Trees

The deadish branches in the foreground look like antelope antlers.
By the way, there are no antelopes in Mathews.
We do have cantaloupes though, that rhymes.
Also at one point we had an escaped emu. True story.

The antelope branches from another angle.
Am I the only one whose brain works this way,
focusing on  Dr Seuss-like rhymes dead branches instead of the bigger picture,
which, by the way, is basically of nothing?

The trees  look like they are blowing smoke,
the way those clouds drift up to the left.
(The trees may not be the only ones blowing smoke.)

The Lone Ranger

These trees were brought to you courtesy of my last jaunt to Bethel Beach. The silly commentary was brought to you by one tired silly blogger.

Have a great weekend that hopefully includes a little laughter and silliness.  If you run out of silliness, just come talk to me.

There's plenty more where this came from.

Flighty

Here lately we've had some interesting weather and very expressive skies.


Check out the traces of a rainbow in the middle of the clouds in these next two shots.

This last one is from Gwynn's Island, taken about a week ago.

OK. I know. It's not the greatest shot but my best sunsets/sky shots are on my PC and I'm doing this from my  laptop.
Thank you for your patience.  

There are many things I've been meaning to write about, but time has been elusive. Also, it's hard to get back in the groove of things after several weeks of I had no life due to an important deadline and I'm starting to wonder if I ever even had a life without one... sporadic blog posts.

Nevertheless, one of the main stories I want to convey pertains to that mysterious package that was left for me at Sandpiper Reef. Every time I sit down to try to type it out, the words don't do it justice; the story doesn't flow properly. In fact, this may be one story that makes more sense told in reverse, with the ending first and the beginning last. Except I'm not sure there is an ending and I can't even begin to tell the middle.

Or something.

In the mean time, just enjoy the photos and listen to the Muzak  (not to be confused with this) while Chesapeake Bay Woman tries to remember what life was like before she was doing the work of thirty three people--yet she still was complaining.

To end on a less ridiculous note, please tell me about one fun thing you have to look forward to this summer. 

Pastoral Wandering and Wondering

Thus far this week, all my photographs are of farmland in neighboring counties.  Today is no exception.

That field above is near Freeport.  See yesterday's post for the relevance of Freeport Landing to the Chesapeake Bay family.  

I promised myself I was not going to mention that German ancestor leaping off the boat again. Not once.

The shots below are from the Shackelfords area.

I spent first through sixth grade at Gloucester Day School (now Ware Academy, formerly my grandmother's store and my mother's home) with a boy whose last name was Shackelford. One day in first grade I chased him through the playground until he tripped and fell.  In his moment of weakness and embarrassment, I kissed him.

He looked mortified. 

Whether it was from the fall or from the kiss was never made clear. 

Something I'd like to make clear is that I kissed him on his cheek.  

And then I ran away. Mortified.

Please enjoy these bucolic scenes.

I am intrigued by the word "bucolic."  I sort of like it, and often find myself repeating it over and over again for no good reason.  But if I dwell on it too terribly long, it reminds me of "colic,"  which reminds me of another boy whose cheek I kissed many times.

A tiny boy who also had a look of mortification: Chesapeake Bay Son as an infant.  With colic.

It was not bucolic.

It may, however, have been "broccol-ic," which loosely translates into "brought on by eating the wrong thing."

This week, barely halfway over, has been brutal.  The next month or so ahead promises to be equally chaotic.  Whenever I am giddy from exhaustion and stress, posts become riddled with ridiculosity and words such as ridiculosity colic appear in the same sentence as bucolic.

For the one reader who might still be awake might be wondering if Chesapeake Bay Woman hasn't finally gone off the deep end, rest assured she has she's just tired and her brain works in delerious ways.

Now, to divert attention from this ramshackle post, a few questions for you, my one remaining reader:

• The Shackelford boy from the first grade is my first memory of kissing someone.  What were the circumstances surrounding your first kiss, even if it was only a peck on the cheek?
• Do you have any stories to share that involve the word bucolic?  How about colic? Frolic?
• Happy Wednesday. Are we done with this week yet?

