Category: Jeanne Marie

There Goes The Bride

1

Once upon a time women stayed at home. They took care of the kids and the house. Men went out to work, made money and supported their families. Then things began to change. The shift in power had been gradual, until the year 2025 and then change had advanced rapidly. Women had been essential in the work place for many years and the men just hadn’t noticed what was developing. Females became the stronger sex. They became more self-assured and with their newfound confidence, they grew powerful, assertive and aggressive. Yes, aggressive, just the way men had operated for centuries.
Now, a man was lucky to find a job that paid minimum age, if his wife would even let him go to work. Jake’s father had told him stories about how it used to be, stories that his Dad’s father had told to him, old husband’s tales about the way things had been in the Twentieth century, before the takeover. For over seventy-five years, men hadn’t possessed the independence, or the financial
freedom, items which the male species had once claimed as their birthright. They didn’t seem to mind. It was a woman’s world now, and the men had learned to live with it.
What choice did they have?
“Niki, you forgot your lunch!” Jake ran out the front door after his daughter, just in time to see her bus pull away from the corner. He threw her lunch after the bus, and tramped back into the house. He plopped down at the kitchen table, and took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. Getting his wife, Michelle, out to work and the kids off to school each morning, was like running an obstacle course.
“Where’s my math book?”
“Dad, the dog threw up on the sofa!”
“Hon, is my red dress back from the cleaners?”
“Dad, Niki won’t get out of the bathroom, and I gotta go!”
“Jake, for crying out loud, can’t you ever control these kids?”
After he finished his tepid coffee, he took a roast out of the freezer for supper. Maybe if he cooked a nice meal, she wouldn’t be so cranky tonight. Ya, and maybe after the kids went to bed, he’d take a shower and splash on that new after-shave. He could wear the silk boxers she’d bought him. She was always complaining that he was never in the mood, but what did she expect after he cooked and cleaned all day? She thought that all he did was sit in the recliner, watching football and drag races, swilling down cold beers, while she was at work.
He heard music outside. It was the Snap-On Tool truck! He ran upstairs and fished under the mattress, feeling around for his stash of money, precious dollars he’d saved from the grocery allowance by clipping coupons.
Hank and Pete were already standing at the truck as Jake hurried across the street.
“What are you gonna buy?” Hank was asking Pete.
“I dunno. Last week, I bought that nice eight-piece screwdriver set and I got lectured for an hour. She said I was wasting her money. I told her it was on sale and she laughed in my face. Said I’d buy fleas from a dog, if they were on sale!”
“You think that’s bad?” asked Jake. “Michelle cut up my Master Card cause I ordered a fishing rod from the Sportsmen’s home shopping channel! She said, “You’ve got enough to do around the house and you can forget about going fishing with a bunch of unshaven house-husbands!”
“Come on guys! Quit the chatter. What do you want today?” Cindy asked. “How about a power drill? Or this nice metric socket set that I have on special?” Cindy climbed down out of the truck and stood there beside them, as they huddled around the merchandise, trying to decide.
Suddenly Jake said, “Let’s go guys. Come on.” He seemed panicky, and his face was flush.
“But, I’m still looking!” Hank insisted.
“I don’t care, I said let’s go, now!” Jake demanded.
Cindy winked at Jake, as she said, “See ya next time, boys.”
“Jake, what’s wrong with you?” both friends asked, as the truck drove away.
“Cindy rubbed her hands all over my butt and whispered, ‘Come for a ride with me big boy and I’ll show you how to use these tools,’ Jake answered.
“Wow! Are you gonna tell Michelle?” asked Pete
“Are you kidding? She’ll just say it was my own fault and ask me what I was wearing! And maybe it is my fault. I should’ve thrown on a decent shirt before I came out.”
“Well, that’s true, but after Michelle is done yelling at you, she’ll beat the nuts and bolts out of Cindy!” laughed Pete.
“Just forget about it.” was Hank’s advice.
“Hey, you guys wanna come over, and have a beer? We can watch the wrestling until the kids come home from school,” said Jake
“Sure, but don’t let me get drunk this time, guys!” said Pete. “Last week after we had a few, I tied Jimmy to a tree in the backyard because he wouldn’t clean his room. Margie was pissed! She took the kids out to eat that night and took away my car keys before she left. I’m still walking!
I told her this morning that she needs to make an appointment to go see my therapist with me. I asked her to go months ago, but she’s always too busy. I told her that we need counseling, so that we can learn to communicate and establish intimacy. That always calms her down. She hates going to therapy! I bet she gives me back the keys tonight!”
