Tidbits

Ever know a kid who looks like an angel but occasionally walks on the wild side? Here's one.

We're back.

Well, we have been back for a week.

From our trip to Knoxville and points north.

Allow me to elaborate.

The reason for our four-day excursion was twofold: to see our new grandson in Tennessee and to attend the memorial service of our brother-in-law in Ohio.

Since the route from Columbia, South Carolina, to Toledo, Ohio, takes one right through Knoxville (well; it can ... there is an I-77 route but we don't take that one, preferring I-26 West to I-40 West to I-75 North), it's handy to break the journey at the home of our son, Andrew, and his wife, Brittany.

And now in addition to their daughter Ember, who will turn four in December, there is Baby Guy, who was two weeks old the first time we saw him.

We stopped at the new Buc-ee's at Exit 407

We left on Thursday and made a few stops on the way so as to coordinate our time of arrival with the time Ember had been fetched from preschool and everyone was at home.

Our main detour was at Buc-ee's, which has a brand-new outlet at Exit 407, Sevierville.

We stayed thirty minutes and spent eighty dollars.

Mostly that was for presents for the girls and their families back at home (because they care for our pets in our absence) but I must say, Buc-ee's is good at separating people from their money, no matter what your intention.

Don't go there unless you are prepared to part with some cash.

Back on the road, we arrived at Andrew and Brittany's at about two thirty in the afternoon.

Ember with her brand-new pirate crab squishmallow ... home run, Mari

Almost the first thing they told us when we walked in the door, was that they had just received a package from my precious friend Mari, whom they have never met in person.

In true Mari fashion, she had sent outfits for Guy and a pirate crab squishmallow toy for Ember.

Ember was holding on tight to that squishy pirate crab. I tried to get it away from her and was unsuccessful.

Isn't that the kind of sweet friend story you like to hear? It's my favorite kind of story. 

Then I got to know Baby Guy -- that was easy -- and in due time Andrew threw some chicken and corn on the cob onto the grill and I made my semi-famous semi-homemade baked macaroni and cheese, and we had a nice meal.

The next morning we were not in a big hurry to leave, because I was still busy holding Baby Guy, but by noon we were on the road to Ohio.

Baby Guy and I settled into a routine within moments of my arrival

We were checking into our hotel room by about eight thirty that evening.

Therein lies a tale. I guess if you travel at all, you know that hotels feel no need to service your room at all during your stay -- unless, in the case of Hilton hotels, you stay for at least four days.

That means that your bed will go unmade and the trash cans will overflow and the towels will be damp for four entire days. Floor vacuumed? Bathroom cleaned and restocked? Haaaaahahahahaa. Ha.

Unless you say something. Which I did, at the front desk of what is actually a beautiful Hilton property in Perrysburg, Ohio.

I was told that we could be put "on the board" if we wanted any attention paid to our room, but that in the absence of an actual request, nothing would be done to see to our comfort during a two-night stay.

We asked to be put "on the board" and when we returned to our room after a long day at the memorial service and visiting with family, the bed had been made and the trash cans had been emptied, and we had each been given one fresh towel.

TG and his brother, Ron, comparing their tall, slim, trim frames

By the time I got back home a few days later, the Hilton property in question was badgering me to complete an online survey.

And so I did, and I said how I felt about the way they do things now. As in: I don't like it. We are being conditioned in all areas of life to pay more and expect less.

Let me rephrase: I vehemently dislike it. Some resentment may enter into it as well.

A day later, I received an email from the nicest lady named Maria, who is in management at that property. The email was followed by a call.

We had a nice chat, during which Maria told me that it wasn't that the people managing the property don't want to service the rooms.

It's that they simply don't have the housekeeping staff to do it.

I placed the official MLB Seattle Mariners baseball on the table beside Johnny's cremains and his effects

Maria apologized, saying that she realized it was not up to any recognized Hilton standard anyone may have in the past been used to enjoying.

She gave us ten thousand Hilton Honors points and we parted as friends.

Folks, things are never going back to the way they used to be. In acceptance lies peace.

At the memorial, we saw TG's only sister and only brother, as well as several nephews and nieces and great-nephews and great-nieces.

Everyone was holding up pretty well, but there were moments. Ultimately the reason for our meeting there at that place at that time, was accomplished.

Since my unofficial motto is "Never go empty handed," TG and I took along an official MLB baseball stamped with the Seattle Mariners logo. Johnny was a huge baseball fan and the Mariners were his favorite team.

TG and me with my sisters-in-law Ruth and Marcia, and my brother-in-law Ron

I placed the baseball on a table next to Johnny's hat and a wooden box containing his ashes.

Throughout the memorial, but especially afterwards, I and others made sure that we took plenty of pictures, for posterity.

The church provided a meal catered from Chick-fil-A and that was stellar in every way -- have you had their macaroni and cheese? It puts mine to shame -- and after the meal, we went to the new home of TG's sister, the newly widowed Ruth.

You may recall that in May of last year, Ruth's house burned. It was a total loss.

The house was the one built by TG's late parents in 1957, when TG was five years old, and in which TG and his siblings grew up. 

So it was strange to see a new house sitting exactly where the old one had been, oriented the same way on the corner double lot, surrounded by the same neighboring houses that have sat in the vicinity for sixty-five years.

Same place but different house

The entrance of the driveway in the foreground of the picture above is unchanged from when the old house stood there, but it used to lead straight ahead to the side of the house.

