OLD FART WINE

I was driving along the internet highway searching for a picture of that perfect bottle of wine to add to a forum post when I stumbled across a quant little shop. Where back in the dark, dank, corner peeking out of an old crate filled with straw stood a bottle of wine. Oh so proud and majestic it stood. With words plastered across its belly that made my mouth gape and my giggles to rumble. In big bold letters read OLD FART WINE.

As I looked at the bottle with my mouth dropped open, I got so darned tickled I thought I am going to pee myself. That in turn got me laughing even harder as I imagined as well the spectacle Old Fart Wine was going to make when this Old Phart actually peed her pants in the middle of this old antique store no less.

I figured I am already fifteen to twenty years away from needing to wear diapers again anyway, and closer if I am unlucky. You know it is so ironic that if we live long enough we live the true cycle of life. Start in diapers end in diapers. There is no justice ... just divine comedy.

It also made me remember how many times I have called myself an Old Phart as had several of my friends in just the last few weeks. Why? I asked myself when we are just figuring out life are we referring to ourself as Old Pharts. Arent' we just simply the wise ones in a sea of youth. We are definately not responsible for the fact that you cannot put old wine in new wine sacks......But you sure can pour a lot of wine down an old winsack lol.

I then started to wonder what is actually in a bottle of Old Fart Wine. Is it really just Kool Aid.....Did some well meaning soul in the wine factory dilute some old rot gut wine with water, believing that Old Pharts are so senile that they could not possibly know the difference.

Could they have the audacity to slap a label on it thinking we are so past our prime. And as a card carrying member of the bifocal society of America we won't be able to read that it actually says 2009 on the label. Do they think we will think it says 007 or something and we will imagine that if we drink it we will become a James Bond super agent. Of course I have met a few old geezers in my day that drank some old rot gut wine and thought they were superman or superhuman instead of a super pile of sheeeeaatt ooollllla.

If I am going to drink anything which is a rarity in it'self but if I do this Ole Phart prefers a lovely white Amish Zinfandel chiilled to a ice cold state.

Frankly my Old Phart friends ...I prefer to look at it with the skilled blurred vison of age, the heart of skipped one to many beats, and the fingers that are racked with arthritis and say "I and my beautiful bottle of Old Fart Wine are simply like a wonderful old grand piano. We just need polished more often than played and just when I have finally gotten all my Notes perfectly tuned."

Old Phart indeed......

© L.Lanham
7/09

POPCORN

As my days have idled away this week on a much deserved vacation from work. I got to thinking of how things used to be. At how some of the little things in life may have actually fell under the live green catagore. Take for instance popcorn.

We have all opened the box that held the three perfectly folded pouches encased in a clear cellophane shield of microwave popcorn. We stand their patiently reading the label that says this side up, or handle carefully and contents may be hot. As if we have no sense of feeling in our hands and won't realize that the bag is hot when we reach in to remove it from the ever so over used microwave.

My mind and memory then skipped backwards in time to remember Jiffy Pop. Do you remember the fun we had watching that silver expand. Like an expectant mother ever expanding till she pops. Watching and waiting to see if it exploded. And then laughing our heads off when it actually did. While we listened to our parent's grumble and growling about the mess. So we in our over anxious childish anticipation of that warm crunchy yet soft exploded kernel of corn volunteer to help clean it up. As we pick up a kernel we turn our heads first to the left then to the right looking to see if anyone is watching. Then we eat a kernel. We had a care not if it was on the floor or the counter... We just wanted corn.



And anyone over the age of thirty or forty might remember your Mom standing in the kitchen. The sound of the big pot sliding across the burner. And the sound of the cast iron burner banging against the side of the stove as she shook that pot of popcorn. She was making sure it all popped and it did not burn. The longer she shook that pot the bigger our eyes got and the wetter our mouth got in anticipation of fresh,hot popcorn. We listen intently for the first POP..then POP POP....then we knew it was close as we listened for the never ending sound of POP POP POP POP POP POP POP. Treats in those days weren't frequent like they are now so it was a gate to heavenly delight when Mom went to popping popcorn.

And we stood waiting and watching that lid as it slowly lifted beause she always put in too much popcorn, for the size of the pot. We hoped one would shoot across the room like a bullet, straight to one of us as mom hollered .."Step back before you get burned." We didn't care we just wanted corn.

