Scout Moves

I have heard people say that you are only as happy as your unhappiest child. Is it being melodramatic to say that you are only as happy as your unhappiest cat? Seriously, I don't know if I can overstate how concerned I have been for my cat, Big Fat Mike, Mikey, Prince Michael Pants—he answers to lots of names. He has been sick for weeks with a bladder infection, but it went undetected at first. The Vet finally realized what was going on when we discovered blood in the big guy's urine. Then we discovered elevated blood sugar levels. Then we discovered he had a high fever and could barely walk because he was suffering from severe joint pain, wasn't eating or drinking, and wasn't peeing except when he couldn't help it. Sounds like I'm talking about an old man, but it's really my cat, and not just any cat. Mike is my constant companion. When I step out into the hallway in the morning, he is waiting there to race me down the stairs and to beat me to his food bowl

Design Partner Ashley and I spent yesterday working on book cover projects. We began at the costume shop in Canton where we sorted through rows and rows of theater costumes looking for dresses from the 1600s, 1800s, and 1940s. In this row, I found a dress from the Music Man section for a model with a beautiful headshot and measurements just right for the costume. Unfortunately, she didn't tell anyone she had gained 15 to 20 pounds and let her hair go from the mahagony brown I needed to its original blond since that headshot was made. The dress didn't fit, so we'll reshoot next week with a different girl. In this bin of hats from every theater production you can name, we found a couple of hats to go with our costumes. And here are the headpieces for The King and I, which we did not need, thankfully. After we rented all of the costumes, we went to the photographer's studio. We schedule the models so that while one is being shot, the next one is in the dressing room havin

I have an incredibly busy day ahead of me today with photo shoots and costume hunting and possibly picking Mike up from the vet's, so I'll just give you some highlights from the holiday trip to Georgia. For me, the main highlight was spending time with my sisters. I see them all just two days a year because we are scattered around in different states. I wish we could see each other more often, but it rarely seems to work out that we can gather at any other time but Christmas. Here we are years and years ago with me holding all those stuffed animals. Of course, we don't look anything like this now, thank goodness. Here are my new shoes, a gift from daughter No. 1. Eustacia gave me a Spanish in 3 Weeks language program which I can't wait to look into it. Here is Tiger enjoying the gift exchange before we left for the larger celebration in Georgia. And here are my girls during a shopping trip with my family.

And this .

About the time I start to feel the Christmas Spirit coming on, I pull out my favorite Christmas movies, and stack them up, and then I watch them one at a time. I often watch them by myself because not everyone else in the house shares my enthusiasm for the classics. Eustacia will watch some, but not all. Here is the list •White Christmas •Holiday Inn •We're No Angels (Humphrey Bogart version) •It's A Wonderful Life •The Christmas Story •Miracle on 34th Street •The Lemon Drop Kid •Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer •How the Grinch Stole Christmas (animated) •Charlie Brown Christmas •The Bishop's Wife (Cary Grant version) •The Christmas Carol (there are too many to choose from, but I prefer the Alistair Sim version) I haven't been able to watch everything this year, but I have seen some non-Christmas movies I think you should see, too. First, Diminished Capacity with Alan Alda, Matthew Broderick, and Virginia Madsen. It's quirky, as you'd expect. Alda plays an eccentr

I was so afraid I would be reporting to you today about how I had to put my cat Mike to sleep. He has been very ill and spent the weekend at the vet's. Saturday morning the doctor said there was a possibility Mike had cancer or an untreatable immune disorder, and we would know for sure on Monday if we would need to be merciful, if you know what I mean. I have been distraught to say the least. But he pulled through on Monday with negative tests and is on the mend. It seems he has been suffering from an acute bladder infection that stopped him from eating or drinking and caused a high fever which made his joints so painful he could barely walk. So, now that I don't have to report such horrible news, I can tell you about cookies. Daughter No. 1 made a batch of chocolate candy cane cookies, and they are yummy. Cookies (makes 18 sandwich cookies) 1 3/4 cups all purpose flour 1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder (preferably Dutch-process) 1/4 teaspoon salt 1 cup sugar 3/4 cup (1 1/2 stic

