Which Country? Questions from Trevor, age 7.

Yourself and Your House Wonderful  Or How is Your Country? When I was a kid, Mawmaw and her sisters – The Aunts (pronounced like the insects “ants”) – would take all of us kids to the beach on Emerald Isle in North Carolina for a week in the summer. (Their motto is "Nice Matters" – and you wonder where I get this smiley thing.) This was the highlight of my year. I think my childhood brain was mainly absorbed by dreaming about this yearly event and then there was some space left over for curling my hair, dance class, doing Barbie’s hair, and math problems.  Over seventeen years of going to the beach, I learned to ride the waves, flirt with boys, and eat my weight in Fruity Pebbles. My recurring fantasy was that my best cousin, Rachel, and I would grow up to live in a house together on the ocean front. Now, Rachel and I live on different continents and neither of us live in a house on the ocean front, but that dream helped to make me a dreamer and where I live now seems like a dream. Many of the places I’ve lived have seemed dreamy to me, in fact – a farmhouse in Pennsylvania, a fifth floor flat in Paris, a town house six blocks from the US Capitol, an Arts & Crafts house next to one of the most famous recording studios in Nashville, and this flat in the treetops in London where I can hear the trains pass gently night and day.  I’ve lived in fifteen or so different places since I graduated college and I’ve never stayed in any one of them the whole year round. When I left Nashville a few weeks ago, after a two month stay, I noticed nearly black gladiolus getting ready to bloom in my yard which I’d never seen before. And I still haven’t seen them because here I am in London . . .  But, as I was saying. The Beach. This summer, Rachel decided that us “children” should take Mawmaw and The Aunts to the beach. So, she rented a house on Emerald Isle and, after more than twenty years, we all went to the beach. Well, we couldn’t all go, because in the time since our last visit, grandmothers and husbands, fathers and brothers, children and mothers have passed away. But there we were, the matriarchs, the progeny, the second husbands or wives, the newborn babies, the boyfriends, and the step children – the whole gamut of modern family life. Because of this and that, I could only go for part of the week, but while I was there I spent a lot of time with my third cousin, Trevor, who is seven. Trevor and I got on like hot cakes because I often say that I am mainly seven in my everyday thinking. We collected seashells, we played chase, we splashed each other with water, we watched a movie, we made shell-covered animal cracker boxes, we ate the animal crackers while trying to decide whether we were eating an elephant or a koala (ack!), and we ogled scary fish together at the aquarium. His pronouncements on me were that I was good at coloring, good at crafts, a good singer, and pretty. That made my year.  When we were combing the beach for the absolutely perfect shells to decorate our animal cracker boxes, Trevor, who had been told that I was moving to England, asked me, “Which is better? England or America?” This was quickly followed up by, “Who do you think is more powerful? America or China?”  Well, Trevor . . . I tried to say something adult like, “Don’t you think it would be great if countries could work together to make the world a kinder place, rather than competing against each other to be better or more powerful?” Oh, Jeni. You may be good at coloring, but world political analysis for seven year olds? Maybe not. Poor Trevor, I don’t think he got a very satisfactory answer from me. I decided to make monster noises and chase him to cover up my complete haplessness at answering his questions. Ten days ago, I moved to England. I’ve been visiting England since I was nineteen. I’ve been a tourist, a student, and a worker here. Since 2009, when I played the Beverley Folk Festival, I’ve been traveling to Britain nearly every year for a musical tour. I’ve loved visiting Britain. And I’ve loved mainly living here for the last two and a half years. My Englishman is here and he’s a good enough reason for me to move anywhere in the world.  But this particular border crossing was different because, when I crossed it this time, I began a seven year path to dual citizenship. And these are strange times to be considering what it means to be a citizen. I am an American citizen, and I am a British learner citizen.  My family are all very concerned about my giving up my American citizenship – which I won’t be doing, thus dual citizenship – and the British Home Office has made it as trying and expensive as possible for me to pursue dual citizenship here. Some of my American fans perceive my London home as an incredibly dangerous big foreign city full of snares and bombs. And my British friends are exasperated by the mass shootings and gun-related deaths in the USA and wonder how anyone gets through the day there. Some of my American fans feel like I’ve abandoned my roots. Some British fans feel that I’ve come here to find my deeper roots. I know that I am here because I surprised myself and plenty of other people by falling head over heels for an Englishman a couple of years ago. This is the natural course of things – to be moving here and starting a new life – and I have put my little paper boat full of poems, songs, and drawings into this course and the Englishman and I are towing it along