For the poetry reading last night, I wore my Luccheses Dad gave me and my compression socks (rolled inside, of course.)

Along with the gravy poem and horse poem, I read this Harvest Moon poem.  It was a great way to end the semester, though I confess, I won’t miss the class!  Next semester is going to be even more crazy with 12 hours: Grant writing, Creative writing, and two core classes!

Under the Harvest Moon

Saturday night, the whole town was at the Harvest Moon Fest,

It was free, after all, and you couldn’t do better than that.

The City held it in the historic visitor’s center,

Really known as the Wal-Mart parking lot,

So you could stroll in and get some batteries, duct tape and a six-pack,

Before conquering the Moon Bounce and buying a hand-painted gun rack.

Well, my editor sent me to take photos,

And it’s amazing what the camera sees,

Like Darth Vader flirting with Nefertiti.

The Fire Department’s oogling the Park and Rec girls again,

The librarians are pitching a fit,

They all bought new khaki pants, but only the creepy balloon artist noticed.

Turn the corner and there’s the newlyweds making out,

A Kleenex Box, pregnant witch and six-foot pizza slice with a beer belly.

The psychic just told a little girl she was going to grow up and have seven children,

While being an astronaut, curing cancer and winning Miss America Christian.

Meanwhile the belly dancers have pulled out a slithery friend,

But the Baptists refuse to wiggle along,

All except Leroy who had a few too many at the Random Beer Garden Booth,

Looks like I just found my front-page shot.

Grandma Riley’s caused a ruckus in the face painting line,

Not even the Lutheran’s preacher’s mother can put Jesus on a 5-year-old’s cheek.

She’s hollering about blasphemy, the artists protest their creative rights,

They called for Sherriff Bill, but he’s Methodist and in the henna tattoo line.

The Celtic dancers are starting up.

Clogs don’t really work on grass, but they’re trying,

Which is more than you can say for the mentalist,

Pulling out magic post-it notes from his pockets that fool no one,

But hey, it’s all in fun.

Someone tugs on my dress,

And what do I see,

But three little princesses grinning up at me.

“Excuse me, ma’am, can you take our picture?  We’d like to be in the paper.”

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Poetry Reading

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This poem, written at Dad’s request, was a huge hit.  I revised it based on some suggestions and may even read it tomorrow at the poetry reading we have to do for our final at Barnes and Nobles…in public.  (Shudder).

Cowboy Dan liked a little extra with his dinner,

A little something for his brisket and his biscuits,

Some sizzle for his steak and some drizzle for ‘taters,

Out on the range, gravy’s practically a food group.

There was only one problem.

You see, for Cowboy Dan, gravy was everything

And anything.

There was gravy for biscuits,

Gravy for cornbread and beans,

Cream gravy for chicken fried steak,

BBQ gravy for brisket and ribs.

Red gravy for spaghetti,

Cream cheese gravy for cake,

Mayo gravy for hamburgers,

Alfredo gravy for noodles,

Skillet gravy for sausage, giblet gravy for turkey.

There’s even gravy for jerky.

Ranch dressing gravy on tomatoes,

Buttercream gravy on cookies,

Whipped cream gravy ice cream.

Red gravy for enchiladas, brown gravy on beef tips,

Grape gravy for toast.

Meringue gravy on coconut cream pie,

Chili gravy over Fritos,

Squeeze butter gravy on rice, salsa gravy on chips,

A proper cowboy eats gravy, not sour cream dip.

Mama told Cowboy Dan she wasn’t cooking any more gravy,

Got caught in his beard and it sure wasn’t healthy.

So Cowboy Dan went to Luby’s every night,

Because without gravy, Cowboy Dan might as well eat Alpo,

(and he’s a little higher on the food chain than that.)

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Good Gravy, Round 2

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So, I was revising poems for my poetry portfolio tonight, and I started on this one.  Earlier in the semester, I got slaughtered for not being ‘serious’ and writing ‘fairy tales and nursery rhymes’.  This is not a children’s literature course, I was told.  This is poetry.  It’s about emotions and imagery and feelings.

Well, horses have feelings.  If a horse gets into your house, there’s bound to be a lot of emotions.

So, I revised the poem, heavily influenced by reading a Baxter Black book, I’m afraid.  I like it much better.  What do ya’ll think?

There’s a horse in my driveway,

She belongs to the gypsies next door.

They’re going to curse me once they see her eating my lawn,

But that doesn’t seem to be a concern of hers.

I tell her she should go home,

And she just gives me a look,

Saunters right into my garage,

And sticks her greedy little snout into a bag of deer food.

Well, the deer don’t like that at all.

Ol’ Rudolph is howling and running down the hill,

He’s a half-Axis, half-whitetail crossbreed,

So scary even the coyotes give him a wide berth.

