So Very Pretty

In the Sume Family, if one of us does something bone-headed—some might call it “stupid”—we just look at them with understanding and say kindly, “It’s ok, you’re very pretty.”

If I am the receiving end of this comment, I often respond “Thank you.” Usually followed by 

“Hey!” as the meaning behind the perceived compliment slowly sinks in.

Last Sunday---and please don’t think I’m bragging here— I was extra-special pretty. Industrial strength pretty. Capital P Pretty. I was so pretty I even self-identified as pretty.

It’s a long story, and kind of impossible to explain—one of those you had to be there stories--- but thank heavens no one was there to witness it. I won’t try to explain exactly what happened, but I will give you the pivotal pieces of the story and let your imagination do the heavy lifting.

I was hurrying to visit my grandson---a visit that would entail two of my favorite things: holding the baby and watching football. I parked, got out of the car. I was wearing sunglasses that I decided to toss on the dash just as I was closing the door. The sunglasses fell back out of the car, missed being crushed by the closing door and dropped on the grass, unscathed. Pretty lucky, right?

Anyway—some time between congratulating myself on my good luck and successfully securing the sunglasses back inside the car I managed to close the side of my face—specifically my left eye—in the car door.

That’s right. I shut the door—not on my sunglasses—I shut the door ON. MY. FACE.

Who shuts the car door on their face? I mean, how would you even DO that?

The answers to those questions are “me” and “I truly have no idea.”

I was standing there, cupping my eye, leaning my head on the car roof, thinking “Boy, that really HURTS,” trying to decide if I was going to cry or if I should just suck it up and go hold my grandbaby when I became aware that the falling rain was warmer than one would expect in October. As I might have mentioned---I’m very pretty. And pretty bloody. I was quite the sight to see, and my son was dispatched to the drugstore for medical supplies.

Not me, not my eyebrow, not even close.

By the time he returned, I had bleeding under control. As he carefully applied the liquid bandaid to my brow, he very gently broke it to me that my career as an eyebrow model was probably a thing of the past, but--no worries!—I was still VERY PRETTY. 

And, clearly, I am. So very Pretty.

Harry’s Harvest Tradition

I took a trip down Hwy 508 the other day, past Harry’s old gray house near the blinking four-way stop light, accompanying a friend on her annual quest for the perfect pumpkins.

The sun wasn’t coming warm through the windows the car this year, instead, the sky was overcast and gray, the rain more threat than promise.

I looked to see if the pumpkins had been harvested yet--- on this, the opening weekend of the fall decorating season—and they had; all were lined up in orderly groups on Harry’s former front porch, the Honor Can with its bills and coins, standing at attention, ever ready to supply the change needed to pay for your selections.

There they all were, lined up, piled up, group together by size and purpose. Tall skinny pumpkins stood with rounded shoulders among more rotund pumpkins of all sizes, their blank orange faces an invitation to carve, to create, to bring life to all the expressions that imagination can conjure. Tiny baby pumpkins remind me that, in another season or two, my grandson will discover for himself the joy of digging out the seeds and stringy, sloppy slime of pumpkin guts.

The lovely deep red of the Cinderella pumpkins—perfect for pies—shine brightly, waiting patiently for people to come and turn them into something magical. Even now my mouth waters with the thought of spicy pumpkin bread, pumpkin roll-up with a smooth, cream cheese filling, pumpkin dip that pairs perfectly with gingersnaps. Oddly enough, I don’t really care much for pumpkin pie. Try not to judge me.

 There were plenty of white pumpkins—one can’t help but imagine them as ghosts—and multi-varieties of gourds for fall decorating.

Harry has been gone for several seasons now, gone to his reward, gone to that Great Garden in the sky. His daughter, along with family and friends, still carries on the planting and the harvesting in his honor, and I feel blessed to have some of Harry’s Harvest adorning my doorstep.

This Is A Fence--WAS a Fence? Not So Much a Fence

This is a fence. 

This, not so much. 

This is a repaired fence.

This is an assaulted fence. I hope it zapped you HARD

Repaired. AGAIN

I’m not enjoying this much, except for the night I heard them get zapped. 

That, I thoroughly enjoyed. I’m afraid of the learning curve for elk. 

So far, no matter what obstacle I’m mounted, what tactic I’ve employed—elk have always managed to overcome it. I’m hoping the third time will turn out to be the charm.

Stupid elk.