Grouse and Chortle

"Medical" Catnip

2010-09-24T06:29:00.003-04:00

Medical Catnip Den Discovered in Early Morning Raid

Dateline: Mt. Saunders, MA... Five minors living at 66 Ox Pasture Road have been taken into protective custody. Their legal guardian, Ms. Deb Lambert, has been imprisoned on drug charges pending a hearing in Mt. Saunders District Court. Of the five minors, two were acting as surrogate guardians. Clearly, "Auntie" Lucy and "Uncle" Stanley were part of the problem, as they encouraged the the triplets to partake of their ill-gotten booty. According to Lucy and Stanley, Lambert dropped the catnip container, spewing the contents across the floor. Knowing the felines would soon clean up the mess, she continued with her cupboard clear-out. Lambert claims the items were being packaged for a local charity.

As the clamor for more "medical" catnip rose from the five minor inhabitants, neighbors became annoyed at the early morning disruption and multiple calls came into the Mt. Saunders Police Station. Pajama-clad neighbors stood around in the cold, uncertain light of predawn, watching the proceedings as police entered the abode. According to one resident, "She's always been a nice quiet neighbor, always kept to herself... guess you can never tell. They say it's the quiet ones you have to watch out for. Who knew all this was going on, right under our noses." Still another chimed in, "Shocking! Shocking, do you hear? And to think, right here in Saundersville Park... a gated community!"

The belligerent attitudes of the minors, as well as that of their guardian were astounding, according to the officers on-scene. All six residents are all claiming that the huge quantity of catnip on hand, was only for medicinal use. Conditions within the tiny, squalid house were deplorable. Dog cookies and cat treats lay scattered on the floor, in an attempt to satisfy the voracious appetites of the minor residents. Plainly, everyone except Lambert had been partaking of this drug.

Later in the day, Lambert was spotted by news photographers, being led to her first hearing in an orange jumpsuit and metal handcuffs. What follow, are candid photos of what the responding officers had to deal with... these images are not for the weak of stomach and children should certainly not be allowed to view these.

What officers found in the early morning raid... Left to right: To the far left we see "Auntie" Lucy, triplets in the middle (Arnold, Jake & Kipper) and "Uncle" Stanley on the right (upper right, not the flying pig)... all are partaking! Emboldened by ingesting the drug, this group of minors seem unaware that police officers have entered the premises.

Evidently, with a giant case of the "munchies," Stanley

attempts to eat Jake, starting with a few spareribs.

With a "Go ahead, make my day" attitude, "Auntie" Lucy came
perilously close to occupying a unit in the "big house." She
appeared to be sort of a gang leader.... an enabler, if you will.

Gazing into the mirror with his best buddy, Kipper seems

unconcerned at the chaos around him.

Many kilos of "medical" catnip were seized!

In fact, it was discovered that aerosol catnip was

readily available, as well.

Just some of the evidence gathered, showing this was

indeed a premeditated crime in progress.

Somewhat chastened and in her best faux Btitish accent,

Lucy-Maude pleaded, "Please sir, don't take my Mummy

away. She's the only one we've got!"

It seems that Lucy will probably testify on her mother's

behalf at the upcoming trial.

Text & Photos ©Deb Lambert 2010

Copyright Humor

2010-07-13T06:57:00.000-04:00

"Copyright Humor"
A tongue-in-cheek (sort of) look at
the topic of protecting our written works.
By Deb Lambert

Last year, in searching for just the right combination of words to protect my 'verbal gems,' I got a little carried away. So, I went with it. Come along with me, into a bizarro, parallel universe, where the rules have changed and the punishment has evolved to fit the crime...

©Deb Lambert 2007 - all rights reserved - infringement of this, or any other of my intellectual properties shall be adjudged a capital crime, in a federal court of law. Whereas, this is a federal crime, the offender is subject to federal punishment. Therefore, rather than the customary “hanged by the neck until dead” or lethal injection, the presiding judge shall utter the following decree, in accordance with new, more stringent copyright laws. “Heretofore, copyright infringement was punishable by death. New sentencing outlines preclude the use of this option, mandating a punishment greater than death. Henceforth, the guilty party shall be confined in a 6x6 foot cell, in solitary confinement. Said person shall be subject, 24 hours a day and 7 days a week, to the recorded readings, in the voice of the author whose work was stolen. And the jury foreman shall add, ‘So say I, and so say we all.’ ”

However, be it known that the judge is permitted the flexibility at sentencing time, of allowing neckties, shoelaces, belts, clothesline, extra-long bed sheets and other such items, if requested by the prisoner. If not requested initially, the prisoner must wait until a parole hearing to again request such items, which past cases demonstrate is almost a certainty. It is a known fact that some authors cannot read their own work, without considerable verbal stumbling, so indeed, this would be a fate worse than death. Given the proper accoutrements, we feel the prisoner will do the decent thing, by dispatching himself to Pauper’s Field; thereby, saving valuable taxpayers’ dollars and federal funds. “Oyez, oyez! Court is in session!” Never, ever, mess with any author’s works, ©copyrighted or otherwise. Or else! ’Nuff said!

Note: I have since decided not to post this at the bottom of my blog, since I do not want to make a mockery of copyright laws or the judicial system. I did however, think it was humorous enough to share. Do not take offense at anything in this post, as no offense was meant (one must cover oneself in this PC world). Lighten up, people - it's humor!

©Deb Lambert 2008

"This is FiOS; This is Big"

2010-03-07T05:58:00.005-05:00

"This is GardenAuthor; This is Ginormous"

By Deb Lambert

(Disclaimer: At the risk of barking up the wrong telephone pole, I've decided to take the calculated risk of besmirching the "FiOS" name in print. I'm assuming that my little tale of woe begins and ends with them... I am not a software genius, nor am I particularly adept at any of this newfangled technology, as each time I traverse the "information super highway," I do so with great trepidation and very tentative steps. I am hoping for a swift resolution of my email issues and, for now at least, am laying the blame squarely on the corporate shoulders of Mr. FiOS. In the meantime, whilst I vent my spleen by grousing in this blog, I shall maintain a low profile, pending the inevitable summons to a court of law by said Mr. FiOS. I do hope those Verizon folks have a sense of humor!)

(By the way, I am assuming no responsibility, blame or guilt for this dearth of FiOS service... it's all on them! They admit to the fact that it's their rejection, right in the nasty little pop-up boxes AND several acquaintances in this locale are having similar issues with Verizon. So, excuse me, but I feel a sizable rant coming on!)

"This is FiOS; This is Big" proclaimed the clever TV ads. "OK, sign me up," said I. Thus far, no complaints - FiOS was on a roll in the GardenAuthor household... Phone Service ~ check / TV Service ~ check / Internet Service ~ check... well, at least until last Thursday when things went utterly and horribly awry at approximately 3:00 PM... outgoing email service folded up like a two-dollar suitcase.

Thursday, 3:30 PM ~ "The postman always rings twice" ~ well, he may be ringing twice for incoming mail, but my virtual postman is not picking up my outgoing mail, even though I leave my virtual mailbox flag in the upright position. I'm virtually ready to wring his virtual neck!

When one is the midst of crushing deadlines and intense emailing activities, lack of this outgoing function leaves one in quite a pickle, to say the least. Imagine - all set to deliver the maiden issue of garden newsletter to 150 eager students and all your outgoing emails are rejected, left to languish in your "outbox."

Friday, 3:00 AM ~ But, imagine the joy upon arising Friday, to find things functioning properly... out goes the newsletter and correspondence is brought up to date. All was forgiven. Hours of trying to resolve issues, as I initially thought it was somehow my fault... the aggravation diffused - a fresh, new start. Now, I wouldn't have to call for Tech support, waiting to converse with a technician from faraway climes (probably my old friends, "Wayne" or "Billy Bob"), trying to decipher the broken English.

Sadly, joy was short-lived. All celebration came to a screeching halt Friday night, upon return from work. Any attempts at student contact were swiftly rebuffed with terse "error" messages, popping up left and right. Evidently my postman (or, "Server" as he seems to refer to himself) was enjoying a nice quiet evening at home with family and friends, sipping wine and kicking back. Yes, he'd retired for the day. Nothing left for me, but to retire and hope service would be restored on Saturday.

Saturday, 3:00 AM ~ (Writer's keep odd hours, eh?) Try to resend that last email from Friday - nothing! Back in the outbox!! Obviously, the postman had a little too much wine with dinner last night and is "sleeping in." Over the next several hours of class prep, I test the email capabilities... still no success! Well, off I toddle to work and a busy day of garden workshops.

Saturday, 6:00 PM ~ Surely, Mr. FiOS will have resolved what is likely a regional or local issue. After all, he's had all day! Wait for it... wait for it...... NO! I've got nothing! Maybe Mr. FiOS and "Postman Server" are in cahoots with the ever-popular, oh-so-efficient USPS (might as well rile up all the sleeping behemoths, while I'm on a roll) who, in a move toward streamlining and cutting overhead costs, will be curtailing services... all the while, upping the cost of postage. The USPS threatens us with no Saturday delivery. Perhaps the corporate giant in question has taken a page from their playbook? Perhaps, in the spirit of one-upmanship, Mr FiOS has seen the USPS Saturday and raised it by Friday!

Sunday, 5:00 AM ~ (OK, it's Sunday - I overslept!) Same old same old! All I can say at this point, is that I wouldn't want to be in their shoes, when my call goes through to tech support. Shall I commence with, "Do you know who I am?" And then go directly to, "This is GardenAuthor; This is Ginormous?"

Meantime, I am left musing about that red-headed fella from the competing company in the Verizon ad... anybody happen to have his number? Just remember, Mr. FiOS, "the customer is always right!" And you do have competition, at least last time I checked.

Final disclaimer... though I consider this a serious matter, adversely effecting my conduct of daily business over the past several days, rest assured that my sarcastic, nay caustic, humor is not meant to offend, liable nor slander any of the aforementioned enterprises, aka behemoths, nor any of their affiliates or employees. I suppose that some day I'll look back upon this chapter of my life and laugh. Just not today!