This week as I was thinking of ways to live green and how to stretch a dollar from a low paying job into never never land, I thought of popcorn. Why spend $4.00 for three small pouches or even $2.50 for jiffy pop when a Buck fifty will buy a huge bag of just plain ole regular popcorn. And add a litttle oil and we are in business. No bags to clutter the trash or the landfill. And seriously how long does it actually take to pop a pot full of fresh, warm homemade popcorn. And I can get 20 or more batches for my buck fifty as opposed to one bag of microwave corn.
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Not to mention if I can avoid pouring a half stick of gently melted butter over it, it is a low fat,low calorie,fill your belly up, yum yum, healthy snack. And if I use my mind for something other than watching and popping air pockets in my brain I could even get creative. I could look into my spice cabinent and maybe sprinkle garlic powder or even cayene pepper on it to spice my popcorn up.

In having these memories I remembered my youth, the giggles of delight and the innocence. I remembered at how a simple twenty cents worth of teeny tiny popcorn kernals can and still tickle the mind, the senses, and bring such delight.

So buy a $1.50 bag of popcorn the next time you shop. And see if you can recapture DELIGHT. You just might find a family tradition in the making . And if you don't you still have
created something very very special. You have created a MEMORY.

© L.Lanham

Excellent! You are such a skilled writer. I love to read all of the pieces that you write and I want you to know that I do so with joy and appreciation!! One day I hope to be as skilled a writer as my good friend Brokenheart. {{{Hugs}}}

I thank you Hearlight and I take that as a wonderful compliment from the queen of writes the most fabulous stories that suck you in and make you feel as if you are a part of it .

It has taken a lot for me to let my guard down and share them.. I am a true HSP...dont show them and no one can criticize or make fun of them or you lol...
I am getter better lol...and thanks again for the lovely words...they mean a lot to me.

TEARS or CRYING

Are tears and crying the same or are they totally different? When we are children our parents say "stop that crying" or they say "dry up those tears." It is as if they are two seperate things.

When I watch a sad movie I cry. But when I read a sad poem or story I tear up. Are they also different emotions? Where do they well up from? Does one emotion radiate from the heart,yet the other a simple mental reaction to an occurance? Do tears well up and crying springs forth? Can one have tears but not actually be crying? It has become a mystery to me. And mysteries need solved.

When I read a beautiful card I get tears in my eyes. I am emotionally moved, my heart usually feels heavy or so full it might burst. So I then think of tears of joy, tears of love, tears of shame. Those all seem to be emotionally charged rivers. Of ones heart based thing or another swimming upward and outward on a sea of my own salty tears.

I do know if you make me cry you had better get out of my way. I then become a dangerous and not nice person. But if you make me tear up it's your lucky day. Your about to recieve a big hug. I know we cry buckets but we have a river of tears. They both appear wet to me . Requiring a tissue or a sleeve or the hem of your shirt. When I cry it seems as if it flows like a damn has burst. Like my pipes exploded inwardly. It is as if my entire being is wracked with some involuntary mental anguish.

When a baby cries, doesn't it need or want something? Isn't the child in a sense demanding something of the universe by the incessant crying?
And then when it is appeased it sniffs and snubbs and stifles it's tears.

So are tears and crying simply oxymorons? Or maybe it is synonyms or synonomous or oh heck are they the same? I am after careful thought and the totally nonsensical opinion that they are two entirely seperate issues.
I have come to the conclusion that yes, one is of the heart and the other is of the mind. And of course we are all very very familiar with what opinions are and where we can stuff them for the good of all.

© L.Lanham
7/29/09

BOOKS

What is it about a book that makes it so special. Could it be the contents? Or is it the texture? I love books. I love the way they look. I love their smell. I of course love the stories they tell. I am not a fan of pdf files. Of course I have them as it is part of the new way but I can't seem to connect with the words in them. I have found if I print them out I then can connect. I then can absorb the words written.

The stories in books are great but it is more than that for me. It is as if my hands simply holding the written manuscript opens a doorway or builds a bridge from my hands through the book and connects to my mind. I can read the very same words online but for some reason it doesn't connect or resonate to my mind nearly as fast as when I hold it in my hands.

Maybe I used to be a tree in another life and the cooked tree pulp that is now such beautiful ivory paper used to be me or some member of my family. One thing is for sure there is a definate connection when the words are on paper.

I love the textures, whether rough or slick. It doesn't matter to me if the book is luscous leather,or cloth or paper. It doesn't matter if it's sewn or glued or a simple lacing with holes to bind.

I must admit I could make a librarian swoon. If the book is mine,I mark in it , I write in it,I highlight passages, draw stars and make check marks. I write in the margins. I doodle in a corner. And I am probably going to break the spine. Oh my did I feel you wince? Get over it is mine.

