Change of Weather

Down here in the South, we wait patiently…..and sometimes not-so-patiently…..for a refreshing bit of cool weather.  We tire of saying:  “Oh boy, it’s gonna be another hot one!”  We yearn for our sweaters, our vests, our mittens, our socks.  We want to turn on the heat.  To cuddle.  To say things like: “BRRRR.  Cold enough for ya?”

Winter arrived with no real seque from hot to cold this year.  And with the sudden arrival of cooler weather last week, I was awoken from a deep sleep early one morning by a burrowing, heat seeking body.  Not to get too graphic here for you on a Sunday morning, but frankly, I was a bit surprised.  We’ve shared a bed and many other things for years now but this was something new.

He was under the covers for obvious reasons.  To spoon, caress, purr sweet nothings.  I was delighted and thoroughly enjoying our petting and mutual pleasures.

Then The Mister sneezed.

Cats never, ever get used to sneezes.  It scares them to their marrow.  And so with that abrupt and unwelcome explosion, Oscar flew out of from under those cozy, warm covers, hissing and screeching.  Claws and fangs fully exposed, ready for flight or fight.

A few puncture marks and scratches notwithstanding, it was still a lovely way to start the first chilly day of the season.


Picture of pre-sneeze contentment thanks to



Poor Officer Tulo

Officer Tulo lost his job.  And he’d done it so well for eight years.  Then, Boom!  He’s fired.  He’ll never know why.  And he certainly won’t have any way to seek reinstatement.

Officer Tulo is a yellow Labrador retriever who was certified, trained and licensed to sniff out and detect illegal marijuana in cars, on people, and in bars so offenders could be brought to justice.  Officer Tulo also lives in Colorado.  Put two and two together, they add up to four and Officer Tulo is no longer necessary.  In fact, he’s a liability because he causes unnecessary alerts and misses other drugs he wasn’t trained to identify.

With a grandson in college in Colorado, we’ve been talking about what it’s like to live in a world where pot is legal.  Where weed and gasoline can be sold in the same store and have names like “Gas and Grass.”  The things he’s told us haven’t been particularly surprising until this Thanksgiving when we had a chance to catch up a bit more.

He now reports that the “stoners,” who were initially delighted by the legalization of their drug of choice, have cut way back on their usage.  All of a sudden, the heavy hitters have begun to realize that putting so much of that stuff in their bodies may not be such a good idea after all.

Did legalization make the product less appealing?  Less sexy?  Less important?  Maybe even boring?  Was the taboo element a compelling reason to use?  Now that it’s legal, is the bloom simply off the rose?

Food for thought, musings and reflection.

And I know I shouldn’t suggest that we just put this in our pipes and smoke it for a bit  but I simply can’t help myself.

Smokey image thanks to

He’s Back!

Please click on the picture for a full image of Twiggy


He’s been in the basement for several years.  Now he’s back in the spotlight.

For many years, he’d been replaced by a fancier, more life-like, fluffier, fake Christmas tree. We’d decorate that fake tree to the hilt, hang everything we could on its fake limbs.  We’d bend those wiry(fake) limbs every which way to make them prettier. That fake tree was really quite lovely but I never fell in love with it.

On the other hand, I fell in love with Twiggy the moment I saw him.  Probably 30 years ago.  He was at a garden shop in Dayton, his arms proudly displaying all their beautiful and unique Christmas ornaments.  My heart went pitter-patter.  He was the ONE.

I asked the clerk if I could buy the tree and he said the tree wasn’t for sale.  He also said it wasn’t a tree.  It was just a prop for ornaments.  Come on, I said.   Everything has a price.  Strip him down and let me have him.  After much haggling and curiosity as to why I would even want Twig, we took him home.

Now, after those many years of enforced hibernation, the Twig is back with us.  In the living room. In all his flawed and (mostly) misunderstood glory.

He has a certain political correctness about him.  He tilts, or leans, left or right, depending on how you set him up.  He’s transparent.  He doesn’t have many limbs and what limbs he has are sparse and you can see right through them.   He’s ecologically correct, requiring no fertilizer or energy of any sort.

As a Christmas tree, however, he’s seriously flawed.  He’s not green.  His needles don’t droop or drop. There’s no delicious pine aroma about him.  He’s scraggly and lopsided.  He is, basically, a six-foot twig.  We love him.

