New Port Richey, with a population of approximately 15,000, is about 35 miles northwest of Tampa in Pasco County on the Gulf of Mexico. One to two story buildings comprise the main thoroughfare which is lined with street lights topped by old-time glass globes, adding charming ambiance to mainly small businesses and restaurants, and much of the architecture of years ago has been preserved. The Pithlachascotee River (try to say that three times fast!) meanders through the downtown area with a river walk for visitors and residents alike to enjoy. In the 1920’s, New Port Richey was gaining a reputation as the Hollywood of the East, since many famous people and movie stars visited and bought homes here. The depression years changed that and it remained a small, but lovely city.

Over the last several years artists have been encouraged to paint historic themed murals on the downtown buildings and I recently decided to walk around and take pictures. What was originally to be a photographic exercise turned out to be a relaxing and delightful afternoon’s stroll of discovery.

Some of the murals had a whimsical feel, others were a tromp l’oeil experience. I had the feeling some of the likenesses were of past leaders of the community, people with whom I was unfamiliar, but it didn’t matter. If that were true, I was glad they were recognized.

I returned home feeling pleased I live in such a creative community, a place where people value history and the arts. I felt inspired to try being creative in some way too. I felt happy.

Does something about your community inspire you or make you happy?

While looking through photos I took a few years ago of Eastern Europe, one in particular reminded me of a very special and favorite writer, Anne George. Anne was also the first writer I ever met and she, upon learning I was interested in becoming a writer myself, was full of enthusiasm and encouragement. I attended many of her book signings and fell in love with her Southern Sisters series of cozy mysteries. People often tended to be discouraging to the fledgling me, but not Anne. She may be a huge reason I am writing this blog today. I listened to her and she inspired me to stick with it until I was published.

Anne George

This post is not about me, however. Anne’s Southern Sisters Series is about two sixty-something, totally opposite sisters who live in Birmingham, Alabama. The narrator, Patricia Anne, is petite, both in height and weight and is a retired school teacher who has been happily married to Fred for forty years. She tries to live a Southern Ladylike life, but it’s not easy to be prim and proper with a sister like hers who calls her, “Mouse.”

Mary Alice is five years older and admits to weighing 250 pounds and, as she says, “is five foot twelve inches tall.” She is known as “Sister” and has been married three times to incredibly wealthy and much older men, all of whom left her widowed, and who are all buried together in Elmwood Cemetery. Mary Alice is constantly on the lookout for a good time and invariably this causes trouble for them both—and hilarity for the reader.

Since the sisters live in Birmingham, Alabama, there are sites mentioned in the books that will be familiar to readers who know the city. But, I have spoken to readers who have visited Birmingham just so they could see those sites. One in particular, mentioned several times in various books is seen from Patricia Anne’s kitchen window; the bare backside of the god Vulcan, a towering monument to the iron and steel industry of the area, sculpted by Giuseppe Moretti in 1904. This sculpture is not fiction, it actually exists. The photo below was taken by Kent Russell and is on Flickr.

Vulcan

This brings me back to perusing my Eastern Europe photos. While in Belgrade, Serbia, I took a photo that reminded me immediately of Anne George’s Vulcan. I’m not meaning to make light of either of the monuments, it’s just the similarity is quite arresting. The Victor Monument in the Belgrade Fortress, sculpted by Ivan Mestrovic (1928) was erected to celebrate the breakthrough of the Thessalonica front in WWI. But, the two sculptures resemble one another, and I couldn’t help smiling as I thought of my friend Anne George.

Serbian momument

The Southern Sisters series consists of eight books. For those of you who have not read them, I heartily encourage you to give them a try. They are delightful. In addition, Anne, a poet of some renown, was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for a book of verse titled Some of It Is True. Sadly, she passed away in 2001 and I was never able to thank her for her inspiration and encouragement, but she and her books will live forever in my heart and on my bookshelves, and in many others’ as well.

Mine is. For the last several months I’ve been preparing for an overhaul of my master bathroom. It all started while I was on vacation last summer. A pipe sprang a leak in the wall behind the built-in vanity and, to make a long story shorter, my neighbor across the street noticed water coming out my front door. She leaped into action and shut off the water. Remodeling my master bathroom was on my bucket list; just not this soon. Oh, well.

Naturally, my insurance company wanted only to pay for the repair of what was actually damaged, so they compensated me accordingly. There was no damage to the sinks, after all. However, who in their right mind would reinsert pink sinks into a brand new 2014 vanity? Not too fetching, me thinks. And what about the matching pink floor tile, pink toilet and pink shower? They weren’t actually damaged either. My insurance company thought they would look just fine with the new 2014 vanity, too. Ugh. My sarcastic side says, “That ought to raise the value of my home!” Now I have a better understanding of the oxymoron term “replacement value” in insurance policies.

Sooooo, I bit the bullet and decided to go whole hog and deck out my bathroom like I had money to burn. Did I use enough clichés in that last sentence for ya? A full remodel was in order.

The first step was selecting an inspiration piece on which to base color and style. I found it in a twelve-inch mesh of tiny three-eight-inch polished natural stone mosaics. The pattern was random, but spectacular. My mind drifted to mosaic temple floors and walls I’d seen in Italy and Greece. Eureka! I’d found it. The colors for my project would be natural stone beige, crème, brown, white and black, accented with brushed-gold tones.

The mosaic, outlined by a darker pencil tile, will be the star of the shower wall facing the vanity through seamless glass.

Eighteen inch matt tiles set on the diagonal with three rows of the mosaic tile as separators will comprise the floor. The polished stone suggests a more formal feel, so I chose white Austrian curtains for the rather large palladian window and smaller window and will frame them with a formal black valance and drapery at the sides. I’m half-way through sewing these items, myself. My plumbing fixtures are a champagne bronze color, which looks like a subtle brushed brass, and are reflected also in the vanity pulls and knobs.

Above the double, white rectangular sinks and mirror the lighting fixtures are Etruscan bronze with crystal drops intertwined among bronze leaves. And hanging from the vaulted ceiling center is a matching Etruscan crystal chandelier. The ceiling itself will be a gold colored tin that I’m in the process of faux finishing to accentuate its three dimensional recesses. Crown molding will anchor the ceiling and hide warm-white LED light strips which will highlight the ceiling’s metal sheen.

