A World Away on My Morning Walk

 Each morning I awake at 5:30. Shortly there after the pups and are out on our constitutional. It is always dark and these days can be quite chilly. The temperatures can vary from 32 to the mid 50's. Usually I throw on a pair of sweat pants, shirt and a sweat shirt. My hair is a mess. After all it is dark and rarely, if ever, do we see anyone. 

Usually I listen to the news, a podcast, or a movie on my phone while we walk. I find it gives me more patience with pups while they want to stop and smell every bush and telephone pole along the way. A 5 minute walk becomes a 20 minute expedition. God forbid a homeless cat has found refuge under a parked car or a confused squirrel is up and about. At that point all bets are off.

This morning I realized the juxtaposition of life. My choice of entertainment on my phone was a documentary, "7 Days Out". The particular episode was on the Channel Show at Paris Fashion week. It is a particularly interesting look into a life extremely foreign to me.  While I walk the pups, often trying to get them to move on past some marked plant, avoid the stray cat, or bag their poop, I am listening to the days running up to Paris Fashion Week.

There are interviews with Karl Lagerfeld describing the brand and what is entailed in preparing for the show. There is much discussion about couture gowns, elegant models, and the rich and famous who are invited to enjoy the runway from the front row. 

Lagerfeld also goes into the details of the inspiration for his elegant designs. Some how, I doubt a woman of my age, dressed in sweat pants, with unkempt hair, and 2 unruly terriers chasing feral cats comes close to any inspiration Mr. Lagerfeld may have. In fact, I doubt such a scene has ever entered his mind.  

Elvis Spotted Working as Cashier at Local Stop 'n Shop

 The most I have ever read gossip magazines were the covers of the National Enquirer while checking out at the grocer. That was years ago. Now days gossip and scandal are every where on the internet. Even when not seeking it, I find I am bombarded with details.

I'm not sure how this happened, but for some reason I keep getting emails and notifications with news about the British Royal family. I have always been a supporter of the Queen and her kin, of course the most I  know about the clan I learned watching the series"The Crown". And, like almost everyone on the planet with a television at the time, I watched the wedding of the Prince of Wales and Lady Dianna Spencer.

But back to these unsolicited missives I keep receiving. Over the past weeks I have learned the following: Princess Eugenie was seen leaving a family do in tears (no explanation of why), the throne may skip the long suffering Charles and be passed directly to William, the Queen does not approve of Kate's wardrobe, Prince Harry and Megan really moved to California to join a cabal (few if any details are available), Dianna had an illegitimate child prior to her marriage to Charles (so much for her being the virgin bride) . . .

And on and on it goes. Thinking about it, I could write such explosive copy. No doubt I am in possession of as many of the facts as these creative journalists feel they are. They have just figured out a way to monetize it. 

Personally I found the headlines from years ago much more entertaining -  "Adam and Eve were Astronauts", "Fat Tourist Destroys Tower of Pisa", "Hillary Clinton Adopts Alien Baby", "Abraham Lincoln was a Woman", and my all time favorite: "Snake with Human Head Found in Arkansas".  With such mind blowing tales, who cares about the throne, the cabal, or the wardrobe!

To Protect and Preserve

 A watermark is a double edge sword, a necessary evil. It is one of those obnoxious semi-transparent words ones sees on an image. It is also embedded in the meta data, so some dastardly digital savvy bloke cannot remove it. The mark itself has to be over a significant part of the image to protect it. All an artist or photographer has to prevent one's work from being stolen and freely used by anyone is this mark. Although my camera embeds my copyright information into the each photo taken, that information is hidden within the metadata of the image. 

Some sites offer a setting that prevents one from double clicking and copying an image, which is very effective. Instagram is popular with artists because one cannot copy and save an image from a posting. Facebook (ironically in this case renamed Meta) offers no such protection.

I realized that my work was being pilfered from online postings when I came across one of my photographs used by someone else I had never heard of. Stealing one's work off the web these days is much easier than the grand Gardener Art Museum heist of 1990 and just as deleterious to the artist. So I have been forced to add a watermark to all my work. 

                    

I thought long and hard about doing this, but felt it was necessary. The art of watermarking is making it  effective while allowing someone to still see the image. Too dark and one cannot really see and appreciate the image, too transparent and a simple increase of contrast will remove its effect. So now when you come across my work online you will see these unpalatable marks. It pains me to do so. But in these days of the wild west of the world wide web, I feel I have no choice.

A Divine Premonition of the Fates

I was watching the news last night. Well, I say watching, I was painting with my back to the TV.  However, my interest was peaked - enough to turn around and look - when I heard this young woman say, "She knows my energy source and can always steer me in the right way."

