Author: susanwebsite

Dead animals litter our bedroom floor. They lie flat, inert, coated with dried slobber. But
before you are too grossed out, know that these critters were never alive. They can, however, squeak when clutched in Reggie’s tiny jaws.

Our previous dog, Remi, had large, tough toys. He was a Labradoodle. Any soft, squeaky
toys were instantly dismantled until the squeaker fell out. Fortunately, he never ate them.
Reggie is a different character, Shi-Tzu, Lasa Apso or something like that, although larger than most at nineteen pounds. We adopted him from Richmond Animal League last November. He loves his toys. His favorites are a bristly fox and a green dinosaur. He picked out the fox himself at Tractor Supply Company and the Dino was a gift from a friend. He shakes them to death often, slinging them this way and that, rewarded by a squeak. He also has a tiny bear, two small dinos, three horses which can be pried or shaken out of a cloth stable, and a hard plastic green disc which he can squeak repeatedly with his paws. He prefers to recline with all of his possessions scattered around him.

We sometimes spend the night with a friend. Her dog has two baskets of toys. When
visiting, Reggie took out all nineteen toys and, while we were eating dinner, secretly gathered them around himself, under the dinner table.

The history of these breeds of dogs says they were bred to be lapdogs in Tibet. At 10,000
plus feet, lapdogs would be welcome. And a lapdog he is, happily curling against us or a pillow. But somewhere in his distant DNA is no doubt a fierce hunter. And last night, we heard a tiny howl—who knows what he dreams.

 I learned through NPR that Carnegie Museum of Pittsburgh workers had unionized, increasing wages from $9 an hour to $16 an hour. For several years my mother and a good friend of hers volunteered at the museum. She enjoyed that very much. As a volunteer, she was invited to exhibit openings and always took us to the latest exhibits when we visited.

She then applied to be a cashier for the museum. She was in her late sixties I think, and the thought of working at a paying job thrilled her. I have no idea how much she made, but I suspect it was minimum wage. I wonder how she would have felt about unionizing. I know she blamed the unions for the demise of the Pittsburgh Steel industry and the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus closing in Pittsburgh in 1956. But on the other hand, she would have been thrilled if her pay had increased.

The news brought a smile to my face.

I saw an ancient 60’s behemoth of a convertible, probably a Pontiac or a Dodge, colored a hideous brown and gold, with the driver enjoying today’s lovely weather with the top down. I smiled.

Things that make me cry . . .

But then, I saw a news brief about another school shooting, this time at a high school in Georgia. I don’t know the details but I believe four students were killed and many more injured. I have a granddaughter in high school. We have to do better. We have to figure out a way to prevent such hideous violence.  I sent up a prayer for the students and families involved and asked God to help us stop this atrocity. What is wrong with us? Why are accessible guns everywhere in the United States?

And I saw that yet another person was caught at Richmond Airport security with a loaded gun in carry-on luggage. Responsible gun owners know the whereabouts of their firearms.

I have many friends who are responsible hunters. No one is coming for their guns. But the guns on every street corner—-we have to do better.

There is a business I drive by once or twice a month named “Shay-Pit”. Closer inspection
of the sign reveals the business is a hair salon. And in fact, there is a picture of flowing tresses of hair. But for the first several times I saw the sign, I was perplexed and, only after a few minutes and another reading of the small print, remembered its purpose. But for whatever reason, for me it conjures up pictures of pit bulls fighting to the death. If, however, the sign were worded “Shape It” I would have sooner recognized a salon or maybe a fitness center.

On a recent trip to Maine, we soon realized that cannabis was legal and several
businesses advertised themselves as dispensaries. But others were more creative. We passed “Happy” and “Higher” scattered along the highway.

When we crossed the border into New Brunswick, Canada, we found every sign in both
French and English. This provided a nice review of my long-ago high school French. We knew that Canada has two official languages, English and French. The province of New Brunswick is officially bilingual. That did not prepare us for the sign in our room in a lovely inn. “Please remain the window closed so as to prevent the falling of the air conditioner.” We did indeed remain the window closed and had a lovely stay.

