured above, my mystery rose (she may be a wild Carolina Rose) which I grew from a cutting years ago. She got shuffled into a shady corner until last fall. She had her first bloom this spring.

You should see my mossy red-leaved foundling today (I blogged about her last week), happily planted outside the garden gate just in case she grows to be a big mamma-jama rose. Let me tell ya', she is one lucky girl. I was concerned about the weather being too hot for transplanting, since it is usually hotter than the dickins (whatever that is) here in NC this time of year. But this week has been marvelously cool. A fall week already. If I didn't know better, I'd think God had brought this weather just for her benefit. But she's only a rose...

So yesterday I went down to check on her (I'm thinking of her more as a pet than a plant...maybe a sick substitute for losing poor Charlie a couple of weeks ago...). She is growing already, her beautiful red leaves opening up as she stretches upwards toward the sun.

"Yep, doctor," said the rose rustler in his thick Southern accent to the...to the plant doctor. "Looks like she's gonna make it!"

I'm feelin' right happy about that.

How to Transplant a Rose

Above, Rose de Recht, planted "bare root" this spring, this one has been blooming continuously. The medium sized flowers have a wonderful fragrance. Though there is some virus in some of the leaves, she is still a beauty, and my favorite of the new "old" roses I planted this year.

How to transplant a rose bush:

It's best to do this in the fall or spring, but can be done other times, if you have no other choice. (If it's really hot, I might give it some relief from afternoon shade with a proped up piece of plywood or an old towel. Make sure it won't blow over onto the rose bush in a high wind. If it's really cold, what in the heck are you doing gardening now? You can put a heavy load of mulch around it which will generate some heat and help it survive the chill.)

1. When you dig the rose (check laws in your area if it's not from a place where you have permission) be sure to get as much of the root system as possible. You may prefer to divide the rose, taking only one side of the plant and roots. Also get a good amount of dirt from around the bush. You'll need it later. Being planted in familiar soil (with local bacteria, etc.) will help it to survive the transplant.
2. Trim away any large branches to about one foot above the soil line. This will allow the rose to put most of its energy into developing new roots instead of having to support large branches and leaves. Leave some leaves, if possible, and any new growth at the base.
3. Dig a large hole, easily big enough to accommodate the root system and some added soil. As you dig, you may want to put the dirt onto a garbage bag so it won't leave a mess around the plant. Bill and I, being reckless, never do that.
4. Once you've removed the soil from the hole, dump a couple of large scoops each of peat moss or root starter mix, manure (from the garden store or from the pasture, if you're lucky enough to have a farm) and rich top soil maybe with some leaf mold into the new hole along with the dirt you salvaged when you dug up the rose. If you have heavy clay soil, add a scoop or two of sand for drainage.
5. With a shovel, mix it all up well. Then remove enough so that the rose can be planted back up to the soil line it had when you dug it up. Pack the remaining soil into a mound within the hole so the roots will fit over the mound.
6. Set the roots on the mound. You are going to want the planted area to form a sort of "well", slightly lower than the surrounding earth, so that water will sit long enough to soak into the roots below. So make sure that the roots will be deep enough to where the old soil line at the base of the rose is slightly below the surrounding earth.
7. Place the soil mixture around your rose, distributing it evenly. Pack it down with your foot as you go so the soil will make contact with the roots of the rose. Don't forget to leave the well.
8. Top with a good layer of mulch, to hold in moisture and protect the roots from too much heat or cold.
9. Water your acquisition well. I water once so the water comes up to the edge of the well, and soaks in. Then I water at least two more times the same way. That way, I am sure that the water will go all the way down into the soil in the entire hole. For the first few weeks, I don't let it dry out too much. Water when the soil is dry on top, but still slightly moist an inch deep. Water in the morning to prevent black spot or other such ailments, but if you must water later in the day, try to avoid getting water on the leaves.
10. If you are really worried about root development, use a rooting hormone (such as Root Tone)  in your first or second watering. Follow the directions on the package for transplanting.

And as every fancy-pants Rose Rustler says when she's all done plantin', "Voila!...pardner.  I'm gonna just mozie along to the sank and get this here dirt out from under my fangernails." (Do be sure to get your hands and fingernails cleaned thoroughly using soap and a nail brush.)

So long for now.

Today Empty Nest, Tomorrow the World!

