My daughter-in-love...

...sent this to me and Mr. A.

This is what the plate looked like when I got it. 

It doesn't look like this anymore.  :D 

Thank you, Meghan! 

A shoe!!!

So, I'm sitting at the computer desk and Mr. A walks in, handing me one pink fuzzy slipper. 

He said he heard me say, "A shoe!" 

Most normal husbands would say, "Bless you!" 

I'm so happy he's not normal.  If he was, he'd have a hard time being married to me. 

As is usual, my man has made me laugh first thing in the morning.  I cannot recall a day in which he hasn't made me laugh at least once. 

"A merry heart doeth good like a medicine..."  Proverbs 17:21 (KJ21)

 On Saturday at Sam's, he saw Ms. Sonja who manages the optical department and steered our cart right toward her.  She began to move out of his way and he said, "Oops, didn't see you.  I don't have on my glasses." 

A gigantic smile filled her face.

What can you spring from your merry heart to put a smile on the face of another?  That's your assignment today.  I'm not sure  everyone could appreciate being handed a shoe or having a huge shopping cart rolled in their direction, so be original, think of something else.

Love, laughter and smiles to you and yours,

Mrs. A 

Happy Birthday in heaven, William Francis Amiot

12/15/14 - 06/22/98




This photo of Mr. A's parents was taken on our wedding day, September 21, 1986, his first time being best man.  The elder Mr. A was 72 years old when he had that honor, and oh did he wear those tails with panache.  It was as if it were *his* wedding day!  God love him and my Mr. A for wearing pink!    

The most special memory I have of the elder Mr. A was the day he told me if his son ever laid a hand on me to tell him.  He tapped his chest with his huge index finger as he said it.  

My Mr. A once said to me he'd never hit me because I'd hit him back.  I have my grandmother and mother to thank for instilling in me that if-you-hit-me-I'll-hit-you-back attitude.  My father did not live to see me grown; he was 42, I was 11 when he died.  

There are so many things a little girl misses without a daddy around, and to know that kind of noble protectiveness was there for me when my daddy couldn't be was a heart touching blessing.   

The best part of all was the senior Mr. A and I knew that violence would never be an issue in this marriage.  After all, my Mr. A was raised by a man who respected and protected his wife and he revered his mother's memory.  Any single women reading this, marry the son of a man like this!

I believe it was in the elder Mr. A's 73rd year of life when he re-roofed his house.  He didn't pay anyone to do what he could do himself.  My Mr. A is just as strong and driven, works as hard with hands that are identical to his father's.  He has never misused the great strength in them, but with them has only blessed me and our sons.

You raised a fine son, Mr. Amiot.  I'm proud to be his wife and blessed to honor your memory.  
    



Life Handed Me Lemons, so...

...Mr. A and I made lemonade! 

First I got after the grapefruit sized lemons, I so am not exaggerating, with a zester.  Wait, that was the second first.  First I scrubbed them with a vegetable brush.  (Why isn't it marketed as a fruit brush?)  Southern Living's recipe called for a tablespoon of lemon zest.

We saved the seeds from these because my Grannie saved seeds, but also because I thoroughly intend to grow my own grapefruit sized lemons here at The Ponderosa.  These were grown just a few miles from here on Madison Highway, so I'm going to search for, hope and pray for, a sweet spot here where citrus will thrive.

Grannie used to sing a little song to me "Gonna Be A Farmer's Wife" and I didn't find that a very appealing prospect, but now, with any luck, *I* might be the farmer.  A gal's gotta find something to do after the kiddos fly the coop and the front porch and back deck are full of flowers.   

Have you ever seen a contraption like the one upper right?  My mother gave this vintage juice squeezer to me from her mother's kitchen collection.  Put the fruit segments in the cup, pull the handle down and pour the juice from the spout into the Pyrex measuring cup until it reaches the 1 1/2 cup mark.  The recipe called for approximately 13 lemons, but it only took five of these gargantuan lemons to yield that amount. 

Mr. A did the squeezin', of the lemons that is, while I boiled a half cup of water, then added the tablespoon of lemon zest plus 1 1/2 cups of sugar, boiling until all the sugar was melted.  I poured this mixture into a pitcher, added 7 cups cold water, stirred, and we had us a batch of lemonade that made Mr. A pucker up! 

