tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11219516667352118652024-03-13T12:58:26.867-07:00Lucy B Hart BusybodyWriter, Artist, PhotographerLucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-90840022779295632992022-07-15T14:09:00.000-07:002022-07-15T14:09:13.891-07:00<p>
</p><h4 style="text-align: left;">July 15, 2022</h4>
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<p style="text-align: left;">I was deep in the forest on Vancouver Island on a journey to
Port Alberni to catch the MV Lady Rose, a working diesel coastal boat servicing
small lumberyards, fish camps and delivering and picking up kayakers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpD5LoFmMBPsAGlwS8SZEp2u4qmPoMtpSKhK8DKBdxoPH1EpOR4lOFNpRmP9CooEFukDx7tXxt-B3Vo3u7xy_3x1GCXLAatCyCev85fO4xZ02YnNj1YOkzt1vRi9BxiQiFe67yBGGzHIoGPY6DSvdSzo8v7CeoN-MGsiOgSPlaTP7b4_qrAH-IrHh8Pw" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="171" data-original-width="300" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpD5LoFmMBPsAGlwS8SZEp2u4qmPoMtpSKhK8DKBdxoPH1EpOR4lOFNpRmP9CooEFukDx7tXxt-B3Vo3u7xy_3x1GCXLAatCyCev85fO4xZ02YnNj1YOkzt1vRi9BxiQiFe67yBGGzHIoGPY6DSvdSzo8v7CeoN-MGsiOgSPlaTP7b4_qrAH-IrHh8Pw=w392-h223" width="392" /></a>We stopped briefly several miles before Port Alberni to see
the old growth forest at Cathedral Grove, such a rarity these days. There are
so few old growth forests left in North America that it is a real treat to see
one.<br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">The day was sunny and the path onto the grove was a blanket of
moss, the Douglas fir and cedar trees are magnificent, the biggest trees are
800 years old and 250’ tall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood in
awe, thinking about these earth’s creatures standing tall and bold against
buffeting winds and winter storms. They had been spared from the huge saws of loggers
cutting away at their bases.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
physically drawn to one of the tallest and thickest tree and tried to put my
arms around it as an acknowledgement of its survival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could I hear a heart beat?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could I feel a pulsating of its life force?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Might have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But its girth is so big that it would take more than 20 of us to circle
its trunk.<br />The grove was magical and a calming influence in a hectic
world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopefully they will remain here
another 800 years if we respect our poor earth.<br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">When we arrived in Port Alberni and boarded the Lady Rose we
were transpired again deeper in to the wonderment of Mother Nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we chugged along we counted many eagles
perching in the tall trees lining the shores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was fascinated to watch the ship crew off load equipment in small
lumber camps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They seemed so remote and
far away from civilization.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Several
kayakers had their boats lowered into the water and we watched them paddle
away, envious of the adventures they will have ahead of them. <br /> </p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-78049473028644415932020-03-28T15:40:00.000-07:002020-03-28T15:40:44.649-07:00Recent Prompt March 15th<div class="aprompt" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
The city is a forest of concrete, brick, steel and glass. Not a welcoming site for visitors wanting to see the great Pacific Northwest. </div>
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When I take the bus up to Capital Hill I am amazed at the amount of construction going on, old signposts are disappearing from the cityscape. One-story shops are being leveled to make way for yet another high-rise condominium project. Familiar neighborhoods are transforming into urban blocks, worker bees heading out to Amazon, Face Book, Microsoft and dozens of smaller tech companies. I see the young faces walking on their way to work and wonder if any of them ever get out and away from our concrete forest into the real forests just minutes away from the city, to get a sample of real life.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvF_m-VR1S0Y1YLwaFtzAg1HiYh7JASCuCqQfhLYmjqDUIIQBzwa8Tr80m_Vd5Kinfi_0topmPvj5RDQTgJoAqWbJmgYepLJmRl4GVLIUNA_QHuVN_2-Ot6b6PrNVSFWEOvkZurERJGuwb/s1600/Not+so+smart+car_IMG+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1220" data-original-width="1600" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvF_m-VR1S0Y1YLwaFtzAg1HiYh7JASCuCqQfhLYmjqDUIIQBzwa8Tr80m_Vd5Kinfi_0topmPvj5RDQTgJoAqWbJmgYepLJmRl4GVLIUNA_QHuVN_2-Ot6b6PrNVSFWEOvkZurERJGuwb/s320/Not+so+smart+car_IMG+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a>There is nothing like taking a picnic and driving up to the Skykomish River and finding a flat rock next to it to spread out a feast and just sit and listen to the songs of the river, feeling the wind and watching birds dart in to find food. Although it can be rough in a few places it is still a gentle river working its way down to the Sound. It is a teacher of tranquility and an anchor of relevance and perspective. Just thinking about it makes me want to pack a lunch jump in my car and head out to highway 2, but it is very cold out there right now and I am hunkered down weathering the temperature, but also the virus scare we are like little mice hold up in our nests until some great emperor of our country or state tells us it is safe to come out. Or are we sheep?</div>
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The streets are vacant, shops are closed and grocery stores down on their inventory. Schools are closed, performances cancelled, athletic events postponed. It is like a huge governor has slowed everything down to a very slow walk actually giving us time to reflect. The frenetic pace of tech companies madly trying to out do one another, corner part of the market, make a lot of money has tricked young people into intellectual whirling dervishes mesmerized into a complicated dance will have to learn to slow their pace. At least I hope so.</div>
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Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-32291678669597720132019-09-29T11:57:00.000-07:002019-09-29T11:57:04.021-07:00Is Autumn Approaching?<div class="Prompt" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2TJDEmHc_XSmJt5_RzMwf3cu28a2vJeseR0zs-kXscJg00VZDhRuE6nyjzw_f_873VGpY78mqNWlo02pmZm_nKQ4uM-bPcYpvTC2-Lxepb6NYZ2iV1bW6gfvXfdEpH3sR2-KZPJVdZoNv/s1600/IMG_0111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="423" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2TJDEmHc_XSmJt5_RzMwf3cu28a2vJeseR0zs-kXscJg00VZDhRuE6nyjzw_f_873VGpY78mqNWlo02pmZm_nKQ4uM-bPcYpvTC2-Lxepb6NYZ2iV1bW6gfvXfdEpH3sR2-KZPJVdZoNv/s320/IMG_0111.jpg" width="282" /></a>This is the first time I have felt a chill in the air, a sleepy haze settles around the trees, too many leaves, dried up and brown, blanket the grass. The sky light fades way too early in the day. I reach for a sweater to keep warm. I grab a wool blanket and a good book to brace me for the coming fall that is inevitable. </div>
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Last night I curled up in my down comforter and surrounded myself with piles of pillows to ward off the cool dampness.</div>
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Usually I love the fall, with its trees dressed in ochre, yellow, red and orange, a time of transformation. A time to stack cut wood in the shed in preparation for fires at night for cheer and warmth.</div>
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Then I have to check the larders. Are there canned fruits for winter, tins of beans, tuna fish and bags of rice and flour? A January pie made of canned peaches can remind me of summers past, like fading friendships not detailed memories but a brief moment of freedom as the smell of peaches baking gives me hope.</div>
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We will no longer deal with 90° days, sweltering under the sun, and drinking iced tea by the glassfuls. Shorts and t-shirts are folded and packed away and fleece jackets come to the front of the closet for easy access.</div>
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The sun comes up later and drops way too soon into the horizon. Are moles, rabbits and squirrels holding up in burrows as defense against rain and snow? Somehow snuggling up with a sleuth of bears sounds comforting.</div>