The pièce de resistance, however, will be Grecian Columns measuring six feet tall by six inches in diameter placed on either side of the window seat below the palladian window. The seat itself will have a cushion and pillows, suggesting a cozy reading nook. Drawers will pull out below the window seat for storage. Then, of course, there’s the little splashes of “jewelry” that add the finishing touches, such as tissue holder, drinking glass, small trash can, and towels and wash cloths, bath rug, etc. I’ll add those later when the room is otherwise complete.

Whew! I’ve unloaded my brain. So, what do you think? Does this room spell fantasy and luxury? Hopefully it will be complete before my next blog. I’ll include before and after photos then.

Hello, again, dear reader. Sorry to have to tell you my bathroom isn’t done yet, but it’s coming along nicely. The faux painting on my tin ceiling tiles went smoother than I expected, especially since I didn’t know how to faux paint tin ceiling tiles. After experimenting with some sample pieces, I got the hang of what I wanted and plunged ahead on the first two-foot-square tile. Thirty-five, two-foot-square tiles later, three pieces of vaulted-ceiling center molding, and with my torso now stuck in a leaning forward position, I was done. The next day after wrangling the kinks out of my back, I followed with a clear coat.

When the guys came to install the tin ceiling, it was all I could do to keep from standing in the center of the bathroom, directing the operation. I quickly discovered, my contractor had placed me in the hands of two geniuses and my help was absolutely not needed. I was able to sneak a peek now and then, though. Wow, what a spectacular job they did! Here’s a peek for you.

Installing Tin Ceiling

Most of Ceiling

After the ceiling was up, the guys brought in my brand new custom ninety-inch cherry double vanity and fit it along one wall.

The next day was granite countertop and four-inch backsplash day. The granite is called Peacock Green and does have a dark green hue, but feels mostly black with smudges of brown, making a nice contrast to the white undermount sinks. Sparkly mica peeps through the stone every now and then, too, adding a touch of bling. Holes were made and the sinks were glued into place and held with braces.

Custom Vanity

I’m learning that in remodeling, there are stages in which things happen and certain trades people have to be called in at certain times during these stages. For instance, the plumber came in after demo and made sure the shower wall was set up for the new shower fixtures and he and I discussed where a niche will be for shampoo and such. And the electrician came to find out how many and where switches and dimmers would be located. They’ll be back again later. Meanwhile, other trades people will do their jobs, sometimes in stages, too. It’s terpsichorean trickery for a contractor to schedule trades for just one project, much less several. I don’t know how they do it. FYI, Terpsichore (pronounced, terp-sick-er-ree) is the Greek Muse of the dance. I love her name; sounds musical). But I digress.

For the last two days, the tile guys have been here cutting and laying down the eighteen inch floor tiles. Outlining each, I am using an approximately one inch band of tiny three-eighth inch mosaic pieces of polished marble, ranging in colors from black through beiges to white. Because the pieces are polished and small they glitter in the light next to the larger matt floor tile. The whole effect is spectacular! I’m so fortunate I keep getting geniuses assigned to my project! Wow! It’s even more beautiful than I imagined. I feel as though I’ve used up all the space in the Cloud with my pictures.

Mosaic and Tile Floor

Today is shower tile day. I just peeked and the twenty-four inch square mosaic medallion, which faces the vanity across the room and will be reflected in the mirror above, matches the mosaic outlining the floor tiles. A dark brown marble pencil surrounding the medallion sets it off against the one foot by two-foot vertical shower tiles. “Wow” is the only word I can think of right now. Reminds me of when the A-Team guy said, “I love it when a plan comes together.” Remember that? This plan is definitely coming together. Yessss!

Mosaic and Tile-Shower

Tile Guys-Joe and Roger

Tomorrow is grouting day and I’ll find out what else will happen after that. Thank you for your patience. I promise it won’t be long and I’ll have some great pictures to share with you. As my son used to say when he was a toddler, “Mommy, I so es-cited!”

For those who don’t know why I started remodeling my master bathroom (with the help of a contracting company), it was a bucket list item hastened by a destructive leak while I was on vacation. I should have turned off my water when I left, but some lessons have to be learned the hard way. So, when I returned, there was water damage from the bathroom, through the wall, into my foyer and out my front door. I had the leak fixed and lived nearly a year with empty cabinets and boxes of bathroom stuff sitting around my bedroom and guest bedroom, while I madly saved for the forthcoming remodel.

During this time, I looked at magazines, searched online and visited showrooms to give me ideas how to proceed. I started an indexed notebook and filled it with those ideas and researched everything I could think of that would be needed. I knew it would be expensive and I didn’t want to make even more expensive mistakes.

By the time I was ready to start, I had a pretty clear idea what design I wanted, what fixtures in lighting and plumbing were compatible with my design and then I stumbled on my first inspiration piece—tile. A one foot square of mosaic cemented my design ideas. From there it was easy to select the rest of the tile—floor, shower floor and walls. The color scheme was in the mosaic; from crème all the way through the beiges, browns, to black. I had a warm color scheme, so I selected warm colors for the ceiling and champagne bronze lighting fixtures and faucets/drains and shower head/drain, even the toilet handle, toilet paper holder and towel bars. The granite for the vanity was also easy; something to compliment the colors already selected. I chose a very dark, almost black stone with muted, mottled brown and gray-green splotches with faint clear crystals throughout. It sounds odd, but is actually quite stunning, I think.

My second inspiration piece—a tin ceiling. I chose a pattern that would fit my several difficult angles of the ceiling and then selected the tiles in a shiny gold finish. Before they were installed, I faux painted them to look antiqued with a dark brown paint and then polished the raised portions so the shiny gold came through. I have to admit I was a little apprehensive since I had never tried to faux finish anything before, but I practiced on some samples ahead of time until I felt comfortable with it.

My third inspiration piece—Grecian columns. I have a wide window seat opposite the entrance to the bathroom with a ten foot palladian window above it. I decided to flank each side of the seat with a column, faux painted marble. After researching online, I found a company that makes fiberglass columns and ordered two. The columns aren’t up yet, but I’m practicing marbling technique now. It’s a lot more difficult to create a look of marble than I thought. Cross fingers that I can do it!