Workboats

Workboat leaving Queens Creek

The other day as I was dawdling around the house trying to come up with any reason not to do laundry or clean or focus on the book, I heard the familiar sound of a workboat start up.

Workboats are a dying breed, most definitely on the endangered species list. We hardly ever see them up Queens Creek where I live. So as soon as I heard that engine start up I dashed for the camera. One of the neighbors keeps a boat in our cove and for whatever reason he was taking her out for a spell.

We see lots of sailboats, motorboats, goose-chasing canoes, kayaks, jet skis--you name it, we see it around here. But workboats?  Not so much any more.

There's nothing quite like the sound and smell of a good workboat.

 Nothing.

Workboat leaving Queens Creek; Smithers Cemetery is across the creek; CBW's ornery locust tree, center; and her dilapidated fire pit is there on the left. 

The boats below are docked over at the Seabreeze on Gwynn's Island.

 The day I took this photo a high school acquaintance who still works on the water was in the parking lot.

We had a wonderful conversation about the good old days, and how very few people are working the water anymore. When we were coming along it was very different. After this generation is gone (with perhaps a few exceptions), there will be no more commercial watermen in Mathews.

It's very sad.

Click here for a poem I wrote a couple years ago about a waterman.

For another post related to watermen that includes some history, click here.

If you're tired of me directing you elsewhere, give your computer screen a little flick right here <.......>.

If you've ever experienced the sights, smells and sounds of a workboat, please leave a comment.

If you've never been on a workboat but have something to say, please leave a comment.

If you're happy and you know it keep it to yourself because this Vitamin-D deprived person can't take it clap your hands.

If you're ready for spring, stomp your feet.

Simon says, "Stomp your feet."

CBW says thanks for reading and tolerating her inane tangents, superfluous commentary and inconsequential blathering. She blames the long winter, lack of sunlight and adult-onset ADD extreme exhaustion for her incessant rambling.

p.s. Seriously, I do have one more link for you, and this is a good one.  Click here for Nate's blog and a gorgeous shot of an osprey nest off Gwynns Island at sunset.  Nate's family has a house over on the island and he's been visiting since he was a kid. His photos--and the accompany narrative peppered with humor--are superb. Have a great Wednesday.

Scenes from Gwynn's Island

Saturday morning I drove over to Gwynn's Island.

Although it was very cold, there was surprisingly little wind.

Some of my favorite shots were taken from the public landing at Edwards Creek.

When I was a teenager it was possible to drive your car or truck up onto this dock. Many of the commercial watermen kept their boats here, and driving on the dock was essential for loading and unloading things from the boat to the truck. I always thought it was such a thrill, driving or riding up on this dock.

Of course, I didn't get out much.

As you can see in the shot above, there was a thin coat of ice on the creek.

What you can't see from the shot above is that as I was squatting down to shoot this, a man and his two dogs were approaching from behind.  He was just out for a walk, and part of that walk included a stroll to the end of the dock.  Turns out, the man used to play in a band with my father.  We had a nice chat about the good old days, his dogs, and the weather.

He was also quick to point out how displeased he was that someone left these old crab pots on the dock.  I didn't have the heart to tell him I thought they were photogenic and would make an interesting picture.  So I waited until he left before I snapped this.

It wasn't until after he left that I remembered I was wearing pink socks.  I couldn't find any other clean socks and certainly was not going to do laundry on a Saturday morning, when there was so much fun to be had taking pictures.  So I scraped the bottom of the sock drawer and came up with pink socks.

It's important to know that I don't usually wear pink anything.  I'm not a pink sort of person.  But desperate laundry situations call for desperate measures, up to and including donning pink socks paired with brown tennis shoes. It's sort of like sneaking out into your yard in a bathrobe to walk the dog or something.  You're not really expecting to stay out long, and you certainly aren't expecting to run into someone. Same logic was applied here with the socks.

It's bad enough trying to justify wandering around Gwynn's Island with a camera on a freezing cold day, eagerly snapping pictures of things other people view as a disgrace.  But it's another thing entirely to do so while wearing neon pink socks.

