Happy Bloomsday!

June 16th is Bloomsday, for all those who admire the multiverse of James Joyce’s _Ulysses_. You may have run across traveling “re-creationists” today who celebrated by reading the book while copying its protatagonist’s perambulations for the day. But probably you didn’t. *grin*

Michael Nellis of WRITING2 quips, “Personally, I will celebrate by quietly contemplating the fact that I joined the 100 Page Club. Three times.”

You’re either a fan or you can’t stand the book–that’s what I find. Whichever way, you’ve still gotta admire a book with fans like those!

I celebrated by getting up early to meet the lawn/tree crew. Remember how I thought we’d dodged the bullet with our large trees in the back yard, from that mini-nado we had on Friday night?

Yesterday my neighbor on the south side of the fence (side yard) called to tell me that several large limbs actually HAD cracked. She’d been watching to see if they’d fall off on their own (!). Never wish for something you don’t really want, because as soon as she got up yesterday, she heard a CRACK, and saw that a couple of branches had fallen on her side of the fence.

(Oh, so THAT’S what we heard . . . I thought it was something out in the sunroom. Dog barked, but I couldn’t find anything amiss in the sunroom. I just wasn’t looking far enough west.)

Worse, the branches mostly fell on her power/phone lines that lead into the house (yep, we’re in THAT old a neighborhood), so she went outside to pull them off in the heat. But it was Too Hot for that . . . no kidding. Therefore, she was calling to ask me if my yardmen would come tomorrow to saw them into pieces (they’re BIG limbs and branches) and haul them away. (They know my yardmen are fond of Mama and will do things for her on the spur of the moment that they wouldn’t do for just anyone. I don’t know whether this is because she tries to speak pidgin Spanish/Tex-Mex patois to them (“el perro rojas . . .”–hand waving–“you know, like Clifford”) or because she reminds them of their grandmothers, but they’ve even done favors such as burying some of the neighborhood pets and other sorta-personal things like that for the elderly in our little circle. Also, this lady’s yardmen are more expensive than ours, so we got a bargain.)

As she spoke, I peered out and saw that despite Hubby’s assurance the other day, we DID have a few limbs broken off of our trees that line the side yard at the fence line. (Neighbor has two large mulberries there, and we have trees that I planted when I was ten . . . a mimosa that I dug up as a seedling one day when we visited some of my mother’s friends in Oak Cliff is my personal “pet.” It grew tall because it couldn’t go horizontal in that crowd, and it’s fifteen or twenty feet tall!) *Waaah*! Half of my tall mimosa branches! Covered with puffy pink blossoms!

(Mimosa, pre-storm)

Obviously these were too large for either of us to drag out to the front for pickup, *and* there were still a couple hanging off of MY phone/power lines. She said we could go halfsies on having the remaining stuff cleaned up.

It looked to me as if a number of the branches were from her tree, so that sounded fair.

I like to be neighborly. I’ve also known this woman since she was in second grade and I was in fifth. (She came home after a tour of the world to move in with her mom, and is perfectly happy there. Her mom still owns the house.) I called my yard guys and they promised to show up today as soon as it got hot enough. Ha, ha.

True to their word, they got here around 11:30. My heat sensitivity had already kicked in. But anyhow, I met the neighbors around back and watched the guys as they pulled some really large branches down and out and sawed them into the required four-foot lengths so the city can pick them up at curbside. These were five- and eight-inch diameter branches! Good thing we got them before they completely pulled down some wire or another. And I suppose that’s one lucky thing about not having a pool *pout*.

By the time they were finished picking up all the debris, it was REALLY HOT. My neighbor examined the leaves on the stack at the curb and said that most of them were her branches after all, so she tossed in an extra $10 (making it about 60-40). I mourned the BIG MIMOSA BRANCH one more time before crawling inside to lie under the ceiling fan and pour water over my head.

“I want to go to the cafeteria!” Mama had her shoes on and was ready to be taken out to lunch.

“Let me cool off first.”

“But the cafeteria will be packed if we don’t go now!”

Sometimes my family members think of me as a robot that never has any needs and can always just soldier on like a machine that you don’t have to feed or water or wash or worry about.

We compromised. I called in a take-out order to Poor Richard’s Cafe in old downtown Plano, and the dog got to ride and see all the sweaty people. This also meant I didn’t have to eat that nasty cafeteria jello. The flavors are called “red” and “green” rather than “strawberry” and “lime” for a reason.

Whee! What an exciting life! Makes for an exciting blog of nonstop action! No wonder I’ve had a couple of people dump (de-friend) me here on LJ lately. Not that it HURTS MY FEELINGS or anything *sniff*


Want to be HERE (Asilomar State Beach, Monterey peninsula, California, USA)


Or HERE (Carmel-by-the-sea, Calif.)


Instead, this is as far as I can afford to go *sigh* “Whaddaya mean, you don’t got no diet RC left?!”


Consolation view (supposedly from a church in west Texas)

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Author: shalanna

Shalanna: rhymes with "Madonna" and "I wanna," and is not a soundalike with "Hosanna" or "Sha-Na-Na." Aging hippie with long hair, husband, elderly mother, and yappy Pomeranian. I've been writing since I could hold a crayon. I started with fiction, which Mama said was "lying." “Don’t tell stories,” she would admonish, in Southern vernacular. “That's all in your imagination!” When grownups said this, they were not approving. So, shamed, I stopped telling stories for a few years--rather, I stopped letting anyone read them. I'm married to a fellow computer nerd who doesn't really like hearing about writing, but who reads sf/fantasy and understands the creative drive. I'm actually a nonconformist/hippie still wearing bluejeans and drop earrings and the Alice-in-Wonderland hair with headbands and sandals. Favorite flavor is chocolate/orange, favorite color is either Dreamsicle orange (cantaloupe) or bubble-gum pink, favorite musical is either Bye Bye Birdie, Rocky Horror, or The Producers . . . wait, I also love The Music Man. Is this getting way too specific and irrelevant yet? Obvious why I don't sell a ton of flash fiction, isn't it? To define oneself, I always say, it is good to make a list. How about a booklist? Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird Frank and Ernestine Gilbreth, Cheaper by the Dozen C.S.Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (all the Narnia books) J.R.R.Tolkien,The Hobbit/LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy Gail Godwin, The Odd Woman F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye (before dismissing it, actually read it) George Orwell, 1984 Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle Donna Tartt, The Secret History Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn James Allen, As A Man Thinketh Mark Winegardner, Elvis Presley Boulevard James Thurber, My Life and Hard Times The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum Winnie-the-Pooh/House at Pooh Corner, A. A. Milne Peter Pan, J. M. Barrie The KJV and NIV Bible (each translation has its glories)

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