A Ted Tale

One night when the moon was bright on the moonlit bay
That is where I found my little Cherokee maid
The memory of that night of love is lingering yet
And I know I never will forget

My little Cherokee maiden, I love her so
And though we're far apart
I know I'll never be tradin' my love for her
For anybody else's heart
Someday I'll make a trip back to that Cherokee Strip
And I'll carry her away with me
And straight as an arrow flies
We'll ride to paradise
My sweet little chickadee, my little Cherokee maiden and me

"Cherokee Maiden" - written by Cindy Walker & 1st performed by Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys

Confession. This is a post about my sweet Daddy. My dad is quite the music man. He's the ultimate Renaissance guy, a modern day Barbara Mandrell, if you will. Instruments he mastered at one point in his life: guitar, violin, piano, accordion. Heck, he can probably pick out some western swing with a comb and tissue paper. He LOVES Bob Wills. He is my Daddy. He is 90 years old today.

I couldn't pick a song, only an artist. So, I caved and just chose MY favorite Bob Wills song. Western Swing is about as interesting as my father. It's a little folk and a little campfire country and a teence of bluegrass (Bob likes to holler) and a lot of jazz. I have come to appreciate and love it a little more every year, especially Bob Wills, who is, in fact, still the King. But back to my Daddy. What is being 90? It means you were born in 1927. It means you grew up in The Great Depression. It means Uncle Sam beckoned you into WWII. It means hard work and lots of gumption and zero charity and a warm, loving heart. It means Ted Stilwell. I wanted you to know more about him, this nonagenarian who can still cut a mean rug on the dance floor and makes the best vegetable soup you've ever eaten. He's the Ted who just drove a 500 ft motor home (ok, it's 37 feet but it might as well be 500 ft) across town and perfectly parked it in the RV lot. He's the Ted who can outwork and outsmart and out maneuver any other man I've ever met....still.

At the end of the day, I'm just a girl who loves her Daddy more than the world. If you're also a daddy's girl, this is for you. I wrote a letter to my father and tucked it into his birthday card. He'll open it later today. If you read the whole thing, you'll get to see a picture of the most handsome 90 year old man in the history of ever..........


I have something to say to the world. Not me, exactly. Not the almost 50 year old me, but the little girl me wants to tell you something. I feel bad for all of you other little girls. Really bad. You didn’t have my daddy. I wish you would’ve for I know the world would be a much better place simply because we’d all know the most amazing things. What things, you ask? There are so many, but here are my favorite daddy lessons.

·         The world neither promised nor owes you a damn thing. YOU go out and work your tail off every day. YOU put in the time. YOU figure it all out. YOU make your own luck. YOU sow the seeds & reap the benefits. YOU deal with the consequences. YOU give it everything you’ve got and go to sleep every night knowing the world took 200% out of you and dream happy dreams because you are privileged to get up the next day and do it all again.

·         Be humble. You are no better than the worst person and no worse than the best. We all have glorious light in us. We all have terrifying darkness in us. Things that have no bearing on your relationships: race, gender, nationality, wealth, education. Things that forming a relationship with any person should hinge on: their willingness to share a meal with you when there isn’t much to share, the fact that they are first in line to help you when the day is long and the work is dirty, that they are honest, that they are kind even when no one else is watching, that they work hard.

·         Live beneath your means. Live way beneath your means. Watch every dollar. Count every dime. The Great Depression was a hard time to be a child. Remember, hard times make you who you are. Hard times make it easy to tell the good folks from the not so good folks. Without the hard times, how would we appreciate the good times? You can’t feel the highest high unless you’ve felt the lowest low. So save that money for the rainy days and save even more for the torrential downpours.

·         When you say something, anything, have something to say. Don’t complain about any single thing unless you are prepared to give solid advice on a solution. Better yet, just try and say the good things. Those bad things are already looming around in the recesses of our minds. They don’t need a voice. Give the good things a voice. Go in search of sweet words. Make people feel blessed to have spoken to you. The kinder you can make your own words, the sweeter thoughts you’ll think. Suddenly, the world won’t be such a terrible place.

Not every little girl had a daddy like mine. They didn’t get the daddy that grew up in The Great Depression. Their daddies aren’t WWII veterans. Their daddy didn’t make them feel like he’d lay his life on the line for them, dig a 40 ft well by himself so they could have water, show them how to grow all the veggies, show them how to work on cars, accompany their violin playing with an organ, teach them to love Bob Wills. They didn’t get to see their daddies turn 90.