©Deb Lambert 2010

Crossing the Line

2010-02-21T09:25:00.005-05:00

"Crossing the Line or, Feline 1 - Human 0"

By Deb Lambert

1. Casual observation of feline by human, often within the confines of the yard.

2. Eye contact - ever so briefly, human and feline exchange glances.

3. Communication by human, often just a friendly “Hi!”

4. Feline may respond - or not... probably just look aloof (all part of his “MO”).

5. Next communique by human... here kitty, kitty, or whose little kitty are you?

6. This may be answered with a casual “meow” or more ambivalence.

7. Feline struts around so you may observe its sinewy form, from all angles.

8. Human responds with, “what a handsome boy, or are you a little girl?”

9. Silence, from the feline, ensues. Such very personal information is not readily shared.

10. The above facts are reserved for the first vet trip, by which point, Feline 1, Human 0.

11. Human has no pets, but starts leaving fresh water by the door - come on, just water!

It’s not like you’re encouraging him/ her by putting out actual food! Next day, feline

engaged in ritual face cleaning, beside the water dish. Oh, oh!

12. Human starts to take “inventory” of feline’s general condition and features...

Nice green eyes, reserved but friendly, attractive coloration/ markings, overly thin.

13. Human thinks,”great potential”... Great potential? And this, while relaxing inside, away

from the feline’s inquisitive eyes ...first chink in the armor, crack in the “no-cat” rule.

Well, let the feeding begin! Because at this point, she said repetitively, the score is Feline 1, Human 0! Some kind of fancy, happy brain chemicals kick in and overwhelm you, as you watch this little orphan dig into your only can of premium white tuna.

Mentally, you plan the vet visit, shop for dishes, bed and litter box ...how exciting - a brand new family member, a little creature saved and incoming joy, for years to come! And all this because she thanked you with a sweet little “meow” and encircled your legs, while purring.

At some point, I lost the clinical, running-scientific-type-commentary and crossed the line to an up close and personal view of the feline’s seduction of homo sapiens (ah, that’s better). As easy a line to cross as the one that separated you from becoming a cat owner -- or, is it the other way around? Hmmm!

Oh, just a reminder, you may win a match now and again, but for the rest of your cat’s life, the overall score will be Feline 1, Human 0!!!

©Deb Lambert 2010

What the World Needs

2009-11-25T09:31:00.003-05:00

"What the World Needs"

By Deb Lambert

Stuck in traffic again, listening to the radio and reading bumper stickers. According to “Sky-Eye,” we “need to find alternate routes.” Too late for that.

“Have you thanked a teacher today?” A blue-lettered query catches my eye, from the rear bumper of a mini-van. My mind wanders back to the mid-sixties and all the critiques and encouragement that flowed so freely from my high school instructors. Public speaking contests, the yearbook committee and extracurricular writing were activities that kept me close to one instructor, in particular.

Mr. Kester taught English - not just English, but a delightful concoction that included a dash of history and a pinch of literature. He was dedicated and motivated, with the patience of Job. Anyone who could hold the attention of teenagers, fresh from a morning of climbing trees, arranging flowers, dairy farming and other such activities, deserved credit. Yes, this was the Essex Agricultural and Technical Institute.

I’m not sure about the current academic standards of this old institution, as it transforms itself through incorporation with a local technical school. However, I think the class of ‘66 could hold its own, even today.

“Have you thanked a teacher today?” Yes. Maybe not aloud, but just about every day, I thank all the caring teachers who informed, inspired and molded all of us members of the FFA (Future Farmers of America).

Although now deceased, Mr. Kester still inspires, in the gentle nudges to keep pursuing my passion, my chosen craft. The extemporaneous readings of my essays and poetry before fellow classmates, built character and strengthened my public speaking skills. I would go on to utilize all of this in my horticultural career.

As a consultant, garden club lecturer, instructor of horticulture and garden columnist, I found an inner strength and confidence that made me unafraid of new ventures. I welcomed the challenge of creating and hosting my own televised garden program and weekly radio garden talk show.

Now, as I travel the last part of life’s journey, I feel that old familiar nudge. Do I detect an aura of approval as I explore the wondrous opportunities that await my hovering pen?

Will young students still find the inspiration and sustenance they crave? More teachers like Mr. Kester... that’s what the world needs.

“Traffic’s moving again on 128,”says “Sky-Eye,” and so it is. Well, that was a fairly painless delay, thanks to that bumper sticker.

©Deb Lambert 2009

"Let Them Eat Cake"

2009-02-16T13:19:00.004-05:00

"The peasants are starving, they have no bread!"
"Let them eat cake," Miss Antoinette said.

Funnel and Bundt cakes of every description,
Of pristine snow, without inscription.

With icing piled high atop the bin,
While frozen compost is "sleeping in."

And yard security can't sit in her chair...
I can't ask Lucy to eat her cake there!

I'll pass on the chair - go inside, instead...
You can eat "snow cake," while I dine on bread!

Poetry & Photos: ©Deb Lambert 2009

New Year's Eve in Glittery Wood

2009-01-13T15:15:00.000-05:00

"New Year's Eve in Glittery Wood"
A tale of the inhabitants of one particular garden center
and the secret life they lead, when the store has closed for the day.
By Deb Lambert

The wee folk come alive, as you may remember;
Here, gnomes celebrate the close of December.

All through the night, and when no one's looking,
Musicians tune up and the fun starts cooking.

Squeezing bluesy notes from each golden horn;
Risking the wrath of the conductor's scorn.

As the horn section wailed, he rendered an opinion;
Over all musicales, he had complete dominion.

Though he favored the classics, he had to admit,
Cool jazz and New Year's were a really good fit.

Now, the crowds drifted in for this practice session,

Then wound through the store in gala procession.

They checked the clocks at ten minutes of two;
Too early for the party - what should they do?

The gnomes made their way to the back of the store,
Before Christmas was gone and existed no more.

A perfect place to begin the party...
The crowd gathered 'round with cheers quite hearty!

They drove the conductor in a newfangled sleigh,
Midst the twinkling trees, as musicians held sway.

And Ben, the conductor, reviewed them once more,
As the jazz notes floated through the back of the store.

So, the crowd gathered 'round at the dress rehearsal,
Till Ben recommended their rapid dispersal.

"Off you go then - bring mittens and hood,
When we all meet up at Glittery Wood."

"The ball begins at exactly two;
The success of this fête depends on you."

Thermometers were consulted as time drew near,
No need for hoods or mittens, on this New Year!

In the wee hours of morning, the gnomes showed up;
For festivities promised... to drink and to sup.

O'er Glittery Wood the music lifted;
Among the trees, partygoers drifted.

Nick saw Nora, from the corner of his eye;
Asked her to dance... she demurred, seemed shy.

Then out broke a game of hide-and-seek;
Through the glittery boughs they tried to peek.

For Nick and Nora had wandered away;
Nick had something of import to say.

The gnomes gathered about in an intimate group,
To indulge in gossip - get the latest scoop.

"They're a charming couple, it's hard to deny!"
"Yes, maybe tonight she'll give a reply."

"Nick took so long to finally propose,
What shall she answer, do you suppose?"

"By the look of all the billing and cooing,
She seems not averse to his constantly wooing."

As Nick hummed along to a familiar tune,
He admired Nora, 'neath the pale, full moon.

Music hung in the air, it was a magical night;
And so Nick and Nora danced out of sight.

Now, the rest of the crowd need not have feared;
The couple were joyous, when next they appeared.

"Fill up your tankards with ale or mulled wine;
This tender, young lass has agreed to be mine."

Celebrations continued up until dawn;
Echoes lingered, long after they'd gone.

Revelers finally made their way home;
They idled and gossiped, like every good gnome.

So, nuptials were planned for early in spring,
Now that Nora was wearing Nick's ring.

Next time the moon is hung in the sky,

Or, midnight flakes are starting to fly...

Remember the gnomes who did what gnomes should...
Shared New Year's Eve in Glittery Wood.

Poetry & Photos: ©Deb Lambert 2009

Filmed on location, at Corliss Bros. Garden Center ~ Ipswich, MA.

Santa's Demise

2009-01-02T19:55:00.001-05:00

In early December, an inflatable Mickey Mouse Santa appeared on a neighboring roof. You know the type... inflated and lit from within at night... deflated and crumpled during the day. Had I known then, what I know now, I would have cataloged Mickey's career as rooftop Santa a little more closely.

After a while, I noticed that Mickey looked like he had too much eggnog, or mulled wine, the night before... day after day. A drunken Santa? Clearly, Santa had fallen down on the job and couldn't get up. Sadly, this Christmas tale doesn't end well.....

It ends with Santa's demise. This is the last known photo of Mickey Santa. I assumed he was still resting - in a more comfortable position. I was wrong. Several days ago, his limp, deflated remains were consigned to a barrel, on trash day, and he was evidently laid to rest in the landfill. What an ignominious conclusion to two childhood icons - think about it... Mickey Mouse AND Santa, all in one fell swoop.

Well, the good news is that the "real" Santa will return next year and, as far as I know, the "real" Mickey Mouse is alive and well, dividing his time between his two homes in Florida and California. Santa's demise? Evidently, the reports of his death were greatly exaggerated.

Keep smiling... it makes people wonder what you've been up to! (OR, it makes people wonder to what you've been up? Nope - still dangling a preposition!) Anyway, keep smiling and have a
HAPPY NEW YEAR!

NOTE: Readers who enjoyed this, might also enjoy the latest postings on GardenAuthor and Dog's Eye View.

Text & Photos: ©Deb Lambert 2009

A Photographic Introspective

2008-12-11T18:45:00.003-05:00

I present for your perusal... the good, the bad, the ugly and the plain ole' weird! I'm thinking this will be a journey of discovery for myself ~ why I am obsessed with certain subjects, why I feel the need to record the mundane, why I'm most attracted to nature's minutia and why I keep taking the same type of shots over and over... expecting different results (eerily close to the definition of insanity). OK, I actually like quite a few of these photos, but why do I do what I do? Let's see.....

Frost... can't get enough of the stuff!
On windshields - love the "snowflakes!"
And the pinkish sky reflection is neat, too.

Same morning, using the flash - cool, huh?

