I Was Scared

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I eyed him with great suspicion. Robert was not your average production assistant. The noisy, temperamental director had hired four of us at once. David, Missy and I were all in our early twenties. Robert seemed ancient at thirty. He certainly didn’t seem the type to put up with the tantrum throwing man who hired us.

David and Missy, both cute blondes with the collective IQ of a third grader, were to be on the set with the screaming director. That left Robert and I to run the office.

After two weeks alone with him I had learned he was from Indiana, had just moved to L.A. with his exotic Indian girlfriend and had left a long time job at a television station.

I really couldn’t fathom what had brought him here. He had someone he loved, a good job; he liked Indiana and his family. I finally worked up my nerve and just asked.

“So Robert, why did you move here?”

“To make movies...That’s all I’ve wanted to do since college.”

“But, you’re 30. What took you so long to move here?”

“I was scared.”

Confused, I asked, “Of what?”

“It’s frightening to leave a job and move across the country when you don’t know what you’re going to find when you get there.”

I just stared at him.

“You really don’t get it do you?” he asked but didn’t wait for my answer. “You have no idea how brave you are do you?”

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I’ve thought about this conversation quite a lot lately. Sometimes I think that moving here was the only brave thing I ever did. Only, is it bravery when you are just doing what you have to?

I’ve had a longing in my heart for six years now. That longing was to make my own lampwork beads. And I haven’t done it because I was scared.

I first became really aware of lampwork while working on The Carol Duvall Show. Orna Willis always seemed to have the most fascinating jewelry and even had lovely beads dangling from her scissors. She was the one to turn me onto ebay.

And while I say this obsession with glass began just a handful of years ago, it really began … more years than I care to remember. The first piece of really nice jewelry I bought had Venetian glass. And I’ve collected different types of glass over the years, since I was in high school.

When I was about to leave Carol, my good friend Bindy Lambell, a jewelry designer, was about to take a lampwork class. She begged me to join her. Knowing I wouldn’t have income for a while, I regretfully passed. Within months, Bindy had quit her day job and was making beads full time.

When I finally decided to take a class, I couldn’t find one. I ended up taking a fusing class figuring I would learn some things that would cross over. I finally took a lampwork class in 2003 and started buying equipment the way I do everything… bass ackwards.

I bought presses, I bought glass, an oxy concentrator, mandrels. And then, fate stepped in and I bought a business. That kept me very preoccupied and poor for several years.

Along the way, I’ve made friends with several lampworkers. My buddy Kris always asked me, “WHAT are you waiting for??”

I never would answer but I know it was fear. Fear that I would burn the house down? Maybe. But also, fear that I would suck at something I long to do.

A few weeks ago, I was in Pacific Artglass buying supplies for my summer fusing students. There was a woman in there asking really inane questions. She really struck me as a dumb little twit. But she had a torch and she had a passion. And I realized if this silly woman can handle a torch without fear, I can too. And before I knew it, I was driving home with one.

It took me a week of reading and still I was freaking out at setting everything up. So Kris to the rescue… she had me fired up within an hour.

My first day on the torch, I jumped out of the chair every time my oxy concentrator “took a breath.” Day two, I had the kiln on and jumped every time it ramped. Day three, I quit jumping… mostly.

So now I know I’m not going to burn the place down. And I know I do suck. I am truly amazed and deeply appreciative of all the lampwork artists out there who can make a bead look round… forget pretty… round would just be nice.

But, even though my skill is lacking, it’s the most fun thing. I find the same joy in this as I did when I was painting. The critical voice in my head runs and hides. She’s just no match for my creative muse. My hours on the torch are bliss.

And maybe one day, I’ll make something I’m not embarrassed to show you. And hopefully, I run across that brave girl I used be in the process.

Puny Girls

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Mabel and I have both been under the weather for days now. She has diarrhea. I've triple checked her food and it's not on the recall lists. My vet has me cooking chicken soup for her. Other than her tummy growling and incessant searches for fresh grass sprouts in our winter dry backyard, she is her usual happy self.

