Treats… tricks.



We’ve felt since the beginning of our time in this house that there were spirits here. We’ve not known who they were, what they had in mind for us or, just in general, why they were here. They are welcoming spirits….of that I am sure. I think they know why we are here and they appreciate it. Even spirits like to be warm in the winter and I like it that way too, so we get along pretty well.


We have a piece of art in the kitchen which is new since we’ve lived here. It’s so perfect for the spot and we admire it every day. The artist was in town recently and we invited her to come and see where it was hanging. She walked in the house and stopped dead in her tracks. Couldn’t have cared less about her art. She needed to tell us about the spirits in the house. She sensed them immediately. It seems there was an elderly woman who died in the house and she’s still here.


She also told us that there’s also an adolescent girl who’s hanging out. We traversed the house: living rooms, closets, attics, bathrooms. She told us where the child had stayed and that she had left some toys here, most likely in the little knee-hole attic.


That evening we were having a drink with our neighbor who lived in this house for many years with her parents. She knows every inch of this house. I was telling her about the visit from the artist/psychic that day and that she had sensed a woman who had died here and was still making her presence known. Without skipping a beat, our neighbor asked “And did she mention the adolescent girl?”


Goose bumps, anyone??

A 21st century love affair in a 19th century house

He and I fell in love the minute we saw each other. We’re so fortunate…our love grows stronger every day. He’s so handsome, growing slightly grayer all the time but that’s okay. A few wrinkles here and there but those green eyes are still beautiful. He’s kind and sweet, as he always has been.

Sleeping together (is this getting a little racy for you?) can be a challenge. As it is with so many males, he tends to hog the sheets and covers. (You know what I mean.) I’m happy to say he doesn’t snore.

He likes to dine on schedule so I always try to be home for us to be together.   He loves to eat yet manages to stay nice and lean.   His tastes are limited; it’s easy to please him.

I know that he’s unfaithful but I accept that and have since I first discovered it. I don’t know her name but I recognize her when I see her.  She comes down the tree with a nut in her mouth and it’s for him. They stare longingly at each other. Their tails get puffy and twitchy. Just because it’s unrequited love, between mixed species with a double e-strength window between them doesn’t mean it’s not heartfelt. I know he worries when it’s cold out and he’s inside where it’s nice and warm. You can see it on his face.

He sleeps a lot….somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 hours a day. She visits frequently and he’s frequently oblivious. (So typical of the male, isn’t it?  If he were dependent on that nut, I can tell you it would be a different matter).   I guess you’d call her the (nut)bread winner, so I worry about his self esteem. Since he’s not allowed outside, his ability to hunt and gather is limited.

So there we are… Basil the cat and his squirrelfriend…..With apologies to the bard, she’s on the balcony ( i.e. up the tree) and he’s inside, most likely asleep. ”Basil-oh-Basil….wherefore art thou, Basil?” May things end better for them than that Shakespearean relationship did.

And I did it my way.




It’s a beautiful fall day today. I think I’ll go to the water. We are so fortunate to have so many choices. The previous owners left us two kayaks. The water is still and could make for a wonderful trip. Get a little exercise, too.


They also left a little boat. A Boston Whaler. 15 or 16 feet, I think. Just right for a leisurely trip up and down the river. A cool drink and a sandwich. What could be better?


Then there’s the option of just sitting on the dock, watching people enjoy the river and waving at them, saying hello, hoping they keep their wake to a dull roar so we don’t bounce around.


We could even just enjoy the water from our porch. Nice comfy chairs. There are some soft October breezes blowing. Maybe a sip of wine or two.


Lovely choices, all. Just not for me. I’m going to take a bubble bath.


What qualifies something to be history? Does it have to be old? Does it have to have global impact? Do life and death have to be involved? Must it be a tale of survival and loss? To involve war? Does it have to be hard to learn (an aside here…I failed every history course I ever took…yes, I know about Columbus but don’t pin me down on the year).

Does personal history count? Or does it have be relevant to an era of change and revolution? Does it have to relate to a “period” as in furniture….Queen Anne, Chippendale, etc?

Or can it be a simple tale with a beginning, a middle and an end which has a powerful effect on the people involved? No war, no history books, nothing era-specific, just a story?

There’s a blanket in this house that stands for a period of our family history. We know its whole life… started in a Target store in Ann Arbor, Michigan. And now it lives on the May river in a 200 year old house. Every time it is touched, folded, washed, pulled up to a neck for warmth, spread out for a cat to sit on, it generates a flood….all within a nanosecond…of emotion, relief and gratitude.

