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You were only waiting for this moment to be free.


One of my Beatle favorites. Happy to say my 13 year old daughter loves it too. A moving song.

Originally posted on ronovanwrites:

People can remember events in their lives or recall specific details of life associated with an event even decades later. The odd thing is, they don’t even know the relevance of what that detail is.

Just imagine all the beautiful sounding songs you’ve ever heard and then think of some of the lyrics to them. You can’t right of the top of your head probably. It’s one of those “If you hadn’t asked me I could’ve named a dozen of them” kind of things.

One song that is incredibly simple, sweet, and beautiful has said to be one of the top 10 most covered songs ever. Some cover it because it’s beautiful. Some, though, realize there is a message there.

Blackbird written by Paul McCartney was recorded in 1968 and appeared on the Beatles ‘White Album’. Do you know the message? It’s 1968, an Englishman looks at America and sees…

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5 Things. 1 Pig. 4th of July.

Top 5 things Pickles the Pig likes to do on the 4th of July:

5. Go to the beach: Pickles always enjoys the smell of the briny air and feel of the wind tickling her widdle ears.

4. Shop! Who doesn’t love a sale? Pickles can’t wait to check out great deals on this season’s hottest Ray Bans.
3. Eat. Everyone loves a good bbq, and this piggie begins with a quick nosh on her cage. It’s like an appetizer. Sort of…
2. Rock the red, white and blue! Like most guinea pigs today, Pickles loves to show her patriotism.
1. Spend time with people you love – what makes any holiday special? (besides food, drink and a date with David Beckham…) Family and friends!

Pickles wishes everyone a safe and very Happy Fourth of July 2014!

*Pickles was not harmed, or forced to wear anything during the making of this blog post.
*Glasses provided by Nana
*Suggested poses for Pickles by “Pigs Pose Pigs Ltd.”

7th Grade
Wessex Boys School

Writing 101 – Day 14 – To Whom It May Concern…

20 June

Dear Ethelred:

It really is becoming a nuisance my son.

Your father and I are exhausted with having to tell you what to do each day.  You’re a big boy now.  We shouldn’t have to say “Ethelred – it’s time.”  You should know to look at the clock for yourself.  We have the same routine every morning:  wake up, wash your face, get dressed, pack your school bag, eat a good breakfast, brush your teeth and get in the mini van.  Your brother Edward could do this when he was your age, why can’t you?  You are going to be very successful one day and it is important to be on time.  Do you want the children at school to make fun of you?  Of course you don’t – we don’t want that for you either but we are at our wits end.  We have tried to counsel you and now you must learn on your own.

Please Ethelred, be ready. I implore you.

Your loving mother,



Writing 101 – Day Eleven – Size Matters

I lived in a home of grandeur

Where halcyon days of cloud


like a vortex of smoke

While the rest of the world

Fell about me dismembered and broke

Safe in a gilded palace; crowned by  Africa’s best

In a stone tower tall

Surrounded by war

Was I grounded in amber and blessed

Rage on wild boars!  Rage on!

Your horrors do not reach me


In my manor familiar

Mind is ever the builder

Thus I thrived free of anger and fear

*Mind is ever the builder – quoted from Edgar Cayce

and to whom I owe much of my sanity (ahem – yes I know its debatable).


Writing 101 – Day Ten – Happy …Thank You For Not Killing Us.

I don’t have a favorite childhood meal.  My mother wasn’t that kind of mom.

Second helpings in our family were considered a punishment.  So were first helpings.  My mother’s idea of home baked goods was the Little Debbie sale at the dollar store.  For my third grade school birthday party she bought one box of Suzy Q’s, and one box of Hostess Crumb Cakes and war broke out among my classmates.  It was a cold war because she forgot to bring juice, and we were silent as we chewed ourselves into gummy oblivion.  Some of my fondest celebration memories are the ones where my mother didn’t accidentally kill us all.

