Jude Stringfellow's Blog, page 95

Bread - (A Poem)

 Bread 

 

Bread.  I remember bread. 

Gone, but not forgotten 

Wished for, rarely partaken, 

Bread. 

 

Soft. Delicate to the touch 

Smooth, forever pleasant 

Desired, but now forbidden, 

Bread. 

 

Tantalize my memory, Bread 

Linger in my dreams 

Steal my essence, tempt me 

Mine no more. Bread. 

 

Reminiscing now; baked wonders 

Golden brown-topped rolls, so nice  

Visions keep my tastebuds longing 

Bread - - has taken flight 

 

Years we were together, yes 

Pound on pound, not yielding 

Weight has challenged my delights 

Bread has left the building 

 

 

Jude Stringfellow – July 25, 2021 

Photo Credit: Betty Crocker Company

Caity Baby Baby Caity

 Well, yes, I suppose it is true that thirty-one years ago today I was feeling a bit fed up with the baby girl lingering around inside of me. I had calculated my due date as being at least 10 days before July 25 (1990), but there I was, big as a barn, rounder with that pregnancy than any other, and feeling far more apt to eat an entire vat of ice cream than I ever did with either Reuben or Laura.  Caity Baby had a way of making me do things I really didn't want to do, not really, but maybe just inside my head -- and of course, my belly.  I think I ate more Mexican food with her too; which now makes a bit more sense considering how spicy the girl is.  Mom always said she cursed me with a kid just like myself, and well, thirty-one years ago today, I gave birth to her FINALLY!

    I say "finally" because I had done the math according to the way I'd always managed to do it before. I looked on my calendar and figured out when the first day my last period was, and then counted 280 days from the day I would have most likely have ovulated. It's supposed to be that way, there's science behind this, right? Nothing is the same as it should be when Caity is involved. She has her own drummers playing the beats she insists that they play! She dances when she wants to dance, and by "when" I mean whenever she damn well feels like it - - morning, noon, or night. At least with Laura I knew there would be no dancing until after the noon hour, and you know, well into the early hours, but I was asleep by that time. Caity has no time schedule. You just freakin' never know when she'll pop up, and what she'll be doing when she does. It's sort of annoying in a very familiar way. 

    When the brat was only two I took her in tow to fulfil a wee job that Laura had managed to obtain on her own, at the age of 3. It was a modeling gig for a shoe company that had a franchise.  I had purchased a pair of their shoes the week or so before for Laura, and while she was trying them on she did a little run-way walk thingy and looked incredibly cute - - they wanted her for a live modeling performance and it paid a little, so yeah, why not?  Why not? Why not you ask? Because Caity Baby Baby Caity, or CBBC as I called her, hadn't been asked to go. Laura had been asked, but CBBC was not asked. That can't happen, and this was probably the first time we found that out to be true.  From the SECOND Laura began attracting attention from workers at the store, and then (God forbid) customers, Caity was incredibly jealous of her sister and wouldn't share Laura with anyone. It wasn't that Laura was on stage. It wasn't that the lights were focused on Laura and not Caity, the fact was that LAURA wasn't paying her due diligent attention to Caity - - and that just was not going to set well.

    Minute by minute, throughout the afternoon gig, I was literally wrangling the little one, pulling her from her sissy so Laura could get as many customers to buy the shoes and clothing from the store. I thought I was going to have to hogtie my own kid but thought even though I'm in Oklahoma, that may not be a welcomed sight for most.  As it turns out the gig only lasted about an hour, and we were free to return to the homestead, where I could divvy out ice cream to them both, and to their big brother who had patiently waited at home with their dad. Why Caity went was probably only to be with her sister, who I suppose was never REALLY supposed to look at another human in CBBC's presence.

    When I describe Caity to people I find that I pull out the firecracker analogy more often than not. I say she's like a blasting bottle rocket! You see her for a second, hear something, know there's going to be a big bang and wild surprise in just a few seconds, but when it happens, though you knew it was going to, you are struck with awe at the beauty of it, and the magnitude of it - - each flaming spark capable of searing your soul if you stand too close, and the majesty of it captures you forever. That pretty much describes my baby gir.  (I've always said "gir", not girl, because that's what her sister Laura called her.) CBBC never lets you forget - - not then, not now, that she's over and above you about to explode and when she does it will be both glorious and dangerous, so it's best to be prepared for anything.

    Today, I celebrate with her, and I love her.  I see that over the past 31 years this little sprite of a bairn has grown into the most wonderful woman and mother of two precious grands that anyone could ask for. She's married an amazing man, who if I had to be honest, I would keep if she threw him out on his ear. He'll never be homeless -- sorry CBBC, you just picked a really good one, so you might have to keep him around. I don't think Brandon will be leaving her side anytime this millennium. He knows where his heart fell - - and he knows she holds it with both hands.  Happy birthday littlest brat of mine. You were always the spark, and by spark I mean the one who actually set the fires in the house, outside the house, around the corner, up the street, in the church, and just about everywhere else you thought I never knew about -- yeah, you're my curse; remember that. I know everything! 

Now.

2008 


1992

Amethyst Sky - (a Poem)

 Amethyst Sky 

 

I lay beneath Heaven at her dusk 

Hues too vast to hold 

Lifts of pale blue, turning mauve 

Eventide sings his song 

 

Grace, for an hour, accompany me 

Teach me to be still 

Patient evening bear with me 

Let conscience guide your will 

 

Share all manner of meditation 

Finesse and poise my thought 

Ease your gentle-mannered ways 

Through my senses, giving hope 

 

Ornate vault of heaven, gloss 

Your hours of colors pass 

Amethyst blankets hold each star 

In place, in time, en masse 

 

Sleep begins her soft barrage 

Inviting me to dance 

Invasion of the sweetest sort 

Two steps and I am gone 

 

 

Jude Stringfellow – July 24, 2021 

Photo Credit: of Trees and Sky

The Pinky Swear - - It's a Thang.

 If you have daughters, you'll understand the Pinky Swear. If you only have boys, you're one of the very lucky and/or chosen ones whom God Himself has smiled upon, and Who has crowned you with many blessings, holding you harmless from the cruel and unusually strong punishing (ever so eternal damning) of the Pinky Swear. It is, by far, the strongest swearing that can be sworn. It is, by far, the ultimate, the one and the only thing that cannot willfully be broken without such depth of betrayal, and justly, if it is broken, the one breaking it will suffer a deserved eternal damnation in Hell.  Everyone knows this. 

