We caravanned down to the bay front, and walked several blocks from the paid parking lot to the cordoned off roads at waters edge. It was sprinkling when we got there, and we set up our folding chairs to establish our place of observation. It would be my first fireworks show in this city, despite having lived here over 10 years.

Almost immediately, it started to rain steadily. I popped open the umbrella I brought as a lark to ward off the rain, and the children with us suddenly became my friend for moments at a time, futility trying to avoid getting wet.

Behind me, a vibrant double rainbow had appeared, stretching fully across the sky, and landing in the water on either side of my view. I had come to see the fireworks- this would be the only display I would enjoy.

More and more people began to crowd the road, and there was a respite in the rain. We checked and rechecked the Doppler radar, naively believing that the small colorful circle over us was moving on. We projected the wind direction, and predicted a great, cool evening for fireworks. All around, there was the raucous noise of fireworks going off that the crowd had bought and brought. Screamers, rockets, and spitting lanterns interrupted our conversations, in sudden bursts of light and sound.

The clouds above us stilled. The rain began in earnest, intensifying as the skies darkened. Suddenly, lightning lit up the sky, with a thunderous boom following shortly behind it. It was time to abandon our plans and head for the car.

As we gathered the chairs, the rain became a deluge, turning the road into a creek, soaking us through in waves of warm water. We began to walk faster, laden with chairs and blankets, as I clutched my umbrella in hopes to keep a small fraction of myself dry. The lightning intensified, and I said a prayer under my breath as we raced to the car.

We all made it there, dripping onto the leather seats, laughing at the way the night turned out.

As we drove off, despite the downpour, the fireworks show began.

Oh, how I miss my dear departed friend Cindy. She was an amazing woman who pulled no punches. She had many wise sayings and retorts that I still use to this day.

One of my favorites is her shortened quip about this Bible passage:

Matthew 7:3-5 (NKJV) And why do you look at the speck in your brother’s eye, but do not consider the plank in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me remove the speck from your eye’; and look, a plank is in your own eye? Hypocrite! First remove the plank from your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.”

Plank eye! When someone was obviously tripping over their own plank, but felt the need to chastise you on your speck.

Listen- no one here has arrived. No one is perfect. One of the easiest ways to avoid dealing with your issues is to start micromanaging someone else’s.

Plank eye! Let’s make a deal. I’ll work on me, and you work on you.

It’s a win win.

It’s my first official “just hang around the house day” since I resigned June 15. I have been running in fifteen directions, but today, I only had to go to the pharmacy and Publix.

It’s raining today. It has been raining daily, torrentially, for what seems like weeks. I’m trying to make the best of it – it certainly doesn’t help when I’m trying to train a puppy to do her business outside! I have been dashing out with her when the torrent slows to a drizzle.

In the mean time, the rain means cooler temps – so I can sit in the rocker on the covered back porch and watch the dogs play. Usually in July this is impossible- the humidity and heat drive me inside for days and days at a time.

I also took the opportunity to put the baskets of ferns and flowers off the porch and into the yard. That’s one less chore to do – I’ll let Mother Nature do the watering this week.

There is a stillness after the rain, and the grass is almost glowing with a rich bright green glow. The succulent flowers are boisterously blooming, and the frogs are singing from their hidden puddles.

Rainy days and Mondays have their hidden delights, it seems.

I’m glad I’m here to enjoy them!

Once upon a time, some kind person realized that dogs could be helpful with their humans in a life saving way. Through much time and effort and working with the Americans with Disabilities Act, legislators made it possible for dogs to go with their humans out in public as they went through their day.

Thousands, nay tens of thousands, of dollars goes into the training of service dogs. It takes more than a year, and countless hours. These are dogs that will not respond or react to the clueless humans around them. They won’t poop or pee where they are not supposed to.

Humans like Jack or Janet, who are war veterans – people who have seen unspeakable acts, and have service dogs who know when their humans are having a problem before their humans realize it, and comfort and protect them in public.

Humans like Lee or Lauren. Lee has epilepsy,and his service dog will sense a seizure and alert Lee so he can be safe. Lauren has diabetes, and her service dog will alert her to a low blood sugar, so she can address it before she passes out- or worse.

These are just a few made up names to represent a portion of what real service dogs do.

Ah, but we live in the generation of entitlement, and this is why we can’t have nice things.

