Book review – “With all Due Respect” – Nikki Haley

May 20, 2020 – Book review – “With all Due Respect” – Nikki Haley

         I ordered this book when Nikki was first interviewed on TV, yet set it aside because of this Covid-19 mess hoping it would go away quickly not realizing it isn’t going to go away any time soon.

         Meanwhile, in the last few weeks I have polished off several paper back mysteries – out of the series sequence - that is always fun. What? Why did the sleuth do or say that?  HMMMM, I’ll have to go back and read a prior book in the series to get a handle on that.

         Then, I decided to do something serious – like dust the library in my formal living room that is now the computer, writing and reading room – my room.  Not exactly a woman cave – more of a writing nook.

         Dust, cat fuzz, clutter . . . needless to say – I rearranged the books and moved a few things around to make things look better.

         I found it strange, yes strange, that after over a year of redecorating this room that I had my stacking sandalwood lined chests in the wrong spot.  I moved them and now the room sings.  And, I will also admit that I have Audubon bird and flower pictures that are framed, but not hung up yet.  Hopefully, I won’t wait another year and a half to do those. 

         So, as I put the Audubon pictures on my to-do list I noticed I had something on my list that has been kicking around just as long – three fresh thresholds from the hall into three rooms that were cut [Thank you brother, Ken, on his last visit]. I had moved them from room to room to room as I have been deep cleaning saying to myself, I’ll get to those soon.

         Finally, this morning I decided to take up the old thresholds and put down the new thresholds and why I put the project off I can’t comprehend.  I poured a cup of coffee and it had to cool a bit before I could drink it so I started the project . . . three thresholds taken up and new ones put down and when I went back to my coffee I was expecting it to be ice cold – it wasn’t – it was the exact hot, drinkable temperature I like. 

         That proves the point – little projects can be itsy bitsy little project – just do them.

         But, as usual I digress, more so than normal as personal contact with the outside world seems so limited now.

         I just read the book “With all due respect” by Nikki Haley – I highly recommend it.  It is well written, clear and concise.  A real eye-opener on how NATO does not work.

         The last chapter – Exiting on my terms: Half of it could be used as “famous” quotes.  Three examples:

“History is easy because facts are real.

What comes next is harder.” - Haley

“And, should life get dicey, I have a couple surefire strategies for coping.  You can say almost anything with both strength and dignity if you start with, “With all due respect.” And a well-timed “Bless your heart” will keep your enemies guessing.” - Haley

“Even on our worst days,

we are blessed to live in America.” - Haley

         I recommend this book to everyone.  It would make a wonderful book to give to a female high school or college graduate to put some fire in her belly to go out and conquer life. Or, a daughter struggling through her career who needs some insight on how to move forward.

         Bravo to Nikki R. Haley on her book – look for it the next time you are out in a bookstore.   With All Due Respect, Defending America with Grit and Grace.

         I can’t wait for that experience again – browsing in a book store!

Goodbye to my prized white birch tree

May 4, 2020 – Goodbye to my prized white birch tree

         Last week we had the huge 40-foot white birch tree professionally taken down that I had planted the first spring we lived here. [That was 22 years ago.] It broke my heart that it had gotten so big and this spring half of it didn’t leaf out with three upper trunks dead out of six or more tall white trunks. 

         My birch, as I lovingly called it was the focal point of my patio garden at the back of the house with its vase-shaped canopy of small soft green leaves that gave me dappled shade for many years.

         Yes, birch trees can be messy with black limbs often shearing off when they get too old or when the winds were brutal, but it always was a picture perfect setting for my red cardinals.

         That is why I planted it; I wanted a living Christmas card out my back kitchen slider where my white birch filled with red cardinals.  Often when friends marveled at my gorgeous red cardinals, I would say, “There are usually seven or more, let’s count them.” I was rewarded in that instant for many years due to my husband putting out quality sunflower seeds faithfully. 

