One night last week, through some oversight, our front porch light got left on overnight. I woke up in the almost-dark and even though that little bit of light troubled my sleep, I wouldn't get out of bed to come downstairs to turn it off.
Remember when everybody left their front porch lights on all night? Why did they do that?
Was it for their own protection, to enable them to see intruders knocking at the door? Or was it a quaint practice held over from the days of hobos and community and hail good fellow well met?
Another odd thing. In those days when the whole family went out and planned not to be home until after dark, the one light that was left on was the light on the kitchen stove. Anybody passing the house would have known there was no one home; the house had a look of waiting with the light on for us. Surely that dim little light was no impediment to would-be burglars.
I wonder: What was the point?
Liverwurst is not the very best kibble mix-in to entice failing-kidney-poodles to eat. The protein makes them pee frequently. And a lot. Their little bladders fill up fast, the kidneys being unable to concentrate the high-protein waste material. And the inevitable race to the door, a great percentage of the time, inevitably, fails. The solution is potato mix-in with the kibble! The veterinarian suggested it to me to try to get a little meat back on Max's dwindling frame.
If I had known these dogs would eat potato with such relish I would have saved myself countless supper and breakfast wars over the years.
If you wander around looking at enough trees, you'll see how they catch and hold their own (and other trees') dead branches.
Those limbs hang suspended, completely disconnected from the original structure, through windstorms, ice storms, snowstorms.
The living tree greens up, hosts birds and squirrels, goes on with its life, all the time holding up the dead weight.
I am glad glad glad that mammal amputees don't do that.
I might be the last person on earth to learn that I can watch movies online for free. On Thursday evening, I enjoyed 1937's Topper.
The shoulder pads.
The luxe automobiles.
That accent. What is that dialect the actors used in those old movies? Part British-y, part old money New England, meant to indicate upper class breeding and lifestyle.
I love it all.
I gather, however, that if I overdo this new pleasure, the monthly cost of our cell phone contract (through which I have my computer connection) will go through the roof.
That's all right: Any pleasure, too much indulged, becomes less pleasurable.
Long before I was the sundries supplier for the household in which I lived, my family devotedly consumed certain brand names.
Prell shampoo, Tide laundry detergent, Crest toothpaste, Ivory liquid for dishes, Dial soap. Procter & Gamble had our household sewed up.
I'm still stuck on Tide, and Dial soap's scent, although it is not the only soap we use, feels like going home.
In the early 1950s Dial was yellow.
When it began to be produced in colors, I recall asking my mother, in great puzzlement, why blue soap didn't make blue bubbles.
My preference in Dial soap is still . . . yellow.
When we built this house, I envisaged and demanded that the downstairs bathroom be yellow and white. Nothing in the room would be other than yellow, white or green. One of my rules for the bathroom was that the soap in use would be yellow Dial soap. That rule's long gone by the wayside, but last week I did find in the closet one remaining bar of the stuff, and temporarily replaced my [green] Emeraude shower soap with it. Nice.
Yesterday I bought a multi-pack of Dial. I spent an embarrassing amount of time in the soap aisle debating over color: yellow or white? Pink was out of the question.
I checked the scent: same with both. Would the white soap be as comforting to my senses as good old yellow?
I bought the white. If I don't like it . . . if it doesn't make me feel like a safe, comforted child when I use it every morning, I will be sad until it's used up.