Wordless Wednesday :: Wings

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Happy Wednesday

Three for three

Our third grandchild turns three tomorrow.

Remember Andrew? Born on two twenty-two twenty-twelve at two-thirteen in the afternoon?

And remember me, I'm the one who begged the doctor to fudge the time to two-twelve, so that Andrew could tell people for his entire life that he was born on two twenty-two twenty-twelve at two twelve?

Yeah. Or rather, no. That's what she said: No can do, Mamaw. Step off. Or words to that effect.

Or she may have only shaken her head at me in a negative fashion. At any rate she was disinclined to acquiesce to my request.

Killjoy. So much for that conversation starter.

But that minor blip doesn't keep us from celebrating. Sometimes even on a different day.

So yesterday little Andrew and his entourage arrived in the afternoon and we had ourselves a time.

I'd made this hot taco dip and it was a big hit. Follow the recipe to the letter except use extra-lean ground chuck or sirloin, the large chunky sized can of refried beans, and double the amount of Velveeta.

Booyah. For a crowd.

Also we ordered pizza, something the kids will always eat. Stephanie had prepared a lavish display of cupcakes frosted in red and white, in keeping with the Radio Flyer theme.

I wish you could have seen Andrew opening his presents.

He received new shoes and several outfits ranging from casual dressy to playwear. Those got a passing glance as he rooted past the garments to find the toys.

Amongst the trucks and soldiers and plastic guns was the item that lit up his little face like a summer sunrise.

A set of tools: Black and Decker Junior. From his parents.

He'd shopped online for this toy, fantasizing about it for many weeks before the fact.

No; my three-year-old grandson doesn't have his own computer. He's learned to borrow his mother's iPad and navigate to the virtual toy aisle.

Click, swipe. Drool. A kid can dream. And sometimes dreams come true. Joy was writ large in the boy's tiny face with the wide brown eyes that take up nearly half of it.

So for the remainder of the family's visit, Andrew put his toolbelt on and took it off several times, wore his safety goggles upside down, attempted to measure his sisters, and fixed some things I didn't know were broken.

He even FaceTimed with Uncle Andrew to show it all off.

Best of all, we were together, with something wonderful to celebrate.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Saturday ~ Happy Weekend

Look away Dixieland

Southern Cross of Honor, St. Peter's Lutheran Church Cemetery, Chapin, South Carolina

TG and I are in Savannah, Georgia, for a few days. We met Andrew here as he is on assignment with his unit. I'm so glad boom operators get days off.

If you like gracious lowcountry touches such as wrought iron and gaslight, Live Oaks harboring masses of dreamy Spanish moss, stunningly ethereal cemeteries, a staggering array of restaurants, and gentle southern customs, Savannah is the place.

View of Bull Street from Foxy Loxy Cafe, Savannah

All its myriad charms are like a gift.

Just over one hundred fifty years ago however, Savannah was the gift.

Ives Monument, Bonaventure Cemetery, Savannah

On December 22, 1864, General William Tecumseh Sherman, having concluded his infamous hyper-destructive March to the Sea, dispatched a message he no doubt considered clever:

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To His Excellency President Lincoln:

I beg to present you as a Christmas gift, the City of Savannah, with one hundred and fifty heavy guns and plenty of ammunition, and also about twenty-five thousand bales of cotton.

Signed,

W.T. Sherman, Major-General

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The festive holidays came and went.

In the new year, Sherman launched the Carolinas Campaign, which involved marching northward through South Carolina and torching Columbia.

Vinnie Van GoGo's: The place for pizza in Savannah

The nefarious act was accomplished on February 17, 1865, exactly one hundred fifty years ago.

The view of Main Street from the steps of the State House is a gorgeous one today.

Carriage horse, Savannah

In late February of 1865, however, thanks to a vindictive General "Total War" Sherman and his obnoxious Yankee troops, it looked like this:

Main Street from the Capitol, Columbia, South Carolina: February 1865

No; I didn't take that picture of the smoking rubble. I will thank you not to snicker.