The surprise came when I hired my contracting company. They said they have never had a customer like me before. What? They said people hired them to come up with a design, execute it and the customer would pay for it. Period. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could a contractor know what the customer had in mind? What if the customer didn’t like what was done? My contractor said people just want something current and functional and they depend on the company to provide them with that and they’re satisfied. Wow. It never occurred to me that people wouldn’t want to be intimately involved with a project like mine. Maybe it’s because I’m retired and have more time than they do. Or maybe I just love designing. I just hope my contractor doesn’t think I’m a pest, since I have my own ideas.

I have to say the workmen who have been putting together this dream bathroom have certainly seemed to enjoy doing something different. Certainly, installing the ceiling and the tile floor were challenges they had not faced before and the guys left with grins on their faces and their chests puffed out. I felt their pride and it made me so happy.

We’re not done yet. The seemless, shower door and the mirror over the vanity will be arriving in a few days and also the cabinetry for the window seat isn’t here yet. When those are installed, it will be time for the columns to go up. Then there will be an overall check to make sure all is done to everyone’s satisfaction and the contractor will be finished. Then I’ll place the towels on their towel bars and the curtains in the windows and set up my perfume bottles on a mirrored tray and fill the cabinets and my dream will be complete. Champagne time!

Next blog, dear reader, should be the last accounting of this remodel. I’ll have pictures. Hope you’ll be back to see them. Till then… ciao!

It’s not for me. But I’ve known some people for years who have never been able to voice their apology. Is it because they can’t admit they made a mistake? Or because, whatever it was, was not their fault and therefore, they felt their apology wasn’t warranted? Are they just being stubborn? Egotistical? Insecure?

I’ve always looked at it as an empathy issue. If someone feels slighted or fibbed to or is the victim of some injustice, I, in turn, feel bad for them and sympathize with them, whether or not it has anything to do with me. That gives the “victim’s” feelings—validation, which is usually all they want. I’m not talking about the “constant complainer.” Some people aren’t happy unless they are miserable. I’ve known those kinds of people, too. I’m referring to us average, everyday folks.

We’ve all heard, “The customer is always right” in a business situation and businesses try to satisfy their customers as much as is reasonable in order to keep them happy. Most of the time this is still true in today’s world.

Recently, I had two separate incidences where appointments were made for someone to do some work in my home on certain days. Not only did both workmen not show up, they never bothered to call to explain why. I had cancelled my plans so I could be available those days and I waited and waited all day, both days for them. Do you think I had the justification to be annoyed? I certainly do. And in both instances, I was not contacted the next day, either, for an explanation. I had to call them to find out when they would be coming. I was angry by that time. I did get an explanation, finally, but I didn’t feel I got a proper apology for either instance.

To me, that kind of behavior is unprofessional. Period. How long does it take to make a phone call? A whole minute, perhaps? To me there is no excuse for not calling. None.

I may have made a mistake in bringing this slight to the attention of one of the bosses of a business. The danger of complaining is that it sometimes makes people angry with you and could result in, any work left to do, getting done in a rushed manner without regard to quality care. So what is a customer to do? Keep quiet and feel abused? Say something and hope the boss will care enough to make sure it never happens again?

My instinct tells me that the boss I spoke with does care and wants me to be happy. What has been an exciting and delightful experience, has tried to morph itself into a worry for me, but I have decided to be my usual positive self and believe all will turn out perfectly.

On another note, I apologize to you dear reader for not continuing this month with my remodel series of blogs. I have been faux painting my Grecian columns and they have taken longer than expected. Next month, I promise, I’ll have pictures of my spectacular new master bathroom. Hope you’ll tune it then.

Comments?

Exactly seven months ago today, I signed the contract for my master bath remodel and I can proudly say it is finally done, as of yesterday! Yeaaaaay!! And in my humble opinion, it is gorgeous!

Before I get to the photos, I’d like to share what I have learned about remodeling, since this was my first major one. I was told by the company I hired, that my remodel was quite different than most, because I designed the project and researched and bought most of the supplies myself: sinks, toilet, shower and sink fixtures, medicine cabinet, ceiling tin, wall and ceiling light fixtures, columns, and all the tile. And I faux finished the ceiling and the Greek columns. Usually the remodeling company handles all that and the customer just pays for it all.

Regardless of how it is done, I suggest that impeccable records be kept of everything. Period. A diary is ideal if it includes how much things cost, but also when items were installed. It was more complicated for me because I had to keep track of my own costs for sinks, for instance, and also costs regarding the company I hired, mainly demo, installation and extras. Take pictures before the project starts and periodically along the way. They will be fun to see later.

I learned that remodeling costs more than you plan for. If you want anything out of the ordinary, like Champagne Bronze plumbing fixtures, you will have to pay an “up-charge,” sometimes called a “change order.” That will be in addition to the estimate you initially received from the contractor.

Also, the estimated time for completion is likely to be longer than expected. In my case, a lot longer. That actually worked in my favor, because it gave me additional time to save money to cover those unexpected extra costs.

At tally-up time, since I kept impeccable records, I even found a couple discounts my contractor forgot. That saved me money and made me happy. One of my discounts came through Angie’s List, so I recommend it.

And now, without further ado…here are the photos I promised. Want to share some bubbly with me? (Click on photos to enlarge.)

Before-Window Seat

Before Vanity

After-Window Seat

After-Vanity

After – Shower

After – Column Capital

After – Column Base

I’m trying to deal with the particularly devastating loss of my friend and neighbor, Marianne, who passed away Tuesday morning after a 29 year battle with cancer. Like sisters, we shared a great deal of each other’s lives and interests. She taught me so much about living fully, I know I will be okay, eventually, but right now I feel a bit lost.

There’s a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach not only for me, but in my sympathy for her family and special friends. Marianne was one of those rare people who was, to use the cliché, larger than life. She inspired everyone she met, with her empathy and understanding and by her accomplishments: award winning watercolorist, stained glass artist, tile artist, skilled gardener. She was humble, helpful, generous, kind and loyal. She made everyone around her happy. How does one recover from losing a friend like that?

I’m in, what people call, my senior years, so loss is not something new to me, but this one has hit me harder than all the rest. I think Marianne would understand that, but she also would want me and the other people who are having a difficult time right now, to carry on, be strong and strive to be the best we can be. She was passionate and determined like that.

For me, it’s been helpful to have some time alone to mourn and regather my priorities. But not too much time. Keeping busy is the next step. Particularly with something useful and helpful to others. I do have a volunteer job I love. Marianne taught me the importance of doing something nice for myself, as well. I love to read and I’m saving up for a Kindle. I’m probably one of the few authors who have never seen their own book on an e-reader.