I came down with strep Thursday. The Godson had a very severe strain and I'm the lucky one he passed it on to. Other than antibiotics and lots of sleep, I'm my usual silly self...just really tired.

Hopefully, I'll be bouncing back in a few days. Lots going on that I can't wait to share.

Be Careful Choosing Your Friends

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This is a short story I wrote years ago about a childhood friend. Velvet reminded me of it with her post about a very friendly pregnant cow.

At one point, I had submitted it to some very Southern magazines hoping to have it published... so forgive my Southern twang but I was writing for the potential audience. Hope ya'll like it.

Be Careful Choosing Your Friends
Holly Dare
copyright 2000

Mama always told me to be careful when choosing my friends but it didn’t really matter because I never had a lot of friends growin’ up. See, Mama had me kinda late in life and all my siblings were grown by the time I showed up. I related much better to older folks on account of everyone in my family being so much older than me. They called me “growny” for my age. Whatever you call it, I was a lonely child.

We lived in the city of McComb, Mississippi, which was really a small town but to the country folks, it was huge. I spent most every weekend on the farm of some relative. My grandmother lived North of Tylertown and had a large farm and many of my older cousins lived on various farms around hers. I was a tomboy and could fool most folks into thinkin’ I was a country kid. I could chase a chicken down for Sunday dinner with the best of ‘em. I even helped my uncle catch the turkeys for holiday dinners. It was my job to hold that turkey still while my uncle chopped his head off.

Sometimes we went to Aunt Nell’s, who wasn’t really my aunt on account she was my stepfather Fred’s sister.

Aunt Nell and her goofy husband Tommy were retired for as long as I could remember. (I call Tommy goofy because, if at all possible, he ate out of a red bowl or plate… said it made his food taste better. If there wasn’t a red bowl, pink ‘ould do! If there wasn’t a pink one, he’d pretty much go hungry!) They had about 15 acres of land out from Osyka which is the Southern part of Pike county Mississippi. They leased their land to farmers or cattle ranchers but I liked to go there because the catfishin’ was good. Very good.

Tommy and Aunt Nell fed their catfish and sometimes, when it was getting’ dark and we hadn’t caught anything, Tommy would bring out a few dipnets and start feedin’ the fish. Those catfish would storm to the side of the pond and the water would boil from all the commotion. Fred and Tommy would just wade in and scoop ‘em out.

Fred had a big hook that he would hang on a low tree branch out in the backyard. Tommy would open the gills of the catfish and place it on the hook so that the metal curved up and out of the fish’s mouth. Fred would score the fish just under the gills on both sides. He’d take these flat pincher pliers and yank, skinning the fish alive. Sometimes the fish would wiggle & writhe even after its skin was yanked off. Fred would hand the fish to Tommy who would cut it’s head off and gut it. Mama and Aunt Nell would be in the kitchen getting the batter ready, cuttin’ up the taters, and makin’ hush puppies. Add some soft white bread to sop up the grease, salt, pepper, ketchup and corn meal crumbs from the plate and you got a meal fit for a king.

It was always just me and the grownups until the spring of my 12th year. That was the year Aunt Nell adopted Buster. Buster was a cow – a bull to be precise. I had never really known a cow before but Buster seemed kindly enough. He was not much taller than me when I first met him. His legs looked like toothpicks under that fat black & white body. He had big, kind eyes and the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen. Buster wailed the first night Aunt Nell had ‘im. I figured he was missin’ his mama. I snuck outside when the grownups weren’t lookin’ and went to the corral that Buster slept in and scratched his neck. “It’ll be O.K. boy. You’re gonna like your new home.” He seemed to like that.

I’m not quite sure how Buster and I became such good friends. I seem to recollect that that was the year the pond was low and we had to fish the normal way – a pole with a hook and bait at one end and a fool on the other. It was slow going and not too excitin’ to a child with no patience.

