Playing Favorites :: Freedom

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Broad River at the Harry Easterling Bridge

Memorial Day 2016

Peak, South Carolina

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And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.

John 8:32

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If you have time and would like to read about an unusual art installation

honoring a group of American soldiers

who made the ultimate sacrifice, click here.

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Happy Monday :: Happy Memorial Day

It's all there in black and white

Blanc noir: effortless and elegant

This past Monday, I went shopping.

First stop was our local meat market, where we are regular customers. Except, TG usually does the meat buying.

On this day he was not able to make the meat run, and I also had to go to the regular grocery store, so I prepared the remains for viewing and ventured forth.

It was a hot day with an abundance of bright sunshine.

While getting ready, I had looked around for the easiest outfit to wear. The pirate does not iron; the most she will do is steam and I wasn't even in the mood to do that.

I ended up choosing an ankle-length black tank dress with a white short-sleeved shirt worn open over the top.

That ensemble assembled, I picked out my jewelry, put it on, and opted for a final touch.

My new black-and-white striped Tommy Bahama straw picture hat was the obvious choice.

It both looks smashing and shields my face and eyes from the harsh afternoon glare.

You should probably know at this juncture that if I ever get into my car and leave the house, I have first taken the time to get what my mother would have called all prettied up.

As in, my hair is done, and I am wearing a face full of makeup, also perfume, and I have chosen a cute outfit and appropriate jewelry and accessories to go along with it, often up to and including millinery.

Old school.

(The pirate leaves no stone unturned. On account of, this is not a dress rehearsal. This is it. This is your life, and it is but a vapor. Make hay while the sun shines. I could go on and I hope I do.)

Anyway, that's just me. You be you and God bless you but I am too old to change even if I had the desire to, which I most emphatically do not.

At any rate I walked into the meat market and was able to only narrowly avoid banging into someone with the door.

Speaking of narrow, the shop itself is longish but not overly wide. All of one side is glass cases and serving counter, and all of the other side is built-in freezer cases.

An employee was half inside one of those freezer cases when I walked in, and the freezer case door nearly touched the front door when they were both open.

She peeked out though, having sensed the door's movement, and saw me just in time.

Nice hat! she greeted me.

Why thanks! I said. I did not say: Pirate!

I walked perhaps another ten feet and was about to go in the direction of more freezer cases, when another lady caught my eye.

This time it was a fellow shopper. Lovely black lady of about forty years old.

Someone is all accessorized today, she said with a big smile, nodding towards my hat.

Haahaha, I said. Well, ninety percent of my clothes are black and of the remaining ten percent, half of them are white. So it was basically a lazy choice.

I used to do that too, she said. She was wearing a silky vibrant yellow summer top and looked spectacular in it.

Oh but you wear color so well, I complimented her, and I meant it.

Black and white go so beautifully together, she mused aloud. Just so effortless and elegant.

I agreed.

Before I could say anything else, she continued:

And it ought to be the same with people.

It was she and not I who uttered the words!

Before our too-short but no less delightful and enlightened discourse concluded, my new friend and I agreed that at some time or another, everyone older than five minutes has been put upon in some way, and if they live long enough, will likely be mistreated again, in some other way.

The thing is to stop whining about petty -- yes I said petty -- injustices and get on with the important things, like work and faith and taking care of your family and being a productive member of the community.

Like the ex-NBA player claiming r a c i s m because he was turned away from a fancy restaurant for showing up wearing sweatpants and demanding to be seated although they have a dress code and it does not include sweatpants.

In my grocery-shopping outfit I was more likely to get a table at Le Bilboquet than he was.

I've told you before: all the many put-downs and unbecoming stereotypes the Deep South endures on the world stage notwithstanding, we get along here in South Carolina.

I don't know about Atlanta; I have not lived there since Jimmy Carter occupied the White House.

Black and white accessories are a necessity

But here, black people and white people live together in peace, with little if any outrage or issue. There are just as many r a c i s t s up north as there are here; believe me, I know. I have lived in both places.