Of course he didn't notice since I was standing and my pants covered them up. But still. I knew they were there and I wasn't expecting to run into anyone at the end of a dock in the dead of winter in the middle of Gwynn's Island. Plus, there's no doubt in my mind the pink socks were visible when I crouched down to take some of the pictures I did, prior to knowing anyone was approaching.

I wish I knew why I choose to focus on ridiculous things like pink socks that nobody but me was worried about, rather than the crab pots; or the dock; or the beauty and serenity of the water; and the glory of a magnificent, carefree Saturday.

Throughout this week I'll share more photos from my little jaunt to the island.

And I promise there will be no further mention of those dreaded pink socks which, to add insult to injury, have holes in the toes.

Have a great day.

Tuesday Trio

Except for my college years in Charlottesville and the decade or so I was in Northern Virginia, my address has always been associated with this post office at Hudgins, a couple of miles from my house.

Up until recently, mail delivery was not available on my lane.  Even though it would be so much more convenient, not to mention less expensive (as in free), I've not yet switched to home delivery and thus have to travel to Hudgins to pick up my mail a couple times a week. It really makes no sense that I haven't made the switch, other than I don't have the skills required to put up a mailbox at the end of my driveway.

Plus, I'm lazy if I switch to mail delivery, my address changes from Hudgins to Cobbs Creek.  Aside from the obvious hassle of having to notify everyone of my new address, even though I haven't moved one inch, psychologically I don't want a Cobbs Creek address.  I live in Hudgins, it's always been Hudgins, and I see no need to change.

And that sort of thinking is ridiculous, actually.  Having the mail delivered to the end of my driveway would be a luxury.  Did I mention it's also free?

Begrudgingly I might consider changing will make this change and logic possibly will prevail. But not without a little fuss, a few pouts and a couple of exaggerated stomps.

Signed,
The Queen of Ridiculousity

Oh! Christmas Tree

This is the Christmas tree that tries to kill me year after year.

It's an 8-foot, artificial number that I've struggled against had for over a decade.  Every December I have to haul this monster up from the bowels of the basement and painstakingly put it together limb by just shoot me now limb because the Chesapeake Bay Children love it. Yay!

Of course they are noticeably absent whenever the arduous battle of CBW vs. Artificial Tree commences. The mere mention of dragging those dreaded bins up ignites flames at their heels. There's talk of homework to do and root canals to be had.

My tree is always plotting against me  a hodgepodge of decorations, from the vintage 1970 glass bulbs to the soon-to-be-collectible if not lethal one dollar bead garlands from Dollar General.

Actually, I love the Dollar General garlands and sometimes scatter them atop the Christmas table for an added dose of lead festivity.  

But the Chesapeake Bay Family Christmas tree is not just about CBW toting bins loaded with prickly branches up from the depths of hell basement by herself; nor is it about her quirky hodgepodge of decorations.

Unbeknownst to the casual observer, CBW has a theme in her decorating, and it's called terrorizing! Having a Little Fun, in a passive-aggressive sort of way. 'Tis the season, no?

Remember Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the Christmas special that has come on every year since decades before TV was invented 1964?

Well, back when CB Son was a toddler, I bought a Rudolph tree skirt and all the Rudolph characters, which I placed in some specially designated area atop a shelf or a piece of furniture.  They had their own space, these Rudolph characters, and they were arranged just so.

Now that CB Son and Daughter are older, and run like the dickens whenever this whole Christmas decorating ordeal occurs, I've taken some liberties with Rudolph and his happy clan.

Take, for example, Yukon Cornelius, below (click here for audio clip), who single-handedly demoted the Abominable Snowman to Frosty status.  He doesn't look so tough when he's dangling helplessly from a tree now, does he? And is that Santa Claus way below him, unable to even make eye contact? Speaking of eyes, is that a fear of heights I see in yours, Mr. Cornelius? That's not a very good trait for a prospector. Tut-tut.

And here's old Hermey, the rebellious little misfit of an elf who wanted to be a dentist rather than make toys for the children of the world.   (Click here for the audio proof.)  Hermey, you should be ashamed. A dentist?  Really?