I have a couple painting projects waiting. One is enhancing a mural I did several years ago of a rock wall in my sunroom, and another is a portrait of a Grecian statue for my new bathroom. I’d like to go back to stained  glass class and make some projects for my family. I just finished a jigsaw puzzle and I’m ready for a new one. And one of Marianne’s friends and I plan to continue doing some of the things we three used to do.

Writing this has helped me form my sense of direction. So Marianne, I pledge to try my best to become a little more like you — to Aspire to Inspire before I Expire. Rest in peace my precious friend.

Marianne

This is the time of year many of us have musings of a bygone time in our lives and we call it nostalgia. I always thought “nostalgia” was a sad word, because it brought to mind events of the past that we could only relive in our memories, of a time already gone that we could not visit again. The dictionary says nostalgia is a longing or homesickness for something far away or long ago for former happy circumstances. That longing is what gives sadness to the word.

To remedy this, I made up a new word. “Hearthy.” To me, hearthy is a happy sounding word to start with, and it illustrates the mood or moods of this time of year. When I ponder on the word hearthy, I think of brightly-colored falling leaves and shuffling through them on the way to somewhere; bobbing for apples; lounging on a braided rug in front of a fireplace all aglow; watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV; looking up at the stars on a still, crisp night; listening to the carols of the season; catching the first flakes of snow on my tongue. These are not just memories of the past, but things that can be experienced year after year. Now, and in the future. That’s what makes hearthy — happy.

In my office, I have bookshelves on either side of my desk that are filled with photos of my family and friends. When I enter each day I am greeted by them and often I find myself thinking about and remembering favorite times with them. Granted, some of those people have passed away, but I have made peace with that, and only think of them in happy terms now. Although they are part of nostalgia, I prefer to think of them when I am doing something hearthy and they become part of my hearthy life rather than my past nostalgia one. I have no idea if that makes any sense to you, dear reader, but for me, it’s a way to remember without being sad.

So, here it is November. I’m probably one of the few who still sends out Christmas cards to almost a hundred people each year and I’ve got them all ready to address and to write a little note in each. I’ll start putting up Christmas decorations soon and make my power company happy for the next couple of months. As I decorate the tree, hearthy thoughts will fill the room as brightly as the hundreds of lights that sparkle on it.

Hearthy holidays!

The last few days I’ve been putting up my Christmas decorations with the sound of carols playing in the background. This time of year is always a time for reminiscing for me, and while unpacking, one storage box held memories from 1966. Inside was a garland of realistic holly, boxwood and pine intertwined with miniature old world lanterns that light up. I remember splurging on it at a department store Christmas boutique that year. The Vietnam War was on and my husband was stationed with the USAF in northeast Thailand at Nakhon Phanom Royal Thai Air Force Base. The amazing thing about that garland is that it still works! I’ve never replaced anything on it, and it’s been lighting a wall or fireplace mantle every Christmas since, for 48 years!

As I stepped back to admire the garland, memories flooded back of that time my husband was gone. In those days there was no R&R (Rest and Recuperation Leave) for our troops overseas at the half-way mark and no phone calls for the entire year. The Internet and Skype didn’t exist. Only letters. How the men looked forward to letters from home and an occasional gift package.

Probably the most exciting time for them that year was a visit from Bob Hope. Stars accompanying Mr. Hope were Vic Damone, Phyllis Diller, Joey Heatherton, and Miss World, Anita Bryant, plus some minor acts. The men at the Nakhon Phanom base talked about it for weeks ahead of time and families at home were eager to see the Bob Hope Christmas Special when it came out in January to see if they could catch a glimpse of their son, brother, uncle, husband, or father.

I remember my son and I sat on the living room floor as close as we could get to my parents-in-law’s TV without blocking anyone else’s view, to see if we could find my husband in the crowd. He had written to say he was in front sitting on the ground only about ten feet away from the stage. During the special, everything happened so fast and there were so many faces to search, I couldn’t be sure we actually saw him or not, but the important thing was that the troops were able to see Bob Hope and company. What a thrill it was to them! I wish there were DVRs then!

Not all the memories of that time were good ones. Last month was Veteran’s Day and many Americans thought of all the sacrifices our soldiers have made for their country. I’d like to mention the sacrifices of the families of those soldiers as well. That year my husband and I missed sharing the celebration of our birthdays, our anniversary, several extended family events and a year of our 4 year old son’s life in a country that wasn’t very supportive. My husband’s paycheck documents got lost and for several months, we had no money coming in at all. It was a difficult time sometimes, but we persevered until his return. We considered ourselves really blessed that he was able to come back to us!

Ninteen sixty-six was a different time and military families have some advantages since then, but they also have more challenges and difficulties than ever before. I just hope that as we celebrate this holiday season, we remember the families, as well as the soldiers and airmen, for the dedicated, selfless people they are. And that those families have something nice to remind them of their sacrifice, like my garland that keeps staying lit.

Many years ago, forty-nine to be exact, my three-year old son, his father and I moved near Havre, Montana on assignment for the United States Air Force. Havre, located in the north-central part of the state, was once called Bull Hook Crossing, I was told. Quaint sounding, huh? No one seems to know how it got the new name, but it is said to be the namesake of Le Havre in France. At the time we were there, Havre’s population was somewhere around ten-thousand inhabitants, approximately half of which were Blackfeet Indians, so one would certainly not call it a city. But, we were going to a remote radar site, even smaller, thirty-eight miles north of Havre and six miles from the Canadian border as the crow flies.

As we drove the only road north, we stopped on a plateau and looked down below the bluff. Havre lay below all bunched up in a tight grid and beyond, the land stretched out into vast plains where we could see for miles and miles. Farms checkered the landscape and we had to skirt them to reach Havre Air Force Station. It seemed like the end of the earth; bleak and beautifully majestic, all at the same time.

We turned right off the main road, drove a few miles and turned right again, this time for six miles. At this spot, was an old Buffalo run, a cliff the Indians herded buffalo to and drove them off the edge instead of shooting each animal for their food, garments and for whatever it was they used the rest of the animal. Then, from here we turned right again and three miles in was Havre Air Force Station set on a rise. A tiny one-man gate house with a mechanism housing a wooden arm that moved up and down, blocked the road in.

