the impenetrable beauty of simple, and the evening wisdom of porches and kitchen tables...

by rachel tsunami

It's inescapable. I've always loved well-crafted writing, and I married a graphic designer who has worked in advertising for many years. One of the results of that is that we really enjoy excellent advertisements together, both for their design elements and for good, well-written, effective copy. ["copy" is the words part of a print advertisement.]

I just came across this ad in a foodie magazine, and I think it deserves to be shared. And btw, it really does make me want to find some of this bottled iced tea and taste it. That's the hallmark of an effective ad. But for now, here's the copy. Just lovely, with or without the tea. It reads well in Late Summer especially:

Mayor Wanted. The Town of Gold Peak Seeks a Mayor.

Must be a believer. Must believe in the impenetrable beauty of
simple. [oooh, i like that part.] Must believe in six year olds running by a
lake with sparklers and chocolate ice-cream smiles. Must believe in the evening
wisdom of porches, kitchen tables and two chairs by a lake. [and that part.]
Must believe in the divine symphony of the lap of a canoe paddle, the cry of the
loon, and the rustle of maple leaves in September breezes. Must believe in
parades, picnic blankets, and the loyalty of boat dogs. Must believe in the
crisp and sweet purity of grass between the toes and of tea between ice. [this is great!] Must believe in Nathaniel Hawthorne when he whispers happiness is as
a butterfly which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp, but which if you
will sit down quietly, may alight upon you. This is that place. This is Gold
Peak. Mayor wanted.

If you believe, visit www.tastegoldpeak.com/mayorwanted
and tell us why.
Gold Peak. What it Tastes Like Up Here

George Grant could be their mayor. In fact, he could have written this. He believes strongly in parades, picnic blankets, and grass between the toes.

(If you're interested in good advertising, visit the site. Somebody found a great ad campaign just waiting to happen.) Somebody tell Dan to look at this.

Well done. I don't even know what state it's in, but for a few minutes, I want to move to Gold Peak.

National Eat an Apple Day

I saw this announcement in the school library this morning. I felt it incumbent on me to tell all my friends so they don't miss out.
I'm tellin' you, what with Talking Like a Pirate yesterday, and Eating Apples today, there's no time for school!

The Antiquary...

by ~e

Yes. The Antiquary. That is the book I am currently wading through. Wait, don't get me wrong. I love to read, and if you don't find me talking to my friends, doing school or helping my dear mummy around the house, I'll probably be curled up on my bed in my beautiful bedroom that my papa has made for me, reading one of my faves.

Walter Scott's writing is particularly wordy, and although very astounding and brilliant, it is somewhat breathtaking and can be a somewhat daunting task. (Especially if you have to read 15 chapters per week. AAAAHHHH!!!!) However, if I can make myself concentrate and if I try to enjoy the style of writing for what it is, I've found that the plot line is very enjoyable and thrilling.

One of the main characters is Jonathan Oldbuck of Monkbairns. He's the character that Sir Scott describes as the Antiquary, who, because of his own personal disappointments, has taken refuge in the obsessive study of miscellaneous history. He has a curiously passionate love for books and this is very evident in his speech.
Speech? Did someone say speech? Did I also mention that the dialect that Sir Walter Scott uses is completely Scottish? Did I mention that I happen to love the Scottish accent and jargon?
Well, now you know...
Back to Mr. Oldbuck, his bookishness is very prominent throughout and some very good quotes about books are found within the pages because of it.

And so I'll leave you with my favorite quote... (so far)

'For he would rather have, at his bed-head,
A twenty books, clothed in black or red,
Of Aristotle, or his philosophy, (ok, maybe not Aristotle, but you get the general idea.)
Than robes rich, rebeck, or saltery.' - Quoted from the Canterbury Tales


With ~e's permish, I am ammending her post, instead of topping it with a new one, to say how well timed it is, as we are hoping to make our annual trek this coming Saturday to the Clanjamfry --- Memphis' annual Scottish festival. It's not on the grand scale of the one the Beehive attends in Texas every June, but it is great fun nonetheless. Last year the Beehive joined us on the beautiful, ivy league grounds of old Evergreen Presbyterian Church, near Rhodes College, for a full day of tartans, bagpipes, and kilt swishing. (The Wolf River Pipe Band Pipe Major is just too dashing!) They've got the sheepdogs, the traditional Scottish games, the food, the music, the displays of pipes and swords and geneologys galore.