He said it needed more sugar, but no can do!  I set it in the refrigerator and once it was shonuff cold, it was quite tolerable to taste, tart-sweet.  

I still have aplenty of these luscious lemons, so next stop, lemon bars!  Or lemon pound cake with lemon curd.  I love anything lemon--except cars and appliances.  

Pucker up and kiss the one you love!  

Mrs. A   

No War on Christmas in Georgia

Thursday evening Mr. A and I drove to Thomasville, Georgia for the Victorian Christmas celebration in their beautiful downtown.  A little train for the children to ride, Salvation Army brass ensemble, street musicians, food vendors, high school choir and a live Nativity scene were but a thimbleful of the joyous sights, sounds and scents.  No war on the Christ in Christmas there, not even a skirmish. 

We were in line for a very reasonably priced carriage ride--oh, how I love those!--but got a refund on our tickets because it was so blame cold!  Cold is a relative term to me, very much the cold weather weenie, 55° is my cut off point before going inside, and that's in the sunshine.  This sweet evening, even the folks who returned our money smiled and wished me a Merry Christmas.

Our intention was to dine al fresco on street cuisine, but even Mr. A was chilled, so we randomly chose the Q Café for dinner; it looked warm inside as we walked by, and what a good choice it turned out to be.  The acoustics rendered it a bit noisy, as it does in many re-envisioned downtown buildings, but the grilled chicken salad with citrus dressing, sprinkled with candied bacon, as the late Craig Claiborne, restaurant critic and food writer, would say, "Food for the gods."

In the south, I've had my share of pecans in pert near every dish known to man, savory and sweet, but for the first time in my life, I smelled chestnuts roasting on an open fire, compliments of the local Boy Scouts troop.  Like most boys from 2 to 92, they appeared to enjoy playing with and around fire.

On that olfactory note, we went home, donned flannel pajamas and slept soundly.  

The following morning, we went to work in Waycross, Georgia.  My role was more supervisory and clean-up crew, picking up bits Mr. A dropped from his bucket lift as he installed neon tubes on the Rodeo, that's ro-day-oh, Mexican Restaurant.  At one point, he needed me to move the truck, so hopefully this light labor earned me a little room and board at The Ponderosa.  While he was atop the roof, he received an annoying sales call, handed it off to me, so I felt like I was of further assist to my man.  

We have begun to count Friday lunch as our weekly date, saving a few pennies off the dinner menu.  Cavagnaro's was our choice in Waycross and we weren't disappointed, he with lasagna, me with a steak quesadilla, and even the lunch portion yielded plenty of leftovers for another meal.  There was a private party behind our booth through some glass doors, but luckily for us it wasn't soundproof.  The room was filled with old people, my favorite kind, and they sang song after song, first Christmas carols, then a worship song, Emmanuel.  

Emmanuel, Emmanuel,
His name is called
Emmanuel.
God with us,
Revealed in us,
His name is called
Emmanuel.

Ah, no shortage of authentic CHRISTmas joy in Waycross either!

On the way back to Valdosta, we passed through Homerville and on the courthouse lawn was a wooden cutout Nativity scene! 

And when I thought my heart couldn't grow any fuller...



picture nicked from an Internet search, thank you whoever took this!

Mr. A and I went on a treasure hunt in a trip through time in tiny DuPont!

Oh the things I would have loved to haul home, but with space and funds needing respect, I chose two of the following objects and one chose me. 

The half gallon vintage Ball jar, my choice.  I have an inexplicable thing for those jars which began years ago with the discovery of scads of them under the old barn on our property.  They even made their way into my older son and his now wife's rehearsal dinner table top theme in October 2012:

The smaller jars are not vintage, but the raffia beribboned one is. 

 For an amazingly sweet song, the proprietor of the Dupont, GA antiques store sold us the pink depression glass kerosene lantern.  I love the color pink even more than vintage canning jars.  I'm close to certain the clear glass cover is a replacement, few of those survived the test of time, but there are plenty of the bases which did. 

