The Maine Thing

On The Brink.......

2011-12-31T20:50:00.000-08:00

.....of a new year and another birthday. My fifty-somethingth. And I am glad for both. New year, new beginning. You know, that whole 'clean slate' thing. Some things written on my personal slate in 2011 have left indelible impressions that one hopes will fade with the distance of days. Others will hopefully be repeated and highlighted. I have always been an optimist. Oh, cynical and snarky to be sure, but always an end-of-the-rainbow kind of guy. Hope is the one thing I have gone out of my way to cultivate and nurture wherever and with whomever I've made a home and contributed layers to my life--and hopefully theirs. I was supposed to be the headliner at a birthday gathering of glitterati this evening here at home. A small crowd but a lively one to help usher in the new year with all the accoutrements such a gala can muster in a small community behind the backwoods on the tundra. An ice storm put the skids to that plan so all will commence again tomorrow afternoon in milder temperatures and bright sunshine. And I am glad. I think I prefer to welcome the coming year in a quieter, more subdued atmosphere. I have never made resolutions since the day they're supposed to go into effect is also a day when you're supposed to do whatever makes you happy. Seemed counter-productive so I just gave up on the notion. I will not attempt to resolve anything. I will not make a list of past regrets, either slings or arrows, that will make the champagne at midnight sweeter by comparison. I will not inventory the dings, dents, and other damages to my chassis. I will not promise anything no matter how noble or sincere I might want to sound. The words of a promise are rarely sturdy enough to support the weight of follow-through. I will be quiet. I will think happy thoughts of what may be and how best to appreciate whatever comes. All I really need is just to be. That is enough I think. Time is too precious to be wrapped up in neat little packages all clearly labled. Here's to the adventure of living! Happy New Year to all of you, my friends and Gentle Readers!

Have Yourself A... (Fill in Holiday Of Choice Here)

2011-12-25T21:36:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah aka Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa to all it either/or applies. And a satisfying Festivus to the rest of us! May you all find solid ways to make the holidays very jolly days!

And To All A Good Night

2011-12-20T08:39:00.000-08:00

'Tis just before Christmasand all through the town,the people are grousingor wearing a frown.They're behaving quite mador just downright shrewish,preferring, I suppose,they were Buddhist or Jewish.The WalMart's a-buzzingwith shoppers rampaging--oh how happy the bankersmust be in Beijing!Hustling and bustlingfrom hither to yon,hunting the best dealsbefore they're all gone.Racing and rushingto spend near and far--good God almighty,where did I park the car?Pushing and shovingall over the earth--so much commotionover a simple tot's birth!Scrambling haphazardboth to and fro;you'd think they'd be gratefulthat there ain't any snow.I watch from the sidelinesin my comfy cocoonamused by the knowledge'twill be all over soon.And also because(I gladly remember)that all of my shoppingwas done in September.

You're Never Too Cold

2011-12-11T19:15:00.001-08:00

It is always something of a pleasant surprise--in the truest meaning of that phrase--to discover, somewhat sheepishly, that you aren't as jaded as you've allowed yourself to believe you are.Around midnight this morning I decided to step out and take a look at the full moon--the 'cold' moon they're calling it. I really wish there had been some snow on the ground. There's nothing like a few inches of glistening powder as far as the eye can see under a full moon. The air was indeed cold. Somewhere in the vicinity of holy s*it cold. And there she was; Dianna in all her glory carrying on a celestial flirtation with Orion. Beautiful maiden and rugged hunter each keeping a respetable distance while dancing attendance around one another. Their mutual yearning was almost palpable. I could feel it. The other constellations in their finery could feel it. Every so often Dianna would smile coyly through a gauzy silver haze of cloud as if she were doing a veil dance; teasing, enticing her pursuer.I went back inside to thaw and think. I thought the thoughts a person thinks when it's late, he's not sleepy, and the silence of a still night is deafening. Practical things. Funny things. Sad things. Hopeful things. I suddenly realized that very little of what I considered important and worth while really doesn't matter all that much. I wasn't quite as full of myself as I was when I went outside earlier. It was one of those out-of-the-body-self-realization-reality-check moments we sometimes get and try to forget as quickly as possible. The impression remains and it's the echo's voice you hear in the wee small hours of the soul.I went back outside before turning in. And there they were; Dianna and Orion further off to the north now. She was still holding court a little above him but this time he was to the left where he had been to her right before. Perhaps he thought it was his better side. Or perhaps he was simply giving her right of way. I guess when it comes to loving and being loved it really doesn't matter where you are exactly. What counts is being there and knowing when to yield. Even when it's cold.

The Winter Of Our Reconnect

2011-12-07T17:16:00.001-08:00

Ahhh, the perfect combination of conditions for returning to the blogosphere: blustery cold winds, drizzle, and a serious lack of interest in doing anything domestic.I had intended to return earlier. However, when the urge to make a comeback began to gnaw at me, I discovered that my computer was reliving the Homeric epic by breaching my firewall and gifting me with an infestation of trojan horses. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts was not, unfortunately, the quote for that particular day.Up until then I had been enjoying the wonderful Maine summer and autumn seasons. In June I embarked on a mission to read the classics. It was a return visit to some and a first encounter with others. From Aristotle to Austen, Socrates to Shelley, Cato to Camus, and Plato to Proust. On any given morning I would do what needed to be done--weeding and watering flower beds, mowing, restocking the avian buffet stations etc... The household duties were divided and staggered every other Monday; floor and fixture scrubbing on one, dusting and vaccuming the next, laundry on another and so on. All very ordered. The Queen Mother wanted to modify the routine somewhat but she was overruled. A concession here and there from necessity and scheduling issues but otherwise it went as planned. The afternoons were given over to time travel, dramatic upheavals, romantic sojourns and other flights of fancy. Cook dinner, do dishes, and settle down to work on projects of the artistic craft variety. It was a most enjoyable sabbatical from all things internet. Sometimes you just have to go somewhere and do something else to put things into perspective. I got lots of things done and had the time and space to really appreciate my accomplishments. Just before my computer came down with the plague I reread my previous posts and decided that it was time to rejoin the cyber-literati. The computer had other plans. Apparently I was due to be punished for several months of neglect. After a three-week postponement we are reconciled again and here I am.As warmth and sunshine wither on the vine of memory I suspect I will be here fairly often. I have spent the better part of the day reading vintage posts of my many dear friends and co-bloggers. I can't quite grasp that I was gone that long! Time doesn't exist when you travel through the parallel universe of great writing. HRH the Queen Mum has expressed her pleasure that I have put aside my reading regimen for the time being. Apparently quoting Shakespeare, Dickens, or Twain at every turn was wearing very thin. Go figure.

Breaking News!!

2011-12-06T08:38:00.001-08:00

If anyone out there still remembers him or is in the least bit interested, Lord Wellbourne will return to the blogosphere tomorrow, Wednesday December 7th 2011. Yet another claim to infamy.

2011-05-21T10:46:00.001-07:00

Time's Fun When You're Having Flies

2011-05-21T09:27:00.000-07:00

This past week saw the two-year anniversary of my return to Maine. The preceding 26 years had been spent living on the Gulf Coast of Texas--first on the Island of Galveston, then Houston, and finally in Humble. I left just before sunset on a Sunday evening and arrived just after sunrise on Thursday. I rode in the cab of an over-sized rental truck crammed with all the detritus of a happy, comfortable Southern life that I hoped would soften the transition to a spartan Northern one. Among the treasures were my four cats: Jezebel, Scarlet, Delilah, and Vanya. No residence would be home without them. I left a balmy 80 degree Texas and arrived to discover there was still snow in some places despite the 45 degrees of warmth. Living at sea level for so long I had forgotten the sensation of ear-popping and assumed I was experiencing fatal brain implosion. No doubt caused by endless country music and evangelization over the radio.

If I had known then what I was coming back to I would probably have turned around. But the truck was unloaded and returned before the full impact of my decision to come home revealed itself.

I love my home state. It's wild and it's raw. There's a simplicity that touches my heart. People don't expect much here. They don't whine about what they want. For the most part they are satisfied with what they have because they have earned it by hard work and determination. They take making the most of what they have in stride. I think Winter has a lot to do with it. In Texas I rarely experienced more than a few days of bone-chilling weather at a time. Even all the hurricanes that rearranged my home were warm blooded. But here, months of subarctic temperatures and falling snow really develop your sense of appreciation and gratitude for the simplest luxuries--heat, warmth, wool, flannel, soup, and companionship. You don't have a lot of leisure to lament. You do what needs to be done and then you rest, grateful and self-satisfied.

I came back with the best of intentions. To make life easier and prolong independence in her own home for my then 91 year-old mother. Somewhere along the way...between my last visit and my permanent return....she had transformed from Mother Theresa into Leona Helmsley. It's been difficult. Two very headstrong and independent people under the same roof. Her body slowly but steadily betraying itself and mine in full vigor. Her mind slipping into resolute misperception and mine aching to be heard. Neither of us are demure people. We are too much alike to ever be the best of friends. It's like living with Miss Haversham on Wuthering Heights only without the wedding dress. I trust Dickens and Bronte' will forgive the allusions. Her tongue and appetite are still as sharp as ever so I must be doing something right though I will never be told so. This is, I believe, penance for all the wrongs I knowingly committed and unwittingly contributed to during the happy years travelling the world between leaving and returning here.

But Maine is the great elixir. Breathing the air and drinking the natural beauty is a soothing compress to a blistered brow. No matter where I was living Maine was always home to my soul. I have returned to behind the back woods on the tundra of my birth and, all things considered, it is good to be here.

2011-05-15T11:39:00.001-07:00

Fancy's Fevered Flight

2011-05-15T10:48:00.000-07:00

To mow or not to mow; that is the quandary. Whether 'tis nobler in the noggin or more solicitous to the soul to tickle tender tootsies in vibrant verdant vegetation or, like a grasping Gallic gardener, take up blades against a sea of dandelions-- madly manicuring mossy margins into sterile perfection. To partake of Persephone's pastoral pleasures and Primavera's pass times or to make war with weeds; churning, chopping, and chucking nature's overabundance.

Daffodils dance dizzily, narcissus' nod knowingly, hyacinths huddle happily, and Rhododendrons rhapsodize while wisteria wander wistfully. Is it necessary to negate Nature's notions of nuance? Is a lavish lawn less lovely than a a driver's dream or putter's paradise? Nay, non, nyet! Banish the bothersome burden of baling and be free from frivolous forestry. The lilies neither spin nor weave nor do the birds sow or reap. Gather ye cozy comforting catnaps while ye may! Treat yourself to transcendent trivialities and tea!

Besides, it's too late and too wet to mow now anyway. More's the pity. Sigh.....

2011-04-24T15:00:00.001-07:00

Wellbourne's Easter Feast

2011-04-24T14:03:00.000-07:00

Ingredients:

Three to four pound pork shoulder
1 18oz jar of apricot preserves
1 14 oz can of whole berry cranberry sauce
1/4 cup chicken broth
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon of ground cloves
1 large onion
Several potatoes
Several carrots
1/2 head of cabbage
1 summer squash/zucchini
Cauliflower/broccoli crowns, about a handful each

Trim fat from pork shoulder while being told that you're doing it wrong. Mix the apricot preserves, cranberry sauce, Dijon mustard, and chicken broth together until well blended even if you're being told you've stirred it enough already. Chop the large onion into small pieces while being told you've wasted half of it. Score the wrongly trimmed shoulder in cross cuts and rub the ground cloves into the slits while listening to how whole cloves would be a better choice. Place the chopped onions in bottom of slow-cooker and place shoulder on top of onions while listening to how it's on the wrong side. Pour the apricot/cranberry mixture over the top of shoulder while listening to how much of a waste it is. Set slow-cooker to low and cook for 12 hours. Be prepared to listen to how it is either too much or not enough time.

Next day, about 90 minutes before you wish to eat, peel and cut the potatoes and carrots into 1/2 inch pieces while being told you handle the peeler and paring knife incorrectly. Boil at the wrong temperature setting in the wrong pot. Cut cabbage into wedges and summer squash/zucchini into 1/4 inch slices which are all the wrong size or shape and place with the cauliflower/broccoli crowns in a large strainer which is too big over a pot of boiling water that is too small and steam for as long as it takes which is either too long or not long enough.

When the potatoes and carrots are 'mash-able' mash them together with whatever flavouring you prefer...understanding that they won't be as good as how someone else makes them. Remove steamed vegetables from over-sized strainer and place into a dish which is unnecessary and extravagant and season to taste knowing all the while that the flavour has been cooked out of them.

Remove the over/under cooked shoulder from slow-cooker and place on platter which has never been seen before and is therefore deemed unlikeable. Transfer the mashed potatoes/carrot combination into another wasteful and extravagant serving dish. Set table with non-styrofoam plates which will involve wasting water and time to wash along with heirloom silver and vintage linens that once belonged to a disagreeable ancestor. Place large salt shaker at center of table to off-set the blandness of the cuisine.

Sit down. Remove wads of cotton from ears (dispose of discreetly) and enjoy!

Happy Easter from my world to all my Gentle Readers!

2011-04-13T10:11:00.001-07:00

People Like 'Us'

2011-04-13T09:01:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it was the suede elbow patches on the tweed sport coat. Or maybe the two inch cuffs draping over the top of my Bass wing-tipped Oxford's. It might have been the English wool felt cap 'strategically dipped' to the right. It might even have been the articulate elocution of my banter with the cashier while waiting in the check-out line. The glint of gold on wrist and fingers may have contributed. Probably a combination of all the above added to my overall public demeanor. Whatever it was, it inspired the somewhat faded yet distinguished older gentleman behind me to lean forward and mutter conspiratorially in my ear with a nod and glance to my right: "It's people like us that pay the way for people like them."

To my right was a youngish woman with several children all of whom were gleefully bagging and boxing their purchases. This particular grocery store cuts its prices by not employing people to bag for you. The store provides plastic bags and the cardboard boxes the products come in for toting. Their cart was full of the necessities of their lives. Not so much from a nutritional point of view but from the need to make their food-benefits allowance last through the month. The card that these benefits are purchased with is very conspicuous.

People like us. People like them.

When did I become an 'us'?

I cannot say the woman or her children were particularly tidy or stylish. I can say that they all seemed very cheerful and boisterous. Their zeal may have drowned out the comment. Or, they were so accustomed to hearing such things they had developed the second nature to ignore it. I pray that it was the former rather than the latter.

I heard him. The cashier heard him. It was calculated to be heard.

People like us.

My cart was fairly light and tallying up was quick. I keep cardboard boxes in the trunk so I don't need to bag inside the store. I can sort and load directly from the cart. Something snapped. I am not a reticent person.

I turned to look at my fellow check-out denizen. My chin was elevated allowing me the advantage of looking down my nose. A slow appraisal. "People like 'us'?" I repeated at length. "From looking at you, I would never have guessed that you were an alternatively-oriented tree-hugging socialist! I'm so glad to know there's more than one of 'us'"! I leaned toward him, gave him a big, fondling hug and an embarrassingly loud, wet kiss on the cheek. "Keep the faith!" was my smiling exit line from the store.

I only hope the paramedics arrived in time to be of some assistance.

