Angie: June 2005 Archives

Ok, Dave, this one is for you! Crockpot Corn 1 large bag frozen corn 8 oz cream cheese 1 stick butter salt and pepper to taste Melt cream cheese and margarine in microwave. Spray crockpot with vegetable spray. Put melted cream cheese and butter in crockpot. Add corn, salt and pepper. Cook in crockpot for two hours on low. Happy cooking. And it is delicious. Kate's Meme Threes Three nicknames that you have had: Angie, Angie Pangie, Lovie Three things you like about yourself: I am morally grounded, I know when to remove myself from a situation, I know when to keep my mouth shut. Three things you don't like about yourself: my weight, my inability to say no when I should say hell no, I worry too much Three things that scare you: dying while my children are young, watching Colby spread her wings, being a new mother at 39 Three of your everyday essentials: watermelon, ice water and the couch Three things you are wearing right now: pink nightgown, panties, glasses Three of your favorite bands growing up: Van Halen, AC/DC, Billy Joel 2 truths & 1 lie: my glasses are rapsberry pink, I do not get along well with my sister, I hate chocolate Three things you can't do without: watermelon, Steven, the children, I have to add a/c -it is HOT people! Three things you most certainly can do without: groundhogs, moles and ignorant people Three places you want to go on vacation: Australia, Fiji, Italy Three things you want to do before you die: travel, see my grandchildren, see all of my family accept salvation I am tagging Judy, Mistress Mary and MommaK. You don't have to do it but let me know if you do. Stats How do I know who is reading? My website provides server stats. I think you can scoot over to sitemeter and set up a free account to track your visitors.

If you didn't read yesterday's post you should scroll down and read it first. I once thought if I should ever have another child I would do it the old fashioned way. I would use a midwife and a doula and have the baby at home. No hospitals. No drugs. Maybe even do it in water. I even talked to Steven about it before and after we married. Right down to him delivering his child. He wasn't really comfortable with the idea but said he would be willing to learn and at least try -for me. I understood his unspoken fears about childbirth and all things it involves. We talked about him being uncomfortable and his need to grow into the idea. Deep down I knew what I wanted and felt a little hurt with his lack of full blown acceptance and enthusiasm. We worked through those long middle of the night conversations and reached a place we were both comfortable with the possibility. When I started looking for an OBGYN I also looked for a Midwife. Our health insurance carrier did not list any midwives and I could only locate one through the state directory that was even close to where we are now. So, for the moment I shelved the idea. I chose a provider through our insurance plan and made the appointment. I had no idea who the doctor was I would be seeing yesterday. I only knew from a bio that he was a pro-life doctor in business for 30 years specializing in tubal reconstruction. Which translated to me as devote catholic who would NOT be interested in performing a tubal ligation after this was all said and done. Which was okay, we had agreed that baby or no baby, when I reached 40 the end would be here and Steven would have a vasectomy. Yesterday, I walked across the burning pavement. Heat rose up to meet me and hit me in a wave that turned my cheeks red and made sweat pour down my face. I reached the front door of the office building just as a woman with several children pushed the door open to exit. I stepped aside and a kindly old gentleman came up at that moment, held the door for the lady and her kids and gestured me inside. I said, "Thank you," glad for the manners and the refuge of the coolness behind the glass door. The older man stood at the elevator and punched the up button while I searched the building directory looking for the office I was to be in. The elevator opened, he ushered me in again and I punched the floor button I needed. He stepped in went to push a button and said, "Well, there isn't another need to push it again." A little small talk as the elevator doors closed. I glanced at his name tag. Looked again. "I think I am going to your office." "Let's get you in then, " he smiled, but not too friendly, just politely. I went into his glass doored office and straight to the receptionist desk. He disappeared behind a door into the inner sanctum. I filled out paperwork but before I was halfway finished the nurse said the doctor was ready and I could finish the paperwork after my appointment. I was impressed all ready. I had been in the office only minutes and was being taken back. I did the pregnant woman bathroom cup routine, had my weight checked, blood pressure, etc. and was led to an examination room. About 2 minutess after I was on the table sans bottoms and a sheet over me there was a knock at the door and the nurse peeked in saying the doctor would be right in. 30 seconds later, the doctor came in followed by a petite dark haired woman. "Do you mind if Anna joins us?" a hint of an accent. "No, not at all." "Anna is our certified nurse midwife. There is a good chance she could be the one delivering your baby." Full Irish brogue! "Oh, that is wonderful. I have been considering using a midwife instead of an OBGYN. This just makes a visit to your office even better for me." 15 minutes later I was walking to the Explorer, cell phone in hand, trying to climb into my heat box and call Steven at the same time. Moral to the story: When you unselfishly think of the other half who is in this game called marriage, God provides the answer to both of your needs and you don't even have to lift a finger. I got my midwife. Steven got his PhD. Doula: The word, "doula," comes from the Greek word for the most important female slave or servant in an ancient Greek household, the woman who probably helped the lady of the house through her childbearing. The word has come to refer to "a woman experienced in childbirth who provides continuous physical, emotional, and informational support to the mother before, during and just after childbirth." Dave: I have that recipe for you. I'll post it tomorrow. Kate: I'll do the meme tomorrow. P.S. Thank you for the name suggestions. If it is a girl we already know her name. Steven and I both have a grandmother who was very dear to each of us. Both have the same name. Should we have a girl she will be named for her two great-grandmothers.

Before Steven and I met face to face we talked on the phone every morning, every night, more and more and more. Eventually we were talking several times a day and hours and hours on the weekend. It was nothing for him to call at 7pm and we would talk till midnight or later. In that time you get to know a person and to trust their words according to the tone of their voice. I knew up front he never intended to marry again or to have other children. I chided him often. I would tell him how much of a disservice he did to himself banning everyone from his life based on the shitty experience with his ex-wife. I told him one day a woman would come along and be worthy of his heart. He shouldn't deny himself real happiness. Eventually he grudgingly agreed maybe someone out there was worthy of his trust and devotion. About a month later he said to me, "One day I am going to ask you to marry me." I believed him. We talked about children. He once told me that he never wanted another child. For several reasons. One children are used as weapons by some women. Two he didn't think he could love another child like his first. Three he didn't think J. would grow accustomed to impact of another child, so he didn't plan on having another. I could fully understand the first. I told him the second was a crock. Love grows it doesn't take away. The third I got angry with him. I told him if he ever met a nice woman that he could he should tell her up front so she can walk away if she so chooses. I fussed about how he was letting a child make decisions for his future and the future of the woman who did come into his life. About a week later he told me he had given real thought to the issue and concluded once again I was right. He had never looked at it that way before and it was in no way fare to the woman who might win his heart. Eventually he did ask me to marry him. Then he bought us a farm and moved us back to the country where I belong. He also gave me a great cool car the day after Mother's Day. We have lived happily every after. Until a few weeks ago. I have been very sick. Tired beyond tired. Snotty nose, slight cough. As my symptoms worsened and I became sicker each day I decided I should make an appointment to see a doctor. I knew without a doubt what the diagnosis would be. Steven would not believe it until a PhD confirmed it. I have been on the couch for the past two weeks. Sicker than sick. He has been so worried. I went to the doctor today. I married a geek I met on the net. And then we bought a farm. And then he gave me a cool car. And then he gave me a baby. Shhhhhhhh ... I am not supposed to tell anyone until the family knows but I can't keep quiet any longer. It is our secret. O'kay?

To all the Journalists I read: I can't see your haloscan to post a comment. I have read everyone of your posts. I just cannot comment! ******* Take the MIT Weblog Survey. Someone set me the link in email so I took it. Jo over at Counting Sheep has it up today, too. It is not hard. Go get busy. Snap to it. ******* I am so pleased with the international readership of my journal. Look at all these places you lovely people hail from: United States Austria Australia Canada European Union France Germany Great Britain Isreal Italy Japan Netherlands New Zealand Norway Mexico Papau New Guinea Portugal Poland South Korea Seychelles Sweden Taiwan Attn Italian readers: how about leaving some recipes? I need something new and delicious! Attn MIT readers: Aren't you afraid of being dumbed down by being here so often? Not that I am complaining. No way, not at all. Keep coming back as often as you like. Attn US Military readers: God Bless YOU!! Attn US Gov't readers: Are you reading at work? On tax payers time? Hmmm? To the freak searching for "pictures of whippings": please go away and do not come back. To all others here searching recipes: I have recipes! Tell me what you want and I'll post it.

Steven - resident geek, Chief Technology Officer of his firm, husband, lover, my best friend, age 36. Angie - Me! Wife to Steven, Mother to Colby and Gracie, Stepmother to J., daughter, sister, christian, writer, historian, peacemaker, crafter, gardener, cook, cheif bottle washer - to name a few. Age 39. Colby - Oldest daughter, age 18, in college. J. - Middle daughter, age 10, in fifth grade, does not live with us full time, visits every wednesday and every other weekend. Gracie - Youngest daughter, age 7, in second grade. Baby X - due this winter.

Today was to be a great day. I was to meet with this lovely lady and this lovely lady and this lovely lady and this lovely lady. However, I had to cancel those plans because the financial institute (of the buyers choice) finally arranged settlement of our real estate sale for the exact same time as our outing. However, 1 hour before the appointment the financial institute dropped the ball. Settlement was changed to tomorrow at 4pm. There was no way I could get the meeting place by the appointed meeting time. :-( How much does that suck? ******* I missed Blackbird's Show and Tell Friday. She wanted to see our handwriting. Here is mine. This is the beginning of the planning list for Steven's Birthday Party on Saturday afternoon. His entire family will be present.

MommaK and Aka_Monty have declared it Blog Super Hero Weekend where we should invent a super hero for ourselves. Hoss has dubbed me Wonder Woman so here I am.
Wonder Woman Armed with her bulletproof bracelets, magic lasso and hair bigger than the state of Texas, Wonder Woman is the archetype of the busy mom, domestic engineer and all around doer of good. She is intelligent, strong and possessive of a softer side likened to a feather pillow. Despite being one of the more powerful members of the Justice Society (aka Parental Unit League) she is the group's social secretary.

