The Adventures of Washington Whitten

Edna Andrews

5/25/2022

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 had been 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, escaping intruders and trying to find a safe place to nap. The wether 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"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 6b feet deep. Um, is this an empty grave? There's a shovel and pick left 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, she will get laugh lines after all. 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 nut that a 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 the all black, of course, robe. 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 goods 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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Dogs, dogs and beautiful dogs

2/25/2022

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Dear Friends,

I came across some postcards of dogs and had to have them. They're in the style of pictures I remember seeing in the World Book encyclopedias. The "D" one. Yes, my parents bought a set. It was on of the most precious gifts I can remember. They weren't just for me, but for the whole family. I devoured them.

It was one of the items in my childhood where I felt like a normal girl in school. When the teacher spoke about writing reports, she would tell us to use the encyclopedias we had at home. Then came the sad voice dripping with pity, "If you don't have them you can use the ones in the library." Usually, I was on the team receiving the sad voice, but not this time.

My parents really loved learning and I remember on good nights we had trivia conversations at the house. Only it wasn't just trivia, like in the past. It was who did this? State Capitols. Did you know type things. These nights my mom's smile lit the room, no lighting needed. I think she lived for these "normal" nights. I did.

I poured through these books and subjects, and mystical places, exotic things and boring items too. But the "D" book, I gorged on. Dogs. I loved dogs, horses and pretty much any animal in existence. It's no secret my passion for horses, but in my childhood it was a fantasy pet.

As a matter of fact I had a picture of a black horse next to a tree in a lush valley hanging on my bedroom wall. It was a gift. In my imagination it was a mighty stallion looking for me. I told my friends it was my horse, but it lived in Georgia with my grandparents.

The crazy thing is I told my best friend Bonnie this and she knew it wasn't true. I was lying. I didn't feel like I was lying because I really, really wanted it to be true. I needed it to be true Perhaps it was my first foray into manifesting my dreams. P.S. I now own a black horse. She's not a stallion but I dare you to tell her that.

While horses may as well been the elusive unicorn, the impossible dream, dogs were not. We had them as pets and I saw them every where.

The first dog I remember was a black and white dog with a black mask. Her name was Bandit. She was a stray we took in. I think. She was pregnant and at a very young age I saw puppies come into the world. It was glorious.

Here's a list of dogs who owned me.

Bandit
Duffy, he was our dog when we moved to the trailer park. Some asshole's dog had a litter of pups and he threw them out the window. A bunch of kids including me grabbed one. My friend Bonnie, who I told the fantasy (lie) to got one as well. His name was puddles.
Shady and Shadow. Two pitbulls. One was black and one was black and white.
Snickers, a sweetheart who looked like a Bernese mountain dog as a pup, but he was some kind of spaniel. He just had the Bernese colors.
Moose. A Newfoundland. I was desperate for a pug. One day my husband and I decided to pull the trigger and go get one. We went to this pet store which always had pugs. ALWAYS. Except that day. In the middle of the puppy area were this litter of Newfoundlands. They looked like black bear cubs. Oh my stars, we had to have one.
Present day. Mojo and Goldberg. My husband and I went to the pound to pick a dog. We wanted one of the black lab pups but they weren't available yet. Right next to them was another litter. Of course they were pit mixed dogs. All of them looked like brown pitbulls, except for one creme one. He looked like a Labrador. Well, that reminds me of the dog, Jackson. we owned for a hot minute. He was a yellow lab from the pound. He was a runner. You could not open the door and he was out fast as you please. We were afraid he was going to get hit by a car. We found him a home on a farm. Back to the two babies. My husband picked the cream colored lab looking one and I picked a brown pitbull looking one. We let them play together in the room you visit with the dogs. I don't know why we were pretending to pick which one was coming home with us when we both knew full well they are both ours. Moose, the Newfoundland was a senior by then and he hated the idea. They are now 12 years old.
Mama: Well, technically her name is Mya but it turned into mama. She's never had a baby. We stopped at a feed store in Kettle falls to by some chicks for a neighbor. His chickens were at the point of not laying eggs. So, we decided what a wonderful Father's Day gift to bring. In the middle of the store sat a cardboard box with two pups. One awake and one sleeping. A lady stood there deciding which one she wanted. We tried talking her into taking both to no avail. She chose the one who was awake. Then went off to buy puppy supplies. On her way out she grabbed her pup. The minute that puppy left the other woke up and cried. Oh shit. We asked the clerk how much for the puppy, and of course she was free. We all know the story of free dogs and cats. And...after all of this our neighbor didn't want the chicks and we had to take them back.