The new house projects out farther on the right, making the rest of the driveway curved where it once was straight.

Where there once stood an old but treasured house full of memories, there is now a fresh, modern house that, despite having no history, will be cozy for our Ruthie as long as her life lasts.

We rejoiced about that and congratulated Ruthie and tried not to think too much about a loss that still hurts. We talked and visited with relatives to our hearts' content, before heading back to our hotel and a night of rest.

The next morning, we got up and got organized and drove the seven-or-so hours back to Knoxville. We arrived in the late afternoon and went out to dinner with Andrew and Brittany and Ember and Baby Guy.

Baby Guy is the sweetest, most content baby I have seen in a long time. He's pretty special. He slept throughout the meal and never made a peep.

This is Baby Guy's preferred mode of daily life. Photo courtesy Brittany Weber.

The next morning was Nine Eleven and we drank coffee and watched several episodes of a documentary about that sad event, on its twenty-second anniversary. Still dumbstruck by what transpired, even after all these years.

About one o'clock we headed for home. I contacted the girls en route and asked if they wanted to come over that night for supper (even on the road, I had a plan).

They readily agreed, and so that night we congregated to share stories about our trip and to give them their gifts.

We got the tee shirts for the kids at Buc-ee's. When I saw NEARLY FERAL I about died because although our Rhett looks like a cherub, he can be quite fierce.

Dagny got NO GUTS NO GLORY with a hapless skeleton because I have a ridiculous weakness for funny skeleton stuff.

Good times.

My beloved sister keeps on keeping on

A few days later my brave and remarkable sister, Kay, sent me a picture of herself with her husband and two of her daughters, holding aloft her Bachelor of Perseverance degree.

She -- who already survived another cancer eight years ago -- has completed her radiation treatments, which followed three chemo treatments, for gastric lymphoma.

We are waiting now for a good report. Your continued prayers for her are appreciated.

Later in the week I'll show you my fall decorations. The process has begun in earnest but must be ramped up before any kind of decent reveal.

I am equal to the task.

What am I reading? Well I am glad you asked because I have put down two other books to read The Bootlegger's Other Daughter by Mary Cimarolli.

An excellent memoir

In recent days, through this blog, I have made a new dear friend with whom I have a connection that goes back many decades. She is a lifelong Texan who lives near Dallas.

It's a long story but the takeaway is that she and I have enjoyed some fine fellowship via text, touching on the many things we have in common.

One thing that my new friend told me is that over the past year or so she had the opportunity to spend many Saturdays sitting with an elderly lady who is an accomplished author.

She told me the author's name and the title of her memoir, and I wasted no time in securing a copy.

I found it online at Thriftbooks, where I get most of my books. So far I'm enjoying this simple story of an American girl a great deal and can recommend it unreservedly.

Oh have you had Aldi Specially Selected Super Premium Ice Cream? Audrey told us about it. We are not among those who shop regularly at Aldi but my girls tend to be.

It's real ice cream in flavors you can get behind

This ice cream is not a half-gallon carton (that's among those things that are never going back to the way they used to be) and it costs six dollars per, but it is REAL ice cream.

Not a lame "frozen dairy dessert" with thirty-five unpronounceable additives.

There are five ingredients in this ice cream. And yes, you can taste the difference.

Chocolate and Vanilla seem to be the only varieties that meet this stiff criteria, but that's okay. I like those flavors. TG and I picked up one of each yesterday, after church.

That night after evening services, we had a houseguest. I served up the real ice cream into three generous-sized bowls, and all three of us augmented our scoops of Choc-Van with sliced almonds, Hershey's chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and maraschino cherries.

It was a bit of all right.

No Guts No Glory :: Dagny and Rhett

Before I go, one other thing I want to show you is my new Keurig.

OK here's what you need to know: One, I am fussy about my coffee; and Two, I am usually the last woman in the Western Hemisphere to latch on to a new trend.

I don't follow the crowd and jumping onto the cleverly marketed Keurig bandwagon was no exception.

Besides, until a few days ago, the only exposure I had had to coffee made in a Keurig was in a hotel room, where the Keurig made a weak, tepid swill so unlike actual coffee, that I laughed out loud.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I drink one cup of coffee per day and it must be hot, fresh, strong, and laced with heavy cream frothed with my frother.

As a result, I travel with my own French press, my coffee, my favorite mug, my heavy cream, and my frother. I heat the water in the microwave with a large Pyrex measuring cup that I also bring along.

Papaw wanted a picture with Baby Guy, who did not bother to wake up

That way, I can make my coffee in the hotel room and it will taste as much like what I get at home, as possible. The only difference is the water. Yes; I use tap water to make my coffee.

But on our first layover at Andrew's house this trip, I noticed that they had a clever slender Keurig on the counter.

Their counter space is limited. This was a K-Slim machine -- less than five inches wide. But with multistream technology.

Which means that what punctures the K-cup is not a single needle through which the hot water flows, but five needles. An important feature because it affects the strength of the finished cup.

No one was up yet that first morning and although I had all of my own coffee gear with me, I decided to make a cup in the Keurig and see what happened.

If worse came to worst and the coffee was awful (as I fully expected), I could always pour it down the sink and no one would be the wiser.

But I suspected that at the very least, the coffee would be drinkable. Because Andrew would not tolerate weak, tepid swill passing for coffee.