When I think about writing, I think about both of my parents. Today is my mother’s birthday, although she is no longer with us. My mother was an avid reader. She read the morning paper, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, with breakfast and often did the crossword puzzle. She read, like I do, when she was waiting anywhere, often after dinner and when she went to bed.

She liked to read to us when we were young, but I soon wanted to read for myself.

We subscribed to several magazines over the years including US News and World Report, Better Homes and Gardens and several horse magazines. She belonged to the Book of the Month Club for many years and read all of their selections. In later years, she mostly read mysteries. I was surprised to learn she read Stephen King, saying that even though she was not really a horror fan, he was such a good writer.

As far as I know, other than letters (in an age when people wrote letters), she didn’t do any other writing. But she certainly could have. She was a strict grammarian and I learned at an early age to say, “This is she,” or, “It is I.”

I only asked for her critique of my writing once. We had been assigned, in fourth grade I believe, to write an autobiography. She was not pleased that I included the fact she was divorced. I was simply trying to explain why my half-brother had a different name (and a different father). She said that was none of anyone’s business and since I attended a Catholic girls school, I later understood why she might not want that to be public knowledge. As a result of her criticism, I never showed her any more of my writing.

My father wrote letters and once a humorous poem about a difficult construction project. He read the paper, magazines, and for enjoyment, Louis L’ Amour westerns. His favorite television shows were “Gunsmoke” and “Rawhide”, so his choice of reading material wasn’t surprising. He, too, was a grammarian. He would dictate business letters for me to type and later let me word them and he would check them.

The Sisters of Mercy who taught me were all well-educated and very clear in teaching us grammar based on diagramming sentences, something I think I could still do in my sleep.

But anyway, Happy Birthday, Mother, and thanks for the grammar and the reading example, both have served me well. And I wish you could read my mysteries, although maybe you have and are critiquing them as I write.

We no longer live on ten, fifty, one hundred or three hundred acres—all past situations. We now live in a duplex with a very small yard. But that situation hasn’t stopped us from growing some of our own food.

After determining that the east side of our house received at least six hours of sun per day, we drove to Bailey, North Carolina and purchased several three-year old blueberry plants of three different varieties (needed for pollination). We took out overgrown nandinas and other shrubs and replaced them with blueberries. They bloom in the spring, are green all summer and turn red in the fall.

 We have been able to pick, eat and freeze blueberries for the past four years. We pull weeds occasionally, but the plants and their mulch pretty well shade them out. We net them as the berries become ripe and enjoy picking daily from late June to mid-July.

This spring we added to our future berry production by planting a serviceberry tree. It is a native Virginia tree which blooms early in the spring and eventually will produce an edible berry, similar to a blueberry.

Sage, rosemary and oregano grow beside the blueberries as do daylilies and a huge Annabelle hydrangea; overall, a nice landscaping feature.

Total effort was one day’s drive, one day taking out shrubs, one day planting, thirty minutes netting the plants each year and during the season, fifteen minutes a day picking. Freezing involves washing and drying, placing on a cookie sheet to freeze and then filling containers. No chemicals, no transportation and fresh, yummy berries. While blueberry pie and my concoction of blueberry delight (a trifle sort of dessert made with pieces of a simple yellow cake, vanilla pudding, whipped cream and blueberries) are family favorites, our usual enjoyment are healthier options: topping sugar-free cereal or mixed with yogurt and granola. And one added benefit, reaching under the net to pick creates all sorts of interesting yoga positions—free.

Everyone loves a parade . . . For the first time in the five years we have lived here, we made it to the Williamsburg Christmas Parade. It is at night, so lots of lighted floats, some even shooting snow! Although I enjoyed watching this parade, I am not generally a fan.

Our sorority had a homecoming float. Not only did I hate decorating it, I kept thinking how much the money spent could help the charities which we supported.

When I became a 4-H agent, our 4-H clubs decorated a float—lots of hours in a cold warehouse, and lots of expense. And I ended up with tonsilitis for Thanksgiving.

