Chiggers

by Cassondra Murray



Are y’all feeling good after Jeanne’s yummy-smelling perfume blog yesterday? Well, brace yourselves, because I’m fixin' to replace that good-smelling afterglow with somethin' worse’n a pot o’ cabbage boilin’ on the stove.



For any of you who have NOT smelled cabbage cooking, “stinks” does not even begin to describe it. It’s enough to turn you against green plants and gardens in general.



I’m just warning you. So if you think you can take it, go right ahead. Read on.



No, I am not blogging about stinky stuff.



Well, then again, maybe I am, in a metaphorical kind of way.



Y’all remember the malt vs float blog from last month, right? The one where Jeanne and I chose sides? (I was float, she was malt.) That’s one point on which my evil twin, the dear Duchesse Jeanne Pickering Adams, and I, part ways. Another point on which we differ is that she prefers winter. She likes to shiver. I, on the other hand, hate to be cold, and am a shameless hoyden for spring and summer—oh and a nice long, unseasonably warm autumn that lingers until mid-December.



It doesn’t bother me at all to have the heat, as long as it’s not a horrid drought. People say, “but it’s a dry heat!” And I say, “so is hell.”



And it doesn’t bother me as long as I can get relief, when I want it, with air conditioning, a tall glass of lemonade or my grandmother’s sun tea (sweet tea, of course, as anything else is just wrong), or even a nice cool glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc.



Jeanne hates the beach. I was born with a palm tree in my soul.



In most other ways, we are indeed evil twins.



I’ll sit on the porch, sipping my icy beverage, and gently “glow” (that's ladylike country talk for "sweat" in case y'all didn't know) into the long summer evening as the sun sets in a streaky purple and cerise-colored sky, and the lightning bugs flicker across the tall fescue in the pasture. Jeanne will be fanning and wanting to go inside where it’s cool.







That love of summer firmly established, I admit that there is one thing about summer which I am never loathe to see pass.



Chiggers.



Do you have chiggers where you live?



I hate chiggers.



For you lucky souls who do not have chiggers where you live, and may not know their entymology or (sarcasm alert)the joy of having multiple chigger bites on your body, all itching at the same time…well…let me just say right here that chiggers are NOT ticks. And since we’ve known about Lyme Disease, and especially since Brad Paisley came out with that song about ticks….



I’d like to see you under the moonlight

I’d like to kiss you way back in the sticks

I’d like to walk with you through a field of wild flowers

And I’d like to check you for ticks



…..Well, ever since that, ticks have gotten way more than their fair share of publicity.



Honestly. You can see a tick when it’s crawling on you. Even the itty bitty deer ticks, though they take a bit of concentration to identify. When you take off your clothes at home and shower, you’re quite likely to notice a tick trying to make its way up your leg. I have a reasonable level of hatred for ticks (and most other things with more than two legs which attempt to crawl upon me). But that is honest parasitic advancement, in my opinion.



Chiggers, on the other hand....chiggers are sneaky.



Do you know what chiggers look like?



Probably not,because you can’t actually see the microscopic little buggers, but if you’ve ever had chiggers, you know what I’m saying. I had a picture of a chigger all ready to post, but I decided against it. I figure y'all have computers, and know how to use Google. If you want to know what these little critters look like, it's just a Google search away.



Ahem...back to the point...



If you’ve ever picked blackberries, I’m guessing you know all about chiggers.



Wild blackberries are my favorite summer fruit. I grew up picking blackberries with my family every summer. So one summer just after Steve and I got married, I was feeling all sentimental about my childhood, and when I got the chance to pick blackberries, I took it.



A friend of Steve’s had several acres, and each year he used his riding mower to mow paths around the clumps of wild blackberry bushes, or “vines” as we called them in Southern Kentucky.



I suppose these paths of short lawn-like grass gave me a false sense of security.



We spent the afternoon, and I came home to our tiny apartment with a gallon of the incredible rich, sweet-tart fruits, and my tummy already full from eating them straight off the vines. But by that evening the red bumps started to show up.

I was covered with chigger bites. Steve counted 120 itchy red bites on my body. I was miserable.



For you who are lucky enough to NOT know, most chigger bites happen in the spots where your clothes are tight. Chigger bites aren't actually "bites" you see. And they're not terribly dangerous.



The teensy little mites simply move into one of the hair follicles in your skin-- and there they set up housekeeping for a few days. A few very itchy days.



They prefer the hair follicles in restricted areas. Like the crease under your breasts where your bra rides. Isn’t that a fun place to have red bumps that are itching like fluttering hell-bats from the pits of doom?



Or your tummy where the waistband of your pants rests. Oh, and the best place of all--the elastic legs of your panties. Yeah. They congregate there--where your body moves and bends—and in places like your ankles, just under the bands of your socks.



And that movement? That just makes them itch all the more.





And there is Nothing. You. Can. Do. About. It.



Like Measles or Mumps or the flu, they have to just do their thing. Run their course.



The “experts” say they gravitate to those spots because they like the dark--areas of tight clothing. Me? I think they just go as far as they can go and most of them stop right there, where the clothing gets tight, and it’s too bloody much trouble to climb any further. And that’s where they dig in.



If I were a chigger, that's what I would do.



Lazy little sorry critters they are.





Of course, “dig in” is wrong too, according to the experts.



I suppose I owe it to the experts to say that chiggers are a mite-like thingy. And it’s the larvae which are the trouble. They look nothing like larvae to me. They look more like a tick, in their larval stage, actually. A tick you cannot see. Otherwise, the experts say, chiggers, or “harvest mites” of which there are more than 30 species (oh JOY!) don’t cause any trouble. It’s just that larval stage.



They say if you go home and shower immediately you can wash the chiggers off. I have not found that to be the case. Showering has never helped me because the chiggers have already found their spots and sandbagged themselves in.



I’ll spare you the details of their actual activity while in your follicles. The point is, they itch like all heck.



