Somewhat Nostalgic Parting

Since neither friend Karen nor I can quite bring ourselves to personally toss our own theses or dissertations we are doing for each other what good friends do...trading services. So tonight on the way to Peruvian dinner with my book club I will say goodbye forever to "The Role of the Miller-Unruh Reading Specialist, '71" and "Search for a Confluent Model to Improve Curriculum in an Inner City Elementary School, '76' and Karen's recycling will be a bit wordier by over 400 pages  next week.  Yeah. There will be a little more room on my garage shelf for flower arranging stuff.
If I were contemplating research now it would be on cures for blood cancers and/or what makes so many thousands of angry Americans believe in an incompetent braggart and bully like Trump. Surely they never learned to read effectively or ever took a class in civics.

Irish Eyes Are Smilin'

According to my mother whose stories were more apt to be fabricated than truth, I had a six foot red headed great grandfather, pure Irish. Could this be? I'll probably never know, but I have always had a fondness for old Irish ballads. I recently sent in my saliva for genetic testing, so maybe I'll find out.
One thing I'll say about my maternal family is that they were all poor, but they had a great time singing, especially after a few beers. And they grew and cooked great potatoes. Last night Rainbow Women had a lovely program of Irish music put on by great musicians. I so looked forward to singing along to the likes of  Long Road to Tipperary and Danny Boy, but it turned out to be more original celtic music.
Lovely in its own way, and definitely peppy. But driving the short way home I found myself singing
the songs from childhood memories, and feeling nostalgic for a simpler life (though not a potato famine).
The photo above is from a book club dinner party a couple of years ago. Whether I have Irish blood or not, I do love the merriment.  The photo below goes with next week's blog. Just a hint of what's brewing.

Wet, wet, wet and wetter

The monsoon seems to have arrived. Wowie. The little creeks in Oakmont are roaring, and there are more toadstools in my yard than I have ambition  to count. Seasonal allergies much relieved, because no pollen could survive this drenching. It feels like Seattle, only warmer. I'm ready for some sun.

Big Blow Coming In, Not Named Trump

February producing not enough rain to jiggle an angle worm, today's predicted storm is supposed to be a make-up whopper. Parched Sonoma County will be smiling. Just hope the trees don't blow over but I'm sure my tulips take a beating.  I' ll be staying home painting, in readiness for class I'm setting up with watercolor artist Dale Laitinen next month. I'm experimenting with his color palette, which is quite different than I'm used to. To me it almost looks like pastels. Maybe subtle is good....but I have a rain barrel full of practicing to do.

Mustard Mania

My breathing being so labored by last Tuesday, I popped right into the doc, expecting  a referral to the cardiologist or a hospital bed. Well, I got diagnosed with severe asthma caused by my allergies. I suppose it is the tree pollen, which is thick up here as of now. But the  doc gave me a magic inhaler, which he predicted would clear my stopped up bronchial tubes within one hour. Guess what...it did. The side effects make me a bit dingy, but I can live with that.

at.

Right now the mustard is competing with everything  for eye-popping attention in the valley of the moon. Soon it will be waist high and the throngs of tourists visiting wineries will be more intoxicated with mustard than with the juice of the grape. In these pictures taken last Sunday it is knee to thigh high. As soon as it hits waist high it will magically disappear, either by special tractor that goes efficiently down the rows, or by herds of grazing sheep, who do the job with equal proficiency. It seems like it is there one day, and gone poof! the next. I've yet to catch a sheep in the action, but I see lots and lots of tourists exercising their knees and special lenses.

Shelves Of Memories

About five months ago I asked Ralph, my handiman, if he could make me a bookcase similar to the bright  purple art deco type that stands on the left of my fireplace. I was skeptical when he said "sure" and more doubtful as the weeks rolled into months with no product. Twice in the ensuing months he brought his wife over to inspect the decor on the existing one. About six weeks ago I spent an hour at the paint store choosing colors. Well, to my shock and delight Ralph showed up with the finished product last Saturday, and it fit exactly in the space designated. It took me three days to decide what to put where, and a couple of nights I got up at three to rearrange things. So here's the  finished product, though the artifact arrangement is still in transition. Many of the objects have serious sentimental value, special just to me. The clock on the next to bottom shelf was in my Berkeley therapy office for 25 years, reminding clients of the fifty minute hour. Many of the Chinese figurines were Lee's mom's. The china cat and kitten were my aunt Celia's. There is a story about almost everything. Countries of origin include Peru, Egypt, and Norway, and the rocks used as bookends came from all over the world. I love them all. Each month I make efforts to downsize, but will I ever succeed?

All Things Bright and Beautiful

It seems like every time I sit down to write my blog one lonely ant comes crawling out of my tiny keyboard. "How can this be?" I ask myself. I wonder if the ant is trying to tell me something? And where does he or she live when not crawling out of my keyboard?
I feel guilty smashing the little critter, but I do anyway. Curious, because I always catch spiders in a glass jar and move them outside, intact. Why don't I extend the same generosity to ants? Maybe the creature is trying to tell me that my words are trivia. Or worse, offensive. Several readers have contacted me to say they were offended by last week's blog. I am well aware I am a freak for not liking football. But something impels me to be honest in my writing.  So, freak or not, I stand by it.
But I did not mean to offend anyone. Yikes!
This past week I find myself missing Lee more than usual. She has been deceased more than eight years. but our hearts are still joined, and sometimes I just long for her tender smile.
So here's a picture of her in happier times, visiting Harrison Hot Springs on Canada's 4th
of July.
This week my more than soiled Malibu got its body shined. Now I can add it to the category of bright and beautiful as well. I haven't figured out how to do purchase the same makeover in this old bod.

In the catastrophic event  that Trump wins the election, I'm heading for my maternal roots in Canada, though not Moosejaw.  I think they will take me, though there may be a long waiting line.