Caity Baby Baby Caity

 Well, yes, I suppose it is true that thirty-one years ago today I was feeling a bit fed up with the baby girl lingering around inside of me. I had calculated my due date as being at least 10 days before July 25 (1990), but there I was, big as a barn, rounder with that pregnancy than any other, and feeling far more apt to eat an entire vat of ice cream than I ever did with either Reuben or Laura.  Caity Baby had a way of making me do things I really didn't want to do, not really, but maybe just inside my head -- and of course, my belly.  I think I ate more Mexican food with her too; which now makes a bit more sense considering how spicy the girl is.  Mom always said she cursed me with a kid just like myself, and well, thirty-one years ago today, I gave birth to her FINALLY!

    I say "finally" because I had done the math according to the way I'd always managed to do it before. I looked on my calendar and figured out when the first day my last period was, and then counted 280 days from the day I would have most likely have ovulated. It's supposed to be that way, there's science behind this, right? Nothing is the same as it should be when Caity is involved. She has her own drummers playing the beats she insists that they play! She dances when she wants to dance, and by "when" I mean whenever she damn well feels like it - - morning, noon, or night. At least with Laura I knew there would be no dancing until after the noon hour, and you know, well into the early hours, but I was asleep by that time. Caity has no time schedule. You just freakin' never know when she'll pop up, and what she'll be doing when she does. It's sort of annoying in a very familiar way. 

    When the brat was only two I took her in tow to fulfil a wee job that Laura had managed to obtain on her own, at the age of 3. It was a modeling gig for a shoe company that had a franchise.  I had purchased a pair of their shoes the week or so before for Laura, and while she was trying them on she did a little run-way walk thingy and looked incredibly cute - - they wanted her for a live modeling performance and it paid a little, so yeah, why not?  Why not? Why not you ask? Because Caity Baby Baby Caity, or CBBC as I called her, hadn't been asked to go. Laura had been asked, but CBBC was not asked. That can't happen, and this was probably the first time we found that out to be true.  From the SECOND Laura began attracting attention from workers at the store, and then (God forbid) customers, Caity was incredibly jealous of her sister and wouldn't share Laura with anyone. It wasn't that Laura was on stage. It wasn't that the lights were focused on Laura and not Caity, the fact was that LAURA wasn't paying her due diligent attention to Caity - - and that just was not going to set well.

    Minute by minute, throughout the afternoon gig, I was literally wrangling the little one, pulling her from her sissy so Laura could get as many customers to buy the shoes and clothing from the store. I thought I was going to have to hogtie my own kid but thought even though I'm in Oklahoma, that may not be a welcomed sight for most.  As it turns out the gig only lasted about an hour, and we were free to return to the homestead, where I could divvy out ice cream to them both, and to their big brother who had patiently waited at home with their dad. Why Caity went was probably only to be with her sister, who I suppose was never REALLY supposed to look at another human in CBBC's presence.

    When I describe Caity to people I find that I pull out the firecracker analogy more often than not. I say she's like a blasting bottle rocket! You see her for a second, hear something, know there's going to be a big bang and wild surprise in just a few seconds, but when it happens, though you knew it was going to, you are struck with awe at the beauty of it, and the magnitude of it - - each flaming spark capable of searing your soul if you stand too close, and the majesty of it captures you forever. That pretty much describes my baby gir.  (I've always said "gir", not girl, because that's what her sister Laura called her.) CBBC never lets you forget - - not then, not now, that she's over and above you about to explode and when she does it will be both glorious and dangerous, so it's best to be prepared for anything.

    Today, I celebrate with her, and I love her.  I see that over the past 31 years this little sprite of a bairn has grown into the most wonderful woman and mother of two precious grands that anyone could ask for. She's married an amazing man, who if I had to be honest, I would keep if she threw him out on his ear. He'll never be homeless -- sorry CBBC, you just picked a really good one, so you might have to keep him around. I don't think Brandon will be leaving her side anytime this millennium. He knows where his heart fell - - and he knows she holds it with both hands.  Happy birthday littlest brat of mine. You were always the spark, and by spark I mean the one who actually set the fires in the house, outside the house, around the corner, up the street, in the church, and just about everywhere else you thought I never knew about -- yeah, you're my curse; remember that. I know everything! 

Now.

