tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66193668412383883202024-02-19T08:45:46.981-06:00Potpourri with Avery DearPotpourri: a mixture of funny stories, memories happy and nostalgic, late night thoughts, and epiphanies, from a Southern perspective; a place where friends present and future might happen by and pause a moment.Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-46154408639568118312017-03-29T16:54:00.002-05:002017-03-29T17:09:07.138-05:00Notes from CARTI <span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Despite soft carpet, floor to ceiling plate glass views of sky and woodland, and trendy color schemes, sitting in an oncology waiting room is neither physically relaxing nor mentally pleasant. </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It is ready evidence of varying realities. Very few of the waiting room occupants are smiling, Some, but not all, of the staff behind counters and desks look happy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Illness, in this case cancer, in all its forms is ugly. </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is mean. </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It is dehumanizing. </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It shows its total non-discrimination through patients ambulatory or not, of all ages sexes and races, but all with one obvious similarity: no one smiles, not the ill one, not the caregiver, not the employee handing out small purple tags with a number.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Even the magazines are torn or dogeared or missing a cover. They are incomplete. What has so obscenely defaced the cover or</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> rolled pages in such a way that they can never be whole again? And why? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Outside the windows on the carefully and expensively manicured hills with their just-budding dogwoods and oaks, the scene is not one bit realistic, for the grass is evenly cut, the seasonal flowers blooming, the clouds fluffy and full, the cars parked perfectly within the lines.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Lesson for Tuesday: Blessings on the brave. Blessings on the frightened. Blessings on their families. Blessing on their hope.</span>Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-38905926926023442412017-01-21T15:50:00.001-06:002017-01-21T15:50:04.550-06:00Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-36835318632540425122017-01-21T14:57:00.001-06:002017-01-21T14:57:48.650-06:00Good Things<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> My older neighbor next door lives alone but neighbors check in on her when her out-of-town and out-of state children are not with her. She is a delightful lady </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">nearing the century mark, one who enjoys good food. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She enjoys chocolate. She enjoys chocolate a lot. She buys the really good gourmet chocolate, each beautifully wrapped in expensive foil.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> She also enjoys crossword puzzles and can beat the socks off the former English teacher and newspaper writer (the writer of this blog) who brings her plebian food such as chicken casserole or pound cake.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> We've been neighbors for several decades. She likes to eat and I like to cook, so I take dishes (containing food, of course) to her often. My neighbor, Mrs. B. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">sits every morning </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">at her antique kitchen table</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> where she</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> quickly works the daily crossword puzzle or reads the newspaper or her daily devotional</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> From front door to kitchen is the shortest route to join Mrs. B, a route that forces one (if she is polite) to look at the family pictures above the antique sideboard and then to glance down (of course) at the candy jar next to the kitchen door. There is the coveted vessel, the golden grail, the honey pot of delight wherein rests chocolate, chocolate wrapped in red or purple or silver or gold foil, each color foil indicating the flavor of deliciousness within.