This horse doesn’t figure it out,

Until Rudolph comes tearing in after her,

Flanked by a dozen whitetail,

And the King of the Axis with a six-foot rack.

So she spooks and storms the kitchen door,

Now she’s sliding all over the just-mopped hardwood floors.

The gypsy horse,

Has angered Queen Bitty,

The four-pound Chihuahua that runs this house,

So she sics her poor brother Bear after the horse,

Who, convinced a fat squirrel has gone rabid, tries to run upstairs.

Try, is the operative word.

You see, hooves don’t like carpet,

And Chihuahuas don’t like horses,

And they’re definitely annoyed at the deer grazing in the pantry,

And scraping their racks across the leather sofa.

The horse flips off the stairs better than Mary Lou Rettan,

And hurries out the back.

The deer run after her with Rudolph leading the pack,

So Queen Bitty goes back to her nap.

Meanwhile, I can see the gypsies up the hill,

Too bad I can’t see if they’re smiling,

But I’m not risking a curse this close to Christmas,

So I just get a broom and call the repairman.

Next time there’s a horse in my driveway, I know just what to do.

Run like crazy and close the garage door!

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There’s a Horse in my Driveway, round 2

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Cowboy Dan liked a little extra with his dinner,

A little something for his brisket and his biscuits.

“What good is chicken fry without gravy?” he’d cry,

“Why, that’s like cake without icing! I might as well eat dirt and die!”

There was only one problem.

You see, for Cowboy Dan, gravy was everything

And anything.

There was gravy for biscuits,

Gravy for cornbread and beans,

Gravy for chicken fried steak, roast and another gravy for brisket.

Red gravy for spaghetti,

Cream cheese gravy for cake,

Mayo gravy for hamburgers,

Alfredo gravy for noodles,

White gravy for sausage, skillet gravy for turkey,

Every good gravy-loving cowboy is a little quirky.

Ranch dressing gravy on tomatoes,

Extra buttercream gravy on cookies,

And whipped gravy on pie.

Red gravy for enchiladas, brown gravy on beef tips,

Every good cowboy knows the difference.

If a dish doesn’t require gravy,

Cowboy Dan will be sure to oblige,

Meringue gravy on coconut cream pie,

Gravy on rice, gravy on chips,

A proper cowboy eats gravy, not sour cream dip.

No matter what’s on Cowboy Dan’s plate,

He’ll never really get a taste, but that’s all right.

As long as he’s got a bowl of gravy,

Every dish will be mighty tasty.

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Good Gravy

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Halloween

In disgust,

The creepy and the crawly,

The weird and the ungodly,

And even the scary and terrifying,

Gathered together Halloween Night,

Praying it would be a trick-or-treater free sight.

“No one wants any decent spells,” the witch grumbled,

“All they want is love and money,

Looking good and getting skinny.

If it weren’t so sad, it might be funny.”

“At least you don’t sit all day,” the jack o’ lantern cried,

“Fearing you’ll get carved up or made into a pie.

Ol’ Bob got bought and painted to look like a princess—

Pigtails made of yarn and rhinestones glued to his head!”

“Oh blah blah blah,” the ghost mimicked,

“I’m a pumpkin and I’m so persecuted.

Kids today aren’t scared of anything!

Walking through walls, moving stuff across the ceiling—

I set fire to curtains the other day and they just giggled—

GIGGLED! If I were a poltergeist, they’d be screaming.”

“At least you don’t have a movie franchise,” the vampire groused.

“A bunch of teenagers wearing glitter mooning around,

Fighting with werewolves like a bunch of clowns.

Getting girls has never been easier,

But instead of just their blood, they want forever!”

The black cat licked her black paw. “It could be worse,” she mused,

“You could all be running the streets in cheap costumes,

begging for candy for bratty children,

just to put them to bed and be called a villain.”

The creatures looked at each other and shuddered,

For the cat was right.

Perhaps it was the perfect Halloween night.

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Halloween

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Under the Harvest Moon

Saturday night, the whole town was at the Harvest Moon Fest,

It was free, after all, and you couldn’t do better than that.

The City held it in the historic visitor’s center,

Really known as the Wal-Mart parking lot,

So you could stroll in and get some batteries, duck tape and a six-pack,

Before conquering the Moon Bounce and buying a hand painted gun rack.

Well, my editor sent me to take photos,

And it’s amazing what the camera sees,

Like Darth Vader flirting with Nefertiti.

The Fire Department’s oogling the Park and Rec girls again,

So you best hope no one knocks over their Jack O Lantern tonight,

Looks like our boys are otherwise occupied.