As I mentioned last week, I have been touring the local Latin stores for an article for Small Town Newspaper. The article and photos from the staff photographer won't be printed for a week or so, but here are the photos I took. I only took photos at one store because it seemed odd to walk around the places snapping pictures and then trying to explain to the owner that I just wanted them for my blog. The store where I took these is owned by a Guatemalan man and his wife. The man speaks Spanish and some English, and his wife speaks K'ichee', a Guatemalan language. Of course, the husband speaks the same indigenous language. Their 16-year-old daughter speaks all three languages and helped translate with her mother when her father wasn't around. The daughter goes to high school, a first for anyone in the family, and they are all so proud. Here is a plush blanket like the blankets they sell in a big stack. Local Guatemalans love them for some reason. These boots are made out

I felt like yesterday was Hispanic Day considering the things I found myself doing. First, Eustacia and I went to the Christmas party for the language class group. Each child in the program got a personalized gift from Santa and Mrs. Claus and a few moments to tell the big guy what they want for Christmas. If you try to tell me this isn't the real Santa, you'll be sorry. Here he is holding a baby dressed in Santa jammies. Then we went for the food—it's always about the food. Tamales, flautas, seasoned rice, and mole. Empanadas. Sorry for the fuzziness of the photos, but these things were incredible. Ceviche. Yum. We also had flan and a great warm punch filled with all kinds of fruit. It's a Mexican tradition and is somewhat like mulled cider. Next up, was a trip back to a Latin store to allow the newspaper photographer to capture the place. I took some of my own photos and will show them a little later.

I am no slacker and find it difficult to just sit and do nothing. Even when I watch TV or settle in for a movie, I knit while I sit. But I have been learning to sleep later than I used to when I had children to get off to school. It used to be rare when I slept past 7:00 am, but now I can leisurely wake up at 7:30 or even 8:00 if I have not slept well through the night. Well, that lazy-assed behavior has to be put on hold for a while. The clock is ticking! This morning I woke up at 6:00 a.m., and so far I have done the following: • Showered, dressed, fed the cats, made the coffee, and had breakfast • boiled shrimp and dressed it with lime juice, olive oil, and cilantro for the English class Christmas party. • made a pilaf with quinoa and sautéed veggies for that very same party. • partially cleaned up the kitchen afterwards • took the garbage cans out to the street • started nursing a second cup of coffee • put some time into an article for Small Town Newspaper • sorted the recylcables

I've got a ton of work to do, so all I can offer are photos. These are shadows around my house made from Christmas lights. I remember as a kid how my sisters and I would turn out all the lights but the Christmas tree lights, lay on the floor, and look at the shadows on the ceiling and walls of the living room. This is from the lighted greenery on the dining room mantel. The other side of that same mantel. An angel surrounded by greenery on the buffet.

I am working on an article for Small Town Newspaper about our local Latin stores, and we've got plenty. Small Town and Small Town Nextdoor have a combined population of not quite 30,000. And we have an estimated 1,000 Hispanic immigrants. That can only be an educated guess because no accurate census has been taken. During the last census, the census takers opted not to enter the homes of Spanish speaking residents, which was their right for some reason, so we don't know how many immigrants we've got for sure. We do know they started coming here from Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, and Mexico because there was work in chicken processing plants. We have two of them that use immigrant labor because they're cheap, and they typically vote against unions. Now that they're here, they have changed the market enough that local grocery stores and Wal-Mart now sell things Hispanics looks for like chorizo, specialty cheese, lots of rice, and votive candles. And now we have so

This past weekend was mostly devoted to a philharmonic Christmas concert. As is typical when we have a concert on a Saturday evening, we had a rehearsal on Friday evening and another on Saturday afternoon before show time. Our Christmas concerts involve a children's chorus made of local kids, and a lot of the music that accompanies them is light on horn parts. During the rehearsal when we worked on those songs, I took pictures to show you what goes on around me. First, this is from off stage: This is what I see directly in front of me, my horn and the bottom of my stand. This is the horn section directly to my left. Notice the 3rd horn player reading through a script for a play he is involved with because he didn't have a part either. The bass section is directly behind me. And the cellists are in front. The trumpets were to my right at this concert, but usually they sit to the left of the horn section. This is what my bell reflects when my horn lays flat in my lap—a cellist.

My orchestra performed its annual Christmas concert last night. More on that later. Here is a photo of cellos resting during one of the rehearsals. I would never set my horn on the stage floor and walk away, but I suppose cellos are large enough that no one would walk on them.