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> This blogger and possibly other neighbors know that Mrs. B. knows that we know where the chocolate is. "Have a piece of candy when you go," she says.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Ahhhh. Hmmmm. What might I take to her tomorrow?</span>Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-17957594186837688942017-01-12T10:46:00.000-06:002017-01-12T10:46:08.763-06:00Call of the Wild Goose <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The so pleasant and nostalgic sound of the wild goose's calls this January morning made me look out the kitchen window then quickly</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> go out the back door. I followed the sound and looked up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> The sun not long risen was casting long shadows of bare limbs of the pecan and walnut trees, up and over the wooden back yard fence. And the geese! Oh, surely many thousands of them: determined, flying south in myriad separate </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> V-shaped formations, one hearty goose leading, the others, honking, flying in near perfect formation.Stragglers behind the primary group seemed to double their efforts to keep up with or even pass slower, perhaps tiring birds. The words </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">unknowably vast </i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">came to mind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> I shaded my eyes as the sun transformed those fluttering wings into brilliant silver flashes; crisp winter air transformed gentle hoarse honking into nostalgic memories of my sons' hunting days. That sight and that sound also gave to me this early morning a calm knowing that seemed to whisper<i> "It's okay. All is okay."</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i> </i>Then the thought <i>gift</i> came unbidden to my mind. That seems to be the way with God's gifts: they so often come unbidden. Even when we don't yet recognize our need for a gentle reminder, a reminder comes. So, yes it is okay. All is okay. Does not the sun shine through through the bare trees? Do not the geese know their way? Are not the best gifts often free?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> i must remember that quiet message this day. <i>All is well.</i></span><br />
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Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-18086389535697663852017-01-08T18:10:00.000-06:002017-01-08T18:10:03.886-06:00Here There Be Monsters <span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Metaphorically speaking, the sun does not shine every day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Some days, and nights as well, are dark and bleak and stone cold frozen. Even when in Spring when there are dancing shadows from the sun overhead, metaphorically speaking still, the world seems so dismally frightening. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> "Here there be monsters" the mapmakers of centuries ago inscribed over uncharted areas of oceans.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> So when does the woman of faith do to dispel the darkness with its monsters? What does she do when prayer seems to fall on deaf ears and God seems to be hiding, when meaness seems ready to pounce again at the next corner? What does she do when life as she knows it seems fragile?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> She does the best she can. She takes another step, then puts one foot in front of the other and next foot in front, and the next and the next. She carries on as women do when those she loves are threatened.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> And she prays. "God of Light, guide my faltering feet."</span><br />
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Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-71314264309918362172016-09-24T09:03:00.000-05:002016-09-24T09:03:21.825-05:00A Reluctant Muse<i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> Muse </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Reluctant</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> Some days one's muse is quiet, maybe enlightening another writer/painter. The muse who visits my studio on occasion has been away for a while. It's time for her to come back. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrs8j1cEFCrVvWNpPhouybnj7ewCDxQ16dLVdrTTJ0ZWKvknN1kSS9LOLGBV5MdvhLDa2ifR-j5QDxWeh7Y0Nh2lCdj-mrRLWlhVm8rBxSjS4dc9R44rquCJW5hLbjOOnruDU1RejCGMq/s1600/DSCN3139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrs8j1cEFCrVvWNpPhouybnj7ewCDxQ16dLVdrTTJ0ZWKvknN1kSS9LOLGBV5MdvhLDa2ifR-j5QDxWeh7Y0Nh2lCdj-mrRLWlhVm8rBxSjS4dc9R44rquCJW5hLbjOOnruDU1RejCGMq/s200/DSCN3139.