Silent Night, Holy Night

Merry Christmas!

The Bruncheon

An illustration from my new book.  The badge on the right of the blog page will lead you to it.

Storybook Cottage

A place for little lambs to heal. . .

Credits for images used in this composite (the bench and stepping stones are my photos):

Cool old paper grunge abstract texture © Kirill Alperovich

Princess © Aaleksander  
Sheep © Jean Schweitzer  
In the Garden © Joshua Haviv  
Old cover of book isolated on white © Larisa Lofitskaya
Isolated butterflies © Imv  
Green Abstract   © Elena Ray
All images from Dreamstime.com

Princess Banquet

You never know who you might be entertaining. . .

The Fairy Party

Tinkerbell, mid-flutter, welcoming the guests.  Everyone wore sparkly jewelry, sipped on pink punch and nibbled on pieces of a birthday cake with wings (yes, the cake had wings, not the people!  except for the birthday girl, and of course, the fairies).  A fun time was had by all!

Good Morning, Sunshine!

Life is good!

Butterfly Garden #2

Enjoy the last warm days of summer!

See the title link for image credits.

The Magnificent Obsession

"I am my beloved's, And his desire is toward me." Songs 7:10

Garden Jewels

A little impression of summer before summer turns into fall. I'm so grateful for all the rain we're getting in Florida~ it makes everything so green!

Pizza At Lily's Pad

Hope you're hungry!

Tea and Mystery

I thought I'd share a wonderful website I happened upon today~ all about tea, tea parties, etc., with lots of links. I love mystery, but I also like to find great info, and this has a wealth of it! Enjoy! http://teas2dine4.com/

Floating Flower

I wish you the joy that comes from knowing your true identity.

The Emerald Forest

Every once in a while, a picture seems to make itself. This was one of those!

Click on the title link for image credits.

Sitting Room With Pink Stripes

There is something therapeutic about cutting pictures out of magazines, and the colour pink.

Euphonia

I heard her serenade as a young child, and I followed her into the land of Music.

"Euphonia" is a photo composite using my photos and some licensed images from Dreamstime.com See title link for credits.

By Karen Gladys Henry © 2009. All rights reserved.

Meet Me In The Garden At Midnight

Just a little hint for someone. . . you know who you are!

Fairytale Sunrise

Inner reality expressed is what creates the atmosphere of our lives.

Cloud 9

I finally discovered where Cloud 9 is! It's where your "head" and your "heart" agree!

Emily's Mountain (a short story)

Emily woke up early as she usually did, before the sun had even considered rising. She swallowed the pills she kept by her bedside, the ones that helped her joints. She lay there in the dark, thinking of things she would like to do, mostly things she couldn’t do anymore. She thought of her grandchildren, all in highschool now, all beautiful and strong and talented. She missed them. She prayed for grace to make the best of her day.

Emily couldn’t lay there very long without having to get up and do something. She got up slowly, enjoying the few moments of relative comfort before she had to deal with the pain of moving around. She put on the bunny slippers she had bought when the youngest grandkids were still toddlers. The slippers made her smile. They were showing the signs of age, just as she was, only they didn’t care. Their ears flopped down crazily instead of standing straight up as they once did.

Emily couldn’t help chuckling to herself as she got up and began to shuffle to the kitchen. "Do your ears hang low" was running through her head. It had been a long time since she’d thought of it. She put on a pot of coffee, not that she would drink more than a cup of it, but she enjoyed the aroma so much. It was part of her morning ritual, along with feeding the cat– who was making figure eights around her feet already– and turning on the computer.

As her coffee gurgled and sputtered in the coffee maker, Emily brushed her long silver hair. It went down to the middle of her back and was still thick and wavy. She had never missed a day of brushing it since her mother started her doing it when she was five. She was glad she could still manage it, though she wished it didn’t take her so long now. She hoped she never had to get it cut. Her long hair was the only thing that made her feel still beautiful.

Emily got up and poured herself a cup of coffee, adding extra cream to her cup, as she was feeling positive that the day would bring her something special. She smiled as she read a few verses from her worn Bible. Then she started a grocery list for her oldest son to refer to when he did her weekly shopping. She fixed some toast and carefully carried the toast and coffee over to the computer that her youngest son had set up for her. She was grateful that she had it, as it was her main connection to the world.

The sun was just beginning to peek through the trees as the computer whirred to a start. The coffee tasted especially good, and Emily’s feeling of anticipation grew. She opened her email, as she did every morning, and wrote a short message to each of her ten grandchildren. It felt good to have such a special relationship with each of them. She didn’t want to miss any opportunity of staying connected with them. There was something so gratifying to think she could impart some of her hard-earned wisdom to a younger generation, wisdom she felt she had been lacking when she was a young mother.

Emily chatted with a few online friends as she always did, doing her best to be an encouragement to those she had some contact with. She spent some time praying for them, and about some troubling items in the news too, and of course, for her family. It helped her not to fret about things, and she knew she had some impact in the world this way, even though no one else would know about it. She had never been an ambitious person, but now that her husband was gone, she needed to have a purpose for living.

Having accomplished these things, Emily now felt she could take a bit of time for herself. She went to her favorite place on the internet, an art gallery. Emily’s youngest son, the computer tech, had showed her how to set up her own radio program, and she turned on some classical music to accompany her browsing.

Emily loved to look at the different kinds of paintings– some were reproductions of classics and some were contemporary originals. She liked so many different styles! She wished she had learned to paint, but she hadn’t. Even though her children often encouraged her to try, she felt that with the arthritis, it just wasn’t worth the struggle. So she soaked in the artworks others had made, and she knew that being an art appreciator was just as important as being an artist.

Emily was studying her favorite painting when she heard a rumble outside. At first she didn’t notice it, but then she heard truck doors slamming. Soon there was a knock on her back door. Emily was startled, but gathering her courage, she went to see who it was. Opening the door, she saw the bright sun outlining the figures of two delivery men holding a very large cardboard package. It was taller than they were.

"Please sign here, ma’am," one of the men said as he held out a pen to her. She signed, shaking with excitement. Watching her slowly write, one of the men decided she needed help, so they offered to bring the package into the house. Emily nodded, showed them where to put it, and then closed the door behind them. Slightly bewildered, Emily sat down on the recliner to think about this new development. She remembered the feeling of expectation she’d had earlier that morning, and smiled to herself.

Opening the box was quite a challenge for Emily. She found a utility knife and put on some gloves to protect her delicate hands. Then she began hacking away at the cardboard and strapping tape. In her excitement, she hadn’t thought to look at the mailing label. It didn’t matter much to her where it had come from, as to Emily, it was a gift from God.

