A Little Miscommunication goes a long way!

It’s been a minute since we talked. Here we are in March already and it was 80 degrees yesterday! As the usual Spring allergies kick in, the eyeball situation kicks up!

This June will be three years of eye surgeries and transplant issues. I still have 12 stitches in my left eye. I guess because it doesn’t look different from my other eye, people think it’s fine. One of those people would be me. I dropped the ball on being vigilant and yesterday was a wake up call!

I have checked in hundreds of times now. They know me. But yesterday there was a twist. The receptionist was wearing a black mask. She said she had four questions for me. The first: Have you had a fever in the last two weeks. Me: Yes. Her: You need to go to that room over there and wait for a doctor to come. Okay… I quickly sent OU Boy a text telling him about it. He called and I was a bit weepy and concerned. Little did I know then that this would become an event!

Dr. M came in and asked me what was up. I told him I was coming off of a two week Crohn’s flare and had run a low-grade fever. He cleared me but suggested they put me in the back so I didn’t get any cooties from out front.

Meanwhile, OU Boy is racing across town to the Dean Magee Eye Institute and losing his mind. All he and his GM saw was Crohn’s. They thought it was Corona and apparently when he rushed in to say in a loud voice,  “Where is my wife, they said she is in quarantine!” people cleared out like they had heard there was toilet paper available at Target!

The confusion was cleared up. Or so we thought. More on that. The visit was not successful. My eye pressure was 30. Not good. I have a small abrasion on my transplant. Now I am back to 5 different drops and one salve. Every hour. EVERY hour. I was in tears thinking I’m not going to leave the country when my doctor said if it’s down in a week she’d prefer I left the country. She had just returned from Curacao and said I’d be safer from health threats there. So yeah.

Apparently, our GM called them to ask if he should be in quarantine. Oh lord, we laughed. Especially since his wife graduates from Med School this summer. So no I don’t have the C virus. I still have to self isolate however due to my having a transplant and Crohn’s but I’m good with that. I’ve got books on that TBR list that are about to be read!

Stay Safe!! Wash Your Hands! And if you can’t find Purell, Use 2/3 cup of 91% alcohol, 1/3 cup of aloe gel and some tea tree oil to make your own.

xx P

GET OUT THE LYSOL, EVERYBODY IS SICK

 

So I have the flu. There are only three symptoms, they (Dr.) say, cough, fever and sore throat. Unlike the lottery, my chances were pretty darn good after entertaining people with germy children.

I’m not even checking the mail! OU Boy brought home masks that look like something out of an Avengers movie and I have lysoled the heck out of every surface! Really well. OU Boy thought he would hop back into bed this morning only to find his pillow damp from the can of Lysol I sprayed on it.

For about 30 minutes yesterday, I thought I felt better but then my body showed me it was not better. Fever, sore throat and coughing and I become Vivien Leigh draped over a chaise lounge telling anyone who will listen that I am dying and need more tea.. deep sigh.

This is my spot. I claimed it and all my germs are contained under this quilt my sister made for me. So far I have been downing the Bigelow Benefits Teas hourly. I made a green superfood smoothie, I’m mainlining Suja’s Lemon-Cayenne sugar-free juice hoping to kill the germs. And I read an entire book The Jane Austen Society, coming later this year.

For a lot of people, it is Ash Wednesday. I reminded OU Boy that mass is at 7 tonight and he said, “So which one of our pagan holidays have you appropriated now?” Me, ” Dude, I don’t know, just let them put ashes on your forehead and move on.” See, that is how sick I am. I did not dig into my vast bag of encyclopedia-like knowledge, I just said “whatever.”

Be Well. And for cripes sake, keep your sick kids home.

Love you!

xx P

BLACK WIDOW by Leslie Gray Streeter

Leslie Gray Streeter offers us a portrait of widowhood we haven’t seen before, one that “will make you laugh and cry, sometimes on the same page” (James Patterson).

Palm Beach Post columnist Leslie Gray Streeter entered her late thirties with her husband Scott, moving in together and starting the process of adopting a baby. Yes, she is Christian and a black woman and he is neither. He is a white Jewish man. But together they are perfect for each other.