2011-03-27T11:04:00.001-07:00

9 Inches Is A Lot!

2011-03-27T10:00:00.000-07:00

When you least expect it, 9 inches is a lot to deal with. There you are, happily minding your own business and then, out of nowhere, you are confronted with something bigger than you'd prefer to handle. Having 9 inches thrust upon you uninvited; having 9 inches pushed down upon you fast and furious is troublesome at the very least.

I guess it's been problematic for the winter sports enthusiasts here on the tundra. They have been feeling inadequate and their situation left a lot to be desired. I've heard it said that even with their Alpine Olympian prowess they lamented their shortcomings and felt cheated by the lack of endowment. Apparently they all wish they had 9 inches. Even the equipment that is supposed to enlarge and increase the number of inches fell short of expectations.

Yet I have discovered that, even with the proper tool in hand, plowing 9 inches is a challenge. When you're cold and frigid to begin with, having to take on a whole lot of 9 inches is a daunting task and it leaves you exhausted. It doesn't satisfy or give you a sense of accomplishment because you know it'll have to be done again at some point and you dread the inevitability. The deeper it goes the more it hurts to contend with. You try different positions, adjusting yourself to make it less of a chore and easier on your body. When at last you've brought the Herculean task to it's conclusion you feel relieved but know that the aches and pains have just begun. Maybe not today, but definitely by tomorrow morning. You pray that you won't have to endure another assault anytime soon. Yes indeed, 9 inches is truly a lot to be endowed with.

What?......Oh for pete's sake, chin up to the curb, people! I'm talking SNOW here!

Sheesh......

2011-03-22T12:23:00.001-07:00

A Trail, A Cat, An Adventure

2011-03-22T10:58:00.000-07:00

Thursday, March 17th--Celtic Appreciation Day*--was the first of a four-day preview/reminder of Spring here on the tundra. Clear blue skies, bright sunshine, and temperatures at least 10 degrees above freezing. I had recovered sufficiently to be allowed to venture out into the great white realms of Nature.

I am not fond of snowmobiles. I understand that for many people here behind the backwoods they are necessary for getting around and provide an outlet for relieving cabin fever. You can only put together so many 5000 piece jelly bean jigsaw puzzles before you go polar. My dislike of these snow tanks derives from the noise they make. At all hours. I referred to them earlier as Jihadist bees bent on the destruction of serenity. They also remind me of a buzz saw trying to cut through a pine knot or the bellowing of a constipated moose in intestinal distress. That being said, and I hope it was illuminating to my Southern Gentle Readers, there is one thing I appreciate about snow mobiles. They leave marvelous trails in their wake. Put a well-fed rider or two in four or five layers of thermal clothing atop 500 pounds of machinery and the snow beneath them is compressed into a firmly packed pathway across and into places one would rarely have the opportunity to wander.

My cross country skis are always waxed this time of year so I can check the sap buckets. Having waited patiently for the mercury to climb to my allowed venturing-out limit, I cast off my peacock cloak of brightly coloured daydreams. I grabbed the pet-carrier that looks like a mesh duffel bag, stuffed Jezebel the Russian Blue fur-child of my heart into it and strapped on the skis. Cat-filled carrier slung over my shoulder, we set off. Once clear of the immediate area around the house I found trails going in every direction. Across acres of hay fields, over frozen streams, and into great walls of trees. It felt as though I was standing at the hub of a wagon wheel with spokes of opportunity enticing me from all sides. Every now and then I would come across a place where the snow had melted and there was honest-to-goodness terra firma exposed. I would set the carrier down and let Jezebel out to sniff and scratch the musky wetness. She would be the one to reassure the other three at home that all was not lost and that the earth was still out there somewhere beneath their feet.

After several hours and miles of exploration we returned to warm fireside, hot soup, and comfy chairs. I was exhausted and exhilarated all at the same time. So, I grudgingly express my appreciation to those intrepid snow jockeys. I only hope they get as much out of their mechanical meanderings as I did out on my wooden magic carpet runners.

Wandering into the Maine woods is a risky enterprise at any time of year. But, following a snowmobile trail guarantees that at some point you will end up in someone's back yard or driveway. Dehydration isn't a concern when there are a million acres of snow around you. Wildlife is really the only threat one needs to be mindful of. A lone articulate human and an indulged feline are very tempting to the carnivorous denizens of the forest. I came across the tracks of many such inhabitants who were using the trails for transportation as well. I never saw them but I was sure they were seeing me. With just the ski poles for defense it would have looked like a really bad Marlin Perkins samurai movie.

*--Lest I forget, my Gentle Readers of longer standing will recall my attitude and sentiments regarding the Welsh-born so-called patron saint of Ireland. I utterly refuse to acknowledge the feast day of someone who inflicted such an insidious religious plague on the perfectly good culture of Hibernia.

Mother Nature, being the teasing, seductive vixen she is, drew the shades down on our little Spring preview. Heavy white shades of fluffy wetness. It hangs from the eaves like Battenburg lace set with crystals when the sun peeks through her veil. Time to grab the shovel and redecorate the driveway.

2011-03-07T12:32:00.001-08:00

Ta-Da! Not-So-New-But-Improved

2011-03-07T11:33:00.000-08:00

It was my sincere and earnest intention to return to the Blogosphere yesterday. However, the unpredicted and thus unexpected ice storm that began early yesterday strategically brought down a few trees here and there resulting in my internet services being brought to a crunching halt. Gracious, the lengths One will go to in order to prevent my blogging.

All in all, it might not have been an inconsiderate postponement. I mean, really, what could I blather on about other than the riveting details of my bed-confining illness? **YAWN** In a nutshell then...I contracted double pneumonia which led to endocarditis. But wait...there's more! I was also bestowed with shingles on the fifth day of feeling like death over easy. I've always been something of an over achiever. After swallowing a scuttle's worth of anti-you-name-it medications and potions I am upright and as mobile as necessity dictates.

Things I came to terms with and/or discovered during the process:

I really need to paint the ceiling.

Cats are an ideal source of heat and conversation.

The Queen Mother is not as helpless as she pretends.

With no distractions, you CAN actually gauge dust accumulation.

Snowmobiles sound like swarms of Jihadist bees bent on the destruction of serenity.

People are way too interested in the the thickness of pillows, thread counts, and the positioning of blankets.

Jello makes a great cat toy.

Toast not smothered in fats, jams, or gravy does not constitute nutrition no matter how many cute shapes you cut them into.

Oh I could go on.....and will....in future transmissions.

In the meantime I want to make it abundantly clear that I have kept up with all of My Gentle Readers and fellow Bloggers. You have been a prolific bunch and I truly appreciate it. I was unable to leave comments since rising up any more than a 30 degree angle sent me into tail spins. My cousin got hold of some i-thingy that enabled her to read the posts to me. These were shared with attending medical personnel and visitors--who were impressed with the diversity and international flavour of my acquaintances. I don't take any of y'all for granted but it was nice to have how special you all are brought home to me. June and OldFool were particular favourites and I expect your following will increase after this. June's toe situation has launched all kinds of anecdotes/treatment theories. Thank you, Red, for keeping it pertinent and relative. Maine Homestead kept me full and satisfied while eating that damned dry toast. Lady Hawthorne and Desideratum fanned the flames of creative inspiration for projects. Y'all have really been a blessing....maybe all this technology voodoo ain't so bad after all.

Dispatch From The Tundra

2011-02-12T22:19:00.000-08:00

Lord Wellbourne regrets his long and unexpected absence and wishes his Gentle Readers to know that he has not abandoned the blogosphere. He has been experiencing difficulty with his vertical hold control--in other words, he hasn't been able to remain upright for very long at a time due to some cardio-pulmonary unpleasantness. He hopes to be well and back very soon.

Now he must return to his horizontal position before the sentries posted to watch him realize he has evaded them and slipped into his studio.

Lord Wellbourne also wishes to thank Red for her very nice letter and hopes to be able to reply very soon.

And to all his Gentle Readers he wishes a very Happy Valentine's Day!

2011-01-07T22:07:00.001-08:00

The Transcendent Tundra

2011-01-07T20:54:00.000-08:00

Like most men I am captivated by women who possess the triple threat combination of beauty, brains, and boldness. In this particular instance the object of my fascination is a rather complicated creature. Freud would assign her with labels such as obsessive/compulsive, passive/aggressive, and possibly manic/depressive. She can be as volatile as she is serene. She can inspire one moment and terrify the next. She is generous and miserly. Her beauty is the fodder of poets and her wrath causes men to find their misplaced religion. She is an international superstar and the girl next door. Even her anger has a beauty that enthralls. She is older than the hills and as fresh as 'the darling buds of May'. Her name is "Mother Nature".

Winter here on the tundra gives a person plenty of opportunity to ruminate over one's environment. It is cold. Not as cold as it could be or has been but cold enough to brave the outdoors to gather up the wood for the fire that warms the thought processes.

The snow that fell before Christmas is what led me to ponder the mind of Mother Nature. I watched as she placed big fluffy flakes ever so gently upon every needle of every branch in the pines and firs. But she also took care to outline all the twigs and branches of the other leafless trees so as not to have them feel left out. Everything was highlighted--white upon green or brown against a greyish blue backdrop. The lower branches of the pines became so laden that they bent down towards the ground to create the flying buttresses for miniature Gothic cathedrals of snow and wood for the red squirrels to worship in. Vespers were said in the awesome silence wrapped in white.

Over the next few days the sun's warmth erased the scene so carefully constructed. Mother Nature took it in stride and yielded up her crystal confections to dazzle the eye. As each branch freed itself a cascade of pure white confetti caught the light as they joined their compatriots blanketing the ground. All in a deafening silence of delight.

The next snow was not so pleasant. She wasn't about to repeat herself. She tossed it down at us like a gauntlet and laughed as we attempted to pick it up. She's like that sometimes. And who can blame her? Humankind has as long a passive/aggressive-obsessive/compulsive-manic/depressive history with her as she has had with us. We rearrange her landscapes, we reconstitute the air in her skies, we exploit the resources in her waters. No one likes to be criticized or improved upon, least of all her. So every now and then she shakes things up a bit, blows out the candles along a few coastlines and prairies, and gives a few places a good dousing. It's just her way of reminding us that, do what we will, she's still the boss.

She is a strange mistress. Her daily routine keeps me humble while elevating my soul to her level. She gives only to take it away in order to reimburse you with something else. As benevolent as she is, it is a very dangerous misstep to take advantage of or for granted what she has to offer. Winter on the tundra behind the back woods lends itself to the realization that she and we are not so very different. We want to be appreciated and respected, loved and cared about. My only resolution for the new year is to be mindful of my place in her scheme of things and vice versa.

2010-12-05T09:54:00.001-08:00

I Hope Yule Like This

2010-12-05T08:54:00.000-08:00

Her official arrival isn't for a couple of weeks yet, but Mother Nature's frigid sister has been teasing us with her icy embraces. Just now it is snowing. Large, fluffy flakes wafting down and exerting effort to defy gravity while seeking out the ideal resting place. It's a Currier and Ives kind of snow. The type that almost makes you want to get out the boxes of decorating paraphernalia and yield to wild abandon. Almost.

I am acquainted with people who, as soon as the dinner dishes are cleared on Thanksgiving Day, hoist the evergreen into place and have at it. I am not one of them. I've already had to listen to tidings of good cheer for weeks in every store I enter. Aisles of sundries shoved sideways for Santa. The rabid retail redecorating of businesses is perhaps one of my biggest pet peeves.

Please don't misunderstand--I love this season! I love the lights, the glitter, and the colours. I love the crisp, brisk air and the snowy serenity. What I don't like is the avaricious pursuit of material gain. Everything is now 40 to 60 percent off. I believe that includes dignity as well. I have already informed those who are on my gift list that they will be receiving hand-crafted practical gifts. I will not be seeking indulgences from department stores or sacrificing myself on the altars of to-die-for whatevers at bargain prices.

The tree will go up at some point. It will be dazzling and bejewelled with family heirlooms and my latest creative efforts. The lights will dance off of garlands of faceted beads and snowflakes. My mother's hand-crocheted angels will dance among the boughs dripping with tinsel. The cats will vie for space on the tree skirt beneath the celestial confection above. Cats and ribbons are not a good combination so the gifts will be stowed in one of the guest rooms until distribution time. No surface will go unadorned. The creche here, old world Father Yules there, all bathed in warm lighting.

There may or may not be background music. Depends on the mood. I know that silence is scary for some people but, personally, I like the quietness when I'm taking all the Christmas wonder in. I don't need anyone to tell me how or what to feel. In fact, I think it's distracting to the other senses. I think Christmas should be a season of sponteneity not habit. Traditions are wonderful but should never be absolute as if they were written in stone. I don't want to be limited by the past or restricted by the present. Christmas should evolve just as we evolve as each year passes.

Time is the rarest and most priceless gift we either give or receive. If we spent as much time reaching out to one another as we do decorating and selecting the perfect gift, Christmas would get its' meaning back and the world would be the better for it.

2010-12-01T16:59:00.001-08:00

Regrets

2010-12-01T16:28:00.000-08:00

Today would have been my father's 91st birthday. He passed on in 1992. When he was 10 years old, the Stock Market crashed and he came of age during the Great Depression. When I was 11 years old Woodstock happened and I came of age during the Watergate fallout. Two very different worlds often collided under a single roof.

I wrote the poem below for my dad in November 1980. This is for you, Dad, as much today as it was then. Happy Birthday.

Regrets

I called my dad tonight;
We started with the weather
And ended with 'I love you'.
I remember I stopped kissing him good-night
When I was fifteen.
I wish I were back home tonight,
....And fourteen again.

2010-11-24T22:11:00.001-08:00

Everything Else Is Gravy

2010-11-24T21:48:00.000-08:00

'Tis the season to wear flannels-
Fa lalalala la la la la
Hibernate and surf the channels-
Fa lalalala la la la la
Ice and snow and freezing rain-
Fa lala lalala la la la
Wanna hop a south-bound train-
Fa lalalala la la la la

Turkey day has come upon us-
Fa lalalala la la la la
Basting in their oven saunas-
Fa lalalala la la la la
Praise the Lord and pass the dressing-
Fa lala lalala la la la
Thanks for friends who are a blessing-
Fa lalalala la la la la

Fa lalalala la la la la!

Happy Thanks-Giving to each and all.

2010-10-31T18:08:00.001-07:00

2010-10-31T17:20:00.000-07:00

It only seems appropriate that, like The Great Pumpkin, Lord Wellbourne should rise up from the pumpkin patch on Halloween and greet all the good children of the blogosphere with warm wishes for a good harvest.

I have been somewhat remiss with posts of late. In my defense I can only say that sitting in my studio and typing away on the beauties of a Maine Autumn is no where near as pleasant as being out in it. But, as fate would have it, today's early morning snowfall accompanied by 30 mph arctic winds has made the studio a preferable place to be. I will not begrudge the Snow Queen her right to visit us a tad early since it has been a spectacular foliage season and is still in play. Many of you, on the other hand, have been very busy and I look forward to catching up on my reading of you.