Right now, he looks like he'd rather be performing a root canal. On himself.

Nice hair, Hermey. How many cleanings can you perform while teetering precariously from the end of a tree limb, hmmm?

We won't mention all the hullabaloo going on over in the Santa Claus display.

But if we were, who remembers the Saturday Night Live Mr. Bill routine? (Click here, kids, for a frame of reference.)  

The Santa Claus below looks like he's saying, "Oh nooooooooooo!"

(Am I the only one who sees fear in their eyes? And yes, we're talking about inanimate Christmas decorations.  Or are we?)

Dear Reader,
     I promise I've not lost my last marble- it's rolling around somewhere waiting for me to pick it up and dust it off. This week has been stressful, and for some reason stress always makes me want to torment certain Christmas decorations brings out my slightly off-kilter sense of humor.  Things will return to normal, however that is defined, soon.   

Love,
CBW

For those of you who celebrate Christmas, I beg you to add a dose, however slight, of silliness to your decorations. For example,  hang a slice of bread (or something equally ridiculous that you or others will find funny) on an ornament hook and put it in a not-so-obvious place on your tree. Even if nobody else sees it, you'll know it's there and can have a secret snicker.

Laughter is, after all, the best medicine and to me the greatest gift, even if the source involves rebellious, misfit dentists and odd little moustached prospectors being rendered utterly and completely helpless.

'Tis the season.

Glimpses Into the Past

Although most people are probably halfway done with their Christmas shopping by now,  I still have Easter candy lying around I'm still stuck in Thanksgiving mode and don't seem to be in any hurry to shift gears.

In fact, I'm stuck in reverse.

After spending two days preparing for Thanksgiving and another two days sleeping doing dishes and cleaning up, I didn't have time to read last Thursday's Gazette Journal until yesterday.

One of my favorite columns is Glimpses Into the Past:

100 Years Ago
Thursday, November 24, 1910
from the Mathews Journal
"Editorial:  In olden days our puritan forefathers were wont to regard Thanksgiving as almost a holy day.  They rested and feasted and returned humble and sincere thanks to God for his manifold blessings. 

We wonder if in this Twentieth Century, when progress is the motto; when accumulation of wealth is the only ambition; and when mechanisms and machinery, invented by the genius of man, have supplanted the old time methods of doing things, we appreciate and are sufficiently thankful for the many advantages and multiple blessings we enjoy.

It would seem that even in this age of turmoil the people could spare one day to return thanks as did their forebears in simple and earnest fashion.  Then Thanksgiving Day would be more than a mere holiday and the people would have, in a slight degree only, discharged the debt they owe to the Allwise Creative Power that has guarded their foot steps safely through the years and rendered it possible for them to enjoy the privileges of this enlightened age."

The references to the "mechanisms and machinery invented by the genius of man" make me wonder what the author might say to all the i-have-this and the  you-tube-that.

He'd probably say, along with my son, "Chesapeake Bay Woman, get with the program. Can you give us one good reason why you don't have an i-anything yet?"

Speaking for CBW, she'd say, "Fear of change.  I don't know."

Speaking of the clash between past and present--and we may have been, however briefly---this weekend I spent a lot of time dawdling lounging in front of the TV with my children.

One night, I forced them to watch the Wizard of Oz, after it dawned on me that they hadn't seen a non-3-D or computer-animated movie since ancient history in recent history.  So while I ooooed and aaahhed at the costumes and the music and the colors and the hooked noses and the flying monkeys, they pretended to watch while doing who knows what on their i-gadgets.

Whether they were paying close attention or not, they absorbed the most important parts of the lesson I was trying to teach which may not may loosely correlate to the spirit of that  past and present editorial above, as follows:

1. It's important to slow down.
2. Focus on what you have, not what you don't have.
3. Savor the small things.
4. Appreciate the past.
5. Marvel at the ingenuity and creativity of others.
6. Revel in the present without worrying so much about the fact that it's less than a month until Christmas and you've done absolutely, positively nothing except boil the carcass of your Thanksgiving turkey to make soup, which as we know has nothing to do with preparing for Christmas and everything to do with merely preparing last night's dinner.
7. Make a note to call an electrician so you can put up your artificial tree, since all the electrical sockets in the family room--except, thankfully, the one hooked up to the TV where you force your children to watch movies from the year 1939--are not working, and in order to have a properly functioning Christmas tree one theoretically needs a properly functioning electrical source for the lights.
8. And one wonders why one doesn't have an i-anything, when one can barely get electricity/current to her house.