Dogs have always, thankfully, been in my life. They're everything good, and if you are a dog person you know what I mean.

Back to the encyclopedias. This is where I ingested everything I could about each breed. I made my dream list of the dogs I would have in different types of homes. I wish I still had the encyclopedia "D", so I could see how many I have had the honor of meeting throughout my life. While I had my favorites, I would have happily taken anyone.

Newsflash! I bought the "D" World Book off of E-Bay. It's everything I remembered it to be. Now I have to find the ones I've met and go in search of the ones I haven't met.

Photo by Julio Bernal on Unsplash

My dream dog was the glamorous, exquisite, bewitching Afghan hound. The long hair and tall stature captivated me. I dreamt of meeting one. I finally did, not one, but three.

In one of my wanders through the trailer park I heard barking and of course I looked to see who it was. Three supermodels looked at me through a chainlink fence. I sat down on the lawn and stared. I didn't know the people who lived there so I didn't dare go closer.

They were everything I thought they would be and more. Everyday I visited them. I don't believe I ever met their humans. It was enough to see them, talk with them and just be in their presence.

Recently I was toying with the idea of getting one. I mean I am an adult and can have another dog if I want. Well, I researched the breed and could live with their habits and personality traits both good and bad. Except.... evidently housebreaking can be a nightmare. Sorry future Fabio or Loreal but I can't live with that. Perhaps the real reason I wanted one was to feel pretty and hope the presence of their splendor would seep into my skin. But poop in the house, well that aint pretty doll. So, I will admire you from afar.

Photo by Stéphane Juban on Unsplash

Another breed I was fascinated by is the Irish Wolfhound. C'mon how can you not be enamored by the tallest dog in the world? I never laid eyes on one until I moved to Washington state.

There's a lady who lives not far from me who has two. I always see them in her front yard. Many times I would reroute my drive just to get a glimpse at them. The lady who owns them is in a wheelchair and many times I see her walking her dog. Or is he pulling her like a sled?

Awhile ago her and her husband were having troubles. He has severe health problems too. I don't know the whole story, or the true story, but people were provoking her dogs and actually injured one of the dog's face. The house is on a main road with lots of foot traffic. They jump up on the average size chain link fence to greet people. Not all people deserve to be greeted it seems.

The couple had other problems with their house and yard due to their physical limitations. A new neighbor moved in and complained about things in her yard. While the things he did were a weird kind of bullying it actually turned out well.

A call for help on the Next-door app and people showed up to help clean the yard and make house repairs. The most important fix was changing the fence to a taller one so the dogs weren't accessible to the people walking by.

I have so much more to say about dogs. We'll chat about it another day. But I will close this letter for now and wish you a dog-gone good day.

Love,
Kelly

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Tender

1/7/2022

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Dear Friends,

I purchased Sing a Song of Seasons at a second hand book store. Every day since the first of January I've read the daily poem. That's what inspired Little January.

Today's entry was a beautiful surprise.

Today is the previous owner of the books' mother's birthday. Happy Birthday my unknown friend. I love how she circled the day with a heart and called her sweet mama.

She continued the sentiment on the next page. Now, John Foster's, Diamond Poem is nice, but this daughter's poem tugged at my heart.

