Friday, November 17, 2017


The season is upon us. Those of us who are cooking the holiday dinners. And probably the ones growing weary standing in long lines at Kroger. One night I spent three grocery store hunts for sour cream. If you can, shop early. I feel for the people who have to wait until the last minute.

What do racing and cornmeal have to do with each other? (2016) reports over 10 million miles have been raced on Sunoco Green E15. The very last race of the season, the end of NASCAR ethanol consumption, is days before the holiday season begins. Connection?

We need to be concerned. "People" know about it but nobody is talking. There is the possibility that the cornmeal shelves will be empty days before Thanksgiving. I tell you it is all being burned away in engines every day but most notably in the auto racing industry. There is no sense whatsoever in thirty-two cars going around a track or a track that twists and turns on a course. That is a lot of gasoline for five hundred miles and all of those cars are burning, burning, burning.  And there is only one women they let race. But to look at her, I don't think she eats much so it is of little concern to her that the very essence of Thanksgiving and Christmas meals is going up in the air as all those little cars race their tires off.

This is serious. This is not fake news. Without cornmeal, there can be no cornbread. And you have to have cornbread to make Dressing for Thanksgiving. Cornbread is to the South like a popover to Menomonie, Wisconsin, a flour tortilla to San Antonio, Texas and a lobster roll to Boothbay, Maine. A shortage of cornmeal could disrupt the usual beautiful holiday tradition of steaming sage dressing full of onions and celery and the plated little jellied roll of cranberry sauce.

Thank goodness this nonsense will soon be shed.  #48 is stuck with seven titles to end 2017. Will he retire? Daryl Earnhardt and Richard Petty did win seven times but will Jimmie go for #8 in 2018?

He was raised in California. I don't know if they give a fig about dressing over there, sitting on that fault line.  This is true because I wouldn't make it up.  Dressing, as we Southerners know it, may be at stake.  Corn continues to be a bumper crop.  That should be a good thing but they are growing it to make fuel.

But with all of that corn going for fuel, especially the racing kind, the eating kind is getting scarce.  No one will say anything because corn has always been so very important to the American diet, right from the first step out of the boat.  They don't want a corn panic like the spinach panic of 1843.

I am having trouble sleeping at night because I am worried about having enough cornmeal to make my dressing for Thanksgiving.  It is the perfect dressing.  Course, a perfect dressing is only doable with a perfect cornbread.  You have to have a Mamaw to teach you to make perfect cornbread and I'm not giving that secret away for nothing.  But it is a real secret, I promise.  And there are good Southern cooks who can't make a mean dressing.  Bless their heart.  Cornbread is the backbone.     

 Fixing dressing in my family requires nerves of cast iron.  Iron chef is nothing.  We have so many good cooks we can't fit all the food on the table.

Stuffing is not dressing.  Little pieces of “light bread” do not make up a southern dressing.  Let’s face it.  What success can you hope for by saving bread scraps for two weeks?  They get dry.  Did you ever hear of someone taking Chicken and Stuffing to a grieving family?  They’d mourn all over again. 

I have stuffed those little chickens but I will never stuff a turkey.  I know folks can't help where they are raised but the thought of stuffing makes me lose my appetite for a couple of weeks.  Millions are raised on white bread stuffing.  White bread is good for toast and a peanut butter sandwich and a fried baloney sandwich. 

I've got to put my mighty pen down and find out more about this conspiracy.  Maybe they are just trying to put us on a diet by taking away corn.  I'll be glad when all of this racing is over.  It is not healthy to sit out there in all of that dust, noise and smells.  Course, I can't be too harsh because a lot of good Southern folks are rooting on their favorites.  And they don't know about this NASCAR Cornmeal Conspiracy.  It hasn't even been on Fox news, yet.    

# Sizzle Perfect Cornbread - No-Stick Guarantee 

Revision of original 11-11-13

Sunday, November 5, 2017


Car love. Color. Outside. Inside. Tires. Leather seats. Lift gate. Heated seats. Expansive windshield. Horses. Sunroof.  

Nine years later, I still love driving it as much as the first day. Reliability. Pedal to the metal. Could there be any new experience left to discover behind the wheel?

Driving down the road to visit my mother. Tom Petty’s Freefallin’ on the radio, a mesmerizing song which always changes my volume. She’s a good girl.

Freefall. You cannot say the word without the up and down it represents. Seconds of suspension hanging in time, unaffected by earth’s movement. Falling into what was.