My justification for avoiding the 21st century Christmas shopping or decorating over the extended weekend is now over.

The End.

p.s. Have a great week, and thanks for letting me gripe  ramble vent.

Three Things

View from the cemetery at Kingston.

Welcome once again to another edition of Three Thing Thursday, where both of my readers anyone reading  is encouraged to share three random things on any topic whatsoever, whatever happens to be on your mind at the moment.  

Let's begin.

1.  Last night after a grueling day at work and a long drive home, I arrived home to a gift:  Chesapeake Bay Mother had fixed supper for me, CB Son, CB Daughter, and CB Father.  The menu included grouper; a salad with vegetables from her garden (yes, still, because she is a magical gardener); mashed potatoes; homemade bread; collard greens; asparagus; and the very best chocolate cake I have ever eaten in my life.  Ever.  The Chesapeake Bay Children can vouch for this.  There is nothing better after an incredibly long day than arriving home to a delicious dinner that involves no additional work on your part other than passing the butter.  

2.  Today at 1:30 in Williamsburg, the Mathews High School Cross Country teams compete in the Regional meet.  I will be there standing in the rain under an umbrella trying to take photos.  Aside from the rain it should be a very exciting meet.

3.  Here lately I've contemplated many options relating to this blog, from stopping entirely to slowing down some to establishing a three-posts-per-week schedule.  I hate the rigidity of any sort of schedule, so that's out.  This blog, however silly and ridiculous, is one of the few things I enjoy doing in my life (when I'm not swamped), so I don't want to give it up entirely.  But lately it's become a chore, and that's not a good sign.

Most of this is due to the fact that I (a) have a job that is mind numbing keeps me away from home from 6:00 in the morning to sometimes 6:00 in the evenings; (b) I'm trying to parent two children who have very busy schedules; (c) it's just me trying to maintain the house and yard, and that just isn't happening, so everything seems to be falling apart, literally; and (d) I'm working on a book in my so-called spare time. When all of this is combined with (e) hormonal upheaval the dreary days of winter when all I want to do is hibernate, then I start questioning the wisdom of trying to do a blog post every day.

Plus, some days I just want to pack up and move to Bora Bora feel uninspired, as though I'm saying the same things over and over again and nobody could possibly be interested in my nonsensical jabberwocky. Other days I could write forever but the stuff coming out just seems, well, nonsensical.

So maybe I'll cut back some or maybe I won't, who knows.  This too shall pass, I'm sure, so please just ignore my complaining for now. Thanks.

OK, now it's your turn to share three things or four things, six things or more things. Let yourself go, let it all out.  What's on your mind today?

An old skiff blending in well with its surroundings.

'Tis the Season

Williams Wharf Road, Soybean Field

Many of the county's soybean fields have been harvested, but this one down Williams Wharf Road was patiently awaiting its turn last week. No doubt a combine will be working this field soon, if one hasn't already.

Same field closer up

Last Friday night on my way home from Gloucester (for the fourth time that day but who's counting other than  CBW my poor Saturn and my last two functioning nerve and brain cells), I was nearly forced off the road to allow an approaching combine to pass.  

Mathews has some unique driving hazards including: fiddler crabs  the roadside crew working on The New Sewer Line; commercial watermen's trucks laden with crab pots; sport fishermen hauling over sized boats; the average citizen hauling brush or trash to the dump (with stuff flying out all over the place); and farm equipment, including tractors and combines.

With the possible exception of the average citizen hauling trash, most of these can also be found in our annual Christmas parade. (A representative from the crew working on the sewer line should be Grand Marshal.  They're practically family now, they've been here so long.)

