A MAN I KNOW AND MY TATTOO

The other day I ran into an acquaintance in the supermarket, and he appeared rather cold and unfriendly.  I've known him for a long time, and I was puzzled about the coolness, so I chalked it up to the fact that he was with his long-time girlfriend.  The man was a single father for many years after his wife left him, and he cared for his children admirably.  Both children are now married and on their own.  A few years ago, he began to go around with  a nice woman, but when he told me about her, he went to great pains to assure me that they were "just good friends".  He's a loyal Catholic fella, and he cannot marry again in the church unless he gets an annulment.  It doesn't matter at all to me if the two are friends or lovers.  In fact, I rather hope they are lovers; he deserves it after what his ex-wife did to him.

But I digress.  A few days after I saw the man, Grandpère ran into him, and he said, "Tom, let me ask you something.  Is that a tattoo on June's ankle?"  GP answered, "Yes."  It seems the man was somewhat in shock at the sight of my tattoo, which was why he seemed unfriendly.  All right, then.

I had the tattoo done after Hurricane Katrina, when I went a little crazy about my beloved city of New Orleans and its people following the devastating flood that resulted from the breach of the federal levee system.  GP and I visited relatives in Kansas City not long after, and my nephew and his wife, who adore New Orleans, had just had fleur-de-lis tattoos done.  The flower is one of the symbols of NO, referring to its French history.  I told them that for several years, I had wanted a small tattoo, but I'd never really known what design I wanted nor had nerve enough to actually do it.  A small fleur-de-lis seemed like a splendid idea, but still I hesitated.  My nephew and his wife urged me on, "Do it!  Do it!";  I asked GP what he thought, and he said the decision was all mine.  Sooo I had the tattoo done, and, several years later, put my fellow citizen in shock.

I assume that anyone who takes the trouble to read this silly, all-about-me post will be curious to see the tattoo, so the picture is below.  Please disregard the varicose veins.

ME AND THE PALOMINO

Not Joyce - a palomino from the internet

My friend Georgianne posted pictures of her handsome palomino, Eddie, on Facebook, which reminded me that way back in the day, I had a boyfriend who owned horses.  I rode his beautiful palomino quarter horse named Joyce.  On our first ride on the West Bank of levee of the Mississippi River, Joyce sensed that I was uncertain and began to run up and down the levee...not straight ahead, but up and down the slope of the levee, which is rather steep in the vicinity of Gretna in Jefferson Parish.  I panicked, and my boyfriend had to ride to the rescue, just like in the westerns, and take the reins.  Picture me on the horse above, running up and down the levee.  I learned a good lesson from Joyce that day.  Take the reins, and at least act as though you're in charge.  Joyce was very well-trained; it was the rider who needed to learn.  I never became truly confident on a horse, which, as you know, is a large creature, as I always suspected the horse knew she/he had the upper hand - er - hoof.

My boyfriend rode Joyce in Mardi Gras parades with a group of members of a quarter horse club.  On occasion, she'd rear up on her hind legs in the excitement, giving the crowd a splendid display, but with my boyfriend praying that he could hang on, which he always did.  Joyce rode in quarter-mile races and participated in barrel races, calf roping, and other cowboy activities.  After the boyfriend and I broke up, I missed the Sunday afternoon rides and tried the horses at Audubon Park, but it was not the same, and I stopped riding.  Joyce spoiled me for rental horses.  When we traveled in the West, we sometimes took trail rides in the mountains, and, in addition to my worries about controlling the horse, there was the added worry that the horse would stumble and fall off the mountain trail. 

Remember Trigger, Roy Rogers' horse?  Palomino supreme.

SHAME ON YOU!

Think Progress reports:

The Daily Advertiser, a Gannett-owned paper serving central Louisiana, is standing by its decision to run an advertisement today in which a far-right extremist group suggests that President Obama and Democrats are conspiring to murder Catholics and Christians.

Publisher Karen J. Lincoln and the other deciders at the newspaper judged the ad shown below not to include "blatantly false, overly offensive or otherwise inappropriate content" for its market.

For shame!  As a citizen of the State of Louisiana, I am offended, ashamed, mortified beyond description that a newspaper would permit such an ad, no matter the market.

GOOD POPE JOHN

As I was reading Evening Prayer at The Daily Office, I scrolled down and saw the picture below, which brought a broad smile to my face.

What a lovely man.  I knew very little about John XXIII when he was elected pope, except that he was old and was widely expected to be a place-holder until the next pope, a younger man, would be elected. 

On 25 December 1958, he became the first pope since 1870 to make pastoral visits in his Diocese of Rome, when he visited children infected with polio at the Bambino Gesù Hospital and then visited Santo Spirito Hospital. The following day he visited Rome's Regina Coeli prison, where he told the inmates: "You could not come to me, so I came to you." These acts created a sensation, and he wrote in his diary:

...great astonishment in the Roman, Italian and international press. I was hemmed in on all sides: authorities, photographers, prisoners, wardens...