    When I was a little girl my sister Lindsay was the Pinky Swear keeper in our family - don't ask me why, I was never quite clear on the matter as to how it was that she became so important, or what must have happened to other Pinky Swear keepers in our lineage. Surely, there would have been more than just one.  I can't tell you how many times yours truly was banned from the backyard, thrown out of the treehouse by the scruff of my neck, down an 8-foot wooden ladder that my dad had made and had attached thankfully at an angle so I would sort of roll down it on my way to the pit of Hell, which was my due punishment as I was cast out of Lindsay's sights.  
 

    My mother, for her part, a solid and devote Baptist Christian woman, absolutely assured me over and over again that since I had already (at the age of 6) given my heart and soul to Jesus, I was not going to actually really go to Hell and burn but Lindsay may cause me to feel like the outcast that I apparently was. Why was I being cast out of the tent, the treehouse, the woods, the creek, the room, the porch, or any other place where all of us kids could gather and play together? Because I had at some point in my life, whether knowingly or not, engaged in a Pinky Swear with my older sister not to betray her trust, or not to tell something about her to someone who she hadn't said I could talk to, and low and behold, it only took a few minutes of me being a part of their group before I was picked up and shoved off or out of wherever it was that we were. Me, the damned. 
 

    A Pinky Swear is, if you do it correctly, designed to bring out the best in two souls who have decided to spend quality time together and do so in utter honesty. It was created by little girls obviously, and no boy is even allowed to Pinky Swear, but a man can Pinky Swear with his own daughter. He is forbidden, by Pinky Swear Code, to try and Pink Swear with anyone who isn't his daughter, or with someone who doesn't have their own daughters. There must be rules, there must be codes, and everyone knows that.  It just is what it is, and you don't try and change things; OK? It's a thang. 
 

    Why am I bringing up an ancient and ever-so-immeasurably important ritual? Because my own granddaughter is old enough now to be initiated into the Pinky Swear world of truth-telling; and I just want her to understand that she is never (and I do mean EVER) to feel that she will be utterly banned to Hell for anything she may or may not do after she has taken the grand oath of the Pinky Swear. It's a schtick, we get it, it's not really damning, but it is to a degree in that I won't trust you ever again if you actually break a Pinky Swear with me. You may not die, burn, toast, or rot in an everlasting flame but you will be forever banished to the laundry room during family dinners. I mean, there has to be some sort of penalty, right? Makes me wonder if that's why Gramma Edwards kept the pies out in the laundry room so Papa would have something to eat should she point her fierce index finger into the air and force him to stay out back during supper; that or it could be because he lit up a cigarette in her house and knew the consequences of his actions - - Papa was smart like that. He liked pie. He knew he could have supper, light up, and be thrown out faster than a gnat can blink. PIE! 
 

    To this day, and I mean this, I have no idea if I ever actually swore with my big sister what she swears we swore. I really can't tell you if we did or didn't. In our house, if Lindsay said it happened, then it happened up until the minute you could prove otherwise. She was the say, and that's all that was said. I wasn't allowed to like the singers or actors I wanted to like if she liked them. I wasn't allowed to breathe the air she was breathing if she wanted me to stop breathing. Big sisters have the power and the only power I had over Lindsay was our even bigger sister Annie -- I would get put out of the treehouse and make my way to Annie as fast as possible; rules are rules, you abide by them. I had an ACE! Annie liked me. Mike was no help, he was my big brother, but Lindsay was bigger and he was a boy. 
 

    To this day, and I mean this too, I don't believe I've ever broken a real Pinky Swear. If I have, I hope I have sufficiently been forgiven and that I won't find myself begging St. Peter to let me into the gates of Heaven after the Rapture -- I'm told Pinky Swears are one thing that can keep you out, but also unpaid Library fines. I made fast and sure to pay those off whenever they came about. Again, Mom assured me it would be OK, but hey, you just need to cover your ass from time to time, don't ya? Sometimes I think that the court systems would be so much more honest if they just made all the women who were going to testify or ask questions to Pinky Swear that the things they were about to say were/would be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but then again, they do say "So help me, God" don't they? That should be enough. 

Photo Credit: Times of India

Dating Takes FAR Too Long

 Warning: I get a little pissy. 

Yep, the whole dating scheme is just a bunch of overrated exaggerated hoopla that typically ends up being a waste of time, a waste of money, a waste of effort, and you have to wear shoes most of the time, which really places dating into the same category as grinding teeth or being caught in a rainstorm with someone who just had their hair done and all they can do is bitch about it. No wait, I would rather get caught in a rainstorm with my best friend Jeannie and listen to her bitch about her damn hair than to go on a date. At least with Jeannie, I don't have to wear shoes, I don't have to be polite. I don't have to pretend to laugh at her jokes. I don't have to compliment her, talk about her job, ask her questions about things I don't really give a damn about, and oh yeah, I don't have to end up calling Jeannie to have her come running up to me in a cafe where I preplanned to have the date meet me so she can pretend she's my sister and there's a family emergency that simply can't wait - - with Jeannie I can fart and not even apologize; I won't be dating anytime soon.

    You read my blog, so you know I like to people watch. I plop myself down with a cup of coffee and a bagel sometimes and just watch the people at the cafe, at the store, at the lake, wherever. This weekend I decided to go to a pizza restaurant, a pretty popular one, and yeah, I took Jeannie because I didn't want to stare at people too openly or too obviously. She can carry on a conversation with a napkin or a fork if she has to, and she knows I'll at least glance over once or twice, nod my head and pretend I'm listening.  Today's experiment was to find a couple who were on their first or second date, to watch them, to see if they were bothered by one another, what was bothering them, what they had to overcome in order to make it to "the next level" and/or whether or not either of them cared really, and there was just some sort of an understanding that the dinner was just part of the routine, with the end of the evening being the end of their relationship for whatever reason.  Cynical? No, not really, I've been watching people for a very long time and it all boils down to about the same four or five patterns in the beginning - - now the third, fourth, or fifth date may bring about more gifting, more laughing, less questioning, and more cell phones. Yeah, by the fifth date both sides are pulling out the cell every five minutes to check on something.

