Bless the beasts and the children. Oh and happy birthday, Erica!

Wasn't that first part a song? I do believe that was the title of a song.

Actually I think it was the title of a book, a movie, a song, and a YouTube.

OK so, that's what we're going to do today. If, that is, you can see your way clear to calling a bird a beast and a twenty-six-year-old a child.

I will if you will.

Back up to earlier this month, when my children gave me a windchime for Mother's Day.

Do you realize TG hung my windchime at least twenty feet up in a low-hanging branch of the front-yard oak? It's a fifty-six-inch Arias church bells bronze and redwood chime. I'd wanted one for years.

I can see and hear it from the window of one of my offices where some days, I pretend to write a memoir.

So anyway, I got that for Mother's Day and TG my hero installed it recently and I've been enjoying it a lot as you might imagine.

BUT you don't even have to open my front door to hear sweet high-pitched noises because wrens continually build nests in the fake flowers in my Southern Living door bucket.

No sooner does a family fly away and I remove the old nest, than another is built and new birds are hatched in it.

No those are not the same critters I pictured in my post of April 11th entitled Occufly Columbia. This is a new set.

Well. When we got home from Fort Jackson National Cemetery on Monday, Stephanie and Joel and their kids arrived nearly on our heels.

There were the usual suspects.

Melanie:

Allissa:

Andrew.

There was lots of food. I made barbecue and potato salad and baked beans. We had a big bucketful of ice-cold sodey pop. And water, if you were feeling virtuous.

My mom brought me a goodie basket, why I do not know, but I have enjoyed it.

The Caramel Creams are already gone and the Biscoff all but gone. Dove bar? What Dove bar?

I was on the fly that day and didn't even set the table. Somehow it didn't hold anyone back.

There was birthday cake, for Erica who turns twenty-six today. Happy Birthday, Little Boo! She was born at two-oh-four a.m. on Friday, May 30, 1986.

For her birthday a bunch of us pooled our racehorses and got Erica a Kindle Fire. It's what she wanted.

Well, she WANTED an iPad 2 (or 3). The KF is a poor girl's iPad. Erica seems thrilled, however. Sat up until all hours last night watching season one of Downton Abbey on it, said it was better than television.

Meanwhile, a certain someone who got a pink tutu bathing suit for her birthday in April ...

... was anxious to go swimming.

But first she had to dance around a bit. And yes, she wears the plastic tiara pretty much nonstop.

Melanie chose not to swim. She's a landlubber, I guess.

Andrew spent time in various willing arms.

Joel has this dad thing down pat, just in time for Father's Day.

But the reason I started this whole account by telling you about my windchime and the birds on my door, is this. It is a tragic tale, so prepare yourself.

I wanted to show my mother my new windchime so she and I and my girls and Melanie and Allissa stepped out onto the front porch.

While we were gazing at the windchime I had the bright idea to take my door bucket down -- very carefully -- and hang it gently on the porch railing low enough so that the girls could see the birdies. From a distance.

The moment I did that, one of them flew away. He flew with confidence out toward the street, where he lit. And sat. Another nearly identical wren sat nearby.

His sibling remained tucked securely in the nest.

OK this is the sad part! A car came down the street and my wren tried to fly away a split-second too late.

He bought it.

We were all stunned because we saw the whole thing and of course I felt guilty because if I hadn't taken the door bucket down he would still be alive.

Audrey went down and checked him out. He hadn't suffered.

Still, maybe, I hoped, the one that got hit was not the one who flew out of the nest on my door, but was actually the one sitting beside him in the street! I said as much.

But no. All the other ladies assured me it was "my" bird that was totaled.

Let it be a lesson to you. Leave the wildlife alone.

Other than that epic fail, a splendid time was had by all here for Memorial Day. I hope the same was true at your house.

Happy Wednesday! Happy Summer!

The last full measure of devotion

This morning I made friends with a Brigadier General!