Way cool! Flash reveals the reflected branches,
seeming to rise from the "snowflakes."

Lily Pond - first ice on our
backyard swamp (ignore the clothesline). I have
more swamp pictures than one can shake a stick at!

See what I mean?
Nothing like a good heavy hoarfrost to keep me clicking!

Random photos of the ground? Just because
everything looks different and almost magical with
this crystalline blanket? Affirmative!

Early November and the frenzied mallards are indulging in one of their last swims for the season. My camera is obviously not up to the task of wildlife photography, but as it took two years to afford this one, it'll be a while before I invest in the properly outfitted camera. Everything looks so tiny, even if I edit and crop and/or use the insufficient digital zoom. Nevertheless, I insist on trying. (Yes - Lily Pond again!)

More duck-shaped blobs... those are more mallards.

See what I meant about minutia?
But I admit to liking the simplicity.

Positively head-over-heels about bees and cosmos. I blush to think how many of such shots swell the storage capacity of iPhoto, as we speak. Sunflowers and morning glories are two other obsessions. I think the fascination with cosmos comes with the clean, sharp lines and clear colors.

Come on, these are simply gorgeous! So gorgeous,
that these rose hips are quickly rising to the top of my list.
I may qualify as a stalker, come next fall's crop.

Now this is the stuff that gladdens my heart, as an amateur photographer. Home gardener, gardener by trade, garden writer and I do enjoy capturing great garden shots. Still, it's the natural beauty that abounds, as I hike through the woods or stroll through a park, that delights my eye. I am an unabashed fan of "wild and woolly!"

Just when you thought I was obsessed with all of the above, we come to the topic of mushrooms. When it comes to photography, I embrace all things fungal. I have no idea "who" they are, but I seem to have a knack of making them look good in photos. I generally prefer the "mouse eye view," for that in-depth look... requiring lots of kneeling, often involving the removal of pine pitch from one's pants... I lose all track of time when I'm "mushroom hunting!"

Great gills, eh?
(Well-worth the sticky dungaree knees.)

No clue, but I love its quirky, weird appearance.
Reminder to self: Buy a mushroom guide book.

Turkey tail shelf fungus... a real favorite!
Yes, I probably spend way too much time searching
for new fungi, never finding valuable truffles, but
I am very, very, fortunate to have as an able assistant

Lucy-Maude, who has discovered exactly what to seek on our walks. She's earned the nickname of "truffle hound" in homage to her invaluable sense of smell...... and long-suffering demeanor, while waiting for me to get those "perfect shots."

And, yes, there are more photos of Lucy (along with her 4 indoor feline siblings) than will ever be posted or printed, but I sure enjoy scrolling through them. This is the official squirrel-watching bench (before raking this fall).

Well, here we go again... those three horse-shaped blobs are actually horses on a Hamilton horse farm - taken from the car, on the way home from the garden center. I've been horse-crazy for years, so not being able to zoom in on them is frustrating... we come this way, so Lucy can admire the horses, too - she's as bad as I am.

Mockingbird in winterberry bush - best I can do.

'Grandpa Ott' morning glory got into everything,
including my potted tomatoes... another favorite topic.

Mesmerized by shadows and silhouettes.

My flag at night, taken on the way in
from chasing the full moon.

Oh sure, lots of harvest photos.

Wenham, taken while driving (shhh!) to work.

At times, I "play" in my iPhoto program, tweaking
color and light values, until I get unearthly affects.
I don't do it much, but I do like this one.

What was I doing and how was I doing it?
This and the one below are so odd, I just had to share.

Any guesses?

Say "Goodnight," Lucy!

If you waded through this entire retrospective, congratulations! And thank you! Have you similar photographic experiences and results? Do you ever wonder why you're attracted to certain subjects, above others?

Feel free to leave your past and/or current experiences, as well as tales of success and failures. Sometimes my mediocre results are the camera ~ and sometimes they're all me! I've only been at this since late August, so there's still that learning curve factor to take into consideration. And hopefully, I won't be discovered, years from now with a camera in hand, wandering the grounds of "The Home for Bewildered Photographers."

Let's hope we all take wonderful photos this holiday
season and embrace the opportunities that winter will present.
Let's capture winter, in all her glory!

All Text & Photos: ©Deb Lambert 2008

The Rebellion Starts Here!

2008-11-21T11:00:00.000-05:00

"The Rebellion Starts Here!"
A tasty little limerick, on an entirely unsavory topic, served up,
appropriately, just before we partake of the Thanksgiving feast.
Join me in a revolution... Rise up against technology and self-serve
checkout aisles ~ Our battle cry, "Bring back the checkers!!!"
By Deb Lambert

Before your Thanksgiving feast,
At the market you'll be fleeced.
Just three clerks in sight,
This doesn't seem right,
At a food store chain in the east.

Management came up with a plan,
To make customers bag and scan.
"If they can't find a clerk,
They'll do their own work!"
So the transformation began.

"Think of the money we'll save!
Who cares if they rant and rave?"
From those good little sheep,
Came barely a peep;
Resistance was futile, not "brave."

So, checkouts are largely unmanned,
As food and coupons are scanned.
Peering over their glasses,
Will gray-headed masses
Finally take a firm stand?

What happened to customer care,
The friendly clerks who were there?
Perhaps they were fired,
Abruptly retired.
We're left to grumble and glare.

Please, Sir, may we mop up the floors?
And perform your shelf-stocking chores?
We bring our own bags,
Scan all of your tags...
At night, shall we lock up the doors?

You wish to alleviate pain,
As your dignity you regain?
Then let's stand as one,
Till it all comes undone;
Our uprising not in vain.

There are three remaining lines,
Below the register signs.
Boycott the "self-serve,"
Buoy up your own nerve,
As management crumbles and whines.

Come join together, you peasants;
They must pay heed to our presence.
Come down off that porch,
With pitchfork and torch,
And end this feud so intense.

Soon, all will be as before,
When associates ran the store.
Machines will be gone,
A new day will dawn.
We'll complete their work no more!

This Limerick: ©Deb Lambert 2008

Nobody

2008-11-14T12:09:00.003-05:00

"Nobody"
A poem about nobody ~ any resemblance to anybody,
should be immediately reported to somebody and
from thence announced to everybody, most especially
to anyone and everyone who cares about nobody.
By Deb Lambert

Nobody called me on the phone
Nobody sent a letter
Nobody noticed me lying prone
Nobody wished me better

Nobody walked my little dog
Nobody cooked my dinner
Nobody posted upon my blog
Nobody said, "You're a winner!"

Nobody knocked upon my door
Nobody cleaned the house
Nobody washed the kitchen floor
Nobody ironed my blouse

Nobody raked the leaves that fall
Nobody swept the walk
Nobody gave the dog a ball
Nobody stopped to talk

Nobody rang the front door bell
Nobody wore me out
Nobody stopped to wish me well
Nobody had to shout

Has everyone seen nobody?
Does anybody know where he is?
Tell everyone and anybody
That nobody was missed!

©Deb Lambert 2008

Stanley Scissorpaws in "Catawampus"

2008-10-27T22:30:00.000-04:00

Screen tests, prior to the filming of
Catawampus*,
starring Stanley Scissorpaws**...

My assignment, if I dare to accept it, is to post black cat/pumpkin photos, as some fellow bloggers have been doing. My cats are indoor-only felines, so the photo shoot must occur within the four walls of our humble little hovel. I thought I'd take it up a notch and film one of those scary movies, complete with costars and "extras."

In the spirit of full disclosure... although the pets depicted are real, the pumpkins and other curcurbits are not and are, in fact, glazed ceramic. They've (the curcurbits) been decorating the front steps for the past month, so were handy for filming purposes. No pumpkins or pets were harmed in the making of this Halloween extravaganza.

Well, here we are in Studio F ("F" for foyer),
ready for the pre-Halloween photo shoot.
The props are in place and the stage is set...

Bring on the star of "Catawampus" ~
Stanley Scissorpaws... Not looking particularly
"Halloweeny" or scary... not really living up
to the whole "Catawampus" designation.

OK, let's move in for the close-up. Is it me, or does
he look bored - like he'd rather be anywhere else?

Well, alright... let's bring on the costars and extras.
Talk about un-scary costars! How does one generate
fright and mystery with the orange and white
triplets, aka "The Sunshine Boys?" First up,
are Arnold (by the door) and Jake.

Arnold - observing nature and ignoring
all pleas to face the camera.

Arnold exits, stage left, leaving brother Jake
in a meditative pose ~ also ignoring his director.

Enter the third triplet, Kipper, who at least
obliged with a profile shot, as he examined
the ceramic curcurbit.

Here, Kipper seems to be observing nature,
like his brothers, but look closely and you'll see
he's actually admiring his reflection in the door.

Next, we have a surprise... Lucy-Maude, author
of the "Dog's Eye View" blog, has dropped by
to see if there any open auditions for "extras."
She's been nice enough, in the past, to let Kipper
post on her blog, so I think we can find
a small role in "Catawampus."

Frankly, I find Lucy much easier to direct than
the feline stars. Here, she enjoys a little morning
sun and conducts her own pumpkin inspection.

Early afternoon finds the screen test continuing in a
different venue. Bear in mind, that I'm also looking
for the "money shot" from Stanley... sort of a typical
black cat silhouette, with pumpkin. This one's cute,
with Stanley looking a bit pensive.

I don't know - big ole squash and kindly green eyes.
Maybe this one's better?

OK, it's back to profile and lots of pumpkins and
squashes. Stanley's checking out the
curly tendril of his faux pumpkin.

He decides to lie down in the pumpkin patch,
making the best of a crowded situation.

As Stanley turns away to observe some bathing
birds, Kipper comes up for another look at the
pumpkins and to inquire about his upcoming
role (OK - I made up that last part).

Well, it's been an interesting experience. But, making a scary movie with the sunshine boys, big, affable Stan and sweet little Lucy - on a warm, sunny fall day - isn't exactly conducive to "scary." So, maybe "Catawampus" will have to wait and Stanley Scissorpaws can have the autumn off. Meanwhile, I've got some great pet photos!