2008 

1992

Amethyst Sky - (a Poem)

 Amethyst Sky 

 

I lay beneath Heaven at her dusk 

Hues too vast to hold 

Lifts of pale blue, turning mauve 

Eventide sings his song 

 

Grace, for an hour, accompany me 

Teach me to be still 

Patient evening bear with me 

Let conscience guide your will 

 

Share all manner of meditation 

Finesse and poise my thought 

Ease your gentle-mannered ways 

Through my senses, giving hope 

 

Ornate vault of heaven, gloss 

Your hours of colors pass 

Amethyst blankets hold each star 

In place, in time, en masse 

 

Sleep begins her soft barrage 

Inviting me to dance 

Invasion of the sweetest sort 

Two steps and I am gone 

 

 

Jude Stringfellow – July 24, 2021 

Photo Credit: of Trees and Sky

The Pinky Swear - - It's a Thang.

 If you have daughters, you'll understand the Pinky Swear. If you only have boys, you're one of the very lucky and/or chosen ones whom God Himself has smiled upon, and Who has crowned you with many blessings, holding you harmless from the cruel and unusually strong punishing (ever so eternal damning) of the Pinky Swear. It is, by far, the strongest swearing that can be sworn. It is, by far, the ultimate, the one and the only thing that cannot willfully be broken without such depth of betrayal, and justly, if it is broken, the one breaking it will suffer a deserved eternal damnation in Hell.  Everyone knows this. 

    When I was a little girl my sister Lindsay was the Pinky Swear keeper in our family - don't ask me why, I was never quite clear on the matter as to how it was that she became so important, or what must have happened to other Pinky Swear keepers in our lineage. Surely, there would have been more than just one.  I can't tell you how many times yours truly was banned from the backyard, thrown out of the treehouse by the scruff of my neck, down an 8-foot wooden ladder that my dad had made and had attached thankfully at an angle so I would sort of roll down it on my way to the pit of Hell, which was my due punishment as I was cast out of Lindsay's sights.  
 

    My mother, for her part, a solid and devote Baptist Christian woman, absolutely assured me over and over again that since I had already (at the age of 6) given my heart and soul to Jesus, I was not going to actually really go to Hell and burn but Lindsay may cause me to feel like the outcast that I apparently was. Why was I being cast out of the tent, the treehouse, the woods, the creek, the room, the porch, or any other place where all of us kids could gather and play together? Because I had at some point in my life, whether knowingly or not, engaged in a Pinky Swear with my older sister not to betray her trust, or not to tell something about her to someone who she hadn't said I could talk to, and low and behold, it only took a few minutes of me being a part of their group before I was picked up and shoved off or out of wherever it was that we were. Me, the damned. 
 

    A Pinky Swear is, if you do it correctly, designed to bring out the best in two souls who have decided to spend quality time together and do so in utter honesty. It was created by little girls obviously, and no boy is even allowed to Pinky Swear, but a man can Pinky Swear with his own daughter. He is forbidden, by Pinky Swear Code, to try and Pink Swear with anyone who isn't his daughter, or with someone who doesn't have their own daughters. There must be rules, there must be codes, and everyone knows that.  It just is what it is, and you don't try and change things; OK? It's a thang. 
 

    Why am I bringing up an ancient and ever-so-immeasurably important ritual? Because my own granddaughter is old enough now to be initiated into the Pinky Swear world of truth-telling; and I just want her to understand that she is never (and I do mean EVER) to feel that she will be utterly banned to Hell for anything she may or may not do after she has taken the grand oath of the Pinky Swear. It's a schtick, we get it, it's not really damning, but it is to a degree in that I won't trust you ever again if you actually break a Pinky Swear with me. You may not die, burn, toast, or rot in an everlasting flame but you will be forever banished to the laundry room during family dinners. I mean, there has to be some sort of penalty, right? Makes me wonder if that's why Gramma Edwards kept the pies out in the laundry room so Papa would have something to eat should she point her fierce index finger into the air and force him to stay out back during supper; that or it could be because he lit up a cigarette in her house and knew the consequences of his actions - - Papa was smart like that. He liked pie. He knew he could have supper, light up, and be thrown out faster than a gnat can blink. PIE! 
 

    To this day, and I mean this, I have no idea if I ever actually swore with my big sister what she swears we swore. I really can't tell you if we did or didn't. In our house, if Lindsay said it happened, then it happened up until the minute you could prove otherwise. She was the say, and that's all that was said. I wasn't allowed to like the singers or actors I wanted to like if she liked them. I wasn't allowed to breathe the air she was breathing if she wanted me to stop breathing. Big sisters have the power and the only power I had over Lindsay was our even bigger sister Annie -- I would get put out of the treehouse and make my way to Annie as fast as possible; rules are rules, you abide by them. I had an ACE! Annie liked me. Mike was no help, he was my big brother, but Lindsay was bigger and he was a boy. 
 