I took to wandering the pastures and flinging cow chips at trees to watch ‘em explode into powder. And somehow, Buster took to followin’ me. I was a little frightened the first time he did it. I think he sensed this and kept his distance. It wasn’t long before I grew to appreciate his company and he followed along on my heels. Sometimes, he would even goose my behind makin’ me jump and squeal. I would run and he would take off right behind me.

I liked to walk the ridge overlooking the pond. My folks could see me and yet I was out of earshot. I would curl up under the shade of a pine grove there and tell Buster stories. He never interrupted like the grownups. Buster was a very good listener and I loved him for it.

One Sunday in July, the grownups were fishin’. I had tried for awhile and got bored started to wander off, knowin’ Buster would follow. Mama yelled, “Take a bucket or two with you. Nell says those blackberries are ready for pickin’.”

“Yessum.” I grabbed two buckets and gave whistle, knowing my friend would find me. We wandered up on the ridge and sure ‘nough, there were berries everywhere. I had picked one bucket pretty near full when I got hungry. From that point on, most of the berries went in my mouth and of course, a few went to Buster. I kept working my way around this berry thicket, pickin’ and eatin’, pickin’ and eatin’, until I heard a loud “Mmmmmmmmoooooooooooou.” I turned to see where Buster was. There was only a wall of briars. I turned round and round but everywhere I looked, briars. I had eaten my way clean into the middle of the briar patch. I couldn’t figure out how I got in there and now I was scared. I guess I started to whimper a bit because Buster started mooing and scratchin’ his hoof on the ground. I could hear a loud thud followed by twigs snapping. Buster was trying to get to me! I decided to walk toward the sound carefully lifting briars up or pushing them down with my foot. I yelled, “I’m comin’ Buster!” When I finally broke free, Buster gave me a literal tongue lashing. He was as happy to see me as I was him.



Winter came and went. It was too cold to fish so we didn’t go to Aunt Nell’s as much. I always made sure to take my winter coat whenever we did go there. That way, Buster and I could walk while the grownups visited. But I was grateful for the return of Spring and warm weather. If my parents could fish, we stayed longer and I got more time with my friend.

I was particularly glad when Easter came. I wanted to teach Buster how to hunt Easter eggs. Fred, Mama and I went to church but sat in the back so we could get out faster. Folks always seemed to need to talk to the preacher more after Easter services. We quickly walked the half block home and loaded up the car with the ham Mama had in the oven.

All of Fred’s family was already at Aunt Nell’s by the time we got there. Tommy opened the front door and said, “Ya’ll hurry up and fix yer plates. We’re ‘bout to start without ya.” Fred and I hurried to the counter to grab plates as Mama put the ham down. “That red one’s mine,” Tommy unnecessarily reminded us.

We fixed our plates with the feast Nell had prepared: steak, butter beans, corn, sweet potatoes, okra, and Mama’s ham. There was rice and gravy and Nell’s renowned biscuits with the crunchy butter and salt tops. We sat down and Tommy asked the Lord for His blessin’ and we started to eat. I was about halfway done when I realized I had better save room for dessert. I put my fork down and looked around the room at everyone eatin’ and talkin’. And then I looked out back to Buster’s corral.

“Hey! Where’s Buster?”

The room grew quiet. A few put their forks down.

Aunt Nell said as gently as she could, “Honey… Buster’s on your plate.”

My face must have twisted to reveal the torment going through my head because suddenly all the grownups were laughing.

There was nothing left to do but finish my dinner. Mama leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You don’t have to eat the ste – Buster - if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s allright. I’ll eat ‘im,” I sadly replied. “If Buster had to die to be food, I’m sure he’d want it to be me who ate ‘im.” I finished my meal in silence and went outside to sit in Buster’s corral alone.


I really did miss Buster tagging along on my walks through the pasture. And I’ve learned to be a bit more careful about choosing my friends. And I vowed to never again make friends with something I might end up havin’ to eat for dinner.