Daughter JoAnna (Joie) is at last on her way to New York City, and naturally I have mixed emotions. On one hand, I do so enjoy her company. She's adorable and funny and sweet. I also love her cooking, and the fact that she helps clean house, walks the dogs (including the one we inherited from her), and picks up a loaf of bread when necessary. And sometimes we hang out and watch movies together in the middle of the day, which is especially nice. Quite a luxury, in fact, wallowing on the sofa with the dogs, beneath a blanket while sharing a bowl of popcorn.

But it always happens this way. Just as I was growing accustomed to being alone all day (after freshman Sydney had been home for the whole summer last year), Joie came home during that limbo time between acquiring her masters and finding a job. Now that I am used to having her around, she's moving out again.

If I look at my front door today, instead of seeing Joie's two feet through the crack under the door as she fumbles for the key, I see that familiar and unwelcome shadow. The empty nest.

The on-again-off-again relationship of parents and children at this juncture in life can be rather perplexing. First you're young, independent and fancy free. Then kids come along. You fall in love with them, they grow up, go off and you miss them. Then they come back, then they're gone again, and eventually you enjoy independence again (although this time you aren't exactly young anymore). As I always say, that's life. If Bill and I have done our job well, Joie will adjust quickly in New York. She will see it as an adventure, and she will enjoy her stay, however long it is. I hope she does. I pray that she does.

I know she will.

So I'm here talking to you, a total stranger, as I consider what to expect now that Joie is on her way again. Well, first, no more getting caught at the computer early in the morning, ("are you playing that game again?"). And no more having to wait to do my own laundry, no delicious high calorie meals that made me put on nine pounds since she's been home, no more "where are you going, Mom?" And could I forget, no more "What's-this-mess-on-the-kitchen-table-why-don't-you-do-art-in-your-studio-downstairs?"-stuff. (For those of you who haven't gotten there yet, children often attempt to switch roles once they've been away for a while.)

And when Bill gets home tonight, we're stuck with just each other. We'll eat dinner alone together, share a glass of wine, watch tv, and finally go to bed and talk back and forth peacefully while Bill reads and I do a crossword puzzle. Alone. Together. Old married people still crazy (about each other) after all these years.

Hmmm...well, that sounds pretty doggone nice. I can get used to that once more. Meanwhile, I'm not going to be sad and miserable. This is the way it should be. Thank God for our kids, and their kids. Thank God for today. Thank God for Bill, too.

Excuse me, please. I must go to the front door and inform Mr. Empty Nest that he's going to have to find another place to stay from now on. Bill and I want to be alone.

And tomorrow, my dear stranger...I am going to make art. On the kitchen table. And I'm not going to clean it up until I want to.

Rustlin' Abandoned Roses

There it was, a rusty old crane at the end of an old dirt road dotted with a couple of worn tires, various common weeds, some interesting rocks, one frog and a wide assortment of buzzing, biting insects. The perfect subject for daughter Joie's boyfriend, Donavan's photography assignment. Grandson Nate immediately dove for the frog; Joie immediately dove for cover from mosquitoes in the car. Bill went exploring along the river bank, and Donavan started snapping photos.

At first, being an artist, I examined the composition possibilities for the crane. Then I spotted something from the corner of my eye. Delicate fresh red foliage in a ditch filled with rubbish and weeds. I carefully crept near enough to investigate. It was the foliage of a rose. Obviously an old rose. An abandoned and unloved rose who had once graced the garden of some now demolished old home. She must have been bulldozed to the side when the road was made, and now she was begging me to save her from certain extinction.

Seeing that this faded beauty had only brand new growth sprouting from a few large and long dead canes, I used my thumbnail as a knife to cut off a pair of those new red shoots. But there was a big problem. The fragile red canes were already wilting after just a couple of minutes. Because Bill likes a tidy vehicle, there was no left over bottle of water with which to refresh the canes. Luckily, we were all desperate for water ourselves, so we bought some at a gas station up the road. After a bit of pleeding with the storekeeper, I was allowed to take a styrofoam cup to put my new acquisition in, with some of my own bottled water.