Keurig K-Slim with Donut Shop K-Cup in a Krispy Kreme mug

I made the cup. I heated my cream first and frothed it, then put the cup on the machine and grabbed a Donut Shop medium roast K-cup. I pressed the 10-ounce button and then the big K button.

A few minutes later, I stood amazed.

It was delicious. That cup of coffee was strong and hot and just the way I like it. It passed muster.

That very night, in the hotel room, I ordered a machine just like Andrew's, and a supply of Donut Shop medium roast K-cups.

It's exciting. I'm sure the lustre will subside but as it stands now, I can hardly wait to get up in the morning, to make my coffee.

I got some refillable K-cups too, so that instead of pre-filled pods I can use my own brand of coffee, i.e. Cafe La Llave or Folgers Black Silk.

So far, it's going real well.

If you're a coffee drinker you probably already have a Keurig or have had one and don't use it anymore, or whatever.

Ember, zeroed in on a rock beside the cacti, moments before we left Knoxville on Nine Eleven

I stand beside you pleasantly surprised -- and more than a little awed. Two thumbs up.

OK enough product reviews. That should hold you for a while.

What is next on the horizon? Cherica's new baby is due to arrive within the next two weeks.

We are organized and energized and more than ready for that event.

Tell me what you think about that, or about anything else I've said.

I want to know.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday :: Happy Week

Hey Luvvy

I am unable to come up with anything new today -- there are actual reasons -- but in the depths of my own pirate blog, I found this post for you.

To my mind and heart, it is worth reading again. Especially if you have grandchildren.

And even if you don't.

Please enjoy. And please overlook the way I edited Dagny's pictures. I would never airbrush her face today and I should not have done so then.

We live and learn.

And that is all for now except, from October of 2016, a post I entitled Luvvys Gonna Love:

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It was one of those things that happen when you're not expecting anything to happen.

Much less what happened.

Good grief, you may be thinking. What on earth happened?

It won't seem like a big thing to you. But then, you weren't there.

Allow me to elaborate.

A couple of weeks ago Dagny and I were out back by the pool with several other family members. The two of us were sitting on the new black swing in some early-fall, late-afternoon shade.

As we swayed, she was mentioning her notice of avian activity in the area.

Saaaaaa birdie, she said. Pointing up for emphasis.

The wingy things flitted and perched and called and twittered, happy in the sky and in the branches of the tall pines and especially the big oak.

Then my own little thing turned to me. I glanced down at her. She looked straight into my eyes.

You want a kiss? she asked, matter-of-factly. With no warning or preamble and within no particular context. I'd give anything if you could have seen her face.

(And heard her voice. She has a southern drawl; "kiss" is two syllables mashed into one. Keeyus.)

I said I sure did.

Dagny neither puckers nor smacks. She simply lifts her face, lips parted. Her kisses are so brief, you have to be paying attention or you'll later think you imagined it.

No more than a whisper-touch. But so sweet, too much would be almost unbearable.

We settled back and swayed a time or two more. She looked up at me again.

You want a hug? she said. Like, to go along with that?

It happened pretty fast but my eyes had a chance to mist. I said yes.

Up drifted her tiny white arms. Like her kisses, her hugs at such times are minimalist, sometimes barely qualifying as an actual embrace.

(When in extremis, she clings and can become quite the barnacle. In non-alarming times, she's much more ephemeral.)

But Dagny's pretty squared away in the display-of-affection department. She knows to put her hands around your neck and bend her head so as to ensure hug-like pressure from her cloud-soft cheek to yours.

That was it. That's what happened.

I hope you won't accuse me of hyperbole when I say, it was a profound experience. It was only later, after Dagny had gone home, that I realized how profound.

While drifting off to sleep that night, I relived it. A few tears of joy may have dropped onto my pillow. Much like the ones in my eyes right now. And I knew I would never forget Dagny's two questions, and that I wouldn't trade the memory for any amount of money, or even for more time in which to remember.

So that's pretty much it.

But in perilous times when so much is at stake; when there is so much to be gained and so much to be lost hinging on the actions of so few, so soon; when merely cruising by a news channel for less time than it takes for a Dagny kiss makes you feel as though you require not just a shower, but to be hosed down with industrial-strength antiseptic, it's memorable to encounter innocence.

And it's necessary to remember every day as we encounter the mercy and grace of God, Who blesses us as Americans with more peace and freedom before breakfast than many people of the world experience in their entire lives, that in this very moment and a few critical moments to come, there is a great deal to be fought for.

And a whole lot to be fought against. Don't forget that part.

I love to sit on my front porch, which gives me a lofty remove from the street, and watch the cars go by. There aren't many; ours is a quiet neighborhood for one so large.

The boughs of the just-orange-yellow-reddening oak sigh while acorns pop off by the handfuls and dive-bomb the roof. The hummingbird feeder hangs still and ruby-like, no tiny beaks nosing around. Although we're having Indian Summer, the hummers have all gone for this year.

When I'm expecting one or more of the children to arrive for a visit or a meal, I watch as each car approaches around the bend for the make and model I recognize.

I thrill to see the gray Honda with the pink backseat front-facing car seat containing the only grandchild (of four) that I get to see enough of. The other three, I'm forced to miss most of the time although they are never far from my mind and always in my heart.

Audrey tells me that Dagny has taken to saying Hi dawling, when they come around the bend and she sees me waving from the porch. 

