Friday, June 22, 2012

Y'all Are So Bustiere-d...I Mean Busted!

C'mon y'all.

Did y'all really think I laid down Cat Daddy's good money for that book?

If I'm gonna spend that kinda do-re-mi on anything besides's gonna be for Carolyn's new book Through The French Door.  I bet she can help me pick the right shade of gray!

("Who knew there were so many Pink Panthers prowling icognito in the fiction aisle of Barnes & Nobles?" she says with a Purr-r-r and a wiggle giggle!)

Besides...have y'all read me?

You know I detest exercise in any form or fashion.

The only times I feel the need to hyper-extend any of my body parts might be when my nose gets outta joint or I got me a crick in my neck from looking over my shoulder one to many times.

Besides...remember my mantra?

Don't exercise...accessorize.


just so's ya know...

I don't care if they once belonged to Harry Houdini....

handcuffs will never be invited to any of my daily Arm Parties

...unless of course they are mink lined!

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

This Is Why I Should Never Be Left Unattended

~What I didn't do on my summer vacation...Part II~

Picked up a new book the other day thinking I'd get me some basic "how-to" pointers on color choices.  If y'all have ever had to deal with picking out paint colors, you know how the right shade of gray can be an ordeal.

Am I right...or am I right?

But now I'm wondering if I can get my money back.

See y''s like this.

I've read and reread this thing three times and I've yet to see any paint swatches. Believe me...I've looked...and looked again!!


I'm beginning to think 50 Shades Of Grey has nothing at all to do with decorating whatsoever.

On the other hand...

I've never been this clean before and there's nary a hint of Junker's tan due to several...

I repeat...


unscheduled cold showers.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Hideouts and Hidy Holes

There are a number of people who were instrumental in developing my young mind to appreciate and love antiques.  A 7th grade history teacher, my great-aunt Alice, my mother, others, but because today is Father's Day, I'd like to talk a bit about my daddy and the influence he had on me to seek and preserve history.

Growing up in the 50's and 60's few people collected antiques.  When I think of all the lovely pieces that were traded in for "new" things at Johnson's Furniture Store, it almost makes me weep.  Delicate French sofas and chaises, complete Victorian bedroom sets, oak pedestal tables, all considered "second-hand" by the standards of the day, but that was where my parents chose to shop.  Imagine the hootin' and hollerin' at our house when my poor Daddy tried to explain the importance of having a French commode in the living room to three kids...all under the age of 11.  Shoot...we were just fine with our American porcelain one!

I was fortunate to grow up in a household that cherished and encouraged a love for things that bespoke timelessness.  One of Mother and Daddy's favorite things to do was to load us up in our '59 Ford station wagon and go looking for abandoned houses.

(While this might be considered B&E or trespassing now, I promise you up and down, it didn't begin a life of crime for us kids!  It wasn't like we were known around town as Joe's Juvies or the House Arrest Gang!)

I vividly remember to this day one house in particular.  It was as if the family just got up from the dinner table...and left.  Everything in that old two-story was from another time and covered in dust, including toys.  I always wondered what would it take...what form of tragedy...could make a family leave everything behind.  Seeing their things...imagining their lives...that may have been the catalyst for my over-active imagination.  Who knows?  What I do know is it fueled a need to seek out old rather than new because of the story each piece held trapped beneath the layers of dust and grime.  That, my friends, is a history lesson that can't be taught in a classroom.

After I grew up and married, Daddy continued to bring me treasures he would find here and there.  Being a simple country man (fact is, I'm only one generation out of overalls) he didn't know the difference between Rococo or Rocky Road, but man alive...he knew how to pick.  He would show up in the driveway, greet me with his familiar "Hidy, Hidy!", then proceed to pull something out of the back of his pickup he had found for me.  Maybe he'd come in for a glass of tea or bite to eat, but often as not, he'd be gone as quick as he pulled up....never saying goodbye.  He never said goodbye...kiss my foot...nada...not even on the phone.  He'd just hang up, leaving me talking to myself and, but that was Joe.  Now you see him, now you don' enigma.

My daddy has been gone 24 years this November and writing to capture my memories of him just gave me some insight into his sometimes quirky ways.  His last day in this world, he had called Mother to say he wasn't feeling well.  (This may not seem like a big deal to many of y'all, but my Daddy was never ill and certainly not one to call for help.  Give him a can of Campbell's Clam Chowder and he was good to go.)  Warning bells must have been ringing in my Mother's head as she called me to go get him at his lake cabin...quickly.  Danny and I drove in the middle of a huge thunder storm, at one point actually behind a tornado, to reach him.  I was hearing the bells too and all the while in the back of my mind thinking "Wait for me Daddy.  I'm coming...please wait."

Turning the corner of his gravel road, I saw rather than heard the ambulance and the paramedics truck.  Staring at the blinking red lights, I felt the air leave my lungs.  A dream sequence, almost an out-of-body experience, began as Danny stepped out of our truck, turned to me and said "Don't move".

Watching him climb the steps to Daddy's big front porch.  Trying to read his and the paramedic's lips.  Feeling my heart pounding, holding my breath and desperately wanting to reach for the door handle.

Seeing my husband's dear face try to hold it together.  Waiting as he, head held low, slowly descended the steps. Then me...collapsing on the front seat in tears...knowing my daddy was gone.  He didn't wait....not even to say goodbye.

For a long time, I was angry with him.  He knew I was coming.  Why didn't he wait?

After all these years, the answer comes in the memories of life with Daddy.

I get it.

I finally see with my heart what my eyes, blurred by tears, couldn't.

My sweet Daddy never did like to say goodbye.

Not to the past...or even me.

Daddy, I know you're listening.  Forever...Hidy, Hidy.


Friday, June 15, 2012

Life Can Be A Beach

Do y'all remember going back to school after Labor Day and the first assignment was to write an essay on "What I did this summer."?

That's what I've been working on lately...only with a twist.

Mine will be more like an essay titled "What I didn't do this summer". 

To begin with...I haven't done this.

Instead of getting wet in the ocean...where it's cool and relaxing,

I'm getting sweaty cleaning out the barn...where it's hotter than whodathoughtit.

(Oh there's salt on my hair and skin all right.

Just not the smell-good kind...if you catch my drift.

Come any closer...and you will!)

Instead of walking along the shoreline gathering my thoughts and these...

I'm running up and down the gitalong parked in the poodle seat... gathering this.

Some would argue it's more fun than a barrel of monkeys to ferret out hidden treasures on the back roads of Texas and in the colder months I'd agree...


this summer, seems I got me a real hankerin' to walk barefoot on the sand...

sportin' a fresh French pedicure,

bedecked in my new white eyelet dress,

while flashin' a smile and this.

Sadly my Happy-Birthday-To-Me bracelet and my chance to return starfish to the ocean are temporarily beached.

These days the only things I'm sportin' around the Casita de Trash are a junker's tan, raggedy jeans, and grocery store feet...
and the only sand in my hands is attached to 100-grit paper.

(I keep tellin' myself at least it's not in my underwear, but self replies it's willin' to risk being sawed in half for the smell of salt spray instead of dust!)


~Galveston, oh Galveston.  I still hear your sea waves crashing.~Jimmy Webb