DANCE, DANCE, DANCE

In the summer of 1952, my best friend and I took a crash course in tap, ballet, and ballroom dancing.  Our mothers sewed valiantly the costumes required, including a short-skirted white satin military tap uniform (lined in red for exposure when doing a high leg move) and matching red, star-studded cadet hat.  I looked like a nutcracker.  We were all of 11, and had triumphantly sprung out of our sedate shells, rushing toward the bright lights of prepubescent dance recitals.  Oh the excitement of performing before adoring audiences packed with parents - all convinced we were the next Shirley Temple.  We wore makeup and grown-up stockings, we were something to see!  And then we danced.  I honestly don't remember that part, but it must have gone well enough.

Imagine this is me

Brush step and step, brush step and step, brush step and step,

pickup hop step toe

The following fall, my friend Carolyn and I tried a dance duet for a talent show.  We wore white blouses and rhinestone-embellished, aqua short skirts.  I guess when you dance, something has to glitter.  We clickity clicked to the piano rendition of "Walking my Baby Back home," and all went well, meaning nobody fell down and all the clothing stayed on.

Clickity-Click, Clickity-Click

I can remember tap dancing all over the house when Mother wasn't around.  She had this thing about scratching the floor.  What was a budding talent to do?  Answer:  Practice the clarinet...or the piano...or blow my water-filled bird whistle (it looked so like a canary and was yellow too!).

I grew dizzy, but could not stop!

What my poor parents suffered in aggravation is unknowable, but I am certain tuning me out became a regular practice.  Perhaps that's why they were always encouraging me to go outdoors and blow beautiful bubbles - for all the world to see!

Beautiful pink and blue glass-like bubbles!

MRS. JOHNSON'S GOAT

Mrs. Johnson lived across the road from Grandfather in a two-storied farmhouse with a huge front porch.  In her yard was a bubbling spring with a small but well-built spring house.  Inside even in summer, it was dark and cool, a welcome refuge in the heat, complete with a dipper hanging on a nail for a cold drink.  Mrs. Johnson was popular with ladies who gave luncheons requiring watercress, which grew prolifically in the spring water.

She always spoke softly and never showed temperament, which was a testament to her inner strength since hers was not a life untouched by tragedy.  The second of her two sons suffered from birth defects which compromised his walk and his speech; even so he worked with his father and brother in their family owned garage.  She and her husband seemed happy and all seemed well until one day he walked into their smokehouse and shot himself in the head.  No one could ever understand why and it remained a mystery.

This all  happened before I was born, and I only knew Mrs. Johnson as the soft-spoken, nice lady who had a cow and traded butter for eggs with my Grandparents.  I also knew her huge white, demonic goat named "Billy."

With no pictures, I sketched my recollection of "Billy"

Once in a while, Mrs. Johnson would tie Billy on the bank across from my grandfather and Billy would clear the tall brush and fill one of his enormous stomachs (one for grass and one for little girls).  I would be seized with a desire to befriend the shaggy, surly creature whose inscrutable stare gave no clue of affability or hostility, just alien-eyed wonder.

Again, no pictures so imagine this is me

I eased up the bank carrying delicious grass for Billy to sample, making sure I wasn't far away from his rope's end.  He made a goat sound and tossed his head, sending up little red flags in my fearful mind.  Perhaps he's just eager for grass, I reasoned.  With that I threw the grass to him and fled for my life.

Me, better swift than sorry.

It was an indisputable good move on my part since I lived to tempt other fearsome foes another day.  Mrs. Johnson soon came and moved Billy back to his night lodging.  She was to be admired for all her courage.

'TWAS THE WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS!

Last Wednesday, our internet provider informed us he had numerous messages that our internet was out.  It was then I remembered turning off the power strip for the Christmas tree which also contained the plug-in for the internet thing-a-ma-jig.  He then asked us never to unplug it again.  Problem identified.

So that night as I got on my knees under the tree to specifically unplug the lights (not the power strip) I lost my balance, which is otherwise as precise as an atomic clock, and fell head-first into a small tilt table (which tilted graciously) slamming my head and left hip to the floor.  I went over like a top-heavy bowling pin, all the while thinking - this is just the sort of yule tide event that adds to the nostalgia of Christmas!

Husband was already nestled snug in bed with visions of the long run carrying oysters to Harrisonburg dancing in his head.  Therefore I hobbled off to bed to await the holidays with a throbbing hip.  Joy to the world.

Husband, finally home from his run, determined the solution to be a separate power strip for the tree lights.  Friday morning saw him on his back deep under the tree accomplishing that end.  Problem solved.  Then I heard him say, "I can't get up."  Problem #2 identified, to which there was only one solution, since all that was reachable were his feet.  When I checked behind me I realized I had to be the one to grasp him by the ankles and hobble backwards until his head cleared the tree.  He got up on his own.  Problem #2 solved.

Our family will all be together this year, and we wish all of you a happy loved-filled Christmas.

PS:  Show love to someone who needs it.

A VISIT FROM NELLIE AND BILL

On Saturday, as I lay resting on the sofa, a familiar face appeared at the window.  It was my only surviving aunt and her husband Bill.  There is no better news than the sight of them looking so well and happy.