I am a lucky, lucky girl.

Where's the Beef?

Got a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack
I went out for a ride and I never went back
Like a river that don't know where it's flowing
I took a wrong turn and I just kept going

Everybody's got a hungry heart
Everybody's got a hungry heart
Lay down your money and you play your part
Everybody's got a hungry heart

"Hungry Heart" - Bruce Springsteen

 I'm rolling my eyes already. You probably don't want to read this because it will probably come off as preachy and that is not my intent. I looked at the tag line for this blog today and it definitely reads as "vintage design . heirloom recipes . merciful stories." I have been sorely lacking both the design front AND the recipe front. But as for that tag line...things that are best described as heirloom: brooches, tomatoes, old dentist tools, the odd corset. Yet, I chose that nomenclature to describe the recipes I would showcase. Oy vey. I meant to give you heirloom recipes, I truly did. My stomach did not agree. Allow me to explain.

More eye rolling. I cannot eat animal protein. Actually, my mother told me to stop saying there are things I cannot do because that could accidentally become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Rephrase! I try not to consume animal protein because I wind up in the fetal position for a few days when I do. There! Thanks, 8 years ago chemo. Love you, too. So I'm vegan. Am I the type of vegan that thinks we shouldn't eat animals? Well, I could say yes, but in my heart of hearts I realize I wouldn't be vegan if my stomach hadn't thrown a ginormous hissy fit. I will say that I totally believe no one would eat meat if you could see the average post WWII farm, both the way the animals are housed and the manner in which they are slaughtered. It's disgusting. Still, I occasionally cave. For instance, this past weekend was my daddy's 90th birthday bash! My brother smokes brisket that would make any pit master shake in their shoes. I had to eat it. Ditto with sliced beef pho. Ditto with Boots Burgers in Rockwall, TX. So I simply try to eliminate all but a monthly carnivore experience, making sure it is actually worth a come to Jesus gut apocalypse. What do I do all the other days of the month? I'm veganish. Yep, if it had a face and it is a substance I could eat or if it produces the substance I could eat, I don't. Eat it, that is. (Cue Weird Al Yankovic.) So, if I don't eat animal stuff, what do I eat? Tonight I bring you tacos.....crunchy vegan style.

My kids (they are actually grown ups and they are a married couple with a child, but I will forever call them my kids) came into town a while back. They stayed with us. I decided to experiment and cook a vegan dinner - BTW, my husband is FORCED to eat vegan with me and his cholesterol is so low it deserves a medal. So, I just told the kids there were tacos in the kitchen. My adult son was on his 4th taco before I broke down and told him they were vegan. Yep, that good. I'm about to show you how to make a boat load of vegan "taco meat." Get ready to have a religious experience.

What will you need?

• 1 head of cauliflower
• Several mushrooms (I didn't count them - eye roll. maybe 1/2 of a small cardboard container)
• 1 cup of walnuts (mine were chopped but any consistency will do)
• Seasonings - Cayenne, Chicago Steak Seasoning, Cumin, Chili powder, Garlic powder
• A food processor & a skillet

Rinse your cauliflower thoroughly and chop into florets. Take the stalk and all the other parts of the cauliflower, wrap them in a grocery bag, and take them outside to the trashcan. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY DO NOT PUT THEM IN YOUR KITCHEN TRASH. If you do, the police will show up the next day to do a welfare check and they will assume you're either dead or you murdered someone a week ago. That is how bad the cauliflower will smell by the next morning. Trust me. You will need to separate the florets into 3 batches. We are going to run the cauliflower through the food processor and I haven't found a processor yet that can handle the whole shebang. So process the cauliflower in 1/3 increments until it's the consistency of rice. Dump it all in a mixing bowl. Next, run all of the mushrooms through the processor, also until they are the consistency of rice. Do the same with the walnuts. At this point you should have a HUGE bowl of cauliflower and smaller bowls of both mushrooms and walnuts. Like so......