Just Too Hard

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I've found it too hard to do much of anything lately, especially blog. And while I can think of many subjects to blog about, I just can't bring myself to write one.

I could tell you about my hike or seeing 13 peacocks the other day. I could write about my heirloom tomato garden and all my favorite varieties. Maybe post some pictures that I took to describe my little valley as viewed from the creek or regale you with another tale of my insane dog and her silly antics. I could blog about how I'm finally trying to face my fears of hooking up a lampwork torch in my shop after 6 years of classes. Or I could cop out and post that story of my childhood friend, Buster the bull, that I promised to Velvet what feels like a lifetime ago.

But the truth is, it all feels so petty. Because I'm not a father waiting to get my son's body so I can bury him. I'm not a student that had many friends die. I'm not a suddenly overworked mortician. I'm not recovering from surgery to three different bullet wounds. I'm not a mother grappling with the thought that I raised a madman. No, nothing in my world feels as important as all that.

So, on a positive note --- the one thing I've learned in all of this craziness this week is that a belt can be used as a door stop by folding it in half and jamming it under the door. That way, you don't stay in front of the door to protect yourself and others. I'm going to make sure my godson knows this... How sad we even have to have this conversation.

Mark My Words...

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First, I would like to offer my deepest sympathy to the students, teachers and parents of Virginia Tech. This is a tremendous tragedy for the school and a sad day for our nation.

That being said, I still believe in the right to bear arms. But in the next few days, the National Rifle Association will make me and many other ashamed of that belief. Seems contradictory, yes?

Mark my words, within the week, the NRA will hold a rally and that rally will be within miles of the Virginia Tech campus. And it will be an utterly tasteless and completely uncalled for, but they will do it anyway.

And for a moment, I will start to agree with the other side because my heart is so full of grief for the dead and the hurting and this rally will seem like a slap in the faces of those who are in so much pain.

I just wish that for once they would wait just a while and let people heal before they start shoving their agenda down the throats of those who have already lost so much.

The Moss Thing - Part 2

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Back in February, I wrote about the giant moss project I had to make for work.

I was just checking the network website for an airdate and, for the life of me, can't find one. But, I DID find references to the show and project info (including my directions for the dang moss covered "L") on the network site. (I don't want to link back as the show is copyrighted and I don't want any trouble considering I still work there from time to time. But you inventive, smart bloggers can figure things out... or email me.)

I then remembered that Matt was shooting a video "behind the scenes" and went to his and Shari's website... It's kinda long at 17 minutes but shows what a mess we made of that house. AND all the steps I was my knees were complaining about at the time. I'm in it too, despite my best efforts to hide from Matt and his camera.

Anyway, the show should be airing real soon if they are getting info up on the site.

I Wonder...

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Sometimes, my ol' brain is dumbstruck with curiosity and I ponder a subject for quite some time. But I never really seem to have an answer. So I thought I would post those questions here for you wonderful, intelligent bloggers to see if you have any answers.

Today's question is courtesy of that land between wake and sleep. While I lay snug in my bed, my little bed-hog squished up close to me, I began to ponder the machinations of the human body. Our bodies seem to be functional enough; we can take in fuel and make waste; Our central computer system allows us to make friends and solve problems; We have mobility for moving about in the world.

If we have all this, then WHY didn't our Great Architect design a way to turn off the spit valve when we're trying to sleep?

Singin' Happy Birthday

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My sister and brother-in-law called my 9-year-old second cousin for his birthday. Since he could barely talk, he has always sang the Happy Birthday song with a quick "cha-cha-cha" after the words "to you." So my sister and BIL did the same - - only to be told, "You didn't do it right. There is no cha-cha-cha at the end."

They apologized for getting the words mixed up. My cousin tried to console them.

"That's OK, it's a hard song to learn."