“Ya, well at least the boy listens to you now,” Hank joked.
“My father did worse than that, believe me!” added Jake. “Women have no idea how hard it is to stay home with the kids. They go to work, have friends, a social life, fancy clothes that we have to wash or take to the cleaners. They have control of the money, all of their meals are cooked for them, sex when they want it and what do we have?”
“Come on Jake. Cheer up. After all, we have housework that never ends, kids who don’t listen to us, unless the wife is home, ESPN and all the beer our allowance can buy!”
“I hope you’re not trying to cheer me up,” Jake replied.
They all laughed, as they tromped over to Jake’s.
The guys flopped down on Jake’s sofa and Jake sat in the recliner, flipping through the channels, until he found the wrestling. “Where do they find these huge mama’s?” he wondered aloud.
“I dunno,” said Hank. “But I bet they all take steroids!” They all snickered.
Jake passed cold beers around and opened a giant bag of potato chips. The three friends sat there, munching and enjoying the wrestling matches. The kids got out of school at 3:00 o’clock, so Hank and Pete set out for home about 2:00.
After they left, Jake flew into action.
He gathered up all the dirty laundry from the kid’s rooms and stuffed it into the washer. He added a few laundry pods and shut the cover. He went back to the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher and then he popped the roast into the microwave.
Next, he went into the living room, and turned on ESPN, so he could watch the Dallas Cowgirls play the Chicago Bunnies. His dad had told him that men used to play pro-football, but Jake had a hard time picturing men slamming into each other as furiously as the women did! He got out the vacuum cleaner and ran it around the furniture, while he watched the game. Michelle griped at him cause he never moved the furniture, but he just couldn’t see a reason for cleaning in places where it wouldn’t even show!
Tonight, Michelle would be glued to the colossal image screen, watching her favorite soaps, “These Are The Days of Her Life,” and “All His Children.”
His dad had tried to warn him that marriage was no picnic, but did Jake listen? No, of course not. Michelle had swept him off his feet, and now look at him. Just another middle-aged, overweight househusband, a man who couldn’t even support himself and his kids. If she ever decided to leave him…just thinking about it gave him an anxiety attack! Of course, divorce was outlawed now, but she could still leave and live with someone else.
Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night, shaking and shivering, his body in a cold sweat. He had the same nightmare, over and over. Michelle was walking away from him and the kids, arm in arm with some muscle-bound man, a boy really. No beer belly, no receding hairline. Jake would throw himself in front of her, begging her to stay. She would step over him and just keep walking. It was every man’s worst fear. The guys in the neighborhood had all watched it happen to Mike. And Mike was still in that “hospital.”
Jake thought about how decent Michelle was to him; how she supported him and the kids. He remembered the worthy intentions he’d had that morning. He shut off the vacuüm and dialed their baby sitter’s number. “Hey John, could you pick up the kids at school and keep them for a few hours?” he asked.
“Sure, I have to get my three anyway. I’ll pick them up and we’ll all go to the park. Maybe get some pizza for dinner. Just give me a call when you wanna pick them up.”
“Thanks a lot, John, I owe you one.”
Jake shoved the vacuüm cleaner into the closet and ran upstairs to take a shower. As he toweled off and pulled on the silky green boxers, he glanced at the clock. If he hurried, he’d have just enough time before she got home to bake her favorite carrot cake. Then, he’d put the roast in the oven to brown; serve it with some potatoes and onions.
When she comes through the door tonight, he thought, I’ll stop running around the house and I’ll really listen to her when she tells me about her day at work. That always puts her in a great mood!
I’ll give her a back rub while she relaxes with a cup of cappuccino and after we eat; I’ll turn on some soft music and ask her to dance. I’ll hold her the way I did when we were dating. We’ll dance close and slow, my hands massaging her back, he fantasized.
Their marriage wasn’t perfect, but he had it better than most of his friends. Michelle didn’t hit him, she didn’t go out and get drunk with the girls, and he didn’t think she cheated on him. Of course, Mike had been the last one to know! Anyway, Jake knew it was up to him to keep the marriage strong, to keep the passion and the tenderness alive. Well, he was ready to rekindle that flame when she came home tonight!
The End