People have said for a long while now that if you paint over the chigger bite with

nail polish that it’ll kill it—that it can’t breathe then . I suppose it does appeal to the logic, doesn’t it? The idea that this layer of shellac-like nail polish suffocates the itchy little demons to death.



After all, if I’m going to itch and suffer, I’d like for the cause of it to suffer along with me.



However, being from strong country stock, as I am, I’ve never believed this. And this is one point on which the experts agree with me. They say this nail polish trick does absolutely no good.

I don’t know what I think about the experts and their opinions about chiggers. They may be right. Or not.





That evening so many years ago, Steve painted all 120 of those chiggers with pink nail polish.





When I was a little girl, my parents would get me ready to pick blackberries in the following way: First, I had to wear long pants and long sleeves. Then they took a kerosene—yes, kerosene—dampened cloth and swabbed it around my wrists and ankles.



And you know what?



Nary a chigger.



That’s right. It kept the chiggers away. And given the negative qualities of DEET, which is the only kind of insect repellent which will keep chiggers away, I’m not certain the kerosene was any worse.



But that day when I was first married, I had no kerosene, and the blackberry picking was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I thought only briefly about chiggers, then I determined to be careful.



Ha! Chiggers give no heed to careful. They jump—yes, according the the experts, they wait on vegetation and jump toward their intended hosts.



This past June I cleared the weeds away from the flower bed around my mailbox. Tall weeds. Lots of them. And guess what?



That evening Steve counted 116 chiggers on me. And he painted them with clear nail polish. I told him I thought that didn’t do any good. He said just in case it did, we should paint the chiggers.



I itched for three days.



I hate to see the end of summer, but the one thing I do not mourn is chiggers. They can freeze their little chigger hienies off with the first frost. Jeanne, you are vindicated.



I hope they go to the darkest corner of chigger hell.



What about you, Bandits and Buddies?



Are there chiggers where you live?



Have you ever had a chigger bite?



I’m not allergic to poison ivy. Are you? If so, what do you do to stop the itching?



I have a selfish motive here, because I’m writing a scene in my latest manuscript like this….have you ever read a scene in a book where the hero or heroine was all itchy?



Hmmm…it doesn’t sound all that romantic, does it?



Are you a summer person like me? Or are you like Jeanne—a winter person? Do you look forward to the greening in the spring? Or to the first frost of Autumn, when the bugs get their comeuppance?



It’s the end of summer. Are you glad? Or are you sad?





And did you ever pick blackberries?

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Small Town Summer

by Cassondra Murray

I grew up in a small town.


Okay, that’s not entirely true. I grew up way out in the country, on a farm, but the town closest to us was the one we considered “our town.” It’s where we went to shop at the Houchen’s Grocery store, and do laundry at the Wishy Washy on Saturdays. When people ask me where I’m from—you know, when the conversation is not the kind where you say, “I grew up on a farm about 8 miles out of town, in a community called Glens Fork, in Adair County…”—when the conversation is brief and you’re just making nice, that town is what I say.

It had a big red brick courthouse in the middle of the town square. The kind with double doors on opposite sides of the building, so you could enter from either direction. The courthouse had a tower with a clock at the top. That clock never was right.

When I was a little girl, there were benches outside the courthouse doors, and old men would sit on those benches and tell lies and whittle.

There was a pool room down a side street. Y’all know about that pool room because I’ve blogged about it before, in the blog about ice cream. The town also had a little café tucked into a corner of the square, and a Ben Franklin store.



Ben Franklin was every kid’s dream before Toys R Us came along. There was also a Western Auto, with gardening tools, wheelbarrows, rocking horses, and a little red wagon in the front window. That’s where my dad bought some of my best Christmas presents ever. My Play Family garage. My electric train. That’s where he bought my first guitar. And that changed who I was forever.

I know I talk about my town a lot. I guess it’s because it’s such a part of who I am, and it’s a part of who I am not.
Nowadays I live half way between two towns. It’s ten miles north to the bigger city, which has a university, gobs and gobs of restaurants, and is building a new performing arts center. If you turn right out of my driveway, you go to that big town.

But if you turn left out of my driveway, ten miles the other direction is…..a small town. One with a courthouse and a square a lot like “mine.” If I have a choice, I always turn left.

And last night I did turn left, and drove to the small town to get something I needed. I noticed as I drove through, that there was a big crowd at the Frosty Freeze. My husband, Steve, wasn’t feeling well, so I decided to pick up something to eat.

Frosty Freeze is a little glass and concrete box in the middle of a parking lot. There are two big trees out front, and several picnic tables arranged under the orange-ish street lights. I angled into a space at the side and got out. I walked up to the window and got in line. When it was my turn, the girl took my order. Two barbecue sandwiches, a small vanilla malt with extra malt, and a small pineapple shake with extra pineapple. Oh, and a funnel cake.



I paid, then I sat down on the curb to wait. All the tables were full. School is out here, and high school kids moved back and forth, hovering between parked cars and around the beds of pickup trucks. A couple of farm boys climbed out of one truck and came around the front to place orders. But more high school kids hung out at the tables and around by the bug zapper, and they weren’t ordering anything. They were just hanging out.

I watched the dance of awkward wanting, and was swept away—back to my teenage years, cruising through the streets of the place where I grew up. I was swept back to the essence of all that is small town.

My town—the one where I grew up-- had the carcass of an old movie theater on one corner of the square,with a neon marquis out front that read Columbian theater in big vertical letters that reached almost three stories high.

But that marquis never lit up when I lived there. I got to see one movie in that theater when I was a small child. It closed down later that fall. The drive-in, further out on the edge of the city, was closed long before I was born. There was no roller rink, no professional or semi-pro sports team, no wave pool or museum.

There was absolutely. Nothing. To. Do.

So on Friday and Saturday nights, the kids from the farms and the suburbs, such as they were, drove into town and cruised. They circled the square, went down the big hill on Jamestown street, out toward the parkway, made a big circle around Sonic, then went back toward the courthouse, where they'd circle the square and repeat. All at about 15 miles per hour, so they could stick their heads out the windows and talk to the cars they were meeting. Sometimes they'd take breaks and hang at Sonic or Dairy Queen, or in the Pizza Hut parking lot.