That's because when she walks through our door, often the first thing I say is Hi, darling!

Unless I call her by one of her other many pet appellations: Sugar, Sugarlips, Little Love, Angel Heart, Sweet Thing, Punkin' Girl, Peanut, Precious Beautiful, Poppet, et cetera. You get it.

Or I just say, Hey Luvvy.

Because when it comes to these little ones, the little ones with the great big hearts, the ones so as-yet unravaged by the things that will one day inevitably hurt them, that's what it's all about. Just love.

And that is what I wish you today.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Friday :: Happy Weekend

A Labor Day of love

These sunflower and bumble-bee gnomes went up on the ledge the first of August

As per usual when Labor Day rolls around, we had a big fancy to-do at Chez Weber on Monday.

Just as we celebrate our Erica's birthday each year on Memorial Day, we celebrate our Stephanie's birthday on Labor Day.

Those occasions sort of book-end the summer.

Once again, we had a birthday to celebrate

The grandkids and even a few of the adults enjoyed what will likely be their last swim of the summer -- and they swam and swam, for much of the day.

It's hot again. Not AS hot, and certainly cooler during these late-summer nights, but still hot and bright enough to find a multi-hour swim-and-play time refreshing and enjoyable.

Naturally, I was in the kitchen.

Melanie is happiest sitting off to one side, observing. Piper was a sentinel.

There was nothing exceptional about the meal (in fact it may have been a carbon copy of our Memorial Day feast): burgers, hot dogs, and chicken tenders on the grill; bacon to go on the burgers; barbecue beans and baked macaroni and cheese; an assortment of chips; deviled eggs; soft drinks and sparkling water.

It was all so simple but tasty and plentiful, and everyone was famished by two o'clock when we sat down to eat.

For Stephanie's birthday dessert, on Sunday night while waiting for them to arrive, I'd made an ice cream sandwich cake and popped it into the freezer. 

Yet another sunflower-bearing gnome sat his ground on the lazy Susan

Stephanie and her family, as they do every year, drove from North Carolina after Sunday evening services. Our Joel, her husband, is a pastor.

They got in around eleven o'clock. We sat up and talked until one o'clock in the morning.

There was no rush to get up early on Monday, but I was showered and dressed before nine and made a pot of coffee for Stephanie, Allissa, and me.

If you do not have an egg slicer like this one, at least you have my condolences

By one o'clock or so, everyone had arrived for swimming and the meal.

There had been one or two store runs for last-minute stuff. Most everybody ended up sitting around outside before lunch was served.

Meanwhile I had prepared all of the meat for TG and Chad to throw on the grill, but I had to make the sides.

Bees Wrap covered the freshly cooked thick-sliced bacon

Earlier that day I had put together the crock pot of barbecue beans. There is no recipe for this but in addition to the beans, it involves ketchup (some), mustard (a decent amount), Sweet Baby Ray's (lots), brown sugar (don't be stingy), and Creole seasoning (liberal sprinkling).

You make them with your heart. They are tangy and spicy. I do not serve bland food.

Then I cooked the noodles and assembled the semi-homemade baked macaroni and cheese.

Semi-homemade baked macaroni and cheese ... before baking

Next it was time to make the deviled eggs. I fired up my Dash egg cooker.

Oh and I have a new toy -- again, influenced to buy by a Korean housewife -- which maybe you already have.

But if you don't, you need one.

The birthday cake, aflame with golden candles

It's this multi-level egg slicer. It will cut your egg in half, or dice it, or slice it into pretty wedges.

I don't know what I ever did without it.

My deviled eggs were so precisely cut, they looked as though they'd been rent asunder with a laser beam. The velvety yolks practically jumped out of each half.

The birthday girl admiring her confection

I made the filling extra fluffy too. Probably my best work involving deviled eggs, to date.

Sorry but I forgot to take a picture of them after they were complete. And they didn't last long.

Another nifty kitchen tool I've had for some time, but never told you about, is Bee's Wrap.

Early evening and time to head for home

Audrey got me this for Christmas last year and I reach for it so often, I will definitely replace my supply once it has lost the qualities that make it so useful.

The package I got contained three pieces of Bee's Wrap. One is pretty small; you might use it to cover a lemon you've cut in half, or at most an apple.

The middle size sheet is larger -- ideal for placing over the top of a small container, maybe the dimensions of a cereal bowl.

The large size will cover a whole dinner plate and you have enough on the edges to fold it under.

TG and Little Andrew looking more pensive than they actually were

You rinse off and reuse your pieces of Bee's Wrap. They smell like honey.

I love them.

On Monday I used a sheet to cover the thick-sliced bacon I'd made in the oven, to go with the burgers.

So anyway we ate, and then everyone hung out while I cleared the table and made the dessert coffee. Then we had our ice cream sandwich cake.

Many conversations were going on at once

Stephanie loves pink so I had decorated the top with pink sanding sugar and festive sprinkles.

We put seven golden candles to add a little drama.

She blew those out and we sang to her, and then I carved out huge hunks of the cake for everyone to enjoy.

Then Stephanie opened her gifts. She got perfume and jewelry and a jacket, among other things.

Allissa and Dagny are never ready to say goodbye

Everyone pretty much dispersed then, for the next few hours. The kids got back into the pool. TG got in with them.

Melanie, who loves to simply sit and observe, spent much of the day seated at one end of the pool with Piper right at her feet.