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> The studio, moved to the backyard of our house in town from the yard of a cotton gin, proudly began life as a cotton buyer's office, then was abused as a storage place for not needed but "too good to pitch" furniture, then a deposit for used textbooks, bank statements, chairs with less then four legs, tricycles and hat boxes (remember those?) and finally a fine home for spiders and their kin,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">mice, and squirrels.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> Our sons flew in from Seattle and Atlanta to surprise their Mama and </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">hang and paint sheet rock,</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> help their Dad build a porch onto the Cotton House, and enjoy Cypress Corner barbecue. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvapbtV4iOJmtwKtpdPFjbjk98O4OiBs4gw3oczDOho9hxQvK_P1hyphenhyphene3WvYBD4JgfPTcFbW7F3BV_wrcE9cRTAMGyu8h56U7K_SPOzarP0nx-To82g4dIHQwssqDZDuE2vFOVZ_RpasBC/s1600/cypress+hornor+lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvapbtV4iOJmtwKtpdPFjbjk98O4OiBs4gw3oczDOho9hxQvK_P1hyphenhyphene3WvYBD4JgfPTcFbW7F3BV_wrcE9cRTAMGyu8h56U7K_SPOzarP0nx-To82g4dIHQwssqDZDuE2vFOVZ_RpasBC/s320/cypress+hornor+lake.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> The boys' Mama, freed from canvases, paints, and bushes all over the kitchen table and counters, began to paint in the "new place", often to the raucous and inimitable sound of Preservation Hall or Randy Newman. The muse came often then, granting the painter with ideas and the best color combinations, even initiating good sales. Heck, this painting thing was good. It was fine!</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Xhm-R57Ftni6_ptuoXhmbZnGy_TtV5MqTqHZAOoor4YwGICj6Ik-YopWkvR-vm47M-yJgC9CCY8zqHt8Lv1qV6fBwIcb8VmNtruZnRdRckh9dCRVCgzwDYuqO_TiL9ry05MedUKLImsV/s1600/Gift+from+the+Gulf.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Xhm-R57Ftni6_ptuoXhmbZnGy_TtV5MqTqHZAOoor4YwGICj6Ik-YopWkvR-vm47M-yJgC9CCY8zqHt8Lv1qV6fBwIcb8VmNtruZnRdRckh9dCRVCgzwDYuqO_TiL9ry05MedUKLImsV/s200/Gift+from+the+Gulf.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> However. Muses are as individual as the creators they might serve. They are prone to wander. They are beautiful things but not often reliable, though the real truth may be that the artists/writers/inventors they serve are themselves not always present.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmRH4fdZ957exZ9zq-kdpU0TS4dDd0Y6papdAm_9FcV0lQDUrmmTekXeLhvzmk5ilhZxqsHx-j3J4yLaQeT9dlnFrywO7KECS4bnvsIvmYPG8kVH3OpjQa1Uyy0Nqbtk88CwG226qWQez/s1600/red+chevie+truck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmRH4fdZ957exZ9zq-kdpU0TS4dDd0Y6papdAm_9FcV0lQDUrmmTekXeLhvzmk5ilhZxqsHx-j3J4yLaQeT9dlnFrywO7KECS4bnvsIvmYPG8kVH3OpjQa1Uyy0Nqbtk88CwG226qWQez/s200/red+chevie+truck.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> So, Muse, I plead guilty to presuming I had no need of you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> Come back to Cotton House Studio.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhiQJOEFyEsqyz0MoGUTyzCHyM2zn20r788tWJjazioBnX-A1J9czMCI4M0fAQ2fp3V19u0iQugKVs_2WUo8QyvnvVSgi8ff53ikIUdfjy8qTAkXeE7OrF-iSV50zNwiAe6Q51KbR4A5QW/s1600/Swing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhiQJOEFyEsqyz0MoGUTyzCHyM2zn20r788tWJjazioBnX-A1J9czMCI4M0fAQ2fp3V19u0iQugKVs_2WUo8QyvnvVSgi8ff53ikIUdfjy8qTAkXeE7OrF-iSV50zNwiAe6Q51KbR4A5QW/s200/Swing.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP6CQMyrAVU8izHDvvQHELdkJ6cfdQNb4aKA9spc5AMxKMhYTpNxyDHPSPmeD7e5TPIU2UKG6ncXIgnGeht-uBOT9-uZDNg9yjTdyRuptzn0Y3OtmagwQZQiMaym4zlfL8drbSjGRq463y/s1600/Her+Brother%2527s+Dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP6CQMyrAVU8izHDvvQHELdkJ6cfdQNb4aKA9spc5AMxKMhYTpNxyDHPSPmeD7e5TPIU2UKG6ncXIgnGeht-uBOT9-uZDNg9yjTdyRuptzn0Y3OtmagwQZQiMaym4zlfL8drbSjGRq463y/s200/Her+Brother%2527s+Dog.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">I miss you. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> I need you.</span><br />
