Postscript from the Ledge

Friend Martha called yesterday to reschedule lunch.  (Read yesterday’s post to make sense of this.)  

We decided to meet on Tuesday at a restaurant we’ve never tried.  Although we can’t remember the name of the restaurant or the street it’s on, we’re fairly certain we’re talking about the same place: the one that the yoga instructor’s son opened.

We talked about my mishaps of last week and I mentioned that I’d even written a blog post about it.

“Then you might want to add a PS.  Remember that I cancelled lunch because a group was coming to tour my garden?”  Martha asked.   “When no one had shown up by 11, I called to make sure I had the time right.

“I had the time right, but the wrong week.  They’re coming THIS Thursday. “

Lunch ought to be fun.  I hope we show up.

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Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.’ - C.S. Lewis

“A good friend will bail you out of jail, but a true friend will be sitting beside you saying, ‘Damn that was fun!’” - Author Unknown

Calendar Girl

Occasionally, someone will ask if my Dearly Beloved minds that I write about his… um…. missteps.  HAH!

Believe me, his ego remains unaffected.  In fact, he feels that he’s given me plenty of material for additional gems I’ve never written–a mistake on my part, since he considers the ones about him to be my best.   Without him, it’s all squirrels.

My ego not being as intact as his, I’d have to leave the country if he took up blogging.  He’d have to learn to type faster.   For the past week or so, I may have blown any previous record for screw-ups.

I baked cookies and cut up fruit last week when it was my turn to provide refreshments for our library Book Club Meeting.  Since I reside in the State of Panic, I was running late, so DB helped me load the car.

He helped me unload it when I came home 20 minutes later.  I’d been a week early. The meeting wasn’t until this week.

When I brought in our Sunday paper and discovered it didn’t have the comics, Parade, or ads in it, I called the Circulation Department to request a complete paper.  The automated voice informed me, “Today is Saturday, April 13.”   Oh.

On the day of my doctor’s appointment, having not received their usual confirmation call, I phoned them.  Even though I had the appointment slip in hand, I was convinced I’d done something wrong when they said they had no record of an appointment and put me on hold.  I  had plenty of time for mental self-flagellation while I waited.   Was it only my appointment that was missing or was I a goner, too?

Eventually, someone picked up to inform me that their new computer system had lost practically everyone’s appointment and it was a madhouse there.  Could I come next month?

Sure.  Just remind me.

My friend Martha and I had planned for a month to attend a gardening seminar to hear a speaker we both enjoy.  We had spoken and e-mailed about how much we were looking forward to it.  I had my computer calendar send me two reminders.  Nevertheless, Monday night I received an e-mail from Martha asking, “Are you okay?  Where were you?  The program was delightful.”

I shrieked.  I thought the program was Tuesday.

Martha reminded me that had DB and I bought the house next door to them (for sale when we moved back to Charlotte) this wouldn’t have happened.  “We could take care of each other,”  she told me.

We made a date for lunch the next day–so I wouldn’t have time to forget.  When DB asked what time I was meeting Martha, I couldn’t remember if we’d set a time. I  said I’d call her, but I checked my e-mails first, in case she’d written.  She had; she was canceling lunch.

She’d forgotten that one of the suburban herb guilds was coming to tour her garden at 10AM.

Yep, we should have bought that house.

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“All the girls feared their Father less than they did their Mother, because she sometimes remembered things and he did not. Lord Brightlingsea was swept through life on a steady amnesiac flow.” 
― Edith Wharton, The Buccaneers

“Why can we remember the tiniest detail that has happened to us, and not remember how many times we have told it to the same person.” -François de la Rochefoucauld

Dog Day Afternoon

We’ve had no measurable rainfall since early September, so when the weather forecaster predicted rain, we were hoping it would rain cats and dogs.

Turned out to be only dogs.

Miss Piggy’s steep decline in recent days indicated the end was near.  She’s been lying around, barely opening her eyes, refusing to go on her short walks.   It is not an exaggeration to say that she lives for food, so Dearly Beloved has been giving her extra treats to ensure that she ended her 16-year lifespan with a happy stomach.