    To this day, and I mean this too, I don't believe I've ever broken a real Pinky Swear. If I have, I hope I have sufficiently been forgiven and that I won't find myself begging St. Peter to let me into the gates of Heaven after the Rapture -- I'm told Pinky Swears are one thing that can keep you out, but also unpaid Library fines. I made fast and sure to pay those off whenever they came about. Again, Mom assured me it would be OK, but hey, you just need to cover your ass from time to time, don't ya? Sometimes I think that the court systems would be so much more honest if they just made all the women who were going to testify or ask questions to Pinky Swear that the things they were about to say were/would be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but then again, they do say "So help me, God" don't they? That should be enough. 

Photo Credit: Times of India

Dating Takes FAR Too Long

 Warning: I get a little pissy. 

Yep, the whole dating scheme is just a bunch of overrated exaggerated hoopla that typically ends up being a waste of time, a waste of money, a waste of effort, and you have to wear shoes most of the time, which really places dating into the same category as grinding teeth or being caught in a rainstorm with someone who just had their hair done and all they can do is bitch about it. No wait, I would rather get caught in a rainstorm with my best friend Jeannie and listen to her bitch about her damn hair than to go on a date. At least with Jeannie, I don't have to wear shoes, I don't have to be polite. I don't have to pretend to laugh at her jokes. I don't have to compliment her, talk about her job, ask her questions about things I don't really give a damn about, and oh yeah, I don't have to end up calling Jeannie to have her come running up to me in a cafe where I preplanned to have the date meet me so she can pretend she's my sister and there's a family emergency that simply can't wait - - with Jeannie I can fart and not even apologize; I won't be dating anytime soon.

    You read my blog, so you know I like to people watch. I plop myself down with a cup of coffee and a bagel sometimes and just watch the people at the cafe, at the store, at the lake, wherever. This weekend I decided to go to a pizza restaurant, a pretty popular one, and yeah, I took Jeannie because I didn't want to stare at people too openly or too obviously. She can carry on a conversation with a napkin or a fork if she has to, and she knows I'll at least glance over once or twice, nod my head and pretend I'm listening.  Today's experiment was to find a couple who were on their first or second date, to watch them, to see if they were bothered by one another, what was bothering them, what they had to overcome in order to make it to "the next level" and/or whether or not either of them cared really, and there was just some sort of an understanding that the dinner was just part of the routine, with the end of the evening being the end of their relationship for whatever reason.  Cynical? No, not really, I've been watching people for a very long time and it all boils down to about the same four or five patterns in the beginning - - now the third, fourth, or fifth date may bring about more gifting, more laughing, less questioning, and more cell phones. Yeah, by the fifth date both sides are pulling out the cell every five minutes to check on something.

    Take this couple over on the right; he's about 40 she's about 27 and both of them have kids. I can tell because he's checked his watch a couple of times and she's checked her cell phone, but both are trying to hide the fact that they either need to check on the kids, or they have a limited amount of time to actually be out without having to overpay the sitter. These days some people are lucky enough to have parents or siblings to watch their kids for the all-too-important getting back out there sort of date, you know.  What happens when it becomes obvious that these two may actually start liking one another and want to spend weekends and evenings together? Family ties fall off, babysitters become so much harder to come by, and those fantasies of spending quality time together fly out the window if either of them thought they would be sharing it alone, just the two of them. Nope. Not with "every-other-weekend" duty and/or drop-offs, family, ex-inlaws, unpaid bills that don't and won't care if you want to have a nice dinner once in a while, and then there's the question of who actually knows anyone who will be willing to watch the kids on a consistent basis so the two of you can get to know each other? It's no wonder the 2nd (3rd and 4th) marriages are usually rushed into, and usually end up in the toilet. Cynical? No, not really, same answer as before.

    So back to the couple on the right. He had to work a bit later than he expected so he rushed home, kissed his mom on the top of the head thanking her for coming over early and watching his two kids, threw on a new shirt, kept on the same jeans he wore to work, the same boots and socks. He ran a comb through his hair, checked his beard, and stache and gave a sigh. She'll either take it or she won't. He's paying for dinner, right? If she doesn't like him the way he is, she can date someone else. That's what he's thinking anyway, but he has to hurry and get out to Hideaway Pizza, he told her he'd meet her there at 6:00 p.m. and it's Friday. If he wants to get in the joint he needs to be at least 15 minutes early.  