After Wallace and I were married, we rode in a few parades in Edmonton, Kentucky. One year, the leaders took a wrong turn, causing rearing motorcycles to be facing our less than pleased horses. Another year, Wallace and our son and a friend took off to ride cross country to the parade starting point at the fairgrounds. They never arrived. Thinking the worst, I drove back toward home and found them slowly riding back to our farm. It seems Brent’s pony had put her head down to take a drink as she crossed the creek and he ended up soaking wet.

Another year, Wallace was away, but our daughter, Wynn, and a friend were determined to ride. I hauled the horses to the starting point where we froze waiting for the parade marshal, who arrived thirty minutes late. They rode the circuit and back to the fairgrounds where I loaded the horses, made it home, unloaded, unhitched the trailer, fed the horses, and then drove two and half hours to meet Wallace in Lexington so that Wynn could compete in a winter tournament the next day.

Wynn rode in the Forest City, NC parade with no mishaps. Then after we moved to Rural Hall, North Carolina, Wallace decided to drive her new horse in the Christmas parade. The mare ran over me as he unloaded her. Then we hitched the mare and she was more or less okay with the flag girls twirling in front of her, prancing happily (American Saddlebred horses do love a parade). I was to drive the truck and trailer to the end point, then catch a ride back to the origin point to do the pooper-scooper duty. No one would give me a ride, so I hoofed back the mile parade route in time to pick up the wheelbarrow, followed the horse and cart to the end, scooping poop as it occurred. Not especially fun.

So last night I waved at the floats, appreciated their efforts and felt thankful I was not a participant.

Our sweet mare, Sunset’s Lydia, suffers from a metabolic disorder known as PSSM. This means she must get most of her energy from fats and proteins as opposed to carbs. A horse Keto diet. When we were attending a horse show in Raleigh, North Carolina, we realized we were out of alfalfa pellets which she eats with canola oil as a part of her regular diet.

So, we headed to the nearest feed store to the show grounds. Now, change of subject, but not really. We live in Williamsburg, Virginia, the home of William & Mary. Neither of us attended the esteemed school, but when we moved here, a friend gave my husband a W&M shirt. I laughingly suggested he wear the shirt while we were in Raleigh to help promote the book about the college which I recently edited.

Within a few miles of the North Carolina State Fairgrounds, we found an old- time feed and hardware store, complete with pot-bellied stove and a cadre of gentlemen gathered around it. When one of the men rang up our order, he asked my husband if he had attended W&M. My husband, being ever helpful, said, “No, but my wife just edited a book all about life at the college.”

I then told the gentleman that the book was available for pre-order and wrote the title on one of my business cards. Turns out he had lots of ancestors from Williamsburg and was interested in anything to do with William & Mary.

You never know what opportunities and connections await. Be ready.

My husband and I recently travelled from our home in Williamsburg to Ballinasloe, County Galway Ireland. We could have gotten on the early morning Amtrak and travelled directly to Newark—Liberty International Airport. We actually drove to Baltimore to spend a few days with our daughter and family and took the same train from Baltimore-Washington International Airport to Newark airport. There a tram carried us to the international terminal and our Aer Lingus flight.

Upon arriving in Dublin, we planned to stay in an airport hotel to recover from jet lag before boarding our bus to the west of Ireland. A hotel shuttle took us to the hotel and back to the airport the next day to board our cross- country bus. The buses run often and are very reasonable. Our round- trip ticket for two was $56 for a two-and-a-half-hour journey with few stops.

When we returned, we took the bus directly to the airport terminal. Upon landing in Newark, we boarded the tram to the hotel shuttle stop and took the shuttle to our hotel—we could have boarded a train from the airport but again decided on some recovery time. The next morning our shuttle deposited us back at the airport and one tram stop later we were at the train station where both commuter and Amtrak trains are available.

Hampton Roads brands itself as a tourist destination. And, Williamsburg and Newport News as well as Norfolk have Amtrak service with some bus connections to Virginia Beach. But as far as I know, there are no train or bus connections from Williamsburg to Richmond or Newport News or Norfolk airports. Virginia Beach has declined to extend the Tides commuter rail from Norfolk to the beach.