It's as though Piper were guarding her.

Eventually it was time for everyone to think about leaving. I say think about, because we stood around in the yard for at least half an hour before anyone left.

Everyone gets a hug

It's sort of a tradition. Weather permitting.

Stephanie's group had a three-hour drive ahead of them, and Tuesday was a school day for little Andrew, who is in sixth grade.

Allissa, a tenth-grader, had the day off -- I don't remember why -- and was planning to go to the bank and open a checking account, since she now has a job and gets paychecks.

The Tar Heel bunch were the first to pull away

We waved and blew kisses as they drove away.

Cherica were next to leave. They still haven't chosen a name for that baby who will be here in four weeks. I've made many suggestions but for some reason they do not seem ready to let me name my fourth grandson.

I don't know why; I would do a good job at naming him.

Then Cherica and Rhett, with that as-yet-unnamed baby on board

Dagny and Audrey left last and it was only about seven o'clock.

I will admit that it's nice to retreat to one's chair and relax after so much sustained activity and action.

So it was a pleasant, quiet evening with some reflection on the events of the day.

The boy gnome has hold of a handy honey dipper

Autumn looms.

What did you do for Labor Day?

Are you enjoying September?

Tell me in the comments.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Wednesday

I'm a wreck for Weck

This cavernous glass jar holds four bricks of Cafe La Llave Espresso

The pirate's love for glass is well known. To some. 

Keep it glassy is one of my favorite sayings that I made up all by me onesie.

There's something about glass that just sort of sends me. I know I am not alone.

I alluded recently to a few YouTube channels to which my consciousness had been raised by my daughter Erica.

The first one was Hamimommy. The channel's content consists of no talking (I like that) but rather a South Korean (she lives in Seoul) wife and mother going about her daily tasks as a homemaker.

(Cooking, cleaning, shopping, and the like. Taking care of her home and family.)

There are English subtitles which you can choose -- handy because Hamimommy does add captions in her language.

These accounts include some of the cutest dogs you will ever want to hug and kiss, if only you could reach through your screen and grab them.

The strawberry motif is so endearing

Dogs are the same everywhere. They have no language. It is soothing and delightful.

Then Erica said that if I liked Hamimommy, I needed to watch Honeyjubu. She was right. 

Honeyjubu is a South Korean lady in a slightly different phase in life; as in, she has more than one child and they are older than Hami, who is for now a singleton.

Honeyjubu cleans things that are already clean, but I overlook that. Cleaning what is already clean will never enrapture me but it's her house and she can do what she likes.

I don't like much of anything these ladies cook, either, but that's not the point. It can be mesmerizing to watch them make kimchi, for example. Just go with it.

Food is incredibly important in this culture. Fresh food is much more important there than it is here. At least that is the conclusion I have come to. If I'm wrong, and you can correct me out of personal experience, please do.

Moving on. Since discovering the above two channels, I found the account/channel of Ssoberry, whom I find utterly bewitching.

And that's saying a lot because of all the things I despise in this world, camping is at the top of the list.

These jars are much larger than you probably think

When you read my memoir, you will understand why.

I shared Ssoberry with Erica. I see your Ssoberry and raise you Kitchen Story, she said.

And yes, we are all devoted to Hamzy. Hamzy predates all of the others.

Hamzy is a vibe all unto herself and you can't take it away from her. IYKYK.

There are dozens and probably hundreds of channels similar to these. If you go looking for them, you will find them there on YouTube.

I and my girls are nuts about the Koreans -- their zen culture is amazing. Much admiration for these women.

Not being by nature a very calm person (I dare you to snicker), I am drawn to their peaceful and purposeful demeanor. I love their dresses and especially their aprons. (I am a certified apron junkie).

It's the unabashed domesticity that gets me right where I live. As I often say, I am domestic to my core. I identify as a homemaker, haaaha. And a pirate.

You can use the gasket and clips if you need to

Just to clarify, it's rare (although it does happen) that we girls in our respective domiciles just sit and stare at our flatscreens while these videos are playing.

We like for them to play while we do other things. It's not like there's a plot; you won't miss anything if you go put the roast on and fold a load of laundry, then later grab a snack and pick up where you left off.

But for sheer relaxation that IS fun to just watch -- especially if you are stressed out -- try Seoul Walker.

Simply marvelous. Off the charts great. That is my kind of TV.

Another great channel gifted to my consciousness by Erica is Bread Story. It is the work of a Japanese baker. Must see to appreciate.

If I could just hang out at bakeries all day, that would be fine by me. With frequent breaks to visit a candy store.

Although I have little patience for social media in general and practically no respect for the term "influencer", let's face it: if you watch, if you read, if you pay attention to anything at all, sooner or later you are going to be influenced.

That happened a few weeks ago when I was watching a Hamimommy video. It was this one.

It's hard for me to resist cute glass jars from the dollar store

She was making milk pudding and placing single-serve portions into the most charming jars. These had white plastic lids but I had seen her use other, similar jars, that had glass lids.

I began to experience a deep need to know what kind of jars these were.

I'll spare you the gory details but shortly I got to the bottom of it: 

They are Weck jars. A German brand that is popular in Europe. Erica says that practically all of the Korean housewives use them.

My mouth began watering for a Weck jar.

And so I ordered one. It was this one.

When Erica came over several days after my Weck jar arrived, and it was ensconced on the workbench next to my Peugeot pepper grinder, holding the Kosher salt without which I can neither cook nor eat, she breathed a sigh.