I do rather wonder about the obsession some people have with raking. There is this manic urge to gather up and discard the leaves almost as quickly as they fall. Even more baffling is the rapid introduction--post leaf removal--of fertilizer to the nearly dormant grass. Perhaps the study of botany has changed since the dark ages when I was in high school, but I was given the understanding that the fallen leaves were the trees' and surrounding underpinning's fertilizer. Trees grow leaves, leaves fall to ground, leaves decay thus enriching the soil with nutrients so the trees can grow more leaves. Repeat. I do not rake. I like walking through them. My cats enjoy hunting everything from field mice to water buffalo in the leaf dunes. I like the sound they make beneath my feet and the way they rustle in the wind. The root systems and the grass enjoy their winter fodder. It's all good. I don't live on a golf course; I prefer Nature to have her way the old fashioned way. I may appear lazy to the passer-by but I never have to reseed or fertilize my lawns. Green is good. No chemicals filtering down into the brook and the grass is like a lush carpet throughout the summer.

I've also become the mad 'bulber'. I have planted hundreds of bulbs haphazardly and at random. I did them correctly but purposely mixed them together so I won't know what I've done until late Spring and early Summer. Kinda like Van Gogh painting while wearing a blindfold. Fernbrook Court should be be a riot of colour even if only half of the bulbs produce.

In the meantime I am preparing and packaging my winter care packages for my feathered friends; seeds and suet al fresco. This is going to be the happening place for the avian elite. I have created a den out of all the tree branches that have fallen for my newly ensconced red fox who took up residency about a month ago. I have taken to calling him Todders (thanks, June) and he had been sleeping on or under the canopied glider swing on the side lawn. Since that will soon be coming indoors I didn't want him to think he wasn't welcome. It's a secure, snug little den replete with weatherproof cushions and wool blankets. My hope is that he'll bring a vixen home to meet me and they'll settle in and down together. I know, hopeless romantic.

So, my Dear Gentle Readers, Happy Halloween and a Bountiful Harvest of all Earth's blessings to you!

Lord Wellbourne Unmasked!

2010-10-12T12:39:00.000-07:00

Just in case anyone was wondering what the real Lord Wellbourne looked like.....

2010-10-12T12:38:00.001-07:00

2010-09-26T12:10:00.001-07:00

Bon Voyage, Persephone!

2010-09-26T11:23:00.001-07:00

Fall at last, Fall at last, thank God almighty, it's Fall at last! Now that Persephone has departed for her Autumnal sojourn Down Under (where she is making a spectacular comeback), We have arrived at the most breathtaking time of year in Maine. The hills are already choosing their hues for the Fall Fashion extravaganza and the air is crisp with anticipation.

On a closer-to-home and more personal level, Fall is presenting me with a much longed-for opportunity for revenge. Now that the climate has reinvented itself those carnivorous raspberry and blackberry vines are a little less full of themselves. I sharpen my pruning shears in full view of them. I can sense their arrogance and fight have waned. All summer long as I mowed along their borders they consistently harassed and violated me despite every effort to avoid and not provoke them. The old saying says that revenge is better when served cold. Well, it's been a month or so chilling on the sill and about to be dished up. Bwa ha ha ha! They are insidious. They constantly ignore the fencing erected in a treaty agreement--'This is the line, you can have everything on that side and I get everything on this side'. They tunnel beneath to spring up in open lawn. They parachute over and attack all comers. Arrogance. Cocky, narcissistic arrogance. I had the same agreement with the sumac grove. They adhered politely. The same was true with the golden rod and rhubarb. But not the berries. Oh no, not them. From the start they attempted to usurp my authority and overthrow my government. Mother Nature had other priorities so there was no appeal. They entered into an axis of evil with the birds. The berries bribed them with food in exchange for smuggling their seeds to the far reaches of my realm whereupon they sprouted, thus dividing my attention and energies. The retribution I have in mind for them would be less severe had they been as generous with their fruit with my household as they were with the birds. Their all-consuming intent on the conquest of my lawn and resolve cost them their entire inventory. It will prove to be a hollow victory. As the temperature dips my vindictiveness rises. The day of reckoning approaches!

2010-09-14T16:32:00.001-07:00

The Joy Of Sects

2010-09-14T15:39:00.000-07:00

Today has been a most extraordinary day. A day vibrating with religious and spiritual moment. Apparently, and unbeknownst to me, it is 'recruitment day' in rural Maine. Between the hours of 1 pm and 3 pm my little porch was descended upon by representatives of the LDS church, the Seventh Day Adventists, and Jehovah's Witnesses. They hit the neighbourhood at staggered times but converged en masse all at once--no more than 5 minutes apart--on my porch.

As a not-ready-for-prime-time-Christianity person, recovering Catholic with Buddhist/Celtic sympathies it was a remarkable meeting of dogma, theology, spin, and interpretation. One might expect it to have been an uncomfortable tension-fest. One would be mistaken. Everyone was amused at the coincidence, everyone partook of lemonade, decaffeinated green tea, and peanut butter fudge. And the best part--people addressed their biases and prejudices about each other's religious beliefs! Openly and genuinely sharing their stories and journeys. When everyone was gone I couldn't help but think that this was probably the best grass-roots ecumenical convocation ever! At one point my mother joined the group and was graciousness personified. She listened patiently and asked thoughtful questions. In the end she simply said: "I don't understand everything you believe or why you believe it, but, in the end, it's all about loving each other and respecting one another's humanity". I was so proud of her.

Tonight on the evening news I heard that the Pope is making a papal visit to the United Kingdom--the first ever. Beginning in Scotland (John Knox will spin in his grave) and then down into England. As titular head of the Anglican Church Queen Elizabeth II will meet and welcome him. I guess having two huge asteroids pass so close to the Earth kinda inspired some good-neighbour policy. I hope there'll be a whole lot of collared women of the Anglican and Episcopal church in attendance when His Holiness meets the Queen. You know, just to kinda nudge his consciousness in regard to the vital role of Women in the spiritual realm. I'd really be disappointed if all he saw were Religious in habits thus reinforcing that antediluvian belief of where a womans' place is.

I hope a higher power is showering all my Gentle Readers with openness and freedom of expression.

2010-09-01T11:26:00.001-07:00

The Approach Of The Snow People

2010-09-01T10:30:00.000-07:00

Ah, September! The promise of Autumn and all it's golden charms. My Gentle Readers may have noticed that I have been somewhat absent from the blogosphere of late. Fear not! I have not succumbed to illness or lethargy. It appears that I had forgotten a long-standing ritual that occurs annualy here in Maine and probably throughout most of the upper regions of the Northern Hemisphere. It's commonly called 'bundling season'. I was 18 when I left Maine for points south so I was never initiated into the practice. When I returned here last spring I was too preoccupied with chaos for several months that followed to take any notice of the tell-tale signs. I have had a pleasantly surprising introduction to the concept.

Bundling Season begins in mid-August and is primarily an exercise in compatibility. It's Maine's virtual version of eharmony. I have become a 'person of interest' to three candidates. I would like to say that I'm an object of desire but that wouldn't be accurate. Desire in most cases is devoid of practicality. Bundling is all about pragmatism. It isn't about passion; it's about snow shovelling and wood chopping. It's about companionship when you're snowed in and run the risk of cabin fever. It's about someone bringing you the chicken soup and Robitussin when you're down with the flu. It's endless games of Scrabble, chess, and gin rummy. Bundling is semi-hibernation with co-dependance. When the snow melts in April so does the bundling. You have survived the long, dark, cold days on the tundra and it's time to go out in search of berries and fresh air.

This is not to say that there isn't passion and desire involved. It just has a different priority status than it has in Summer. I am a triple threat and I am enjoying the attention. I am not dim-witted or hard on the eyes. I am a decent cook. AND, perhaps most importantly, I am fluent in both silence and conversation. This last is a major quality during Bundling Season. I know when to leave someone alone and when to engage them. I know how to pamper and how to leave-be.

I can't say how all this will turn out. I'm not particularly interested in a bundling partner. However, I'm not averse to the idea either. Could be fun or it could just be more of what I already have now. In the meantime I'm just enjoying the proverbial hunting expedition around the proverbial bush. The snowshoes are primed and waxed, the shovel is clean, and the axe is sharp. I'm good to go. The scented massage oil and Twister game are stowed where they can be easily retrieved. I'm prepared for any contingency. It's the Maine way.

2010-08-15T09:46:00.001-07:00

Thank You, Jimmy Buffett

2010-08-15T08:37:00.000-07:00

It's been over a year now that I left the subtropics for the subarctic. I can't help, occasionally, to ponder on all the 'who's' and 'what's' I left behind in the Lone Star State. It was an easy decision to return to Maine where I was needed. It was a heart-breaking process to say good-bye to my home and 'family' of 26 years.

In the true American spirit concerning converting lemons into lemonade I want to share with y'all the priceless gifts Maine has laid at my feet. According to statistics, Maine is the most forested state in the U.S. so I am always surrounded by green--which happens to be my favourite colour. It is deafeningly quiet so hearing myself think is never a problem. The over-all population is just over a million people and they are concentrated to the south of where I live. (Remember, Maine is roughly the size of Arkansas.) There were more cars in Houston than there are people in Maine. I can, if I choose, go days without encountering another human being--or a car. Every night and early morning in the non-snowy months there is a Wagnerian chorus of bullfrogs and crickets to entertain me. The days are filled with bird-song sonatas. In Texas I was serenaded by sirens, trains, car horns, and landing jets. I sleep on bed linens that have wafted dry in the pine scented open air--with no complaints from the neighbours. Did I mention that my nearest neighbours are deer, raccoons, red squirrels, the occasional moose, and elusive bob cats? Black bears and coyotes come to call after the snow has fallen but they're fairly respectful of my space. There are the rolling jagged peaks of the upper Appalachians everywhere I turn instead of miles and acres of asphalt and concrete. Every clear night is an astronomer's dream. I had forgotten there was more up there besides the Moon, Venus, and airplanes. I used to take all this grandeur for granted. Shame on me! But I suspect that the residents of Eden took it for granted until they had something else to compare it to.

Life is a mysterious and comical journey. I moved to Texas (Galveston Island) with two suitcases and being acquainted with only a couple of people who fell by the wayside soon after arrival. By the time I left Houston two and a half decades later I had a jumbo moving van filled to capacity and a 'family' of friends that gave tangible poignancy to departure. All but a handful of my 'children' were from somewhere other than Texas. Illinois, South Carolina, Pennsylvania, New York, Louisiana, Canada, India, Nebraska, Great Britain, and Michigan were their points of origin but they all converged seamlessly around my kitchen table. They were and are my crazy quilt of warmth and affection. How often I have gathered them up and wrapped them close about me when Maine hasn't been able to comfort me in the chilly darkness of my isolation. Come to think of it, all my ex-es live in Texas but none of them were from there. Texas gave me everything a person could want and need from life. Maine is teaching me to appreciate it. I am a happy camper.

So thank you, Jimmy Buffett, for those prophetic words that come back to me when I walk through the trees in search of the forest:

"It's those changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes-
nothing remains quite the same;
With all of our running and all of our cunning,
if we couldn't laugh we would all go insane.

These changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes-
nothing remains quite the same;
Through all of the islands and all of the highlands
if we couldn't laugh we would all go insane."

Here's hoping that all my Gentle Readers find a good, hearty laugh just around the corner!

2010-08-10T20:05:00.001-07:00

Torches And Pitchforks Not Required

2010-08-10T18:15:00.000-07:00

Listen. my children, no need to mourn,
Or be downcast or feel forlorn.
The time has come to blow the horn!
And meet the returning Lord Wellbourne!

My apologies to anyone who has ever, remotely, enjoyed poetry.

I would like to say that I've been circumnavigating the planet in search of adventure and cheap thrills. I'd like to say that but I can't. More's the pity.

Several weeks back, while my mother and I were enjoying the company of our neighbours around a delightful dancing fire in our outdoor fireplace, we received a phone call from my sister-in-law announcing their annual visit. Upon ending the conversation and putting down the phone my mother began listing all that would need to be accomplished before this blessed event came to pass. The Normandy Invasion had fewer objectives.

Until they arrived this past Saturday evening, I was giving serious thought to turning this house and grounds over to a research facility or at the very least to anyone in need of space with an immaculate, quasi-sterile environment. I have washed thirty-five windows--inside and out--which, as far as I'm concerned, means I washed 70 windows. As well as the standard vacuuming and dusting every conceivable nook and cranny, I steam-cleaned every carpet, rug, and square inch of upholstery. I stripped and waxed all tile and hardwood surfaces. About an acre. All mattresses were turned and disinfected, all linens were washed and hung outside to dry and air. Fresh flowers cut and arranged. All the grounds mowed, raked, weeded, edged, and manicured, lawn furniture scrubbed, trees pruned. The house exterior itself was power-washed to remove cobwebs, wasp nests, and any residue deemed 'unworthy'. All walls and ceilings were wiped down and all draperies changed out. The fur-children were not exempted from this orgy of grime-icide. Each had to be brushed three times a day rather than the usual twice-daily regimen. Baths, new flea collars, and pedicures. I utterly refused to sweep the driveway or dust the rafters in the garage. Somehow, the logic of eradicating pine needles in the drive or dust bunnies 20 feet up over the car's bedroom escaped me. I just couldn't wrap my mind around how this would enhance their vacation. I blame this temporary lapse in understanding and anarchy on the oven cleaner fumes. Or was it Lysol?

The visit, which concluded today at 2 pm, was very successful and pleasant all things considered. It was, miraculously, free of drama and distemper. My mother gave me full credit and *gasp* praise for all my efforts (even though "I'd let her down with the rafters").

I was charming, gracious, witty, even generous. I was so mellow on the herbal infusions I made up of chamomile, Valerian, lime flower, primrose leaves, lavender, and a wee bit of basil from my paternal grandmother's ancient and ever-thriving medicinal/kitchen/spell garden. I'm going to bottle this stuff. I've been experimenting with the combination when I wasn't plotting She-Who-Should-Be-Euthanized's demise. There were heart-felt regrets at parting and all ended well and drifted off into gauzy memory.

So, Dear Hearts, I am at liberty once again to walk amongst the warrens of dust bunnies when they inevitably reappear. The kitties are tentatively emerging from their places of self-imposed exile and soon all will be as it was. I plan to keep the jug o'happy juice close at hand. And I earnestly promise not to go away for so long without so much as a "Save Me!" shout-out to you.

2010-07-17T08:56:00.001-07:00

Ravings From Etherea

2010-07-17T07:18:00.000-07:00

The heavy breathing of the July Dragon has abated somewhat but we are still experiencing those 'lazy, hazy, crazy days of Summer' of lyrical lore. These balmy days cause Lord Wellbourne to meander down the path of metaphysical inquiry. The early mornings and early evenings are given over to grounds maintenance and just enough housework to prevent being designated a toxic waste site.

The rest of the day is spent wandering the highways and byways of Etherea. It's the land where imagination, dreams, and life's dilemma-solving exercises have made their home since I invented it in my childhood.

Here are but a few of the myriad musings that engage my mind daily; shortly after the sun clears the pine tops:

Why does Friend A blame Friend B for what was clearly Friend A's fault? Why does Friend A find it necessary to include Friends C thru Z and situations 1 thru Infinity as excuses for his just being a jerk? Wouldn't it be easier to acknowledge the screw-up and say 'I'm sorry'?

