Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

The earth moved

Or, at least, the sidewalk.

The miracle this Monday once again celebrates the ingenuity of the MotH.*

See, we have a concrete walkway up to our front porch.  (I hesitate to dignify it with the name “porch,” since it is really just a concrete slab, but it does have 2 columns holding up a little roof, so what would you call it?)

This walkway is made out of several separately poured sections.  Over time, a corner has sunk here and there, and the walkway was no longer as smooth and even as it might once have been.  In fact, it was a tripping hazard.

So, the MotH announced that he was going to attempt to fix this.

Oh, ye (or me, really) of little faith!

Sounds like a recipe for disaster, right?  Surely, the sidewalk would end up not only uneven but cracked and broken.

I suggested that, perhaps, this was something on which we might want to get estimates.  But, no.  Nothing deters the MotH once he gets a bee in his bonnet.

The next thing I knew he was out there digging holes alongside and under the walkway.  Then he got the car jack.  You know.  That thing you use when you have to change a tire.  (I cannot remember the last time I needed to change a tire.  Do tires even need changing anymore?)

Anyway, he slid the carjack under the walkway—and he jacked it up!

Then, he got some wood to help hold it in place and packed dirt back into the holes.  A little sealant stuff at the seams, and the walkway looks brand new. It may not hold up under heavy use—but it’s been almost two weeks—and it doesn’t get heavy use anyway.

I don’t know why I always view these projects of his with trepidation.  They almost always turn out well.  (It’s possible my hesitancy stems from the time he drilled a hole in the bottom of our boat three days before we were due to set out on a 19-day cruise down the Intercoastal Waterway—but that’s another story.  And it happened quite a while ago, now.  Maybe my inner warning system could let it go.)

Truly, I think the MotH is kind of like Archimedes.  Give him a lever and a place to stand, and he could move the world.

It’s just that he probably shouldn’t mention it to me first.

 

* MotH = Man of the House

The Pied Piper of Ponies

That’s me!

Had a bit of fun yesterday over at the Old House.  (That’s what we call the house my grandfather built on the farm where my mom grew up.)

We were there so the MotH could put up a new light fixture outside the back door.  (If you know anything about farms, you probably know that the back door is the door.  Almost nobody uses the front door.)

While the grown-ups were making trips back and forth to my mom’s house (only across the road and around the corner) to find the right socket wrench, I wandered over into Rocky’s field.

Rocky’s field is the field where Rocky hung out when I was a kid.  Rocky was the stallion for the herd of Shetland ponies my grandparents raised.  Kind of a white stallion, he was, and he used to hang out there with Swift, the mule.  For a time, after Rocky was no more, the field was home to the emus, but they have passed on as well.

Now, once again, Rocky’s field is grazing ground for ponies.

The field looks different than it did when I was a kid—and yet, somewhat the same.  The barn is gone, the saddle shed is gone, the ring where we used to ride around in circles between a wooden fence and a center circle of old tires is gone.

The watering trough is still there, and the chickens roaming.  The big live oak tree is still there—although the carousel to which the ponies were tethered for the youngest riders to go round and round the tree is gone, and the tree limbs on one side have grown to touch the ground.  No babies can be seat-belted into saddles out there anymore.

But there are still a few ponies.

I’m astonished every time I see them now at how tiny they are.  They were so big when I used to ride them, and now they seem so small.

I was never a good rider, and I haven’t ridden in years, but it was nice to visit the ponies.  It was nice to have them follow me around the field—even if my Pied Piper-ness was due to their hope of a handful of feed rather than any equestrian enchantments on my part.

They lost interest pretty soon, but that snuffling breath on the palm of my hand brought a strong sense of déjà vu—enhanced by the cackling hens and the scent of the horses and the grass —and the blue sky and the gray sand —and who says you can’t go home again?

Clutter, clutter everywhere

Unless. . .

If you’re on Facebook, have I got a find for you.

You know how Martha Stewart has all these great organizing and decorating tips…for the folks who won that $500 million dollars and can afford to spend six or seven hours a day weaving their own placemats?

I don’t know about you, but I don’t have time for all that.  And the materials!

Half the time you have to make your own radish roses to attach to yew branches harvested from your own hedges to make a tasteful holiday wreath which will, in turn, be gilded by a paint recipe based on egg yolks gathered from your hand-incubated Buff Orpington chickens nesting in your home-made chicken coop modeled on Westminster Abbey.

It’s not like these are things real people actually do.

But over in New Orleans, there’s a little company called Clutter Clearer.

Each day on their Facebook page, they post two things:  An inspiration photo and a tip.