We noticed that her left eye, the one that the vet treated for a scratched cornea a couple of weeks ago, had a gooey discharge and made an afternoon appointment with our vet.

In the meantime, one of our neighbors called and said that a man had rung her doorbell to ask if she knew the owners of the large white dog that was following him on his walk.  The neighbor didn’t, but offered to put the dog in her fenced backyard for safety until the owner could be found.  It was a soft, fluffy, friendly female, she told me when she asked that I send out a Found Dog Alert to the people on my Neighborhood Watch list.  Her neighbor photographed the dog so that it could be included.

Later, because the dog-keeping neighbor was going to be gone all afternoon, we brought the dog to our house.  First,  I loaded her in my car and took her to the nearest veterinary office to see if she had a microchip.

They discovered a couple of things:  ”she” was actually a neutered “he.”  Oops.  There was also a microchip, but the registration info was not for this dog.  I corrected my e-mail to acknowledge the newly discovered organ.

We left the white dog here with a bowl of water and took Miss Piggy to our vet.

Three vets studied the infected eye and recommended a veterinary eye specialist.  Our vet would call to make the arrangements.  Miss Piggy isn’t dying, she told me.  She has a very sore eye and a bad headache.

Back home again, we waited to hear from the vet specialist and also the white dog owner.  Here is a Fast Forward of the events:

Young mother is out pushing her child (who has the flu) in her stroller in an effort to soothe the little girl.  She encounters another walker who asks has she seen a white dog because a man was out riding around looking for it.  The young mom tells the walker about the e-mail alert, but the walker does not know the owner’s name or where he lives, but does describe his vehicle and remembers he said the dog’s name is Barney.  Young mom calls me to say that the owner is “out there” and she’ll try to find him.  She continues to push her snoozing child around as she watches for the car.

About 30 minutes later, she called again.  She’d flagged down the owner.  He drove over immediately to retrieve Barney.  In all, seven people had a hand in the reunion.    Another Neighborhood Watch e-mail went out and five dog-loving neighbors immediately sent their congratulations.

Back to Miss Piggy and the eye specialist.

The waiting room at that office was full of flat-nosed dogs with eye ulcers… boxers, bulldogs, Boston terriers.  Like Miss Piggy, most were older dogs and beloved pets.

The waiting room was also full of hairy chairs.   Drat!  I’d been out to lunch with a friend earlier and hadn’t had time to change out of my best brown pants and new sweater.  I chose the grey cat hair covered chair to Dearly Beloved’s right.  Miss Piggy assumed her usual waiting room position under our chairs.

I have no idea what the eye specialist was telling us was the problem,  but she numbed the eye and scraped it with a succession of swabs, leaving it now completely ulcerated.  She prescribed pain pills and told us to continue the antibiotic eye drops and moistening drops we were already applying until we return in two weeks.

Then came the final insult–the dreaded cone collar.

We heard scuffles and bangs during the night as the patient tried to get comfortable in her new armor.  She’s going to be even more distressed when she realizes that the abundance of treats must be curtailed now that we know her demise is not imminent.

The predicted rain turned out to be only a slight drizzle, not even enough to clean our car windshield as we returned from our dog day afternoon.

Village Flower Festival

Any time my British friend mentions the Flower Festival her village holds annually in late summer, I beg for photos.  The floral entries were set up in the village’s historic church.

Church of England.

This one is clever, I think.

Help me figure out the theme here:  mice, cat, teapot, packages…?  I know it’s there, but I’m clueless.  Anyone…?

I love the “cream” pouring out onto the berries here.

This floral entry is called “Cream Tea.”  It looks luscious!   Good thing the festival included a bake sale.

Clever placement.  Take a closer look at the admonition on the window.

Flash!

Are you familiar with this flashy flower?

My friend Martha brought this one over to me.  She says it’s a Brugmansia or Datura, sometimes called an Angel’s Trumpet.

To get an idea of the size, here it is beside some more familiar cut flowers.  Its fragrance packs a punch, too.

