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.

He is Lucky. This guy with peppery hair and eyes the color of liquid chocolate. On a good day he says I love you. A bad one, he still says it. Really, I swear, those are his only words. His love is pure sunshine. Such a smooth operator he is. And I’ve never seen such a fast runner. Dancing pleases him, too, especially when food is involved. Living to please and pleased to live; his life in a sardine can. When the boy sees me he’s always thrilled. It matters little what mood I’m in. He could care less if I’m wearing make-up, or a pretty outfit, or if my hair looks crappy. He lets me talk myself silly, and tell stupid jokes, never noticing if the house is messy. Anything I feed him he appreciates. If he were a man, I’d marry him. No questions asked.

But he’s a dog.

Our dog, Lucky. By world standards he is considered a mutt, a cross between a German Terrier and Chihuahua, but by our standards he’s first class.

We rescued Lucky at an animal shelter seven years ago, and he says thank you every day in his own soft ways. If a family member is sick, he is there, snuggling, waiting, comforting, leaving only long enough to drink and do outside business. Animals love us through the best and worst of times, asking little in return, taking only what we offer. They lay their hearts on the table.  We often need them rather we realize it or not. For those of you who have pets, you know the joy they bring. Around here we’ve had an iguana, cats, rats, hamsters and an albino porcupine. At the moment, a snake, who has yet to grow on me.

Some writers use their animals in author photos, on book jackets, etc… Now the photo for this article, Lucky in the jack rabbit ears I made, was for promotional purposes, but this is the first time I’ve posted it, and I do think he makes a sweet model.

There was a discussion recently on the Writer’s Digest Forum-a splendid site for writers, by the way- regarding the use of animals in author promotion as being cheesy and unprofessional. I happen to disagree. That’s what I love about the forum, we can agree to disagree.  Animals connect us to others and I find it enduring to see an author posing with a family pet on a jacket cover if they so choose.  I would enjoy hearing your thoughts on this.

Meanwhile I’ll consider myself lucky indeed.

Joy, it’s summertime. People are once again filling gas tanks and hitting the road. Despite high gas prices, one can still get from here to there without breaking the bank. And I do hope you take the back roads occasionally. The good stuff hides there. Little old people on porches, holding hands and watching the sun slide down, an unexpected parade, a wild patch of sunflowers, men in faded overalls, whittling sticks on a store front corner.  Once our girls got older, we took back roads whenever possible.

I remember when they were young, traveling the twelve hours to Missouri every summer. We took the interstates then, our goal, to get there in record time. Ten miles down the road whining would commence. They were so good at it, I always suspected they’d rehearsed. Conversations went something like this.

“How much longer?” One would ask.

“Eleven hours and fifty minutes.”

Another chimed in, “I’ve gotta go to the bathroom.”

“For crying out loud, we just left the house. Can’t you hold it?”

“You want me to pee my pants? Pull over!”

“What a pain.”

“Why’d you have me then, huh?”

“I had no idea it was going to be you!”

Boy, did we have fun. Those early travel memories are sweet, magical moments in time.  I can still see their sleepy eyes. How their heads would wobble and finally give out. The sun playing on their blond hair. I can hear the giggles, see the sparkly eyes when we’d stop and they’d get a treat.  The squeals of anticipation when rolling down the window, sticking our arms out, and getting  truckers to honk. They loved this and I did too. I also remember them laughing as I tumbled into the backseat to read them stories. The four of us, all cozy under a blanket in the middle of nowhere, happy as clams.

We’ve done road trips as far back as I can remember, the memories priceless.  On the weekend we’ll be taking another. This is the first time two of the girls won’t be going. One is attending summer school, the other working. The trip will be strange without them, but our youngest daughter will keep us well entertained.  I’m thankful to spend time with her while I can. She’s growing up too fast.

Enjoy your summer and keep making miles and miles of memories!

Diets do not appeal to me. My thighs, however, love them. That said, my whole family has climbed aboard the South Beach Diet boat. I still don’t know how I coaxed them, but we’re paddling all the same. Yes, we’re arriving somewhat late, but better late than never. Or is it?

Since Sunday we’ve been swimming in eggs, salads, meat, and ricotta cheese. Waves will be high the first two weeks.  The thunderstorm of eggs already has me shaky.  If I even imagine an egg now, I cringe.  This, and we’re only on day four. Good thing I have my V-8 juice. Great thing I like it.  We’ve already consumed more spinach than Popeye, and I half expect to wake one morning and scare my own self to death with bulging muscles.  Oh, did I mention we can’t eat fruit for two weeks? I now fantasize about apples and oranges. Sad, I know.

Last night we had a prolonged discussion on cheeseburgers and M&Ms. I finally put a stop to this. Food talk hour is now off limits, punishable by extra eggs. Pretty sure this will work.

Now back to the ricotta. With this diet I’m supposed to whip up dessert every night with this white pasty cheese.  You add slivered almonds,  almond extract, artificial sweetener, and serve it chilled.  Yuma!

Just kidding.

It tasted a bit like gussied up glue. The expressions on family faces ranged from horrified to disgusted.  A bit discouraged, the next night I added cocoa powder and baked it. Like a cheesecake, I thought. Oh, I love cheesecake. But I can’t talk about that. Anyway, it was better, but still far from cheesecake. Did someone say cheesecake?

Well, the good news is, weight is dropping. Three pounds down all around. If we can make friends with the egg we’ll have it in the bag.  On the third week, we’ll see our precious fruit once again. Be introduced to a potato.  If you don’t hear from me in the next ten days it means I’ve slipped into an egg induced coma. Someone please call a chicken. But really, this is a fine diet, as far as diets go.