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Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-53224448952860005872019-07-04T14:32:00.000-07:002019-07-04T14:32:26.239-07:00RobertaSue and karaoke<div class="aprompt" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwYjgSSt5dhAI3U2D9dl0_pBnGJb4w2KuMN72meVqkOehyUKLiQyYiWG9VRRkZV_bA3VKQY7CIPpp3BsNlwuwL3AThYQ2oxXFbZI_hsyyoaENZ1PdxtH6wo5qLwHUvP2HoMdPjRjUBzgmj/s1600/Madhatter-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwYjgSSt5dhAI3U2D9dl0_pBnGJb4w2KuMN72meVqkOehyUKLiQyYiWG9VRRkZV_bA3VKQY7CIPpp3BsNlwuwL3AThYQ2oxXFbZI_hsyyoaENZ1PdxtH6wo5qLwHUvP2HoMdPjRjUBzgmj/s1600/Madhatter-1.jpeg" /></a>Blame it on the full moon but I can honestly contribute it in large part to RobertaSue who has a few cylinders short of an engine most of the time. At times she gets her Mad Hatter hat on, you know the black bulbous one with the pink ribbon, and bright orange curly hair and goes bar hopping downtown dressed in her Rita Hayworth gown, the orange one with white lace cascading from her shoulders down to the V-neck. That girl has no shame when it comes to her attempts to sing karaoke at Flattery’s on Saturday night. She signs up for at least six numbers including the Peggy Lee renditions of "Fever" and "Is that all There is?" and then moving on to "What’s Love Got to do with it?" trying desperately trying to imitate Tina Turner.</div>
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I used to be embarrassed by her saloon singing antics but I got used to it after a while once I learned she was not the only person making a fool of herself. But surprisingly she attracted quite a following of folks who found her an usual local folk hero and Flattery’s would get standing room only when RobertaSue was being featured.</div>
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Mistakenly she got it into her head that she was really good and started bragging about the crowds she would draw. It annoyed me a bit that she thought she was talented in that direction. In truth she is a good school librarian and the kids loved her but her aspirations were higher, madly searching for a glamorous life which in reality was rather a staid quiet existence. I guess I shouldn’t hold it against her. What is the harm in dressing up in a ridiculous costume and traipsing around to the local watering hole to belt out a few favorite tunes? After all it only happens once a month on a full moon. </div>
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And come to think of it I have to give her credit, she loves music, can’t carry a tune but it brings her extreme happiness to entertain the audiences who come see her. Better to let her live with that illusion.</div>
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Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-31523081344677516002018-12-18T12:12:00.000-08:002018-12-18T12:13:28.534-08:00Old Photos<div class="Prompt" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Once in a blue moon I will open a box of old photographs stored on the top shelf of the clothes closet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It is awkward to get down and it is stuffed with packets of 4x6’s from the years before computers and it is at times fun and bittersweet to see what I was up to. I am surprised that my hair was raven colored and I was much thinner than I am now. There are trips to the mountain to visit friends who had a wonderful cabin in an old mining town, trips to California to go on painting encounters and wonderful sojourns to Italy, France, Africa and Asia.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">There I am standing in front of a temple in the sweltering heat of Thailand, then a shot of the most handsome male I ever met, a 70- foot reclining gold deity all stretched out for one and all to admire. There I am on a small Vietnamese boat on Hai Phong Bay hardly aware that there was an awful war with these people not too long ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am hiking with our guide in the desert highlands of Madagascar and I remember that I suffered heat stroke that evening. I didn’t have water on the hike into Monkey Valley and I was so thirsty that I drank unfiltered water from a stream. I was exhausted, no appetite, nauseated, and vomited outside the dining hall that evening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are photos of friends long gone, others who just drifted away with job changes and moving to another state, photos of people who betrayed their loyalty and I get a sinking feeling when at I look at them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I think maybe it is best not to disturb that box filled with history. Should I dump it or just let it molder away in darkness?</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-7625475223246688962018-12-09T15:37:00.003-08:002018-12-09T15:37:35.908-08:00Run Away Watermelon<div class="Prompt" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizL0GIrDGxWtzTy19QJOIds-88MJEL8h5vH-QdaOxhlCCcEMF70Awt8W_eMCGjPLwlggir148hJj5p4VsUribc81-0q3mFoWjWE9iOi8YEGmvgzTVLsNvGYDyKdDGrfBiiCDc7BFUdzipj/s1600/Melon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizL0GIrDGxWtzTy19QJOIds-88MJEL8h5vH-QdaOxhlCCcEMF70Awt8W_eMCGjPLwlggir148hJj5p4VsUribc81-0q3mFoWjWE9iOi8YEGmvgzTVLsNvGYDyKdDGrfBiiCDc7BFUdzipj/s320/Melon.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Seattle is very fussy about its trash. We have containers for recycling, one for composting and one for garbage. In the alley behind my condo complex, our dumpsters are not all together so one has to separate materials to go into three different containers in three different locations. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I had a bag of trash in one hand ready for the garbage and another bag with a whole personal watermelon which had staged its last days in my vegetable crisper ready to add to compost. I had put it in a bio bag which is a little slick. Our alley is slightly canted and runs downhill towards the Sound. I placed the bio bag of watermelon down on the concrete while I put the garbage in the dumpster but as I was doing it the watermelon started to roll. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At first I tried to grab it, then it started to gain speed, my sandals were not meant for running so I moved quickly to try to get ahead of the racing watermelon to stop it with my foot but the melon simply bounced over my foot and took off speeding. I raced along side it to try to move it towards our neighbor building but it was focused on blazing ahead at greater speed. Realizing I could possibly fall down and knock myself out or fracture an arm I gave myself one more try and was able finally to stop it with one frantic effort it before it bounced into the street.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was a scene from an Abbot and Costello movie. I had hoped someone else had observed it and I am still laughing about it.</span></div>
Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-46334835946882693412018-11-09T12:38:00.000-08:002018-12-11T16:33:39.596-08:00Mice in the Pantry<div class="aprompt" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
The mice behaved as if they owned the joint, and they took over our cool pantry in our cottage at the beach. They even had the nerve to chomp a hole in a whole watermelon and eat their way to the center, just the center, and leave the rest. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyIo3-oFFHRPZh0kVYeM9aCqTzT4d6J3IbLR6ZYyG7Ywcl7R-n7eAuJNkknciMl0icMbKOkbZQqUjOVHQCqTzPZ6p4jyFtPJJSvTxk_s-1FeHtUqldYWEaYOMpF3lUoF-5CuRZKk99Z53L/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="90" data-original-width="129" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyIo3-oFFHRPZh0kVYeM9aCqTzT4d6J3IbLR6ZYyG7Ywcl7R-n7eAuJNkknciMl0icMbKOkbZQqUjOVHQCqTzPZ6p4jyFtPJJSvTxk_s-1FeHtUqldYWEaYOMpF3lUoF-5CuRZKk99Z53L/s320/Unknown.jpeg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyIo3-oFFHRPZh0kVYeM9aCqTzT4d6J3IbLR6ZYyG7Ywcl7R-n7eAuJNkknciMl0icMbKOkbZQqUjOVHQCqTzPZ6p4jyFtPJJSvTxk_s-1FeHtUqldYWEaYOMpF3lUoF-5CuRZKk99Z53L/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></a></div>
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Mother was always setting traps hoping to catch the little buggers and all they did was to leave their “calling cards” scattered on the floor or counter tops where they would be seen. Our beach cottage, by today’s standards would not meet code, as it was built on post and beam, with no insulation, and lots of places for the beach mice to take refuge in a storm.</div>
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Sometimes during the night we would hear the WHAP of a mousetrap and cheer into the darkness. Mother had the mortician’s duty and dispatched the trap and unlucky mouse to the garbage container outside in the morning.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 14pt;">On our daily walks to the beach we would carry a gunnysack and gather beach bark which we would use in our fireplace and wood stove in the kitchen. It was easier to carry bark as they came in chunks and we filled the sack and dragged it back to the cottage to put in the wood box next to the fireplace. A beach bark fire was the best one to roast marshmallows on and would burn slowly but give off good heat in the living room.</span><br />
