Prior to my trip to Lewes,

I made a trip to the thrift store.  It's a frequent activity of mine, hauling odds and ends to this place that welcomes the "stuff" that no longer feels welcome in my possession.  It's odd, Reader Dear, how I never seem to run out of this "stuff".
After I had carried my filled bags and boxes into the donation area, I parked my car and walked around to the front entrance of the store.

Now, I usually preach myself a little sermon when I drop things off at the store, and today was no exception.  "Dropping things off is only half the equation, you know," I told myself.  "This place would not be able to function if persons only donated and no one ever went into the store to shop. Go on in!  It won't hurt to look around.  If you find anything to buy, you can keep this loop of donations going."

During this particular trip that I'm telling you about, Dear Reader, it wasn't until I had perused most of the store before something caught my eye.  It was in the far back of the store--the toy section-- that I saw it:  a big see-through zippered bag filled with brightly-colored plastic balls.  So many balls!  I was attracted by the sheer quantity. The price tag said four dollars.
The price was right!
The timing was right!
I walked out of that store with eighty-nine brightly-colored plastic balls*!

My plan was to carry these balls along to Lewes and surprise all my little actors with them.
I'll just tell you right away, Dear Reader, the plan was a good one.
It was a success!

It's hard to say who had the most fun--me doing the presentation, or all the small ones scooping up the balls rolling everywhere and sending them flying around the room.
.................

The following morning, the actors and I re-did the scene for filming.  However, the element of surprise was missing.  Please understand, Viewer Dear, though my actors are terrific at what they do, the glee and delight of that very first dumping of the balls was too difficult to re-create.  In the original, there were lots of shouts of surprise and exultation, missing from this short show. You'll have to use your imagination.

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*Counted after purchase.

The Historical Month

 of October, 2018.
 It's a fact, Reader Dear, that now the month is history, and will remain so forever . 

Starting October off was a bonfire, because every year when the weather turns chilly, The Yard Man turns to planning one of these conflagrations.  He likes the well-rounded food: hotdogs and hamburgers, with marshmallows for dessert.  And he always likes building a big fire in the meadow and adding logs.

......................
Just days later, we took a delightful trip back to Lewes, Delaware.  It's where there's a bay and an ocean, if you will recall.  We stayed in a different rental house this year, but it's the same spot where The Yard Man and I took all of our offspring exactly a year ago. Once again, we had five days of frolicking fun.

Fortunately, we had weather that felt like summer, which is just what one would order to go with water and beaches and sidewalk sales and an arts-and-crafts fair and bicycling and a hiking trail and a big playground and a nearby ice cream barn. 

Columbus Day weekend arrived soon after we did; there was a lot going on!

There was the birthday pie.

There were the birthday candles that kept re-lighting.

There were all those hours at the water.  The aquatic museum.  The toy store in town that was running a terrific sidewalk sale.


 There was that treasure hunter I spied in the water!*
There was the ball we had with the balls!*
(Detailed explanation to follow, Reader Dear*)

*To be continued...

If You're Fortunate Enough to Have Sisters.

I've got two of them, Dear Reader.   One is older.  One is younger.  During the last few days of October, we did something we have never done before in our whole entire lives of being sisters!  

We took a trip together, and we spent three days together sans other family members.  (Well, to be honest, we did spend a morning with one of our two brothers.  But it was brief, the time we spent with him.)  Most of the time, it was just us, strolling around Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia.

We ate meals at the fanciest place in town:  The Williamsburg Inn.  And we stayed at a very nice bed-and-breakfast.

Now, Williamsburg is a spot that we visited many times in our growing-up years.  (We lived nearby).  But, naturally, we didn't spend any time overnight there, previous to this trip.


Due to the weather (fabulous!)
And the short time with our brother (the one who could join us briefly)!
And the chance to be together (we all live in different states)!
And the historic spot ("historic" being interpreted in more ways than one)!
And  the viewing of all the home movies from our childhood years (which elder sister had updated with technology [put them all on a DVD, for ease of viewing])!
And the delightful food and wine (food spots that we knew from our historical association with this place)!

It was a very pleasing three days (five,  if you count the coming and going)!

Sisters!

The home movies, shown via large screen, in the breakfast room for all guests to enjoy!

If you've got sisters (or brothers, as the case may be), I highly recommend such an endeavor to you, Reader Dear!  I can't guarantee it will go as smoothly as this trip of mine, but it's worth the gamble (I'd say)!
........................................................

Want to Hear the Good, the Bad,

or the Ugly, Reader Dear?

I've always referred to my job of landlording as a "study in human behavior".  While the study, at times, is daunting (sometimes to the point where I must question my sanity in continuing on) one thing the study never yields is boredom.

Last week when I visited each tenant's door to offer them information on a local political candidate that I felt would be the very best person to elect to represent our state, I was startled by the Grim Reaper who popped up to greet me at door number sixty-seven!

Stamped Out!

At the local post office, where I pick up the rent checks from my reliable and responsible tenants, and where I ship out my minor works of art,  a new postmaster was installed.

I was sorry to see the old postmaster go.  Over the decades, we had become friends.   I knew I would miss our chats.  Then, too, he long ago learned to know the  tenant of mine who always brings his rent checks into the post office in person.  My tenant arrives with an unaddressed envelope; he hands it across the counter and asks that it be put in my box.

The postmaster knew, too, that I am always interested in the latest designs arriving from the United States Postal Service.  He knew my affinity for always using stamps rather than postal strips, no matter the number of stamps needed.  He often informed me of new stamps he thought I would appreciate.  And it was he who, a few years ago, told me that stamps could be affixed to any spot on the top of a box.

"You mean I can put them down here?!" I responded with incredulity, pointing to the lower edge of the package.  "And here?!!" gesturing to the left side of the address label.

When he assured me that, indeed, I could make any kind of design I wished, could place the stamps wherever I pleased, I was pleased as punch, Reader Dear!

Thus, for years I've been bringing my birthday, Christmas, and valentine packages to the postmaster, having him weigh them and tell me the postage needed, then returning later with the stamp-covered parcels to mail out.

The new postmaster is a postmistress, if one wishes to call her such.  Sharon is friendly and accommodating, and she always totes up the stamps in a pleasant manner.   She doesn't openly admire my artwork as the old postmaster did, but neither has she ever disallowed it.

Now, this:

Last week I had a birthday box to decorate and send to a sister of mine in southern Virginia.  I took it to the post office.  Sharon weighed it for me and gave me the total stamp value required.  

I had already wrapped the box in a city map. It was such a pretty shade of green.  I chose stamps in shades of orange and green.

It was close to closing time when I brought the parcel back to the post office to send it out.  Sharon was no longer at the window; another woman was there.  I've seen her in the post office occasionally, filling in for Sharon.  Or supervising, perhaps.  

She looked at my package and frowned.  

"Sharon weighed it for me earlier," I explained.  "I've got seven-seventy-nine on there."  

 I had jotted a list of  the stamps, Reader Dear (I know that whoever she is, she's your employee, too, if you live in the USA and pay taxes).  I like to treat my employees well, and I started to show her the list:  Five standard 50-cent forever stamps. One stamp worth $1.15  (the lovely green succulent).  Two 37s and a 39.

"Oh, no, no,"  she cut me short.  "We can't have this!" She waved her hand at my carefully-placed stamps.  "These all need to be in the upper right-hand corner!  They are required to be right here!" she reiterated, and placed her hands emphatically around the upper right quadrant of the box top.  Reader Dear, I was being scolded for my artwork, much like a small child who has crayoned a masterpiece on the bedroom wall!

"But., but...the previous postmaster told me they could be anywhere on the top," I said indignantly.  "I've been doing this for years!" 

Undaunted, she insisted that it was the rule.   There was just no way I could be allowed to scatter stamps helter-skelter all over the top of an outgoing USPS parcel!  

Only a little less vehemently, I insisted that I'd been given instructions to the contrary.

Then the woman told me, "They are likely to throw this package out as suspicious."

"Are you serious?!" I asked, truly curious.

"Yes," she responded.  "All these stamps!  It could have been mailed by a terrorist."

Dear Reader,  I think I may have giggled a little nervously.     

"Four love stamps, and...and popsicles, for heaven's sake.  A terrorist?!"  I exclaimed.   

 (I got serious quickly, however.  I did not wish to be handcuffed).

"Well, and this shouldn't be wrapped in printed paper, either," she grumbled.   She did, however, start adding up my stamps.  She disregarded my written list.

Ultimately, Reader Dear, she grudgingly mailed out the package as designed.

In the process, she may have stamped her foot just hard enough to stamp out my practice of stamping all my parcels.*

**********************'

* I stamped out of that place, pondering what's to be done with my colossal collection of vintage postage stamps.  Going forward, Dear One, keep your eyes open for the plain brown wrapper and the postal strip!