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<span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </span>Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-76521096474974171322016-09-22T20:56:00.005-05:002016-09-22T20:56:42.380-05:00Whose Fault?<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1 September 2016</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Leaving soon to make the half-hour drive to an important group meeting . One of the members and I had
a few loud and angry words yesterday. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I do not look forward to seeing that
person. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She brings out a not-so-nice me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Or perhaps I allow her to do so.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Damn.</span></div>
Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-24718790560505724532013-04-30T15:08:00.003-05:002013-04-30T15:08:30.660-05:00Simple Question, Profound Anwer <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> <span style="font-size: small;">Dede, I'm five today. I know it, she said. Happy Birthday. <span style="font-size: small;">S</span>he held his hand.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Dede, are you the elderly? Sometimes, she said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Dede, let's skip on the sidewalk, he said. Okay, she said. He squeezed her hand in their secret way. Gentle squeeze, gentle squeeze, gentle squeeze. I love you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Dede, are you old? he said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Not today, she said. They skipped away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> They say that traits we dislike in others are the very ones we have but don't recognize in ourselves.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Man, that's a bummer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Those people who say miracles don't happen anymore are wrong, she said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Now, I never saw a burning bush or a dead person walk, but I saw my grandson when he was five minutes old.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> There was a miracle.</span>Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-88637523499255921842009-07-19T10:11:00.003-05:002009-07-19T10:58:42.620-05:00Recipes for a Porch PartyHow about a Porch Party? Invite some friends over, turn on a fan to discourage mosquitoes, pass some cool beverages and serve toasted pecans and a tortilla dip that will disappear in a hurry. Other necessary ingredients for a successful porch or deck party include hearty laughter and true stories. Okay, mostly true.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Toasted Pecans</span><br /> Get some of your Fall pecans from the freezer and make this marvelous treat, long a requisite for any Southern wedding, tea or reception of any type. These make great gifts. A friend sends them to her son in the Navy. He shares them, thus increasing his popularity aboard ship.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /> 1 stick butter<br />4 tsp. Worchestershire<br />4 cups pecans<br />1 Tab. garlic salt<br />1/2 tsp. Tabasco<br /><br /> Melt butter in 11 x 14 sheet cake pan in 300 degree oven.<br />Add other ingredients and pecans, mixing well. Toast for about 30 minutes, stirring occasionally during toasting to evenly season nuts. Watch carefully, for they can burn quickly. Dry on paper towels. Mighty good.<br /><br /> Husband D. and I often send our far-away friends several pounds of cracked pecans when the season has been a prolific one. You'd think we had sent them big money!<br />Pecans. Southern manna.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tortilla Dip</span> (quite easy)<br /><br />1 6-oz. can ripe olives chopped<br />1 4-0z. can green chilies, chopped<br />4 green onions with tops, chopped<br />3 large ripe tomatoes, peeled and chopped<br />3 Tab. salad oil<br />1 1/2 Tab. vinegar<br />1 1/2 tsp. garlic salt<br /><br /> Mix olives, chilies, onion, tomatoes. Add oil, vinegar and garlic salt. Stir, chill, serve with chips. A Teach for America young man from California who lived with us for a while said this dip reminded him of home. A good recommendation. (recipe from friend Jeannie)<br /><br /><br /> This past week was very productive in the kitchen. Made and canned strawberry preserves; blueberry-pineapple dessert topping; bread-and-butter pickles; and spices pickled beets. I like doing it: makes me feel like one of the pioneer women my ancestors were.Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-37981585998373730962009-07-19T08:56:00.003-05:002009-07-19T10:11:30.162-05:00A Troll in the RefrigeratorUgly and demented, the unseen troll who must live nearby targeted my house last week, using his malevolent powers to make our refrigerator's shelves topple one upon the other, squshing half a lemon pie and upsetting a stack of leftovers. The thingies that support the shelves broke.<br /><br /> Off to the nearest store, 15 miles away, husband D. and I go. Gotta' have a frig and freezer. Heck, we had strawberry sherbet (delicious) in the freezer. Certainly couldn't let that Southern delicacy thaw and ruin.<br /><br /> Arrived at an appliance store. Found the style we liked. Talked to young man on sales floor. Said young man: "This style comes in several colors. Which would you like?"<br /><br /> I: "Certainly not harvest gold again."<br /><br /> He: "Huh? Harvest gold? I don't know that style."<br /><br /> I: "It's a color. You know, like avocado green."<br /><br /> He: "Huh?"<br /><br /> As I thought about those two enormously popular colors , I realized they reflected a<span style="font-style: italic;"> life style</span> of perky young housewives in bright red lipstick, below-the-knee-dresses and standing erectly in their spike heels as they happily mopped their kitchen floor. That's what the advertisers showed.<br /><br />Remember those ads? Who <span style="font-style: italic;">were</span> those women able to take time from kitchen mopping to have their pictures taken for the popular womens' magazine of the day? Working in high heels? Huh?<br /><br />My harvest gold refrigerator will be delegated to other duties as soon as D. finishes his carpentry work. The new one, about two inches taller than old harvest gold, must fit in a cabinet space designed for the hot model of 32 years ago. Tearing out a kitchen cabinet and rebuilding it will take a few days. Just enough time for my new double door white refrigerator to arrive.<br /><br />Believe I'll dress up, get the mop out, and have D. take my picture as I mop my kitchen. That'll be a new picture for our new fridge door.Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-47216914607351359452009-07-03T09:57:00.015-05:002009-07-04T17:25:35.802-05:00Tomatoes Straight from the Garden? Seconds, please!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx0j-8Q-Erq6_ttB9dVpTew4Lv2smkBm9xHnZvDre13BOXEvCiwzQFLEiRqQScEM6MGV4rHrM7REvNcB_JlMvWHW_JxlA_BJRUfssB56pU0J4i84msca9tL9NvgBsILqxN_I_78URuO7LQ/s1600-h/High+Cotton+cover+photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx0j-8Q-Erq6_ttB9dVpTew4Lv2smkBm9xHnZvDre13BOXEvCiwzQFLEiRqQScEM6MGV4rHrM7REvNcB_JlMvWHW_JxlA_BJRUfssB56pU0J4i84msca9tL9NvgBsILqxN_I_78URuO7LQ/s320/High+Cotton+cover+photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354664362652022066" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> <span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Cold, sliced or chunked, beautifully orange-red and roundly plump. Makes a Southern mouth water.<br /> Yep, first of summer's tomatoes. In a salad dressing so good you'll drink the left-overs out of the jar when no one is looking!<br /><br />Think early evening backyard get-togethers with long-time friends laughing and swapping tales; magaritas and beer or bourbon with branch water; steaks and marinated shrimp on one end of the grill, unshucked corn and skewered mushrooms and onions on the other end. Think the children at home with a teenaged babysitter, pizza, and Disney movies. Oh, yeah.<br /><br />Now. About the dressing: I call it "Frances' Superb French Dressing" for the family friend, Frances "Red" Taylor of Como, Mississippi, who brought it over to my Mama's house as a "little summertime pick-me-up" when my Mama was ill. The just-a-teeny-bit-sweet dressing on tomatoes may not cure ills, but it does produce moans of palate pleasure. Here's the recipe:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Frances' Superb French Dressing</span><br />2 cups oil <br />1 cups cider vinegar<br />1/2 cup ketchup<br />1 Tab. salt<br />4 Tab. sugar<br />1 small onion, grated<br />dash pepper<br />Combine all ingredients except oil in blender. Add oil then blend again for a few seconds.<br />Makes 1 quart. Keeps indefinitely in refrigerator.<br />Delicious over freshly sliced tomatoes, cucumbers or onion slices. (Can be drunk straight from the quart jar!)