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We did not have a refrigerator but an icebox and the iceman would come twice a week and deliver blocks to our front door. Ham, the meat operator, had a refrigerated truck and would sell all kinds of meat. He was a butcher and a skilled one at that. My sister and I knew that one shelf in Ham's truck he kept candy bars so we would walk out to Ham’s truck with our mother to make her purchases and then we would each get a chilled Mounds or Almond Joy. </div>
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Once a week Tony the Italian vegetable vender would drive into the oyster shell lane and ring his bell. The women of the beach compound would come running out of their houses to buy fresh fruit and vegetables.</div>
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Things were simple in those days, but we kids loved the life at the beach and looked forward to it each summer- mice and all.</div>
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Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-41774542733225482192018-08-11T10:38:00.000-07:002018-08-11T10:38:58.797-07:00Emmy Lou's Pull-Aparts<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCR8bQ1Gxb4q2RCQtvq3bmByL90EjA0Bv8dRjh92LDHRQjklr3AQtunN20ip2G-VTSLSFj0N509KFxrn1dhLksHkrZMlgIsZXCwwFIsXaBHTlhQtkUo2gtWB9yAkujJFMx3biy3MmQPMoU/s1600/pull-apart-bread-29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCR8bQ1Gxb4q2RCQtvq3bmByL90EjA0Bv8dRjh92LDHRQjklr3AQtunN20ip2G-VTSLSFj0N509KFxrn1dhLksHkrZMlgIsZXCwwFIsXaBHTlhQtkUo2gtWB9yAkujJFMx3biy3MmQPMoU/s200/pull-apart-bread-29.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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There was a faint smell in the air and I couldn’t quite identify it then I took a real deep snifter and it smelled like Cousin Emmy Lou’s Pull-Aparts. They were sensational, big, dusted with lots of cinnamon and warmed up in the oven for breakfast at the beach, they were a big hit with the family.</div>
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All of us, groggy from a deep night’s sleep, stagger into the kitchen an array of generational relatives trying to find a place to stand. We all knew the order of respect, Judy and Dave the oldest always got a bedroom to themselves. My sister and I took the bedroom with two twin beds and we were used to snoring and talking in the sleep.</div>
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Hostess Cousin Barbara always took the sofa in the second floor living room usually with some large dog perched on top. Some years it was a Newfoundland, then Bernese Mountain dogs, and as she got older smaller creatures that she could lift out of her backseat car if needed.</div>
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Cousin Emmy Lou out of touch with the family after many years away came happily back among the flock to share war stories from the past. She spoke of elegant family members and it was as though I actually knew them, but I was far too young among the hierarchy of our family members. Emmy Lou did not remember whipping her cousins with sticks when they did not rehearse the summer dance properly.</div>
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Apparently Aunt Caddy’s cottage became the performance stage, a long outside deck that led down into the badminton court. The net was brought down and all the chairs in the compound were set up for my family and their friends to enjoy the performance. It was even covered by the social section of the Aberdeen World.</div>
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I remember taking a Pull Apart on a dish and findi<span style="font-family: inherit;">ng a place to sit among chairs </span>and sofas in the living room. The nut-brown sugar syrup dazzled down the cinnamon bread which was soft and warm. Butter melted instantly when applied.</div>
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I miss Cousin Emmy Lou's Pull-Aparts but not as much as I miss her.</div>
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</span></o:p>Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-47426145084769370122018-07-11T13:00:00.002-07:002018-07-11T13:00:37.295-07:00Wasted Talent<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "cambria";">Their success has become their detriment - she a talented illustrator stopped </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">producing once she married a rich man and walked away from her pallet. He a potentially creative writer, fell by accident into a wildly popular romance novel scene, made a lot of money and stopped writing, rendering him fallow by success. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">They both chose to turn off their creative talents. What a shame what a loss.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">She supported herself with her art, working street fairs and sometimes commissions. It was the only way she could support her daughter on her own. Occasionally she would find a Sugar Daddy to augment her income the price she had to pay to survive. It helped that she was a beautiful blond with lots of personality. Given the limited financial resources she would scrimp to pay for life drawing classes. Her skills were remarkable and I think of her every time I look at a drawing I bought from her. But once she married a very wealthy man and didn’t have to work, she never picked up a drawing pencil again. Never. Like the creative faucet was completely turned off.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">He was a startling handsome young man with a desperate longing to write about his experiences, some of them quite difficult. On the self publication of his first book middle aged female readers fell madly in love with him, reacting to him like a rock star wherever he went. At book signings throngs of giggling girls would surround him desperate to have a photo taken with him. Realizing now his effect on the female buying public he began to crank out a short series of romantic novels. He was a marketing whiz and knew all the social media tricks to gain a sizable following. If I saw him on Face Book there were photographs of him always with a v necked t-shirt on to expose his well-developed upper torso while holding one of his books. He encouraged every reader to write positive review on all his books and even offered prizes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: large;">He made enough money to buy his ideal house on the shores of the Sound, a wood house, outfitted by a professional interior decorator. He was set. He then stopped writing. Period. No more books. Why should he need to write? The sales of the novels in other languages are keeping him financially set. No need to create.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I checked his Face Book recently. He is has lost his youthful looks. He looks like a spent man. No more stories will come from him, what wasted talent.</span></div>
Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-53177615524568057022018-07-04T13:13:00.000-07:002018-07-04T13:13:43.331-07:00Eat Your Veggies<div class="aprompt" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
“To get in shape! Eat what you hate”. Pretty good quote for somebody who doesn’t eat a lot of vegetables. If I were offered only beets, Brussels spouts, kale, fava beans, lima beans, okra, zucchini and black beans, broccoli and cauliflower I would probably lose a lot of weight because I hate all of them and would never consider eating them. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOVRhW0TIQc6g5mwZyS1iK1L1ELTQwLgxjbJgb2HFvy625GRxjEva2oqsT12T0My2-yKZAdy1oFIXDwbCfQRhb_9yAmuxxPqff2rhs69hOt365Ao8iR_stXTlzj3CIL8sKbbqQEV6RFNqE/s1600/P1070134+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1247" data-original-width="1600" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOVRhW0TIQc6g5mwZyS1iK1L1ELTQwLgxjbJgb2HFvy625GRxjEva2oqsT12T0My2-yKZAdy1oFIXDwbCfQRhb_9yAmuxxPqff2rhs69hOt365Ao8iR_stXTlzj3CIL8sKbbqQEV6RFNqE/s320/P1070134+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a>Well-meaning neighbors used to give me huge zucchini thinking I liked them. I would thank them for their thoughtfulness then dump the obscene things in the compost pile. Actually I do love just the squash blossoms, stuffed with fresh mozzarella, basil and dipped in an egg batter topped with lemon juice but don’t put grown zucchini on my forty-dollar entry plate in a restaurant. That would tad amount to serving me a worn out shoe sole as a side dish. And don’t come anywhere near me with that slimy okra, bitter tasting southern veggie which might as well be dirt.</div>
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My mother used to serve lima beans out of the can, those slightly greenish odd shaped beans, which tasted like newsprint. Beets are so tannic for my pallet that they taste like left over tea bags, but I have to say that the color of the water they boil in is beautiful. On the other hand I love beet greens one of my favorite vegetables but is hard to find even in farmers’ markets. I don’t like pinto beans or black beans but like refried beans and hummus. I ate garbanzo beans cooked in the ground once on a hiking trip. I wouldn’t have eaten them but it was the only thing for dinner supplied by my friend, who was the cook of the day.</div>