I must confess that the seed for this fable grew from a casual conversation my husband and his friends had at work, about what the world would be like if men stayed home. When my husband told me what they had said (himself included) I knew I’d have to cultivate this seed, and nurture it into a full-grown man-eating plant. (Sorry guys!) I hope I did your concept justice, embellishments and all! Jeanne Marie

My Old Pizza Pan

As I stood scrubbing my old pizza pan this morning, I studied the thousands of cuts that ran across it.
I realized that the thousands of cuts equalled thousands of memories from family meals.
As I scrubbed my old pan, I wondered if I would even pick it up at a yard sale.
I thought, well now that I know what all the cuts mean, maybe I would.
It’s not a dirty pan, as it appears to be, it is a much loved family heirloom.
I dried my hands and sat down with my notebook.
I thought about all the times I almost threw this pan away because of the cuts and I thought of how many times my husband had ordered me to throw it away.
I always said, “No, I won’t.”
I had already learned my lesson when he talked me out of my Guardian Service pans because he hated them.
I gave away some of my newer GS pans and he’d bought me a very expensive set of Faber Ware.
Six months later, I sold that set at a yard sale.
I was so grateful that I had at least held on to Mom’s and Nana’s GS pans.
He tried to cut the same deal when he promised that he would buy me a new pizza pan.
I told him that hadn’t worked out very well in the past.
I said, “You can buy me a new one and I’m willing to try it, but if I don’t like it I’m keeping this one.”
Over the years, he tried to bribe me with many new pizza pans and none lived up to the old one.
The day even came when he couldn’t find the old pizza pan and he panicked.
“Where is our good pizza pan?” he shouted from the kitchen as he tossed shiny ones aside.
I let him panic for a few minutes and then, I found it for him. I always keep it in the back of the pan cabinet in case he gets a notion to throw it out when I’m not looking.
As I handed it to him, I asked him if he remembered how many times he’d told me to throw it away.
I’m that kind of woman.
He laughed and said, “Just give me the damn pan!”
He’s that kind of man.
Originally, I had two old pizza pans.
When I was moving from Oklahoma to Florida and getting rid of stuff, my daughter Jodie Lynne said, “Mom, give me the pizza pans. Please?”
I looked her right in the eye and said, “You’re going to lose them, so I’ll give you one.”
She couldn’t have been happier if I had given her the moon.
“I won’t lose this!” she promised, and I had the familiar flutter of hope that she would learn to hold on to things that mattered to her.
That was ten years and many heartaches ago.
I know she no longer has the pizza pan and yes, every time I scrub my pizza pan, I’m glad I kept one, etchings and all.
This past summer, I gave her some of my grandmother’s and my mother’s antique Guardian Service pans.
I didn’t give them all to her, even though she has been sober for over a year.
Nope. I told her she has to prove that she can hold onto something before she gets the rest.
After she gave me the finger with her eyes, she laughingly agreed.
Before you judge me, this is my daughter who has repeatedly lost her freedom because of drugs and alcohol.
She has lost everything she owned, over and over, including all her baby pictures, the baby books we made for three of her kids, the handmade crocheted blankets that me, my sister and mother made for them and a box full of Christmas decorations that my mother had made through the years.
I’m not materialistic, but I’m obsessive about holding onto pictures, moments and memories.
In fact, I would give away everything I own and walk in rags with bare feet in the snow just to see my daughter stay happy and sober.
And when she is sober, this daughter loves every little bit of the good memory articles that I do and I guess that’s why I give them to her slowly and hopefully.
I’m always hoping, always praying, that this time will be different, that this time she’ll stay sober.
This month, with over a year sober, she quit the job of her dreams, could lose custody of the only child she has left to raise and yesterday, she called to tell us that the car we bought her a year ago, (so she could get back and forth to work) has been impounded.
Given the signs I know so well, my heart is freaking breaking.
I have four boxes in the attic for her.
They are filled with my own special Christmas decorations, knickknacks, doilies and doodads. Crafts that my daughter made for me when she was growing up.
She gets the stuff either way when I die and I just pray that she doesn’t die before I do because I know I will not be able to handle losing my precious daughter to the family curse. I will burn those damn boxes full of memories.
From washing my old pizza pan to sitting with my notebook, writing, hoping, praying and believing, “Dear Jesus, please save my daughter. Again. Thank you and amen.”

Holiday Cooking

How many of you have frozen your finger tips trying to get the neck/giblets out of a dang turkey? Well, my last bird was thawed as thawed could be, except for inside where the mystery stuff was wrapped, in a plain white wrapper which wouldn’t budge.

After thirty minutes of spraying hot water into the cavity, much yanking, a few curse words, and one screwdriver, (non-liquid) I triumphantly jerked the stuff out of the turkey, whom by this time, I’d begun to feel sorry for.

As I pulled it’s neck and body organs out from under it’s own ribs, I couldn’t help but think; this bird had been alive, hopefully, not so long ago, and what a sorry way to end it’s life. Undignified, to say the least. (As if I ever say the least!)

Then I got to wondering, if Elon Musk can invent a device that catches rockets, and cars that can drive themselves, why are we still having to wrestle with frozen innards on holidays? Do women own any turkey farms? Cause if they did, I believe they’d package the stuff on the outside of the bird, don’t you? I aim to find out!

Meanwhile, I’d like you to write to Butterball, and ask them to consider our plight. How much could it cost to tuck the package on top of the turkey, under the outside wrap?

We need to address this problem. I never want to wrestle with a dead, half-frozen turkey long enough to feel sorry for it again!

BATCH 51

NOTE: I wrote this as fiction. Years before the Covid. Links below are non-fiction.

BATCH 51
As the virus spreads, and shelter in place orders are issued, then ignored, martial law follows.
We are all isolated from our loved ones now, even if they live five minutes away.
At first, we had video calls, Facebook. Then, our phones began to break down, our computers crashed, and we started to ration food and water, sleeping with our guns close by.
One generation after another, starting with Adam and Eve, all the way to us, the creators of nature-defying technology, which led to the apocalypse that is happening now.
The tech we all depended on personally and publicly, tech that we needed to run our utilities, police departments, doctors, hospitals, every aspect of our daily life; now, its absence will destroy us because our very existence depended on technology. We have woven our selfish needs into everything, even the rain delivers poisons.
As the virus infects more victims, we are losing millions of lives, including the people who used to run the computers that ran everything. They are almost gone.
It wasn’t until my near death that I could see the entire history leading to today.
We thought we were the only ones.
I just learned that we are one batch and that another batch will be created when we are wiped out by our own actions. Maybe, the new batch will do it right.
The new batch will have a perfect world to begin with, but earlier batches have destroyed it all, just like us. Each batch has engineered the end of their world.
If you are curious, we are Batch 51.
Was I blessed, cursed, or just unlucky enough to be born when the end was coming to this batch?
I never wanted to see the final days. I never wanted to see the butterflies and the birds disappear. I never wanted to see the puppy mills, homeless people, abortions, wars, greed, and the pollution that destroyed the bees.
I never wanted to see the results of the viruses that our billionaire geniuses designed and scattered, the cancers they inflicted on us with chemicals, cancers that they could have cured 100%, but didn’t. They built a trillion-dollar industry on illness. Why would they cure anyone?
I never wanted to see people tear each other apart for shelter, food, and water.
What I wanted didn’t matter.
It is all part of the destiny we thought ourselves into, a dystopian nightmare and it is visible to me now, a movie looping in my mind.
What most of us have never understood is that we are here to learn how to love. We have trials and tests to pass, to earn our return ticket to Him.
It was never meant to be an easy.
Matthew 7:13-14 says, 13 “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. 14 But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.”
God created us. That was where we began; yes, every batch began with Him. We have not honored that connection.
The technology of the last two decades brought us to a new level of self sufficiency.
We even learned how to manipulate the weather. We decided if babies should live or die in their mother’s wombs. We have approved laws to kill newborns even outside the womb. Aborted babies’ organs and pieces are sold by the pound to the highest bidder. The human cells are in our vaccines, cosmetics and medicines, pureed and injected as youth potions for the ultra-rich Hollywood stars, used by Nestle to test flavors. Murdered babies’ hearts and organs sold on the Black Market.
By now you suppose this is fiction. Is it?
We became our own gods and that’s when the end was a forlorn conclusion. Money and possessions, power, and fame, just like the batches before us. He never gives up though.
He will be sending another batch to a renewed Earth, two thousand years after we finish destroying Batch 51.
It will take the earth that long to heal.
Millions have had the feeling that this wasn’t their first time around, and they were right.
My human form is in a coma right now. Despite all precautions, I have the new virus, the virus that is going to wipe out 96 % of humanity in the next five years. It was in our water supply, our food and our vaccines.
I’m above my body looking down, but people come and go, adjusting my ventilator, watching my pulse grow weaker. I heard a nurse say that they are waiting for me to die so that they can give the ventilator to a younger person. It was a mistake that they gave one to me, a sixty-year-old smoker.
There are pink cords attached to my feet which flow back down into my physical body’s center.
The strands are connecting my soul to my body and I won’t be able to leave until the cords are cut.
It won’t be long. The staff is becoming impatient.
I am as close to dead as can be and that’s why I am seeing the secrets revealed.
It is preparation for my journey and possible return in Batch 52.
I am no longer present in the tribulation; I am in a space apart and that’s why believe I will not be waking up from this coma.
Why else would this knowledge come to me? It would never be safe to let the world know the ending, and I am a writer, so that is the first thing that I would do upon awakening.
Write about it.
Engineered viruses, child sex-slaves, child abuse, domestic violence, 99% in poverty, drug addictions, locusts, fleas, ticks, bedbugs, mosquitoes, no-see-ums, rattlesnakes, scorpions, fire ants, killer bees, hurricanes, tornadoes, all the bad stuff that has increased one thousand fold, things that never made sense to me anyway, even before the increase.
I don’t know if I passed the tests that were assigned to me. I believe I’m in a holding space, waiting, and then everyone (dead and alive) that has passed their tests will rise together.
My own Hell would be returning with Batch 52.
5g was activated today.

NOTE: I wrote this in 2015, as fiction. Links below are non-fiction.

Dangers of 5g

Black Market Baby Pieces

Aborted baby cells in anti-aging products

Vaccines and aborted baby cells

Aborted baby cells use in products

Products that use aborted baby cells

Jonas and Grammy

I apologized to my grandson for talking so much while teaching him to drive. I managed to fit the family history in between, “Slow down more before you take a corner,” and “I can’t believe my baby boy is driving me around!”
He made my day when he told me to keep talking. He said, “Grammy, your’s is the only voice that calms me and comforts me. You can never talk too much to me.”
Wow! I flashbacked to rocking him on a swing in the backyard. He was about six months old. I would sit beside him and talk to him. He would laugh every time the wind blew the leaves over his head. He would stare at each leaf as if it was a wonderful creation. I told him he was my wild Indian boy, because he loved the wind and the trees and because he has Cherokee and Creek blood running through his veins.
Today, I looked at my handsome grandson behind the steering wheel, balancing at the edge of becoming a man, and I was so proud of him.
I remembered every hug that we had ever exchanged, and every good memory that we had created rose up to a conscious level.
I felt overwhelming gratitude because in the midst of the worst times, he and I had created memories of the best times.
And when he said my voice comforted and calmed him, to me it was proof that all the love I gave him did matter, and I was so grateful for every minute we have spent together.

Spirit Whispers 8

God is in the wind
whispering to me,
you’ll be coming home soon.
first, you must finish this life,
this journey which your choices
and my Grace have designed.
The twists and the turns
the heartaches and the tears
always have a reason.
You’ll see it all so clear on
the day the angels come
to bring you home.
Home, where your mama
is waiting for you,
where the spring breezes
and the summer sun
are always in season.
You’ll run, sing, dance,
laugh, love and be loved.
I promise, your time
on earth will fly by.
The earth is not your home
you know that in your soul
and I’m sorry you must wait,
but, you have roads to travel
miles your feet must yet walk.
Keep up the good fight child
you are making me so proud.
I’ll heal your brokenness
repair it with my love, and
mend your wounded soul.
Your battles will be won
your war will be over
when you come home
when you lay your pain
down at my feet at last.
So, carry it just a little
further my gypsy child.
Don’t give up now
you have come so far.
Love, your Father

They Say I Should Be Branded

 

They say I need to be Branded. I don’t know who They are, but They write a ton of articles telling me what I must do to be a successful writer and They post them all over cyberspace. They also send me numerous personal emails, telling me that I need to pay them to share their writing experience because They know which tools will help me become a successful writer, just like them. Isn’t that nice? It is comforting to know that someone besides my mother cares about my writing career.
Maybe I should write articles about writing for people who are already writing too, and then sell my advice, but I’m kinda busy trying to write what I want to write, throwing down my words any old way I like. Sometimes I create a mess, but sometimes I score a tear or a smile from my Pineapple Girls writer’s group and that makes me happy.