<br /><br />This recipe was included in <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">High Cotton Cooking, </span>a cookbook edited on my dining room table some years ago to benefit a local school. The book has gone through six printings, sold more than 25,000 copies, and includes back-home, like-Mama-made recipes. Extra features are extensive sections on breads and preserving section.The 348-page book is still in print and sells for $25 plus $5 s/h. It's a good buy.<br /><br />Recipes soon: Mississippi Tomato Aspic? Dede's Fig Preserves? Quick Cranberry Nut Bread?<br />Blueberry-pineapple Preserves? Decisions, decisions.<br /><br />To buy a cookbook, contact averydear aka:<br />Grace Henderson<br />PO Box 727<br />Marvell AR 72366 </span></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span></span></span>Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-18920385694119762702009-07-02T11:04:00.006-05:002009-07-02T17:35:56.174-05:00Cute Pests? the other side of the story...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTs-3gQDYZfk2m4ffgkvhNmx3lcNXTPCghkXzOvZaUrwUeZmBL_L9cWuVHRjOTaF1ZqXVP1VqeRhikaogTpLOe_CDMuh93xAeDQRRyYyQqiLlTYnlW1UmBdC6TaG_P_OCaJYo-8kduv5Ny/s1600-h/35264209.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 149px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTs-3gQDYZfk2m4ffgkvhNmx3lcNXTPCghkXzOvZaUrwUeZmBL_L9cWuVHRjOTaF1ZqXVP1VqeRhikaogTpLOe_CDMuh93xAeDQRRyYyQqiLlTYnlW1UmBdC6TaG_P_OCaJYo-8kduv5Ny/s200/35264209.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353995072000197602" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> <span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Some years ago I was miffed at my neighbor for trapping the dear little squirrels that lived in the biggest oak tree in my back yard. After the three or four squirrels sped into his yard for a tasty pecan treat, they came back home (to me, of course) to enjoy their dinner in the safety of my sanctuary. Precious things. How could the neighbor, who has a pecan orchard for Pete's sake, miss a few pecans.? Shame on that mean old neighbor.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I am a gardener, happy when my hands are in the dirt, my shoes muddy and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">caladiums</span> opening and swaying in a gentle breeze. The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">caladiums</span> last summer were magnificent, eliciting praise for their beauty from passersby. They framed our rambling front porch and were my garden's eye candy. So, naturally, I sorted them by color before the Fall's first frost and kept them in mesh bags in a dark closet. Those bulging bags were the promise of future beauty.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">After a month of rain in early Spring and my being out of town for three weeks after the rain, I heard the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">caladiums</span> begging to fulfill their destiny in the dirt, not in the closet. I hoped they would thrive even being planted several weeks later than the optimum time, so I spent a day pulling up the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">detrius</span> of fall and winter in the flower beds. I cheerfully and eagerly made soft beds for the now sprouting bulbs, watered them in gently. I had really done a fine job, I thought.<br /><br /></span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Two days later, I inspected my fine job and saw that the precious squirrels had dug up and chewed up nearly every bulb. Nearly all the fifty or more that I'd tended so gently. Add to that a pesky mole had done a real number in the lawn, but this is not a mole story.</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Retribution is swift. I am looking for a squirrel trap.</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">However. The squirrels also like corn. Had I considered the needs of other animals that live in and around this yard and kept the corn feeder filled, perhaps my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">caladiums</span> would be pushing up today.</span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />Hmmm</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">. Karma.</span>Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-60031153022319691692009-04-20T21:07:00.011-05:002009-05-06T09:15:31.566-05:00What a Night It Was<span style="font-family:verdana;">Last weekend I slept with a wild man. He slept so close to me he almost pushed me out of the bed, and today I am worn to a frazzle. Every time I moved, he sat up and asked where I was going.