the path by a silky red string. When I was a girl, I dreamed of living by the ocean with Rachel, but I also dreamed of falling in love, getting married, filling a house with furniture . . . but then it all got a bit vague. It was really just an impression built out of television sitcoms, home decorating magazines, and the cosmic human push to pair up and procreate. I couldn’t actually imagine what kind of job I would have because I loved going to school so much and I loved making things. Maybe an art teacher? I also loved microscopes, stars, and math problems. An astronomer? An astrologer? I loved to color, dance, sing, make up stories, sew, and bake biscuits. Is there a job for that? I think that is the job that I have – that I’ve created for myself. I never dreamed about having children. I never felt that capable or brave or reckless (depending on the circumstances) to be a mother.  My adult life has looked very little like those vague dreams. Instead, I’ve traveled most of my life. I’ve fallen in and out of relationships. I’ve felt deeply bewildered, eerily calm, and uncontrollably ecstatic. I’ve buried a parent and I’ve buried friends. I’ve made friends and lost them. I’ve made enemies without even trying. I’ve been my own enemy. I’ve been rescued and I’ve rescued myself. But have I been a good citizen? What is it to be a citizen? Is it remembering the victorious dead? Is it recycling glass, paper, and plastic? Is it joining a church and taking meals to housebound strangers? Is it joining the army or taking guns to strangers? Is it running for office or running a soup kitchen? Is England or America better? Is America or China more powerful? What can I say to Trevor?  What I keep coming back to is being a good citizen of my own tiny little country of myself. My Mom and I love a children’s book from the early 1900s called Yourself and Your House Wonderful about bodies and how to manage your own body properly. You can read the whole book thanks to the stunning Internet Archive. There are all kinds of metaphors for how you keep yourself well and tidy in the same way you’d keep a house tidy. And though this may sound quaint, I think it’s terrific advice. Because answering a question like is England or America better is really too big. What shall I compare? The price of milk, murder rates, gross domestic product, obesity, life expectancy, or moss health? What makes a place the best? And to whom?  So, instead, because this is my letter, I’m going to think about when I am better – at my best. Because I still espouse the old fashioned notion that, at the end of the day, a nation is built of its citizens and if they are sick, tired, and poor, that nation will be too. I love brooms because I feel good when I use them. I sweep sweep sweep. (See the incredible broom museum that I visited in Jodhpur, India, here.) I see the pile of dust and grit on the floor. I brush the detritus into a pan. I knock the pan into the trash can and goodbye dust. I think we need to do this for ourselves, too. We need a little nap. We need a good nights sleep. We need to clean off our desk and finally file away those old bills. We need to put our laundry away. We need to make our beds, wash the dishes, and take out the rubbish. We can do this in our houses, but we can also do this in our minds and hearts.  We can say, “Dear heart, why are you holding on to this old worry? What if we just took a broom to that old cobweb of self doubt and shook it out onto the sidewalk.” Achoo! “Dear mind, why are you building up all of these barricades called failures? What if you had a little nap and then see how things look when you are rested?” Zzzzzzz. Because it may seem like pop psychology or like a “me” generation kind of statement, but I firmly believe that if we can’t get a grip on our own little countries of self, what hope do we have of collectively making a great nation of ourselves? There have been times when my own little country was at war with itself – depression. Or when my country won gold medals left and right – high school. Or when my country felt like it was having a nationwide festival – giving a concert. I also know that the pirouettes of my little country sent those people-countries around me into wars and festivals, too, and so on and so forth, world without end. Amen, amen. So, when I think of Trevor and his big questions about better and more powerful nations, what I want to say is look after your little person, Trevor. Rest and eat, make things and stretch, run and laugh, read and write, draw and swim, and always do these things. Resist ossification, domination, humiliation, exasperation, and big talk of nations. Let your little country spin beautifully. Let it rub like a purring cat up against the countries of your mother and father. Let it stand resolute in the presence of playground bullies. Let it dance around your third cousin Jeni when you find the perfect seashell. Do this always wherever you are and wherever you live, and those you live amongst will be well, too.  Fellow citizens of planet Earth, I hope you find the perfect seashell this summer. May you stand resolute in the presence of playground bullies and spin so wonderfully that all they can do is lie down and take a nap. Sleep, sleep, sleep, sweep, sweep, sweep  . . .  Your friend, Jeni P.S. Yes, I sold the Airstream to people in Alaska who are retiring to the Ozarks! What a neat new adventure for the Airstream. P.P.S. News to come soon of my Airbnb in Nashville!