I can't understand how none of my companions found my new friend as interesting as I did. As we headed to River Bend Park, I examined her intently. Her canes are reddish green, with mossy growth at the stem around each new leaf. The new leaves themselves, are thin and folded and curly at the tips. They open to be a deep red-brown. I worried that new shoots wouldn't root this time of year, and finding scissors and a hatchet in the back of Bill's car (the scissors were mine, and the need to have a hatchet handy at all times is a remnant from Bill's Boy Scout days) I told him that I'd like him to dig up a small section of the rose when we went back for the "later in the day" photos that Donavan needed.

Heading home, we returned to the abandoned lot. As Donavan went right for the crane, I grabbed my scissors and Bill, his trusty hatchet. He didn't question. He didn't complain. (He is the best husband a girl like me could ever have!) He just climbed into that ditch and started hacking at the roots. All of the roots. I refused to succomb to a sense of guilt for leaving nothing behind, and a fear of responsibility (now I must succeed in making her live!). Bill dug her up, dead canes and all. Then he got a full grocery bag of the soil she'd been growing in, and stuffed her right on top of it. Dousing her bare roots with a bit of H2O, we headed home.

After pouring over all of my rose books, I can't find any foliage like hers. And examining the growth on the root we dug, I suspect that she may be two roses. One that was planted there on purpose and the other, perhaps a sport of it or a return to some older rose.

It's funny how your brain can train your eyes to spot a jewel amongst a passle of weeds. My little brain has trained my eyes to spot plants; all kinds of plants. I identify Joe Pye Weed, Goat's Beard and May Apple in the woods and along the shore of creeks and rivers. I find old herbs like wild mustard, sorrel, cinquefoil and Angelica in meadows. Best of all, I can spot an old abandoned rose just about anywhere.

I have read about "rose rustlers" who rescue old roses from certain extinction. I suppose I am a bit of a rose rustler myself. (I blogged about one earlier this year, on my art blog Little Pink Spaceship Gazette at deberklein.com.) This old girl in the picture is right happy about it, too. She deserves to live; even a place in my garden. And later, if she turns out to be a newly discovered "old rose", a moss or perhaps a long lost damask, I'll see to it that she gets spread around to the right people. If it turns out that she is just a common wild Carolina rose, Shakespear's words come to mind. "A rose by any other name does smell as sweet." I will still enjoy her. The foliage already has made her worth the rescue.

See youn's later, as they say 'round these here parts!

deber

By the way, if any of you could help me identify this foliage before a flower comes about, please feel free to comment! I'll be ever-so-grateful.

(And added later) She is now planted in the yard, right outside the garden fence, where I can water her from the front porch. I know this isn't the best time to transplant, but I think she's going to make it.

What? Me Worry?...I've Got Angels!

Are you a worrier? I'm a worrier. Not that I'd admit to it in mixed company, i.e., people who are "religious". After all, everybody knows that people who are "religious" don't worry. So there. I am "religious". (Actually, I'm not. I'm just a believer.) Because I'm a believer, I know that God is in control. There is nothing I can't handle when I have the Creator of the Universe on my team. I believe all of this to be true.

But the way I really feel about it (as is evident by the fact that I worry so well, though I don't discuss it in mixed company or even like to admit it to myself), is this; why should knowing all that stop me from worrying? Yes, God is mighty and all powerful, good, faithful and loving. If he can create a person from the wind and dust, then he is obviously able to do whatever is necessary, abundant and far beyond anything I could ever do, even with my most fervent and dedicated worrying.

But, lately I have to face it. The world appears to be falling off the edge of the universe. Now intellectually, I know that God can fix that. He can take his first finger and his thumb, and ever-so-gently grab his beautiful planet earth with all of his creation, and set it back in place where it belongs. Right between Venus and Mars. (But then again, I am aware that maybe God wants to let the world splash right into a deep and unknown cosmic ocean. And...I don't know..I just have a problem with that.)

I'm kidding you...a little bit. But not really. Though I try to accept God's will, it isn't always easy. God has a master plan, and if I am to be truely honest with you and with me, his plan doesn't always fit into what I fancy to be my own plan. (In particular, that unknown cosmic ocean plan I mentioned in the paragraph above.)

If God were to come knocking at my door like he did Abraham's, and if he asked me, "Deborah, what do you think? Mars and Venus or Cosmic Ocean? I'll let you pick." I'd say without hesitation, "Well, thanks for asking, Lord. I much prefer the Mars and Venus option. So, that's my pick."