We were met by our sponsor who showed us to our new home, a three-bedroom house with a one-car garage and a six foot high fenced-in back yard. It was pretty nice for a young lieutenant and his family. Little did we know there would be hardships ahead.

Our son, Rob was not interested in seeing a house, so I let him out to play in the back yard while we looked and learned about living here. Twenty-eight houses sat on both sides of the road in a loop which led up to the operations part of the Air Force Station and front gate. Four belonged to officers and the rest were for non-commissioned officers, so we were to become part of one big happy family. We would camp out in the house the first night and our moving van would arrive the next day.

After our sponsor left, I went out to bring in our three-year-old and ask him if he was excited about our new home. I stepped down from the kitchen into the garage, turned and opened the door to the back yard and leaned out. I didn’t see him. I looked left and right and everywhere in between. He wasn’t there. He was gone. The yard was only twenty feet wide by 15 feet deep. Where could he be? How could he have gone anywhere with a six foot fence surrounding him? Needless to say, I panicked and called out for my husband. He came out and we both looked and looked. The only thing in the yard was a clothesline mounted between two poles. Where was our son? I was so upset by this time, I was shaking.

It was then that my husband scanned the horizon and spotted a dark blue dot bobbing up and down way out in the fields behind our housing area, maybe a hundred yards or more away. He cupped his hands and shouted Rob’s name and sure enough, it was him. He’d managed to climb the fence and take off to explore. When we got him back home, I didn’t know whether to hug him or scold him, but from that day forward, I always dressed him in red!

Last month, I told you about moving to Havre Air Force Station, thirty-eight miles north of Havre, Montana and six miles from the Canadian border. By the way, that’s pronounced HAV-ER, rather than the pronunciation one would imagine, since it was named after a city in France.

Life there was pretty basic. On the station, we had no doctor, dentist or minister. A trip into the town of Havre was necessary to fulfill those needs. We did have a small commissary that supplied milk, bread, cereals, canned goods and occasional fruit. But since we were all in the same boat, those hardships didn’t seem too bad. We shared the good and the bad, like family.

In the winter, that part of Montana typically had several feet of snow each year. Often, early in the morning, we wives were out shoveling our single-car driveways so our husbands could get up to the radar site to go to work, and we knew it was important to keep those driveways clear in case of emergencies. I’ll always remember my next door neighbor, Toni Spaconi. She was a little shorter than my 5 feet 4 inches, and one day we were both out shoveling. After about thirty minutes, as I looked next door, all I could see of her was the bobbing pompom on the top of her ski hat and phantom shovel-fulls of snow flying up on either side of her driveway. It was such a funny sight, I had to laugh.

Later, the wives would all congregate at one house for morning coffee and all the children would play together in one of the bedrooms. We rotated for a change of scenery. Since the winters were so cold, the base telephone operator would call us each morning to tell us how long it was safe to allow our children outside to play in the snow. All the moms would bundle their kids up in boots, snowsuits, gloves and scarves and we’d let the herd out, and sometimes only five minutes later, we’d call them all in again, unbundle each one, throw their clothes in the dryer and start all over again after an allowable time period. I remember, the winter I was there, we had a low of 54 degrees below zero Fahrenheit.

Because of the frigid winters, plug-in headbolt heaters were required to keep our cars from freezing up. To save money, my family’s car’s engine was treated at night to a quilt, a heating pad set to “medium”, and a blanket placed on the hood, inside our garage. It’s probably a miracle we never had a problem. But then, we spent only one winter there.

At the time we were stationed in Montana, there was a law that when temperatures plummeted, if you came across a stranded driver on the highway, one had to pick him up and take him to safety, and there was a steep fine for noncompliance. The possibility of someone freezing to death was very real there. That was long before cell phones. I imagine that law is no longer on the books these days. Luckily, we never ran into that situation in winter at least, but I’m sure it happened from time to time.

Even though it was difficult dealing with hardships, they were offset by wonderful people who became lifelong friends. Next month, I’ll tell you just how wonderful, especially after two particularly harrowing experiences!

The long cold winter wound down and spring announced itself abruptly. Montana was always windy and I remember having to adjust matchbook covers to quell the howling from our front door frame, but when a dreaded dust storm loomed in our direction, the Havre Air Force Station operator would call each house to give us an estimated time before it would hit. We knew to get inside. Close and lock any open windows and doors.

As the storm approached, a huge brown cloud could be seen on the horizon and as it got closer, like the song, tumbling tumbleweeds leapt and danced across the road until visibility became zero. Within minutes, all was quiet and still again and the sun would bear down on us once more. The only indication a storm had even passed through was the color of the walls and furniture in our homes. Everything was brownish-beige. Time to get out the vacuum cleaner. I couldn’t remember ever having to vacuum walls before. All surfaces were covered with a fine layer of gritty dust, even though I had “battened down the hatches.”

Every day, my son, Rob, and I would play a game. It involved flash cards and actually taught him how to read. When people expressed their amazement as he looked at me with excitement and pointed to a box of cereal or a sign and spoke the words he saw, I felt so rewarded and proud. Sometimes, being inquisitive, though, can be frightening.

One day, I was playing the piano and Rob asked to go outside to ride his tricycle. With his little red jacket on I let him out the front, and continued playing, checking on him every few minutes. It was one of those days that makes one glad to be alive, gloriously warm and sunny. I never had to worry about traffic, because all the husbands were working up at the radar site and the street was deserted. Rob rode up and down the road, around in circles and then, suddenly, I didn’t see him.

I walked outside and still didn’t see him, or his trike. I walked up and down the street. No luck. I walked all the way around the housing circle. No Rob! Now I was beginning to worry. Where could he have gone this time? I alerted several neighbors and we set up a search party. We contacted base security and they checked the radar site area. We checked the fields behind our homes. An hour passed. Two. Still, no sign of Rob.

I was “frantic” personified! All the mixed feelings of fear, frustration and aggravation, had turned to worry, even terror. Where was my baby? We were on a secure military station with a guard gate at the entrance. How could my child have just disappeared? Neighbors were checking in with me regularly, either to report places they’d searched or to give me comfort. All of us were totally perplexed.

In the fourth hour, a car pulled up in my driveway. It belonged to my neighbor, Sgt. Knight, across the street. His wife, Shirley, got out with a tearful Rob in her arms. She approached with a knowing expression that said, “It’s okay now.” I practically screamed, “Where and how did you find him?” They explained they had gone thirty-eight miles into Havre for groceries and spotted Rob and his red jacket in a pasture on their return trip, a couple of miles from home. They were familiar with Rob’s adventurous disappearances since this wasn’t the first time he had gone missing. Their daughter was his babysitter and probably has stories to tell about him to this day.