         We built this house and it was an undulating open field and I had to stomp my foot and toss my auburn hair when it came to the contractors who wanted to carve my undulating swales into complete flatness.  I knew their ulterior motive was to scoop up as much top soil as possible and haul it off for their financial gain.

         I adamantly said “No, you can only level what is needed for the foundation and the drive way.  The rest will stay natural.”  I could tell at that moment when the contractor’s smile evaporated from his face it was going to be a tussle – my will over his will.

         Delightfully, I triumphed.  Many times, I have shown my gardens and land to those gardeners interested in the ‘full tour’ and they admire the swales that ripple from East to West across the acreage.

         It is not often a person plants a tree and then has to cut it down because it has gotten too big and too dangerous.  The first two years we had drought – awful drought. [An aside, I was once dropped off at my home by a friend and her teenage son quipped about our front lawn – “Going in for the desert look I see.” 

         Talk about optimism.  I ordered a white birch, ended up with three bare root sticks about 18 inches in length, completely leafless.  I paced off ten feet from the corner of the patio and dug a hole in the red clay, amended it and planted them about three feet apart in a triangle. 

         At first, I merely parked our new red wheel barrow beside it to be certain that my husband didn’t run them down mowing the straggly tuffs of grass that were trying to be a lawn. A few months later, I parked 5-gallon buckets near it to mark its home.

         My husband laughed at my three sticks.  Me, I was filled with optimism; I could picture it in 5 years giving me dappled shade. 

         Those first few years, my husband was a good sport carrying 5-gallon buckets of water to the alee of Bradford pears while I watered the willows and the river birch along the top swale, my white birch at the patio and the maples and the magnolia trees in the yard.  I still think a 5-gallon buck of water is extremely heavy, but as Dad used to say, “It builds character.”

         Well, let’s talk about that character . . . this year, one of our more blustery March winds knocked one of the dead trunks down toward the house and the tip of it bounced off the side of the house. As Murphy’s Law would have it, it fell against the back of the house, kitchen wall, where my prized skylights reside.

         I cleaned up the mess. We had to cut two of the pieces of trunk to get it into the bed of the pickup, and then added all the dead branches.  It knackered two of my aberatives – OUCH – they now look like they have bite marks in their tops from the crashing down birch.  I wonder if they will ever fill out again.

         It takes character to know when a tree has to come down for the safety of your house, not just a couple of limbs, but the whole once beautiful tree.

         We were in the middle of having the roof fixed, new skylights put in, and I immediately called my trusty tree man, Rodney.

         Great fellow, always talks with a warm smile and lilt in his voice.  Never misses a chance to compliment some garden feature and has what looks like red hair, once upon a time.

         “I’ll need the bucket truck for this . . . ,” he was looking at the logistics of it all, letting his voice trail off.  He knew the roofers, they knew him and they talked about other jobs they were both working on.

         Small town friendly, was my thought.

         “You can’t have your men walk all over my beautiful perennials . . .” I lamented.

         “We will be real careful, what else you need done while we are at it?”

         He knew me, he knew we had aging trees and we walked the property and I pointed out the elm overhanging the shed, and the big oak limb down back that we couldn’t lift.

         “I’ll put you on the list and be back.”

         “Try not to do it when the ground is soft from rain . . .” I called to him as he departed.

         The morning I went to the bank to transfer money for the roofer, I returned to my yard where three trucks were.  I came in the front door and my husband said, “Tree guy is here.”

         I immediately walked to the kitchen slider and saw that they had ropes around my beautiful white birch – still beautiful even though it was half-dead.

         I was about to walk out that door and thought better of it – his man was at the base with the chain saw running and I didn’t want to be under limbs if it went awry. The ropes from the upper reaches of the trunk were pulled taunt and the opposite ends tethered to a bobcat, bucket held up in the air on the far side of the lawn.