This town where I sat at the Frosty Freeze is a little better off. They have an actual working drive in (refurbished) that shows first run movies. And they’re only 20 miles from the bigger city, so they can get to the mall, the arcade, and the minor league baseball games the larger town offers.


And yet it was the same. The smell of barbecue and deep fried yummy goodness. The sound of the shake mixer. The ziiiiip-pop of the bug zapper in the back, and the low rumble of big pipes on a farm boy’s pickup truck.

Parents murmuring to their children as they helped little fingers with ice cream cones, just the way they did at Sonic and Dairy Queen when I was a young girl. Bright colored bows in pony tails. Softball uniforms. Bare feet, brown with dirt from playing outside in the yard all day. Swimsuits under t-shirts. High school rings wrapped with rubber bands. A pretty girl's long hair blowing in the warm evening breeze. Tan skin and young love. The banker’s daughter and the poor farm boy. It’s the stuff romance is made of, for me.

I determined, last night, that some things time cannot change because the reasons for them don’t change. My evidence was standing right there at that window, ordering barbecue and a small chocolate shake. Even though there is more to do in this small town, there they are, just the same as we were, cruising up and down Main Street on a perfect summer night. Hanging at the Frosty Freeze.

The girl came to the window with my order, and I walked away with my white sacks of un-politically-correct food. But I also walked away reminded of who I was, to a degree. Reminded that although I love certain things about big cities, I will always be a small-town girl at heart. An artsy girl who still gets a thrill from the growl of a diesel pickup truck engine, broad shoulders and a farmer tan. All just three blocks down from a big red brick courthouse with a tower and a clock on the front.


The only real differences are that I’m a lot older, on the outside looking in now, and those farm boys stroll right by without a sideways glance.

Oh, and their courthouse clock is right.

So, Bandits and Buddies, tell me about the place where you grew up, and what said "summer" to you when you were young.



Were your summers in a small town, or a big city?


Where did the kids hang out on those long, hot evenings? Was there a movie theater? Any chance there was a drive in?

Did you ever cruise main street on Friday and Saturday nights?

Have you ever ridden in the back of a pickup truck?

Do any of y'all remember Ben Franklin or Western Auto stores?

And do you like to read small town love stories?
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The Little Gray Cat

by Cassondra Murray

Early in the summer of 2008, a lonely gray cat, skinny, in trouble, and so small she looked about six months old, wandered into a subdivision and arrived at the back door of a girl named Amy. Amy is a friend of ours, and works with my husband, Steve.

Maybe it was luck, coincidence, or an angel guiding Little Gray Cat, but let's just say that if you were a cat in trouble, Amy's door would have been the one you'd want to find. Because as luck, or the Divine, would have it, Amy had a soft spot for cats.

Amy cleared out an entire spare bedroom for the forlorn little cat, laid out old blankets, moved in a cat tree, litter box, and a scratching post. After a trip to the vet, Little Gray Cat took up residence, and in August, 2008, five little ones arrived. And no group of kittens had ever come into the world to more love.

They had everything they needed, and Little Gray Cat settled in to motherhood without a hitch.

A few months before that, we'd lost our beloved Max at age 17. He'd been lost in a field when his mom and siblings were taken by owls, and come to us when he was three weeks and weighed 3/4 lbs. Max was our companion for all those years, and we were devastated when we lost him. This is Max, engaging in his favorite spectator sport.




Our younger cat, Amon (pronounced Aaaahh-muhnn) was bereft. She sat around, staring out the windows, and although she made an effort to pick up and move on, no doubt she was lonely all day in the house when we were out at work. No more night stampedes through the house. Nobody to lie in wait for from the top of the armoire. It was time to find her some company. I'd always wanted a black cat, but we always seemed to end up with grays.

That's Max. on the right, with Amon, on the left. Amon came home with us after we coaxed her and her sister out from under a car in the parking lot of a Captain D's. She weighed a whopping one pound at the time. One of the employees took the sister, and Amon has been with us since.



As fate would have it, of the five new arrivals at Amy's house, three were gray, and two were black.

We went for a visit. We got to know the kittens in their first five weeks. And eventually we settled on a little black furball with big green eyes and a white snip under his chin. We brought him home and named him Umbra.





Umbra was the first kitten we'd ever brought home who had not been abandoned, and was not in trouble. He'd never known anything but love, and perhaps as a result, he loves everyone who comes to our home. Umbra knows no stranger. He's truly a laid-back cat. At sixteen pounds, he's now a hoss of solid, purring muscle.

Here's Umbra in the new kitchen sink during a construction phase just before Christmas.



Flash foward to the summer of 2010, and Amy found herself, as Little Gray Cat had once been, in the family way. Things were a little different for Amy, though. She had a fellow who loved her, and would love their baby. Amy already had her own house, so everything was set. There was just one problem.

Amy's husband wasn't fond of cats, and as time passed, turned out to be allergic to them. With a baby on the way, there was nothing to do but find a new home for Little Gray Cat.

We'd always told Amy that if Little Gray Cat couldn't stay with her, we'd bring her to our house, but Amy didn't want us to feel pressured, and we already had two cats. So we got the email three weeks ago. With the baby due in 8 days, and her husband sick from the dander, Amy was feeling the pressure. She'd taken Little Gray Cat, Umbra's mom, to the shelter.

We needed another cat like we needed a hole in the head. But sometimes that just doesn't matter.

It was 11:00 in the morning on a Saturday when we opened that email.

By the time we found Little Gray Cat on the shelter website and figured out what we had to do, it was ten minutes before noon. We needed a reference, and our vet closes at noon on Saturdays. We called anyway.

Joy, the sweetheart who works the front desk on weekends (and who loves cats, and has a few more than she needs as well) stopped everything to phone the shelter with a reference for us. We called a friend who volunteers there, hoping these efforts might help us jump more easily through the Nazi-like hoops of the shelter's watchdogs and allow us to spring Little Gray Cat from the slammer. Our friends rallied around the effort, and we drove too fast on the way there.