But God isn't knocking on my front door asking me what I want. He does, however, knock "at the door of my heart". And he does listen to my prayers. And I don't even have to tell him the desires of my heart, because he already knows them. Besides, who am I, a mere spot, to argue with Almighty God? (Well, I could. Jonah did, and God was patient with him. So I know he's patient with me...)

There's one cool thing that you and I do have on Abraham: We have the book of Psalms.

Psalm 37, for example, is loaded with comfort and strength. The 40th verse says, "The Lord helps them and rescues them...because they take refuge in Him." And Psalm 91. Oh my gosh! Oh, My God, actually! I want to put the whole thing down here for you. But I'd rather you look it up for yourself. Basically, it says that if we put our trust in God, he will shelter us under his wings. He will command his angels concerning us to guard us in all our ways...lest we dash our foot against a stone.  He will answer our prayers (including those for the people you and I love) and with long life he will satisfy us.

So today, instead of worrying, I'm going to trust. Like Jesus said, worry won't add one second to my life. In the vastness of eternity, our time in this world, my friend, is temporary. There is nothing we can do about it. The greatest amount of time we have to live is actually the time after this life. In that perfect place, we will understand the things we do not now understand. So let's just put our trust in God. Then even if God has plans (like Revelations says) to basically let the world fall into that swirling cosmic ocean, he will gently lift us, you and me, and our precious loved ones up out of it all, and put us in a safe and good place.

That's because God is good. He's really nice, slow to anger, quick to forgive. He is strong and powerful, just and merciful, wise, pure, sweet and wonderful. And so much more.

But my favorite thing of all is this: God is love.

Selah. (And that means, "think about that".)

For the Love of Charlie!

I can hardly remember a time when there wasn't a dog in my life. 

Among the more memorable were: Huckleberry Hound Dog who made an art out of avoiding the dog catcher's snare; Zigzag the Beautiful, a faithful dog who unfortunately jumped the fence to chase loaded dirt trucks; Toby the German Shepherd who jumped the neighbor's six foot fence to get to the "girls"; and Jock, a pound puppy who had first belonged to some college boys and thus had an unnatural fear of beer. The one thing that the dogs in my life had always had in common was that they were all large. That fact combined with the fact that I am not a "good pack leader" eventually led me to conclude that I should never again be the owner of a big dog, even if that was what the family desired. Even if the kids begged and begged and pleaded. Even if they brought one home and tried to seduce me with its huge sad eyes and puppy breath.

So when Jock died after eleven years, I was foot-lose and fancy-dog-free for a time. No more worries. No more missing coffee table legs, no more chewed up shoes or angry neighbors cursing at the kids over dog poop in their yards. After a couple of years without a family dog, however, I began to reconsider dog ownership. I didn't reconsider getting a big dog. A small dog would be a more appropriate selection. After all, the children were all in school leaving me rather lonely. And the front yard was surrounded by a picket fence, making it easy to keep a small dog away from the road, the cars, the neighbors and the neighbor's girl dogs.

So along came Charlie Brave and True. AKA, Charlie Habanero Klein, AKC. Chili Dog, Chuck, and in his later years, "the little fat one".

Charlie was four months old when we adopted him. He looked like a German Shepherd. A six pound trembling German Shepherd with large ears. He was so frightened on that first day that he shivered uncontrollably. Surrounded by my three very excited youngest daughters, it must was overwhelming to be five inches at the sholder and the center of such attention. Especially after having spent several months in the quiet of a pet store window. We took Little Charlie into the yard and sat him down on the grass. He sniffed the soil beneath his paws and began to dig. Like a crazy dog. Dirt flying every whichaway. It was the end of the shivering, and the start of those famous family words, "Dig, Charlie! Dig!"

For some of the males in the house, those first doggie walks were hard on their fragile manly egos. Especially Bill's. He found walking such a small dog to be a humbling, humiliating experience compared to walking a large, ferocious beast who lunged at little old ladies as they passed by with their finely quaffed toy poodles. But it wasn't long before Bill and the other men in the house learned that little tiny dogs have enormous personalities. Chihuahuas are big dogs that come in little packages. They are intellegent and energetic, loyal and brave. Charlie loved people (especially babies). He licked our children's tears away. He danced in the kitchen with the rest of us.

