LIME PICKLES AND CANDIED WATERMELON RIND

 

We've had a fabulous celebratory time this LONG already weekend---Friday with a six-year-old neighbor who LOVES pink and pretties like we do---she and her Mama came for cookie decorating for a couple of hours.   Then Sweetpea and her Mama were here for Easter Lunch yesterday, with wonderful tales of their St. Patrick's Week trip to Ireland.   Her high school band was invited to St. Patrick's Day parade, and they had a wonderful week.   They had also made a tour around Europe last June, performing concerts in five countries.  Her Ganner would be SO proud---he brought home so many musical instruments while she was younger, and she settled on playing Clarinets, but also plays Sax as well.   

Today was just us of the house, slow and comfortable, choosing lunch from several days' yummy leftovers, a whole afternoon with just pre-views and trailers of the "new" Jane Austen series---it was almost like watching the whole movie---we KNOW how it ends, Heart/Heart.   Our favorite Author---we speak often in Austenese, with quotes from all the books populating our conversation in our Southern Drawls.  We exchanged our Easter bags---always new Spring-flavored shopping bags to each other, and mine had divine Silicone kitchen items---ladles and spatulas for every use, candy and Peeps and a Moon Pie and best of the best---she'd searched and found the jars of Candied Watermelon Rind I used to save up 79 cents to buy for myself at Safeway every two weeks when they were all babies.   It came in a narrow jar like olives always came in---just room for about seven of the inch-big cubes in a lovely green syrup.  They sold the candied Cantaloupe, as well, with golden syrup.      And she'd Amazoned two pints of LIME PICKLES, so very like the ones I learned to make from her Grandmother, my first Mother-in-Law.   Such sweet remembrance, and so thoughtful a gift.

 Then just at a beautiful sunset, the two small neighbor children were invited over again for a few moments to receive their bags of fun things and candy.   

The livestock has been fed (Seven cats, three possums and five raccoons that I know of---we should have bought stock in Friskies and Nutrena five years ago),---they get their dinner out the back door, on an immense cafeteria tray twice the regular length.                                                                                                                                     The dishes are awaiting Monday, and Leah has retired with a Miss Marple.    I've had a Spa Hour and it's Hubble Time, so good night and a Happy Week to you all!  

PS.  I reminisce and speak of my Mammaw so often here, I feel everybody should know about her by now.   Mammaw of the Roses, the family history told in stories, the dozen white Persian cats with one blue eye and one green, who "lived by the clock and the calendar and time for the mail to be up."   She had a correspondence with Park and Burpee seed companies which equaled her letters to and from family, didn't get an indoor bathroom until 1958,  raised two children in a shotgun house without electricity til "TVA came in 1938," and had a little grave of her first daughter out where she plowed and planted her garden. 

 I doubt that she traveled more than seventy miles in her life (to Memphis when Grandpa was in the hospital).  She had a black silk dress with a rhinestone pin in her closet that she'd ordered from Sears Roebuck to be buried in, and she wore it once the time Mother and Daddy took her to Memphis and she danced with Lawrence Welk.  

She also had The Louvin Brothers play and sing in her front yard when they were traveling from show to show with her Brother-in-Law's band.   I was about eight, and she and I served them noon dinner on the way to their next date, and she got to play along on her mandolin to Tennessee Waltz.

Today would be her 131st Birthday!

RADAR AND HER FAMILY

                                                            

We've had a long love and affinity for BUNNIES.   When we were first married, Chris knew I loved and missed having a pet in the house, and so surprised me with a precious pink-and-white baby rat.   She lived in an aquarium in aspen shavings, with a mylar-silver coffee-sack as her hidey-home, and traveled with us everywhere.   She'd travel in a charming small birdcage, and I'd sweep grandly into whatever motel we were occupying, with a scarf draped over her little house.   She was very easy to support---a tiny leftover from whatever our lunch/dinner was, her licky-water bottle, and whenever we got out of the car for any length of time in the Summer, we'd stand two or three icy cans from the drink cooler in her abode, to snuggle on to keep her cool.   We loved and cared for a succession of those little girls, for when one seemed to be gently easing into her last days, he'd being home a baby---Seven in all we had, over those first years.  

But before Penelope (christened PeePee forever by Daughter Two, when she immediately peed into her hand on first meeting)---there were Bunnies.  We lived in a tiny "mill" house in a charming little town on the Alabama line, and one cool evening near Easter when Chris came home from making calls on clients, our hug included a "Reach into my Pocket."    I obligingly reached into his blazer pocket, and encountered the softest, warmest little creature---she was white with a perfect little raccoon mask on her eyes and lop ears.   Due to the ears and the fact that MASH was playing in the background when he came home, her name was immediately RADAR.  He'd stopped by the local Rabbit Man's farm and picked her up for me.

