Gutsy and kind-the world would have us believe this is a rare combination, that these people aren’t completely trustworthy. I ask you, who is? Show me a perfect person and I’ll kiss a gecko! I don’t expect I’ll ever have to do this. I’m terrified of them. And I’ve yet to see perfection, not in life, people or love. But despite this, we can accomplish more than we realize.

Case in point: Molly Brown. Born Margaret Tobin in Hannibal Missouri in 1867, she was taught progressive views by her parents. At age 13 she worked in a factory and volunteered in soup kitchens encountering head on struggles of the working class. Later, employed at a hotel, she met Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) who mentioned there were riches to be found in Colorado, where she later moved.

After meeting her future husband J.J. Brown, poor like herself, she said this. “I wanted a rich man but I loved Jim Brown.”   A few years later, J.J. did strike it wealthy when his engineering skills landed an ore mine for Ibex Mining. Although they lived lavishly, her giving nature didn’t wane. Poor times, wealthy times, it didn’t matter. She gave from her heart, like she always had. One doesn’t need money to have a philanthropic influence.

She is best known for being a survivor on the Titanic but what some might not know is how she rallied the first class passengers into giving money to help the less fortunate survivors, those who had lost everything. Before the rescue ship Carpathia had reached New York, she had raised 10,000 dollars! Did she accomplish this by being too kind? Or being too gutsy? Of course! This woman knew it took both to make a fire.

When the Carpathia arrived in New York, 30,000 people were waiting. Her deeds had already preceded her. When asked by reporters how she survived, she said, “Typical Brown Luck. We’re unsinkable.”

There are many men and women who quietly light up the world for others. It could be they’ve baked something for a sick neighbor. Or taken time for a sad friend. Maybe they’ve tried to understand someone instead of judging them. I’m honored to know many of these genuine people. They know who they are.

Close your eyes and keep your mind wide open. Things are not always as they seem. See the blinking fireflies? A lit candle? A black, dead night crackles and sparks with one. Add a strand and we’ve lit up a dark corner of the world. We are among stars. Perhaps you are one. I do try and some days go better than others. Such is life.

Oil pop, pop, popping, mushrooms, carrots, snap peas, shrimp big as butterflies, spicy chicken, red chilies’ flung in a huge steel pan, dancing together like a hot cha, cha, cha. That symphony of image and scent, going down on a Saturday Texas night. Like jazz with maracas thrown in. No, not a concert, but sitting ringside at a Japanese eatery, savoring the show. We only got the seats because tables were full. Just what I wanted but didn’t know it. Life is providential that way. Even in little things.

As I watched those chefs like players in a boisterous garage band, spicing, tossing, clattering and fine tuning, each part of the whole, producing with little effort, I thought of muses. Great kitchen muses up and pinching them with music, and plumes of aroma’s, they in the vortex. When smoking dishes were finally placed under our noses, the food almost felt anointed. And I’m not kidding. I ate slow and appreciated every decadent bite. If only I could remember to savor the everyday when I rise, shower, love, write, cook, clean, and read. To feel and see and hear subtle notes unfolding to a sticky, sweet, spicy crescendo. I will try to remember.

But now to the fortune cookie.

To find the hidden message the sugary golden cookie must be snapped open. I’m as anxious to do this as an enthralled little kid, digging in a Lucky Charm box and pulling up pots of gold, or four leaf clovers, or a wee rainbow. I was that kid. Still am some days. And, ahem… surely some will remember the surprises in the Cracker Jack boxes, back when our spin on the world was fresh as a bright blue lyric.

Here’s the reveal in that crisp cookie:GREAT ACTS OF KINDNESS WILL BEFALL YOU IN THE COMING MONTHS. Yeah, I know it’s cheesy, but this one made my heart leap. Don’t we all need this message? Without this our notes would flat line, both on the giving and receiving end. Anyway, I saved it. Put it in my tiny box with the others. I will pull those out from time to time, when notes go flat and I remember the unseen on a level close to song.

Has anyone seen the new show HORDERS? At the suggestion of a friend, I watched it for the first time last Monday evening on A&E. Frankly, it made me cry. And made me a bit queasy. The crying part because it was hard to believe people actually lived this way and queasy because it takes a stiff stomach to see the filth these families live in. I thought of all the children who grew up and are still growing up with a parent or parents with obsessive cravings to collect and horde junk, to the point of floors and ceilings sagging with mountains of trash. Families literally backed into corners with bottles, papers, clothes and junk. Stuff, mind you. These children don’t have friends over for sleepovers. They grow up not knowing where anything is.

Mom is not in the kitchen baking cookies because if she could still find the oven she wouldn’t be able to locate the ingredients. Did you know three million people live this way? Like pack rats on steroids. The people depicted on the show are at a turning point, a divorce, no contact with family members, being evicted, etc. In some cases their homes must be condemned.