* • catawampus • Pronunciation: kæ-dê-wahm-pês (from alpha Dictionary)

Part of Speech: Adjective

Meaning: 1. Awry, askew, crooked, antigoglin (for you New Englanders). 2. Out of kilter, out of whack. 3. A fierce imaginary creature thought to inhabit forests.

From www.phrases.org.uk: "catawampus" can also mean "a fierce imaginary animal," or simply "fierce." The theory is that this sense of "catawampus" is entirely separate in origin from the "askew" sense, and comes from "catamount," which is an old American folk term for a mountain lion (cat-a-mount, get it?). ~ My note: Hence, our movie title!

**Stanley Scissorpaws... a play on "Edward Scissorhands" and especially appropriate, since I often fall prey to his fast-growing, rapier-like nails. He has the habit of swiping at me from the kitchen stool, as meals are prepared and I have the holey shirts to prove it!

Photos & Text: ©Deb Lambert 2008

THE GREAT CHECKER KERFUFFLE

2008-10-21T12:30:00.000-04:00

"The Great Checker Kerfuffle"
A tale of wild life in the garden, board games,
cunning, avarice, accusations and reconciliation.
By Deb Lambert

It started peacefully enough, that late August day
With checkers, a dove and a feisty blue jay

In the filtered glow of morning sun
Checkers were stacked, one by one

The blue jay was winning, ahead in the score ~

The dove turned abruptly, saying "No more!"

'Midst charges of cheating, the ref was called in
To sort out the claims ~ who'll lose and who win?

Their feathers were ruffled and beaks agape,
As Ref said, "Let's go to the videotape."

"Upon further review of the very first frame,
there seems to be substance to the mourning dove's claim."

"That displaced checker was kicked out of place,
an accident, no doubt, to the next space."

So, the dove and the jay took a time-out
To discuss and resolve lingering doubt

"Set 'em up again, while the morning's cool,
and adhere precisely to the golden rule."

As the ref's words of wisdom rang in their heads
They played and spoke softly of favorite breads

And peace reigned supreme, after this scuffle
Ending forever, the checker kerfuffle!

All Photos & Poetry: ©Deb Lambert 2008

After Hours...

2008-10-08T08:30:00.001-04:00

After Hours with the Portly Folk
What really happens, when the garden shop lights are dimmed
and the staff goes home? This is a tale of one particular segment
of the statuary... the "big & beautiful," the cute & pudgy, the chubby,
plump, well-padded, stout, fat, chunky, overweight, corpulent,
obese garden ornaments... oh, let's just call them "portly."
By Deb Lambert

After hours, when folks have gone home
And portly statues are there all alone
A next door neighbor is mowing his lawn
A clerk drives off, stifling a yawn
With the garden center quiet and still,
We peep inside, peering over the sill.

After hours, and a day filled with stares,
It's you, a frog and a basket of pears.

Tell us, Terrence, when the lights go out,
Do your friends and you dance and shout?
"Why, yes we do," came his swift reply,
"When the shades of night color the sky."

"First, Freddie and I had a big confab...
It seems he's worried about all that flab."

"I noted that his friends weren't all that slim,
but it didn't seem to mollify him."

"I just know they're talking behind my back,"
Freddie was worried they thought him too fat.

With Muck and Mire back on the shelf,
Freddie had both pools all to himself.

"Now this is sublime," he gloated with glee
"And now to do something, solely for me."

"I'm late to rehearse 'A Chorus Line'...
That spot on the end is always mine."

" Terrence, will you watch the kids for me?"
Asked matronly Momma Chickadee.

"I know what you're thinking... and it's not true
That I thought 'I'll betcha can't eat just two!' "

"So, here we find them all safe and sound...
Let's go discover who else is around."

"Now here we find my twin sister, Pat
The tag 'round her neck reads 'Portly Cat.' "

"Here's the Cardinal in a 'fowl' mood.
What accounts for his bad attitude?"

"Can't find a bathtub on Saturday night.
too small, too big - never just right!"

"I guess he'll just settle for one of these...
no 'lights, camera, action' - privacy, please!"

A meeting was called by his twin sister, Pat.
They gathered together for a meaningful chat.

Committees met and decided, quite shortly,
"We'll have to settle for being called 'portly.' "

"We're pudgy, obese and some would say 'fat.' "
The chorus line seems to be happy with that.

Then Terrence, in a reflective mood,
said, "Portly I am, but hankering food."

"I'll drop by the market, for there I know,
are chickens and owls and even a crow."

Terrence said, "Pat, take that tag off your head
and fix us a snack before going to bed."

"We're large and lovely, but don't humans know,
to maintain our status we've got to eat crow?"

And thus ends the saga of portly folk
Who meow and sing and sometimes croak
And though they're obese, the shoppers will say
"How cute and pudgy!"... in the light of day.

They'll don their price tags, climb back on the shelves
Consorting all day with gnomes, snails and elves.
And some will leave by the end of the day,
Leaving with humans - a new place to stay!

Photos #6-8: ©CBI 2008
All other photos and poetry: ©Deb Lambert 2008

Bringing in the Aesthetically-Challenged Harvest

2008-09-19T10:43:00.004-04:00

As an easily amused backyard gardener, I thought this imperfect harvest might be amusing... sort of the good, the bad and the ugly. Maybe the horned, the folded and the beauty-impaired (my, such PC nomenclature).

Here they were on September 11th, just harvested.
Left: 'Early Girl' ~ Right: 'Better Boy' ~ Top: 'Brandywine' tomato

Same day, on their way into the kitchen.

Five days later - just about ready for the dinner table (OK, this is another beauty-impaired 'Brandywine' - I ate the first one). The horned and folded tomatoes have been joined by two miniature, homely red peppers (supposed to be bell peppers) and three normal 'Juliette' cherry tomatoes... just for scale.

No, that's not the world's smallest gourd atop the cherry tomatoes. That, my friends, is the extent of my cucumber harvest. What 'Chucky' didn't keep eating down to the nubs, the rainy summer with rampant fungus laid claim to, resulting in some less-than-impressive harvests.

"That which doesn't kill me, builds character." "Laughter is the best medicine." "Smile, it makes people wonder what you've been up to." "There's always next year!" "Deep, cleansing breath..."

So, pondering all these bon mots, I got out the salad dressing and went to town, creating a gigantic salad from three cherry tomatoes, two tiny peppers and the world's smallest cuke... couldn't have eaten another bite!

But all is not gloom and doom in Solanacae Land... harvested lots of fine tomatoes and am keeping a close eye on some giant bell peppers (in a different area), just now flushing to red. "Don't cry for me, Argentina." We may not have your endless growing season, but we've "got spunk" and that helps us Yankee gardeners overcome, or at least put a good face on, whatever Mother Nature allows us to salvage from our backyard plots... or, in this case, pots!

©Deb Lambert

Duck Tales from Lily Pond

2008-08-11T16:46:00.004-04:00

Photographer: Terry Spivey, USDA Forest Service, Bugwood.org

More accurately, duck tails... eleven of them, to be precise.

Each spring, the mallards return to our glorified swamp. Lily Pond was, at one time, a fresh water pond - connected to larger, nearby ponds. However, years ago, road construction obliterated this connection. Set down in a "basin," Lily Pond retains enough water to support a wide variety of waterfowl, shore birds, songbirds, mammals, reptiles, amphibians and insects.

Looking back, I realize that this was a kid's paradise. It's where I learned about newts, salamanders, frogs, toads, turtles (painted and snapping), crayfish, water-striders, dragonflies... well, you get the idea. The spring peepers were deafening this year - a good commentary on our local ecological status. The bullfrogs are testing their new-found basso profundo range, as I write. But, I digress - back to the duck tales...

Our resident pair of mallards has successfully raised eleven ducklings this year, from an unusually early hatching. I've watched for the past few weeks, as the proud parents taught them everything, from swimming to dunking for tasty swamp morsels (yum!). The "ducklings" are now almost as big as the parents, and yesterday I witnessed quite an event in the world of duckdom...

Synchronized dunking! My eyes were attracted by the roiling water, as eleven adolescent ducks (under their parents' tutelage) started dunking for the aforementioned tasty bits.
They were bobbing around, like rubber ducks in a bathtub, when suddenly all eleven of them upended at the same time; hence, synchronized dunking! What are the chances I'd happen to be gawking down the hill, at that precise moment?

Like I said, Duck Tails from Lily Pond!

Postscript: Now get out there and make your own discoveries in the natural world - you'd be amazed at what awaits you.

©Deb Lambert 2008

Those Hilarious Herons

2008-06-22T10:58:00.004-04:00

Now I admire herons as much as the next backyard naturalist, but really! I mean whom do they think they're fooling? Alright, maybe a little bittern or green heron can get away with it, but a great blue heron? Pretty preposterous, if you ask me.

Having existed swampside (Lily Pond is a biggish swamp that rarely dries up) for years, I have come to know a wide variety of herons and count them among my favorite birds to observe. I have written about them often, within the confines of countless backyard nature articles.

American Bittern, Botaurus lentiginosus -
"hiding" among the reeds

Terry L. Spivey, Terry Spivey Photography, Bugwood.org

I have nothing but respect for these hardy, showy shorebirds. They are interesting in flight - magnificent, in the case of the great blue heron - patient and industrious in obtaining food and exceedingly shy. It is this last trait to which I refer.

I could, maybe, understand how a little green heron or an American bittern (with his streaked, camouflaged suit of feathers) would believe that "freezing," with hunched-up shoulders and his beak pointed straight up in the air, would fool a predator. But when a snowy egret or great blue heron assumes this same posture, it does seem a little preposterous. It's hard to hide when you're brilliant white or nearly as tall as me, standing there at water's edge, patiently waiting for lunch to tap you on the toe. I realize that they're pretty adept fishermen, but standing there, "frozen," waiting for me to move on, there's not a whole lot of fishing going on.

When we're hiking by our larger, neighborhood pond, my dog and I move quickly and quietly on (actually, the fact that she's leashed, accounts for her compliance in this matter), trying not to disturb this frozen heron. But what always makes me smile, is that their eyes give them away. The head remains stationary, not a muscle twitches, but the eye is constantly roving - assessing the situation, trying to determine if I pose a risk and if immediate flight should ensue. Granted, a lot to compute, when all you wanted was a quiet picnic lunch.