First memorized poem – eight years old. Robert Louis Stevenson.  “Up in the air I go flying again, up in the air and down.” The magic.
I spend the night. We make the requisite WalMart excursion. Then to Oceans for Fried Catfish and shrimp and cry about ‘em fries. A good visit. Sally on Best Behavior Cat.

Heading home the next day. Eighty degrees. Running naked weather. Perfect. Big, blue ribbon sky. Bedraggled trees I will not kid you about the leaves.

I only open the sunroof on city streets – a decent breeze. But this day, I open the sunroof for the highway. And just for something new, the front windows too, all the way down. The sun on my head and arms. Even my short hair whipping around my face.

What a rush! Flying eighty down the interstate. Little traffic. Wind all around, rushing through the windows and up through the sunroof. The sun. The swirl. Wind lifts. It’s almost like flying, driving in the full sun and blasting wind. I yell like I’m riding the Himalaya at the Fair.

Driving down the highway. Radio cranked. Hoping for the notes and lyrics sung for thousands of miles. Notes which lift and exhilarate. Freebird and Frankenstein. Stairway to Heaven.  American Pie. Stayin’ Alive. Hotel California. Sweet Home Alabama. Jet Airliner. September. Bennie and the Jets. Bohemian Rhapsody. Let It Be.

Blue. Breeze. Heat on my skin. Fleetwood Mac. John Denver. We Are Family.

Free. Being there. Staying there. Summer 80. “How can they be that close? Just let me say for the record we’re giving love in a family dose.”*  Three dancing. Daddy twirls the Dancing Queen. Shuffle. I can see his smile. Anything to make his girls happy. Parquet dance floor. Disco Ball. Backgammon. Sunday. Employees. We are family.  

The freefall of memory. Hanging in the air, aloft. A minute of everyday halted, triggered by the notes of a song or a fragrance. Suspension. Earnest focus. Memory of touch. Obsession. The bright flash will not bring back the place or person. The world has kept on moving. Falling, stretching out the dance until landing back on earth into time already passed.

*Sister Sledge We Are Family  1979

Saturday, October 21, 2017


My husband thought he heard a gunshot last night while watching t.v. He jumped up thinking it was coming from the deck. Then he realized it must be the roof artillery ricocheting off of the grill. 

As a writer, one of the nicest compliments one can receive is a reader talking about a particular story. Just to know someone has enjoyed the story. Drop Day is a story people mention.* The Bride Who Wore Red Tennis Shoes (Parts 1-4/ Beginning with 9-12-13) is a favorite but nothing to do with acorns. Just an adventure in Eureka Springs one fine spring. For your reading pleasure.

I woke up this morning and realized today was the day, the primary day of acorn flinging, Drop Day. Elephants running across our roof.

We do not have tickets to the World Series.  At this late date, all the baseball uniforms of every team are at the cleaners.  So who is running bases on my roof?

It is that time of year again, the Squirrel World Series.  Day barely breaks before they are playing with acorns as big as crabapples.  And they can’t catch!  If I sneak out on the deck, I can hear the fans singing “Take Me Out to the Taylor Tree,” smell the popacorn and hear little bitty cans of Nut Beer popping open, all before 7 a.m.!

Drop Day is a big deal at my house.  We have oak and hickory trees circling the house.  But this year we are experiencing Drop Week.  The acorns are so big everyone knows someone who has either been hit in the head or broken a bone falling over an acrimonious nut.  The dog has had his legs crossed for days. 

What is the purpose of the squirrel?  Maybe their purpose is to drive the meek mad. Friend or foe, ask a person not what they hate or love, but what drives them crazy.  A whole industry has developed to thwart the endeavors of these birdseed thieves.  My father had a little chair for the squirrel to sit on and eat corn, thinking it would distract the cute rodent.  They just got fatter. 

They keep their teeth sharp by chiseling deck rails.  We have especially talented squirrels that leaned out over the roof edge, devouring a shoebox size piece of soffit.  We covered the opening with mesh wire stuffed with steel wool pads, about the only thing they can’t get their teeth into!

 The antics of the squirrel are so amusing we forget they are just rodents in the tree of life.  Recently, we watched a squirrel climb into the BBQ grill.  He thought he had found a secret paradise, his twitchy tail still hung out the back.  Later, we looked in the grill and found a half-eaten acorn.  I left two fat ones as a gift.