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What vegetables do I like? Well I like carrots – raw not cooked, spinach, onions, avocados, tomatoes, English cucumbers, pea pods, arugula, some lettuces, corn (white only), acorn squash, miners lettuce, cabbage – prefer red, turnip, rutabaga, bell peppers, artichoke, asparagus, horseradish and potatoes.</div>
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And there are some vegetables I will tolerate if hidden cleverly by a good cook who adds other flavors to a dish. My friend Sandra once made a side dish I found delicious and I asked for seconds. She told me later it had zucchini in it!</div>
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I do believe that when I was in India that I must have eaten lots of vegetables that I was unfamiliar with. And shopping in Uwajimaya’s <span style="font-size: 14pt;">produce section is always a cultural experience.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">There are so many different kinds of unfamiliar options with exotic names like niga-uri, sato-imo, tama-negi and karela.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">What an adventure to browse through Uwajimaya’s and try to figure out if something in the aisles are either fruits or vegetables.</span></div>
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Looking over this prompt for today I seem to like more vegetables than I thought I did. Maybe I should take up Asian cooking to provide more things which are “good” for me that might solve my problem.</div>
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Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-77602321151405502572018-02-26T11:25:00.000-08:002018-02-26T11:25:28.585-08:00RobertaSue's GlovesRobertaSue is such a clotheshorse. Now she is into gloves, can you believe it? I haven’t the heart to tell her that
unless she is European Royal, woman don’t wear gloves any more. But she is intent on building a huge
wardrobe of soft kid gloves in a variety of colors. Her walk in closet has dozens and dozens of pairs of gloves
from yellow to blue to red in all varieties of hues.<br />
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<div class="aprompt">
She actually wrote a paper on gloves for her high school
English class and I give her credit because she did some serious research. She started out with one of the
earliest records of gloves, found, in all places, with the discovery of King
Tut’s tomb. She then mentioned
that bishops, royalty and high-ranking men wore gloves too. There were the serious warrior
gauntlets adorned the hands of horsemen to protect them from injury. She segued into boxing gloves which was
a little far fetched, but nothing stops RobertaSue when she is on a charge.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
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<div class="aprompt">
She remembered as a child wearing white cloth gloves to church
on Sunday and she was forever losing one or another of them when she took them
off in a heated stuffy church.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
Her mother, wise to RobertaSue’s careless ways, made her a
pair of mittens with a long strand of wool attached so that they were permanently
together. It wasn’t easy snaking
the mittens, around her neck, through the long sleeves and onto her hands, but
she never lost just one ever again.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
One day RobertaSue’s mother gave a tea party for several of
her female friends and Hattie Daniels a spry fashionista came wearing a pairs
of turquoise doeskin gloves which she left on the chair by the front door. RobertaSue picked them up and marveled
how soft they were, so subtle, and she put them on her hands. They fit perfectly. She held up her hands to admire the
color and feel of the material.
Hattie came up behind her and said, “RobertaSue, I see that you are
admiring my gloves. It would make
me ever so happy if you would keep these for your own. I have plenty of pairs
of them at home.” Well, RobertaSue
thought that it was just about the neatest gift she had ever been given. She
thanked Hattie for her generosity and from that point on RobertaSue started
adding to her collection.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
She traveled to Europe and in every country she would seek out
the leather shops and find yet another pair to add to her collection. There is the pink pair from Prague, the
red pair from Rome, the black pair from Berlin and the burgundy pair from
Brussels. It was though each pair
had a history associated with it. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-85993665666605508622018-02-25T12:43:00.000-08:002018-02-25T12:43:46.982-08:00Let Me Guess Who You Are<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTed6I9p4nwFjIn1cJkxnom__6ZrwIuGhb8HNTwZgLsXTrK4V_SaI9hSMH9-fHD3IA7NbCQ79qR9tEvbtzlSx4HnI9edyCDBTYaHtCxwRBzLA2FaGzpaIM7_HNW3TRvuyTPXDI-5XYH_N/s1600/IMG_0144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTed6I9p4nwFjIn1cJkxnom__6ZrwIuGhb8HNTwZgLsXTrK4V_SaI9hSMH9-fHD3IA7NbCQ79qR9tEvbtzlSx4HnI9edyCDBTYaHtCxwRBzLA2FaGzpaIM7_HNW3TRvuyTPXDI-5XYH_N/s320/IMG_0144.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Some people are not a bit shy of telling us who they are. Their cars are plastered with bumper stickers some times to the extreme. This person has made their sexual orientation clear, their favorite radio stations, beverages, cafes and coffee shops, political affiliations, conservation interests, conventions attended, favorite dancing styles, art galleries, and taste in reading. In the old days the only bumper sticker one would see would brag "My kid is an honor student." Then came the "My kid can beat up your honor student." I think that things have gotten out of hand. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-48176906751022539682017-11-09T16:59:00.001-08:002017-11-09T16:59:52.913-08:00WWII Veteran<div class="aprompt">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUW8h8VQ9ltnFz1UMrznd6YpaXXEQKCp28fP2aPpKajk3kY26fuIw2qes17dLutOJFFca-FXzq8hoiMQteC2K4lMvcKf2cP3xKf5BjFbyzmLJJhTprH8cl4CcG5xw4IYslp64aa6Ju_3pi/s1600/HOLME001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="335" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUW8h8VQ9ltnFz1UMrznd6YpaXXEQKCp28fP2aPpKajk3kY26fuIw2qes17dLutOJFFca-FXzq8hoiMQteC2K4lMvcKf2cP3xKf5BjFbyzmLJJhTprH8cl4CcG5xw4IYslp64aa6Ju_3pi/s320/HOLME001.JPG" width="240" /></a>My favorite story that he told us was not a pleasant
experience he suffered during the WWII.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He is such a kind man with nerve endings exposed that the fact that he
would even tell the story is amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
He was in the Battle of the Bulge in December 44 to January
45.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the worst winter Europe
had suffered in decades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
American, Allies (and German) soldiers dealt with bitter snow and cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
Stewart was in the front lines and they could easily see German
troops advancing and as trained as an infantryman he used his weapon and
fired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One German soldier went
down but was snared by a barbed wire fence and died in that position and was
frozen in place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stewart could see
that grotesque figure for three days.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
As he told the story he was not emotional, rather was matter
of fact as though telling a tale he had read in a book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I knew better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That experience affected him his whole
life and I am sure daunted him to his grave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He even met with PTSS support group at the Veterans’
Hospital monthly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were boys
from so many wars sitting on chairs in a circle retelling their experiences in
the Korean, Vietnam, Desert Storm and little known wars in Cambodia, El
Salvador, Liberia, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, all veterans telling their stories.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
Stewart was the only WWII vet and the other younger soldiers
must have considered him the wisest man among them and probably considered that
their stories would follow them for the rest of their lives, too.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
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<div class="aprompt">
Yet he told his story in his classroom for years as an example
of how important it is to get the truth out.</div>
Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-48349254837750507112017-09-16T11:08:00.000-07:002017-09-16T11:08:37.490-07:00Autumn in the Air<div class="aprompt">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWFvZb4YkHbUgF6a23XFyfYqSJ50pH9TZI-SOFegj8aPliemUb4NHme8kllIPYTWJdJTxdDCbhkz_DdLyBHa3dtnT04x4iOreXoTdQRDdjeGtmwaSqxRiEK6LaR-o50xzZ49eMFs7o9KE/s1600/NATTR057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="900" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWFvZb4YkHbUgF6a23XFyfYqSJ50pH9TZI-SOFegj8aPliemUb4NHme8kllIPYTWJdJTxdDCbhkz_DdLyBHa3dtnT04x4iOreXoTdQRDdjeGtmwaSqxRiEK6LaR-o50xzZ49eMFs7o9KE/s320/NATTR057.JPG" width="320" /></a>The feel of autumn hovers over the city this morning. The
light is so low outside it seems like evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is cold even with my thick robe on and I want to make hot
chocolate and sit by a roaring fire or go back to bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fall is more than knocking on my door
it has burst into my abode and I want to take the chill out of the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems that summer has passed every
so quickly and I wish for more sunny days with a warm sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My maple tree has turned shades of
yellow, orange and pink in anticipation of the time all the trees fall into
slumber to tough out the approaching winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
My favorite time of fall is when the sun is out, with a
roaring blue sky and leaves clutter the sidewalks so that I have to trudge
through them, tossing them up into the air and smelling the coming time of
breaking down of plant material.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is Nature’s clock reminding us that we need to slow down, savor the
few days of Indian summer until we are hold up in our borrows to brace against
bitter cold winds and pelting rain.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
It is time for football, band music, women wearing mums on
their lapels do women do this any more?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the U of Oregon the crowds walking to a Ducks game women wore bright
yellow mums adding color to dark brown wool coats and mufflers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved going to the games and sitting
in the Knot Hole section I think it cost all of a dollar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The natural grass field was a trial for
the players, especially if there had been a good rain, and parts of the field
became mud puddles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was great fun
to see the players slide through slosh, obliterating not only their jerseys but
also the line markers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only the
quarterback was pristine in his uniform, his guards, tackles and receivers were
all covered on mud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And on a good
rainy day the football was like a greased pig and no one could hold on to it.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
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<div class="aprompt">
Now the games are essentially played on artificial turf. I would watch
the Green Bay Packers play on real turf and even snow and the other teams seem to play a kind
of pantywaist kind of game, staying clean and pristine on essentially a rug.I long for the old days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like the changing seasons I have to
expect change in everything else.</div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-35022256361454954962017-08-05T14:10:00.003-07:002017-08-05T14:10:49.817-07:00Pardon the Noise?<div class="aprompt">
If the Blue Angels are so good why do they have to
practice?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those guys are
nuts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They take several <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>days to practice screaming over Seattle chasing crows out of the trees sending the seagulls into tailspins and the chickadees and sparrows completely disappear. I don’t find this
flying team entertaining at all.
And I really think that what people find fascinating about them is the hope
just a little bit that they make slip up just once and careen into Lake
Washington while the crowd gasps really loudly and the media people go crazy re
running the tragedy over and over and in slow motion.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div class="aprompt">
My friend’s dogs take refuge in bathroom tubs cowering,
thinking the world is coming to the end.
To say nothing about immigrants who have fled their warn-torn countries
to find refuge and peace in the US and then they are faced once a year with a
barrage of F/A-18 Hornets, twin engines, supersonic that can go Mach 1.8 and
greater. What that means is that
at times during dives the blood can rush to the pilots feet or to their
heads. Imagine shifting all the
slosh inside our bodies all our guts and organs rushing to our feet or trying
to find room in our heads. What fun is that for a pilot? And they are so damn close to one
another or heading straight for one another at tremendous speeds.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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<div class="aprompt">
I know the Navy needs a little PR to attract potential pilots
but I think there are better ways then 40 million dollars each year to have
this demonstration team. I mean things would be different if we were actually
in a war and these guys would flying to support the ships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 2013 the budget was cut and there
was peace and quiet in August in Seattle and I don’t believe for a moment that
all our citizens were so disappointed not to see them again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to deal with them every year and
next year I will flee to some quiet place like the San Juan Islands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t choose Whidbey Island because
of the Naval Air Station on the island which house tactical electronic attack
squadrons of EA-6B Prowlers and EA-18G Growlers. They can really set up a
racket, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Pardon Our Noise –
It’s the Sound of Freedom”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Give
me peace. </div>
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<br /></div>
Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-52695641773951217402017-07-31T10:48:00.001-07:002017-07-31T10:48:33.999-07:00Art in Public Places<div class="aprompt">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWcj8yV12yUzkrQ_K3huyCJTGtNeqkgwGgkat6aIt7PYIlodbWf0nr6pkEzMV0zienkgdPrbJQpV8w0CxASGi9_4yvOf4MePNnGIaDvvZa6MOfJlC_lsBWu8nZGnRy-OgDlCWMBsxQHgl3/s1600/Fat+Lady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWcj8yV12yUzkrQ_K3huyCJTGtNeqkgwGgkat6aIt7PYIlodbWf0nr6pkEzMV0zienkgdPrbJQpV8w0CxASGi9_4yvOf4MePNnGIaDvvZa6MOfJlC_lsBWu8nZGnRy-OgDlCWMBsxQHgl3/s320/Fat+Lady.jpg" width="240" /></a>She was sitting alone, grossly over weight, missing teeth but
had beautifully manicured hands. She was sitting in front of Georges Seurat’s
“A Sunday on La Grande Jatte”, and was transfixed by the painting. Although I
wanted to step in front of her to see the detail of the Pointillism brush
technique but it would have been rude of me to do so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only had a week in Chicago and I was determined to spend
as much time as I could at the Chicago Art Institute to see their collection.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
I was staying across the street at the Chicago University
Club.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a trip, a
sentimental one, that I had planned for a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father studied art and graduated from the Institute in
1915 and I wanted to walk the halls, stand in the studios and spend time in the
Ryerson Library where he had no doubt studied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The library was completely restored in 1994.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was stunned to be able to read the
catalogs from the shows offered when my father was going to school there,
including the Armory Show of 1913.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was humbled by the library and felt privileged to be sitting there.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
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<div class="aprompt">
My expectations had to be tempered somewhat by what I wanted
to see in the galleries and what was available and on display.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always have a sketchbook with me to
take notes and information to be able to look up later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the one hand I was a little
irritated that this huge person was hogging the painting but on the other hand
it was an chance for me to sit on a bench and sketch her, after all an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">enfant terrible</i> would relish the
opportunity to have a model like this, and would send a fauve into ecstasy.