It does have one shortcoming… you have to look fast!

I Went to a Tea Party

This week, I was invited to a tea party.

We hadn’t planned to go near the center city during the convention and during this foray we learned quickly that the jokes Jon Stewart and The Daily Show folks made about the tight security in uptown Charlotte during the Democratic convention weren’t far off the mark.  Police officers in droves, many on bicycles.

These guys–a swat team from the Clayton County GA Sheriff’s Department– had to be a crowd favorite.  They were a hoot!

Nevertheless,  Dearly Beloved was able to drop us off right at the hotel entrance.  I had been invited by a South Carolina delegate and since this wasn’t her first convention, I knew exactly what to do: I simply followed her around.

There were some extraordinary women in that room.

Sandra Fluke and my arms.  The rest of me is cropped from the photo because I looked as if I’d accidentally impaled myself on a frozen corn cob.

That is Sandra Fluke, who was thrown into the spotlight after being denied the opportunity to testify before the House Oversight and Government Reform Committee.  Democrats on the committee had been told they could have only one witness and they chose Ms. Fluke, a Georgetown Law School graduate,  to speak about the importance of requiring insurance companies to cover birth control.  (You know, the same companies that cover Viagra.)  The others testifying in that first round of witnesses were a Catholic bishop, a protestant pastor, a rabbi, and a couple of professors… all men.

Sandra Fluke, however, was the one who was rejected by Republicans on the committee as being “unqualified” to speak.

Needless to say, a lot of people didn’t see it that way and after Rush Limbaugh attacked her in a lengthy diatribe on his radio show, calling her a slut and a prostitute, the pushback from the public was so great that Rush lost some of his major sponsors.

I was delighted to be able to talk briefly with her.  When I watched her speech at the convention on TV a few hours later,  I was amazed that this eloquent speaker was the same soft-spoken, almost shy young woman I’d met earlier.

Disheartening,  after Fluke’s speech, Ann Coulter tweeted a comment about her so vile and disgusting that I won’t repeat it here.

If you’re wondering about the accessory on my left arm, it’s the magic bracelet by which I gained entry. 

Who else did I meet?

Hmmm.  You may have a little trouble recognizing anyone in this shot.  It’s me, with Nancy Pelosi, just as some dude turned on his mega flash while my friend was taking the photo with her iPhone.

Maybe you’ll recognize her here.

Yes, that’s Nancy Pelosi, minority leader of the House of Representatives.

The most unforgettable woman I was privileged to meet there was  Tammy Duckworth, who is running in Illinois for a seat in the House of Representatives.

She was in a wheelchair that afternoon, having lost both legs and severely injuring her right arm in a helicopter accident in Iraq.  (Ironically, before she was deployed to Iraq in 2004, she had been working on a Rotary International project to provide wheelchairs for the disabled in developing countries.)  Every step she takes–literally and figuratively–is an example of her extraordinary courage.  She walked on her artificial limbs, using a cane, to deliver her speech that evening.

Her opponent is Representative Joe Walsh, who just a few days ago made this statement about her:

“Ms. Duckworth has continued to show more interest in rubbing elbows with big name party insiders, then [SIC] staying home and tackling the tough issues facing voters in the district,” he said in a statement on his website. “It has become abundantly clear that at this point the only debate Ms. Duckworth is actually interested in having is which outfit she’ll be wearing for her big speech.”

I watched her “big speech.”   I don’t remember what she wore, but I won’t forget her passion, or the dignity with which she walked onto the stage.

Lest you think that Rep. Walsh’s remarks were taken out of context, here is another example, this one when he accused her of not being a ”true hero” because, he said, she made her military service central to her campaign.  What she has actually done is make military veterans, especially the disabled, a centerpiece of her campaign message.

“I have so much respect for what she did in the fact that she sacrificed her body for this country,” said Walsh, simultaneously lowering his voice as he leaned forward before pausing for dramatic effect. “Ehhh. Now let’s move on.”
“What else has she done? Female, wounded veteran … ehhh,” he continued. 

