Oh, it’s dreadful being so technically-handicapped.  But I’m not as bad off as my own poor Mama.  She calls these things “Blobs” instead of Blogs.  She doesn’t know the  difference.  And I’m not much better!

There’s so much I want to do with my website, but I don’t know how.  My daughter,  Karissa,  is the genius who knows how to click-click the mouse and do magic in Cyberspace.  She’s the one who got me here in the first place.  Without her, I’d still be a pioneer by a campfire on the backside of Cyberville.

I merely plod along in my little dusty corner of the world, trying to keep up. 

I just hope these words that I’m typing right now are going in the right place on the website.  Likely not.   I’d better push a button and see if these words appear on the website at all.

So here goes, folks.  I’m clickin’ the button and if I disappear forever, you’ll know why…..

I’m  just a blob on a blog, I reckon.

So long.  It’s been nice knowing you.

Vic

 

 

The holidays will soon be here.

A time of joy and feasting…when we’re as stuffed as turkeys…when we’re Cranberried to the hilt.   A time of family and friends and frolickin’ fun!   Hearing Mom’s laughter and sampling Aunt Eleanor’s sweet potato pie.

Oh—but the whip-cream-of-it-all comes when Granny and Grandaddy get out the old family Bible and read a passage or two from the Psalms: “Give Thanx unto the Lord, for He is good…”

Uh…what? Wait a minute! Are we talking about Thanksgiving in the Heartland, today?

Hardly. We seldom have “Thanksgiving” or “Christmas,” any more. We have Thanxgiving and X-mas. It’s the “X-rating of America .” The removal of old-fashioned, countrified values which have been replaced by an “X”….

       She’s most glorious in the fall.

       Mother Nature dons her finest attire this time of year.  Like an aging beauty, she knows that her loveliness is fading…

        So she does what ladies do best. 

        She flaunts every jewel in her possession—scattering gems across the rounded bosom of her hills.  Rubies and sapphires and emeralds, all linked together with the golden chains of her Maples.

       Forget the other seasons, my friend!  Forget the dustiness of summer and the timid pastels of springtime!   In the autumn, Mother Nature has become a fiery redhead—full of spunk.  Breathtaking.  Drop-dead gorgeous!

Michael O’Neal is a country gentleman…broad-shouldered and fit and strong.  He reminds me of a blond Michael Landon—but with shorter curls.
 
Instinctively, he seemed to know that my heart was fragile—-that it had been shattered a dozen times, at least.  He told me not to worry.  He only wanted an hour of my time.  Just an hour for a picnic at the beach.  So I obliged him.
 
That first meeting was a date extraordinaire.  I’ve never had one like it…..

We met at Trinidad Beach…a long stretch of cliffs and caverns.  Crashing surf.  Archways carved in the rocks.  I gazed about me, transfixed.  It was so glorious…so heaven-on-earth…The most romantic spot I’d ever seen…
 
Michael brought out the picnic lunch and a large book.  I eyed the latter curiously.  It was a coffee-table book and seemed rather out of place on a sandy beach—but I soon forgot about it as Michael set out our lunch…a luscious spread of sliced turkey on sourdough.  Avocados.  Potato salad. 
 
Michael fed the seagulls tidbits as we ate and talked.  Squirrels and other critters showed up, as well.  Michael was like Dr. Doolittle to them.

“6:30 a.m…The sun’s  peeking  over the mountain…”
 
I sit by our campfire, scribbling in my notebook with a pen from La Quinta Inn…a prissy pen that’s running low on ink.  It seems overwhelmed by the task at hand…. 
 
So much rugged terrain to describe.  So much grandeur.
 
Our vacation property is located where many mountain ranges converge.   Row after row of mountains stretch before us…The Cascades and Sierra Nevadas.  The Marble Mountains .  Mount Shasta.  Pilot Rock.  Mountains rippling into the distance like waves on a vast ocean.
 
It’s a view to die for…Or to wear out a pen, at least.
 
I give the pen a good shake before resuming my writing.  Soon, my husband intervenes.  “Take a break,” Michael says, handing me a cup of hot cocoa.  “We’re on vacation, remember?”
 
We sip cocoa in companionable silence, gazing across the valley at the long morning shadows…Long dark arrows of destiny.  The shadows all point westward—where the sun will eventually set.    
 
“Look…!”  Michael leans forward, studying the property below us.  “We’ve got new neighbors.  They’re from the city.  Flatlanders.  Countryfolk-WannaBe’s.”

It has been raining in the Midwest.  Cats and dogs.   Pitchforks.   Tadpoles and frogs.  Everybody complains about the soggy weather—wishing it go away.  
 
I remember a few years ago when the opposite was true.  Drought was a serious problem.  We country folks were desperate for rain.  Farmers.  Ranchers.  Gardeners.  God-fearin’ folks who depended on the Lord for rain.   People of faith and fortitude.   
 