But there are not great numbers of bigots on any compass point in America. That's a myth. 

I've told you before: I have black neighbors and I have white neighbors. As far as those immediately around my house go (and I wish some of them would), I unreservedly prefer my black neighbors to my white neighbors.

There are the Bothertons next door. I told you about them during the property easement debacle of 2013.

We are more or less friends now. No animosity exists on either side. It was a brief dust-up. Bygones.

I have mentioned the new neighbors cater-cornered to our house, who have lived there for a couple of years since he inherited the property from his memaw, Mrs. M, who was our neighbor for nearly fifteen years.

I had to call the police on them about a month ago.

They had been for several weeks having parties in their garage where various Harleys are housed.

The music had been cranked up too loud several times but, on the evening of the day we had Erica's baby shower, as I was relaxing for a bit after all of my guests had gone and the kitchen was clean, I could hear the driving beat clearly although I was easily one hundred yards from said garage, in the back of my house, with the windows and doors closed and air conditioning running.

I'd had enough. I called the law and complained. Nobody came so, forty-five minutes later, I called again.

I wasn't the only one.

When the officers arrived, I just happened to be standing on my front porch looking in that direction.

I heard them say: Folks, numbers of your neighbors have been calling for the last hour to complain about the volume of your music. Got to turn it down.

And our neighbor did, and there has been no problem since then.

The officers were only there a few minutes, having left after declining the offer of a cold one.

But my black neighbors? Craig and Cynthia, across the street? The only noise they make is when Craig works tirelessly in his large yard to keep it neat as a newborn kitten.

When i take my walk, I wave to -- and occasionally chat with -- additional neighbors who also happen to be black. One couple a few streets over are often sitting on their porch in their rockers, if I happen to be walking in the evening.

She keeps the most carefully tended flower boxes attached to her porch railing, and I compliment her on those. We always pause to say hello and exchange niceties.

Farther down the next street, one of the top three most impressive houses on the whole stretch is owned by a black family. The lawn looks as though the blades of grass are measured individually and cut with scissors.

There are two late-model Mercedes Benz automobiles in the garage, and one more parked beside it.

The homeowner is often outside, working on his grounds. He never fails to wave and be polite. I assure you there are no loud redneck parties there.

I'm going to rest my case here: Unless you live in a Democrat-controlled big city (if it's not busy being burned to the ground), you're not going to see a lot of the hatred being fomented by the media in collusion with assorted America-hating r a c e baiters in Congress.

We are too busy working and being with our families, and going to church, and taking care of business.

And our business includes being kind to one another, and looking out for one another, and -- in the case of my black neighbors Craig and Cynthia -- praying for one another.

In twenty-five words or less (yes; I can do that under time constraints and I will thank you not to snicker), I conveyed as much to my new friend who was waiting to be served at the meat market counter.

She wholeheartedly agreed with me that reality is very different from the many r a c i s t tropes being pushed daily by the drive-by media.

We had to part ways then but we did it with friendly smiles and a mutual God bless you.

Then I secured my meat order for the Memorial Day weekend and went home to put it in the freezer.

After that, I soldiered on and went to the grocery story for the rest of what I will need so as to feed everyone.

I was walking down an aisle, studying my shopping list, when I heard someone say I like your hat!

I looked up. It was a cute small older lady, and she had stage-whispered the compliment almost conspiratorially.

Oh thank you! I said. The black and white hat strikes a chord yet again.

You look real sassy, she added, and kept moving.

I was laughing because that is never what I am going for. Sophisticated? yes. Sassy? no. But okay! I'll take it.

When I got home, I took a moment to document that look because I wondered if, in a picture, either you or I would see sassy.

My mother always told me, Don't sass, but I guess I should admit that I still did. And sometimes do.

I thought I'd better document Pirate Sassy

At any rate I'd better keep a sharp eye because everyone and I mean everyone will be at our house for Memorial Day.

Andrew and Brittany and Ember will arrive on Saturday in the late afternoon. We have not seen them since my birthday in early March.

