When the World Stops

Summer Travel: More Pictures

I took so many pictures during our sojourn through the South, but I have to say that these photos of "The Women" are my absolute favorite. These sculptures inhabit the gardens of Rosedown Plantation. I couldn't pull myself away from them and photographed them from just about every angle. There's just something about their expressions--those far-away gazes--that drew me in.

Blame the Book!

If anyone has had to interact with me the past couple of days and noticed that I seem a little out of it, I'm blaming it all on a book.

The Widow of the South by Robert Hicks.

I cannot put this story down, and I've been reading a page here and a paragraph there every chance I get--from the 15 minutes that it takes my computer to boot up each morning, to the five-minute breaks between meetings at work, to the late hours of the night and wee hours of the morning. Who needs sleep? I'd rather know what's happening in the next chapter, thank you very much!

I haven't been this into a book since ... well ... Twilight. I know I've just lost my full male readership with the mention of the vampire saga. I'm sorry, fellas. Please come back again soon!

Back to The Widow of the South. It is a historical novel based on the Battle of Franklin, Tennessee, which took place late in the Civil War. All of the places and characters in the book are real, but Hicks has taken the liberty of giving them dialog, and thoughts, and emotions.

The story centers around Carrie McGavock and her Carnton Plantation. As the book opens,Carrie is struggling through a deep depression after losing three of her five young children to consumption. She is in an unhappy marriage, far away from her family and native Louisiana. She is thinking about committing suicide when the Civil War comes to her door. One of the Confederate generals leading the battle--Nathan Bedford Forrest--orders the plantation to serve as a field hospital, and Carrie is forced to quickly pull herself out of mourning to help the hundreds of wounded men brought to her home. 

The Widow of the South is Carrie's story, but it is also the story of many other men and women--both military and civilian--who were touched by a battle that created 9,200 casualties in just a single day of fighting.

It's fascinating stuff, and if you have any interest in the Civil War era I think you will enjoy it.

Summer Travel: The Myrtles

After leaving the fairy tale setting of Rosedown, we headed to the horror movie version of a plantation--The Myrtles. If you ever watch any of those ghost hunter shows on the SciFi channel (which has now become SyFy for some reason--can someone explain why), chances are good that you've seen this place.

 

It looks innocent enough, but the word on the street is that this place is haunted by all kinds of ghastly ghouls.

The story goes a little something like this ...

One of the slaves who served as a house servant and nanny to the plantation owner's children got upset with him. To get even, she poisoned the kids with a lethal dose of white oleander. Said servant was then hung as punishment. So now The Myrtles is supposedly home to the tormented, ghostly souls of both the children and the slaves.

You can take tours of the home, and if you're brave enough, you can also sleep there as it is now a bed and breakfast. (We opted for the safety of the Quality Inn down the road where the only thing that went bump in the night was the ice machine next to the room.)

They say that you can sometimes capture the spirits in your photos. I think we may have been lucky enough to capture the ghouls during our visit. You be the judge ...

Oh wait ... that's just the Howards. Seriously, though. I can't figure out why my legs look so darned fat and Rob's legs look so spindly. Neither of our legs look like that in real life. Maybe there WAS some type of freaky force distorting the photos. I'm just sayin' ...

The Myrtles really is a beautiful property. We had a fabulous lunch in an adorable carriage house restaurant and rocked away a couple of hours on the porch. Relaxing ... just what vacation should be.

Summer Travel: Rosedown Plantation

After leaving Natchez, we arrived in St. Francisville, Louisiana. St. Francisville--and all of West Feliciana Parish--is home to some amazing plantations. Our first stop was Rosedown Plantation.

(If some of these photos look slightly "other worldly," I was playing with some different Photoshop Actions while editing them. I may have gone overboard, but I had a lot of fun experimenting!)

 

Up The Live Oak Lane

Front Entrance

 Cherub Fountain

 

Chreub

 

Garden Gate

 

In the Garden

An Appeal to the Techsters ...

UPDATE ... Okay. I think it's more my computer monitors (my work laptop as well as my home PC) because I'm noticing that pictures on other people's blogs look as fuzzy as mine do. I haven't noticed this before, but I know that I haven't messed with any of the settings on my monitors. Oh well. Maybe my eyes are failing me!

I don't know if there is anyone out there who can help me with this. Whenever I put pictures here on my blog, they always look fuzzy once I publish them. The original files are much clearer. Is there anyone amongst my readers (assuming anyone can even stick with the here-today-gone-tomorrow aspect of my posting schedule) who can explain why this might be happening? My photos are nothing special to begin with, but they look downright horrible when I share them here.

Summer Travel: Natchez, Mississippi

Back in June, we headed south for a guided tour of my roots courtesy of my aunts and cousins. After a rough start--nothing like kicking off a vacation in the ER of a tiny hospital in a tiny Louisiana town--we ended up having a really good time.

Day 1 of our excursion found us in Natchez, Mississippi. Here are some photos I took that day.

 Tower Through The Trees

 

Antebellum Home on Myrtle Bank

 

Natchez Mansion

 

Fleur de Lise Fence Post

 

Friendship Fence

 

Old Man River

After spending a couple of hours in this gorgeous town, we joined up with the Natchez Trace and headed southwest toward West Feliciana Parish in Louisiana.