The narrator continued,"She can read my aura and advise me when my planets are aligned." The picture on the commercial showed a blithe young lady walking on the beach, the wind blowing her loose fitting dress. "Whenever I am scared or have a major decision to make, she is the first one I turn to." The narrator pauses, as the camera turns to the face of the lady on the beach who is looking up at the sky, as if waiting for a celestial choir of angels to sing.

"She brings calm to my soul and peace to my ethos." The narrator paused again as the young woman turned and continued down the beach, as the light faded into a fog.

By now my interest was piqued. Was this a commercial for the Oprah Show or Ellen? Then all was revealed when the another voice continued the narration. "Advice is just a phone call away. And, best of all, your first 4 minutes are free. You, too, can have a consultation with your very own spiritual advisor. Just think how much fuller your life will be if you had a professional to guide you." There was a close up of the smiling face of the young woman.

"This is your chance to seek peace and tranquility, to know yourself. No one should be making a decision without knowing the wishes of the spirits, the essence of your aura, the divine being of your soul." As the narrator spoke these words the young lady disappeared down the beach out of sight. There was some light new age music and then "magically" a 1-800 number flashed at the bottom of the screen. The narrator continued, "Call this number now and give your life meaning. You will be connected to your very own  psychic advisor. Finally you will truly understand the depths of your soul and how the fates can guide your future."

Taking all this in, I wondered how much simpler my life could be should I have my own "advisor". Could knowing the mood of my aura give me confidence? Could being aware of the alignment of the planets in my sign give me clarity? Do I need to be one with my essence for true happiness?

If so, perhaps I can order a glass ball from Amazon. If instructions are not included I could go to Youtube to learn how to use it to interpret my energy source and the essence of my aura. Of course, I doubt this will bring about misty walks on the beach or the sounds of a heavenly choir. 

The List

 In order to stay organized and know how far behind I am, I am a chronic list maker. In full disclosure, in making a list I will add things that have already been done. Getting to check them off when I first review the list gives me a feeling of accomplishment. This morning I was going over my (ever present) list. Of course around the holidays, the list gets longer and more expensive.

Just after Thanksgiving the list is exciting - getting the tree, putting the tree up, pulling out wrapping paper and ribbons, finding the wreath, hanging the wreath, making a gift list (yes, sub lists are part of the madness). Each morning, I review the running list, checking off what has been done and adding new chores. Every day or two I redo the list, if nothing else just to clean it up and see exactly where I stand.

By this week (the first week in December) the list becomes a bit more onerous. I am into finishing the shopping - for those impossible to buy for, trying to find the box of ornaments I bought last year on sale after Christmas (naturally they were not put with the other ornaments), ingredients for my Christmas baking. . . 

Needless to say, the list, once a highlight, now becomes my nemesis.  Suddenly, instead of keeping me organized, I find it a drudge. I start questioning my ambitions. Will the neighbors really appreciate homemade treats or will things from the bakery do? After all it is the thought that counts. Maybe the buffet doesn't need to have the traditional decorations, surely a simple bowl of glass balls will do. And the back door does not need a wreath. 

Is this the beginning of the "Rat Race"? Are my days built around checking off the list or enjoying friends and family? As I read over the "To Do's", the list doesn't stop. The more I read, the farther behind I get. How does Santa do this? Of course, he does have elves. Perhaps I need elves. (No doubt I can find them the same place the Housekeeping Fairy is hiding.)

This is when I decide to shed the list and live in the moment. It is a feeling of freedom, relief from the stress. That is until I realize that I haven't found that gift for my nephew. I'm at the grocery store and cannot, for the life of me, remember what I need for the iced oatmeal cookies. I realize that not only have I not boxed the gifts I need to mail, the gifts are not wrapped and I cannot find a box large enough.

How can everything in the Courier and Ives prints look so ideal, festive, and fun?  There is not a list in sight.  Why should I be encumbered by words on a piece of paper? Out, Out, Damn List. I'll just add 1 last item - "Scratch List". After all, Christmas is going to be here, list or no list. It may not be perfect, some things may not happen, and, no doubt, I will be less organized. But, who wants a perfect, beautiful, delightful, happy, organized holiday anyway?

My Life Should Rate Better than G

 At my age, I hope I have not fallen into a life of mediocrity - a boring one with no excitement or intrigue. This was all brought to my attention when I noticed the warning flashed on the TV screen with the opening credits of a movie. It read: "This film is rated TV14 due to its Suggestive Dialogue, Smoking, Foul Language, Violence, and Sexual Situations." Does this beg that I live a G Rated life? I hope I do not live in the Wonderful World of Disney, Father Knows Best, or The Brady Bunch. My world is not made up of a Pollyanna ideal or the innocence of Tammy. These references alone betray my age. But, I digress.