         I quickly skipped out the front door and just as I was coming around the corner of the house I heard it starting to go, only to witness the final SWOOSH-SWISH of the upper limbs kissing the lawn in my back yard.  All equipment sounds stopped and his men moved into action quietly to get the chipper truck into position in the back yard.

         Rodney came to greet me with a big smile on his face.

         “I was worried about catching your shed, but we done good,” he beamed.

         I was in complete awe at the breadth and length of my beloved downed white birch.

         It was close, but the breath of spring bush wasn’t damaged and two limbs of the Gingko tree limbs bounded back safely once his fellas started cutting my tree it into moveable pieces to feed into a thunderous chipper.

         I wanted to cry, so I fetched my cell phone to take pictures and my sunglasses to hide my tears.

        

Burnt Toast!

April 22, 2020 – Burnt Toast!

         This was the moment this morning . . .

         You know that saying:

Insanity, doing the same thing over and

over again and

expecting different

results.

-Albert Einstein

         That is what this blog is about today.  I never do anything simple, I always take it to the height of drama.  I can still hear my Mom say, “Stop being so dramatic!”

         I find that drama works and today I was condescending when I snatched the second set of burnt toast out of my husband's hands.

         Yes, I think I like to make a scene to keep my heart pumping.

         It is simple, the non-high tech toaster has a small dial on the front that has 1 through 7 on it.  For the life of me, I still cannot comprehend why my husband continues to crank it to 7 and expects not to have burnt toast.

         My dear husband is making toast to go with his eggs for breakfast.  I give him plenty of room to get in trouble.  A friend advised me to let him do what he can do as long as he can do it . . . calling it “tough love.”  I will make him do until he can’t, then I will kick in and help.

         I smell burnt toast!  I am thinking “as usual.”  He is snarling up a storm about that darn toaster.  It is not the toaster, it is the operator- 7 burns, 1 only warms the bread.

         I’ve told him a million times, he just can’t remember.

         During this pandemic wasting two or four pieces of bread to make burnt toast is not the prudent thing to do.  My husband has a short memory issue and I tell him the same thing 4 or 5 times a day. 

         Example: He’ll retrieve the mail around 11:30 and come in and read it and the newspaper, and set it aside.  Half hour later he will ask, “Has the mail come?”

         I don’t make a big deal out of that or the toast or many other moments during our day.

         It’s my life now, trying to be patient, and sweet, and nice, but, I just couldn’t help poking a little dramatic fun at him today about the burnt toast.  I kept one of the burnt slices and pinned “This is setting 7” on it.  The sign is now hanging on the gadget shelf behind the toaster.

         I doubt he will pay any attention to it, but it will make me smile.

         Today was a burnt toast day, but it was good, all good.

Writing class exercise

April 21. 2020 - Writing class exercise

Prompt was: April is my favorite month

Of course, I deviated from the prompt - made it my own. Nothing new about that!  As soon as I was given it, the song, April in Paris started to play in my head.  It is always fun to have a little bit of imaginary romance on a lonely Tuesday in April.

April in Paris

         “Ah yes, April in springtime . . .” the gent behind me sighed and then suddenly switched from English to French. Sounded like fluent French to me, but what would I know as an unsophisticated American. I’d thought the gent was an Englishman; he sure sounded like it at the get-to-know-you cocktail party in Dover, England, two days ago.

         The pert travel director, with double dimples, lucky to be born that way, announced, “The bus will be moving to the large parking area, further up to the left. You may return early, if you wish, but please, everyone, please return by 3:00 p.m.” She tossed her dark hair back from her face and sparkled another smile switching into French for the rest of the group.

         I doubted she needed to bother, I found most Europeans knew English just as well as their native tongue.  I rose and stepped forward in the aisle to let the tiny women near the window join her friend seated behind me with the English gent.  They had both wanted window seats and I and the Gent had been graciously accommodating.