My homage to L'Enclume's Michelin Star chef Simon Rogan – Early Grey tea parcel on a bed of lemon drizzle dust topped with serviette plume. Thanks to Ken Anderson of Hungrytown for the photo. The Englishman and I are pleased to have Hungrytown, Rebecca Hall and Ken Anderson, in residence at our flat in London for four months! We'll be presenting them in concert in London on Saturday, October 5th. We'll also be hosting a house concert for Hungrytown at our home in Carnforth on Saturday, September 7th. Both concerts are doors 6:30, concert at 7. 12 pound admission. Space is limited, so if you'd like to reserve your seat, please write to me. We'd be pleased to have you!

And one more thing, my fan, Stuart, bought his wife, Helen, a Happy Summer present! What a guy. He found it in my shop where there are more Jeni-made gifts to be found. Stuart says, “My wife loves the bag and it has been receiving many admiring looks and comments from her circle of friends. My stock is also dramatically on the rise amongst that circle as I’m now recognised as a man of great taste & deep feelings!” This, too, could be you!

Waiting on Water – A Letter for Earth Day

Me, on the left, with Rachel, in the middle, and my sister, Sarah. This was our yearly trip with my grandmother and "the aunts" to the beach on Emerald Isle, North Carolina. My whole year revolved around getting back here! Waiting on Water. “I’ve been waiting on water for 68 years,” Narcie Smith said in a 1998 interview with the Virginia Department of Housing and Community Development. “My children had to carry water in buckets. And I washed on a board.” – Narcie Smith, my great-grandmother WATER My cousin Rachel had long straight blonde hair, a cute little nose covered lightly in freckles in the summer, and the prettiest ankles you’ve ever seen. She was two years older than me and she was my best friend when I was a girl – she still is. Every summer, when my sister and I would visit Mawmaw, I commenced our visit by asking when I was going to see Rachel. She lived two hours away in Kingsport, Tennessee, but sometimes she would come to Mawmaw’s for a few days or I would get to go to Kingsport to see her.  One summer, her family was visiting up at Mawmaw’s house and Rachel and I got in an argument with her brother Charles. He wanted to get into the bathroom and we were curling our hair and talking and laughing the way we did in the bathroom. Charles got so mad at us that he started yelling, “Mawmaw! Aunt Ann! Rachel and Jeni are using up all of the water!” You never saw two girls rush out of a bathroom in such a state. Rachel and I ran right into the kitchen and pleaded our innocence, showing off our neatly curled hair as proof that our time in the bathroom had nothing to do with using up the water. You see, up on Smith Ridge, we didn’t have much in the way of running water. The water in our pipes came out of a cracked cistern which stored rainwater. The water we drank came out of a well in front of the house. In the kitchen, we had a tin bucket and a metal dipper out of which we took cool drinks. We washed dishes and laundry and ourselves very carefully using the water from the cistern. Any cistern water we used was collected in dishpans and buckets for watering plants, washing clothes, or flushing the toilet.  In the summer, the cistern often dried out, so Mawmaw would have to pay the fire department to haul a “load” of water up the mountain and fill our cistern. This was expensive. By the time I graduated college, Mawmaw had all of the running water we could use, coming right out of the taps in a big rush. We could take a shower in it, drink it, and wash our laundry with it. In an interview with the Appalachian Regional Commission, Mawmaw said,  “[Before we got water,] when you did a load of wash, you had to measure. Now you're living like a rich person. You're living in the same house, but you feel like a rich person. You really do.” Mawmaw and the other residents of Smith Ridge pulled together in 1998 to lay pipe from the head of Smith Ridge, where the city water connected, to The End of the World. Those who were strong enough dug ditches and drilled through rock. Mawmaw coordinated hot meals and cold drinks for a baker’s dozen of workers five days a week for three months. The first governor to ever visit Smith Ridge came to watch my great-grandmother, Narcie Smith, open the first tap on Smith mountain connected to city water. Even still, when I go to Mawmaw’s house now, no-one is wasting water. The plants are watered from the dishwater and most of the other water-saving measures are just as they always were. And here in London, where I now live, the Englishman and I do just the same. We carry the dishwater out to the balcony and give the rose, the basil, and the chard a drink. When I run the hot water tap for a shower, I catch the cold water in a bucket and use it to hand wash clothes or wash my paint brushes or flush the toilet or water the plants. I do this because of Mawmaw and because I will never forget when Rachel and I cried because we were called water wasters.  