Odd, yes. But, hang in there. The best is yet to come! Next you'll need a large skillet and approx 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Heat the skillet. Heat the oil. Toss in 2 cups of cauliflower rice and 1 cup each of the mushrooms and the walnuts (probably all of the mushrooms and walnuts. Eye roll - sorry, I don't measure). Put the rest of the cauliflower in a sealed container and refrigerate. You can heat it in a skillet. later in the week, with a little salt and pepper and use it exactly as you would rice! Stir your concoction well and add the seasoning. I even included a picture!

I think I usually start with 2 Tbsp of Chili Powder, 2 Tbsp of Garlic Powder, 1 Tbsp of Steak Seasoning, 1 Tbsp of Cumin, and a liberal dash of Cayenne. After that, just taste. I like extra everything and tend to go heavier on the spicier elements. You do you. Cumin is life. That is all. After you get your seasoning just right, heat at medium, letting the "meat" brown on both sides. Guess what? That's it! You can now have a taco salad, soft tacos, hard tacos....add this to taco soup in place of the meat. You name it. It is delicious. You can now have 2 tacos. Cause, who needs meat? Not me....until next month. Here are two amazing iPhone pictures of the finished product...

Listen, it wasn't a brooch or a tomato, but it is a kick A alternative to animal protein that you'll find to be amazingly meat like both in texture and in flavor. Yes, that plate is sitting on my kitchen island which is really a thrift store desk that I painted to resemble a shipwreck with a mermaid and some koi fish. I'm a little cray, but it's a 99% vegan cray. Your tummy and your cholesterol will thank you. If you made it to the end of this post, drop me a comment. And, I thank you, too! You pretty much rock. GO VEG!

Spider & Ted's Excellent Adventure

Just the good old boys
Never meanin' no harm
Beats all you ever saw
Been in trouble with the law
Since the day they was born

Straghtenin' the curves
Flattenin' the hills
Someday the mountains might get 'em
But the law never will

Makin' their way
The only way they know how
That's just a little bit more
Than the law will allow

"Theme from the Dukes of Hazzard" - Waylon Jennings

Today I took my parents to see my daddy's brother. Nothing remarkable about that on the surface. My father has two siblings who are still alive and well - my Aunt Pat & Uncle Billy who we all refer to lovingly as Uncle Spider. Uncle Spider has been under the weather and we thought it was high time to go for a visit. Recently, I realized that my husband can spend 30 minutes alone with my father and hear stories I've never heard before. Hubby has a kind heart and a gentle soul and he dotes on every word my father says, garnering these results. I decided to stop talking so much and start listening more. Today, I secretly recorded a three minute conversation between these two brothers. It was sweet, hilarious, and brought me to tears. I want you all to read it. This is transcribed VERBATIM with no changes, including grammar and what I call "country folk talk." Enjoy this little ditty about life in Bristol, TX pre-WWII.

Uncle Spider: This old cow we had down there, she was a gentle old cow. She come around and she picked me up on her horns and carried me plumb down to that creek. Boy, I had me a good cow.

Daddy: Boy, I don’t remember that.

Uncle Spider: Yeah, I was up there just a ridin’ along. Course old JB (their father), he was just waitin’ on another bill from the doctor. I broke both of these arms and he had to go get 'em set.

Daddy: Yeah, now that I do remember.

Uncle Spider: I don’t know where Daddy got the money, cause there wasn’t no money.

Daddy: I remember Jack was layin’ down & Spider would get on his feet and Jack would shove him and he’d go way up in the air, you know, and come down. But, one time he come down and broke his arm.

Uncle Spider: Well, I broke the other one, too, when I was down at Uncle Bob’s playin’ rubber guns, you know, up in the barn. Somebody shot me and I fell off and broke my arm. JB had to carry me to Ennis to Dr  Thomas (?) You remember him? Who knows where he got the money. He didn’t have any money. But, that was way back there in 1942.

Daddy: Oh, lordy, times have changed.

Uncle Spider: Man, I miss old JB.

Daddy: Oh yes.

Uncle Spider: Well, momma too, you know. I don’t believe you could find a more perfect momma and daddy in the world than them, do you? I just don’t know if any other couple would make a better mother and father than what we had.

Daddy: That’s right. That’s right. They were good (smiles). They had problems, too, back when he was playin’ the fiddle. And, he brought this old record home, “Seven Years with the Wrong Woman.” Well, momma listened to that til she finally said that was it and she took that record up and (breaks it over his knee). Broke that thing into 99 pieces. And, that was all of the song, “Seven Years with the Wrong Woman.”

