And that's a wrap

Two-thousand eighteen was a spectacular year, full of romance and adventure.

Next year will be even better. I promise.

Thank you to all of my readers for another year of friendship and support.

I love each and every one of you.

See you right here in two-thousand nineteen.

(For inspiration per diem, Daily Beauty will be published as per usual.)

And so on this, the shortest day of the year ...

... that is all for now.

=0=0=0=

Happy Friday :: Merry Christmas

The gift of receiving

At church last Sunday night, our Chad's mother, Jane, let me know that she had a Christmas gift for me and TG. It was in her car, having been too bulky to bring inside.

So it was that a little bit later, we were walking to our car and saw that Jane and her husband, Greg, as well as Jane's mother, were in their car but talking to Chad and Erica -- perhaps waiting for us.

We picked up the pace and as we approached our own car, I saw that Audrey and Dagny were chatting with Jane as she prepared to hand over the gifts she had brought.

Dagny, who was wearing a gold striped Christmas dress complete with stiff crinolines, topped by a winter-white fur jacket, plus white tights and shoes of pearlescent white with bows -- she was resplendent and had been curtsying to the floor like royalty all day -- heard Jane tell Audrey that she had something for her.

And for Dagny.

I wish you could have seen what happened next. 

Dagny, decked out like a gypsy princess, bent her knees and extended her arms straight in front of her, as if she were hanging ten on a surfboard. I think the posture meant something along the lines of HOLD THE PHONE!

Because as she crouched and pointed with both hands outstretched toward Jane's car, within the depths of which, it had been revealed, there were presents, Dagny could not contain herself.

She's got something for ME! she shrieked, eyes round as banjos, face glowing, smiling through her smiles.

Never have I witnessed a child more overjoyed at the prospect of a Christmas present.

And that's fully realizing that all kids -- of all ages -- get excited about Christmas.

Jane produced a box wrapped in red and black buffalo-check paper, with a sparkly red ribbon. Dagny cradled it in her arms, enveloped in the wonder of the whole process.

A gift was given to Audrey too, and a charming basket full of goodies to me and TG.

I went home with Audrey because TG had to go somewhere and he'd be fetching me after an hour or so.

When we got to her house, I told Dagny to put the red-checked box from Jane under the Christmas tree, to open on Christmas Day.

Ohhhhhh no. Clouds gathered on the little face. Dark eyes misted and lashes grew damp. Tiny chin rested on sternum and wee white-fur-clad shoulders sagged.

Audrey tried to reason with her daughter that the present was intended to be opened on Christmas.

Dagny was having none of it.

If we'd insisted that she wait, she would have eventually recovered. She wouldn't have had any choice.

But she looked so miserable, and she'd been so good all day, and her reaction in the parking lot had been so spontaneous and authentic, that Audrey decided to let her open the gift.

She had to put on her Peppa Pig nightgown first. I went to the kitchen and made decaf to go with our snack of muffins, while that transformation took place upstairs.

When she was dressed for bed and ready to open the present, we had Dagny sit where the light was good so that I could take pictures and Audrey could make a video.

The box contained not one but two Barbie dolls. To say that Dagny was pleased would be like calling Frosty a snow cone.

She was delirious with joy and overcome with gratitude.

I LOVE IT! I can't believe I got 'em! she exclaimed, over and over. (And variations on that theme.)

She couldn't stop saying Thank You! even though the one who'd given her the gift wasn't there to thank.

I texted Jane and sent her a picture of Dag opening the dolls, and told her what a big hit the gift had been.

Later, after TG had arrived to pick me up, I told Dagny I wanted to recreate her emphatic stance in the parking lot, when she'd learned that Miss Jane had a present for her.

The picture at the top of this post is the best we could do. Except for the outfit and the setting, it's a pretty accurate representation of Dagny's reaction to Jane's news.

Do you remember being overtly thrilled at the prospect of new toys for Christmas?

Me neither.

Just kidding! I do remember. And I am still excited about everything to do with Christmas.

Nevertheless, it's a good thing that we have the precious children to remind us of how much there is to be happy about.

I hope the gift you're dreaming of is under the tree on Christmas morning, and that all of your loved ones are there to see the look of joy on your face when you open it.

And that is all for now.