    Take this couple over on the right; he's about 40 she's about 27 and both of them have kids. I can tell because he's checked his watch a couple of times and she's checked her cell phone, but both are trying to hide the fact that they either need to check on the kids, or they have a limited amount of time to actually be out without having to overpay the sitter. These days some people are lucky enough to have parents or siblings to watch their kids for the all-too-important getting back out there sort of date, you know.  What happens when it becomes obvious that these two may actually start liking one another and want to spend weekends and evenings together? Family ties fall off, babysitters become so much harder to come by, and those fantasies of spending quality time together fly out the window if either of them thought they would be sharing it alone, just the two of them. Nope. Not with "every-other-weekend" duty and/or drop-offs, family, ex-inlaws, unpaid bills that don't and won't care if you want to have a nice dinner once in a while, and then there's the question of who actually knows anyone who will be willing to watch the kids on a consistent basis so the two of you can get to know each other? It's no wonder the 2nd (3rd and 4th) marriages are usually rushed into, and usually end up in the toilet. Cynical? No, not really, same answer as before.

    So back to the couple on the right. He had to work a bit later than he expected so he rushed home, kissed his mom on the top of the head thanking her for coming over early and watching his two kids, threw on a new shirt, kept on the same jeans he wore to work, the same boots and socks. He ran a comb through his hair, checked his beard, and stache and gave a sigh. She'll either take it or she won't. He's paying for dinner, right? If she doesn't like him the way he is, she can date someone else. That's what he's thinking anyway, but he has to hurry and get out to Hideaway Pizza, he told her he'd meet her there at 6:00 p.m. and it's Friday. If he wants to get in the joint he needs to be at least 15 minutes early.  

    She was waiting when he pulled into the drive, but she didn't know what he drove. She had only seen his picture online and they had zoomed once, but her camera wasn't really working. He looked like a blurry bear sort of; she was hoping he wouldn't be as thick as he looked on camera, she had been working pretty diligently at keeping herself in shape. She never really thought about it until just now, but what if he's really fat? She saw him stepping out of his truck and thought almost out loud that she had no idea he was a conservative and this evening may or may not be their last encounter. He saw her and thought the blue streak in her hair would probably go away in time; it's just hair, right? (and just so you know sweetheart, he's not fat, he's perfectly round! There is a difference. He's a man, not a boy.)

    You see where that scenario is going - - it's just one of countless (endless really) things that can and do occur when you decide to "get back out there" and date again. Maybe you have friends who will set you up with their friends, or you found someone the old-fashioned way; in a chat room online! You decide that this is it! You're going to get out there, mingle, mix it up, get to know what your options are, and be yourself this time. Does that really happen?  Let me know if it does because so far I'm the only person I know who would act the way I do on any given day - - I won't bathe, dress up, slather on makeup and pretend I like you just so you'll pay for a $15.00 meal; I have my own credit card, thank you. Those poor souls who are dating today must have the patience of Job; something I definitely do not have. I wouldn't date again if YOUR life depended on it, let alone my own.

    The thing is, people who are dating have already been dating, and wherever it is that you step into their frame with your first date scenario, you're just that, a first date. You're automatically on probation, you're interrogated (hopefully politely), and you're sized up, given an assessment if you will, and then you're either allowed to move forward, where you'll be competing with those others she/he have been dating longer, i.e. the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th time, and what if, what if you are championed and rewarded that all-too-exciting 2nd encounter? Do you step up your game to enter the competition for affection? Do you bring gifts? Do you act more this or that? Do you take her/him somewhere different and unique to prove you're worthy of yet a third trial by fire? God forbid you  jump the gun and end up the only person the other person is dating because you will be compared to the last failure over and over again rather than just being one of the potential successes - - now you're a target waiting for the shoe to drop. (it always drops)

    Dating today takes too long, it costs too much, it is a failed investment at every turn and on every level. You start out with a lie, pretending you are more than you are, more than you could be, and you pretend you care when you don't.  If I'm wrong, please, please tell me - - that would be so refreshing. The truth is, I am the lucky one and I know it. I may be the meanest woman on the face of God's green Earth, but at least I'm honest, I don't have STDs, and I've not been lying about my height, weight, job, family, sex life, favorite team, or the fact that my horse will spend more time with me than you ever will because my horse never once lies about his height, weight, job, family, food habits, riding abilities, or his lack of interest in whatever it is that I do with the rest of the time when he doesn't see me. He never once not once has he EVER asked me if I rode another horse before him. He hasn't and doesn't care if I ride another horse tomorrow. He wouldn't give one rat's ass if I chose to kiss another horse right in front of his face as long as I had an apple for him, a scoop of grain in his stall, and I remembered to brush him out after I rode him pretty hard -- you never want to leave a horse sweaty. Just FYI.

    Dating is for the rest of the world but not for me. I don't have kids to worry about now, but damn, can you just imagine the stress and wear on one's soul and brain, the constant taxing of one's wits if they had to deal with not only their brood but the other people's kids too? Trying to blend, trying to make things work, and there's the whole thing about not introducing them to you until you're sure it's going to last, but how in the hell can you be sure of that unless you meet them and get along with them first? It's a cycle, it's a nasty-nasty cycle, and I thank God every day for the barn - - for my horse. He may have kids, I don't know, he never told me, I never asked. He knows I have one or two, but again, he just doesn't blink - - we get it. We know our roles. 

    Friday night, after the pizza, after an hour or so of watching the couple to my right, I did decide that she would have given him another shot at it had he taken the time to change out of his work clothes altogether. Being clean was too important to her. She made some sort of comment about his beard needing to be shaved, or she wondered what he would look like without it.  I'm not lying, I almost walked over to their table, offering to pay for the dinner and then inviting the poor man over to our table so he could fart, burp, tell us about his stupid co-workers and how great his mom is for taking the girls off his hands so he could meet someone new; even if she did turn out to be a bit too liberal for his taste. I restrained myself, but that beard was working me over.  To think she wanted him to cut it - - I wanted to scream. Jeannie nodded at me, picked up her fork, pretended to be Ariel, and comb her hair with it for a second, just to see if I was paying attention to her - - she's such a girl sometimes.

    I won't date. I may marry someone, but I will never date them. 

    

Photo Credit: Litehouse Foods

    

The Wee Cafe - Edinburgh

 There are places you seem to be drawn to, at least I am, and I am absolutely taken by a small (wee) cafe by the apt name of "The Wee Cafe" in the city of Edinburgh. I know there are other locations, it's a chain of modest restaurants in the area, but there is just something about the Edinburgh location that has my mind thinking that as soon as I hit the ground at the airport, have my bags secured in my hotel room, and have a fresh breath to draw, my first thing to do is to walk the new and older streets of the city of Edinburgh to reach my destination. It's not as if it's elaborate, ornate, or even overtly decorated in a manner that would cry out to all tourists to bring their bellies and thirst. I am just drawn to it, and so I'm going to go. 