Tammy is up against a wall of money, since big money PACs such as New Prosperity (Sam Fox, the swift boater) and the Koch Brothers like the Joe Walsh style and are pumping large influxes of cash into the campaign against Mrs. Duckworth.

It seems that we aren’t past attacks on “uppity women” after all.  Can a Congress which is about 85% male represent women properly?  In an atmosphere where men rule–state and national legislatures, the media, corporations, churches, etc., is it coincidence that good looks and cleavage are required to work on TV news alongside paunchy, senior men?   What kind of example is that for our daughters and granddaughters?  For that matter, what does it tell our sons and grandsons?  In 2012, are women who want entry into power circles on the basis of their intelligence and abilities still considered “ball busters” and “fema-nazis”?

Nancy Pelosi celebrated 25 years in Congress this year.  At the event I attended, she stressed the need for less money influencing Congress and more women in power.  If we want our daughters and our granddaughters to be able to dream of making changes for the better, shouldn’t we be supporting the women who are already trying to do that?

Here, here.  Now… now.

100+ Looks Better on a Spelling Test

Yes, it’s just as hot as you think it is.  Take a look at this chart from the National Climactic Data Center.

Those red spots point out the places where maximum temperatures were broken in June.  I found this in a most interesting article on NPR’s website.  You can read the entire article here.

Camp Grandad has certainly been impacted by the heat.  It’s just too darned hot to play.  Too hot to garden, to cook, to play golf, even to swim.  My library card currently has 51 books checked out and I think Dearly Beloved’s card might be smoking also.  The grandsons are fast readers and no one wants to be caught short.

Brit (that’s what I’ll call my English friend from now on)  e-mailed this week to offer sympathy about our searing heat.  She said that she could scarcely imagine it, since they are having a cool, wet summer in England.

She thought this video might help.

Diamond Jubilee

My mother’s first cousin, the self-appointed (and believe me, unchallenged!) keeper of the family history, wrote recently to tell of the various organizations my kids and I were eligible to join.   I appreciated the thought, but had no interest.   In fact, it crossed my mind that my ability to join the DAR or 17th Century Colonial Dames (?!?) meant that many subsequent generations had much opportunity to dilute my proud English blood.

Drat.  That probably explains the diminution of my spunk.  Too bad, because I do admire spunk.

No one has been a more striking example of British spunk and indomitability than Queen Elizabeth during and even prior to her 60-year-reign.   I’ve eagerly watched footage of the planned celebrations.   The British people had every reason to celebrate her Diamond Jubilee in grand and glorious fashion.

And celebrate they have!   The weather has not deterred more than a million people from participating in official and locally organized celebrations.  The river pageant flotilla of 1,000 boats on the Thames River was quite spectacular with the naval vessels, the pleasure boats, the geyser boats, and the floating bel complete with ringing bells. The band, at least, was under a roof, playing enthusiastically while an assemblage of singers stood on an open barge in the pouring rain and sang God Save the Queen.   The 86-year-old monarch stood with her family on a boat and watched the entire event.

Since roughly half of Americans dislike a president (from either party) at any given time, there is something very refreshing about watching a nation united in good wishes for her monarch.

God Save the Queen, indeed.

My British friend, also a woman of spunk (she of the Burns Night Supper, the thatched roof house,  and the garden in my header) told me of the fun planned in her village.

She helped organize the festivities there–fun and food which included a Welly Toss, a throwing competition for which first prize was the Golden Welly Award–a small pair of (spray-painted) gold boots.  Runners-up received chocolate medals.  As she explained, no expense was spared.

I’m certain my friend’s entry in the cupcake contest would have garnered my vote.  Behold, her cupcake:

I’d know Her Royal Cupcake anywhere, wouldn’t you?