Between Rob and Shirley, I found out why we couldn’t find him. He had ridden his trike up to the base gate and because the window in the phone booth shaped guard house was up so high, Rob had slipped under the guard arm and out onto the main road, unseen. He was playing, Daniel Boone, explorer. After riding a while, he noticed some cows grazing off the side of the road in open range and decided to get a closer look. He left his trike and scampered down an embankment into the field. These animals resembled highland cattle from Scotland, since they hadn’t yet shed their long winter coats, but as Rob got closer, he realized they were bigger than he thought they’d be. He got scared as he wandered among the beasts, and started crying. This was when he was spotted and rescued by Cliff and Shirley Knight. Bless them always!

That night, there was a celebration at Havre Air Force Station and Rob was the center of attention. I didn’t have to scold him at all. His fear had taught him not to ever do that again. Forty-nine years later, Cliff and Shirley and I still exchange Christmas cards each year and I am eternally grateful to them both.

The most amazing experience happened to me yesterday and I must tell you about it! But first, a tiny bit of background. I wrote my first book using Microsoft Word versions 2000 and 2003, but when I ran into formatting issues trying to send my manuscript to my agent who had a more advanced version, I decided I needed to upgrade. A couple of years ago I purchased a new computer and had MS Word 2010 installed. I thought it would just be a fancier version of a system I already knew so well. Wrong! It has been almost like working with a foreign entity―a nightmare I have complained about to this day. I even bought a print book to help me learn how to do things I used to do almost automatically.

Well, yesterday, MS Word redeemed itself in one particular way. My ninety-nine year old next-door neighbor, Nellie, and I ordered lawn sod to be laid in both our yards. Since she is hard of hearing and confined to a walker, my task was to make sure she understood everything that would occur and to assure her all was going according to plan. From time to time, we wanted to verify procedural steps and to ask the men a few questions.

When the men and equipment arrived, it immediately became apparent we had a stumbling block. The men spoke only Spanish and, naturally, my language studies had been in French. Since I had lived for several years in Germany, I figured I could use the charade skills I had learned there. Ummm. All I can say is that if there had been a video of me cavorting around trying to make myself understood, and of the poor soul who was trying desperately to understand me, the video would have gone viral as a comedy of errors on YouTube!

Luckily, I was able to get the men started. The yards had been sprayed to kill the old grass and now the men would dig that up, fill any holes with new soil, and clean and smooth out the areas while we waited for the new sod to arrive. Then I came inside to ponder what to do next.

I remembered I have been able to use a translation method on Facebook, which made me wonder if I could translate from one language to another in Word. I got out my instruction book on Word 2010 and lo and behold it seemed possible. The instructions told me to go to the “Review” tab and under “language” in the upper left of the screen, it says, “translate” with an arrow below it. I selected the English question I had written, clicked on the arrow and then selected Spanish in the list of languages. Then I inserted the Spanish translation of my question below that and voila! The English was above and the Spanish was below. I printed that out and rushed outside to show the foreman. There was only one Spanish choice in the list of languages and I wasn’t sure if it would be understood because I know there are differences in Spain and Mexican Spanish and probably other Spanish speaking countries, but I hoped my version would at least be better than my cavorting. It worked. Hallelujah!

Here’s an example: I was asking one fellow to set the sprinkler timers thus:

English:

Start sprinkling Nellie’s at 2:00 AM, 30 minutes for each of 5 zones = 2 ½ hours and at 5:00 AM start sprinkling my lawn, 30 minutes for each of 5 zones = 2 ½ hours.

Spanish:

Empezar por aspersión de Nellie en 2:00, 30 minutos para cada uno de 5 zonas = 2 ½ horas a 5:00 iniciar aspersión mi césped, 30 minutos para cada uno de 5 zonas = 2 ½ horas.

Can you imagine me trying to pantomime those instructions? Ha! It’s quite possible you readers already knew how to do this, but it was wonderful news to me and certainly simplified my day. Now Nellie and I have beautiful new lawns, the sprinkler timers are set, and the workmen really appreciated my extra effort to help us all understand. I haven’t seen so many smiling faces and raised thumbs in quite a while. Thanks to Microsoft Word. (I imagine Mac machines have something similar.)

Have any of you had an experience using writing software that has helped you in a seemingly unrelated practical circumstance? I’d love to hear about it.

When you were twelve, did you know what you wanted to become when grown? A few days ago, I started going through a closet full of photos and old papers from years ago with the idea of getting rid of some of it and organizing the rest.

After days of sorting and tossing, I discovered an autobiography I had written. It was an assignment which my seventh grade teacher, Miss Galbraith, gave us students several months to complete, and told us our success or failure carried with it a large part of our overall grade for the year and was due in the spring. No pressure there!

I remember being perplexed about how to begin, since my life had started out so different from the other children in my class. A large part of my early years were spent in foster care and later being adopted, so I didn’t have the usual baby pictures and mother and father photos for Illustration. I had to start somewhere, however, so I began with explaining I was adopted and I wrote about my last foster home, adoption, and a couple foster children who came to live with us later.

I wrote about my church and singing in the various choirs through the years, and about my friends, and about school. In sixth grade, a couple of my poems were published in the school newspaper. It’s strange to me that I still remember writing them and I can still recite them at the age of seventy-two. I mean, gads, that was a loooong time ago! Why do we remember such things? Here’s one:

        Snow Fairy

     I am a little flake of snow,

     Falling from the sky;

     I bounce and toss and whirl away.

     Such fun – oh me! oh my!

     I gently touch the treetops tall,

     And scamper here and there;

     I rustle on the window pane,

     With not a thought or care.

     And when at last I reach the ground,

     And join the other flakes of snow;

     We play a game of hide and seek

     With piercing winter winds that blow.

I wrote about how my leisure time was spent and about vacation trips to the western states, Canada and Florida that I’d taken with my parents and suddenly, it was spring and my autobiography was soon due.