I have to tell you, I admire people who volunteer at the shelter. I can't do it. I cry from the time I walk in the door until I drive away. I cried a bunch, as usual, and apologized to the people at the shelter for doing so. Nothing makes me lose it like too many faces looking back at me through the bars. We sponsored another cat because we couldn't bring all of them with us.

And we brought Little Gray Cat home.

Her name is Holly (Amy had named her that when she first arrived), and it's clear that Umbra got his huge, pale-green eyes and laid-back ways from his mother.

She's obviously no longer a scrawny little cat, and is being put through laser-pointer chase drills for weight loss.



After some hissing, spitting and a bit of flying fur, the cat chain of command has been established and there seems to be a truce in the house, and Holly is taking her share of shifts on mouse watch.

She's fitting right in.



What about you, Bandits and Buddies?

Have you ever taken in a stray animal?

Have you adopted from a shelter? If so, how do you leave there without bringing them all with you?

Have you ever had too many already, but brought in one more?

How many do you have? If you don't have them now, did you have animals in your home when you were a kid?

Tell me how your furry friends came to be with you.

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Buttons

by Cassondra Murray

I've been cleaning again.

Y'all know, by now, of my ongoing mission to rid myself of stuff-itis and clear the extraneous junk out of my home and my life. I've been tossing out stuff left and right.

Earlier this fall I unpacked a box which had been stored in the garage since we moved into our present home. I tore off the tape, pulled back the flaps and dug through the wadded up newspaper. Inside was an old basket which was so much more than it appeared. It was a treasure box of memories.

It was my grandmother's button box.

Y'all know how you can spend a gazillion dollars on toys for kids, but at some point they'll end up making forts out of the boxes because their imaginations can do so much more with plain cardboard than the toy makers can ever do with plastic, lights and bleepy noises? Well, I was that way with buttons, and to some degree, I'm still that way.

Buttons are magical.

Some of my clearest and most tactile memories were of MotherGrant's button bag. For then, it was not a box, but an old cloth bag, made of flour sack that was probably older than my mother, once white but now stained, so well-worn it was smooth as silk, and with a hem sewn over at the top and a piece of twine run through it as a drawstring to hold it closed. About as humble as a container could get.

But inside? That was a whole 'nuther world.

There were a lot of things at MotherGrant's house which I could play with whenever I wanted. The pots and pans were always available for pretend meals. The kitchen chairs could be moved at will and the quilt closet plundered to make a huge fort out of the living room. I was careful, so even the family photo albums or the drawers full of vintage hats were available. But if I wanted to play with the buttons, I always had to ask.

The button bag was kept on a high shelf in the hall closet, and I remember the dull rattle-jangle when MotherGrant or DaddyMike got it down. I remember pulling the drawstring loose through the soft cloth and tipping the bag over and the ssssluice sound as the buttons flooded out of the bag onto the nappy green carpet.

Gold and silver, flashing diamonds, rubbies and sapphires, and single pearls as big as the end of your thumb. Buttons covered in costume jewels. Buttons in every color of the rainbow. Buttons half as big as your palm and buttons so small they could have been for a Barbie doll dress.

I'd run my hands through the pile of buttons, feeling them sift through my fingers and searching for certain ones I liked best. There were three enormous buttons, pale pink mother-of-pearl, shaped like big, carved flowers. Those were easy to find in the pile, even with my eyes closed. Then there were my second-favorites. They were about the size of your thumbnail and shaped like half of a small black ball. They were completely encrusted with diamonds. There were only two of the diamond buttons, and each time I had to check to make sure no more had fallen out. A few of the "diamonds" were loose in the bottom of the button bag.

My absolute favorite button was almost two inches across and was one giant flat ruby with a gold rim.

I remember when the flour sack button bag started to tear. The following Christmas, it disappeared and was replaced with the new button box. That same box was the one which has been packed away in my garage for all those years.

It was actually a little old sewing basket of a kind which used to be sold at flea markets and craft fairs. Exactly the kind of thing a little girl might "buy" her grandmother for Christmas. I don't remember picking it out for her, but yes, it's possible that I, the Goth Martha Stewart Mini-Me, committed this travesty.

The basket was cheap and stapled together. The blue and white checked cloth wouldn't have been all that bad except that the cover was padded and made into a puffy pincushion. But the screaming tomato-red pom pom glued to the top for a handle? Yeah. That's the point at which this goth chick started to scream and run. That's a picture of it, with some of the contents, there on the left.

So in my quest for Zen I knew the basket had to go. But the buttons?

No way.

I sorted them all out and was amazed at what had found its way into the button box over the years. Some of the items, like the buttons made of wood and the I'm A Happy Booster promotional pin, I remember from childhood. Others I don't remember at all, but they make an interesting collage of who and what my grandparents were. DaddyMike was born in 1905, and MotherGrant in 1908. They lived through two world wars and the Great Depression before I was even born. DaddyMike built his house with his own hands and made the furniture to go inside it, though he never learned to read and write. MotherGrant grew a two-acre garden, the most beautiful flowers in the county and could feed a table full of workhands at the drop of a hat. They were poor in money but rich in love. They saved used aluminum foil and bits of string.

Some of that string, wadded up into a little tangle, was now in the button box. There was also a thimble, a small white rock, several safety pins and a hickory nut. There were also some rusty washers, a few bent, rusty nails, a mounting bracket for a curtain rod, now so deformed it took a while to figure out what it was, part of a ticket to something indecipherable and a tiny tube of dubious-smelling ointment which, according to what I could read of the label, would cure dang near anything. There were "straight pins" which were bent and a small piece of white chalk.

It's interesting what you can notice about people by the bits and pieces of useless stuff they keep and hide away in out-of-the-way places like the kitchen junk drawer, the mason jar under the sink, or, once the kids are grown up and gone away, the button box.

These are pics are of some of the strange stuff that was in MotherGrant's button box.