All our lives, we’ve heard the strange stories that Granny and Grandpa told us about the “olden days”.   Stories of miracles and answers to prayer.   Drenching rains that came just in time to save the crops. 
 
We knew the stories were true.  We knew that Truth-is-stranger-than-fiction…That there were too many “non-coincidences” for them to be considered flukes.
 
Well, folks.  Today, I’m going to share a similar story. The only difference is this…it happened in modern times.  I call it the Miracle of the Million Dollar Rain.   You can believe it, folks, because it really happened.

  June, at last!…Such a wonderful month.

 It’s all about Daddies and Father’s Day.  All about weddings and nuptials and blushing brides…

 Well—maybe not blushing brides.  Nowadays, the blushers are few and far between!  They’ve turned into Drama Queens.  Drama Diva’s.  Drama Mama’s…They’re proud of themselves, too.

Which brings us to the subject at hand. 

Daddies…Don’t let your baby girl grow up to be a Drama Queen.  For the good of Society.  For her husband’s sake.  For all of humanity—for crying out loud! 

And now, folks…I have a terrible confession to make.  I think you ladies will understand.  I hope.  Maybe you can even learn something from my mistakes….

Recently I had a Drama Queen episode.  It happened one night not long ago.  I was feverish and sick with a bad cold. There’s really no other explanation for my poor behavior. 

 

         My babies are all grown up….They live 2000 miles away.  And I have no grand-kids. 

            

         I’m stuck somewhere between Menopause and Grandma-hood—a stage when a woman’s maternal instincts run amok.  The mothering hormones just don’t know what to do with themselves.

 

          Wanna-be-Mamas are on the loose, folks, and we’re a mess….Not dangerous, really—but not quite sane. We adopt the neighbor’s kids.  The paperboy.  Dogs.  Kittens.  Dying geraniums.  We rescue anything that whimpers or looks sad. 

 

        Lately, I’ve been rescuing  little green orphans that the world has neglected.  Little seedlings and sproutlings…Plants of every kind.  At a local K-mart, I find myself drowning the wilted sproutlings on a bargain rack. 

           My new hubby took me on a road-trip to Central California .  Soon, the weather turned ugly on us…The roads went slick.  It was I who suggested that we stop and buy new tires at Walmart.

            Bad idea.

            Our car was high on the Walmart Express rack, and I was in the photo department, scanning our wedding pictures.  I heard scurrying footsteps. I looked up to see the store emptying rapidly.  Urgent voices….

            “Two officers were killed at a bombing, yesterday.  And now we’ve got a bomb threat, here!”

            What?  Officers killed!  Bomb threats…?

Country folks say that a full moon can make you act goofy.

But the Ancient Greeks had a more optimistic outlook on life:  ”A full moon means a happy marriage,” they said.

Well.     Michael and I got married during a full moon. We weren’t superstitious, though.   Not in the least.

At our Wedding Luncheon, we were given fortune cookies.    We opened them with careless good humor.   The first cookie said:  “Your spirit of adventure is leading you down an exciting new path…”   The second cookie was a bit more explicit:  “Pleasure awaits you at the Seashore,” it said.

Indeed.

As planned, we spent our wedding night at the Inn of the Lost Coast—a place of wild beauty.   Raging surf.    A full moon.   Blazing fireplace, and a private balcony.    No—the bride did not fall off the balcony into the sea…Nor did she plunge through the big French windows.   

Almost.   But not quite.

  

      I’m not sure what caused such madness.  Maybe it was the full moon, or perhaps it was the rendezvous between Jupiter and Venus in the heavens…

     Whatever the case, Michael and I suddenly decided to get married during the hectic Holiday Season. 

     We’d keep it simple, though.  A small ceremony in Eureka, California.  A reception in the ancient Redwoods beside the river.  Towering trees.  Sunlight filtering through the branches.  A stone plaza and blazing fireplace. 

      Perfect…! 

      There was just a problem or two.  The first was minor, but irksome.  I kept referring to our wedding as a funeral…A common Freudian slip to be sure, but it was small comfort to my groom.

     The other problem was far greater.  We had bad weather heading across the Pacific and it would be here by the weekend.  We were forced to move the wedding up to Thursday—just a couple of days away.

      At this time of the year, we take a hard look at our lives.  Scrutinize.  Analyze.  We wonder where we’re heading…   
      Take back those Library books…6 months overdue!  Put caulking around the windows…6 years overdue!  Clean out the back-room and make it into a cozy niche…! 

     That’s what we need to do.  But will we ever get it done?

     Well, folks—I don’t know about you, but I’m doing things differently this year.  I’m not just making New Year’s resolutions for 2009…I’m starting life over, it seems.  I’ve been turned inside-out and upside-down. Even my name is different. The old Vicki Harger is gone.  Vicki O’Neal has replaced her for good.

      How did it all happen?  I’m not even sure, myself.