My friend, counselor, confidant and life guru (if you want her name let me know) and I were talking the other day about word of the year. I feel like it's a great thing, but there are too many wonderful words to just stick to one. So, I incorporate the word of the day, the sentiment, the season, the year, month, the week or the moment.

It's o.k. to do this and have a word of the year too if you want. For me the importance is really taking some time with the word and seeing how it fits. Today, the sweet mama's birthday, January 7th, my word will be tender.

This is a tender moment between mother and daughter. I don't know if sweet mama knows about this particular entry, but I'll bet she knows how loved she is by her daughter.

So, today dear friends I invite you to celebrate sweet mama and her daughter by declaring today an unofficial mothers day. You don't have to hurry up and make a dinner or brunch reservations, or send flowers, or give free back scratch coupons, unless you want to of course. Acknowledge them. Think about them. Give them a call. Stop by if you can and just give them a hug.

And listen, this isn't just for your biological mother. I'm very fortunate in growing up I have several mamas. They were all sweet until you did something wrong. My sons are also fortunate in they had some other sweet mamas too. Celebrate them.

Not only have I had the good luck to have other mothers take me under their wing, but I won the lottery in the mother-in-law department.

I should also acknowledge the tender feeling when I read what my friends share about their mothers. Sometimes the stories are funny, loving, or just plain crazy. You can feel the love.

Some daughters and sons become warriors in honor of whatever disease or circumstance took their moms from them. While their battle is fierce and determined, it's also tender. I'm always touched by hearing the stories.

One amazing friend, dang I'm really lucky in the friend department, shared her mother's letters with me. What a gift.

To all of you who share your memories about your moms, thank you. I love reading and hearing about it. Please don't stop.

It matters.

My word for today is Tender. I'm going to send my sweet mama a message. I lost her many years ago, but I talk with her often. There are certain seasons and days I know I'm going to think of her, but then there are other times when I"m gobsmacked from something out of the blue.

I'll eat an orange and talk to my sweet mama. The scent of an orange reminds me of her. I'll contemplate the wonderful things she did for me and I'll honor her.

So, in honor of the unknown mother daughter duo, I wish all you mothers, mother figures, other mothers, a very tender Mother's Day.

Love,

Kelly

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Little January

1/4/2022

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Photo by Filip Mroz on Unsplash

Dear Friends,

Little January
Tapped on my door today.
And said, "Put on your winter wraps,
And come outdoors to play."
Little January
Is always full of fun;
Today we coasted down the hill
Until the set of sun.
Little January
Will stay a month with me
And we have such jolly times---
Just come along and see.

Winifred C. Marshall

Well, Winifred looks at January in a much nicer way than most. It can be jolly at times. There's so much to do if you just dig deep and put on your winter wraps and go outside. You can snowshoe, ski, and sled. Really you can fly down the snowy hill on anything you can dream up.

I remember the first time going to the sledding hill after moving from Florida, where Little January has a whole other personality. It was just as wonderful as I thought it would be, maybe better because I loved the creativity people had when choosing a snowy vehicle. Of course there were different types of sleds you buy at the store, but there was also an amazing display of ingenuity.

Kids of all ages, yes including old farts, soared down the hill on shower curtains, floats that are made for the river, or gigantic pink flamingos which usually chill in a pool somewhere tropical. There was a foursome gliding down on an old waterbed mattress. Do they even make waterbeds anymore?

I saw a teenage boy surf the hill on an ironing board. My goodness that's the greatest way of all in which an ironing board should be used. Then I saw a furry man, who looked like he was sherpa. He came down from the mountain tops for a Little January fling. He removed tires from a bike and replaced them with skis. It was brilliant, and I imagine only a Himalayan Sherpa with an innate balance required from such a vehicle could ride. A brave sherpa indeed.

Photo by Maragda Farràs on Unsplash

All of those Little January playmates had one thing in common. They answered the knock. We can't always do that. Sometimes, we have to invite her in. Sometimes insist she get her blizzardy ass inside.