If the world is really going to hell in a hand basket as presented by the environmental, financial, and political communities, shouldn't we all be growing reeds and taking basket-weaving classes? I can't be the only one who hates going anywhere without the appropriate accessories.

If the cap on the oil leak in the Gulf actually stays in place and stops the projectile petroleum vomit--does that mean we can expect projectile petroleum diarrhea somewhere else? Physics says it's gotta come out somewhere. May I suggest Dallas?

Is being able to communicate anything to anyone, anywhere, anytime really a good thing? I think the world was a much happier place before radio, television, and the internet. Ignorance was bliss. The world was your back-yard. The universe was your home town. When was the last time you experienced real bliss?

I don't understand the hoopla over Haiti. I was in Port Au Prince in 1990. It was a dirty, corrupt, crime-ridden cesspool then. Although I am sure there were good folks there, everyone I encountered--from cabby's to merchants--were only interested in what they could get out of me with the least amount of effort. I was robbed three times in six days. Actually I was robbed in one way or another all six days but only three times not sanctioned by law. So, 20 years later it's a dirty, corrupt, crime-ridden cesspool where people are angry about not getting the help they need despite the billions in Federal and International aid--a lot of it from common, every-day good-hearted people. The US has been bolstering Haiti for decades as a counter-balance to Cuba. Is Cuba that big of a threat? What the hell is Puerto Rico and the American Virgin Islands for? And don't get me started on New Orleans. A city of that size built where the Mississippi meets the Gulf AND below sea-level. A city that spent its capital on everything but infrastructure. Nope, can't feel a lot of empathy there.

Who invented 'political correctness' and is he/she still alive? Why?

Lord Wellbourne does not do well when mercury rises in the absence of central air. He does not wish to offend any of his Gentle Readers' sensibilities. Lord Wellbourne just wishes that stupidity would go the way of small pox. Or at least not given the opportunity to reproduce. Does the world need more Brittney Spears'?

Lord Wellbourne, however, makes no apologies for his comment referring to Dallas. Couldn't happen to a more deserving place.

Lord Wellbourne is also trying to figure out why he keeps referring to himself in the third person. It may be time for a brisk stroll around the margarita pool.

2010-07-09T17:46:00.001-07:00

Fried Pride And Pine Nuts

2010-07-09T16:59:00.000-07:00

Aerum Centralis is an invasive species. It is native to areas south of New Hampshire and west of Vermont. It most often makes its way this far north when people of Southern origin move here and build new homes. It is better known by its common name: Central Air. The next house that gets built around here with central air is going to have me as a live-in welcoming committee until September. Then it will be ME who's the 'invasive species'. And I warn you, I'm not that easy to eradicate.

Honestly, the demon-spawned twins--Heat and Humidity--have nearly driven me to distraction. In Texas I had central air. In Maine I have windows. Texas wins. I feel like a gardenia corsage three days after the prom. This time last year I was plotting out a rice paddy in the back yard. Today I'm contemplating a cactus and yucca hedgerow. This extraordinary heat keeps one in a continuous state of inelegance. The cats are strewn about various pieces of furniture on the porch like something Salvador Dali would have painted. I have so many fans going it feels like I'm in a Celine Dion music video. You know it's hot when deer are bold enough to come into your yard and drink from the bird bath--while you're weeding a flower bed ten feet away.

It's supposed to rain this weekend. Lordy, how we need it! On the other hand, She- Who-Must-Be-Endured is reveling in this Saharan nightmare. She is perpetually cold and now she is finally 'comfortable'. The rest of civilization is drowning in its own perspiration but she is rising like Venus on a clam-shell from the permafrost. I do believe that this is the first time in my existence that I have ever envied the frozen fish fillets in my freezer.

I know it's unseasonably hot in other places and I feel for my Gentle Readers living wherever they are. For my friends living in the Southern Hemisphere and who are experiencing Winter---please send a self-addressed, postage paid cargo container to Fernbrook Court ASAP. I'll reimburse you immediately upon arrival. And, please, no fish sticks for dinner. I'll settle for an Eskimo Pie.

2010-07-04T18:41:00.001-07:00

Red, White, And Blue Eggs

2010-07-04T17:50:00.000-07:00

Greetings to all the nieces and nephews of Uncle Sam on his 234th Birthday! Here at Fernbrook Court we did it up right--Maine style. There was pasta salad loaded with lobster. There were moose burgers and hot dogs (not made of moose; the regular red-skinned kind). There were deviled eggs which I added blue food colour to so the blue yolks in combination with the whites and the paprika looked very patriotic. Steamed clams and oysters, lobster rolls, wedges of good Maine cheddar. My mother contributed an amazing apple pie. That is to say, she dictated and oversaw the production from peeling apples to putting the slices on plates. But the best part was the homemade strawberry shortcake--home-grown strawberries, home-baked biscuits, served with hand-whipped cream. I never want to see another whisk again. The place was crawling with neighbours, friends, and relations. I was gratified to hear the oohs and aahs as folks wandered about the grounds at what I have accomplished in just a year. After several lively games of croquet, some highly embellished story swapping and heartfelt remembrances everyone went home.

As my mother was settling into her chair she playfully scolded me for not telling her I'd invited all these people. I told her I hadn't invited them and that I thought she had. When we were both convinced that neither of us had issued invitations we just looked at one another and laughed. People just showed up because they somehow knew we'd be glad to see them. God bless America.

And a very happy Independence Day to my fellow citizens and all who believe in and strive for freedom from bigotry, tyranny, oppression, and intolerance. This is America. We ain't perfect and sometimes we ain't pretty. But as a whole we are sincere and we mean well. I'd like to think that all of us, collectively, are the welcome mat beside the Golden Door. Not so that foreign powers can wipe their feet before walking over us but as a place to pause and feel the warmth of a generous people waiting to embrace them and make them feel at home.

Anticipation is a delicious dish and should always be served warm.

2010-07-02T11:16:00.001-07:00

What's In A Word?

2010-07-02T10:02:00.000-07:00

I was taken aback by part of a comment that June made after my last post. She has a friend who doesn't want to read the books that June recommends because she "doesn't like to learn new words". EGAD and OMG! Writing and reading are the greatest developments of the human species. It's what separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom. With the possible exception of domestic felines. Jezebel sits next to the laptop and corrects my spelling and grammar. This friend of June is a communications anarchist! She's engendering a mutiny upon the human race! She should be pilloried--immediately after that word is defined for her.

Perhaps her lexicophobia is due in part to the confusion of word meanings. So many words in the English language have multiple meanings that can derail the rational thinker's train of thought. For example--just the other day I heard it announced that Prince Albert of Monaco was engaged to be married. To a commoner. It's a rather dismissive description for someone who isn't Royalty. Despite being an accomplished human being, this beautiful young lady is a commoner. She's about to marry Royalty. I hope she doesn't believe marriage is going to 'up her ante'. I mean, after all, getting paid a lot of money to do little or nothing except cut a few ribbons and pose for photos isn't exactly contributing to the greater good is it? I guess since their faces are on the currency they assume it belongs to them.

The word 'common' is an interesting word and shows up frequently in our daily language. Let's take a look at some other examples, shall we?

Common Ground: A mythical land where people of contradictory opinion seemingly create a level playing field from which each opponent can plot to seize the moral high ground.

Common Market: A place where everyone from everywhere is invited to make money fulfilling supply and demand. Except for those who have more demand than supply and vice versa. The only one making a profit is the landlord.

Boston Common: (This also applies to any city's 'common'). A pastoral area set aside in an urban setting where people of all classes, creeds, and colours can ignore one another equally.

Common Courtesy: Thoughtful consideration of others. Practiced by thoughtful, considerate people and is becoming rarer as these people are on the verge of extinction.

Common Sense: The application of practicality. Something everyone has access to but rarely utilizes. Invoked by people in judgement of others. Politicians use it as a campaign vote-getter but widely ignore its existence until they can figure out how to regulate and tax it.

Common Soldier: An oxymoron. There is nothing common about soldiers. They are extraordinary individuals.

I hope this little exercise helps those who fear words and the power they have. They are healing balms in the right mouths and hands and weapons of acute destruction in the wrong ones. Choose your words carefully--you may have to eat them someday. It's a common fact of life. Please pass the salt.

2010-06-29T23:02:00.001-07:00

Is That A Brain In Your Pocket........?

2010-06-29T21:07:00.000-07:00

I have spent the past few days being perplexed by my friend and neighbour who I'll call 'John'. I call him 'John' primarily because that's his name. The state of perplexity is not altogether unfamiliar territory to me. I have a time-share there. When I go it's usually because of something that, at least initially, short-circuits the 'common sense' mechanism of my mental gear shifter.

It happened as benignly as possible with a friendly chat with John's wife Saturday morning. We discussed lawn care, neighbourhood 'news', and the upcoming 4th of July holiday. I ventured the observation that the past few times I'd been to their home, John seemed more subdued than usual. At this juncture I should probably point out a few things about John. He is a middle-aged man a few years my junior. He is a good-looking, well put together hard-working blue-collar guy. Good sense of humour and very clever. Good hearted and good natured for the most part except for an occasional bout of manic-depression. They have been my mother's very considerate neighbours for over twenty years and on my sporadic, brief visits home I would exchange pleasantries in passing. Since I have taken up residency we have all become much better acquainted. In response to my observation, Mrs John--without any hesitation or malice--shared that John was intimidated by my brain. I was dumbfounded--which I have to tell you is a wonder to behold since it occurs so rarely. "He's what!?" I stammered. She proceeded to remind me of a night more than a month past when they had come to our house for dinner. The TV was on in the living room while I was finishing up and setting the table. Jeopardy was on and apparently while I was folding the napkins and laying the silver etc... I correctly answered a wide variety of seemingly obscure questions without once looking at the screen or giving the subjects any great thought. Apparently this confirmed his sense of social inadequacy as well as intellectual deficiency. Lord Wellbourne went to universities. Lord Wellbourne had been a professor. Lord Wellbourne KNOWS stuff. It seems that John feels the need to police himself with what he says and the opinions he expresses. Therefore he doesn't voice anything he isn't positive I know very little about. Like the Red Sox, engines and electronics, and the logic behind wearing a heavy coat and shorts in December.

I'm not sure how to address the subject with him. Despite his bluster he's very sensitive. My Gentle Readers who know me personally can attest that I am not a snob where education is concerned. I don't think I'm a snob where much of anything else is concerned either. Well, except where stupidity is concerned. I don't like stupid. It dresses funny and smells bad. I'm rather hoping that the issue will just go away on its own. It makes me self-conscious. The man's not a moron by any stretch but I find myself paring down my conversation so as not to rub salt in a wound that he's self-inflicted.

Perhaps I should just embroider him a pillow that says: Diploma's Get You Through Doors But Cleverness Gets You Through Life. That's how I got here. College was great--no one ever told me to put a book down and clean my room. It's what I learned outside of the classroom that mattered. Earth is the largest campus and has the most amazing prospectus. The best part is that it also offers very affordable refresher courses. I signed up when I came back to Maine. I was happy to discover I hadn't forgotten more than I remembered. That's always a good thing.

2010-06-25T20:52:00.001-07:00

Lord Wellbourne Writes Again!

2010-06-25T19:15:00.000-07:00

I know, the title sounds hokey but I've been out of the loop for so long you must forgive my clumsiness. I'll be my own erudite and clever self after a few more posts. (He says with fingers crossed. It's hard to type like that, by the way).

I am pleased to announce the arrival of my new Dell Inspiron laptop. It's a beauty. Glossy black and very sexuous. I've named it Sherlock since figuring out all its' bells and whistles is like unravelling a mystery. It is much smarter than I am so I kinda feel like Dr. Watson when we're working together. Sherlock's arrival came with all the usual drama that accompanies something being ordered, processed, and shipped. But he's here now and we are in that sweet, shy stage of our honeymoon. "Am I pressing your keys too hard?" "My, but don't you have a sensitive touch pad?" "You're actually bigger than I thought you'd be." You know, the usual kind of dialogue one has with a new cyber paramour.

I was up all last night until 4 am this morning catching up on all the blogs I follow. I left few comments because I wanted to get to bed before the sun came up. Y'all have been prolific! To my dear June (Ageing Gratefully) I just want to say that your bust is secondary to what resides within your bosom. Thank you, Lady Hawthorne (Canterbury Cottage), for reminding us that the greatest blessings in life are often the very things we take for granted. To the ever-vibrant Von (The Good Life) I send warm appreciation for the vitality you express in the midst of your winter 'Down Under'. And Red, (Caught Him With A Corndog) who was my inspiration to begin blogging in the first place, you're a class act through and through. You go, girls!

But none of my gentle readers must think for a second that I remained idle while I was in cybernation. Au contraire mes amis! I have been very invested in landscaping and grounds keeping, yes indeedy. I didn't have a yard in Texas so I'm making up for all those years of asphalt and cement. I spent a vast amount of time diligently attending to the de-weeding process. I have nurtured marigolds, irises (blue, purple, white, yellow), peonies the size of softballs, lilacs, tulips, roses brought by ancestors from Ireland, lupins, thistle (smuggled from Scotland), and the tiger lilies are on the verge of explosion. I have widened the panoramic vista of my gnome garden and given the black raspberries plenty of breathing room. I've planted several spruce trees in appropriate places and evicted other trees which didn't play well with others. The only thing I didn't do--much to the chagrin of neighbours, friends, and other bipedal pests--was mow the grass. For six weeks I utterly refused to succumb to neighbourly peer pressure and commit wholesale slaughter on the wildflowers that deemed me worthy enough to make their home on my lawn. Dandelions, buttercups, Indian paintbrush, johnny-jump-ups, daisies, wild strawberry blossoms, and pink and white clover. Walking across the lawn was like being in an Herbal Essence shampoo commercial. Bees buzzing happily, birds flittering and joyously singing. "Nope, ain't gonna mow til there ain't no mo'" was my motto to anyone who asked, hinted, or whined. Once they'd had their glorious lawn party and folded up their foliage I got the mower out. That was two weeks ago and it needs a trim again. Whoever said that a job well done needs never be done again didn't do much of anything except come up with pithy sayings. I've decided that he or she was referring to fine art--do we really need another Mona Lisa, Sistine ceiling, or a David? If that adage was true we'd all be unemployed and bored out of our minds.

So, my dear Gentle Readers, I have returned and I have fathoms of fodder for future folios. Run with it, June, as only you can do. I have missed you all beyond what words can express. By the by, Maine Homestead and the Grant Farm was my imaginary oasis during the cyber dry-spell. I couldn't wait to find out what was cooking in their kitchen and what was sprouting in their garden. I was thrilled to hear about Carlo's arrival. Makes me wonder about adding some livestock to my Eden in the Pines.......other than turkeys that is.............

As I Was Saying.........

2010-06-04T15:18:00.000-07:00

I am humbled by your responses to my last post!! Humbled and gratified. No need to be concerned with it giving me a big head.....I've been banging it up against the wall for the past eight weeks. There's no more expansion possible what with the swelling.