    I have literally dreamed of walking through the doors of the cafe, but not in a manner that is even the least bit fantastical or mysterious; no, I just see myself in a booth, and I see myself eating waffles with bananas, and I see myself drinking coffee there. I see myself crossing over the threshold, and maybe it's just a clear sign that I will in fact be in the city soon, but whatever it is I find it assuring and lovely. I feel as if I could quote the menu back to anyone interested. I get on the site and read it. I look at the photos of the staff, the layout of the cafe itself, the food, the guests, even the streets outside of it. I Google-drive the streets coming from the Scotsman hotel, going back to it, and then when I decide that maybe I want to stay at the Caledonia or the Holiday Inn, I "drive" myself back to The Wee Cafe in my little imaginary car that we all use when we use Google maps to "get around" wherever it is that we're going - - aren't we the most peculiar of species? 

    Some of the foods you'll find at The Wee Cafe are such that you could make at home without any problem; it's just that going out to the cafe, sitting in an airy pretty place, and socializing with good-natured people is such a draw these days.  The prices are good, there's nothing stopping me from going, and it's more or less just something I want to say I do, not did, but do. The Wee Cafe may very well end up being where I go to write, to study, to people watch - - to be me; which is exactly why I think my heart and head chose it. I saw it online and thought to myself, "Yep, that's the place." It's exactly like what I would open if I opened a cafe, and they serve what I would serve, they welcome people like I would welcome people, and you don't have to be fancy-schmancy to come in and just enjoy a good hot cup of coffee and banana waffle with chocolate syrup drizzled all over it - - don't forget the whipped cream, please, no, never forget that!

    Waffles with fruit on them, drizzled as I said, in chocolate (probably Hershey's if I had to guess) and dosed with a topping of whipped cream. You can find that. You can find beans, sausages, eggs, toast, and honey.  You can find chocolate raspberry coconut bars, you can find cheese rolls, cinnamon toast, and green tea too. You can order off the menu, the standing whiteboard that tells you what is served, how much it costs, and maybe gives you a hint as to what they've run out of so you won't order it if you don't see it - - I don't know, but it makes sense to do it that way. Maybe an entire football team and their coaching staff have just left the joint having ordered every last chip in the place; there are no more chips at The Wee Cafe until another shipment comes in, so you erase that particular food item from the whiteboard - - makes perfect sense. I would do that. 

    I'm going. I've made up my mind, I'm going to The Wee Cafe, and I'm bringing my journal. I may end up making it a habit and bring my laptop as well, but the first few visits will be a writing experience. I know that taking the bus from Inverkeithing every day or so maybe a bit of an annoyance for some, but for me it will be that leg of the adventure where I listen to music on my headphones, write actual letters to my friends in the States and pretend I'm being carriaged about by a horse-drawn buggy on my way to this or that castle to meet this or that person to say this or that thing, or do this or that with them for however long it is I choose to do this or that. I am, after all, my own.  The Wee Cafe will be my "base" to cling to, hide out in, and write from wherever it is in my soul that decides to exhale from on any given day.  It will happen.

    Carry on people - - nothing to see here; just a woman and her mind playing tricks on her soul until she can one day put her hand on the jamb of the door before crossing the threshold of an ordinary oasis and know she is safely harboured. 

Photo Credit: The Wee Cafe 

    

The Blanket - A Story

 The Blanket 

 

When I moved to Scotland, I really didn’t have an elaborate plan, I was going there to escape not only my family; well, not my kids, but what was left of a childhood full of both good times and honorable times that somehow, and for some reasons had turned so ugly that I really didn’t even recognize it let alone call it “family” anymore. I love my kids; I won’t make excuses about any of them when people ask me about them or want to know more. I’ll just pause a second and let my heart fill up with overwhelming joy; joy warm enough to light a fire. I was going to need a good fire; it was colder in Edinburgh than I had actually imagined it was. Oh, yeah, I saw the photos and watched videos. I did my homework before moving, but that wind took me by surprise and weirdly reminded me of the very place I had left; Oklahoma.  

         I found myself quickly volunteering for just about anything and everything I could in order to find new friends, meet new people, and be a part of the newest of new communities that in reality, if you think about it, are ancient by my standards of what is new. In Oklahoma, we thought the buildings being renovated downtown were “old” because they were built at the turn of the 20th century, I didn’t know what old was, I guess. I was just about to walk into a building over two and half centuries old, and it was sitting squarely in a place the locals refer to as “New Town”. Yeah, there’s that.  I walked into the Thrift Store; aptly named “The Thrift Store”, you gotta love a good catchy name for a storefront. At least I found it easily enough. 

As I walked around the store taking in all the new smells from both newly sprayed disinfectant and old clothes that could probably have been washed another round before being hung out to be sold, I realized that there must also be a cat in the little building and even though the smell of a two- or three-day-old litter box was evident, it didn’t seem to bother me. In fact, I’d say it had a calming effect on my soul; I knew if nothing else were to come of the day, I would at least count on meeting at least one new friend.  Cats aren’t dogs, but anything friendly would be great. So far, I had managed to track down and meet a few online acquaintances who agreed to meet me once I landed in their neck of the woods.  We had been cordial enough, and the coffee was good – one of them told me about the Thrift Store needing help, and sure, I know it’s volunteer work and I won’t be paid, but I will be paid another way, right? I will make friends, I will be a part of the community, I will see things, learn things, know things, and just maybe someday actually fit into my new surroundings. This was a starting point. 

I wasn’t in the store very long before meeting the first level of administration, a chap called Lucas, he was a regular volunteer, one who had been nearly knighted for his hours of servitude. One could only dream of one day being so revered by the others; I nodded to Lucas, and he showed me to my position, explaining to me along the aisles that things didn’t put themselves back onto the shelves after “visitors” (that’s what we were to call customers) had their moments with the “bibbles and bobs” as he called them. He was fairly certain after years of experience working at the Thrift Store that I would have no problems folding t-shirts, linen, and rehanging coats or jackets that had been removed; some of which he assured me I would find in the oddest of places. He was not wrong. 

Somewhere in the third hour of my employment, I reached to the well-swept floor to pick up what appeared to be an unfolded and tossed about dull colored blanket that was either knocked to the floor unwittingly, or perhaps someone had picked it up and opened it thinking they’d possibly buy it, but when they realized it had holes in it and it was a bit oddly shaped, they set it down and forgot about it. I walked past it myself, saying I would come back to redeem it after I had my afternoon break; a bit of coffee from the Wee Café. Again, I loved the name. It was in fact, yes, a very small café - - great name for it. 

