I Never Cease to Amaze Me!

Someone teased me about recently turning eighteen instead of sixty-eight. After I finished basking in the flattery, I started thinking about how one views age, with me as example.
I remembered being nine, and hearing my gram comment on the death of a fifty-two-year-old man, narrated in a newspaper article. She lamented his passing at such a youthful age. I almost choked on my gum. Young! Fifty-two young! I tried to think what interesting things someone that age could do. Couldn't think of a thing.
Fast forward to me at 16, when a handsome twenty-something intern judged me to be eighteen. Preening (I pree

n a lot, don't I? Sorry), I could just imagine how maturity must just beam from every pore.
Fast forward to forty-something. As I walk past a construction site. No remarks, whistles or questionable proposals. Siiiiigh. I was definitely over the hill. Bought a T-shirt that said, "Over what hill? I didn't see any hill." Wore it proudly. Smiling.
Now, apparently, I'm beginning to look young again. Never mind that the people who tell me so are my age or older, as my younger son likes to point out. Thank you, God, for bubble-piercing children. I'm also grateful for realizing that it's interior not exterior age that counts. I plan to remain forever seven. Inside.

When did I become a Porsche 911???

Frankly, I'd rather drive a Porsche than be one, but as fate would have it.... I visited a friend's blog and couldn't resist clicking on the "What Kind of Sports Car Are You?" link beneath the picture of her Sports Car Test. The closest I've been to a sports car was with a date who had one--never mind how many years ago--and in my Uncle Jack's Karmann-Ghia, equally long ago. What do I drive? An aqua 1994 Honda Civic Hatchback, maintained in excellent condition--okay, it needs major rust removal, but it cornors with style, and life is all about how well one handles in the cornors!
Oh, yes, to see me as a sleek, low-slung Porsche, you have to scroll aaaaaaall the way to the bottom of this blog. Sorry, but my efforts to make this layout do what I want are usually unsuccessful.

My Enchanted Backyard

My backyard wasn't a backyard in the summer. Its southeast cornor was a fairy kingdom. Tucked behind an extension of the enclosed back porch, it was kept safe from the penetrating, curious eye of the sun by a towering elm. A supple emerald-and-gold Honeysuckle vine cascaded over the rigid interlacing of the chain link fence. Its sticky-sweet perfume was a siren call to the bees and me. We drank nectar from the fragile little blossom flutes. The ravenous bees continued to feast as I communed with the warty toad who spent his summers in the oozy, chocolate mud below the vine. Portly, placid, bronzed as a buddah, he sat unblinking, snatching passing flies. What he did at night, I never knew. I did know that he wasn't a toad, but a prince in disguise. I preferred him as a toad.

The whole east side of the fence was profuse with rose bushes of pale pink, blood-red and snowy hues, purple and violet iris, sunny marigolds, zinnias in rainbow colors, and blushing pink peony bushes. This wasn't a garden, but camouflage for the dusty prairie under the foliage, where plastic horses stirred up dust as they ran wild and free.
In the northwest corner of the yard, grown-ups saw a crimson swing-set of steel tubing. I saw a steaming, tropical jungle, heard the cries of monkeys, the snarls of tigers, and the grunts of wild pigs rooting for insects in the damp carpet of leaves on the jungle floor. Their pungent, feral odor pinched my nose. The set of rings suspended by chains were vines on Tarzan trees.

Other times, the swing-set was a circus ring, where I balanced on a tightrope high above the crowd, which gasped and held its breath when I almost fell. As I landed firmly on both feet, arms raised in a triumphant vee, the music of cheers engulfed me.

The swing, its oak seat smoothed colorless by frequent rides, was a sleek, silver jet airplane. I performed loops and dives, defied gravity, soared beyond the clouds. The wind rushed in my ear and tousled my hair as I broke the sound barrier with a boom that rattled every window in the neighborhood.

On summer evenings, after supper and dishes were done, and a reluctant sun had eased down the horizon to bed, we trooped outdoors to feel the cool breeze that arose most every night. We sat in adirondack chairs, and I studied the winking stars while the hushed voices and laughter of the others embraced me. I considered the vast number of people— ancient Greeks and Romans, Cleopatra's Egyptians, neighbors of Copernicus—who had contemplated the same stars.

Eventually, the swing-set was taken apart, the house demolished, the grounds and gardens cemented over as a parking lot for a newly built student nurses' residence. But on soft summer evenings, when the ancient stars are icily smiling, I hear again the rise and fall of laughter, the low murmur of familiar voices, and I'm transported to my enchanted back yard.

Vive la France!

As I drank my OJ this morning and surfed (TV channels, that is), I happened on the channel from France, where Paris was celebrating Bastille Day, or, as it's usually called in France, simply "Le 14 Juillet". Quite a thrilling show, staged on the Champs d'Élysée. The Republican Guard, all the military services, a children's choir--Les Petits Chanteurs de la Croix de Bois--and, of course, the President of the Republic, M. Nicolas Sarkozy, with dignitaries from other countries. The marching bands, the singing of both military and children's choirs, the flyby of military planes overheard, the first planes streaming red, white and blue smoke, the crowds lining the street, all made for an exciting atmosphere. By the time the Marseillaise started up, first by the bands, then sung, I felt as proud of my French blood as I do when celebrating my Irish blood on St. Patrick's Day.

I celebrate France and the French people, but not the Revolution, which not only deposed Louis XVI, but slaughtered him after a mockery of a trial. The Revolutionaries sought also to eliminate christianity and to put The State in its place. Their efforts were only partially rewarded.

Now that two hundred plus years have passed, historians are starting to take a less prejudiced view of the last pre-revolutionary King of France and his spouse, Marie-Antoinette. The layers of revolutionary propaganda are being pealed back to reveal a very different Louis XVI and wife.

If you understand French, I highly recommend the book by French author, Jean-Christian Petitfils, titled simply, "Louis XVI".

The card was made some time ago, for an ink-stains swap.

Challenged!

I finally made cards this week! The one featuring Tigger is for the ink-stains July Challenge, and the other is for this week's challenge, for ink-stains.

Heading Picture

The picture in the Heading is, "Mme Renoir Reading", by Renoir. It isn't quite how I want it, but I've worked at it long enough. Hope your weekend is sunnier than mine--it's 68F, chilly, windy, and cloudy. Perfect day for reading, stamping, surfing (the net, that is!), catching some z's with the cats...

Smile! (Even if you're not on Candid Camera)

The next time you're out for a walk, take note of how many people you meet who are smiling. I've been doing that, and it astounds me that the vast majority of people are not only not smiling, many are actually frowning, and many of those go along with eyes glued to the ground. I don't feel dressed without a smile! We all have problems, days when we're down in spirits, days when it's actually painful to smile. Here's a fact; scientists (don't ask me to cite my source, but I did read it somewhere) have discovered that if we smile if we don't feel happy, our mood will soon change.

The reason? When we smile, endorphins are released, and endorphins give us a sense of well-being. Smiling is also contagious, so the next time you meet an unsmiling stranger, smile! You may just make someone's day.

The cards, "Lazy Afternoon," and "Red Sails in the Sunset," use a technique called CD Reflection. I found it on Java Judi's website. Here's the link: http://javajudi.typepad.com/javajudi/ When you get to JJ's site, scroll down almost to the bottom.

The photo card was done for the ink-spots June challenge; anything summery. This is me and Blackie.