And just like that, they were making out and he died. Right there. And this is the story of her path and how she traveled it. I loved this book. I am this book. My husband died the same way at 36. There should be a period of a week at least before you have to start making decisions that are probably all bad. I laughed, I cried, I understood. Someone said you never understand death until it knocks at your door. So true. Thank goodness for friends who will not let you wallow in quicksand, but show up and care and drag you back from the edge and tell you that you aren’t crazy and it’s okay to laugh and cry, sometimes at the same time.

I am honored to have read this!

NetGalley/ March 10th, 2020 by Little, Brown, and Company

 

 

 

Valentine’s Day Tea is Here! And it’s Chocolate! Oh, and Snow…

Harney and Sons Teas have their Valentine’s Day Tea out! I was at Barnes and Noble checking out a book when I accidentally wandered into their Starbucks. ( Okay, it wasn’t on accident.)  And lo and behold there it was. So I asked it in my nicest voice, to come home with me. So technically I ‘adopted’ it and did not ‘buy’ any more tea.

What does it smell like? Chocolate. Yep. Ingredients are black tea, chocolate flavor, and vanilla flavor and rose petals. If you followed my tea blog then you know I am not one to just steep and sip. Nope. I had a small piece of Godiva chocolate left and I plopped it in the tea and stirred. Decadent. And since the weatherman actually got the snow forecast correct for once, it was a good day for a treat like this! Yesterday we woke up to about 5 inches of snow. The good kind that isn’t slush. So it was cold and icky and chocolate tea sounded heavenly.

I am so happy that January is over. It seemed to last a year! And for us it was horrible. But February is okay so far and no one has died or given birth or started making meth. I stopped watching the news. OU boy got suspended from Twitter for angering the orange man. So proud.

Since the Coronavirus, my tea shipments from China are at a halt. Bummer. Says the lady with hundreds of boxes of tea hoarded away. Maybe now I’ll catch up on my tea reviews.

Stay warm my friends and be kind. Because aren’t we all tired of ugly?

xx P

 

BLOG TOUR* AN EVERYDAY HERO by LAURA TRENTHAM* RELEASE DAY! EXCERPT!

An Everyday Hero cover image

Always a pleasure to read Laura Trentham’s work. And this was exceptional.

The Story:

Greer Hadley thought by now she would be a big star in Nashville. But after a long struggle with no success, her big moment has passed her by.  At thirty she is back in the town of Madison living with her parents and making bad decisions.

She’s hurt and behaving badly. And one of those lands her in jail and standing before her Uncle Bill in court. Sentenced to community service, Greer is angry and not planning to do anything but pick up trash. But her wise uncle sends her to volunteer at a musical rehab facility for vets and their families.

The problem is Greer has lost her joy in music. So how is she going to help anyone?

Her first two challenges are a 15-year-old whose father did not come home from war. Ally is angry, hurting and acting out. Her mother isn’t handling things very well either.

Emmett was the man in high school. Handsome, athletic and expected to do big things in the military, much like his father and grandfather. But Emmett came home missing more than a limb. He lost himself. Riddled with guilt that shouldn’t be his, he is full of rage and self-loathing. How is Greer supposed to handle that?

By a twist of fate, they all may be able to save each other. Three stubborn and hurting people. Will they get a second chance?

I am so glad I was home alone when I read this. I sobbed. It was painful and uncomfortable and I am so much better for having read this.

A Five Star Read!

Well Done!

NetGalley/February 4th, 2020 by St. Martin’s Griffin

Chapter 1

 

“Disorderly conduct. Public intoxication. Resisting arrest.” Judge Duckett put down the paper, linked his hands, and stared over his reading glasses from his perch behind the bench with a combination of exasperation and fatherly disapproval.

 

Greer Hadley shifted in her sensible heels and smoothed the skirt of the light pink suit she’d borrowed from her mama for the occasion. “I’ll give you the first two, Uncle Bill—” The judge cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me—Judge Duckett—but I did not resist arrest.”

 

“That you recall.” Deputy Wayne Peeler drawled the words out in the most sarcastic, unprofessional manner possible.