Uncle Spider: (Talking to me) My dad was – the government made him, in Bristol – Bristol’s on a high hill on a direct line to Houston. So, they made JB the Air Raid Warden, but he was drunk all the time so I got to do it. I was 12! 12 years old. I’d get up on that old phone, you know. That old ringer phone. And, Maude Manry would answer. Well, when I said “Red Flag” everybody got cut off (he explained it was a party line).  And, it went right direct to Love Field. Then, I’d tell em I was in Bristol. See, they had a huge map up there & a bunch of military people. And I’d call in – they had this program all the way to Houston – so I’d call in from Bristol. You know I’d say “I just saw an airplane come over. 4 engines.” Stuff like that. But, I guarantee you I did it for 2 years. Air Raid Warden and I’s 12 years old. That was back when WWII was startin’. 

Daddy will soon be 90 years old. Uncle Spider is 87. There are so many more stories to hear. How my great grandfather had a cabin on the banks of the Trinity River and my Granny was scared to let young Ted go alone for fear of the alligators that were so prevalent. How my Gramp became a barber because there just wasn't a future in sharecropping. How Gramp was quite the honky tonk fiddle player back in the day. How Granny wasted all the fresh eggs one day because the boys wouldn't stop fighting so she PUMMELED them with eggs. Those Stilwells. They sure are good stock! I implore you to do less talking and more listening, too. The world needs more good stories. 

Eight Christmases

Please take down the mistletoe
'Cause I don't wanna think about that right now
'Cause everything I want is miles away
Snow covered little town
My momma's in the kitchen, worrying about me
Season's greetings, hope you're well
Well I'm doing alright
If you were wondering
Lately I can never tell

I know this shouldn't be a lonely time
But there were Christmases when you were mine

"Christmases When You Were Mine" - Taylor Swift

This isn't going to be a sad post. It may be a bit melancholy, but hang in there just a bit. It will not be sad. I've been there. I have a Phd in sad. I'm so over sad. Melancholy, though, is a whole different monster. Contemplative is a beast. Introspective is a freaking scary movie. Resignation is a house of horrors. But not sad. Never, ever again. Mark my words.

As a child growing up in a very rural suburb of Dallas, had you asked me where I'd be today, I'm not sure what response you'd have received. If you could read my Dr. Suess "All About Me" book, you'd know that 6 year old DD wanted to be an airline stewardess with a mini-skirt uniform, a Marlo Thomas "That Girl" bouffant flip, knee high white shiny boots, and an ascot of some sort. Middle school me was convinced I would be an amazing actress - maybe the next Kristi McNichol or Tatum O'Neal? High School moi was determined to be a news anchor. Heck, I should be on Good Morning America by now. I knew one thing. I was going to be somebody important. Oh, but those best laid plans of mice, men, & naive children. 49 years later, I can tell you one thing. It's been an adventurous life. I worked in a bank. I worked for an ex-husband. I worked in a library. I worked in pharmaceuticals. I worked in sales. I worked in management at a distribution warehouse. I worked for a veterinarian. I worked as a national traveling sales trainer. Which job did I like the best? Easy peasy. The one I hope to hold for another 49 years. I worked as a mom. There were 4 beautiful children. All so different. All so perfect. All so me. Some are here. One is gone. Three were birthed. One was inherited, like that even matters. I have diapered. I have nursed. I have taught. I have cried. I have prayed. I have bargained with God above. I have worried. I have sacrificed. I have won. I have lost. I have been an abysmal failure. I have been the absolute best.  This is one job I have never, ever quit.

When you lose a child, you lose a tether - a tether to other people, a tether to yourself, a tether to reality. It's a bit like being in a hot air balloon, I would imagine. Very scary. Totally unpredictable. Yet, as you're free floating through the sky, IF you can calm your heart, & IF you can take deep breaths, & IF you can keep from vomiting, you'll notice the sky. You'll see the ground. You'll realize you have a vantage point to witness such miraculous things. Things you never noticed before. Things like how beautiful people's skin tones are - no two are alike. Things like rain & clouds - Instagram only wishes they had those filters. Things like the majestic sound of thunder. Things like the smell of freshly mowed grass or the smell of coffee. Things like someone you love saying your name.

