Who goes there? Please leave comments so (An Aries Knows)!
Like this one, on my dining room table. A former employer gave everyone dated silver sleighbells each year for the holidays. On Christmas of the year I was laid off, Amy gave me hers (1996), and after a couple of years, I began ordering my own.
You may have noticed I’ve changed my LJ again, including the banner. After I changed it, that photo kept nagging at me. A while ago, I figured out why. It’s the hair, and it reminds me of this photo.
Continue reading “The Archives”
Steve. Died 1992.
Jeff. Died 1995.
What the world lost: Your sharp wit. Your political passion. Your desire for justice. Your strong will. Your anger. Your generosity. Your love of beauty.
John. Died 1996.
What the world lost: Your twinkling eyes. Your mischief. Your humor. Your zest for a good time. Your vulnerability. Your gentleness. Your sweet nature.
Tim. Died 1997.
What the world lost: Your courage. Your compassion for anyone who was hurting. Your boundless love. Your ability to give comfort. Your protectiveness. Your kindness. Your strength.
In the early morning, while River and Tim sleep, The Compound is well-protected by their sentinels.
Guinness
Greta
A guest is staying at The Compound during the Thanksgiving holidays. COMPETITION! Not for the dogs, because they know she’s the Grande Dame and leave her alone. We’ll just see who’s older and crankier: me…or Greta.
I wish you could smell these. Tom took this photo a few days ago outside Tim’s kitchen window. The cool thing is, they are growing away from the apartment, so at night, they look as if they are hanging in midair because the greenery vanishes in the darkness. I call them Ghost Roses.
Continue reading “Stop and smell the…”
I am a procrastinator, and one of the things I’ve put off doing for eleven months is organizing my photos and putting them in albums. This can get overwhelming when there are a lot of them.
But I did it today, finally, and found photos I’d forgotten ever taking.
Like this one. I love potatoes, though we don’t get together as much as we once did. It’s not their fault; I love them a little too much and had to learn moderation. I think it’s sweet that they send me secret messages letting me know that they still love me.
Isn’t it strange that people who write murder mysteries are the nicest people in the world? Maybe they spend their aggression on their fictitious victims. Here are two absolutely charming Houston authors, Dean James and Julie Wray Herman.
When I’m not writing, cooking, watching Survivor, or taking photos of the dogs…
Continue reading “The Reading List Redux”