We had Charlie for 16 years before he went on to doggie heaven.  Actually I didn't want to make you sad, but he died just yesterday, after several months of deterioriating health. He was a very old little man, so we had been expecting it. Bill and I buried him in the garden that he loved so much. The garden where he stood his ground with the UPS man, the mail man and any salesman that dared open the gate. The garden where he dug in the dirt and under the fence to go for leasurely walks in the neighborhood, and where he greeted us after a day of shopping.

Charlie was a great little dog and we will indeed miss him.

deber

PS, A note about little dogs: As with all dogs, Chihuahuas must be taught how to behave in public. But unlike large dogs, the public often has to be taught how to behave with them. Men in particular, seem to get the urge to assert dominance over small dogs. They chase, growl and bark at them. They pull their ears and tails. Then they laugh. Ha, ha, ha! That's how you turn a small dog into a mean dog. Think about it. What would happen if a person treated a big dog in such a way? That big dog would start acting like a mean Chihuahua, only with bigger teeth and a deeper voice.

Mothering Grown-ups

Once upon a time I thought that my children would grow up and my job as a mother would be done. Though I love being a mom, I was tired. With a capital "T". And the kids were always fighting and getting into trouble, babies nekked in the front yard, others jumping off the porch into pillows...it was crazy around here. The house was a wreck. Laundry was everywhere. There was never an extra dime in the checkbook. Hardly even time to make more babies, if you get my drift...

So I clung to the hope that some day Bill and I would at last have time to "Spend Together". With money to Spend Together. Alone, without laundry or dishes or poopy diapers and other parently things. Romance and all that stuff that you're desperate for when you're young and have young'uns at home. But now that the kids are all official "grown-ups", I realize that that was a rediculous notion; the dream of a young and idealistic woman.

First off, my friend. Kids never grow up. (I didn't! I still felt like Daddy's little girl at age 57.)

Secondly, did I say romance? Are you kidding? Why is it that when we have kids around all the time, we never have the opportunity, and when we at last have the opportunity, we aren't nearly as interested? Romance, indeed.

As for the house being messy, who cares? And money. Who has money these days, anyway? I can buy sheets without feeling guilty now, and that's an improvement.

And last, did I use the word "alone"? Bill and I are still almost never alone. With our big bunch, someone is always coming home for the weekend, and when that one leaves, another shows up for the week. And the celebrations are constant. Last week was Kathleene's 40th birthday with 30 people at my house, and this weekend is Israel's second with a party at the other grandma's house.

But who's complaining? We are crazy about every one of our kids and their families, too. We are blessed to the max.

(By the way, folks, when it comes to sex, everybody knows that sex is overrated in our society...at least, that's what Bill and I think we should keep telling ourselves. But we don't. We just complain. Grope and complain behind our grown children's backs...)

What brought this all on is JoAnna. Still Baby Joie, to me. She is 25 and is moving to New York City next month. It's such a big deal for Bill and me, as all of our children but for our California girl, live relatively nearby. This weekend Joie is flying up there to check out apartments in the big city. Alone. I'm a nervous wreck, but not as much of one as she is. (If it wasn't for prayer, I'd not be able to let her go at all.) Being the last week of summer (and Bill's in the school building business,) Bill can't go with her. And while I would really like to help, and think I am best at these things, I am unable to do so due to advanced arthritis. I've been to New York before, and know how hard it is to get around up there. If Joie were moving to Charlotte or Atlanta or Los Angeles (or any place that has parking places instead of subways) I would be able to assist in the hunt for a home. But not New York City.

So JoAnna is all grown up today, whether she likes it or not. Whether I like it or not. And she was my little Joie just yesterday. That's life, my friend.

So to you young mothers, I say, "Enjoy!" Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!!! Enjoy this moment. Enjoy this day. I know it's hard sometimes. You're tired. You're sick of washing laundry and doing homework. The house looks like one of those reality shows where they make some poor packrat throw out everything. To top it all off, you haven't got a moment to romp with your hubbie, and you are young enough to be desperate.

Darlin'. Listen to a woman who understands (believe me) how you're feeling right about now. All too soon, your youngsters are going to be grown-ups just like my kids are. Just like you are. One day. Some day. But before you start feeling all sad and depressed, I am here to assure you that you needn't worry about ever losing your job as a mother. Because that, my dear, will never happen.

Once a mother, always a mother. And that's that.

