Love to All our Soldiers

Just a quick post of thanks to all our soldiers and their families. Thank you, thank you, thank you for putting your life on the line for your country.

My great uncle, Staff Sgt. John Forrest Bouldin Jr., fought in World War II with the 453rd Bombardment Group. For their 182nd mission, John and 11 other soldiers took off from a base in Old Buckingham, UK. It was the morning of November 26, 1944, that they took off in their B-24 Liberator Bomber, headed for Bielefeld, Germany. They were to drop a 101-ton payload on a railway viaduct. But something went wrong, and their plane crashed in a field in Port Common, Kenninghall, Norfolk, UK, only 8 miles from take-off, having never been able to rise above 200 feet. Knowing they were going down in a field surrounded by farm houses, they dropped their load beforehand and saved the townspeople, but all 12 soldiers perished in that crash.

John came home, but not the way his family had hoped, and he was buried in Temple, Texas. His Purple Heart hangs in is brother's home, which I spent time in this weekend.

Then a few years ago, a farmer in Kenninghall was plowing his field, and 62 years after the crash there, he found John's military bracelet with his name on it. Many stories had been told of that crash over the years by the Kenninghall community. They were so grateful to the U.S. soldiers and all they did to help end the war and Hitler's march toward "The Final Solution" that they erected a memorial over there for them.

After receiving John's bracelet from the farmer who found it, John's brother Jamie erected a memorial in Pendleton, Texas, where John grew up. The memorial was not only for John, but for two other young men from the local community who died during WWII. The photo here is of the memorial stone. It has three sides, one for each of the fallen soldiers, with special sentiments inscribed by their respective families.

Today I also celebrate my closest active soldiers, my brave sons-in-law Greg and Finn (brave in large part because they married my headstrong daughters). I'll hug you when I see you. (You've been warned...)  :-)

Thank a soldier today. Unfortunately, freedom doesn't come free, and there are far uglier things than war (though surely not many).
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Pants on Fire: Part Deux

Thanks for guessing, y'all! And glad to know I'm not alone in stories of my youthful miscreance. But now it's time to come clean. Here are the verdicts:

1. I once got caught doing it with my boyfriend on the 17th hole of Moon Valley CC golf course late at night. The greens keeper drove up in his ultra quiet golf cart and warned us, with a toothy grin, that the sprinklers were about to come on and we ought to move in a hurry if we wanted to stay dry. VERDICT: True, but it wasn't the 17th hole.
2. I once got caught doing it with my boyfriend on the shore of a quiet city lake late at night. The sheriff and his deputy tip-toed over a ridge to find us, brandishing badges and a really bright flashlight. Sheriff suggested we get dressed and consider abstinence since we were so young (Hey, I was legal!). VERDICT: True, but sheriff did not suggest abstinence.
3. I once got caught doing it with my boyfriend in his bedroom by his eighty-plus-year-old grandma, who freaked and kicked me out of the house, then tattled to his parents. I fixed her by marrying him. VERDICT: True, but Grandma did not kick me out.

So the fact is, they are ALL true but for one eensy-weensy, itty-bitty, kinda-white lie. Guess my pants are on FIRE! Is that bad?
Surprised about the verdicts? Did you forget where you were? Hello-o-o-o!

F-R-A-G-R-A-N-T L-I-A-R

And just to tame the curiously wandering minds out there, the referenced boyfriend and I dated from the time I was 18 through 20, when we got married. He is the "father" of my four children. [I use that term lightly, since when I divorced him after some years of abusive behavior, he went into hiding and became the pillar of Deadbeat Society. It was almost always just me and the girls.]

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I Got Nailed!

You read me right (unless you read me dirty)! For the first time in five decades, I got my nails done by a professional. Not just a mani either. I got the works: artificial "solar" nails. They look awesome. It's just that . . . Well, know what you can’t do with fake fingernails?

* Can’t pick your nose. Square tips make it impossible to get past the porthole. (Vodka Mom, those rugrats still mining for gold in class? Get those little booger bugs some French tips!)

* Can’t pick up change from a flat surface, not unless you tip one edge into a crack. Ditto for paper clips, bobby pins, buttons, and sharp, sharp, sharp thumb tacks. Did I mention sharp?

* Can’t text. Total blackout on communication, folks. Opposable thumbs don’t matter when all you can text into your cell phone is “yh3s3 fuvkin nals r kihhing mee.”

* Typing on my laptop has been a challenge but, hey, my speed is picking up. I banged this out in six hours!

* Trying to work a zipper is a whole ‘nother story. Spent a lot of time in the bathroom today, most of it standing up. Hunched over. Squeezing my knees together. And cussing.

* NEW ONE: Can't scoop your finger into anything creamy, like night cream, liquid foundation, and frosting. It all gets gooped up under the nail -- 'course, if you find frosting later, that might be a nice treat! ;)

All I gotta say is, Thank god I wear thongs. If I had to pick a thick wedgie out of my butt, I’d slash a hemorrhoid – if I had one, I mean.

Note: Yankee Chick says if you put on pantyhose, "be vewy, vewy careful not to poke your thumb nails thru them." You know what she means, girlies. You could run those puppies from your ankles to your uh-uh! And how sexy is an unsightly run? Gentlemen?

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Peas, Please

The black-eyed variety. In our neck of the Hill Country, it's a long-standing rule that the natives must eat black-eyed peas between midnight on the first day of the new year and 11:59 PM of the same day. This is to ensure that we all have good luck for another 12 months -- at which time, we must again immunize ourselves against the funky fickle finger of fate with another oral dose of black-eyed peas.

Naturally, if good luck isn't a concern for you, there's no point in forcing yourself to swallow. (After all, those little black eyes watch you the whole time you scoop them up and shove them in. Once, I think I even heard them scream.) And if, like me, you're not really a native, but a transplant, then you must weigh the folklore for yourself and decide if it's worth the possibility of fracturing that mirror just when you got all your bills paid. The redneck jury is still out on whether seven years of bad luck can be trumped by legumes with peep holes, but why take chances?

Me, I generally follow the rules, if not the superstitions (unless I don't like them). So today, as I do on this day every year, I will eat my black-eyed peas. It's an acquired taste that's taken me, oh, about 20 years to acquire. To prevent gagging (and feeling guilty), I enjoy my good-luck fiber in a savory dish called Texas Caviar. It's actually quite tasty, and since one can never be too careful with lucky breaks, I won't be shy about getting seconds.

What about you? Double or nothin'? Or shall I pass the black-eyed peas?

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