Like those with addictions, a horders drug of choice is possessions. They put things before anything else, including those they love. Not only is it a harsh way to live but it’s costly too, in money and relationships. Because they can’t find what they’ve previously purchased, they buy the same things over and over and over again.

You know what I did after watching that show? I cleaned like a scrappy mad woman. I thought of garage sales and simplicity. I like things as well as the next person but my rule of thumb is this: if I see something I want for the house, if I can’t mentally place it, on a shelf, the wall, a nightstand, I don’t buy it. The only exception would be books. Don’t get me started there.

Ma Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie comes to mind; her simplistic cabin in the woods, smoke twirling from the chimney and the little curio on her mantle. The cheese-ball in me loved Ma. Oh I know she was fictional, but a solid, homemade character. I have to wonder if the good ole days were healthier for people. There was no extra money for hording.

Now I love Christmas as much as the next gal but I really can’t think of one thing I need after watching that show. Okay, maybe a bottle of cologne. My Chanel No. 5 is running on E. Oh, and a pair of multi-colored toe socks. Yep, those would be charming. Meanwhile I’m going through what extra stuff I have and giving it away. Anyone need a dried sunflower arrangement?

Tis the season for the tinkle tinkle of bells. And ringing cell phones. Regarding cell phones, I resisted having one, fought it nail and tooth, but finally caved in a few years back when the kids got so busy with activities I couldn’t keep track of them anymore. It did make my life easier, although I once called my oldest daughter when I woke on a Sunday morning, sleepy-eyed at 3:00 a.m. and didn’t see her car out front.

She picked up and in a gravelly voice said, “What?”

“Where are you? It’s three a.m.!”

“I’m upstairs in bed, mom. Why the heck are you calling me?”

She was mad.

“Sorry.” I hung up before she could sting me with her sleepy words. I then peered out the front window again and spotted her car, winking in the moonlight. The bushes had obstructed the view. My eyes had been a bit blurry when I’d checked.

Okay, so first you go through the baby stage, waking at all hours to rock and feed the soft sweeties warm bottles. Then the toddler stage, when they are out of the crib and sometimes wander about the house at odd hours. I once found my front door wide open in the middle of the night, my OLDEST (once again) across the street in the neighbor’s bushes, sitting and staring at the stars. She was a sleepwalker.

After years of sleep deprivation, parents get a slight break, a reprieve to rest back up for those teenage years. As those of you with kids who drive know, you get very little shut eye until you’re sure they are safe at home in warm beds. Even when they do text or call, a mother still sleeps with one eye open until they’re home. Now the two oldest are out the door, living their own lives, and I don’t worry what time they get in, because if I did, I’d be a walking zombie. But our youngest will get her drivers license soon, and the hoopla will begin all over again.

Joy to the world.

But really, thank God for cell phones. They’ve saved me time and worry, but certainly not money. Really though, can you put a price tag on piece of mind? Just ask a mother.

Here’s another thing I like about cell phones: the ring tones. You can pick something totally original and annoying. My first ring tone was Michael Jackson’s, Thriller, which inspired me to break out in the moonwalk whenever someone called me. I did that once and got it out of my system. Because I like dancing way too much, I changed it. Let’s see, I’ve had Kiss From A Rose, by Seal, Don’t Stop Believing, by Journey and Clocks, by Coldplay.

I’ve recently come up with something new, mainly to entertain myself. If you can guess what it is, I’ll send you a little gift from Texas. No armadillo’s, I swear.

Here are two little clues in the song: COLD and STAY. Good luck!

Btw…what’s your ring tone?

Thanksgiving will be here soon and Christmas won’t lag far behind. It’s the hap, happiest season of all. That is, if you’re not half-dead from shopping, decorating, entertaining, Christmas card writing and baking by the time it arrives. Oh, never mind. It’s the happiest time of the year, dang it! I’ve learned to trim and not stress. Get an early start.

Yes, I say this every year, but this time I really mean it.  The older I get, the more sense this makes.  They didn’t call the wise men wise for nothing.  I’m actually very thankful I can shop and bake and share.  So many this year will need all the extra everything we can give due to the economy.

Here’s something cheap and lovely. Ribbon candy. Not only is it yummy, but I love its jazzy looks. I’ve been known to dangle the candy on our tree branches, which mysteriously disappears, one piece at a time.  It’s also dazzling in a glass bowl. If you don’t snatch it early, you’re not likely to have it, though.  Hint: you can find it at Wally World, that colorful, shiny candy in pretty little boxes.

Now, I don’t make the stuff. It looks like a job for Martha S. She could not only whip that candy up, but sell the heck out of it, too.  Thankfully, people expect a lot less from me, and I’m quite charmed with that.  Christmas cookies are easy.