This is what an artist would look for – not the obvious but the subtle layer
underneath.</div>
Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-26192648976118059232017-06-26T14:12:00.000-07:002017-06-26T14:14:06.678-07:00This is News?<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 18px;">Did you catch the big story on the news last night? The reporter was so excited that one might have thought that she was announcing that a cure for cancer had been found. No. She said that a whole flock of new emojis have been released which will thrill those who have cast aside the English language to use dumb, cartoony, infantile, mindless graphic images instead of real words. What is this world coming to? This is supposed to be “news”?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 18px;">Did you know that the English language has more words than another language in the world? Now we can be restricted to the 1,851 </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 18px;">emojis and we don't have to bother with the subtleties of language. Cast aside such descriptive things as adjectives, verbs, nouns pronouns and modifiers, just visual grunts if you will. Instead of describing the subtleties of that first cup of coffee in the morning we can just say instead </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">☕️❤️.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span>Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-20850829691127391082017-06-16T15:18:00.001-07:002017-06-16T15:20:08.196-07:00Holidays?<div class="aprompt">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmM6EJQdkjj9kHTrFDF3JmBXNKLRCA1MyXJ5Ftwt-yrzztphVeOVouLhmJqer4qiYApwaBhxrazz_acnObhx0RJhr_Vx_i0FTEpvkI0_PN8e_7Sh6aw04tHfgm83qWGW32G1_cAflXuOMi/s1600/Flag+1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmM6EJQdkjj9kHTrFDF3JmBXNKLRCA1MyXJ5Ftwt-yrzztphVeOVouLhmJqer4qiYApwaBhxrazz_acnObhx0RJhr_Vx_i0FTEpvkI0_PN8e_7Sh6aw04tHfgm83qWGW32G1_cAflXuOMi/s1600/Flag+1.jpeg" /></a>“Women's Day should be Everyday” ....Pardon me while I get up on
my high horse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not for any
day that is exclusionary and I never have much appreciated them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why should a special day be set aside
to celebrate a portion of the population pie, leaving out everybody
else?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow I find it
undemocratic to focus on a day which includes just a segment of the
population.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other words we
should celebrate and respect everyone on every day<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
Growing up I loathed it when Father’s Day came around and I have
never bought a card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now there is
Grandparents Day, which I put up right there with the bumper sticker which
says, “Happiness is being a grandparent” or “My kid is an honor role student ”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
I swear naming new days is a ploy of Hallmark to see more
cards. Do you suppose that this is
the start of a rush to name yet another day?
How about a Gay Day or Straight Day, which Bi and Trans people might
find objectionable. If there were
a Dog Day, then cats would get pissed off. How about Paraplegic Day, leaving ambulatory people up in
arms? A Red Hair Day, or Blonds
Only Day (no dark roots) might bother bald folks. There is a Veterans Day but no Returned Peace Corps
Volunteer day nobody to celebrate us. </div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
Let’s just keep the old days going and delete all the new
ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think Halloween,
Thanksgiving, and the Fourth of July are fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have a history and don’t shout out “Look At Me”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And of course birthdays are
important.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But save me from yet
another new day to celebrate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br />
I am now stepping off my high horse if I haven’t already been
thrown.</div>
Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-27583140173344176852017-06-11T13:07:00.002-07:002017-06-11T13:08:37.672-07:00My Friend, Snoopy<div class="aprompt">
Pets are humans best friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a child growing up I adored neighborhood dogs and
frequently I would bring home strays and my mother would telephone the
dogcatcher to have the animals taken away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was allergic to all kinds of animals especially cats and
would have an asthma attack to even step into a house which used to have a cat
living there.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
I dreamed about having a dog and would have been more than
delighted to have been given a puppy at Christmas time or my birthday but that
was never to be.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDkI_EvIySdbmrJ-msFp3CrVy2trH2FfNoxIpr8BVDCnlF2OXPduVIIsSNhyhGRlkbevJQhCXU1IwXTI4W2KaTLwY74JRRaUXFXsebRFFYGRf2l1k2QFlJN28oVd6yQUc7Ocfd6F4Grf8/s1600/Snoopy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDkI_EvIySdbmrJ-msFp3CrVy2trH2FfNoxIpr8BVDCnlF2OXPduVIIsSNhyhGRlkbevJQhCXU1IwXTI4W2KaTLwY74JRRaUXFXsebRFFYGRf2l1k2QFlJN28oVd6yQUc7Ocfd6F4Grf8/s200/Snoopy.JPG" width="200" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
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<div class="aprompt">
How I envy friends who have companion animals in their lives,
but am so thankful that they have shared them with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take Snoopy, Annie’s Border Collie, who
greets me with ecstatic enthusiasm - a complete display of unconditional love, and
tries to talk to me, probably saying things like, ‘It is so great to see you
Lucy, you have made my day, I am thrilled that you have come to visit. So glad that you are here.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
Yesterday he bound up onto the sofa
where I was sitting and gave me a French kiss before I knew what was happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took him about 10 minutes before he
settled down to take a nap on the rug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He had had a wonderful morning going to the park, running and running in
the rain after a Frisbee and then plunging into the lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had taken on the day full force in
spite of the weather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One has to
learn from dogs to enjoy every moment.</div>
Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-49467920530439828052017-05-08T12:14:00.002-07:002017-05-08T12:14:29.764-07:00A Beckoning Train Whistle<div class="aprompt">
In the distance she could hear the call of the trains and
considering her current status in life she was about ready to pack her
bags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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She had just spent the last five weeks with her husband in the
ICU at the USCLA Hospital, where he finally succumbed to his deteriorating
body, too old to fight the battle, his soul was willing but his heart was
spent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there she was now a
widow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surrounded by supportive
adult children and grandchildren she didn’t have to lift a finger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They took over the house and the kitchen
like an invading army getting everything in order. </div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
There were things to attend to, finding photographs from the
past, sorting them in order of events that were important to the departed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The NY Jets is the family church and
everything they could find to display was out on display, the Jets flag hanging on the
side of the house, the “Go Jets” banner strung across the driveway, Jets
jerseys worn by everyone, Jets earrings, tennis shoes, hats and even a real Jet
helmet, and a miniature Jets pick up truck with doll house furniture to display
a tailgate party was featured.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
Everyone was invited to the life’s celebration party, two open
bars, tables of food, ice chests filled with beer, wine and soft drinks were
offered to the guests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
bartender, waiters, and house manager from the departed favorite's watering hole came to offer their respects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>People told great stories about the honoree and gales of laughter
ricochet off the mountains and all thorough the neighborhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stood among all of them greeting
each one and thanking them for coming. She looks frail and spent but her
character is one of grace.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
After the crowds left well past the appointed hours, she stood
outside on the deck and heard the Starlight Express clicking over the tracks,
then she knew she had to pack her bags and start an adventure, one of hope,
peace and pleasure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was on her
way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-45284084319826336272017-04-21T16:30:00.000-07:002017-04-21T16:30:15.783-07:00Remembering Jerry Ward<div class="aprompt">
His poor old body was a
shipwreck but his eyes were the eyes of a ten year old. He was grizzled, failing
eyesight, slightly stooped but inside he was still a kid. He never complained. </div>
<br />
<div class="aprompt">