<br /><br />I'm so crazy for him I'm taking a day off without pay just to be with him this weekend, too, even driving 200 miles to pick him up. He doesn't drive, primarily because another woman in his life won't let him, making him sit in the back, buckled up for safety. My daughter, who is my wild man's mother, has said that when he has his third birthday in July we'll have a big party!<br /><br />I call him <span style="font-style: italic;">Angel</span> M<span style="font-style: italic;">an </span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">Monkey</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Doodle</span>. He calls me <span style="font-style: italic;">Dede</span>. Sometimes I call him <span style="font-style: italic;">Little Frog</span>. He doesn't like the latter, and reminds me indignantly, "Me Brooks Thomas Baston; me not frog." (Sometimes he says "Baston" when he really means "Batson.")<br /><br />Not at all bothered by humidity and the occasional rain drop, my wild man gardens with me. He especially likes me to turn a spade of dirt to disclose worms, the bigger and more wriggley the better. Unaware that worms are considered lowly, disgusting creatures, my Little Frog tries to soothe their wriggling by gently stroking them. Trying to catch one of the abundant red squirrels is another of his favorite back yard games. He's still red shirted in that sport.<br /><br />Being a grandparent is not something I thought much about until the first grandchild was born. As soon as I met the first one, I fell in love, I fell into unconditional love and that has happened seven times. The two oldest grandchildren live 3,000 miles west; two live in Alpharetta, Georgia, eight hours east. Little Frog and his parents and two older brothers are only two hours north.<br /><br />As "Dede" I'm far more relaxed, more lenient, more forgiving that I was with my own children.<br /><br />I learned that I said "No!" or "don't" or Stop!" or "in a minute" or "not now" far too often over incredibly unimportant things when I was a young Mama instead of an older and wiser Dede.<br /><br />I don't say "No" much these days.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-39811555854911244792009-04-20T09:39:00.007-05:002009-04-20T12:41:23.732-05:00Teenagers: Something New Every DayAs a high school school teacher for more than 28 years, I often think I've seen and heard it all from teenagers.<br /><br /><br />But no, today I have a new "happening" and I must share it. Actually, this story was passed along by a Teach for America comrade (who taught in Arkansas with me a few years back) who is now teaching in Ohio.<br /><br /><br />"I love teenagers," she wrote. "Today a student told me that another girl wants to fight her (off school grounds so they don't get suspended). My student said she doesn't have a ride so the other girl offered to pick her up."<br /><br />Teenagers. You gotta' love em.Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-68073307737752895402009-04-17T13:47:00.003-05:002009-04-17T14:02:39.185-05:00Wow!<span style="font-family: verdana;">We were talking, Scarlett and I, about how quickly the years have flown since we were together: almost twenty-five. Her son had become a man, as had mine; we'd both changed vocations. She'd moved 3,000 miles west and back to the South 20 years later. We had wrinkles and gray hairs. We were no longer young career women.<br /><br /><br />That night I wondered what I needed to learn from getting old. The answer came to mind spontaneously and in a voice not my own: "That it is a blessing. Not all people get to become old."<br /><br />Wow!<br /></span>Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-43032012219211651722009-04-16T11:04:00.004-05:002009-04-16T11:19:12.198-05:00Spring and Easter<span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >My beloved mother<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyO80ZKqgpsXoX20Q2hhOZcQ3FTDKwxskpV9R3_lKB7ZcJJxwRyb-cbC633BISH3YX9zuUybtC226utoePUY0uBTX3t1V6u1q5mgNJor9V5orYPUAlUKz_GnVGK0olJFRGFwSzmLt7bYti/s1600-h/scan0004.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyO80ZKqgpsXoX20Q2hhOZcQ3FTDKwxskpV9R3_lKB7ZcJJxwRyb-cbC633BISH3YX9zuUybtC226utoePUY0uBTX3t1V6u1q5mgNJor9V5orYPUAlUKz_GnVGK0olJFRGFwSzmLt7bYti/s320/scan0004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325321402983129378" border="0" /></a> has been</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" > gone from this Earth now<br />for</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" > 35 years. Her birthday is April 12</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" >.