We are having a big spaghetti supper that night at Erica's house.

Before that, though, Erica, Audrey, Dagny, and I are going in the early afternoon to get pedicures.

Well, Dagny is getting a manicure. It's cheaper.

Then we will go back to Erica's and get the supper ready (I'm making the sauce on Friday).

Chad has built a charming deck on the back of their house and after supper we plan to sit out there and visit and eat ice cream bars and drink sweet tea in the glow of citronella candles.

I will be sure and take my Cutter Dry with me since mosquitoes may not find me sassy but they sure do find me tasty.

On Sunday -- which is Erica's birthday -- we will all go to church together.

On Sunday night, latish, after their evening service and driving from North Carolina, Stephanie and her crowd will arrive to stay with us.

On Monday, Henry will drive down from Greenville and we'll have a Memorial Day cookout with the whole gang. There will also be a birthday party for Erica.

The kids have bought TG a pretty impressive gas grill for his Father's Day, and it is already on the premises. Said magnificent appliance will get a workout what with the cookout.

Everyone will leave for home on Tuesday. 

And next Thursday I'll share some pictures with you, of our many parties.

Until then I hope that you are planning, and will have, a relaxing, joy-filled Memorial Day weekend.

One in which freedom-loving Americans, both individually and collectively, pause to remember those who gave all to secure our precious liberties.

Those same liberties that are under attack from every direction.

God bless America and confound her enemies, both foreign and domestic. But especially domestic.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Memorial Day Weekend

Playing Favorites :: Rosy Lips

It's so tiny and cute ... that is part of its charm. But only a tiny part.

They (whoever they are) say that all good things must come to an end.

And that people fall out of love approximately at the exact same rate that they fell in.

It's a well-known trope that even if a thing is excellent, it will do only until something better comes along.

I cannot believe that the words are coming out of me mouth, but this has happened with regard to my years-long love affair with Chap Stick Candy Cane.

I wrote all about that here, back in 2018.

On that occasion, in that blog post, I declared that my all-time favorite lip balm was the aforementioned Chap Stick (but only in the Candy Cane flavor).

I still love it, and still use it. There will always be a connection between us.

I also love, and also use, Carmex. I mean, c'mon, man! It's Carmex. And the C-A-R stands for caramel.

There's nothing wrong with that, and whole heap right with it.

I recently bought three new tubes to distribute randomly around the house.

For the simple reason that I cannot bear to have dry lips, which is what I will have if, in the absence of my signature red lippy, I fail to treat them with a balm.

So anyway.

I don't even remember now, how I became aware of Vaseline Lip Therapy Rosy Lips ... for soft, pink lips.

Ah! Just the description grabbed me. The word rosy. Also the utterly adorable diminutive packaging, which mimics a regular tub of plain old Vaseline.

Which is one of the greatest products ever to exist on the face of the earth.

I saw Rosy Lips online; not in person, like in a store. I think it was on Amazon. I'm pretty sure that I was not even looking for anything like that. It was serendipity.

At any rate, I bought it on the 'zon. Audrey has since found it at Target.

This was only a few months ago but already, this product has won my heart and become ...

Wait for it.

... my favorite.

Oh, I'll still reach for my Chap Stick Candy Cane, especially during the holidays when its festive pepperminty fragrance tends to put one in the Christmas spirit. 

And it is still an excellent lip balm. Every bit as good as Carmex, which -- let's face it -- is pretty much the gold standard when it comes to such things.

(Classic Carmex original formula only; none of these gimmicky flavors they have come up with.)

But Vaseline Lip Therapy Rosy Lips? This is off the chain.

The color and consistency are pretty much perfect. And you need only a tiny bit.

I guess what I love the most about it, is its consistency. It's thick but in the best kind of way.

Not gooey or sticky or heavy on your lips, but very much there, providing a luxurious barrier between your lips and the air that makes them dry.

Besides, who is not totally down with having luscious, soft, pink lips? By the way, this product does not actually change the color of your lips. It just makes them happy, and as we know, the color of happy is pink.

