This morning  I read an article about procrastinators not being lazy people. Quite the opposite, according to some experts of human behavior. That’s good to now. Procrastination, I know it well. Today, for instance, I didn’t get around to writing what I planned to share with this week’s Thursday 13 , but I did sew a pocket on a putter-around-the-house shirt, as well as turn its long sleeves into short ones. That, according to those experts is a common ploy with procrastinators, to distract oneself with a different task or project.  Here are 13 synonyms for procrastinate from Merriam-Webster: dawdle poke plod shilly-shally  fool around delay slow up mope dilly dally tarry loll decelerate filibuster That last synonym was a surprise. The shoe does fit for a certain party in the Senate. Okay, off to  Thursday 13   I go to check out more lists of 13. Come join me.  

1. Nobody wants to hear about mass shootings. La la la la la la. 2. I’m rambling and researching about the subject as I write. So thankful, I am, for the Internet. It would be so easy for me to be a recluse, a hermit, an eccentric, a looney tune. Thank goodness for the Husband! Though, it would be easy for him, too. See, rambles. 3. Guns don’t kill, grump some gun owners. I suppose those people merely have guns for display behind beautiful etched glass doors. “Ooh, isn’t that the cutest gun,” I could say if I was shown such a private display. May that not ever be. 4. “Bah! I’ve got my rights to own guns. Says so in the Constitution, you libtard, Nazi, socialist, communist hussy.” That’s what I imagine some grump, hand on firearm of choice, could shout at me. At my senior age, I may not mind being called a hussy. There goes yon hussy. Waddle, waddle, venture I.  5. The imaginary grump can thank the late Justice Scalia for re-interpreting the Second Amendment to make possession of a ...

This morning, I learned that someone under the influence of alcohol or drugs flipped his or her car in the cemetery where my family’s remains are buried. The car landed quite near where my older sister lay.  What kind of person does that, race through a cemetery, whether DUI or not? The same kind who shoots into a group of people because he thinks he sees someone he hates but that person was not there at all?  The same kind who smoke bombs and shoots in a subway car?  The same kind who invades a country?  The same kind who walks out on a person who has been appointed to the U.S. Supreme Court?  The same kind who ignites the anger of others so that they will do violence and destruction for him, but then pretend dumb about having any part of it? The same kind who bullies others to get what he wants, but when others stand up to him, he cries foul and feels victimized?  Disgusting.  I suppose the one positive thing I can say about those kind of people is t...

Cheers to another year of celebrating the brave and bold actions of our country's founding fathers to sever ties with Great Britain!  Hope you all had a joyful and safe celebration. Until the fireworks started, we had a pleasant Fourth of July. Surprisingly, all was quiet with an occasional vroom of motorcycles in the distance.  Because of the pandemic, thousands of bikers haven't descended on our small community this Fourth of July for the sometimes annual biker rally commemorating the day bikers went wild downtown in 1947.  The actual bar in which a biker drove through still thrives today. The 1950s movie "The Wild One" with Marlon Brando is loosely based on the incident. Nightfall was a different story. It was a steady diet of  KAPOW, rat-a-tat-a-tat, pow-pow-pow, bang-bang-BANG, and long-whistle BOOM from 7:30 p.m. to nearly 12:30 a.m. I felt like we were on an island caught between two feuding factions. I do not want to imagine what a war ...

I got so pissed this morning, I could spit. Would you say that I'm saying this literally or figuratively? FYI: I did not, am not, nor will I spit about what got me furious.  Spitting I reserve for when I am sick (better out than in, right?) or for root hormone (some gardeners say that spit makes a good substitute). The Mama pretended to spit whenever she broke glass, followed by a plea to Mary, Jesus, and Joseph that they don't hold the broken glass as a point against her. Too much TMI? Sorry. I continue. The cause for my growling spew? Let's simply say that my tolerability cap for political beliefs got blown off for a moment.  I allowed myself to care that I was disappointed about humanity and so became bummed. As you can see, not anymore. The Husband and I took a drive to Freedom to purchase food for our precious, and spoiled, Molly the Cat. The 60-mile round trip drive, more or less, had us rolling by green hills and zigzagging through a canyon and among f...