In my fantasy world of lottery winnings I have a room with books a plenty. With walls of shelfs from floor to ceiling. With just enough windows to allow some light. There are rows and rows and stacks and stacks of delicious mind altering material for me to wile away the hours. There is a fireplace in the corner with a warm glowing ember and comfortable chairs to curl up in especially in the winter. The perfect spot to become one with a book. To while away countless hours of knowledge absorbtion or pleasure I seek. Of love being sought or a cowboy being shot. Of far away lands and times gone by. I can travel the universe with only time flying by.

Yes I have to confess I truly love books and the knowledge within. There have been times when I felt my head was a book. I've actually cooked meals with a child on my hip and a book in the other hand. So rapt into a story my mind wouldn't disconnect from the words on the page.

I know I am not alone in the bedtime ritual of I'll read one more page then turn out the light. Then as you finish that page your mind is the book and the connection won't break. So you turn the page and continue to read. Well the next thing you notice an hour has passed and you keep saying I have to get up to go to work so you force yourself to disconnect. You lovingly mark your page and ever so gently place your precious book beside the bed . Then you lay there wide awake trying to still disconnect and wondering how it will end.

There is something just so amazing when the words on the paper connects with the mind's imagination and the book and the mind become a mesh of one. I simply love BOOKS

© L.Lanham
6/26/08

APPLES

Why is it we all like apples? Could it be how they make us feel? Or is it simply the old addage of "an apple a day keeps the doctor away"? Do we think if we eat them we will stay healthy and young? Do they really just make us feel like a child again? Apples come in all sizes and an array of colors to entice our eyes. Some hard some soft and mushy won't do. Some are sweet and some are bitter and some just have no taste at all.

I can make a pie or eat them just raw. I can cook them slow till applesauce flows. For breakfast or lunch or dinner they'll work. On biscuits or on some toast. I can stuff them,boil them, fry and saute them or I can even dehydrate them. It's really hard to mess up an apple. I can then save all my messing up for...oh say my life.

One of my fondest childhood memories is of going out the front door of my Grandma's house and out to that big ole apple tree. Carrying the spare salt shaker and peeking around the tree to see if Grandma can see me, as I snag a apple off the low hanging branch of the tree. She always said "pick them up off the ground". If she ever saw me doing it she never said.

And then to saunter down the dirt road headed for the creek to stick in my toes. Rubbing that apple on my sleeve every step of the way. Why do we do that? The rub on the sleeve?? Does it make it taste better or is it some compulsive need? The apple so shiny and now too pretty to eat. I plop down next to the creek in the grass to eat. I crunch on my treet of this crispy , sour, juicy green apple. I sprinkle my salt like a spring shower. I don't waste a drop and into the creek I toss the core. Wiping my chin I slowly stroll back up to the house.

I then get to wile away the hours helping Grandma peel and core buckets of apples so she can can them for their winter feasts. My hands and arms all wet and sticky as I swat at the flies who gather around to catch a lick of that sweet apple juice. They just want a little taste too.

There relatively cheap if you buy them by the bag. You can always spread peanut butter or sugar on them if there not very good. And a dip in some honey is better than a funny. My favorites are yellow and green but a nice big fat red one is good once in awhile. When I make a pie I buy them individuallyand to my surprise the cost rises immensly. Mrs. Paul I am sure would save me a lot but the taste is just not so hot. So it's a few extra bucks for the quality is all as nothing is as good as homemade after all.

And someone tell me please who picks out those name for apples off trees? There's Gala and Golden Delicious and Granny Smith's. Okay the Granny Smith that I know sure doesn't look like that at all. And Fuji's make me cackle as I always think Fiji an island I suppose. What's with McIntosh, isn't that a scottish lass, and a winesap is laying out on the curb. The names sure get to me all in all.

So apples are fun, delightful and delicious. I like apples when something sweet will only do. They put a smile on my face and I hope yours to. Have you had your apple today?

© L. Lanham
5/20/09

These are all so wonderful. You have a great way of painting pictures with words, and helping us to remember fondly times gone by.

Thank you.

I LOVE the apple story.

I recall eating green apples as a child. We'd all sit on the porch with our salt shakers as our mom warned us about the belly ache we were going to get if we ate too many. We never did get a belly ache so I don't know what she was belly aching about.

Many years ago when I was a young mom living on welfare, I would go and pick wild apples in the woods. Where I lived at the time, we could go and do that. I would fill grocery sack after grocery sack with apples and then take them home, wash, core and peel them all. Then I'd slice them up good and cook them in a large pot on the stove adding sugar and cinnamon and sometimes raisins too, until I had a huge pot of delicious homemade applesauce. I never learned to can, so I froze everything. I would fill the freezer with applesauce and we would have this delishous delight all winter long, till the next apple season rolled around. Yum, yum!!! Those were the good ole days!