To see more of the Diamond Jubilee celebration, this site will take you to links of some of the BBC coverage of the events:  http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-18316899

Here’s one with links to the Queen’s coronation in 1953 and other related history:  http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/people/queen_elizabeth_ii

I cannot lead you into battle. I do not give you laws or administer justice but I can do something else – I can give my heart and my devotion to these old islands and to all the peoples of our brotherhood of nations. -
Elizabeth II

It’s all to do with the training: you can do a lot if you’re properly trained. - Elizabeth II

O Lord, our God, arise,
Scatter her enemies,
And make them fall.
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On thee our hopes we fix:
God save the Queen. - Author Uncertain

Dog Days At The Beach

When we go down to the beach-house-not-on-the-beach in June,  it should be interesting, even if it isn’t exactly relaxing.

• We have the house there on the market.  There have been a trickle of lookers.
• We will have Granddog Ivy and Miss Piggy with us for six weeks.  Three of the grandsons and their parents will be staying at the beach, but they will be in and out.  JOY!  And mayhem.
• I’m not known for my tidiness.
• Oh yes… Beryl is coming this week, bringing wind and rain.  Yard cleanup.

One of our neighbors there says that traffic is already heavy. Everyone who isn’t on the beach is in cars, clogging the roads.

Everyone.   She sent a photo she took at a traffic light to prove her point.

Cool Dude!

Dearly Beloved and I have decided that whenever the house is being shown, we’ll take the dogs for a drive, since they aren’t allowed on the beach this time of year.  That’s good–for the dogs’ sake. The last time I looked on the internet, there were 938,000 sites for doggy beachwear.  Grrrrrrr!!!

Still, a sunhat for Ivy might be in order.

Stoned

It’s been a week now and I’m still bummed about the passage of Amendment One here in North Carolina.

It seems counterintuitive to prohibit two loving adults–regardless of sex–from marrying.   Sheesh!   Put that energy toward preventing little girls from being promised to old men… toward getting rid of child pornography.   We’re among the worst in the nation in the number of children who suffer “food insecurity.”  That means they can’t assume they’re going to have food that day.  Or the next.  Thousands are homeless in our state.

I must tell you, I have never understood the threat of gay marriage and I can speak with some authority.  At one time, Dearly Beloved and I lived in a hip, contemporary urban neighborhood where, for a while at least, we were the only married heterosexual couple on the street.

The day after we moved in, we were welcomed with still-warm chocolate chip cookies from the two men who lived diagonally across from us.  We liked them immediately.  They watered my plants when we were away, Introduced us to their extended families, and invited us to their parties.  They are still a couple two decades later.

The two men next door to us moved in about the same time we did and their relationship is still intact today.   One confided to me that his mother told him she would never set foot in his house.  It was her loss, for they were intelligent, funny, kind, successful guys.

Here is the wording of the NC amendment:

[] For [] Against
Constitutional amendment to provide that marriage between one man and one woman is the only domestic legal union that shall be valid or recognized by this State.

This wording affects common law relationships between a man and a woman as well.  Already a local commissioner is at work to take away benefits for the families of any city/county workers, gay or straight,  who don’t conform to this definition.

Far wiser people than I have written about homosexuality.  I’ll stay out of that and so should Franklin Graham.  I can, however, report that during the time we lived in the gayborhood,  DB and I never once considered switching teams.

Perhaps our experience may reassure the professor of Christian ethics at Southeastern Baptist Seminary about two concerns he voiced during the pre-election debate.  Although I dearly loved my Akita, the late Howard Lee, it never crossed my mind to marry him.   Nor was Dearly Beloved inclined to wed the bowl of ice cream he ate every night.

I hope that puts the professor’s mind to rest.

Although I can’t remember the name of the book, a line comes to mind where one of the characters asked the other, “How can you possibly think that??”   Her friend answered, “I don’t have to think.  I’m Catholic.”  

Of course I have thinking Catholic friends.  The point is that too many of “the faithful,” whatever the denomination, let someone else tell them what to believe and I’m not talking Jesus.  

Despite all the fist-pumping preachers and the ecstatic red-suited middle-aged platinum blondes celebrating on the television news,  I can’t picture a jubilant Jesus high-fiving the passage of this legislation.

It feels pretty low here in the land of the moral high ground.