Deber

PS: Bill and I have two (2) baskets of laundry in our bedroom as a regular lifestyle. Laundry is forever...

Billy's Submarine

My husband Bill has some mighty fine stories to tell. Being a construction engineer, he was born with an amazing obsession for figuring out not only how to make things, but how to make things work. Then he would attempt to make them for himself and his faithful following of fortunate friends. Growing up in Miami Beach in the 1950's and 60's, little boys like Bill had a never ending supply of construction trash and 365 days of good weather (except for the occasional hurricane, of course). Good weather which provided year 'round opportunities for making stuff and then getting into trouble for doing so.

Forward to 2008:

About this time last year, I decided to create some new additions to my paper doll series. Not that I my paper dolls were actually to the "series" point at that stage; I had made two 17" paper dolls and originally desired to create paper dolls as "portraits". (I'm still working on that.) But I'm always up to the "newest" challenge, so I decided to go beyond the paper doll idea to a more complex project. "Billy's Submarine" is the first of the two projects I finished last October.

Now, I don't suppose everyone would call "Billy's Submarine" a paper doll. Though it is made of paper, it isn't exactly a doll. But in the spirit of paper dolls, it's windows can be filled with six interchangable faces, it has two flags to fly, two different fish for the hook, and three types of "feet". But the grand finale is the reversible and all ferocious octopus which can cling to the sides of the submarine, or to the ladder; or he can "float" alongside Billy's sub. Everything can be changed around, added and removed.

Very paper-doll-esque, if you ask me.

This piece was obviously inspired by one of our family's favorite crazy amazing stories oft told by my man, Bill. He and I aren't finished with this story yet, but I just couldn't wait any longer to present "Billy's Submarine" to you.

Deber

Missing Ingredients and Other Sneaky Things

One of my favorite treasures is a collection of hand written recipes which my mother sent to me the first winter I moved away from home. They are written in her familiar handwriting on note cards now stained from 31 years of use. It must have taken Mama quite a while to locate all those recipes and then to write them down. To this day, I can't look at them without picturing her at the kitchen table before a stack of open cookbooks, pen in hand.

Shocking, but true...

I have several friends who tell me that when their mothers gave them their family's recipes, key ingredients were deliberately left out! Naturally, the recipes never tasted quite right. My sister Jeanie says there must be a simple explanation for such a thing. Maybe the cat jumped on the table whilst chasing a mouse, distracting the woman as she lovingly recorded her recipe for squash casserole. Or one of the children entered the house in need of stitches so that she lost her place upon returning to Grandma's Goulash. Or the ink pen ran dry just as she got to the secret ingredient in Auntie's lamb kabobs.

Jeanie refuses to believe that any woman could do such a thing deliberately. To her own child, especially. (Then again, Jeanie still leaves pebbles under her pillow, hoping the Tooth Fairy will bring her money...but that's a story for another day.)

Not everyone is so nice, my friend.

For Christmas, daughter Sydney wanted me to make a book for her with family recipes written in my hand. It was a lovely idea.

I found the perfect book, too; a handmade one with a brown leather binding and a sash which wrapped about the book securely. The kind of book that said "heirloom" without so much as a word upon the outside. Sydney excitedly anticipated those special entries from dear old mom. But there was one little problem. Mom.

First and most shallow, I don't always fancy my own handwriting. I know enough about handwriting analysis to know not to write when I'm in a bad mood, depressed, sassy, sarcastic or tired. That leaves about five minutes a week for me to write in the cookbook, but it takes about 15 minutes to write down a recipe. I also realized that when I cook, I seldom measure, adding a dash of this and that which varies from one session to the next...What if I accidentally leave something out? I'll go down in posterity as One of Those Mothers.

Last Christmas, though I was distracted with a serious matter, I did manage to write one recipe in Syd's book. My famous Spaghetti. After that, I realized that I would need to organize the book before I write another, like Grandma Klein's Dobish Torte, a dessert. It was overwhelming, considering everything else that was going on. So the book sat on the buffet, lonely and forlorn.

I am now ready to resume writing recipes in Sydney's new cookbook.

But alas, after much searching and a call to her cell phone, Sydney tells me that she took the book to her apartment where it is gathering dust from lack of use (because it is empty, still). Most assuredly, she is disappointed, disenchanted and a little bit let down.