It has been eight Christmases since she was here. I remember everything. Every mole. Every fingernail. The smell of her head. The sound of her voice. The clomp of her feet in the morning. Her laugh. I remember these things because God answered my prayer. He told me to always love her. He told me melancholy was fine but sad was no bueno. He told me to see her in every newborn puppy and every blade of grass and every raindrop. He said I could find her in the eyes of each kind person I would ever meet. He told me that she would be snuggled up next to me in the wee hours of every single morning. He said, if I tried really really hard, I could feel her hugs when I needed them most. He said I was somebody important, after all. That's why he shared her with me.

Be important.

Merry Christmas.

Boys with Mustaches

If you had not have fallen
Then I would not have found you
Angel flying too close to the ground
And I patched up your broken wing and hung around a while
Trying to keep your spirits up and your fever down

I knew that someday you would fly away
For love's the greatest healer to be found
So leave me if you need to, I will still remember
Angel flying too close to the ground

"Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground" - Willie Nelson


I am pretending that I am at a funeral. Lord knows that the older I get the more funerals I seem to go to. I suppose it's equal parts age and good southern manners, but, goodness - it's still difficult. See, I am missing a funeral next week. I don't want to miss it, but there's this thing about this mastectomy revision surgery. It involves me being absolutely fine and as cancer free as one could imagine. Nevertheless, there are surgical drains and my potential incapability to draw in my eyebrows correctly that are keeping me from attending. Mostly, the drain. A little bit involves the restriction of raising my arms above my head. Or driving. But the person who passed, can we talk about him? I haven't laid eyes on him nor have I spoken to him in well over 30 years, yet I've cried over him almost every day for the last week. Let me tell you a little story about Roger Dale McKinley, Jr.

It was the fall of 1979. I was in the 7th grade (cue my momma's Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight pulling up to the curb of Seagoville Jr High School one afternoon). I had long brown hair and feathered bangs that were not permitted to start the feathering process until they reached my cheekbones. I was not even 5 ft tall. I wasn't allowed to wear make-up yet, but I was not opposed to sneaking pool cue chalk to school in my otherwise empty purse and using it as eyeshadow in the girl's restroom (this was Seagoville, after all). I was most likely wearing dittos jeans and earth shoes with a peasant shirt AND a ton of Love's Baby Soft. I'm sure I spotted the Olds and held back for a bit, painfully shy as I was, back in the day. It was my chance to observe. Fast forward - I launch myself into the chocolate brown velour front seat. As my momma reached for the gear shift on the steering column, I did the simultaneous spoken and gestured "stop." This boy walked out from the covered awning and stood next to the sidewalk. Jeans. T-shirt. Baseball cap. Pretty much the outfit du jour of today's modern day 7th grade boy. But, he turned. For 5 seconds I thought maybe he saw me. And, never one to be shy in the safety of my momma, I said - "I love him." Enter Roger McKinley.
So, the funny part of the story was my momma! I distinctly remember her saying, "Dina Dale, is he 30?" This is where things get super funny. Yes, we had the same middle name. Great for him. Not so great for me, but I digress. This is where we pretend I'm actually at the funeral and I found the wherewithall to stand up when they say "would anyone like to share your memories of the loved one"...raise your hand if you remember the full on Roger McKinley stache of the 7th grade? Am I right? He had a complete mustache & I loved it. I also don't think he knew I existed. Yet.

Act 2. It's the spring. Young Roger is between Jr High romances and somehow I manage to catch his eye. I cannot recall the specifics but I imagine it involved 300 spiral notebooks of lettering our names together and 300 more calls to Eagle 97 for them to play "I Want You to Want Me" and undoubtedly some practical magic on my part. He looked at me outside of the cafeteria, baseball cap/mustache/feathered hair and all, and said the magic words. Will.You. Go. With. Me.
For the next approximate 3.5 weeks, I traipsed the grounds of the joint Seagoville Jr High/High School campus holding hands with the then love of my young life. Back to reality. Young Roger's life would not be a bed of roses. He would lose touch with me. He would lose touch with many. He would fight demons and addictions. Sometimes he would win. Sometimes he would lose. Sometimes he would haunt my dreams. The whole purpose of this blog entry is for me to share this part of this recollection. I've lost immediate family members. This is the kind of story I would have enjoyed hearing from an old friend.