At some point between the 18th and 24th of this month I will, at long last, be in possession of my very own brand spankin' new laptop. It will be my first non-previously-owned instrument of Satan. I ordered it this past Tuesday directly from Dell. As one of my acquaintances put it: "Now you've gone off the deep end beyond the point of no return." I have to say that people tend to under-value and over-estimate the 'deep end'. While touring the deep end these past two months I encountered many characters and characteristics both disturbing and delightful. (Many of them being me and mine.) It's been a learning experience; an exercise in derring-do horticulture, spiritual gymnastics, and gravity-defying patience with a heapin' helpin' of ambivalence. I find that ambivalence can be as addictive as any narcotic. It's a warm fuzzy security blanket while in the cold embrace of ignorance.

I am grateful to have a cousin who A) I like, B) owns a computer, and C) mixes a mean Tom Collins. I could have availed myself of her hospitality sooner but I was rather enjoying my self-inflicted Spartan martyrdom. I missed y'all terribly and I appreciate each of you even more now that I realize how fragile our connection is.

So, my Dears, enjoy the virtue of patience for a few more weeks and I will return ready to regale with tales of my sojourn in the Land of Cyberlessness. Just east of the Deep End.

Neither Gone Or Unremembered

2010-05-31T10:36:00.000-07:00

Greetings to all my blog-mates!! I have not: A) Died, B) been abducted by aliens, or C) entered a cloistered monastery. My computer died to become the ultimate April Fool's Day joke and the laugh (such as it was) was on me.

I assure you I will be back very soon. I have countless anecdotes to share about my cyber exile and how I filled the long, lonely hours. No one will ever find the bodies......

Beware The Ides Of Wellbourne

2010-03-27T16:53:00.000-07:00

It is one whole week of post-hairpocalypse. An itinerant stylist, Joy, came to the house two days after the 'episode' and set things to rights. I wish I'd had a camera to capture the look on her face when she took in the scope of what I'd done to my mother. Oh, the colours her face turned and the contortions it went through trying to suppress her inner jocular upheaval. Joy, it turns out, is related to us by a couple of removes. She is very personable and does good work. She caters exclusively to 'ladies of a certain age' and whose situations prevent them from going to salons. My mother was more than agreeable to becoming a regular client. Especially after she found out that many of her acquaintances are also clients and Joy has no difficulty with sharing 'items of interest'. I was so relieved they hit it off I sprung for a manicure and pedicure to expiate my stylistic faux-pas.

However, I'm beginning to feel that the 5th Commandment has long-term ramifications that reveal themselves in the oddest ways and in the strangest places. I do not have a copy of the Torah so I can't look up any disclaimers, S.O.P.'s, addenda or amendments to "Thou shalt honour thy mother and father". You know, like, "If a son causes his mother's head to resemble an unshorn sheep (or Angela Davis), it is an abomination and he will be made to suffer".

It's gotta be in there because I have had the strangest week revolving around me being me. Those of you who know me up-close and personally will recall that I cannot wear a wristwatch--either quartz or the wind-up kind. There is something about my person that turns their innards into mush. That is why I carry a pocket watch. I have been told by people given to New Age leaning that I have an amazing aura. I have been told by still other weird-science folk that I am a walking electro-magnetic field. That makes me a transient Bermuda Triangle. Oh, joy, Oh rapture. Well, whatever the hell it is, I'm just about over it.

I set off metal detectors from three feet away. If someone in a crowd comes within 6 inches of me during dry weather you can literally see the static electricity arc from my body to theirs. No one will shake hands or attempt to hug me these days. The cats are avoiding me like I was a Veterinarian. It reached a climax yesterday.

There is a terrific new store in the strip center where I do the grocery shopping. It's a cross between a flea market and an antiques shop. Tons of treasures and loads of junque. I've been there many times and the staff and I are on a first-name basis. As I walked about the very extensive floorspace the manager noticed that wherever I walked the fluorescent lighting dimmed and in several instances the ballasts completely failed and areas went dark. He came up to me and asked if I'd noticed this happening. Was I doing it on purpose. Does this happen often. I gave him a briefer explanation than the one above and he said he was very sorry but he was going to have to ask me to leave. I went to the checkout and paid for my selections--under the speculative eyes of staff and customers who'd also apparently witnessed the phenomena. On my way out of the store I popped my head into the manager's office to apologize for something I couldn't help but felt bad about. No sooner had I stuck my head in the door his computer crashed! He couldn't reboot. He just looked at me and very evenly said "Please....go.....away. I did. All the way home the 'check engine' light kept going on and off. I hadn't been on line for several days because I kept getting error screens saying newly added hardware wasn't installed properly. There's been nothing added to this computer in two years.

Enough already! I unwittingly turned my mothers coiffure into lambswool. I'm sorry, okay? I haven't experienced any woo-hoo stuff today. The computer's behaving itself better than it has for a while now. Perhaps I've finally escaped the cloak of anathema that has enveloped me since I removed the last roller a week ago. I think perhaps this has more to do with the pleasure I got out of the mishap. A distinct sense of satisfaction at obtaining retribution for the difficulties I endure at the hands of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. My mom is a very dear woman who, on many occasions, turns into Momzilla for various and sundry reasons. Most of which are known only to her and cannot therefore be intimated to the uninitiated. Suffice it to say that happy cohabitation is often a challenge.

In any event, I will have to wait a while before returning to that particular 'fleatique' store. In the meantime I am going to enjoy the pristine matching pair of Meissen porcelain candleholders I purchased for $10.00. I collect porcelain and finding these flawless beauties was like the balm of Gilead on my fried nerves. The week wasn't a total loss--unless I somehow manage to cause spontaneous combustion.

Now there's an electrifying thought............

The Road To Hell........

2010-03-21T05:16:00.001-07:00

....is paved with good intentions, indeed. A person should never allow himself to be coerced, cajoled, or convinced to do something against his better judgment. There comes a point when each person should take his or her stand as an immovable object against an irresistible force just for the sake of self preservation and dignity. In this instance I am a miserable failure.

The day began well enough. Up before daybreak putting a succulent, savory pot roast with accompanying veggies in the crock pot to enjoy an all day spa treatment for the evening meal. At 7 am out in the garage to gather all the necessary accoutrements for working in and about the yard. Hour after hour, wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of twigs, branches, and piles of raked up debris that had been fermenting beneath the snow. The brush pile is taking on Alpine proportions. Sloshing and slogging about the glacier-enriched lawn turning soil for imminent plantings. Restacking the stone wall after months of sub-arctic upheaval. By 2 pm I had accomplished all I'd set out to achieve (and all my body could absorb) and sat down triumphant to allow the first day of Spring's efforts to wash over me. It was a beautiful day--warm, sunny, clear. I took in the results of all I'd done and said to myself, 'it is good'.

Being a warm day and having expended more physical energy than I had been accustomed to I determined that I was in need of a rejuvenating ablution. That accomplished and freshly attired, I ventured into my mother's realm of influence and litanized what I'd accomplished out of doors. She was very praising and encouraging--which I should have recognized as the opening salvo across my bow. However I was too full of my own heightened self-satisfaction to do so. I ended my history with the fatal question: "What shall I do next?"

That's when it happened. The abyss yawned before me and I walked right into it.

"Well, I have an idea." said my sweet, encouraging mother. "How about giving me a perm?"

My mother had, in Paris between 1939 and 1944, been employed by Chanel as one of those ladies who come out wearing couture for prospective buyers. That's where she met my father, a strapping young lieutenant, after the liberation, chauffeuring officers' wives around to the fashion houses. Anyway, she has always been very particular about her appearance and most especially about her hair. She is unable to go to a salon comfortably and everyone who's come here to work with her hair has declined to do a perm. Mother wants a perm. I don't 'do' hair. Therein lies the dilemma.

"Oh, don't worry", she says. "It's easy and I'll be right here guiding you all the way."

I protested. I voiced my doubts, inadequacies, and concerns. To no avail. She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed wanted a perm and there was no appeal or commuting of sentence.

So, I set about doing my very best Vidal Sassoon/Paul Mitchell impersonation. All the right tools, warmed towels etc... My mother did, indeed, walk me through the entire process. I felt empowered.

When all was said and done and the rollers were off and the final rinsing was in progress I began to have a very bad, no, serious foreboding, of what was about to happen. All my mother had said was to take a combful of hair, envelop it in the paper, roll it snugly, and secure it in place. She didn't say what direction it was to be rolled. The phrase is 'roll up' isn't it? No one ever says 'roll down' do they? Needless to say the results were less than satisfactory in her considered opinion. She now resembles the Bride of Frankenstein or perhaps Madame Pompadour on acid. It's the curliest bee-hive you've ever seen. She says it can be fixed. She says it isn't my fault. Her face is set in granite as she repeats the words. Over and over and over. All it needs to be 'complete' are a few Christmas ornaments or a stuffed bird or two.

I am mortified. At the same time I am experiencing inner hysterics. Outwardly I am apologizing profusely, reiterating my earlier disclaimers. "Mia culpa, mia culpa, mia maxima culpa". Inwardly the men in white coats are ineffectively trying to subdue me.

This first day of Spring is one for the history books. This is the day I successfully tamed nature AND defied gravity. Sorry, Mom. Poodle On!

2010-03-18T16:58:00.001-07:00

Erin Go Bragh!

2010-03-18T15:56:00.001-07:00

Rather than insult or offend my Gentle Readers with my opinion of Paddig aka Patricolus aka St. Patrick who, in the 5th century, was captured by pagan Irish pirates on the southwestern coast of Roman Britain (now Cornwall) and conscripted to servitude in Ireland and who, in due course, escaped to Gaul, got religion, and returned to exact revenge on the pagan Irish by inflicting Roman Catholic Christianity on them thus ruining a perfectly good civilization, I've decided to share a wonderful poem that describes the lyrical, open-hearted Irish race.

We are the music-makers
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers
And sitting by desolate streams,
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world forever, it seems.

--A.W.E. O'Shaughnessy from "Ode"

I hope you all have a wonderful 'Celtic Appreciation Day'. May your pockets be heavy and your heart be light. May good fortune pursue you by day and night.

2010-03-09T16:19:00.000-08:00

Tan Gents Of No Great Import

2010-03-09T15:12:00.000-08:00

Well, it's been a week since I first encountered the cyber voodoo that has plagued my computer. The cavalry never showed up and no embassy from the realm of Techno-Geekdom has come charging up on white steeds. So, until this contraption breathes its last, I am going to forge ahead and blog my heart out.

Oh, hell, now I can't think of anything to blog about. While I've waited for reinforcements I filled my time with needle and thread. The Renaissance gown and underskirt were completed and will soon be on their way to Texas. *sniff* I'm back in the domestic housewares saddle again. Of course, while I'm sitting there, hour after hour working the needle, I do think about the strangest things. My mind is a rabbits' warren of ideas and conjectures.

By now I assume that my regular Gentle Readers are aware of my healthy respect for language and words. I love words. I hate to see them abused. My particular battered choice this week is the word 'awesome'. It's supposed to mean something that inspires awe. Something that causes one to feel a sense of wonder and amazement. The Northern Lights, for example. Or perhaps an erupting volcano. A prime example would be birth. In any species of the animal kingdom. Watching new life emerge into the world inspires awe, amazement, and a sense of wonder. The particular tasty flavour of a cookie or cleaning properties of a laundry detergent do not, at least for me, create that sensation.

I've also given some thought to religion. Christian scripture to be more precise. Matthew 18:20 "Where two or three are gathered in my name, there I am in their midst." OK, so, does that mean that the solitary person endeavoring to communicate with the Divine is just spinning his wheels? Does he have to go find an accomplice to get heavenly attention? It's always been my contention (and experience) that whenever two or three are gathered in His name you have met the basic requirements for inevitable conflict. By the way, the answer to the above questions is 'no'. Matthew 6:7. Read it for yourselves, kids, it's an awesome piece of advice. As many of you have come to know, I am not given to organized religion. Neither am I an atheist. Nor am I agnostic--I read and get a lot out of sacred texts from the worlds religions. I just don't confine myself to any one particular 'ism'. I am an avid (and sometimes rabid) vigilante where the cult of 'hypocrisism' is concerned. If your 'talk' don't 'walk' then shut up. Walk the talk and I'll follow you anywhere. Confucius, The Buddha, Jesus, Gandhi all had plenty of miles on their footwear and thus I respect them immeasurably. These were awesome individuals.

Since the computer hasn't gone up in a ball of flame and taken me with it--yet--I am going to leave y'all here and get back to the needle and thread. I have missed you. Hope it's been mutual. Anyone need fancy-shmancy pot holders?

Send In The Cavalry--Quick!

2010-03-04T21:26:00.000-08:00

My Dear Gentle Readers,

Please do not misconstrue my silence as apathy. It is, in fact, anarchy. The plebeians living within my computer are wreaking havoc and I am powerless--not to mention--clueless as to how to bring them under martial law.

I have asked for reinforcements from the Realm of Techno-Geekdom and hopefully they will come to my aid before cyber termites eat my brain. In the meantime--keep writing and I will catch up once the uprising is quashed.

A Brief and Much Needed Respite

2010-02-25T07:00:00.000-08:00

Lord Wellbourne has announced that beginning today and continuing through to Monday morning, he will be enjoying a mental holiday from the Blogosphere. For those prone to withdrawal symptoms, he recommends perusing the archives of The Maine Thing for literary gems that they may not as yet have had an opportunity to enjoy. He further recommends visiting Aging Gratefully and The Good Life for similar insightful reading pleasures.

2010-02-23T16:26:00.001-08:00

FAQ's and SVR's--Epilogue

2010-02-23T15:04:00.000-08:00

Greetings once again, all you faithful fans of the phenomenal Lord Wellbourne! We experienced some technical difficulty with our broadcast transmission yesterday as some of you may have noticed. But with the astute application of duct tape, super glue, chewing gum, and an odd bobby pin or two, I believe the tweaking of the ISP has been successful.

SVR--You neglected to mention the Play-Dough.

FAQ--Indeed. Thank you for remembering.

SVR--Your welcome. My pleasure.

FAQ--Lord Wellbourne, I had a few follow-up questions I hoped you would be good enough to answer.

SVR--Certainly. Go for it.

FAQ--Thank you. Going back to your acting career, was it an easy or difficult pursuit for you?

SVR--Easy insofar as it was something I loved doing. Difficult because I really had to put more effort into it than many of my fellow actors.

FAQ--How so?

SVR--I was not blessed genetically with either height or classic good looks. If you are tall and handsome you don't have to go to too much trouble to be noticed on stage. If, like me, you are under 6 feet tall and are never confused for Brad Pitt, you have to emote and project in a way that gets you noticed and heard. But not too much or else you're accused of up-staging. It's a delicate balance and it takes a great deal of concentration to maintain.

FAQ--After our last interview several of your Gentle Readers asked after your health.

SVR--That is very kind of them.

FAQ--In particular they referred to your comment about the congenital heart defect. What is the status of that condition now?

SVR--Non-existent. It worked itself out while I was in my twenties. Other than a few trifling inconveniences my health is quite good. Especially since I've returned to the fresh, clean air of Maine.

FAQ--You stay very trim despite a rather sedentary lifestyle. What's your secret?