         I paused a moment and reached up to retrieve the T-handled umbrella, I had brought just in case, not expecting I’d be using it daily.  Still overcast,  still mist or possibly drizzle, I cinched the waist of my trench coat, flipped up my collar and disembarked the tour bus.

         I avoided the puddle below the stairs with a nimble jump saving my last pair of dry shoes; there is nothing worse than wet, cold feet.  Skipping between puddles, I drifted away from the crowd taking in the panorama view of the square.

         Oh, how lovely, a wobbly reflection of waffle weaved iron and one curve of the foundation in a large puddle at my feet.  Hoping to capture it with my digital camera, I fished my camera out of my pocket and took several shots.

         Reviewing what I had taken, the English gent, I assumed he was English, was hovering behind me. Being tall he was easily peering over my shoulder, “Well done, you captured it,” he said with gusto.

         I glanced over my shoulder and flashed a smile and nod for the compliment.

         “We meet earlier but lately I am dreadful with names . . . .” he started to apologize.

         “It’s Teri, or rather, now that we are in Par-EE I guess it’s Ter-EE.”

         He laughed and flipped his collar up and pulled a folded hat out of his pocket and jammed it on his head scanning the skies.

         The mist gave way to drizzle, but I didn’t want to put up my umbrella, as I wanted to see it all in my trip of a life time. I swept my newly purchased silk scarf out of my collar and wrapped it around my head Audrey Hepburn style, while holding my umbrella tightly between my knees.

         He softly said, “Chic,” and continued, “are you going to ride up or walk?”

         “I’m going to climb it, might take a little while, you know for the lasting experience of it.”

         We set off walking briskly, but again, I stopped a moment and captured the scene of wet tourists with the icon in the distance.

        

         “Shame no sun is expected today,” he ventured as he paused with me.

         “Who cares, Paris is Paris, besides my memory photos will be unique, Caption: Eiffel Tower in the rain,” I said with a smirk, closing my camera, and stashing it back in my trench coat pocket.

         “Ah, that’s the American Spirit, I was worried there a moment,” he tipped his fingers to his hat and said, “Maurice,”

         “Morris,” I repeated to fix it in my memory and we walked on.

         “No actually, Maurice, a different spelling, not like Morris the cat. I was born here, moved to England during my career.”

         I laughed, “You’ve been across the pond then,” up turning my face to assess his demeanor

         “Yes, often, and I believe you and I are the only two on this tour that are unattached, single, otherwise available,” he said with shear confidence, his hazel eyes twinkling.

         “Oh,” I mumbled charmed by his flirtations, and softly started to sing, “April in Paris.”

         His baritone chimed in, “Chestnuts in blossom,” then pausing he said, “let me see if I can remember the rest, April in Paris, this is a feeling . . .”

         Securing my elbow, he ushered me forward like found-again lovers continuing to sing.

         This might be an interesting trip, after all.

Irreverent quotes that are spot-on

April 17, 2020 – Irreverent quotes that are spot-on

         I dabble in all sorts of things; one is calligraphy – off and on over the years.

         Last year I took calligraphy classes in Copperplate.  It takes practice, lots of practice and quiet time – something that seems to have vanished from my life.

         The quite time hasn’t exactly vanished, I just think it is a case of poor time management at this juncture of my life - I am being a slacker – that’s all. Time I kicked myself in the butt and pulled up those boot-straps again.

         Every once in a while, I get a Pinterest pop up that has calligraphy and this morning I browsed aimlessly with my second cup of coffee.  I know how to kill time on the internet just as well as anyone else.

         But, I found something for the quote collector, that is me, and the calligrapher, also me, and I would say for any women who has grit, spunk, and is outspoken, those that know me, might say I fall into that category.

         I suggest you visit:

          https://gr.pinterest.com/delightfullydead/

         This gal, based in Melbourne, Australia – has it together.

         She has videos of her writing snappy quotes in calligraphy. Trust me, go to her site and experience it first hand – words can’t describe how mesmerizing it is.

