About the only thing I have from my Mother’s Daddy is his old suitcase…you remember the ones they used in early 20th century. I had stashed it on top of my kitchen cabinet where it looked very cute. With 12 foot ceilings and a century old home, it looked right at home.
Chalk this one up to a gift from God. This morning Brenda and I were swapping some pass-along plants – I gave her a spade of my maroon and white iris and she gave me some ginger.
While we were wandering about my garden, she spied a purple Clematis climbing up the obelisk on my front yard. The obelisk, a gift from Buck Swain, has been there five or six years, naked as a jaybird and I guess I never would have gotten around to planting anything to climb on it.
Several years ago I clipped a photo of the beautiful actress, Raquel Welch. She was looking very fetching in a short hair do.
I immediately took it to my hairdresser and demanded that she make me look just like the picture – well, not my face of course (I’m not THAT deluded), but I wanted the “do.”
Bless her heart she tried, but my frontal lobe cowlick just wouldn’t allow the bangs to hang in that windblown casual
My friend, Margaret Ann Wood, (with whom I’m collaborating on a book deal — or was, I’m not so sure any more) just returned from Belize where she did unspeakable things like chowing down on termites. (Belize is one place I’m scratching off my bucket list.)
Have I got a great tip for you readers. There’s a new mystery writer on the block and he’s writing some humdingers.
Well, at least Bobby Cole is new to me. The only thing I can think about is going to bed so I can continue reading one of his novels.
Which is exactly what I’m going to do right now. It’s currently 4:15 p.m. by the way. That should tell you how infatuated I am
Bobby Cole, author