Thanksgiving was my mother’s holiday.  She inherited it when my grandmother retired.  The meals of Thanksgivings past began with my mother not knowing that the turkey cavity needed to be cleaned and emptied before cooking.  What we found inside Tom Turkey was comparable to that of Tutankhamun’s treasure.  Only without the gold. The next year Nan told my mother to “scrub the potatoes really well” before putting them in the oven.  And scrub them she did.  With plenty of warm water and soap.  The Thanksgiving I was seven my mother let me eat jarred pickle spears.  Only pickle spears. I knocked them back with Shirley Temples.  I threw up until Christmas.  When we didn’t have the ingredients for a Shirley Temple I got Coca Cola with Champagne.  I was ten.  I threw up that year too.  The following year Mom drank Manhattans while cooking and showed us how to “pitch” the potatoes into the oven.  Some of them even made it in.

Now this may sound like child abuse or gross negligence and it was.  In the nicest possible way. Those were the days before we became politically correct as a nation:  the only water in the house was from the tap.  No one drank it.  A kid could have a real drink.  Everyone smoked everywhere.  People ate carbs and bologna.  With mayonnaise. Kids brought olive loaf sandwiches to school.  Salami and its fatty ilk hadn’t been outlawed yet. The only fruit we had was Hawaiian Punch which boasted real, fruit flavors.

There was a year long phase where Mom dropped everything.  Only a select few items actually made it to the table.  It was the year of the oil embargo, gas shortages and our own mini suburban famine.  Times were tough. There was steak on the floor, eggs that the cat had to eat, and pork chops that we watched go into the garbage. My sister ate potato chips and ketchup and I continued to avoid pickle spears while consoling myself with dollar store treats of unrecognizable brand names.

Birthdays were a special celebration.  My sister and I have a few years in between us but our birthdays are a week apart.  I don’t think of my own birthday without thinking of my sister, but homemade birthday cakes from Mom?  Just say no!  The last time my mother “made” a birthday cake for us it came under the guise of a low fat, low carb, sugar free “treat.”  Sound good to you?  Didn’t think so.  We asked Mom point blank if she was trying to kill us.  She laughed nervously and said no.  Strangely, she has never baked us anything again.  Coincidence?  Hmmm….

My memories of celebrations and homemade goods might be very different from other people’s.  Sure I didn’t have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off, but I had fun.  The best celebrations now are laughing about the fun we had back then.

Especially since we banned Mom from the kitchen.  You know.  Just in case.



Writing 101 Day 6 – A Character Study

Anger came to a screeching halt, the brakes of the red Porsche 911 blowing road dust. He slammed the door as he got out.

Peace was waiting for him on the other side of the desert road. The sun was high. It would soon be unbearable. She took a deep breath and gracefully stepped out of the white Volvo. The met on the double yellow line.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he screamed at her.

Her voice was even. “I’m doing the right thing. What you should’ve done in the first place.”

“I didn’t ask for your help. I have it under control.”

“You don’t” she said. “You forget that actions speak louder than words. And you’re screaming.” She added.

“I’ll scream if I damn well feel like it!” He shouted. “You just stay out of my business, you hear me? Jesus! You think you can just show up and fix everything? Grace us with a few positive words and all’s right in the world? Well it’s not!”

“I’m not ‘in your business.’ It’s my…our… responsibility. We’re supposed to be working together. I wish you would think about that before you explode. We’re a team remember?”

“We’re not.” He said hotly. “By definition, a team implies more than one. You are not the rock star here. You’re the one who should remember.” He stopped;he was panting after the outburst. Sweat ran down his face. He mopped it with a clean, white handkerchief and considered her. She looked hurt.

“I’m not trying to be a rock star. I only want you to think before you react. Why is that so terrible?” Her brow furrowed.

“Look I’m not saying it’s your fault…”

“You did!” Peace snapped. Anger was taken aback.

“I didn’t. I just mean that if we’re going to be a team, then you should consider me too.” He said.

Peace was upset now, “For real? You think I’m selfish? I’m killing myself trying to look out for you…to help you…and this is the thanks I get??”

“Just calm down. We can work this out.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!”

Peace turned and stormed across the road. She didn’t even notice she had gotten into Anger’s car. The powerful engine roared making the wheels spin. She took off in a cloud of dust and gravel.

Anger watched her drive off. He said to no one in particular, “she’ll come back. Always does.”