Wow! RVSue writes a post on this blog! Finally!
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Often I find it difficult to start writing.
When that happens, I have to jump right into it without much of an intro. So here goes . . .
I buy Roger and Reggie bones from the pet department in order to provide them with chewing exercise.
And what do they do?
Chew on sticks instead!
The crew and I follow a morning routine.
It’s a three-act play written and directed by Reggie and Roger. Here’s the plot line: Reggie wakes me up with kisses, then rousts a dopey Roger out of the doggie bed with nibboes to his neck.
I shuffle down the hall and through the kitchen to open the back door.
Roger is alert now. He and Reggie charge outside to defend our home against trespassers and to go potty. I hit the bathroom, shuffle back to the kitchen, put on the coffee, and set up the crew’s breakfast plates.
I peek out the front door and smile.
Yep, soon it will be another sunny day in Arizona!
While the boys eat breakfast, I go online to check that the blog is okay.
Soon, here come the boys. They race through the empty house to the back bedroom where I am with the computer.
Roger interrupts to thank me for breakfast. Then the three of us go out to the front porch.
Sitting on the porch in early sunbeams with a cup of coffee — That’s my quiet time.
Reggie and Roger love this part of our daily routine.
Assured that all is right with me and with their world in general, they break into joyful play. When the happiness is especially strong, this includes chasing each other around the house with glee.
Okay, that’s the routine. I tell you all this for a reason which will become apparent later in this post.
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I’ve never been a person to wear gloves.
I mean the kind of gloves that protect one’s hands. I couldn’t be bothered with them, not for gardening, not even for dumping tanks. Part of the reason for no gloves is I don’t have a need to protect long, smooth, tapered fingers with perfectly shaped nails.
My hands are small and freckled, my fingers stubby and blunt-tipped.
When young, oh, how I wished for pretty hands! In time I learned to love my hands. Sure, they’re small and not very strong, but they’ve proven to be hands sufficient for my life.
As I’m in my 70th year . . .
I marvel at these hands that were given to me. These little hands with little bones and muscle, they still work! And, best of all, better than all the pretty-hand compliments in the world, THEY DON’T HURT ME!
No swollen joints, no arthritis, no pain, thank God.
Anyway, to get to my point . . .
I’m an Arizona resident. Stuff that grows here has attitude.
You don’t mess with it without protection. I search and find gloves that fit my small, short-fingered hands perfectly.
I mean, they fit like . . . like . . . like a glove!
I love wearing them.
~ ~ ~
Back to the morning routine.
Today I break routine by staying too long at the computer. The crew cannot allow this! Roger hops, his nails clicking on the tile. Reggie stands firm and executes The Stare.
Translation: “Hey! It’s time to go out on the porch with us!”
“Hang on a minute, guys.” (I keep on reading blogorino comments, ignoring them.)
Reggie and Roger:
Hmm . . . What can we do to get RVSue off her butt and out on the front porch with us, where she’s supposed to be?
As if synchronized by an unseen force, they turn, run down the tiled hall, skid into a slide as they turn for the kitchen, and shoot out the back door. Around the outside of the house they go to the front porch.
On the porch are my new gloves.
I left them there yesterday after working on the flower bed.
Roger grabs one of the gloves. He and Reggie run around the house, fly in through the back door, race and slide down the hall, skidding to a stop in front of me. Roger’s mouth is full. Reggie looks like he’s laughing.
“My GLOVE! You scalawags!”
I laugh as they lead me on a chase, out of the bedroom, down the hall, out the back door, around the house, and up the steps to the front porch.
Like I say, they’re the directors of this play.
~ ~ ~
The birds in our yard like to perch on the yucca.
I watch them from the porch. They stick their beaks into the blossoms . . . English sparrows, house finches, and a hummingbird!
In other news . . .
A few days ago my sister Nancy emails that she ordered a refrigerator for us. It will arrive at the house tomorrow!
Did you know . . .
The etymology of the word “scalawag?”
According to www.etymonline.com:
“also scallawag, “disreputable fellow,” 1848, American English, originally in trade union jargon, of uncertain origin; perhaps an alteration (by influence of wag “habitual joker”) of Scottish scallag “farm servant, rustic,” itself an alteration of Scalloway, one of the Shetland Islands, with the reference being to little Shetland ponies (an early recorded sense of scalawag was “undersized or worthless animal,” 1854). In U.S. history, used from 1862 as a derogatory term for anti-Confederate native white Southerners.”
Whew! I should’ve called the crew “rascals” instead. — Sue
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