 

She fisted her hands and took a deep breath. The impulse to punch Wayne in the face simmered below the surface like a volcano no longer at rest. But ten o’clock on a Monday morning during her arraignment was not the smartest time to lose her temper, and she’d promised herself not to add to her string of bad decisions.

 

She sweetened her voice and bared her teeth at Wayne in the facsimile of a smile. “I recall plenty, thank you very much.”

 

Truth was she didn’t recall the minute details, but the shock of Wayne’s whispered offer on Saturday night to make her troubles go away for a price had done more to sober her up than the couple of hours spent in lockup waiting for her parents.

 

Dressed in his tan uniform, Wayne adjusted his heavy gun belt so often she imagined he got off every night by rubbing his gun. Giving him a badge had only empowered the part of him desperate for respect and approval. His nickname in high school, “the Weasel,” had been well earned.

 

Unfortunately, she was the unreliable narrator of her life at the moment and no one would trust her recollections. Judge Duckett, her uncle Bill by marriage until he and her aunt Tonya had divorced, rustled papers from his desk.

 

The ethics of her former uncle acting as her judge were questionable, especially considering they had remained close even after he’d remarried, but if nepotism is what it took to make this nightmare go away, then she wouldn’t be the one to lodge a complaint.

 

“A witness claimed you were sitting quietly at the end of the bar until a song played on the jukebox. What was the song?” Her uncle glanced at her over his glasses again, which made him look like a stern teacher.

 

“‘Before He Cheats’ by Carrie Underwood.” She forced her chin up.

 

His mouth opened, closed, and he dropped his gaze back to the paper. A murmur broke out behind her.

 

She would not cry. She wouldn’t. She blinked like her life depended on a tear not falling. Later, in the privacy of her childhood bedroom, she would bury her face in the eyelet-covered pillow and let loose.

 

Beau Williams, her cheating ex-boyfriend, was only partially to blame for her embarrassing behavior. It was a confluence of setbacks that had had her holding down the end of the bar. Hearing Carrie’s revenge anthem had hit a nerve exposed by the shots of Jack. Rage had quickened the effects of the alcohol, and that’s when things got fuzzy.

 

“Yes, well. That is a rather … Let’s move on, shall we? The witness also claims after a heartfelt, albeit slurred speech about the vagaries of relationships and how the moral fiber of the Junior League of Madison was frayed, you fed five dollars into the jukebox and played the same song for over an hour. ‘Crazy’ by Patsy Cline, was it?”

 

Ugh. She didn’t recall how much money she’d fed the machine, but it sounded like something she would do. “Crazy” was one of her favorite songs. A master class in conveying emotion through simple lyrics. She was just sorry she’d wasted five dollars on Beau. He didn’t deserve her money, her heart, or Patsy.

 

“No one can fault my taste in the classics.” Greer tried a smile, but her lips quivered and she pressed them together.

 

Her uncle continued to read from the witness statement, “You proceeded to throw two glasses on the floor, shattering them, and attempted to break a chair across the jukebox.”

 

She swallowed hard. A vague picture of a frustratingly sturdy chair surfaced. The fact the chair remained intact while she was falling apart had sent her anger soaring higher and hotter. A glance from her uncle Bill over the paper had her giving him a nod. She couldn’t deny it.

 

He continued, “A patron called 911. When Deputy Peeler arrived, he pulled you away from the jukebox and forced you outside. That’s where, he claims, you kicked him … well, you know where.”

 

“Wayne dragged me down the stairs—”

 

“Deputy Peeler, if you please.” Wayne sniffed loudly.

 

“As Deputy Peeler escorted me down the stairs, I lost my balance and fell. The heel of my shoe jabbed into his crotch. Sorry.” Greer didn’t make an attempt to mask her not-sorry voice with fake respect.

 

If she accused Wayne of misbehavior on the job, he would deny it and spin it somehow to make her look even more irresponsible. Lord knows, she’d embarrassed her parents enough for a lifetime. Anyway, seeing him rolling on the ground and cupping his crotch had been sweet payback.

 

“I sustained an injury where that spike you call a heel caught me.” Wayne half turned toward her.

 

Instead of playing it smart and soothing his delicate male ego, she batted her eyes at him. “I’m sure that’s left the ladies of Madison real upset.”

