Tuesday Stew: Not Newlyweds?

Your Prude, in her younger, romantic years, would moon over poetry.
When she read the following poem she knew that THIS was the kind of man she wanted to marry:

WHO LOVES THE RAIN

Frances Shaw

Who loves the rain,

And loves his home.

And looks on life with quiet eyes,

Him will I follow through the storm;

And at his hearth-fire keep me warm;

Nor hell nor heaven shall that soul

surprise,

Who loves the rain,

And loves his home,

And looks on life with quiet eyes.

Who knew, when I found this handsome critter:

that men with quiet eyes may not be as multi-dimensional as those with intense ones,

and that there are so many more important things to love than the rain.

Like his bride's family.

Her prudishness.

His God.

BUT, 

25 years ago today 

I did agree to follow him through the storm, and I haven't regretted it.

Wait- did I say 25 years? That can't be possible. Perms ARE still in style, right?

A small town honors its heroes

NEVER FORGET

Photojournalism Friday: SQUIRREL!

We open the story with Bonny, the faithful Tree Guard Dog, on duty

What was that? SQUIRREL?

I saw it! I swear I saw it!

That lousy squirrel went up my tree!

Could you give me a boost please?

I'm only one dog. How can I guard my tree from this side,

AND from this side?

WHAT? No! I wasn't sleeping!

(that was awkward)

To add insult to injury, she tells me I have something on my face

 

 

 

 

Lying down on the job? Naw! My contract says I get Memorial Day weekend off.

Enjoy, everyone, and don't forget to remember all those who gave themselves for our country.

Quirks of the Cosmos: Why not?

You see things; and you say, 'Why?' But I dream things that never were; and I say, "Why not?"

George Bernard Shaw

Little Prudeling adapted this cosmic saying and made it her own personal whine.

She compared her wholesome Tammy doll, who just didn’t stack up, to all her cousin’s glamorous Barbie dolls.

“Why not?” she would wail. “Why can they have Barbies and not me?”

Pre-Teen Prudette  checked her mailbox for a solid year. She finally conceded that, while her friend had gotten a letter from David Cassidy, he was ignoring P.T. Prudette’s lengthy, witty and sparkling fan letter.

“Why not?” she grumbled. “Why did he answer Jane’s letter and not mine?”

Mid-Teen Prudezilla, ignoring her status as shyest wallflower in high school, would rail at her parents.

“Why not? Why can’t I date till I am 16?”

Why nots in college applied to everything from not having wealthy parents so she wouldn’t have to do work study, to being flabbergasted that she couldn’t have a rich and full social life AND a 4.0 grade point.

Little by little over the years God dumped such an abundance of blessings on her head that she has to struggle to the surface if she wants to whimper ‘Why not-

-   a cure for her father’s Alzheimer’s

-   constant and steady work for the self-employed

-   perfect unity in church

-   a warning that while mothers  THINK the umbilical cord is cut at birth, it actually stretches across time and space.’

These days she looks out the window at the cold May wind and rain, and pulls her sweatshirt tightly.  She wonders, “Why not warm and springlike yet?”

Then she looks at the photos of the devastation and heartbreak in Missouri, Alabama, Oklahoma, Japan.

And she has to ask, with a humble prayer,

“Why not me?”

Are you kidding? ANOTHER Hist'Ry Wednesday?

Are the Readin',  wRitin' and 'Rithmetic types amongst you getting restless? Are you wishing for some good grammar rules? Some scientific facts on which to gnaw? Mathematical theorems to make your life complete?
Next week.
The Prude is still coming off her Kentucky High, and she desires to share information new to her.
(while admitting with some trepidation that everyone may know this information except The Prude)

We all know about blacksmiths, correct? In the Way Back Days, every town, settlement, burg, or fort needed at least one and usually more.

This is a blacksmith:

This is where he works:

This is how he works:

Here are some things he makes:

So these can work better:

BUT!!!!!!! DEAR FRIENDS OF THE PRUDE!

Did you know that settlements often also had WHITESMITHS??!!!!!

The Prude didn't.

Here is a whitesmith:

This is where he works:

This is how he works:

These are what he makes:

So these can work better:

Isn't learning grand?
See you tomorrow for
Quirks of the Cosmos Thursday!!!!!