    She was waiting when he pulled into the drive, but she didn't know what he drove. She had only seen his picture online and they had zoomed once, but her camera wasn't really working. He looked like a blurry bear sort of; she was hoping he wouldn't be as thick as he looked on camera, she had been working pretty diligently at keeping herself in shape. She never really thought about it until just now, but what if he's really fat? She saw him stepping out of his truck and thought almost out loud that she had no idea he was a conservative and this evening may or may not be their last encounter. He saw her and thought the blue streak in her hair would probably go away in time; it's just hair, right? (and just so you know sweetheart, he's not fat, he's perfectly round! There is a difference. He's a man, not a boy.)

    You see where that scenario is going - - it's just one of countless (endless really) things that can and do occur when you decide to "get back out there" and date again. Maybe you have friends who will set you up with their friends, or you found someone the old-fashioned way; in a chat room online! You decide that this is it! You're going to get out there, mingle, mix it up, get to know what your options are, and be yourself this time. Does that really happen?  Let me know if it does because so far I'm the only person I know who would act the way I do on any given day - - I won't bathe, dress up, slather on makeup and pretend I like you just so you'll pay for a $15.00 meal; I have my own credit card, thank you. Those poor souls who are dating today must have the patience of Job; something I definitely do not have. I wouldn't date again if YOUR life depended on it, let alone my own.

    The thing is, people who are dating have already been dating, and wherever it is that you step into their frame with your first date scenario, you're just that, a first date. You're automatically on probation, you're interrogated (hopefully politely), and you're sized up, given an assessment if you will, and then you're either allowed to move forward, where you'll be competing with those others she/he have been dating longer, i.e. the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th time, and what if, what if you are championed and rewarded that all-too-exciting 2nd encounter? Do you step up your game to enter the competition for affection? Do you bring gifts? Do you act more this or that? Do you take her/him somewhere different and unique to prove you're worthy of yet a third trial by fire? God forbid you  jump the gun and end up the only person the other person is dating because you will be compared to the last failure over and over again rather than just being one of the potential successes - - now you're a target waiting for the shoe to drop. (it always drops)

    Dating today takes too long, it costs too much, it is a failed investment at every turn and on every level. You start out with a lie, pretending you are more than you are, more than you could be, and you pretend you care when you don't.  If I'm wrong, please, please tell me - - that would be so refreshing. The truth is, I am the lucky one and I know it. I may be the meanest woman on the face of God's green Earth, but at least I'm honest, I don't have STDs, and I've not been lying about my height, weight, job, family, sex life, favorite team, or the fact that my horse will spend more time with me than you ever will because my horse never once lies about his height, weight, job, family, food habits, riding abilities, or his lack of interest in whatever it is that I do with the rest of the time when he doesn't see me. He never once not once has he EVER asked me if I rode another horse before him. He hasn't and doesn't care if I ride another horse tomorrow. He wouldn't give one rat's ass if I chose to kiss another horse right in front of his face as long as I had an apple for him, a scoop of grain in his stall, and I remembered to brush him out after I rode him pretty hard -- you never want to leave a horse sweaty. Just FYI.

    Dating is for the rest of the world but not for me. I don't have kids to worry about now, but damn, can you just imagine the stress and wear on one's soul and brain, the constant taxing of one's wits if they had to deal with not only their brood but the other people's kids too? Trying to blend, trying to make things work, and there's the whole thing about not introducing them to you until you're sure it's going to last, but how in the hell can you be sure of that unless you meet them and get along with them first? It's a cycle, it's a nasty-nasty cycle, and I thank God every day for the barn - - for my horse. He may have kids, I don't know, he never told me, I never asked. He knows I have one or two, but again, he just doesn't blink - - we get it. We know our roles. 

    Friday night, after the pizza, after an hour or so of watching the couple to my right, I did decide that she would have given him another shot at it had he taken the time to change out of his work clothes altogether. Being clean was too important to her. She made some sort of comment about his beard needing to be shaved, or she wondered what he would look like without it.  I'm not lying, I almost walked over to their table, offering to pay for the dinner and then inviting the poor man over to our table so he could fart, burp, tell us about his stupid co-workers and how great his mom is for taking the girls off his hands so he could meet someone new; even if she did turn out to be a bit too liberal for his taste. I restrained myself, but that beard was working me over.  To think she wanted him to cut it - - I wanted to scream. Jeannie nodded at me, picked up her fork, pretended to be Ariel, and comb her hair with it for a second, just to see if I was paying attention to her - - she's such a girl sometimes.

