He's no Ninja Turtle. He's my hero.

 

I drove around the corner onto a side street with little traffic. A dinner-plate-size, yellow-bellied turtle was in my lane trying to cross the road. I stopped the car. Bill, who has a bad back, achy knees, and uses a cane, said, "You are going to cause a wreck over a turtle." Then he slid out of the passenger seat, bent down, and plopped that big guy in tall grass far from the road.

Bill is no teenager. He's no mutant. He's no Ninja, (like that kid's show with a team of do gooders,) The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but my honey is MY HERO!

When I was a child, baby turtles the size of quarters or half-dollar coins, could be purchased as pets from dime stores. Sales were discontuinued when it was discovered they carried samonella.

When my son was about eight, he rescued a box turtle from the country. He named it Speedy, because that critter could make it to the back gate in a flash. A few weeks later we returned it to the original spot where it was found. 

It is advised that you not relocate turtles to new areas, even if you think their current location is odd (unless it is obviously hazardous, such as a busy parking lot). Moving them to an unfamiliar location can subject them to foreign diseases and parasites that they lack a natural immunity to, so that should be avoided.

Did you know a group of turtles is called a bale or a dole. Ever seen a group piled on a log?

OHH, Say Can YOU Sing?

 This picture was taken seven years ago when Charlie was a red-headed baby and knew exactly what he did and didn't want. He didn't want to take his nap. 

I look a bit ragged because I was exhausted from babysitting three little boys, my great grandsons, 1, 2, and 5 years old. 

I was trying to get Charlie down for a nap, but nothing was working. So I began to sing, You Are My Sunshine.

He covered my mouth to hush me. When he dropped his hand, I sang, and he put his chubby little hand right back. Was it cause and effect? Nope, he really didn't like my singing. 

In 7th grade the music teacher asked each student to sing the scales so she could assign us to groups. I am an alto, but tried singing soprano. She assigned me to the soprano group, and as soon as I joined in singing she stopped and said, "WHO is it that can't carry a tune?!" All eyes looked at me, and if
Mrs. Wilson could have, she would have covered my mouth, just like baby Charlie did.

Just because I cannot carry a tune, that didn't stop me from singing along to the patriotic songs televised on PBS for Memorial Day. 

Bumper stickers, tattoos, and chest messages

 These days it seems tattoos speak for those who are inked. You can learn a lot about the person simply by reading arms, legs, necks, chests, basically any visible body part. Warning: craning your neck can cause a "crick."

Long ago, when bumper stickers were popular, if you drove through neighborhoods you could get a feel for the areas: political climate, median age, sports team preferences, who was a peacenik and who was confrontational. Braggerts boasted their kid was smarter than the other person's. You could count how many family members and pets a household had by the amount of stick figures were posted on rear vehicle windows. Heck you could even discover who was recently divorced, had a baby on board, or owned dogs and cats.

It is one thing to announce your preferences, affiliations, and irritants while driving. But proclaiming your "issues" across your chest, in my opinion, makes you a marked man or woman.

Dads will soon be recieving T shirts imprinted with humorous, loving, or sports team slogans. Nine out of ten will puff out their chest wearing shirts indicating they are THE WORLD'S BEST.

But the older guy (at the buffet) wearing the shirt above imprinted with this message might as well be wearing flashing yellow caution lights.

I asked permission to take a photo of his shirt. He looked at me for a long uncomfortable thirty seconds and said, "Yeah, okay, but it IS true."
I had no doubt. 

I showed him I did not breach his privacy by posting his face.

If Tables Could Talk

 As a writer I am always intuned to conversations going on around me, details, and mannerisms of people nearby.

There is an adage, "If walls could talk."

I was waiting for a friend on an outdoor patio at Panera, known as Bread Company in St. Louis, because it was the original, and we locals still call it Bread Co.

As I waited, I observed two different couples. 

The first was a middle age woman with a fake tan and rings on every finger splaying rainbow prisms in the sunshine. She greeted a man whose face was etched with life's struggles. She gave him a hard stare, yanked her shirt, showed him her midriff, and barked two words: "GUNSHOT WOUND."  