 

Wayne took a step toward her. “You are such a—”

 

The gavel knocked against the bench and her uncle stood, looming over them. “I’ve heard enough, Deputy. Sit down.”

 

Wayne turned on his heel and left Greer to face her uncle Bill. This was where she would promise such a thing would never happen again, and he would give her a stern warning before dismissing all charges.

 

“I’m striking the resisting arrest charge. It was an accident.”

 

Greer forced herself not to look over her shoulder and stick her tongue out at Wayne. That left only two misdemeanors, which her uncle could expunge with a swipe of his pen.

 

He settled behind the bench and picked up his pen, his gaze on the papers. “You will pay for any damages.”

 

“I’ve already reimbursed Becky.” Technically, she’d had to use her parents’ money, considering she’d crawled home from Nashville broke. “And apologized profusely. You can be assured there will not be a repeat performance. I’ve learned my lesson.”

 

“Good. As for the other charges…”

 

Her deep breath cleansed a portion of the tension across her shoulders, and a smile born of relief appeared.

 

“You will perform fifty hours of community service.”

 

Her smile froze on her face. It sounded like a lot, but she’d been stupid and immature and deserved punishment. “I understand. Clean roads are important.”

 

“Litter pickup? Goodness no.” He took his glasses off and smiled at her for the first time, but it wasn’t the jolly-uncle smile she was familiar with. “You have talents that would be wasted on the side of the road picking up trash, Ms. Hadley. You will spend your fifty hours working at the Music Tree Foundation.”

 

“I’m not familiar with it.” She swallowed. The mention of music set her stomach roiling. “Highway 45 was in terrible shape on my drive in last week.”

 

“The foundation is a nonprofit music program that focuses on helping military veterans and their families cope with the trauma they’ve endured serving our country. They’re in need of volunteer songwriters and musicians.”

 

“I can’t write or play anymore.” Her dream of hearing one of her songs on the radio had died. Not in a blaze of glory but from a slow, torturous starvation of hope. At thirty, she was resigned to finding a real job and cobbling together a normal life in the place she’d tried to leave behind.

 

“My decision is final. As far as I can determine, your brain—despite this lapse in judgment—is in fine working order. You can and will help these men and women heal through your gift of music. Unless you’d rather spend thirty days in county lockup?”

 

Would her uncle actually throw her in jail? For a month? “No, Your Honor, I don’t want to go to county lockup.”

 

“Good. Once you turn in your log with all your hours signed off by the foundation’s manager, your record with this court will be cleared.” He handed her file to a clerk. “Case closed. Next up is docket number fourteen.”

 

She stood there until he met her gaze with his unflinching one. “Go home, Greer.”

 

Her parents were waiting at the door to the courtroom. While they’d faced the horror of having to bail their only child out of jail stoically, her mother’s embarrassment and disappointment were ripe and all-encompassing. Greer wilted and trailed her parents out of the courthouse.

 

She felt like a child. An incompetent, needy child living in her old bedroom and dependent on her parents for emotional and financial support. She thought she’d hit rock bottom many times over the years, but her situation now had revealed new lows.

 

The silence in the car built into a painful crescendo.

 

“The tiger lilies are lovely this year, don’t you think?” Her mother’s attempt at normalcy was strained but welcome.

 

Her father’s hands squeaked along the steering wheel as an answer.

 

Greer huddled in the backseat and stared out the window, the clumps of flowers on the side of the road an orange blur. As a teenager, she’d chafed at her parents’ protectiveness and had wanted nothing more than to escape to Nashville, where she’d been convinced glory and fame awaited. Now she was home and a disappointment not only to her parents but to herself. Even worse, she hadn’t come up with a plan to turn her life around.

 

“Ira Jenkins is back in the hospital. I thought I’d run by and check on him. Since Sarah passed, he seems a shell of the man he once was.” Her mother turned to face the backseat. “Would you like to come with me? I’m sure he’d be happy to see you.”

 

“He won’t remember me, Mama.”

 

“I’m sure he will.”

 

Greer scrunched farther down in the seat. The last thing she wanted was to make small talk with a man she hadn’t seen in years.