And Radar loved living in that little house with the fabulous screened porch---she'd spend her days out there in the sunshine, and slept in her bin in the bathroom; the big old clawfoot-tub made a great hidey-space beneath til she got too tall to be comfortable under there.   We almost had to pay for renovations on that house---in the night, she would walk up to the bathroom wall, gently gnaw loose a piece at the bottom of the wallpaper, and start backing up, tearing that inch-sized strip toward the ceiling clean as a carpenter.   And WIRES!!!   Back then only our phones had charger-wires, and her great joy was to nip one in half and just keep walking.   And her HATE for a broom was lethal---she'd grab the bristles in her teeth, I'd swing the broom gently up in the air, and she'd hang on to give it an enormous KICK with her hind feet.  

Chris one day brought her home a Husband---a much larger long-hair Lop, and she had three babies in her bin in the tub.   The first one kinda escaped out into the tub, and was named Houdini; I was such a mystery fan we named the next two WhoDunnit and Sherlop.      And when we moved down to the coast, with a big yard, Radar's five babies with LONG hair like their Daddy were named Samson, Fabio, Rapunzel, Godiva and CrystalGale.   They found nice homes with neighbors and kin when we moved up here, and I 'spect there's a line of long-haired Lop-Ears still flourishing in LA (Lower Alabama in Chris parlance).

SUNDAY AT THE PICCADILLY

                                                           

Introducing two new folks, long-time residents of Paxton.

Estelle Emerson finished her after-church lunch well before her husband was done with his.   She never took much time with ordinary things like eating, because food had never appealed to her much; she considered a can of Beanie Weenies apiece to be a perfectly adequate meal.   She hated to have to cook and her sparse larder consisted of instants and microwaveables, with one shelf of the small pantry devoted to boxes of StoveTop and Minit-Raas and jars of Chef Boy ar Dee sauce.    She was a bright spot in the browns and end-of-Winter jackets and coats in her pink shiny jacket and a wide ferny skirt with a blaze of flowers.  

She consulted her purse and emerged with an old-fashioned gold compact, one that she had gotten as a graduation gift.   She did one of those chin-bob, three-point scans in the mirror, touched the corner of her mouth with her pinky finger, and dropped the compact back in.   Then she stood, took a quick brush at her skirt, and set a fast pace to the 50% Off Corner of the Gift Shoppe as her husband finished his pie.

Dennis, intent on scraping every last bit of coconut-laden filling from the stiff, lardy crust, sat there silently in his Sunday khakis and blue plaid 90%-cotton shirt as she disappeared through the archway.  He was used to Estelle's darting, dragonfly ways, her quick, deft movements around the house, and her no-nonsense economy of living life.       He dragged the side of his fork across every surface of the naked, perfect shell of the crust, opened wide and inserted every millimeter of the tine-end into his mouth.  He closed his lips around it, then withdrew it slowly from the tight channel, leaving it as shining as when he'd unwrapped it and its companion spoon and knife from their paper cocoon.   Giving a series of several satisfied little smacks, he checked his watch for Time-Til-Kickoff and sat back to wait.   Estelle liked to take her time.

And he liked to "Watch the Line."  There was always someone interesting or funny or dressed so special at these Sunday noon dinnertimes---from kids with tats and last-night's clothes, slept in or hurriedly recovered from a strange floor when noon-time sleep gave way to the quick, gnawing hunger of the young and hung-over.  Young guys with earrings slid unabashedly past cashiers with their trays of mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, chicken noodles and slabs of chocolatey cake, while their dates heel-tipped past with small plates of green things which they might or might not eat, for fear of spoiling their lipstick or image or both.

An important-bustling smug-faced man with the large hair of a confident preacher herded several older folks to their seats, while a small caravan of well-dressed younger ones and several seasoned waiters followed with trays holding plates with one chicken leg or discreet small servings of turkey and gravy and big mooshy peas which comprised Walt's Senior Specials, along with little dishes of Jello or pie.

Dennis gazed longest at a petite, wrinkled lady in an outfit Twiggy would have killed for---tight little skirt and matching white pleather jacket with an oversized Newsie Cap in the same far-fetched material.   Her white GoGo boots and dandelion hair-to-match gave her the air of having popped onstage between scenes on Laugh-In, and stayed frozen there for the last fifty years, beginning as Goldie Hawn and ending as Golden Girl.     You could imagine her closet at home, with its lingering ghosts of Arpege and Intimate, hanging full of a lifetime of tee-ninecy ensembles of bright sweepy skirts, demure puff-sleeve white blouses, and little pumps with ankle socks.

Golden Girls Goldie's conversation matched her wardrobe---bright and effusive.   Her voice flew up and down the chirpy notes of the treble clef---sometimes like the tweetings of chattery birds, and at other moments, when she was really into her story and smiling wider than wide, it quite resembled the sound of the little plinky bar in a music box.