Next to them was an elderly couple. He took her hand and offered a ring box. She shook her head NO. His face sagged; hers crumbled. She also said two words: "SOCIAL SECURITY."

I do not know the details of their lives, but as a writer you can infer from listening to conversations and observing actions. This was great writing material/prompts. 

Are you an eavesdropper?

Weather or Not

Spring has arrived in all her glory. My hubby gave up on planting a garden three years ago when all the tomatoes developed blossom rot. The neighbor's garden did not flourish either. But this year, grandson Kyle gave us six of these large planters so Bill can grow tomatoes again. My honey sweet talks his babies.This is going to be a good season. I feel it! There are BLTs in our future.

I love sitting on the carport and reading or watching the many birds that visit our feeders. Believe it or not, Sassy Boy likes to sit on the patio table and observe the wildlife. He is very mild-mannered
and has never jumped off the table. He likes to be near us. When he sees us outside, he cries at the door and begs to come out.

Every summer I change the swing cushion and add artificial flowers to coordinate. In the past I have decortated in pink, pale blue, orange, etc. This year I went to Goodwill and found a cotton shower curtain for $3.00 and expensive fake sunflowers for $3.00. I found a tiny wooden sign for $1.50 that sits on the table far right in front of the planter filled with artificial mini, black-eyed Susans. There is a metal sign from Dollar Tree that reads WELCOME right in the middle of the sunflowers. 

"Welcome Sunshine" is the message handpainted on the little plaque. This is my summer nook. Rain or shine, regardless of weather, you can find me here rocking and reading. That lawn chair has a pillow embroidered with flowers and the word LOVE.

                      I'm currently reading and enjoying, When I Was your Age

               20 Original Stories About Growing Up by twenty                                              contribuors, edited by Amy Ehrlich

Introducing the results of a wild fling.

 

'Tis the mating season. Cookie and her mate have been smooching on the highwires, and let me tell you, he chased her for a few days before she agreed to set up housekeeping. He has proved himself worthy. He is a true housemate.

She chose real estate on a ledge in the rafters of our carport. I watched as she and her mate collected twigs which kept blowing down. I told her, "Cookie, you are not a good nest builder, but I will help you out. I was going to put a small wicker basket up there, but couldn't find the right size. 

We were carrying in groceries and a box of canned cat food when my over head "lightbulb" went off. The box was the correct size. 

Notice the left corner where I cut out a small section? It was a realistic looking  cardboard image of a beautiful white cat's face. No way could I terrorize her with that. So I removed the image, I scooped her nest building material into the box and  shoved it right into the slot. She came flying in with a twig, spied me and flapped past my face. I did not find an egg in the nest, and I figured she would abandon it because of my itnerference.

She flew to the roof and  I said, "Aww, Cookie, I'm sorry, but I think you need a wee bit of help with home building." I went to sit on the patio, and she flew right back with another twig and some grass. Her boyfriend helped her out. They didn't have the finest nest, but they had a safer one.

After researching, I didscovered mourning doves actually build loose, shallow, nests made out of twigs, pine needles and grass, unlike robins that pack their nests with mud. Their eggs incubate for two weeks, and fourteen to fifteen days later the baby birds fledge. 

Did you know they are protected by law once they are nesting? How about that! 

"Coo-Coo." They sweet talk one another.

 

Great Grandson Blows 'em Away

I've heard that pictures tell a story. Pictures can also be deceiving. Bet you'd never guess...

I am so proud of 11 year old Liam. He plays trombone in his school band. Looks like he is giving it his all, but this was a candid shot. He was standing on stage among his peers waiting for dismissal. He wasn't making a sound.

I would do anything to protect him, but I am not his bodyguard, and that is not a weapon in my hand. It is my cell phone.

For my writer friends out there, Chicken Soup for the Soul has many callouts for several titles for next year. Now is the time to submit your story. I went through my old files, discovered a slew of stories that were not accepted over the years and sent all ten of them off after I edited each for the upcoming titles. 

 People ask where I get my ideas. I pull from my reservoir of life stories. We all have stories. Why not get paid for sharing yours? 

Good luck to you. Write on!