Paradise

Before the wind began to blow and the rain began to fall there was Friday.

The sun was shining.  The bright robin's egg blue sky was dotted with cotton ball clouds and the absence of our typical south westerly breeze made it a perfect day for getting out on the water.



Even Captain Kid was smiling.



We left the shelter of our canal, made our way under the Jolley Bridge and pointed the bow south, through the mangroves towards Goodland.



You never know what you might see in this quaint "drinking village with a fishing problem."  (Their motto, not mine.)





Eventually we cleared the no wake zone and hit open water.



Did I mention it was a perfect day?

Pelicans may be my favorite shore bird but without a doubt dolphins are my favorite sea creature.  On this day there were at least a dozen feeding in the warm Gulf water.  We stopped for a spell mesmerized by the silver dorsal fins popping up willy nilly all around us.



Eventually the dolphins moved on as did we.

We hadn't been in this location in nearly a year and were anxious to check out the state of the infamous dome house built by an enterprising family in the the 70s or early 80s on an uninhabited island south of Marco.  I can't imagine the time spent and the cost incurred to resurrect the six domes in the middle of nowhere, Florida.



The locals say there were many yards of sandy beach between the house and the gulf at the time of construction.  It took a direct hit from category three Hurricane Wilma in 2005 and lived to tell about it. But as you can see neglect and mother nature have taken its toll on the now abandoned structure.

We didn't dally long and were soon skimming across the water making our way north to Marco.  As our island came into view I couldn't help but fall in love all over again.

Blue sky.  White sand.  Turquoise water.



Paradise

Charm Trumps Humor

I failed.  I found no humor.  Nothing funny in this house.   Except maybe my intent on finding it.  So I gave up.  I threw in the towel.  Called it quits and went to Goodland to drown my sorrows in a cold one.

And look what I found.





Old Florida fishing village charm.







It soothed my wounded soul.







Charm trumps humor.

At least for today.

Where's The Humor

I'm trying my hand at photographing humor this week.  Intentionally seeking out situations or items that make me laugh.

Things are not working out as planned.

You might not think it, but this is no easy task.  I live with a dog and man who both walk off at the first sign of a camera in my hand.  I am forced to look elsewhere for humor.  And because I am searching for it, humor is hiding under rocks and crouching behind closed doors.



This week it's about changing it up.  Trying to think outside the box.

It seems my box is small and sturdy.  Constructed of tempered steel.  Impenetrable.

Where's Super Man when you need him?

Or the humor in any of this.

It's All In The Details

Sometimes you have to take a closer look.  Get down on your knees.  Examine the parts that make the whole.  Only then can one truly appreciate the wonder of nature.

It's all in the details.

A Note To Number 2

The following appeared in yesterday's comment section:


Per an earlier post, I now have confirmation that I am not your "number one son". I guess I will have to settle with "#2".

Signed,

A Very Heartbroken #2





After a great deal of soul searching I have composed an appropriate response for "A Very Heartbroken #2."  One in which I am certain he can identify.


Dear Heartbroken,


As in the business world if you don't want to remain number 2, you have to try harder.


Signed,
Your loving Mother.

A Social Animal Indeed

Apparently I am a social animal.  I came to that conclusion this morning while walking.

All by myself.

Alone.

Without company.

Without conversation.

It was grueling.  And it took me three times as long to walk as the same route last week.  At least it seemed so.

Oh happy day when I can rejoin the 7 AM club.

I am social animal indeed.

Rain and Other Things

It is raining.

Of course it is.

I spent the better part of Thursday afternoon rolling up the rugs and hosing down the lanai.  It was clean and welcoming for all of 24 hours.

I shouldn't complain.  Rain at this time of year is always welcome.  (Except by those dishing out the big bucks for beach front condos and hotel rooms.)  But we locals know that April showers may not bring May flowers but they do help stave off deadly spring brush fires.

On another note, she's leaving today.  One of the 7 AM walkers of last summer who for the past four months has kept my feet in motion, and encouraged and supported my "intentional" new life style.  We've logged more miles than I care to count and shared bits and pieces of our lives along the way.  Safe travels you "silly sausage."  See you soon.



P.S.  Marcia, go easy on her, she's already whining about the cold and rain that will greet her upon arrival.

In Full Bloom

Every year about this time that heavenly sweet fragrance comes drifting through open doors and windows.



It is the scent of romance and mystery.



It is Gardenia.