Now, I don't present myself as anything more than an extremely interested, but casual, observer of nature. I don't claim to be an expert naturalist or birder (or an expert at anything, even in my chosen field of horticulture, for that matter... setting oneself up as an "expert" at anything, is setting oneself up for a fall - that's only this writer's opinion), but even the most serious birder must have been amused, at least once, by this pattern of behavior.

"I see you, but you can't see me," they seem to be saying. It is rather like the toddler who while covering his eyes, proclaims, "You can't find me!"

And thus my conclusion, that herons are hilarious - downright hysterical - at least, when they're hiding in plain sight!

©2008 Deb Lambert

"They'll Find You!"/A Limerick About Cats

2008-06-19T11:16:00.004-04:00

"They'll Find You!"
By Deb Lambert

It remains quite a puzzle to me,
How the cats all seem to agree.
They stake out a house, then meow and grouse,
‘Til they’re finally invited to “tea.”

Now, to be quite honest and fair,
It’s truly a hard life out there.
You can’t blame a cat for refusing to “Scat”...
Just constantly “glued” to your stair.

Enigma, mystery or puzzle?
You watch as they greedily guzzle.
The milk is gone, time to move on,
But, they turn and give you a nuzzle.

No intention of owning a cat,
Comfort offered, and “that is that.”
According to you, that’s how the facts skew,
But there are tricks still left in his hat.

The thing about feminine wile,
It’s got nothing on feline guile.
A seductive purr and a coat of fur,
Will never go out of style.

So, the feline pulls out all the stops,
This feline in charge of ‘Special Ops.’
He’ll prove himself neat, curl up at your feet...
Self-reliant, not requiring props.

One day as you sit on the step,
She allows you to fondle and pet...
Rumbling motor turned on, you’re now halfway gone,
A good meal, then a trip to the vet.

Now, the years have flown softly by.
He’s slowed some, but doesn’t ask why.
Happy in his own way, he decided to stay.
So contented, he’s no longer shy.

He accepted his “siblings” with grace,
Feline “women” now sharing his space.
Naps and dining with one, the kitten’s “all fun,”
Until scolded for breaking a vase.

Now it really is true, what they say,
You can’t look at it any other way...
When a cat picks you out, it’s useless to shout.
So, surrender, for she is here to stay!

©Deb Lambert 2008

Rise and Shine Sleepyhead!

2008-05-14T18:34:00.004-04:00

"Rise and Shine Sleepyhead!"
By Deb Lambert

I see you there, curled up comfortably,
snoozing away... seemingly unconcerned
that I have inadvertently disturbed you.

So peaceful and snug in your silken red
and black pajamas.

Your long winter's nap is about to end.

All young creatures need roots and wings.
Last summer gave you "roots" and spring
will give you wings of freedom.

Spring has decreed that you awaken and
spin your odd, unique cocoon, in preparation
for your metamorphosis.

It was a vigorous spring cleaning of the garden
that led to my discovery of your rumpled bed
and the tines of my rake that disturbed you.

I have an aversion to disrupting nature or
disturbing the slumber of one so at peace.
And so, I place you back beneath the leaf litter,
by the ancient, gnarled grape vine. There, to
luxuriate until May taps you on the head.

But it's simply a matter of days before you
succumb to the blandishments of May, as she says,
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead!"

If you've not surmised by now, this is about a certain woolly bear caterpillar which I disturbed yesterday, while raking in my mom's yard. It will be transformed into the Isabella Tiger Moth, lay eggs and the woolly bear phase will start all over again, with a new generation. I recall playing with these black and reddish brown caterpillars every fall, as a child. They really don't predict the severity of an upcoming winter, as much as the red to black segment ratio describes the winter just past... more folklore debunked - at least according to the scientific community.

©Deb Lambert 2008

Make her chortle, not grouse!

2008-05-11T06:11:00.003-04:00

Use that inimitable sense of humor to brighten her day and lighten her load on this, her special day. Amuse her with the antics of youth, heretofore unrevealed. Lift her mood with a funny story or personal faux pas. Help her out around the house and yard, take her to brunch, take her to lunch, but whatever you do, make her laugh, giggle or chuckle... better still, a full-blown chortle!

This is not a day for grousing, so enjoy your day and enjoy your mom!

©Deb Lambert

YOUR MAY 'CORLISS CLIPS' IS READY!

2008-05-01T14:28:00.001-04:00

The latest issue of the 'Corliss Clips' garden newsletter has just been published... 4 long pages of garden updates and reminders, to assist you with those May gardens. What a great time of year to be a gardener! Come in from the garden, relax a bit and click on 'Corliss Clips' for the latest garden "buzz." Enjoy!... Deb Lambert, Garden Author

Great Egret!

2008-04-26T07:53:00.003-04:00

Great Egret - and he certainly lives up to his name!

Photo: Courtesy Terry L. Spivey, Terry Spivey Photography, Bugwood.org

Now, I've had many different egrets, herons and bitterns visit Lily Pond, but this is a first... Casmerodius albus (aka American Egret) standing at a stately 38" tall, is smaller than our Great Blue Heron, but impressive for his snowy white plumage, height and wing span. I watched with interest as he stood on the branches of a fallen tree, searching the water for his supper. When he finally took to the air, he circled the swamp several times, giving me a great view of his wing span.

What a way to end the work day! It was followed by an encore performance of our 6 courting wood ducks, hooting and chasing each other the length of Lily Pond until nearly dusk. Then, of course, the spring peepers tuned up for the evening serenade.

©Deb Lambert 2008

Health & Food Tips from Mark Twain...

2008-04-04T20:03:00.004-04:00

"The way to keep your health is to eat what you don't want, drink what you don't like, and do what you'd rather not." ~ Mark Twain

"Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint." ~ Mark Twain

“Nothing helps scenery like bacon and eggs.” ~ Mark Twain in Roughing It

What's the Next Adjective?

2008-03-27T18:40:00.004-04:00

There exists, here in the Northeast, a supermarket chain that designates it's largest stores as "Super." Upon hearing rumors that they are about to introduce us to still larger stores, I had to wonder what adjective will precede their name. Will it be "Mega?" Maybe "Monster" or "Colossal?"

My second question would be, "Why?"

As it is, I'm pretty sure we're walking the equivalent of three football fields. In the midst of the twenty-odd aisles, is a bookstore, a pharmacy, holiday items, a garden shop and office supplies. If I want any of these items, I will proceed to the appropriate store. I fail to see why, when I discover that I've forgotten something in aisle 1, when I'm in aisle 23, I have to trudge all the way back across this vast wasteland. I will never buy my lawn furniture in your store! I will never buy any of the stuff, located in the middle of the store.

"Excuse me, where are the toothpicks?" I ask a stock-person.

"I don't work here," is the reply. Let me see, you're opening boxes, stocking the shelves, pricing the items... Hmm.

After asking the third person who doesn't work there, with equally spectacular results, I realize that they work for the vendors, not the store. OK, I've got it. Look for the green polo shirts - easier said than done! Eureka! I've found one.

"Excuse me, where are the toothpicks?" I query.

"Huh?" The young man responds.

"Huh," yourself, I think. "I'm looking for a small box of round toothpicks."

"Oh, I think they're in aisle 23." His voice trails off, laced with uncertainty.

"That's where I thought they'd be, but I couldn't find them," I inform him.

He rolls his eyes thoughtfully. "Yeah, I'm sure they're over there."

Now, bear in mind that this is my third trip across the entire width of this "Super" supermarket. I've pretty much used up my daily allotment of energy... not a happy camper at this point! Long story, short, I found toothpicks in my small, local market - perfect size store, even if you have to backtrack when you've forgotten an item. Smaller is better! (In fact, this little chain of 6 stores usually has lower prices than the "Super" store and better quality everything.

Back to the "Super" store...I will NOT ring up my own groceries in those little do-it-yourself scanner booths. They are also trying to implement some sort of hand-held scanner, so we add up all the items in our cart, as we go. I don't think so! We put the items up on the conveyor belt, to be rung up... no problem.

The bagger suddenly disappears. OK, we bag our own groceries. If we're expected to perform all this self-service now, what will the Mega store be like? It's my guess that we'll be expected to unload trucks, stock the shelves and take inventory in the new, improved, bigger, better market.

I envision little electric cars to navigate this ginormous store, with a tiny helicopter hovering near the ceiling, broadcasting in-store traffic reports. They don't have enough knowledgeable, polite help, as it is... and they want to go bigger?

To quote that clerk, "Huh?"

And, about that new name - how about "Monstrous Mart?" Talk about conspicuous consumption!

©Deb Lambert 2008

Happy Easter!

2008-03-23T16:12:00.003-04:00

"We're off to the "Grouse and Chortle" for a pint of their best.
So leave the eggs and chocolates... leave them for the rest."

"Wee blossoms from the highlands and heather from the moors,
We decorate from nature, never from the stores!"

"Now, off we toddle, two by two, to yonder ancient inn,
'Grouse and Chortle' has the scotch to really make us grin!"

"So, Happy Easter, what 'ere your clan and paint those eggs of plaid,
Hoist a pint or two, and by tonight, those eggs won't look so bad!"

As Fergus and Hamish disappear over the hill, we hear...
"Ach, Fergus!"
"What is it, now, Hamish?"
"Ye have na' kilt on, man!"
"Aye, but neither have ye!"
"But not for lack of tryin'... the tailor could na' find my tartan, then he could na' find my waist."
"Well, Hamish, I thinkin' that 'as useful as a kilt on a chicken' sounds like a punchline."
"Aye, Fergus, maybe it's just as well. Anyway, with all these blooms we're tottin'... the lassies won't notice a thing!"

HAPPY EASTER from the 'Grouse and Chortle!'

"Enough with the white stuff, already!" OR, "Science 101 and the Color White"

2008-03-19T12:08:00.007-04:00

A "snow day" - a time for introspection and chicken soup. A day for nursing a hideous sore throat, scattering my germs into the innermost recesses of my keyboard (so I can keep recycling this omnipresent cold) and pressing my runny nose against the windowpane... wondering if Spring has postponed her arrival, tomorrow, on the vernal equinox... You know - March 20th - the first day of spring! Maybe she was held over, her flight delayed at O'Hare?