Then he asked, "Is Creekhiker or Big Aunt (his name for my mother, his Great Aunt) there at your house."

They told him Creekhiker is at her house in California and Big Aunt is at her house, down the street.

"Did you want to talk to them for your birthday?" they asked.

"No, I just need to know somethin' real important and they're smart."

[OK... just had to include that... what about my poor sister and BIL? Are they dummies??? Kids are just too cute!]

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My 75-year-old "aunt" (Mom's best friend) in Jackson, MS phoned an "elderly" man she bowls with to sing him happy birthday. She started belting out her tune as soon as he answered the phone.

When she finished, the old man said,"Why thank ya hon' but it ain't my birthday."

My aunt realized she had dialed the wrong number, got all embarrassed and apologized for disturbing the man.

"It's OK hon'. You need the practice."

Crappin' Out

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Just wanted to pop in and say hi. I had food poisoning over Easter which really pooped me out - pun intended.

I ate nothing abnormal... but actually fell ill hiking. I doubled over with pain mid-trail, crawled to a rock and waited. The pain passed and I was determined to get Mabel to the water. I walked about 10 feet more before high-tailing it through cactus to the car. I almost made it back to main trail before realizing I would never make it home. I ducked into a ravine and spent the next 10 minutes violently ill. I buried the evidence in sand and rocks and drove sticks into the ground and finally made it to the car. Poor Mabel never made it to the water and didn't even try to go run in the field. She knew I needed to get home.

I took a shower and drank a ginger beer (ginger ale brewed like a beer = better for sick tummies) and decided all had passed. I got dressed and went to the Easter party I had been invited to. Stupid, Stupid me.

In reality, I just didn't want abandon my best friend. Her sis-in-law was hosting what we thought was a small family gathering - eight of us. Imagine my surprise when I happened to sit next to a well-known local artist on Saturday during my art group's paint out and found out that she would be at the same house I was going to on Easter Sunday. AND that this "small family gathering" was now 25 people big. Neither my BF nor I like big gatherings without sufficient time to mentally prepare... and this just was NOT enough notice.

But I felt FINE all through dinner and stupidly ate TWO huge helpings of the best cabbage salad ever... probably NOT the best thing for a sick stomach.

Before it was all over, I was deathly ill in our hostess' very posh bathroom and spent the rest of Sunday and most of Monday running for the bathroom.

Couple that with going through a refinance on my house... no two ways about it, my loan is going to be about $300 more per month... and this 1958 house is screaming for some repairs and my dang rototiller is on the fritz and I'm already a month behind on putting in the garden and... and... and... I'm just not sleeping and doing too much worrying about everything.

Here's the recipe for the cabbage. This is great and a fairly cheap way to make a lot of salad.

1 head cabbage
Stems of bunch of green onions
Handful of chopped, unsalted cashews
Cheap Italian Dressing

Chop cabbage and stems of onions, toss in cashews. Place everything in a plastic bag and pour in enough dressing to coat everything. Toss, serve and smile at the compliments.

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Only I could finish off a post about food poisoning with a recipe... guess my appetite is returning! Hope you all are having a fabulous week.

Easter Sunday in Swamps of Louisiana

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When I think of Easter weekends, my favorite memories are of those spent at my Uncle's camp, Rae-Lee - named for his two youngest children. It was situated on a canal in French Settlement and the Amite river could be seen from the front side of the property.

Some of the Easter highlights: In my twenties, we all decided to go on a bar crawl on Easter. That might seem contradictory in some parts of the Bible belt but not in Louisiana, especially considering many of our favorite haunts are best accessed by boat.

"You haven't been on a real bar crawl til you've crawled in a boat," as my uncle used to say.

The funny part is that none of us are real big drinkers but you could hear the best music and dance and usually find something really good to eat. It was just a magical day, the perfect temperature to be outside, being gently jostled about by the water. Seeing all the critters in and around the swamp, the Spanish moss dancing in the breeze.