After some strenuous effort, Emily had the contents of the box out where she could see it. She could hardly believe her eyes! Before her, larger than she had imagined it, was the very painting she had just been admiring in the online gallery. It was her very favorite, and it was the original!

The painting was as tall as she was, and Emily just stood there, breathless, staring at it. She still couldn’t take in the reality that this was the painting she had been visiting over and over for months, and here it was in her living room. It was hers! Suddenly, she sank into the chair and burst into tears. Emily sobbed and sobbed until all the tears in her were cried out. Then, blowing her nose, she got up and went into the kitchen. All the excitement and crying had made her hungry.

Emily ate a salad and drank a big glass of water. She felt she had regained some of her strength and composure, although she had to take an extra pill to ease the strain on her joints. She knew she would have to wait for someone to come hang the painting for her, but in the meantime, she wanted to put it where she could sit and enjoy it comfortably. How happy she was! She scooted the big canvas across the carpet and with a little difficulty, got it up on the couch. Then she sat down to contemplate the beauty in all of its big, bright, overwhelming reality.

The painting was done with acrylics in a surreal style. It was picture of a mountaintop in bright, early morning sunshine. Growing on top of the mountain was a tree– a pear tree, which was blossoming and fruiting at the same time. It was very magical looking, as you wouldn’t find a pear tree on top of a mountain, and anyway, it wasn’t your usual kind of pear tree. In another part of the picture, there was a waterfall. This also was unexpected, of course, especially since the waterfall seemed to come out of the sky! On the left side of the painting was a little white lamb. He seemed to be looking out at the viewer, beckoning.

The painting had always grabbed Emily, and even though she knew the artist had other works in the gallery, this was the one that had always called to her. She loved the title too, as it had meaning plus a little humor: "The Prayer Tree" it was named. Now "The Prayer Tree" was hers and Emily was beside herself with joy! Tears sprang to her eyes again, and she lifted up a prayer of thanks. Propping up her feet in the comfy recliner, she cupped her hands around the mug of tea she’d brought in from the kitchen. Contentedly she gazed at the painting, feeling her life would always be better now she had it as her own.

As she relaxed, Emily began to hear the birds chirping outside. They sounded so close! She could hear the fountain in the next room, and the trickling sounded as good to her as a mountain stream. Emily felt a cool breeze blow across her face. There was a sweet scent in the breeze. She recognized that scent– what was it? Suddenly she realized she was on the mountaintop. She was in the painting! Or else she was in the same scene as the painting. . . but wherever she was, she was no longer at home.

At first Emily thought she was dreaming, but then she realized that her joints were still stiff and achy, and she knew if she were having a dream that she would have made certain she felt perfectly fine in it. Then she realized she was also still holding her mug of tea! She decided to drink it while it was still hot, so she sat down on a rock and looked around her. The rock was rather cold, but she was so astounded to be in that place that it didn’t matter at all.

Emily had sat down near the Pear Tree, which was even more wonderful when experienced in real life. It was very tall and leafy, with new spring-green leaves popping out all over it. It was also covered in pretty white blossoms that were impossibly large. The fragrance they were exuding into the early morning mountain air was sweet, fresh, and invigorating. She took a deep breath. How glorious this place was! Emily had always loved the painting, but this was real and clear and vibrantly alive. The colors were brilliant and everything was perfect. She was totally enraptured.

As she finished her tea, which seemed dull by comparison, a flapping of wings and a cooing sound next to her made her start, and then she saw the pure white dove. It was perched beside her with a very large ripe pear in its beak! Very carefully, the dove placed the pear on the rock and flew up into the tree. She waved in thanks and bit into the pear– it was as luscious as the scent it gave off, and extremely juicy. The pear was obviously very nourishing, for she felt better than she had in some time.

The fragrance of the pears and the blooms together seemed to be a sort of music in this place, and the song of it got into her molecules and made them vibrate with joy. Emily realized that she had been so caught up in the wonder of being on the top of this mountain that she hadn’t really noticed the water falling all around. It seemed to fall from the Pear Tree itself, rushing into a chasm nearby. It seemed to fall from the clouds, from the sky and from some high, distant rocks that were almost invisible to her. The sound of the waterfalls was like a great music that mingled with the fragrant music coming from the pears and flowers. Even though there was water cascading all around, it didn’t get her wet; she could however feel a light mist in the air, a mist that shimmered with light.

Light shone from the rising sun that was lighting up the fluffy clouds in the morning sky, tinting them with opalescent pinks, corals and greens. Light emanated from the Pear Tree too. It seemed more alive to her than an ordinary tree. She wanted to touch it, but hesitated, not knowing what would happen if she did. As she thought about this she began to hear a voice in the fragrant music, a voice that said "Touch me, taste me, know me. . . I am for you." It became a song in Emily’s mind, that wound in upon itself, creating harmonies and counter-melodies that were ingenious and exquisitely lovely. She was enthralled.

Emily decided at last to get up and walk around. There was much more to this scenery than what was captured in the painting. She walked slowly around the tree, taking in its glory. From the corner of her eye, she noticed that there were other people there on the mountain top. They paid her no attention, so she left them alone to enjoy the morning.

She walked towards an outcropping of rock and sat down on a large boulder, not too close to the edge. Looking out over the valley, Emily could see a town in the distance, and she thought how lovely it must be to live there. Then she realized that she could see her own town, and even her own house, even though she lived nowhere near the mountains. Her eyes adjusted to focusing on the distances, and she realized she could see many different places she knew, even foreign places.

Emily meditated on this for a while, completely unaware of any time passing. It was dawning on her where she was, and that she had been here before. She simply hadn’t been able to see it until now. She was getting a little warm in the sunshine, and not wanting to get a sunburn, Emily got up and started to wander back to the Pear Tree. If she’d had any thought of how she would get home, it had not disturbed her. She was at perfect peace.

The tree still seemed to be singing, and now she could hear it calling her name, and her name mingled into the song and became part of it. She went down to the tree, having to climb some rocks in order to get to it. That took her a while, and she was careful not to fall. When at last she was near the tree, she felt a strange warmth and vibration, almost like an electrical charge or magnetic field, but with none of the unpleasant characteristics of those. It was power, though, and it occurred to her that it was love.

Feeling braver now, Emily leaned against the tree, placing her palms against its rough bark. She was sure now that the tree had personality, and she heard not only one voice, but a mingling of a multitude of voices all singing the same intricately woven melodies. It was breathtaking and compelling, but she felt she could not take much more of it without weeping again. She felt such a part of the song that she thought she might join in, but she didn’t understand the words.