After my first experience with motherhood and learning things about the person I was married to I had fully resigned myself to the fact that I would not have other children. When it is wrong to bring another living being into the world, when that child will not have the best of both parents, you turn off the alarm on the ticking clock and forget the best you can the dream of having a flock of children. Had I married the right person the first time I would have many children. At the age of 30, finally I thought things had changed enough, evolved enough, that having another child would add to our lives. That having another child would continue this good path we were walking. I made the conscious decision to have another child. So we did. Previously I had agreed to try again at surrogate mothering. I had in-vitro that resulted a viable pregnancy. My body however could not do it. I had developed an intolerance to the hormone therapy. We had switched from injection to micronized forms in suppository method. I got sicker every day. I developed a yeast infection from hell and eventually my body just gave up. I miscarried what we believe to have been triplets. For me that was the end. I did not have it in me in try again. My body bounced back very quickly. In the following months I got pregnant by choice. In no way did it having anything to do with being a surrogate in the past. It had everything to do with saving my marriage. I really thought having another baby at this point in my marriage would solidify the newfound goodness, bring us closer together and make us happier. It was like starting over. I am not suggesting these are good reasons to have a child. It is the reason I did. Being a mother at 31 is so very different from being a mother at 20. At 20, regardless of how grown up you think you are, you are still a kid in so many ways. I know I was. Having a baby at that age I had a choice to grow up and be responsible or not. I chose to grow up. A lot of my growing I did with Colby. It was all trial and error with a great big learning curve. I learned how to be a mother to and for Colby. When Gracie was born in no way did the learning stop but I was already mother. Most everyone will tell you that after the first time it is easier with a second and successive children. You have a pretty good idea of what to expect. You have confidence in caring for a baby. You know that name brand diapers (back then) didn't mean anything and it was ok to use a cheaper diaper in the day time. You learn that saying no very early does not cause deformation of their growing little mind. You know that eating dirt in the sandbox will not give your child stomach worms. You just know instinctively how to do the job. I also belive you don't question yourself near as much. You begin to trust your judgement. At 30 we had a very nice home, filled will lovely furnishings. We had the cars and some money. We weren't struggling to make it like we had ten years before. I had grown as a person. I was confident in myself. I had developed a bit of patience far beyond what a 20 year old ever has. At that age I was ready to be a mother. Being a mother is physical. Being a mother is emotional. Being a mother is spiritual. In the past I had been all these things over a period of time. Having a child at that stage in my life being a mother was all of those things at the same time. Motherhood was wrapped up in a great bundle where the physical, emotional and spiritual came together in this big swirling vortex of oneness. To be continued ...

In the fall of 1993 I met a lovely woman 8 years older than I. We became friends very easily. We had similar backgrounds growing up in the south. We believed in the same fundamental principles of what children should be in our lives. We had been taught the same religious beliefs. We also believed marriage was forever and divorce wasn't an option. I worked in a little business near where she lived. We would often meet for lunch. She would come into the business and take care of whatever was on her list of errands. We saw one another alot. Her story was one that made my heart ache. She had lupus. The antibodies she developed attacked her heart and kidneys and also was the cause of many miscarriages. For those who do not know lupus is an autoimmune disease. The body sees many things as an enemy and produces antibodies to fight off what it sees as infection and sickness. The normal ability of our body to mask our pregnancy so that our bodies do not attack the fetus is supressed. Therefore the baby is seen as foreign matter and the body attacks and kills it off. Just before we met she had undergone another round of infertility drugs and egg harvesting. Her experience with a prior surrogate had used up all the embryos she had stored in a clinic in California. She was willing to try once more. She and her husband where both well trained professionals who had made their semi-fortune, traveled the world and lived a rather exotic life. At this point they wanted a baby, had the money to use the means available by modern science to try. Because the husband was 40 they had been denied adoption. She was (and still is) open minded and a very loving and giving woman. She has never been selfish and some call her a guardian angel. Many never will know where the miracle of help came from. It is just her nature. She helps those who cannot help themselves and never asks for anything in return. Surrogacy was something I had read alot about. I even knew it something I would do in the event it was presented to me and the people involved met with my own personal scrutiny. After a lot of praying, thinking and talking, I picked up the phone one day and called her house. I told her if she was willing to take the risk with me I would be willing to be her surrogate. In many ways it was a very easy thing to do. In others it was the most difficult. If things worked out I would be entrusting another woman with the life of a child -her own flesh and blood. This is not something to take lightly. Motherhood is a responsibility like no other. Even though she was older than I it was an area where I had experience and she did not. After a few months of prayer and thinking herself she called me back. Yes, she was willing to take the risk on me if I was willing to take the risk on her. This was the beginning of the longest friendship of my adult life. We shared the same dreams of what motherhood should be. We were (and still are) so much alike. I went through more tests than you can imagine. Physically and mentally I was turned inside out, looked at from every angle and needed legal representation to enter into the program for surrogate mothering at the fertility clinic in California. I passed muster. The doctor once commented how much alike we were biologically. I had many of the same antibodies she had, even the ones that gave her lupus but I did not and do not have lupus. We have the same hair color, eye color, fair skin, blood type, rh factor. It is amazing really. The doctor said that was very rare to be so similar and we had a good chance of a positive outcome because being so similar my body would be less likely to reject her genetic material that was an embryo. May 1994, all things were a go. We were waiting daily for my period to start at which point the hormone therapy would begin. I started my period on May 4th. That afternoon she came to my house and gave me the first injection of estrodiol valerate -.25cc packed in oil every 3 days. Each week I would be required to go into the doctor's office and have a sonogram to look at the growth of the unterine lining. I went to the lab and had blood drawn to determine if my body was accepting the synthetic hormones and rising steadily. By the time a week rolled around we were in California at the clinic waiting for the doctor to decide if implantation of the embryos were possible. My blood levels were excellent. The lining of my uterus was four times the required thickness for implant. The doctor agreed I was healthy as a horse. He also encouraged us not to get our hopes up. So many things could go wrong so early. On day 7 a call came to the hotel we were staying in and the doctor ordered the injection of 2cc progestrone daily. This causes a change in the uterine lining that makes it sticky so that an embryo has a chance to latch on and grow to a viable pregnancy. Essentially we were fooling my body into thinking it was already pregnant. Women do not produce high amounts of progesterone until an actual pregnancy takes place. The morning of the in-vitro we prayed. We went to the clinic. She stood by my side and held my hand. The doctor came in and gave me the vaginal exam with the 'little pinch' that actually caused the cervix to open a tiny bit. (That is why we sometimes spot after a gyn visit.) A lab technician came in with a syringe and a long but tiny catheter. Gravity is all that was neccesary for 5 living embryos to drain from the syringe and into my body. The embryos had been frozen for over six months. They were the product of her eggs and her husbands sperm. Of seven that had been thawed, 5 were living at the moment. There is no way I could give away one of my eggs. I believe those types of surrogacy are dangerous. They are also the types that appear in the news when the surrogate mother refuses to give up custody of the baby after birth. We came home. She came everyday and gave me the shots. The two weeks waiting for the pregnancy test was the longest in the world. They day I got the results I went straight to her house. The minute she opened the door I started crying. Her face dropped thinking the worst. "Hi, Momma," I said through sniffles. I do not think I have ever seen a person more filled with happiness and joy than seeing her at that moment. For 14 weeks she came to my house and forced 2cc of the progesterone packed in sesame oil into the mucles of my hips. For 14 weeks not only did I have the all day long morning sickness but my body was developing an intolerance for the progesterone. It was chewing it up like wildfire but at the same time it was making me sick. It took nine months AFTER the birth for the deep muscle bruising and the tenderness to leave my hips. She took care of me the entire time as if I were her child. She brought me food. She cooked supper and dropped it off. She made all the clothes I wore. I guess at this point I should tell you that she was retired as a clothing designer. She made me clothes from the fabrics she had collected from all over the world. I was far more fashionable than any of the young women these days will hope to be. Everything was custom made for me, my body shape and size, my skin coloring, my hair. A shipping package would arrive and I would open it to find maternity bras, jeans, a winter coat I could button even at 9 months. Sometimes I would even get flowers and letters from her mother thanking me for making her daughter so happy. She went with me to every doctors appointment. She was scared to touch me and knowing how pregnant women hated to be touched she never asked to feel the baby move. I knew she wanted to so I would take her hand and lay it on my stomach and she would laugh and cry at the same time. We shared EVERYTHING that concerned the pregnancy. I wanted to make sure she wasn't left out of the one thing she wanted more than anything in the whole world. The experience of being pregnant was lived through me. January 27, 1995 I delivered a healthy bouncing baby boy two weeks ahead of my scheduled delivery date. It was a hard day. The labor was induced. It was so slow going. She convinced me to take the epidural and not to be brave. They gave me way too much and I went completely numb from the hips down. I could not even move my toes. This caused labor to slow down. After 12 hours my doctor came in and said, "Let's get this over with. You have suffered long enough." He ordered the putossin to be pumped up then he looked at me and said, "You can push through this and get it over with. Ready?" God, yes, I was ready. He took one leg and bent it up as far as my knee would go toward my chest, one hand gripping the back of my calf the other gripping the bottom of my foot. He instructed my husband to do the same with my other leg. He told me to use the hand grips and when he gave the word I was to push with everything I had in me. 20 minutes later a baby boy was being cleaned up and he was putting stitches in -3 sets inside and 2 sets outside. Later I would notice the 2 sets of hand prints that shown in bruises on the backs of my calfs. This baby's shoulders were wider than the circumfirance of his head. We later found out both of his collar bones broke during delivery. I remember hearing a pop that had given me so much relief just before he was completely out. No worries, he healed completely and perfectly. Just maybe I pushed too hard. We don't know for sure. The physical part was grueling. The emotional part is beyond most people's understanding. I knew from the beginning this baby was not mine. His flesh was not of my flesh and there was no difficulty in going home without a baby. She stayed with me at night at the hospital. I pumped and she bottle fed him. I filled out the paperwork, the lawyers came a couple hours after the delivery with the adoption and custody papers. The legal part in no way took away from the joy of the event. I was the vessel through which God performed a miracle. It is one of the best experiences of my life. On his birthday I would get flowers. When he was old enough to draw I was sent artwork he had made. We talk on the phone and he knows who I am. We have a wonderful relationship and she has never once tried to keep him from knowing me. One fall after they had moved to Florida where the father is in private practice she came up for a visit. We sat at my table and had lunch. This beautiful little boy looked at me and said, "I know momma is my mommy. But you are my momma too. You loved me before she held me but she loved me before you ever knew me." All we could do is look at this beautiful boy with tears streaming down our faces. A five year old knew more than any adult ever could. I know this post is bogged down in details. They are important details to this story. I know this post is long. Please bear with me. You see, being a mother is so much more than a physical thing. It is spiritual. It is a conscious effort to be responsible for a life other than your own. It is a chance to give a gift, a gift of life and love. It is a chance to step beyond the bounds of everything you know and be somebody better than you ever dreamed you could be. It is also the hardest thing to do. Colby understood the baby was not ours. She never questioned it. I made sure she understood everything that was happening. I don't think my mother completely understands why or how I did it. She accepts the fact that for me being a mother and childbirth are not the same experience she had. My sister thinks it is the most amazing thing she has ever witnessed. My grandmother never understood. It pulled us apart for a long time. My grandmother did not understand the advances and the ability of modern medicine. She could never grasp the concept of science that made it possible for me to have another woman's baby. She always believed I gave away my baby with no thought to what I was doing. Eventually time passed and it was pushed back into the far reaches of her mind. She didn't ever talk about it again. But until the day she died she believed I gave away her greatgrandchild. Nothing could change her thinking. My only regret, and I have very few in this life, is that I could never make her understand it was not my baby. He wasn't my child to keep. He wasn't a baby born in my heart. My body was a vessel and he was not of my flesh. He is her baby. Her flesh. Born of her heart long before he ever came to be born of my body.