 Do you know why you never see a squirrel kid?  They can’t run with nuts in their mouth and aren’t long or fast enough to keep up with Mama.  What makes a squirrel change direction in the middle of the street?  Count the times you’ve zigged for his zag.  Come to think of it, have you ever seen a squirrel lying dead from an inaccurate leap?  No.  A Secret Squirrel Society gathers up the errant Wallenda to perpetuate the myth of the flying squirrel. 

 Despite the negative, there are good things about Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel.  They are thorough and tireless when building a nest high in the treetops.  Think of the courage required to jump out a distance five times your length or the confidence required to zip along branches and electrical wires.  Despite my frustration with them, I am drawn to their secret treetop world, only imagining the thrill of flying through the air and maneuvering their hickory mazes and oak bowers. 

*Revision  Originally published October 17, 2013

Friday, October 6, 2017


I love fall!

My newest habit is a result of cooler weather.  But a warm front came along, throwing the digits back into the miserable eighties.  Really?  At the end of October.  But that is just October.  My favorite month.  Apple pie.  Football.  State Fair.  Reading a book sitting by an open window.  The sun changing.  Baseball.  Caramel.

A cool evening draws me out outside. Faithful pup runs up the stairs, stomping in the leaves just beginning to fall.  Happy for company, he grabs a twig to catch my attention.  But I am busy lighting a candle, setting down a mug of marshmallow overflowing hot chocolate to strike the match.  A perfect fall evening of solitude.  No air conditioners, just a low current of night time noise. I pick up my phone and begin my latest obsession - Spider. Peace, quiet and relaxation.  A tonic for a goodnight's sleep.

Then the artillery begins.  The thawacking sound of an acorn letting loose, dropping through levels of leaves, ricocheting off the roof.  I raise my hand to my head as minimal protection.     

What goes up must come down.  A girl, a bow, an arrow.  Standing in the middle of a quiet street, she leans back, shooting the arrow up into the blue.  Gravity sends the arrow back down.  Her little brother picks up the fallen arrow and the process begins again.  Up it goes and down it comes.  At some point, he questions the operation and is running around with a dishpan on his head.  "Where is it?  Where is it?"  He stands next to her, sticking to her like glue.  He can't see the arrows whooshing down through the leaves.  She is not afraid, then, now or ever.  Until one of the arrows hits the roof of a car parked at the curb.  They retreat quickly into the house. A dishpan is not quite the perfect accessory when the sky is falling.     
This was just a little thing.  But I am into little things.  Last week, I was in traffic on a four lane thoroughfare, a major east west connector and also a primary exit off the interstate.  This road runs through red lights, past strip shopping centers, churches, schools, drug stores, banks, the gym I sometimes think about, local and chain eateries, the vet's office, the grocery store, my favorite antique mall, apartments, entrances to lovely subdivisions.  

There are trees everywhere.  And poles connecting this to that with wires crossing the street.  A wire was silhouetted in the sky.  A little squirrel was running across with a mouthful of acorns or nesting material sticking out of his mouth.  Zippity Do Da.  Zinging across the certain canyon of death as thick traffic traveled below.  One slip of a little foot.

But he was on a mission.  Building a nest and gathering supplies.  He may have the advantage of not sensing the perilous situation.  He just did what he had to do.  No quibbling.  From watching squirrels in my backyard, I doubt he gave a second thought to jumping out on that wire.  He didn't test the tension with his foot or grab an umbrella for balance.   He didn't stop to consider the traffic below.  He was moving along even though the very scary was right below.  A squirrel has to do what a squirrel has to do.  I think that is amazing.  The something inside of him that says nuts to gather and nests to build.  This is that time of year.

His sky is falling.  Acorns.  Manna.  Provision.

Revision. Previously published 10/20/14.

Friday, September 29, 2017


I am the person who can drink hot coffee in the summer and iced coffee in the winter. But last night I drank two cups of coffee about 7:30 p.m. Maybe that's why I tossed and turned. Still, I can hardly resist a perfect cup of caffeinated. Not decaf. Once upon a time, many an evening was passed under the great orange roof of IHop, drinking pots of hot coffee, black. Until 2:00 a.m. Now that roof is painted beige and is a sandwich shop. Oh the conversations caught up in the eaves, all those years ago. Somehow, I doubt any problems of the world have ever been almost solved over a roasted turkey sandwich with cranberry mustard. People in emotional distress seldom reach for a chicken salad sandwich.