If you'd grown up like MotherGrant and DaddyMike, barely surviving and saving bits of string, could you throw away those diamond-studded buttons? Even if you knew they were really only cheap sparklies?

I couldn't. I didn't. All of my favorite buttons were gone from the basket, perhaps lost a few at a time by a generation or two of younger children as they discovered the magic of buttons. But still, I separated it into a bag of buttons and a bag of other stuff and tossed the decrepit basket. I gave the buttons a new home in a bright-blue silk sewing box.

I don't understand button magic, but it's still with me. I go to the fabric store now and then, to get my scissors sharpened or to buy something for a house project, and I always stop to check out the buttons, attached to their little white cards, hanging on the wall in neat rows. I have absolutely no reason to buy cards of buttons, but I admit it. The urge is there.

MotherGrant and DaddyMike have been gone for years now. But the older I get, the more I realize just how much of my grandparents lives on through me. Part of it I "got honest" as they say around here--my love of gardening was born into me and taught to me as I put my hands in the dirt with MotherGrant. My love of the smell of sawdust came from DaddyMike's shop, as did dexterity and the satisfaction of working with my hands and making something. And I think my artistic abilities came from him too, passed down through my mother. From both of them I got the sense that things are just better if you can do for yourself instead of always relying on other people to fix stuff, or "store bought."

I also brought from their teachings a tendency to be way too sentimental, which finds its way into all of my writing, from my news articles to my fiction...and as y'all have probably noticed the past three years, to my blogs.

Oh, and the whole "Noooooo! Don't throw that away! Save it just in case" thing...this may be the last holdout of that early-childhood indoctrination.

I toss things in the trash without much thought nowadays, but a few weeks ago I was about to throw away an old, torn-up shirt. I had the scissors out and was cutting off the buttons before I noticed what I was doing, then realized the ridiculous amount of time it was taking, and stopped myself. I threw the whole thing away,

But I felt guilty about it.

I felt my new, pretty blue sewing box mocking me.

And I mean, really, you never know when you might need a button. Right?


Do any of you sew? Even for minor repairs like sewing on a button?

Do you save stuff for "just in case?"

If you toss it immediately, is there a twinge of guilt? A voice from your upbringing that says, "you might need that!"

Did your mother or grandmother have a button box?

And did you like to play with the buttons when you were little?

Do YOU have a button box?

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Confessions Of A Dish Whore

By Cassondra Murray

Hi. I’m Cassondra and I am a dish whore.

I know, I know. Those of you who have come to know me in all of my black-wearing, firearm-and-knife-wielding, suspense-writing glory will find this difficult to assimilate. But it’s true.

It doesn’t matter much where the dishes originated. It could be delicate Lenox or sturdy Pfaltzgraff, $30-per-set Gibson from Target or $30-per-teacup Prince Albert porcelain from England. When I see a pretty set of dishes, I immediately start building a table setting around it. Then I start building my fantasy life around it.

I compare it to what I already have, and think about which placemats, tablecloth, chargers and stemware I could combine to make something eclectic. Something different. Something stunning.
And then I start wanting it.

I can spend hours in the housewares department. I imagine MY table set with that, MY house perfectly clean and neat, and all my friends around me, sipping good wine, laughing and having a grand time while I finish dinner and we prepare to sit around that gorgeous table.

My husband, Steve, will come in and give me a kiss and hand me the flowers he brought, then he’ll stir the Bolognese sauce while I greet the first guests for the evening.
If only I had those dishes, you see, all else in my life would fall into perfect alignment. Just like a magazine ad.

Yes. It’s a disease.

And yes, I do need a 12-step program for this.

Or some sort of therapeutic intervention. Or, perhaps, service for 12 of the Lenox Holiday pattern china. I’ve always wanted that set….

Help me.

I’ve been doing better recently. I swear.

Last year I gave away three whole sets of dishes.

It was the summer of 2009. After 8 years of living in this old house, I was finally unpacking everything that remained in my garage. And in so doing, I took stock of all of my dishes. I had to do this because I was trying to find places in the kitchen to store the boxes and boxes of fragile emotional crutches I’d been hoarding. I considered storing dishes under the bed for about twenty seconds, but nixed that idea. I don’t want to have to clean around them, and it’s bad Feng Shui.

You see, I’ve made this asinine rule about bringing more stuff into the house. If I bring anything in, something else has to go out. It’s a hard-ass approach to an unendurable clutter issue. I’m determined I’m going to create a Zen environment, one in which I can actually focus to…you know…write.

So in that summer of 2009, I took inventory. In all, I had eight complete sets of china. I had one service for 36. All matching.

That’s right. I could have served a sit-down dinner for 36 people all on matching dishes.

Now, let’s stop, for just a moment, and consider my actual life.

My dining room—or perhaps we should call it a “nook”-- is 12’X12’.

I’m presently sitting at the round oak dining table, with my laptop propped up on a copy of Sherrilyn Kenyon and Dianna Love’s BLOOD TRINITY as I write this. The rest of the table is covered with stacks of paper of all kinds. Bills, manuscripts, week-old mail, magazines, receipts I need for tax prep, and stuff to be filed. I shoved the paper back to make room for the laptop so I could type this blog. I’m trying to plan time in my schedule to get a dishwasher installed in the (very small) kitchen. Am I seriously going to do a sit-down dinner for 36?

Sure.

Maybe.

In my next life. Where I come back as Cosmic Empress of the Universe.

You know…the life when I have a staff of fifteen and three Five-Star commercial ranges in the kitchen. The kitchen which tastefully combines primitive pie safes and an antique butcher block island with granite countertops, two sinks and two Subzero refrigerators.

Yeah. That life.

On top of that, I don’t KNOW 36 people who I would bring in for a sit-down dinner all at once, unless I had all the cabana boys, the gladiators, the Bandits, and most of the Buddies over at the same time (Sorry, Ermingarde, but you won’t fit through the doorway). And besides, we’ve got the main hall of the Lair for those big parties.

Ah, but I had these visions of round tables draped with festive linens OUTSIDE you see, for a summer party on the lawn by the waterfall.