Emily wasn’t used to standing for long at a time. She was glad she hadn’t had to hike up this mountain. Sitting down on the rock she had first chosen, she rested and began then to wonder how she had been so lucky to come to this place, and how she would get home. "Don’t worry about that," a kind voice said. It was very close to her right ear. She turned towards it and saw the lamb. It looked much larger to her than it did in the painting, but she barely noticed that as she was caught up into a conversation with her new acquaintance.

"Is this your mountain?" Emily asked.

"It is as much mine as it is yours," the lamb replied.

The lamb led Emily over to a soft patch of grass, and they made themselves comfortable on the warming earth. Emily and the lamb talked and talked, discussing many personal things. She was not surprised at all that the lamb seemed to know her intimately. He was full of wisdom and was glad to share it with her. The sun was high in the sky before the lamb rose and stretched its legs, looking at Emily in a way that made her realize she would soon be going back.

"Come, listen to the tree again," called the lamb to her in its friendly way. Emily did so, and to her delight, she could now understand more of the words that the voices were singing. She began to sing with them, thrilled with the way the song carried her along in an ecstasy of oneness. Then she stopped. She heard something else far away and she wanted to listen. What was it?

Suddenly, Emily realized it was the phone ringing and that she was back in her recliner in her living room. The painting was still there, looking even more vibrant and delightful than before. She reached over and picked up the receiver:

"Mom, hi!" she heard on the other side. "Did you get a big package delivery yet? I just wanted to check."

"Hi, Gracie!" Emily answered enthusiastically. "I sure did! Did you send that?"

"Yes, we all pitched in together to get the painting for you. Happy Mother’s Day!"

"Mother’s Day? Oh, my! I didn’t realize that was today! You snuck up on me!"

"It’s not today, Mom, it’s Sunday, but this is as close as we could get with the delivery people. So, do you like it?"

"Like it! It. . . it’s astonishing! How on Earth did you know to get that one? It’s my very favorite one in that art gallery I love to peruse. Well, now I guess it’s not there any more, is it? It’s right here!" Emily was so excited again that she jumped up out of her chair and hopped over to the painting so she could look at it closely again and describe it to Gracie.

"It’s more than amazing, Gracie! It’s. . . it’s. . ."and then she began to wonder if she wanted to tell her daughter about actually being in the painting. What if it had only been a dream? She really couldn’t tell. . . but, it had been so real. . .

"Mom, are you OK?" asked a concerned voice on the other end.

"Oh, yes, Gracie, I’m fine, I’m just. . . how did you know?"

"A little birdie told us, Mom, a little birdie! But you do like it– I’m so glad! Hey, Mom, I was wondering if we could take you out for Mother’s Day. Do you want to?"

Emily had realized, while she had been talking to Gracie, that she was thirsty, very thirsty. She had gone into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, guzzling it down. Then she had gone into the hall and looked into the mirror. Her face was quite a bit sunburned! Then, with a gasp, she realized she had been walking and moving about with ease, quickly, and without a bit of stiffness.

Emily dropped the phone and began to run up and down the hallway. Gracie could hear whooping noises through the receiver, and was about to call 911 when Emily remembered her and picked up the phone again. "I’m healed, I’m healed, Gracie! I went into the painting and I’m healed!"

Gracie began to wonder if her mother was delirious or had overdosed on her pills. "Mom, what did you say? Are you alright?"

"Gracie, I’m healed! I’ve had a spiritual experience, or something, with that painting. I met Jesus I think, as the Lamb. The arthritis is gone. . . completely, praise the good Lord!" Emily wanted to sing and dance– she couldn’t contain her joy.

"I’m coming right over! Mom. . . I love you! And, well. . . Happy Mother’s Day!"

The End

"Emily’s Mountain" is a work of fiction by Karen Gladys Henry ©2009.
"The Prayer Tree" is a composite artwork by Karen Gladys Henry ©2008. See title link. All Rights Reserved.

Friendship

"Affection is responsible for nine-tenths of whatever solid and durable happiness there is in our lives." C.S. Lewis

Spirea Falls

Irish Blessing:

May the blessing of the rain be on you—

the soft sweet rain.

May it fall upon your spirit

so that all the little flowers may spring up,

and shed their sweetness on the air.

May the blessing of the great rains be on you,

may they beat upon your spirit

and wash it fair and clean,

and leave there many a shining pool

where the blue of heaven shines,

and sometimes a star.

http://www.irishcultureandcustoms.com/Blessings/Bless.html

Toccata in C# Minor, First Movement

Some visual music to brighten your day!

The Sands of Time

Art frees us from the confines of dimensional space. We can look up and down at the same time, or in and out. In that way, it helps us see that there is more to existence than meets the physical eye.

Sunrise Tea

A lovely sunrise and some strong tea are a nice way to start the day. I'm having Irish Breakfast today! Hope your day is glorious!!

Bouquet Globe

I like those fancy glass paper weights, but they're too expensive. So I made one out of pixels instead. I guess that's a little more practical for me, since I don't write or draw on paper anymore! Word processors and graphics software rock! Pixel flowers, however, do not beat the real ones.

Sheba's Room

My cat, Sheba, lives outside mostly, but if she lived in the Matrix, this would be a projection of her residual self-image: princess-diva!

The Garden of Rest

One day, a bright and sunny one, a young man was taking his daily walk. He tried to do this every day, in spite of his busy schedule, so he could stay in shape. It was part of his orderly lifestyle, which he considered exemplary. He walked briskly, taking deep steady breaths, mulling over a business problem as he went, so as not to waste time.

After a while, he looked around and realized he was in a place he was not familiar with. I must have been lost in my calculations, he thought to himself, slightly disconcerted. He found he was walking along a high, ivy covered wall he'd never seen before. Slowing, he noticed he had come to what appeared to be the entrance of a garden. It wasn't gated, and it certainly looked inviting!

The young man had to admit to himself that he was unusually tired and sweaty, and desiring to sit down and regain his composure, he stood in the archway hesitating to enter someone's private property. He looked around to see if he could find the owner's name anywhere. Above the arched entry, nestled in the ivy, was a terracotta plaque. On it was impressed, simply, the word "Rest".

As he stood there, wondering, a friendly looking man appeared, smiling, and waved him in. "Hello, there! Come on in and take a load off!" The man said cheerily. He was dressed in jeans and a loosely woven shirt rolled up to the elbows. He was tan and had on leather work gloves and an apron with some gardening tools in it. He must be the gardener, thought the young man to himself. I wonder who this garden belongs to? But before he got a chance to ask, the man said. "Take a look around. Stay as long as you like. There's a fountain over there, and some fruit trees. Help yourself! I'll be around if you need anything." He smiled again, and then walked away.