Meanwhile, President Lincoln prepared for his second inaugural on March 4, 1865.

He would live barely six weeks after delivering it.

Louisa Porter Angel, Laurel Grove Cemetery, Savannah

Six days before President Lincoln's death, Robert E. Lee surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia to U.S. Grant, after one final engagement: The Battle of Appomattox Court House.

Every word of Lincoln's Second Inaugural Address is fascinating when you consider the way things were going. Although not necessarily a fan of Abraham Lincoln personally, I am impressed by both his poetic wisdom and his political acumen.

William Scarbrough House/Ships of the Sea Maritime Museum, Savannah

So on this day so historically significant for my adopted hometown, a city I have grown to love, I give you the closing words of that speech, which in these perilous times hold a haunting ring of truth for America and for the world.

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With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

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Happy Tuesday

Of hearts and wings redux

As it happens I am triskaidekaphobic around the edges as well as an incurable romantic (through and through). Therefore I consider the re-telling of this tale to be ideal for Friday the Thirteenth, Valentine's Day Eve.

Once upon a time several warm Marches ago, taking a wee break from work, I sat outside by the pool, savoring a half-cup of reheated coffee, watching and listening.

In the slanting light of the cool spring afternoon a saucy squirrel stopped chasing a friend long enough to prostrate himself on a truncated, sun-soaked branch high in a towering conifer, his vivacious throaty chirps mingling with those of his compadres higher in his tree as well as in neighboring pines. Their late-day badinage was punctuated by the tweets and calls of an equally energetic avian citizenry.

I lazed quietly on the swing and thought about many things: the perfunctory nature of life, the healing grace of God, the sad reality of loss, and the amazing power of dreams. And all the work I had left to do.

As I stalled, unwilling to go inside, tuning in to various genre of birdsong (nature's iPod), I was reminded of a long-ago mini tragedy.

It involved our third and baby daughter, Erica (she of the many phobias), and, as it happens, a bird.

Therein lies the tragedy.

Erica was about three when one day the kids were playing indoors. I was nearby in the kitchen when I heard an ominous thunk.

Hastening into the front room, I arrived in time to see a good-sized bird fluttering to the ground outside our picture window. He had flown smack into the glass and experienced an unplanned detour.

We hustled outside en masse and the children watched as I crawled around some shrubbery to take a look. The stunned creature lay on his back, eyes glazed, toes curled, wings askew, in shock but still alive.

In spite of my better judgment I decided to "rescue" the bird. Soon enough he lay cozily in Baby Andrew's playpen (minus Andrew and his toys) in the living room, warm under his makeshift blanket, attempting to recover. A buffet of a few breadcrumbs and water was available in case he should revive and crave a snack.

Stephanie and Audrey functioned as nurse assistants but the most wide-eyed and helpless aide was Erica. She was just old enough to understand but not old enough to contribute.

It took the bird several hours to die. He did it quietly, all on his own; we were spared the agonizing decision of whether to remove him from life support.

I suppose there was a shoebox funeral but honestly I don't remember. I had four small children! It is a wonder I'm coherent today.

That night TG and I put the kids to bed as usual and were ourselves asleep when, somewhere in the small hours, I heard sniffling. I went looking for the broken heart.

Turned out it belonged to a pale and trembling Erica, green eyes brimming, cheeks sticky with tears. I asked her what was wrong.

I -- I -- I wanted to keep that bird, she explained in a tragic sobbing voice.

I added my sundered heart to the heap and knelt in front of her. 

Oh baby, I said. Don't cry. If you can hold on till the morning, Mama will buy you a bird.

What a parent will say in the middle of the night in order to get a kid to go back to sleep.

But it worked, and I did buy her a parakeet the next day, which "pet" in due time she allowed to die of starvation and/or hypothermia. That's a whole 'nother Budgie blog. (And don't bother alerting PeTA. I'm pretty sure his demise was inevitable and either way the statute has run on that one.)