When Roger McKinley is your 7th grade boyfriend, it goes a little something like this: He calls you on the phone Friday after school and asks you if you'd like to go on a "date" at Super Skate Saturday night. Duh. You pause for effect, looking down at your princess slimline baby blue phone (because a girl has to play hard to get) and you say, "kay." He says to meet him at 7:30 and not to be late. So you do. If you think you'll pay for your own Dr Pepper at the concession stand, think again. That's not how Roger rolls. He's extremely soft spoken. I seem to recall he had the voice of an angel. I seem to recall it was next to impossible to get him to sing. He opens doors for you. He orders for you. He puts his hand on your back to guide you into the snack bar. He finds a booth and he doesn't sit down until you do. When they leave the jalapenos off of your nachos, he goes back to get them. He's not a big skater, but if you make a pouty face during the couple skate, he can be persuaded. And, when another boy says untoward, vile things about you, he'll tell you that he'll be right back. As you sit there, unaware, he will take that boy around to the back and teach him some manners. And then he will sit with you on a bench for the rest of the night while you pick his bottom lip out of his braces with a concession stand toothpick. My 7th grade Roger was a gentleman.

See, I didn't know the Roger of the last 30 years. I'd heard here and there - stories of his misfortune. I knew he wasn't doing well. I knew, like so many people we all know and love from every single walk of life, that he was fighting battles in a war his family so prayed he would win. About 2 years ago, he sent me a Facebook friend request. I accepted. That's all I did. I saw he was doing better. I saw that he was fighting. Demons be damned, Roger was not going down easily.  I wish that I'd done more. I wish I would have reached out and shared this memory with him. About a boy in the 7th grade with an awesome mustache who shared my middle name and fought for my dignity.

Fly high Roger. We'll always have 3 weeks of 7th grade romance.

Your takeaway - if you have a Roger McKinley in your past, share your memories with them. We all need to know we made a positive impact along the way. He did.

Banana Snipers & Tiny Raves

The mouse takes the cheese
The mouse takes the cheese
Heigh ho the derry-o
The mouse takes the cheese

The cheese stands alone
The cheese stands alone
Heigh ho the derry-o
The cheese stands alone

"Farmer in the Dell" - Author assumed to be a German individual in the early 1820's

So, here we are. It's just me, a girl from the country. Raised among feral cats, ride-able donkeys, and the occasional cur dog. I'm not above mucking around in the what-have-you. I've shot a gun a few times. I can drive a standard if need be. I've pulled a trailer a time or two. I've backed a boat down a ramp on more than a few occasions. I killed a snake with a garden hoe once. I murdered a hawk-attacked chicken where the ants had already taken over, just out of humanity's sake, in front of my 5 year old daughter...WITH A SHOVEL. I birthed babies at home. I survived breast cancer! My point in telling you this? You'll surely see that I am a tough girl. I don't succumb to silliness and I don't go down easily. If I'm ever found unconscious or worse, check under my nails. I guarantee you there will be forensic evidence. It's just that I'm in a dilemma that I've only been in a time or two. Lawd have mercy, there's a mouse in this house.

Book One - What in Heaven's Name is Going On?

I'm an early riser, Mostly, that's due to the fact that I'm a crappy sleeper. My Mom is also a crappy sleeper. She used to get up at 6 am. Now she's up at 3:30 am. I'm deep breathing just thinking about what the future holds for me. But anywho, bout that mouse? I stumble into the kitchen around 6:15 with no alarm. Now, there's a ritual to be observed and I am all about the rituals in life. I get up, The poodle gets up. I put my jammie pants on. The poodle stretches. I place the poodle on the floor. We walk together to the bathroom. We then walk together to the kitchen. We let the other, less fortunate dogs out of their super comfy kennel with the uber soft comforter. They go outside, I gather their food bowls. I mix extraordinarily expensive hard dog food with extraordinarily expensive soft dog food and I basically spoon feed them all. The poodle and I return inside. I grab creamer. I grab coffee. I blindly punch buttons on the Keurig. Then, I see it.