The young man, not wanting to seem rude, decided to get a drink of water and then take off. I'm going to be really late if I don't get out of here and find my way back home, he said to himself. He could hear the fountain trickling, so he walked in the general direction of the sound. There was a nice path and shade trees, and multitudinous birds calling back and forth. He noticed that it was a lot cooler inside the garden than it had been on his walk.

On his right, he saw a huge spider web hanging between two large trees. He stopped and studied it because it was glittering with dewdrops and glowed like gold in the sunlight. Many flies had been trapped in the web. I wonder where that spider is? he thought. As if the spider had heard him, it came out onto the web and began to wrap the flies up and cut them out of the web. On its bulbous black back was a bright red marking. The young man looked closer and saw that it was a cross. The spider carried one of the wrapped flies back to its home somewhere in the big tree.

After a few minutes of watching the spider, the young man realized he was standing right next to the fountain. The clear water bubbled up from the shiny stone basin and ran down over the side and into a metal grate in the slab he was standing on. There was an aged metal plaque on the ground that read, "Rivers of Living Water." That's odd, the young man thought as bent down to drink. The water was cold, pure and refreshing. My goodness, I was thirsty!

The young man stood up and turned to see where the exit was, and suddenly tears began to flow, unbidden. They seemed to come from deep within him. He was momentarily overtaken with feelings he was not familiar with, so he sat down on a stone bench. As he wept, he thought of things he'd neglected in his life. In his mind, he could see wilted things being revived and flourishing.

The tears stopped as suddenly as they had begun. The young man felt more refreshed than he had in a long time. Next to him, on the stone bench, he noticed a large black book with gold letters. On the front, it said, "Speak." Curious, the young man picked up the book. The leather felt soft and smooth, like it had been handled many times. He opened it somewhere in the middle, and began to read.

When he closed the book, he had the urge to open his mouth and try to say something. He stood up, slowly, an odd feeling of expansion coming over him. He began to speak, but rather than hearing words, he saw golden eagles coming out from inside of him, flying right out of his mouth. They took off flying somewhere he could not see. That was rather satisfying, the young man thought. And he hadn't had that thought ever in his life!

Looking up, the young man saw that the tree he was standing under was a pear tree. He realized then that he'd been enjoying the fruity scent the whole time he'd been at that bench. The gardener did say I could help myself, he thought, and he reached up and picked a ripe pear. It was large and lovely, with a rosy blush and a heavenly smell. Biting in hungrily, he had to laugh at how the juice was running all down his chin. He didn't care. It was delicious!

He began to think of a friend he hadn't spoken to in many years, whose face was clear in his mind. He realized, his memory having been jogged, that he had been holding a grudge against that friend. Waves of compassion flooded over him, and he forgave him immediately. I'll call him as soon as I get home, the young man decided. He looked down at his watch and saw that it had stopped at the same hour he had left his house. He had no idea what time it was!

The young man was used to knowing the time, and didn't like losing track. So he set out to find out what time it was as soon as he could. Maybe the gardener can tell me, he thought, and he started walking toward a sound in the garden. In a few steps, he came to a little plaza with a sundial in the middle. It was surrounded by many colorful flowers, arranged thoughtfully and with artistic flair.

He went up to the sundial to see what time it was, and was very puzzled to see that there was no shadow! In fact, looking around the garden, the young man was surprised to see that there were no shadows at all, in spite of all the trees. The light seemed to come from everywhere, and yet, the garden seemed cool and shady. This is a pretty strange place! he thought wryly.

"I'm glad you like my garden!" the man in jeans said joyfully, walking up to the young man, taking off his dirty gloves and grinning. "You're welcome to come in anytime, and stay as long as you like. I do have one request, though. I always give my guests a little something to do to help out when they're here. Nothing much, you know, just a little something." With that, the friendly gardener handed the young man a couple of large knitting needles attached to two balls of yarn, one blue and one red.

"Oh, don't worry about not knowing how to knit! It'll come to you," the gardener chuckled.

So the young man, not being able to think of what else to do, sat down on an Adirondack style chair under a lovely tree and began to knit. That's amazing! thought the young man. He was so taken with watching what the knitting was turning into, that he hardly noticed doing it at all. It wasn't long before he had knitted an entire sweater, with beautiful intarsia designs. The blue and red had come together in some places and had made a gorgeous purple. "Wear it if you want," the voice of the gardener called from somewhere not too far away. "Take it home if you'd like!"

The young man pulled the sweater on over his head. It was soft and warm, and fit him just right. Even the sleeves were just the right length for his extra long arms. He had to chuckle to himself, it was so uncanny. Feeling better than he had in a very long time, he stretched out his arms and began to sing. What a song came floating out of his very heart! He didn't remember ever having been able to sing like that before. But he didn't care. He just sang and sang.

After a while, the young man remembered again that he had no idea what time it was, and that he surely needed to get to work. He could see the archway from where he was, so he started towards it. Oh, I guess I should thank the gardener for letting me stay in here for so long, he thought, not really wanting to stop and talk.

The gardener had anticipated him, however, and was standing there waiting for him. "I wanted to give you this before you left," the gardener said. "Just a souvenir. But maybe it will remind you. Please come back anytime. I'll be looking for you!"

The young man felt shy then, and went out of the garden with only a whispered "Goodbye". It wasn't until he'd walked a couple of blocks that he looked to see what it was that the gardener had given him. In his hand was a little clay stone, impressed, simply, with the word "Rest".

by Karen Gladys Henry © 2007

"Fountains Bubbles" is a collaboration: photo by Kim Bomberger and photo manipulation by Karen Gladys Henry © 2008

Sweets For The Sweeties

I hope your day's a real treat.

I hope your weekend's really sweet!

I pray that love will come to you,

And fill you up your whole life through.

Plein Air

This was really fun to make! The pieces of the collage are all photos I took of things around my house. The painting in the background is in the Cummer Museum of Art in Jacksonville, FL. I'll have to go back there soon and get the title and artist's name. I love going there!

Fairy Treats For A Cloudy Afternoon

The handbook for entertaining fairies: "The Girls' Book of Flower Fairies" by Frederick Warne, has the wonderful Nouveau style illustrations by Cicely Mary Barker, which were copyrighted from 1923-1948. My mother shared these same beautiful fairy illustrations with me when I was a girl, and I've loved them ever since. I love sharing it with my granddaughters. Our fairies live among the teapots ;)

The Library (a short story)

This is a short story from my imagination. I needed some writing practice! As a challenge, I wrote it from a guy's point-of-view. Hope you enjoy it!


