My Edinburgh

 My Edinburgh 

 

She sleeps within my arms at night 

Silent as a picture 

Deeply etched within my mind

  

Her streets, cobbled as they wind 

Her skirts tossed north, south, east, and west 

Dancing parks and laughter 

Rippling motorways and rails 

Thousands stroll her pathways 

She edges over, holds me tight 

Her whispers sear my soul

 

She tells of her past and how  

She’s thought of me from old 

She tells me how she’ll draw me close, how 

She’ll drape my heart, elation 

I lean to kiss her fading face

And realize my ransom 

She, my Edinburgh, my temptress 

She my dream, my muse 

One day we’ll embrace and how 

But now she is aloof 

One day she will be my home 

 

For now, I am her hostage 

Soon I’ll dance within her soul 

My Edinburgh, my essence 

 

Jude Stringfellow    12/31/2020 

Kilty! Kilty! Kilty! (I Confess)

 Yeah, it's true, I am a fan of men in kilts -- notice I did not say "skirts" because a kilt, my friend, is not a skirt - - it's a magical, beautiful thing, but it isn't a skirt.  There are very few things in this world that will stop me in my tracks leaving my lower chin on the ground than to see a big, husky, bearded Scotsman tying the laces of his dirty black boots (knee slightly elevated of course) on a rock while wearing his family colors.  Lord, have mercy! (and by "have mercy" I do mean send that handsome man over immediately!)  Give me the big, bulky, bearded, hairy man over the pristine pretty boys EVERY time.

I don't know when it happened; when the first time the sight of a man wearing a kilt had such an immense impact on me as a woman, but as a young girl I remember thinking it was both entertaining to watch men in parades playing bagpipes and to watch them proudly strut around in plaid kilts. I always wondered why some had this color and some had that, and why some had "purses" hanging from their waists but others didn't. I questioned my mom to the point that she drug me to the Bethany Library and found a few books on the subject to keep my wee mind busy.  You don't know this, but from the time I was 4 I was literally jumping over my neighbor's fence to walk a solid straight mile to the Bethany Library so I could "read" books.  Pictures are great too you know, and there they were - - all kilty and pretty. At that age I only looked at the kilts...today I tend to look past the kilt and let my mind wander. I do exercise the brain from time to time, it will wander to really cool places like the Highlands, the Lowlands, the Isle of Skye, Dunbar's Coastline....anywhere I can find a piper, but I'd take a bearded guitarist in a kilt as well, as long as he was wearing dirty black boots and being a man about it.

My good friends know, KNOW, I love kilty men so they often times send me posts, memes, little tacky things to keep my mouth smiling and my eyes popping.  This past Christmas I think I received about 6 new posts with unkilted Scotsman holding wreaths making excuses as to where their kilts were.  I had to laugh because I know that in Scotland the average home doesn't have a dryer in it so they hang their clothes on a "green line" outside...it RAINS in Scotland (a lot) so their kilts were probably soggy! Poor Scotsmen standing there all bear butt naked with flowery wreaths; just made me want to fly over to Edinburgh to make sure they stay warm! (wait...I'm wandering again) :) 

Soon and very soon I'll be in the land of the plaided love clothes! I'll escape America for the shores of clifted grace, unending pipes, swirling woodwinds, harps, and of course, an acoustic guitar; you can't have music (not real music anyway) without an acoustic guitar! I'll trek the streets of Old Town, become one with the cobblestones of Glasgow, sweat as I climb to Arthur's Seat, and know the calling of my people in the mewing of the Lowland's winds and air. I will be home.   Once I am home I'll probably take a minute to enjoy the air, the sky, the very rocks my feet feel beneath them, but it will NOT take me long to search for that brawny bearded bull bending over to tie his dirty boot.  I will find one! I don't know what the heck I'll do with him when I do, but I will at least stare a good minute and probably giggle a little...wandering....just wandering. 

Girls Don't Do That -- Do They?