Even the Mister agrees that if you’re not a real tree, you might as well really not be a real tree.  Don’t pretend to be something you’re not.

We’re happy to have him back.  I think he’s happy too.  All is well.



We all make them.  Big ones, little ones, well-considered ones, spur of the moment ones. Everything we do, ultimately, is an investment of one sort or another, to one degree or another.

We invest our money, hoping for the best.   Sometimes, the result’s great.  Other times, well, not so great.  We chalk our mistakes up to errors of judgment, a good idea gone bad, a volatile market, poor timing, the rain.  We come up with excuses. But, in the end, we own the loss and we move on. There’s no choice.

Interestingly, the most valuable and worthwhile investments require no money at all.  They’re the ones we make in the name of friendship. Those investments take time, energy, thought, care, give and take, ebb and flow.   But no money.  Not a red cent.

So, perhaps, because of that, when those personal investments go south, they’re just that much more difficult to understand.   We ask ourselves: “What the heck happened there? We sure didn’t see that coming.”

There’s no insurance policy, no 60-day-guaranteed-satisfaction-or-your-money-back- clause, no redress, no profit and loss statement.  The only thing we know for sure is we’re missing a pound of flesh and a chunk of heart.

But if the investments are good ones, financial or otherwise, they can hit bottom and pop back up.  Stronger than ever.   All doesn’t have to be lost.

We just have to wait and see.

All The News That’s Fit.

I just love our little newspaper.  It wisely puts all that national gobbledy-gook on page 3.  Or 4.  Or 5.  Page One is reserved for the good stuff.  The stuff that matters.  Like the recent announcement that the long-awaited and hoped-for Bluffton dog park is now a reality.

That little doggie park was twelve years in the making. (That would be 84 dog years.)  At first glance, that sounds like an awful long time to put up some fences, buy doggie bags, a few trash containers and several park benches.  But, let’s remember.  There are animals involved and history will tell us that proper care and feeding of our animals can require a lot of time, thought, and planning.  More than we might think at first glance.

Many (theoretically) far more monumental tasks have been completed in far less time.

To wit, the Titanic was built in 26 months; the Magna Carta was written in one year.

The Gettysburg Address took somewhere around 2 hours to write but it could have been less than that.  Mr. Lincoln was not totally forthcoming on his time-line.

Man got to the moon in three days.  Tolstoy wrote War and Peace in six years.

On the other hand, it’s assumed that it took Noah at least 75 years to build the Ark.

So maybe 12 years to make a dog park isn’t all that long.  When there are animals involved…..well, just ask Noah.  Things can really drag out.



Me and My (Ro)Bot


I have a “Bot.”  I’m too old to have a Bot but I have one nevertheless.

I didn’t request one.  He just arrived.

At first I was annoyed.  I didn’t welcome him but he persisted and now he’s part of my life.

He visits my blog.  Sometimes many times a day.   I know he’s a Bot because he only visits “Home.”  Sort of like E.T.  Reading and comprehension may be above his pay grade.

He does no harm.  To me or anyone else.  I’ve made sure of that.  He’s of no particular help, either.  He just “is.”

He makes my numbers look good.  Sometimes I think I’ve gone “viral” and then I realize it’s just my Bot.   Being Bot-ish.

He tends to do most of his visiting late in the week, when anyone who reads Life on the May has already done so and moved on to other things.  In a way, it’s nice to have him then.  It beats the heck out of the message: “Sorry, no readers today.”

I know it sounds a bit sexist for me to refer to my Bot as a “him” but frankly, I don’t know any women who have the time to just sit and click all day long.

I do wish he’d leave a bread crumb or two so I knew where to find him.  But I guess that would take all the mystery out of the relationship and that’s pretty much all we’ve got going with each other right now.

So carry on, Dear Bot.  Maybe one of these days we’ll cyber-meet.  L8R.


  • In the dark about “bots?” Wikipedia sheds some light: “An internet bot, also known as web robot, WWW robot or simply bot, is a software application that runs automated tasks (scripts) over the Internet. Typically, bots perform tasks that are both simple and structurally repetitive, at a much higher rate than would be possible for a human alone.”




The New York Times Book Review

As one who enjoys reading, I look forward to my NYT Book Review every Sunday.  I always start at the back and move, slowly and carefully, to the front.