How short is life. How glorious its possibilities. How extreme its desires and how rude its awakenings. How decisive its true-ups and its letdowns.

How brief the time to shine, to fly in the open air with the sun on your face. How happy the moments when all seems lost but a viable solution is found.

How earnest the craving to accomplish something meaningful before your expiration date. How deep the need for someone and something to truly cherish.

Like the beak of a tiny wren, life is fragile but just as strong as it needs to be -- and perfectly designed for its intended use. Like the best, most inspiring art, form follows function and vice versa.

Eat enough to stay alive but swallow quickly so you can keep on singing to the end.

And never forget: Someone is watching and someone is listening. Someone stands by to offer comfort in the death hour. Someone will miss you when you're gone. Someone somewhere is loving you. 

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Happy Friday ~ Happy Valentine Weekend

Lowcountry lollygagging

Concrete Dalmatian, Central Station, Meeting and Wentworth StreetsWe day-tripped to Charleston last Saturday.

TG likes to attend Citadel home basketball games -- he played for the Bulldogs from 1970-1974 -- but that is not all. This past weekend marked the annual Alumni Game.

My man laced up his Nike Air Jordans and played nine minutes total. He even scored a goal.

Not that I was there to see it.

Erica came along for the ride and a change of scenery, and since the weather was very fine -- although not as warm as we had hoped; more on that later -- we asked TG to drop us off at Citadel Square while he went on to the games.

Patio lights, Christophe of Society Street

Besides simply passing the time, our objective was three-fold: Walk; take pictures; drink coffee.

Although we arrived at lunchtime, we didn't plan to eat out per se, on account of we were invited to dinner on Sullivan's Island later than evening.

We started out on the shadowy side of Meeting Street and quickly learned that was a mistake. The problem was not so much the temperature, which promised to top out at sixty, but due to gusty wind.

So we crossed over to the sunny side. Much more better.

We walked by a vintage "double house" fire station on Meeting Street where it intersects with Wentworth. One could spend many blissful days photographing the doorways of Charleston.

United States Custom House, East Bay Street

In due course we were in the full tourist-shopping district where caveat emptor was never a more appropriate warning.

Even so, we wandered into Sperry Top-Sider on King Street, Erica being enamored of the stylish preppy boat shoes. Just to look.

The Little Boo came away not with new kicks, but with a dressy-casual seahorse sweatshirt and coordinating shirt I encouraged her to buy.

One: I love seahorses. Two: Don't shop with me if you don't want to be told that you deserve to treat yourself. It's how I roll. Vicarious retail thrills and all that.

(FYI the folks at Sperry Top-Sider were having an epic sale. Not on their classic shoes, but on their apparel, which I didn't even know they had.)

Prudent snacking "R" us

After we had spent Erica's money, we were more peckish than ever. We began searching in earnest for a bake shop.

Where King Street crossed Society Street, there was a chalkboard set up on the sidewalk, with lots of tempting pastel-chalked words like chocolate and baguette and coffee. An arrow pointed down Society.

We followed and ended up at Christophe Artisan Chocolatier-Patissier, a fragrant establishment where we enjoyed French-press coffee with real cream and tucked in to a small brioche loaf, saving a third to take home to Audrey.

We sat on the red brick patio and tossed brioche crumbs to a fat little bird, and took pictures of the lights strung between Christophe's and a white brick house.

The sky was so blue!

Is that Davy Jones? No; it's only Erica. Do not frighten her.

Erica loves Moon Pies and there is a Moon Pie General Store on Market Street, so we swanned in that direction. 

Along the way we stopped at The Peanut Shop where one is invited to sample Virginia peanuts liberally dusted with every kind of flavored coating imaginable.

Most are delicious; some taste like Clorox. My favorite variety is Salt & Vinegar. I bought a small canister for prudent snacking at a later date.