For about 30 seconds I chant "it's just spices" about 100 times out loud. I rationalize that pepper grounds roughly the equivalent to half of a chocolate chip were magically left for me by the previously unknown "pepper elves." What else could it be? A comma that literally dropped off of a page? Barbie's bobby pin? As my almost 50 year old eyes begin to adjust, I see other things that are wrong. So very, very wrong. Why do all the bananas have quarter sized holes in them? Banana sniper? Seriously, is there a tiny white sniper van driving down my kitchen island aiming at the fruit bowl? Then I see the hellacious mess in the pantry. There's a hole in the flour bag. On the second shelf. There's flour EVERYWHERE, Suddenly, I realize what I'm dealing with. There's a mouse. A rogue mouse. He got high on bananas and obviously threw a rave in my pantry! What are those microscopic orange things on top of my washing machine? They could be pieces of the flour bag. They could also easily be tiny mouse-rave wristbands. Or glowsticks. I'm assuming my mouse was the DJ - Spinderella cut it up one time.

The rave wristbands and the holy bananas (punny as all get out) and the wayward commas all get swept away with a liberal dosing of peroxide. My hands get a liberal dosing in a hot shower. I get myself together and I get to Walmart. I'm on the mousetrap aisle. This is also the ziploc bag aisle, the air freshener aisle, AND the paper towel aisle. There are options. So, so many options. Then, wouldn't you know it, I GET EMOTIONAL! My mouse is adorable, suddenly. My mouse is ticklish. My mouse has a lisp! My mouse is Tiny Tim from A Christmas Carol complete with the British accent! "God bless us, everyone!" I call my husband. In my ear he sounded like the teacher from the Peanuts cartoon (Waa waa waa waa wa waa waa wa WAAAAA). Subconciously I am aware that he is saying things like "kill" and "disease" and "mites"and "no, you cannot buy a live animal trap."


Book Two - Mouseaggedon

Fast forward: I have since been back to Walmart TWICE. We now own 2 different sizes of hard kill traps and two different sizes of glue traps. This is NOT a nice mouse, folks. He's MANIACAL! I have used my amazing profiling skills to create my own Criminal Minds, Mouse Edition. We all have to band together on this one. Pay close attention to this description!

Unsubs name: Ren, as in Ren McCormack from Footloose
Description: severe undercut with the side part "line," known to sport vanity glasses, hasn't worn socks in 5 years. Has been seen with a beard but also known to wear a handlebar mustache. Currently learning to play the guitar - look for him at coffee shops. Likes cardigans and bow ties.
Other useful info: Has been known to speak of his desire to develop his own IPA or manage an Indie band. Has attempted to start his own mouse music festival - Rodentpalooza. Eschews the West Coast at all costs. Dreams of a hipster life in Manitou Springs.

If you see Ren, DO NOT CALL 911. You're on your own, Peace be with you.

Faith in Feathers

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly
Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night

"Blackbird"  -The Beatles

Part 1 - I'm a Little Cray

It's time we talked about feathers. I've been anxious to broach the subject with you, but it's a tenuous line at best, the whole feathers thing. I mean, I certainly put stock in it. But, will you? I've been called many things. Crazy certainly comes to mind. Too free-spirited has been said a time or two. A little bit out there is another fragment I've heard once or twice, downwind from a conversation in my midst. That's ok. Really, it is. With the way the world is today, for me to be considered non-conforming is a heck of a compliment. That's how I'll take it, at least. So, about those feathers.

Lots of things come to mind when one hears the word feathers. Things can be feathered. Like 70's bangs. Paint strokes. Big bird. Smallish birds. People dipped in tar. Things can be filled with feathers. Pillows. Down comforters. Insanely expensive couch cushions. Remember that early 2000's phase where all the girls were getting feathers permanently attached in their hair? That was kinda cool, actually. There are feathers in chandeliers nowadays. Feathers hanging in dream catchers. Native American headdresses. Tattoos. The list is never ending. I'll stop now. Let me get to the heart of the matter. I need to tell you about my feathers.