In trying to write the last chapter, I found myself in a real quandary. I originally wanted to title it, “My Future,” but I had no idea what that would be. What I did write is as follows:

“…I do think putting down a lot of facts and reading them over has helped me to realize that there really is to be a future and what it is like will depend a lot on how I shape it. My mother and father say there are many things I might do and have explained to me that most of the professional fields require a lot of work and training. They have suggested I might want to do something in dramatics or music, because I like to entertain people. I think maybe I may want to be a writer, because that would be another way to make people happy.”

As I ponder the words of my autobiography, written so many years ago, I’m surprised. Dumbfounded, actually. I don’t remember them. I thought my desire to write came from the search and subsequent discovery of my sister’s whereabouts much later in my life. What a revelation! That writing seed was planted when I was twelve, not during my fifty year search.

How about you? Have you discovered something really significant about yourself many years later that was buried in your subconscious? I’d love to hear about it.

I have a mini gallery in my breakfast room devoted to a special folk-artist friend from Alabama. His name was Mose Tolliver, or Mose T, as he was known, and although he’s no longer with us, his memory lives on, as “they” say. Mose was born on July forth somewhere between 1920 and 1925 (nobody really knows for sure), and he was one of twelve children. His schooling went as far as the third grade with dyslexia hampering his ability to read and write.

In the 1940s, he married his childhood friend Willie Mae Thomas and they had 13 children, 11 of whom survived. He worked with plants and designed creative yard plans with an unusual flair and became a respected gardener.

He worked from time to time for McLendon Furniture Company (sweeping out the shipping and delivery area early each morning) and during the late 1960s he was severely injured when his legs were crushed by a load of shifting marble which fell from a forklift. The accident left him unable to walk without assistance. He was encouraged to try oil painting by his former employer, who offered to pay for lessons, but Mose decided to explore this idea on his own. Little did he know that his life was about to change, forever, again.

First, he painted birds, flowers and trees and later added people and animals, all the while developing his own unique style and sense of humor. Even the titles of his paintings were unique, as was his signature with a backward “s.” He used any surface he could find: wood scraps, metal trays, Masonite, furniture, cigar boxes, even a piano, and items that were given to him. He’d display his paintings in his yard and later on his front porch and in his living room and eventually they started selling.

Mitchell Kahan, a former curator at the Montgomery Museum of Fine Arts in Montgomery, AL, admired Mose’s work and set up a one-man exhibition for him in 1981. After that, Mose shared an exhibition entitled, Black Folk Art in America 1930-1980, with another folk artist at the prestigious Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C. First Lady Nancy Regan visited this exhibition and met Mose.

A friend took me on my first visit to Mose’s home on Sayre Street back in the early 1980s. After that, I used to go often. I was fascinated listening to him tell stories and show me his current paintings on the walls and his “pure paint” in its cabinet at the foot of his bed, also there in the living room. I found out that “pure paint” was gallon cans of exterior house paint, first oil-based, then later, water-based latex, which dried faster. He was so prolific, he needed faster drying paint, and whatever colors were in the cabinet were the colors of his latest art pieces. He painted them while seated on his bed, his walker close at hand.

As time passed, I started taking him pieces of wood left over from my neighborhood construction sites and he seemed pleased to have some unusual shapes to use. In the early 1990s, I redecorated my kitchen and asked Mose if he’d create a painting for me of strawberries to hang in that room. I brought a bowl full for him to use as a guide, but he was more interested in eating them. Several weeks later, I visited again and there was my strawberry painting. I think it may be one of a kind. I really cherish it. But, more than that, I cherish my times visiting with this gentle man, hearing his stories and witnessing his love of life. He was truly inspirational. I was saddened to hear of his passing in 2006 at the age of 82.

Mose Tolliver’s work has appeared at such renowned institutions as the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, The American Folk Art Museum in New York, The American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore, The New Orleans Museum of Art, The Milwaukee Art Museum and many more throughout the world.

Mystery books are the genre I enjoy reading and writing the most. Lately, I’ve noticed my stack of cozy mysteries has grown, many of which involve pets in some way. Cats and dogs, specifically. In pondering why this has been a factor in my reading, I’ve come to the conclusion I’ve been seeking somewhat lighter fare. Books with a good puzzle to solve, but that are considered more “comfort” reads, with a good resolution and happy ending.

The pets in recent and current readings have such attributes as being affectionate, loyal, curious, obedient or not, cute and even humorous. Some have that instinctive sense of good and evil and/or use their scent abilities. Some even help describe their owners’ traits or personalities.

Sometimes, animals in books are more family members than pets and as such, are involved in the plot more like actual characters. They often set the scene with their own cute antics to which readers can endearingly relate. Pets with acute instincts or sense of smell are more to my personal liking when it comes to animals involved in the mystery’s solution. I’m not really fond of talking animals in stories, but that’s just my preference.

In my own book, SHE HAD TO KNOW, I introduce Pippi, a black cat who seems to think she is the mother of Scotti, a white West Highland Terrier. They are both family members who appear just a few times being the animals they are, chasing one another, sleeping together, or just being nosy. But, since they have such small roles, they are not featured on the cover.

There are authors who have animals based on their protagonist’s vocation, for instance, veterinarians or pet sitters, or protagonists who have more exotic animals, like birds, turtles or potbellied pigs. If a reader sees a book on a bookstore shelf with a domestic animal on the cover, I think they automatically are inclined to assume the book is not going to be hard boiled and quite possibly, cozy. I may be wrong, but it seems to me there has been an upsurgence of these kinds of books lately. Is it me? Could it be a reflection of readers’ desires to escape the challenges of today’s world? What do you think? Do you have any animals in your stories? If so, how did you use them? Or, if you are a reader and not a writer, are these among the kind of books you enjoy reading? I’d love to learn your viewpoint.

by Coco Ihle

“What IS that?” I said out loud, as a flicker of movement outside my office window caught my eye. Something was moving in the middle of my backyard. The grass hadn’t been mowed for almost a week and it had grown a lot since torrential rains had been pummeling the neighborhood for most of that time.

My desk is against the window and I stood leaning over toward the glass, to get a closer look. I could see something black, but the grass was too high to make out what it was. Since I live in a nature preserve, I’ve learned to expect all sorts of wildlife during the years I’ve lived in this area of Florida, but this was a real puzzle. It wasn’t big enough or the right color to be an armadillo or possum or any of the larger animals I’ve seen. It moved again. Maybe it was an injured bird.