When Life Gives You Cabbage, Make Sauerkraut Pizza

To the teenaged boys who occasionally drop by ‘The Prude Disapproves’:

The Prude apologizes if today is the day you had occasion to stop in. She did warn that the Tuesday Stew may include recipes.

But please note­­–it is a very manly recipe.

A poltergeist is loose at The Prude’s. It misplaced the booklet with her 400 various passwords and user names. It stole her fiber tablets.

And it left the door of the garage freezer open just a crack. Too small to be immediately noticeable, but just enough to thaw everything in the door.

Did The Prude cry or curse? No she did not.

There was no time.

The sight of the exploding frozen pizza dough galvanized her brain immediately.

She assessed the damage:

everything in the freezer itself, including the venison chops from the previous millennium, were still solid.

The Italian Lemon Ice unfortunately resembled something found in a bedpan. So, come to think of it, did the mini chocolate ice cream sandwiches.

The sausages were thawed too- and with that discovery The Prude’s brain really began to fire on all 2 cylinders.

She gathered the ingredients.

She spread the blob of dough in a 9x13.

Drizzled on some Thousand Island dressing. (The expiration date said sometime in 2010- but ‘use by’ is more like a suggestion than a demand.)

Next came the sauerkraut, then the Swiss cheese and the sliced sausage.

Bake it at 400 degrees for 25 minutes and

 VOILÀ

 A Prude-husband pleasing pizza with a little Bavarian, a little Italian, and a lot of American ingenuity tossed together.

All thanks to that pesky poltergeist.

That pesky, fully regular poltergeist who is most like ordering 5000 copies of ‘The Amityville Horror’ with The Prude’s Amazon account info.

Global Village Monday: The Bottom from the Top

The Prude knows with absolute assurance that God created mountains.

She knows He created legs, conveniently jointed at strategic points, to propel bipeds from place to place.

And she believes that He gave the ingenuity to create something as marvelous as the digital camera.

So when one of His creatures laces her new Keds, summons her courage, energy reserves, and scraps of pride, and heads UP a mountain on her LEGS armed with a CAMERA,

the least she can expect is that she will be able to photograph the incredible height she attained.

Up. Way, way up.

But look at this photo The Prude took from the top.

Honestly. Would you believe she just walked a mile and three quarters almost straight up

from this shot? That muscle, sinew, creaky joints and gasping lungs, fueled by sweat and fear, forced her step by painful step to incredible and dizzying heights?

Where, you ask in legitimate bewilderment, is the bottom?

How do we know, you inquire suspiciously, that she didn’t just snap this from a patio wall while sipping her iced tea?

We can tell, you say sternly, that Mount Everest is quite a hike. There are photos to prove it.

Proof Mt. Everest is high

We know Sam and Frodo endured a torturous scramble up Mt. Doom, again because of photographic-ish evidence. 

Proof Mt. Doom is high

But can we really believe The Prude climbed anything higher than a septic mound?

It is not her fault.

The same God who gives legs and mountains and cameras also provides trees by the thousands upon tens of thousands to obscure a 

breathtaking proof photo 

of the heights to which The Prude attained to get to the 

natural bridge in eastern Kentucky.

The next time the Prude climbs a mile and three quarters up a mountain, 

it is going to be located someplace in Mordor.

LOTR photo: collecttolkien.com

Photojournalism Friday: Barn Rhapsody

The Prude promised Photojournalism Friday would have few words so she will restrain herself from
bemoaning the decline of barns in America and share some photos and facts:

Many barns were painted red when rust (or blood- yes- blood) was mixed with linseed oil to protect the wood, and inhibit the fungi and mosses that like to grow on the wood.
The Prude is not sure if the moss usually grew on the north side of the barns,
but she is positive no blood was used in the paint on this barn.

White barns (if you squint you can tell these are white–it was the only photo The Prude has with white barns) were usually milking barns and the white color was meant to assure milk purchasers that the milk was as pure and white as the barn. The bluish hue of these barns could indicate they specialize in skim milk.

The Prude saw many black barns on a recent trip to Kentucky. They are painted black, don't y'all know, because they were built as tobacco barns. The dark color retained the heat and dried the tobacco faster.
And the hex sign? Some people say the Pennsylvania Dutch put them on barns to ward off evil spirits, but most believe they were 'Chust for nice.'

Y'all chust have a nice weekend!