Also it lasts and lasts. That may be my pet peeve with many lip therapy products: they are too thin and do not stay where they're put.

I don't want to have to apply lip balm every twenty to thirty minutes.

Rosy Lips has a truly magical fragrance, too. Light but definitely there. Clean but girly.

In fact it reminds me of another lip balm that is not really a lip balm, but is probably the best lip treatment (that is not a lip treatment) I have ever used until now, since I discovered Rosy Lips.

Allow me to explain.

Back in the '80s I bought and used Mary Kay Extra Emollient Night Cream. It's a lovely pink, just like Rosy Lips.

Back in the '80s I was in my 20s and did not really need a heavy night cream, except occasionally in the driest winter months.

But I used it on my lips and I believe it to be the best product in the world, bar none, for dry lips.

It's good for your face, too. A trace amount, mixed with a few drops of water, will make your skin dewy.

I don't have any of the Mary Kay Extra Emollient Night Cream and have not had any for at least ten years. Since it is so reasonably priced, I should get some. Just to have all bases covered.

There's another thing: Some lip balms have been known to put me off due to their scent.

You do wear it, after all, right under your nose.

Two that spring to mind are the Panama Jack Vanilla lip balm that I wrote about in 2018. It turned out to be too sweet-smelling for sustained use.

The other is Lancôme Absolue Precious Cells Nourishing Lip Balm.

Great product; luxurious consistency (if a trifle too sticky for my liking) and staying power on the lips.

But its perfuminess is just a little too much for me. Its price is too, if I'm being honest.

Teensy tiny tub. Huge results.

(I've only tried it because I have received it free when Lancôme was in gift; I would never buy it.)

But for less than two dollars, in my opinion you cannot beat Vaseline Lip Therapy Rosy Lips.

Not even with Carmex or the Mary Kay not-a-lip-balm cream.

Of those three, I would insist that Rosy Lips is first among equals.

It's now my favorite and it will take something pretty special to knock it off that perch.

I hope that if you're in the market for a new soothing lip balm -- or even if you are merely curious -- that you will try it, and soon, and let me know what you think.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday :: Happy Week

I've joined the club

My Brooklyn Basher by Cold Steel Athletics

Several weeks ago I asked my doctor: What is the single most important thing a person can do for their health? Like, if they had to choose only ONE thing?

Like all good interrogators, I already knew the answer to my question.

I had looked it up on the internet.

And no; it is not lose weight, or get more sleep, or reduce your stress levels, or acquire a gerbil, or buy a timeshare, or stop eating sweets, or quit smoking, or give up drinking (I don't do those last two anyway, unless you count Diet Dr. Pepper and sweet tea).

Do you know the answer?

My doctor (actually he is a Nurse Practitioner, IMO better than a doctor -- at least in this case -- and his name is Michael) did not hesitate for a scintilla of a second before answering:

Take a thirty-minute walk every day.

And that would be one-hundred-percent correct!

Which is why, most days, I take a thirty-minute walk. I have done this for a long time.

Years ago, it was my habit to walk at night. Mainly that was because, for most of the year, it was cooler.

Andrew had mapped out a two-mile course for me in our neighborhood, with a few hills and so forth.

(Ours is a generally quiet and peaceful neighborhood; you can walk two miles and barely hear a leaf rustle.)

I was never fearful while walking alone at night -- which is weird because I am famously afraid of the dark.

Too bad I didn't think to use this on the owl

Maybe it was at least partly because I carried with me, at first, a flashlight, and later, a ZapLight with built-in stun gun.

I regret to say that I have never had occasion to use my stun gun. I really want to. I still keep it close at hand, just in case.

But nothing ever happened to threaten my safety as I walked at night until the owl attack of 2013.

After that, I was done walking after dark, when nocturnal raptors are about.

Then came several years during which I could not walk, at any time of day, due to arthritis in my hip joints.

In 2017 I had total hip replacement on the left side. In 2018 I had total hip replacement on the right side.