When someone you love dies, you miss them. Duh. It hurts your heart. Sooner or later, if you're lucky, life intervenes. The other people that you also love need you. Really, really need you. So, you plow forward. Seasons change. That's good, too. And, not so good. Sometimes you sit up in the bed at night with tears streaming down your face and you feel so guilty. Maybe you had a string of several happy-go-lucky days. Even 2 weeks in a row where you belly laughed continuously and did unheard of things like take a vacation.  Your person, though, is still there in your heart. In your mind. In your soul. In your dreams. Do they think you forgot them? How could you dare do this? This being happy thing. Damn you. Then the next day you get up, that overnight nervous breakdown a distant memory, and trudge on. But the winds of change, they're a blowin',

Part 2 - Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

My mother loves cardinals. She believes with every fiber of her being that a cardinal means someone you loved who passed on is coming back to visit you. Cardinals, to her, are a sign of hope. She sees cardinals and thinks of her parents, the baby sister she never knew, countless aunts and uncles, and her granchild, my daughter. I knew someone who firmly insisted that every single penny she every saw on any surface that existed was a sign from her late son. He was telling her to be happy. He was telling her he was ok. That he loved her. Some people associate certain smells with those who've passed away. I'll have to admit, I have a very vague memory of my Great Aunt Floy. Very vague. She was gravely ill in her home. I went to visit her and another of my Great Aunts was there with her grandchildren. My siblings were old enough to live on their own when I was born, so an afternoon with other kids was a rarity. They were boys and they showed me how to make bridge tunnels in the dirt and roll the hot wheel cars through them. Earth shattering. Later on, I was ushered in to see my Great Aunt. She held my hand and touched my hair. She made me promise to read lots of books and she gave me a tiny figurine of a French Victorian lady that I ALWAYS asked to hold when at her house. That was almost 45 years ago and that figurine is currently in my dining room. But, I digress. Almost 20 years later and hurrying to catch the DART bus, I was scurrying through one of the downtown Dallas tunnels that takes you seemingly halfway across the city. I smelled oregano. Tears came to my eyes and I had to stop and take several deep breaths. Aunt Floy, I thought. I smell your kitchen, Aunt Floy. It made me so incredibly happy. And I missed the bus that day, but I was so in awe of this perceived connection that I didn't even care.

And, what does any of this have to do with feathers? That is my sign. From my daughter. I guess when you leave this world at 16 you're always 16. That's the way I see her, anyway - 16, laughing, and beautiful. I have a jar of feathers. Actually a jar, and a tin, and a box. There are a lot of feathers. And, ok, you may be thinking how this has sort of turned into a lame story tonight, BUT WAIT. You haven't heard the whole thing yet. These feathers turn up in the darnedest places. Like, that one time where I was running one morning and really thinking about my daughter. I was wearing sunglasses. Tip - crying in public is much easier when you wear sunglasses. Thank me later. Anyway, as I recovered and be-bopped back up to my house, I'm unlocking the door and about to walk inside when I look down and see, wedged in between the screen door and the front door, a blue jay feather. So, I kept it. And I had the best day that day. Remember the winter a couple of years ago where we had actual snow in Texas? It was way too cold for way too long. I found a feather in the front yard on the snow, which I thought was odd. Here's the BEST feather story. I was working extensively with my friend, Emily. It was c-c-c-cold. December-ish. I was driving to our meeting point. Not a care in the world. (I don't drive. I hold benefit concerts. So, I have the radio as loud as it will go and I belt out songs. Occasionally in key.) When I got to Emily's, I reached for my purse, grabbed my keys, unhooked my seat belt, and noticed something. On my leg. A feather. A guinea feather, no less. In the winter. I scurried inside, feather in hand, and said, "Look what I just found ON MY LEG as I was pulling in." She said, "That's from Chynna." This week, I've found no less that 5 feathers in random places. Somewhere I was about to step. The bed of my truck. Next to my mailbox. Today I was walking into Walmart. I had yesterday's Starbuck's cold brew coffee cup in my hand and thought I'd actually throw it away in the trashcan instead of letting it procreate with the other cups in my truck. As I was trying to get the disgusting gum encrusted trashcan lid to swing inward, something glided past my face and landed at my feet, Forrest Gump style. A feather. A huge, black feather with white speckles on the ends. I kept it. It's sitting here next to me as I'm writing this. "Okay, daughter of mine," I thought. "Let's share this." Maybe one day I'll have enough feathers to make a Native American headdress. Or a dream catcher. Or a pillow. Maybe she is trying to tell me something. I guess that is a long shot. Communicating with my late daughter through a series of feather sightings? But after all, what is the definition of faith? Unshakable belief in something you cannot prove. Boom. I'm ok, baby girl. Better than ok. I'm awesome. And I love the feathers. And I love you.