“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.” John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley: In Search of America Travel with Charley: In Search of America is in one of my to-read book piles. It may be the next book I reach for, being that I'm curious to learn what John Steinbeck was seeking as he wandered about the country with his canine pal Charley in 1960. Steinbeck was traveling in the era to which the present administration seems to want to return. You know the "Make America Great Again". Myself, I would rather not return to the age when civil rights for all was not honored by those mean-spirited in power and those cowardly who sided with the powerful.

Although there are moments when it seems like the sky is falling, especially when it comes to our federal government, which seems more so lately with the lack of leadership in our executive and legislative branches. Those currently in power seem hell-bent on funding the Haves and getting rid of the Have-Nots; hence, the folks clinging on to the sinking middle may feel they must choose between siding with the sanctimonious greedy and mighty insecure lackeys or being true to the Good Samaritan messages that our society preaches. Either/or. Frustration abounds. Pitchforks and torches come out. Usually the meek, the kind, the underdog are mobbed first and continually until the growling breaks out among those in power. Or, until enough of the mob breaks lose of the spell of curses it is under and defy the powerful that cast the spell. I suspect that people who hate are scared. But, of what? A loss of property? A world of peace and love? Death? Is it as simple as fearing they will be pu...

I spied with my little eye a wife trimming hairs out of her husband's nostrils in front of the Hotel that once was on the corner of Sutter and Powell Streets in San Francisco. I was sitting on the #2 Sutter bus heading westerly home on a sunny day. Hahahaha! This 30+ year mental image still gets me laughing. The couple was probably in their late 50s and early 60s. I pegged them for tourists, but they could've been native-born San Franciscans. I simply loved how they were comfortable with each other. I like to think the Husband and I are comfortable old farts like that couple was. And, yes. I've trimmed the Husband's nose hairs. But only in the privacy of our home and only when I cut his curly locks and bristly (not grizzly) beard. So far.

This morning I heard the happy sound of a young girl running about outside. The voice was unfamiliar. It turned out the sweetness belonged to the niece of our new neighbor. Sometime later while the Husband and I were talking with the new neighbor's dad, this little girl, who could've been between five and seven, came running up to us. She wore a sweatshirt with the words Crazy Cute . That she certainly was. She zigged behind her grandfather when she didn't recognize us, which I thought was a darling move. The Husband and I eventually met the new neighbor, his mom, his brother, and his brother's son and the Crazy Cute daughter. As we said our good-byes, Crazy Cute daughter came into the center of us taller people, waving to us. I waved back. Then all of a sudden, she ran over and hugged me. Everyone was as surprised as me. Today—two days later—I'm hooking up with the participants at Warm Heart Wednesday , hosted by Jenny Matlock of Off on My Tangent. Cli...

"Are my teeth over there?" asked the Mama, as she slowly shuffled towards the kitchen. Hence, began an all-day search for the Mama's dentures. We went through her clothes pockets, looked behind and under things, moved things from here to there in her bedroom and bathroom, the kitchen, the hallway, and the living room. Several times. The fortunate thing was that the Mama had not gone outside into her garden that morning. The plus side to the Mama misplacing her dentures was that she found her cute, green hand towels and she reorganized her bathroom. I also think she was mentally stimulated by the challenge. I thought I could see her brain cells tightening as she recalled more of her path between the kitchen and her bedroom. So, where did the Mama finally find her dentures? Precisely where she put them. In her vest pocket, which was on her bedroom closet floor. The one piece of clothing she normally wears that we had not thought to look through. Oh well. I...

"You have beautiful earrings," I said to the woman in the grey coat walking beside me. I was going with the flow of the crowd checking out the various food booths and trucks at yesterday's San Benito Olive Festival in our county. "Thank you," the woman replied, stopping to give me a better look at her earrings, so I thought. They were dangling earrings in an intricate delicate design with tiny balls hanging at the top and bottom. They had an East Indian look to them. As she was telling me how she had a lot of earrings that her relatives gave her she began to take one earring off. I figured for me to look at the lovely design closer. Some women do that—take off an earring to show another woman who is admiring them. I've done it myself. Why do we do that? I don't know. She handed me both earrings, which startled me. I studied them. "Gorgeous," I said, as I handed them back. She did not take them. "They're yours," she said...

