The kiddos and I savored every moment of The Mandalorian. Of course, our favorite character was The Child. I don’t want to hear that he dies in some silly Star Wars movie. Surely you don’t believe everything in movies is real? We KNOW the child is safe. See? He was tucked away.
Not only that, he objects to the silly name of Grogu. What is Grogu supposed to mean? He knows who he is and we know he’s baby Yoda.
We voted long before November 3, standing in line for over 1.5 hours. The line stretched as far behind us as it did in front. I appreciated the friendliness and patience of all the folks around us. Poll workers were efficient with everything except exit signs, so I wandered just a bit before finding the right door. Well, duh. I seemed to be the only one who was confused!
Halloween wasn’t THAT long ago, but since we’ve had such an election? Oy! It’s hard to remember anything from October. The kiddos had fun trick-or-treating in relative isolation, selecting goodies from tables, bins, and cute clotheslines. Neighbors applauded from a safe distance.
My grandfather, a coal miner from Yorkshire, used to sing this song to my sister and me:
Daisy, Daisy, Give me your answer, do.I’m half crazy all for the love of you. It won’t be a stylish marriage, ’cause I can’t afford a carriage. But you’ll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two!
My young brain was imprinted on daisies and they have long been one of my favorite wildflowers. BUT perhaps what I loved was not a daisy! Horrors! As I have roamed the neighborhood, I’ve snapped these photos of delightful ‘daisies.’ My PictureThis app has corrected all my misconceptions. Kind of.
I still think the purple coneflower should be called a white cone flower. And whether or not they’re daisies, I love ’em all!
As much as I loved spring, with its vibrant flowers and fragrances, the beginning of summer is great for flowering weeds, not so great for long walks. We’re talking about major sweating here- and the temps are still moderate for this time of year. I guess 6-foot distancing is best since I look like I have a dripping fever.
The weed below is a Carolina horse nettle. My dearest teaching widower would be proud that I didn’t touch it!
Magnolia trees are not weeds, but since I DO grab sniff all the lowest blossoms, I must include this gorgeous one. The flowers of this ancient plant do not have true petals. In fact, this early flowering giant has been around for 36+ million years! I guess the above blossom may be a fossil in the making. I do love to see the stamen, lying there like candy matchsticks. Truly delish!
You know how incensed I get when the local deer rip out my plants? And how I yell and bark at them to no avail? Well, I take all that back every year around this time, when our hill becomes a fawn parking lot.
We do have a set of twins up there but it’s the only child, Fawnville, who entertains us daily. Fawnville started off wobbly and uncertain, but he’s now into dizzying sprints. His mom has to trail after him; keeping him out of mischief is a full time job. She already looks weary, kind of like other parents in quarantine. I keep reminding her that this, too, shall pass. In the meantime, I am silent as they rip out the remaining periwinkles.
Sometimes I hate to blog. I know folks have written comments for me to read and I know those comments are sitting idly on a runway to nowhere. I know I have neglected all those blogs taking flight to other worlds, with their photos and stories to enjoy. If only I could take off and fly this thing!
It has occurred to me that I’m paralyzed by fear of blogging- and worse. Here are some symptoms:
If I read too many of Pete Springer‘s awesome posts (like, just one), I immediately stop blogging.
I once paid a slightly desperate blogger for 5 re-posts of anything, but that was four years ago. I have yet to write a post worth re-blogging. And yes, I still ask a different, not desperate blogger, Suzi Speaks, to help me! She has righted the craft many times.
I never ever reread any of my posts unless under duress, such as when I’m quoted and then flabbergasted that I wrote such a nonsensical thought. I accidentally read what I posted today (Sunday) and immediately saw a typo, thereby reinforcing my desire to avoid rereading.
What’s worse than fear of blogging? What’s really at the core of my phobia? Foolish comparison with others. What other charming passenger lurks in the tail of my plane? Fear of what others think. And wait for it- there is yet another creepy item in the cargo hold. Perfectionism (which is a nicer name for pride).
I think it’s time for an oxygen mask to fall out of the ceiling. And I have almost exhausted my airplane analogies. You’re welcome.
As this post plummets out of control (gotcha!), let me tell you what the black box says: She tried writing quickly to keep perfectionism from stalling the craft. Too late. She veered off with a draft, which merely joined trillions of other drafts waiting to be deleted. Then she started chatting about Vesna Vulović, who fell 33,000 feet from an airplane and survived. Major ouch and nothing a sane person would desire! Finally, she thought about her dearest teaching widower, who would have had to listen to all these ramblings if she hadn’t written them down. He cannot tolerate any more phonics talk at the dinner table.
Because I love him and I love all things education, especially the kiddos and their fams, I’m in. For at least this week.