I can see the audience lean forward, and hear the question vibrating across the ether…..”You have a waterfall?”

No. I don’t. But I’d like to have one. And when I get my waterfall, I’ll sure-as-shootin’ have the dishes to support the darn thing.

See? It’s part of the fantasy.

It’s not that I’ve spent a lot of money on these dishes. I haven’t. My complete service for 36 was on clearance at Target. I paid $27 for all of it. Six sets of six. That’s less than a dollar per place setting!

Who could resist a deal like that?

And it was beautiful. Folk art representations of a village in all of the four seasons painted on the dishes. One season on each piece. I could just see it juxtaposed on a sage-green tablecloth with woven, mustard-yellow placemats and deep Aztec-red napkins, with a rich centerpiece made of red apples, golden pears, and jewel-tone turban squash, with autumn leaves scattered across the table. I’d weave in some gold-glitter-coated dried flower stems and gold-paint coated giant acorns, Then I’d set out some votives in deep red cut glass holders. My emerald-green stems with gold rims would be perfect. I’d turn the lights down and light the oil lamps and the table would glow.

Wouldn’t you like to eat a meal with good friends at a table like that?

I am a Goth, Martha-Stewart Mini-Me. I love all things beautiful and tasteful. I just happen to love them while I'm wearing black.

And I think pretty table settings are one of life’s most complete sensual experiences.

Think about it. Nobody serves Kraft mac & cheese on fine china. If the good stuff is laid out, you’re gonna get a home-cooked—or at least a home-catered—meal. And you’re going to sit down to that meal at a table laid out and decorated in a way that makes you stop and savor it.

I am hopeless.

I have dishes I’ve inherited. Some of them fairly valuable, though I’d have no idea how to sell such things. Some of them are quite ordinary, but hold fond memories because my grandmother served “dinner” (lunch for you city folk who don’t understand these things) to work hands on those dishes. Some of them are odd pieces of what I know to be collectible china, and some are 100-year-old pieces that I just think are beautiful. Platters, gravy boats, vegetable bowls and footed cake plates.

Jeanne’s post about decorating the Lair yesterday set this off. It's her fault. And the Christmas season makes it worse, yaknow….All the parties…all the opportunities to use that Lenox Holdiay china....

Let’s talk punch bowls for just a minute here.

When we did our First-Ever Bandit Bash in San Francisco in 2008, I created a wine punch recipe and then contacted our West-Coast Bandits, asking who had a punch bowl we could use for the Bash.

Not one.

That’s right. There are no punch bowls in California.

Apparently, people on the West Coast do not drink punch at baby showers.

I live in the south. I cannot comprehend this.

I called Jeanne, who lives in Maryland, but grew up in North Carolina, which is technically the Upper South.

“Do you have a punch bowl?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “I have two.”

Ha! I was vindicated.

I have not one, but TWO punch bowls of my own. No matter that I use them only once every three years. I have one large cut-crystal punch bowl, complete with cut-crystal cups hanging on little s-hooks around its rim, which used to belong to my mom. And I have one smaller, blown-glass, footed punch bowl I earned as a bonus when I was a crystal dealer. It’s magical. Faeries would drink punch out of this bowl.

Yes. I was once a crystal dealer. Not only am I a dish whore, I was once a dish pimp.

I did a presentation to a group of ladies when I was a dish pimp, and have never forgotten the words of one woman, as she was moved to the point of poetry by the sparkle of the lights glinting off of the 24 percent lead crystal, and said, ”my lips LOVE to drink out of pretty glasses.”

Mmmmmm. Mine too.

Yesterday I stopped by a little consignment store at a corner I pass on my way into town. They had two pedestal punch bowls, complete with complete sets of matching cups. Dirt cheap. I very nearly came home with one.

I resisted. Just barely.

I have a deep disdain for paper plates. Even at picnics. I tolerate them only to experience the awesome food heaped upon them, and to be polite to the people I love.

But honestly? I want the picnic sets with the porcelain-like, hard plastic plates and the real silverware, all nestled in a pretty chintz-fabric-lined, lidded basket.

It’s not that I’m uber-formal. I’m not. I hate snobbery, and dislike formality as a rule.
One time I was in a five-star restaurant in Florida. You could have heard a pin drop in that place. (Totally NOT a fit for my personality) There was a little girl at the next table. The lace on her skirt was so stiff it cracked every time she moved. She had to speak in a whisper and looked about to cry. Absolutely miserable. I felt so bad for her.

The little guy who filled the iced tea was pestering the bejeebers out of me, filling it up every time I took a drink and messing up my sacred tea/sugar ratio. (It’s a sin to have to sweeten one’s own tea anyhow, especially in the South. What were they thinking?) I pointed to a spot low on my glass. I gave him my most threatening squint. “When the tea gets down to here,” I said, “you can come back. But not before that.”

His eyes got wide. He didn’t come back for a long time. I was way too loud for that restaurant.
I am not Miss Formal. Honest. I just like dishes.

No. I LOVE dishes. And pretty table settings. I love eating at a beautiful table.

I grew up on a farm in the country, eating on mismatched plates. I don’t know where this came from.

Seriously. I need professional help. Something is wrong with me.

Am I the only one?

Is there another Buddy out there who will raise your hand and say, “Yes, I am a dish whore!” along with me?

Or are y’all the paper-plate –for-dinner types?

I recognize that you paper plate types are, truly, the practical ones. It’s not that I can’t accept, intellectually, that you’re right.

I just don’t understand you.

I can’t relate.

Is there anybody out there like me? Do you love pretty dishes?

Do you stop and stare when you pass the Macy’s housewares window?

Do you covet the Lenox Holiday set, even though you’d only use it one month out of the year?

Be honest. You know you want it.

Don’t you?

Do you like sitting at a beautifully-laid table?

Or are you just as happy with paper plates and cups, and serving out of Tupperware?


Am I the only Dish Whore in the Bandit Lair?


Say it ain’t so.Source URL: https://violeta-diario.blogspot.com/search/label/Cassondra%27s%20blogs
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The Hot Toddy Virgin

by Cassondra Murray

If it's not too personal a question....

Have you ever had a hot toddy?

Until last weekend I was a hot toddy virgin.

Don't get too cozy thinking of me that way. For my December blog I'm planning Confessions of a Dish Whore. So depending on the subject, it can go either way with me. You just never know.

It started last Friday when I began feeling kind of puny. I've been puny a lot this fall. To be honest, I've been off my game for about three weeks, but I've been resisting getting sick.

I've been too busy to get sick, and dangit, I just don't have time. So I mentioned to a friend in an email that I was feeling rotten and thinking of taking some meds and going to bed. Now I'll tell you that I don't like taking any kind of chemical, but when it comes to sinus drainage (ew! ) and coughing, my motto is Better Living Through Pharmaceuticals. I'll do anything to be able to sleep, and thus to keep going.

So I mentioned this to my friend and she said, "Ohhhhh....you need a hot bath and a nice hot toddy and you'll sleep like a baby!"

This was a new idea for me because although I've heard of hot toddies all my life, I'd never had one or made one. I've been a bartender. I can mix a mean Irish Coffee, and I know how to pour a proper Cognac. But I'm not a liquor drinker. I like wine, but liquor? WAY too strong for these tastebuds.

Hot Toddy.

It just sounds hoity toity, don't you think? Like something I remember reading about for the first time in The Great Gatsby, which is plenty enough reason to dislike it without going one bit further. Makes me think of something a little eccentric. Perhaps a term a great-great aunt would use as an excuse to get tipsy while pretending she really doesn't drink.

You know the eccentric aunt. The one with 39 cats. All in the house. The one with giant flower-shaped clip-on pearl earrings and a tuft of off-blue, teased hair, who gossips with her cronies once a week under the dryers at the Curl Up & Dye, and keeps all her money in the mattress and wears rose water and collects twist ties and bits of string, and is secretly having a torrid affair with the minister from the Fourth Presbyterian church across town. The one who titters, "Here you go, dearie. Have a nice little hot toddy," then innocently scoops the rat poison back underneath the counter when she thinks you're not looking.

I did not want to be that aunt.

So last weekend I was desperate. Despite my misgivings, I googled "hot toddy."

Apparantly I'm the only one opposed to the sound of hot toddy, because I found about a gazillion recipes. Pages of them. Most of them looked something like this.


1 tbsp honey
3/4 glass tea
2 shots brandy
1 slice lemon

Brew tea and fill a tall glass 3/4 full. Mix in honey. Mix in brandy shots. Add lemon slice and enjoy.

Some of the recipes used chai. Some were creamy and mixed in a blender.


The one ingredient common to all the recipes was.....liquor. Not the low-alcohol wine I'm used to. Liquor. Bourbon or Scotch or brandy or spiced rum.

I went digging through the cabinets. The only liquor I had was some disgusting cheap brandy I'd bought for something long ago, used half a cup of, and stuck back to rot. And I had a small bottle of Wild Turkey American Honey Liqueur. The bottle had never even been opened.

I poured in one shot of the 70-proof liqueur. Tea did not sound like a good idea late at night, so I filled the cup with hot water, put in a cinnamon stick, a few whole cloves, a squeeze of lemon, and a spoon of raw sugar.

It still took a little getting used to for this wine girl, but can I just say I was....well....pleased....quite happy in fact..... with this form of medicine? Oh, yeah. SO much better than Nyquil.

My friend was right. I slept like a baby. And I woke up the next day with nary a sign of a drug hangover.

My husband grew up in a house where they made their own cough medicine out of cheap whiskey, honey and lemon juice. He said a spoon of it worked as well as any cough syrup he's ever used. I remember my grandfather taking a spoonful of whiskey when he had a sore throat, but I also remember the rest of the family raising eyebrows, and then frowning at him, as though God did not smile upon those who got their medicine from the liquor store--or in our Buckle-of-the-Bible-Belt dry county, the bootlegger.

My family got its alcohol from the local drugstore. Complete with God's stamp of approval.

I suppose I will have to fall back on Nyquil or Theraflu at some point, but for the moment, I'm quite content.

So content that I stopped at the store on the way home tonight and picked up another bottle of Wild Turkey American Honey liqueur. If I'm going to be sick, I figure I might as well enjoy the heck out of it.

The kettle is on the stove. I think it's about time for another dose.

Have you ever had a hot toddy?

Do you drink them when you're feeling under the weather, or do you like them for a hot drink on a cold winter night?

A treat on a holiday weekend maybe?

Does anyone you know drink hot liquor drinks? Irish coffee, perhaps?

Did your family make cough syrup themselves?

Or did your family do what mine did, and buy their alcohol from the drugstore?


Any hot toddy recipes out there? Source URL: https://violeta-diario.blogspot.com/search/label/Cassondra%27s%20blogs
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That's not gonna buff out

by Cassondra Murray



When I was a little girl, my older male cousins and brothers used to joke about that. We'd see a wrecked car with its front end all smooshed into the engine compartment, being towed by a wrecker or on the back of a truck . It trundled by and we'd stare and wonder what happened and hope the people were all okay, and then one of my cousins would say, "that's not gonna buff out."


No amount of time with a rotary buffer would make that wreck better.


"That's not gonna buff out," has taken on a whole new meaning for me.



No, I did not have a motor vehicle accident. *knocks on wood* All our cars are fine.

This has more to do with my recent travel experiences, and.....well....my angst.

I've been traveling a lot in the past three months. In fact, I pretty much just leave my suitcase out, and switch out the clothes depending on where I'm going and what I'll be doing. Dry cleaning comes out of the suitcase, goes to the cleaners, then comes home and goes right back into the suitcase, still in its wrinkle-reducing plastic bags. And off I go again.