         What better way to learn the flourishes and movement of the pen, and to be mesmerized by her certain and swift hand.  JUST AWESOME!

         So, this is a shout out to this gal, a total stranger, but I like her – I even like the quotes with  “f____ing” in them – I nod and heartily agree.  She has a twisted sense of humor that is honest.

         Have I piqued your interest?  I sure hope so.

         I will leave you with a couple of irreverent quotes that I admired from both the calligraphy and the quotes she wrote:



Sometimes you just have to burn the

bridge and learn to swim - @ thegoodquote



I just want to thank all those who’ve destroyed me

into the person I am today.



Stop being so f___ing forgiving,

people know exactly

what they are doing.



Coronavirus ain’t shit, my

ex was more toxic.

– Demetris Tate

Nice neighbors

April 15, 2020 – Nice neighbors

         Sunday night’s storm of high winds and heavy rains passed through from late evening into the wee hours of Monday morning.  The gusts of winds and driving rain had awaken me several times.

         Morning sun falls on my front door and typically, I open my glass storm door peer out along my front walk to admire whatever is in bloom and sniff the air for temperature. 

         What’s that? Limb down or a tree?  Barefoot I step out into the cool morning and pad my way up the cool, wet sidewalk to the drive to investigate.

         A huge limb has sheared off from high above the front Bradford Pear and crashed down half covering the driveway – blocking in my car. 

[The picture is deceiving, much bigger than it looks.]

         I have no place to go, really during this “stay-at-home” scene, except that I always want my vehicle to be able to rush to the emergency room at a moment’s notice. [This is a built in reflex, when it snows here in the South, us Yankees are the only ones who dig out in this neighborhood instead of waiting for the snow to melt.]

         I advise my husband that I might need his help once I cut the greened out part off the downed limb, thinking I can handle this myself with my loppers and a handsaw.

         Later, geared up in garden clothes and wielding my trusty loppers, I attack the limbs that are under 2-inches in diameter.  My objective, cut off all the green leafed out limbs to reduce the weight of the limb.   Good thing, the huge limb is completely sheared off from the tree, so no one will have to climb up and cut it off; but, bad news, it is resting precariously on branch ends above what I call my “Daddy’s prize ferns” display.

         It is merely a matter of pacing oneself, snip, snip, snip – some more difficult than others, then drag the 5 to 6 foot leaved branches down the drive and toss them into the bed of the pickup truck.  Snip, snip again, continue the process and use caution that the limb doesn’t flip over and lurch at me.

         Darn, the branch is as large as my thigh – I won’t be able to cut that with a hand saw.  We don’t happen to have a working chainsaw anymore.

          After an hour of work, I can gingerly back my car out of the drive and onto the lawn without scratching the side of it.  As I park and get out of my car my neighbor advances out his front door half way across his lawn and shouts out to me.

         “Have you got a chainsaw?”

         “No,” I yell back.

         “I will be back in about an hour with my chainsaw to cut it up for you.”

         “Thanks Randy, that is sweet of you.”

         I continue on the green limbs that I can manage with the loppers.  The back of the pickup truck is just about overflowing.

         When I’ve cut all the greened out branches I can, I have the foresight to grab a couple of cages I use over tender plants to keep the feral cats off and plunk them over Daddy’s emerging ferns, - the fiddle heads are so delicate at this stage.  Yes, that will keep the chainsaw operator’s feet off them.

         I don’t want to lose those ferns, I have no way of getting any more, Mom and Dad’s home sold a few years back.  Dad had drifts of soft ferns that nestled up against the stonewall along the road in front of their home.  They were beautiful, and occasionally you’d sight a chipmunk or two  darting in and out into their home in the stonewall.  They are a bit of my childhood and I want to retain them at all costs.

         Later in the day, Randy heads over to cut up the wood.  

