The Adventures of Washington Whitten

Isabella Tralala

10/6/2022

Jeff Haynie Artist of this card. Website

It was a crisp and clear October evening. The moon was a sliver, the kind known as God's toenail. I know, I know, it's not moody like a dark and stormy night with a full moon, but it did pack as much magic as that atmosphere would.

This was my first time attending the infamous annual Brew and Chew charity event. Tickets are hard to come by especially if you believe the history. Read about it here, but do it after this story.

My friend who was supposed to join me couldn't make it so, I'm flying solo. You'd laugh if you could see me after saying that. My costume is the best I've ever worn. I'm dressed as a wicked, wicked witch. I even splurged to have a professional make up artist style me in the most monstrous and unscrupulous way. The broom, well it's a one of a kind creation by the witchy artist Tabitha Sweepinheimer.

Photo by Alessia Cocconi on Unsplash

This party is worth a kings ransom. This year it's held in an old abandoned castle on the outskirts of town. The theme, medieval times.

After wandering around the drafty castle I make my way to the banquet table. It's the most magnificent spread I've ever seen. Plus, it has the perks of being prepared in present time. Refrigeration and skillful workers save us from botulism and E. Coli related maladies these days. Mostly. Unless of course we have the misfortune of having the one prep cook who flipped a coin taking the food handlers test. The particular question, how do you thaw meat? A) in the refrigerator? B) in the trunk of your car?

Don't laugh, that was a true question.

Back to this feast fit for, well me.

I grab my crystal platter and start to fill it up when I heard a collective gasp. The crowd was mesmerized by a cat that walked in dressed in a an oriental fuscia gown, dripping with jewels, and holding a solid gold fish mask with precious gems embedded in it.

The murmurs were not so quiet. Who styled this woman? Where did she get this striking costume? Who is she?

Listen, I was staring right along with them. Only I knew it wasn't a woman, but a real cat. I just knew. Unfortunately, when we made eye contact, she knew I knew.

Photo by Julia Cheperis on Unsplash

This cool cat with the mesmerizing eyes sashayed over to me. I pretended I didn't see her coming and kept loading up my plate. Until she was right next to me purring like a Harley Davidson.

I looked up and gave a courtesy smile and started to move along the table. She swatted at me to get my attention. I turned around and said hello. My hands were full. One with a plate and the other my broom. Boy, do I really wish I could fly away at this point.

She mewed again, then in perfect English introduced her self.

"My name is Isabella Tralala and I need the help of a witch."

Oh shit.

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you Isabella Tralala. However, I'm not really a witch, or a cat person."

Ooops, didn't mean to say that last part out loud.

"What I mean, is this is a costume party. And I do have a barn cat named Hazel."

Oh man, I'm really putting my foot in my mouth with this supernatural diva cat. I just told her I have a cat kept in a barn, not the castle.

Lucky for me she started laughing.

"You may not be a witch, but you do have magical powers. You know I'm a real cat and this isn't a costume." She said as she perused the table and zoned in on the caviar.

She went ahead of me to get near the delicacy while still talking. " You see I just lost one of my lives. My mistress, the world renowned soprano, Matilde Chanteuse, went bat shit crazy and now I don't have a mistress."

"Wait, I thought cats have nine lives, not nine lives of owners?" I asked her.

She was inching closer and closer to the caviar. She bent over the table and licked it.

"You can take the mangy, flea-bitten, raggedy on the brink of death kitten out of cat, but you can't take the cat out of, well you know what I mean." She did not apologize for her table manners.

I knew what she meant being a former white trash, elevated to trailer park girl, upgraded to a wicked witch at the ball of the season. Yes, I got it, but I still wasn't crawling around the table.

This was one of the most bizarre conversations I've had at a party. That's saying a lot because I was partying in the 80's and 90's

"Do you want to hear my story or not? "
She didn't wait for my answer and began.

"My former mistress, Matilde Chanteuse, was at a matinee performing Carmen. When it was over she came back stage and there I was in a box. I was left out back in the dumpster and a stage hand found me and brought me inside.

This elegant woman picked me up despite my state and hugged me close. She fell in love.

Of course she cleaned me up, dressed me then presented me with the name Isabella Tralala. I was her only friend. She was very talented. There was no one in her league. Until a young protege' came about. Ambrosia Deja Vu.

The young phenomenon sounded just as she did in her youth. Only better.

Months went on while my mistress steeped in envy. She wanted the young girl's talent and youth. The better Ambrosia became, the more Matilde unravelled.

So, she decided to keep her enemy close and pretended to mentor her and take her under her wing. Trying to figure out how to stop this change of the guard. It was her only focus.

The girl picked up on the animosity. The more her talent bloomed, the more her ego grew and she taunted my mistress.

One day Matilde, who I called MiMi, invited the young lass for a tea party. The little princess decided to turn up the heat and take over. "Allow me to serve you my queen." She poured the tea.

MiMi did not like being treated like an invalid. The green eyed monster who lived under the bed came out to join the party. He whispered to her that Ambrosia was trying to poison her.

He took his place at the table next to Matilde. Her eyes were taking on his green as she went mad. This time he didn't whisper, he boldly told her to finish the girl.

In her delirium she started singing. The notes she hit were so high they shattered the cups and saucers. Tea and crumpets flew everywhere. It was a storm.

When she hit the crescendo it was the highest note she ever accomplished. It was a history making note. The young girl cowered under the table holding her ears while blood dripped out.

The chandelier shattered and broke the spell.

Photo by Marika Vinkmann on Unsplash

Only the damage was irreparable.

Matilde Chanteuse lost her voice and her mind.

Forever.

Ambrosia DejaVu was deaf.

The green eyed monster left to take residence somewhere else.