This year's parade, on December 11, will be during the day rather than at night. I always loved that evening Christmas parade and am sorry to hear it's changing. There was something magical about all those lights.

Regardless, I look forward to seeing the boats, tractors, trucks and sewer line crew combines all dolled up.

Until then, and as long as the soybeans are being harvested, we can expect to see the combines in our daily travels.

In case one of you two reading has never been run off the road by seen a combine, here's what Wikipedia has to say about them:

Among the crops harvested with a combine are wheat, oats, rye, barley, corn, soybeans, and flax. The waste left behind on the field is the remaining dried stems and leaves of the crop with limited nutrients which is either chopped and spread on the field or baled for feed and bedding for livestock



This Wikipedia photo is of a small combine.  We grow 'em much bigger around here--they easily take up 1.75 lanes of road on Routes 14 or 198.  On the unmarked side roads, they span from sea to shining sea ditch to ditch. (Imagine that small combine above on the road in the first photo, to illustrate whatever point I'm trying to make.)

Have you ever been on a combine?

I haven't but have always wanted to operate heavy equipment of all sorts.  Must be some deep-rooted desire to knock people off the road to be in control.  

Three Things

Sunset off Gwynns Island, October 2010

Welcome to the Three Ring Circus of my life Three Thing Thursday, where I share three things and you share three things, on whatever topic happens to come to mind.  Anything at all.

Let's begin.

1.  This Saturday from 10-4 is the Deltaville Seafood Festival, also known as the Holly Point Art and Seafood Festival except if I called it that everyone on this side of the Piankatank would be all "Holly Point Art Festival?  What?" The Deltaville Seafood Festival promises to be chock-a-block full of good things like seafood, BBQ, Blackbeard's Scallywag School (because evidently one must obtain the proper training and certification to be a scallywag), 70 artisans and craftsmen and more.

Click here for more information.

Click here for an audio clip of one of my favorite scallywags.

2a.  Much to my chagrin, I had to don shoes, actual shoes, shoes that were not flip flops or sandals--shoes!--this week because it was so cold in the mornings.  (Since about March nothing but sandals, flip flops or bare ground have touched these feet.)

2b. If I had my way I'd never put on another shoe again.  Alas, society has its rules and my workplace wouldn't take too kindly to me showing up barefoot, although nothing would surprise them at this point.

2c. Let it hereby be known and declared thusly:  I despise shoes, except when it comes to shopping for them.  And socks are straight from the devil.

3a.  Much to my utter and sheer surprise and delight, I realized today that Monday is a federal holiday! Since I am off from the paying job the next two days, I do not have to don shoes, actual shoes, until Tuesday of next week. Hallelujah. I'm considering a celebratory sock-burning bonfire this weekend, but I'm not sure if the county's burn ban has been lifted.

3b. As wonderful as 3a is, I do have to work on Thursday and Friday, just not at a job that pays.  I'm cleaning the house, doing laundry, paying bills, grocery shopping, taking kids to school, making sure they get to and from practices, cooking and feeding them dinner working on my side project which involves painstaking research and sleuthing.

3c. Still, I can wear flip flops or go barefoot if I want, and I can remind myself there's no 100-mile commute and 8.5 hours of work on Monday.   Oh, what a wonderful feeling.

Now it's your turn.

Please share three or more things, whatever you want.

Grace-Providence Church

The road leading into the Mobjack vicinity rolls past majestic old farmhouses, quaint little homesteads and beautiful fields full of this and that until finally it comes to a stop where the East and North Rivers converge and spill out into the Mobjack Bay. There, in the cutest little neighborhood, lives Grace-Providence United Methodist Church, shown above. See how close it is to the water?

Instantly drawn to this church's beauty which was punctuated by the brilliant sunshine, I immediately pulled over on the side of the road and started snapping away.

Then, realizing this was not going to be a quick pit stop, I convinced myself to get back into the car and pull up into the church's parking lot.