Growing up all I ever wanted to be was a mother. In high school I went through all the career goal stuff and picked journalism and law as directions I might someday seek. My love of history came much later. Deep down I just wanted to be a momma. Secretly I had this dream. A most perfect and rose colored image of what my life would be. I would marry a great guy with a simple yet beautiful wedding. He would work and I would stay home and raise my babies. We would get through life together and in the end we would find a away to be financially stable. Our children would grow up to be intelligent people who traveled and saw all the things in the world to see and would come home to tell me about their lives. I would sit on the front porch and rock my grandbabies. Life would be perfect in an imperfect world. I was 18, young and dumb. I had this image of motherhood that was live and in technicolor. I would be a most loving and gentle earth mother. I would grow vegetables and herbs. I would tend my flock of children, teaching them all the things I knew. We would do homework at the family table. We would take summer vacations. Life would be grand. Then I got pregnant at age 20. I still had the ideals and dreams of this life that was to come. Dear heaven, someone should have told me in advance what was to come. I might not have believed them but someone should have bellied up to the bar and shed some light on real life! Being pregnant was not easy. I was so god awful sick. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. ALL. DAY. LONG. No one warns you about being sick! I was so sick I could hardly hold my head up. It took most of the day to motivate myself to do anything. Laundry piled up. Dishes didn't get washed everyday. I was drowning. The least little thing would set off my gag reflex. I dreaded brushing my teeth. I knew it would make me physically sick. I had to brace myself and plan for teeth brushing. I had to prepare myself for the sickness to come after and then brush my teeth again. It was a grueling ordeal to wade through. Then one day I wasn't sick anymore and everything was almost normal again. The morning and all day long sickness is a filthy trick Mother Nature plays on a woman. The next six months was spent making baby clothes and blankets, pulling together a nursery and planning for this beautiful little creature that was coming into my life. People were generous with showers and gifts. It was indeed a lovely time. I read all the books. I understood exactly what was happening to my body and the complete development of my baby. The earth mother thing kicked in again and I was determined to do it the old fashioned way - no drugs. Just learning to breathe to control the pain. Natural childbirth was my choice and I was determined to carry it through to the end. Did I tell you I was young and dumb? The night I went into labor I realized what a big damn mistake I had made. Natural childbirth is not pleasant. Holy hell I would have killed someone for drugs to make the pain stop. At one point I remember begging for just a little something because I knew I was going to die and I didn't want to die screaming and writhing in pain. I did not scream. Not one time. I clench my teeth together to the point I broke one and later ended up having a crown put on it. Mother Nature might be a bitch but there is a God in heaven. He saw my misery and delivered me from the pit of hell that childbirth pain is. In no less than two hours and fifteen minutes what had started had come to a full end. I held my new baby in my arms and then AND THEN the doctor gave me something for pain! He also explained to me that at a certain point there is no turning back and pain medication shouldn't be given. I think they tried to tell me while I was begging but it did not register at the time. Within hours I had lost my mind again. I went home 36 hours after Colby's birth with all of these glorious plans of the perfection of motherhood I would carry out. Somebody should have taken my rose colored glasses and stomped on those damn things until they were nothing but crushed metal and shards of glass. Hours after going home I was in a rocking chair crying my eyes out while this red faced baby screamed and nursed. The image in my mind is likened to huddling in a corner with red eyes and rocking back and forth mumbling mindless babble. I kid you not! No one told me about stitches. No one told me about constipation. No one told me about blisters from letting a baby nurse at will. What was I supposed to do? A baby that is nursing is a baby that is not screaming. To top it off I was scared to death! I was scared I would break her! I was scared I would do something so wrong she would be scarred for life. No one tells you anything! Babies do not come with instructions! How is a young woman to know what to do? Thank God for my mother who came to my rescue. Every evening after work she came to my house. She did chores. She helped me take care of Colby. She taught me how to bathe her and burp her and she brought me cream for the blistered nipples that were an ungodly sight. Now there is more to this than just telling you a story. I have been following a couple of blogs written by soon-to-be first time mothers. God save these young women. They know NOTHING! They think they know what to expect. Oh no, they don't know jack and are in for a rude awakening. I actually feel sorry for them. There is no class that will ever prepare them for motherhood. There is no book that will tell them that lettuce and broccoli and onions will give their breastfed babies so much gas that they will screaming for hours. There is nothing that gives them an acurate picture of things to come. No one has told them that $300 diaper bags are a waste of money. No one told them that a $700 stroller is throwing money at foolishness. No one has told them they would be better off using that money to hire help to come in for at least a couple weeks to wash dishes and clothes and floors. I see the obsession with skinny bodies and fear of stretch marks. No one has told them that in a few months they will be more concerned with using a tucks pad and A&D ointment. No one has told them the fear of peeing for the first time knowing there is a string of stitches in the area. No one has told them about cramping until you think you will go blind. No one has told them about the weeks after when there is bleeding like no period they have known before. Some have been warned about a babies need to breast feed every two hours. They have no idea how extremely tired they will be trying to recover from birth and then getting no sleep because a baby needs to feed. They don't seem to understand you better catch some sleep while the baby is sleeping. Even more so they don't realize how assinine they look dressing their pets up in baby clothes pretending how it might be. Every birth story is unique. We women share them like battles fought. The basics are all the same, no matter who you are. Childbirth is hard on your body, mentally and physically. You do not go back to work after a week. You don't pick up where you left off. Everything changes. Unless maybe you are independently wealthy. You know what the saddest part of it all is? You can tell them EVERYTHING and they think you are kidding or exaggerating. Some even reply with "Ewwww." Even sadder are the ones who are giving advice about birthing and motherhood. How can you give advice about something you don't know anything about? Thank God we do not stay young and dumb forever. One more thing. To all the soon-to-be mother's who might read this. No one wants to see photos of shit covered babies. No one wants to read about the shit and the puke. Stop now before it starts. You will suffer a major loss of respect. Plastering the internet with those types of things makes you look like ghetto trash. It is not pretty and it is not funny. It is the MOST disrespectful thing you can do to your new little family. Thank you in advance for not doing this.

Our youngest, Gracie, has declared herself to be 19. Since the finish of the school year she has aged from 7 to 19. 12 years into the future she has lept. She has declared herself to be so smart that she will skip the next few grades and will go to 7th grade next school term. She sees no humor whatsoever in our laughter. You can't explain how funny a 19 year old in 7th grade is. She gets rather offended by any explanation. Also she has declared herself as the example of fashion that we all should follow. She loves to give fashion tips. Can you imagine how lovely we would all be dressed in lucite slides and wearing a sheet as a long trailing cape on our next trip to the grocery store? Yesterday she became a food critic. She informed us that nothing is lovelier than a grilled cheese sandwich dipped in tomato soup. We should have it for supper often. "This is truly a lovely thing," she quipped as she lounged on the couch in the above attire. Such a sophisticated child! She thinks men with moustaches, tattoos and motorcycles are the best. They are the kind you marry, don't you know. She believes houses should be white with red roofs. She is going to buy the neighboring farm so she will always be close to home. She is going to have at least 5 babies and bring them over every night to say goodnight. She also wants to know if I will leave Red to her in my will. At supper she listens intently to conversation and interjects random comments. When no one is talking (rare) she informs us we should be conversing. She insists she must be involved in all supper table conversation otherwise it is rude to not have something to add to the current topic. I thought I would post some of the funnier bits of things she has said lately. Gracie: What's that stuff Colby uses on her hair? palm something. Me: Pomade. Gracie: Oh, I thought it was palmolive. As to my dentist appointment - Steven: If the dentist concurs... Gracie: Yes, if the dentist eats curry... Gracie: May I have some of that tabby ocra? Me: Some what? Gracie: The tabby ocra in the frig, can I have some? Me: *Going to look in the refrigerator* Gracie: See? Some of this. Me: *hiding laughter* You want some of the tapioca pudding? Gracie: Yes, tabby ocra, please. As you can see she has great command of language, fashion and food. She certainly has a mind of her own. She looks like my mother. She acts like my grandmother. She is full of devilment knowing which buttons to push when to reap the greatest reward from her sisters. When we hear "GRACIE!" being shouted from upstairs we simply look at one another. There is no telling what she has done to the one hollering her name. This child is our bohemian. She is part gypsy and firefly. She lights up a room simply with her presence. She dreams HUGE. She laughs loudly. She grips my heart in her small hand and has no idea the power she has over me.