The ambulance arrived with her haute couture straight jacket. She was wrestled to the ground so they could sedate her. The irony was she was now truly being poisoned. They wheeled her out the door but before they could leave I jumped on the stretcher. I nuzzled her and gave her a kiss and in that moment I inherited her green eyes. Hence, leaving me with eight lives left.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

"Here I am at this masquerade party looking for a new mistress who can keep me in the style I'm accustomed to."

She then swatted a glass off the table.

"Wow, that's some story. First off I hope you don't think I'm going to be your mistress." I looked at this crazy cat.

"Don't be stupid." she swatted another glass off the table.

Well that pissed me off. I grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and took her away from the banquet leaving my plate which I haven't touched and spent a small fortune on for this gala. This wicked kitty wasn't going to spoil it for me.

"Alright, you have my help for fifteen minutes. I will find you a new master and you will leave me alone. Oh and you can leave that golden fish mask with me for my trouble." I told her.

She hissed.

I lifted my broom over my head. I don't know why, but I figured it might be some kind of magic ritual to help me get rid of Mrs. Mittens.

Then I saw her perfect match.

When the empress made her way towards us I grabbed Isabella and flung her at the goddess.

Photo by zhengtao tang on Unsplash

The beautiful queen caught her. Isabella dropped the mask as requested.

This was a match made in heaven. The Belle of the Ball is a fish monger at a small shop in town square. We met at the costume shop. I think I will get my fresh fish from her now so I can check on the green eyed kitty. Wonder what her new name will be?

If you like the card featuring the green eyed beauty and would like me to send it to you write a comment. Tomorrow October 9, at 8 am pacific time I will choose a winner using the random number generator.

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Muses and Deer

10/2/2022

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This is a card from one of my favorite artists, Jackie Morris. It's from the book The Quiet Music of Gently Falling Snow. Website

“Muses work all day long and then at night get together and dance.” ~ Edgar Degas

Deer Friends,

Um, yeah, those aren't my muses. They belong to the deer people. Oh my. You're thinking there goes crazy Kelly. Well, let me explain. I'm not sure where to start, so I'll probably be all over the place. But you are used to that.

My muse once told me the best way to inspiration is to wander. It doesn't matter how. You can walk, bike, ride a horse, jog, fly, glide, skate, swim...anything you want. Leave the earbuds and cell phone at home. You can do it alone or with a friend.

The whole idea is to just meander your way through the landscape and soak in the scenery. It's quite lovely. Listen it's okay if you don't go home and create a master piece in your own way, if you day dreamed, even a little, you will be better for it. Really.

Photo by Janaya Dasiuk on Unsplash

This is one of my muses. At least I like to think so. She makes me happy. She's also a deer lady. And encourages me to roam.

Yesterday was a gorgeous October day. The temperature was perfect. You almost would have thought it was an early summer day, but, the sun put on its most glorious filter and the light was golden. A ride on the back of my horse with friends was the perfect way to go astray.

We rode in a different area than usual. The ride took us on regular trails, game trails and my favorite, bushwhacking. Making our own trails.

As were were zigzagging our way down the hill a doe stood still in front of us. We gazed at one another for the longest time. She glowed. After a bit she walked off leaving us filled with joy.

We rode off on what looked like the beginning of a game trail. Riding down we disturbed a magnificent buck with an impressive rack. He bolted off. He was wondrous. Listen, I don't want to spread rumors, but I think it was Harry Potter's patronus.

As he ran away a dozen or more does took off from their hiding places. All these white tails were bouncing here and there, to and fro, through the hillside. It was like a wildlife game of whack- a -mole.

We continued our journey and literally went off trail, not on purpose, it really wasn't a trail to begin with. This time we went through bushes so thick it was like swimming in mashed potatoes, hold the gravy.

That's how my muse rolls. She's not one of the elegant women like the one in the top picture. I think she's more of a renegade running a marathon with a meatball parmigiana hoagie. Echo, my black steed and her are in cahoots.

Echo has this uncanny quality where it doesn't matter what kind of peril we are in whether it's running down a hill like The Man from Snowy River. I don't recommend this and truly never asked for it. But you get what you get, so don't throw a fit. But do hold on. Or, fleeing from a scary sound and not paying attention to where she's going, she always, and I do mean always has time to eat on the run. She's gifted.

Photo by Jeremy Manoto on Unsplash

Deer.

They are truly special. They represent gentleness, love, and beauty. I know two wonderful ladies in my life who absolutely adore deer. Which, it makes a lot of sense because they are part of this special breed.

Deer people have a light in them. There is always a low hum of light. A glow. They also have a dimmer switch where they can up the brightness just a tad, or go whole hog and smother you in light.

While everyone isn't a deer person, everyone has a little deer in them.

My Muse reminded me this on the ride. When we were down the hill we ran into a gentlemen walking his dog. We said hello and he turned up the light and started talking with us like old pals. He shared many things with us about the land, his home, his family and even talked of his grandmother. He's definitely a deer person. A magnificent buck like the one we encountered earlier.

We said our goodbyes, and left feeling lighter and better people after meeting him. And that's a lot because anytime your on a horse you feel great.

We ran into another family closer to home. They were lovely and walking their one year old yellow lab, Albus. Yes, named after arguably the greatest wizard of them all. Albus Dumbledore.

Tell me October isn't magic?

Once home I thanked my muse for reminding me of the deer people in my life and introducing me to new ones. It was a true gift. And don't think I'm not headed back to that area in the spring to see if that spectacular buck will gift me with his shed.

My invitation to you my friends is to go on a quest, a meander, a stroll with a parasol and see what your muse has to offer you. And if you feel so inclined tell me what it was.