We'd pull up to a bar, order something to eat or drink (or both), dance a bit and move on to another spot to do it all over again.

There was another Easter when my uncle was building a big church (or a school?) for Jimmy Swaggart. I was in college and deep into my not-going-to-church-cause-there's-too-much-hypocrisy-there phase. Knowing my uncle was working for Swaggart, I knew we would be expected to drive into Baton Rouge for church on Easter Sunday. I had no intention of doing that so I deliberately packed only shorts, tank tops and bathing suits for the whole weekend.

There was quite a commotion and a lot of words exchanged (shouted) between me, my mother and uncle that morning when it was discovered I did not have church appropriate clothing. Since the only member of the family my size was my cousin Rhonda and she only brought one dress, it was finally decided that I would be left at camp alone while the rest of the family went to church.

My uncle thought quite a lot of Swaggart at the time - this was before the infamous sex scandal - I was certain my uncle would want to stay after services and introduce his big sister - Mom - to the Reverend. With drive time to Baton Rouge, this meant about four blissful hours alone on the river for me. And I intended to do some serious fishing.

I didn't find out until later in the afternoon that the whole family - on the way to church - took bets on how many fish I would catch. We ended up with the strangest three way tie with three different numbers. The winners were deemed my aunt, uncle and my younger cousin, Perry.

My aunt (betting late in the game) bet that I would catch one fish. The van erupted in laughter and then she explained her logic.

"Creekhiker doesn't like to take a fish off the pole. We do it for her. She'll catch one, put it in a bucket of water still on the line and leave it for us."

Everyone started to regret the higher numbers they bet, including my uncle who had predicted the highest number - 18 fish. But Perry was the last to bet. He knew me best of all. He knew that I'd figure a way around any obstacle. So he bet 9 - using his mother's logic - "'cause we have 9 poles at the camp. One for each of us and an extra for company."

In the end, the three of them were the most right: I caught one fish, put it in a bucket still on the line and baited another pole. But the fish were really biting that Easter Sunday and I was soon fishing with three poles at a time. As soon as I caught nine, it was killing me knowing the fish were biting so well. And my first few perch were on the small side. I had to learn how to take the fish off the pole. I ended up with 22 fish, adding my uncle to the winner's circle. We had the nicest fish dinner that night. I was so proud to have caught enough fish to feed the whole family.

But my favorite Easter at the camp was the very first one we spent there. We had all met at my uncle's in Denham Springs and caravaned to the land he had purchased. As we pulled to a stop in front of the very woodsy locale, I was shocked. The land was the most overgrown thicket I had ever seen. There was no water visible on this waterfront property! The brush was so thick, it was impossible to see through it, much less walk through.

Before I was even out of the car, my brother-in-law had unloaded his three wheeler and was slowly driving in a circle around some of the trees near the road, flattening the brush. Perry had his machete and started working off to the side. We unloaded the lawnmowers my uncle and mother had and, in just a few hours, the canal was visible and this strange piece of property suddenly looked like a good deal.

We pitched tents and built a campfire. After all that work, we turned in early. Saturday was a blur, fishing, hauling debris and checking out this wonderful place on the river that was to become our home away from home. Easter Sunday was the best. Before sunrise, my aunt was up and stoking the fire. I snuggled deeper into my sleeping bag as she started the bacon and eggs and was dreaming when my aunt started screaming, "The Easter Bunny came! The Easter Bunny was here!"

Everyone came stumbling out of their tents to see what was going on. My aunt exclaimed, "I just found an Easter egg, and I bet there's a few dozen more out there."

Perry, the youngest, was 12... was a little too old for an Easter egg hunt. But all of us joyously searched for eggs that morning. Even the grownups seemed like children running around and squealing with delight when they found an egg. Thus began our family tradition of hunting Easter eggs on the river.