To Whom It May Concern, I live in central Virginia. By definition I live in the South. Not the Deep South like when I was in Georgia but still the South. This means that June in the South is hot Hot HOT. Hot means the temperature should be in the 90's, edging toward 100. It should be humid. It should be an oppressive heat that makes your lungs labor in the humidity to draw in each breath. We should be stressing under the heat. We should be covered in a fine sheen of sweat. We should be moving slowly and complaining to everyone about how hot it is. Heat should be the main topic of conversation every place we go. We should be testing the heat of the pavement by frying eggs on the sidewalks. We should see very old men in straw hats wiping their brow with fine white handkerchiefs. We should see older women who have left their slips at home and grocery shopping in just their cotton dresses. There should be so many kids at the public pool that when you drive by it looks like some huge bowl of cannibal soup. We are not Not NOT. Our weather report reads: Yesterday's low 57F high 73F Today low 51 predicted high 84F Record low 48F in 1954 Do not get me wrong Wrong WRONG, I am not complaining! I am loving Loving LOVING this weather. I am enjoying being chilly in the morning and evening. I am very happy not to be glazed in a sheet of sweat, seeking a/c and drinks with plenty of ice. Who did what that caused hell to freeze over? Will you please keep doing it? I am really loving this weather!! Thank you for whatever it is you are doing that is giving us this lovely updraft of cool air blowing off the icey glaciers from hell. Sincerely, Angie

If you can be fired for what you post on the internet ... If schools can institute Privacy Policies preventing photos taken at school of other children being posted on your personal website ... If internet conversations and email can be used in a court of law for or against you ... Can child protective services use an online journal to question the welfare of a child? How much of what we read is purely for comedic effect? How much of what we read is the truth? Do you believe everything you read? Do you take things said as tongue-in-cheek? Do you take it with a grain of salt and move on? I really do wonder sometimes ....

When I was a kid Father's Day was observed the same as Mother's Day. As I grew older it became something more of an expected, unfeeling, obligation to fill. It had and still has no meaning to me. I have never experienced a relationship with a father or a dad. My parents divorced when I was 3 years old. I never saw him again until I stood over his casket in 1980. He was my father but only because people told me so. My mother remarried when I was 9 years old. My step-father was not a father nor a Dad. To him, as he voiced more than once, we were the damn kids of his current wife. Nothing more nothing less. And certainly NOT his kids, as he told many people in front of us. As far as father's and dad's go we were nobody's kids. Yet we were expected to observe the day as if he was the life support system upon which we were dependant. We were expected to give the sentimental cards and some foolish gift to honor his mean drunk assinine self. It was not a day I ever looked forward too. I often wondered what it was like to have a real dad. Someone who loved you and stood beside you come what may. To this day I have not and do not have a male figure in my life that was anything close to my need and expectation of a Dad. As far back as I can remember I would tell myself that when I grew up my children would have a Dad, a REAL dad. Everything would be happy and hunky-dorey -the Hallmark sentiments would mean something when given. My ex-husband is a complete ass. He never filled that role for my children. I always felt so badly, full of guilt, that I had not kept my promise to myself and my children suffered for it. I did not choose wisely as far as husbands go and therefore had failed my children in giving them a great and semi-perfect father. I am 38 and still wanting a Dad. I want someone who I can pick up the phone and call, asking to speak to Daddy, and hearing the voice on the other end who really loves me in that way that only father's can love their children. It will never happen. There is no one to blame. Some men just aren't Dad's and never will be. Steven came into my girl's life and stepped up to the plate to be a Dad. It was very easy for them both to stop seeing him as Steve and knowing him as Dad. I honestly do not think Gracie remembers anything much about her father. Steven is her Dad and that is that. I believe Colby has chosen not to remember anytime before now and Steven is her Dad. I find it very comical, yet so very deeply heart felt, when she greets him in her Italian, French, English, proper Brit and even hillbilly voice with "Papa". Each of them, Colby, Gracie and Steven, have stretched and grown into the skins of daughters and father. He has met the mark and surpassed it in their minds and hearts. I have watched the relationship grow and fill out over the past year. I stand in awe of the man who loves another's children like his own. In his heart he IS their Dad and that is that. Colby has this irritating habit of placing 'what if' situations on the table and wanting answers to her scenarios. What if something happened to Momma? Would we stay with you or go to granny? What if you and Momma separated? Would we still get to see you? I know she is seeking confirmation that the place she is now is safe. That she can give even more of her heart knowing it won't be broken. If something happens to me Steven will still be Dad and this will still be home. Nothing will change. There is no chance Steven and I will ever separate so the point she is trying to make is completely mute, but she has a need to know that no matter what the future brings Steven loves them both dearly and even without me he will still be Dad. I wonder when she will no longer need confirmation of the solidity of their relationship. On this Father's Day this is my message: Thank you, Steven for being the Dad to my girls that I always wanted for them. Thank you for stepping up to the plate and being the man that you are and reassuring my children that they and their hearts are completely safe with you. Thank you for loving them as if they are flesh of your flesh. Thank you for unknowingly easing my guilt from all the years past. Thank you for being the Father my children needed. Thank you for being the Dad they both so desperatly wanted. I love you.

Blackbird's Friday Show and Tell is to show something bad. That's it. Just something bad. So here is my version of bad. These are my bad-ass hollyhocks. Towering today at just over eight feet tall. They have made the path out to the gardens and koi pond a small jungle of stems, giant leaves and flowers.They are scattered in huge clumps and are blooming in shades of pink, red, yellow, purple, and orangey-peach. This is a close up of those same bad-ass hollyhocks starting to bloom. These are my bad-ass wild roses. They are climbing almost 15 feet. There is honey suckle in there too. The scent is very sweet and lightly perfumed in the late evening. This is the bad-ass koi pond beginning to bloom. The lotus plant is nearing 4 foot in diameter. This is my bad-ass 7 year old on her last day of school with her bad-ass long hair flowing in the breeze.

Judy left a comment the other day that made me laugh out loud. It also made me think of two things. My stepfather always kept a plot he would sow a mix of greens in. One year he planted a mixture of mustard greens, turnips and rutabagas. We would go out in the cool of fall after the frost had fallen and gather a good mess for supper. One Sunday morning before church I went over and gathered a bag full and brought them home to cook after church. I washed and looked and washed and looked. He never used insecticide so everything had to be washed well. Sand is an aweful thing to feel gritting between your teeth. I put the greens on to cook and came back about thirty minutes later. There floating in the top of the pot was a couple worms and a spider I had missed while cleaning. I scooped them off with a spoon and dumped them in the trashcan. The man I was married to at the time had pissed me off, which wasn't uncommon, I finished cooking supper. Colby and I ate, but not the greens. When he stumbled in later ready for his supper, I fed him the greens. I have told you a little about my great-grandmother. She was my mother's father's mother. The only great-grandparent I knew. Grandma had long hair that was steel grey. She took it down every morning, brushed it out, then she braided it into two long braids and wound them into a neat bun at the back of her neck, securing it on either side with tortoise shell combs. She wore mid-calf length cotton dresses with a silky slip underneath. She wore knee high nylons and black shoes. From the time I can remember her, age 4 or 5, until she passed away when I was 20 she looked exactly the same. In the summer time Grandma's favorite meal was fresh peas (sometimes mixed with fresh butterbeans) fried cornbread, sliced red tomaotes and a 6oz bottle of coke. I have no idea how many times I had this meal at her house but I know it was frequently. We would spend the early morning shelling peas and then Grandma would wash and look them, put them in her big pot and set them to cook. That evening they were supper. After she died, we sat around one evening, my mother with all of her sisters. We were talking about Grandma and one of my mother's sisters had similar memories that I had. Rachel was always Grandma's favorite when they were little. My momma turned to us both and said "I cannot believe you ate peas at Grandma's house. She couldn't see well and there were always pea worms floating at the top of the pot." "Don't look at me," I said, "I was a little kid! And you let me go over there!" Hahahahahahaha!! As gross as this might sound to you, it is my favorite memory of my great-grandmother. Jenny asked about sweet potatoes. This is what I do with sweet potatoes. For all of these recipes (except the fries) wash the potatoes well. Dry them. Drizzle with oil and using your hands rub the oil all over the outside making sure you coat all of the skin with oil. Place them in a baking dish. Bake at 375 degrees until cooked soft, maybe and hour to an hour and half, depending on the size of the potatoes. The skins will cook crisp almost like dry leaves. As they cool the potato will shrink away from the skin. When they are cool enough to handle gently peel away the skin. Baked Sweet Potato - You can stop at this point, slice in two and place a nice big pat of butter and sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste. This is an excellent side dish as is. Candied Sweet Potatoes - Cut the baked potatoes into nice size chunks. Sprinkle with a little brown sugar and cinnamon, add a little butter and place under the broiler until the sugar is melted and gooey. OR Cut the raw, peeled potatoes into chunks and boil until they just begin to soften. Strain them out of the water and place in a baking dish. Save 1 cup of the water they were cooked in. To it add 2 - 3 tbsp brown sugar, 2 tsp cinnamon, grate a little nutmeg and pour over the potatoes in the baking pan. Add a few pats of butter and bake in a hot oven until the potatoes are fork tender, basting occassionally. This is great to throw in 1/2 cup of raisin to the juice or a few prunes and waltnuts. Remember everything sweet needs a little salt. I salt after they get to the table. Sweet Potato Pie - Make exactly like pumpkin pie only use the cooked sweet potatoes instead of pumpkin. Use the Libby's pumpkin pie recipe. Sweet Potato Pone - Mash the baked potatoes. In a large mixing bowl add 1 tbsp butter for every potato. 1 tsp cinnamon, mix well. 1 beaten egg for every 2 potatoes, mix well. 1/4 cup cream, mix well. 1/4 cup flour, mix well. Pour into a buttered baking pan. Bake at 375 degrees. It is done when a toothpick pressed into the center comes out clean. Cool completely. Slice into squares. The end result should be firm and hold the square shape but should be creamy when you bite into it almost like the texture of a moist gooey fudge brownie. Sweet Potato Casserole #1 - Mash 4 baked potatoes. Add a couple tbsp of butter, a tsp or two of cinnamon, 1/2 cup milk and spread in a buttered baking dish. In a bowl take 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1/2 stick of softened butter and cream the sugar into the butter. Mix in 1/2 cup chopped pecans. Sprinkle this over the top of the sweet potato mash. Bake at 375 until the toping is a nice tender crust. Sweet Potato Casserole #2 - Mash 4 baked potatoes. Add a couple tbsp of butter, a tsp or two of cinnamon, 1/2 cup of milk, 1/2 cup raisins and spread in a buttered baking dish. Bake until just done. Remove from the oven and sprinkle mini marshmallows over the top. Return to the oven and bake until the marshmallows are toasted. Sweet Potato Baby Food - bake the potatoes. Allow them to cool completely. With a fork mash them until they are creamy. Feed your baby. Sweet Potato french fries - peel the potatoes, slice lengthwise into strips like regular french fries. Deep fry, sprinkle with salt. Serve with Hamburgers and ketchup. My kids love these. Please note, these recipes are not with exact measurements. These are done by feel. I might use more brown sugar based on the potato. Taste the potatoes after you have baked them to judge their natural sweetness. In the deep cold of winter I like more cinnamon. In the late fall I like less. You can really adjust these to fit your specific taste and preference.