Warmest wishes,

Kelly

PS. If you love the image of the muses at the top of the post leave a comment here. Tomorrow at 8 am pacific time I will draw a number using the random number generator to pick a winner. Then I will mail it to you.

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October Magic

10/1/2022

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Image from a card I bought. Jeannie Lynn Paske obsoleteworld.com

“The thing with October is, I think, it somehow gets in your very blood. Unapologetically. Almost ruthlessly.”
― Anne Sexton

Dear Friends,

Welcome to October. The month of tricks, treats, magic, monsters both real and imagined. This is my favorite month. My excitement wants me to proclaim that I will write here every day this month, but that would be a Samhain miracle. That doesn't mean I won't try.

It's a moody month in the very best way.

Give me October's meditative haze,
It's gossamer mornings, dewy-wimpled eves,
Dewy and fragrant, fragrant and secure,
The long slow sound of farmyard-wending wains,
When homely Love sups quiet 'mid his sheaves,
Sups 'mids his sheaves, his sickle at his side,
And all is peace, peace and plus fruitfulness.
Alfred Austin (1835-1913)

Photo by Liana Mikah on Unsplash

The Mariners make it to the post season! Yes, first time since 2001. Magic. And a talented team.

There's much to look forward to. Tricks, treats, stews simmering in cauldrons, ghost stories, Grimms Fairy tales, writing by candle light, scary movies, mermaids talking to cats, scarecrows befriending crows, and dogs talking their masters ears off. I will say it a million times, magic.

I'm going to celebrate this month with gifts of cards and perhaps a surprise or two.

If you'd like the above card by artist Jeannie Lynn Paske just leave a comment.

Tomorrow October 2, at 8 am pacific time I will use the random number generator to pick a winner with the random number generator. That's if there is more than one comment. Bwahahahaha

“October had tremendous possibility. The summer's oppressive heat was a distant memory, and the golden leaves promised a world full of beautiful adventures. They made me believe in miracles.”
― Sarah Guillory, Reclaimed

Mysteriously yours,

Kelly

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Visit New Orleans

9/21/2022

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"There was something about the city, though it didn't let me feel guilty that I had no feeling for the things so many needed. It let me alone."
Charles Bukowski

You step off the plane and rush to the hotel. Hurry up! Throw your things on the bed and head out. Vacation time! There's so much to do and not a lot of time.

The Uber waits. The driver whisks you to the garden district. It's the first stop on a long itinerary of must sees. So much to see, so little time. But the Crescent city has other plans for you.

Photo by Hush Naidoo Jade Photography on Unsplash

You arrive on St Charles Avenue and jump out of the car. The driver hasn't come to a complete stop. You hot foot it down the avenue. Here's the thing, your scurrying and scrambling make Ms. Nola nervous. She cranks up the heat.

The warmth and humidity slow you down, while revving up your libido. Ms. Nola brushes her hands together. "Yes Cher, that's more like it."

You begin to pay attention not only to the grand houses encompassed with blooms of every colors, but all of your senses have come alive.

The neighborhood may look like classic antebellum south, but the iron fences with fleur-de-lis tops tell a different story. Magic is it's signature color.

Your stroll becomes a meander as the aroma of magnolia and jasmine weave a spell on you. The intoxicating perfume has a hint of sweetness and a whisper of risqué decision making.

You've been untamed.

Photo by Henning Roettger: https://www.pexels.com/photo/shallow-focus-photo-of-crocodile-on-body-of-water-2100047/

Your meander morphs into a strut and you head to the French Quarter with purpose. You're headed to the carousel bar and lounge in the hotel Monteleone.

Outside, a woman stands with a cart full of masks.

She asks your name.
Then you ask hers.
"My name is Marie Laveau. "

Photo by Jennifer Marquez on Unsplash

You recognize the name but can't quite put your finger on how you know it.

She offers you a beautiful mask. "It's a lagniappe."

A gift.

You are still under the seduction of the city when you choose the blue and white one. It sparkles. Did it just say your name? Well, it's the perfect accessory for happy hour.

Photo by Nacho Díaz Latorre on Unsplash

The mask is enchanted, but you are spellbinding.

You sashay to the famous revolving bar and take a seat. You're the only one wearing a mask, but it's New Orleans. They don't care. You order a hurricane, because a storm is brewing.

As the bar rotates, you sing, "round and round and round she goes, where she stops nobody knows."

Only you know. You enjoy your libation at a luxurious pace. Yes, Ms. Nola taught you well.

When you're done you stand up, then smooth out your dress. Take a deep breath. The first gentlemen you see is your date.

My, oh my, he's wearing a mask too.

You take his hand and head to a smoky room, with the smell of wine and cheap perfume. No, no, that's a song. You do head out to a little jazz bar and dance to the horns and piano all night. And go on and on and on and on.

Then you leave.

Strangers walking down the boulevard.

Dang it there's that song again.

Well, I'll end this fantasy version of The Big Easy...I could keep going but then I'd have to put a warning for mature audiences. Written by a Scorpio, dahlin. But, I'll keep it mysterious for now.

The next entry I write will be my real itinerary.

But in the meantime...

If you like the New Orleans postcard at the top of the page be the first to comment and it's yours.
A lagniappe.
Bòn Nwit,
Kelly

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I Want To Get Away.....

9/18/2022

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Photo by Houcine Ncib on Unsplash

"I address you all tonight for who you truly are: wizards, mermaids, travelers, adventurers, and magicians. You are the true dreamers."
Brian Selznick- The Invention of Hugo Cabret

I'd like to add to that group: Werewolves, dragon riders, roller skaters and corn hole champions. I"m honored to be in your presence. You inspire me.