I can't believe I am in the presence of a Weck jar, she said reverently.

Careful or you too will become a wreck for Weck

I know what she's getting for Christmas.

She said she didn't even realize that the Weck icon was a strawberry.

Adorable. Stunning. I wish you could experience this gorgeous jar.

It comes with a rubber gasket and two adorable clips in case you want to store something in it more important than salt.

But I like the glass-on-glass look and feel. I love lifting the large glass disc of the lid very carefully and dipping in to get a pinch or a measuring spoonful of salt.

I love the pale green color because bottle green may be the most beautiful color in the world.

Well. There is pink. Maybe I should stop right there. 

Anyway, there you have it. It's official: I am a wreck for Weck.

Call me nuts but I store my sliced almonds in this skull jar

Tell me what you are a wreck for (it does not have to rhyme) that you have been influenced to acquire.

And folks, that is it for August 2023.

Tomorrow begin my adored -ber months. Four of them, culminating in Christmas.

I hope you enjoy them to the fullest because they pass like the briefest of vapors, yet contain so much joy while they last.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Thursday :: Happy September

Say what

Cadged from the internet

TG came at me several days ago with a fun fact. He'd heard it on the radio.

The average person lives four thousand weeks, he said. 

I let that sink in. Just for a moment. Then:

Huh? I said. I mean, I was thinking about how fast a week goes by.

BOOM! It's Monday. Sleep a little, walk a little, read a little, take a picture or two, text some friends or the kids, do some laundry, load the dishwasher, go to church, and BOOM! It's Monday again.

A week.

On a never-ending repeat cycle.

Only four thousand of those? A ten-year-old has already lived more than five hundred of them!

I whipped out my phone, located the calculator, and attempted to do some nitty-gritty math. 

Finding I could not do it that way, I consulted the internet.

Are you ready for this?

Not counting the nine months I was in the womb (I was born on the very day I was due, owing to the fact that I'm nothing if not punctual), I have already lived three thousand, four hundred and sixty-nine weeks.

Of four thousand.

Siblings. No rivalry ... yet. Photo courtesy Andrew Weber

That's IF I make it to age seventy-seven, and you know as well as I do that there is no guarantee of that.

Of course I could go beyond age seventy-seven, and I know we are all hoping that I do. Aren't we?

And not for nothing but here are the balance of my grimtastic statistics. I dare you to put in your own birthday.

Why oh why do you devote so much of your wee tired pirate brain to deliberating on such things, you may be asking.

Because as I write, Baby Guy is already four days old. Almost one week!

I haven't even met him yet. And already I am wondering -- just out of curiosity -- if I will live to see him graduate from high school.

Unless he turns out to be a child prodigy, that's about nine hundred twenty-six weeks from now. Class of 2041. I will be eighty-four years old.

Long past threescore and ten and well past threescore and seventeen.

Let's face it: this may all be moot.

One thing we know is that we don't know. How many more weeks we have to live, that is.

Some of us may make it to age one hundred. It's not unheard of. 

That's five thousand, two hundred weeks (ezpz).

I'd better check and see if Mom has ordered my cap and gown ... Photo courtesy Andrew Weber

But if best-case likely scenario is that we have a mere four thousand weeks?

And most of them are already gone with the wind?

I'd better go get a load of laundry started.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday

One of the good Guys

Photo courtesy Brooke Maxwell

Baby Guy Preston Weber has arrived. Our seventh grandchild.

It was yesterday, between four and five in the afternoon. He weighed eight pounds, eleven ounces.

Brittany delivered in a snap, with no problems.

I have arrived

Ember was able to come over shortly afterwards, to greet her baby brother.

No; we were not there. We're going to meet him in a few weeks.

When some of the dust has settled, as it were.

Hi Mommy

In five weeks or so, we will have another baby boy: Chad and Erica's second son.

Our eighth grandchild. Then we will have four girls and four boys.

I think I'll sleep. No; I think I'll eat. Wait.

Four being my favorite number, I'm really into the sound of that.

Meanwhile we have all hungrily devoured the pictures and videos Andrew has sent.

Photo courtesy Brooke Maxwell

As I commented on one of our family texts last night, you'd think Andrew was proud of that kid or something.

I admit to having some verklempt moments, remembering the day our own baby son was born more than thirty-four years ago.

Andrew Guy and Guy Preston

And now his baby son has been born.

And the years will tumble on willy-nilly like a blur, and we'll be astonished at how swiftly this baby grows.

And on and on it goes.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Friday :: Happy Weekend

That about summers it up

Classic South Carolina late-August sky: hot blue with huge puffy white clouds

As summer is on the wane -- two thirds over but somehow it seems like more than that -- and something in the quality of the air makes us think of fall (although it is still scorching here), I feel the need to report.

I'll be honest: as life goes through its many and mini-phases, I am always pondering the ways that beginnings segue into endings, and vice versa.

It's deep water. Even for a pesky pirate. Perhaps too deep. But let's wade in.

Where to begin and where to end?

Well. Our grandson Guy Preston Weber is set to make his appearance later this week.

We are all beside ourselves with excitement, not least Baby Guy's parents, Andrew and Brittany, and big sister Ember.

I began working at age fifteen too ... at Burger King

Speaking of Ember, she started back to preschool a few days ago. Her second year.