"Honey, hold my cigar, I gotta go pee!" I remember the first time I said that to a man and when I came back literally less than a minute later, he had snuffed out the butt end of my cigar like I wasn't expected to return for a while.  The look I gave him must have let him know he didn't quite stack up to my expectations either, and to be honest with you, our first date was our last one. Mind you, this was before people got on social media and posted every damn thing that happens to them during a 24-hour period. I am just as guilty as a swingin' horse thief for that one, because I do actually (pretty much) post most everything interesting that happens to me during a 24-hour period. It's a dang good thing I'm not having sex these days - - I could be considered an erotica author by the amount of posting I might do if I was. I'd be so pleased with myself I'm sure.  Nope, nothing really all that exciting really goes on these days, unless you count my dreams. 

Living in a Southern state (Oklahoma is considered a Southwestern state, but I still claim to be from the South since Oklahoma City is south of Tulsa, even if it's just a little bit further south. We are 100% below the Mason-Dixon line, therefore, we are considered people of the South, and I will uphold my manners, eat my grits with butter, and string my pole with strong string 'cause there ain't no reason to let a good fish off the hook just because you bought cheap line! (You can read into that last one if you want to, it's a double-meaning sort of thing.) 

Where I come from, we're taught that boys don't hit girls, girls don't bring a boy home unless he's willing to look Daddy in the eye and shake his hand, and we certainly don't bring muddy boots into the house, ever!  We're taken to church on the first Sunday following our birth, we stay in that church until we die, and we never marry anyone whose last name could have been the same last name as one of our cousins at least three generations back - - unless their names are like Brown, Green, Black, White, Jones, Johnson, Wilson, Williams, or something you can't necessarily do decent research on because there are so many of them to start with. We just assume the gene pool will work itself out at that point.  

Where I come from girls are girls and boys are boys, men are usually grown ass boys, and women have more than enough swing in their caboose to catch a man off guard long enough to marry him for a 50–60-year spell, make a few babies, raise a few chickens, train a bunch of horses, and fill up the pews for a few more decades when the old folks die off and go see Jesus.  It was at a family member's funeral that I had asked my date to hold my cigar - - where I come from going to a funeral on a date isn't out of the question if the guy knew the dead person too; it just makes sense to show up together and at least have someone to talk to and play "Under the Sheets" with when you start singing old hymns. 

If you don't know what playing "Under the Sheets" is you aren't a Baptist, hell, you may not even be a Methodist -- they don't play it as often but it does happen if they bring a Baptist friend to church with them. What you do is you pick up your hymnal when the music leader instructs you to, and he'll tell you where to turn.  Let's say he says "Please turn to page 367" and then he tells you the title of the song, which is something like "Blessed Assurance" and when he says the name of the song, you turn to your friend and say "Under the Sheets".  You can play the game quietly for a while, but sooner or later someone turns to "He Touched Me" or "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" and then there's no way to hold back the snorting at that point. You will be caught by at least 2 choir members, your Mama, and a deacon or two - - be prepared to either stand up straight without looking anyone in the eyes, or just leave! It's often best to just leave.  

If you know me you know I don't actually attend church anymore. I watch it online about 4x a week, and I go through the internet researching prophecy, but just to keep things moving I do call up an old Methodist friend now and again to recall some of the shenanigans we "Good Christian Kids" did back in the day. I remember swimming in the baptismal on a Saturday, having climbed into a window I left open the week before.  I've climbed on top of the church during services. I've left to ride horses in the back pasture behind the church. I've sat in a completely random seat just to confuse my family members. I did that so often I didn't really have an "assigned" seat. The preacher just had to guess where I was!  

I think I was raised right. I know I love Jesus.  I may act the fool from time to time, but He knows me, and He loves me.  He wouldn't mind it if I lit up a cigar now and again either. Girls do that sort of thing. We really do...here in the South anyway. 

 This is the actual church I was raised in, and saved in when I was almost 6 years old.