Waxing purplish

I don't know if you're aware of this, but at I'm Having A Thought Here it's all about fresh, original content.

Unless I get lazy and fall back on YouTubes of dogs utilizing treadmills.

For your enjoyment today, I wanted to bring you pictures of horses that I planned to take over the weekend.

Wait. I did not plan to take horses; I planned to take pictures of horses.

More than likely I would have written something pithy to accompany the photos.

But alas, all it did was rain.

My artistic vision did not extend to soggy equine units. Or soggy photographers, for that matter.

Looking out at the rainy day whle preparing Sunday lunch, I spotted a single bearded iris -- which as we established recently, no way did I plant -- that clearly did not get the yellow memo.

As in, unlike all of the others around it, this single flower was purple.

Purple is my favorite color. Also recently established. The only exception is when my favorite color is black.

Knowing I would not be able to bring you pictures of big soft brown eyes framed by flowing silky manes, I dodged the raindrops to bring you pictures of the lone purple ranger in my back yard.

Then, inspired partially by the droplet-laden purple petals and partially by two bold, inky ravens I spotted by the side of the road on the way to church, I wrote a haiku:

If purple were black

These would be wet raven wings

But purple’s not black

I did not say it was a good haiku. I only said it was a haiku. Five seven five. Count 'em.

Have I ever told you about the haiku I wrote in sixth grade, which earned the praise of my teacher and made me want to be a writer?

No? I didn't think so. Someday I will tell you that story.

Meawhile I make this promise to you: By Wednesday, I will get pictures of horses.

They will not be purple horses. I hope they will at least be dry.

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Happy Monday ~ Happy Week

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Wistful Wiley

Have y'all seen this video of a service dog "crying" at the grave of its handler's grandmother?

Wiley, normally the stoic type, appeared inconsolable at the cemetery.

Oy. Grandma must've been the one who doled out the Milk Bones.

Not for nothing but I had Wiley pegged as a husky. Then I read he's a wolfdog.

I don't know from wolfdogs but I imagine that being part wolf, they are more emotional than huskies.

Some skeptical readers and viewers have opined that Wiley is merely having a reverse sneezing fit -- whatever that is.

His owner denies that Wiley is prone to bouts of sneezing, reverse or otherwise. Also he has never behaved in a lugubrious fashion, either before or since.

It was just that one time, at the grave.

What say you, pirate readers?

While you ponder, to cut the sorrow of Wiley's sneezing grieving I bring you this video of a trio of nimble dachshunds on a treadmill.

When the one on the far left slid back and had to scramble to catch up or else fall off, I almost fell off my bed laughing.

And why do they yawn while they trot? Is simple treadmill fatigue -- exacerbated by short legs -- to blame, or is something more sinister at work here?

As always, your input is welcome.

That is all for now.

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Happy Fridog ~ Happy Weekend

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Snowballs in April

No green thumb is to be found on either of my two hands.

And yet I am as fascinated as the next person by plant life.

Someone else sowed what comes up on our land. I only enjoy.

For example, the twenty-foot-high snowball bush -- viburnum opulus; I looked it up -- in our side yard has been catching my eye of late.

Last week we had a day of overcast skies and spates of rain. I chose that day to ask the snowball bush to pose for me.

The brave ranks of yellow bearded iris, standing buttery sentinel behind a retaining wall in back, have been imposed upon in a similar fashion.

If only people could be ever as beautiful and cooperative, as patient and their generosity as plenteous, as flowers.

Why the snowball bush and the iris -- and the cascading purple of wisteria blossoms which captivated me earlier this month but now are gone --remind me of this poem by Emily Brontë, I cannot say.

I believe Emily's human hero and heroine, Heathcliff and Cathy -- although heather was their thing, and they were fictional -- would have appreciated both the petals and the poem.

The tragic lovers counted rather heavily on immortality.

Ralph Waldo Emerson opined: The earth laughs in flowers.

I like that but I like this idea better: Flowers glorify God just by showing up.

And in their simple yet complex obedience is a lesson to us all.

No coward soul is mine,

No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere;

I see Heaven’s glories shine,

And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast,

Almighty, ever-present Deity!

Life — that in me has rest,

As I — undying Life — have power in Thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds

That move men’s hearts — unutterably vain;

Worthless as withered weeds,

Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one

Holding so fast by Thine infinity;

So surely anchored on

The steadfast rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love

Thy spirit animates eternal years

Pervades and broods above,

Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and man were gone,

And suns and universes ceased to be,

And Thou were left alone,

Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death,

Nor atom that his might could render void;

Thou — Thou art Being and Breath,

And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

Emily Brontë

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~ Happy Wednesday ~

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Heads and hearts in the clouds

You were promised pictures of Allissa's fifth birthday celebration.

I hope you didn't think I'd forgotten.

Never. So here we go.

Audrey had gone on Sunday from her home in Knoxville to Stephanie's house in North Carolina.

Late Monday afternoon we all met at the big silver head.

Metalmorphosis's shiny plates were aligned facing forward and stationary, but the mouth was spewing water into the black granite infinity fountain.

The kids loved it. The North Carolina contingent were already in place when the South Carolina contingent -- consisting of TG and me -- arrived.

Baby Andrew was trotting around the fountain area, occasionally venturing too near the steps for his mother's peace of mind.

So Aunt Audrey took it upon herself to chase him hither and yon. Every once in awhile she couldn't help lifting him off his feet and giving him a squeeze.

But he didn't like it. He wanted to be covering the ground.

Allissa and I busied ourselves capturing the Official Birthday Portrait.

However, the jury is still out as to which pose actually is the OBP. It may be the one at the top of this post.

But then again it may be this one ...

And it may be this one ...