So. We'll don our status as honorary scots (thoroughly welsh, at least, so we feel entitled), go watch the games, enjoy the celtic bands and the dancers, (buy some jewelry), and who knows, we may even eat some haggis in honor of Great Scot.

~rachel tsunami

double first blood

by rachel tsunami

Courtesy of Lacy's camera, here are some great shots Andrew sent me from last weekend when we gathered at Grace Chapel for Timothy Guess to be ordained.



First love.



I have a collection of them in this pose through the years. Taller now.



Andrew helping Molly figure out how to get down the steps.



Really cute, except for the Walmart bag.



She must've nailed him.



Prince Dog. Princess.



Andrew and his Fairy.

addendum: Joe4444

Yay Joe! How did I miss this? When I read your comment to Kathryn about the parking lots, it hit me like a pie in the face. Somehow I wasn't conscious (go ahead, somebody. just take that and run with it) of the fact that dear Joe4444 is also a student at U of M. In spite of all the Tiger sports talk you guys do in the comments it just didn't sink in(...it's a woman thang). Now it makes sense. Ah yes, the school year is shaping up just sweeter and sweeter.

So. My list of U of M friends was incomplete (Wednesday, 8/30/06 post). Yet another one to offer advice, encouragement and a helping hand. It warms a mother's heart.

Viva la Joe.

Find your Parking Spot....and Discover Yourself

by multifarious


Parking at school is a fine art; not something to be taken lightly or for granted.

There are two parking lots at The University of Memphis for students – Central and Southern. Central is my favorite by far. It is right beside the music building and closest to the library. The atmosphere is nicer, with trees every few yards, and there are no chain link fences or construction cones. Southern is rather depressing and trashy looking, so I never park there if I can possibly help it.

I am riding to school with Beka today; carpooling is my favorite.

Molly wants me to bring her coffee. I want some too, so we stop at a gas station and get two coffees in those styrofoam cups with sip lids. Beka's first class is closest to Southern and that's where she plans to park, but that means I have to walk all the way across campus carrying two hot, sloshy coffees. I negotiate: "Why don't I just drive your car around to Central and park it there for you? It will be closer to your last class."

That sounds good to her. Central is also a bit closer to the library where I plan to spend the next 2 free hours studying for Weather and Climate. I know it will take a while to find a parking space; it's usually pretty crowded by 9:30am.

Understatement of the century.

After spending a solid ten minutes driving over the huge parking lot and not having a smidge of success, I decide to take the stalking tactic: look for someone coming from campus, arms loaded down with books, and follow him surreptitiously to his car. This can be awkward as you must drive very slowly, close behind the person, but one must resort to extreme measures sometimes. There's a promising looking one, with a resolute, home-going look on his face, but he keeps walking and keeps walking, never getting to his car and my parking space.

After having unsuccessfully stalked about half a dozen people, I realize the problem. Many of these unsuspecting victims live in the dorms behind the parking lot. So that's why they disappear and don't provide a parking space for me! After about fifteen minutes I learn to detect these kinds by the hand/key factor: Look at hands. No keys, no car. Dorm-dweller.

Now I am discouraged. Should I resort to illegal parking? Many do; yellow lines, medians, odd ends of areas. Should I join the outlaws? No. I will stick to my principles . Surely somebody, somewhere, is through with morning classes and is on his way home.

Aha. There are two guys talking at a car. The door is open; he's fiddling with keys! That looks promising! With a warm thought toward the cozy library and all that studying that is going to breeze me through Weather and Climate, I roll down the window and drive by.

:: sweet, distressed face ::

"Are y'all coming or going?"

"Going. Just a second." I drive around to come in the other way and get a better angle (I am not a very skilled parker).

Big Mistake. Within the 20 seconds it takes me to get back around, another person has parked HER car and taken MY space. She wasn't even around! Sneaky freak.

I am tired. I want the library. Why are there so many students at this stupid school? Why don't they enlarge the stupid parking lot? Am I reduced to parking at Southern, beside the curb at the end of that long line of cars that stretches away from campus to infinity?

No. I will not.

I continue the mad search, back and forth, back and forth. There is a lovely young man. Shall I ask him if he minds me stalking him? Oh. No keys. Stupid guy. Why can't he live off campus like normal people? Back and forth, back and forth; probably burned half a tank of gas by now. I don't care. I won't go to Southern. I take a tiny break to put a love note on the windshield of a red Honda Civic with a kilt on the stick shift and a Jack-in-the-Box antenna topper. My resolution is bending. More cars coming in for 10:20 classes. No cars going out. They are all better space finders than I. They've all done this before; I am just a poor freshman. Someone take pity on me and LEAVE!