The Library

Spring had come in so sweet and soft this year, gentle as a lamb. I had enjoyed her greatly, going out with her as often as I could, not spending as much time writing as I had intended. Spring can be distracting! Now that it was almost June, though, she was going out like a banshee. This had its own set of distractions. This morning, the air was close and muggy, and clouds were hanging around like wet, dirty cotton. My air-conditioner was out of freon, leaving me feeling damp and dishevelled, even after a shower and coffee. I decided to go to the library.

My leather satchel was always ready to go. The laptop fit in there nicely, along with everything else I would need for a literary outing. It even had enough room for any books that might follow me home. I stuck a cold bottle of Starbucks frappuccino into the bag's front pocket, a granola bar into my shirt pocket, grabbed my keys as I ran out the door, and hopped into the car.

The excitement I felt was more the anticipation of some cold air-conditioning than looking forward to the task ahead of me. I had been on a nice writing jag, and the feeling of inspiration hadn't left me. I had just gotten to the place where I had to do some research. I had been putting it off and putting it off, and now was the perfect opportunity to get it done and out of the way. A turn of the key brought the revving noise I was waiting for, which was a relief as well, the effect not always following the cause. A lot of things get put off when you're a sensation waiting to happen.

Great, I muttered to myself as I turned the old wreck onto the highway. Three rows of cars sat grumbling, stopped at lights three blocks down. I got going too slow, and now all the mid-morning shoppers are out doing their thing. "Great." I said it aloud this time to make myself feel better.

The only answer I heard back was my mother's voice in my head, cajoling. Steve, dear, you could always get a job at the newspaper, you know. Then you could get a new car and put some new carpet down in the condo. "I would just be stuck in rush hour traffic instead," I answered back to no one. No worries. This book is going to sell, a best seller. Maybe I should sell encyclopedias; anything to get out of my parents' condo. They will never let me live down letting Snarf pee on the brand new carpet they had installed right before I moved in after college. Snarf and I need our own place!

The fifteen minute drive to the Island library turned into half an hour's worth of me and mom hashing it out. I was sure glad to get to the proper-looking new library. Proper, that is, except for the curving yellow brick sidewalk. That must have been someone's idea of a joke. "Real cute," I said to the car door. A writer must maintain his cynical grumpiness at all times. My mantra. It isn't really me- I think I picked it up like a cold from a professor I had every semester until I graduated. But I practice it, nonetheless. It makes me feel professional.

Inside the library, still smelling of industrial carpet and new books, I stood for a moment to scope out the place and pick my space. There was an elderly couple browsing among the books, peering at the shelves, looking for their next adventure. There were a couple of college kids at the computers, tapping away on the keyboards. Over by the children's shelves was a pretty, rosy young mother with four pretty, rosy little girls like cookies cut exactly a year apart. They all had smooth, brown hair tied in a ponytail and identical little dresses. Why aren't they in school? Truants, and the mother too! Then I remembered home schooling, changing my thoughts to lucky little chicks, not having to be stuck in a classroom all day!

Across the room, in the "lounge" section, a big lumpy-looking man slumped in a red leather arm chair. His feet were propped up on the ottoman, and a very fat book was balanced on his chest. He was also balancing a pair of black-rimmed glasses practically on the tip of his nose. I really couldn't tell if he was reading or sleeping, but if it had been me, I would've been snoozing away. His rumpled, white, long-sleeved shirt, loosened striped tie, and grey trousers that matched his greying hair, made me wonder about him. In my imagination, he was either an unsuccessful trial lawyer turned unsuccessful novelist looking to get jolted out of writer's block, or he was a CEO who had lost his job to a bright, up-and-coming-young-whipper-snapper. I felt sorry for him.

The only other person I could see in the library was, of course, the librarian. She was tiny and tidy, silver hair tied back into a bun, little tortoise-shell reading glasses hung around her neck on a brightly beaded chain. Before I could move, she walked up to me briskly and asked, in her prim and tidy little voice, "Can I help you, sir?" I shook my head, said "Uh," in my most studious tone and started over to the empty tables.

She's a piece of work! I thought to myself. The quintessential librarian. If there had been a librarian in the Garden of Eden, she would have been just like that. Librarians have been exactly the same since the beginning of time. She was like a white linen shirt that had been hung out to dry on the line, stiff but smelling like fresh air and sunshine. I had nothing against her. But I knew if that guy slumped in the chair over there started snoring, she'd march right up to him like an old-timey schoolmarm and rap him on the head with a little baton. I'd have to watch myself in here!

The new steel and laminate tables were nice, and the birchwood chairs had an ergonomic curve. Scandinavian design has taken over the world, I mused. I picked a table facing the reference books and set up my laptop. I had an extra battery in case, but I wasn't planning to do a lot of writing. I was just going to take notes. There was a brushed aluminum lamp with a halogen bulb on each table, which was helpful. It was getting sort of dark and glowery outside, which I could see through the wall of windows on the far side of the big room. It was getting so dark I had to turn on the lamp, pulling the hefty chain with a weighty metal ball on the end. I got a few books off the shelf and sat down to work.

It didn't take twenty minutes for me to realize that my stomach was growling. Great. I forgot to eat breakfast. Good thing I brought that granola bar. Watch out for the gestapo! Sneakily, I glanced around the room to check out the librarian's position. The computer kids and the elderly couple had left, and the slumpy man was in the same basic state of slumpiness. Ah, there! She was over by the children's books helping the rosy family. Good. I was safe. I unwrapped the bar, trying not to crinkle too loudly. Darn. Oat crumbs. My mother's voice started in- Steve, if you would just. . .

I once came up with a plot to stop the unwanted voices in my head. I'm still practicing. In my mind, I picture whoever it is talking, and myself with a big, red stop sign. I hold it up, boldly. At first, it didn't work. They would keep on talking. Sometimes, my mental mother would even grab the stop sign out of my hand and say, No, you stop, Steve. Stop and take a look at your life. After many attempts, however, I have managed to take control of my thoughts at least 60% of the time. And occasionally, I'll even be brave enough to stop and look at my life. Only very occasionally. I jumped somewhat violently when I felt the linen shirt walk up.

"Food is not allowed in the library, sir. You'll have to eat outside." I grunted politely as I stuffed the last bite in, and just barely refrained from protesting, It's starting to rain out there! It was!