When I returned to the Thrift Store, I found the floor where the blanket had been was empty; or rather it was clean, there was no longer an older rough blanket lying about. I thought nothing of it, but my heart pricked a bit thinking it had been sold and I had not presented it well to my new visitors. I had possibly failed them.  That wasn’t the case at all; no, the blanket had been tossed to the bin and was laying out on the open dusty black pavement just outside the back door of the Thrift Store, not quite fully out of sight, and sort of hanging halfway in and halfway out of the dumpster outback. Again, I really should have just thought nothing of it, but my heart would not leave me alone about this damn blanket. There was something about it. What? 

Before asking Lucas what he may have thought about it, I walked to the back door of the store, propped open the door so it wouldn’t close on me (I had heard a rumor about that) and I reached into the big blue metal dumpster and retrieved the old, torn, misshaped cloth. Surely, it would have some worth to someone, wasn’t it donated? Where did it come from? Was it now just too old perhaps, too worn? I don’t think I thought about that when I had examined it; sure, it was tattered but nothing a bit of mending wouldn’t fix. Maybe it was dirty. I hadn’t actually taken the time to smell it or give it a real look; I just walked away – well, I guess like others had done before me. It just wasn’t all that impressive to anyone, perhaps that is why Lucas had decided to finally rid the store of it; it wasn’t worth much to anyone.  

I remember taking the garment back to the front of the store and finding my new boss to see if he would mind if I gave the blanket a bit of fixing. His words were harsh, but not necessarily wrong; he said it was not worth my time but if I wanted to do it I could and he didn’t even mind if I did it while working at the store because it would give me something to do during those lull hours when nothing much is happening. Believe me, volunteering at a community thrift store can be a bit dull at times. You see the merchandise a few dozen times and you walk the aisles over and over again helping or assisting visitors, it doesn’t take one very long to learn the layout and know just about everything under the roof! 

 

When there wasn’t anyone to help, and I didn’t have anything really else to do, I decided to pull the old blanket out from under the desk where I had kept it safe from being discarded again. I held its long and thick mass up as far as my hands could reach above me. It seemed to be a double-sized bed cover, one that was good at one time and probably kept at least two people warm simultaneously. I allowed myself a bit of a free for all when it came to thinking about where the blanket originated, what its real purpose was, where it was purchased, who purchased it and how long did they own it before either giving it to someone else to use or more likely just storing it in a cupboard for years before deciding to donate it to the Thrift Store. 

I ran my fingers along the edges again wondering and asking questions in my head about how the tears were made and why no one tried to patch them; they were literally just left to grow bigger. Everyone knows if you leave a tear long enough it will just fray out and eventually become impossible to mend; was this the fate of my new...wait, was I just about to consider a worn-out blanket a “friend”?  I guess so, I hadn’t found hide nor hair of a cat! I knew I was going to ask Lucas about something but I got so busy, and then the break, and now the blanket - I know there’s a cat hiding in the store somewhere, but right now my thought was with the possibility of possibly mending the old cover and making it, I don’t know, somewhat useful?  

It did stink. I could smell it now, now that it was closer to me, and I was holding it up against my face. There was a smell to it, and maybe the owners didn’t wash it because they thought to do so would leave it worse for wear; literally causing it to unravel and then they couldn’t even donate it. Best to just hand it over to the clerk when you drop things off, no questions asked, maybe it was at the bottom of a paper sack and no one would even know about it until it was either too late to reject it or maybe too late in the day to make the trash run – whatever the reason, it couldn’t have been at the Thrift Store very long or Lucas would have found it by its odor and tossed it, which is probably exactly what happened now that I think about it, and yeah, I thought about it.  

I decided that this was my new mission. I don’t even know why I decided that. I think it had something to do with the sad way it was discarded onto the floor when I first found it; or maybe it was just something calling to me from inside the woolen fibers saying “Hey, we used to be on the back of really cool sheep (or two) and we walked this Earth! Save us! We spread our love over people, unknown people, and we kept them warm from the weather, safe from the storms outside. We deserve more than this!”  OK, you can see that being a writer and working in a super eclectic place like a Thrift Store, where memories and history collide, could be a bit of a playhouse for one with such an imaginative imagination. I thought so; it was fun. Just me and blanket getting to know one another. I was all he had left now; wait, I just called it he. I was getting into this, wasn’t I? 

I counted 11 holes and a torn corner. The corner that was torn was also the corner that seemingly was tugged and pulled out of shape, causing the entire blanket to appear to be mangled in a way. God help me, I was going to accept this new assignment. I'd need God I'm sure.  I thought to myself that a good cold wash would set that but first, these holes would need to be mended and repaired.  I set my detective skills in motion and went about the store, through each aisle, up and down each row and shelf trying to find perhaps a sewing machine that someone had donated, but the best I could come up with was a repair kit, from the Scottish Army in fact, and from World War II.  This store was nothing if not amazingly surprising with its strange mishaps of properties once belonging to so many people and now resting for various amounts of time on clean organized shelves lending themselves to “visitors” who may or may not wish to acquire said items. A Scottish Army mending kit was in my opinion something perhaps a college drama club could have in their prop collection; I would want one if I were a stage manager. Who knows? 

The blanket had a little tag sewn to the back of it and in the opposite corner of the torn pulled corner. The tag read 1980; it was blue and had white letters, well, numbers. I suppose with this new clue, I was to assume that the blanket was about 40 years old; quite old for a blanket but not necessarily so since it was first made of remarkably pure material, to begin with. God, Himself had made the sheep you know, and man had sheared them, carrying the fibrous fluff to the manufacturer who then stripped it, dyed it, blended it with strengtheners, and wove it into the miraculous masterpiece that I’m absolutely sure it was at one point. It had to be. It was just too something to be anything else, but I couldn’t put my finger on it, even though all of my fingers and thumbs were completely lost in it now as I found new thread from yet another box of do-dads, and began making my way through the dense plush wool with my ever so interesting needle; I can call it a needle since that’s the closest thing it resembles, can’t I? 

Oh, the resourcefulness in me! I found a bit of steel, and I took almost the rest of the afternoon trying to fashion it into what would be used as a guide to lace the new threads through. Though the new thread wasn’t the same color as the blanket, it would lend a bit or reason as a conversation starter whenever someone asked me about it. I fully intended now to keep the damn thing. I had grown not only used to it being in my hands, but now I was fond of it for some reason. God help me, I am such a romantic at times, and this blanket was my patient in terms of me healing it and restoring it back to usefulness.  