Watching the snow, now changing to sleet, methinks that perhaps we shall celebrate spring without her. Just as well, since my garden cannot boast even a single crocus to make her feel welcome.

All morning, as I glanced up from my keyboard, the word 'white' was rumbling around in the back of my head. White - pristine snow, sifting gently down on Christmas Eve. White- the color of crisp table linens, a bride's gown and my old, hatchback Pinto, deceased these many years. In this same introspective mood, I was trying to recall if white is actually a color. So, I thought I'd do a quick search... with this result:

From the 'Free Dictionary Online'.....
white
n.
1. The achromatic color of maximum lightness; the color of objects that reflect nearly all light of all visible wavelengths; the complement or antagonist of black, the other extreme of the neutral gray series. Although typically a response to maximum stimulation of the retina, the perception of white appears always to depend on contrast.

Huh?

So, I thought, "Didn't I learn that white is the absence of all color, or was it the presence of all color and wasn't black somehow involved in this explanation? Now, you know what my next move was - yep, back to that online dictionary...

black (blk)
adj. black·er, black·est
1. Being of the color black, producing or reflecting comparatively little light and having no predominant hue.

Huh?

Now, how I managed to remain on high honors, and in the Honor Society, throughout four years of high school, shall forevermore remain a mystery. I'm sure the curriculum included science, physics and chemistry (I have a vague memory of always cramming for these, on the long, rural bus ride to school.) Anyway, the science gene seems to be recessive, but the old reading/writing gene seems to be fairly strong, as was ever the case.

Let's try one of my "logic chains." So, if things that are white reflect nearly all light, doesn't that make them "the absence of all colors?" Conversely, if black reflects very little light, is it not the presence of all colors? I'm just seeking the simple, abridged explanation, here. This seems to make some sort of sense, when I think back to the finger paint and watercolor days of my misspent youth.

Anybody out there, with a sense of humor and brilliant scientific mind, care to confirm or deny my "findings?" For now, that's my theory and I'm sticking to it. But, be kind, as this cold has me acting like a puddin' head, today.

That homemade chicken soup has a "done" smell, so I've gotta go. Maybe I'll go watch the ducks swimming down back, as the snow swirls around them. My mallards seem unconcerned about spring, enjoying their "snow day," by attempting to land on the patches of floating ice, sliding all the way across and plopping into the water. Now, that's entertainment!

I hope everyone enjoys spring's return... "The sun'll come out tomorrow," as Annie would say!

Artwork: Hasselfreeclipart.com

©Deb Lambert 2008

"Home with a Pedigree"

2008-03-17T12:07:00.002-04:00

"Home with a Pedigree"

An extremely short story...

with a 'twist'..... Enjoy!

By Deb Lambert

From a running start, her white-stockinged feet glided across the refinished hardwood floor of the great room, halting at the brand new kitchen. Soon, Tim and the boys would be looking for a hearty New England breakfast. Tim had offered several times to prepare family meals, but Paula was still in the honeymoon phase with this kitchen. Running her hand over the cool smoothness of marble countertops, she reveled in her state-of-the-art appliances. Cooking was an absolute pleasure.

" ‘Five acres of rolling terrain in the heart of prestigious horse country.' Well, we're real land barons, now," Tim had joked.

"The ad said, ‘Walk to school,' '' Paula had cooed. "How wonderfully old-fashioned!"

For a young, growing family, the amenities of this stately residence were a necessary luxury, all supported by Tim's celebrity chef status and the sale of Paula's first novel. Once part of a Hamilton estate, this home was "distinguished by its construction, location and pedigree."

Paula took a moment to enjoy the sunrise, silhouetting the small horse barn. That's where their daughter Lillie started each day. Even now, this ambitious twelve-year-old was leading her dapple gray jumper out to the exercise ring, preparing for the Myopia Hunt Club Annual Event.

"Hey, Paula, the boys and I are starved! What's for breakfast?" Tim had roused Paula from her reverie and the slamming kitchen door announced Lillie's entrance.

She pushed her stool away from the chipped Formica counter, where her Hamiltonian dreams lay scrawled on scrap paper, beside Sunday's Real Estate Section. That's when it hit Paula - no estate home, horse barn or five acres... just a lively beginning for her first novel, "Home with a Pedigree."

Over breakfast, they celebrated Tim's promotion to line cook at the local steakhouse.

Oh, No, You Don't/'NIMBY!'

2008-03-13T15:58:00.005-04:00

"Oh, No, You Don't"
Hopefully, you find enough mirth,
within this rant, to keep you reading.
In my header, I mentioned the possibility
of my responding to that which amuses or
frosts me... this, obviously, is the latter -
just call me 'Frosty!'
By Deb Lambert

"Not in my backyard," or NIMBY, is my battle cry, as we emerge from winter's long incarceration into the blinding sunshine of spring. I have heard of such neighborhoods, oh radio newsman, where folks are banned from hanging their laundry on clotheslines, to dry. May I never live to see such an ordinance come to this neighborhood, nor live long enough to be so obsessed with aesthetic considerations, that I start any such action.

They say when you're young, you are narrow-waisted and broad-minded... that as you age, the reverse becomes true. So, who are these rule makers? (My version of "who died and made you king?") Are they young, naive and idealistic - prizing beauty above practicality? Or, are they curmudgeonly, self-proclaimed do-gooders - cleaning up the visual clutter?

And whatever the case, WHO or WHOM do you think you are, sticking your oar into my backyard... deciding after a cursory appraisal, that I may not hang my bedding and/or clothing out to dry? And, whatever your age or mindset, what about the environment? We strive to garden, build and generally live in harmony with nature. What of all that talk about global warming, our carbon footprint, conservation and yada, yada, yada?

You set up WIND FARMS, harnessing the wind's energy, yet seek to stop us from engaging in our own environmentally sensitive behavior. Do you realize that some among us, neither own, nor ever plan to own, a clothes dryer? Some of us resort to clotheslines in the basement, wooden drying racks and, in-season, outdoor clotheslines. We've been conserving energy for years! What about it? Would it not make a significant difference in energy consumption, if folks dried their clothes outdoors, during clement weather... at least those of us with backyards?

So, NIMBY - you need to keep our nose out of our backyard business and let us dry our clothes in peace. You're forcing folks to use only dryers. Can't you see that you've got the wrong end of the environmental stick? We're supposed to getting greener. "It's not easy being green," with such nosy-nellies patrolling our backyards.

Oh, and FYI... there's nothing as refreshing as going out for a look at the stars and a breath of air, last thing at night, and inhaling your neighbor's dryer sheet "fragrance"... like a blend of cheap, smelly perfume... Mmm - delightful! Have you never slipped into air-dried PJ's and between line-dried sheets... no dryer sheets ever smelled like that!

Soon, now, I will haul my umbrella-like, folding clothesline from the shed and stick it into its ground socket. Once or twice a week, weather-permitting, I shall bring forth my freshly laundered items and, without fanfare or malice, hang them from the vinyl lines. This, I shall continue to do, as long as there are items to launder.

In closing: You plan on banning and removing my clothesline - shutting down my illicit backyard drying activities? Never mind the watchdog, beware of the human! You will have to pry my spring-loaded clothespins from my cold, dead fingers.

Note: Every time I hear of such silliness and lack of commonsense, especially when it's happening in this neck of the woods, my hackles go up and this time my vitriol bubbled over - hopefully with enough humor to temper it. Thanks for your patience! Let me pick up my soapbox and slip softly into that good (fragrance-laden, dryer sheet) night.

©Deb Lambert 2008

Pasta Surprise!

2008-03-06T18:03:00.004-05:00

"Pasta Surprise?" No, this is not a casserole recipe... just a true, 'slice of life' event from this morning. Rather amusing. I thought I'd share. As I was hurrying to unload my shopping cart, at our small, local supermarket, I grasped several boxes of spaghetti and rushed them onto the conveyor belt. Suddenly, long, thin spaghetti was airborne. Released from the confines of its long, thin box, it shot upward and outward in a spectacular display, much like fireworks. It was one of those slow-motion events. Everything went into super slow-mo, as I marveled at that tremendous arc of raw pasta.

I had time to think, "I didn't do this. How did it happen? Where did it come from?"

As I reentered the world in real time, I realized the older customer, in front of me seemed to be grumpy. She was demanding, "What have you done?"

As I was hemming and hawing, disavowing my guilt, she started laughing. At the same time, the clerk shouted, "Al, get me another box of spaghetti, will you?"

To me, she said, "Don't worry about it - they must have used cheap glue on the flaps... we had a couple of others, just before you."

Another girl, armed with broom and dustpan, set about the cleanup. I think she may still be there. It was everywhere! I picked up clumps from my shopping cart. It was splayed out in back of the cart, in a giant fan. It was sticking out of the magazine and candy racks. It had escaped out into the main aisle. I had no idea that thin spaghetti could propel itself in such an astounding demonstration of kinetic energy. Did I mention that it was spectacular?

For some reason, out came a string of one-liners, as I reveled in the knowledge that this was just an accident, just a fluke. After my brief run as a stand-up comedian ("I'm here until Friday, folks!"), I ended with wondering aloud if I had started a new trend... throwing spaghetti, instead of rice, at weddings. The clerk thought not and I had to agree, upon refection. Why, you could put out an eye with that stuff!

And that, folks, was my pasta surprise! The great pasta disaster of 2008!

Note: I could not find a photo of long, thin spaghetti, so that photo at the top, courtesy of Free Images, will have to do. My tale would not have been half as amusing, had this been the pasta in question.

©Deb Lambert 2008

A Wide Berth

2008-02-29T20:42:00.004-05:00

"A Wide Berth"
A short story, based on a rather humorous,
real incident, from last century.
By Deb Lambert

"Hey, Debbie... what's up?"

"What do you think is up, Alan?"

"Never mind, forget I said anything, " he muttered.