If I could have it my way, though, I’d create the North Beach Diet. Only those who eat chocolate cake, cheeseburgers and French fries could participate.  No bikinis on this beach. Skinny people are not allowed.  Thighs flap here and have a grand time. Triple chins are all the rage.  Sunsets would swirl with barbecue smoke.  Eggs, ricotta cheese and salad would be curse words punishable by law.

But meanwhile I must go toss a salad.

Do you have a  tender heart and experience strong emotions? Can you cry for no decent reason, and laugh a few minutes later?  Does it feel like other people’s emotions sometimes invade your own?  What about intuition and knowing things you shouldn’t? If  you said yes to all of the above then welcome to the club.  When growing up, I wondered if I’d been inflicted with a mysterious ailment.  Was this a blessing or curse?

Sad movies, even when I’m cozy with plot, still manage to make me boo hoo every time. Little Women for example; Beth gets sick. She dies young. “Get the Kleenex ready,” my children say. “Moms watching Little Women.”  They find my reactions humorous, but touching too.

Emotional types tend to laugh loudly too. They usually know how to have a grand time. This flip flop of feeling, I finally realized, was not a curse. We are the way we are for good reason. Better to belly up to our personalities so we can live down to the bones. This takes courage in a world that pops your hand when not conforming. Follow the rules. Do this. Why can’t you be more like so and so?  Now how would you know that? Quit crying.  Stop laughing. Conform, conform, conform, dang you.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve always skirted around the rules I could. Walked outside lines. Questioned. It’s surely not the only way to go, but the route is quite lively.

However we choose to go through life, we fight, cry, laugh and dance along as best we can, with what we know.  Just when we’ve grown quite fond of old habits and worn out ways of thinking, change barges in and turns our world topsy turvy.  Shaking us like  coin purses, we crash and pick ourselves back up. Our purse can then be filled with new, shiny change.  At least I think that’s how it works. I’ll get back to you on this.

Be kinder than necessary for we are all fighting a battle. This is a golden sentence. I’m not sure who said it, but they were extremely wise.  Despite our personality types we are on equal  battle ground here. The best we can do is pick each other up when we stumble.  And remember to laugh!

Emotional rescue at its finest.

Happy for no reason; lighted candles dress up my mood this way. So does moonlight and starlight and turn your head smiles. Sorry if you thought this post was jogging a different direction. I’ll try not to steer you wrong. You see, I have this aversion to those who buy candles and never light them. When they leave the room I want to pop around. Fire them up.

Quick! Where’s the lighter? Matches?

Two vanilla tapers on the mantle. The flicker would be magnificent. Oh, and another two on twisted metal stands by the window, topped with cinnamon colored chunks. Perfectly formed, flame never touching wax. Imagine the whirl of white blue, soft, dreamy, reflective.

These are not my candles so I can’t light them. I shouldn’t. Couldn’t. Can’t. But sweetie I want to say, you don’t know what you’re missing. I want to say life is too fast not to light slow burning candles. Do it and I’ll buy you more. But I say nothing. The candles remain dusty, intact.

My aversion actually covers anything unused. Everything in my home can be touched, sat upon, walked over, enjoyed, worn. There are no mysterious sitting rooms too huffy for human consumption. If I had one, we’d be…hmm, sitting in it. Laughing in it.

When a dish or glass falls victim to my tile floor, I don’t flinch. The lesson came from a then four-year-old daughter’s eyes  when she’d accidentally dropped an heirloom German mug brimming with lemonade. Yelling, I was upset. As I looked in those sky blue eyes blooming with tears, a revelation came. She and her sisters are and always will be my most precious walking, talking everyday heirlooms. From then on I was a changed woman. Not to say I never yell, just not about broken glass.

We have always stopped to smell the candles. Still do. And now that they are teenagers, I can leave candles burning without them playing with hot wax, or trying to start a bonfire. I have loaded up on them. Lit by day, night, anytime I’m feeling vulnerable or romantic or happy or sad.  I even pack them in my suitcase when we travel. On and on and on.

Please excuse me now. I must go light my fire.

Remember the little cardinal I mentioned in an earlier blog post? Well, I’ve named her Emily D. Why? Like Emily Dickinson, she has everything she needs and wants right where she is.  She is now big enough to fend for herself but prefers to spend her days hiding among mint and rosemary, peering at the world.

The other day I watered the plant she has taken up residence in, flushing her out in the process. On strong wings Emily flew to the rim of the garbage can, squawking with mouth wide as a mason jar. Mother arrived, seed in mouth, landing on the fence behind her. Together they flew over the fence, and I sat with book in hand, a few feet away from her home, waiting to see what would happen next.

First came mother, peering around the house with her sunflower seed, then cautiously hopping to Emily’s house. Once there, she flew in, dropped off the seed, and flew out.

And here came Emily, arriving first underneath the car, hop, hop, hopping around the wheel. “I know you,” she seemed to say. “You’re alright.” She then hopped alongside the house and to her pot where she promptly flew in. Now this pot is right by our back door, so she is accustomed to racket, but it doesn’t seem to phase her. The kids play basketball a few feet from her home and she doesn’t stir. You can’t see her there, but if you rattle the leaves she will dart out before making her way back in.

I could be wrong, but I think her plans are different from other birds. She takes in the world right where she is.

Emily Dickinson did also. The material she needed for her inspirational poetry was right on property. Without leaving the nest she flew. Beth in little women was a homebody, too. She couldn’t understand why her sisters went off into the world to discover themselves. Everything she needed and wanted was right there.

I suspect the bird version of Emily Dickinson will be around awhile. Seeds are close, the huge pot shaded. Neighborhood cats are not onto her, and even if they were she could fend for herself.  Why the mother still feeds her is a mystery.

But then so was Emily Dickinson.