After just a bit of cajoling, Sydney is returning the book to my kitchen, as I now have an idea about how to organize the recipes. I also accept the fact that my handwriting is that of an artist, making it more interesting. And Sydney knows that she may have to cook with me in order to get every recipe right.

But there is still one problem I almost forgot about: I have five daughters and three sons. They're all going to want one.

Like Scarlet always says, "I'll worry about that tomorrow."

Until then,

Deber

"F" Not Just a Letter in the Alphabet

I have said this before, though you may never have heard it from me. In our so-called advanced society, the "f" word is highly overused.

I blame it on "the Smurf" effect. If you ever saw the Smurfs cartoon, as I did thousands of times with all my kids, you know what I mean. In the cartoon, the word "smurf" was used to express goodness of every kind. "This flower smells so smurfy!" or "We're going on a smurfnick." Sometimes it was a noun and other times a verb. It was also an adjective or adverb. Everything morphed into smurfing smurfiness to Smurfs.

Now Hollywood on the other hand...

By Hollywood's standards (set by Mel Gibson in the 1970's, from my recollection, possibly with later influence from the Smurfs), the average character may use the "f" word as many as twenty three times in one paragraph. Thanks to them, young people now make entire sentences using only the "f" word. Oh, sure. They add an ending, like "ed" or "ing" or "s" where appropriate, and throw in some conjunctions and prepositions here or there, but basically, it's all in how one uses one's voice inflection that makes the communication understandable.

Back in the olden days when I was growing up, the "f" word didn't exist in polite company. As a matter of fact, I never heard it until I was in junior high school, when I heard it from my mother, of all people. In a rare, foolish moment of disrespect, I had shot her "The Bird". I didn't know what a "bird" meant until she angrily told me, using the new-to-me and all appropriate "f" word. Of course, I don't think she realized that I had never even heard that word before and didn't know what it meant, either. Much to her dismay, she then had to define that word for me, as well.
It was shocking to a girl like me (what was "bad sex", anyway? I didn't ask...it must be horrifying!) who spent every afternoon in front of the TV watching reruns of "The Flying Nun". Not shocking simply because it was coming from my mother, who did enjoy a throwing out a spirited "dammit!" for special occasions; but shocking that such an ugly word existed at all! I still don't like that word.

Especially, I confess to you with some reluctance, when it bursts forth from my own "girl raised in the South" lips. Shamefully I admit that there was a time in my youth when I used that word a lot. A lot! I had so much anger, and that's all I had to express it, (because killing someone wasn't an option...) Eventually I realized how offensive that word was to many people. And I found myself actually not wanting to offend others for a change. So I abandoned the "F" word entirely (except for necessary use on the infamous "special occasion" in place of Mamma's "dammit!").

Alas, now the dreaded "F" word has so saturated our society that it is sneaking back into my own language. It's as contagious as influenza. Sadly, you can only hear it so many times and not find it slipping out of your own mouth. At least if you have as little self-control as I do.

That's why I am sick of hearing it in movies and on television, in the mall and coming from the man behind the curtain. I mean, why is it funny when Larry David says the "f" word? He's a grown man, and he can say it if he wants to. (Okay, sometimes it's funny!) But really. It's getting so cliche' that if that's all you've got to make someone laugh at you, then are you really funny at all?
What my mother used to say (when she wasn't explaining what "a bird" was) was that if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all...but that isn't the one I wanted to use in this instance. Hmmm...Oh, yeah. She said that if you can't express yourself well without using curse words, then you have a limited vocabulary and must not be very intelligent.

She was a wise woman, my mother. A wise and smurfy woman.
Until next time,
Deber
After reading this to my sister Jeanie (who recounted a similar "bird" experience with Mamma, where Mamma fell against the wall in shock) she asked, "What's everybody going to say when the "f" word is no worse than saying "dammit"? Will we even have an option?" Maybe we'll return to "dammit!", spoken forcefully.

Singing With Spaghetti in the Pot

My mother used to sing while she cooked. Sometimes she'd dance, too, keeping rhythm with the spatula in her hand.

Yes, every afternoon at five o'clock, she'd go to the pantry and pull out one of her homemade cooking aprons with the little kitchen towel attached at the waist. Do you remember those? Every self-respecting homemaker before 1971 had at least an apron hook on the pantry door, with several well worn every day aprons, and a couple of fancy organdy ones for serving dinner on special occasions.