Van Johnson died yesterday at the age of 92. He was quite a dandy in his younger days—tanned, fresh, and freckle-faced—and grew into the smartass film star whose films I grew up with. He was Gene Kelly's sidekick in Brigadoon, one of my favorite musicals, and in it he delivers one of my favorite lines while sitting in a crowded and unpleasant bar after spending an unknown length of time in the fresh and surreal air of Brigadoon—"It's not the heat. It's the humanity." Here he is with Gene in a scene from Brigadoon.

This month's edition of Bon Appétit magazine is all about eating better for less. I like that idea because even though I don't need to stick to a grocery budget personally, I am interested in finding recipes and menus that are tasty and good for you but don't cost a mortgage payment. In January '08, the sale of canned tuna increased 34%, and the sale of boxed mac & chesee increased 19%—these are signs of hard times, I have to say. Thank God for Bon Appétit who gives us economical alternatives to crap. I am following a week's worth of recipes—meat loaf, pasta with roasted winter vegetables, fish cakes with slaw, vegetarian black bean chili, and clam chowder. I won't bore you with the results of the whole week, but I will bore you with the clam chowder. The magazine suggested this meal would cost $14.11, but I only spent $12.34. That could be because I didn't count the carrots, the little bit of flour or the seasonings because I already had those things,

Here is a short story that I have been mulling over for a couple of weeks. I'll copy just the first few paragraphs here, and you can follow the link to the whole piece if it interests you. Once There Was A Spider Maddy pulled into the driveway that curved around the flowerbed where the lamppost was planted, and she turned off the car. Mrs. Henderson had not arrived yet, so she decided to sit and wait with the windows rolled down and with the chilly October breeze reaching into the front seat and making her wish she’d worn a warmer jacket. Her mother, Marlene, knew Mrs. Henderson from the water aerobics class they both took at the Y. The two ladies were doing knee lifts in the pool one day, and Marlene mentioned that Maddy would be coming to town for a visit, that she was a writer who seemed unable to write lately, and Marlene was hoping to give her some room for inspiration. She called it “quiet time.” “I’d like to give her some space and some quiet time.” Mrs. Henderson said that

There are several websites I visit every single day—Small Town Newspaper, I Can Has Cheezburger, Postcards from Yo Momma , and The Writer's Almanac . Actually, I don't always go to the Almanac site because I listen to its podcast, and a day is not complete until I have heard it. The Writer's Almanac is a daily dose of Garrison Keillor. He tells you whose birthday it is and why they are notable, or he tells you what interesting thing happened on any given day in history, and then he reads a poem. There is something about his voice and the way he delivers his message that makes everything all right, and there is something about a daily poem that reminds you that all the stuff that goes on in the news is just surface clutter compared to the good things people can create and think and feel. One of things I love about listening to The Writer's Almanac more so than reading it is the piano playing in the background. It's a tune that has embedded itself in my head, and I fi

I have been practicing in the spare room again—you know, the one with the antique music cabinet full of goodies. Here's what I found. It's a Christmas card I made for my family when I was a kid. Based on the workmanship and the level of poetic skill, you'd think I was six or seven when I made this thing. The sad fact is I made it when I was thirteen, judging by the number of characters I glued on to represent my family. My niece Lizard was two days shy of her first birthday that year, so she would have been the tiny orange blob next to the tree. In case you can't make out my lovely cursive writing, here is the poem: I hope this Christmas morning when you receive my gift you'll have a great big smile, and have a great big lift. I give it to you on this day. It's not very much, I know. But this here present that I give you now I wrapped myself with a bow. The room is warm and happy. It's full of spirit and cheer. There's a couch, a chair, a pretty tree and

I volunteered at the food pantry last Friday like I used to earlier in the year. Somewhere along the way I stopped working there—I'm not sure why. In the past, I was so discouraged with the crap we were giving away, and I couldn't imagine anyone cheating the system for that stuff–there are always a few. We handed out only canned goods, and most of it was 90% salt and 0% nutrition. We filled bags with cheap soup, cheap vegetables, pasta, pasta, and more pasta. But it was all there was to give at the time. Now the system has improved so that it almost looks likes a store. People are handed a big sack and guided down a line of tables filled with an assortment of food. The selection varies from week to week, but they can choose from cereals, canned stuff, juice, yogurt, boxed stuff, cheese, frozen meat, rice, cookies, fresh pears, onions, and sacks of potatoes. I was excited to see huge boxes of FoodThatShouldTasteGood chips, my very favorite snack chips in the whole wide world. Th