The issues listed above, with the exception of violence, don't concern me. That said, a film with a plot based around car chases and multiple crashes does not interest me. Nor does one with a lot of gratuitous violence. Interest and mystery, yes, but not with a plot line of gun fights and or fisticuffs.

All this brings to mind - a fear. Is my life now mundane, boring, one without excitement? Does it not even merit a TV14 rating? Have I sunk into a life of G?  I wish to live a life more daring than a romantic comedy. I hope there is "adult content" in there some where. That said, I do not care for pornography, whatever that is these days. In that case, the words of Justice Potter Stewart in 1964 are still timely and define it well, (paraphrased) - I cannot define pornography, but I know it when I see it.

Now that this state of reality has been brought to my attention, what can I do about it? It may sound trite but it all comes back to my mantra of "always grab the brass ring". Perhaps in dealing with everyday life I have overlooked the fun and excitement of the world around me. The rating of my life is within my control. Certainly I can attain better that a plain vanilla "G".

As They Say, 'Tis the Season

As they say in the well known carol 'Deck the Halls', " 'Tis the season". Season for what? Frustration, angst, exhaustion? Aren't we supposed to be having fun? If so, I haven't reached that point yet.

But, I haven't reached the Bah Humbug stage yet either. I can still tolerate the Laying Geese, Calling Birds, French Hens, and Turtle Doves. I was able to rearrange the furniture and move a piece or two upstairs to make room for the tree, which is up and decorated. So far (fingers crossed) none of the glass ornaments on the decked evergreen have fell victim to the raucous play of the pups. Few needles have fallen off and it is taking up water daily. To be honest the fresh pine scent (alone) that greets me every morning when I come downstairs is worth the trouble to put up the tree.

My shopping list is down to those last "What the Hell do you get them's" and I swear I am not going the gift card route - yet. I am at that point when half the gifts I already have are wrapped and the remaining ones are scattered about awaiting my attention. I actually have enough paper, ribbon, tags, and tape to finish the job - miracles do happen. Naturally there is that "perfect" gift I bought this past spring, the location of which now alludes me. A gift I purchased for one of our great nephews is going to have to go into a larger box. The way it is packaged now, it was never intended to be wrapped - seriously - unless it involved some type of ballistic paper. 

My Christmas cards have been finished and put into the mail. God only knows when (and if) they will be delivered. So far, no names I mistakenly omitted have come to mind. No doubt they will, hopefully before Christmas Day.

I think I best stick to making a list of baked goods (and ingredients) I want to make and give to friends sometime before Christmas day. Many say it is the spirit of the season. I would say it is more like the devil in the details. Whatever. Isn't this the time when we are supposed to be enjoying family and friends? After all the dictionary defines "Holiday" as "a day of festivity or recreation when no work is done"  Personally, at this moment it is the swimming swans, milking maids, leaping lords, and that damn partridge someone left in a frigging pear tree that have me in an Ebeneezer frame of mind.

But to quote the great Roman stoic philosopher and statesman, Seneca, 'this too shall pass'.

61 Christmases

 As I celebrate my 61st Christmas I think back on the past ones (that I can remember) and, not to be morbid, wonder how many more I will have.

Christmases when I was little, ages 2 or 3 until 13 or so, were always the same. Daddy had his Christmas Eve Drop in (and fall out) at the drug store. Christmas morning, my brother and I would go down stairs at the crack of dawn and open our stockings by ourselves but we knew not to "touch" what Santa had brought us until Mama and Daddy joined us.

Our Santa practiced the unwrapped delivery method. My brother and I each had an assigned wing chair. On Christmas morning all our loot would be distributed in the correct chair. We would stand and stare with wonder and joy at what the jolly ol' elf had left in those chairs. Finally, after what seemed like 2 days, Mama and Daddy would descend.

Daddy would have his fancy movie camera with its 2 foot long light bar mounted atop, ready to film. So we had to go back up to the stairs and make another entrance, so he could film our "initial" surprise when we saw what Santa had brought.We were very good at showing total joy. Looking at the camera was impossible unless you had sunglasses on. The three flood lamp size bulbs would blind you. And should something go wrong, either technically or poor acting on our parts - the gifts would be returned to their places and we would have take two. (Now these home movies are priceless. I would not take anything for having these memories saved on celluloid.)