These pumpkin cookies with ginger cream cheese frosting are one of my Christmas favorites.  I make them every year, giving them to neighbors, friends, the mail man, and on and on.  One year the waste management guys even left me a new trash can lid the day I left the cookies out for them. It might sound stupid, but I was so excited to get that lid. I really needed one.  Anyway, the cookies look right special wrapped in clear cellophane and dolled up with curly ribbon.

Homemade gifts are the best kind.  Please raise your hand if you’d prefer a lovely package of homemade goodies over something you don’t need or want, let alone remember what you received a month later?  Me, me, over here!

Okay, then. Tis the season to share.

This recipe calls for raisins and just in case you don’t know how to plump them, it’s easy. They do add pizazz.  Here’s how: Boil two cups of water and add however many raisins you want to add to your recipe. Boil for about three minutes then drain with cold water. The raisins will be so soft they’ll melt on your tongue. Promise.

Now to the cookies.

Pumpkin Cookies with Ginger Cream Cheese Frosting

This recipe makes 4 dozen cookies.

2 ½ cups flour, ½ tsp. baking soda, ¼ tsp. salt, 2 tsp. pumpkin pie spice 1 cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed, ½ cup granulated sugar, ¾ cup butter, softened, 1 large egg, 1 cup canned pumpkin, 1 tsp. vanilla and 1 cup raisins

In medium bowl, combine first 4 ingredients.  In mixer bowl, combine and mix sugars, then add butter and beat well. Scrape down sides of bowl and mix again. Add egg, pumpkin and vanilla. Mix until light and fluffy. At low speed, blend in the flour mixture.  Add raisins, mixing only until well blended. Drop by tablespoonfuls onto ungreased cookie sheet, about 2 inches apart.  Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes, or until cookies test done when touched in center. Cool before frosting.

Ginger Cream Cheese Frosting

3 ounces cream cheese, at room temp 4 tablespoons butter, room temp 1/8 tsp. ground ginger 2 to 2 ½ cups powdered sugar 2 tablespoons- or more- milk

Beat cream cheese, butter and ginger together until light and fluffy. Add the powdered sugar and thin with milk to proper spreading consistency. Spread on cookies and eat!

And the sign said long-haired freaky people need not apply, so I tucked my hair up under my  hat and went in to ask him why. He said you look like fine, upstanding young man, I think you’ll do. So I took off my hat and said imagine that, ha, me working for you. Sign, sign everywhere a sign, blocking up the scenery, breaking my mind, do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign?

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Remember this song? Just in case you’ve forgotten, I’ll jolt your memory. Signs, by the Five Man Electrical Band.

This is the time of year when we get pinched with nostalgia, or NOS-TA-LODGE-Ah, as my daughter used to pronounce it.  Old pictures are good for that, and so are the holidays.  Oh, the luck, or not, to have stumbled onto these pictures right now, tucked in a dusty book, put together by my mom long ago.  My daughters said I looked like a hippie in this one. Yeah, I see it. Slap a ring of daises round my head and deck me out in bell-bottoms and you could have tossed me smack into Woodstock. My name might have been Milky Way or Sunshine Rose. I still can’t believe I missed that. Man, I shoulda been there. Cool bands. Flower power. A bad moon rising. The whole she-bang.

I would have been a fab hippie. Peace out.

No psychedelic drugs for me. I’m partial to natural highs. It’s cool, man, it’s all cool. Most likely I would have been the hippie making sure all other hippies were well fed and didn’t wander off looking for Alice in Wonderland. “Nice fro, dude, nice fro. Now get the heck back over here, you’re missing Purple Haze.” I would have said something like that.

Okay, so I was too young to go. And my parents certainly didn’t drag us there.  I really do love them for that. I hated getting dirty even at a young age.  Woodstock rain and mud would have given me fits.  My white vinyl Go-Go Boots would have never survived it. I shined those suckers every night and propped them next to my bed, sparkle, sparkle, pretty.

Even though I wouldn’t have won any beauty contests, it’s fun going back in time, yes?  Somewhere in your closet, or under your bed is your own box or book of memories.  Maybe it’s time to blow the dust off and tip-toe back.

Meanwhile, I must go get my membership card to get inside...Hu!

Ohhh…this is what came to mind when I stumbled on this picture: Romance.  I mean, they are rose petals. Thousands of them.

But then I thought of ideas, strewn along life’s path, one by one by one. Kindnesses too, and how they soften our way through hard times.

What comes to your mind when you see this picture? I would love to know!