=0=0=0=

Happy Wednesday

Brownie points and seedy doings

Continuing our impromptu creature feature -- which began (who knew what we'd started?) with last week's why-won't-the-birds-come-to-my-nifty-window-feeder post -- I present for your entertainment a grazing goat.

Fooled you with that squirrel picture, didn't I? Haha. Here's the deal:

I was tooling homeward late last week after a day spent running errands when I made the soft right turn from Wescott Road onto Nursery Hill Road. Two minutes and I'd be at the house.

But upon straightening my vehicle in the roadway, I noticed a car haphazardly pulled over on the right, beside the Nursery Hill-side fencing of Wescott Acres, our local luxury pet resort, which occupies a large corner tract.

(You can pay to billet your dog or cat or rabbit there if you're going away for the weekend, but it's also the permanent home of assorted horses, ponies, and various other barnyard-type animals.)

I braked tentatively, thinking something was amiss.

And it was, but it wasn't.

As in, it wasn't an accident or any other sort of mishap. A lady had pulled her car over in a hasty fashion, at an awkward angle, due to a goat sighting.

Well, you may be thinking, why not? You said it was a pet resort.

Yes; it is a pet resort. But critters of the grazing variety are supposed to stay inside the fencing, not resort to escaping to the outside so as to sample the grass of freedom.

(Which, while it may be freer, is not greener. It's exactly the same color. And I'd bet my goat-watching badge that it tastes the same too.)

Experiencing a momentary but no less urgent frisson of FOMO, I turned left at the first opportunity, executed a second left turn as soon as possible, then came back out to Nursery Hill Road and made a right.

I parked in the lot of an orthodontist's office at the corner of Wescott and Nursery Hill.

I grabbed my phone and walked across the road to meet the goat, who was simultaneously snacking and having his picture taken by the lady who'd stopped to check him out.

His admirer chuckled when she saw me. The owner is coming to get him, she said.

I looked down the sidewalk in the direction of Wescott Road and sure enough, a petite lady with a bucket in her hand was walking our way.

I began taking pictures of the goat, not knowing whether the owner would disapprove. I've been told to cease and desist more than once, where my photography is concerned.

But when the goat's owner reached me and the other lady, both of us brandishing our phones, recording random goat activity, she was super nice.

The bucket in her hand contained tasty pellets designed to lure the animal into following her back to the friendly confines of Wescott Acres Luxury Pet Resort.

She told us that the goat, who goes by the name of Brownie, had been turned in by some nefarious individual to a dog kill shelter. How humiliating can it get for a goat?

He was cooling his little bovidae hooves there -- in no actual danger of being killed, we were reassured, because they hesitate to euthanize goats at dog kill places -- when the folks in charge notified some local pet farms that there was a baby goat to be had free for the asking.

(Brownie, at that point, didn't even have horns, he was so young. He was a Brownie with no points. This was about a year ago.)

So the kind owners of Wescott Acres Luxury Pet Resort took him in and let him loose on the acreage they use just for the welfare of the assortment of aforementioned farm animals.

But here recently, Brownie has exhibited a predilection for escaping. He doesn't run away; he simply wriggles out and eats happily on the wrong side of the fence.

We can't tell where he's getting out, the owner said, plucking at the wire netting nailed to one side of the running red-rail fence, as if by doing so, she would in that instant learn the answer.

Well. Not my circus, not my monkeys. But I did enjoy meeting Brownie, who, although naughty at times, is a sweetheart.

He just wants to be free to graze at will wherever the spirit moves. I feel him.

On the home front, the birds pointedly refuse to nosh at my window feeder. They prance around on the deck directly beneath said feeder, pecking at the seed I threw down there as a means of alerting them to the fact that there's a full feeder a few feet away.

But the feeder itself, they ignore.

I've seen our usual contingent of cardinals, along with a couple of wrens and maybe a mockingbird. They eat from the deck and fly away without looking up.

I'm thinking of installing a blinking neon arrow pointing to the bird feeder. That should generate interest -- I'm just not sure what kind.

Click to embiggen. You won't regret it.

Meanwhile, the squirrels have duly noted the birdseed spill on our deck and have wasted no time in availing themselves of any number of gratis al fresco repasts.

This particular bushy-tailed guest was busy acquiring a quantity of seed, then hopping onto the back of the swing to eat it.

Sometimes he faced the pool as he munched; sometimes he faced the house. The point was, he had a high old time.