She also got her first haircut -- that being significant because both Ember and her mother are known for their abundant strawberry-blond tresses.

(To me, Ember's features resemble her dad, while her coloring -- especially her hair -- are all her mother.)

If possible, after the chichi cut and style, she looks even more like Brittany.

Ah well. She is about to experience the life-changing realities of having a sibling.

That certainly has the potential to curl your hair.

Ember in the stylist's chair

Allissa, one of the (three) original Tar Heel Tootsies, just this week started her sophomore year in high school.

She has also landed her first job.

Our second-eldest granddaughter will be working part-time (mostly Saturdays, plus one or two days a week after school) at Leap of Faith Christian Bookstore in Lenoir, North Carolina.

I'm sure she'll be an asset there but can you believe? Our little Allissa, gainfully employed?

It strains credulity.

There's been a new beginning for our Dagny too. She has begun fourth grade.

She exceeds the legal limit of cuteness

Only, this year, for the first time since beginning her academic career as a kindergartner in 2019, she is not matriculated at Grace Christian School in West Columbia.

She is being home schooled. Classes started last Thursday.

Things are going well so far. Audrey invested in the abeka curriculum, which includes a great deal of instruction by video as well as one-on-one learning via parents and maybe even the well-placed tutor.

Several weeks ago Audrey, Dagny, and I were walking in my neighborhood when we saw that a homeowner had placed an interesting piece of furniture at the curb, with other trash.

It was a table with a sturdy steel frame and a black glass top. Audrey set it upright and put the glass pieces on, and was impressed.

We called TG, who came down with the car and picked it up to, we hoped, serve as Dagny's school desk.

My brave sister battles cancer ... for the second time in ten years

(She has a couple of options for desks, but this was the roomiest surface-wise).

A small piece of glass was lost in translation but TG amended the design to include only one section, and it was the bigger one, so home it went with Audrey and Dagny.

A new beginning for a cast-off table that no doubt believed it had reached its end.

In other news, my sister, Kay, has completed her three chemo treatments for gastric lymphoma and is now going through a course of radiation.

Pierre-Philippe took her out for lunch a few weeks ago, to celebrate finishing chemo. This was huge, because for several months she had been able to eat so little, and had lost a lot of weight.

She is tolerating the radiation treatments well and we are hopeful that soon, she can start all over, cancer-free. Again (she survived breast cancer eight years ago). And her appetite has returned. Begun again, as it were.

A table at its end has begun again ... as a desk

Kay's son-in-law, Jacob, husband of hers and Pierre-Philippe's youngest daughter, Joanna, has ended one thing and begun another as well.

In May, Jacob completed his Doctorate of Musical Arts (DMA) in Piano, at the Cleveland Institute of Music.

He is currently pursuing a career path as a concert pianist, and recently received some good news which I am not at liberty to share. But I will when I am able.

I wrote in late 2021 about the sad news of Jacob and Joanna losing their baby son, Noah.

They already had Freddie and now God has given them a new baby son whom they named Andrew.

We are officially lousy with Andrews in this family.

Jacob and Joanna in Asheville last February

The pirate really digs classical music so Jacob's achievements hit big-time for me. I hope they will for you too.

Jacob was guest pianist with the Asheville Symphony Orchestra last February. He played the Norwegian composer Edvard Grieg's only piano concerto during their Masterworks 4 Aurora Series.

If you'd like to hear Jacob play, treat yourself to this half hour on YouTube. That's our Jacob, playing Sergei Prokofiev's Piano Concerto Number 3 in C Major, Op. 26, with the Cleveland Institute of Music Orchestra.

It's all jaw-dropping but the last minute or so of Jacob's performance is positively hair-raising. For all the right reasons. So if you cannot or prefer not to watch all of it, at least watch that.

This is Russian collusion I can get behind.

I'll keep you posted on Jacob's pursuit of his dream job, but for the nonce he has joined the faculty at Cleveland Institute of Music.

We treated Henry to lunch at Cracker Barrel. Photo by Dagny.

Meanwhile Henry, my late mother's widower, turned ninety-one on August fourth.

TG, Dagny, and I met him at the Cracker Barrel in Simpsonville a few days later, and treated him to a birthday lunch.

Henry looks good, feels good, and is more active than many men half his age.

An ending will eventually come (of his life on this earth), but the Grim Reaper does not appear to be dogging his steps.

Perhaps the sickle-wielding ghoul is distracted. One can only hope. At any rate, we are grateful.

As you know, our brother-in-law, Johnny, did not fare as well and has been gone now for two weeks.

Dagny's fourth-grade classroom. Click to embiggen.

A celebration of life in his honor has been scheduled for early September, in Ohio.

Lord willing, TG and I will be in attendance for that, and will stop in Knoxville both on the way north and on the way back south, to spend some time with Andrew, Brittany, Ember, and Baby Guy.

They say anticipation is part of the fun, but waiting on a baby to arrive is the most exquisite agony.

And I'm just one of the grandmothers.

I mentioned that, being the end of August, it is hot here.

And I mean H-O-T like, fry an egg on the sidewalk and bake a batch of cookies in your closed-up car, hot.

Rizzo occasionally wakes up and looks around, then goes back to sleep

Try not to boil your own brain walking into the store and back to your car, hot.

For the most part I stay cool, in the house. If I'm out of the house, I am in the pool.

With one exception: I have begun rising just before sunup, so as to get in a half-hour walk before the heat begins to be an issue.

