Weird Weather

The weather has been so weird this winter.  When Ground Hog Day was less than a month away, I realized we hadn't yet had any winter weather to speak of. Then, on the 13th of January, we had 6 inches of snow.  Within a day or two, the temperature climbed and the snow began to melt. The next weekend, we had freezing rain. Yesterday, the temperature rose to 56. Today, it's cold and rainy. Tomorrow, temperatures will be near freezing again. Our poor dog will not get a walk today.  I must say, she looks a little mopey, stretched out on the couch.

This photo is from last year. I tried taking a picture of this year's backyard winter scene with my "new" camera. It's a simple point-and-shoot model I've had for a year, but am still largely unacquainted with.  Simple as it is, it came with an intimidating and unintelligible multi-page booklet. Weird icons appeared when I pointed my camera at the snowfall and attempted to shoot. The booklet declined to explain this particular set of icons.  I also lost a photo I had already taken of our camellia, which bloomed unseasonably in December.  A dead or dying battery is probably to blame.  In the camera, not the camellia. 

Speaking of unseasonableness, the daffodils began to sprout the week between the blizzard and the ice storm. 

In with the New and Out with the Old

We went shopping for a new mattress yesterday at Macy's. I've forgotten how old our old mattress is, but no matter. It was time to replace it. My husband cheerfully noted that this would probably be our last new mattress. (Just as Dilly is probably our last dog-baby.)

Anyway, I'd been dreading the shopping expedition because (1) my husband hates shopping and gets cranky after 10 minutes and wants to leave, and (2) mattress purchases seem to have replaced car purchases as anxiety-generators. Nowadays,  you can order a car and have it delivered to your door while "binging on your favorite TV shows."  Mattresses can arrive that way, too, but you really want to test-drive it before buying.  So you have to go to the store.  And deal with the proliferating varieties of mattresses. Not to mention pushy sales persons. 

It turned out to be SO easy.  Judy, the sales person, asked us what we wanted and helped us narrow down our choices.  I wanted to use our existing headboard, but didn't want it to disappear because of the height of today's mattresses. She suggested a 5-and-1/2-inch-high box spring rather than the traditional 7 and 1/2. We lay on three different mattresses and opted for the springiest. 

While she was writing up the sales contract, she asked if we were willing to provide our e-mail address so that we could receive promotional and sales information from Macy's. Phil said no, we didn't want to be "pestered."  Then he grinned and quickly added, "Not that we think that you would pester us."  Judy threw back her head and laughed. 

Are We There Yet?

"Leave the GPS at home," you said.

"We can get there by the old tried-and-true methods. After all, we're astrologers. We can just look at the stars," you said.

"Anyway, an angel sometimes gives me directions in a dream," you said.

OK, Mr. Wise Man,  where are we?         

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"I'm Barbara Bush."

We watched President Bush's state funeral today on TV.  I have been to many a funeral at my  Episcopal church in recent years. I became an Episcopalian in 1987. I grew up a Methodist and attended the Presbyterian Church from the time I was in college until maybe the mid-70's, when our pastor had a mid-life crisis and I had had enough.  Anyway, as a newby amongst the "cradle Episcopalians," as they call themselves, I have come to cherish certain words from the service for "The Burial of the Dead" in the Book of Common Prayer:

"For so you did ordain when you created me, saying 'You are dust, and to dust you shall return.' All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia." 

Also:  "Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant (name). Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming.

The TV commentators, who blah-blah-blahed throughout the day, sometimes referred to the Bushes as "an American dynasty."  Well, maybe they are, but what sticks in my mind is a story my friend told me about her friend.  This friend went to a quilt show somewhere in the Washington, DC suburbs during the time of Bush 41. Admiring a quilt, she noticed a woman who seemed strangely familiar.  She approached her and said, "Excuse me, you look like someone I should know, but I can't think of your name."

The other woman simply smiled and replied, "I"m Barbara Bush."