Twice a week he would take the city bus from his house on the
hill down to the water to the Santa Barbara Sailing Center to rent a rowing
scull. It was white with two long
oars and included a rear view mirror so that he would not bump into anything. </div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9hEmhXuf4SUmTjPDZKaZQiR4Jj15_uICREvsWUWAUgb-wvB39LtdqdtZN-bkB9kqZlCKeuRsCSA9ZkW4HBg1ew8stnDvkyYmLsdFOSFQc6QbwFzWUxPM5Y03JNZXExQwCkQQDmtemlkX/s1600/Jerry2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9hEmhXuf4SUmTjPDZKaZQiR4Jj15_uICREvsWUWAUgb-wvB39LtdqdtZN-bkB9kqZlCKeuRsCSA9ZkW4HBg1ew8stnDvkyYmLsdFOSFQc6QbwFzWUxPM5Y03JNZXExQwCkQQDmtemlkX/s200/Jerry2.jpeg" width="138" /></a>He loved that little boat and everyone who saw him were delighted to
see him having such a fine time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He pretty much stayed in the marina as the waters in the SB channel can
get a little choppy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
Once his little boat had been lowered and he had been assisted
into the boat he would grasp the oars and set out with a rhythmic pattern feel
the pressure on his legs, enjoying the easy movement over the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was reminded of his boat on the
river in Connecticut and as a boy he would take it out just about every day in
the summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he got older he
built a Lightening with his dad and they sailed it on the Sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a grown man he graduated into a
39-foot ketch and often sailed with his family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He never lost his love of the water, such a soothing effect
on an overworked creative mind.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
His life was a metaphor for open waters, choppy and even
at times chaotic but he always managed to get safely back to port.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At times he wavered into unknown waters
to test his skill but returned to his dock with the knowledge that he should
stick to his known routes.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
He was adored at the local watering holes with his positive
nature and gregarious personality.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
He was a sailor at heart right up until the end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His little boat is at dock now, filled
with white rose pedals a testament to his life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
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<div class="aprompt">
RIP Jerry Ward 1932-2016</div>
Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-73916405247745565432017-04-15T16:09:00.000-07:002017-04-15T16:09:48.872-07:00Easter Hat Shopping<div class="aprompt">
It was getting pretty close to Easter Sunday and Pandora was desperate for a new chapeau. Harriett’s Millinery Shoppe on Harrison Street
had a large display of new hats and Pandora must have stood looking in the
window for a half an hour before entering the store. </div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
When she opened the door a little bell rang and Pierson
Crumly, Harriet’s awkward young nephew, was on a tall ladder busy dusting the
shelves and he stopped, overcome by Pandora’s beauty.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
“Morning, Miss,” he said shyly.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
“I’m wondering if you might let me try on the pink and white
stripped hat in the window,” she said.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGijwdUgZoF7J0qy2etYCnp44tV3q2TiUJPcqB3_EUq-dJPTINzdaxWQkSsyq6QUcWCxvFovjcqtNWEHPfLole3fQJO6T1O-jfW1ovC0H2KLf135av8OqL7FYU6eDNh7iU3s883XBuBJR/s1600/IMG_1447.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGijwdUgZoF7J0qy2etYCnp44tV3q2TiUJPcqB3_EUq-dJPTINzdaxWQkSsyq6QUcWCxvFovjcqtNWEHPfLole3fQJO6T1O-jfW1ovC0H2KLf135av8OqL7FYU6eDNh7iU3s883XBuBJR/s320/IMG_1447.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
“Certainly, Miss, I’ll get it for you,” and he jumped off the
ladder to rush to the window to retrieve the hat.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
Pandora puts on the hat and admires her reflection in the
mirror on the counter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
arranged different hat angles and particularly likes it tipped forward on the
left side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She takes a side gander
and seems pleased with the effect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
“Could you please tell me the price?’ she says.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
“Yes, Miss.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
reached inside the headband and finds the price tag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s $13.50,” he says.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
She looks disappointed and trying to gage the reason says” It
is very becoming on you and will certainly be a prize hat a the Easter Parade.”</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
“I like it very much but only have $12.00 in my purse.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
He tries desperately to appease her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Oh, silly me, we have a sale on today and it is only twelve dollars.”</div>
<div class="aprompt">
Pandora breaks into a big grin and searches through her
purse for the correct amount.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
“Thank you, sir, for telling me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was afraid that I couldn’t afford it.”</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
Pierson places her hat in a big box, puts it in a shopping bag
and hands it to Pandora. She turns quickly and leaves the shop.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
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<div class="aprompt">
Pierson places the $12 on the counter, reaches into his
pocket and adds one dollar and 50 cents to the pile of coins, picks them
all up and opens the cash register and puts the money inside and closes it. The
register says: “$13.50.”</div>
Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-56883375183798162572017-04-08T16:22:00.002-07:002021-08-01T14:10:54.007-07:00RobertaSue Fashionista<div class="aprompt">
<i>RobertaSue is a character (who insists that her name is all one word but two capital letters) who came to me over time through daily writing prompts. My two writing buddies and I have to use the prompt in the first line, set the timer for seven minutes, then write away until the alarm goes off. This prompt line was, "Her hats and clothes speak volumes."</i></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
Her hats and her clothes speak volumes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know where RobertaSue gets her
taste but it is as though she has never looked at a copy of Vogue, Elle, or
Glamour to get some fashion ideas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She does all her shopping in at Goodwill, Value Village and the Funky
Jane’s in Fremont, and thinks she is dressed to the nines always, but I don’t
want to break her illusion because she is the most entertaining sack of
feathers and fabric I have ever seen on one person.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
She is outrageous and I don’t want to cure her of that because
she has so much fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She spends at
least two days a week shopping for her frocks and her closet is filled with hat
boxes putting Hedda Hopper to shame.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
<div class="aprompt">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOypkiazdHdfY8QsxDdR0vOi1ZMzsFLM9FeaYUBIMrdIUhzdtfwaRPoPAEDopmdTqmnKH4mintZTidCWcA_9Vmlv3EYG8jkDdatHUIO95s_FtQlX9fwKPe6M6Sry09sLrJmo1ln3Tj-UAB/s1600/RobertaSue+1.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOypkiazdHdfY8QsxDdR0vOi1ZMzsFLM9FeaYUBIMrdIUhzdtfwaRPoPAEDopmdTqmnKH4mintZTidCWcA_9Vmlv3EYG8jkDdatHUIO95s_FtQlX9fwKPe6M6Sry09sLrJmo1ln3Tj-UAB/s400/RobertaSue+1.jpeg" width="151" /></a>But mostly she looks like
a hat rack escapee from the Daughters of the Revolution meeting hall. Her
favorite outfit currently is a canary yellow-two piece serge suit, with a
chartreuse collar and a huge Panama hat with blue and green Macaw feathers,
looking like the beautiful bird just crashed into her head at a high rate of
speed.</div>
<div class="aprompt">
<br /></div>
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<div class="aprompt">
We were invited to a high tea at Mrs. Farnsworth’s house on
Sunday and RobertaSue trying to impress this grand dame of town suited up in
what she thought was her most stylist outfit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to say that it certainly was a major fashion statement
not to be imitated by anyone in the future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wore a pair of Gucci gold leather platform shoes with
five-inch tall rainbow colored soles with neon pink and purple thigh
highs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had a blue and red
plaid pleated mini skirt stopped off with a white blouse and blue velvet blazer
trimmed in gold braid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her hat was
very tall and dripping with yellow and blue tulle a contender for first prize
at the Royal Ascot Week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>RobertaSue thought she looked like a sophisticated English school girl
but came across as a Champion Costume mannequin wantabe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She means well and certainly brightens
up a dull rainy afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mrs.