I don't know how long our little bush has been there, or who had the foresight to place it in that precise location; but I would like to thank them.



Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately if you are allergic), technology has not advanced to the point where I can share this wonderful aroma with you.

A visual will have to suffice.

My Flip Phone and Me

Please tell me it isn't so.

Can I possibly be the last person on the planet who does not send nor receive text messages?

How is that possible?

It is possible because I am cheap.  My old flip phone is steadfast and reliable.  It requires no additional dollars added to my monthly bill to insure internet connectivity at all times.  It is simple to operate.  A simple phone for a simple minded user.  It is enough.  Or it has been until recently.

My daughter in law has been on my case for a couple of years to get current.  She teases me with the promise of frequent photos of my favorite grandchildren.  Daily documentation of their sweet young lives, a far away grandmother's dream come true.  Even my sister has jumped on the texting bandwagon and spars frequently with my number one son via text jabs and counter punches on the state of the Tennessee Titans vs the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Apparently I have been missing all manner of communication, most recently from several of my friends.  Assuming I am a connected textie they have been sending messages my way for several weeks and wondering what in the world is wrong with me that I have not responded.  Looks of shock and disbelief are always followed with why?

I think the why is that my thumbs just don't work that fast.  And those tiny little key boards.  What's up with that anyway?  I would need a magnifying glass to identify the letters.  And then there's the language.  The abbreviations.  The acronyms.  The emoticons.  It's enough to make my head spin.  Do you think Rosetta Stone offers an online class in texting?  I would certainly need to look into it.

I do have to admit I'm tempted.  If for no other reason than to see if all of those messages and photos that unsuspecting people have sent my way over the past few years are floating out there in some sort of text message purgatory.  And if I did get connected would all of those homeless messages show up at once?  And would that cause a stampede that would log jam the system so badly that cyber space would come crashing down around me?

I think I better stick to my flip phone.  That's just too much pressure for one person to endure.

A League Of Our Own

Somewhere between the hot wings and the bananna pudding Stephen determined that a family baseball game should be the order of the evening.



It may have been the hot sauce talking, but we were all "all in" and shortly upon arriving back at the house bats, balls, t's, and make shift bases were strewn across the yard.

Before you could say Micky Mantle , the game was underway.



The teams were a little lopsided to my way of thinking.  Miss A, the G-man and Grammy were taking on the big guns, the family power hitters.  So not fair.

Don't you think for one minute I wasn't dying to wipe that silly grin from his handsome face.



Take that Pappy.  Step away from the plate.



We underdogs soon realized it would take more than traditional baseball skills if we were going to have a fighting chance.  Tackling seemed to work well for Allie.



Soon the devine Ms. M was lured from the safety of her sun room to our back yard field of dreams.  (Ms. M is the next door neighbor who is now officially part of the family.)  I am certain it was the pre-game warm up drill conducted by our very own kindergardener that drew her out of her house.  She thought we were preparing to dance and she didn't want to miss it.



It didn't take long for her to get into the spirit of the game.  With a little encouragement she grabbed the bat and showed us her stuff.  M, thanks for joining us.  You're welcome to play on my team any time!

The G-man soon discovered that if you can't get to the ball in time just sit on the base runner, eventually the ball will make its way to you.

I thought I might give that tactic a try too but the big boys wouldn't hear of it.

Just hit the ball Grammy.  Just hit the ball.

Our bases may have been Uncle C's old school work and our bat a little on the light side, but the smiles and the laughter were the genuine article, the real deal.



And lest you forget, there is one constant in family sports.

Before the fun expires someone will end up in tears.  And that someone is usually the little guy.



Come on now.  Say it with me.  I know you're thinking it.
On the count of three.  One.  Two.  Three

"There's no crying in baseball!"



Ahh, Popcycles.  Band aids for the wounded soul.




Many thanks to B who manned the camera while I participated in the festivities.

Early One Morning

Early one morning I left the comfort of routine
and ventured out,
into the light of the new day.
I was searching for my muse
who seems to be playing hide and seek with me of late.
I found him among fishing boats heading out to sea,
perched precariously with gulls on pilings,
peering back at me through milky reflections.
And I wondered,
why don't I do this more often?
The answer, I know,
is buried deep
within the comfort of routine,
the safety of the familiar.

Vision and Verb

Most mornings I wake early, pour a cup of coffee and settle in for my daily trek around the world wide web. My destinations are blogs and web sites related to photography in some form or fashion.  It is a well worn path I travel, one with many detours along the way.  In fact it is often the detours that prove to be the most interesting parts of the journey.