The rose festooned swan trinket box chose me.  As Mr. A and I were leaving, I commented that Grannie had one very similar to this.  The owner strolled in from the front porch and asked me which one--there were several items on the shelf where it was sitting.  I pointed, he picked it up, handed it to me and said, "Merry Christmas!"  

And he said something peculiar:  "You see, all people aren't bad."

I had not said as much to him, that all people are bad, but let me tell you, I have met some stinkers in my lifetime.    

I'm certain I had an encounter with a cross between Santa Claus and Jesus.  He had snow white hair, a deeply lined face, wore a baseball cap and camouflage jacket and smelled of cigarette smoke.  When he saw the tears in my eyes, he hugged me, right in front of God and Mr. A.  

Christmas came early, thoughtfulness and generosity wrapped in rugged paper.

Can't stamp out the Christmas spirit in my beloved south Georgia!  I'm certain it will be among the last bastions standing for Jesus when He returns. 

   

Two Many Things on One Mind

 

 

Mr. A, still bleary-eyed with sleep, walked into the living area with this and said, "This is what happens when your mind is in too many places at one time." 

 

He's not known for being very oriented early mornings, so I had no idea what was on his mind and asked as much:  "Where is your mind?" 

 

"Back in the bed." 

 

Ah, his mind was in two places, eat and sleep. 

 

I love my man! 

 

----------------------

 

That was yesterday morning. 

 

This morning I pick up a few, OK five, tiny Hershey kisses wrappers which I'd placed on the fireplace ledge by my chair.  The intended destination was a trash can, but I walked into the bathroom and threw them into the toilet.  I, who wake the roosters. 

 

I considered taking a picture of it, the silver and red beribboned wrappers looked like little floating Christmas decorations, rather festive, but I talked myself out of posting a pre-dawn picture of a potty.  Well, at least I can still do alliteration in the morning.   

 



Throwback Thursday

First I checked the calendar on the bottom right of the computer screen to make sure it is Thursday.  It is. 

I've noticed that on Thursdays some of my Facebook friends post oldie-goldie pictures and label them TBT.  As a latecomer to cyberspace, I am still learning the acronyms and I've also learned plugging them into a search engine can sometimes yield some shocking results.  Do not look up MMFIC.  Don't do it! 

Talk about shocking, seeing in the mirror the different ways one's face is smeared each morning after five or so decades of living...if you are still young and beautiful, stop right now and go take a picture of yourself.  If you don't think you are beautiful, trust me, you are.  Scoot.  But come back.

The picture above is my maternal grandmother, my mother and myself.  I laid three individual photographs on a scanner and created one cross generational picture.  When one of my brothers first saw this picture of my grandmother, he exclaimed, "That's Leigh!"  I practically worshiped "Grannie", the feeling appeared to be mutual, and to this day, I revere memories of her. 

This is my mother's high school senior portrait, 1951, back when seniors were in 11th grade.  Along the way, I have read snide comments on the Internet people have made about that era in the south, only 11 years of education, and how I wish those folks could have known my mother.  She was possessed of uncanny intellect and common sense, a rare combination, plus a bristling self-confidence that was off-putting to the lesser spirited.  I don't meet many people whose mother took the time to teach their daughter Latin prefixes and suffixes and explain their effect on the root word.  She knew every word in the dictionary, her pronunciation was "DIK-shun-ree", but she kept her knowledge secret and made me look up words I didn't know.

She was also ahead of her time, becoming a nurse in the early 1950s.  She was not impressed by the letters following her name or anyone else's, and if a fool made the mistake of revealing the contents of his or her brain, she'd speak the term "educated idiot" and then extol the industriousness of the self-educated, the farmer, and those possessed of great common sense.   

And there's me at 18.  Would I ever like to know what I know now and look like her!  Grannie taught me every Word in the Bible is true, and the Bible says "beauty is fleeting."  Check.  Grannie's word, the Bible, all true.

The full verse of wisdom states, "Charm is deceptive, beauty is fleeting, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised."  Grannie deserved, earned every accolade she ever received.  I do remember one moment, though, when Grannie said something disturbing:  "I'm ugly."  No she wasn't!  She'd simply grown old.  Even her wrinkles were soft, blessed not to be the deep crevasses living etches on some faces. 