On Converse, The Moon, and The Meaning of Life

As I was listening in to an insanely long and completely pointless conference call this afternoon—one that had absolutely nada to do with my job—my gaze wandered to the laceless Converse tennis shoes propped up on the coffee table in front of me, and my thoughts followed my eyes.

Cute shoes, I thought. But do they really belong on my feet? At this age, can I still pull off this fun, carefree choice in footwear? Do young, hipster kids giggle amongst themselves and roll their eyes when I walk by?  God knows that I’ve questioned people’s judgment when I’ve seen certain clothing choices. Am I guilty of the same fashion folly? Maybe they look at me and think, “Pretty cool kicks for an older lady.” (Something tells me, though, that hipsters would never use the terms “cool” and “kicks.” I really AM showing my age.) I guess the most unsettling possibility is that they don’t even notice the shoes—or notice me—because I’ve reached that magical age of invisible irrelevance. Ah, middle age … how silently and quickly you’ve managed to sneak up on me!

I don’t know. When I bought these shoes six months ago, I wasn’t feeling all that middle aged. I certainly thought I was young enough to get away with sporting them. And I’ve worn them many, many times since—to the mall, to the office, to the grocery store—without ever wondering if I should’ve gone with a more sensible pump or flat. But that changed today.

I think what I saw when I looked at my feet this afternoon has a lot to do with what I’ve been seeing when I look in the mirror these days. Something is different. And it seems to have happened so gosh-darned quickly. Sure, I see crows feet around the old eyes. And those creases that form when I raise my eyebrows no longer disappear when I lower them. Darn it! But this is really nothing new. Those pesky little lines have been with me for a few years now. No, this is something else entirely.

You know how the moon is this soft, radiant, dreamy thing that joins with the stars to entertain our eyes when the sun goes down? It’s hard to fathom that the moon is actually nothing but a gray, pock-marked rock floating out there in space. But really, that’s all that it is without the sun to light it up every evening— dull and uninspiring.

Dull and uninspiring. That's what I think and see when I look at and reflect on myself in this, my 35th year on this planet. Up until fairly recently, I've always had someone or something else to light me up--family, friends, my job, youth. But the older I get, the more I realize that all of that goes away and you're really only left with yourself. And when it's just you, and the mirror, and that thing called The Truth, is there still any light there?

Put a different way … when you finally reach the destination on the map that you’ve crafted for yourself your whole life, how do you feel? Do you find comfort in knowing that you’ve made it, that you’re established, that you have the spouse/ the house/ the paycheck/the weekend social circle … or do you find yourself thinking, “Now what?” or worse, “Is this all there is?”

Is this all there is? Getting up at roughly the same time every morning, letting the dogs out for their morning “business,” making coffee, eating cereal, sitting down at the laptop, taking calls, putting out fires, sending e-mails, eating dinner, numbing the mind with ridiculous television, folding laundry, sweeping floors, turning in, getting up, doing it all over again …

Excuse me while I grow up and come  to terms with the fact that I have reached a point in life where most—if not all—of my “firsts” are behind me … the first glimpse of a new town from my vagabond Army brat upbringing, the first day of school, the first day of summer break, the first love, the first job, the first kiss, the first day of college, the first apartment, the first “real” job, the first date with the last love.

I know this is all very normal. I know my friends feel the same way. I know that Rob—the co-participant in my last first kiss—certainly can relate. We sometimes take drives in the evening out to the valley where he was born and raised. We drive by old haunts—his—and talk about old times—ours, separate and together. With the radio up and the windows sometimes down, I catch it—the light—if only for a second or two.

Bruce Springsteen and countless others have made careers out of writing and singing about the light, losing it, and chasing it with reckless abandon. It’s one of those universal rites of passage, I suppose—that realization that this IS your life, and you’re grown, and you’re completely responsible for driving this train from here on out. Some days, that feels downright liberating and exhilarating. Others, it feels downright depressing.

As 36 looks at me from just up the tracks, I’m deciding right here and now to make it an exciting ride. It’s been too slow and smooth lately. I need some twists and turns. Besides, I spent too much money on these cool kicks to banish them to the back of the closet. And they sure don’t belong on the straight and narrow.

Friday Funny

It's been awhile since I've posted one of these. I don't know about you all, but I could definitely use a little more humor in my life these days

Cat owners ... I know you can appreciate this as much as I can!

You gotta get it right while you got the time ...

Michael Jackson, The Man in the Mirror.

I was not a lifelong fan of Michael Jackson. But as a kid growing up in the '80s, I couldn't help but be taken in by his music and his dancing when he burst into superstardom during that decade. And now as an adult, I can't help but be awed by how gifted he was.

Thriller was the first cassette tape I ever owned. My mom bought it for me when she bought me my first stereo with a cassette deck. I felt so grown up that day, happy that I could finally put away my kiddie record player. I knew the words to every song on that album by heart within a week, and I eventually wore that tape out from playing it so much--over, and over, and over again.

Michael Jackson was a phenomenal talent. I think it will be a long time before another performer comes along who captures the imagination of the entire world like he did.

Howdy, pardners!

Hello!!! Anybody out there?

Beauregard and Scout here. We've been holdin' down the fort while that lady who feeds us has been off gallivantin' through the South. We hear she'll be back soon to thrill you with the details of her oh-so-excitin' life. Until then, we'll be waitin' and hopin' that she brings us a souvenir from her trip. Oatmeal raisin cookies would be delightful!

Hee Haw! Hee Haw!