Yesterday's post was in response to questions asked from this post. Thank you all for the lovely comments. This is not an advice column but today I am going to give some advice. I firmly believe life is what you make. I built the life I want to live. 1. If you don't like your life: Change it. 2. Stop giving other people permission to take away your joy. No one can take anything away from you unless you give them the power to control you. Those who choose to live life depressed, sharing sadsack tales with the 'oh woe is me' attitude, blaming everything and everyone for what they think is wrong with themselves has given permission to another person to take their joy. No one can take anything from you unless you let them. 3. For those who are married: You owe it yourself and your spouse to get your shit together. No one wants to carry your load all the time. Marriage is a shared relationship of responsibility. Sometimes it is your turn to carry the burden. Don't wait to be asked. Get in there and do your part and don't gripe and complain about it. Good marriages do not just happen and are not pulled out of thin air. They are built day by day. You have to work to have a good marriage. It does not come naturally. A marriage and each person in that marriage needs to be nurtured and cared for daily. 4. For those who have children: You owe it to your children to break the cycle. So you didn't have the perfect childhood. Get off your ass and give your children the idylic childhood you missed out on. 5. If you can't get your act together on your own, seek help. If you need therapy - get it. If you need medical intervention - get it. A nervous breakdown is not a pretty sight. Get help. Stick with the treatment and work through it to accomplish a happy healthy outcome. Thank you.

It's kind of hard to know where to begin when telling someone about yourself so it seems best to start at the beginning and work your way to the present. At all times remember this one thing. "That which does not kill us makes us strong." You are not allowed to feel pity or sympathy from anything you read. Compassion and understanding is welcome. My momma knew my name before I was born. Angela Carol for a girl, Michael Laverne for a boy. Thank God I was not a boy. Laverne is an awful name for a boy. I was born August 20, 1966, about 50 miles from where I lived in Georgia in a little place called Aiken, South Carolina, home of the triple crown and southern home to those who have an affinity for horse racing. My parents married young. My mom I know could not have possibly married for love. I believe she married to get away from her parents. Not unusual, but not the best reason either. I really don't know the truth why she married him. My mother is not one to discuss the past, she often denies many things exist. She has a selective memory about some topics and I have learned to just let it go and not bother seeking answers to things that will only cause her hurt to remember. My father was in the Army. He had been in Vietnam and chose to go a second time. Somewhere along the way he went AWOL, took up drinking and beating his wife. She toughed it out a while but finally made her choice and left him when I was 3 and she was pregnant with my sister. We lived with my grandparents. She was right back where she started. What should be good memories are often marred. My grandparents were working class blue color, provided for their family by working in the cotton mills. My grandfather, former navy, WWII, was very controlling of my grandmother and when he wasn't around my grandmother flexed her muscles and tried to control everyone else. My mother is 1 of 6 children. the oldest girl, second in line in birth order. The oldest, my uncle, was married and gone and started his family the same time my mom did. I am the first born of my mother, the first grandchild, born on my grandmother's birthday. What should have been a special bond was for a long time but it grew away then back again. My childhood was typical from the outside, big family all living together in a big white house. I am 3 ½ years younger than my mother's baby brother, 9 years younger than her baby sister. We grew up like siblings, slightly skewed generations. The other two sisters were older, closer to my mothers' age but yet we had strong ties and they were like a momma to me too. It was a common southern upbringing, extended family all working together for the betterment of the whole. We were in church every time the doors where open. Summers meant gardening and lots of canning and jelly and pickle making. Everything was cooked from scratched not from boxes. I learned at a very early age to cook at the knee of my grandmother. The roles of girls and boys where clearly defined, as where those of men and women. There were many arguments between my grandmother and mother if my mom did not give into to pressure and do everything for her baby brother as if he were her child. After my sister was born, my mother worked in a cotton mill, 3rd shift, and we were left in the care of my grandparents. When times got hard, my grandmother worked and when things got better she didn't. My grandfather was an only son and the baby. His mother, also called grandma, was were I spent a lot of my summer in early childhood. I love going to grandma's and staying with her. She did not ever change. She looked the same to me from then until she died when I was 20. Grandma's house was my safe place. When I was with her no one could bother me. I remember crying and begging to stay with her for weeks and weeks on end till I was forced to go home. Grandma's house was little more than an old shack by any means. Painted white with green trim. Her kitchen had a hand pump for water and there was no indoor bathroom. She ran a little store for many years before I came along. The building stood empty by her house and was used for storage. In that store is where she kept and unlimited supply of 6oz bottles of coke. She let me and one of my cousins once a day get a coke from in the darkness of the store. We spent our days playing, listening to grandma tell stories, shelling peas or butter beans and getting turns to help cook. I was 5 maybe 6 and she let us cook or do whatever we wanted as long as we cleaned up our mess. It was freedom. The most incredible freedom to be in her tiny house. Back at home, it was controlling and restricted. Children were to be seen not heard. Sent outside and told not to bother grown-ups. From before age 3 I have very clear memories of my father. I never saw him again till he died in 1980 and I stood at his casket. I never knew him to miss him, but I knew who he was and that he had problems children do not understand and grownups do not explain. By age 4 or 5 my memories are of my grandfather. Everyone called him daddy, including me. It is all I ever heard him called and he was the only man in my life. My mother worked in one mill on the night shift, 11-7. When she had to my grandmother worked in another mill on the 4-12 shift. All of us children where in bed and sleeping when my mother left and we were in the care of my grandfather till my grandmother got home usually around 1 or 2 am. Those were very dark times. I can still hear his footsteps and the creak of the old wooden door. He was a huge man, 6'4", 240lbs easy. Back then I was a tiny girl. The things men do to children are things they should be made to die for. When I finally got the courage to tell I was punished in true southern fashion with a leather strap to the backside and a scolding about the evils of children going to hell for lying. I soon learned it was easier to take the abuse and not tell than to tell and get a beating for lying when I was telling the truth. From age 4 to 9 I have black spots in my memory. I learned to go away inside my head and live someplace else while it was all happening. There are times I distinctly remember having no recollection of weeks passing. It's all black. Lost time. Salvation came, I thought, in the form of the man who married my mom when I was 9. But I went from one form of abuse to another very quickly. They married quickly, moved us away to Georgia. The very nice man who was going to be our dad gave us his true colors in less than a week. He was a mean drunk and didn't give a damn about anyone but himself. At age nine I went from living in a town with city blocks and sidewalks and the school across the street to living on a farm in the middle of nowhere and riding the bus to school. I was an extremely nervous child. My mom provided little emotional support, although she did take good care of us in all other ways. I knew she loved me but my mom was and still is at times the kind that thinks money will buy you peace. She said I love you all the time and we knew she was the one who loved us, but other than that, she did all she could to survive and that left little for us. He was the meanest drunk you can ever imagine. Beat her any time he got upset about the least little thing and on more than one occasion tried his best to kill us all. We were put to work in a way we had never known, feeding and breeding cows. Working in hay fields, cornfields and any other kind of field he planted. If you complained, you got whipped with his belt. If you didn't work fast enough you got whipped with his belt. If you did anything a child does, you got whipped with his belt. His temper was ferocious. He didn't know when to stop when he started and usually stopped only when his arm gave out. My sister was the tiniest thing you can imagine. If he had hit her he would have killed her I am very sure. The sight of seeing her hurt that way was something I could not take and often I put myself between him and her and took her whippings. I found out I was made of stronger stuff than he. I refused to let my knees buckle and I never let him see me cry. By the time I was 13 or 14 he gave up. He couldn't break me. The next few years passed in a whirl. I went to school, got a job, and he had strokes that left him in bad shape. You get what you give, no pity or mercy. I graduated high school, turned 17, worked fulltime and woke up one morning to hear him having a fight with my sister. My mother was in the hospital having just had back surgery, he decided to be a bully and things ended that day with me packing up everything she and I owned, and leaving without looking back. We had no place to go and ended up at my grandparents. A couple months of that place and I had an apartment in town, worked double shifts and my sister decided she wanted to be with my mom and went back to hell. I never looked back. There was no love lost there and I stayed away. My mom would come to visit when she could and I could tell though she never said the stress was killing her. After a couple years I did go back, but not to their house. I moved back out in the country in my own place, less than a mile from her and she was happy. There was a silent agreement to disagree and get alone and by the time I was 19 my stepfather had mellowed, stopped drinking and was trying to repair his health and had learned to treat my mother as something better than a doormat. She did leave him once, and that shook up his world badly. I think he feared living alone more than anything. My father died of some strange cancer and I will never believe they were not from exposure to things in Vietnam. My grandfather too died of a very uncommon form of cancer which is believed to be chemically induced exposure in his job of 30 odd years. My stepfather, he suffered many years of heart problems and died one day out in the woods while hunting, so far away from a town or city no one could have saved him. Everything comes full circle sooner or later. The piper always has to be paid. No matter how painful, I have dealt with them all, gotten past it for the most part. I have my head on straight and my heart in the right place. I survived. It made me strong. I try not to carry anger and blame. Those who are cruel to children have their own hell I think. All 3 of those men suffered agonizing deaths at the hand of their Creator. Revenge was His and he took it. But I got to watch. Cruel, yes, but it put closure to a lot of things in my past. To this day my mother doesn't believe things happened. And that is okay. It is how she manages to get along every day. One of my aunts and I have talked. She believes me. She has faced her demons and knows the same truth I know. We are far better for it. Living in denial breeds problems. Ghosts linger to follow you everywhere you go. Shining a light in those dark corners banishes them and they can never hurt you again. The major result of my past on my present is how overly protective I have been of my girls. I watch everyone with an eagle eye. Hurt them and you answer to me. I have tried very hard to give them a great childhood full of memories that can never be painted black. They will never know anything but a childhood filled with laughter and loving. The way it should be. You might say I took the bad parts out of my past and gave to them everything good and kind. The childhood I wanted is the childhood I gave to them. Each person in my life has helped to make me the person I am now. I am strong. I am confident (most of the time). I am in control. Often I am thinking one step ahead of most given situations. It may sound as if I am a control freak and weary of everyone I meet but that is not what I mean. It is like waiting in the wings and being readied to intercede should something go wrong. Everything and everyone has helped to make me the woman I am and to those people, the good and the bad, I say thank you. The past prepared me to be the very best mother for my children. It has also made me a damn good wife. My whole life I think was working to get me to here. Here and now with a husband who loves me unconditionally. Who supports me in every dream I dream. Who promised me before he married me that I would always be free, cherished and loved. Free to do anything I wanted, to never be controlled or forced to do things against my better judgement and will. Cherished in the way Jesus loved the church, unselfishly and without jealousy. Loved -oh I am. I don't take one minute of this life for granted.