Recently, I did a series of letters to three people. The last one was a challenge, invitation if they chose to accept they were to create two tales of one city. I then put on my magical, mystical hat and pulled a travel postcard out of my huge, and I do mean huge stash of postcards. The city that was chosen for them was their destination.

The invitation was to create two scenarios, in whatever manner they like. One a very simple and plain trip to the town. I don't mean bottom dollar, low brow simple, I mean down-to-earth, mingling with the landscape, the locals or whatever that means to them.

The second scenario. Bold. Audacious. Wild. Anything goes. The challenge, to rub the genies lantern and make a wish. Then write it, make it, daydream about it, create it in whatever way they express themselves. Just for pleasure.

Of course I had to play along too.

Photo by Austrian National Library on Unsplash

Destination: Aspen, Colorado
The first caper.

Hitch hike my way up to Ajax, it's what the locals call Aspen Mountain. I bum a ride from Johnny, Leiza, Tommy and Margot. I call them the Warren Miller gang.

We eat beans and franks, aka beanie weenie straight out of the pan with five forks. We're gonna need the energy for an epic day of carving the mountain and catching big air, while avoiding an avalanche.

My ski jacket and pants are swag-i-fied and I'm giving off effortless cool vibes. Until I biff and everyone starts yelling, "Garage Sale". All in good fun.

I shake it off and get after it. The snow covered mountain is pristine. There's fresh powder. The limbs of the trees are heavy with snow giving the illusion of peace and tranquility. There's nothing but electricity when you are flying down the hill.

The last run is for speed. Last one down is a rotten egg. Oh my gosh I haven't said that in a million years. Every one's racing and the end is right in front of the lodge. Nobody wants to be a rotten egg. The goal is to do the best hockey stop spraying as many people as you can with snow.

The day ends with a beer and Tylenol in front of the fireplace.

Photo by Jan Kopřiva: https://www.pexels.com/photo/ski-exhibition-on-fire-show-3716087/

Scenario two:
After an extraordinary day on the mountain the night life calls.

My wardrobe will be my cowboy boots, blinged out of course. I know this is a fantasy, but even in my feral imagination my feet can not be placed in Cinderellas slipper. Ever. Click Me

Whatever the dress is, it will be fabulous, and evening gloves are an absolute must. Of course I will be dripping in tasteful diamonds.

Oh hell no, this is Aspen, and my fantasy I want to make it flood diamonds. No, The problem is, I don't have any. I mean who hitch hikes up a mountain with diamonds?

No, no, I want precious jewels to cascade over me. Something nobody else has worn, or at least an elite few.

Bold. Did you know Kelly means bold? Well, she doesn't come out like she used to, but tonight she is needed. We need to make it count. I miss her sometimes.

It's time to put the law of attraction to the test. That or a master class in law breaking. Of course I conjure up Lenny Kravitz, Slash and Jason Mamoa to join me on a little jaunt to Boston, private plane of course.

We head to the Fine Arts Museum for a heist. I know those three guys aren't jewel thieves but they do make for one hell of a distraction while I go Mission Impossible on the Bovin Starfish. Click Me for a little history.

Of course I"m only borrowing this brooch. I'll put it back when I'm done. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.

You see the Bovin Starfish possesses it's own magic. Did you know Starfish spirit's axiom is, as above, so below. It's a duality, like these tales. It also means you must rely wholly on your senses.

We make a get away and then we make an entrance at the chic hot spot, Boots Bellows. If you can get past the red velvet ropes you can join us.

Once inside, we are whisked away to a private loft where we can over see the dancing, but the crowd can't see us. The owner comes in and offers us a glass of world's oldest single malt scotch, Gordon & MacPhail

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

After sipping the old scotch, I order a beer. I'm feeling fancy so it'll probably be a Corona with lime. You know the old saying you can't take me anywhere. I'm feeling this starfish so it's time to retire to the billiards room.

In other words, we're skedaddling to the pool hall. Now, I have the best of both worlds. You know how this is going to end. I do clean the table, literally, with anyone who dares to challenge me. Look some things are the same in the as above, as below. I think I'm going to embrace this duality more in my waking life.

After winning stacks of cash, I send an envelope full to the Warren Miller gang. They showed me a good time during our day on the mountain. I'd like to reciprocate and keep them in powder.

The evening is coming to a close. It's time to take the Bovin Starfish back to the museum. I did make a promise. Hey, if you want to know more about this unique piece of jewelry check out this book. Diving for Starfish.

The rest of the evening is none of your business.

Well, back to reality. Maybe.

If you are up for an adventure meet me in Aspen winter 2023, date to be determined. I think we'd have gay old time. Click me

Tell me your vacation flight of fancy?
Your's truly,
Kelly

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Billy Lankford

9/15/2022

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I found the above picture online.

"“I love you sounds best spoken in quiet acts of kindness.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons: Quotes, Poetry, & a few Short Stories for Every Day of the Year

Every summer in the early seventies I was shipped off to Tifton, Georgia to my grandparents house. I loved those summers. One of the best parts was going out to eat after church. We didn't eat out much at home, so it was a real treat.

Every Sunday morning and an occasional evening you would find us at the First Baptist Church. The church built on love. That's their motto, because the church is located on Love Avenue. Clever, huh? No disrespect to the faithful flock but the real church built on love was across the street at the Lankford Manor.

Billy Lankford was the minister of hospitality and love. He was a tall, spindly drink of water with a bit of a stoop. The slight, very slight hunch in his back wasn't from age I don't think, but probably because he was a lofty man and had to duck to get into rooms. A giant in more ways than one if you ask me.

If'n he was an insect I suspect he would be a praying mantis. An elegant man with a zen spirit and an ethereal quality. Yes, I believe that fits him.