RECYCLING When I was a kid at Mawmaw’s, we didn’t have recycling trucks that came up on the mountain to collect our plastic bottles, aluminum cans, and paper waste. The men burned paper in a big fire barrel, but mainly we used it for myriad purposes. We turned plastic bottles into plant feeders and flower pots. And we put our aluminum cans into a crushing contraption which it was our childhood joy to operate. This wall-mounted device took a Coke can and smooshed it into a flat metal pancake. We took these pancakes in a big bag down to the metal man who also bought ginsengand morel mushrooms from people clever enough to find them in the woods.  After we went with Mawmaw to sell our metal, we would take the money to yard sales and buy clothes or Barbies. When I was in Nashville in January, I collected all of the scrap metal from my yard and around the house and I made $7 at the scrap yard. I took this down to the Goodwill Outlet and got a lamp, lampshade, colander, cutting board, and a quilt for my AirBnB (coming soon!). All for $7. RE-PURPOSING Recently, I’ve been making linocuts and block prints. Some of the most useful printing tools that I have are cereal box cardboard, wood offcuts from making shelves, an odd soup spoon, bottle caps, and a piece of refrigerator safety glass. All of these are part of household detritus – the refrigerator safety glass I found in a pile of trash by the road. The Englishman and I had a big leak in the floor of our bathroom, so the vinyl floor covering had to be cut away. I’ve discovered that I can turn the old vinyl over, cut it into shapes, and make “rubber” stamps out of it. I made the little pink house above on the left with the floor vinyl stamp. Using these free, discarded, repurposed, old things reminds me of living up on the mountain with Mawmaw where nothing was discarded without first being examined for alternative uses.  CLOTHES On the mountain, clothes were never thrown away, but always handed down or on to someone else in the family. Old shoes became garden shoes. Old hats became beach or garden hats. Threadbare clothes became rags, worn out rags became firelighters. When I was ten, my Dad’s half-sister Grayson, sent me a giant box of clothes all the way from New Mexico. Grayson, who was four years older than me, had short blonde hair like Twiggy, learned French in High School, and listened to British pop bands. She might as well have been a movie star where I was concerned. So, when her box arrived, it was like Christian Dior had waltzed into our Boston apartment with a team of models in the latest fashions. I’ve never had as much enjoyment from new-bought clothes as I have from that box of hand-me-downs.   USING THE WHOLE THING A friend told me a story about when he was a boy in the northwest of England. His teacher decided the children should decorate boxes with shells to make treasure boxes. She would provide the shells, if the children would bring a shoebox to school to decorate. He went home and asked his mother for a shoebox only to find that there was no such box and no suitable alternative in the house. This seems inconceivable in a Western world where cardboard boxes surround us as we adopt more online shopping into our homes. There wasn't so much packaging in the 1950's when my friend was a boy. Now, the recycling bins in our London neighborhood heave and explode with cardboard boxes. But a lot of packaging is just thrown on the street or goes into landfills. As the Englishman and I walk around our neighborhood, we always say that the discarded tables, beds, bed frames, mattresses, plastic bags, cardboard boxes, clothes, toys, baby carriages, bicycle wheels, lamps, etc, would never last in Morocco. We went there for Christmas two years ago and there I saw the strongest recycling culture I’ve ever witnessed outside of Smith Ridge. When we were walking around the streets of Fes, a man opened a pair of giant corrugated metal doors to reveal a recycling yard. A few dozen men were disassembling mattresses. On another tiny street, a man passed us on a motorbike which was stacked with dozens of ripstop bags waiting to be turned into spice containers, mattress stuffing, rugs, and countless other things. One of our favorite things to notice were the chairs sat on by shopkeepers. Many of them showed replacement seats, backs, and legs. This gave them a patchwork look that reminded me of Mawmaw’s quilts.   