Tag Archives: flowers

April Showers

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I have always believed the point of April showers was to bring May flowers.  But the showers this April are merely making the flowers wet, since they are already here.

Last night was like that.  Drippy rain followed by thundershowers… quaking in safety as the world gets wet.

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I worry about global warming and the possible end of life on Earth.  But flowers each spring are a hopeful sign.  The world is renewing itself after the winter of our discontent.  In fact, a couple of years ago, the daffodils came out in February and got frozen to death in the week following their bold attempt to bloom early.  It just goes to prove that daffodils are the dumbest of all flowers.  I drew a portrait of one of them.  Daffy O’Dill posed for this shortly before his fateful encounter with the weed whacker.

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But pictures of the flowers in our yard are like the pictures of sunrises that I collect.  As I get older and enter the late winter months of my little life, they give me hope and consolation.  I hate to think that when my life ends the rest of humanity will soon follow.  Pessimists like me have good reason to think such things might be the case.  But there is also reason for hope.  Flowers are a sign of hope.  Flowers are a sign that life renews itself.  Flowers bloom, and the bees come, and seeds develop, and everything continues to grow.  Flowers make God smile.

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So, the rain came down, and in spite of possible hail and thunderstorms, wind and possible tornadoes, there are flowers.  In fact, look at this humongous rose growing in our neighbor’s tree.  If it actually came from outer space, it may be very well looking to eat us… eat our evil dentist at the very least.  And I found a novel way to get another good post out of my flower pictures.

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Filed under flowers, goofiness, humor, Paffooney, photo paffoonies, roses

Spring is Sproinging

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The flowers have begun to bloom in Texas.  The leaves are budding on all the trees who aren’t live oaks.  The live oaks are shedding their winter coats, and there-in lies my divided feelings about the end of winter.  I am allergic to tree pollen, mold spores, and the grungy green gungus that goes with re-awakening life.  This weekend I raked live oak leaves and cut the grass in the yard.  So today, I am paying the price.  I have an arthritic back-ache.  I have an allergic-reaction headache.  I hurt a lot and I can’t breathe.  But I got to see the fresh blooms of another growing season.  A little pain… and then renewal.

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Updating Futzbatter and Foohbah Recipes

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Having already written well over a thousand words today on a different writing project, I don’t really have to worry about length on this one.  But it is intended to be a scrapbook piece anyway.  Thing #1 is the completion of a mini-collection.  I now have all three of the main Minions from the new Minions movie.  From left to right are Kevin, Stuart, and Bob posing for their picture with their fully pose-able arms in the middle of Cardboard Castle.  There are still many many many Minions left to collect, but the first three are the most important bit… I think.

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I have now reached the climax of the plot in my Sci-fi novel Stardusters and Space Lizards.  I am at that moment in the story when characters, even the most important main characters, may die.  I know, in fact, because of the ending that already exists that some of the main characters will die.  I am not entirely certain that I know which ones yet.  The three I have portrayed here are (left to right again because I am an English speaker/reader and horribly addicted to the same-old same-old) George Jetson, Davalon, and Sizzahl the Lizard Girl.  At least one of them has to die for the plot to work out.  But which one?  I am deeply in love with all three.

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My experimental flower wagon has been producing blossoms, but only one at a time.  Each one blooms, I take a picture of it, and then the hot Texas sun burns the poor thing to blazes, and I have to wait for the next one to appear.

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And finally, I think I need to define the two Mock-Iowegian words in my title today.  Mock-Iowegian (as I am sure you are bright enough to already realize) is a made-up language spoken by Iowan farm folks in Mickian fiction where the object is to capture their eccentricities and mock them ferociously because I love them.  Futzbatter… noun, meaning things that are fudged or made up on the spur of the moment and mixed together into the overall plan (or impending disaster… depending on the situation).  Foohbah… noun, meaning something you tell a fool and expect him to believe, as in a honking-big-fish story, and nobody else will contradict for fear the fool the speaker is trying pull a foohbah on is the hearer, and they don’t want to let on that the foohbah-teller laying the big, fat, hairy foohbah on the group is talking about them, and they are only feebly trying to stop him.

So, there you have it… almost 500 words in spite of myself.

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Butterflies and Blossoms

A Red Admiral butterfly...

A Red Admiral butterfly…

I am temporarily at home in Iowa, visiting the farm where my grandparents and great grandparents have owned the land and raised crops for over 100 years.  My parents live there now in retirement, and while somebody else tends the corn and rents the land, they maintain the yard and grow flowers.  Retirement is hip deep everywhere around the place.  My old retired self and my wife and my kids are all descended upon them just like the butterfly who came to sample the purple flowers on the porch trellis.  Little work gets done.  My wife and eldest son have jobs and contribute to society still, but we retired folks putter and stutter and watch the butterflies flutter.  We watch the kids and the flowers grow.