 

“You’ll have to get out eventually and face the music.” Her mother’s smile wavered and threatened to turn into tears. “So to speak.”

 

Her mother was trying, which was more than could be said for Greer at the moment. Her parents deserved a better daughter. Someone successful they could brag on at the Wednesday-night potlucks at church. Not a daughter they had to bail out of jail.

 

“I will. I promise. Just not to see Mr. Jenkins.” Greer leaned forward and squeezed her mother’s hand over the seat, needing to give her something to hope for even if Greer wasn’t sure what that might be.

 

Her father cleared his throat. “You need to think about the future.”

 

He ignored her mother’s whispered, “Not now, Frank.”

 

“A job. Or back to school. We’ll put you through nursing or accounting or something useful.” He shifted to meet her gaze in the rearview mirror. “But you can’t keep on like you’re doing. You need a purpose.”

 

“I’ll start looking for a job tomorrow.” School had never been her wheelhouse. She’d been sure she’d make it in Nashville and had never formulated a backup plan.

 

They pulled up to her childhood home, a two-story brick Colonial on the main street of Madison, Tennessee. Oaks had been planted down a middle island like a line of soldiers at attention. They had grown to shade both sides of the street. It was picturesque and cast the imagination back to a time when ladies lounged on porches with their iced tea and gossiped with their neighbors to escape the heat of summer. Air-conditioning had altered that way of life.

 

At one time, as a kid, she’d known every family up and down the street well enough to knock on their door for help or run through their backyard in epic games of tag. Now, though, the houses were being bought up by people who used Madison to escape the bustle of an expanding Nashville. They built pools in the backyards and fences and weren’t outside except to walk their trendy dogs.

 

The march of progress through Madison added to her melancholy sadness. There was a reason not being able to go home again was a recurring theme in books and songs.

 

“We love you, Greer. You know that, don’t you?” Her mother’s voice was tight with emotion, but she didn’t turn around, thank goodness.

 

Her mother never cried and if Greer witnessed tears, she would burst into sobs herself and embarrass everyone.

 

“I know. Thanks for everything. I’m going to do better. Be better.” It seemed a wholly inadequate promise she wasn’t even sure she could keep, but it was all she could manage. She ducked out of the car and skipped around to a side door of the house that was always unlocked.

 

Her room was both a haven and a mocking reminder of the state of her life. Posters of album covers papered the wall behind her bed, the colors faded from the sun and the edges curling with age.

 

In high school, she’d gravitated toward indie folk artists and away from the commercially driven country-music machine located a few miles south. Joan Baez was flanked by Patty Griffin and Dolly Parton. Even though Dolly veered more country than Greer, no one could deny the legend’s songwriting chops. The guitar Greer had hocked for rent money had borne Dolly’s signature like a talisman. Sometimes Greer ached for her guitar like a missing limb.

 

The flashing glimpse of a woman in a pale pink suit stopped her in the middle of the floor. She turned to face the full-length mirror glued to the back of the closet door. God, it was like glimpsing her mom through a time warp.

 

Greer touched the delicate pearls that had been passed down to her on her eighteenth birthday. They were old-fashioned and traditional and stereotypical of a Southern “good girl.” Not her style. She’d left them in her dresser drawer when she’d left home the day after high school graduation.

 

A tug of recognition of the women who had come before her had her clutching the strand in her hand as if something lost were now found. Was it her circumstances or her age growing her nostalgia like a tree setting roots?

 

She turned around to break the connection with the stranger in the mirror, stripped off the pink suit, and pulled on jeans and a cotton oxford. Her mother would appreciate seeing her in something besides the frayed shorts and grungy concert T-shirts she’d lounged around in the last week. She reached behind her neck for the clasp of the necklace, but her hands stilled, then dropped to her sides, leaving the pearls in place.

 

She stepped out of her room and was enveloped in silence. Her father had returned to his insurance office and her mother must have set off for her hospital visit. The house took on an expectant quality, as if waiting for its true owners to return. She was no longer a fundamental part of this world. Not unwelcome, perhaps, but a loose cog in her parents’ lives.

 

She tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen and made herself a ham sandwich. May was too early for fresh tomatoes, but in another month or two her mother’s garden would make tomato sandwiches an everyday treat.