Now I know who they are, they are the women who usually love my writing, prepositions at the end of sentences and all.
I’m not uneducated. I aced English Composition in college and I was invited to be a student in a class of one in college, attending a Creative Writing course for writers. The teacher was fired the following year for messing with a student, but I wasn’t chosen for that honor. (I was a little bit insulted, he never even tried to mess with me and even though I would have said no, I did take it personal.)
Now back to They who I don’t know, the ones who know what is best for my career.
They know I can make it to the top of the free-lance, Indie Tower if I will just pay them to allow me to attend their seminars. They will teach me how to write correctly, how to query, how to submit, how to tackle Social Media and how to become a better blogger
Whew. I’m tired just writing about it. The thing is, if I want to pay someone to teach me how to do what comes naturally to me, then I would like to be separated from my money in person. At least then I can say, “They had such an honest face. I trusted them.” Otherwise, I will have to tell my honey that the internet people, the They people, took my money.
Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t want to be Branded (I hate the smell of burning flesh) and I’m not trying to build a writer’s platform, not without a permit. I never touched a computer until I was forty and technology is still always two to ten steps ahead of me, so I could end up Branded where the sun don’t shine. I finally conquered Facebook and then they changed all the privacy rules and now my profile is out there naked (metaphorically). I just know it. (Literally.)
Please don’t Brand me, just call me a woman who thinks too much and take what you want from my writing and leave the rest. I won’t Brand you either, I promise.

Vodka and Hydrogen Peroxide, 2020

I’m not obsessing about the virus. The way I figure it, I’ll get it, or I won’t. I’ll recover or I won’t. That’s life.
Just for curiosity’s sake, I wonder why everybody’s hoarding the rubbing alcohol. Soap and bleach can kill germs.
I also wonder if anybody has thought about vodka yet, because the store shelves are empty of rubbing alcohol.
The way that I see it, if you bought a gallon of high proof vodka, (at least 140) you could disinfect whatever needed disinfecting and you could drink the rest and forget about the whole virus thing. Also, Barcadi makes 151 proof rum.
Maybe your anxiety and panic would disappear. All you would need is to make sure you had more vodka. I say you, not me because I have been sober for over forty years and I’m not letting a virus get me drunk now.
The only thing I have ever used rubbing alcohol for was to disinfect my mother’s skin before her insulin shot, to soak pierced earrings and to do alcohol rubs when my babies had a fever.
Is that still a thing? I don’t know, my baby is forty-one.
I only use it now to take a gluey substance off something.
And what about hydrogen peroxide? Why are stores still loaded down with hydrogen peroxide amidst the panic buying? It is one of the best antibacterials that I know of, safe to swish in your mouth (not safe to swallow) safe to clean things with, safer to use in your laundry than bleach, and it does so much more than rubbing alcohol.
Enjoy the moments and stay safe.
Disclaimer:
I claim no responsibility for a panic run on vodka, rum or hydrogen peroxide.
I also claim no responsibility for anyone’s alcohol consumption.
Do not drink hydrogen peroxide, ever.
101 uses for Hydrogen Peroxide

Memories

Memories

Why Caterpillars…

dont make good pets.

Vermont Foliage

Here are a few of my favorite pics from my first fall in Vermont. The colors were incredibly vibrant and two weeks early. This was the view from my front door, for two weeks. My eyes, my soul and my cell phone camera were overwhelmed.

October Rose

October Rose…

Goodbye Summer

Goodbye Summer

Don’t let the sun…

Going to be 32 degrees tonight.

 

Sweet Little Wildflower

Sweet Little Wildflower

Surrender

Surrender

By Michelle Marie and Jeanne Marie

Last Dance

Last Dance

Grasshopper Hotel

Grasshopper Hotel

she rose above it

she rose above it

A Rambling Report…June, 2020

A Rambling Report From The Frequent Mover

We moved to a farmhouse in Vermont this spring.

The house is similar to the last two houses that we owned, but the land, the land, has me enchanted.

Every evening, I go outside and walk the borders of my two acres of flowers, fields and trees, even if it’s raining.