BG Bryan T. Roberts, Commanding General, United States Army Training Center and Fort Jackson.

What a splendid fellow. He is a veteran of the war in Iraq.

There was a wreath-laying and a rifle salute. Taps was played and the flag was lowered to half staff, and there were bagpipes.

Afterwards, Erica was interviewed by Clark Fouraker of WLTX.

That part was not planned. It just happened.

It was a special and memorable time.

Here's a slide show. You can watch it without doing a thing or you can double-click on it to go to SmugMug and see the pictures in slightly more elegant surroundings:

After paying our respects we went home and ate barbecue.

And we had a birthday party.

I hope your Memorial Day was special and memorable too.

Happy Monday! Happy Week!

In which Tavin mentions my tweet on the Twitter

Hey look!

I won me a copy of Milktose Analogy & 88 Other Things Tavin Dillard Said.

And a mention by the author, Tavin Dillard himself.

Happy Friday! Happy Memorial Day Weekend!

(Memaw would want you to keep those tresses clean and silky.)

Fueled by irony

One of my dear readers remarked last week -- after I posted this post -- how cheap the gas prices are where I live, as opposed to where she lives.

They've gone down at least twenty-three cents per gallon since then.

Who would ever have thought gas at three sixteen nine would sound like a bargain?

Back when everything was Bush's fault, gasoline was under two dollars per gallon.

And who would ever have thought the mindless cult of personality could extend to plastering the name and gloating mug of a classic far-left radical liberal tax-and-spend champagne socialist president on the marquee of a filling station?

Makes me think, if I had a president, he just might look like Mitt Romney.

And no. That gas station is not in my neighborhood! I was passing through.

Happy Wednesday!

We'll never live it down so we lived it up

Guess what?

I and two of my ghouls girls made our way to Atlanta last Saturday to attend Tunes From the Tombs at Historic Oakland Cemetery.

Oakland is the final resting place of acclaimed southern author Margaret Mitchell.

That's right! I stood at the grave of the woman who wrote Gone With The Wind, then died at the age of forty-eight after being struck by a drunken Atlanta taxi driver while crossing the street.

GWTW, first published in 1936, consistently polls as Americans' favorite book of all time save only one: The Holy Bible.

There were other delights in and around Oakland, such as Bob Seymore, billed as Statuary ... Where Illusion Comes to Life.

Bob was very sweet and friendly.

And there was Deacon, the Hungarian Vizsla, who was also very sweet and friendly, and I imagine just as warm.

Of course, there were angels, such as this one pleading from a pillow.

And the aforementioned grave of Margaret Mitchell.

People performed in and around the tombs. These two moppets had just sung Somewhere Over the Rainbow.

Erica appeared charmed by the whole experience.

We had a fantastic lunch across the street at Six Feet Under, which is to a frightening degree about nasty beer but which was close by and has a menu that's to die for.

As we headed in that direction, a group named The Serenaders, performing on the Scoutmob stage, was cleverly crooning Stayin' Alive.

Not in the disco beat normally associated with the tune, but in more like a waltz tempo. You could actually understand the words:

Whether you're a mother or whether you're a brother
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive ...

Apparently not, if the demise of Robin Gibb this very weekend is any indication. RIP! Only one BeeGee left.

Moving along, here are our six feet under. The table.

Erica did not paint her toenails. I had flowers on my flip-flops and a pedicure. Audrey wore her Steve Madden jellies in Smoke. Her toes were pinky-coral but hiding.

I do not mean to imply that Audrey has anything whatsoever in common with a big crab.

It was a grand time, a dreamy time for a taphophile -- and a city girl into the bargain -- like me. Pale tombs floating in the sky, the beautiful skyscrapers of Atlanta serving as a shimmering backdrop.

Here are the rest of the pictures! If you double-click on the slideshow, it will take you to SmugMug where you can see them somewhat better.

Happy Monday! Happy Week!