(This was mainly to avoid all the awkwardness that comes with being parked on the side of the road. People tend to gawk, not that I saw a single soul down there. But trust me. They gawk, then they glare. They think I'm up to no good, so I hold my camera way up high and smile while repeating over and over to myself, "The road is public property. The road is public property," until paranoia officially sets in, and I wonder who they're calling on their cell phone because no doubt it's the sheriff. But that's not what I'm talking about here today.)

(Anyway.)

But guess what? There is no parking lot at Grace-Providence Church. Not a single one.

At first this surprised me, but only for a second.

You see, there really is absolutely no reason to drive to this church if you live in this delightful little neighborhood. There are only about 3 streets lined with homes, and not a single house is more than a cartwheel or two away.

(If you're not into doing cartwheels, then just know it's within walking distance. If you can maneuver around WalMutant (with or without a scooter), you can walk to Grace-Providence from any of these homes. Of course any day now I expect to see a train inside WalMutant to carry passengers from the front door to the milk and egg section, for example. But hopefully that won't be in my life time, and if it is--even if I have two broken legs-- I will crawl on my elbows through that store before I ride a scooter or a train through there. I just want to make that clear. Thank you. But of course this isn't what I wanted to talk about either.)

(Anyway.)



Below is a shot of the church from the opposite end of the road, close to the water.


This church was just loaded with surprises, one of which is the stained glass window below. The nautical theme is so appropriate for a waterfront church overlooking the site of an old wharf.

In closing, I'd just like to say that I predict a transit system inside WalMutant within the next decade I loved studying the exterior of Grace-Providence Church and hope to explore the interior some day soon.

Very soon.

A Week Or So

This is a recent sunrise on Queens Creek.

Once upon a time on Queens Creek,
A blogger took a break, for approximately a week.
Though she truly loved blogging she needed this break,
As did her two readers, for goodness sake.
While she squeezes the last bit of life from this summer,
She hopes to return fresher and hopefully not dumber.

...although she can't make any promises on that last sentence thanks to the fact that her brain cells are on the endangered species list. At last count there were only three and two of them were hanging on by a thread.

I'll be back.

The Morning Glory

These flowers serve as the welcome mat to one of our county beaches, and if I didn't know any better I'd say they were morning glories.

Of course, I don't know any better, therefore I have to guess. It's just that I've never seen morning glories growing in the sand. They're always out in our field or climbing along the marsh grasses on the shoreline.

Since Details-R-Not CBW and CBW Doesn't Have Time to Confirm, she's going to go with the guess of morning glories and adds, "If these aren't morning glories, they're close enough."

FYI - The name of my autobiography will be Close Enough: The Life of an Almost-Underachiever.
Whether these are images of morning glories or toaster ovens, I'd like to talk briefly about morning glories, which do grow wild around here. Somewhere.

My BFF Wikipedia says this about them:

The flower usually opens in the morning and closes in the afternoon. On a cloudy day, the flower may last until night. The flowers usually start to fade a couple of hours before the petals start showing visible curling.

Because of their fast growth, twining habit, attractive flowers, and tolerance for poor, dry soils, some morning glories are excellent vines for creating summer shade on building walls when trellised, thus keeping the building cooler and reducing heating and cooling costs.

The morning glory represents "love in vain" for whatever outside circumstances according to the Victorian "Language of Flowers", which attributed various properties and sentiments to flowers so that people could communicate their feelings by what flowers were given as gifts, such as those by a suitor to their loved one.

The seeds can produce a similar effect to LSD when taken in the hundreds.

Moral of the Story: If a suitor hands you a bouquet of morning glories, start chewin' on the seeds.

p.s. I do believe the top two are a "beachified" version of morning glory, but that last one is some gorgeous flower that grows down among the cattails in the swampy area of my shoreline.

Regardless of what they're technically called, they're technically beautiful.

Have you seen morning glories? If not, is there a similar sort of flower growing wild that you like?

Descriptions

Serene:


Foreboding:


Menacing:



Raging:


Tranquil:


Ominous:


A Royal Pain:


The End.

p.s. What word best describes how you're feeling today? And what one word would you use to describe a killer goose? I can't seem to designate just one word, it must be an entire string.