There are people – many, many people – like Rose, who has an ill-tempered ankle biter, that has never had a day of training. Rose hates to leave Boo Boo at home, and decided to pay the small fee to the predatory online hucksters, who sent her a service dog vest and a certificate for her money. Now Boo Boo goes everywhere with her, and she’s happy.

Her Boo Boo is a threat to real service dogs – because Boo Boo will snap and lunge from her retractable leash at the real service dogs. The real service dog will keep calm, but will be distracted, and may miss a cue to save their owner as they deal with the out of control Boo Boo.

Don’t you dare ask Rose if Boo Boo is a real service dog – she knows her way around the law. I have no doubt that Rose loves her Boo Boo, but she is a public hazard.

I wish I had the power to change the legislation so Rose and her ilk cannot take their pets out in public. I wish I knew how to protect the real service animals, and their deserving owners.

I fear that eventually there will be so many Roses with their “service” dogs, guinea pigs, hedgehogs, and other service imposters that all animals will again be banned from public areas.

Once again, the idiot masses will ruin it for the rest of us.

PS l love my dog. And cat. Even my beta fish. I don’t take them places animals aren’t allowed. Like Applebee’s for dinner.

Two years ago, I began a journey that will probably continue, to some degree, for the rest of my life.

A friend of mine runs a dog rescue – it’s a small non-profit, and she works her butt off to save the lives of hundreds of dogs (and a few cats) each year. Each animal is vetted, each potential owner is thoroughly interviewed, and each home is inspected. Every animal is welcome to return to the rescue if for some reason it doesn’t work out.

I watched from the sidelines for a couple of years. I would go to the pet store and see them set up under their canopies, each animal described in poster boards declaring all the awesome traits they had.

Then, two years ago, there was a mama dog that was dumped at the county shelter. She died in surgery as they tried to save the pups. Now there were babies that needed help.

I had no experience with newborn pups, but plenty of experience with newborn humans. I had kids at home to help me, and I volunteered to go get some puppies to foster.

“How many do you want? There are six.” I stared at the shelter volunteer. “Uh, three I guess,” I stammered.

She disappeared into a room down the hall, returning with a carrier with three six day old pups. I took them, shocked – I thought they were six WEEKS old.

Here came my on the job foster mommy training.

With the support of the rescue community, I got tips and hints on how to feed and grow these three, so small their eyes weren’t even open. My Aussie stepped in and was the doggie foster mommy, instinctually caring for their most basic needs, even though she has never had a litter. I started with bottled feeding them day and night, to soft food, then crunchy kibble. They went from a small cluster in a laundry basket, to three balls of energy running the porch.

When they were eight weeks old, all three were adopted to loving homes – and all three were crate trained, well socialized, and very loved.

Yes, it was a commitment – but it saved three lives. These dogs went to homes with contracts to be spayed or neutered, and the cycle was broken in their bloodline.

Since then, I have had a couple of adult dogs that just needed a little TLC or minor surgery (cherry eye repair), and they were in and out of my house within a month.

I have fostered pups for just a couple weeks, bridging the gap to get them to the age of adoption. I have carried them to their sterilization appointments, and cared for them as they healed.

It really is a small window of time that means so much.

Yesterday I picked up Molly. Born in the wild to a feral mom that has avoided capture for two litters, we will be the home that crate trains her, shows her human love, socializes her, and grows her up enough to her immunized and ready for her new home. The rescue president was the one that plucked her out of the woods, bathing this tiny puppy that had nests of fleas all over her. She then went to another volunteer, who took her to the vet to be dewormed, and gave her flea medicine. I am the third volunteer in the chain of life for little Molly. Her two rescued siblings have gone to two separate volunteer homes.

In a perfect world, everyone would spay and neuter their animals. Thousands of cats and dogs would not be euthanized daily. There would not be feral animals fending for themselves.

In the mean time, if you are reading this, I challenge you to help these helpless pets – volunteer to help at the shelter. Or at a reputable rescue. You could also donate money or goods to the same.

I’ve had a lifetime of dogs and cats enriching my life. I’m glad I’m able to give back.

I’ve been treading water for a while.

Treading water is a survival tactic. It’s not enjoyable.

Prior to that, there were times I was near drowning, between bouts of doggy paddling for my life.

What I haven’t done since I was a child is rest.

Most of this is due to the choices I made. I have lived life with my chin in the air, and a stubborn “I’m gonna do it my way, darn it” attitude.

My strong will did not serve me well as a child, or into me teens. My parents stayed steady, even as I flailed.

