tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-281436362024-03-14T00:18:40.242-04:00(One Wild Oat)Just another weed in the blogosphere.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.comBlogger157125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-54093908997992627122012-03-05T09:52:00.000-05:002012-03-05T09:56:00.933-05:00More Cosmic Dreaming - Under the LyreTwo nights ago, I was sleeping on the sofa as I sometimes do, because it is near the fire and warmer, and I like the way the firelight dances on the other side of my closed eyelids.<br />
<br />
I was half awoken by the voice of a large Italian man standing over me. He stroked my hair and spoke: something which sounded to me like 'sotto lura' or 'sotto lira.'<br />
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As soon as I awoke the next morning I was searching for meaning in the phrase, but could come up with nothing other than that 'sotto' means <i>under</i> or <i>beneath</i>.<br />
<br />
This morning, because this dream has so puzzled me (I know virtually no Italian), I continued my search with Google Translator. And this is what I found, and heard. <a href="http://translate.google.com/translate_t?hl=&ie=UTF-8&text=sotto+il+lira%0D%0A&sl=it&tl=en">Press the 'Listen' button in the lower right corner of the box.</a><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b><br />
<b><i>Sotto il lira</i></b> - under the lyre.<br />
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Interestingly, my real name is Laura, which has always been translated as 'crown of laurel leaves.' But I wonder if the name given to me by my dream visitor holds the truest meaning.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyONgv-lRhPC4bJD3WqjD_m2qVP8xoo9kp4yxzXB4EZYUxbGI9hCQtLtcI-cTwVzZLOAZaEqE2B8tKC0ZRcaFfIf5mLpvESDnxYfJtT5Ak_KOYPe2cHejW68G-P2Pv4de6V88H4w/s1600/lyre.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyONgv-lRhPC4bJD3WqjD_m2qVP8xoo9kp4yxzXB4EZYUxbGI9hCQtLtcI-cTwVzZLOAZaEqE2B8tKC0ZRcaFfIf5mLpvESDnxYfJtT5Ak_KOYPe2cHejW68G-P2Pv4de6V88H4w/s400/lyre.jpg" width="318" /></a></div>MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-36778981081721973282012-03-03T11:34:00.001-05:002012-03-03T11:43:49.858-05:00Cosmic DreamingEarly last year, when my grandson was still a gleam in his father's eye, I had a dream. In it, I walked through the woods just outside the front door of my home, carrying my grandson and telling him some tall tale about the dinosaurs who roamed the place millions of years ago. He interrupted and said, "Grandma, I don't like dinosaurs."
Flash forward to yesterday evening, when I was holding my two-week-old grandson on my lap and watching him sleep. (Actually, I was trying to wake him up.) And his grandpa was trying, too, by tickling his belly. Easton made a frown and I said, "Stop that. Easton doesn't like tickles. And he doesn't like dinosaurs." Everyone laughed and someone asked, "How do you know he doesn't like dinosaurs?"
I said, "Because he told me in a dream." And I looked back down at Easton and a smile lit up his face and he chuckled in his sleep, as if we had just shared the biggest private joke in the Universe.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-78472523325005813242011-10-22T14:26:00.003-04:002011-10-22T14:44:13.039-04:00What I've Been Up To, Mostly- Gearing up for my fifth year in a job I barely tolerate. On a bright note, it occurred to me that I'm putting in maybe 30 hours a week, and getting away with it. But I spend about two hours a day on the road, which eats up any gain.<br /><br />- Adjusting to an empty nest. If you don't count my college son coming home every weekend, or babysitting for friends, or extra people occasionally for dinner.<br /><br />- Senior portrait photography. I'm constantly comparing myself to the professionals with their $5000 Nikon cameras and their full versions of Photoshop, and of course I come up short. But I don't really do too badly with what I have, I guess, and the bonus is that it's a creative outlet. Here are a couple of samples:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Ck_4UVwYXlYXiC3-4-qFmwqFhjBOTpmpfnr_MO6daDE_nDwapuaz9QAd6zc3i9__S_g1q-9TeMt2aOjNfRJd_GUO3qaL8Xc6WFn-8Nmm6zVgQodx-gH_PQtV1_ce9YO6w6u0Zg/s1600/Jane+078_edited-1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Ck_4UVwYXlYXiC3-4-qFmwqFhjBOTpmpfnr_MO6daDE_nDwapuaz9QAd6zc3i9__S_g1q-9TeMt2aOjNfRJd_GUO3qaL8Xc6WFn-8Nmm6zVgQodx-gH_PQtV1_ce9YO6w6u0Zg/s400/Jane+078_edited-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666388751182543922" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsPYjNzv8itcKztOhow23rCC_SCMPfzXv_4SJrT0Ocf8hZADdGD9uXnTAV8feuNXj7jnmWUX4jEqDlMF60r5DVRMEhDkXv4D6oUN5cgzu2JrBCZEC7RrWtYdh61-87T1o6-7d1w/s1600/Oct17+059+copy.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsPYjNzv8itcKztOhow23rCC_SCMPfzXv_4SJrT0Ocf8hZADdGD9uXnTAV8feuNXj7jnmWUX4jEqDlMF60r5DVRMEhDkXv4D6oUN5cgzu2JrBCZEC7RrWtYdh61-87T1o6-7d1w/s400/Oct17+059+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666388994722715666" /></a>MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-42938849576543262412011-06-14T10:37:00.004-04:002011-06-14T17:23:16.998-04:00Snapshots<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHeCtfnA4wadvCv5rT403Gk4DnqV9RiMMZbBnzXywP3TKHmWB8bYXb7f0ML-9OryTlcbXsTCpVia1L1Q316FIWrX_Vf-gQgsnkgBoZr-KqnjL21BIhdgdKNL-LLw4eduQZg8LV9A/s1600/Lizzy-on-a-Cliff-Liz-On-Top-of-the-World.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHeCtfnA4wadvCv5rT403Gk4DnqV9RiMMZbBnzXywP3TKHmWB8bYXb7f0ML-9OryTlcbXsTCpVia1L1Q316FIWrX_Vf-gQgsnkgBoZr-KqnjL21BIhdgdKNL-LLw4eduQZg8LV9A/s400/Lizzy-on-a-Cliff-Liz-On-Top-of-the-World.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618088937007555026" /></a><br />Snapshot - <em>n.</em> An isolated observation. My brain is filled with them, but only a few stand out, either dramatically or romantically, as truly key moments in my life. Here, I'll develop them into some kind of word photograph for your viewing pleasure. I hope you like black and white.<br /><br /><em>1983, Grand Canyon, Arizona</em> - I stand on a precipice, some sort of dangerous outcropping which overlooks the Canyon, my knees a bit wobbly, but it seems a test of my courage and an attempt to immerse myself as deeply as possible into the surrounding beauty. I am Elizabeth Bennet from the film <em>Pride and Prejudice</em>, but without the long, flapping skirts.