 

Craving an escape, Greer grabbed a book and settled in her favorite window seat. The rest of the afternoon passed in the same expectant silence. The chime of the doorbell made her start and drop her book. If she pretended no one was home, maybe whoever was on the front porch would go away. The last thing she wanted was to face one of Madison’s gossips masquerading as a do-gooder.

 

The creak of the door opening had her bolting to her feet.

 

“Greer? I know you’re home. Are you decent?” Her uncle Bill’s booming voice echoed in the two-story foyer.

 

She propped her shoulder in the doorway of the sunroom. “Letting yourself in people’s houses is a good way of getting shot around here.”

 

“While your mama would have liked to have shot me during the divorce with her sister, I hope we’ve made our peace.” He closed the door behind him and Greer did what she’d wanted to do in the courtroom—she threw herself at him for a hug.

 

He lifted her off her feet and spun her once around. Her laugh hit her ears like a foreign language. It had been too long since she’d laughed from a place of happiness.

 

“You could have just come out to the house. You didn’t have to get arrested to see me.” Bill let her go, and she led him into the sunroom.

 

“Do you want something to drink?” Greer asked, already turning for the kitchen and the fresh brewed pitcher of sweet iced tea.

 

“No, thanks. Mary has fried chicken ready to go in the pan, so I can’t stay long.”

 

Bill had divorced her aunt Tonya more than a decade earlier and married the choir director of the biggest black church in town. A scandal had ensued not because he’d married a black woman, but because he, a long-standing deacon in the Church of Christ, had converted to a heathen Methodist.

 

“How is Mary?”

 

“Always singing.” He shook his head, an indulgent smile on his face, as they settled into their seats.

 

His comment sprinkled salt on an open wound. She’d begged off going to church with her parents because of the questions she was sure to face and the hymns she couldn’t bring herself to sing. Some of her earlier happiness at seeing him leaked out. “Good for her.”

 

“I came to make sure you weren’t mad at me.”

 

“Why would I be mad?”

 

“I got the impression you expected me to dismiss the charges.” His smile turned into a wince.

 

“I wouldn’t have been upset if you had, but I get it. I was an idiot and deserve punishment.” She picked at the fringe on a decades-old needlepoint pillow and cast him a pleading glance. “I’d rather pick up trash, though, if it’s all the same to you.”

 

“It’s not the same to me.” He crossed his long legs and tapped a finger on the cherry armrest of the antique chair that looked ready to surrender at any moment to his bulk. “Do you remember Amelia Shelton?”

 

“Mary’s daughter? She was a couple of years ahead of me in school. We didn’t hang out or anything, but she seemed nice.” Greer couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Amelia. Greer’s side of the family had skipped Bill and Mary’s small wedding ceremony; the acrimony between him and her aunt Tonya hadn’t faded at that point.

 

“Amelia is the founder and director of the Music Tree Foundation and is desperate for qualified volunteers. You’ve been playing and singing and writing music since you were knee high. It was meant to be.”

 

“It’s not meant to be. I’ve got to get a real job.”

 

Her uncle made a scoffing sound. “You’re too much like my Mary. You could never leave music behind.”

 

“Music dumped me on the side of the road, gave me the finger, and peeled out.” Greer shook her head and touched the string of pearls, her gaze on his polished black dress shoes. “I’m a mess, Uncle Bill. I have nothing to offer. In fact, I’ll probably make things worse for whatever poor soul I get paired with.”

 

She expected him to argue, but he seemed to be weighing the truth in her words like the scales of justice. His shrug wasn’t in the least reassuring. “Amelia has done something really special with her foundation. It might do you a world of good to focus on someone besides yourself.”

 

“Dang, that’s harsh.”

 

He patted her knee. “I’ve seen all kinds come through my courtroom. The ones who turn it around are the ones who quit feeling sorry for themselves.”

 

“But—”

 

“But nothing. Beau is an asshole. Not the first or the last you’re likely to encounter. Don’t you deserve better than him?”

 

“Yes?” She wished she’d been able to put more conviction into the word.

 

Beau was successful, nice-looking—even though a bald spot was conquering his hair day by day—and respected in their town. They’d known each other since high school, but had only started dating in the last year.

 

He was solid and steady and comfortable. Three things lacking from her life. Catching him cheating with the president of the Junior League had been another seismic shift in her world, leaving her unsure and off balance.

 

“If you can’t believe in yourself yet, then believe me. You are talented, Greer, and you have the ability to help people find their voice.” He slipped a card out of his wallet. When she didn’t reach for it, he waved it in her face until she took it.

 

A tree styled with musical symbols of all different colors decorated one side of the card. She ran her thumb over the raised black ink of Amelia’s name and an address on the outskirts of Nashville. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

 

“Not if you want to stay in my—and the court’s—good graces. She’s expecting you tomorrow at three.”

 

“No rest for the wicked, huh?” Her smile was born of sarcasm.

 

Bill rose and ruffled her hair like he had when she was little. “Not wicked. Lost.”

 

Greer walked him out, brushed a kiss on his cheek, and murmured her thanks. She leaned on the porch rail and waved until he disappeared down the street.

 

I once was lost, and now I’m found. She’d sung “Amazing Grace” so many times that the lyrics had ceased to have an impact. But, standing on her childhood front porch, having come full circle, a shiver went down her spine, and goose bumps broke over her arms despite the heat that wavered over the pavement like a mirage. Her granny would have said that someone had walked over her grave. Maybe so. Or maybe change was a-coming whether she wanted to face up to it or not.

 

Copyright © 2020 by Laura Trentham

 

Hello Friday! You are looking especially nice today!

20170413_141656-COLLAGE

We made it to Friday!! Woo-Hoo! The sun is shining brightly and I am wearing shorts. Okay, they are gym shorts but they count.

This has been a week. I have not watched any anxiety-inducing news shows. I have started Season 6 of Schitt’s Creek. Finished The Witcher, and Dracula. I wasn’t impressed with Dracula. I like my vampires more refined.

I just finished An Everyday Hero by Laura Trentham from St. Martin’s and I am so happy I was home alone because I cried like a baby! This one has all the feels and is so timely.

We are already looking toward Valentine’s Day and Mardi Gras. Photoshoots are coming together for both. Since OU Boy’s birthday is February 21st, it will be a King Cake birthday!

We lost his aunt this week. She is about 59 or was. This one I didn’t know too well. All I know is she has been dying for the 17 years I’ve known the family and I still don’t know why. His sweet Uncle Kevin was in a diabetic coma for a bit but is doing some better. Turns out he found out he was a diabetic a while back and never told anyone, including his wife! I would not want to be around when she gets done with him!

There has been a lot of sadness this week, so this weekend just blast the world with love.

Enjoy and be kind.

xx P

 

Bigelow’s Benefits Teas!

It has been a hot minute since we talked about some tea! And I received more than my share for the holidays!

Let’s talk about the Refresh.  Why is it great? It contains Dandelion, thought to promote healthy harmony. Nettle, a unique plant traditionally regarded to help support a healthy lifestyle. Turmeric, brilliant yellow root commonly thought to help keep the body on track. Turmeric is something we have every day in food and teas. It has a ton of good uses. I even brush my teeth with it. Chili/Black Pepper supports your well being. Matcha, traditional green tea known to energize the body. It’s my own opinion that they each have a lot to offer health-wise. Plus it’s really good!

My friend Casey and I have a huge love of anything tea and this weekend we shared our stashes in pictures. Now she wants my tea cart. You can pick one up at a restaurant supply company for a song. Each of the rows has space for 6 boxes of tea. So in every row you see, there are 5 or more teas behind the lead tea. And that isn’t including the Harney and Sons Royal Palace Collections. The box underneath is an antique French hot chocolate set with matching cups, plates and spoons.

The only bad weather we had was rain and we really needed that. Our daffodils are about 6 inches out of the ground and the sun is saying “It’s Spring!”But the wind is saying, “Wanna bet?”

Jerome the gnome is overseeing this rich, smoky Lapsang Souchong from Harney and Sons Teas and I loved this ARC so much I read it twice. And cried. The smokiness of the tea smells like a campfire and was perfect with this tale!

Happy Monday Y’all!

Be Nice!

xx P