Now I walk as though I'm fifteen years old again.

So I long ago resumed walking every day -- or almost every day. I admit to missing more than I ought, but I'm pretty good about it.

I do have a stationary bicycle that has no handles out in front -- it's like a recumbent bike -- and last summer TG bought me an electric height-adjustable desk that I put in front of the bike so that I can work on my computer while cycling.

I've been known to spend hours on my bike, at that desk. It's very handy for when it's too hot or too cold to walk, or too wet to play, or when you're just not motivated to walk down the street, or whatever.

Time was when my Rizzo would trot along beside me, but then, in the summer of 2019, with no warning and for no apparent reason, he staged a protest right in the middle of a walk.

Just, balked. Dug in his front paws and refused to use his perfectly good (albeit short) legs to cover even one more inch of ground. We had to turn around and go home (which he gladly did; he knows his directions).

I tried him out a few more times but no dice. He was D-O-N-E. Walkies? N-O-P-E.

Rizzo, this morning, on the retaining wall near the pool, contemplating the many reasons he will no longer go walkies

It got so bad that I could put his harness on him and attach his leash, and for all my cajoling, he would not even leave the kitchen.

I would have had to pull him, and that was not an option because I'm not about to drag my dog down the street. Besides, if you pull hard enough, he can shrug right out of his harness.

I found that out the hard way.

So I stopped asking him to go with me and began walking on my own, like I did before I had a worthless dog.

Until last week, when I randomly suggested to my lazy Chiweenie that he join me and he did, and he walked the whole way as though it had never been an issue.

The next day, he did it again. However, he began figuring things out about halfway through, and after that I had to keep saying the word treat in order for him to continue putting one paw in front of the other.

Yes; I gave him a treat and much praise when we got home.

But today, as I was preparing to go on my walk, and asked if he'd like to go, Rizzo made it abundantly clear that he was not going to fall for that again.

So I grabbed my Brooklyn Basher and set out solo for my daily thirty-minute walk.

Ah! Finally we arrive at the subject of this blog post.

My new club.

I acquired said piece of equipment shortly after Shiloh was killed by a German Shepherd.

That sad event on its own may not have inspired the purchase. But wait! There's more.

About a week following Shiloh's death, I was chilling at home when I heard a truly terrifying-sounding ruckus out in the road in front of the house.

There were dogs barking and women screaming and crying. It continued long enough and was out-and-out panicky enough that I thought a person was being murdered.

I grabbed my stun gun and  flew to the window. What had happened was, a pit bull (who apparently lives several houses down from us) had escaped the confines of his yard and attacked a small dog being walked by its owner.

There were in fact two ladies walking their respective canines, but the pit had attacked the smallest dog.

In the midst of all of the caterwauling, the pit bull's owner sprinted from her house. I saw her running up the street towards the crying, screaming women.

She paused only long enough to scoop that big dog up in her arms and run with him back home.

She did not stop to commiserate with the victim's owner, who was still howling and protesting, or to check on the dog that had been attacked by her dog.

This would have come in handy for the unfortunate small dog owner

She just took off back towards her house, toting that big dog. I've never seen anything like it.

The owner of the poor little dog that had almost met his end, still crying, shouted after the woman: Your dog attacked my dog! He could have killed him!

She got no joy from the pet owner -- much as our Stephanie got none from the owner of the dog that killed Shiloh.

(She did attend a hearing and was able to testify, in the presence of said owner. Shiloh's killer was officially deemed dangerous, and the owner was given two choices: either have the animal put down, or build an enclosure from which the dog cannot escape. He was angry and indignant, and he did not apologize to Stephanie, and the dog still lives, but the owner has fortified the enclosure.)

Stephanie is still afraid to get a new dog.

Anyway I was telling TG about the bizarre events that took place in front of our house, over dinner that night.

TG rides his bike every evening for exercise. He sees lots of things as he's riding.

And one thing he has been seeing, he told me, is various women walking alone, carrying clubs.

! ! ! ! !