The Family Farm House

The Family Farm House

Watching stuff grow has always pretty much been what farming-family Iowegians do.  Corn and soybeans, watermelon, pumpkins. cucumbers, string beans, sweet corn, pop corn, strawberries, potatoes… at one point or another I have helped to plant, tend, harvest, and eat all of those things… well, not seed corn and field soybeans… you can’t directly eat those… but you know what I am talking about, making things grow to feed myself and my family.  There is satisfaction in working the land and making things grow… a fundamental feeling of achievement that helps us feel like we are not mere parasites, consuming and wasting and decimating… we build for the future rather than take maximum profit at the present moment.  Farmers are the good guys.

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Only, not so much any more.   For our family farm, with three grandsons (of which I am one) available to do it, none of us have become farmers.  The next generation after us includes no farmers either.  So that fundamental feeling of achievement is basically a memory now.  Only a memory and nothing more.  Feeding the world has become somebody else’s problem now.  We are watching the flowers grow.

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Is there value in old farmers watching the flowers grow?  Of course there is!  The land is still functioning farm land.  Iowa is still the breadbasket of America.  We still feed the world.  And we who own the land are at least providing the flowers and the nectar necessary to feed butterflies.  The beauty, as well as the meaning and the metaphor, is there for anyone who wants to see it.

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The Flower Wagon

My life has more-or-less become an exercise in making the best out of a bad situation.  Believe me, I know yours is probably the same and I am bemoaning the common condition of us all, but we do what we do and it doesn’t get easier just because we do it daily.  So today’s post is about the flower wagon.

20150531_193228Now, if you are truly fool enough to read a lot of my purple paisley prose in this basically boring blog, you may have seen references to the flower wagon before this.

Last year, doing yard work, I had an inordinate amount of crushed live-oak acorns from the street near where we park our cars.  Our oaks were excessively reproductive that year because, I guess they found the weather unusually sexy or something.  So I had copious amounts of crushed acorn.  In fact, before I got it all scooped up, a little bit of rain had turned it into the acorn-equivalent of peanut butter… goopy, sticky, and unpleasant to touch.  Most of it went into the compost bin, but the last little-red-wagon load got left in the little red wagon to get snowed on, frozen solid, and snowed on again.

We love that little red wagon.  When the kids were small, we used it to pull them around SeaWorld in San Antonio and AstroWorld in Houston.  It went all over the country with us on summer vacation, and was the Princess’ personal coach and four (provided she allowed the cooler full of ice for water, soda, and fruit to share the ride).

So, the neglected little red wagon turned into a rust-bucket lawn ornament this spring, and it was busy growing a bumper crop of weeds in all that acorn peanut butter… fertile stuff, acorn peanut butter.  So I decided to plant flowers.  I got some Walmart zinnias and some wildflowers, spending about a dollar fifty all told, pulled the weeds by hand, and sprinkled flower seeds all over it.  We are all sad to see the lonely little wagon deteriorating and being demoted to lawn ornament status, but it seemed like we had a possibility of new life within reach.

This spring, with the monsoon rains Texas apparently borrowed from Asia and the Philippines, I did not even have to bother myself with watering.  If anything, there was too much water… flash-flood-warning-daily sort of too much water.  So I have been patient… watching and weeding.  And then…

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20150626_084717The first blossom bloomed and turned color yesterday while we were picking up number one son from the airport.  Old things can produce new things.  Decay and age lead to blossoming new life.  There has to be a balance between happy and sad.  I am trying like heck to be a humorist, but I have learned the lesson that you can’t be laughing all the time.  But here is proof that after the rains come the flowers.  And I am laughing now.

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Project Updates

Being a divergent thinker and guilty of trying to waltz down seven different paths at the same time, I have various projects going all at once.  I can’t always keep track.  So, I am going to take time out of planning to haunt people when I’m a ghost to take inventory of a few of the things I am juggling while trying to blog and write novels and draw pictures.  You may remember from posts related to playing with dolls that I am a collector with hoarding disorder and a room full of action figures and dolls.  You may even remember that I finished a year-long collection of My Little Pony dolls (the twelve-inch Equestria Girls, because the ponies themselves are not within the rules).  I took up a bigger collection after that.  The prices of some of these are coming down on the bargain shelf, and they are somewhat intriguing in concept for girls’ toys.  They are the Monster High dolls.