So far, it is working well. Oh, so you're an early riser? you may be thinking. That's surprising.

I will thank you not to snicker. No, I am no stripe of an early riser. The pirate is a stay-up-late-er.

But I can get up to walk, because do you know what?

Sweetness a-doors being given free roam of three rooms instead of only one

When I get home after that walk, it's only seven fifteen. The birds are barely up.

And I return to my pillow.

Sometimes I even go back to sleep, for a little while. 

And then I get up for the second time -- a new beginning -- and make coffee and empty the dishwasher and feed the pets. And do all the things.

It seems to be working well and I know that before too long, setting my phone alarm for six thirty will no longer be necessary.

Temperatures will become less nuclear and I'll be able to start walking a tad bit later in the day.

Ember is up early a few days a week, for preschool

I look forward to that but for now, I enjoy walking down the street in the early morning. The air is sweet.

Also as I go, I am listening to a book. That way, I don't get bored.

Rizzo and Sweetness don't seem bored either, but then how does one tell if a dog or a cat are suffering from ennui?

Sweetness has been allowed free roam of part of the house -- kitchen, TV room, sun room -- for an hour or so most days.

She scouts around for anything to get into and then, finding nothing, slouches in a corner or in front of the door to the upstairs.

Not being confined to the sun room all day seems to appeal to her, but then she is not hard to please.

Stay cool my friends

Rizzo sleeps the requisite sixteen hours a day but still knows how to tell time, as in, when it is time to wake up for a meal or a treat.

I know when it's time for a treat, too. I shall now treat you to this post finally being over.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday :: Happy New Week

Fun times when you're having flies. Or cicadas.

All its problems are over

It is once again the season of flies. In the house. Every time you open the door.

Nasty varmints pert' near drive me crazy. I am often brandishing a purple flyswatter but more often than not, if I succeed in taking out a fly, it's with the edge of my dishtowel.

I am amazingly accurate with my dishtowel so watch out.

But! Also, the Cicada Killer. Outside the house -- as in, right outside the door.

We have lived in our house for eighteen years, come Labor Day weekend.

According to this very blog, for at least twelve summers (because when I first -- and last -- wrote about them, was the first time I noticed them), we have been blessed plagued visited in late July and throughout August, with Cicada Killers.

Here's a conundrum: I hate bugs; I mean, don't get me started. But I love cicadas. 

More to the point, I love the sound of them. Every year, just after Mother's Day, I begin listening for the first whine of a cicada.

(I would not go so far as to say that I want one to crawl on me, and have no desire to keep one as a pet, but since they are not interested in that, it is a non-issue.)

Me and my shadow

This time of year -- the dog days of summer, as it were, and here in South Carolina, the dogs are nothing if not foaming at the mouth (as in, it is HOT) -- the cicadas' super-loud, concentrated morning-time busy, buzzy choruses (more sing than wing) thrill me through and through.

I could go on and on about that but, in all honesty and for reasons not entirely clear to me, the post I wrote about this many Augusts ago (linked above) is better than anything I could write about it today.

So please read it.

But unlike that long-ago post, this time I got pictures of our deck littered with cicada bodies.

And according to this short but excellent article on the subject, the Cicada Killers swooping and diving on patrol for hours on end just outside the French doors leading from our kitchen to our pool, are females.

Also according to the article, fierce and scary as they look, they are docile.

All they want is to take the dead cicadas back to their dens and leave the corpses there for their young to feast on at a later time. When they wake up.

Or something like that.

Although the last thing (or near to it) in the world I want is to be stung by any kind of stinging insect, these critters neither bother nor frighten me.

We've fallen and we can't get up

I figure, the bugs have their role to fulfill and they are just doing what God told them to do.

May that be said of all of us.

The children look vaguely alarmed when they see the CKs but I tell them: Just keep moving. They don't want you.

It's poignant to see the CKs struggling, unwilling to let go of their latest inert cicada conquest, to crawl between the deck boards to what I assume is some kind of gathering place below decks.

They can't get through, so cicada remains proliferate on the deck.

(I am assuming that the CKs successfully deposit some of their victims where they intended to, but that is only an assumption so don't bet the farm on it.)

Erica and Audrey and the children were here for hours yesterday, and we were all swimming because if you're going to be outside, it's advisable to be up to your shoulders in cool water.

One intriguing thing about this time of year is how many cicada shells are to be found, both on the ground and clinging to trees and even the side of the house.

Audrey whipped out her phone and learned that the winged cicadas emerge from those dull brown shells (after emerging from underground where they can live for up to seventeen years) that they leave behind. 

Belly up

And then they live for two to six weeks. Just long enough to complete a few assigned tasks.

That's the approximate life span of the Cicada Killer, too: a few weeks for males, maybe four weeks for females.

A house fly can do its worst for maybe a month if it avoids my dishtowel.

I don't mean to dwell on death on such a beautiful summer day, but yesterday evening, we lost a family member.

TG's and my brother-in-law (husband of Ruth, TG's only sister) passed away at the age of sixty-three.

Rest in Peace, Johnny.

We will see you in a better day, in eternal summer.

Dr. Peterson: My favorite Canadian and current desktop wallpaper

As Jordan Peterson says: Accept the terrible responsibility of life, with eyes wide open.

The Pirate adds: Life is too long not to recognize every day how short it is. 

And act accordingly.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesday