The AC thermostat tells me it's ninety-three degrees outside, and I'm tucked inside my cool house at a lovely seventy-nine, which to some of you seems TOC hot, I'm sure! (That's an inside family joke. My Tracy used to say she was TOC hot. That was before she could spell hot, I'm sure. But we never let her forget it.) I hear a lot of talk about forty degree weather in and around Memphis and South over the Mississippi line, and believe me, I hope you hold it there or maybe a little lower until I arrive end of April. You can have Florida and all the hot weather and ill-mannered people—
Well, as you can see, TOC Hot Tracy doesn't mind the Florida sun, the sticky sand, the sabal palms, and her handsome husband. He does look grand after all these years, doesn't he? Guess she will see that I stalked her photos on Facebook. There was another one I liked better. Here it is.
I know I'm supposed to be content in whatsoever state I find myself, but surely the Lord didn't mean Florida! All kidding aside, I have made some wonderful friends here, most of them from really cold country, but they have the luxury to become labeled as Snowbirds. Now, that's the way to go. (Thanks, Arnie, for buying my books this week. I know Maine is a wonderful place to be from! Kidding! I would love to visit just once! And Sam, yours are on the way. I notice you don't frequent Rochester that often yourself! For shame.)
Okay, I have to talk about things that content me, so here goes.
My porch.
The ceiling fan on my porch.
The blinds pulled down on the sunny side of my porch.
The ruby red Cardinal (snowbird) perched on a solar lamp in the flowerbed visible from my porch.
A good book.
Right now, Eugenia Price's
first in the Georgia Trilogy,
Bright Captivity.
Take a look at my
Shelfari Bookshelf
at my other blogsite . . .
As Thy Days.
It's a work in progress.
Like me!
Zinnias.
I miss my zinnia patch in Travelers Rest. I didn't realize zinnias grow so tall.
A Scofield King James Bible. The book of Isaiah
this month, chapter by chapter. Try it. Then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing: for in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert (35:6). My mother's favorite devotional book . . . Streams in the Desert. I miss my mother every day of my life.
I love the King James Bible. We didn't change up Shakespeare. Why should we change the Bible? What's so hard about understanding the Old King James Version?
I should have said my husband first.
Sorry, lad!
You do content me all the time.
And you are so obnoxiously gorgeous!
How did I ever land a guy like you?
My little corner of the house. I deliberately cleaned it for this photo (you can ask Gibbo). These days, it's usually lined floor to ceiling with reams and reams of manuscripts (three books at the present, but mostly his). You can't see them, but the other wall is lined with books and binders and notebooks and other nostalgic remembrances.
I've had the credenza since Tracy was a baby, the winter scene was my mother-in-laws, and it stays. I love it and I loved her.
Isaac's House contents me.
I love to escape to Slate Springs
in my mind, wishing to get this
book published, but not wanting
to say good-bye to Isaac.
I am contented by many other things,
but these are for today.
And there's an old southern cliche that says something like this ...
just give me the Real Old South.
Well, as you can see, TOC Hot Tracy doesn't mind the Florida sun, the sticky sand, the sabal palms, and her handsome husband. He does look grand after all these years, doesn't he? Guess she will see that I stalked her photos on Facebook. There was another one I liked better. Here it is.
Now, that's a cool picture!
I know I'm supposed to be content in whatsoever state I find myself, but surely the Lord didn't mean Florida! All kidding aside, I have made some wonderful friends here, most of them from really cold country, but they have the luxury to become labeled as Snowbirds. Now, that's the way to go. (Thanks, Arnie, for buying my books this week. I know Maine is a wonderful place to be from! Kidding! I would love to visit just once! And Sam, yours are on the way. I notice you don't frequent Rochester that often yourself! For shame.)
Okay, I have to talk about things that content me, so here goes.
My porch.The ceiling fan on my porch.
The blinds pulled down on the sunny side of my porch.
The ruby red Cardinal (snowbird) perched on a solar lamp in the flowerbed visible from my porch.
A good book.
Right now, Eugenia Price's
first in the Georgia Trilogy,
Bright Captivity.
Take a look at my
Shelfari Bookshelf
at my other blogsite . . .
As Thy Days.
It's a work in progress.Like me!
Zinnias.
I miss my zinnia patch in Travelers Rest. I didn't realize zinnias grow so tall.
A Scofield King James Bible. The book of Isaiah
this month, chapter by chapter. Try it. Then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing: for in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert (35:6). My mother's favorite devotional book . . . Streams in the Desert. I miss my mother every day of my life.
I love the King James Bible. We didn't change up Shakespeare. Why should we change the Bible? What's so hard about understanding the Old King James Version?
I should have said my husband first.
Sorry, lad!
You do content me all the time.
And you are so obnoxiously gorgeous!
How did I ever land a guy like you?
My little corner of the house. I deliberately cleaned it for this photo (you can ask Gibbo). These days, it's usually lined floor to ceiling with reams and reams of manuscripts (three books at the present, but mostly his). You can't see them, but the other wall is lined with books and binders and notebooks and other nostalgic remembrances.
I've had the credenza since Tracy was a baby, the winter scene was my mother-in-laws, and it stays. I love it and I loved her.
Isaac's House contents me.
I love to escape to Slate Springs
in my mind, wishing to get this
book published, but not wanting
to say good-bye to Isaac.
I am contented by many other things,
but these are for today.
And there's an old southern cliche that says something like this ...
After all . . . tomorrow is another day.
Jane BG
Comments
Post a Comment