Well, once the apron was securely tied in a bow at the back, Mama would pour a glass of wine into a jelly jar, and get busy cooking dinner. As she chopped the onions, she'd start to hum her favorite lullaby, Birmingham Jail. (I don't know why but she claimed that was her favorite lullabye.) Before you know it, the smell of dinner had wafted into every room of our little house. By then, Mama would be singing the words of Birmingham Jail, slightly off key, just for effect. It was very entertaining.

Those were different times, that's for sure. Moms usually stayed home doing domestic things and caring for the kids. They did wear aprons and bake cookies and bread. I always wanted to be a housewife and a mom. Not that I loved house cleaning, because I don't. (However, being home is convenient for a woman who loves to paint and write.)

I couldn't understand why any woman would ever want to leave such an idealistic lifestyle and go to work in a man's world. The Women's Liberation movement of the 1960's left me completely bewildered. It seemed more like bondage than liberation, and I had no qualms about telling people how I felt about it.

Though my mother was an RN who "had" to stay home because of us, she never managed to convey the loss of her career to a kid like me. Maybe it was because of her beautiful vegetable garden outside. Maybe it was because she was there when I was sick or to bake cookies for PTA, or to teach me to sew my own Easter dresses. I was just glad to have her home.

My cooking habits have always been a lot like Mama's. Of course, I only sing Birmingham Jail if I'm showing the kids how Mama did it. And I don't wear aprons as often as I should. But I do enjoy a jelly glass of wine while singing old songs and dancing in the kitchen. Yes, I dance in the kitchen once in a while. Of course, I like it best if Bill is dancing with me, but I'll dance alone if I have to.

So whether you are a homemaker or a career woman, a house daddy or the guy who is the family chef, I hope you are making your own music while dinner's cooking on the stove. It's a good thing to do. It's very entertaining...even when you're all alone.

What Skills?

My husband is a brilliant man. When we were first married 31 years ago, he was not afraid of anything. He was my hero in pretty much every way, and especially when it came to technology.

But during the era when the push of a little tiny ol' button could wipe out a computer's entire hard drive (or whatever...), Bill turned from being Mighty Techno Man into Don't Touch That Button Guy. It has not been easy for me, an anti-tech rebel turned computer geek-in-training, to accept this change in my hero.

Why, just morning, I was telling Bill that the problem isn't that he doesn't understand computers, because I think he does. The problem he has with computers is his fear of them. I said that the difference between him and me is that he approaches the computer with fear and trepidation while I blaze ahead knowing that nothing I do on my computer cannot be undone.Do you know how stupid it is to say something like that aloud?

Oh. My. Gosh...Yes. That stupid.
All I wanted to do was make a link from this blog to my deberklein.com website. Simple, right? I figured out how to do it a while back, and already had two links on my site. I displayed them proudly on my opening page, where you could push the "Links" button. Voila! You'd come up with my Etsy shop and my brushspace page. I could do it again. Easy stuff.But, when I went to add the link to this blog, I wanted to change the name of this blog from the name I first chose randomly, to this more humorous name which I liked better, though it was also chosen somewhat randomly.

(Big sigh...)

I give up. I failed miserably after almost three hours of working on this problem. I can't talk about it, it was so horrible. Suffice it to say that no longer do I proudly display the "Links" button on the opening page of my web site.

I know what you are saying. "Deber, just call Tech Support. They'll walk you through it!" I hate it when you people say things like that to me. If I call tech support after working on this all morning and now being completely befuddled and frustrated, I won't understand a word they say. There is no doubt in my mind that they will be talking about me in Computer Geek Seminars across the nation for years to come, saying things like, "Once I had this lady call in...she was dumber than a wiped out hard drive, I tell ya'!" Then they'll laugh and laugh and laugh.

There are several lessons to be learned from this experience.
The first is this: Never say things aloud like "I just blaze ahead knowing that nothing I do on my computer can't be undone." The undoing of your fragile computer tech confidence is surely at hand.
The next thing is: Don't just plow into things unless you want to screw them up to the point where you can't fix them without the aid of someone smarter than yourself...a very humbling experience, I assure you.
And third: Wait until the headache subsides before you call the geeks. You won't want to be known among the computer geek community as "that lady."

That's it for now, my friend. I'm done for the day! Hope tomorrow is better.