<br /></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">On April 12, the dogwood in our front yard was at its fullest bloom. More beautiful than it has been in many years. April 12 was Easter Sunday.<br /><br />Is it any wonder, then, that I felt the hundreds of blooms were sending me a message?</span></span><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:webdings;"></span>Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-89146116980943572922009-04-16T10:20:00.002-05:002009-04-16T19:08:11.786-05:00Lessons From the Garden<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Back and leg muscles complained and wanted to rest last week after an afternoon of unaccustomed work during a warm early Spring day, but aches are a small price for a bountiful backyard garden in not too many weeks. The bare beds are clean now of storm-tossed limbs, pine cones and molding leaves that kept them blanketed, safe and warm during below freezing-temperatures.<br /><br />Today the beds look proud and perky. They seem to anticipate early blooming from bulbs and the tentative thrusts of ferns uncurling. They look forward to robins scouring for worms fattened by months under the rich Delta soil.<br /><br />The beds look vulnerable, as well. I wonder if their blanket was torn from them too soon. Clean yet bare gardens expect sunny days ahead and adornment of color and growth. If winter's last cold breath reaches them, these beloved gardens still wear their best faces and stand stalwart in a temporary misfortune.<br /><br />We take lessons from our gardens. Many lovers of the soil and stewards of gardens, especially those devastated by Katrina, have experienced delight and surprise that a toppled and beloved live oak or magnolia has been mysteriously replaced by new plants sowed by howling winds and receding water.<br /><br />Unlike plants, we forget that the sun not only rises again after a storm, but it also seems to shine brighter and further.<br /> --Avery Dear<br /></span></span>Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6619366841238388320.post-67782826119192856272009-04-15T20:58:00.006-05:002009-04-17T11:17:26.416-05:00Susan Boyle is My Hero!<span style="font-size:85%;">First came chills along my arms, then tears in my eyes, then aching in my cheeks from standing rooted to the floor and grinning at the television screen for seven minutes.<br /><br /> Susan Boyle caused my elation. Susan Boyle, a woman from a Scottish village, a woman nearly 48 years old, never married, never been kissed, unemployed but job hunting, a church volunteer who lived with Pebbles, her beloved cat.<br /><br />If you've not heard her, please go to YouTube...just type in Susan Boyle in the search button and you'll<br />be stunned. Or Google her.<br /><br /> This unassuming and refreshingly unsophisticated woman with her rather plain face and inexpensive dress and shoes brought sneers and snickers and rolling of eyes when she strode confidently onto the stage before Simon Cowell, his fellow judges and a packed audience for the first round of auditions for Britain Has Talent.<br />The young and hip audience, who laughed loudly when she nervously answered a rude question from Cowell,<br />was, within five seconds after Susan Boyle began to sing, standing, applauding and cheering like crazy, for this woman who "had never had a chance before." The judges were astounded, two apologizing for their cynicism, and Simon Cowell was open mouthed, stunned by her range, her depth, her innate understanding of the meaning of "I Dreamed a Dream," a most difficult song from the <span style="font-style: italic;">Les Miserables.<br /><br /></span> Since the audition on April 11, more than 14 million... <span style="font-style: italic;">14 million</span><span style="font-style: italic;">..</span>persons have watched the YouTube video of Ms. Boyle's audition. She has been given three "yes" votes from the implacable judges, thus will advance to another of the three more rounds of auditions.<br /><br /> Today the BBC reported that bookies in Great Britain are saying Susan Boyle will be the winner over the thousands who have tried to gain a spot in the talent contest.<br /><br /> I smiled all day. I showed the video to all my high school classes. Many of them grinned and had moist eyes, too. Susan Boyle is a hero. Mine for sure.<br /><br /> Don't you just love it when the underdog wins!<br /><br />Sing, Susan.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>Avery Dearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02187937784156936188noreply@blogger.com1