It was the blanket we bought when our daughter-in-law was so terribly sick. There was no way the heating system in our little motel room could keep one of us (yes, me) warm enough. This one did the trick . We were there for three chilly months. Sarah lived. That was our goal. And that blanket …The AAB (Ann Arbor Blanket).. is a constant reminder of the ordeal, the hoped-for-outcome, the very fabric (yes, a little corny but true) of that time in our lives. And no one can tell me it doesn’t count as history. I know better.






Holly bibble

A friend’s granddaughter was helping her mother put away the books in their new home. Her father was at sea.

Suddenly, the little girl squealed with delight. Look Mommy, she said. It’s the holly bibble.

Now I don’t know if, after a couple of quiet chuckles, her mother corrected her or not. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the pleasure the child got when she saw the book.

She knew it contained stories….ones she liked….maybe like Blueberries for Sal or even better. She probably knew some of the names in the book, could say some of it by heart, knew it was important in its own way. And she gave it her own name.

She made it special to herself. Right now, in her wonderful innocence, that book has its own meaning to her. We don’t know how that will evolve in the future.

Now, don’t try to find the holly bibble through Amazon or Barnes and Noble. It doesn’t exist. It does exist in the child’s heart at the moment. We hope it stays there with her own unique stamp on it and that no one tries to take that away.


We all know what that means. I don’t pay much attention to it because our children take care of it for me. They arrive with fear and terror that something out of date will be served to them. They check all cans, every pasta box, cake mixes, soups and so forth. Out goes everything that doesn’t meet their standards.

Then it’s on to the spices. I’ll admit to a slight lack of attention to those little jars so it’s probably good to have a cleansing.

The freezer and refrigerator are next. My husband’s mother kept all her jellies, marmalades and jams for at least 30 years. He didn’t know that refrigerators had lights in them until he left home. I’m not that bad but there are always a few things in there that have seen better days. Out they go.

Now they hit the medicine cabinet. After that clearance, if your body needs attention…….tummy-ache, ear-wax, allergies ….you can just forget about it. There’s no help for it in this house.

In a way I appreciate the help. It’s hard on the budget to have to replace everything but it’s not really a bad thing. I like to think that it’s their way of taking care of us.

So, I’m not too worried about my out-of-date items being tossed. They’ve been doing this for us for years. No….I have a new worry. I guess the best name for it would be a sell-to-date.

Am I the only one whose favorite products are gone? I mean really gone! Not just out of stock but never to be replaced. Totally discontinued. I think chapstick is the only product that I like that’s still available.

Hair products used for years….gone. Lipstick color that goes with everything….gone. A favorite mascara….gone. Bath salts enjoyed and loved….gone. Comfortable under-garments….gone (am I really supposed to get used to thongs?)

I loved certain writing pens….gone. Shirts from Lands End that used to fit perfectly….gone. Pants that actually got close to your waistline…gone.

But all of that pales in comparison to the discontinuation of the Kraft Garlic Cheese Roll.   If you want to see what a terrible thing Kraft did, just Google those cheese rolls. Angry, angry women and I’m right there with them. How am I supposed to make my famous garlic cheese grits without that product…..or spinach madeleine? You just can’t do it. The stuff never goes bad so the cognoscenti went out and bought cases of them. I wasn’t among them, alas.

So buy in bulk and hang on to it. Cause if you don’t, when you want it, you’re not gonna be able to get it. The young sales staffers smile at you but you see their pity. When I ask for something old and wonderful and no longer available, I know they’re thinking…..poor old thing.…..I’ll bet she’s got lots of yucky out-of-date products in her cupboard and doesn’t even know it.. Well, they’re wrong about that but I still want my old lipstick and my Kraft Garlic Cheese Roll.



It starts between 3:00 and 3:15 most afternoons. My first reaction is oh rats –  not again. I don’t know how to fix it….make it stop. I know why but not how. There’s only one of us who knows what to do and he’s somewhere else.

My second reaction is to take a hammer to it, put it out of its misery. But that would be rash and frankly unpleasant for many people, the police included. They would be at the door within minutes. How would I explain my murderous actions. Big money would ultimately be involved and I’m not prepared to take that risk.

My third reaction….and this is relatively new… to feel bad about it, to feel sorry for it in a way. It’s just doing its job. It means well. It has phantom pain and any one who’s experienced that understands.