The librarian went back to her work, and as she got busy reshelving a pile of books, I slid the sweating, lukewarm frap out of its hiding place and took a swig. Stolen waters are sweet chanted a dulcet voice in my ear. That's a new one! I thought to myself, and then looked around to see a pixie-like teenaged girl standing over my right shoulder, grinning. She was pale and extraordinarily thin, but her green eyes twinkled with mischief.

"Mind if I sit here?" she whispered, glancing over at the librarian. "Do you think yonder bookmaiden will notice if I eat my lunch in here?" the pixie asked, showing two very cute dimples. The lunch consisted of about five grapes and a pair of Ritz crackers with peanutbutter spread thinly between them. I shrugged nonchalantly.

I was quite convinced that the green-eyed girl was flirting with me, but I chided myself that I'd be a cradle-robber if I took any notice at all. The librarian took no notice whatever, though, of her nibbling. So I settled down to my notetaking, the best I could with the girl there. I'm really a loner when it comes to writing. Distractions are best saved for non-productive days, although, the female type of distraction is not all that unwanted, and this was turning out to be "one of those days."

Thumbing through a large tome on ships and sailing, I found some intriguing facts and opened up the laptop to type down some of them. Why do I always have to write about stuff I don't know? Wouldn't it be easier to write about. . .cars, maybe. No, not cars. I can't fix anything to save my life. Camping! We did a lot of camping when I was a kid, um-m-m, boating. Yeah, but we only sailed small boats on a lake. That doesn't exactly help me with ships! Which is why I was in the library in a downpour. It's amazing how little you know about the things you think you know about when you start writing about them.

I closed my eyes, after taking a couple of surreptitious sips of coffee along with a couple of well-hidden glances at the pixie. Suddenly I could hear the creak of the ropes and swollen wood on the ship in "Master and Commander." I was there. No wonder they got an Academy Award for best sound! "Sh-h-h!" hissed the librarian from two tables over. I had spoken aloud. The creaking seemed to actually be real.

The girl was getting up and leaning over fetchingly.

"I have to get back to class," she said, not too quietly.

"Don't get wet!"

By now, the rain was blowing like black sheets of Saran wrap. I couldn't believe I'd said that. Even before she'd gotten to the glass double doors with their brushed aluminum handles, the lights flickered. The librarian took action quickly and began shutting down all the computers. No one was going anywhere, it was raining too hard. I could hear thunder rolling like African drums. Although it sounded distant, it sounded ominous.

Suddenly, with a flash and a crack like doomsday, a megabolt hit the iron fence near the building, and the lights went out altogether. To add to the fight-or-flight reaction that kept me bolted to the chair, a sound like three or four freight trains speeding overhead rattled that solid place like tinsel on a tree. The wall of windows exploded into shards and pellets and rain blew furiously into the library uninvited. Who pays for damage by an actofgod? I wondered inappropriately. My random thoughts were interrupted by grabbing and sobbing on my arm. It was the pixie.

"It's going to be alright, honey" I said with bravado, hoping to sound tender. Her skinny cuteness shook with such ferocity that I was compelled to put my arm around her and try to comfort her. As I did, I began to scan the room for casualties. The sweet little girls were huddled around their mother who sat dazed on the floor against the bookshelves. No one seemed hurt. The librarian went over to them, talking in low tones, and then went back behind the darkened desk and began to make quiet calls on a cell phone . Silence, except for the dissipating rain, then, hung heavily in a sort of breathless wet timewarp.

I heard the sirens before I should have, for the lack of windows. Then there were spinning lights flashing through the glass front doors. Two police officers with walkie-talkies were standing on the other side of a huge tree that had fallen and blocked the door. One went around the perimeter, found the emergency exit, and began pounding on the metal door. The unruffled librarian went over to it, unbolted it and opened it, setting off the loud alarm. In came the officers, ignoring the librarian's look of be quiet in here, this is a library , and I marveled at their bravery as they left muddy footprints all over the beige floor.

Firemen at the front door were sawing the old tree with chain saws, and this added to the disconcerting din in the normally quiet place. So much for my research, I thought stupidly. The young girl was sitting up calmly now, face streaked with black mascara giving her white face, pouty lips and puffy red eyes a sort of gothic drama. I found it slightly humorous, but she obviously didn't look like she could take any teasing. I gave her a conservative little smile, and she grinned back. Good, she was going to be OK.

Next in the liturgy of crisis intervention came the officer in his black uniform loaded with all the official stuff. He asked if we were OK and said he was sorry but that he had to make a report. So we answered a few questions that we didn't hear, as he punched his little keyboard. The librarian came over in her superwoman cape and offered to make calls for us. We both said we were fine and that we would just drive ourselves home.

The rumpled man was now pacing along the dry side of the library, talking animatedly into his Blackberry. A tall, kind-looking man had come in through the back and was gathering his little flock of rosy females into his arms. They all looked pale and relieved. Soon they were gone, and the rumpled man had gone too. The librarian was beginning to show her first signs of stress, then, and the officers told her to go home and to take it easy. She looked dismayed, but then complied, glancing over at us and motioning to us to do the same.

The pixie and I gathered our things, went over to the front door to see if the way had been cleared. Although the firemen were almost done cutting and moving the tree, they waved to us to go around the other way. So we did, and quietly loped around the back of the library. The parking lot and small manicured yard were littered with broken tree limbs and other debris that had been left by the tornado. Through the clouds peeped some blue sky and happy yellow sun rays, which was a comforting view that I barely noticed.

We hadn't said anything to each other, as that seemed to take too much energy. I did manage to ask where she was parked, to which she answered "across the street". We were parked in the same place, so we crossed the street together. To me it seemed more like floating aimlessly, not noticing cars or anything, not connected to myself. When we got to our cars, which were parallel parked right next to each other along the curb, we were both dumbstruck by the same sight: that lousy tornado had ripped a very large tree up by the roots and had dropped it rudely onto our cars! It had twisted the trunk unbelieveably, and both our cars were totalled- flattened like metal pancakes!

The sweet little pixie began to curse like a pirate, jumping up and down wildly, stomping the sidewalk angrily and kicking the ruined car several times, yelling incoherently. Finally, she quieted down and stared blankly at the wreck. "I just bought that car", she stated dully. I was glad in a way to see my old junker trashed like that, but I felt equally violated by the destruction of a mindless tornado. "At least you weren't in it," I said quietly. She hadn't thought of that, and a look of wide-eyed fear changed her streaked face. I had a rush of adrenaline too, thinking the same for me. We had been lucky, I thought. This calls for a celebration, I decided in my usual shallow collegiate manner.