Clearly Debbie was in a foul mood, so Alan made his way to Study Hall, the last period of the day. Debbie hoisted up her stack of textbooks and followed. She loved Study Hall, where fellow students got a head start on homework. Let them. This was Debbie's personal break time and homework could wait until evening. Hmm... an essay about horses, a poem about nature or maybe a short story? She pondered the possibilities.

Lost in thought, Debbie made her way to the second row of chairs and immediately started a short story, one based on that day's adventures. Oblivious to everything around her, she pushed her frenzied pen across the thin pages of her plaid loose-leaf binder.

Suddenly, Debbie had a sense that someone was staring at her. She glanced up to see that Mr. Lake had halted his normal routine, of pacing up and down the aisles, monitoring students. Mr. Lake was a man of science, few words and even fewer smiles; however, this smile was so broad that his eyes were involved, twinkling in merriment. Debbie followed his roving eyes, to the rear of the freshman division.

The cowards! There they sat, including the only other girl in her class, huddled together in the last three rows. Debbie had the first five rows all to herself. So engrossed had she been in her extracurricular writing, she hadn't noticed all this "elbow room." Mr. Lake met her eyes once more, arching an inquisitive eyebrow, before moving away.

The final bell rang and a tide of students flowed from the auditorium, down the marbled halls and out into the mid-afternoon sunshine. From the midst of this wave of humanity, Debbie spied the big yellow snout of the rural bus and made her way to the seat directly behind the driver. She immediately stuck her nose in a paperback version of Hamlet, which she was reading for pleasure. Boisterous students filed onto the bus, headed for the desirable rear seats, far from the driver's prying eyes.

With a lurch, the bus headed for the highway home. For the second time today, Debbie had the sensation of being watched. Her eyes met those of the bus driver in the rear-view mirror. He was an odd duck, so Debbie took his disdainful, disapproving sneer with a grain of salt. That's when she noticed she had the front of the bus to herself.

Much to her relief upon arriving home, Debbie found her mother was still out. It gave her a chance to change, play with the basset hound and munch on homemade, raisin-studded oatmeal cookies, before settling down to do homework.

"Deborah Judith," shouted her mom from the bottom of the staircase. "What happened? Why did you leave that stuff on the front porch?"

Oh no, the dreaded formal names - first and middle. This struck terror into everyone Debbie knew, including herself. All she needed to do was tell the truth, explaining the mishap. Still, she had been dreading this.

"Coming, Mom," Debbie responded from her bedroom. "There was an accident at school, today," she said, as she ran down the stairs.

"An accident? Was anyone hurt? Tell me all about it," prompted her mother, her brow starting to furrow.

"Mom, it was so embarrassing! In Study Hall and afterwards, on the bus, no one would sit near me. Hardly anyone even spoke to me!" Debbie was on the verge of tears, her lower lip quivering. At fourteen, one tends to be a little hypersensitive.

"I was hurrying to finish shoveling out the gutters in the cow barn, the wheelbarrow was overloaded and I took a corner too short. Over I went, right into the last full gutter and the wheelbarrow tipped over on top of me. But luckily, the cow's rear hoof missed me."

"Oh, honey, I'm glad you're alright!" Then the corners of her mom's eyes crinkled up, as irrepressible laughter bubbled up in her throat.

"Well, I had to give your boots and clothes a wide berth, on the way in... see what you can do about scraping and brushing off some of that stuff. By the way, I guess the other students were giving you a wide berth, the same wide berth you should have given to that gutter!" Debbie's mother went to the laundry, in search of her strongest detergent.

Later that night, Debbie could hear her father's deep chuckle, as her mom recounted the day's events. He would take great delight in teasing Debbie, periodically, for years to come. Long after she changed her nickname to "Deb," became a published author and got involved in broadcast media, she would be asked to tell "The Story" to friends and relatives. Yes, it's funny, now - hysterically funny, and no longer does she give this tale a wide berth.

NOTE: Yes, this is based on my true story. Names were not changed to protect the innocent or the odoriferous. In 1963, "Aggie" freshmen were required to experience the whole curriculum, prior to selecting their major. Sadly, Dairy Farming was out, since I was allergic to cows, shavings and hay. (Not the best career choice, anyway.)

By the way, I was neither traumatized, nor afflicted by a cow manure phobia, in later years. As a gardener, I continue to embrace all organics, including cow manure... I just don't roll around it!

That short story that "Debbie" (now, "Deb") started? You just finished it. And it only took 45 years! I am the undisputed Queen of Procrastination.

©Deb Lambert 2008

A Rather Pithy Post

2008-02-26T16:19:00.004-05:00

Odd, twisty, expressions from 'yours truly'...

"You can't rush perfection, so don't do today
what can be put off until tomorrow."

"Politicians take the path of least resistance,
while regular folk take the road less traveled."

That's all, folks!..... Deb Lambert ©2008

Funny Business

2008-02-24T12:00:00.003-05:00

This is something I found in the 'way back' portion of my files. It occurred to me that it was somewhat amusing and outlines my re-dedication to the fine 'art of funny.' Last summer, standing at the kitchen counter, trying to encapsulate my reasons for selecting this online course, within the confines of my first assignment, I came up with the following...

"Funny, Funnier, Funniest"

Funny, Funnier, Funniest... Hold on - there's observational humor going on, right across the street. A big commotion as neighbors seem to be testing the payload of an old pickup truck - in the cab (NOT a super-cab). There they go. One portly man, a youth of about twelve and two women of ample proportions... one after another, they crowd in - like a clown car at the circus. As the passenger door closes against a well-upholstered hip, the truck takes off with its (unbelted) considerable cargo. Now, where was I? Oh, yes - and she's back!

Funny, Funnier, Funniest... I am currently in Phase 1 of my 3-step journey into the world of written humor. Where appropriate, I liberally pepper my published garden and creative writings with my own brand of dry, Yankee humor. I've kept a file on all things humorous for some time, not quite knowing why. I enjoy connecting unrelated news stories. From the sublime to the ridiculous - I love a good juxtaposition, a slightly caustic slant, self-deprecating humor, the absurdity of much political correctness and the human condition, in general.

Turns out, I've been operating outside that box for years. Just didn't know it. It's time to turn my attention to humor writing, in earnest. Seriously. Very few times have I read a book, a passage, a line that made me laugh until I cried and wheezed (actually, that whole wheezing thing probably doesn't count, since I have asthma). My goal is to inflict this same discomfort (at least the uncontrollable weeping) on my readers.

Thus far, "Get Funny" [the course title] is just what the doctor ordered. After all, "laughter is the best medicine." Like all writers, we benefit from reading within our chosen genres. I'm enjoying the lessons, supplemental reading and assignments. I look forward to reaching the apex of my pinnacle, in a burgeoning career as humor writer. Thank you, Joanna, for providing guidance and inspiration as we all commence this journey.

©Deb Lambert 2008

"WHAT'S NEW?" YOU ASK...

2008-02-20T18:28:00.004-05:00

Why, " 'WALTZES WITH WORDS' " I answer. Waltz on over!

Catapulting Through Kindergarten

2008-02-20T12:42:00.002-05:00

"Catapulting Through Kindergarten"
by Deb Lambert

"Whee! I can go higher than you," I announced to the girl in the next swing.

"Bet you can't!" she taunted.

"Can so, too!" I replied, employing elegant syntax.

"Cannot either!" she screamed.

That was it. Game on (or whatever we said in 1952). Never before had my sturdy legs pumped so hard. My swing had wings. But, my challenger was no slouch. The race was on and she matched me, pumping away furiously. Alas, her skinny pins were no match for my little thunder thighs. She was slowing, visibly, running out of steam.

With great glee, I kept pumping - higher and higher. I was flying. Up, up, into the blue yonder. I had to know how high I could go. The answer came suddenly, as I swung up over the top rail of the swing set. The chains arched and then buckled, in some strange way. I was shot out of my self-induced catapult like a sack of potatoes, landing on the hot top below.

I don't remember landing. I do remember a circle of faces, framed by a clear blue sky. And, fifty-six years later, I remember that one of those faces was Mom's.

"Debbie?"

©Deb Lambert 2008

THE DAY I CRIED "UNCLE"

2008-02-17T08:37:00.008-05:00

"The Day I Cried 'Uncle' "
Or, "The Final Insult"
A rebuttal, in response to Simon P. Squirrel's article,
published in The Sunflower Times...
(reprinted on today's 'gardenauthor' blog)
By Deb Lambert

Like Roman troops they advanced,
phalanx after phalanx,
their gray plumes carried as proudly
as the plumes on a centurion's helmet.

Circling the waters of Lily Pond,
over the rocks and through the greenbriar.

Onward, upward,
breaching the boundaries of my
backyard Shangri-La ,
arranging themselves in a long, gray line.

Then, suddenly... pandemonium!

Entire divisions broke ranks,
scattering as seed hulls, before the wind,
in a rollicking mêlée;
every squirrel for himself!

There commenced a most grievous pillaging
of my peaceful kingdom.
Like a hoard of ill-tempered Vikings,
they mounted brackets, swung from baffles,
made merry with "squirrel-proof" feeders,
sampled the suet, drank from the birdbath
and stumbled upon the squirrel feeder.

This four-armed, whirligig feeder
has a four-cob capacity, offering nutrition
to those backyard bandits, in the form of
dried ears of corn.

The Theory: Squirrels reach, stretch
and maneuver their way to dinner,
much to the amusement of humankind.
They receive sustenance, while giving our
songbirds a turn at the bird feeders.

The Reality: Like a lovely confluence of events,
everything progressed according to theory,
peace reigned supreme - until last Friday;
whereupon, General Simon P. Squirrel marshaled
his forces for a major attack. These merciless
marauders swarmed over the squirrel feeder,
munching, twirling and generally cavorting.

I thought, "Good it's working!"

Without further consideration, I turned my attentions
to the remainder of my daily activities, secure in the
knowledge that all was well - lulled into complacency.

Little did I realize that Simon had enlisted the services
of some rather brilliant engineers, who soon figured out
the mystery of suspended corn cobs. I can visualize
these furry, gray-clad engineers, armed with clipboards
and pocket protectors, running the numbers
and probabilities of out-foxing the four-armed monster.
Over a business lunch of spilled sunflower seed,
recommendations were given and decisions made.