SVR--I eat whole foods and maintain a balanced diet. Keeping house to my mother's satisfaction is a work-out regimen that even Body By Jake never dreamed of.

FAQ--Lord Wellbourne, this being February, the month for lovers, do you have any advice for the romantically inclined?

SVR--Pray that January never ends.

FAQ--No, but seriously.

SVR--I hardly think I could be considered having any authority on THAT subject.

FAQ--Any thoughts at all?

SVR--Well, I did hear someone say once that relationships are a fifty/fifty proposition. I contend that that is either bad arithmetic or the recipe for a doomed romance.

FAQ--Really? Sounds right and proper to me.

SVR--Are you currently in a happy, successful relationship then?

FAQ--Um....no, actually, I'm not.

SVR--I rest my case.

FAQ--What would your 'closing argument' be in that 'case'?

SVR--Only this: if each person in the relationship is contributing 50% then each is only investing half of their time and effort into it. Pardon the phrase but it's a half-assed approach to attaining a much desired goal in which you hope to reap maximum returns. At that rate you can only expect to be happy 50% of the time and something completely different the other half of the time. Personally, I'd prefer a better percentage. I recommend that each party consider investing at least 70% of themselves to the objective. Certainly no more than 80%. Everyone should hold back just a little in order to have reserves to call upon in time of greater need. Besides, a little mystery is healthy in any relationship.

FAQ--Is there an easy way to know if a person is right for you?

SVR--That depends on what you want out of the relationship. There is a seemingly harmless way to get an insightful clue. Play a game of Monopoly with your hearts' desire. In the course of the game you will observe how they handle money--haphazardly or prudently. You will see how generous or greedy they are when you land on one of their hotels and you're financially embarrassed. Ultimately you will learn by the game's conclusion if they're a good sport or a bad loser/winner. Do they rub your nose in their victory? Do they pout or do they laugh off their defeat? It's a very enlightening experience.

FAQ--That's an amazing idea!

SVR--Well, don't act so surprised, for heaven's sake. Life, the board game, is too predictable. Monopoly isn't. The financial aspect opens windows into traits that are otherwise kept behind closed doors.

FAQ--Lord Wellbourne, what's next for you? Where do you go from here?

SVR--Specifically--to dinner, to my studio, and then to bed. Generally--I haven't a notion. I'll send you a postcard when I get there.

FAQ--Lord Wellbourne, it has been an immense honour for me to bring your story to the world!

SVR--And it's been great fun for me as well. I hope the world will feel the same.

That, Gentle Readers, concludes this awe-inspiring historical encounter with the incomparable, devastatingly debonair, Lord Wellbourne. We hope you have enjoyed it as much as we've enjoyed bringing it to you. Stay tuned for upcoming interviews with such personalities as Pope Benedict XVI, George Clooney, and Madonna. We can only hope that those interviews will be as fascinating as this was. Until then, this is Iam Nosy signing off.

2010-02-21T17:56:00.001-08:00

FAQ's and SVR's--Part Three

2010-02-21T15:08:00.000-08:00

Greetings again, Gentle Readers of The Maine Thing! We have reached the third and final installment of an exhilarating three-part interview with the legendary Lord Wellbourne. This interview is being conducted within the princely environs of his magnificent studio.

FAQ--Good evening, Lord Wellbourne!

SVR--Good evening.

FAQ--Before we begin, I must say you're very interestingly dressed.

SVR--Oh? Do you think so?

FAQ--Yes, indeed. What is all that?

SVR--A quilted and embroidered jewel-tone Tibetan jacket over a hand-woven Mongolian tunic.

FAQ--And the trousers?

SVR--Black-on-black embroidered silk harem pants.

FAQ--And your topper?

SVR--A heavily embroidered and beaded silk velvet fez--without tassel.

FAQ--Why not a tassel?

SVR--Too fussy.

FAQ--Do you often dress like this?

SVR--Frequently

FAQ--Only at home? Or--

SVR--At home, out to the mailbox, grocery shopping etc...Causes quite a sensation at WalMart I've noticed.

FAQ--No doubt.

SVR--Now, if you've done with my accoutrements, I believe you have some questions for me?

FAQ--Oh, yes, to be sure.

SVR--Excellent. Carry on.

FAQ--When we concluded yesterday I had asked how you came to hand-crafting as a career choice.

SVR--Ah, yes, I remember. I thought it an odd question.

FAQ--How so?

SVR--My dear fellow, almost everything we do as individuals is an exercise in hand-crafting. Preparing a meal, composing a letter, playing an instrument, building a house, gardening etc... We use tools to be sure but our hands, in partnership with our ideas, do the crafting.

FAQ--Where did it start with you, personally?

SVR--Hand-crafting?

FAQ--Yes.

SVR--I imagine very shortly after I was cognizant of having 'hands'.

FAQ--Um......

SVR--Oh! I see what you were asking! Right. Well, I had just turned five when I came down with measles. A week later I came down with chicken pox. Very nasty combination. At one point I began experiencing chest pain. I was taken to the military hospital and X-rays revealed I had a congenital heart defect. A slightly twisted aorta. Scared the bejesus out of my parents.

FAQ--To be sure!

SVR--Well, after I was stabilized and back at home, a long and arduous regimen of medication and bed-rest began. It was sheer misery--for everyone. I had it the easiest. All I had to do was lay there. Boredom was my nemesis. My mother is a superior needle woman. Knitting, crochet, embroidery, needle point etc...She was in her petit point phase at that time and she would come into my room every afternoon with her frame and canvas and spend hours sitting on the foot of my bed to keep me company. The rhythmic movement of her needle was very soothing to me. The developing picture intrigued me. And the fact she could do such precision work while engaging in the give and take of conversation inspired me. At one point I asked if I might try to do what she was doing. She brought me a piece of canvas and a frame and she drew out some lines for me to work on. She sat there beside me and talked me through it so patiently and gently. By the time my convalescence was over, I was nearly as proficient as she was.

FAQ--And how long was that?

SVR--A little over seven months.

FAQ--Good heavens! You did petit point in bed for seven months?

SVR--I did all kinds of needle work. My mother also utilized the time to teach me how to read and write. She brought me water colours and art paper. My days were filled with needle work, literature, and art. It was a difficult time for everyone but it was also a happy constructive time. I was an excellent patient.

FAQ--So what could have been a catastrophe was actually a blessing of sorts.

SVR--Exactly, well put. Today, as I work with my needle, I have the same soothing calmness wash over me. Whenever I stop to look at the embeadered design developing I think of my petit point days and relive the wonder.

FAQ--"Embeadered"?

FAQ--Yes. That's what I call what I do. I embroider with beads. Embeader. I like the colour and light play as well as the texture the beads give the fabric.

FAQ--I see. Your work is amazing, beautiful.

SVR--Thank you. I admit after I've completed a somewhat involved piece I am in awe. Not of my handiwork but that I actually pulled it off. I tend to underestimate my abilities.

FAQ--And you do this on....

SVR--Table and bed linens, clothing and accessories. Lately though I've been going back to straight hand-sewing.

FAQ--Such as.....

SVR--Returning to Maine triggered my 'back-to-basics' gene. I decided to do more practical applications. So, I've been making domestic items--hot pads, pot-holders, coasters, etc... out of salvaged brocade and tapestry remnants.

FAQ--All sewn by hand?

SVR--Yes. I don't particularly care for machines. I am not technologically inclined. I prefer the tactile experience of holding the needle and controlling the tension of the thread myself.

FAQ--Admirable. You are still 'embeadering' though.

SVR--Oh yes--I am nearing completion on a commission for a devotee of the Texas Renaissance Festival. A Tudor Court dress. Very heavy--especially now that I'm adding hundreds of pearls, glass beads, and vintage rhinestones. Twelve yards of fabric and a very complex pattern keeps me quite busy. The straight sewing is my 'unwind' therapy. Keeps me from burning out.

FAQ--Who are your inspirations?

SVR--I'm so glad you asked me that! Well, besides every embellisher in history, there is, of course, my mother to be sure. I must also mention one or two outstanding individuals. Firstly, my good friend, Lady Hawthorne of Canterbury Cottage. Phenomenal crafts woman. An impresario in all manner of needlework and very adept in many other mediums. Then of course there is my dear Red--a graphic designer and conceptual artist of stellar talent. She also makes an incomparable gumbo. And I rather think that Von at The Good Life is an inspiration--what with her painting ability, textile savvy, and gusto for all things Green.

FAQ--Anyone else?

SVR--I would be unforgivably remiss if I didn't include June at Aging Gratefully. I have become inexplicably attached to her. Her ability to paint vibrantly moving canvases with words enthralls me. She has a semantic savoir-faire and textual finesse that is sadly lacking today.

FAQ--Are you still involved with your other artistic interests?

SVR--Oh, yes, quite. I still write, paint, and create jewelry as you can see by looking about you.

FAQ--These are magical rooms.

SVR--Life and art are magical pursuits. They each require a sacred space.

FAQ--Lord Wellbourne, it has been an enormous privilege to speak with you! I still have a number of things I'd like to ask. Would you consider allowing me another day to wrap this up with an epilogue? I'm sure your fans would greatly appreciate it!

SVR--Well, I hate to disappoint people. Very well. Come again tomorrow. But not too early!!

FAQ--You are too kind, sir. Thank you!

There you are, Gentle Readers, Lord Wellbourne has graciously given of himself yet again so as not to disappoint his loyal following. His generosity and selflessness continue to astound all who come into his presence. Until tomorrow, this is a very humbled Iam Nosy signing off.

2010-02-20T09:41:00.001-08:00

FAQ's And SVR's-- Part Two

2010-02-20T08:27:00.000-08:00

Greetings, Gentle Readers of The Maine Thing! Iam Nosy here and today we continue with the second installment of our three-part interview with the enigmatic and devastatingly charming Lord Wellbourne.

FAQ--Good morning, Lord Wellbourne!

SVR--Howdy.

FAQ--When we left off yesterday, you were about to tell us about your illustrious career in the performing arts.

SVR--Was I indeed? Can't recall--but then I've slept since then.

FAQ--I trust you slept well.

SVR--Trust is a beautiful thing.

FAQ--You were a critically acclaimed stage actor for several years. Tell us about that.

SVR--I performed in over 70 plays. Shakespeare, G.B. Shaw, Wilde, Moliere, and Maxwell Anderson were my favourite playwrights. It was great fun.

FAQ--Why did you give it up?

SVR--I came to discover that 'real life' provided more than adequate drama and challenges with fewer lighting cues and costume changes.

FAQ--What do you miss the most about your acting career?

SVR--Sleeping in.

FAQ--What do you consider your greatest role?

SVR--Myself

FAQ--As well as being a consummate actor, you were also a cabaret performer. What did you do?

SVR--I sang standards of the 1930's and 40's as well as re-enacting classic vaudeville routines.

FAQ--Fascinating! But that career ended rather abruptly. What happened?

SVR--My accompanist, the immensely talented Clay Howell, was offered the opportunity to tour with Bette Midler. After 4.7 seconds of soul-searching deliberation, he dumped me.

FAQ--Were you bitter?

SVR--No, relieved. I was really sick of singing 'Melancholy Baby'.

FAQ--Lord Wellbourne, are you--

SVR--Yes, I am.

FAQ--I hadn't finished the question.

SVR--Hadn't you? Sorry. Carry on.

FAQ--It's not important.

SVR--I thought not.

FAQ--You are also an award-winning published author. What advice do you have for aspiring writers?

SVR--Find something to write on and pick up a pen.

FAQ--Is that all?

SVR--What more do they need?

FAQ--What about imagination?

SVR--My dear Mr. Nosy, people who lack imagination or skill and think they want to 'write' can only aspire to criticism. My advice to THAT lot cannot be published.

FAQ--When people refer to you as a 'dilettante' how do you respond?

SVR--I refer them to this wall of sheep skins that says otherwise.

FAQ--You have now embarked on a totally new and unrelated career path. When and how did you become interested in hand-crafting?

SVR--Let's leave that for another time, shall we?

Well, there you have it, Gentle Readers! The second installment of a three-part interview with the matchless and captivating Lord Wellbourne. Please tune in tomorrow when we will discover the roots to his creative prowess and ask him to name names! Until then, this is Iam Nosy signing off.

2010-02-19T08:05:00.001-08:00

FAQ's and SVR's--Part One

2010-02-19T06:47:00.001-08:00

NEWS FLASH!! Lord Wellbourne, International Man Of Mystery and Bon Vivant, has graciously consented to a three-part interview! After nine months of self-imposed exile behind the back woods of Maine, Lord Wellbourne has condescended to give SVR's (somewhat vague responses) to FAQ's (frequently asked questions). Don't miss a single riveting installment!

FAQ--Where does the name 'Lord Wellbourne' come from?

SVR--It refers to an ancestral title that was never granted. An earldom was promised to the members of the Douglas clan of Scotland by Prince Charles Edward better known as 'Bonnie Prince Charlie' in exchange for their support of his claim to the throne of England. Had His Highness been successful this interview would be taking place in Edinburgh.

FAQ--After many years of residing in--and traveling throughout--many parts of the world, how do you find living, so far removed from it all, in Maine?

SVR--At present, rather cold, pleasantly quiet, and refreshingly clean.

FAQ--What brought you back to where it all began?

SVR--Retractable umbilical cord.

FAQ--You spent your early years being brought up and educated in France and England. Do you think this has given you any special advantages?

SVR--Certainly. I am always everyone's first pick for teammate when a Trivial Pursuit game appears. I am also popular whenever a romance novel author incorporates French into her dialogue.

FAQ--When you were a child what did you want to be when you grew up?

SVR--Colourful.

FAQ--Colorful?

SVR--Yes, colourful. As a child all the people I found captivating were often referred to, somewhat disparagingly, as 'colourful'. I wanted to be one of them.

FAQ--According to popular opinion you've achieved that.

SVR--That's very gratifying to hear.

FAQ--Now, about your artistic and theatrical endeavours.............

SVR--Let's leave that for later, shall we? It's time for my nap...er...I mean, tea.

There you have it, Gentle Readers. The first installment of a historic three-part interview with the illusive Lord Wellbourne. In tomorrows' segment we will pursue that intriguing line of questioning. Until tomorrow, this is Iam Nosy signing off.

The Complete Portrait

2010-02-15T14:05:00.000-08:00

Below is the full portrait of George Gordon, 6th Lord Byron of whom it was said "He's mad, bad, and dangerous to know". One of my heroes and, now, my Blogging Icon. I bear no resemblance to him whatsoever, of course. No, the only similarity is an appreciation for history, literature, art, and beauty. Oh, yes, and an independence of spirit. Not a bad connection that.

2010-02-15T14:04:00.001-08:00

2010-02-15T13:33:00.001-08:00

Recession Reflections

2010-02-15T11:27:00.000-08:00

Before I get too far ahead of myself, let me advise my Gentle Readers that there will be disclaimers somewhere towards the conclusion of this ramble. They may not quench the torches of the angry Blog Villagers gathering across the moat surrounding my ivory tower, but they'll cover my butt as far as I'm concerned.

