I’m marveling this Monday morn, reliving Robert’s and my delightful hiking adventure at nearby J. F. Gregory Park down in nearby Richmond Hill GA.
And a little picnic in the park …
I hope you have something to marvel about this Monday.
My weekly gratitude journal, of sorts.
1. Fresh South Georgia Bi-color Corn.
Or as I call it, Bisexual Corn.
2. My new, neat little sitting and reading area in our bedroom. Robert put up the shelves next to my chair.
Now he can watch his superhero movies and shows in the living room, and I can read, quietly, in the bedroom.
It probably doesn’t look like much to you, but these couple of square feet are my own little nest to settle, relax, breathe and read.
3. The incredible ability to make plans. To prepare. To dream. To think ahead.
4. Incredible truth, which I often don’t pause to remember.
We were walking through Hobby lobby the other day, when Robert said, “Neal pick up these, hold them. Let me take a few pictures of your truth.”
5. A very inappropriate, but humorous and truthful candle I saw on my older daughter Amy’s bedside table recently.
May you enjoy some inappropriate humor this weekend!
Like my somewhat odd obsession with colorful paper napkins (reminder: speak with therapist about this), I also love another kitchen item — the humble mug or cup.
For some reason (therapist note #2), I find mugs and cups comforting, substantial and grounding, especially when filled early morn with coffee and half and half, or if I’m in a adventurous mood, heavy cream.
Here a few more of my mugshots.
I asked Google AI about the difference between a mug and a cup, but I’m not sure she (?) he (?) got it quite right:
“A mug is a type of large, durable cup with a handle, used for hot drinks and without a saucer, while a cup is a smaller, more general-purpose drinking vessel, often more delicate, and might or might not have a handle or saucer. Mugs are designed for casual, everyday use with heartier beverages like lattes or hot chocolate, whereas cups are often favored for more formal settings with drinks like tea or coffee.”
But okay, whatever. I like them both.
And look, here’s one without a handle!
HR and a few mugcups …
Well, that’s about enough mugginess for one post.
Both moaning and marveling a bit this Monday.
Robert and I are grandson-, doggie- and house-sitting for Daughter Amy and Scott while they take Grandson Daniel off to his freshman year of college.
One of the duties is taking Coastal for walks.
And even though it’s less than a month from the beginning of fall, it’s still HOT here in Savannah — 88 with a real feel of 96 this afternoon.
So here I am walking Coastal this afternoon – Senior Citizen Edition.
Afterwards …
Grandson Matthew’s new puppies. Uh, can you tell which one is the runt of the litter?
A few weeks ago, as HR and I were pursuing the aisles at the grocery store, I spotted up on a shelf, high above the more popular eye-level products, an item that quickly hurled me back through the decades into my childhood—potato sticks!
This yummy (and of course highly processed) treat often found its way into my lunches back in the late 1950’s and 60’s. (Am I really that old?)
I have four brothers. And potato sticks were cheap. But I loved them … a culinary delicacy! (I’m from VERY rural North Georgia.)
Or maybe I’m just reminiscing that I loved them, when in reality I’m nostalgically mixing up potato sticks with the concept of home, Mama and an “everything-is-right-in-the-world” yesteryear cosmovision.
I asked Robert if he remembered them.
“Yes, of course,” he answered, but with his eyes more focused on fancy Utz Chips and Dot’s Homestyle Pretzels ($7.99 a bag, seriously?) I wondered if he really did.
There’s nothing fancy about potato sticks. They are probably rejects from potato chip manufacturing who find their way, smashed, second level, into poor little matchstick-like treats for very rural, backward children who consider them delicacies.
Back at Kroger, I tiptoed up and up and managed to reach them, handling them oh so carefully as I sauntered back down to earth and positioned my old friends like little senior citizens in our buggy. I invited them home.
At the lunch table, a bit nervous, the sticks chose to sit beside another childhood staple, the utilitarian, everyman hot dog.
What a joy it was to reconnect with friends I haven’t seen in decades. We sat there, enjoying each other’s company, until they slowly disappeared into my … consciousness.
The only difference was the packaging. They’re now sold in more modern bags instead of yesterday’s cardboard canisters.
But then again, my packaging has changed pretty significantly over the years as well.
I love making smoothies without following any specific recipe.
This morn I noticed that our last Banana was on the Brink of Bereavement, so I asked if he would like to go for a final swim with his buddies Pineapple, Strawberry, Spinach, Turmeric, and Cayenne.
“ Yes, let me peel off what I’m wearing and I’ll jump right in!”
A blog category about finding “art” in unexpected places and situations
So Robert and I were driving down the Truman Parkway here in Savannah the other day, minding our own business, when I casually looked out the passenger-side window and saw this.
Well actually, I “saw” nothing at first and started to look away, again casually, when a thunderous shout/scream reverberated through our little vehicle.
“WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT? TAKE A PICTURE—IT’LL LAST LONGER!”
Two things happened next. First, I quickly took another picture.
Second, before I glanced at the second photo, I nervously chuckled in my terror, remembering the famous Pee-wee Herman line.
The Chuckle Changed to Chagrin as I saw the bright, angry lightning pulse through the … the … the creature’s laughing mouth. See it?
“Robert!” I yelled. “Do you see him? We must leave this place! It harbors horror! Drive faster!”
HR took his eyes off the road for a second, long enough to give me a here-we-go-again stare, a stare one might bequeath a pitiful child or, perhaps, Pee Wee Herman.
“He was there. I saw him,” I countered.
But by that time the furtive creature had made his way into the words.
We rode the rest of the way home in silence.
NealEnJoy 