<br /><br /><em>1986, My sister's backyard, rural Indiana</em> - I sit in a chair, warm in the summer sun, smiling down at my first son who is only weeks old. I happen to look up, still smiling, and my eyes meet the gaze of my ex-bad-boy who has apparently been studying the scene before him, and in that moment his eyes seem to say, "Oh, crap. I may have made a mistake by not scooping you up when I had the chance." This is as near as I have ever come to starring in a scene from a romantic movie.<br /><br /><em>2007, Hospital room, Indianapolis</em> - My nuclear family and I are alone together in a room with my dying father. I stand at the foot of the bed, my mother and one older brother on one side, and my eldest brother and older sister on the other. It occurs to me that this is the first time we have been alone together as a family in possibly thirty years. I am not unaware that it will also be the last time. And in that wordless moment, this snapshot that remains indelibly etched in memory, are revealed volumes of words to rival <em>Ridpath's History of the World</em>.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-5023202270206518952011-06-03T21:05:00.002-04:002011-06-03T21:15:57.021-04:00Paper, Paints & PensWhen I was a girl, there was nothing more exciting in my life than the beginning of the school year and buying school supplies. Except maybe walking to the drug store in the summer to buy little spiral notebooks and pens.<br /><br />Forty years later, I'm still excited when I buy office or art supplies. So I was really happy yesterday when I was cleaning out my email inbox, and discovered that I had never used a Staples e-gift card a friend had sent me months ago.<br /><br />I went to Staples on my lunch hour - even before eating - and chose a little pack of Super Sticky post-it notes in bright colors (on sale), a small, magnetic dry erase board for my fridge (on sale), a pad of watercolor paper, a box of watercolor pencils (one of the greatest inventions since caveman paint), and a purple gel pen that the sales girl talked me into buying to round out the sale to beyond the value of the gift card because she didn't know what to do with my extra 9 cents.<br /><br />And last night I came home, pulled out a sheet of the thick watercolor paper, set up a still life of a lone orange and two lemons, and transferred their image behind my eyes to paper. <br /><br />Honestly, I'd forgotten a little what it feels like to create. Other than planting flowers, I haven't done anything remotely creative in ages. And that makes me cranky. And dull, and feeling as if I'm not really living my life. Oh, how quickly I fall back into the same rut, over and over.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-6594870329056363512011-02-08T09:07:00.004-05:002011-02-08T20:24:10.110-05:00The Most Important Thing in Life is Taking the Next Step.There are things to be learned when writing a screenplay that involves a character inspired by oneself. Since characters ideally take on a life of their own, you may find yourself suddenly adrift, wondering exactly who you are.<br /><br />Well, it turns out that who you are is not static. Who you are is constantly changing, just like a character in a book or a film - because every day you make choices. Every day you say and do things that have the potential to change your life and to impact the lives of others. And every day is a new opportunity to reinvent yourself.<br /><br />But only if you work really hard at it. And only if you learn something from your battle with the bad guys.<br /><br />The bad guys - literally or figuratively - have been a part of every good story since, well, the dawn of The Story. Good versus Evil appears to be part of the human condition.<br /><br />And wouldn't it be simpler if the bad guys in our lives came dressed recognizably as Ninjas, a spouse, a boss or a true arch enemy - instead of the foe within.<br /><br />Because it's the enemy within each of us that may be the most difficult to overcome; especially when we see that fear is his armor. When he won't go away despite our best excuses, or our attempts to rid ourselves of what we <br /><em>believe</em> may be the real enemies outside of us.<br /><br />So, while the enemy within may be different for each of us, the key to silencing him seems to be action. Like a stake through the heart of a vampire, action is your only weapon.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-86906563574635974682011-01-23T14:46:00.005-05:002011-01-23T15:02:39.241-05:00First Things FirstI'm about to embark on my authentic life - the one I was meant to be living, the one I dreamed about as a child, the one that surfaces occasionally in daydreams when I am otherwise miserably making my way in the life I mistakenly conjured.<br /><br />But I wanted to write about it here before I take another step in the right direction.<br /><br />It's going to take a lot of hard work. A lot of baby steps, and a few steps backward. I'm more determined than ever to do it, though, because not doing what you love is just too costly - to one's health, to the psyche, to the soul.<br /><br />So here's the life I want to be living within five years: I'll be self-employed. Writer, painter, and farmer of good things to eat and flowers that are good for the soul. (I hope that doesn't make me sound like a hippie.)<br /><br />And if it's not asking for too much, I'd like to have a groom to saddle my horse for me whenever I want to go riding. His name will be Gerard.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDTwSCJGf6QRU0azebcD-jtoLCSKtJFdAQrrm3Dc82p8FFf6QUdztRAv_J50os2JINM7-mUBLNgwV1koIgfHZt9jHQp6RmKpbGD_8sssaelYmNImp14LeIuyMC6ZrTSQXJcQHChQ/s1600/groom.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 321px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDTwSCJGf6QRU0azebcD-jtoLCSKtJFdAQrrm3Dc82p8FFf6QUdztRAv_J50os2JINM7-mUBLNgwV1koIgfHZt9jHQp6RmKpbGD_8sssaelYmNImp14LeIuyMC6ZrTSQXJcQHChQ/s400/groom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565473932245619762" /></a>MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-4482087829636488022010-12-09T18:46:00.002-05:002010-12-09T18:50:32.174-05:00Meet HaileyHere's my new granddaughter, who came into the world on Monday, November 29th. While I have plenty of photos I could have posted here, this is the one that I like to think is a glimpse of her future personality.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4VH9x4diksuAKAASFOJpg4GTkS1dmHK-mVA1Wi2H9bshqUfTTAc3czxIP16wKUjg99FHq_pC3mdDg-M5jv_dmjPshhagfKrxAFK8s5iKlhzEoGH_msUBk-6xTiC_hAfCsj-qWA/s1600/Hailey+I%2527m+Home.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4VH9x4diksuAKAASFOJpg4GTkS1dmHK-mVA1Wi2H9bshqUfTTAc3czxIP16wKUjg99FHq_pC3mdDg-M5jv_dmjPshhagfKrxAFK8s5iKlhzEoGH_msUBk-6xTiC_hAfCsj-qWA/s400/Hailey+I%2527m+Home.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548833923582477762" /></a><br /><br />To those naysayers who don't think babies can smile or laugh, I believe you are wrong.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-89659829410361928232010-11-06T17:28:00.003-04:002010-11-06T18:27:51.126-04:00DisenchantedIf I had need of a new online identity, <em>Disenchanted</em> would be my choice. Not that Disenchanted would be available - even in the fictional scenario in my head 13,694 people have already tried to claim it, and it is currently owned by a 13-year-old girl who hasn't even lived yet.<br /><br />But when you've lived as long as I have, you've probably earned your disenchantment. Because life is kind of like being kicked in the teeth over and over again. (Unless you're that guy from the mattress commercial who says, "Ask me why someone who has never had an ache or a pain" loves an expensive mattress that people who actually have aches and pains can never afford. I'd personally like to kick that guy in the balls, and watch him experience pain for the first time.)<br /><br />I've been thinking about life as a kick in the teeth a lot lately, and I wonder if everyone is kicked in the teeth an equal amount of times, or if some people take more kicks than others. How about celebrities? Does someone stand in for them, to take the teeth kicking on their behalf? Or does life just automatically favor the beautiful and give them even more beauty?<br /><br />And what role does a positive attitude play? If you get kicked in the teeth and tell yourself it wasn't so bad and it could have been worse, does it really hurt any less? Is it easier to have a positive attitude if everything around you is already positive?<br /><br />I'd appreciate it if someone could decode what I've written and get back to me with some answers.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-84339176282161907552010-10-23T08:08:00.005-04:002010-10-23T08:19:05.162-04:00Baby I'm-A Want YouLast Sunday I photographed a 12-day-old baby. That was new to me; I've always done weddings or teen/adult portraits. And I got paid for it, which was nice. Here are a few. I can't explain my new preference for sepia-toned photos.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_RdkkzflJqaVEevMbu5ZVWLudhL0WRexL4aZfn43w7Rvj-Gpdj1Yb45-CA70OZVZ-bzAQoPSRrjJGOoePZs2Rb2itSRDFaEOyf1bLhwaIvd611yToaolltJYUT-CNxVSQzA6wJQ/s1600/Kaydence+092sepia.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_RdkkzflJqaVEevMbu5ZVWLudhL0WRexL4aZfn43w7Rvj-Gpdj1Yb45-CA70OZVZ-bzAQoPSRrjJGOoePZs2Rb2itSRDFaEOyf1bLhwaIvd611yToaolltJYUT-CNxVSQzA6wJQ/s400/Kaydence+092sepia.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531213727385100690" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpXv2i7qR8gBRKHWSuVlke3iLcLugOHkGp7Ajmg2AcEMN9qY1KW_Fyoz0MN1DhnZ78ewzD7YdZfsuY77TDxcp64E1siH6dfcWRbLpl37yp9jMnjn_36yu7fFQkrUhDH9GHX_tqaw/s1600/Kaydence+070edit.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpXv2i7qR8gBRKHWSuVlke3iLcLugOHkGp7Ajmg2AcEMN9qY1KW_Fyoz0MN1DhnZ78ewzD7YdZfsuY77TDxcp64E1siH6dfcWRbLpl37yp9jMnjn_36yu7fFQkrUhDH9GHX_tqaw/s400/Kaydence+070edit.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531213717891457634" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUWhffOIbV3NzJim5npSyy-_VrcMO1N84x_SOTZ1dS2eNs6tSC3EL6cUFbfoCyBaZze7m5ONsXRcgnE2_RJY_QNWqyodtEJr4nhnRTfpEZYMDX44Rew8N3PwNgnjZMKFypj0D2w/s1600/Kaydence+027sepia.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUWhffOIbV3NzJim5npSyy-_VrcMO1N84x_SOTZ1dS2eNs6tSC3EL6cUFbfoCyBaZze7m5ONsXRcgnE2_RJY_QNWqyodtEJr4nhnRTfpEZYMDX44Rew8N3PwNgnjZMKFypj0D2w/s400/Kaydence+027sepia.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531213215867755026" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEginS84-zkCqKbgYO4a9E9z1lxsk478mbWnV-YT9ItPYsA3aytlJS1YrMnPeMMj3gQ-8dUUteNlQwb3NwCNNlcj-q3M6P3lfWpemvd_5BvAgu_BYUEVsjEndf7fIPX1J5rkuBCH6A/s1600/Kaydence+023sepia.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEginS84-zkCqKbgYO4a9E9z1lxsk478mbWnV-YT9ItPYsA3aytlJS1YrMnPeMMj3gQ-8dUUteNlQwb3NwCNNlcj-q3M6P3lfWpemvd_5BvAgu_BYUEVsjEndf7fIPX1J5rkuBCH6A/s400/Kaydence+023sepia.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531213213673837378" /></a><br /><br />I can't wait to photograph my first grandchild (a girl) in a month.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-8555737886846071122010-10-07T17:16:00.003-04:002010-10-07T17:51:02.538-04:00So Let it be Written, So Let it be Done.Along with the much anticipated viewing of <em>The Wizard of Oz</em> around Halloween every year, and <em>Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer</em> at Christmas, a highlight of my formative years was watching <em>The Ten Commandments</em> annually at Easter. (We were nothing if not predictible.) My sister and I would gather together with Roger, the boy next door, for a viewing party. I secretly admired John Derek's bare chest, in whatever way an 11 or 12-year-old girl can, and we all memorized THE most important line in the entire film, spoken by Yul Brenner as Rameses: "So let it be written; so let it be done."<br /><br />I write that to explain my bio-blurb over there to the right, which says I am a "screenwriter, photographer, artist and washed-up mechanical bull rider." These are the labels I've given myself, though the world may not agree. While it's true I've totally given up riding mechanical bulls, I was never as good at it as one might think. And it may be true that I take photographs, but I don't do much with them, and I certainly don't make any money at it. I've dabbled in oil paints, almost completed a very large self-portrait, and finished a few small oil and watercolor paintings, yet few people have ever seen them. And - in my head, at least, if not on paper - I'm writing the screenplay that will make me famous. Or at least able to quit my day job. <br /><br />So call me a liar if you wish, but I cling to these labels as things which at least partially define me, and I've written them for anyone to see, so that they will be done.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-47775804577466247922010-09-12T11:14:00.006-04:002010-09-19T10:57:52.682-04:00The Hindenberg and Other Possible DisastersMy most recent distraction has been the 40 acres bordering us to the South, owned by a German man and his German wife. Erich passed away about a month ago. Dropped dead right there on his way into the shower of a heart attack at the age of 80, which is as good a way as any to go, I suppose. As we were given first chance at the place, we've agreed to buy it, for a price at once daunting yet reasonable, and it will be up to our sons to pay for the damn thing when old age and retirement poverty prevent us from doing it.<br /><br />So there's the more practical part. The romantic part - the one I cling to when I find myself dreading the coming days when we must "tighten our belts" as my husband likes to put it - is that the land has so much potential. It's a slice of Germany, planted with firs bordering the big pond, and paths between. My own Black Forest. And this morning the pond, previously hidden by green-black, floating icebergs of moss, was miraculously unveiled and filled with life. Small bluegill darted near the shore and around great, slow moving grass carp and koi, all of them between two and three feet long, appearing unweildy and metallic like a dozen Hindenbergs. Oh, the Humanity. And among them, The Golden One flashed orange like the evening sun falling behind a cloud.<br /><br />Yesterday evening, while walking along the edge of a woods, I decided to pick up a few hickory nuts. Under one specific shagbark hickory tree were a couple of dozen very large nuts. I was confused at first, because normally, a hickory nut is slightly larger than a grape, and these were huge - about five times the usual size. And though the nut inside isn't cured yet, they were beautiful, large and flavorful. (I may have discovered a hybrid. Which makes me laugh, because my dad was nuts about nut trees, and I never thought I would be.)<br /><br />It's a fair trade-off, I guess, to be poor, but rich in land and all that it provides.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-18189031006957638232010-06-25T20:24:00.000-04:002010-06-25T20:25:58.100-04:00Photo, No Words<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHQZCkMKWuiMZ6r5FdlptAwm9A3iIp9UX4qQtC0KtA59meFxD9Isut6Zmt4AgbWbJYEzBblj-hia0wBwkwUiClMjO2svufnTp2nlUfO8r4lqz_zMVBa4zRgh0m9vAUxC8j0HOkag/s1600/sepialuminosity.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHQZCkMKWuiMZ6r5FdlptAwm9A3iIp9UX4qQtC0KtA59meFxD9Isut6Zmt4AgbWbJYEzBblj-hia0wBwkwUiClMjO2svufnTp2nlUfO8r4lqz_zMVBa4zRgh0m9vAUxC8j0HOkag/s400/sepialuminosity.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486871823658477634" /></a>MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-6482394086706403482010-06-08T09:50:00.004-04:002010-06-08T10:05:26.484-04:00A Moment.Driving up the long driveway to home last night, I had a moment. My husband and two of my sons were in the soybean field below the house, unfolding the booms of a herbicide sprayer. My oldest son has been unofficially out of the military for nearly two weeks, using up leave until his official separation date of June 11. My youngest son is enjoying the summer that precedes his senior year of high school - that is, when his father isn't working him like a slave, and meanwhile, my middle son was working at his job ten miles away.<br /><br />For one brief moment, my good fortune shone on me like a beam of light: my sons were all at home and safe...including the one who served two tours in Iraq.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-44639519481408468552010-05-22T10:31:00.004-04:002010-05-22T12:59:58.534-04:00Half the Woman I Used to BeYou probably didn't read it in the news or on any celebrity blogs, but I've been sick for about the last eight weeks. It all began with what I thought might be food poisoning or a virus. I was in gastronomical pain for four days, which subsided to unbearable pain and then finally to the terrible discomfort I'm still living with. When it was clear that this was no ordinary virus or bacteria, I thought it might be my gallbladder, since it's common on both sides of my family. So I went for a gallbladder ultrasound, which came back clear - except for the mysterious spot on my liver. The doctor announced that it was "most likely benign," but he wanted a CT scan of my entire abdomen to check things more closely. Once again, the gallbladder was clear, and the spot on my liver was apparently a hepatic hemangioma - something like a strawberry birthmark - which isn't uncommon. But the CT scan revealed a cyst the size of a tennis ball on my left ovary. <br /><br />When I thought about this discovery, it made sense. I'd been joking that I felt like I was pregnant, because my feelings of extreme discomfort mimicked everything I felt when I was pregnant, and which I assumed back then was the beginnings of gallbladder trouble. That is, pain under my right rib, extending to my breastbone, and even numbness from side to side around the lower part of my ribs. And then there's the thing where every evening, my belly feels like I'm in at least the third month of pregnancy.<br /><br />I went to an ObGyn for a pelvic ultrasound. He announced that the cyst was the type that wouldn't go away on its own, could potentially adhere to other things surrounding it, and would have to come out along with my ovary. Since he seemed to believe that my 'upper digestive' symptoms couldn't possibly be connected to the cyst, I went ahead with a HIDA scan of my gallbladder, which measures gallbladder function - even though I was convinced the results would be normal. They were.<br /><br />So I've learned some things. One: doctors don't know everything, and often, I think, women know their bodies best. I'm more convinced than ever that once I have surgery to remove the cyst, all my other symptoms will magically go away. And two: even if you are a self-proclaimed hypochondriac, you should still listen carefully to your body, because there's always the possibility it's really trying to tell you something. <br /><br />My surgery is Wednesday at 8:00 a.m., and I'll admit I'm a little scared. They plan to do the surgery laparoscopically, but depending on what the doctor finds, they may have to open me up. But I'm still not so frightened by that as by the fact that I have high blood pressure, and I smoke. Then there's also the fact that they're removing one of my ovaries (which I assume hasn't been functioning anyway, so what's the big deal?)<br /><br />But I joked with someone at work this week, who I won't see again until I return to work, that "the next time you see me, I'll be half the woman I am now." He's an older guy who still likes to flirt with the ladies, so it wasn't exactly a surprise when he said smoothly, "That's still twice as much woman as we need."<br /><br />Anyway, wish me luck. I'll try to blog again by Thursday so you'll know I'm still alive. ;)MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-38888778302301137872010-05-02T18:24:00.003-04:002010-05-02T18:35:32.505-04:00Favorite Photos from the WeekendMy youngest son, Cord, went to his first high school prom last night. Earlier in the week we'd dashed to the nearest tuxedo rental place at nearly the last minute, where a tailor asked him to fill in a form with his name and address. None of my sons have ever cared about their handwriting, and Cord's C's look like L's. So when the young girl at the computer later entered the order for Cord's tuxedo, he became Lord [last name]. We laughed about it at the time, and the girl made no effort to change it.<br /><br />When I went to pick up the tuxedo on Friday, I used my best British accent when I asked for Lord [last name]'s tuxedo.<br /><br />Here is milord (on the left) and his friends:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4SHcSp8KIhBrODI58Wys2CqAQmm40wTRm-2OVhNIF8HPu2uxjKc0bTDY8TDy0LzYZXuSwcBpP9ArziFWKRcw-A7sCg_SsTQSveq1414Uew72uaFY4X0S-C9T7FixkQpHj-eMcDQ/s1600/prom9.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4SHcSp8KIhBrODI58Wys2CqAQmm40wTRm-2OVhNIF8HPu2uxjKc0bTDY8TDy0LzYZXuSwcBpP9ArziFWKRcw-A7sCg_SsTQSveq1414Uew72uaFY4X0S-C9T7FixkQpHj-eMcDQ/s400/prom9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466804075950318130" /></a><br /><br />Since the light yesterday evening was so beautiful (overcast after a rain), I came home and shot some photos of my middle son and his girlfriend. This is a favorite - a shot I copied from a photo my niece did of a couple and their John Deere tractor.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcAZLb_cQu7gi4eqQ93-cHxeHUz1tNJaL54LxVpCP48OdachgJgAZlkEJkQQhj0QzeQ4O2dThNQdudzey8Ppbz-2VndKSXhWme-fHTUB0HptbuQy6TcAR6xGSwlopjZiI0oQtROA/s1600/jt1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcAZLb_cQu7gi4eqQ93-cHxeHUz1tNJaL54LxVpCP48OdachgJgAZlkEJkQQhj0QzeQ4O2dThNQdudzey8Ppbz-2VndKSXhWme-fHTUB0HptbuQy6TcAR6xGSwlopjZiI0oQtROA/s400/jt1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466804787758965314" /></a>MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-32414476067258135102010-04-25T07:37:00.005-04:002010-04-25T08:19:32.492-04:00Everything Old is New AgainYesterday, while getting lunch at Subway, there was a cute girl, about 20, in line in front of me. She wore a North Face jacket and blue jeans, and cowboy boots - with spurs attached. She reminded me of me.<br /><br />I used to be her in the early 1980's, and though I never actually owned spurs, I wanted them. I wanted to go on a pack trip in the wilds of Wyoming. I took care of five horses - three of my own, and two which belonged to my sisters-in-law. I went to rodeos, spent all of my spare money on tack and horse feed, and listened to Country Music almost exclusively. <br /><br />My favorite singing artist at the time was, of course, George Strait. There were songs of his (especially if they had a rather plaintive violin solo) that made my heart almost burst with a longing to Go West, to lasso some cowboy out there and saddle him with a bunch of kids.<br /><br />Instead, I married a farmer, and together we sprouted three boys. When I found out I was pregnant the third time, I said a prayer: <em>if this can't be a girl, at least let him be able to sing.</em><br /><br />He was a boy. It wasn't until he was five or six years old that I recognized his singing ability, when he would do this impression of an opera singer. The vibrato and tone at such a young age was amazing. But I couldn't get him to <em>really</em> sing until much later. And now that he is 17, the only time I get to hear it is either when he is in the shower, or when he's riding with me in the truck. His artist of choice is George Strait, and when he sings along, I am silently enthralled. It takes me back to who I used to be. I drive slower just to soak up as much of it as I can. And honestly, it is almost like hearing George Strait in stereo. Perfect range, perfect pitch, perfect vibrato. The trouble is, I doubt he will ever do anything with it. He is talented in so many other ways that singing falls by the wayside. But it might be okay. If this was a gift intended just for me, I'll take it.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_-W-QdyILRY&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_-W-QdyILRY&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-67753574021425307172010-04-18T19:52:00.004-04:002010-04-19T13:58:27.166-04:00Wood SpriteThis is what I was doing on the evening of April 15th, when I should have been working on taxes:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKGoyy77jH0rip9hJzBgDIxfafPttkbwbtaSBaeo_XxjJFyup6d6ElrVpSyzzzQ0KbTahzJYh1JwVFTfPhDaenrz3N3fkcKKKJ7-bV6Pk8528-ySFIn9GlrF9H4nQ_h8BXH0TIRQ/s1600/taylor9bw.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKGoyy77jH0rip9hJzBgDIxfafPttkbwbtaSBaeo_XxjJFyup6d6ElrVpSyzzzQ0KbTahzJYh1JwVFTfPhDaenrz3N3fkcKKKJ7-bV6Pk8528-ySFIn9GlrF9H4nQ_h8BXH0TIRQ/s400/taylor9bw.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461630906640371730" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghFO5b3t04Ntn9_rqrF4cKucwH7GMSqjc3lilyeG2h2LKnGtnH1VA8PEzJQfQ0uU8jwq4zxKC_fQzvlG9jDedAQggOhnwOrcP3qNbfFJO5zabXpn52TUuyjTCDaONackgwYul4kA/s1600/taylor8.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghFO5b3t04Ntn9_rqrF4cKucwH7GMSqjc3lilyeG2h2LKnGtnH1VA8PEzJQfQ0uU8jwq4zxKC_fQzvlG9jDedAQggOhnwOrcP3qNbfFJO5zabXpn52TUuyjTCDaONackgwYul4kA/s400/taylor8.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461630901946841954" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP7Xrxp4XOqN0x9YMj7YxUmgK7qDDhL3h-Xq_CLtDu7gobBQSdVm4PgTKTuuwNZnEyEG-wx1nvyYhAHj1F0envZxkyFOozkhkKOIWWTqRv3IL8OFiqJjwdsKmPtt0eTwxANcP8RQ/s1600/taylor7.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP7Xrxp4XOqN0x9YMj7YxUmgK7qDDhL3h-Xq_CLtDu7gobBQSdVm4PgTKTuuwNZnEyEG-wx1nvyYhAHj1F0envZxkyFOozkhkKOIWWTqRv3IL8OFiqJjwdsKmPtt0eTwxANcP8RQ/s400/taylor7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461630894028575106" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmKYz6LP4QZkVqFJvGYp7iHXQMMZszj8sFmQb04t0dluV36_SZOXLuXU1iGPZmhoOR8cT4EnPJRSjtseh_VUkNxXS4d4IddwbrZ3y4peQ05GUQ1OGBgoBHuVUK0WHlvYSGx8aSUA/s1600/taylor4.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmKYz6LP4QZkVqFJvGYp7iHXQMMZszj8sFmQb04t0dluV36_SZOXLuXU1iGPZmhoOR8cT4EnPJRSjtseh_VUkNxXS4d4IddwbrZ3y4peQ05GUQ1OGBgoBHuVUK0WHlvYSGx8aSUA/s400/taylor4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461630879320312898" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0VvfAZrR6Nrws3LD-vrVDALDwSguSuoskDbjOrSjEeVXt4LBQpTT-qSFB_bQMzL8jLqvruT62NZJeVjOK00pCMuLqR0vFIMlNGlEZI48jvVBieunXNpcGj1VYuE37OXCseHZJrA/s1600/taylor2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0VvfAZrR6Nrws3LD-vrVDALDwSguSuoskDbjOrSjEeVXt4LBQpTT-qSFB_bQMzL8jLqvruT62NZJeVjOK00pCMuLqR0vFIMlNGlEZI48jvVBieunXNpcGj1VYuE37OXCseHZJrA/s400/taylor2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461630873519185906" /></a><br /><br /><br />And I spent most of the day today playing with these photos (and others) in Photoshop Elements. The best thing about today was that there were no deadlines to be met. You can find the model's blog <a href="http://lyralane.blogspot.com"><b>HERE</b></a>MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-7757353038781186472010-04-06T08:55:00.020-04:002010-04-06T23:13:32.812-04:00Five O'Clock ShadowsWhile looking at photos of Gerard Butler just now *ahem*, I ran across an article which said, "Researchers in Britain have found that women are more attracted to men with stubbly chins than those with clean-shaven faces or full beards – in fact, the fair sex prefers them for love, sex and marriage."<br /><br />It's nice to have my own instincts confirmed. I've always been a fan of the five o'clock shadow, and the darker the shadow the better. I'm not, on the other hand, a lover of beards. Once the length of facial hair gets beyond a certain point, it stops being sexy for me. <br /><br />This is about right: <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUuIMrPux9gSi3-AqPmUSbBLfRTB3vUt0Z9e931HJ7dIiA2vHIPtM4UoliaWiWPRCSLe9Y6t-Kk-eAitL32CxDSy8ALngvKyA1Y1EY1IkpTbmlIQP3H4OWKUzT2MVyNRhp9pgBQ/s1600/GerardButler17.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 303px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUuIMrPux9gSi3-AqPmUSbBLfRTB3vUt0Z9e931HJ7dIiA2vHIPtM4UoliaWiWPRCSLe9Y6t-Kk-eAitL32CxDSy8ALngvKyA1Y1EY1IkpTbmlIQP3H4OWKUzT2MVyNRhp9pgBQ/s400/GerardButler17.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457010809577449250" /></a><br /><p><br></br></p><br /><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br />Or this: <br /><br></br><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcxqZI1yP-tO45XVch9PinHPT-x72naXkfOfGSKZDFU1032w02rXersEi0SPr7FwHkvTMmSg_DNCKfKhDqA5hQbnpEocM1o-JQytnJb_Fj6vrlDDUwzNs7Z_FTtTnGmzj0Awm60w/s1600/george.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcxqZI1yP-tO45XVch9PinHPT-x72naXkfOfGSKZDFU1032w02rXersEi0SPr7FwHkvTMmSg_DNCKfKhDqA5hQbnpEocM1o-JQytnJb_Fj6vrlDDUwzNs7Z_FTtTnGmzj0Awm60w/s400/george.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457011006961339250" /></a><br /><p><br></br></p><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br />Beard stubble even makes what might otherwise be a baby face, acceptable: <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc4cm0WlF-f6v9hyphenhyphen5RSMu3a1fMWxr7UxgMXp2bIZckvJVH-zGRBlLCdPnzJQL_jnrDaGCYruinnyN9m2PIV3NRe6dUsGg0H-xmEuuaO6QhdITkbUh8NqU6-QLyskuIOKMvG2Szjg/s1600/jake_gyllenhaal.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 315px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc4cm0WlF-f6v9hyphenhyphen5RSMu3a1fMWxr7UxgMXp2bIZckvJVH-zGRBlLCdPnzJQL_jnrDaGCYruinnyN9m2PIV3NRe6dUsGg0H-xmEuuaO6QhdITkbUh8NqU6-QLyskuIOKMvG2Szjg/s400/jake_gyllenhaal.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457011271073775362" /></a><br /><p><br></br></p><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br />And totally changes my acceptance of an actor, along with my perception of his skill: <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPDSqsZ95qwWXnIpRbqcgGBUJEdee4unLlU1SMmHP5G3LIHWsTUQumiqkgU65SA8Vn99HaYHNNFfvYxckwo1Hc4Cyjhyphenhypheny9D7Xzd6bLY2hZzVRpSszTMrDrWrpzSPoJxmjLhi1zrA/s1600/leonardo.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 376px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPDSqsZ95qwWXnIpRbqcgGBUJEdee4unLlU1SMmHP5G3LIHWsTUQumiqkgU65SA8Vn99HaYHNNFfvYxckwo1Hc4Cyjhyphenhypheny9D7Xzd6bLY2hZzVRpSszTMrDrWrpzSPoJxmjLhi1zrA/s400/leonardo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457011533012326434" /></a><br />(Oh, yes. Titanic, who?)<br /><p><br></br></p><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br />I will even accept it when a man's facial hair grows in a little white trashy: <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy55dTAm9oFXNY934OG43DQJVtCbZJPM7M3ygyD_3zxAm1bp471oU8TvBJl70mpNi_sDMGhicv-hLsZWO-RKcxhgJae0g0iBUH7Ivc8gHqiVb12y7Cv8-Up-or38CxsFqGjZ69fQ/s1600/keanu.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 304px; height: 387px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy55dTAm9oFXNY934OG43DQJVtCbZJPM7M3ygyD_3zxAm1bp471oU8TvBJl70mpNi_sDMGhicv-hLsZWO-RKcxhgJae0g0iBUH7Ivc8gHqiVb12y7Cv8-Up-or38CxsFqGjZ69fQ/s400/keanu.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457011841608514978" /></a><br />(Especially if he is hot, to boot.)<br /><p><br></br></p><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br />But the award for the <em>most perfect</em> five o'clock shadow goes to this man, based on depth of color, panache, and all sorts of other adjectives: <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicDbIqG64u_kKizPL7ejGpkrgjDqkUpjTo6_OJnz-Xk4BMz4dxFfP5xp4TQLEXvB88fs9y-PFtlQcduRbhdU6dm-7lFSB_P_khffYqPZlO5yw2BQE2iWqR5hM7vpb_AZS1le9Sxg/s1600/johnny.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicDbIqG64u_kKizPL7ejGpkrgjDqkUpjTo6_OJnz-Xk4BMz4dxFfP5xp4TQLEXvB88fs9y-PFtlQcduRbhdU6dm-7lFSB_P_khffYqPZlO5yw2BQE2iWqR5hM7vpb_AZS1le9Sxg/s400/johnny.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457012334001459714" /></a><br /><p><br></br></p><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br></br><br /><br />I believe I've proved my point. You're welcome.