Late that afternoon, strolling through my yard,
I became privy to Simon's scheme,
as I viewed the results of his day-long siege.
One denuded corn cob hung from the feeder,
but the other three were gone!

How foolish I must have appeared, all agog
at the empty feeder arms, muttering and searching
for the missing cobs. Gone! Nowhere to be seen!

My conclusion? We are now dealing with more than the
normal, run-of-mill, sack-and-pillage gray squirrel.
In our feeble attempts to out-fox and outsmart these rodents,
we have, inadvertently, contributed to a new breed of squirrel.

What else explains their new proficiencies?
They have obviously discovered how to unscrew the ears of corn
and carry then off, whole. It is the only logical [?] conclusion.

Well, if Simon thinks that I'm about to replenish that feeder,
as soon as cobs disappear, he can think again! I am not running
a "takeout" restaurant for squirrels! (Although I must admit,
the vision of them running up the trees, gripping the corn cobs
in their teeth, "bringing home the bacon," is somewhat comical.)

I suppose when I found Simon P. Squirrel blogging and editorializing,
I should have foreseen the potential problems, borne of such evil genius.
All this devastation, seems to be the final insult.
As I stand in the wreckage of my backyard sanctuary,
I am quite tempted to say, "Uncle."

Visit today's gardenauthor for Simon's original article of 2/17/08

©Deb Lambert 2008

POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE

2008-02-16T12:16:00.003-05:00

Pomp and Circumstance
Reflections of a writer, upon graduation
from yet another creative writing course.
By Deb Lambert

I awoke with a start. Rising sun was fingering its way between the slats of my shuttered windows.

"It's 6 AM, are you going to sleep all day? The early bird catches the worm, or the holly berries. Get up, you slothful human! Do you really expect me to bathe in this filthy birdbath?" All these melodious queries irritated my dog, but then she's not bilingual.

Fluent in Mockingbird, I said, "Yeah, yeah - in a while," and began my day.

All morning, the suspense mounted. I shared my slight trepidation in a phone call to my mom. "Oh, you'll do well," she assured me, as if I were seventeen once again.

Her "mother knows best" philosophy proved reliable. The morning was a smashing success... final exam taken (not a perfect score, although I did a victory lap around the kitchen, anyway), evaluation submitted and a certificate of completion (suitable for framing) printed out. And there it was - school was out. I was a graduate.

There was neither pomp nor circumstance involved, as I stood in front of the printer, prepared to catch the certificate flung out at me. I thought it would be appropriate to whistle "Pomp and Circumstance," but all I could remember was "Hail to the Chief." Close enough.

No black robe, mortarboard or tassel. No enthusiastic fellow graduates or cheering crowds. No valedictorian. Just a distant thud as the boiler fired up and the click of dog toenails, on linoleum tiles, as Lucy came to see the President - must have misled her with all that "Hail to the Chief" whistling.

The mockingbird is splashing in my birdbath and chickadees are ogling the empty feeders, out back. Everything is back to normal. It's as though no one graduated today.

©Deb Lambert 2008

MARY AND BOB... A SHORT STORY

2008-02-14T19:33:00.004-05:00

Mary and Bob

By Deb Lambert

Mary was "fed up" with Bob and steeling herself for his return. This was the night she'd speak her mind about his philandering ways. Mary had shrugged off the disturbing rumors of last year. Her mind was filled with memories of dozing and canoodling the winter away. But, last spring's arrival had signaled Bob's departure.

When he returned this winter, he'd caught her in a weak moment, facing a long, cold winter alone. Bob reminded Mary about his wanderlust, his attraction to the open road.

"Mary, I know I've hurt you, but can't we give it one more try? Believe me, I'd never have left last spring, had I known about the twins."

And with that, Mary had succumbed to his boyish charms and welcomed him back. She wondered if she'd been fooling herself. Maybe Bob was a confirmed bachelor, who would never make a commitment! Mary sighed and patted her gently expanding waistline. There was no doubt that she was pregnant, again. Multiple births ran in her family. She'd probably have a litter this time, she thought, wryly.

As Mary pondered her lethal attraction to Bob, suddenly there he was in the doorway. Thick, chestnut hair tinged with gray, soulful brown eyes that could twinkle mischievously and a broad grin, exposing those "pearly-whites." Yes, he was hard to resist!

As Mary flashed a smile, she said, "Bob, better sit down - I've got something to tell you. You're about to become a dad, again!"

Bob gulped, recovering quickly, "Oh, Mary, that's great! And now for my news. There's a position opening up at Sunny Acres Farm. Of course, I'd be away until winter, but the rewards are huge! Oh, and I have to leave now."

"Of course you do... after all, it's the way of the woodchuck,'" Mary snapped.

©Deb Lambert 2008

CRUEL WOMEN OF THE FIFTIES

2008-02-14T15:30:00.002-05:00

The Original Desperate Housewives

By Deb Lambert

Once upon a time in the 1950’s, five little girls (living lives of quiet desperation) were forced to amuse themselves without benefit of modern electronic games or Barbie dolls. Every so often, the conversation would go something like this...

“Let’s play dress-up,” I’d say, dragging out my trunk of Mom’s cast-off clothing.

“OK, but only if we can play house in my yard,” Sharon would respond.

WE were the original desperate housewives. Looking back on those days, I realize how bossy, unkind and demanding we were. Rarely, a neighborhood boy (yuk!) would insist on joining us.

“The daddy has to go to work,” Karen would declare, handing him an empty lunch box.

“Work is under those bushes,” I’d inform him, pointing to an arborvitae hedge. “And stay there until we tell you to come back for supper.”

Wow - we were a little like black widow spiders - turning on the male and, without a care, going off to push doll carriages, “go shopping” and have lunch.

“Hey, can I come back home now?” Asked the “man” in the hedge.

“We told you... NOT until we say so!” Eventually, he’d get bored and wander off.

Not satisfied with this result, we’d immediately ask, “Who wants to be the father, now?”
The last girl to arrive would “volunteer” and, sadly, receive the same treatment... left to languish in the hedge, while we pranced around in our finery. Why, we even turned on our own kind.

Catty, conceited, conniving...

Like I said - the original 'Desperate Housewives.'

©Deb Lambert 2008

"For Their Own Safety"

2008-02-13T17:22:00.007-05:00

"THE DAILY DRIVEL " - Headline News

"For Their Own Safety"... An Interview by Staff Reporter,

Nellie Newsworthy

In a recent move toward unification, the Federal government has joined forces with local school boards, in banning all outdoor activity by children, "for their own safety." I sat down with an anonymous official, who is promoting these bans, for an in-depth interview.

Q. "As I understand it, ‘tag' was targeted early on, for elimination. Your response?"

A. "We felt that this was our ‘foot in the door,' so to speak. Parents, recalling their own youth, can commiserate with the trauma of any chasing game. Wanting to spare their own children this horror, it really was a short trip from discussion to total ban."

Q. "Now, what about dodgeball? How much opposition did you encounter on this one?"

A. "Well, once we explained the full ramifications of this seemingly innocent pursuit, not much opposition at all, really. From the shame of not being chosen for a team to the vengeful hurling of the ball, to say nothing of the stressful dodging involved, dodgeball was doomed."

Q. "So, not an innocent game, but rather, a blood sport?"

A. "Your term, not mine. But absolutely a blood sport with huge implications, later."

Q. "Are you aware of the latest story, coming from neighboring Namby-Pambyville?"

A. "Yes. We took immediate action, at the request of faculty and parents. The first step, changing ‘Tug ‘O War' to Tug ‘O Peace,' has been implemented."

Q. "They could call it a ‘Taffy-Pull' and kids on one end of the rope are still going to end up in the mud, aren't they?"

A. "Absolutely. However, there was so much opposition to an outright ban, that we're handling this one with ‘kid gloves.' The ban will be gradual, but inevitable."

Q. "Now, what about the big picture?"

A. "Well, the big picture is, of course, a complete ban on all outdoor activity by children. Anything that would get them out in the fresh air, keep them moving around, burning up calories must be banned. Children should be neither seen nor heard. Danger lurks around every corner and deep within the most innocent of childhood games. It's for their own good."

Q. "Is it true that budget cuts, for all sports, were an unexpected boon to this project?"

A. "Of course. Without them, it would have taken much longer to ban all recess and physical education programs. Football, track, basketball and other after-school sports are next on the agenda. I predict they'll go the way of dodgeball, within a year."

Q. " And what of the rumored ‘Backyard Enforcement Squad?' What role do they play?"

A. "‘B.E.S.' is the central agency, overseeing the two-pronged approach of local and federal authorities. We've recently seen how well such consolidation works, with improved communications, and the agencies involved benefiting from a renewed spirit of cooperation."

Q. "Ahem. Any final thoughts?"

A. "Soon, all physical activity, from backyard to living room, will be banned. As our troops move through America's cities, suburbs and rural areas, implementing these bans, we expect to meet little resistance. Children are frenetic - they need to be stopped. This is my mission. It's all about the children. Which reminds me - my next project involves juvenile obesity... in fact, ‘B.E.S.' is already putting together a ‘Think Tank' as to probable causes."

Author's Note: Since conducting this interview, I have become acquainted with a startling update. In a stunning move toward globalization, it is reported that our "Mr. Anonymous" has been selected to spearhead a world-wide ban on all children's activities - everywhere. Locally, we see blue-jacketed troops, with "AFP" in big white letters, moving through the neighborhoods. The kids say it stands for "Anti-Fun Police." Whatever it stands for, the "AFP" may be appearing soon, in a country near you.

©Deb Lambert 2008

UNDER CONSTRUCTION...

2008-02-13T14:45:00.006-05:00

Stay Tuned..... This is the first entry on a brand new blog, managed by 'gardenauthor,' where I post mostly on garden-related topics. I hope that 'Grouse and Chortle' will amuse and perhaps, at times, stir you to action. If you enjoy photography, visit the 'Shutterbug on Knights Pond' to view the artistry of Sam Haddock, which I post for him, periodically.

This is Deb, signing off, for now.

©Deb Lambert 2008