It’s the alarm system, of course. What it wants me to do is close the dining room door. I would if I could but I can’t because that door is gone….completely and utterly gone. No more door. Forever and ever gone. How can we tell it that? All it wants me to do is obey its orders…check station 13 (of course it’s 13). The one who’s not home to fix it has a gizmo, put together with scotch tape and super glue that helps but not sufficiently. Our “protector” still wants to take care of its family. Warn us….danger….danger.

So I listen…. …..two seconds between beeps and no way to stop it. There’s not enough valium in the house to ease the anxiety, the annoyance. So I go back to reaction number 3 and try to share in its pain. I’m retired, too, and sometimes I miss my old job, want to help as I did once upon a time. Beep. Anyone got any super-glue or scotch tape handy?



The move was exhausting. What move isn’t? What goes and what stays? Are we doing the right thing? Are we crazy at our age to move to a larger house with no storage? Isn’t this backwards? People said…oh we envy you…you are so brave and adventurous. We’re pretty sure we know what they said when we were out of earshot and we wondered if they weren’t right. But we did it anyway.


The move was even more exhausting than I had imagined. There’s a small…really small…bedroom on the second floor of the new house…right next to the church. It’s more of a cubby than anything else in which I spent the first few weeks after the move, away from the world. One afternoon in the middle of one of my seemingly endless naps the church bells began to chime. In my haze, I assumed they were checking to see if they work (trust me, they worked). I began to count but on and on they went. Surely, I thought, they could figure the problem out faster than that.


We quickly learned that the church bells peal at funerals…..once for every year of the person’s life. How soon we changed our thoughts about the number of times the bells ring. Now when we hear them , we quietly begin to count. We think about the people in the church, honoring the person for whom those bells toll. We say a quiet prayer for each of the souls, the one being honored and the ones in mourning. But perhaps more than anything, we count…slowly and deliberately. One, two, three…..


What we want is for those bells to go on and on……signifying a life lived long and , we hope, well. When the bells stop too soon……(and that changes with our own perspective of a long life)…..we emotionally join the mourners. We’ve heard them stop at thirty…..and hoped that it was a mistake….that the system failed. But it’s fool proof and so we ask ourselves…..why? Why so soon? Not enough time here…..those bells should not be for them. They’re for those who have fulfilled their lives. But it happens, of course. We know that intellectually but, let me tell you, those bells bring it all home. There’s an ache when they stop….a finality, an auditory clamp to the end of that life. They quit as abruptly as they began.


Fleeting, isn’t it? Two or three minutes of bells being rung and it’s over. Suddenly and maddeningly over. If I could go over there and ring those bells some more, I’d do it. I can’t of course. They’re as programmed as our lives and no one can do a bloody thing about it.



Fifty Shades of purple, orange, blue, green, red, etc.

To my darlings….and you know who you are:

Every year at this time, I long for you. I want to feel your comfortable caresses around my neck, my arms in yours and your delicate, soft touch on my body. But it’s too soon. I have to wait. I always think that our meetings will occur soon after the first of September but alas. It never happens.

All I can do is visit you…and I do. Sometimes I touch you but that makes the longing worse. You smell so good. I put you to my face and inhale deeply, taking in that sweet, sweet smell of Bounce. Usually I start with purple …..then on to orange and if I’m not spent by then, I might pick up the dark green. The way you hide my faults…you are so good to me. You cover up my turkey neck, my saggy arms…..oh be still my heart! But as Cole Porter would say, at the moment “it’s too hot not to cool down.” So we wait…..

There are by all accounts a lot of you. Too many, in fact. And yet, when the fall catalogues arrive, and the descriptions of the new styles and colors show themselves, I am once again helpless. A little extra spandex, a slight curvature at the waist, the offer to buy three and save a little money. Yes, yes, yes! Call Lands End and get it done. The sooner, the better. Even the new stripes which I know will make me look like a prison inmate.   I want them and I want them now!

But wait I must! Turtleneck sweaters and 90 degree weather are not a good mix. But soon, my darlings, soon. The pent up desire will find release! I’ll slip you over my head, tuck you into my jeans and off we’ll go……together again. At last.

The (re)Turn of the Screw

The ladies of the swimming pool were discussing the fact that all the towels that were generously supplied by the club for swimmers and sunbathers have been stolen. While I wasn’t surprised, I think that’s pretty poor behavior for club members and their guests. I gather it’s not uncommon but that doesn’t make it right.