I knew right off the bat (haaaaahahahaha) that that was what I needed.

And within minutes I had found it online: The Brooklyn Basher by Cold Steel Athletics Unbreakable Baseball Bat, Model CS24, under twenty dollars. Hyperlink above.

So now when I walk, I brandish my bat carry my club.

In summer, during the day, I am dressed entirely in black when I walk: I wear an almost-knee-length swim skirt with shorts underneath, and a long-sleeved athletic shirt that is cool but which offers built-in sun protection.

I top it all off with a wide-brimmed straw hat trimmed with a black chiffon ribbon, and large black Jackie Ohh Ray-Bans.

It's possible -- only possible; this may be all in my mind but either way I'll thank you not to snicker -- that I look a mite formidable.

But wielding carrying my Brooklyn Basher down by my side? I am a bona-fide Southern Lady Ninja.

By the way, just so you know: I am decidedly non-violent. I have no desire to hit anyone or anything with a baseball bat.

(Well; possibly the occasional liberal Democrat, but so far they seem to be at least marginally aware that when it comes to the Pirate's personal space, if they don't start none, there won't be none.)

But I promise you that if I look up one day and see a large dog running towards me, in an aggressive manner, not restrained in any way, as I make my way innocently -- if saucily -- down the street?

There won't be a moment's hesitation before I bring the hammer down to Chinatown.

Just in case

If it's either me or him, I'm going to look out for me.

Same goes for unruly people -- although, I don't know of any of those in our neighborhood. Everyone is nice and we all wave and say howdy when we're outside.

Often there are actual friendly conversations. We're not all mad up in here. I've sensed zero outrage unless you count that day in March when the little dog was attacked. But that's understandable.

So I don't anticipate any action necessitating deployment of the Basher but if any should occur, I know you'll rest easier knowing that the Pirate is locked and loaded.

Keeping all comers in range of the long nines, as it were.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Thursday

Playing Favorites :: Hippo Sak

Hippo Sak :: Ask for it by name

So here's the thing: I like reading blog posts about people's favorite stuff.

But I don't want to do a single post naming all of my favorite things; there are too many.

Let's try doing one each Monday; shall we? Retain some mystique.

Always leave them wanting more, they say.

But you have to start somewhere.

And we're starting with Hippo Sak.

Yes; it's a tall kitchen trash can liner. So exciting.

Except, Hippo Sak IS exciting. Because for me, this brand was the answer.

What was the question? you may be asking.

The question was, which trash can liner to buy, every time I needed some.

At this juncture, I must admit that when it comes to tall kitchen trash can liners, I am picky.

Hippo Sak :: Your search ends here

And as Shakespeare so wittily and succinctly put it: There's the rub.

See, I loathe, deplore, despise, detest, abhor, and refuse to use drawstring-tie bags.

They are infuriating, not least because they have an alarming penchant for falling down inside the trash can.

To me, that is worse than just about anything else I can imagine having to do with the kitchen trash.

So for many years, I would never buy anything but handle-tie tall kitchen bags.

They more or less did the trick by adhering better to the edge of the trash can than did drawstring-tie bags.

But they became more and more difficult to find. It's anyone's guess why.

A few years ago I began searching online for a solution to my tall kitchen bag dilemma.

And I discovered Hippo Sak.

I'll never use anything else. This product is that superior.

Not only are they big enough that the top folds down over the edges of your trash can with plenty of room to spare and stays there securely, but the Hippo Sak is stronger than any trash can liner you have ever used.

The bottom is even reinforced.

Hippo Sak :: Long handles and a reinforced bottom

You can push and push and push the trash down, and the bag can take it.

Then, when you decide it's time to install a new trash can liner, you can remove the bag and bring all of your smaller household trash cans to the kitchen and empty them into the Hippo Sak that you thought was full.

The Hippo Sak can take it. Also it's made in the USA.

I believe that if you try one box of Hippo Sak, you will never go back to whatever brand you were using before.

Hippo Sak is my all-time favorite tall kitchen trash can liner.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday :: Happy Week