After Erica bought -- wait for it -- a Moon Pie (double-decker) at the Moon Pie General Store, we wandered toward Charleston Harbor and the shipping terminals and Waterfront Park, pausing along the way to take pictures of random doorways and the stunning United States Custom House.

Down at the Port of Charleston, the Carnival Fantasy cruise ship was preparing for its late-afternoon departure. The passengers were all aboard and there was much loudspeaker-talking and tone-sounding and horn-blowing leading up to sailing.

Central Station, Meeting Street

We made our way out onto the pier to get a better look, and sat for a time in one of the ample swings that front the harbor. Fort Sumter is right where the Yankees and Rebels left it a century and a half ago.

But we got cold -- high temperature of maybe-sixty had been attained and lasted for approximately nine minutes, the same amount of time TG trod the boards at McAlister Fieldhouse -- so we moseyed over to the railing to be in the sun and wait for the ship to embark on its journey.

In a bid to warm up a degree or two, Erica decided to take her new sweatshirt out of its spiffy tote and tie the sleeves around her neck.

But she kept clutching at the tied ends, which she had not knotted. Finally she admitted that she was having a horrible non-carnival fantasy of her new sweatshirt flying off her neck and down into the water.

I said, give it to me, and she reluctantly obeyed, beg-warning me NOT to let it fly off the pier, and I fixed her shirt real cute on her back and tied it securely in the front so she didn't have to strangle herself with either worry or her own two hands.

Je Suis Charlie

Then she admitted she was terrified I was going to drop my camera (I have a tendency to hang my arms over railings with my Nikon in my hand, not strapped to me in any way because I can't stand stuff hanging around my neck.)

We pretty much cracked up at how paranoid Erica is. Her own shadow -- of which, yes, she is afraid -- laughed at her.

Still and all, we were so cold, we decided to walk back up the pier to Vendue Range. More refreshment was needed and besides, TG would be coming to collect us soon.

At Belgian Gelato we resisted both the gelato and the waffles they put it on. Erica bought me a Diet Coke and herself a black coffee. She broke open her double-decker Moon Pie and had her second grand snack of the day. Third, if you count the nutty samples she scarfed at The Peanut Shop.

Sitting outside once more in the sun beside a giant ice cream cone, we met Charlie.

Society Street entryway

He is a rescue dog who is clearly part long-hair Chihuahua and part Papillon, and the most precious little guy, sweeter than all the moon pies and waffles and gelato in the whole world.

His lovely owner sat and talked with us and it turns out she is from Columbia too, so we had a nice chat while Charlie let us alternately stroke his soft fur, exclaim over his ridiculous cuteness level, and take his picture.

While we passed the time with Charles and his human, the cruise ship left the dock and made its way to the sea lanes. We missed the whole thing. How something that big could get away a mere stone's throw from us, and escape our notice, is testament to how much we love dogs.

Then TG called and said where y'all at, and we divulged our geographic coordinates, and we walked to the corner where Vendue Range segues into Concord Street. I was shivering violently by then.

We hopped into the car -- well, Erica hopped; I more or less tumbled -- and I turned my seat-warmer on and tried to get my core temperature back to normal. I think I was teetering on the brink of hypothermia but there is no way we will ever know for sure.

Pastry stand and banners, Christophe Chocolatier-Patissier

Across the Ravenel Bridge (from which we spotted the Carnival Fantasy well underway) and onto Sullivan's Island we went, to the mind-bogglingly beautiful one-street-off-the-beach home of one of TG's college coaches, a man whose name I could drop because he's a minor celebrity in the world of college basketball, but which I won't because I just won't.

I will say that he and his wife are perfectly charming people and marvelous, un-fussy hosts and along with them and maybe six other couples, plus our Erica, we enjoyed a delicious dinner prepared by our hostess.

In the lap of all that lowcountry luxury and southern hospitality, I finally got warm.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday