Despite the cold and rain that we didn’t plan on (or pack for), it was another especially fine day at the storytelling festival, a day that kicked off with a car pulling into the parking space next to us and the driver calling out “Hey, didn’t we park next to y’all yesterday?” I wasn’t sure till I saw how long it took the woman in the backseat to get out, and then I knew yes, yes they did park next to us yesterday – how’s that for a needle-in-the-haystack moment?
It was also a stellar day for found objects, as you can see here and read about here.
The Buddhists say we’re supposed to stay in the present and the Baptists keep us focusing on the future, but to tell you the truth, my natural leaning is towards times past, and today it wasn’t just the storytellers that carried me back in time . . . Who can forget this linoleum pattern from days gone by? We didn’t have it on our kitchen floor, but every one of my friends did.
Not only were these fellas a lot of fun to cut up with, but they offered to help me nudge my son into joining the Sons of the Confederacy. Now seems as fine a time as any to tell you that I belong to the UDC (United Daughters of the Confederacy), the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution), and the Colonial Dames XVII . . . AND . . . I’m working on my papers to join other lineage societies cause while I may not approve of everything that was done in the past, I’m proud to be a Southerner, and I’m proud to be an American. Even though it’s not politically correct. Which is probably why I”m coming clean here ’cause yesterday a woman sat down next to me, and at one point in our brief little chitchat, she said “You are politically correct,” and I was insulted. Insulted, I tell you. I’m just tired of covering up who I am at my deep, essential core to keep other people feeling all comfortable. What I’m saying is: I guess I felt insulted ’cause I realized she was telling the truth. Doesn’t mean I won’t continue to be polite, but political correctness is a whole different thing that leaps right on into dangerous territory, if you ask me.
Glad we got that cleared up.
My granddaddy used to take his dentures out every night and put them on the sideboard in a saucer of water. Right up there with other important and often-used things. Grossed me out and scared me more than once when I happened upon those teeth. So one year I saved my money to order him a ceramic AND LIDDED chopper hopper that I spied in one of Mother’s catalogues. It was just like this one I saw in an antique store on Main Street today, except I splurged, spent an extra 10-cents, and had “William’s Chopper Hopper” printed on the front of the one I ordered. Nothing but the best for my Granddaddy.
Don’t you wish this beauty could talk? Don’t you know she has some stories to tell? Oh my goodness gracious, if tractors could talk . . .
And now I’m going to tuck my cold, damp feet under the cover, (pretend to) watch a football game with my husband, and stitch a bit.
Pull up a chair why don't you, and let's talk . . .