Last week we had a brutal arctic blast. Once a year, the arctic toddler having a wintry tantrum makes an appearance. This one seemed to stay a bit longer. My old boss used to say visitors are like fish, after three days they start to stink. Well, it stayed longer than three days. However because everything is frozen solid you can't smell it. But you know it stinks.

This was an arctic blast which brought multiple warnings to keep all skin covered to avoid, I don't know, skin hurt? Also, dress as much as possible to avoid hypothermia. The wind chill was horrific. And well, it was a time to light a candle and hunker in.

Photo by Victoria Primak on Unsplash

Candle light, like quiet snow has a calming effect. I don't know if it's scientifically true, but it calms my nervous system. It's a beautiful exhale. For me, it immediately makes me feel like life is simple. No, not because I'm old and was born before electricity was invented. Dang, that was harsh. It's because it is simple. I'm not sure how to describe simple in my terms, it's more of a feeling.

To me simple is a kind of wandering, not in the literal sense, but the imaginative. It's not shirking your duties or responsibilities, it's, well, it's just that it doesn't make them more that they truly are.

I'm soothed by the thought of being in a cabin in the wintry woods along with Little January, writing by candle light, like Jo from Little Women. I relate to her because she was known as the tomboy who had a passion for writing.

I suppose that's because it's the best of both worlds. You go out and do what needs to be done, play, wander, explore, then come inside take off your bundles of clothes, light a candle and write down your thoughts to later remember. Or to sort out your feelings, or document the time.

While it's for sure I'm a tomboy, I too, have a passion for writing, only it's been revealed to me in the autumn stage (I'm being generous with myself) of life that I love to write just for me.

I also love to write letters. What has been reveled and boy do I wish it were brought to my attention sooner, is I have no desire to write a novel, a screenplay or any other formal piece of writing. Well, sometimes I get a hankerin' to do that, but what stops me is the formality of it all. It's not simple.

It's not that I don't want to hunker down and work hard. I just want to write for the joy of it. If I feel a story needs to be told, I'll tell it. The need to write is to discover myself, to share with the world my ideas, my views and hope it connects. I want to be heard.

The one thing I know to be true is I desire, no crave connection. But not just any connection, simple like candlelight. That seems to be the word I was born to reflect. For better or worse, I embody simple.

Perhaps one day I will share the story of how the word simple was used as a weapon, but today is not that day.

Today, simple is healing. It's everything beautiful, everything joyous, everything that's wonderful, everything loving....it's everything.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Today, I will answer Little January's knock. I'll put on my jacket, scarf, a hand-made crocheted with love from my niece burgundy headband to cover my ears. I'll top it off with a knit hat, slip on my gloves, and put on my arctic mucks then go outside and shovel snow.

Perhaps, I will throw snowballs for the dogs, or build a snow dragon. Yes, a snow dragon. What isn't there to love about dragons? Man, I think I could write a thousand pages about dragons.

But I probably won't build any snow formations because it's not the type of snow for creating creatures. The Warren Miller gang calls it champagne snow. And if you're not carvin', you're starvin'.

Most certainly I will throw out birdseed for the birds so they can have a proper meal. Yesterday, there were billons perched on my crabapple tree. They were feasting on the over-riped, dare I say rotted fruit.

The tree became the only pub in town open, and there were no bouncer to card the minors. It was a rager. I don't mean to insult them. The birds were just trying to have a hot toddy and perhaps a spin on the dance floor with their favorite mate.

I just don't want them drinking and flying.

The quail on the other hand cruise through the yard like they are the stars of the royal parade in front of Windsor castle. They are fancy enough to wear crowns, and they do wear it well, but simple enough to eat whatever they find. They know who they are. Guess what? After a long, long, long time, I"m finally figuring out who I am. It's magnificent.

I know for sure today I'll be mucking stalls, that's year round. I'll also scratch Echo's ears, or whatever area the divine queen will allow me. Frankie, I'll rub his neck. He likes that. Echo will get a carrot, Frankie's not quite sure what that is yet. In due time my precious boy.