He trudged along like a ghost in mourning. Paula sighed as she pulled back from her living room window. Curtis Warren, her middle-school English teacher from decades ago, had lost his wife to a drunk driver less than a year ago.  Paula heard that his family was concerned he would take his life. She knew the feeling. When her husband died from cancer five years go, Paula became a vagabond. She came back home a few months ago to be with her dad in his last days. She didn't know how much longer she would stay.  "Oh, no!" Paula rushed out her front door and down to the sidewalk where Curtis lay sprawled. She helped him up and held onto him until he was steady on his feet. "My mind was thinking of other things," the 70-year old man said. His voice rough as if he hadn't spoken in a long time. "It happens," said Paula. "Come up to my porch, Mr. Warren, and sit for a while. I have fresh lemonade." "No, no," he said, shakin...

Memorial Day by Helen Leah Reed (From Memorial Day and Other Verse , 1917)         No warrior he, a village lad,                 needing nor words nor other prod         To point his duty; he was glad                 to tread the path his fathers trod.         Week days he worked in wood and field;                 with homely joys he decked his life;         The sword of hate he would not wield,                 nor take a part in cankering strife.         On Sunday in the little choir                 he sang of Peace and brotherly love,         And as his thoughts soared higher and higher,                 they re...

Lisa stopped to take a photo of a chair in the shape of the hand in front of the furniture store. She told me about an article on chairs she read on her flight. Now, she wants to take photos of chairs. "I must take a photo of Lisa taking a photo of the chair," said Farel, brother of Lisa. "I must take a photo of you taking a photo of Lisa taking a photo of the chair," I said. That delightful silliness was last Thursday when the virtual blogging world suddenly became real and I met blogging friend Lisa from Malaysia in person. Wowza, indeed! Lisa and I met on my other blog, Take 25 to Hollister , which is about my hometown and the place where the Husband and I currently live. The "25" refers to the two-lane state highway that leads into Hollister from the north. This bit of information will make sense a few paragraphs later. On Wednesday night, I received a Facebook message from Lisa: "I'm heading to Hollister tonight!" Huh!...

A couple of weeks ago, the Appliance Guy checked out the burners on our electric stove. We were down to only one working burner. I actually watched the third burner spit up flames as it died. Both the Mama and I were worried that we'd have to get a new stove. All for naught. The Appliance Guy told us that all we needed were burners and immediately called in an order for us. Since the Appliance Guy was there, I asked him if it was possible to calibrate the oven. "It's not working?" he asked, opening the oven door. "Sometimes my dishes come out dry or undercooked, even though I follow the time and temperature on the recipes," I said, watching him take out the oven racks, turn them around, and insert them back. "Were they in backwards?" I asked. The Appliance Guy stood up. "The door wasn't closing properly because of the racks." "Oh." "The stove is also old," the Appliance Guy said, which he most likely...

Yesterday, I found an unfinished draft that I wrote about four years ago. It was about Dawn who I had not seen since the mid-1980s. About four years ago, I learned that Dawn had died, and she had been dead for 12 years. Only in her 40s, she died from pneumonia in London. Gorgeous Dawn was one of the most sophisticated, yet down to earth, individuals I have ever met. She had a style that I could only describe as the beauty of Italian art, music, film, and food.  And, she had a light that caused both men and women to turn around and smile in appreciation. Dawn was the sister of my brother's friend who fell in love with my best friend at the time, back in the early 1980s. So, I ended up hanging out with Dawn now and then. If we hadn't had this connection, I doubt that Dawn and I would have ever met, as we did not move around in any other of the same circles. She was the artist living in the North Beach of San Francisco, while I lived in the Richmond District, working thre...

"Hello." "Good morning." "Happy New Year!" "Have a nice day." Most people, I've noticed, are friendly to each other on walking trails. Some are even willing to stop and pass a few moments to cheerfully talk to strangers. Maybe we should imagine that all streets, roadways, paths, sidewalks are trails. Today, I'm linking up with The Weekend in Black and White , hosted by Dragonstar. Click here to see other black and white photos be bloggers around the world.

Once Molly catches that turkey, I will start cooking. I am grateful for many things. . . the Husband, the Mama, and Molly the Cat. the friends in my life. the ability to live the life I choose. the earth, the sun, the wind, and the water. the unconditional love of God. Peace, joy, love, and happiness to you, Dear Readers.