Nellie Pearl Strigle Berger Braxton and LtCol Leon E. (Bill) Braxton

She at 86 and he at 95 motored up from their home in Tampa, FL, to visit relatives and friends along the way, their ultimate destination in Pennsylvania.  They recently relocated to a small rental home on an island off Tampa, finding retirement community living too full of "old people."  I think that was the right decision.  

Bill has just written his third book in partnership with a friend, "Birth of a Legend, The Bomber Mafia and the Y1B-17."  He was a flyer in World War II and kept friends with his whole crew, some of whom lived near us.  The book is a comprehensive account of the bombers of that era and the pioneers of aviation who contributed so much to the building of today's air force.  It is so interesting to be able to hear accounts of his experiences 70 years ago which began at Langley Field, Virginia, just a few miles from us.

The Cover of the Book Bill co-wrote with CAPT Arthur H. Wagner USCG (Ret)

This book may be ordered online at www.trafford.com

or email orders@trafford.com.

It was so great to see them.

And so hard to say goodbye.

THIS BEAUTIFUL DAY

This morning is glorious.  The air is cool, clean and filled with the bright golden hope of autumn days to come.

The View Out My Back Door

I saw on Waverly Lane the wild flowers my mother-in-law so loved and went and photographed them in her memory.  She had tiny little vases on her kitchen window sill filled with the likes of what I saw growing.

When it comes to beauty, Nature has no equal.

Blues shimmering in the morning sun remind me of 

Husband's mother, who wore the color so well.

Before her death, her son John (who died in 1984) planted this Rose of Sharon Hibiscus at the edge of our yard on Waverly Lane.

A beautiful Reminder of Those Now Gone

Plants are preparing to replace themselves by producing seeds in great quantity, and preparing for the long winter's nap to come.

The Magnolia Tree with Seeds for New Trees

HE SAID/SHE SAID

My mother once informed me that in conduct with the opposite sex, a girl must be in charge.  As a four-year-old, this didn't mean much to me, but I took the core caution to heart and as time went on my posture toward men became mostly defensive.  Actually Mother had me so frozen with fear that I didn't thaw out until 1960.

It is amusing that for so long women's monthly tornado of female mood swings have been given as evidence of unsuitability for high office.  The hormonal hand on the doomsday button was always the implied fear for the safety of all humankind.

Then it should be mentioned that men are governed by debilitating powerful hormones also, which nature found to be successful in procreation, and they are not anchored to any monthly cycle but are in force all the time.  They render men mostly disconnected from reason and ready to pounce with the speed and good judgement of a mousetrap upon any willing or seemingly willing female, forgetting completely about the doomsday button.
-

Dance at Bougival by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

And a one, and a two (as Lawrence Welk would say)

She is dancing in her virginal off-white attire trimmed in passionate crimson, 

he appears to be dancing and planning his next move 

This is the source of confusion that men experience when seeking to explore the subject of rape.  Subjective paralysis overcomes their ability to think straight, as they empathize with the male pursuing the irresistible goal of sex:  Was he the victim of deliberate seduction?  Did she say no, but mean yes?  What did she expect dressed in a hot-red bonnet like that?   How dare she dangle her goodies under the nose of so helpless a victim, ever willing to excuse himself from culpability.

As Mother said, they can't help themselves and all other men believe in their victim-hood.  I think they have run that play for too long.  The good old boys want to go back to the 50's when women wore pearls and only dreamed about enjoying safe sex.  They are stepping all over feminine toes and thinking they're entitled to the privilege.  I think they misjudge us as well as our secretions, which will happily shut down the whole reproductive process when we are raped, as Mr. Akin said.

I think it is time to stand up for ourselves as women and tell the males wielding all the power to stop being so hysterical and just lie back and enjoy it.

ADVENTURES IN MOWING

August here on Waverly Lane has been hot, humid, stormy, and rainy - all conditions favoring the growth of nature's selected grasses, weeds, native seedling trees - everything but what you planted in June, which is shoulder-deep in thick masses of unwanted wild growth.

In order to keep pace with the green invasion, Husband and I set out on our personal lawn-mowing equipment:  the Cub Cadet (me), and the Toro Zero Turn (Husband).  He sits proudly ensconced between his steering levers as a king on a throne holding two scepters, while I sally forth on the "regular guy" Cub Cadet.  I notice a "sound" coming from my mower deck and get taken to task for mowing too close and bending something.  After his stern lecture, in which he belittles my competency and also defames my noble vehicle as a piece of "*#@!," we resume our work.

After an interval, I notice Husband is on foot beckoning me over and preparing for censure, I conclude I've done something else wrong.  This time, however, he is unusually smiling and pleasant as he asks me to pull him out of the deep ditch that outlines our side of Waverly Lane.  On arriving it was obvious Husband had tried gambling another dangerous edge and lost.

An Unusually Pleasant Husband 

Being Rescued While Wearing

His Biblical Slogan Tee Shirt

We hooked the Cub Cadet to the Zero Turn, in spite of their previous animosities (see wildonwaverlylane.blogspot.com/2011/10/dueling-in-sun.html) and go on with our mowing.

After the lawn is trimmed and beautiful, there was gratitude, and conciliation, and a little tear or two from the wind heron, who was overcome by humidity.

Zero Turn:

"Thanks for Pulling Me Out and You're Not a Piece of #@*!"

Cub Cadet:  "You're OK, if no one else is available."

(Sniff, blubber) "If Only a Group Hug Were Possible!"

I