A couple weeks ago, I came across some titles which piqued my interest, especially given our political climate.

One title I spotted was: “What’s The Big Deal About Elections?”  I think I know the answer to that but other opinions are always welcome.

Another was: “Bold and Brave: Ten Heroes Who Won Women The Right To Vote.”  As an old feminist, that appealed to me.

Then there was: “What Can A Citizen Do?”   An important question in these times….or any time for that matter.

And finally, there was: “Unpresidented: A Biography of Donald Trump.”  Well, now.

So, I said to myself:  “That all sounds like pretty heavy stuff.  Do I really want to take that on?  What happened to my penchant for easy-in, easy-out mysteries?”

Upon closer inspection, I realized I was reading the Children’s Books section. All those books are for ages 4 to 8.  Some of them nicely illustrated.  Always a plus. So, I think I can handle that, but, more importantly,  I’m hoping they might give me some insights into what our children are reading….and learning.…these days.

From little acorns, great oaks grow.  Let’s see what’s being sown.


A New Day

With gratitude to my son, the realtor, there are many of you reading this today who weren’t doing so last week.  Apparently, he can sell more than real estate.  I welcome you and am so glad to have you with me.

Great realtors are meticulous about accurately representing a product and my son is no exception.  I hope I can hold up my end of that deal in this blog that he “presented” to you.  I truly hope my roof won’t leak, that my foundation won’t sag, my plumbing won’t drip and my windows don’t fog up.  That I will continue to pass inspection.

I truly welcome comments. But there’s no place to do that through the blog itself. is a no-reply site.  Send it a note directly and it goes into the ethers.  Never to be seen.  Go through the comment section on the home page, and I’ll get it.

To those of you who’ve been with me for five years now: You have no idea how important you are to me.  Connection is everything.  At least to me.  Even when we don’t see the dots, they’re there. Little veins of hope, avenues of mutual understanding.  Shared laughter.  Change.

You keep reading; I’ll keep writing.  For better or for worse.






Distraction is the Birth Mother of Error

And so it came to pass that in my highly distracted state last evening, I brushed my teeth with Preparation-H.

I’ve been afraid that something like that might happen ever since a good friend told me that Preparation-H is the answer to those awful red bug bites that show up all over my body in mysterious ways.

Since I am the ideal bug magnet, a tube of PrepH must always be at the ready.  On the counter.  Available to salve the screamingly sore, itchy and bright red blotches that are the hallmark of red bug bites.

The problem is that other tubes are also on the counter.  A face blusher, some moisturizer, hair-gel, and, of course, tooth paste.  They co-mingle, so to speak.  I’ve been mindful of the possibility of error but, until last night, all was well.  Alas, my hyper-distraction sent me into a world of carelessness.

I knew that the minty freshness I so enjoy when I brush my teeth was not immediately apparent but the full appreciation of the errors of my ways did not show up until my lips went numb.  Numbness is one of the most highly appreciated elements of PrepH.   .

I will also tell you that PrepH has great staying power.  Long-lasting effects, if you will.  I’m a teensy bit better this morning but will make sure to be more respectful of distraction in the future.

With respectful and sorrowful recognition of yesterday’s horrific event in Pittsburgh: Shalom.

The Power of Pink

A friend ‘s nephew writes a blog and I want to share  a recent one with you.   This one knocked my socks off and not just because I get the breast cancer/pink thing.  It’s so much more than that.  

Chip Bristol is the author and he writes under “Brushstrokes.” You can find him at   I hope you’ll find this essay as moving as I did.  Please take a look at some of his other writings, too. You’ll be glad you did.


By Chip Bristol

Things in this country are a mess. Regardless of how you see things, we can all agree that divisions abound, anger is everywhere, and people on all sides are acting like spoiled brats. After this week, I’ve had to watch less TV and look for other places for the spirit of a country I love.

Little did I know I’d find it on a cloudy morning, surrounded by hundreds of pink shirts. It was the annual Women’s Only 5K Run in honor of breast cancer research. Although I am comfortable with my feminine side and have my share of pink shirts, I could only stand as a spectator for this run, but my view gave me what my heart was longing for.