The camp would take up many of our weekends for years to come. A Johnny house was built first, then we poured the foundation... and waited. During spring floods the next year, we would dutifully boat out with a stick of chalk every weekend to mark the flood waters on the Johnny house. The Amite was at peak flood stage and the next year, we built the camp 10 feet higher than the flood line.

Our days were spent boating and fishing; our nights filled with laughter and gin rummy. Our family would pass many milestones in this place built with our own hands and lots of love. To me, it is always Easter there on this land that brought us so much joy after being discovered a treasure, well-hidden in the brush.

The Best Vet in the World

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I'm sure every animal owner LOVES their vet. I do not. Mainly because I live so far away from the best vet I've ever met... Dr. Dan Mooney of Baton Rouge.

Dr. Mooney is my brother-in-law's vet and therefore treats all of my nieces and nephews as my BIL is a professional show dog handler and occasional breeder. He became our family vet decades ago.

I adore Dr. Mooney for many reasons, one of which is that he clearly loves his job. He's not doing it to get rich as every California vet I've met is. Example: To have my girl's teeth cleaned here in Cali would cost me around $280 - $300. When Mabel visited Dr. Mooney at Christmas time, the bill was a whopping $81. AND, Mabel has always had a knot on her left shoulder. As Maggie died of cancer in her left shoulder, I am overly sensitive to this. I have asked my own vet about this knot on every visit since Mabel was four months old. My vet just nods as if it was a comment in passing.

As Dr. M was taking Mabel back to surgery, I casually mentioned it, expecting nothing. When I picked her up, he had aspirated it, checked it under a microscope and confirmed it was fatty tissue...4 1/2 years of worry gone in minutes.

In addition, Dr. Mooney has the best tableside manner of any vet. I have been there with dozens of animals over the years and I always feel as if he has all the time in the world to hear my concerns and that whatever animal he is treating is his most favorite.

Maggie May had one of the best days of her life at Dr. M's getting her teeth cleaned. I noticed the hospital had lots of animals running around and Dr. M asked me how friendly she was but, as the skittish mother of a rottweiler, I wasn't prone to letting her run around off leash.

Imagine my surprise when we walked in the hospital that evening and my sister told the receptionist we were there for Maggie. The lady turned around and yelled, "Maggie!"

My chin hit the counter, "You mean...she's loose?"

"Oh yeah, they all really just want to play."

At that time a big boxer came in to the reception area.

"That's not Maggie," my sister giggled.

The receptionist turned and looked at the boxer. "Oh, well her name is Maggie. That's why she came."

My sister pointed out, "Our girl is really a Maggie May."

"MAGGIE MAY..." yelled the receptionist.

And in trots the most rambunctious, deliriously happy Maggie May. The minute she saw us, her face just dropped into the best "Awwww Moooom! Do I have to go home nooooww??" looks you could ever imagine on a dog's face. Maggie usually hated the vet, but she had such a good time there.

But Miss Mabel's trip to see Dr. M was not as fun as Maggie's, mainly because Dr. M had a VERY special patient in the hospital who needed lots of room to roam ... which meant that Mabel spent her time in the surgery room alone. Have a look at Jane Doe:
It seems that Jane was hit by a truck just down the road from Dr. Mooney's. She was just a babe with spots on her coat. Someone picked her up and, knowing Dr. M's reputation, brought her to him. He did surgery on her leg and just allowed her to roam the hospital as therapy for her injury. She still had a severe limp when I was there.

Jane was quite a character. She loved petting and treats. But her most favorite thing was Mary Lee Donuts. It seems when those arrive as the hospital, she knows immediately and will do just about anything to get to them.

My BIL and I think that was how she was injured in the first place as there is a Mary Lee about where she was hit! Here she is getting an apple from one of the hospital workers. Oh - those cool kitties above were watching Jane when I took their picture.

PublishOf course a wild animal who now trusts humans and domestic animals can never be back in the wild. Dr. M had a few petting zoos that were interested in taking Jane in as soon as her hip is in good working order. But she's in good hands with such a good doctor taking care of her.