Photo by Drew Easley on Unsplash

The Lankford Manor was a large elegant house. It was white clapboard surrounded by humongous trees. Probably pecan (pee-can). There was a huge enclosed porch where food was served. Enormous paddles from ceiling fans whirled slowly to boost the effect of the air cooled rooms to fight the oppressive humidity of south Georgia.

I remember the stairs leading up to the place squeaked. I suspect it's because lots of folks needed not only their bellies fortified, but their souls too.

Now, I went there many times for lunch, or I think they called it dinner, and the evening meal supper. Dang, I can't remember. But what I'm about to tell you happened on a special evening after church on a wondrous Sunday evening.

Photo by Michał Franczak on Unsplash

Billy's as my grandparents called it held a whole different atmosphere in the evening. It came alive with festivity, and bright lights. The pace was faster than the afternoon. Billy went from table to table greeting folks and welcoming them. Every now and again he pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his forehead. He always smiled.

On the side of the dining room stood an old, well used, well loved stand up piano. It wasn't a grand piano, but it was grand.

“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine”

Yes, doll here I am. I went right over. Now, I really couldn't play the piano, but my uncle could. There was the same type of piano at my grandparents house. I could play heart and soul, sticks and the first four notes of Beethoven's fifth.

I sat at the piano and Billy came over. He didn't scold me, or tell me to go back to the table. He told me to scoot over.

He asked if I could play something. I began playing sticks. He let me have my solo for a few minutes then he joined in with the most effervescent, spirited jazz.

Listen, I'm here to tell you that day I was transported. I remember the feeling vividly 50 years later. A warm light filled my whole body. It was the most joy I've ever felt in my entire life to this day. The music bathed me and his soul, vitality and love, love, love permeated me.

The dining room disappeared the clanking of the silverware and dishes quieted, diners conversation muted, the squeaking stairs went silent. Nothing existed but right then and there and full blown jubilation. Billy shared his light with me that day. I will never, ever forget.

You know I heard an interview with Liz Gilbert once talking about meditation. It took her years of practice and journeys to India to learn to do it. She talked of the one time she was able to quiet her mind and she felt like she was "in the hand of God" Well, I don't know if I was in the hand of God that day, but I most certainly was part of God's playlist. And I didn't have to go to an ashram in India to find bliss. It was right there in the dining room on Love Avenue.

Every time I went back to Georgia to visit there were two places I always went The Tift County Agrirama, .
And the Lankford Manor. I never did see Billy again on my visits as a young adult. I still needed to go there even if I just stood outside. Lankford Manor, aka Billy Lankford shared his place with the world. He made a raggedy little girl feel like the most important and well loved thing on the planet.

With love, affection and the jazziest jazz music,

Kelly

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Porch talk

9/14/2022

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Photo by Ana Essentiels on Unsplash

Dear Friends,

All the talk about the 'Bers, well, it got me into a warm, cardamon spice reminiscing kind of mood. Did you know cardamon is considered the "Queen of Spices". Well, I'm feeling like the queen of the rocking chair. Tiara included.

Won't you take the open rocking chair next to me, grab a bowl of field peas and lets visit.

This autumn part of my life, well I've lived my whole life to get to this sweet spot. Only I must confess, I've been doing it my whole life. Well, when I could. Nostalgia is my go to medicine when I want to feel warm and cozy.

Yes, I know it's also considered a sickness. Where you forget about the bad stuff, and only focus on the good. Um, yes I'm here to get down with the sickness. Click Me

Look, I don't want to reminisce, I want to chat, talk and be in the present with you. The one fantastic aspect of my entire life is I've been lucky enough to have some amazing conversations with people. Some I knew, a lot I didn't. Those moments, well, lets just say come in handy when I'm down, or need to remember something important.

I've always loved talking to older people the most. Now, I'm one of them. Now, just because I am happy to set a spell and chew the fat doesn't mean I want my body to get old. I still need to wander, hike, and ride my horsey. If I can't do that then I won't be alive to dawdle and dilly dally all the live long day.

Photo by ArtHouse Studio: https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-wooden-rocking-chair-near-fireplace-5014757/

There's something special about rocking chair talk. I do think you have to be doing something with your hands. Fiddling with some kind of vegetable, knitting, picking at a geetar, probably not whittling with a knife, but I suspect some folks could do it.

The motion of chair and the use of hands is the gateway to relaxation like no other. Meditation for dummies. It also is the time for stories. I love, love, love stories. Especially personal ones, well not necessarily personal in the private sense, although I'm honored if someone shares. I mean personal in, hear a person tell me a story. Live. Books are wondrous, but people are exceptional.

Perhaps, that's why I'm fascinated by old photos of people and places. Imagining their lives and what they like and how they lived come pretty easy to me. A little too easy and sometimes it's a problem, Let me explain.

This is a scanned picture of a card I bought at an art fair. The artist is Janet Launhardt. Check her out and give her some love. Or buy a painting.

You see one Friday morning I pulled out the above greeting card I bought recently at an art fair. I looked up The Snake Pit online. It's the image on the card. I've heard about it for a long time. It's one of the oldest restaurants in North Idaho. It's been on the news a lot. But what I remember last was, I believe the owner passed and it was in danger of closing. However, a new owner stepped in and kept it going.

The best reading was on the website. It told of the history. Click here to see.

The Snake Pit opened in 1879. I know! It's wild. Wild, Wild West that is. Oh my this is one of the reasons I love living out west. So much history, stories, and road trips.

Gold.

One of the theories of how the name came about is told like this. They called the ladies of the evening, or morning if you will, snakes. The upstairs is where business was conducted. The bottom was the bar and grill.