When I was very little, my great grandmother introduced me to coffee. Grannie had a little Dutch boy and girl who hung on a little wooden shelf. Finally, one day, she took a little cup down and placed it in front of me. She poured a dollop of hot coffee into the cup followed by a good pour of cream. And a few spoons of sugar. Of course, I loved it. But it remained a rare and special occasion when I was allowed to drink coffee.

Forward to seventh grade. I woke up at 6:00 a.m. to fetch the paper and make a cup of coffee. The granular type. Do people still admit to drinking that noxious brew? I think it was a gift from outer space. Freeze dried. Also those little chewy sticks. But I did enjoy my new found love of spreading out the pages on the table and finding out what was going on in the world. My Daddy would come in and make his coffee. Black.

Year after year. Over and over. Day or night. Black coffee. In Styrofoam or in a mug. Any way I could get it. And then suddenly, coffee was not my thing. Well, actually for nine months. Coffee was not my thing. Or bacon. Thankfully, my love of coffee returned at the much needed time. No Starbucks to perk me up but I would have buckled that baby into her car seat toot sweet for the elixir of life at a drive-in window just up the street.

I went through a few years of grinding my own beans. And trying out flavors from hazelnut to Amaretto to Pumpkin Spice. When company was coming, only the best flavored coffee would do. And then the gamut of flavored creamers. At about this time, the black only coffee drinker left the room and returned as a skim milk only girl. No powdered creamer. At a nice restaurant only real cream.

In the last few years, I have become a card carrying fan of Starbucks. I blame Cate and a substantial  Mother's Day gift. But not everyday and nothing fancy. I will get one Pumpkin Spice coffee all season long. My usual is a tall latte with one sugar.

Right now, in my fridge, I have frozen Seattle's Best beans and my usual Community Club Breakfast Blend. About 6:30 a.m., nothing says I love you more than waking up to the aroma of a fresh pot of coffee perking in the kitchen, made by my personal barista. And he doesn't even like coffee. That's love.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017



               I love chicken fried steak. Does anyone NOT love chicken fried steak? You can eat it on a biscuit for breakfast. For lunch, put some mayonnaise and ketchup on a couple of slices of white bread and and add a piece of steak. Or just wallow in mashed potatoes and gravy, pinching off bites of chicken fried steak like a cluster of grapes just off the vine. Without grape scissors.

   I am not ashamed of my love affair with mashed potatoes. I was taught by the best, my Daddy. He was famous for his Mashed Potato Dance which produced the lightest, fluffiest, butteriest mashed potatoes, every and anywhere in the world. With the drained pot full of cooked potato nuggets, he would position the potato masher in the bottom of the pan and commence to dancing. Usually with a whistle and always a little jig. He would add a little milk, salt and pepper. Dance, dance, dance. Potatoes would spin into a frenzy like sugar at the cotton candy machine at The Texas State Fair. The masher would disappear into the glorious cloud of potatoes finding their best purpose in life.

At the perfect minute, the cloud would be rolled out into a bowl, steps away from the waiting dining table. Potatoes like to say "the party can't start without us." So true. But one more step. With a heavy hand, solid dollops of butter would be pushed into the piping hot potatoes. Quite a few dollops. A dusting of salt and pepper. Then the bowl would be rushed to the table as yellow pools of glistening butter began to melt, overflowing a proper china edge, threatening to flood the linen cloth. Fortunately, potatoes were quickly spooned onto the plates, averting a dairy disaster. And still, fork ready, a few seconds of "Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies." Finally, the very first bites of everyone seated at the table, mashed and buttered potatoes. All a body could ever hope for.

These were the potatoes of perfection I made on Sunday night. But I made the mashed potatoes to go with the Chicken Fried Steak.

This is not about accurate measurements but more of an illustrated inspiration to get out those cast iron skillets and a can of shortening. I wouldn't spill the beans to your cardiologist. However, I am about all things in moderation, mostly. My main temptation is how much I enjoy the preparation and the endeavor of making something so delicious. I am not bashful about my good cooking. And I am walking proof of my enjoyment in putting a good meal on the table for family and friends.

These are rudimentary instructions. To feed a crowd, buy two good size packages of cubed steak/minute steaks. They don't look as big until you get them home. I always half each steak. Try to handle this meat as little as possible because they are tender.