My vantage point was too low and the bottom half of the window was screened, which made visibility difficult, so I decided my step ladder might help. I set it up alongside my desk, got up on the third step with one foot, straddled the desk and placed my other foot over on the window sill so I could look down on whatever it was. I still couldn’t see well enough. I got down, went into my living room and grabbed my opera glasses, went back to my office and back up the ladder.

While I was trying to focus the binoculars, the phone rang. I glanced over my desk and my caller ID said it was my son, Rob. I climbed down and answered. Before he could say anything, I started telling him what I was doing, and he started chuckling. He said he was picturing me straddled over my desk looking out the window and it was just too funny. I was glad he couldn’t see a video of me then.

Anyway, I asked him what I should do. He suggested I go out and look. Duh. But, I didn’t know what it was! Maybe it was a snake or something equally creepy. I climbed back up the ladder to look some more, all the while answering Rob’s questions. “How big is it? What does it look like? Is it still moving?” I didn’t know. By the time I got my opera glasses focused again, whatever it was, wasn’t where it had been. Eeeek!

I finally spotted it closer to the house. What the heck was it? It was slithering through the grass. My heart was really pumping at this point. My son suggested I get a large container and capture it. Easy for him to say! He lives forty minutes from me and he was safe and sound in his house. But he had planted the seed. I had to find out. I told him I’d call him back.

Gathering my courage, I went into the kitchen, found a large plastic mixing bowl with a snap-on lid and went out the patio door, all the while telling myself I could do this. I tried to get a grip on my pounding heart and heavy breathing. I certainly didn’t want to pass out now and have that thing, whatever it was, crawl on me! Cautiously, I crept along, searching, and finally spotted it around the side of the house, deep in the wet grass. It still wasn’t recognizable. By this time, my imagination had me one hair short of terrified, but despite that, I crept closer.

When I got about a yard away, I leaned forward as far as I dared, without losing my balance, and teetered above it on one foot. I couldn’t believe my eyes! It was a catfish! A catfish in my yard? Seriously?! It was about a foot long. I could see its whiskers. I’m not a fisherperson, so I didn’t know if they bite or have poisonous barbs or something, so I decided to try scooping it up into the bowl and taking it to the pond at the end of the street, two houses away.

I’m glad there wasn’t any video of this endeavor, either! You see, I have this problem. All my life I’ve never been able to scream. When something scares me and I open my mouth, a weird guttural sound comes out. It’s nothing like a scream. It’s a low pitched, breathy “Auuuuunnh!” After a couple of those sounds sort of slipped out during a lot of writhing and slithering, I finally was able to get him in the bowl and snap on the lid. Shouting, “Eeeeuuuuww!” all the way, I ran down the street to the pond, tore open the lid and threw my arms in that direction. He flew up in the air, arced downward and splashed into the water. Then off he went, swimming as fast as he could.

Exhausted, I called Rob back and described my ordeal, which sent him into gales of laughter. He kept saying, “Stop, stop!” I could picture him grasping his side in laughter-pain. When he finally calmed down, he said he could just see me “screaming” and dancing around with arms flailing, trying to get the catfish into the bowl and then running like a maniac to get to the pond to release it.

By this time, my heartbeat was getting close to the normal range and I could almost breathe without panting. Through his chuckles, Rob said, “Just think, Mom, you saved a fish’s life! What an original fish story.”

With a weak smile, I answered in my defense, “Well, at least my story is true.”

***

Coco Ihle is the author of SHE HAD TO KNOW, an atmospheric, traditional mystery set mainly in Scotland.
Join her here each 11^th of the month.

                                  by Coco Ihle

In trying to decide what to write about this month, I moseyed over here to the Second Wind Blog site, scrolled down the right hand column to Categories and down to my name, clicked, and brought up the Archive of all my posts since my book, SHE HAD TO KNOW came out in April, 2011. I was astounded to learn that my blog post last month was my fiftieth for Second Wind Publishing! As I often say, Who’d a thunk it?!

For some, that’s not so many, but since I only blog once a month for my publisher, that means I’ve been here a while. I guest blog from time to time also, but this post is about my Second Wind blogs. Skimming through them brought topics as varied as writing hints and other ideas, discoveries, reminiscences of experiences, reports of travel, mourning losses, and just plain musings. In those monthly offerings I expressed joy and sorrow, surprise, wonderment, even fear and was so pleased when my readers contributed with comments, likes and e-mails.

It’s always nice when an author realizes that people actually enjoy reading their posts. I mean, we don’t get paid for doing it. It’s something like sharing our lives with other readers, for we are readers too. We exchange and connect with others even though we are sitting alone in front of a keyboard. It’s wonderful and I really enjoy it. And I’ve made a lot of friends along the way and have reconnected with people I haven’t seen in a long time. I’ve also become acquainted with new-to-me authors, whose work I now admire and enjoy.

Blogging keeps me learning things I might not have been exposed to otherwise, both in technology and in everyday living. I would like to thank all of you out there who read my blogs and especially those of you who have given me feedback. I appreciate you all so much! And happy fifty-first to me!

Fall is one of my favorite times of the year. I love the cool, crisp air, the glorious yellow, orange and red colors, and especially the tangy scent of wood smoke. I remember bobbing for apples, hunting for pumpkins to carve and decorating and handing out candy to trick-or-treaters for Halloween. I grew up in the northeast area of the U.S. and I guess it’s nostalgia that evokes these thoughts. I lived in a medium sized town, but my parents had a vacation cabin in the woods on a lake in northern New Jersey.

Mom and Dad and I used to drive the family car up to the lake on weekends to rake leaves in October. I, of course, had to make my own huge pile, and then take a running leap into it. What a joy that was. When all the leaves were gathered, we burned them by the side of the road. It was hard work, but also a lot of fun. I miss the smell of those burning leaves. There’s nothing like it. Afterwards we’d sit by the fire in the cabin, drink fresh apple cider and reminisce.

My parents are gone now, the cabin’s been sold and I live in Florida, but those special memories live in my heart and always bring a smile to my face.

Today, my sister, Joanie, who lives up in the Adirondacks, knowing my feelings about fall, sent me a few photos of the season from up there. Seeing them brought a whole host of happy thoughts of days gone by. Not only of my parents, but of happy times with her and her family. Thank you, Joanie!

So after an unbelievably difficult week where just about everything that could have gone wrong, did, I’m sitting here in my office with a huge smile, grinning ear to ear, without a care.

I hope some of you readers get the same lift I did by seeing these photos. Happy fall!!!!