But that porch! Dang, it needs some rocking chairs. Perhaps, I can get hold of some of the old timers who told the stories and buy them lunch. Then afterwards they can while away the time with me filling me in on the gossip.

After looking them up online of course I fell into a rabbit hole of good information. Great porch talk. Yes, and even though it was Friday which is notoriously pizza night at the Whittens, I talked my husband into going there for dinner.

Date night with the snakes!

So here's the problem with my imagination and story thirst, I'm not sure what I expected when I got there, but there were no old timers telling a story. Nobody was bellied up to the bar. There were no snakes upstairs waving to us soliciting our business. I was let down.

Seriously.

What the hell did I expect? A show like Disney? I think I kind of did. That's what happens when you live in your head too long. Well, even though I didn't go back in time the food was delicious. But I'm here to preach about their biscuits. Now, I'm usually a roll, or loaf of bread type of girl but these biscuits were worth the drive and now have me on a quest to perfect the biscuit. And as our server said drizzle a bit of honey on 'em and it's a game changer. She was right.

Even though I wasn't a time traveller we had a great time. The decor was pretty cool, the food comforting and the drive beautiful. I'm here to tell you the panhandle of Idaho is one of the prettiest places in the U.S of America.

Photo by cottonbro: https://www.pexels.com/photo/man-in-dress-shirt-and-beige-pants-sitting-on-brown-wooden-armchair-7118183/

Well, I thank you for reading this especially if I asked you. I just want to be heard. I think we all do. I've got things to say before I'm the dearly departed. Most of it nonsense, but we all have to be good at something right?

Most things I like to remember are the little things. They usually are the grand things to the heart. Don't get me wrong I still love a big-big thing, I just don't need it as often as I used to. The best part about a big-big thing is, well, it's like coming home from vacation.

You click your red slippers, exhale and proclaim, "There's no place like home."

Warmest regards,
Kelly

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The 'Bers

9/13/2022

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Photo by Zdeněk Macháček on Unsplash

I was recently given an assignment to create a vision of what I wanted my daily life to look like for the next six months. I'm in the Autumn of my life, and it is the beginning of autumn, plus, I love everything about the 'Bers. September, October, November and December. It's a no brainer. I want to indulge my warmest fantasies and run my fingers through Autumn's golden hair.

Instead of a list, or a schedule, my vision is to only do things that give me that Autumnal feeling. I'm tempted to tell you the things I'm going to avoid, banish, and stay as far away from but those ugly things may not have any free publicity.

Here we go.

The 'Bers = contentment. It's what the Danes call hygge. It's a coziness from the inside out. The feeling is exquisite comfort. It's not too hot. It's not to cold. It's just right.

Photo by Meritt Thomas on Unsplash

It's magic.

Here's my list of the autumn time, which by the you don't have to wait til the actual time of year to bask in it's cozy presence. Autumn can reflect the time of day, the golden hour as its known. The fall season of your life. The season of a project. The actual season. You get the picture.

Autumn is orange. The simmering warmth of orange, right before it turns red. Oh my...this sensation is The 'Bers!

Once upon a time... Those are wonderful words that alert every dreamer when it's time for a story. What is more reassuring than a great story? 
red checkered flannel
The trees. I'm paraphrasing, but that saying where this is the time of year when the trees show you how letting go can be beautiful.
Walking through the woods and spotting a deer. The magical fleeting moment of making eye contact before it dashes away.
Dashing through the snow
Over the river and through the woods to grandmothers house we go.
The International House of Pancakes carousel of tasty syrup. Making your choice and pouring it over a warm Belgium waffle smothered with butter. This one may cause a heart attack or send you to the winter of your life. But... for a moment its the rapture.
Casseroles. Even more comforting when it comes from a friend.
crock pots
Kind people
Taking a stroll and dropping in to visit Ms. Betty Jean. She offers you a cup of coffee and a warm blueberry scone before you get into a gossip session. Now, now, the gossip is strictly nice. It's about Mr. Green Jeans cow who gave birth to twins. A miracle I tell you. Bobby and Ella, childhood sweethearts who finally tied the knot. Mrs. Drummel's green thumb and her 900 pound pumpkin. O.K. it's not always so nice, we do debate whether Lilly Baldwin cheated in the pie contest at the county fair. We are green with envy because her pecan pie really is the ooiest and gooiest, and best we ever tasted and can not reduplicate.
Soups
Baseball in October. Fingers crossed the Mariners make it.
fuzzy slippers
trick or treaters
ghost stories
Waving at Mr. Thompson the mailman then pulling a card, letter or a note out of the mailbox from an old friend, while singing, "We just got a letter, we just got a letter, we just got a letter. I wonder who it's from!?

I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture. This autumn time of my life I'm also going to indulge in my love for nostalgia. It makes me happy to reminisce.

Music. Fabulous, music.

To this very day when I hear "When You Wish Upon A Star" I get warm and fuzzy. It reminds me of when I was little and no matter what was going on at that time, when I. heard that song, I knew it was time for the Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday night. It was a vacation from the world for an hour. Sometimes two, if there was a special movie. I was whisked away to a magical place.

The 'Bers are also that sweet spot when you get tucked in. You have your pillow fluffed just right. Your under your favorite blanket and you are midway between being awake and falling asleep.

Remember that feeling because after that comes the "Ary's.

January and February.

What are your autumnal feelings? I'd love to know.

With all my simmering love,
Kelly

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Edna Andrews

5/25/2022

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Photo by David Selbert : https://www.pexels.com/photo/wild-moose-hiding-behind-tree-in-forest-7516974/

Dear Friends,

Wandering is my favorite. It makes me happy. When I'm stuck, sad, mad or just confused, it comforts me. The only problem when I'm in those moods is I have to force myself to wander.

