Dear daughter, let Miley Cyrus be a lesson to you

Dear daughter, let Miley Cyrus be a lesson to you.


Rest in Peace, V

This morning.

Writer loses home to fire

I just wanted to tell everyone about a fellow writer who recently lost his home to a fire. His name is Travis Erwin, and here’s his story:

A fundraiser has been established by fellow writers at

He is very humble, but his family has been devastated by the loss.  The only thing he has asked for specifically is for his children. He would like, if possible, for his kids to have some new Hot Wheels cars, and some children’s books, and if anyone lives near Disney World, there’s something specific that would mean a lot to the boys.

Please take the time to  stop by these blogs. Thank you.

No Greater Love

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.–John  15:13

Absolutely outstanding. *sniff*

Rest in Peace

We’ll miss you, Baby.  Thanks for 21 years of unconditional love.

Preparing for good bye

My 21 year old cat has been in decline,  but this week, esp. these past 2 days, she has been really bad.  It won’t be long.

Time does fly, doesn’t it?

I felt weird on Monday.  Something wasn’t quite right.  It seemed something wasn’t quite right with Mom, though she insisted everything was fine.

Tuesday, I was enjoying the fall air, the bright sunshine, yet something wasn’t right. 

Wednesday– well, Wednesday was a wash.

Thursday, I was on the verge of weepiness, all at the thought of it being October, and October is when Granny and I made our Jack-O-Lantern cookies. (There’s a picture of the kind we make in the sidebar.)  The memory is sweet, and the sharp twang of missing Granny hit me from sideways. That evening, I was doing Mom’s nails, and mentioned the cookies, and I’ll be darned if I didn’t start tearing up. The whole choky throat and all. As usual, Mom understood.  She told me that sometimes she’ll have something happen that reminds her of her own dad, who has been gone 24 years. I thought I’d handled Granny’s death well.  Mom said Monday had been a year since she’d walked into Granny’s and discovered she’d had a stroke.

No wonder.

Mom’s so much better at dates than I am.  Of course, the impact of that event on her would imprint itself upon her indelibly.  Still, somewhere in my heart, I knew something about this week wasn’t quite right.  This time last year started the daily visits to the hospital, the nursing home, finally the the final stop next to PaPa and Daddy.

The leaves have started to trickle off of the trees, and when the wind catches them, stirring them into the air until they dance and skitter along the pavement, I remember the poem Granny learned in her early childhood and used to often quote when we witnessed this together: 

by George Cooper

“Come, little leaves,” said the wind one day,
“Come over the meadows with me, and play;
Put on your dresses of red and gold;
Summer is gone, and the days grow cold.”

Soon as the leaves heard the wind’s loud call,
Down they came fluttering, one and all;
Over the brown fields they danced and flew,
Singing the solf little songs they knew.

“Cricket, good-bye, we’ve been friends so long;
Little brook, sing us your farewell song-
Say you’re sorry to see us go;
Ah! you are sorry, right well we know.

“Dear little lambs, in your fleecy fold,
Mother will keep you from harm and cold;
Fondly we’ve watched you in vale and glade;
Say, will you dream of our loving shade?”

Dancing and whirling the little leaves went;
Winter had called them and they were content-
Soon fast asleep in their earthy beds,
The snow laid a soft mantle over their heads.