Fashioning the needle took a long time, and it wasn’t easy either as I had to find something to file the thickness of it down to a sharper point; a point that would be very dangerous indeed if someone were to prick themselves with its tip, but for me I wanted it to be smooth so it could carry the thread through the wool without snagging it causing yet another tear or perhaps worsening one that I was working on to begin with. It was imperative that the needle be able to do the job correctly; I saw to that. I took great and steady aim when I bore a hole at the top of the hammered top of it; I literally used an old wooden handled ball hammer to flatten the top and then a small nail to bore a hole so I could thread it. Was I really this mad? What the hell had come over me; it’s an old worn-out blanket and I was giving it the attention Florence Nightingale gave to one of her wounded patients on the battlefield – that’s it, this was a hero; it must be. I was devoting too much time for it to be anything else.  My mind was made up; this blanket would answer questions once it felt better about itself. I knew it. 

Lucas called from the back of the store to thank me for my time as a new volunteer and he told me to leave a bit earlier than the actual closing time because he was the only one, he trusted with the finances and he’d see to it that the doors were locked. I could come back he said if I wanted to. I made my leave, waving good night to his back as he turned to lock up the rear door. I made some mention about taking the blanket and his wave or gesture let me know he was OK with me taking it and his chuckle let me know he thinks this American could use a few more screws in her head. Well, he’s not wrong. I do seem to obsess when I get something in my skull that I just can’t shake. I don’t know if I’d call it a pit bull with a bone, but I’d go with Chihuahua any day. I don’t give up easily; that’s for sure. 

At home, where I had more light, more thread, a real needle, and a good pair of cutting scissors, I was able to make a bit more headway with the repairs.  I turned on the “telly” as they call it here, and started watching a “football” game, which of course, you may have guessed, is actually soccer, but yeah, when in Rome. I’m not about to try and convince anyone that the sport they call football isn’t really football because I’m not in my own backyard now, am I? Nope, just grin, laugh with them, walk away, asking questions about it to myself, that’s the plan.  Meanwhile, back on the couch, the blanket and I were beginning to get a little chummy. He was keeping my feet and legs warm while I was poking him and drawing my hap-hazard needle through his skin.  I didn’t find a strong enough needle in my belongings to do the job, so I just stuck with what I had made. It was working, and it sort of gave me a satisfaction of sorts to know I had made this actually happen in the first place. 

Eleven holes. Done.  Eleven various shaped, various pulled, variously various holes that could have been explained if my new friend could talk, but one was definitely caused by being burned. That was unmistakable. Someone had either fallen asleep with the blanket and burned it, or maybe they were just too close to someone who was smoking and things got rough, whatever happened the blanket took the brunt of it, and weirdly (I do say that word often) the burned hole was the one hole that really didn’t need mending as it was cauterized and wasn’t spreading; it was just there. In fact, I couldn’t really fix that one without pulling the material and causing a gather or pucker, so that one was left as it is, tattooed if you will, forever into the side of the blanket that bore his age tag.  Tattooed. Interesting re-thought. 

I was finished with the repairs and the commentators were just about to end their rants on Scotland’s national team at the same time. I will never understand how a 90-minute game can go on for an hour after it’s over and the deciding goals or points can be determined by penalties rather than actual play on the field. In REAL football, a penalty is dealt with right then and there, you move the ball back a few yards and you move on; none of this time added and bickering over who gets a yellow warning and who gets a red card.  In our game of football, the only cards being played are the aces up the sleeves of the quarterback as he steps into his pocket to see where he’ll end up throwing the damn ball – with his HANDS! Hands all over the ball; you know, football. Never mind. No amount of complaining was ever going to change anything.  

With the brightly colored mending thread laying across and inside the older duller colored blanket, I had to ask myself if I should have waited to find a closer matching thread to make my repairs. I mean, given the time and effort I put into it, there’s no way I would undo the work and start over, it was going to have to be OK the way it was – something inside me said the blanket really wouldn’t work less, feel less, be less, or even care less if I had used rainbow thread; it was fixed! It was useful now, or it would be after I gave it a good soaking in some cold soapy water.  I decided to hand wash it in the tub rather than chance it being damaged in the washing machine. Besides, having my hands all over it, rubbing it, feeling it, and actually loving it, made me realize that it really was mine now. I hadn’t actually paid for it, but it was tossed out, thrown away, and I had been allowed to redeem it.  Redeem.  I thought about that word.  Hadn't I been redeemed? In fact, I was.

The dirt and filth that came off that blanket when I drained the bathtub! I decided to give it another bath just for good measure. God only knows where it had laid and on what surfaces. There must have been at least a half-pound of dust and dirt hidden within the woven stitches, unseen, but detected by my nostrils to a degree.  I knew something was there, but I had no idea. I was both surprised and pleased when I lifted it out of the final rinse and began the process of slowly wringing it, massaging all of the water from its grip - - massage, that’s an odd word to use, but that’s exactly what I was doing to it. I was massaging it.  

Being an American, I had determined not to use a “green line”, what we call a clothesline when I knew I was moving to Scotland over a year ago. I had made plans to buy a dryer at their equivalent to Home Depot, a store called ScrewFix, and buy a dryer I did! I bought a big, fat, heavy-duty, expensive dryer that I knew I would put to use every single week if I needed to, but I was not about to be someone getting caught in an unexpected serial rainstorm and have to bring my laundry in after having hung it out only 15 minutes beforehand. This being winter, and the skies deciding not only to rain but to snow and blow wind at the same time, I knew I had made the right decision.  

Throwing in a few scented dryer sheets was a given for this project. The blanket’s fluff would be restored soon enough, and to be honest with you I was looking forward to seeing just how wonderful it could be given the love and care it deserved. I wondered how much it may change (if at all) with the heat from the dryer – I decided to turn the temperature down a smidge, but I wanted the blanket to feel fresh and toasty since it would be sleeping with me, in fact laying on top of me tonight. That wasn’t my initial plan, it wasn’t like I ran out to the dumpster and grabbed the old thing to force it to do my bidding, but something told me that the blanket, once returned to health would want to repay me with kindness; the type of kindness he was created to give. I was right. 

When the bell from the dryer dinged to let me know my charge was finished, I looked up at the clock. I don’t know why I did that, just maybe the bell sounded a bit like a chime. I looked up and it was actually one o’clock in the morning. One ding, one o’clock. How fitting.  The blanket and I made ourselves newly acquainted; me with hardly any clothes on mind you, and he with his freshly stitched scars being amply displayed for anyone to see and notice. There was no hiding the fact, the truth, that he was in fact broken, hurt, marred from years of abuse and wear; and he may have been thrilled to be given a new assignment, or maybe he was feeling a bit open and exposed because everyone would see his painful past being covered up and maybe I was overthinking this a bit! 