Farnsworth has impeccable English manners and didn’t bat an eye when RobertaSue
walked in, or I should say tittered in, on her thick-soled shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Several ladies were stifling their
merriment behind gloved hands and tried not to stare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I for one found this costumed performance a riot and had to
give RobertaSue credit for having so much chutzpah and greatly livened up what would have been a
prosaic gathering.</div>
Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-19041646007350821642017-02-04T13:00:00.000-08:002017-02-04T13:00:38.613-08:00Seattle Women's March<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSxyBJW4HhfI-rh8yckwAFgub758ct5lUtIhf9ike3S8YXGEhIdEQT6Y62bBbLgvSlAlu5VXcJdvScF7p3q5IZOhJ1ZwnDBPwaVPciG9NqSdzL6EzMpe4GlnY_qMqSMaERAiGhPxvtdJJO/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSxyBJW4HhfI-rh8yckwAFgub758ct5lUtIhf9ike3S8YXGEhIdEQT6Y62bBbLgvSlAlu5VXcJdvScF7p3q5IZOhJ1ZwnDBPwaVPciG9NqSdzL6EzMpe4GlnY_qMqSMaERAiGhPxvtdJJO/s200/6.jpg" width="200" /></a>It was a doozie of a crowd, women, men, boys, girls, babies and dogs all walking into the Seattle Center after their epic three and a half mile march. Just imagine an enormous river of people, 120,000 strong<br />
(Seattle Police Department estimate, but organizers said it was more like 150,000) , marching along carrying the most wonderful hand painted signs. In any case it was a lot of folks for sure. <br />
<br />
They were a civil crowd with the most imaginative statements, hand painted on signs all obviously having learned their civics lessons well. They made me proud.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4L5UNUNQVEVbF-hZUxgDK-UvuiCl01NLhsRlZCGRGnFI4TAer9Yjx2-oA-URrLCsNgtqjGbyCh1RcGkMwdRpqx98EVOaqvKUlVbv1_BBflQXkq26ptHWnSxyXtYNzkg7t2YLLe0xc8fTp/s1600/P1110097.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4L5UNUNQVEVbF-hZUxgDK-UvuiCl01NLhsRlZCGRGnFI4TAer9Yjx2-oA-URrLCsNgtqjGbyCh1RcGkMwdRpqx98EVOaqvKUlVbv1_BBflQXkq26ptHWnSxyXtYNzkg7t2YLLe0xc8fTp/s320/P1110097.jpg" width="198" /></a>It was wonderful example of a grass roots wave of discontent done in the most respectful way possible. Thank you fellow Washingtonians for speaking and displaying your minds.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiZ7Fd29uai1cHoevwaBowgfsEHeyqJBf0BD2kpzNh6ijxhbbpPop2FisJeiUNL8Jv7q0qb9DclgfaaomRRSWmi-_BC4SYnEXnmhHiMPV02zmZUAR5RZBbNV98DYowzoLhI5rldofFGftX/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiZ7Fd29uai1cHoevwaBowgfsEHeyqJBf0BD2kpzNh6ijxhbbpPop2FisJeiUNL8Jv7q0qb9DclgfaaomRRSWmi-_BC4SYnEXnmhHiMPV02zmZUAR5RZBbNV98DYowzoLhI5rldofFGftX/s320/7.jpg" width="240" /></a>Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1121951666735211865.post-9496782833616633692016-12-19T16:48:00.000-08:002016-12-20T12:53:54.988-08:00Made My day, too.<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 18px;">I was at the Trader Joe’s on Queen Anne this afternoon and I was waiting for the elevator to go down with my cart of groceries to parking. A gentleman also with a cart held open the elevator door for me gesturing that I should so in first. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT80u9xha9hG7Kf0ulwAfovfpE7FPyoLKZn4fmdJa2ac39fwK9XZNQI-pNdCgmQwM41wz8nLaKw8O-1eJPTx4Xnb9vm3qguQMtFKmm8KiWOH06EExpCYKt4gV0KupZ7Svfuwt-D9xQAsUU/s1600/Panettone.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT80u9xha9hG7Kf0ulwAfovfpE7FPyoLKZn4fmdJa2ac39fwK9XZNQI-pNdCgmQwM41wz8nLaKw8O-1eJPTx4Xnb9vm3qguQMtFKmm8KiWOH06EExpCYKt4gV0KupZ7Svfuwt-D9xQAsUU/s1600/Panettone.jpeg" /></a>Once inside I noticed that besides groceries he had two large Christmas packages wrapped beautifully. He said that they were Panettone from his country, saying it was hard to find. I know that Panettone is an Italian sweet bread and I said , “Where are you from?” thinking he would say some place in Italy and instead he said, “Peru” and I said, “No me diga” (which means “Don't tell me.”) And I couldn’t help it so I started to sing the Peruvian national anthem. I could have bowled him over as his expression was priceless and he joined me me in the second stanza.</div>
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We walked our carts to our cars and he started to sing a popular Peruvian song which I didn’t know and I started to sing a huayno. He was stunned.<br />
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Of course the conversation came around to where I learned the anthem and told him in Peace Corps training we had to know the whole song before we left for Peru.</div>
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We chatted amiably through the parking garage and he had those wonderful manners of Latin Americans. We shook hands and he said, “My family won’t believe me when I tell them that I met a woman in the elevator who sang the Peruvian national anthem! You have made my Christmas no, even my New Year’s. Thank you so much.” He was still shaking his head in disbelief as he got into his car.</div>
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Lucy Harthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05079099213177396666noreply@blogger.com1