The tips are realistic, useful and require inexpensive items to implement.  More often than not, I think, “Whoa!  Why didn’t I think of that?”

The inspiration photos are just that–photos of rooms that are both attractive and well-organized.  Not every one will be to everyone’s taste, but there are good ideas in the pictures, too.

The tips on the Clutter Clearer Facebook page are the most consistently realistic ideas I’ve ever seen on a site like this.

Get on over there, search for “Clutter Clearer” in that little box at the top, and Like their page.

If you’re not on Facebook, you can find their website here.  I don’t see any tips there, however, so Facebook is better!

You know, you can read about how to knit sweaters out of wool from your herd of alpacas—or you can take some actual small steps toward organizing your environment.

Totally up to you!

Deck the halls!

I’m done!

I have finished my Christmas shopping!  And it’s not even December.

This is the absolute earliest I have ever been finished.

Clearly, there is some child that has been left off the list.  An inadvertently missed niece or nephew lurking in the background.  It is hard to believe that I don’t have to go to the mall again.

However, I’m going to try to believe that my lists are accurate and that everything that needs delivering will arrive in time to be wrapped, appropriately-sized boxes will appear, rolls of wrapping paper will hold out until all items are attractively covered and the re-shipping will proceed apace.

I have plans to sail through this year with time to enjoy holiday movies and my own Boat Parade party and maybe baking some cookies (and maybe not, because I have a tendency to eat them if I bake them).

I don’t know why it seemed somewhat easier this year, but I am devoutly thankful.

The red brick road

Where does it go?

There’s a picture making the rounds on Facebook of Dorothy at the start of the Yellow Brick Road.  It’s a screencap, of course, from the classic film, The Wizard of Oz.

If you remember the movie, you will recall that the yellow brick road starts in a spiral.  (If you don’t remember the movie, you better watch it again!)  The negative space—the part that’s not yellow—is red.

Hence the caption on this screencap that says:  Where does the red brick road go?

My first reaction was laughter.  Not rolling on the floor hysterics, but at least one “ha!” The essence of humor, it has been said, is thwarted expectations, surprise, incongruities.

This caption is surprising because it never occurred to me to ask that question.  So, what I’m wondering today is not where the red brick road goes—although that is an excellent question and might merit another blockbuster musical à la Wicked.  

What I am wondering is why some people’s brains work in such a way as to come up with that question and mine does not.

It’s a dumb little internet meme.  And yet. . .

Isn’t it what creativity is all about?  Putting things together in new and interesting ways?  Taking a leap?  Asking the questions?

I’m supposed to be a creative person.  I’ve been paid for creativity in the past.  I hope to be paid for creativity in the future.

But this is not how my mind works.

And I wonder about that.

On a practical level, I understand that, in this instance, my attention in the movie is directed so thoroughly as those ruby slippers step along to the accompanying chant of “Follow the yellow brick road!  Follow the yellow brick road!  Follow the, follow the, follow the, follow the, follow the yellow brick road!” that the red brick right next to it is completely overlooked.  It doesn’t register.  I don’t think about it.

This little Facebook funny is a lesson to me.

I better start wondering about things more often than on Wednesdays.

“What if?” and “Why?” and “Why not?” are indispensable tools for artists—and…oh, I don’t know…everybody, don’t you think?

Why not?

All right, NOW it’s 17 trees

15 + 2

I’m not especially good at math, but I’m pretty sure that’s 17.

Yesterday, I was talking about how I had gone with my mom’s garden club to the park to decorate 17 trees that turned out to be 14 trees, really.

Oh, wait!

That means the equation is 14 + 2 which is not 17 trees at all, but rather 16!  (I told you I was no good at math.)

The two is for the two trees I’ve decorated at my own house today.  Although, if you wanted to stretch a point, you could say that one of them was so complicated that it counts as two—which would make my decorating score for today three which would make my total score 17—thus lending an air of authenticity to the headline of this post.

One of them was simple.

My bubble light tree.

Decoration involves taking it out of the box, fluffing its branches, screwing in the bubble lights, and plugging it into an outlet.  Voilà!

I love my bubble light tree—and not only because it is easy to get it up and running.  Mostly, I just think the bubble lights are way cool!

The second tree was our official tree.

We have the most gorgeous artificial tree.  Purists among you will shudder, but it truly is the most realistic looking fake tree I have ever seen.  If I could get it to smell like a fir tree, no one would ever know the difference.

Of course. . .some assembly required.

All the branches have to be attached and arranged in their proper order.  A little forethought during dis-assembly and packing for storage, however, and this is not much of an ordeal.  The needles are a bit scratchy when you have to reach inside the branches, but this can be mitigated by wearing long sleeves.