Photo by Jonatan Pie on Unsplash

So Little January, I won't wish you away. I will hope you stay for the month. And like the poem says we will have such jolly times. We will also take a breath Little January, or the heart of winter as some call you. You are also the purveyor of deep thoughts, of solidifying seeds planted in the fall. Yes, in the fall, spring isn't the only season to get the glory of sowing seeds.

Little January, you offer us a much needed break from the whirlwind of the holidays, from chaotic life, from have to's and musts. And I thank you for that.

Love,
Kelly

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The Horizon

6/18/2021

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Photo by Alexander Andrews on Unsplash

I was born under a new moon. According to almanac.com
"A new Moon is essentially the opposite of a full Moon. During a full Moon, we see the side of the Moon that is being illuminated by the Sun, giving the Moon its bright, glowing appearance. During a new Moon, however, we see the side of the Moon that is not being illuminated by the Sun, which makes the Moon blend in with the dark night sky."

Ta da...I am the dark side of the moon. The new moon is also the giver of new beginnings. I know this because today, I went one of my favorite shops, Wonders of the World. I was looking at these beautiful necklaces. You look up your birthdate and it tells you what phase the moon is in and which necklace is meant for you.

New beginnings is something I can go along with. I've started over many times. I've never reinvented myself. I like to think I've evolved, but I still screw up and am granted new beginnings. All-the-time. Everything old becomes new again as they say. I learned much about myself in the matter of minutes. Too bad I didn't buy the necklace.

You know, it's kind of like when I take the quiz on Facebook, what kind of sandwich are you? Don't you dare judge me, the only reason I played is because you did first. I had to re-take the test because it gave me the same answer as you. THEN, I had to redo it again because I didn't like the answer.

I feel we've all learned something about ourselves here today. No need to thank me, just gift me with the new moon necklace.

Photo by MyTripFlops (Travel & Photo Blog by Katyushka ) on Unsplash

What was I talking about? Horizons, yes. When I was a little girl I would sit on the beach for hours looking at the horizon. I was mesmerized where the sea met the sky. I believed it was a land full of people shaped like the pyramids of Egypt lying on their side. Didn't you?

The next time I saw an Egyptian pyramid laying on it's side was in the 80's on the Las Vegas strip. How can I explain how the Luxor was lying on it's side? I'll let Fergie tell you, "The Grey Goose got your girl feeling loose Now I'm wishing that I didn't wear these shoes."

I'm pretty sure I wasn't drinking Grey Goose, but the house drinks in the clear plastic cups you get free wh gambling. How many can you drink in a night? Well, enough to make a pyramid lay down. See everything old, is new again.

Of course I'm older now and know better. The real story behind the Horizon is this. There's an entrance where sea and sky meet hidden from the naked eye. A whole world exists behind the hidden door.

Allow me to introduce you to some of it's inhabitants.

Meet Allegra Van Der Zee.

Photo by Arsham Haghani from Pexels

Allegra hangs out at the Seascape Supper club with her friends. She drinks dirty martinis, shaken not stirred, while eating the finest chocolates and smoking thin fancy cigarettes. Never inhaling.

I know what you're thinking, she's a spoiled rich girl with nothing better to do, or she's a gold digger. A hustler? Ut uh, no way Jose, your wrong Donkey Kong. She is a hustler, but not how you think.

Allegra was a resourceful young girl, and knew how she wanted to make her way in this world, and it wasn't by manual labor. As my friend, Billie used to say, "Isn't Manuel Labor the president of Cuba?" Why work hard for your money, when you can make your money work hard for you? She heard this on an infomercial for some product she never purchased.

She never started a lemonade stand, but she did invest in other children's refreshment business. She hired them to work the booth then procured the suppliesin many different ways, then she took a cut from the daily earnings.