My bedroom was upstairs and it was time to say goodnight to the house plants, put the coffee in the maker, and prepare the alarms for the night to secure my house. I think I should have done that when I first came home, but the blanket kept my mind from routine thinking.  It was going to be OK I told him. He would be with friends and he would never be discarded again; never sleep rough again, not if I had anything to say about it, and I did have a say in the matter. He had a home now. He was loved and even though I don’t know everything about his past and he certainly has no idea how many blankets I’ve slept with - - I don’t think he really gave a damn; he fit right in on top of my other comforters and no, I didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was patched up; I let my night-light light up the colors on him, and on everything new about him - - and now, well,  everything glows. 

Photo Credit: Two Sisters Quilting

Lose Weight With Prayer

 Sounds almost too good to be true, but it is true, and there is not only divine power behind what I'm doing but science as well.  Gotta love it when you can add science to the mix and prove to those who don't like listening to you teach and preach the Word. (Hey, Skeptic -- here's a hint, God made Science). Who wants to know what I did to break the damn plateau that I was cradled with for more than three long, tiresome, damn, stupid, worthless months? It was in fact, the worst plateau I have ever experienced and I have been trying to lose this stubborn belly for ages upon ages. I would try really hard, get a little excited about some of the weight coming off, and then BAM, plateau. It happened every dang time, and though I knew it was coming, it was as if I didn't have a plan to get past it. Well, I have/had a plan this time! I prayed about it.

    Taking God strictly at His own words, that if I delighted in Him, if I obeyed Him, if I trusted Him, He would give me the desires of my heart. Well, OK, that's easier said than done at times because the subject matter of my "delight" has been a boo-bear as of lately, but I still pray for him as God commanded me to do. I still pray for this man's wisdom, his protection, his guidance, and his decision-making. I pray from my soul that he will be assisted in his own walk with Christ, that he will not start to stray, that he will stand up for what he knows is right, and that he won't allow family or loved ones to stop him from proceeding with God's work. 

     I decided back in April when he began being a pig-head that I would give up praying for him and let the chips fall where they may, but God reminded me that no matter what this man did on his own I was called by God to pray for him, and if he was indeed (and in deed) being a putz, it was probably more necessary to pray for him now than it was before. OK - - back to the closet for me! I didn't want to lift this man up to God, I wanted to walk away, dust off my hands, be done with it (him), and just say "You know what, you seem to have it all under control, don't you? Well, have a nice life."  That's not what God asked me to do - - and because God trumps man every time....I remained in prayer. God calls some people to far distant lands to be missionaries, some people he gives large congregations of believers to corral, but me, no...for me I am the odd one out I suppose. Remember, I was the one with a two-legged dog that needed to bark around the world and let the people know that you didn't need to look perfect to be perfect for God. My "assignment" this time is only one man.  Simple, right? Not really.

    Well, I followed God and I did what I was told to do. I am still doing that. I don't know that my assignment will ever actually end, it may just go on until the rapture, but I will follow my orders. I am a dutiful soldier if nothing else.  Because of it, because I decided to follow God, I also asked Him to give me the desire of my heart to lose the stubborn weight, trim the belly fat, get my body into the shape I both want and need it to be so I can travel well, be healthy when I arrive, and be strong and beautiful for the rest of my life -- or until the rapture comes, and yes, I am a pre-tribber, so there's that. I think we're on the cusp of going home. Before we get there, since we live here, I want to look the part and feel the part of a wonderfully healthy and fit woman who isn't afraid to follow disciplines and put in the exercise and attention needed to meet the goals. It's just that my body was refusing, utterly refusing to do what the experts all say happens if you do exactly what they say to do.

    I was (and am) eating correctly, working out daily, or almost every day, because you're not supposed to stress your body.  I sleep more than 10 hours a day, no seriously, I sleep a great deal of the time I am on this Earth. I am a lot like a cat at times. I drink more than 100 ounces of lemon water every single day, I don't fudge on that, in fact, fudge hasn't been a part of my life in over a year. I take the supplements I need to take to poop better (and they work). I eat only fresh, lively, natural foods with very few preservatives, barely any carbs and I think the word sugar only comes in play with words like grapes, honey, apples, and such. I am a machine! So why was my weight literally stagnant for over 90 days? I didn't budge a single pound, and at one point I gained 2 or 3 pounds and that was a battle royale in my own soul believe me. I hit the closet double time in prayer and just kept thinking what am I doing or not doing? I have to stop this.

    VIOLA!!  Oh, joy! Let me tell you, God was fantabulously wonderful in having my own best friend point out to me that the supplements I was taking were mostly gummies and they had calories. She mentioned that the collagen I put into my smoothies had added calories. She pointed out that the smoothies themselves actually could be reduced in calories if you thought about it, and used different natural foods to replace the other natural foods that had more calories. JUST by paying more attention to what I put into the mix made a massive difference. I had NO IDEA I was adding over 800 calories to my morning smoothies but I was. Things add up. Here are the two smoothies (basically) and you can see for yourself.

BEFORE:

1 scoop of protein powder (usually chocolate or strawberry) named brand, good reviews.

1 banana or 1/2 cup of strawberries

1/2 cup of coconut milk

1/2 regular milk

2 teaspoons of chia seeds

1 tablespoon of flaxseed oil

1 egg

2 tablespoons of yogurt

Spices: cinnamon, ginger, paprika

Papaya seeds

Honey

Collagen powder

That mix was 815 calories approximately.

By rethinking the smoothie I was able to do the following with much better and greater success calorie and carb-wise.

1/2 cup of blueberries or strawberries

2 eggs

2 tablespoons of yogurt

Some honey, not much

1/2 cup of coconut milk

Water

Spices, papaya seeds, and crushed pills of collagen, not the powder supplement. I reduced my intake to around 300 calories and I take a flaxseed oil pill that has 25 calories, not 110. I literally get the same benefit.   

I gave up the gummies supplements and replaced most of them with a one-a-day vitamin that I knew had all I needed, but I preferred the gummies; who wouldn't? Well, the gummies, each of them, had calories, and when added together I was taking in over 200 extra calories a day just because I liked the texture. I can get over myself now. I have no need to pamper myself or to allow myself to be so slack. I gave up over 700 calories a day just by paying attention!