The trick to the chicken fried part is the dry-wet-dry mixture. In a shallow pan, add two cups of flour and salt and pepper to taste. Mix well. You will need to add more flour as the dipping progresses.  To another shallow dish, add 4-5 eggs and beat well. I added a little half and half this time because I only had four eggs.

Arrange your counter top - wet mixture, dry mixture and wax paper. Pick up a piece of uncooked steak and dredge both sides in the flour, gently. Next, lay the steak in the wet mixture, front and back, quickly but so both sides are covered. Return the steak to the dry mixture but this time, lay the steak down and pat each side well with flour. Put the breaded steak onto the wax paper. Continue the process with each piece of meat. I used to put my breaded steaks immediately in the hot grease. But now I let them rest for 5-10 minutes before cooking.

For the record, I do have a very sensitive smoke detector. It usually, almost goes off when I cook this meal. Never walk away from hot grease cooking on the stove, for any reason. Grease can be very finicky even when you think things are going well. Always have a lid in close range.

The only time I came close to burning my kitchen down involved flowers from my favorite store. I was standing at the sink unwrapping layers of the old timey waxed paper. A nearby candle ignited the paper and whoosh, burning waxed paper was flying around my kitchen towards my fringe ball country curtains. About stopped my heart. Thankfully, the fires burned themselves up just in time.

This is the picture of the dueling skillets. Note the slabs of shortening. Steaks shouldn't be swimming in the oil. Maybe about 1/2" in the skillet. Do not cook the steaks on high. If that instruction has to be shared, maybe this is not the best recipe to get your frying badge. I do a medium temp.

Using a tong, gently place the uncooked, breaded steak into the pan of hot grease. Add two more, each one at a time. If you are doing the large batch, apply the same to the other skillet. With the tong, you can peek underneath the side cooking in the oil. But resist the temptation to flip flop flip. The steak will be ready to flip when the meat juices rise across the top of the steak. Flip.

These are called minute steaks because they cook very fast. When the piece has browned nicely, remove with a tong and place on paper towels to drain. Salt lightly. When the paper towel is full of cooked steaks, place a new paper towel over the first layer. Continue to layer in this manner.  

This could be a discourse on cooking with grease. Find a good Grannie and a swift mother in law to give you pointers.

Turn the burner off and remove the skillet to a cool, unused burner to help cool down the grease. Melted shortening is just like sloshing water but burning HOT. When it has cooled for about five minutes, drain small portions of grease through a small tea strainer to pick out the crunchies.

Gravy is a personal sauce. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. And sometimes you give up. But it just takes practice. I would say it is seldom for the novice. You will need fresh flour to make the gravy. Ratio of equal parts of warm grease to flour, in the skillet, over a high medium, stirring until it isn't liquid. Salt and pepper. While using a whisk, slowly add milk, add milk, thickening as it goes.Turn the heat down if it is bubbling too much. I used my leftover half and half but I usually use skim milk. Add the crunchies. Gravy is all about constant stirring and scrapping the sides and corners while adding more milk for consistency. Patience. Turn the heat down low. Add salt and pepper. If the gravy tastes good, it can still have a lump or two.

The result of all of your hard work is the product shown above, Chicken Fried Steak, mashed potatoes and homemade gravy. No green vegetables were harmed in this production. But if you have energy left, just open a good can of green beans for "something green." Everybody needs a couple of tablespoons of greenery a day.  ENJOY!

Wednesday, September 6, 2017


Office in Progress
National Day of Reading. Nothing specific. Just do it, as my mother used to say to me. Now, I say to her, I get it! I am giving myself a big kick in my size 19 denim jeans. I have read twenty four books since March 15. That's an ambitious number considering this gal has been a very delinquent English Major. Please don't call my local library. Cate gave me a pair of Jane Austen's for Christmas. I began with Pride and Prejudice. I also got an Amazon Fire tablet for Christmas and it lit a spark. This girl is on fire.

For some reason, words have been popping off the page. I have made notes while I am reading - unheard of for me but essential for growth. I have started a list of books the authors have noted or what I find in research about the author. I have read a couple of those already. Copy quotes, look up words. Where has my brain been? I have done this in the past but not with this intensity. 

Read, write, read, write, read, write. They really do go hand in hand. Now I'm hitting my forehead, why didn't I think of this earlier? There are so many stories and time is getting to be a factor if I am going to read everything in the world.

