In my mind, I'm five years old having a high old time wandering and wondering. In reality, I'm now in my late 60s, wowza! I tell you a lot of creativity is still to be found in this old young self. In you, too, whatever your age. Welcome to my barefoot world!
"We can't store the persimmons in the garage," I said to the Mama and the Husband at the lunch table one day. "There's an uh-toot ." The Mama laughed. "What's that?" the Husband asked. "A mouse," I said. Most likely I shuddered. Rodents give me the creeps. " Uh-toot in Ilocano means mouse. Right, Mama?" " Uh-taut ," said Mama. "You have a funny pronunciation." " Uh-toot ," I said. " Uh-taut ." " Uh-toot ," said the Husband. "She's saying the same thing." The Mama smiled. " Uh-toot ," I said. "Be careful. If you say Ah-toot , you're talking about a fart." That conversation happened a few years back. Recently, I learned that the Ilocano word for mouse is bau , which I never heard the Mama or the Daddy use. I also found out that the spelling for fart is o-t-o-t. The Mama considered mice as farts. Giggle. Toda
This is the last photo I took of the ever vibrant Mama gazing directly at me. This was back in March when the Asian pear tree behind her was beginning to bloom. I discovered the photo this morning when I was looking for something to share at Friday's Hunt , hosted by Teresa of Eden Hills. The photo fulfills the prompts for this week: 1) Starts with V 2) Week's Favorite 3) Thankful I'm thankful that I have a photo of the oh-so-vital Mama. A couple weeks after this photo was taken, her body, as her doctor put it, finally hit the wall. It no longer was able to compensate after her 94 years of living. There's much for me to be thankful when it comes to the Mama. Most of all, I am thankful that the Mama was my mama. Click here to visit Eden Hills and the other participants of this week's Friday's Hunt.
Trieste is the name of the street I live on. The Husband pronounces Trieste as Tree-est . The Mama used to say Trees-tay. I like to say Tree-es-tay . Molly the Cat simply says Mwrr. Today, I found out that I was wrong about what trieste means. I thought it meant sad. In Italian, which is the word's origin, trieste means market place. (Italians pronouce the word as tree-es-tay .) According to Wiktionary.org, trieste is from the Latin word tergeste , which comes from Venetic, a once-upon-a-time language in the long-time-ago region of Veneto. I love the idea that we live on Trieste, a market place. I shall now imagine myself selling, trading, and giving away the creations of my heart. They may be words, images, and things out of stuff. Hmmmm. When I was a young thing living in San Francisco I wanted to be a street artist when I grew up, but I had no idea what I could sell as I had no artistry of any kind. That's what I thought then. Things are different now. I have the t
Yesterday afternoon, the Husband and I safely exited the highway onto a road that led us briefly through a magical eucalyptus forest. We zigged and zagged up hill and down dale along vaguely familiar roads to a small town where an artisan's holiday fair was happening. Shall we turn left or right? One way or the other we'd find our destination. We could've taken the direct route. But, where's the fun in that? We wouldn't have come across two young deer quietly and delicately making their way up a hillside. It was almost like they were holding their breath as they walked. Were they afraid we would see them? The Husband stopped the car and opened his window so I could quickly take a photo of the young deer. It wasn't until I was fiddling with this photo that I noticed a creature in the brush above him. At first I thought it was a bobcat or a coyote. Would the deer have gone so slowly if it was either creature? It turned out it was another deer. I'
Nature is uplifting. Full of grace. Unconditional love. This photo (my favorite this week) is my contribution to Friday's Hunt hosted by Teresa at Eden Hills. Her weekly meme asks participants to share photos to three prompts. The prompts this week are: 1) Starts with U 2) Week's Favorite 3) Nature To join in (it's open until Sunday evening) and/or to check out other participants, click here .
Wowza! I planned on writing something serious today about current events, but then I received wonderful news this morning that I want to share. It was the first email message I saw when I opened my mailbox. Giggle, giggle. First some background. Are you familiar with the Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes series by Laurie R. King? This is one of the few series that I keep up with. In a nutshell, in case you're not, Mary, the wife of Sherlock, is the main character in the series. Mary goes from being Sherlock's apprentice to his equal partner in marriage and detection. Together, they resolve situations for clients and Sherlock's brother who is in the deepest of deep English intelligence, as well as for themselves. The time frame for their adventures is the late 1910s and 1920s. For more about the series, click here . So, what's my news? Last month I entered that drawing above of Mary and Sherlock on a hillside in Laurie R. King recent fan art contest. It
Bones Approaching DOOM The Husband suggested that title for the photo. It has a nice ring, don't you think? Back to the picture. Imagine that the bones are wearing cowboy spurs. Imagine, now, that the bones are walking towards the ribbon of red. Jhing. Jhing. Jhing. Doesn't it seem that the bones might also be wearing a poncho similar to the one Clint Eastwood's character wore in the Italian western movies once upon a time? That photo above is my edited version of the photo below that I took yesterday at the Day of the Dead procession in our county. I took a lot of photos. As always. My thought was to clean some up in Photoshop and share them at my other blog. Well, I didn't get pass this photo. I blame it on the skeleton (on the left) for holding up its arm in such a way that I thought it would be fun to contrast the bones with the feathers on the headdresses. You know how that goes. The creative brain cell kicked in and dismissed the practical sense of