    I won't date. I may marry someone, but I will never date them. 

    

Photo Credit: Litehouse Foods

    

The Wee Cafe - Edinburgh

 There are places you seem to be drawn to, at least I am, and I am absolutely taken by a small (wee) cafe by the apt name of "The Wee Cafe" in the city of Edinburgh. I know there are other locations, it's a chain of modest restaurants in the area, but there is just something about the Edinburgh location that has my mind thinking that as soon as I hit the ground at the airport, have my bags secured in my hotel room, and have a fresh breath to draw, my first thing to do is to walk the new and older streets of the city of Edinburgh to reach my destination. It's not as if it's elaborate, ornate, or even overtly decorated in a manner that would cry out to all tourists to bring their bellies and thirst. I am just drawn to it, and so I'm going to go. 

    I have literally dreamed of walking through the doors of the cafe, but not in a manner that is even the least bit fantastical or mysterious; no, I just see myself in a booth, and I see myself eating waffles with bananas, and I see myself drinking coffee there. I see myself crossing over the threshold, and maybe it's just a clear sign that I will in fact be in the city soon, but whatever it is I find it assuring and lovely. I feel as if I could quote the menu back to anyone interested. I get on the site and read it. I look at the photos of the staff, the layout of the cafe itself, the food, the guests, even the streets outside of it. I Google-drive the streets coming from the Scotsman hotel, going back to it, and then when I decide that maybe I want to stay at the Caledonia or the Holiday Inn, I "drive" myself back to The Wee Cafe in my little imaginary car that we all use when we use Google maps to "get around" wherever it is that we're going - - aren't we the most peculiar of species? 

    Some of the foods you'll find at The Wee Cafe are such that you could make at home without any problem; it's just that going out to the cafe, sitting in an airy pretty place, and socializing with good-natured people is such a draw these days.  The prices are good, there's nothing stopping me from going, and it's more or less just something I want to say I do, not did, but do. The Wee Cafe may very well end up being where I go to write, to study, to people watch - - to be me; which is exactly why I think my heart and head chose it. I saw it online and thought to myself, "Yep, that's the place." It's exactly like what I would open if I opened a cafe, and they serve what I would serve, they welcome people like I would welcome people, and you don't have to be fancy-schmancy to come in and just enjoy a good hot cup of coffee and banana waffle with chocolate syrup drizzled all over it - - don't forget the whipped cream, please, no, never forget that!

    Waffles with fruit on them, drizzled as I said, in chocolate (probably Hershey's if I had to guess) and dosed with a topping of whipped cream. You can find that. You can find beans, sausages, eggs, toast, and honey.  You can find chocolate raspberry coconut bars, you can find cheese rolls, cinnamon toast, and green tea too. You can order off the menu, the standing whiteboard that tells you what is served, how much it costs, and maybe gives you a hint as to what they've run out of so you won't order it if you don't see it - - I don't know, but it makes sense to do it that way. Maybe an entire football team and their coaching staff have just left the joint having ordered every last chip in the place; there are no more chips at The Wee Cafe until another shipment comes in, so you erase that particular food item from the whiteboard - - makes perfect sense. I would do that. 

    I'm going. I've made up my mind, I'm going to The Wee Cafe, and I'm bringing my journal. I may end up making it a habit and bring my laptop as well, but the first few visits will be a writing experience. I know that taking the bus from Inverkeithing every day or so maybe a bit of an annoyance for some, but for me it will be that leg of the adventure where I listen to music on my headphones, write actual letters to my friends in the States and pretend I'm being carriaged about by a horse-drawn buggy on my way to this or that castle to meet this or that person to say this or that thing, or do this or that with them for however long it is I choose to do this or that. I am, after all, my own.  The Wee Cafe will be my "base" to cling to, hide out in, and write from wherever it is in my soul that decides to exhale from on any given day.  It will happen.

    Carry on people - - nothing to see here; just a woman and her mind playing tricks on her soul until she can one day put her hand on the jamb of the door before crossing the threshold of an ordinary oasis and know she is safely harboured. 

Photo Credit: The Wee Cafe