    On Thursday last I wrote in my journal that I would eat 900-1000 calories a day for the next 4 days, meaning from Thursday through Sunday I would eat 900-1000 calories, work out lightly, as to not exhaust myself, and I would see if there were changes. WOW...there was a major movement. I went from 2200-2400 calories to 900 (maybe even less on Thursday) and by Saturday I had lost two solid pounds, that's a pound a day.  This morning when I woke up I had lost another .8 pounds, a near pound, and there is no way I'm going to stop what I'm doing for at least another week to see if God will continue to bless me and lower the numbers on my scale even further. Please, and thank you, God.

    Well, that's about it, I know it sounds odd, strange, and even unorthodox, but to be perfectly honest, it is the most orthodox thing out there - - trust and obey God and He'll listen to you when you ask for something. I mean, I don't need a million dollars, I need to be healthy. I don't need to be famous, I need to be fit. I don't need to be recognized, seen, applauded or praised. I need to feel vibrant, joyful and be willing to serve. I can only do that with a strong, healthy, clean body and soul. It makes sense, it's science, and it's all 100% God. Thanking Him constantly just doesn't seem like I'm doing enough.  I just can't decide though, and maybe you can help me out by commenting below - - which of my two daughters do you think I should look more like? Should I go for the sexy queen Caity or the gorgeous, athletic Wonder Woman type of Laura?  LOL...maybe both?

As Dawn Wanes - (a Poem)

 As Dawn Wanes 

 

Whispers prick the belly of my ears gently 

Sinking deeply in their pools 

Laughing whiskers tinge my soul’s tongue 

Lick the steam as coffee brews 

 

Morning lifts her skirts, awakened 

Dawn slips away, he dares that smile 

Robins sing their distractions 

Allowing Dawn to hide a while 

 

He will return to rage the battle 

Dreamers fight within his snare 

Clutches give and thrust their bedsheets 

Morning fears Dawn’s final stare 

 

Give to me your hour so longing 

Bring back heaven, hold me fast 

Care not if the hour is waning 

Squeeze my thighs, renew your grasp 

 

Grey eyed stare, veiled delusion 

Scrape my heart and gouge my faith 

A fantasy, a reason to 

Keep Morning oh, so far away 

 

Jude Stringfellow – July 17, 2021 

Photo Credit: The Naked Scientist 

Anticipation!

 About a week ago I sent off my MyHeritage DNA kit and I must say I was very impressed not only with the price ($59.00) but also with the presentation of the packaging and the layout of the test itself. To be sure, it was very quick, very easy, very user-friendly.  MyHeritage leaves nothing to be questioned, you really can't screw up the samples unless you absolutely try your hardest to do so. I imagine there may be one out of a few hundred thousand that simply can't follow directions, but this girl did exactly what she was instructed to do!  There are two long cotton swabs in the box, and two small mini vials to put the swabs into once you have rolled the tips around your cheeks for about 30 to 60 seconds. You roll one on the right side and place it into the mini container, breaking off the stick before sealing it; and you do the same with the other swab for the left side of your mouth. You can't mess up - - get yourself a test!

    Upon completing the application and paying online, I think it took 5 days to receive the box in the mail. It was delivered regular postage and it was small enough to fit into the mailbox, but I will admit I have a larger mailbox.  I opened it up on a Monday, did the test immediately, and sent it back on its merry way on the same day.  I received an email on Thursday last saying they have received the test and they will begin working on it first thing. There's even a little button on the email they sent to let me track the progress of the test, but it's really not necessary, because they even email you (me) to say they are currently in the process of working on the extraction of the DNA and by Friday (tomorrow) they will have the test completed, and they're just waiting on the results.  I may actually know the results faster than they said it would be; which would be really cool.

    With all the DNA tests available these days, and most everyone using the one you get from Ancestry, I decided to use another company; to go another direction.  I figure the Ancestry people know what they're doing and all, but why not share the love, and give another company the opportunity to be the hero, to deliver me the great news that I'm actually 94% Scottish. (That's not going to happen, but if I were a horse I could maybe expect that from the Texas A&M lab.)  Let me tell you a little story about what happened twice (two separate horses) when I sent my DNA kits off to be tested.

    Eoghan is a rescue horse. He's never to my knowledge been registered, but that doesn't mean that he wasn't. It only means that whoever gave him up didn't send his papers with him, so I sent off hair samples of my very sorrel steed to the Texas A&M animal DNA lab; I don't know their exact name, but it's supposedly one of the best there is. I found out that my absolutely you-can-look-at-him-and-tell-he-is-out-of-Impressive Quarter Horse was in fact, according to their records, more than 80% Missouri Fox Trotter and if there was ANY Quarter Horse at all in his bloodline, it would be too trace to mention. I almost rolled over in the barn laughing when I read the results to Eoghan.  He giggled a bit as well. He knows.  He may not be able to say it, but you only have to look at the boy and KNOW he's literally not only a Quarter Horse but out of a very specific bloodline.  Chalk one up for wasting my money.

    The next time we decided to send off the hair samples to the Texas A&M lab we did so because we knew 100% without doubt positively certain what breed the horse was, and we wanted to see what the lab would come back with - - keep in mind these tests were about a year apart. Though I owned both horses I rescued them both and couldn't register them without knowing who their parents were; you can register a Pinto and/or an Appaloosa without parentage, but not a Quarter Horse.  My second horse WAS a Missouri Fox Trotter, and she was in fact, registered at one point, but because she was accidentally bred by a donkey they sold her while she was pregnant and didn't send the papers along with her. She was later sent to a kill pen, with the baby, and I bought both of them. I sent off the hair of the mare for grins and giggles.  

    When the results came back this time I had my Quarter Horse! Yes, true story!  The results of the Missouri Fox Trotter mare came back nearly 100% Quarter Horse with traces of Hanoverian and Arabian, but they used both breeds to create the Quarter Horse, along with Thoroughbreds and often Morgans. Well, there you have it, the labs just can't always get things right - - but I did have the opportunity to ask Eoghan if he wanted to use Ava's papers; it would of course, mean that he had to admit from now on that he was a mare and not a gelding. He blew his nose at me; I take that as a no. He's fine just the way he is, and we know he's impressive even if we can't prove he's actually out of Impressive. You just know if you know, and that's all we care about. He's perfect.

    So I'm just over here waiting to see, to find out, if the lab people will make the same type of mistakes and say my people were German or Swedish. I'll demand my money back if they say I'm less than 30% Scottish or more than 40% English - - some things will not be tolerated. At least I'm not being saddled with the fact that my mother was born in Texas! Damn, that could really be a scar to bear. Daddy should have asked before marrying her I guess.  Fun fact: Dad's side of the family fought with and defended William Wallace, while Mom's side of the family killed the man. No wonder I fight with myself. 

Eoghan 
Ava