In a city that has its fair share of divisions, black women ran beside white. Strangers leaned in for selfies with those standing beside them. Members of St Andrew’s Episcopal Church ran with members of His Holiness Temple. A woman with a yarmulke cheered beside one wearing a hijab, and Republicans and Democrats held hands. It wasn’t a black or white event, a Christian or Jew. It wasn’t a red or blue event. It was pink.

The pink shirts came in all sizes, but there were two shades. The first, was for those who ran in support of someone they loved. The second was a darker shade, reserved for the survivors themselves. Runners nodded or reached out with reverence to touch the women with darker shirts. One runner had no hair, another had no breasts, one walked with a cane, and another rode in a wheelchair pushed by a friend, and yet each woman wearing the darker shade smiled with the joy that surrounded her on every side.

For a few hours, the world was a beautiful place, and, as I walked to my car, I watched a mother and young daughter walking ahead of me, each wearing a different shade of pink. Hand in hand, I could see strength being passed down, and offered back up. I could feel the power, and it was the mighty power of pink. May the world learn from, and find more of, this power.

Extra Credit:

Reach out to someone you know who’s been touched by breast cancer.

Do one thing this week to cross one of the countless divisions between you and another person.

They Want Me To Do What??????

According to a recent article on home design, ”they” want me to get rid of my dried flowers, unwanted gifts and broken objects.

“They” are the feng shui experts whom I have, for a long time now, respected for their advice on making our homes accessible and happy.  But now!  Now they are asking me to go against my grain.  Seriously against my grain.

They want me to throw out my dried flowers because “in their dried and decayed state they represent death and decline.”

They want me to throw out unwanted gifts because “they are affecting my peace and well-being.”

And, finally, I’m supposed to get rid of broken objects because they  “represent stagnant energy.”

Well, now.

If I may be so bold as to counter their suppositions, I will say that my dried hydrangeas don’t make me think of death and decline.  They remind me of the bushes out back which will be in full bloom in the not too distant future.  I call that “hope.”

If I had any unwanted gifts, and I don’t, I think they would always remind me of the good times I received them; of the friends who gave them to me.  I call that “happy.”

As to broken and chipped objects.  There are too many in this house to count and I wouldn’t get rid of a one.  Their flaws make them just that much more wonderful.  I call that “love.”

Well, now we have hope, happiness, and love.  That works for me and I think the house would agree.

So, go away, feng shu.  Come again another day.  Perhaps when you’ve thought things through a little more.


Image courtesy of

Trips to the Vet

How can we begin to count the number of our “trips to the vet?”   Many, many  cats and several dogs during 56 years of animal-loving years together?    It’s an incalculable number.  And we dare not add up the dollars invested.  Or remember the pain of letting go of a beloved pet.

If we were smart, we’d never subject ourselves to that again.  Our right brains would tell us to: “Stop!  Enough already!”   But then, because it’s a lovely Sunday afternoon and we’ve nothing else to do, we amble over to the Humane Society   Just for a peek at the kitties.  No harm there.  Right?

Then we remember how much we dearly love the feel of fur under our fingers, the clean smell of a kitty, the purrs.  Oh, the purrs.  The cuddly, itty-bitty-ness of a kitten, who just happens to fit, so softly, in the palms of our hands.  We’ll take that one.  Where do we sign?  And, of course, we promise to love, honor and obey.

And it’s all worth it.  One of the really important reasons it’s worth it is that we get to take those trips to the vets.  They’re our ticket to ride.  In sickness and in health, the vet’s office is a good, safe place to be.  We meet the nicest people, admire other pets in the waiting room, receive support and care from the doctors and nurses and are grateful for their dedication.

Trips to the vet?   Wouldn’t miss ’em for the world.

On Styling Bookcases

A well-known design firm on the Island recently offered a workshop on tips and tricks for styling your bookcases.  I came close to signing up because those designers are good.  But I didn’t.

I guess it’s my age and my up-bringing but I still think bookcases should hold books.  Period.  Books jammed in upside-down, sideways, joyfully mis-arranged and, most importantly, having been read.  Every last one of them.  At least once.

So when I walk by ours….and I do that often since one entire wall of our living room is a bookcase….I stop and remember all the good times we had together.  The places we went; the people we met; the things we saw.

There isn’t room for anything pretty on those shelves.  And if I put something pretty in there, a book would have to be sacrificed and I’m not going there.