At times the detours have led me down narrow pathways that end in thorny brambles.  Websites that hold no interest for me.  Places where the words and imagery are uninspiring.  Occasionally the detours lead me to clear mountain streams and colorful gardens.  Places that amuse, intrigue and inspire.  Places that expand my horizons and make me think.



Vision and Verb is one such place.   I stumbled upon this little gem several months ago and it quickly became one of the places I can't wait to visit each morning.  Vision and Verb is a gathering of "women of a certain age." (Don't you love that?)  Children of the 60's, "not quite old enough to be truly wise, not young enough to be that innocent and naive." From around the globe, these talented women have linked cyber hands and now share their creative passions through vision and through verb.

Today I am honored to have been asked to contribute as a guest blogger on this wonderful site.  I can tell you that it is one thing to write for myself, to scatter words across the page that need only appeal to the limited audience that is you, the magnificent eleven.  And quite another to write with broader interest.

I hope you will take a minute today to join me at Vision and Verb.  Not to see what I have to say, because you have been down that road, but to explore and savor this unique window on the world.   Who knows, Vision and Verb may be for you what it was for me, a detour that led to a colorful garden.   One filled with blossoms so abundant and so fragrant, they keep you coming back for more.

It's Good To Be Back Home

After close to two weeks on the road I can comfortably say that it is good to be back home.  Not that I didn't thoroughly enjoy our little break from the day to day.  After all what could be more appealing than a quick trip to the Smoky Mountains bookended by time spent with my sons?



Along the way I enjoyed an afternoon catching up with a dear friend in Nashville, an impromptu family reunion along the interstate and attending my first professional hockey game in many, many years.  I have to confess that it is probably a good thing that there is distance between myself and the ice.  I could get hooked.  The fast pace of the game, the smack of sticks on ice, the roar of the crowd, the fisticuffs, it was pure entertainment.

Our two night stay in the Smoky Mountains was a tease.  Spring may have been in full swing in Nashville but not so in the mountains.  We found that many restaurants and motels were closed.  It seems April is a respite for the locals between the end of winter ski season and the arrival of May flowers.  That can only mean one thing.  I must return.

We arrived in Hickory in the nick of time.  I hadn't seen the grandchildren since Thanksgiving and I was about to keel over from withdrawal.  Our two munchkins move at a pace that even those hockey players would find difficult to match.  There was bedroom volleyball, Easter egg hunts, walks with Henna, backyard baseball, coloring, drawing, putt-putt golf, Wii golf, bowling, tennis and boxing, hide and seek and more.  I found muscles that I didn't know were lost and enjoyed every minute of it.  (Especially those rare moments when they let me take a break.)

And then it was over.  And that brings me back to where I started... home.

After two weeks on the road and time spent with my family making wonderful memories, I can confidently say, it's good to be back home.

More From Cataloochee

The Cataloochee Valley area of Great Smoky Mountain National Park is more than Palmer Chapel.  It is several miles of verdant valley that was once life sustaining farm land.  It is hiking trails and historic buildings, trout streams and wild turkeys.  And if you arrive at just the right time of day you might even catch a glimpse of majestic elk grazing contentedly in the fields.



Elk sightings were not in the cards for us on this day but a visit to the Caldwell farm house was.  It is my humble opinion that the Caldwell family was one of the wealthier occupants of the Chataloochee Valley.



Successful farmers with a home larger than most. Five rooms up.  Five rooms down.  I can only assume that the Caldwells filled those rooms with children who gave them joy and also served as farm hands.  In fact at one point during my visit I am certain that I heard laughter emanating from one of the upstairs bedrooms.



Admittedly I am a romantic at heart.  My vision of the lives lived here is one of close family ties, hard work,  and fishing and swimming in the rushing water of the little stream.



It is one of cows grazing in green pastures that were herded and milked by people with happy hearts.



Of children attentively listening to kind hearted instructors



all the while yearning for the opportunity to run barefoot in the grass.



My version of life in the Cataloochee Valley is void of sickness, premature death and natural disasters.  It is tinted by the rose colored glasses of Little House on the Prairie and the Waltons.   It is of life lived in a quieter, slower paced world.  A world I believe I would have loved.



But one that must include an automatic washer and a Mr. Coffee.   Some things a girl just can't live without.
Isn't that right Jim Bob?