I am enjoying the recession. Yes, I said 'enjoying the recession'. And, furthermore, I'm glad it's happened. It gives me warm fuzzies to hear parents half my age tell their kids to be careful and to take care of their bodies, clothing, and playthings because Mommy and Daddy cannot afford to fix or replace said item. I smile broader when driving anywhere and see less fast-food litter on the sides of roads because people are stretching their food budgets in the supermarkets rather than the drive-thru. I cheer when I see people shopping at thrift shops for everyday necessities rather than feed the corporate big-box-store beast. I'm tickled pink when someone tells me--not about the latest CGI blockbuster they've seen--but about a new board game their family has discovered--one that I've been playing for 40 plus years.

Money is tight. Cash flow is restricted. Everyday folks are re-evaluating what's important. What matters. What things are worth. For the first time in a long time people are aware of the cost AND the value of 'stuff' both tangible and intangible. I think it's a good thing and it's about time.

I am an enthusiastic proponent of the barter and trade system. If the butcher, baker, candle stick maker, as well as the mechanic and tailor all conducted business on that system the quality of products and services would improve significantly. Currency is an impersonal means of revenue. When you invest your time and ability into producing goods in exchange for goods the value of your time and talent skyrocket. You feel better about yourself and validated by what your effort has acquired.

Last summer I traded some of my hand-crafted jewelry and beaded/embroidered table linens for help in yard work--brush clearing, stump removal and the like. I exchanged mending-darning-tailoring abilities for a summer's worth of fresh vegetables and eggs. I traded a cornucopia of custom pillows for carpentry. At the last craft fair I participated in I bartered wares for real maple syrup and honey. In essence I exchanged my hours of labor for someone else's hours of labor. It didn't matter how much time or labor we individually put into the product or service. What mattered was obtaining what we needed/wanted. I'd like to think we each felt we'd gotten the better deal. This year I will plant my own veggie garden and trade the extra harvest for things I need or want, as well as donating some to the local food pantry. What comes around truly goes around.

I completely understand that this system won't work with grocery and department stores, physicians, utility companies, etc... What I'm saying is--people are too focused on the money and not on what it purchases. Just give this a thought in a free moment: if the world suddenly stopped using cash what would you do to get what you needed? What do you have of value and what can you offer in exchange for keeping your household afloat? Sad to realize that there are many people in that very quandary as I write this.

Disclaimer time. I am NOT happy nor do I take any pleasure in anyone's loss of employment, health care, or habitation. I do NOT delight in seeing the homeless and hungry. I do NOT hope the recession lasts for very much longer. It breaks my heart that college students are grappling with dropping out of school and senior citizens are choosing between medication and food. Animal shelters filled to capacity because people cannot afford to feed and care for pets. For many people this has been a very unpleasant wake-up call and I hope the awakening reaps long-term real-life lessons that will benefit us all for generations to come.

There's nothing embarrassing about being frugal and practical. For that matter, there's really nothing wrong with money, either. As long as you remember it's supposed to work for you and not the other way around. Money is an ambivalent, parsimonious, taskmaster.

2010-02-10T21:40:00.001-08:00

Portrait of a Lady

2010-02-10T20:27:00.000-08:00

It is now a little after 11 pm and all of the hoopla has finally subsided. Today is my mother's 92nd Birthday. It has been a very good day. In actuality, it's been a very good week. It all began this past Sunday with the New Orleans Saints winning the Super Bowl--my mother's favourite football team (this week). It's a Catholic thing. In my mother's mind the Saints, Angels, Cardinals, Padres, and Notre Dame all answer to the Pope and therefore must be cheered on to victory or face doing penance.

I had to organize the festivities in shifts so as not to overload the Birthday Girl. Last night was a flurry of cards, gifts, and flowers. The centerpiece was a concert where the guests got to show off their musical inclinations. Who knew there were at least 23 variations of 'Happy Birthday'? In almost as many keys? Electronic keyboards, guitars, harmonicas--almost the entire gamut of wind and percussion instruments got dusted off and brought to the gala. The cats are still very tentative about moving around the house.

Today there were two separate gatherings--morning and afternoon shifts. More cards, gifts and bouquets. Kisses, hugs, and cakes--that's plural. The kitchen is now Diabetic Coma Central. Jennie Craig would have an apoplectic seizure if she could see the amount of sugar taking up residence in every nook and cranny. I'd pay to see that, actually.

The theme of this two day extravaganza was Mardis Gras. Beads, doubloons, and yes, even a king's cake. It will be months before I get up all the glitter and confetti as well as frosting that found its way into the most interesting places.

The best part, of course, was the Birthday Girl herself. I purposely left her out of the loop. She is not a show girl and I knew it would just embarrass her to have this much attention paid to her. She has no idea how much she is loved and appreciated by so many people. She was radiant--the epitome of charm and graciousness. That woman knows how to work a room! Poo-pooing the attention and eating it all up with a trowel at the same time. I stayed in the background doing all the stuff a behind-the-scenes stage manager does. It was HER day and she had earned it the hard way.

She had breakfast on Royal Albert 'Old Country Roses' in bed this morning. She had a candlelight dinner on Royal Crown Derby 'Primavera' this evening. I knew what her day would entail and I made sure to counter balance the caloric orgy. This is the first birthday I've spent with her since she turned 80 and by heaven, it was going to be memorable. My brother, his wife, and their two boys called from Illinois after dinner and thus the day came to its denouement.

It was a very good day for a very great lady.

2010-02-07T08:20:00.001-08:00

Tan Gents---The Beginning

2010-02-07T07:19:00.000-08:00

It has taken me a week to recuperate from my last post. What with the wool-gathering, rewrites, and condensing (yes, it was actually condensed), I was exhausted. Dreams, apparently, are difficult to transcribe. Makes me wonder how John the Evangelist and Nostradamus ever pulled it off.

So, with a nod to June, who initially nodded to Friko, I am going to attempt brevity with my contribution to the cult of Miss Ella Knee but will call it Tan Gents instead. I wrote in a comment that brevity was the very soul of sincerity and I do know the importance of being earnest. Hope you enjoy the cogs within wheels of my addle-pated world.

In the 15th century a law was enacted in England that a man was allowed to beat his wife with a stick no thicker than his thumb. Hence we have 'the rule of thumb'.

I contend that had the law said he could beat his wife with a stick no larger than the dimensions of his penis, domestic violence for the most part would have been greatly diminished--if not eliminated--600 years ago.

I enjoy the sound of the chickadees singing matins during my morning coffee on the porch. Lets me know I'm not alone.

I like it when a leaf wafts and wavers on the breeze before it settles on me. It has never been caressed by anything but Mother Nature and has made its way on nothing less than the breath of Creation. I consider it a gentle reminder that I am "a child of the universe; no less than the trees and stars". This also holds true for snow flakes. I have been reminded a lot lately.

And lastly, I get a huge sense of joy watching my fabulous furry flock of felines lose all dignity and decorum when the squirrels are doing their 'Flying Wallendas' routine in the trees outside. No matter how refined and evolved they purport to be, their baser instincts kick in and the noises that issue forth are a caterwauling cantata. Always makes me feel a little less inferior to listen.

2010-01-31T18:21:00.001-08:00

What's Your Magnet Made Of?

2010-01-31T16:18:00.000-08:00

On this, the last day of the first month of a new decade, I wanted to relate a story that came to me somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Before I begin, though, I must do the not-so-fine-print disclaimer thing: A) The names, nationalities, and nations are omitted because they are unimportant to the story. B) The creeds, colours, political and/or sexual affiliations are omitted because they are irrelevant to the point. There, I think that about covers it.

A captain stood upon the deck of a large ship. Normally, it would have been stacked high with cargo but today it was packed with people. He stood looking over the sea of humanity--refugees from cruel circumstances, hopeless situations, and unpleasant surroundings. Everyone was up on deck to breathe the air and feel the sun-warmed breeze upon their faces. The ship was nearing its destination and all eyes were looking to the horizon where a ribbon of land seemed to be floating upon the water.

At length a couple began making their way toward the captain tenuously. As he watched them he called to mind how these people had made every effort to make the other passengers comfortable, soothe their fears and sharing what little they had. He smiled and tipped his hat in greeting as he looked at them--their faces a mixture of anxiety and rapture.

"Good morning!" said the captain with music in his voice.

"Good morning!' came the equally melodic reply.

"Well, we're nearly there. Soon you will be in a new land where you can begin a new life without fear. You can put the past behind you and look to your futures."

The couple looked at one another and then back at the captain. "Please, sir, could you tell us...do you think... will we be truly happy here?"

The captain knew that all their hopes or fears hung on the words he would speak next. "Yes. Yes, I do. You will find this a wonderful place where you can start fresh. People will be kind and generous to you. You will have many friends and neighbours who will make you feel at home and that you are family". The couple showered their thanks in a relieved outpouring of smiles and tears. They shook the captains hand heartily before rejoining the others.

A short time later another couple approached the captain. He did not smile and all semblance of mirth left his face. This couple had complained about the accommodations, the food, and the closeness. They took whatever was being shared but did not reciprocate from their own meager possessions. The captain eyed them warily.

"Yes?" he intoned dismissively.

"We want to know what we can expect once we are ashore. What will be done for us? We know it has to be a hundred times better than the treatment we've had to endure aboard your ship."

The captain assumed an apologetic tone. "I am sorry that you have had such an unpleasant time of it while you've been with us. We're not used to--or equipped for--passengers. However I'm afraid that you will find it a hundred times worse on shore. The people are unfriendly and will try to cheat you at every turn. Everything is overpriced and of inferior quality. It is a sad, dismal place."

They clicked their tongues, uttered curses and hurried off in a huff. The captain smiled broadly at their backs.

All the while these exchanges were happening the first mate had been standing near by. He was perplexed by the captain's responses. He decided to inquire.

"Sir.....I'm a bit confused. I heard your conversation with the two couples and......"

"And you are wondering how one place can be both a paradise and a prison, is that it?"

"Yes, sir."

"The heart is a magnet and it will draw what it is composed of to itself. If it is kind and generous than that which is kind and generous will be drawn to it and be made twice as strong. If, on the other hand, it is mean and selfish than it will attract only that which will, in time, destroy it. The first couple will be welcomed and the other will be shunned. Both will have their expectations met because of what is in their hearts. If you expect to be happy and are willing to work for it, than you will be. If you expect to be miserable and do nothing to alter your course, misery will find you. People, matey, fail to understand the power they have over destiny--their own as well as others'. No matter what our stations or circumstances are in life , every one of us has the power to create paradises or prisons for ourselves. The magnet in our bosom is the compass we all sail by; but WE choose the course."

Most of the passengers lived happily ever after. The captains' compass stayed true to his chosen course all the days of his life until he reached his Final Anchorage.

2010-01-26T20:58:00.001-08:00

Lord Wellbourne Vents Again--Kicks 'Buts'

2010-01-26T19:11:00.000-08:00

I am sick to death of pathetic wannabes blathering on about their unfair existences, limited opportunities, and the outright cruelty of being alive.

I think most of my Gentle Readers share a few common threads with yours, truly. We are of an age--between forty and dirt. We have been places, seen and done things beyond our back yards. We have endured trials and tribulations great and small. We can all wear the tee shirt proudly proclaiming that we've been there and done that. Huzzah for us!!

So nothing irritates me more than a seemingly sincere, relatively intelligent person wishing to consult my 'expertise' in order to get a handle on "what to do next" in attaining their aspirations. I listen as empathetically as I can, fighting the urge to interrupt for grammatical clarification, and trying to follow the rabbit-warren of logic.

Then comes the pause where I reflect, consider what I've just been told, gather my thoughts and attempt to guide, direct, advise based on academics and life experience. And thus begins the avalanche of 'buts'.

"That sounds great, but....", "I'd like to/I want to, but...." "That makes sense, but...." It's just as aggravating as "I can't" spoken with such conviction despite the fact no attempt has ever been made. These are the same people who are so addicted to self-victimization that they can only sing one song (over and over ad nauseam) and expect you to selflessly join in the refrain.

Well, I ain't Pavarotti and I really hate the "Song of But". Previous 'but' singers will not be given another opportunity to audition. Newcomers will have one chance to receive my input after which they become a previous 'but' singer and the rule goes into effect. Take note: the listener does enjoy variety in repertoire. This is key in procuring future engagements.

From here on my advice to any 'but' singer will be: "If you want to walk on water, you have to get out of the boat. The boat is the HMS Excuses--stay in it and you'll go nowhere fast. If you want to get anywhere you have to get your 'but' out of the boat. You may have to swim a bit before you can walk-- getting your 'but' wet never killed anyone. And don't even think about using your 'but' as a flotation device! It'll sink you faster and deeper than you already are. Now pull your head out of your 'but' and start walking."

I may just refer those seeking my counsel to come here first and spare myself any further irritation. In the meantime, Gentle Reader, thank you for stopping by. And know my door is always open to y'all.

No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

A Walk on the ' Wilde' Side

2010-01-24T07:12:00.000-08:00

"Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination."--Oscar Wilde

Lady Hawthorne of Canterbury Cottage hand-lettered, collaged, and framed that quote for me several years ago as a Christmas gift. She knew that Mr. Wilde is my touchstone when it comes to the creative pursuit of writing. This little treasure hangs on my studio wall just across from my cyber alcove where I can see and read it clearly.

It is also a mantra whenever I go shopping--whether in craft cathedrals or garage sales. Helps to allay any concerns I may have about whether the purchase is justified. It is good to have people in your life who understand you.

One more for the road: "I put all my genius into my life, I put only my talent into my works."--Oscar Wilde

I wish you all abundant life and work.

2010-01-23T07:14:00.001-08:00

Embracing The Wind

2010-01-23T05:41:00.000-08:00

More than twenty years ago, about a year after arriving in Texas, I allowed myself to be talked into a revolutionary cure for acrophobia. I was twenty-six and, for the very first time, I yielded to peer pressure. I didn't like being afraid of anything and was naively convinced I was bullet-proof and immortal. That is how I came to throw myself out of an airplane.

Air travel is not something I was fearful of. Not then anyway. I am more conscientious about it now. The idea of sitting next to someone with a potentially exploding crotch does not engender confidence or a sense of well being. No, it was the concept of free-fall that gave me the most anxiety.

I recalled a couple of statements after the second jump. Yes, Gentle Reader, I did it twice in one afternoon. The first was from an unknown source: "Why would anyone want to jump out of a perfectly good airplane?" And the other from the jump instructor: "Remember to roll on impact". The first statements' response is self evident in its conclusion. No one in their right mind would 'want' to. It takes a particular kind of madness to go for it. But the second statement had a more far-reaching transcendental value to it.

Remember to roll on impact. Not a bad bit of advice, that. Whether it's jumping out of a plane or out of a bed. In these particularly choppy times, when the ground seems to be rushing up to swallow you--remember to roll on impact. When it appears that you are a dumping ground for all the slings and arrows of other people's outrageous expectations--remember to roll on impact. When you perceive how you are about to be the innocent victim of collateral damage in a collision course between an irresistable force and an immovable object--remember to roll on impact.

I'm still afraid of heights. So much for the 'cure'. But I am actually more afraid of the sudden stop at the end of the journey downward. I make it a point to remind myself daily to roll on impact whenever I attempt to rise above my limitations.

A helmet doesn't hurt, either.