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-52995952383135186632010-04-03T09:26:00.007-04:002010-04-03T09:56:07.838-04:00It wasn't unpleasant.My mom phoned me this week to let me know that a church member (who opened her home to our small congregation when we didn't have a place to meet, and who has been battling pancreatic cancer for about the last year) had been told by her doctor that the end was probably near. My mom went to visit her on Wednesday, and suggested that I send her a card.<br /><br />On Thursday I forgot all about the card until evening and it was too late. So yesterday after work, I bought a card, wrote a note inside, addressed the envelope, and then was suddenly freaked out by the fear it wouldn't be delivered in time. So I called my mom and told her so. She said, simply, "Then take it to her." This freaked me out even more. Not surprisingly, I'm uncomfortable with dying. The image of the last days of my husband's uncle, who also had pancreatic cancer, are still vivid in my mind. I remember his eyes looking into mine in those last hours, and it was as if his soul had already been in transition. I don't know how else to describe it.<br /><br />So I called my husband to ask his opinion. He said, "Deliver it yourself." So I called a co-worker who always gives good advice, and he gave me permission to not go. Oddly enough, his contrasting opinion is what gave me the courage to drive to her home and visit her.<br /><br />I'm glad I did. She sat up in her bed while I visited. And though she was a shadow of her former self, she was in good spirits - whether for my benefit or her own, I'm not sure. She seemed to genuinely appreciate my being there. And her last words to me were, "I'll be fine. I'll see you someday. Either here, or somewhere else."<br /><br />It's strange how I have very often had the intention of comforting someone else, and I was the one who ended up being comforted. Like everyone else, I suppose, I've always had a fear of dying. Facing it seems to take the sting out.<br /><br />Afterward, since it was right on the way home, I went to visit my Aunt and Uncle, both of whom have recently dealt with huge medical issues. My Uncle loves to talk, and is always thrilled when new ears show up. He told me (not for the first time) about how he is allergic to wasp stings. He discovered it while they were building their house. He said he began going into anaphylactic shock, and thought to himself, "'Well, I'm dying.' And it wasn't unpleasant."<br /><br />So maybe it's not. For those fortunate enough to not die painfully, maybe it's like being wrapped in a blanket of peace.<br /><br />As I drove home afterward, I was suddenly aware of what felt like the weight of an arm across my shoulders. I've had this experience before, of feeling as if someone has put their arms around me. Then I felt a tingling on top of my head - almost like a ruffling of my hair - and it was so intense that I reached up and scratched my head. I know I'm a bit strange to think so, but it felt as if my dad was saying, "I'm proud of you."MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-522989171284478102010-03-29T19:48:00.000-04:002010-03-29T19:48:44.977-04:00VignetteHer lips were berry-stained and ripe. In her arms she held a basket brimming with summer, and summer was in her. It twined around the crown of her dark head, and tucked itself behind her ears. She danced through the dewy grass with lithe grace to the music of birdsong, clutching the basket to her breast like a lover. She sang, and the sun cleared the clouds like a smile.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-42311499147335319102010-03-24T09:34:00.004-04:002010-03-24T13:12:46.625-04:00Woman of LeisureI'm curled up on the sofa with my laptop, still in my pajamas. When I woke at 5 this morning, after having fallen asleep only four and a half hours before, I felt pretty sick and nauseated. It was enough to put me off even trying to go to work, so I went back to bed and slept until 8.<br /><br />After a cup of coffee, I'm feeling a little better, but still have a weird, nagging headache that has made me undecided about going to work. If I'm feeling sick, that should be the end of the story, right? But I know that one day away will put me one day behind.<br /><br />I was thinking earlier, my body all warm and cozy beneath this rich, chocolate microsuede blanket, that I wouldn't mind being a woman of leisure. Then I thought, <em>I wonder how much work it would take to become one?</em> which seemed sort of funny and ironic to me. Seriously, though...as attached as I am to some of the people I work with, I'm not really committed to the job itself, and it wouldn't bother me to leave it. So what would it take? Writing a novel or two? Learning to paint masterpieces in oil that people are scrambling to buy? Inventing a social networking site? A co-worker mentioned the other day that he was surprised to discover that his neighbor's son was the founder of the site formspring.com, and his neighbor had initially invested in it. Why can't something like that happen to me?<br /><br />I would just like to feel I was doing something to make the world a better place. Something besides keeping airplanes from falling out of the sky. Don't get me wrong - I think airplanes not falling out of the sky is important - but I'm only indirectly holding them up there. With massive stacks of paper. Like a modern day Atlas who doesn't require any real strength.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-4922151133352667832010-03-23T08:47:00.002-04:002010-03-23T09:08:58.563-04:00DisgruntledI suppose I'd just like to vent for a bit, since it's the time of month for venting. I'll just form a list, shall I?<br /><br />1. I wish people at work would stop asking me how to spell things. Did you not graduate from high school? Do you not have spell check on your computer? <em>Do you not have a Websters Dictionary just behind you, collecting dust on the shelf?</em><br /><br />2. Every once in a while, I go through a period of feeling very unaccomplished. It's as if my life is meaningless, and I haven't really contributed anything to the world except three wonderful human beings (which should be enough). It's happening now, and I'm not sure what to do about it. Most days I feel so overwhelmed by my job (which I hate more and more every day), that I don't have the energy to do anything creative. It may have a lot to do with having barely survived another long winter, as these times of self-reproof seem to occur in February/March.