Monster Babes

These are twelve-inch dolls for under $20, and so they qualify, even though they are totally deformed with Chibi-like big heads.  They are supposedly the teenage children of the Universal Movie Monsters.  Starting on the left, Howleen Wolf is the daughter of the Wolfman.  Then I have two Cleo de Niles, the daughter of the Mummy.  One is the Black Carpet movie-maker version, apparently being played by a very young Gloria Swanson.  (The one on the left.)  The other version is wearing the family mummy-wraps.  Then I have Howleen’s sister, Clawdeen.  Unfortunately, the bargain shelf at Walmart is often ravaged by little-kid pilferers.  I am short a pair of golden shoes and a couple of undetermined accessories that were pulled out of the bottom of the box.  I am grateful to the thieves, because although there are no mint-in-boxes here, I was able to get the dolls at a reduced-for-damage price.  Now, you probably realize that this collection is not finished.  I have reason to believe there are other movie-monster children in the series.  Dracula has a daughter.  The creature from the Black Lagoon does too.  So does Frankenstein’s monster.  I believe there may even be a daughter of the man-eating plant from Little Shop of Horrors.  How can someone with my mental diseases and disorders possibly resist that?

Flower Wagon 1The next project to check on is the flower wagon.  Last year, while cleaning rain gutters and raking up acorns, I managed to leave the kids’ little red wagon full of the stuff.  The unnaturally wet spring we had led to a bumper crop of weeds in the organic mess that I left there over-long.  Not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth for fear it may be filled with tiny, angry Greeks, I decided to pull out the weeds by hand, and plant flowers.  I got zinnias from Walmart  (Yes, I know what kind of poopy people the Walmart owners and pharaohs are, but I can’t really afford to shop anywhere else.  They didn’t leave anybody else in business.)  I planted carefully.  I let God do the watering.  (And prayed he wouldn’t drown them,)  And then I waited.  The last time I checked on the wagon, the flowers had made it this far;

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I can’t wait to see if anything dares to bloom.  I want to post the happy little flower faces on my next update.  And I promise to get back to plotting future hauntings.   I have already chosen as my target the worst principal I ever had (a hard choice to make from a rogues gallery that puts Batman’s to shame).

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Writer’s Block

20150417_083955I have always maintained that I do not experience writer’s block.  I mean, the words always flow.  Sure, it may be garbage and word-sludge, but I can always get something down.  Yet, the past three days have been a struggle.

You see, I have been working on a sci-fi comedy novel called Stardusters and Space Lizards.  On Monday one of the main characters, a green-skinned alien girl named Brekka was swallowed by a man-eating plant.  In another scene the explorers Farbick and Starbright, both green-skinned Tellerons like Brekka, were surrounded by hungry lizard children from the planet Galtorr Prime.  And those lizard children were armed with weapons of war.  Mortal danger all around for characters I have grown fond of… and this story is supposed to be humor… not grisly-death-sort-of horror sci-fi.  So, my simple and somewhat stupid brain had to come up with two different salvation solutions at once.  I think I may have broken something in the area of the creative mental spigot.

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It is essential for me to accomplish writing in a timely fashion.  I waited through the duration of my entire teaching career to become a published author.  Thirty one years’ worth of stories collected, stories plotted out, and stories percolated in my brain with nothing but a future hope of getting written down to endure upon.  I started writing books when I lost my teaching job with the Wicked Witch of Creek Valley.  I began trying to get published, and I took up regular composition on a daily basis for the last seven years of my teaching career as an ESL teacher in a large Garland High School.  But my teaching time was limited by my six incurable diseases.  (Don’t ask me what they are, since my writing time is precious and I have already wasted too much thinking time on disease and disaster elsewhere in this goofy blog… You can look it up.)  Spring of 2014 saw me retiring as a public school teacher.  I have a pension… enough to keep myself and my children alive, but the couple dozen novel-length stories in my head still have to be told, if not for money, then to keep my goofy old head from swelling up with them and exploding.  So I seriously got down to the business of writing.  Catch a Falling Star, a novel about the alien Tellerons invading my home town in Iowa was published in 2012.  I entered a writing contest that same year with the manuscript of Snow Babies, which made it to the final round before finishing out of the prizes.  I found a publisher willing to publish it without making me pay for the publication and signed a contract for the novel.  I entered Magical Miss Morgan in the same Young Adult novel contest this month.  I also have Superchicken and The Bicycle-Wheel Genius finished as manuscripts and I am looking to get them published as well.  I am making progress.  But here’s the big butt… er, I mean the big but… I don’t know how much longer God will give me to work on these silly symphonies of wonderful words in wacky packages.  I need to finish and market as much as I can in as short a time as I can.

20150305_173534That is what makes writer’s block so unthinkable.  I do not have the time to be out of ideas.

But I am not out of ideas.   Brekka was spit out because her species of alien left a bad taste in the mouth of the man-eating plant.  And Farbick figured out how to make synthetic meat with a material synthesizer, feeding all the lizard children until they were too full to eat his girlfriend Starbright.  I just had to take the time to figure out the solutions.  And one can’t actually say I have writer’s block because I wrote longer than usual posts in this blog on each of those empty-headed days I was searching through mental filing cabinets.  So, I guess I don’t have writer’s block.  Well… never mind.

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For those of you wondering what’s with all the goofy flower-photos… here’s a picture of Brekka and Menolly dancing… so you don’t ask that.

My Art

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