         I call out the front door, “Randy, I’ve got to caution you about where you can put your feet up there on the hillside . . .” 

         I explain about the ferns and where they are and why I have cages over them. “Yeah, you have a nice garden here, we see you out in it all the time.” He understands and steps around the cages as he works.

         As he cuts, I carry off the 4-foot lengths of limb to the pickup truck and pitch them over the end of the tailgate.  They are much heavier than I expected.  As he continues up toward the larger radius of the limb, I can’t even lift them.

         He is so very careful about Daddy’s ferns, and due to the weight hauls the last four segments of the downed limb to the truck for me.  He made fast work out of that.

         He turns off the chainsaw and then we chat about the matters of the day, how Forest Hills, a large subdivision, got hit hard with downed trees, about the Corvid-19 virus and the two deaths so far, and about who in the neighborhood is out of work because of it. 

         He is a magpie to say the least, but he is in-the-know because he is also a volunteer fireman.  Randy isn’t handsome, but he sure looks mighty fine when you see him carrying a chainsaw in one hand with a smile on his face and you have a downed tree. He loves helping out a neighbor in need.

         Thank you, Randy.

        

        

An Easter Season Tradition

April 14, 2020 – An Easter Season Tradition

         I am exhausted, yes, exhausted looking for one pair of white capris in my closet.  After tearing apart all my closets, I find them when I start to take every bit of clothing out of one closet.  It is after Easter, you can now wear white fashionably – as if we have fashionista police in this county, not hardly.

         I was simply looking for something to wear today in what I expect to be at least 80 degree heat today, as I need to go to the bank – drive up window only banking – but nevertheless, I have to go out in semi-public.

         That is the old way, switch out your wardrobe Easter and Labor Day for the seasons . . . pretty old fashioned isn’t it, and I am as old fashioned as you can get.

        

         When my husband can’t find something, I usually do an Erma Bombeck, and walk to his closet, put my hand in and viola – the lost item is found.  [Erma wrote about that in one of her wonderful books and when I actually do that feat I shout out in celebration of her, “I just did an Erma Bombeck.”]

         But, today, with only one cup of coffee under my belt, I looked and looked and pawed and looked.  An hour later, the white capris were exactly where I looked for them the first time before I started this crusade – I found them only when I emptied my closet out onto the bed, UGH!

         Now I have arms of clothes tossed on the bed, and it is bright and sunny and I want to do anything but go back in the bedroom and put everything up.

         Nope, I will purge the wardrobe again now that it is all out on the bed – but, that can wait until this evening, I don’t want to waste a whole beautiful day. 

         I will do the Marie Kondo – if I don’t love it – it is gone.  But, I can’t cut too deep as I can’t go out to any stores to try on any replacements.  What a perplexing situation! This might not be the time to do the all-season clothes project.

         Besides, I love my warm winter clothes – I can keep the heat lower and with lower heat, I sleep better.  Over the course of fall and then into winter, I slowly migrate one item, then another, then a flood of them into my wardrobe and by Spring I have a MESS.  The same mess every year, I guess I haven’t learned.  I wonder if the “all-season” wardrobe keepers don’t have a mess at any time of the year.  I wonder how often they actually say I haven’t a thing to wear!

         

         Maybe this is the wakeup call that I need to have no seasonal clothes in my closets.  But, I am perplexed how to shift to all season clothes.  How does one do that?  How does one pry her fingertips off her favorite cashmere sweaters and lined wool pants?    It has been touted the thing to do in just about every magazine I’ve read in the last five years and I am still backing away from it.

         Nope, not yet, I will go through the process of packing away the winter things and pulling out the summer things, and leave the few transitional things in the closet for the swings in spring, summer weather.

         But, I will add to my to-do list – look for “all-season” clothes to integrate into my wardrobe – maybe in five years I won’t have this Easter tradition. 

         Here’s to all-season clothes hunting once this pandemic has ended.