Opening our gifts under the tree was always a surprise - in many ways. It was not unusual for gifts to be without tags, or worse yet, to have the incorrect name on them. This was in the years of Mama's proclivity for the bottle. I distinctly remember one year being a little puzzled when I opened a gift with my name on it only to find a pellet gun. Of course not as surprised as my brother when his gift was a Raggedy Ann doll. Such was life around our house.

But we had no time to dawdle. We had to get dressed, select one gift, and get in the car. We had our agenda. First stop was Aunt Kat and Granny's home (my father's family) in Wagram. NC (pop 418). It was a good 3 to 4 hour drive. We would arrive there just in time to help Aunt Kat put the finishing touches on her Christmas supper. My great aunt and uncle, Auntie and Make, would join us for supper then presents, which usually equaled or topped Santa.

We would spend the night and the next afternoon it was  back in the car off to Blenheim, SC (yes, where they make the world famous ginger ale). Actually Granddaddy's farm was somewhere between Blenheim and Bennettsville,  Here we would be at my Mama's home with my grandparents, Aunt J'Nelle, Uncle Jimmy, and his children.

Unlike our Christmas at Aunt Kat and Granny's where the two of us as the only grandchildren were fawned over and granted our every wish, at Grandmama's there were 5 grandchildren. But it was great fun to play with the cousins we usually only saw once a year. And Grandmother and Granddaddy did not mind the havoc we all created as we turned their home into a palace, a fort, or a set for some secret mission. Of course there was another Christmas supper and another round of gifts.

Three or four days later we would return home to find the gifts we originally received Christmas morning waiting for us. I can remember those whirlwind trips like they were yesterday. The funny thing is I can remember so many details about Christmases at my Grandparents, but not so much about those at home. But then, we were only home on Christmas morning for a few hours.

In my early teens, my Grandparents were older and not up to the visits and we were spending more and more time at High Acres, the family farm in North Carolina. There would be the Christmas trips but often they were scheduled the week before Christmas - a bit calmer with much less ado.

Our new "norm" was to get to High Acres as soon after Christmas as possible and stay through the New Year. That started a new tradition that was a 'hole new ball game. In addition to our family there was the usual house full of friends. It was a raucous fun time with the usual quirks of the house. By now, frequent holiday guests were prepared for cold showers (if there was water), drafty rooms, and little sleep. 

Of course those times were followed by new traditions with our family. Christmas is so magical with young children. And, it is even better with Grandchildren. So I feel as if I have gone full circle from visiting my grandparents to enjoying our grandchildren. 

Ah, The Christmas Cards

I am in the process of sending out my Christmas Cards. Late is such a complicated word and often misused in our language. Yes, the year my Yuletide cards were delivered around Valentines Day - they were late. Getting them out before Thanksgiving only means one of two things: you either have too much time on your hands or you are OCD.  Either way you need help.

This year it took me awhile, but I finally found some cards I cared for. They are not fancy nor in foil envelopes. They are not large with an extended verse inside. They are rather simple, and I will spare my family and friends trite words of warm wishes and joy. 

I had my list of names and addresses from last year. By this time I tried to update the list, making sure I dropped the names from my list of folks I had not heard from in a while and probably would never again and those no longer with us. At my age you realize you are not going see all the folks you once knew before the end.

Getting Christmas stamps was another issue. Several years ago I found that by the time I made it to the Post Office there were no more Holiday stamps available. Some how using stamps with the flag on them was not festive.  Last year, I thought I would be smart and order my Holiday stamps online. Surely that would ensure that I actually got Christmas stamps.  And I did. However, the holiday stamps arrived several days before Christmas, a week or so after I posted my cards. Once again my cards were sent with a patriotic flare. 

Naturally I was lazy this year. Instead of buying regular stamps to use throughout the year, saving my holiday stamps for this year's cards, everything I have sent out so far in 2021 has had a holiday stamp on it. Having depleted my supply of festive stamps, this year I went to the post office 2 weeks before Thanksgiving and successfully found lovely Christmas stamps.

As I prepared my cards, I realized that there were more names on my list than cards I had bought this year. Luckily, I had cards left over from last year. As I finished addressing the envelopes, a feeling on mild panic came upon me. Last year I sent several different kinds of cards. I had no idea who got which card. What if I sent the same card I sent last year to some unsuspecting name on my list? What would they think? Then I realized I was being a bit arrogant to assume someone would remember what card I sent . 

When I finished I still had a few cards left over. There are always names I forgot about and new friends I did not have an address for. Worse yet, those I receive a card from who were not on my list.  My cards are addressed, stamped and ready to mail. I will wait until after Thanksgiving to post them. 