A backyard fire pit, snappy sparks, red lit, flying. Moonlight whispering through trees, grass, skin, eyes, oh the eyes we love, sending silent messages bigger than a Texas sky. Leaves turned cinnamon and amber, quivering and curling on limbs like tiny, arthritic hands. More eyes, laser sharp, peering through woods, raccoons or possums or skunks, perhaps, noses rising in tribute to lowly hot-dogs, sizzling and blistering on sticks.  And a Cherokee fiddle. Might be all that’s missing, but no, night composes its own music.

Fall nights like these are a dozen a dime, but won’t last forever. Here in Texas we’ve only recently stepped out from hot summer shells. Four long months of broiling and we’re cooked. Ready for frosting, the frost on the pumpkin, fall frost. Time to snap out blankets, throw them on the ground, lie on backs, and wonder with dreamy eyes at the heavens, spitting out stars, swirling planets, strobe-like, suspended. I count each twinkle, never knowing how many, many, many stars, knowing never. Nights like these are a dozen a dime, but won’t last forever.

This time of year brings me back to long ago hay rides, fuzzy sweaters, snuggling, cutting through a black Mark Twain National Forest, dirt from roads settling in our hair, our smiles, carrying us right through the hard flinty winter when reflection sets in corners like mute guests.

Camp-outs too, dancing under a moon stuffed with promise, breeze in hair. And strolling beside a tinseled river with the girls, making up crap  that scares them silly. And then pulled from the tent later, dead asleep, they say, “Come on, mom, come and tell stories. Our friends haven’t heard them. Oh please! We want to hear them again.”

So I do. Spin tale after tale, sleepy-eyed yet happy that ears listen.

I remember barn dances, doing the two-step, feet moving like hot grease on the griddle of floor. Pumpkin carving too, cinnamon sprinkled under the lids, spicing up night. The kids and friends jammed into our house, costumed to high heaven, watching Charlie Brown, a blanket of candy on the floor, and still trick-or-treaters banging down the door. Wanting more.  And, yes, this yet goes on.

Fall in bloom.

What are your fall favorites?

A little flower. Some river water. Add a few shivering leaves. Lacy ferns. Herbs are nice if you see them. Small mushrooms add zest, if not shriveled by sun. There should be no trouble finding fresh ingredients. And no cooking experience necessary. Leave your chef at home.

Oh, and it’s best not to include heat. No baking, please. High humidity causes this recipe to flop. If it’s done right, the sweetness factor pops a body awake. Clears the head. Makes words and dreams and memories rise.

Now put on sneakers. Stretch those crusty limbs. Dance first if you must.

Stir.

One can eat this treat to high heaven without gaining an ounce. As a matter of fact, it’s possible to get quite fit with this luscious recipe. It will also take you places. Allow your mind to wander. Refresh your soul.

It’s called a walk.

Our family once had a tent that reminded me of those seen in a circus. My Dad found and claimed it at a flea market. We groaned when we saw it and asked, “What were you thinking?”

He grinned and said, “It was a great deal and we can invite the relatives!”

Invite them we did. Grandmothers. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. If memory serves me correctly it could sleep forty. We might of had that many too, when you threw in our own family of eleven.

Dad sat that gaudy contraption up in a field and it bloomed alongside the creek like a rowdy flower. It seemed even the trees gasped.

By day we flipped and flapped in the creek, laughter peeling through trees. When tired of that, we’d slather our skin with a concoction of baby oil and iodine and lye on hot rocks to further brown our skin, which usually ended  up blistered and angry red.

In the evening were icy Cokes, and sizzling burgers, smoke from the grill swirling, twirling and exposing our hidden oasis. We’d eat exhausted but joyful among a custard of whir and buzz, the high easy call of birds on the wind.

When sun and moon traded shifts, whippoorwills clicked on, spiking air with lonesome, haunting melodies. A bonfire sprung up, fire in the sky, everyone gathering round with twigs whittled on ends to accommodate fat marshmallows. And then, Mom, fretting at little bold ones, lighting theirs, red coal fire sticks, zipping and chasing, sparks flying.  Meanwhile, the old folks sitting mesmerized in lawn chairs,  cheeks infused with fresh color, eyes twinkling and full.

Later came the hair-raising ghost stories, fire popping and snapping, darkness so black and voices real or imagined whispering through trees. When kids were good and frightened it was time for bed.

Yeah, right.

The adults blinked right off, but a certain sister and I couldn’t. Like pushpins in sleeping bags, we didn’t budge. An owl hooted outside the tarp and we’d stiffen, our eyes round as coasters. A snap of twig, we’d shiver and cling.  And then a brother or two slinking around outside, making bizzare noises as if we weren’t petrified already.  Inside the tent were odd snores and aroma’s; a funky humanity mixture ripened by night, yet oddly comforting, new and old, different and the same all in one spot at one time in time.

That gaudy circus tent; another shiny bead added to the necklace of memory.