Tourist dollars could best be spent connecting airports to train stations and buses, allowing visitors to arrive without cars. Increased subsidies to public transportation could ease traffic congestion throughout the country. Carless visitors would not add to traffic or air pollution and would attract additional classes of tourists.

Hats off to BWI and Norfolk for making travel easier!

It’s a good thing my parents didn’t name me Grace. My latest example of being “not
grace” occurred in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, certainly a place for grace. Since our visit occurred during Covid restrictions, I was careful to have my vaccination record and ID in hand. Once that passed muster, we were herded to the purse/bag checking station.

I will first tell you that it was a cold, half rain-half snow day. So, I had my all-weather
hooded coat on, with the hood up. Because we were in the big city, I had the shoulder strap of my purse over my head and resting on my left shoulder while the purse was secured on my right side. Then I had wrapped my thick wooly scarf around my neck, over the coat and tied it.

I reached to pull my purse off my shoulder and managed to pull my scarf over my face,
the purse strap now entangled in the scarf and coat hood. Fortunately, the purse checkers had a sense of humor. “Do we need 911?” One asked. The second replied, “Maybe the jaws of life.” And, “It’s okay, we’ve got you.”

In an earlier year, I might have died of embarrassment, but having lived my graceless life
so long, I only began to laugh. Eventually I was untangled and lived to see the glory of the Met.

I never went hungry. A blessing that many Americans take for granted, but others cannot. I grew up on a farm and we had some lean years with my mother making a few desperation dinners, but mostly we had beef or pork and/or lamb from the farm in the freezer as well as frozen green beans, tomatoes, green peppers, Swiss chard, squash and corn from our garden as well as applesauce from our apple tree. We also had what we called winter pear trees—the pears were not good to eat, but she made pearsauce out of them. I suspect they might have been tasty canned—I have canned similar pears, but she was not much into canning.

My father contracted with a commercial bakery to pick up their old bread. He took our converted Dodge moving van which could carry four horses, or several cattle or hogs to market, and filled it with day-old bread. We first went through the packages choosing sweet rolls, variety breads and whatever else appealed for the home freezer. The rest we emptied into an old chicken plucking tank which warmed the water to brew pig slop. The pigs loved it and the barn smelled like chicken soup.

For several years we had a milk cow and my mother, although growing up as a city girl, learned to make soft cheese and butter. We had chickens for fresh eggs. A neighbor grew corn, oats, wheat and barley on our farm on the shares. My mother would take some of the wheat and cook it as a hot cereal.

My father loved creamed corn, right out of the can. So, one desperation dinner I remember was creamed corn mixed into scrambled eggs—not bad at all.

One very cold winter night, we found a heifer which had been shot by a hunter. For reasons now unclear to me, in order to use the meat, we had to have the entire carcass made into smoked beef sausage. My father had the opportunity to go back to the city and work for my uncle. During the week, we stayed in an old sorority house he owned with gas stoves. My mother was afraid to light the ovens and we didn’t really move much to that house in the way of cooking equipment. I can remember eating the smoked sausage along with toast she made by holding bread over the gas flame. Not my favorite.

I no longer live on a farm and have only a small garden. None the less, we still have a few off the land meals—we use a small raised bed down the street from us. We grew tomatoes, green onions, peppers, zucchini, lettuce, basil and Swiss chard. At our house we have blueberry bushes, rosemary, thyme and oregano along with cherry tomatoes. My favorite is to sauté fresh tomatoes, onions, peppers and zucchini and serve over pasta with fresh cut basil and parmesan cheese. Swiss chard makes a great quiche, along with green onions.

This year, the news mentioned the higher cost of Thanksgiving dinner. Thanks to Food Lion we purchased an almost fifteen -pound turkey for less than five dollars. Throughout the year I freeze stale bread, heels and leftover cornbread to use for stuffing.  I had to buy peas, cranberries, and potatoes along with onions and celery. I now have turkey and dressing in the freezer along with a carcass and broth for soup making—an investment of ten dollars made us many meals. And I suspect as inflation increases, our “creative cooking” will continue.