Proving once again that it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.

Click to embiggen. You'll be glad you did.

So far as I can tell, there have been no attempts by the squirrel population to breach our window feeder and dine from its seedy depths.

But we shall see; time is on their side because that feeder's not going anywhere.

And as far as I know, neither am I.

And that is all for now.

=0=0=0=

Happy Monday

Don't come in but do have a bite

While I wouldn't qualify as a bona fide all-in birdwatcher, I do love the wee winged things as much as the next person.

As you know, I invite hummingbirds throughout the warm months, to sip nectar from hanging feeders outside my kitchen window as well as on my front porch.

They come every day and I delight in them without fail.

The hummers have gone to Mexico and beyond for the winter, but there are lots of birds still loitering about and I got the wild idea to tempt them to feed in my window.

It happened when I saw a feeder made specifically for that purpose -- as in, the clear acrylic feeder attaches to the window with suction cups and when the birdies come, they perch right there just inches from your face and enjoy a meal as you marvel at their sweetness from the comfy confines of your heated home.

So I got said feeder -- Wild Birds of Joy is the maker -- and attached it to the window. TG was dispatched to buy the appropriate seed and he came back with not one but two kinds, and I thought, what bird would not be ecstatic to see this buffet on my window?

Surely the cardinals and blue birds I see all of the time in the trees and prancing along on our fence will waste no time in eating their fill, I reasoned.

Except, I plastered the thing up there and filled it with seed, and no one came.

Day after day after day, no one came.

I Googled it. Search term: How long before birds come to window feeder.

The answer is as simple as it is frustrating.

Seems there's a rule of twos in such things. The birds may show up at the feeder in two seconds! Or it may take two minutes. Or two hours, or two days, or two weeks, or two months.

There's no predicting how long it will take in any particular instance. Will the birds see the feeder and desire a taste of what's on offer?

Maybe; maybe not.

Perhaps there are lots of good feeders in the neighborhood and they're getting plenty to eat in their known feasting spots.

It's possible that they feel threatened in my yard; I do not and would never own a cat, but there are at least two such critters that seem to love our place. They skulk all over (front and back) and stalk along atop the privacy fence, scaring away our cardinals.

Drives Rizzo crazy. He develops springs in his legs and a shrill manic bark when he spots a trespassing feline.

So could it be that the birds sense cat activity and would rather not chance dining on my windowsill?

It's hard for me to believe that would be the case, but it's been a month since I put the feeder up and so far, nary a seed has been touched.

However.

Last night I opened my front door to peer out -- I don't know why I'm compelled to do this several times a day, but I am -- into the dark and cold.

There was a forty-percent chance we'd get a snowflake, so maybe that was why I looked. I can't remember.

What I do remember is that I had been in the doorway for less than five seconds when I heard a whirring beside my ear and felt the unmistakable touch of feathers on the skin of my neck right about where it meets my shoulder.

A bird had flown past me and into the house. 

Upon cursory inspection I saw no evidence of nest-building in my real-greenery wreath, which may have explained why a bird had been startled into sudden flight by the opening of the door.

Nevertheless, my avian visitor -- a fat Carolina wren -- was perched on a tall leaning mirror at the shadowy far end of the front room. I began walking in that direction.

As I approached (I don't know what I planned to do once I reached it), the terrified little thing flew back to the door, which I had closed to keep out the cold.

And keep in the bird, apparently. Because it flew to the jamb above the door and sat there like Edgar Allan Poe's raven, except it was the wrong species, size, and color, and did not utter Nevermore or anything else.

I walked back toward the door, thinking I'd ease it open and, Bob's your uncle, my feathered guest would go back out into the cold night.

Instead, it flew upstairs and perched on a hanging mirror in the landing outside the guest rooms.

I called to TG, who came up from his perch in the TV room and took a gander. As we discussed what to do next, the bird flew back down, past our faces, and returned to the front room.

Once there, it stationed itself on a blade of the ceiling fan. I jumped up to nudge the fan. 

The wren headed for the only exit he knew and this time, when TG gently opened the door, the bird flew back out.

As I went to bed, I pondered why it is that a bird who will fly right into the house -- where there's nothing for him -- will hesitate to partake of free food on offer outside the house.