Mom didn't care.  She wore it all like a badge, never colored her hair and didn't wear a dab of makeup, not even lipstick at Grannie's urging.  She grew stout in her adulthood and if appearances ever came up in conversation, she'd say if anyone didn't like the way she looked, they could turn their head the other way. 

You go, Mom!

Time marches on
me, approximately 30
with magnum opus 2
and magnum opus 1,
whom I've recently dubbed
in the Christmas spirit,
Thing One and Thing Two


Fast forward 20 years
my babies went from cute to handsome
and brought home the daughters I didn't have
(Thanks guys!  I love them dearly!)
My eyes reveal the mere four hours of sleep I had the previous night,
but I am trying not to say anything negative about my appearance,
same as when I vowed not to comment
negatively on my droopy boobs
after my best friend died of breast cancer in '02



 

 

And as far as droopy boobs go, Mr. A said long ago the boys could pay to have them fixed as it appeared to be their fault.  They have both graduated college and begun their careers.  Boys? 

Oh never mind.  As a friend of mine who can afford such frivolities once said to me, "I'm saving my surgeries for sickness."   We joked about the loss of the "family nose" and how surprised some spouses might be when their babies came out with this feature or that, unlike mama and daddy. 

Thing One and Thing Two, no surprises for you!  What you see is what you get, and FWIW--another acronym!  For what it's worth, I think your dad is still very handsome and the sight of him can still cause a hitch in my breath.

He tells me I am beautiful, and yes, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, and how I thank and praise the Lord for middle age farsightedness.  We have a joke between us--we'll put on our reading glasses, look at each other and mock a scream.  Then we laugh.

Growing older hasn't been as hard as it looks.  There's that occasional ache in my left knee, but I'll save the organ recitals for later, and I hope I won't elaborate even then.  

Well, the past is a nice place to visit, parts of it anyway, but presently there are kitties and a doggie to be fed, Christmas presents which need wrapping, Christmas presents which need buying!  

The bit about charm being deceptive and beauty being fleeting, it's in Proverbs 31: 10-31.  That woman was also quite industrious, so in order to live up to any semblance of her, I need to get going to the present.  I believe I'll live the rest of this Thursday there. 

Love and good day,

Mrs. A 

P.S.  After Mr. A read this post, he had tears in his eyes.  As knit as our souls are in oneness, tears came to my eyes, too, though I knew not why.  He explained it was seeing the picture of our boys so young.  I reminded him of the current picture and he said one day he'd probably shed tears over that one, too.

This is the same man who, just a few months shy of 60, lifted a Chevy truck rear end at the junkyard while a man half his age had gone to get a fork lift to move it.
  
A real man:  strong, but unashamed of his emotions.        

Before the Sun Rose

No she din't!  This is Ashley, taking advantage of my kindness, letting her inside on a chilly pre-dawn morning.  That is MY chair.  I have a cousin named Ashley, but this is not his namesake.  She was rescued from the middle of Ashley Street in morning traffic.  She was crouching, frozen, and I can't believe she wasn't flattened.  That was about ten or so years ago and as you can see, rescues are very grateful to their owners.  Wait.  That's dogs.  Cats aren't grateful for anything!   

Christmas tree 2013

To the left is a philodendron I brought inside when we had a couple of near freezing nights.  Its tendrils spill to the floor and it occurred to me I could have saved much time and effort by decorating it instead.  I have heard myself say now that the kids are launched, I was going to do one of those small trees to sit atop an end table, but I didn't listen to myself.

I looked in vain for those LED lights which change color, each individual bulb, and am hoping I'll find some later at a reduced price to put back for next year.  I have enjoyed the icy feel of the white lights for several years, but am ready for a change.  Last year our tree was blue and silver.  In previous years I've done a heart theme and a glass theme.  This year red was speaking to me.  

Yes, I'm barking mad.  Red speaks to me.  

As a young married woman, I was visiting an older woman from the church I attended and she did themed trees each year.  I remember being silently in awe of her great wealth--I couldn't imagine having enough Christmas ornaments to do a different theme each year.  After 27 years of keeping home and shopping after Christmas clearance sales, even a poor girl can do themed trees.