SPENDING IT I just found an old copy of the Financial Times in our living room which I think I will use to make plant pots and a child’s mobile, and to clean up printmaking ink. The paper came with a style magazine where the cover reads, “how to spend it/men’s style edition.” How to spend it. But how should we “spend it?” Spend our time, our money, our shared resources. Maybe don’t spend it. Save it. Slow it down. Repair it. Trade it. Exchange it. Or if we must spend it, spend it with care. Spend it in a way that counts. REPAIR VERSUS DESPAIR I found this sewing kit a few weeks ago. It says in four words what I’ve been saying in 1700 words. How can we help our home, planet Earth? I think Mawmaw always knew. She waited on water for 68 years, but even when she got the water up to the mountain, she treated it like liquid diamonds. And it is. Without it, we are nothing but dust. I’ve been thinking about all of this every day for some time now and I really appreciate you reading along with me. Below, you’ll find a list of some of the things that seem to work for me. I could go on and on and, of course, I’m not the queen of recycling or right-ness. I am mending my ways regarding the Earth every day. Let me know what works for you. My friend Fiona has some great ideas in this video. I wish you a Happy Home Planet Earth Day and I hope to wish you many many many many many many many . . . . more. Love, your friend, Jeni Ideas for mending my ways.   Recycle everything possible. What can’t be recycled, donate. What can’t be donated, give away. What can’t be given away, dispose of responsibly. Sell things I don’t want or can’t use. Compost food waste or participate in a neighborhood compost collection. Give unused food to someone else. Have you head of the food-sharing revolution called Olio? Don’t have Olio, maybe we can start something like it among friends. Use the library, buy used books, share books, DVDs, CDs, etc. Have a clothing exchange party or an anything exchange party. Know someone who would look great in something you own, but don’t wear? Send it to them as a surprise.  Store your food in glass containers that you already have in your fridge instead of buying plastic storage containers. Thanks to my friend Louise for this tip! Use cloth napkins. Use tea towels and dish towels rather than paper towels. They are easy to wash in your saved water. Buy your clothes at Goodwill, charity shops, yard sales, boot fairs (UK version of a flea market), or auctions. I bought fourteen skirts for 10 pounds ($13 dollars) at the 1818 Auction House. Five I can wear, nine I can sell or give away. Wash or rinse them when you get home, before wearing. Make art out of discarded things.  Buy your household furnishings at auctions or charity shops or Goodwill when you can. For people who have allergies, like me, this is easy for tables and chairs, but not as easy for sofas. Think about how you can use something that looks like trash for a useful purpose. I’ve found washing up bowls, laundry baskets, step stools, wall hooks, crystal port glasses, chairs, shoes, and teddy bears by the side of the road. Sometimes, all things need is a good cleaning. Buying, giving, and receiving things rather than participating in traditional commerce is revolutionary because you are creating an economy of exchange that has little to do with the BIG GUYS. You cut them out of the loop and make a loop of your own which supports communities, small businesses, charities, friends, and our big green and blue home planet Earth. I am thinking of a dozen more things . . . but I have to stop and get outside on this sunny day! “The Mile End Waste, was a place off the Whitechapel Road where the flotsam and jetsam that no one wanted any longer was sold. You could buy almost anything there: clothing, boots, bicycles, tools, pictures and furniture of every description, all displayed on the ground or stacked on barrows. During the week, fruit and vegetable barrows lined the road but on Saturdays it was crowded with everything imaginable.” – Grace Foakes, Between High Walls, early 1900's On Sundays, in Nine Elms, London, you can find much the same kind of market Grace Foakes went to with her parents in the early 1900's, with sellers of flotsam and jetsam as well as fruit and vegetables, cleansers, toiletries, electronics, bread, pastries, and household linens. The Englishman and I furnished much of my space in our flat from this market. I also got my melodeon there. The language you will hear the least this market is English. It’s like Epcot center, but in real life!