2010-01-21T10:54:00.001-08:00

A Table By The Window, Please

2010-01-21T09:07:00.000-08:00

In an effort to dispel the dreariness of the winter doldrums from the household, I gave in to the whimsier side of my personality this morning. A few years ago I purchased a circa 1940's waiter's jacket from a vintage clothing store in Houston. I had very good reasons for buying it: A) it fitted perfectly and, B) the intricate piping and epaulets had great potential for embellishment. From the day I purchased it until this morning it has remained in its' protective plastic shroud. Several years and 1800 miles after being liberated from obscurity, today was its debut.

I am always up before my mother and I set my scheme in motion. At last I heard her trundling down the hallway toward the kitchen. I waited until she had settled into her chair. I had already prepared her cup of coffee as she was making her way and I stepped into the dining room with steaming cup and saucer in hand. "Good morning, Madame. I trust you slept well?" I placed the cup before her and she looked up. Why hadn't I thought to put a camera in my pocket? Bless her heart, it took a few moments for her to focus--and then assure herself she hadn't completely lost it.

There I stood--green and blue plaid flannel pajamas, moccasin slippers, and an ornate white linen waiter's jacket. The ensemble was completed by a tea towel carefully draped over my left arm. "Would Madame care to look at a menu or does she perhaps already have something in mind?" I produced a small note pad and a pen from my breast pocket and looked every bit the part. She's quick, that old girl of mine. "Two eggs, scrambled, a small bowl of fruit, half a bagel-buttered and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, and.....a hot dog." "Pardon me, but did Madame say a hot dog?" "Yes, I said a hot dog. Sliced at an angle and sauteed in butter before being blended into the eggs." Brief pause. "Very good, Madame."

I turned to go into the kitchen but just as I got to the door I heard the sound of snapping fingers. I turned in her direction. She had her right hand in the air and snapped them again while looking directly at me. "Oh, waiter, more coffee, please." "Yes, Madame, certainly."

I whipped up the breakfast and served it on my Royal Crown Derby plates and presented her with gleaming silver utensils from grandmother's silver chest. I unfolded the crisp white linen napkin and laid it across her lap--after removing the cat. She invited me to join her while she ate. I don't 'do' breakfast. I thanked her for condescending to share her meal with a lowly waiter. "It's more convenient having you at the table." she said. "This way I don't have to snap my fingers to get my cup refilled" as she nudged the empty cup in my direction.

Meal finished, she complemented the chef and thanked me for the excellent service as I cleared the table. She asked me to lean down as she had something to give me. I obeyed and she took my face in her hands and kissed me on both cheeks. With a broad smile she whispered "I love you, you sweet, silly boy!"

It was the best gratuity I'd ever gotten.

2010-01-20T08:50:00.001-08:00

Relative Joys

2010-01-20T07:07:00.000-08:00

Sciaticus Maximus. No, not the name of a despotic Roman Emperor. It is the condition that has kept me from my computer lo, these many days. This is my third tango with a condition that literally kicks my butt to the curb. For those unfamiliar with it, sciatica is neuralgia of the hip and thigh. It is a very painful, debilitating all-out attack on the sciatic nerve--the largest nerve in the body. You cannot sit, stand, or recline comfortably for more than five minutes at a time. It's like having rabid free-range knitting needles playing tug-o-war up and down the leg. Every attempt to walk results in an Oscar-winning portrayal of Quasimodo. Step aside, Lon Chaney, Lord Wellbourne's on the move!

Most of my Gentle Readers will remember that my cyber nerve center is housed within my studio. The studio is located in the basement. There is a stairway consisting of 14 foot treads. With this condition they may just as well have been 14 bear traps. So close and yet so far. Cut off from the outside world by three days of continual snow, pernicious sciatica, and blog-withdrawal, I found myself enjoying a gondola ride through the canals of my own mental Venice. Here are several postcards depicting the virtual highlights down the lazy river.

1) Admiring the Celestial Confectioner sprinkling every branch and twig with a fine coating of icy sweetness.

2) Discovering a cousin I didn't know existed and with whom I am enjoying a happy pen-pal relationship.

3) Joyously hearing from a beloved Gentle Reader whose absence and silence left me feeling curiously lonesome.

4) Watching the avenging sun stealthily peeping through the clouds to liberate the pine trees from their burdens of snow-cone oppression.

5) Completing several commissions in record time because I couldn't remember where I'd put the remote .

6) Amusement in watching my mother embrace the role-reversal of caretaker during my incapacitation.

7) Finally being able to negotiate the stairway and return to the land of the enlightened. (Cue the heavenly choir and sunbeam machine)

In regards to #6, I have been remiss in not informing my Gentle Readers that my soon-to-be 92 year-old mother came through her surgery for colon cancer with flying colours and has reaffirmed her tenacity for life. Other than the anticipated discomfiture she is doing very well and her prognosis is stellar. She has been home for two weeks now and we have struck such a harmonic balance that it actually rather alarms me. Being of a reclusive and artistic bent I do not do well with close cohabitation. But I have found it rather pleasant to have companionable conversation at different times throughout the day. I have also become a rather accomplished short-order cook. She cannot eat very much in one sitting so it is necessary to provide several smaller 'noshettes' throughout the day. Her appetite is still voracious so I'm getting to spread my culinary wings in wild abandon.

I want to assure the Gentle Writers who I follow that I will catch up on my reading and comment where I feel inspired to do so. I have greatly missed you all and appreciate your visiting during my sciatic sabbatical. I commented at Ageing Gratefully yesterday to dear June, that there is no chasm of space and time between friends that words cannot bridge. That off-the-cuff remark stayed with me throughout the day and, while writing this, reiterated itself. I am grateful for each and every one of you.

2010-01-09T20:53:00.001-08:00

When, Where, Who, And Why?

2010-01-09T18:38:00.000-08:00

I have spent the better part of this evening answering emails from loved ones in The Lone Star Republic. Not the best part of the evening--that comes later. I think I've managed to irritate one or two of them with my rather left-wing takes on various subjects pertaining to political agendas of administrations past and present. People WILL insist on bestowing their unsolicited political opinions upon me and invoking their constitutional right to free speech--irregardless of historical fact, geographic accuracy, diplomatic considerations or whether I want to hear them or not. I completely support the First Amendment--everyone should be allowed to speak his piece without fear of being silenced. I also believe people shouldn't go around stirring other people's pots and then getting miffed when they get scalded. What's a snowbound Down Easter to do when the temperature is at the lower end of the 'What the Hell?' Comfort Equivalency Scale? Why, turn to whimsy of course!

This is where the 'best part of the evening' bit comes in. Imagine if you would that someone calls to ask if you'd be interested in going through the house of a distant, unknown relative who has passed away. The deceased relative was something of a recluse and had lived in this house since birth and the house has been occupied by the same family for generations. Because of your background in the antiques business the caller believes you are the perfect person to evaluate the contents for liquidation since they have no interest in them or in the house. Barbaric attitude to be sure, but very common unfortunately.

Well, of course you would jump at the chance!! At least, I sincerely hope that you would. So there you are--standing before the front door delicately festooned with cobwebs. The doorway that is--not you. Your heart is beating fast. You have the feeling Indiana Jones has just before entering a Pre-Columbian temple or Egyptian tomb. The key finally turns in the lock and the door opens creakily. The accumulation of generations awaits your discovery and admiration. Isn't this exciting?

You go through the house without any concept of time because time stopped existing in this place long ago. It feels like only moments have passed when in fact you've been there for several hours. In an upstairs room, on a table littered with atlases and histories, there stands an inconsequential looking hourglass. Very dusty but still replete with its' sand drifted in the bottom section. You are drawn to it. You feel the need to wipe away the years of grime. You yield to the temptation. POOF!! A little Bedouin appears on the sand dune and tells you that, in return for your kindness, you are granted three chances to visit anywhere in the past for the length of an hour. You simply put your hand upon the hourglass, speak your chosen destination and time period and turn the hourglass upside down and away you go.

But where? The atlases and histories scattered about make sense now. Where? When? Who?

I have often pondered, if such an opportunity were to present itself, those very questions and I will share with you what my three choices would be and why.

Firstly, I'd choose to be present for the Sermon on the Mount. I would like to see what Jesus looked like, sounded like. I'd like to witness for myself if he really was 'all that' or if he just had an excellent publicity department. I would like to experience the presence of the man/prophet/God in whose name and for whose sake so much was endeavoured. Was he for real or the product of spin-doctors?

Secondly, I'd like to visit the court of Elizabeth I right after the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588. I would love to see Gloriana, the victorious Virgin Queen, at the height of her glory. I want to see her resplendent in bejeweled gowns, hear the voice that encouraged a vastly insufficient force to triumph, and witness her remarkable intellectual tenacity and wit.

Thirdly, I would want to go back to late August, 1976 to relive the moment when I fell in love for the first time. To recapture the instant when I KNEW I was loved equally in return to the same depth and degree. That feeling of empowerment--everything was possible and I was omnipotent. Tragedy separated us but I would still want to have that hour even knowing what was to come. Love is like that sometimes--masochistic and irrational.

So, Gentle Reader, where would you go? What and who would you see? You don't have to share but go through the exercise anyway. You might learn something new about yourself or even rediscover a self you didn't know was waiting to be reacquainted.

2010-01-06T17:33:00.001-08:00

Lord Wellbourne Vents!!

2010-01-06T15:55:00.000-08:00

In future I would like the following descriptive adjectives removed from references to myself. They are: 'dependable', 'reliable', and 'personable'. Let me assure my Gentle Readers that these words will continue to define aspects of my personality--just a little less pronounced.

It has become apparent to me that the above words are the preliminary requirements for a more nefarious and highly incorrect, totally bastardized adjective: 'takeforgrantedability'. I have always made an effort to develop a rapport with employees and staff members wherever I conduct business--banks, restaurants, shops, etc... I don't know if familiarity breeds contempt but it certainly spawns rudeness.

A cashier in the grocery store today invited the lady behind me to step ahead since she only had a few items compared to my half-filled cart. Looking me straight in the eye, grinning broadly, she said: "It's okay, dear, he won't mind. He's such a nice guy." I most certainly DID mind. I would like to have been offered the option of playing Sir Lancelot rather than the condescending role of 'personable' push-over. Once the shopper had moved on-- warmly thanking the cashier and ignoring me--the cashier offered: "I knew you wouldn't mind. I've seen you do it so often for other people." Perfectly true. Still not an excuse for deciding my place in the pecking order.

I never promise anything--ever. The words "I promise..." should never be used in passing or flippantly tossed off the tongue. It signifies a verbal contract that to me has the same gravity of obligation a handshake used to have. Instead, I prefer using the phrase "I'll do my best". And I always do. That being said, I have been called upon by numerous family members, friends, and neighbours to promise participation in various activities; either as a solo act or in conjunction with others. "We know we can depend on you". "We can't take a risk on a stranger when we know how reliable you are". I'm assuming this is all due to the full page Op-Ed piece my evil twin wrote in the local paper announcing my illustrious propensity for impersonating a doormat.

I would certainly like to think that I am, indeed, a nice guy. I don't really mind having those endearing adjectives attached to me--as long as the respect and courtesy those adjectives should call into play are applied. Otherwise.....the party you are calling is no longer in service....

2010-01-06T07:15:00.001-08:00

Of Highways And Hand Baskets

2010-01-06T06:08:00.000-08:00

Some of my Gentle Readers will attest that, in the past, when some gentle soul attempted to foist a computer on me--expounding on the virtues and wonders the 21st century had in store for my benefit--my prompt response was that the internet is the Information Super Highway to Hell. Now, with the assistance of The History Channel, I have been proven right. So there.

This past Saturday THC did a multi-hour exploration of the Seven Deadly Sins. Ironically this expose' coincided with my birthday. I hadn't planned on committing any of them but I thought it was kind of them to remind me to watch my step.

It seems there were originally eight of them until Pope St. Gregory the Great in the 7th century decided that Eight Deadly Sins just didn't have the right ring to it so he combined two of them and created the more ominous sounding Seven Deadly Sins. Assonance is a very strong tool.

He combined the sin of apathy and the sin of 'sadness' into the deadly sin of Sloth. Apparently he believed the Dark Ages were so much fun no one had an excuse to be sad. In the eyes of the Church 'sadness' (read: depression or despondency) was a self absorbing and vain exercise that took emphasis away from turning grief into an opportunity of engendering faith. In other words, not giving every waking moment over to the work and praise of God, despite tragedy and suffering, was a one way ticket to Hell.

A symptom of Sloth, according to one of the 'experts', was the insidious proliferation of the internet. People devoting so much of their time to reading and sending emails, game-playing, and BLOGGING. (Pornography still comes under the Deadly Sin of Lust Department. It is merely a scenic by-pass on the internet interstate.) These activities absorb the soul in unproductive pursuits that do not elevate it or give glory to God. In other words, we're all going to hell. I rest my case. Is it any wonder that one of these tools of Satan is called 'Apple'?

I find it comforting to think I will not be alone and that I will spend a very warm eternity with clever, interesting people. Save me a seat and I'll do the same for you. I wonder if good ol' Gregory will be a super highway patrol officer just waiting to pull us over for high-speed.

2010-01-02T19:42:00.001-08:00

Feliz Compleanos Para Mi

2010-01-02T18:31:00.000-08:00

Today, January 2nd, marks the 27th anniversary of the Silver Jubilee of the amalgamation of my biologic and spiritual selves. It's my birthday and I am 52. I do not clarify because I think my Gentle Readers incapable of figuring it out. Indeed not--I know that you are all very clever and creative souls. No, I clarify because I cannot seem to wrap myself around having another birthday. I am pleased, of course, to be having one insofar as the alternative would suck.

Since my return to behind the back woods (now the frozen tundra) I have felt as though I am hovering in suspended animation. The pace of my life has slowed, my anxieties have all but vanished, and the sharp impatience I felt at the ignorance of others has softened. No, Maine is NOT Shangri-La. It is what it is--beautiful, tranquil, harsh, and real. I am at peace here and, at the same time, at loose ends. I'm still looking for my niche, my 'raison d'etre'.

In the meantime I have turned 52 whether I like it or not. Doesn't feel any different than 51. Then again, no year has felt much different since I turned 40. Sigh...... I know what to expect, I'm familiar with the drill. I will continue to look at teenagers and young adults with a "What the hell is that about?" look in my eye. I will inadvertently catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror and inwardly scream "When the hell did THAT happen?"

I have heard myself utter thoughts and opinions that had been my father's rather than my own and was alarmed that I was now channeling him. I am lucky that I am not disposed to wasting time pining for my youth or yearning to be younger. I wouldn't want to go through all that again. Besides, youth and beauty are no match for age and treachery. For now I am grateful that my mind, tongue, and appetite for life are as sharp as they ever were. Honed on the whetstone of experience. That's another thing I have to be grateful for. I was never much for looks but I had a quick mind. It has served me well along my life's journey and I don't see it deserting me anytime soon.

If June will forgive my borrowing, I am aging gratefully. I have all I need to be content right here in my own personal snow-bound Shangri-La-Ti-Da. I know my niche is just around the corner. It's always good--no matter how many birthdays you're blessed with--to have something to look forward to. I know, deep down, that I am my own 'raison d'etre'.