Betcha can’t tell from the photos below. Happy Birthday to my favorite young woman in the whole world — you look awesome in that sweater!
I’ve a beautiful sis, Julie S.
And she’s older than me, I confess.
But my friends, they all say,
“She’s not fifty, NO WAY!”
It’s her wonderful life — free of stress.
Here are a couple of oldie-but-goodie photos of Julie from 1960. One is with Mom and one’s with her big sister, Daisy.
The boat was so cold that we shut
The door to the forward end. But
We still had a bed,
And a galley and head,
In our maritime eight-by-twelve hut.
Below is a photo of me in our dinette bed during the cold, when the boat interior was about 45 degrees for a week. I’m wearing a wool top under my jammies, a fleece hood, and have two teddy bears to help keep me warm. Although we couldn’t drag ourselves out from under the blankets before noon, we were able to make coffee without getting out of bed!
My two pirate friends, Goofy and Funny,
Have sailed off to the south, where it’s sunny.
They have left this fine village,
To seek plunder and pillage,
They’re not dumb — but they’re plumb outa money.
Maybe you can look at the photos below and tell me, which one is Goofy and which one is Funny? (that’s Dick on the top and Larry and me on the bottom)
Our friend Alex was feeling quite blue,
For a flock of demonic birds flew,
Over each perfect mast,
And he watched them, aghast,
As the paint job was ruined by doo.
So he came out to paint them anew
And the finish was ruined by dew,
Now he frets at the weather,
And fears every feather,
And says, “Will I ever be through?”
Barry and I hired Alex Baker to give our carbon fiber masts a beautiful professional paint job. Unfortunately, Alex has been unable to control the outdoor conditions where he’s working! After the doo and dew, Alex was thwarted by heavy wind, rain, and cold. We all hope the third time’s the charm.
The photos below show the working conditions out in the “sand pit” before the masts were painted. Alex, Barry, Kenny, and Dick had walked out to look at our innovative mast-suspension system. A portion of Dick’s broken mast (right side, top photo) was used as a derrick to suspend both masts.
Three eateries here went away,
As I crossed the entire U.S.A.
If I’d bought just one meal,
From Ralwiggie’s, I feel,
They might still be in business today.
In that great spot across from the park,
I found Taylor’s all shuttered and stark.
So I walked down to Cru,
Just to purchase some brew,
So that they will not also go dark.
But I found, on that sad recent drive,
Though the good food in town can’t survive,
If the service is cursed,
And the food is the worst —
All the baaaaad Chinese places still thrive.
So this flock of wild turkeys went out,
For a party along Amtrak’s route.
“We will derail this train!”
Thought one bird’s tiny brain,
But they failed — just delayed it, no doubt.
In an unconfirmed rumor, I heard that an Amtrak train in Florida was delayed for hours yesterday when it ran — literally — into a flock of wild turkeys. Given Amtrak’s reputation, it’s hardly a surprise that a bunch of bird brains could cause a major delay on the day before Thanksgiving.
While I was away, the boatyard had a potluck so memorable, people were still talking about it 5 weeks later:
Now, Miss Manners would never say, “Eww,”
So Miss Audrey knew just what to do.
With a smile so polite,
She spoke out with no spite,
“Oh, how nice! Ken brought turkey that’s blue.”
Someone tried to give the turkey to the cats, but they wouldn’t touch it. Barry says it’s probably still on the bottom of Core Creek. Eww.
Up ahead was a big yellow truck
That had come to a stop for a duck,
So I stopped my car, too,
And then out of the blue
Came a WHACK! Duck hit me, just my luck.
The web-footed goof flew right into my front towbar. There was a loud thud, and the car shook with the impact. But when I backed up a few feet, expecting to see a duck carcass, he picked himself up and wobbled away. He was quacking, and I was quaking.
Ooh! A butterfly just fluttered by!
But I’m homesick — the sight makes me cry.
I will spend one more week,
For it’s words that I seek.
They’ll emerge, if a writer am I.
I’m in the perfect little writer’s retreat, a cottage on Chincoteague Island. Of all times, why does writer’s block have to hit me now?
She’s petite, and she’s small, and she’s frail,
But her fish seems quite huge in the pail,
“No, this fish that you see,
“It’s not big, not to me,
“There’s no distance between head and tail.”
At our motel in Ontario, I wandered over to watch our hostess, a Taiwanese woman, cleaning a fish from Lake Saint Clair in a bucket. It seemed big to me, almost a meter long (hey, this is Canada). But she laughed, and said in broken English, “This not big fish — some fish big as I tall!”