First Fireworks - 1-1-07 Walker, LA

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I realized I did tell you guys a little about my New Year's HERE

So here are the pictures of the fireworks... my Nikon has a great fireworks setting and I was amazed how some of these look.

The Last Sunset - 12-31-06 - Baton Rouge

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I had such a rough trip home in December that I haven't really wanted to blog about it... but I saw some really incredible things and took some wonderful pictures.

On New Year's Eve, my mother is usually the v.i.p. guest at one or both of the casinos in Baton Rouge. I could care less about the party but the food rocks! So we had a really nice dinner together and it was the highlight of a very difficult time for both of us.

These pictures were taken through a glass window at the Rouge (both casinos have changed names numerous times but for me, they will always be their original names: The Belle of Baton Rouge and Casino Rouge.). I took the pictures throughout our dinner of boiled shrimp, king crab and the MOST amazing crab claw salad (crab claws marinated in Italian dressing).

Both Casinos sit on the always fascinating Mississippi River.





After dinner, Mom hit the casino and I went to a party in Walker that was much more my speed. I'll tell you about it tomorrow.

And... Happy (very belated!) New Year.

Feeling Powerful

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This is the story of a girl, a CEO and an Evil Bank.

Our heroine is an artsy type who does too many things to make a living and be true to artistic nature. She is very busy and more than anything, she hates paperwork. She has to set alarms in her computer to remind her to pay bills. As money is hard to come by, the girl pays her credit card bills in full every month because, otherwise, she would just be giving her money away.

The girl likes shopping at an international warehouse, mostly for dog food and gas for her jeep. The warehouse has its own credit card, issued by an Evil Bank. Every month, often a day before her bill is due, the girl's computer alarm goes off and she signs onto the bank website to pay her bill. She is shocked to learn that the Evil Bank does not post her payment for several days, making her payment late. The Evil Bank then charges her a late fee and finance charges. This makes the girl very mad.

When it happened for the second time recently, the girl called the Evil Bank, pointed out she was online before the deadline. The Evil Bank explained that it's their prerogative to post things when they get around to them and that no, they could not refund her money as they did that a few months back.

The girl spent some time talking to higher and higher managers before giving up on the Evil Bank. Our story could end here...rather sadly but, the girl had an idea. She would write the CEO of the warehouse store and tell him how badly she was being treated.

Most people might think that would be a waste of time but the girl had written this man before. He has quite a reputation for being a "man of the people."

A few years back, our heroine was in a wheel chair and was having a different sort of problem with the same bank card. The darn thing demagnetized every week or so rendering it useless. She complained to her local warehouse to no avail. She then got the idea to write the CEO.

Her letter was very powerful, describing in detail the frustration of waiting in line to buy gas, getting her crutches, hopping to the pump and finding out her card didn't work. Then she would hop back to the car, drive to the warehouse and pray that one of the few handicapped spots would be vacant. If she found a parking spot, she would hop to the back of her jeep, get her wheelchair, roll inside and wait in line to put cash on a gift card and then get back in line for gas.

Mr. CEO gave the girl TWO credit cards so that she would always have a spare. She was told by an accountant with the warehouse that she was the only person in the WHOLE WORLD to have such a privilege. Needless to say, our heroine has always held Mr. CEO in very high regard.

So she wrote another letter detailing how the Evil Bank was treating the valued customers. She implored him to use a kinder, gentler bank - one that valued customer service the same way his warehouse does. And, on a lark, she decided to fax the letter to the Evil Bank. But before she did, she took out a fat marker and scrawled across the top: "To anyone at the Evil Bank that gives a damn!"

A few days later, she received a letter from the Evil Bank. It seems they have made a deposit into her credit card account and are very sorry for any inconvenience. The girl was quite tickled as the Evil Bank put more money into her account than they stole from her in the first place. She can't wait until she hears from Mr. CEO because right now, she's feeling like she can move mountains!