It's a mystery. But I hold out hope that the birds will flock to my drive-thru in time for their Christmas dinner.

Where they may enjoy all they can eat, and we never close. That is a promise.

And that is all for now.

=0=0=0=

Happy Tuesday

No wire no wire no wire

Not long after we moved to South Carolina in the dawn of the aughties, a representative of the cable company was summoned to our house -- for the usual reasons.

The work commenced. In due time we noticed that said cable guy, while working in our sun room, often repeated these words in run-on fashion:

No wire no wire no wire no wire no wire ...

And if you know anything about the -- ahem -- speech patterns in South Carolina, you may imagine that it sounded more like this:

No war no war no war no war no war.

TG asked the good man why he continually intoned no wire no wire no wire while he worked.

And I don't remember after this long span of time exactly what the cable guy said in response, but he admitted that it amounted to a sort of prayer. Or a cable-guy mantra.

As in, Please don't let there be no wires in this here wall for me to hit or cut or break or nothing, while I'm loadin' up this here length of cable for these folks.

Many times over the years since then, when TG and I have found ourselves in a situation where an action taken may go either one way or the other, one of us will say:

No wire no wire no wire ...

Sometimes it works; sometimes it don't.

Them's the breaks.

Speaking of breaks.

Yesterday Audrey and Dagny were here because, as I frequently do, I'd retained Audrey's excellent services to do some things for me around the house while I completed various tasks of my own.

Around mid-morning, a large crew of workmen with many trucks and several pieces of heavy equipment had stationed themselves a stone's throw from our house, and began digging a huge hole in our neighbor's yard.

Somewhere around lunchtime, my daughter came and found me where I was, in my room.

Mom, she said. There's no water.

I flipped up a blind slat and observed that out of the hole in the Franklins' yard was gushing many hundreds of gallons of water.

Oh, there was water. Just not coming out of our taps.

They did it, I said, pointing.

I went out onto the front porch (I needed to be out there anyway because the battery-operated lights on my door wreath were fading and I was tired of worrying about their brightness level -- just as I am often concerned about my own -- so I planned to change the lights over to a new strand that hooked up to electricity) and glowered over in their direction for several minutes.

That didn't make the water come back on, but it was reasonably satisfying.

I fixed my lights and went back inside. Still no water.

I called the water company and was told that a water main had broken and there would be no water for two to three hours more.

? ? ? ? ?

You may want to commend me for NOT revealing to the nice lady on the other end of the line that, in all probability, the workmen had CAUSED the break in the water main.

Because they'd worked for hours with no disruption in neighborhood service, and THEN created the gusher which coincided with our water supply being cut off.

Also: The break was reported at two o'clock, the water company lady said.

Hmmmmm. They'd begun working long before noon. So we know they didn't come out there because there was a break in the water main.

(No; technically I don't know what I'm talking about but there's a thread of common sense here. Stay with me.)

And there was this incontrovertible evidence: As I struggled to re-light my wreath (which took longer than it should have; don't ask), the workmen continually shouted to one another, rapid-fire fashion:

STOP STOP STOP STOP STAAAAAHPPPP!!!!!!

Or ...

HEY HEY NO HEY HEY HEY HEY NOOOOOO!!!!!

Or ...

WHOA WHOA WHOA WHOA WHOA HEY ... !!!!!

These cries continued so urgently, ringing out so loudly across the land -- I'm pretty sure they could be heard as far away as Paducah, perhaps in Poughkeepsie and the Poconos, or even across the Pond -- that more than once I dropped my Christmas lights and had to start all over again installing the blasted things on my recalcitrant wreath.

(Remind me in future to always go with fake greenery, the branches of which can be bent and shaped to accommodate and hold a string of lights. Thanks ever so.)

Not exactly confidence-inspiring, the water company workers constantly screaming at one another as though, with their backhoe, they'd just unearthed their long-lost grannies all milling around down in that red-dirt hole and were afraid of drowning or otherwise maiming them.

And yes; it took three hours for water service to be returned to the neighborhood.

And no; there's no larger, philosophical message to be drawn from this experience. No precise takeaway, except maybe:

Give thanks today if water comes out when you turn on the tap.

And if you have occasion to do something risky, don't forget the code phrase:

No wire no wire no wire no wire.

And that is all for now.

=0=0=0=

Happy Friday :: Happy Weekend