On this day in 1877, Thomas Edison recording a little something on a device he put together with tinfoil wrapped around a cylinder, the precursor to the phonograph. Of all things to record, he chose Mary Had A Little Lamb. Listen to the recording here:

My sole contribution to last week's Thanksgiving food was to help Daughter No. 1 make biscuits for the turkey soup on Friday. We made Dipping Biscuits from Bon Appétit , November '07, and they were yummy, a hint of sage and butter like your favorite stuffing. I made them again the other day to go with butternut squash and chickpea stew, and they were just as luscious. I discovered that if you warm them, cut them open, and fill them with a bit of butter and a bit of pumpkin butter, then you've got an amazing treat that will make you close your eyes and sigh. Dipping Biscuits 2 1/2 cups white whole wheat flour or regular whole wheat flour 1/2 cup unbleached bread flour 2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder 3/4 teaspoon salt 3/4 teaspoon onion powder 1/2 teaspoon baking soda 1/2 teaspoon dried ground thyme 1/2 teaspoon dried rubbed sage 3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) chilled unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes 1 cup buttermilk plus additional for brushing biscuit tops 1 large egg Positio

I am a guest blogger at another site today: Rants & Ramblings , a blog for writers and agents to discuss prickly things like how to land an agent, how to work with a publisher, how not to be discouraged as a writer... A sister-in-law made this connection for me as the agent, Rachelle Gardner, who manages the blog, is a friend of hers. I mentioned this guest-blogging business to a friend of mine who is an editor, and she happens to be friends with this agent as well and provided a six-degrees-of-separation kind of list for me—it turns out Rachelle is connected to someone who is connected to someone who is connected to someone who wrote a book for which I designed the cover. Small publishing world, huh? I know what you're thinking. Am I going to send a query for my own novel to this agent? You'd think I'd jump on the chance, wouldn't you? I wanted to get my guest post up first, though, before attacking this poor woman with my other stuff. We'll see.

Last year, Eustacia found an envelope in the mail, a plea for funds to support a Catholic charity of some sort. Being a good-hearted soul, she put $5 in an envelope and mailed it off. The charity must have given her name to every other Catholic charity in the country because now she gets requests for money every week. And they don't just ask for money. They give her things, too. So far, she's gotten three rosaries, a wooden crucifix about three inches tall, greeting cards, Christmas wrapping paper with ribbons, laminated prayer cards, and a key chain with a picture of Mary on it. For a Protestant, that's a pretty good haul but sort of useless. This week, she got a booklet with prayers and African proverbs as part of a campaign to raise money for various needs in Africa. Here are some highlights from the booklet: •Wait until you have crossed the river before telling the crocodile that he has an ugly face. •If you think you are too small to make a difference, try sleeping in

In line with yesterday's post: this is the house where my grandparents lived for all the years I can remember. The photo crops out the living room to the left which had a picture window in the front and a fireplace on the side. Before this place, they lived up the road in a little brick house with a pond behind it that was stocked with fish of some kind. They sold it to a man named Dollar, and the property was thereafter referred to as Dollar's Pond. They had an arrangement with the new owner that provided they could fish there any time they wanted, so we went fishing at Dollar's Pond every summer. I mainly just watched because I was afraid to bait my own hook, and Granddaddy, not a patient man, got tired of baiting it for me just so I could feed the fish with the worms. And this is one of the dish-soap things my grandmother made. Closed, it looks like a little purse. Opened, it holds a baby wrapped in blue cloth. I loved this thing enough to keep it all of these years. And

This is a short story I wrote over the Thanksgiving break. It's based on a true event, but I took the liberty to fictionalize where I saw fit. My sisters may remember this differently. A MAGICAL CHRISTMAS My Memaw and Granddaddy didn’t bother with a Christmas tree for just the two of them. They had a potted palm in the living room, and sometimes Memaw would hang wrapped candy canes on its few stalky branches. That palm was the one living thing in the house that served to filter the air while Granddaddy took drags from his unfiltered Pall Malls. He smoked them chainlike, lighting up one after another even though he never took more than a few puffs from any one cigarette. He mostly smoked in the kitchen, a big room that was also a kind of family room. Besides the out-dated appliances, a metal kitchenette table, some matching chairs with red plastic seat bottoms, and some counter space stacked with old magazines and a checkerboard, there was a TV, Granddaddy’s Naugahyde recliner, an