I have been tagged by Missus Judy over at Just Ask Judy to complete this meme of childhood memories. The rules: Remove the blog at #1 from the following list and bump everyone up one place; add your blog's name in the #5 spot. You need to link to each of the other blogs for the desired cross-pollination of your chosen blogs. 1. Soliloquy http://nbond.blogspot.com 2. Lyvvie's Limelight http://lyvvielimelight.blogspot.com 3. The Cerebral Outpost http://thecerebraloutpost.blogspot.com 4. JustaskJudy http://justaskjudy.blogspot.com 5. Home Grown http://www.bigredcouch.com/journal/ Next: select four new friends to add to the pollen count. No one is obligated to participate. I'd love to see what these people have to say about it: 1. Mistress Mary - http://mistressmary.typepad.com/my_weblog/ 2. Kate - http://www.adailydoseofpower.blogspot.com/ 3. MommaK - http://petroville.blogspot.com/ 4. Susie Sunshine - http://underpaidkeptwoman.blogspot.com/ I would have chosen Flat at The Complete Flat but he is killing meme's. The man has excellent stories of his childhood. Now, please write about five things you miss from childhood. 1. Summer meant being free from school. It also meant that there was a large period of time in which I could go stay with my grandmother. My grandparents did not have air conditioning and the days in her big old house were hot. Her kitchen was humid by midday. She always started the big part of her daily dinner in the very early morning when the air was cool so as to have time for it to cool down before finishing up and putting the meal on the table. I was always in charge of making a tossed salad. She and I were the only ones who ate it. I never saw my grandfather eat one bite of salad. She would say, "Put everything in it. I like it with plenty of things mixed in." So in went the lettuce and tomato, cucumber and radishes, little green spring onions or chopped red onion, bell peppers, green and/or red. Whatever was in her refrigerator. Salad was always eaten with Thousand Island dressing. I was a teenager and spent the night with a friend before I knew there was any other kind of salad dressing. She passed away last September, I can never go back to those days when I would pick up the phone and call her, saying, "You know the (insert food item here) you made when we were kids? How do I make that?" Her recipe would never have measurements. It was all trial and error judging a scoop of this or a nice handful of that. Liquid was hard because she would say add just enough so that it looks like .... whatever, oatmeal, cornbread mix, dough, thick grits, syrup. I always managed. No one has the recipes of grandmother like I have. My momma has some but not the quantity that I have. Most are metally filed away. Many times I use this journal to chronicle the things she taught me. 2. Miss Rachel was the wife of one of my step-father's friends, Mr. Luther. They lived in the older, quiet, upper crust section of Augusta, Ga. When I wasn't with my grandmother, I was at their house with their daughter, Ann, who was 1 year older than I. I would stay a week at the time and then Ann would come to our house and stay a week with us. In Miss Rachel's kitchen I learned about streak-o-lean and the very best vegetable soup that could be made from summer garden produce. The ultimate creamed corn came from her hands. I was 13 years old and she let me take over her kitchen while she observed and directed in her patient manner. I miss Miss Rachel, Mr. Luther and Ann. Miss Rachel passed away a few years ago. Mr. Luther passed away a few years before her. Ann died when her brother-in-law lost it all and went bizzerk and shot them all after finding his wife was cheating on him for the hundredth time. It was a very sad demise to wondeful people who made my childhood better than it should have been. 3. I miss the innocence of childhood when money meant relatively nothing. We were not poor and we were not rich but we didn't really know the difference. After my mother remarried we lived a very simple life. I do not miss the things that happened in those first years. What I miss is the ignorance of youth. Not being able to put 2 and 2 together and seeing the picture of the life we had. Itg many ways it sad and cruel. I try not to linger on the bad and that makes the good even more sparkling clean. 4. When my mother remarried we moved away from my grandparents house. That move meant I would never get to spend another night with my great grandmother. In her kitchen that did not have running water and we pumped it into buckets from a hand pump I learned about cooking peas, butterbeans and eating them with red sliced tomatoes all washed down with a 6oz. bottle of coke. The real thing. I do not miss how mean my cousin was to me when grandma took a nap every afternoon. She would go inside on the pretence of getting something and then when grandma was asleep she would lock me out of the house. I was left to sit on the steps until grandma woke up and got to looking for me. I think she was jealous of having to share grandma. She lived with grandma, not with her mother. Unless I was around it was only her and grandma and she always got her way. Things were different at grandma's house. Everything was done the old fashioned way. No indoor plumbing, no running water, chickens that had to be fed and eggs collected. I can close my eyes and see the tiny white and green house and hear the chickens calling in the morning. My grandma died the year my oldest daughter was born. She only saw her great great grandchild a few times. I have one photo of 5 generations of our family all together. (Please note grandma in this paragraph is in reference to my great grandmother. I called my mother's mother and my grandfather's mother both "Grandma". Everyone knew which one you were speaking of at the moment and there was no confusion.) 5. I miss running barefoot through fields and playing in the creek below our house in Ga. The water was ice cold and cooled you down really quick. I remember being so cold playing in the water and by the time we walked the half mile back home we were so hot and sweaty we would turn around and go back. The creek banks was nothing but red Georgia clay. One time my uncle, 3 1/2 yrs older than I, was down for the summer. We played in the mud and ended up having a mud fight. It was in our hair, ground into our clothes and streaked up and down our arms and legs. Momma made us wash under the hose pipe in the yard when we went home. Then she had to bleach us to get the red stain out of our skin. It did not all bleach out. We looked like our indian ancestors for about a week. Oh, my momma was mad. Mad as a wet setting hen. We didn't get to go to town with her at all while we were stained. It was one of the best summers ever. We would pick our shirt tales full of hogplums. We also would walk across the fields to old Mr. Corley's plain white farm house and he would send us home with a big watermelon. You should have seen the two of us each trying to carry a watermelon nearly as big and as heavy as we were. Those were the days of real innocence. Momma would put the melon in the refrigerator or set it down in the freezer for a couple hours to get it cold. After supper we would sit outside and eat huge slices of watermelon with salt. There were never left overs. Momma hated watermelon in the refrigerator after it was cut. Not only did it leak juice but it gave everything the taste of melon. We ate ourselves silly on red ripe watermelons nearly every evening. It seem like most of my childhood memories are closely tied to food. Especially cooking. I guess that is because in the era I grew up in eating was a social event and almost everything was prepared from scratch, not boxes and frozen bags. We started the day together at the breakfast table. In those days there was always at the minimum 7 people eating together. Everyone was also expected to be at the supper table, no excuses. It was a time of the day we looked forward too. We didn't get snacks in the day. We only ate at mealtimes, so yes, we were hungry, but it was the time when we were all together and bowed our head in prayer together. I still require the same now. Everyone sits at the table together. We talk about the day. The kids laugh and tease. Steven is terrible about doing gross things at supper to make the kids laugh. Things have even fallen as low as noodles being flung across the table. We are making memories by the ton.