"Let's go down to the diner and get something to eat," I said cheerfully as I could manage. I was starting to wonder what I would get around in. The girl shrugged and said, "I don't have anything to do," in a tone that made me think she wouldn't have remembered if she had. I offered to carry her tote, and she let me. In a few minutes we were cozily ensconced in the booth of the restaurant. It had been around for ages and was quite scruffy around the edges, but it had decent food and was a popular neighborhood hang-out. The waitress left plastic menus after we ordered coffee.

"It's all been so surreal I haven't even introduced myself," I said nonchalantly. "I'm Steve."

"I'm Zorcha," she answered shyly. I refrained from saying that her name added to the surrealness of this day, but it did. I was starting to get an itch to write.

"That's a real nice name," I said. "Uh, what do you do?"

"Do?" she answered with a puzzled expression, pixie-like again. "Oh, I'm an artist. And I'm a freshman at River Community College" she added twinkling. "You?"

"Ah! I'm a newly-graduated-neophyte-novelist hoping to write the next great bestseller. In other words, I'm broke!"

"And now carless," she quipped.

"Better than careless," I said, echoing my mother's voice in my head. How nice! I haven't heard that for a few hours now. I should have more tornadoes in my life. . .

"So how are you going to get home?" she asked solemly.

"I guess I'll call my folks," I said, feeling a little embarassed that a guy my age would have to call his folks, but I did live in their condo, and they lived not fifteen minutes from where we were. And they had a working vehicle.

"There's nothing wrong with that," she said, picking up my unintentional communiqué.

"With what?"

"Getting help from your parents," she said. "You should be glad you have them."

"Well, I guess I am," I said, a little too reluctantly though, for her. "But you know, I'm supposed to be an adult, not leaning on them any more, don't you think?"

"It's not about leaning or not leaning. It's about having them." It was a firm statement, like she was giving a final judgment at a court hearing. There certainly was a lot to this pixie girl. Zorcha. . .

"So don't you have your parents?" I asked tentatively. I wasn't sure about where this conversation was going, and after this day's ordeal, I didn't want another one. I'd been through my share of female ordeals. I wasn't in the mood.

The waitress came at that moment, setting down my meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and Zorcha's chicken soup and crackers on the Formica table that was yellow with silver boomerangs. She filled our coffee mugs up with welcome steaminess. I gave the buxom brunette a little look, and she flirted back. Zorcha looked at me with an unapproving eyebrow. Women! I thought.

The food was warming and I was really hungry by now. "No wonder they call it comfort food," I said, having to work at saying my thoughts instead of just thinking them. "Maybe that would be a cure. . ." oops, I didn't mean to say that.

"Comfort food a cure for post-traumatic stress?" she asked innocently.

"Uh, no" I said hesitantly. "For voices in one's head."

"Voices? You mean like schizophrenia?"

"Not that bad," I shook my head, thinking great, she's a therapist too.

I decided to quick-change the subject. "Do you study psychology?"

"Yes, I do," Zorcha answered simply. "I'm fascinated by people and why they do things."

"So that's your major in college?"

"Uh-huh" she said with a spoon in her mouth.

"Hey, that's great!" I said enthusiastically, thinking maybe she could help me with research, considering people were my least understood topic. Instantly, my mother's voice was giving me the argument I had always gotten from her when I talked about writing novels. You don't understand people, how can you write novels? I had habitually scoffed at all her arguments. Suddenly, this one seemed rational.

I decided to give a go at humility, and I asked carefully, "Do you think you could help me with my novel writing, Zorcha?"

Her adorable pixie face looked surprised, and she said back, "I'm no writer!" She was nibbling on a Saltine like a gerbil, taking the tiniest bites on the corners first, then going around the edges ever so intently. She didn't seem to notice that she was dropping an inordinate amount of crumbs on the boomerang table and into her soup. Maybe that was the idea. Maybe that was how she stayed so thin: pretend to eat, but not really ever do it. But it definitely made her look fairy-like.

"I mean, you could help me with my character development."

"Does your character need developing?"

"Huh?"

"You know, do you need to improve your work ethic or something?"

"Ha! Maybe," I said grinning, "but that's not what I mean. I don't really get people, see? I need help making a character real in my stories. I can make up stories, plots, but the characters, well, they're thin. . . ethereal."

"Like me?"

"Like you?" This girl was full of surprises, twists and turns like a good Poe story. I was really liking her. Already.

"I guess that could describe you in some ways. I don't think I know you well enough to say." I think I would like to know you more, though.

I was done with my meal, full to the brim. Feeling complacent, homey, then I remembered. . . getting home. "How do you plan to get home, Zorcha? Are you going to call your parents?"

"My parents don't give a flip about me, Steve. Not one flip of a smashed car pancake!"

"You don't think they'd be just a tad concerned to know you've survived a life-threatening traumatic experience with a tornado, and now your car is totalled?"

She looked a bit sheepish, like a skinny little sheep with mascara streaks. She still had them, and they still made me want to laugh out loud. Boy is she going to be mad when she looks in the mirror, I thought. "Maybe they would be a little upset at that, especially about the car."

"Zorcha, I can't believe what you're saying! Are they in town? You should call them!"

"They live an hour away. They can't really help me anyway. What are they going to do? They're not going to buy me another car!"

"I think they would want to know about you, kid. I really do." I did think that. How could anyone not want to know what their child was doing, what was happening to them? I was beginning to appreciate, just a little, the overprotecting, smothering love I got from my mom. At least she cared. I opened my satchel and dialed up my folks' number on the cell phone. "Mom? Hey, I need a lift over to the condo. Can you pick me up at Fred's Diner on 5th and Main St.? OK, thanks. See ya."

Zorcha looked at me with those huge green eyes that shone out from smudgy, beautifully sculpted bones. I was thoroughly captivated with her eyes. The magical eyes. I have to see those eyes again!

"That's it? You're not going to tell her why? Didn't she want to know?"

"Sure, Zorcha. I just wanted to tell her in person. Be able to give her a hug, and let her see with her own eyes that I'm really OK. I didn't want her to worry unnecessarily."

"Oh. . .well I guess you understand her at least. Maybe you don't need any writing help after all."

"Hmmmm, I wouldn't say that! I've got an idea for a story. Want to help me? Please. . .pretty please?"

"Only if it has a cherry on top!" she quipped with a mischievous half-grin.
I was truly concerned for her now. I couldn't just leave her to fend for herself, even if she was used to it.

"Will you let us give you a ride home at least? Where do you live?"