It’s not so much the assembly that complicated matters as it was the MotH’s* new project around the model train.

We’ve had this model train for ages.  In our NY apartment, it didn’t have a lot of scope.  For the first few years we were here in Florida, it seemed all we could do to get the dock decorated.  The train was short-changed again.  This year, however, the MotH decided it was time for the train to come into its own.

He built a platform.

A big platform.

Not only for the train, but for the tree, too.

Holy Moly!  The tree is now nine feet high.

Putting on branches, stringing lights and garland required two ladders.  Placement of ornaments involved much climbing.

It is a miracle nobody fell out of the tree.  (It is a miracle that nobody has carted me off to Bellevue by virtue of the mere fact that anybody could fall out of a tree inside my house!)

But, the tree is now up (waaaaaay up!), and it’s all decorated, and the train is lying at its feet.

We’re going to have to make a trip to the hobby shop for some more track—and, I’m thinking. . .maybe. . . .cows?

But that’s a whole other story.

 

* Man of the House

17 Trees

I’ve just decorated 17 trees!

Well, actually, it turned out to be 14 trees, and I only really worked on six of them, but still. . .

And I haven’t even put up my own Christmas tree yet.

To tell you the truth, just at the moment, I don’t really ever want to see another tree.

It’s all due to the Parade of Trees in the little town in which my mother lives.  The city puts up well over a hundred trees in the park and strings lights on them.  After that, the trees are up for adoption by individuals, organizations, and businesses.   Some people “adopt” a tree and decorate it themselves, some people “adopt” a tree, specifying a theme, and pay for the city to do the decorating, and some people “adopt” and leave the whole thing up to the city.

It’s those last two groups I have to thank for my day of decorating.

See, my mother belongs to a garden club.  The garden club basically hires itself out to decorate the trees in the city park that have been adopted by those unable or unwilling to do their own decorating.  It’s kind of a fundraiser for the club.

But 17—okay, 14— trees!

And it’s a small club.

Ergo. . .I was asked to assist—i.e., I got arm-twisted.

Anyway, I spent the day in the park stringing garland, tying bows, hanging ornaments, etc.  There’s also an angel on top of one of the taller trees that owes her particular tipsy air to me.

It’s quite a display.

One of our trees is all red, white and blue.  Two of them have nautical themes.  One is a symphony in red and green.  One is all over poinsettias.  And the sixth. . . well, I can’t hardly remember the sixth.  Oh!  It was simply a multi-colored theme.

I didn’t look at the other eight the rest of the garden club decorated. Four hours into it, I’d about had it with trees.  Just for the moment.  I’ll thoroughly enjoy going back to the park during the official Parade of Trees opening day and wandering the paths among the forest of fun.

And, I’ll thoroughly enjoy putting up my own tree.  Just. . .maybe not for a day or two.

Silliness

On a Saturday.

I’m instituting Silly Saturdays.  I do not promise, however, to find enough silliness to manage a Silly Saturday every Saturday.  Sometimes, this new feature of the blog will alternate with a Serious Saturday.  Or—you know—just a Same Old Saturday.

Today, however, thanks to the folks over at Ohgizmo.com, where I originally found these things, I can safely say that this is a Silly Saturday.

First up, check out the USB Toast Hand Warmers.

Now, this product strikes me as being a good idea.  Speaking as a person who has nearly perpetually cold hands, I like the idea of a USB-powered hand warmer that leaves my fingers free to type.  But. . .they look too silly to use.  I don’t think I’m going to be rushing out to buy them.  On the other hand, let the temperature drop far enough, and then, we’ll see.  Along about January, anything could happen.  (I wonder if they heat up too much to allow for quick disconnect and stashing in a drawer—without setting the house on fire?  If you’re ever in my office in the winter and you smell smoke, you’ll know what happened.)

Secondly, there’s a bit of brilliant silliness to show you.  The only thing that stops me from putting in my order for the Baby Mop is the fact that I don’t actually have a baby.  I could borrow one, I suppose, but I’m not sure the parents of any available babies would approve.  Also, I suspect it might be a grey area under current child labor law—although, really, you’re just leveraging a baby’s natural activities, aren’t you?  The Baby Mop is a onesie (those one-piece jumpsuits that look far more stylish on Catwoman or Mrs. Peel than on  the average baby), with mop-like fringe along the forearms and the shins.  Baby crawls.  Hardwood floor gets dry-mopped.  It’s one of those things where you think, Oh, no!  And then you think, Hmmmm.

Pesky child labor laws.  Those dang unions!  Always getting in the way.


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