There have been a few comments in the past that have cast a pale light on one of the best southern delicacies to be found. I will have you to know we have a secret and only those truly in touch with the way things are done in a southern kitchen knows that secret. Well more people know it now since those Food TV celebrities chefs cooks have started to let the secret out of the bag. Damn them all! Their grandmother's should haunt them all the days of the rest of their lives for that folly! It was our secret, it is what separated us from the pretenders and the wannabees! With that said I am going to teach you the proper and delicious way to prepare grits. Real grits. Not hominy. Not cream of wheat, Steven! To those who have never had a real bowl of properly cooked grits stop turning your nose up as if I have asked you to eat brussel sprouts batter fried and buttered with shit. If you follow this plan of action you will have one of the best breakfast or supper items known to mankind. At the grocery store, on the cereal aisle, look for Jim Dandy Quick Grits or Quaker Grits. I prefer Jim Dandy but Quaker will do. Buy the smallest amount, usually a one pound bag or canister. Once you have discovered the beauty of this simple food you can return and stock your larder with the big five pound bag. They will not go to waste. Store them as you would flour or sugar in an air tight container. By God you better not buy those damned disgusting INSTANT grits. Ackkk!! For a serving of grits you are supposed to use 1/3 cup uncooked grits for every person you are feeding. Let me warn you this is a big serving. I suggest 1/3 cup uncooked for an adult and 1/3 cup uncooked per two children with a good appetite. There are generally four of us here for breakfast on a daily basis. J. is only here on weekends and has a small appetite. I cook using 1 cup of the uncooked grits. The liquid is 1 1/3 cup of liquid to every 1/3 cup of uncooked grits. For my family that is 1 cup uncooked grits and 4 cups of liquid. Disregard the package instructions that says to use water. This is where the knowledge of a southern kitchen comes in to play. Use milk. The lactic acid in the milk helps to soften and plump the grits and makes a very creamy end product. Into a pot: 1 cup of grits 1 cup of water 3 cups of milk 1 - 2 tsp salt Bring to a slow boil, stir so they won't stick to the bottom of the pot. A scorched serving of grits is disgusting and the stench is offensive to the nose. Turn the heat down low to simmer. Cover and cook slowly for about 20 - 25 minutes, stirring occassionally. (Believe me there are no 'quick' grits.) Even at a low heat they can stick. Some cooks add a couple tbsp of butter to the pot, I don't. butter is for serving. When your grits are creamy thick (and you may have to add a little bit of water as they will steam and cook too thick before they are done) remove the pot from the heat, cover and let rest a few minutes. Hot grits will peel the skin off your hands if you are not careful. To serve: test for saltiness. Grits require a lot of salt like potatoes. Add a little until you get it right for your pallet. Remember you can add more but you can't take it out. When you serve them, in a bowl or a plate, put a nice big pat of butter right on top. Mix it in and let it melt. A little black pepper and some scrambled eggs and toast - you have a meal fit for a King. The grits are even better if you grate a little (or alot) of cheese over them. We prefer cheddar. But I have used whatever cheese is in the refrigerator at the moment. Once you have mastered the ability to cook delicious creamy grits you can move on to other masterful recipes. Experiment with garlic. Garlic and cheese grits are excellent. You can mold them in a loaf pan and cut into 1/2 inch thick slices and fry them in with a little of the drippings from ham. You can make brown gravy and serve on the side with chipped beef. Salmon and eggs with grits is to die for! If you really get the hang of the unique and delicate nature of grits you might try a whole ham stuffed with turnips and grits and baked till done. The sky is the limit. My favorite breakfast/supper in summer or winter is nice plate of creamy grits and a ripe fresh tomato sliced paper thin with salt and black pepper. Mmmmmmmm. Now that's good eats! Hoss, don't turn your nose up until you have had a REAL masterfully cooked dish of grits. Grits. It's what's good for you. Flat - Duke's is serious business. My kids (nor I) will eat any other kind unless I make it homemade. This is what you will find in my pantry. It was a proud day when Steven asked, "Where's the Duke's?" when making himself a sandwich! He will not admit to being converted. Yes! The one gallon size. We don't have time for quart jars!

When I was growing up it was common for fish to be served on Friday. For some it was a religious observation but for where we lived it was just a southern thing. Almost everyone I knew had a mom who made fish for supper on Friday. It was always on the menu at school lunch on Friday. It was also a feature of most of the family style restaurants in our part of the world. We always had fresh fish. Back then we had an 18 acre 'pond' which was really a small lake by other people's standards. It was at the very back of the back field and was fed by a creek. My stepfather kept it stocked with bream (red bellies and yellow bellies), blue gill, crappie, large and small mouthed bass, warmouth, channel catfish, yellow catfish, butter catfish -just to name a few. We spent alot of warm evenings and summer Saturdays fishing. We always had a mess aplenty and far more than we could eat. The extra went into the freezer for those cold winter days when a good fried mess of fish would sooth the soul. Momma always had a good mix of fish on the table. A few catfish, a few bream mixed in with big pieces of bass filled the platter. She would make homemade slaw, fry some hushpuppies and french fries and call it a meal. There was always homemade tartar and cocktail sauce, malt vinegar and ketchup on the table. We were and still are condiment people. What a meal it was! In the winter grits even showed up on the table. I tell you one thing, nothing is better for breakfast than a mess of fresh catfish and a plate of grits. My kids grew up eating it. I think it is one reason why they are so darn healthy. We'd go down at daylight and catch a mess of catfish, come home and clean 'em and by 8am breakfast was on the table. In the summer months if there had been a run to Savannah or Beaufort there would be shrimp on the table. Momma boiled the shrimp, iced them down until they were cold. She served a hot baked potato, a tossed salad, saltine crackers and all the shrimp you could peel and eat. I don't rightly know if you would call it a tradition or a habit but I try to serve fish on Friday to my family. It might be a nice salmon or tuna grilled with lemon and dill. It might be broiled scallops and flounder with butter and garlic. It might be fried fresh fish or shrimp. Yesterday was Friday and we had fish. Fried ocean perch fillets, shrimp, tossed salad and a baked potato. I made the tossed salad because I forgot to pick up a head of cabbage. I prefer coleslaw to salad with fried fish. Today's recipe is a couple recipes. Try it. I think you will like it. Fish Breader I do NOT batter fry fresh fish. That is just a sin! 1 cup yellow cornmeal 1 cup flour 1 tsp salt 1 tsp black pepper Cayenne pepper to taste. Mix well in a ziplock bag. Lightly salt and pepper the fish, roll them in the breading. Fry in a deep pan of rolling hot oil until golden brown. The left over breader can be kept in the freezer until you want to use it the next time. Usually I mix just enough for what I am cooking. You can make as little or as much as you like just remember equal parts of yellow cornmeal and flour. Some people use plain cornmeal to roll the fish in but I prefer a less gritty coating on my fish. The flour makes it real nice. You can use the same mixture for any type of fish or shellfish if you plan to deep fry it. You might even still find cooks who use cracker meal. I don't. It is just not to my liking. Tartar Sauce 1 cup mayonnaise 2 - 4 tbsp dill pickle relish 1 tsp very finely minced onion 1 dash lemon juice 1 dash worcestershire sauce Mix well. Refrigerate before serving. Cocktail Sauce 1 cup ketchup 2 - 3 tbsp prepared horseradish (not creamed) 1 - 2 tsp Texas Pete 1 dash worcestershire sauce Mix well. Refrigerate before serving. Coleslaw 1/2 head small cabbage, shredded 1/4 - 1/2 small onion finely chopped 1/2 cup dill pickle relish 1 tbsp sugar 1 tbsp vinegar Salt and pepper Duke's Mayonnaise Mix the sugar with the vinegar and pour over the cabbage. Mix well. Add pickles, onion, salt and pepper. Mix well. Use the maynnaise sparingly but start out with a good heaping spoonful. If you need more add it. This part is really how creamy you like your slaw. I don't buy those prepared mixes for slaw. I don't think the cabbage tastes the same in comparison to a fresh head you have shredded yourself. Sometimes I add carrot, sometimes I don't. The carrot doesn't really add anything but color. Hush Puppies 3/4 cup white cornmeal 1/3 cup all-purpose flour 1/2 teaspoon baking powder 1/4 teaspoon baking soda 1/4 teaspoon salt 1/2 cup buttermilk or good dark beer 1`whole egg 1 small to medium onion, peeled and finely chopped Mix all dry ingredients. Add the egg, liquid and onion. Mix well and set aside for a little while to rest -at least 10 minutes. The cornmeal and flour need to soak up all that liquid to make a good tender bread. Drop by a rounded tablespoon full into hot oil. They should float up to the top quickly. Stir them around letting them brown on all sides. Drain on paper towels. Serve hot. I really miss having a place to go fishing. Where I am now I don't know of any good fishing holes and how odd to think for the first time in my life I would need to purchase a fishing license. There is NO PLACE to buy fresh fish in this county. I am seriously considering becoming the local fishmonger. Grocery store fish cannot compete with a fresh fish you have caught yourself. What do you serve on Friday? Is there any particular meal you make a habit of serving on certain days? Sunday dinner is whole nother matter and deserves a post of its own. Which I know I will get around to writing soon. Bon apetite, ya'll! Side note: We had to go up to Prince William County early this morning to cut grass. Thank heavens the sale is final in 2 weeks. On the way up I-95 south was backed up for miles as slow moving traffic. When we headed back home I-95 was a complete standstill as far as you could see. We hopped on Hwy 1 south hoping to get around it. It took us 2 1/2 hours to drive a normal 1 hour drive. I could not believe the mess and did not see one accident on I-95 to explain the problem. On Hwy 1 there was a bad wreck near Aquia but it was completely clear when we came through. I am so glad I no longer have to fight that mess everyday.