I still think that “styled bookcases” is an oxymoron.  I have, however, been noticing that most bookcases these days are indeed artistically and decoratively styled.  They hold pictures, and vases and, well, stylish things.

According to the blurb in our paper, the book-styling class was going to tell me that “bookshelves are regarded as vehicles for collections, treasured items and keepsakes.”

I already knew that, as it turns out, because that’s exactly how I feel about all our hundreds of books, carelessly stacked in their very own bookcases.  Stylish, or not.

Innocence Lost

It was 40 years ago.  Or maybe more.  I’m not good with timelines.  I was old enough to know better.  And, more to the point, old enough to have acted when it was important to have done so.  But I was too ashamed.

Sound familiar?  It should. It’s frequently the way women feel and respond when they’ve experienced an unwelcome and unwanted “situation.”

Mine was at a small shopping center not far from our house.  A safe place.   A family place.  Never any concerns about being there alone.  Especially at 10:00 in the morning.

On that morning, long ago, I ran my errand, got back in my little red car, started it up and was surprised by a tap on my window.  A nice looking young man told me he’d seen  a spark come out of my tail pipe when I started the car.  He said he could double check it if I would just put one foot on the accelerator and one foot on the brake and he would take a look at the tailpipe.  He wanted my feet in a certain position to get a good assessment.  And he put his head down on the floor of the car to make sure I was doing it right.  Got the picture?

He wasn’t there to help me with the car.  He was there to look up my skirt.  And I helped him do just that.

Yep, I opened the door for him.  In more ways than one.  This was broad daylight, remember?   No reason to say no to a kind offer of assistance.  I didn’t want to have car trouble on the way home, now did I?

It took me too long to realize what was going on.  It wasn’t a sexual assault.  It was voyeurism. But a personal violation, nevertheless.

I can tell you exactly where I parked that morning.  I can tell you that I was too embarrassed to tell the Mister for years.  And I can tell you that I was too ashamed to call the cops and tell them that a creepy weirdo was doing his thing in our sweet little shopping center.  And that I had fallen for it.  Who needs to get involved in all that?  Not me, thank you very much.

Someone did, though.  Call the cops, that is.  I read about it in the newspaper. Good for her.  I applauded her actions. But still I said nothing to anybody about my own experience with him.

You should feel free to call me naïve, stupid, fearful, vain.  You don’t have to do that, though.  I’ve already done it.  Lots of times.

I may not be brilliant but I was way too smart to have acted as I did.  Or not-acted, as the case may be.

I’m not sure we’ve come much further.  We may not yet be at the point where the benefits of speaking up outweigh the (potentially) negative consequences of doing so.  When might we get to that place?   Good question.  No good answers.

Where in the world is Jim Cantori?

It’s Thursday, September 13th, 2018 and I really, really want to know where he is.  And this is not just idle curiosity.

If you’ve been following Hurricane Florence, and we have, you want to know where Jim Cantori of The Weather Channel is.

Jim goes into the stormiest, coldest, iciest, blowiest, harshest weather imaginable.  All for ratings, of course.  But, he’s a good guide.  He tells us where he is so we know where not to be.

Not very long ago, at the beginning of this hurricane cycle, he was spotted on the South Carolina coastline.  We heaved a sigh of relief when they sent him up to North Carolina.  We took deep breaths and cancelled the plywood.  We stopped obsessing about tins of tuna fish and canned soups, jars of Cheese Whiz and peanut butter, rolls of toilet paper.  We allowed the gas tank to slip (minimally) below full. We were still concerned about the vodka and wine levels.  But, in general, life was a wee bit less stressed.


Apparently, Jim’s in Wrightsville Beach.  And, thank goodness, we aren’t.  But….and this is a big but… one of our sons has a house just up the road from that beach and it is clearly in harm’s way.  It’s a strong house, newly roofed, but Florence is big and bad.  We’ll know more as Jim reports on the hurricane and in the meantime, we’re holding on tight.

Not just for that house but for all the many, many people and places in her destructive path.

Sunday, September 16.   All appears good here now.  And for our son’s house, as well.  Not so much in other places but it could have been far worse.  Jim can go home now, dry out, rest up and get ready for the next one.  The onr thing we know for sure about hurricanes is that we know very little.  But, Jim, we’ll still be watching.  Stay safe.  We’re counting on you.