Once upon a time I could "travel light." I live about an hour north of Nashville, Tennessee, and when I worked down there I had one medium-size shoulder tote in which I packed the essentials. A change of underwear, my makeup, some aspirin and a few other things for emergencies. A toothbrush. If I got stuck down there unexpectedly, as long as I had this bag I could stay overnight anywhere and function just fine the next day, in pretty much any circumstance. I could attend all but the dressiest events with what I had on "yesterday" and what was in that bag, assuming I had a place to sleep and a place to shower.



I carried this bag with me everywhere I went. I never got on the road, when I commuted sixty miles per day to work, without it. If I went on a weekend trip I had only to supplement what was in the bag with an extra pair of jeans and top, and I was good to go. I could even look rather glam with what I could pull out of this bag if I needed to do so.



Alas, things have changed.



Because I'm flying so much now, I've been making a valiant effort to use only carry-on luggage. Thus far I have failed. I have yet to take a trip without checking a bag.



The plain, sad truth is that now, it appears I cannot survive by traveling light.



I need too many lotions, creams and gels.

And there, Bandits and Buddies, is the problem.


In case some of you have not tried to board a commercial aircraft in the past few years, let me explain. The Transportation Safety Administration (TSA) has implemented certain rules. And believe me, having a husband who knows a bit about explosives, I completely understand the reasoning behind these rules, and I support them. They are there to keep us safe. I have no problem with that. High Fives to those officers slaving away behind the x-ray machines at airport security. If they had tip-jars, I would be tossing in dollars.



But one of these rules is a limit--a severe limit--on the number of lotions, creams and gels an individual may carry onto an aircraft. You're only allowed to carry on the amount which will fit into one--yes that's right, I said ONE--quart-size zip-loc baggie. And no container may contain (or be sized to contain) more than 3.4 oz of any lotion, cream, or gel.



How the heck am I supposed to groom myself with one zip-loc baggie full of products?



When I was 20, yes, I could do this. Gimme a bar of Ivory soap and a some decent shampoo, and I was good to go.

But I am not 20. We will leave that point right there.

Not so long ago I had this moment of realization. I got up that morning and staggered toward the bathroom. I paused only to glare at the coffee maker and curse a little-- because it had not yet begun its pre-programmed gurgle-steam-hiss routine--before I stumbled through the bathroom door and up to the mirror. I put in my contacts. I brushed my teeth. I slid out the drawer filled with my expensive lotions, creams and gels, the cost of which would subsidize a small third-world country for a month. I cleansed, exfoliated, tourmaline-primed, power-lifted and firmed, toned, then moisturized all the appropriate areas. I leaned into the mirror. I looked at the lines near the corners of my (no longer 20-year-old) eyes, and a thought rolled through my mind.



That's not gonna buff out.



I can pour all the pennies I want into the fountain of youth, and those lines are not going away. But still. I have seen me with, and without, my lotions, creams and gels. And I know that I don't NEED them, but...I need them. If I stop using them, people start asking me if I've been sick.



I now officially qualify as high-maintenance.



If I don't have my particular shampoo, conditioner and styling products, my hair looks like...well...hell. If I don't have moisturizing body wash, my skin gets so dry it itches. If I don't have my skin-care products, within about four long days and nights of on-the-road stress, my skin revolts and I start to look like that car being towed behind the wrecker...sort of smashed in.



So what's a girl to do?



I mean honestly? I know those lines are never going to buff out, but without my lotions, creams and gels I could star in Return of Medusa. It is not pretty.


And the kicker is that every time I turn around somebody is aiming a camera at me. GAH!


Now for you very Zen folks and the activists out there, I do realize that nothing in this blog will solve world hunger or bring about world peace. I'm not that shallow.

But I'm plenty shallow enough to want my lotions, creams and gels with me wherever I go.





I recently sent off $50 to some online container store in an attempt to get eensy teensy containers, which, when filled with all of my potions, would still fit into one quart-size zip-loc baggie which, by decree, must zip closed easily.

And I have determined that this is impossible. Not because I need large quantities of any one of them (except shampoo--I have a lot of hair), but because I need small amounts of so darn many of them.



And you know what? There is some subtle prejudice against being high-maintenance. There is a cool-factor to being able to travel light and not need all these products to maintain ones-self, and I used to buy into that cool factor, but now, for entirely selfish reasons, I question this. For the past while now, I've been noticing a prejudice against the high-maintenance woman, even in the books I read. And (hangs head in shame) it's crept into my own writing.

For the past two or three years, I've tended to write older heroines. When I first start a manuscript, I give them an age based on their wisdom and knowledge of the world. The way the "feel" to me as a character. Then as I assess the story, I back away and think, "that's too old. Nobody wants to read about a heroine that age. No editor will buy a heroine that age." So I start to make her younger. And younger. Aaaaand younger. If she's over 30, I figure she's too old.

The heroine in almost any novel I read now is neither older nor high-maintenance. She can travel light. She can get caught in a power outage or a hurricane, stay overnight at the hero's house unexpectedly, and still look ravishing. With absolutely no lotions, creams or gels. And absolutely no flaw anywhere which will not buff out.

But back here in my harsh-lighted and mirrored world---there's contact lens solution. It comes in "TSA-approved" size, 4-ounce bottles. There's even a teensy little plane on the label. Newsflash for the manufacturer--the size limit has been reduced to 3.4 ounces. Nothing like being frisked and questioned in the security line and having your Opti-Free Express confiscated before you can board an aircraft.

So tell me, Bandits and Buddies? Do you have suggestions?



Are you high-maintenance? Or can you live with ivory soap and a toothbrush in the outback with the wolves and mountain lions and be happy?



Do you require a lot of lotions, creams and gels?



If you're older than 20, has the number of potions you need to work your magic increased?



Can you travel with only carry-on luggage? Or are you forced to check a bag (and pay the fee to do so) on each trip you take?

Have you found any shortcuts or secrets to traveling light without looking all smooshed-in?

I could use some ideas if you're willing to share.



And even more important--what about the books you read? Are there ever older heroines in those books? How do you feel about them? If you're under 25, can you still relate? If you're older, can you relate to the under-30 heroine?



And for the guys lurking out there, do you find that you're more high-maintenance as you grow older?
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