I sat in a 10th grade English class. The teacher passed out paper still slightly damp from the memeograph machine. The purple print at the top read "Required Reading". A bunch of the kids groaned But secretly I was excited. Back then it wasn't 'cool' to be an avid reader. My eyes scanned words on the paper, title of books I had never heard of, all in alphabetical order. 1984 - George Orwell Animal Farm - George Orwell As I lay dying - William Faulkner Brave New World - Aldous Huxley Catch-22 - Joseph Heller Catcher in the Rye - J.D. Salinger Death of a Salesman - Arthur Miller Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury A Farewell to Arms - Ernest Hemingway For Whom the Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway Great Expectations - Charles Dickens Gulliver's Travels - Jonathan Swift Huckleberry Finn - Mark Twain Ivanhoe - Sir Walter Scott Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte Lady Chatterly's Lover (abridged) - DH Lawrence Little Women - Louisa may Alcott Lord of the Flies - William Golding Moby Dick - Herman Melville Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen Tale of Two Cities - Charles Dickens The Call of the Wild - Jack London The Crucible - Arthur Miller The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald The House of seven Gables - Nathaniel Hawthorne The Lord of the Flies - William Golding The Old Man and the Sea - Ernest Hemingway The Red Badge of Courage - Stephen Crane The Scarlet Letter - Nathaniel Hawthorne To Kill A Mockingbird - Harper Lee Tom Sawyer - Mark Twain Wuthering Heights - Emily Brontë Selections to be read on approval: Henry David Thoreau Walt Whitman I can't even begin to remember everything on the two column page. I read several of the books in the first six weeks. When asked what a particular book was about Mrs. D. would tells us to read it and find out for ourselves. She gave the analogy that it would be like telling what was in a wrapped present before we had a chance to pull the pretty ribbon and rip into brightly colored wrapping paper. I believed her. Over that year I hopped around the page picking from the titles in no particular order. Around mid-year I chose To Kill a Mockingbird. For me it was the BEST present ever! I fell in love with this book. I read it over and over. I can't even remember how many time I read it. I still have that book and I still read it periodically. I have seen the movie more times that imaginable. I also fell in love with Gregory Peck. I related very closely in many ways with this story. Growing up in my grandparents house it was very easy to put myself in the place of Scout. I was familiar with the setting of the deep south. My uncle, 3 1/2 years my senior, was my Jim. The neighborhood boys interchanged as Dill. We didn't have a Calpurnia but still the setting was so familiar, the conversation so real to life, the thoughts of a child so clear to my way of thinking. Our Boo Radley was Wyman, the neighborhood drunk. He looked just like Otis on Andy Griffith Show. In later years, as an adult, I was shocked to find out Wyman was married to the lady who lived in the house directly opposite our house across the back ally. I also learned Wyman was his last name. I never found out his first name. Mrs. Wyman, my grandmother called her Janet, would lock him out of the house at night and he was left to sleep in the closed in portion of the back porch. Sometimes I can recall his drunken singing as he stumbled down the dirt ally between our houses, the slam of the screen door and his loud bawling to Mrs. Wyman to open the door. She never did. He slept on the porch. Early mornings I would see her hanging out the wash on the clothes line as I helped whomever in our house do the same for us. When she went back into the house she would slam the screen door. As a child I knew slamming the screen door was not a good thing. I once asked my grandma why Mrs. Wyman slammed her screen door. My grandma told me that what other people do was no concern to children, just don't slam our screen door. Sometimes we would be playing outside and we would hear Wyman when he woke up. He would tell Mrs. Wyman not to be so loud. Often he would sit at the picnic table in the far corner of their backyard and drink coffee or what we thought was coffee. I never knew what really was in that cup. I also always felt sad for Mrs. Wyman. She worked in a cotton mill all the days I can remember. I always wonder what shame she felt in front of the other neighbors knowing everyone of us knew who her husband was. I always felt bad that he never had a job yet he was always given a place to sleep even it was on the porch. He always had something to eat. I have no idea where he got his money for his liquor but I suppose he got it from Mrs. Wyman. There is one passage from the book that always comes to mind when I think of Mrs. Wyman. "Atticus said to Jem one day, 'I'd rather you shoot at tin cans in the back yard, but I know you'll go after birds. Shoot all the blue jays you want, if you can hit 'em, but remember it's a sin to kill a mockingbird.' That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it. 'Your father's right,' she said. 'Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up peoples gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That's why it's a sin to kill a mockingbird.'" To me Mrs. Wyman was the mockingbird. I will always wondered why Wyman spent his life killing her slowly. Wyman died many years ago, long before his wife, she buried him proper and never hung her head in shame. **********UPDATE******** I thought of some more books that was on that reading list. Flowers for Algernon - Daniel Keyes Main Street - Sinclair Lewis Look Homeward, Angel - Thomas Wolfe Silas Marner - George Eliot The Jungle Books - Rudyard Kipling Treasure Island - Robert Lewis Stevenson White Fang - Jack London A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court - Mark Twain The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway Uncle Tom's Cabin - Harriet Beecher Stowe Can you believe this!!!!!??? Most frequently banned books in the USA (ca. 1994) Of Mice and Men The Catcher in the Rye The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Lord of the Flies The Grapes of Wrath The Adventures of Tom Sawyer I would prefer my children read these than some of the books I have seen on current high school reading lists. Flat - She was my all time favorite teacher. She is still teaching and I have been out of school for 21 years. She is head of the English Dept. Hoss - Most kids only read 1 book per 6 weeks to meet the demand. We had to write a report on the book and present it in oral form in front of the class. It counted as 1/3 of our grade.

I am posting this today while I have time to work with the photos. Yes, I know I am one day early. Blackbird's show and tell for Friday (tomorrow) was chosen by her son. He wants to see our front door knobs. Since I have old fashioned door knobs that are original to my house I thought I would show several of the different ones. This is my front door knob. It is in the Sears, Roebuck catalog listed as the "Emerald Design Lock and Hardware". It is a colonial pattern that was very popular at the time the house was built, 1909. It came in bronze metal finished in copper, antique copper, bronze, antique bronze or plain black. depending on the choice of color in the lockset it was priced at $9.95 -$10.05. The knobs cost extra and ran between $5.60 - $5.70. This is what most of the door knobs in the upper and lower front halls, linen closets, bedroom closets and bathrooms look like. The locksets sold in the mail order building catalog for $1.78 per dozen or as much as $4.98 per dozen. They are "Ivory Black Steel Cases" and "Japanned Iron Cases". The keys came in nickle plated steel. The door knobs were extra and cost .93 cents per pair for the pocelain knobs. Three doors have these brown porcelain knobs, the two in my bedroom and the upstairs bathroom. This door needs work. You can see it is out of alignment. This is my cellar door lock. The locks are called a "rim door latch". The door knobs cost .10 cents - .18 cents. The set cost $2.11. The enterior of the cellar door is a simple matching knob. If someone came along and slid the latch you would be/can be/will be locked in with no way out. These are the keys, original to the house, that opens these locks. Amazingly all the locks work. This is not a door knob but it is a fun feature and I thought I would share it here. This is the doorbell on the front door. You ring the bell by turning the key. It has a tinny sound, not quite like an old bicycle bell but close and VERY loud. In my house there are a total of 16 doors complete with working lock sets, 1 pocket door with just the porcelain knobs and 2 back doors with modern locks and knobs. We have 2 doors in the attic that were taken down when the 4 closets were converts to bathrooms -2 linen/storage closets made into one room each for upstairs and downstairs bathrooms. There is a doorway between the living room and dining room that needs a door. For some reason it was taken down. We will be reinstalling it but we have to find 2 of the old door knobs to match.

I like to wear pajamas. I like to wear them all day. If I didn't have to put real clothes on I wouldn't. Yesterday I washed clothes. Put them all away folded neatly. Last night I put on my blue tropical theme pj's. They are soft cotton and look like baggy shorts and t-shirt. They are my favorite pair for summer time. I haven't taken them off yet -1pm. I worked in the back yard pulling my weeds of shame and spraying round-up, in my pj's! Sometimes I know Steven wonders if I actually put on clothes all week. When he leaves at 4:30am and comes back at 7:00pm he often has left me in pj's and come home to me showered and back in pj's. I am an ametuer historian. I love research. I love unfolding the details of people's lives from times past. I love the smell of old courthouse records and really old books in the library. I am working on my certification as a bonafide genealogist. I have one year in which to accomplish this. In a perfect world I would have a PhD in History. I am the family historian and hardly anyone is interested in the things I discover. I often get ignored if I start a conversation on the subject. Steven supports me in every way and in everything I do. He even said I could go back to school and earn that PhD if that is REALLY what I want. I can't see myself doing that in the next year or two but someday maybe I will. James Madison is the most famous person of my ancestors. He wasn't that great of a president so I do not tell people. Where I live he is some kind of a hero. I think they give him too much credit. I love gardening but not pulling weeds. My back area near the porch and around the grill house is my area of shame. I have pulled weeds there until I am sick of them. I cheat and use roundup. I couldn't think of a product of the week last week for Blackbird's Show and Tell but this week I have one. It is Roundup. I read all the journals on my reading list everyday. I do not always comment. Sometimes I have nothing to say. Sometimes I have to think about it and come back later and leave a comment. Those of you who do not update daily drive me insane! Get to cracking and post something. Otherwise I have no excuse not to be out pulling those infernal weeds. I prefer natural methods of healing and formal western medicine only when neccesary. I currently have three favorite pieces of music: O Mio Babbino Caro from Puchini's "Gianni Schicchi"; Beethoven's Fur Elise; Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 2. My new favorite artist is Jack Vettriano. I was introduced to him by my friend Hope. I will be purchasing 2 lithographs to be hung over my bed in the near future. My husband agrees with my choice. I find his work to be sensual, some pieces intimately romantic and a reflection of how I feel the image of a marriage should be. The underlying romance and intimacy that cries of passionate love and loving suits my taste perfectly. I believe Alberto Vargas painted the most beautiful pin-up girls of the 40's and 50's. I am a fan and find nothing vulgar in his work. I have been to the Netherlands. I think if you travel outside of the US for longer than a week or two you aquire a new respect for the world and our country. It changed me. It opened my eyes to new cultures and new ideas. It some ways I was shocked morally. I wish we Americans could embrace the complete romance of the way Europeans live on a day to day basis. I have been in a palace as a guest for a concert -which bored me and I fell asleep. *blush* I did not embrace that moment. I am filled with good intentions. I also know those good intentions can be the road to hell.

Normally we do not go out to eat very often because I cook better than most restaurants and the cheap part of me cringes at some of the prices for the five of us to have a simple meal. We generally save eating out for special occassions and the odd saturday we are caught in town and the kids need to eat -late dinner/early supper kind of thing. Psssttt ... dinner is lunch. There are three places we like to eat at and one place we like to have carry-out. Those of you in the area would be wise to try these places on for comfort. If you are planning to visit the D.C. Metro area plan to have supper out one night at this establishment. You will not be disappointed. I owe this post to dreaming I was eating duck the other night. LMAO!! I woke up starving and could not get back to sleep so I got up and had a small cup of yogurt. Believe me the yogurt has not cured my craving for dining at this establishment. Today's feature is Peking Gourmet Inn. Peking Gourmet Inn 6029 Leesburg Pike Falls Church, Va. 703-671-8088 First off before you get your heart set on eating at this establishment call and make a reservation. Otherwise you may not get to eat. They are always busy and parking is a little crowded at peak hours. I was introduced to this little nondescript North China style restaurant the first Christmas Steven and I spent together. It is a tradition in his family to have supper there on Christmas Eve. Most of the items on the menu are typical chinese fare and most every dish is delicious. BUT... here's the but ... They make the absolute BEST peking duck you will ever put in your mouth! When the entire family is present we order 3 whole ducks as our appetizer and rarely is there much to call leftovers. The duck is tender and succulent, melting in your mouth. The skin is crip and that delicious first crunch is to die for. When you walk in the small foryer is typical, when you open the door and approach the hostess it is usually busy and crowded but as long as you have a reservation you never wait more than a couple minutes if you have to wait at all. Walking in is like being on a 60's Kung Fu movie set. The wait staff is dressed in black pants and crimson coats. Many of them are very old and very polite, rarely speaking but giving excellent service. I love it when we have Eddie as out waiter. They still serve Shirly Temples (complete with orange slice garnish and a cherry) from the bar to children. Very