The same with car washes, bake sales, etc. No money came out of her pocket, but she took a cut from all the trades she kicked off. The workers liked it. The clients were happy. Voila!

An entrepreneur is born.

When she became a teenager, she was quite the savvy business woman. One day a month she would hear from 10 other teenagers. She listened to their crazy business ideas. The riskier the better. She listened to her gut to choose which venture to take on and it always paid off. By 21 she was independently wealthy and in the top ten of the Horizon's richest people.

Back to the Seascape Supper Club. The richest bachelors and married men flirt with her and offer to buy drinks for just a moment in her company. Sometimes it was business, most time it was pleasure. Sometimes, she indulges them, but only for possible venture opportunities.

She wasn't interested in them romantically. You see her heart belonged to the barback, Brodie McGuillicuddy. He didn't have a clue.

However, in secret she longed for Dante Mahem, lead singer of Horizon's hottest rock band, The Pyramids. Rumor has it he hung out at the supper club after a show years ago. Allegra was waiting till he returned. She just knew if they met and their eyes locked they would never look at another again. She really believed this.

Really.

You're probably thinking how does a smart, resourceful, shrewd woman believe this? Nicht. Nah. Nope. Heck NO! This notion comes from the experience of her mother, Esmerelda Van Der Zee. You see back in the day she was infatuated, obsessed, and consumed with thoughts of Dan Marino from the Miami Dolphins.

Wouldn't you know it, she ran into him at a restaurant on an island 55 miles east of the Horizon. They had a torrid love affair. No, Allegra isn't his daughter. Turns out there rendezvous was only meant to be a weekend in paradise.

So, you see Allegra held out hope, because it could happen. She wasn't plagued with this thought by any means, but it was always there in the back of her mind, just in case. In the meantime, she would dance at night and wheel and deal by day.

Life is good at the Seascape Supper Club because they have a hero in Clementine Beaumont.

(Is it becoming clear why my husband and I never could agree on girls names when I was pregnant? That's why we were given a boy.)

Photo by peter bucks on Unsplash

Clementine Beaumont is the hostess at the Seascape Supper Club. The single folks who frequent the establishment refer to her as a Super Hero.

Clementine is polite and insists you be the same. She dresses modestly with Peter Pan collars, wears Estee Lauder perfume ( a nod to her gran who gifted her a bottle when she was ten.), sensible shoes and always carries a clipboard.

Not only does she carry out her duties as hostess, she's the guardian angel of first dates. If she notices a man, or woman talking rudely to the waitstaff, she morphs from mild mannered restaurant employee, to Super-Red-Flag-Noticer-Of-A-First-Date-That-The-Other-Half-Doesn't-Notice-Because-They-Really-Really-Want-It-To-Work-Out-Hero.

Yes, she has a cape.

There's a special room for first dates, it's kind of a secret, but not really. There's a special menu for this room. It's where people who don't trust their judgements dine. They know they just have to show up and let Clementine be the judge.

I know what you are thinking. You think what a fantastic idea, right? Yes! I can finally say what you are thinking is correct-a -mundo. You did it!

And guess what? This part of the club was financed by Allegra Van Der Zee.

Clementine has been invited to many weddings as a result of her expertise, and once she was called for a ride home from jail. You see, Dante Mayhem showed up there with a starlet one night and Allegra lost her shit.

Till next time.
Love,
Kelly

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Muses

6/16/2021

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Photo by Tiko Giorgadze on Unsplash

Dear friends,

Warning, it's a long one.

Muses have been on my mind. Probably because I"ve decided to write again. I wish I knew which muse pushed me off the cliff. That's the thing about muses, there's more than one.

There are many muses you know. They have different specialities, poetry, dancing, painting, or just getting out of bed and taking a shower. There is also more than one muse for each category.

Some actively seek out people in need and eager to help, others who've been around the block a time or two, or three or four, sit up in trees smoking a cigarettes waiting to be asked, or daring the asker to present a worthy story that excites them enough to go to work.

You may call them angels, God, or something celestial, but not all muses are ethereal.

Photo by Matthew Smith on Unsplash

Some of the best ones are human. They don't even know it, or perhaps they do. Who knows? That's why if you are feeling unenthusiastic, down, or just plain uninspired pay attention to everything. I promise it works.

There's a website called Unsplash and Pexels that I really love visiting. It's where I get most photos. I have an album titled interesting people. I have over 200 pictures in it. I can spend hours thinking of these people and what their stories are.

I'm fussy though. I don't like the model-y type photos but something that has that special oomph. Collectively they are all my muses.

I'm at a place where I want to tell tories, but I don't have it in me to be formal about it. I don't want to edit, and work and work and research. I want to tell and not show. So, I will. Perhaps, I will get back to that one day. But, I don't care if I do.

No, that's not accurate, I care, but I am content with whatever direction the muses take me. So, now I'm going to tell you a little story.

Photo by Lucas Lenzi on Unsplash

This is the story of Clytie and Apollo. Not the mythological story, (click here for that legend but come back please), but the human one. Not Chlymadia either. Bwahahahaha

That's Clytie, an avid cosplayer. She's infamous at the conventions for her wonderful rendition of whatever character she portrays. In fact, if you want to know the truth, she's absorbed by it. Fantasy and reality are blurred.

I'm not sure what happened to her. Perhaps one day she will confide in me. In the meantime, I can tell you how she became a muse.

A carnival beauty from the Netherlands was on call and took a shine to Clytie.

Photo by Dele Oluwayomi on Unsplash

One spring morning after comic-con, Clytie took a walk around the town. She loved to explore the towns she visited when going to conventions.

The downtown was both beautiful and alarming. There were blocks of swanky hotels, then areas around the bus station where the homeless hung out. So many lost souls. It terrified her to walk by them and saddened her to see how humanity could end up.

It was too much for her to absorb this particular morning. She turned and went the other way.

Brigid alley appeared. It wasn't a seedy back alley where clandestine events happen, it wasn't a road either, it was the in-between. Of course she went down this path, because there's nothing more tantalizing than the in-between.

The Alley was surrounded by art galleries, coffee shops, and second hand stores. The alley presented the back doors of these establishments. The realness of the store shone through here, not the image or illusion they wanted to portray with their store front.

She was trying to persuade a feral cat with two tails to come out and let her pet it when she heard someone crying out. They were pleading and urging, to someone or some thing. She couldn't understand the words, so she creeped closer to the sound to see if she could hear or see who was in despair.

Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

Apollo stood in his outside studio looking to the sky. The artist's words were aching, yearning and begging, but she still couldn't understand what he was saying. His sadness touched her. The sight of him holding a paintbrush dripping blue paint branded her heart. She knew she had to help. But how?

She could only guess what was bothering him. Was he experiencing some kind of blocked creativity and couldn't paint? Art was not something she knew a whole lot about. What could she do? Then she remembered her ninth grade book report on Van Gogh and his sunflower series.

Van Gogh suffered severe depression. He wanted to be known as the painter of sunfl0wers. That's all she could remember. This gave her a fabulous idea.

Wink, wink to the Netherlands Goddess who blew inspirational kiss of creativity.

Photo by Ava Sol on Unsplash

This was her first cosplay to help a fellow human being. It was thrilling and allowed her to marry fantasy and reality.

She returned to his studio an hour later. Only this time she went through the front door. He looked up as the bell above the door announced her arrival.

He saw her through his blood shot eyes. They were tired from his crying episode. Something about her made him not care about his appearance. She was bright and sunny and held a bouquet of sunflowers.

Everything she planned on saying to get him to confide in her disappeared when she looked into his eyes. There was no way she was going to trick him, even if it was to help. All pretenses went out the window.

She held out the flowers for him to take saying nothing. He took them and buried his nose in them. Sunflowers don't have a scent. He breathed in her compassion and something in him lifted. How could she know that earlier he wanted to end his life?