Wandering can be walking, horseback riding, driving by-ways and back roads to no where, or just meandering around your yard. It's an escape, but in the very best way. It's when my mind opens, my imagination soars and anything and everything is possible. It's medicine. A lifeline.

I"m lucky enough to have a friend who likes to wander on horseback with me. When we hit the trails we only stay on the actual trail for a short time. Then it's off trail. Better yet, we go off-off trail. Bushwhacking.

There's no destination in mind. We are Tom Sawer and Huck Finn. I feel like a little girl again wandering through the cow pastures and woods surrounding the trailer park with my best friends.

There's a neighborhood moose in a particular area we ride. She's rough. And big. Her name is Edna Andrews. We try to avoid her. The horses aren't fond of her, in fact they have a healthy dose of fear concerning her, unlike the ridiculous angst over a certain plant or log. The last time we rode we caught a glimpse of her. She sneered and walked away. I don't know if that is always the case.

This ride we caught a peek of her but we heard her first. She was pretty low on the hill today. We stopped and waited. Slowly we began to switchback our way up. Every once in awhile we would make yipping sounds to move her along. We didn't want trouble. But, were we stalking her?

If Edna were a human she would be one of those ladies who looks much older than she actually is. I suspect she would have small pink rollers with the tissue around it in her hair and topped with a bit of dippity-doo for fun. She wears faded pink slippers and a floral moo moo. A cigarette would dangle from her mouth and her eyes, well, they've seen a lot. She talks like a sailor, and by golly if she has to endure on more can of Dinty Moore beef stew she just might snap.

That's Edna.

Photo by Aaron Katz on Unsplash

Um, she's intimidating for sure. Her life is rough. Catastrophic disasters both natural and unnatural, one right after another beat her down. But, she's a survivor. Dodging hunters and creepy hikers keep her chronically sore. She's not sad, she's tired. I feel like if one more thing happens to her she would turn into Miles Finch from Elf. "You feeling strong my friend? Call me Elf one more time." Then she charges. She's an angry elf, I mean moose.

Even though she's tired and angry with the world, there's a little spark in her which nudges her along. A wildflower, or a puffy cloud in the form of an angel. For crying out loud she's not suicidal, just occasionally homicidal. Beware wanderers.

Her days are filled with foraging, avoiding intruders and trying to find a safe place to nap. The weather is as fickle as, well, the weather. The ticks are freeloaders, the coyotes are annoying and those dang turkeys are making a racket with their constant gobble- gobble-gobbling. It's enough to make a girl pull her hair out. Unless you have the torturous pink rollers in your hair. Edna is in need of a makeover, but not because of her looks. Her attitude.

As she wanders through the trees she comes across a little clearing. You know the kind of place where the darlings of the forest dwell. "The deer" she said with dripping sarcasm. The precious deer with the reputation of innocence and love. They get all the glory. It irks her. If she was one of those dad gum turkeys it would ruffle her feathers. If she was one of the pesky coyotes it would raise her hackles. By the way, these days they look fat, healthy and professionally groomed. What I'm trying to say is the deer prancing around with their prestige and image which is held in high esteem is on her last nerve.

In this clearing is a hole. A big rectangular hole. It's about 6 feet long, 4 feet wide and 6 feet deep. Um, is this an empty grave? There's a shovel and pick in there. Whoever dug this left in haste. Is it a hoax? Is it some kind of elaborate geocaching game? The last thing she needs is a gaggle of marauders decimating her forest. Perhaps she could hide and when these intruders come back she would charge at them pushing them into the grave. Well that thought put a smirk on her face. There's hope yet that she will get laugh lines. But this is not the time for vanity. "What in tar nation is this hole doing in my forest?"

All of a sudden it hits her on the head. Nope, it's a nut the squirrel dropped on her. Bastard. What if this is an omen or a sign? The apparition that appears is levitating and much larger than her. Its face is covered in an all black robe. Of course it's all black.

Is this Cousin It? Or is it a bloody Dementor from Hogwarts? Good grief. Or...is it the Ghost of Christmas yet to come? Does this mean when she wakes from this nightmare she'll feel pressure to buy the biggest, fattest goose for Tiny Tim and give Bob Cratchet a raise?

This is too much for Edna. She paws at the ground. Okay, okay I get it. I get it. A transformation is needed, but dang it, I'm not a butterfly.

I suppose I could become a bit, just a bit mind you like my cousin the deer, but I won't go as far as my other cousin the reindeer. The Fame from Christmastime has gone to their antlers. I can find joy in the berries and those juicy bugs I like so much. If I see an unwanted visitor perhaps I can snort real loud and walk the other way. I make no promises. But I will compromise and only charge on occasion. Yes, that's what I'll do.

Thank you grave in the middle of my forest. As Dickens would say, "No space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused."

She took it to heart and carried on.

We never did run into her again on that particular ride. We did get a glimpse and that's enough for me. She may be cranky,
but she's quite impressive. Perhaps we can all learn a thing or two from Ms. Edna Anderson.

Sincerely,

Kelly

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Mrs. Green

2/27/2022

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Photo by Karsten Winegeart on Unsplash

Dear Friends,

I recollect I have more dog stories to tell. When you say recollect you have to draw out the r, almost like a grrrr sound but stop short of sounding like a junk yard dog who's reached the end of his chain. I love to say recollect like that because it makes me feel like a wise old woman sitting in a rocking chair spewing wisdom from the golden age.

Of course we all have a golden age. It doesn't matter what year you were born. It's the past as you wish it was, but not how it completely was. They call it nostalgia. I read somewhere it's considered a sickness. If it's true, I'm infected.