His frequent habit of sneaking out of the Vatican late at night to walk the streets of the city of Rome earned him the nickname "Johnny Walker", a pun on the whisky brand name.

What hope and excitement in the church about our new pope who wanted to "throw open the windows" after the long reign of the austere Pius XII, who was the only pope that many of us had known.  Good Pope John electrified the Roman Catholic Church and the world when he called for Vatican Council II. 

Collect of the Day: John XXIII, Bishop of Rome, 1963

Lord of all truth and peace, you raised up your bishop John to be servant of the servants of God and gave him wisdom to call for the work of renewing your Church: Grant that, following his example, we may reach out to other Christians to clasp them with the love of your Son, and labor throughout the nations of the world to kindle a desire for justice and peace; through Jesus Christ, who is alive and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

The canonization of John XXIII is pending in the Roman Catholic Church.

THE CALL OF GOD

The call of God is always accompanied by the promise of God. God’s answer to our protests of inadequacy and weakness is always the same: “I will be with you.”

-Br. David Vryhof
Society of Saint John the Evangelist

Bro John Anthony posted in St. Cuthbert's Cottage

PLEASE PRAY FOR MR CATOLICK

Mr CatOLick, creator of the bitingly clever videos which caricature the follies of church folk, mainly those in high places, is going through a very bad time.  He needs our prayers and our support now.  Let him know you care either at his blog or on Facebook, if you are Tom Catolick's friend.

O God, the strength of the weak and the comfort of sufferers: Mercifully accept our prayers, and grant to your servant Mr C the help of your power, that his sickness may be turned into health, and our sorrow into joy; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

 

BUT DO YOU LIKE THE HATS?

Prince Philip, the Queen, Camilla, and Catherine

The Baltimore Sun has a slide show of today's grand celebration of the Queen's Diamond Jubilee on the River Thames

YOUR DUCK IS DEAD

A woman brought a very limp duck into a veterinary surgeon. As she laid her pet on the table, the vet pulled out his stethoscope and listened to the bird's chest.

After a moment or two, the vet shook his head and sadly said, "I'm sorry, your duck, Cuddles, has passed away."

The distressed woman wailed, "Are you sure?"  "Yes, I am sure. Your duck is dead," replied the vet.

"How can you be so sure?" she protested. "I mean you haven't done any testing on him or anything.  He might just be in a coma or something."

The vet rolled his eyes, turned around and left the room. He returned a few minutes later with a black Labrador Retriever. As the duck's owner looked on in amazement, the dog stood on his hind legs, put his front paws on the examination table and sniffed the duck from top to bottom. He then looked up at the vet with sad eyes and shook his head.

The vet patted the dog on the head and took it out of the room. A few minutes later he returned with a cat. The cat jumped on the table and also delicately sniffed the bird from head to foot. The cat sat back on its haunches, shook its head, meowed softly and
strolled out of the room.

The vet looked at the woman and said, "I'm sorry, but as I said, this is most definitely, 100% certifiably, a dead duck."

The vet turned to his computer terminal, hit a few keys and produced a bill, which he handed to the woman.  The duck's owner, still in shock, took the bill. "$500!" she cried, "$500 just to tell me my duck is dead!"

The vet shrugged, "I'm sorry. If you had just taken my word for it, the bill would have been $25, but with the Lab Report and the Cat Scan, it's now $500."

Don't blame me.  Blame Doug.

WHAT IS CARBON PAPER?

Not long ago, I was disgraced by a package of carbon paper. More precisely, I was disgraced by a visit to my local stationer’s, where I tried to buy a package of carbon paper. (I needed to transfer a drawing from surface A to surface B, and it seemed to me, then as now, that carbon paper has endured all these years for expressly that purpose.) 

The cashier, a sweet young thing of 20 or so, met my request as though it had been uttered in Klingon. “Carbon ... what?” she stammered, agape. I fled — as fast as my decrepitude would allow.

What is carbon paper?

Carbon paper: Duplicating paper coated with messy black stuff; used between two sheets of white paper in a typewriter.

Take that, sweet young thing of 20 or so!

Although I took a typing class and worked at summer jobs doing mostly typing, I never got past 40 wpm with mistakes.  Carbon copies were the bane of my existence, even after the advent of Selectric typewriters.  Typing was never my forte, but with the advent of the age of the internet I'm quite grateful for my admittedly limited skills, since I'm not forced to hunt and peck.  I am compelled to add that I've seen folks hunt and peck with two fingers faster than I can type.  

Image from trusty Wikipedia.  What would I do without Wikipedia?

Thanks to Paul (A.) for the links.  What would I do without Paul (A.)?

STORY OF THE DAY - HOME IMPROVEMENT THERAPY

Don't let them fool you, she said. It's 
impossible to remodel without deep & 
painful personal growth & they don't let 
you put therapy under home 
improvement

That's why we don't do home improvements, unless they're absolutely necessary.
 
From StoryPeople.