And except for one or two, I feel the reading has added to my experience in life. I have thought of these stories for weeks afterwards. Very interesting. I highly suggest you get to a library or tablet as soon as possible.

A couple of weeks ago, I thought up a new post called Page 99. Today I am using that concept to look through some of my favorite books on Page 99, first and last sentence. Presenting: Page 99.

ü  2.  the German dialect of Austria.  au-to-clave, a container for sterilizing, cooking, etc. by super heated steam under pressure.
Webster’s' New World Dictionary of the American Language,
College Edition, 1966, USA*
Borrowed from my parents' house for my bright college future.

ü  'Take what rest you need, and remember that, though unable to serve me here in Paris, you may be of the greatest service to me at Marseilles.' 'And how dressed?' asked Villefort quickly.
The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas,1846
One of my all time favorites.

ü  Elvis was theirs. I could see the faces of some of those boy friends sitting there while their girl friends went crazy about Elvis, and man, they were as black as thunder.                              
ELVIS WHAT HAPPENED, Red West, Sonny West, Dave Hebler 
First edition: August 1977     
 I purchased this in the original Scribner Bookstore on Fifth Avenue, just released. Elvis died two days later. Scribner 1846-1988. Death by "precious real estate." Home to Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Wolfe.....

ü  Beware! Very Challenging  99 Sat 11/23/15 Speedy!
Daring Sudoku, Will Shortz, July 2011
Still can't pronounce but love to play. Also full of many notes from Doctors' Offices and Atlanta layovers. No one suspects anything when you have a pencil in your hand and a puzzle book!  

ü  Tire specialist: the tire specialist isn’t tough to spot – he’s the guy who spends the entire day hanging around the team’s tires, changing the air pressure, checking the heat buildup, or measuring the wear of a tire after it has taken a few laps on the track. To find out more about pit crews and pit stops, turn to Chapter 10.
NASCAR for Dummies, Mark Martin, 2000, USA
Good old Arkansas boy. This book taught me everything I needed to know. Loved NASCAR for years (Newman, Martin, Jr.). Tired of rule changes and Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy.

ü  “Conroy, I grew up in the country among country people. But what makes them really effective is the addition of a shot glass of bourbon.”
My Reading Life, Pat Conroy, 2010, USA
(Ordered this from LOCAL BOOKSTORE.)
Read this in April – The Great Santini in May. No Sunday School picnic. Raw, beautiful, intricate relationships. I’m lucky enough to have his cookbook, The Pat Conroy Cookbook, Recipes and Stories of My Life, 2004, autographed.

ü  “No, Ricky is staying with us for a while, and we’re so happy to have him.” This is a courtesy to the custodial parent, who may have to rearrange schedules and transport his or her child to your event.
Emily Post’s Etiquette, 17th Edition, Peggy Post, The Definitive Guide to Manners, Completely Revised and Updated, 2004

Bought this for our wedding shindig. I love this book. It is fun just to read. Good manners are about the comfort of other people. Manners for Anyone.

ü   On Fridays, after namaz at the mosque, everyone would get together at our house for lunch and we’d eat in the garden, under cherry trees, drink fresh water from the well. I traced my fingers along the gold-colored stitching on the borders.
The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini, 2003,USA
Traveling to Afghanistan, a trip I never expected. A world unseen.

ü  Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,
Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.
Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,
Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow.
The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,1900, USA
I picked up this ancient book at “The Curious Book Shoppe on Block” Very good shape, considering. Serendipity for me. I have read Song of Hiawatha and Evangeline plus others. I love writing and reading poetry.

ü Because we had to stand near the phone because it was cold in the house and the heating duct by the telephone was the warmest and also because we were looking for a button that Caro said she lost right around in the area. And it was all because back in the early twenties when Miss Mitchell was a debutante, she went to a charity ball and just went wild and performed this wild and risqué Apache dance, and shocked all the Atlanta Junior League ladies so horribly that there was nothing they could do but punish her by never inviting her to be a member of the Junior League.
Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, Rebecca Wells, 1996,USA
I haven’t read this in a long time but I keep it around because I remember being enchanted by the story. I was a Ya-Ya Stitcherhood for many years, cross-stitch buddies. But life is always changing. This book is better than the movie. Every book is better than the movie.  

I hope this encourages reading on tremendous new levels. I have been working on my official new office for over a year. It wasn't this straight until today. Notice, only the shelves are showing. You can never have too many books. For a later day. Book in purse.