After my dog walk down memory lane yesterday I thought about other dogs I had a connection with. When I was a little girl I was shipped off to Tifton, Georgia for the bulk of summer vacation. It's where my grandparents lived. Looking back I wonder why? I'm pretty sure the thought was so I wouldn't be alone during the day. Both of my parents worked. But let's be honest, I wandered the streets at home and nothing changed when I arrived. I'm sure it made everyone feel better.

Photo by Rebecca Campbell on Unsplash

Mrs. Green lived next door to my grandparents. She was the stereotypical grand dame of the south. She was of small stature, tight curls done every week at the beauty parlor and she wore her signature color lipstick. Peach. She was graceful and mannered.

I drove her nuts. I showed up on her doorstep and she invited me in. Every time. That's what polite folks do. I'm pretty sure she wasn't aware of how long I would be in town or she would have broken the manner code of a true lady and hide behind closed drapes.

When you feed a stray they keep coming back. I kept coming back. Everyday. Not on Sundays. After a few visits I went to the backdoor. I knew that was the more friendly entrance.

Once inside I made myself at home. I ran around her house looking at everything. I don't think I went into bedrooms. Even I knew better than that. Mostly, I gravitated to the formal living room. It was large with plenty of room for twirling. There was a piano and fancy velvet furniture. Frilly lamps lit the room when the hoity toity curtains were drawn. No, not curtains, but fine drapery or window treatments as they are called now.

Eventually, even the most pretentious of ladies reached their limits. She called my grandmother. I was told not to bother her anymore.

Photo by Jamie Street on Unsplash

The first visit she was a dignified hostess. I was introduced to her dogs. They were her loves. Hey, we had that in common.

She had a white German Shepherd named Bonnie and a small grey poodle. I wish I could remember the poodle's name but I was kind of put off by her. You see her little nails were painted red as can be. And...she even had matching ribbons adorning her ears. They looked like pretty pigtails on a proper child.

Never, ever had I seen such a thing. Heck, I know I was never that put together much to my mother's and grandmother's chagrin. (Another fabulous word). Her pampered pup went to the groomers on a regular basis. Her tight grey curls matched her mistress.

There was something off about the dogs eyes. I asked Mrs. Green about it and she told me the poodle had cataracts. What is that? I'd never heard of such a malady. She explained it to me and I thought that dog was as old as her master. While I didn't really hang out with the poodle, I was always interested to see the color of nail polish she wore when she came home from the spa.

Photo by FLOUFFY on Unsplash

Bonnie and I became fast friends. She was a dog-dog. She liked to wander too. After I got the notice not to bother Mrs. Green I didn't knock on her door, but I still went to her house. Bonnie followed me around the yard.

The yards on this block were humongous. A house and yard took up the whole block. This was on 8th avenue, but it should have been a boulevard. That word seems to fit these grand old houses.

Her yard didn't have the majestic pecan trees or the mighty oaks like the rest of the neighborhood. Her house had more shrubs, flowers and fern type of plants. It was landscaped. But, on the side of her house ran a tiny stream. I spent hours pretending to be Huckleberry Finn there. I tried to skip rocks and looked for tadpoles. I never saw any and I never could skip a rock. Mostly, I would just sit and daydream. Bonnie would drink the cool water. I'll tell you what the summers in south Georgia are oppressive. There were no trade winds and gentle breezes like south Florida. I followed Bonnie's lead and drank from the stream too. It was refreshing.

Along her walkway towards the forbidden back door I was shunned grew a crazy bush. I'll never forget that plant. It was a shrimp bush. The buds hanging from it looked like shrimp. I hope that's what it's true name is. I don't want to look it up in fear that it has a different name. Shrimp bush is perfect.

Bonnie the faithful dog and I would discuss how we'd eat those shrimp. One time I picked a bud and shoved it in my pocket for a snack later on. It wasn't delicious. Perhaps if it was prepared in garlic, oil, lemon and parsley served over a bed of linguini I would've loved it. Bonnie my trusted friend kept my secret.

Photo by Przemyslaw Smit on Unsplash

The next summer a long fence with a dog house inside took up a portion of her humongous yard. A German Shepherd named Sarge arrived. He belonged to her grandson who was in the military. He was deployed and Mrs. Green was caring for him. I was warned not to bother this dog because he was a guard dog. Well, I think you know how that went.

Everyday I showed up, walked around with my old pal Bonnie, avoided the poodle and tried to make friends with Sarge. He growled and barked and rushed the fence. It never deterred me. Listen, I had already been mauled by a hound dog a few years before and that didn't scare me off. That's another story for a different time.

Over time I could sit right next to the fence in peace. He would smell my hand and sit quietly. Eventually, I could touch him through the holes in the fence. I don't recollect, still love that word, if I ever petted him over the fence. We became friends, luckily for Mrs. Green.

The day came when he escaped his cage. He ran around the wide tree lined streets and Mrs. Green was scared. She handled him, but not in a run away situation. Plus, she was at least 120 years old. How could she run with her compression stockings? She feared he would get run over or worse, hurt someone. So, the raggedy pain in the ass kid came to the rescue. I was able to find him and walk him home by his collar. He didn't eat me. Mrs. Green was thankful, but I still annoyed her.

Is there a moral to this story? Nope, not really. I just love walking down memory lane, no make that memory boulevard in Tifton, Georgia. My summers were pretty remarkable for being unremarkable.

Well, I reckon I've taken up enough of your time. The one thing I learned as an adult is when to leave. I'm still a stray at heart though. I'll keep coming back.

Love,
Kelly

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Isabella Tralala

Muses and Deer

October Magic

Visit New Orleans

I Want To Get Away.....

Billy Lankford

Porch talk

The 'Bers

Edna Andrews

Mrs. Green

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