Oh, and if you are reading this and do not receive a Christmas Card from me, fear not. That indicates that you are on the list of those so special you do not need a card. I would not want anyone to think they were being overlooked.

PS - Last year, I would have saved myself angst, had I just checked with my friendly UPS store!

Memories, Like the Fragrances of My Life

And while we are on the subject of fragrances, I still reminiscence about my Daddy, Auntie, and Hoyt's Cologne.  Those two had a running joke every Christmas - one of them was going to give the other a bottle of it - a very cheap toiletry found on the bottom shelf of any drugstore.  I was much too young to understand, I just knew there was much laughter when the gift was opened. Aunty always said it smelled "God Awful". I never thought it was that bad, although I stuck my nose up about it like everyone else, since that seemed like the party line at the time.

I have since learned that Hoyt's Cologne dates back to 1868 and was worn by gamblers, thought to bring them luck. It had notes of citrus and floral which are the scents I prefer. Guess it was best I kept my preferences to myself when I was five. Lord knows my Aunt Kat would have feared I was destined for a life on the wrong side of town, my Granny would have pulled out the Presbyterian Catechism, while Auntie would have been proud of me.

Of course my Aunt Kat wore Emeraude up until the day she died. My Aunt J'Nelle preferred Channel No. 5. I never asked, but no doubt if I had, my Auntie would have told me she preferred "Some type of toilet water." I just remember her smelling like the Salem cigarette she always had hanging out of the side of her mouth.

Then there were the "perfumes" Daddy sold in his drugstore in the 70's - Jean Nate, Faberge's StrawHat. Tigress, and Woodhue, Windsong, Cache and Shalimar. And, the men had their own with Old Spice, Brut, English, and Stetson.  I can't seem to forget you.  For the life of me I doubt I could tell any one those colognes apart. However, a few men's fragrances bring back memories of some of the men of my far distant past. Especially Polo. Ah, Polo . . . and that British Racing Green Austin Healey.  And, Royal Spyce and those blue eyes . . . but we will not go there.

Ahem. Anyway as I was saying, Daddy and Auntie always exchanged Hoyt's Cologne at Christmas. That was my introduction to colognes, needless to say it up from there. 

The Strength of Smell

 Of all the senses, smell is supposed to bring back more memories. I cannot speak for everyone, but this is very true in my case. The smells of the holidays always bring back memories of Christmases long past. Sometimes it only takes a light scent to bring a warm memory to mind. There are times a smell is very familiar and I know there is some tie to my past, but for the love of me, I cannot place it.

The smell of clove brings back memories of the orange we would cover with cloves to create a sachet as a gift for our mothers. In my case, Aunt Kat always seemed more appreciative of this gift than Mama. Cinnamon brings back memories of the Orange Bigelow Tea my Aunt J'Nelle served to teach me how to properly drink hot tea and appreciate it. A slice of orange reminds me of the ambrosia we enjoyed at both my Granny's and my Grandmother's house at Christmas. (Totally different recipes.) An oranges take me back to Christmas morning as a child, when Santa always left 1 or 2 our stockings along with whole walnuts - go figure!!

Cinnamon and Clove together bring back memories of Russian Tea, that concoction of Tang, cinnamon, cloves, and lemon flavored tea. I cannot count the number of jars of this "Tea" I made and gave as gifts, as well as received. It was one of the few hot beverages I ever cared for. (Until I grew up and discovered Espresso and Cappuccino.)

A whiff of Vicks Vaporub brings back those nights as a child when I was sick with a bad cold. My Mama would put a dab of Vaporub in the old hot air humidifier, filling my room with a warm mist of mentholatum.  

Citronella reminds me of outdoor summer suppers with my family. The brick patio would be surrounded with citronella candles to ward off the pesky mosquitoes. 

The smell of Camellias and Sasanquas bring back memories of the bowls of Camellias we would have in the entrance hall from November through January. My Daddy was a serious gardener. One of his passions was breeding and grafting Camellias. So we always had bowls of fresh Camellias from our yard.

The perfume "Charlemagne", takes me back to my bedroom, one night in December of 1975 when I was getting dressed for a very special date. 

One of the downsides of a lovely Leyland Cypress Christmas tree is the lack of scent. But, that could be handled with a can of "Fresh Royal Fir" by Claire Birke. Both the smell of a fresh Frazier Fir and a spritz of "Fresh Royal Fir" brings to mind Christmas trees of the past. A can of spray scent may seem a bit like cheating. However, it doesn't matter. Real or not, it is the smell that invokes the memory.