It's no use. No one hears my cry or even cares for my plight. I am a nomad and vagabond without my own personal parking space. I don't belong.

Forty-five minutes have passed and it's just too long. I can hold out no longer. I point my car toward the exit. Numbly I wait for a pedestrian to pass, a dark, pretty girl with a sorority jacket on. I stare at her as she walks slowly, meandering her way toward the dorms. Of course there are no keys in her hands. Time stands still in a hopeless sort of way.

Luck is not my friend. I am forced to park at Southern.

Suddenly she stops, turning her head slowly. Her long, straight, shiny black hair swings around in slow motion; it reminds me of a Pantene commercial. She is looking at me. Oh, great. She thinks I'm a moron, just sitting here staring at her. But what is that look on her face? Questioning? Understanding? Sympathy? She points across the parking lot, then turns and starts walking again. I meekly creep behind, blessing her all the way. She stops at a bright blue Mustang. I sit, stoically guarding my space, afraid that a phantom car will appear from nowhere at any moment and whiz in behind me. Nothing happens. She pulls out. I back in.

Hmmm. The person from the car next to me will have about half an inch in which to open his door. Do I dare adjust? What if a skinny motorcycle snatches the spot before I get back in? I pull out and back in, holding my breath all the while. No motorcycle appears. I give the cars on either side perfect amounts of breathing room, and do not kiss the front bumper of the car in back. I shut off the motor.

I love this school. I love Central. I love this coffee I have to carry. I love my heavy bag. I love the long walk ahead of me. I am happy. I found a parking spot.

And I was all like, "Yeah right!", and he goes, "Whatever!"

by monolog

Mama recently got me the Fourth Edition American Heritage Dictionary to be my ever-present companion this school year. She and Papa each had one in college and found them to be invaluable (which is evident by the current condition of Mama's First Edition red cover.) I have already found mine very helpful. There are many, many times I've wanted to look up the definition of a word or find out its etymology, and now it brings such satisfaction to discover that I've actually remembered to bring my new 21st century-looking 8x5 American Heritage with me all the way out here under the tree to help with a literature assignment.

On the back...

"This new American Heritage is more suited to our national character than any other previous dictionary." -The New York Times Book Review

...Newly updated to reflect our changing language, this revised edition...

like (2)
-idiom: be like Informal
To say And he's like, "Leave me alone!"
(See Usage Note at go)

all
-idiom: be all Informal
To say He's all, "What did you do that for?"
(See Usage Note at go)

go
Usage: Many speakers now use go in informal conversation to report speech, as in Then he goes, "You think you're real smart don't you?" This usage is much like that of the quotation introducers be all and be like, although these constructions can also be used to express statements that sum up an attitude, as in He's all, "No way!" By contrast, go is largely restricted to realating dialouge in the present tense narration.

I've often like wondered about how they were going about explain this like...mutation of our language when they finally like admitted these usages into the dictionary. Well, they actually went to the trouble. I was betting they'd put, 'Usage: Go ask the nearest 13 year old.'

Cry, quiver, quake! It has descended!

by ~e

It is the best of times, it is the worst of times, it is the age of wisdom, it is the age of foolishness, it is the epoch of belief, it is the epoch of incredulity, it is the season of Light, it is the season of Darkness, it is the spring of hope, it is the winter of despair, we have everything before us, we have nothing before us, we are all going direct to the head of the class, we are all going direct to ...(said in awed whisper) ... the principles office - in short, the season of trepidation has descended upon us all.


School.


That single, one-syllable word, strikes terror into the bravest hearts. Men of courage quiver at the thought of it quite as a Pekenise dog might quiver at the thought of a hairbrush. If someone actually dares to say it, they gasp, turn away, look aghast, and hope that no one notices. Some of the most courageous men of history have been subdued by the stark harshness of that word.
If brave men of battle are afraid of even just word, you can imagine the effect that this causes when children, mere infants, are thrust into the throes of education.
Mothers use it to threaten their children.
"Johnny," she says.
"Ma'am?" He looks frightened as if he were a goldfish looking down into the dark recesses of a toilet.
"...School!" says she, in a melodramatic voice.

Hold on to your seats, because, believe it or not, 'tis the season.