Estelle reappeared down the hall, carrying a flamingo-covered something which blended with her bright-splashed skirt and shiny jacket.   He realized that it was a bag---90-to-nothing there wasn't a thing in it, because Estelle was an acknowledged "Fool for Bags"---any kind, and shopping ones especially.   She even rotated them with the seasons and often, because her scant grocery list scarce ever filled two, and she liked to show them off.   

A stiff-haired crisp man in a black suit and squiggly ear-wire held the door as a smartly-dressed lady in an off-white pants-suit, pumps, and a dashingly-draped pink scarf breezed in.     Estelle and Dennis waited to go out, and the man's wary eyes continued scanning them til they stepped outside before he let the door swing shut behind them.  The smooth heavy white car, which they assumed belonged to the guarded lady, eased into a wide parallel at the curb, motor running and the driver as alert as the escort, as Estelle and Dennis, one brightly striding like a flitting gaudy bird, and the other headed for his La-Z-Boy, retrieved their own big Chevy, gently rounded a hitchhiking backpacker and turned toward home.  

CALIFORNIA DREAMIN'

 

                                                      

It’s such an honor to be amongst such wonderful, kind people whose words and pictures and ideas and sheer talents brighten every day. I can tune in and find humor, color, bright sayings, little fun tips and trips and stories of families and work and spiritual journeys to inspire and amaze. I’ve had my heart touched and almost broken, my funnybone tickled, my eyes filled with glorious images, and my soul sent soaring through other people’s sharings.

Today, the Springtime-Sunny morning has been brightened a hundredfold, over at LIFE AND LINDA with her invitation to visit her magnificent garden.   Even with all the GREEN springing outside our own doors, scented breezes drifting past the window-open sheers, and such sunny pockets of golden light all throughout our neighborhood, I have been right here at the screen for ages, sighing and smiling over her phenomenal way with plants and scenery and knowledge of the gardening world.   Do go and just get lost in all that wonderful place of such color and scent and fabulous landscaping.    You could just simply stroll and DWELL.   

PLAIN PLANES, PLEASE

 

We live in a little "Ranch" house with a split personality.   One of the main reasons we bought it was that the entire basement had been fully carpentered into technically five rooms---a big "den" space with room for a big dining table, a breakfast area, two "don't count to a Realtor" bedrooms, along with a laundry room with room for our freezer,  and a fully-tiled bath.   I mean "fully"---the very first owners owned a tiling company, and walls, floor, and shower are still shining with fabulous green tiles. ceiling and floor---you could hose the entire place down if you wanted to.    

The house came with fairly lots of Eighties carpets in all the upstairs; over the years we removed them all to uncover the honey-colored hardwoods.  Oddly, there were wonderful "bespoke" draperies on the five windows in the living room, and even when we bought it in 1997, a pristine Sixties Autumn Gold kitchen---counters, fridge, stove and linoleum.  And another kitchen downstairs---just plain green this time, with gleaming maple cabinets and room for our six-burner wide-oven black cast-iron stove, Miss Frankie.   The owners said that the wife liked to entertain her big family, but "not mess up the house," and thus all the gatherings were held downstairs, where everyone could come in the back door and straight DOWN.  

I had already noticed that there were no light "fixtures" as we knew them in any of the rooms---just a square, flat pane of glass screwed in the ceiling to hold several bulbs, which you couldn't change without a step-ladder.   And the walls were remarkably unmarked, as well, but we put that down to having a great plasterer when they repaired any nail or picture-holder before they showed the house for sale.   

But there was another explanation:  The wife hated the thought of anything hanging from the ceiling, or  on the wall or tables or a counter-top.  And she said so, frequently that one time I saw them at our little HouseWarming celebration---she went through the whole house with a frown on her face, and told me, "Well, it's not to MY taste, but if YOU like it . . ."     I did and do, all these years later.   And we took great pains not to burden her with such an unpleasance as our cluttered house thereafter--just wouldn't have been kind.   

                                           

I'd bought a fabulous chandelier on FB marketplace right before COVID, and just left it sitting in the box for these five years, and so the folks who re-wired the whole house last August hung it for us, to shine and flourish its pink tulle bows , and our Memory Tree remains decorated and lit year-round.   Four exquisite pastel silk Cheongsams, each a work of embroidery art, that I found in a pile at Goodwill hang on satin hangers over the guest room curtains, and not to mention, but I will, the pink Nutcracker banners in the dining room, the over-stuffed pink chair befitting Mole's wee abode, the brooches and necklaces and all sorts of twinkly things sprinkled around on windows and lamps.   Just looking into our front windows with all the glitter and sparkle would probably make that poor soul take to her bed.