Foggy Morning

All sorts of things have been said, and written, about a foggy morning, little cats' feet and all that.  I'll not add much to it.  But one good thing about such a day is the way in which water droplets are captured in the spidey webs.

 I like this.

Visibility: quarter mile.  It is clearing.

No fog, but the leaves are pretty.

Conversations with Random People: Eight

I rode the bike to the DG where I parked it next to a neat little motor scooter.  I went in to pick up two items, coffee and laundry detergent, two things I suppose one could exist without, but that could hardly be called living.  When I came back to my wheel, a young man was loading his purchases into the scooter.  “That’s the way to go these days,” I remarked.  

 “Sure is, Mr. L,” he replied.  

I said, “If  I’m not on my bike I am on one of those.”  

“I remember,”  he said, “that you rode a bike with a really high seat.”  

“Yes, but not anymore.  I doubt that I could even get on it anymore.   Age does that to you.”  

“I know,” he chimed in, “I just turned fifty-two.  I’ll have a new grandchild in a week or two.”

Really, I am thinking.  This was one of my students in elementary school.  I could not think of his name.  I used to be fair with name recall, but the brain, like the muscles, seems to atrophy with time.  “How many grandchildren do you have now?” I inquired.  

“Three, all girls.  If the next one isn’t a boy, that will be the end of the line for the Mc______ name.”  

(Thanks for the clue!)  "Well, it is all good, anyway,” I said.  “It’s good to see you".  

He extended his hand, I shook it, and he said, “Nice seeing you, too!”  He started his motor, I mounted the bike.  Each headed his own way. 

Experiment on STSTT

I am planning an endeavor that I have engaged in very little on STSTT.  Each Thursday I hope to post a short short story, purely fictional.  If you have been around here a bit, you know that much of the blog is devoted to my own experiences, or those of  family members and others of close acquaintance.  So fiction, while not completely absent, has been used sparingly, even the series "Little Jo" and "Loonville Vignettes," while presented in short short story format are, indeed, true stories.  So check out the new adventure.  The first in the series was posted last Thursday (October 3, 2013), and the second will be available this coming Thursday.

I have the advantage of the writer of historical fiction, for she is subject to the strictures of fact, no matter how creative she may be.  And thus it is that she must immerse herself in research, lest she be caught in the commission of an anachronism.  I, on the other hand, write freely from a realm wholly created in my imagination, a realm in which an anachronism may not exist, for that world is timeless!

Disclaimer:  Though there may be names and settings that seem to be recognizable, be assured that these are works of fiction, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely intentional, for if you have not known anyone resembling any of these characters, you have lived neither long nor fully.  Geographical discrepancies from physical reality is the sole responsibility of the writer.  If you dislike the world in which these characters live, you may feel free to create your own.

New Resident

at Chez vanilla

Yesterday afternoon we had a pleasant drive to Lafayette.  But the trip was with purpose.  We went to pick up the dog, Weenie.  He is the most recent addition to the family.  Well, he has been in the family, just a distant relative, we'll say.  He belonged to a granddaughter who for reasons beyond her control is no longer able to provide the animal with the shelter, love and affection he needs.  So, Grammy, tender-hearted as she is, and vanilla, soft-headed as he is, volunteered to adopt the little beastie.

All three of us will have some getting-used-to-each-other to work through.

He seems quite a good dog, so long as plenty of affectionate attention is bestowed upon him.

By way of comparison, Weenie is perhaps a bit more than half the size of JJ whose visit here ended Wednesday afternoon.  The two of them will meet this afternoon.

Oh, too, we had a nice visit and dinner out with the eldest daughter whom we had not seen in several weeks.  It's all good.

Happy Birthday, Baby

Dear Beloved,

Old and broken, shattered pieces on the floor.  No, not a vase or urn, but the man who walked through your door.  He thought his life was over, nothing left to live for; but you picked up the pieces, reshaped them, glued them, and even more: you loved him, cared for him, gave him the life he needed.  Today he laughs and smiles and lives, he's so glad he heeded the gentle words you said and accepted the kind offerings that your love gives.  Let's go on together so long as we have life.  I know that in this walk the Lord has led: I am forever grateful that you've agreed to be my wife.  Happy birthday!

Love,
David

Today is BBBH's birthday.  The number associated with that, she says, is quite large.  Yes, I suppose it is, but as someone wisely pointed out, it is only a number.

BBBH and vanilla, Port A, Texas, 27 Feb 2013

_____ty ess eye ex

The Courtship of Otto Kranz #T

Did I tell you about the time Otto Kranz drive over to Albuquerque to court your Aunt Maude?  Maude was your Grandma's sister, you know, and she come over to New Mexico after your Grandma's brother, Ed, marry Susan Wright.  The Wrights live over in Reid Holler, well, not in the holler, but you know, up a good piece on the slope, but not on top a the ridge.  The Wrights bury all they dead on Hill Cemetery Number Six.  Actually,  Uncle Martin's first wife is buried there though she warn't a Wright.  She was a Willowby fum over on the Holston.  In later years the younger Willowbys moved over to Bristol.  Had a mercantile there, you know.  When I was acourtin' your Aunt Grace I went over to Willowbys to find a ring.  Got one, too.  Nice one.  Ance Willowby had tuk it in fum Widow Miles after her husband die.  She was fixin' to marry Ned Fox anyhow and Ance give her a milk cow and two shoats fer it.