Copyright © 2019 Jeni Hankins, All rights reserved. You are receiving this email because you opted in via our website. Our mailing address is: Jeni Hankins 500 Westover Dr #13373 Sanford, North Carolina  27330 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.

The Pen is Why I Have Eleven Pairs of Scissors

The Pen and the London Show. Happy February, Friends! I’m just back from the Guitar town, Music City USA, Nashville, Tennessee, where the Englishman and I have been putting the shine on my East Nashville house so that I can offer it as a vintage vacation home. Here I am sorting out my stuff. Things get messier before they get tidy, don't they? This was the office supplies and tape moment. In all, I think I found eleven pairs of normal scissors in the house plus pinking shears (3), garden scissors (2), and craft scissors with nifty edging effects (7). Have I every mentioned “the pen” before? When I was a kid staying with Mawmaw up on Smith Ridge in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia, I liked to answer the phone for my grandmothers. Later, when I was the student receptionist at Davidson College, this childhood training came in handy. But at Mawmaw’s, if I had to take a message, then I used a pad of paper and “the pen” which sat on the telephone table – paean for the telephone table to be written. Perhaps, I should call “the pen” The Pen because it was the only one in the house. Usually, it came from a bank or a gas station in Richlands. If someone moved The Pen from the telephone table, a crisis ensued. The Pen was usually one of those pens with no cap and the white eraser – an eraser that never worked, but made the paper a mess. Do you remember those? There is a similar story about tape up on Smith Ridge, but I’ll save that one for another time . . .  I tend to think the yearly summertime childhood crisis of losing The Pen and instigating a frantic search through drawers, handbags, and Bibles was the direct cause of my scissor, pen, tape, glue, and general school supplies habit. When I used to be singing on the road all of the time and I started to feel overwhelmed, a visit to any grocery store or general store school supplies or craft section had a calming effect. Sending a letter covered in stamps was also a great balm. I found a lot of stamps in Nashville, too. Even given our considerable efforts, the Englishman and I did not finish the task of turning my house into an officially rentable space. It’s nearly there, but the finishing touches and AirBnB paperwork will have to wait a few months. For now, my vintage home is providing a cozy retreat for a good friend. Do you need a retreat in Nashville between now and early May? If so, get in touch and lets see what we can do? I am back in Londontown and getting ready for my second concert of the year on February 26th – a collaboration with External Donut Presents at the Hope and Anchor pub in Islington. The folks at External Donut say we’ll have poetry reading, strummy folk, singing and sewing from me, and folky pop music at the end. I haven’t really done anything quite like this since my high school talent show where I sang the “ba pas” on a Troggs song. If you’d like to come along, I’d be tickled. I will be playing more concerts this year and I'm putting together my calendar which I will post later this spring. I plan on doing most of my touring in the summer and fall. If you’d like to host a house concert or community concert in Britain, Canada, the USA, or anywhere else for that matter (thank you to my listeners in Israel and Norway!), then please write to me and I will see about arranging my touring schedule to suit us all. This is what happens to your hair when you re-stuff a futon. I’ve brought my mountain dulcimer back from Tennessee, so I am excited to start reading Jean Ritchie’s Dulcimer Book and hearing what I can learn. I also got an electric piano for Christmas and if I practice practice practice, I’ve been promised a hulking wooden one, so I’m going to tilt my dulcimer and metronome at this jet-lag and play some music. Thank you for the notes and messages you’ve been sending in response to my newsletter. I am seeing if I can write one each month, so your encouragement cheers me along. Your Jewell Ridge Girl, Jeni Variety show in London! Come along on Tuesday, February 26th, to the Hope and Anchor in Islington (London) for a night of music and poetry. Strummy guitar music, me, pop music at the end, and poetry in the betweens. 5 pound cover. Events begin at 7, I'll probably go on after 8. Hope and Anchor, N1 1RL.  Find Me www.jenihankins.com Facebook @jenihankins on Instagram and Twitter Copyright © 2019 Jeni Hankins, All rights reserved. You are receiving this email because you opted in via our website. Our mailing address is: Jeni Hankins 500 Westover Dr #13373 Sanford, North Carolina  27330 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.

Mawmaw Margie loved doilies and frosties

We rearranged some things in the house today as part of getting the recording studio up and running smoothly and I found a new place for this bookshelf. I got this folk doll in Pennsylvania about 15 years ago and she's one of my favorite little things :)

My Mawmaw Margie was partial to the crocheted pot holders. We buried her 23 years ago on this day. I miss her and all of knick knacks. I think I've written on here about the plastic banana she pretended was a phone to make us kids laugh. She called him Charlie :)

A ranger in Florida gave me this owl feather which I treasure. 

Life is short and full of surprises. Change comes upon you in a minute and you are in the middle of a new place in your mind. Mawmaw Margie wouldn't have any truck with all that philosophizing. She'd say, "Let's go down to the Wendy's and get us a frosty, girl!"