<br /><br />3. Why would anyone trust The Government?<br /><br />4. Speaking of government, here's something that has been bothering me for a long time. America was founded on the backs of hardworking, self-sufficient men and women. Where have they all gone? I suppose I have quite a different perspective than some people, since I'm married to a farmer who is one of the hardest working people I have ever known. Living in the country encourages self-sufficiency, and it seems to me that (speaking generally) it's city people who expect the government to take care of them, and rural people who want the government to leave them the hell alone. This was illustrated to me on the local news one day last summer, after a huge amount of rain. A journalist was asking a woman in a car about the condition of city streets, and she replied that the sewer drain had been blocked by debris all day, and when was the city going to come out and do something about it? Like a complete maniac, I yelled at the television set, "Why don't you get out of your freaking car and clean it yourself?" It's what I would have done, but maybe that's because where I live, there is no government to help out. And besides, we take a certain amount of pride in being able to take care of ourselves like <em>real adults</em>.<br /><br />5. I hate when I buy a cosmetic (most commonly, lipstick), then find out immediately after unsealing the product and using it that it's all wrong for me. What a waste of money.<br /><br />6. I've pretty much run out of steam. More later, maybe.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-85698973246496260302010-03-19T08:23:00.000-04:002010-03-19T08:24:03.180-04:00The Outlaw Jesse JamesFrom the beginning, I've observed with some curiosity the love affair between actress <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sandra_Bullock"><b>Sandra Bullock</b></a> and motorcycle builder <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jesse_G._James"><b>Jesse James</b></a>. It seemed to me the classic bad boy/good girl combination, which is rarely a good idea. But I wished them luck.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0iCFYOA8LVqBtHD7AV0bHaqBGlinxpDFDsNEkx0Ws77nCiVBwZQaNS2_LXHYm7ByXKsdFzHlRtwivDJNxuGc_JYhuO2hFY4HzatQ8VxQrqEVu_f7oeDrcwgGbVa56u1fzAhnlw/s1600-h/jessesandra.bmp"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 228px; height: 331px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0iCFYOA8LVqBtHD7AV0bHaqBGlinxpDFDsNEkx0Ws77nCiVBwZQaNS2_LXHYm7ByXKsdFzHlRtwivDJNxuGc_JYhuO2hFY4HzatQ8VxQrqEVu_f7oeDrcwgGbVa56u1fzAhnlw/s400/jessesandra.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450311244830994546" /></a>Over the past five years of their marriage, Sandra has blossomed. I'd been thinking recently - especially while watching the film <em>The Blind Side</em> - that being in love has given Ms. Bullock an inner glow she didn't really have before. Add to that her recent box office successes, and she appeared to be on top of the world. We women are suckers for love; you only need to look at the popularity of romance novels to see this. And this woman was clearly <em>in love</em>.<br /><br />But now, the rumor is out that Jesse James had an 11-month affair with this woman:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYM3g2bq7zWfy1Oqfx8WMzT1j_DBsIPKIwu1xRrx2KI2WttytnNJvgONdRlvbe5O9kOa6kTHas0znkj36Qs5XKs1Q3tEznM6jKNZ0gc3mRRBzLe1ZxjiZe922sCfpi9_fljXgRQ/s1600-h/gross.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 151px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYM3g2bq7zWfy1Oqfx8WMzT1j_DBsIPKIwu1xRrx2KI2WttytnNJvgONdRlvbe5O9kOa6kTHas0znkj36Qs5XKs1Q3tEznM6jKNZ0gc3mRRBzLe1ZxjiZe922sCfpi9_fljXgRQ/s400/gross.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450312049680745106" /></a>I can't know what went through the man's head when the alleged affair began, but I suspect it was something like this: <em>I need to take a shit. I don't feel like shaving today. I'd like something to eat and a cold beer. I want to have sex with something - preferably <s>a woman</s> my wife, but she is off making a film and this tattooed chick seems to be more into me than Sandra does at the moment.</em><br /><br />So here we have a hint about several things:<br /><br />1. If you want to have a husband, a man might be a bad choice.<br />2. You should never place all of your happiness in the hands of another person (man or woman).<br />3. There's no accounting for taste.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28143636.post-51196452506251018592010-03-18T21:11:00.004-04:002010-03-18T21:30:35.068-04:00My feathered friend.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSwX4w1WCqhr0BieuQPg-qC66TFJTxJhj8JoAw83D_GSE-_Q-nSJAzk7YhcaO72MbNdGoGIz1B_ZZKYcnK9ommtYMWVHn5TUTuL_PDDFGB99mp3NCo-25vWtFFN5GT39Dt_PD7g/s1600-h/paulie.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSwX4w1WCqhr0BieuQPg-qC66TFJTxJhj8JoAw83D_GSE-_Q-nSJAzk7YhcaO72MbNdGoGIz1B_ZZKYcnK9ommtYMWVHn5TUTuL_PDDFGB99mp3NCo-25vWtFFN5GT39Dt_PD7g/s400/paulie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450146532583679474" /></a> This is Paulie. Paulie joined the family about twelve years ago, when we ran into him in a pet shop. I'd wanted a small parrot for a while, since I knew that was all I could afford, and when I saw this little green-cheeked conure perched unhappily in a cage, his chest bare of feathers because he'd plucked them all out, well, I felt sorry for him. By contrast, the sun conure that shared his cage was brilliant in every way: cheerful, sunny, brightly colored. But there sat Paulie, naked before the world and wanting only to be loved for who he was. I fell for it, and I'm pretty sure I got a discount for buying him naked.<br /><br />It took a while before his feathers grew out. I knew they would - self-pluckers usually have some kind of psychological problem, and I figured he wouldn't go crazy as a result of living with <em>us</em>. Turns out I was right, surprisingly.<br /><br />I know he looks sweet enough, but he's actually a little shit.MauritaMasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13748469998492694991noreply@blogger.com7