Or it may be this one:

As for me, I favor that last pose: pure full-strength Lissy Belle.

Which of the four gets your vote?

Melanie was a busy bee around the fountain in the mild spring sunshine too, but I managed to pin her down for approximately three point five seconds.

And then she was gone again just like a butterfly.

She'd come to the party straight from school and so was feeling her oats rather more keenly than those of us who had been free agents since breakfast.

The big silver head and thousands of frilly pink blossoms dotting the dozens of trees that ring its area were more than cooperative for their Tax Day Birthday photo, however.

After that parting shot, we decamped and, in three separate vehicles, headed for Red Robin.

Audrey has a new car so naturally, Melanie and Allissa wanted to ride with her.

Here's where the celebration very nearly jumped the shark.

Stephanie and Audrey had taken the kids to Dollar General that morning for some last-minute party supplies. Aunt Audrey wanted to buy a mylar balloon for Allissa. She allowed Allissa to pick it out.

The cherished object -- I am told -- featured not one, not two, but three pink-clad princesses, complete with lavish sparkly dresses, twinkling slippers, bejeweled scepters, and gem-encrusted tiaras. 

For reasons about to become clear to you, I did not get a picture of that balloon. But I did get a picture of the balloons I myself bought at DG that day. The salesgirl did not offer me the option of princesses.

And that will have to do you. Use your imagination for the rest.

So we took off for Red Robin about eight miles from the big silver head, in Charlotte's Monday rush-hour traffic which apparently begins backing up at four o'clock.

About two miles down the road, my phone rang. It was Audrey, two cars behind.

"Allissa wanted me to open my sunroof and I told her she'd have to really hang onto that princess balloon, but she let it go and it's gone. Now she won't stop crying."

Okay well, I thought, I could have told you if you opened the sunroof, that balloon would go out. Allissa is ditsy enough without actual air in her hair.

Allissa was inconsolable and Audrey's heart was about to break. "Allissa, you have to stop crying," she implored the birthday girl.

"B-b-b-but I can't," sobbed Allissa.

"Allissa! We will get you another princess balloon!" Audrey threw out, desperate to end the caterwauling that threatened to deafen her.

Allissa wept more. "B-b-b-but how will we get back to the Dollar General?" she cried.

I was still on the phone two cars ahead. Oh my soul, I told Audrey. I have some balloons for her. They're attached to a whole jarful of Starbursts and Smarties, and her own 5 candle. I saw it on Pinterest.

It's not like she's bereft of balloons or of anything else, for that matter.

My contribution to the solution could be summed up thusly: "Tell her I said shut it."

Well we made it to the Red Robin and the place was all but empty and we got situated in a huge booth.

The Boston bombings had just happened and that sickening, tragic loop was on constant instant replay on several flatscreens around the room.

The Newtown massacre happened on my sister's birthday last December. And now a Boston bombing on Allissa's. Begging the question, why can't people just behave?

But life goes on and soon Allissa -- tears and princess balloons forgotten -- was sucking on a lemonade.

She was enchanted with not only the ice-cold sweet-sour bottomless beverage, but also with the idea of a plastic spill-proof lid affixed to a real glass.

While in the car TG had told me a story of when, as a kid, he lost a helium balloon through his own neglect and mishandling of said precious object.

"Tell that story babe," I said, knowing Allissa could relate.

So TG divulged that as a one-digit (age-wise) kid, he had bought a helium balloon at a corner store. On the walk home, he tied the balloon to the scrunched-up neck of a paper sack containing candy.

As he strolled with his siblings and another relative, young and foolish TG thought it would be cute to continually pitch the bag ahead of them on the sidewalk, watching the balloon bob and weave with each toss.

Which was immensely entertaining until the balloon, clearly craving freedom from such nonsense, detached itself from the bag and went home to heaven.

Allissa was rapt during the telling of her papaw's story. She even stopped coloring.

Her daddy was interested too.

Stephanie was likewise riveted.

And baby Andrew stopped reading Sometimes I Just Wanna Go To Mexico long enough to soak up every word.

Why he was studying the beer menu, I'll never know. We are teetotalers.

My point is, TG is that adept at storytelling.

I told my own personal mylar balloon getaway tale on this blog three years ago. You can read it here.

And I'd love to hear your mylar balloon abscondation stories. Feel free to share.

Later, after a splendid meal, we repaired to the outdoor seating area -- deserted until our descent upon same -- and enjoyed the cool late-day weather while Allissa opened her gifts and Stephanie served cake.

Here is Lissy with the card I gave her -- nearly all birthday cards I give feature dogs -- in the same gift bag with two new dresses and a new tiara.

Andrew perched on TG's knee and was fed cake from a paper princess plate. He'd kicked his kicks off by that time and was getting down with the partay.

After all that hoopla, the coup de grace ended up being a bicycle that Allissa received as everybody was heading for home: Audrey west, Stephanie and her brood north, TG and I south.

A pink and purple bicycle with temporarily white tires.

And hey. That's more birthday bash than I ever had as a kid. It was exhausting.

But what wonderful memories. The kind I hope you are making today, and every day.

Because life is short. Even when it's long, it's short.

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Happy Monday ~ Happy Week

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SkyWatch Friday: Skyris

Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,

And all the flowers that in the springtime grow;

And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow

Rising of the round moon; all throats that sing

The summer through, and each departing wing,

And all the nests that the bared branches show;

And all winds that in any weather blow,

And all the storms that the four seasons bring.

You go no more on your exultant feet

Up paths that only mist and morning knew;

Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat

Of a bird's wings too high in air to view, --

But you were something more than young and sweet

And fair, -- and the long year remembers you.

~Edna St. Vincent Millay~

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Dedicated to the Boston bombing victims

God bless and help America

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