I’ve accomplished a lot, and overcame even more. I’m proud of how far I’ve come. My tenacious will is what kept me going, despite adversity.

I am just now learning how to let go – how to quit struggling, and just float.

When I go to the beach, one of my favorite things to do is float in the calm, clear water of the Gulf of Mexico. I lay on my back, completely relax, and let the ocean carry me. I close my eyes and listen to the waves, the wind, the gulls. I always come home refreshed.

I have let go of the striving. I am in the arms of God, awakening each day to see what it holds for me. I’m floating.

I’m sleeping better. I’m calmer. As hard as it was to finally let go, I’ve never felt better.

Let the healing begin, and creativity bubble forth.

It’s a weird thing carrying around my pancreas.

Well, that’s what I call it. It’s a zippered case that contains my diabetes supplies – my Omnipod meter, my Dexcom PDM, needles, insulin, alcohol, an extra Pod.

I need this case near me at all times. Everywhere I go. It talks to my blue tooth device embedded in my body just under the skin, and reads my blood sugars 24/7. It alarms with highs or lows. I use the meter to input all the food I eat in carbs, and it calculates how much insulin to give me for that meal.

It is my pancreas.

It’s been eight months since I began using these technologies to help control my diabetes. According to the Dexcom my hemoglobin A1C – a blood test that tells you your average blood glucose over the last 3 months – should be 6.5-6.6. It was 8 when I was diagnosed a year ago, and 7 before I got on the electronics. Tomorrow I find out my latest lab work.

It’s a pain to carry this thing around, but I haven’t forgotten it in a while. Knock wood.

It takes planning to go anywhere – I also carry glucose tabs and skittles everywhere I go, in case I get a low blood sugar.

I took my pancreas for granted my whole life. Now I am mindful of everything I eat and drink, recording everything.

Diabetes is manageable- but it takes a lot of work and effort.

It beats the alternative.

Here’s to the next 50 years!

Is your house even a Southern home if you don’t have a front porch?

Front porches are an important part of Southern culture.

On a suffocatingly hot summer day like today, the shade of the front porch brings respite from the oppressive heat. If there is even the slightest breeze, the fronds from the requisite baskets of ferns will wave gently your way as you sit in a wicker chair, drinking tea or lemonade. These are the required beverages for front porch “settin'”.

A rocking chair is best, harkening back to the porches of my youth in Alabama. Wood against wood creaked as the elders sat and watched the world go by, and me in the yard, playing. The big live oak had a circle of crumbling bricks around it, and I’d pry them apart to find the roly polys I’d play with while we waited for supper. Gramma Dahlia made tea so sweet your teeth would hurt, and her nana puddin’ was made with love, from scratch, every Sunday. Even on the hottest, most humid days, her meringue was curled to perfection.

Mama talks about times from her youth, when the yards were swept, butter was churned, and beans were snapped on the front porch. The house was too stifling – the slap of the screen door was the only warning you got that Mama was checking on you butter or bean progress.

Nowadays, the A/C keeps me inside for most of the summer, safe from the noseeums that love to bite my legs.

At least once a day, though, I go sit on the front porch. I remember my childhood and my grandparents, fleeting visits made between moves as an Air Force Brat.

I also fondly recall settin’ on the deck, watching fireflies at my in-laws farm. These Kentucky home memories are treasured for the quiet reflections of the beauty of those acres, and the love of family around me. Mom and I would talk about the variety of birds visiting the feeder, and the kids would run the fields, riding the three wheeler, laughing, until they wore themselves out. The somber cry of coyotes at dusk would bring these city kids right back to the house to join us on the deck or inclosed patio.

Back home on my porch in the early evening, I smell the intoxicating perfume of gardenias at night, and never cease to be in awe of the huge glowing magnolia blossoms.

I do declare a front porch is what makes a southern house a home.

You’ve got to start somewhere.

I’ve got three blogs that I have written for, off and on, for several years.

I started this blog as I start my new life as a writer, and step away from a full time career as a registered nurse.

My goal is to write daily about whatever piques my mind. This is the beginning – I’m interested to see where this goes.

The other goal this week is to start working on my novel. This is been a dream that has been with me since I was writing short stories in elementary school. From what I have read, the way to success as a writer is to treat it like s job, and write daily.

So I will.

We shall see how this blog morphs and grows, even as I do.

I also love photography, so it’s a place to put my photos, too.

This week my writing career begins in earnest – at last!