I asked one of the swimmers if she’d ever stolen anything. She admitted she had. I asked about it only to find out that in fact she hadn’t. She’d received something in the mail that was not meant for her; she called the store and they said ”Oh, just keep it.”   That’s not stealing.

Later that evening I asked my husband if he’d ever stolen anything. He said he had. I asked when and where and what. He said it had been recently and it was willful, intentional and purposeful. He’s an honest… a fault….person so I was a little surprised. I asked where. He told me, and to protect the guilty I will only tell you that it’s a large home goods store that starts with an L and ends with an e’s.   Now I’m shocked and a little concerned. With fear and trepidation, I asked what the item was. He said it was a screw. That indeed he had willfully, intentionally and with purpose paid for 12 screws and taken 13. Is this a throwback to when he used to buy a dozen donuts and get 13 as in a “bakers dozen”? No, apparently not. He felt that the store was charging usurious rates for the screws and so he just helped himself to the 13th.

Well, of course now I wonder where that screw is. Has he comingled it with all the other screws so I won’t know which one it is? Has it already been screwed in somewhere so it is no longer distinctive as a “purloined screw”? Will I always wonder where it might be? Should I take a screw from one of the thousands in his workshop and return it to L…e’s? Should I call the manager and report the theft? Do I have to accompany him every time he goes to L….e’s to keep an eye on his sticky fingers? (He goes to L….e’s at least twice a day so this could become a hardship on me.) Should I personally go there and make good on the screw? When the MasterCard bill comes in, will I forever look at the amount he spent there and know that it should be 5 cents more?

I’m searching for comfort here. 52 years of marriage and I hadn’t known this side of him. Oh what to do? Will I ever regain the trust I’ve had for all these years? How shall I manage the angst? I think my best advice to myself is to just screw it. Well, not that particular screw….I still feel bad about that one but I’ll get over it.


Addendum:   The Shaming of the Screw

He had returned it. The screw that is. Put it back in the very basket from whence it came. Couldn’t take the heat. I told you he was honest to a fault. Now you know. But I think this is bigger than the screw. Perhaps other perps would like to share their story with me. I’ll write it up, they’ll atone for their high crime or misdemeanor, the world will be a better place. We’ll have to deal with all the flying pigs, of course.


MouseThe small brown thing appeared from nowhere. It was scampering quickly but it didn’t take long to realize it was a mouse. When this happens, every self respecting woman immediately climbs onto a chair and screams “eeeek…..a mouse.” Which is what I did. What I forgot was that there was no one home to hear me. The cell phone was out of reach as was, sadly, the bottle of wine which I thought would come in handy at this time.

Then I remembered: I have cats….yes, real live honest to goodness cats in whom DNA resides to attack and kill the mouse to protect their mother. They’ll help. I call…”.Basil and Oscar…come to the kitchen….mummy has something for you. “ Nothing….no response whatsoever. Silly me…. they like their nicknames… I try again….”Basie and Ossie….mummy has a treat for you’….still nothing. Then I remember that all truths are written on cocktail napkins and the one that says “cats don’t answer, they take a message and get back to you” is probably appropriate for this situation. And anyway the one with claws is only interested in fine upholstery..

So I’m still on the chair, without a phone or the wine, which is becoming more important every minute. Every once in a while I utter “eeek…a mouse” just because it seems like the right thing to do. Suddenly, I see the mouse slither into what looks like a hole in the pantry and head outside. I’m saved! But what if he returns! I climb down from my chair, grab the cell phone, the wine, a straw and get back on the chair. (There’s no time to reach for a glass.)

I call my husband. There’s a mouse in the house and the cats are no help and I’m on a chair. Do you have any suggestions….in other words how soon can you be home to help me with this dire situation? He says he knows about the little hole in the pantry and he’ll fix it.   How big was the mouse? About the size of a small turkey, I say. Then how did it get in and out of the pencil sized hole? (Really???? At his age he should know that specificity and stark terror don’t go hand in hand)

Why do you sound funny, he says. It sounds like you’re drinking a milkshake. No it’s wine….it must be the straw. He asks….Do you know that drinking wine through a straw can make you drunk fast? I’m counting on that, I say. This has been…..and continues to be…..a trauma. Do you think that I dare get down from the chair?

I thought that cell phones had been improved to the point that one rarely encountered a dead spot or a dropped call. Surely he wouldn’t hang up on me. Would he?


StoveAs was the case in many old homes, this house’s original kitchen was perched on wheels and separate from the main house That way if the kitchen caught on fire, it could be quickly wheeled away, thus preventing damage to the main house.

In fact, beautiful and comprehensive renovations have been made to this house through the years , including, of course, the kitchen which is now firmly attached and elegant.

But just for fun, imagine that the kitchen indeed remained unattached. On and on it went that way through the years. People adapted and it just seemed easier to do it the old way. Life moved on and modern conveniences came into being. Now the old detached kitchen had a real stove, sub=zero refrigerator, granite counters and, of course Wi-Fi. It also had a 6 cylinder engine, power steering and automatic transmission. No more pushing, just get in it, start it up and go.

One can imagine a conversation such as the following:

Sallie: Okay, I guess I’ll toddle out to the kitchen and get dinner ready. Burger and fries okay with you tonight?

Husband; Sounds good.

(from the kitchen) Siri, dial husband’s mobile

calling husband’s mobile


hi…what do you want on your burger

oh, just the regular: lettuce, tomato, onion and ketchup

oops…I think we’re out of ketchup but don’t worry, I’ve got the kitchen keys right here…I’ll just drive down to the bi-lo, grab some ketchup and by the time I’m back, the burgers will be just perfect.

okay…see you in a bit.

five minutes later;

Siri, dial husband’s mobile

Calling husband’s mobile


Little problem here…I’ve been picked up on a moving violation.

What happened?

Well, I guess I was in a little more of a hurry than I thought. Most of the town’s police force is here trying to figure out what my fine is…they’re being very nice. They have fine schedules for speeding cars, vans, trucks, motorcycles, golf carts but nothing for kitchens so they’re having a problem coming up with a number. Further more, these hurricane strength windows we had installed prevented me from hearing the sirens. Unfortunately, the burgers are now seriously overdone. Wait a sec though! The French fries smell perfect…..why don’t I just pull them out of the oven, dash a bit of salt over them and offer them to the officers , perhaps we can come to a deal that way.

Great idea….good luck.

Officers….may I offer you some freshly baked, hot out of the oven, home-made French fries? Perhaps, we can move along on a settlement while you munch on them.

We’d very much like that….they smell delicious.

Wonderful. I hope you enjoy them.

Siri, call husband’s mobile

Calling husband’s mobile


Hi….I think we may be making progress, The French fries are a hit. Wait a sec…there’s a tap on my window. Yes, officer? Anything I can do? You want what?

To Husband …Oh dear, the deal may be off.


They want ketchup with their fries.


CanonI was born to go boom and it’s been nigh on to 200 years since I’ve done my thing. Can you imagine my angst, my desire to once again go boom, just one more time. Not to cause harm, you understand, but just to experience my raison d’etre one last time. (Read on….you’ll understand why I use that fancy word.)

As I said, I’m pretty old. If history proves to be correct, I was born/made in Denmark, somehow ended up with the French (now you understand my fancy language), found my way to Caliboque Cay and was rescued by members of the Seabrook family. There appear to be a lot of holes in my history so if anyone has any information it would be greatly appreciated. There are days when I have no visitors and it would be good to have that knowledge so I could reminisce.

In the meantime, I like company…it’s fun to hear people comment on me, asking questions, admiring my good condition and, of course, wondering, as I do, how I got here.

I’m in a nice planter, my family puts flowers around me and small children sit on me and want their pictures taken. Could it get any better for a retired cannon?

Still, the urge to go “boom” is in my DNA. I’m pretty sure it’s not going to happen. I’m happy in my home, perched above the May river, watching the river traffic and sometimes wishing I could just do a little boom, i.e. a “boomette” (if you will remember I have some French in me) when boats go by our dock too fast…just a little fun and a request to slow down. Bet there would be more than one surprised boater!

Oh, and I’ll bet you know what my favorite holiday is……three guesses….you got it.. The Fourth of July! How all that noise and those bright lights up in the sky bring it all back. And I hear singing with a line in it that reminds me of the old days…”bombs bursting in air.” Frankly, just between us, I saw too much of that in my earlier days and I didn’t like it very much even then. I’m in the perfect spot to watch all those fireworks shows but I m living in peace these days and very happy to do so. Wish everyone were like that. .I would not care to go back to “war” mode. Too much destruction and sadness.

So I’m a piece of history, sitting on a piece of property that is also historical. We do well together, respecting one another’s role in the story of Bluffton. I might not be as pretty as the house but I’ve been around a few more blocks than it has. We have stories to share and I’m a good listener. I’ve come a long way from “boom”, haven’t I?