Photo by mohammad alizade on Unsplash

Apollo and Clytie struck up a long distance friendship. She visited him often in his studio because he was painting at turbo speed. His paintings were remarkable, they didn't look rushed. He was focused and unwavering in his subject of Sunflowers.

One of the distinguished galleries in the state offered to host a show for him. There will be an elegant gala introducing his work to art collectors with deep pockets. He invited Clytie to join him.

Photo by Fidel Fernando on Unsplash

The gala was intoxicating. Clytie was proud of Apollo. He glowed and exuded sunshine just like his flowers. He'll tell you, like the saying goes, you have to have a crack to let the light in. When he cracked everything shifted.

All of his paintings sold. At midnight he went up on stage and thanked everyone for coming. However, he told the guests there was one last painting to unveil. It was not for sale. It was his piece de resistance.

When the velvet blanket came off. The crowd gasped. I'm not sure if it was for the painting or for the artist. Apollo dropped down on one knee and opened a box revealing a canary tourmaline stone in the middle of diamond encrusted petals. The most dazzling sunflower you've ever laid eyes on. He looked at Clytie.

Photo by Jessica Christian on Unsplash

Clytie ran to him and jumped in his arms.

This was better than any fantasy she ever created.

As they say in only the best fairy tales, "They lived happily ever after......"

Till next time.

Love,
Kelly

Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash

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New Beginnings or....

6/15/2021

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Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

Dear Friends,

This is a letter of new beginnings, or wrapping up a life well lived. Perhaps, I'm romanticizing my life by saying well lived. For sure it was lived, survived, sometimes thrived, a lot of times contented, chaotic in chunks most definitely. I suppose that's how everyone's lives are.

I'm an optimist.

I hope to highlight the good in life, but I'm not going to make any major declarations on this project. Ha, that's something I love to do. I'm going to do this and that. I promise to write everyday. Even though, I really mean it when I say that, and I really want to with all my heart.

I won't.

If you believe that it's certain I will disappoint you. So, I put forth no expectations, and I probably shouldn't even call this a project.

If you have happened along, welcome. I love that pink door picture at the top of the page. I really would like to know what's behind it. Who lives there? What do they do? How do they live? Houses fascinate me and spark my curiosity.

It's funny how much I adore that pink door. I've never been a fan of pink before and lately, I can't get enough. I mean I liked it on people, I didn't hate it, but it wasn't a choice of color I would choose for anything.

"Pink has always been a color in transition, and so have social attitudes towards it," said Valerie Steele, editor of the recently published book "Pink: The History of a Punk, Pretty, Powerful Color," in a phone interview.

The above paragraph is a quote from an article. The color pink: a cultural history.

I'm in transition like the color pink. No, I don't mean this in a doom and gloom way. It's just well, I"m entering the crone phase. If I'm honest, I've been there awhile, just been in denial. I'm embracing it now and all the wild, feral and guttural magic that comes along with it.

Photo by Matt Flores on Unsplash

The yellow door above is another entryway I'd love to cross. This one has stairs. Does it lead to a gothic garden filled will magical plants and animals before you get in the house?

Do the inhabitants have margaritas and conga lines on full moons? Or is it dilapidated and the yellow door a ruse to keep nosy relatives, or county officials away?

If'n you choose to come along with me, there will be many talks on houses, food, and people. People, people and more people.

There is much to say, and like I said I'm feeling emboldened to talk. Besides my husband and sons, and wonderful critters, I suppose this will be my legacy.

I feel a strong urge to make sure before I leave this world it's known I WAS HERE. Just like all those daring folks who write on underpasses, bridges and cliffs, "Kelly was here."

I'm also hoping in some small way I leave this world better than when I arrived. I'm not sure how to do that other than tell stories.

Till next time.

Love,
Kelly

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Edna Andrews

Mrs. Green

Dogs, dogs and beautiful dogs

Tender

Little January

The Horizon

Muses

New Beginnings or....

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