So anyway, Maude was at loose ends when Ed move on to Marital Bliss, so to speak, and their Ma and Pa was done cold in the grave.  So like I said, Maude come on out to New Mexico.  Maude done good for herself in Albuquerque.  Start in Mason's store, you know.  Mason inherited, and he hadn't much interest in business.  But Maude was shrewd and he put her in charge, and first thing you know, Mason was rich and Maude was well-fixed.  Now I'm not saying Otto Kranz took a shine to Maude because of the money, but I am saying that didn't hurt none.  So anyway, Otto had an old auto (get it?) '37 Olds, I believe.  Yeah, it was that '37 he got offa Ned Bayliff over to Aztec.  Had a pile of miles on her afore Otto got it, but it run good.  So he left early of a Saturday morning, drive plum down to the City and got there afore the store closed up for the day.  Stroll into the store, coolest customer you ever see, all duded up in that navy blue suit with the gray pinstripe he got off Delmar Boyd's widow after Delmar pass.  Hit fit him right good, too, though Delmar had hit custom cut by a tailor over to Denver-- I disremember his name right now-- he's the one cut the suits for the Gov'nor, and the Senator, too.  Do you recollect his name?  I mean the tailor.  His sister marry Joe Whalen, you know.  Had the big ranch over to Ordway.  Anyway, Otto had on his purple four-in-hand, Lord only knows where he get that-- and a yeller rose in his lapel with a sprig of Stephen Otis that was left over from Molly and Mark's wedding the week afore.  You know, Molly was granddaughter to your Mama's Aunt Jean-- guess you'd be related, wouldn't you?  She married Mark Steadman.  Steadman's old man did a hitch in the pen over to Canon-- embezzling, I think it was.  Yeah, that was it.  He got away with couple hundred thousand of Third Ninth funds.  Hit was never recovered, neither; and Steadman seemed to live pretty high on the hog after he got out, if you get my drift.  No reflection on his kid, though.  Mark is as solid as they come.  Funny how that works sometimes.

Those yellow shoes is what done Otto in, though.  Maude said, "Why, Otto.  What are you doing all the way over here?"  Otto turn all beet red, which did nothin' to complement his purple tie,  you mought say.  As he was stammerin', "He-he hello, M-m-maude," she was surveyin' him fum head to foot, link by link, you mought say.  But when her eyes land on his shoes, her mouth fall open, she thow her head back and roar, yep, roar is the right word, roar with laughter.

With nary a word, Otto turn, slink to the door and disappear fum Maude's sight.  Otto's Oldsmobile was park in front a his house afore daybreak, and ever'one say he ain't spoke to a woman since that day.

© 2013 David W. Lacy

Conversations with Random People: A Testimony Before Men

Absolutely gorgeous autumn morning, sixty-two degrees and sunny.  The bicycle and I moved as a unit as we trundled our way to the post office.  A mere block from the destination, I passed a man going the other way.  He was afoot, a large cross over his left shoulder, the other end, eight feet from his head, was riding along the pavement on two small wheels.

I continued on my mission, collected the mail and returned to and remounted my wheel.  As I headed homeward, I was somewhat surprised that I did not pass the gentleman in the first three or four blocks; then I spotted him ahead, yet another three blocks.  This guy is moving along!  And I thought he was an "old guy."

I came up from behind him, passed him, and stopped the bike.  "Take up your cross daily, and follow Me," I quoted.  Then I said, "I see you take that admonition seriously."  As he rested the crossbar on the ground, he said, "That is the only way to take it."

I applauded his testimony; he gave praise to God for the courage and the strength to carry on his mission.  He told me that the cross had been across Indiana from the Ohio River to Lake Michigan.  Between tours of that nature, he walks in some neighborhood not far from his home on a daily basis.  This was our day.  He said he usually walks three or four miles each day, which is not bad for an old guy, for he was indeed grizzled and grey.

We shared our thoughts on a lost and dying world, unaware and heedless of the message of salvation.  I wished him well, he wished me the same.  "David," I said, as I offered my hand.  He took my hand and said, "Ron."

I write this, thinking of Paul's words, "I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ."

JJ's Annual Visit

October 1.  Today is the thirteenth day of the little guy's visit lodging at chez vanilla.  "Little" is a relative term when applied to JJ, for he weighs thirty-one pounds in his bare feet.

On a recent excursion, we stopped for a few grocery items.  Dog and I stayed with the car.  As BBBH walked away, the beastie struck this pose.  Basically, he did not take his eyes off the spot where he last saw her disappear into the store.  Guess which one of us is his favorite.

Essentially, JJ has been a good dog.  It is a matter of working with him.  For example, he cannot resist the urge to tip wastebaskets, and so it is that all such receptacles must be kept out of his reach during his stay.  One thing we did overlook, not having any knowledge that the problem could arise, had to do with the decor in my bathroom.  On a shelf are some beautiful seashells, and on the floor in one corner is a fishing creel, net, and more shells, all this to augment the fishy shower curtain.  Anyway, back to the story.  JJ helped himself to one of the starfish, ate it, leaving enough bits on the hallway carpet that we were able to determine what he had done.

Panic.  This is a dog whose people consider him their child, and more, they are (over)concerned about his digestive system and the materials that enter it.  BBBH: "Shall we get him to the vet?"  Me: "No, he will either live or die."  But then I remembered the digital age in which we live and entered "dog eats dried starfish" into the browser bar.  Ha!  Look at that.  JJ is not the first of the canine persuasion to ingest an echinoderm.  Several people have sought advice concerning this very matter, many of them owners of, you guessed it, dachshunds.  All responses indicated that there was nothing poisonous in the consumed creature, and that, while the dog would likely barf it up, it would produce no long term ill-effects.  Minds at ease.  An hour later, dog barfed up remains of starfish.  All over the carpet.  The dog is fine.

His people are expected to retrieve their pride and joy day after tomorrow.