"I'm at the off-campus student apartments at Riverbend. I can call my roommate. She's probably around, or else I can leave her a message."

"Why don't you just let us drop you off there. It's so close."

"OK, I suppose. If you don't mind. That would be nice really. I'd meet your mom then too."

"She's going to be here in about ten minutes. Let's pay, and then wait outside." I got up and walked over to the register, the old-fashioned kind with all the fancy embossing on it. I held the door for Zorcha. She was only up to my chin even with her black high-heeled, speed-lace boots. She was definitely ethereal.

We stood there, in front of Fred's Diner, shivering a little even though it wasn't very cold. The sun was beginning to set, leaving a little color on Zorcha's pretty face, on everything in the world. She suddenly reached into her purse and grabbed a little compact, looked into it and yelped.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"And ruin that post-tornado look?"

If looks could kill. . .She spit-washed it off the best she could. "I can't believe you, Steve. Really!"

"You just looked so cute. . ." Now I was the sheepish one. "Sorry."

"Forgiven. I really am surprised though, that no one came and debriefed us."

"Debriefed?" I was clueless.

"Well, they've discovered that people don't get post-traumatic stress disorder if they're immediately helped to defuse after a critical incident, and then soon have a follow-up debriefing session. It's very effective."

"That's good to know. "They" certainly had a captive audience for a few minutes. We're a little backwards in this town, though. I guess the city authorities haven't tumbled to that yet. Besides, I think you defused yourself with that car-kicking episode!"

"Oh that. . ." I noticed again the darling dimples that dotted her soft cheeks. Pixie-like, ethereal. . .

"Here's Mom!" The blue sedan pulled up and my pleasantly plump mother, in a printed jersey shift with her hair up casually in a clip, got out of the car. Seeing Zorcha there alerted her to something different. As she walked up I lurched over to her, hugging her hard. It felt good to want to hug her, to express love honestly, not putting up barriers to keep the nagging voice away. I loved my mom. Maybe I should have more tornadoes in my life. . . She looked at me with wonder. Looked at Zorcha, then at me.

"What happened, dear. You look like you've been through a tornado!"

"I'll tell you all about it when we get home, Mom. This is Zorcha. I met her at the Library." Mom reached out her hand to the pixie girl, and the pixie girl shook her hand back. A little glimmer of connection was happening there, which made me glad. We got into the car and Mom chattered lightly, after getting directions to Zorcha's apartment.

As we pulled up to the creaky old building, Zorcha looked at me with those twinkly green eyes. "Do you want to get together and do a little writing?"

"That would be great, Zorcha! How about Friday afternoon?"

"Super! Do you want to meet at the Library again?" she asked with a nearly imperceptible snicker.

"Ummmm. . .let's not! How about Fred's?"

"You betcha!"

Mom put the car in gear, and Zorcha waved, smiling slightly as she turned and walked up to her apartment. From the corner of my eye, I think I caught a glimpse of some fairy dust floating through the sunset-golden air.

The End

"The Library" is a work of fiction by Karen Gladys Henry ©2009.
All Rights Reserved.

"Clouds In My Coffee" is a photomontage by Karen Gladys Henry ©2009.

All Rights Reserved.

Flowers Say "I Love You"

I always wanted to be an interior designer. When I finally finished decorating my house, I started making up imaginary rooms. It's a lot cheaper than redoing my house. ;)

The rose topiary in the reflection is real; i.e., it's a photograph of a real silk flower topiary about 4' high~ one of four I made for my daughter's wedding. They used so many faux roses that I cleaned out every craft shop in the area! It was a "fairy tale wedding". Lucky for me, I still have the topiaries in my house.

Chihuly Water Garden Fantasy #3

Why should a lovely swan soup tureen stay cooped up in a stuffy museum? Now he has a pond as fantastical as he is!

Butterfly Garden

A little butterfly extravaganza to say ~Happy Spring!

Amazing News

Better than anything surreal that I could ever come up with~ the reality of Christ rising from the dead! He is alive forever. Happy Easter!

{{Bunny Nest}}

Soooo. . .where DID you think Easter eggs come from??

Sheba's Magical Garden

My tiny little fairy-cat. . .she loves gardening ;)

A Portal Opens Up In The Blazing Sky

Ask, Seek, Knock. . .and it shall be opened

Rainbows In My Coffee

Time for a coffee break. . .enjoy your day!

Irish Medley

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Strange Bird Sighting

Hope a little happiness comes your way. . .

Phredd and Phœbee– Phresssh!

Quoted from "The Daily Glob" 6/18/07

Yes, we phinally phound them! The Snowes are safe and sound and living in a highly air-conditioned condo in Miami! It was our intrepid tabloid editor Toni (who happened to be on his honeymoon), that phound this photo in a magazine that was innocently lying on a hotel lobby table. Whaddayaknow?

So we sent our equally intrepid papparazzi down to scope out the scene and see if they could get an interview with the notorious Snowes.

While they were there, those pappas decided to check out the phamous Miami phenomenon, Bongo’s Cuban Café, which was phounded by the phabulous Emilio and Gloria Estefan. They went on Phriday and dined on all the phamiliar Cuban phare, and were so pleased that they went back on Saturday to join the phestivities! Guess who they phound at Bongo’s Saturday night Latin Dance Party!?! Yoooou got it– those two phun-loving Snowes: hot, drippy and grinning like a couple of kids in a candy store. They’re not too bad with the cha-cha, either!

They did manage to get a little interview with the phrozen couple, so we’ll let you in on the conversation:

Pap1: "So, are you two in hiding, now that you’re notorious art-thieves?"

SnoM: "No, w-w-way, man! We left P-p-palm Beach to get away from g-g-g-uys like you!!"

Pap1: "Well, now that we’ve phound you, why don’t you tell us– for the public record– how do you two live so high-on-the-hog?"

SnoM: "We really d-d-on’t w-w-want to talk to y-y-you at all, but, ph-ph-phor the record: we work!"

Pap2: "Work? What’s that?"

Pap1: "So you landed an ad job for Florida Orange Juice?"

SnoW: "Yeah, isn’t that c-c-cool?"

SnoM: "You guys can b-b-buzz off now. See ya!"

And that was it! They were off in a phlash and onto the dance phloor, amid a swirling crowd under swirling colored lights– swirling with the brass, the guitars, and the rhythm of the congas, the claves, and the guiro. And those papparazzi didn’t even get photos! You’re phired!

. . .to be continued.

ROTFL(or not)

This PhotoToon and accompanying piece of incredibly inane phiction are by Karen Gladys Henry, copyright 2007.