Some ornaments make the tree every year, regardless of the theme--the snow flakes my mother crocheted from fine cotton thread, the little mailbox with a note inside from my husband's mother, and now the ornament from Helen, GA, a gift from my older son and his wife.  

Now this is a precious treasure!  I had a wonderful mother-in-law (and I'm trying to be a good one) so I don't appreciate mother-in-law jokes.  Miss you, Rosemary A

a 2013 treasure

 another Mom-made treasure, I'm certain she and Rosemary A are enjoying their rewards in heaven

 a gift from Thing One, AKA older son, and his thoughtful wife.  I'm betting this was her idea! 

 another 2013 addition, we are not ashamed of the CHRIST in Christmas! 

To the right of the tree is my dining table and it is presently covered with the paraphernalia to send out Christmas cards, plus a pile of laundry.  I'm about 98% finished addressing the cards and I'll put the laundry away when my sweet husband awakens.

Not only do I talk to and sometimes listen to myself, red spoke to me this year, hot chocolate is now calling me.  Please don't tell the folks who wield the white jackets! 

Love and blessings to you and yours,

Mrs. A     

Country neighbors are the best neighbors

 

Citrus so fresh the leaves are still green, and lemons as large as grapefruits, that's what I'm talkin' about...thank you Mr. and Mrs. K, neighbors not even in hollerin' distance, but close enough to think of us with their abundance. 

 

I included my soap dispensers in the picture just because I think they are cute, vintage Ball canning jars repurposed for dish and hand soap.     

The Ponderosa's Version of Cialis Bathtubs

More than one or two people have observed my tendency to think very literally; saying concretely could be sketchy because an image of a residential driveway would immediately come to my mind's eye.

Each time a Cialis commercial broadcasts, I tend to ask silently, 'Who the heck has two bath tubs outside?' 

Mr. A and I have two vehicles, but we have not succumbed to the two outdoor bath tubs in order to keep up with the Joneses, or, in this case, the Woods.  Two zero gravity loungers--now that's a different story.  Those we have. 

We also have altogether different ideas about romance. 

I usually occupy the zero gravity lounger on the left, often with a pile of books in my lap.  Mr. A's spot is on the right, sans books.  Sunday afternoon, after a brief visit from baby boy before his departure to Colorado, we retired to the front yard for some much-needed rest. 

I suppose I should explain the location.  During the cooler weather, we drag the loungers from their summer home beneath a Bradford pear tree toward the front of our almost 7 acre spread dubbed The Ponderosa.  Those rich in the language of literature might call our property a glade, but really, it used to be a chicken farm.  Anyway, our bit of the earth the Lord has blessed us with to enjoy during our sojourn here faces east, so this location grants us as much possible time in the rapidly setting fall and winter sun.

My book of the day was Susan Branch's "A Fine Romance:  Falling in love with the English Countryside".  If Susan's books aren't your cup of tea, I'll fill you in.  Her handwriting is her own font, her whimsical drawings, and sweet photographs fill the pages.  This book is dotted with quotations, often written along a wave instead of in line. 

Not so long ago, I read an obituary of a woman who'd found truest love, and one of her joys was the deep, intellectual conversations she and her husband would have.  It was one of the sweetest micro love stories I'd ever read, that obituary. 

My husband will sometimes humor me and listen while I read, though when I hear a snore or a fart, I realize he may not be concentrating.  Don't you dare think badly of him for not caring to read!  He can pilot small aircraft and put a carburetor back together, so there.  Have you ever seen a carburetor completely disassembled into its three gazillion pieces?!  

Back to the book.  One of the wavy quotations was from Ella Fitzgerald:  "The only thing better than singing is more singing."

Mr. A wasn't snoring or farting, but fully enraptured and he lifted slightly from his reclined position and said, "It's like that with sex, too."

Odds are I won't travel to England in an ocean liner, own two outdoor bath tubs or have deep, intellectual conversations with Mr. A, but our take on those bits of other people's lives works for me.  Without Cialis pills.  Those things could make you go blind, ya know!