I feel happy as a child as I walk among the wildflowers at the property line, constantly taking pictures and whooping with delight every time I find another milkweed plant.
I shout as I find each one. “Milkweed!”

Butterflies love milkweed and I love butterflies.

Every walk is different as I find little surprises that make my day. A stray dandelion, a new butterfly, pink clouds, lilacs, crab apples, a new bloomer in the garden. Another blackberry plant, a new wildflower.

The flowers and trees that I’ve planted over the last two months are thriving and next spring, God willing, we are going to plow a field for vegetables and sunflowers.

I have squash and cucumbers growing in big pots now and they are doing better then the vegetables I planted in the ground.

I mixed cucumbers, peppers and tomatoes in the RV flower garden. I think the flowers are being mean to them.
I have a beautiful rock garden out front, plants hanging by the front door and plants growing on the back deck.

I love watching everything grow, so each day is a good day with new treasures to surprise me. This week, the first cucumber flower and then the teeny cucumber that followed.

Today, I found another baby cuke and it made me silly happy.

I love the magic of working with soil and seeds and reaping the results of all the demanding work.

Yes, gardens even on a small scale, require hard, physical labor.

I’m not getting younger, so my husband digs the tree holes, thank goodness.

He’s not getting younger either, and we wonder if we were crazy taking on a ten-room farmhouse that totally needs cleaning and cosmetic renovation, but we are having fun and taking it one room at a time. A riding lawnmower is in our future, for sure.

I split my days between the gardens and the house and it’s so exciting watching the farmhouse and the yard change.

This property is amazing and has three RV hookups, ten rooms, a garage, a barn and two workshops. We even have a back porch and an old-fashioned clothesline.It was for sale for two years and had many lookers. My (awesome) real estate agent told me tonight, one couple drove by recently and regretted passing it up. They called to make an offer. “Too late,” she told them. “I sold it.”

That’s how much we have improved the curb appeal in two months.

The Connecticut River flows past the front of the house and we are surrounded on three sides by my neighbor’s corn fields. No houses. Stores and familiar territory, including House 14, is in Lancaster, NH just five miles away, so it’s convenient, but it feels like we are alone in the world.

I swore after house 15, never again and I have spent the last year content in my twenty-foot RV, mostly in Florida. But the world is changing, and I don’t believe living here and there with no real home in this new climate is the best idea.

My baby RV will be my She Shed, my prayer room, my writing room. It’s all hooked up behind the farmhouse and I love the location. My own private RV park.

Wildflowers have grown under and around it and it’s so awesome, like a postcard.

It’s a new beginning for my husband and I too and in a world gone mad, it is my sanctuary and my happy place.

I started writing a book last winter, Fifteen Houses, but I had to change the title. Fifteen Houses, Plus One.

Praying my wanderlust is satisfied because this home is a keeper.

 

 

 

 

Evernote, I Love You

I’m a writer and Evernote Basic  https://evernote.com/  (available for free from Google Play Store) holds my random thoughts safe until I want them back.

If I had to wait until I got home to my computer, my thoughts would be gone.

Paper notes pile up and get lost, and paper notebook articles never make it into my blog.

https://womenwhothinktoomuch.com/

With Evernote, I can capture my creative thoughts before they disappear.

I can also sync two devices, which is super convenient. I use my phone and my computer.

Free apps, which work every time, are rare. I’ve paid for several that didn’t work at all.

I tried many other Android note apps before I found this program and I never found an app close to it.

Driving and writer’s flashes are handled quickly.

I pull over in the first, safe spot I see, and write what my muse wants me to and it’s safe from being instantly forgotten. This is also a great tool for when you’re moving, which I have done constantly, because you can write on your phone while on the road, and while you’re waiting for the internet company that never shows.

Evernote, you are always there when I need you, and I tell every writer I know to try your app. I’ve counted on you for over five years and you’ve been 1000 % dependable. You have saved hundreds of stories for me.

Thank you for providing the free app. I hope to be able to upgrade eventually.

I also love that you don’t flash ads in my face while I’m writing.

If you think that this is a love letter, you are correct. I just love you, Evernote.

P.S. This is an unsolicited review. I really do love this app.

 

Wildflowers need love too…

Wildflowers

The Sun

The Sun

dancing in the wind…

dancing in the wind…

New Beginnings

New Beginnings Michelle Marie/Jeanne Marie