Turn the corner and there’s the newlyweds making out,

A Kleenex Box chasing a Pizza Slice with pigtails.

The psychic just told a little girl she was going to grow up and have seven children,

While being an astronaut, curing cancer and winning Miss America Christian.

If she offers up some ocean front property,

I’m going to call over the belly dancers,

And get their slithery friend to help squeeze the truth out of her.

Man, won’t that make for a great picture!

Grandma’s pitching a fit in the face painting line,

Wrinkled butterfly wings across her nose wasn’t what she had in mind.

Guess she and the grandkid won’t be twins after all,

But there’s always the henna tattoos,

If the preacher doesn’t leave the Lutheran Church booth.

The Celtic dancers are starting up,

Clogs don’t really work on grass, but they’re smiling,

You got to give them props for trying.

The professor is having a conniption

Because the mentalist guessed his birthday on a magical Post it,

Better get a close up of the enchanted dice while I’m at it.

Someone tugs on my dress,

And what do I see,

But three little princesses grinning up at me.

“Excuse me, ma’am, can you take our picture?  We’d like to be in the paper.”

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Harvest Moon Festival

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Part one here. 

While Priscilla the pug chatted with a butterfly (one might interpret her snapping jaws as trying to eat the butterfly, but really, it was an animated conversation), Mitzie paced back and forth on the scientist’s porch.  On the stroke of two, she rapped on the wood.  The door flung open.  If possible, the scientists’ hair was even wilder.  A laptop was tapped under one arm and a cat squirmed under the other.  Mitzie raised her eyebrow.  ”What are you doing?”

“Ordering Mr. Boots some boots.  His paws get cold.” Herr Vempkauff’s eyebrows crowded together like fuzzy caterpillars huddling for warmth.  ”What are you doing?”

She scowled and pointed to the folded clippings clenched in his fingers.  ”Are you ordering boots with the coupons I gave you?”

“No.”  Herr Vempkauff’s cheeks reddened.  He was a terrible liar.  Mitzie waited until he sputtered, all the air blustering out of his cheeks in one puff.  ”Fine!  I’ll order Mr. Boots’ boots later– even though a cold front is coming and he won’t be able to roam outdoors in comfort, thanks to your impatience.”

“A cold front means an influx of spiders, and Priscilla hates spiders,” Mitzie informed him, sweeping inside with Priscilla, who was perhaps the only pug who did not hate spiders.  She gazed inside the messy living room, where papers were stacked on top of papers and books on top of books.  In fact, a stack of books made up the wobbly coffee table, the stiff looking chairs and filled several cardboard boxes that pressed together, served as a couch.  She squinted toward the kitchen and shuddered.  The only thing Mitzie hated more than spiders was messes, and this house was making her skin crawl more than a tarantula.  ”Shall we get started?” she asked Herr Vempkauff, delicately perching on one stack of books that was high enough to serve as a stool.

“No need.”  He patted his lab coat pockets until he located a small vial.  With a flourish, he presented it to her.  ”Here you are.  Three drops in a bucket is all you need.  It’s Spider Hiroshima– it’ll take them all out.”

Mitzie crinkled her nose.  ”Is it pug proof?”

“Err”–

“Is it Mr. Boots proof?”

“Oh, heavens no!”  Herr Vempkauff was so horrified he scooped up his cat and pressed his cheek to the feline’s whiskers.

“Then I suppose you better get back to work,” Mitzie drawled, smoothing her skirts.  ”And I’d like it to smell good, if you don’t mind.  Vanilla or honeysuckle, something of that nature.”

“You want it to smell good?” Herr Vempkauff repeated.  His caterpillar brows were about to vibrate off his creased forehead.

“Of course!  I despise spiders!  If I’ll be splashing this about, I want it to smell lovely.  It must be pug safe, human safe and butterfly safe.”  At Herr Vempkauff’s puzzled look, Mitzie explained, “Priscilla loves butterflies.”

“Of course.”  Herr Vempkauff shook his head.  Grumbling under his breath, he started downstairs toward his lab.  ”Why do you hate spiders so much anyway?”

Mitzie drew in a deep breath.  ”That’s a long story.”  Before Herr Vempkauff could protest, she began.  ”It all started when I was three…”

To be continued, Invisible Friends!

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Mitzi Matterhorn was not afraid of scientists, either

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In the big, big house,

Far, far from town,

The old man has put up the horses,

Even the deer have cut their losses.

Inside, Mama’s wiping down the counters,

The little ones are curled up in their beds.

Even the dogs have given up sniffing,

In favor of some old comfy rug dreaming.

The old man comes in for his bedtime bath,

Mama shuts off the lights and whispers,

“All right, ya’ll.  Time to say good night,

And don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

Good night, old man with bubbles in his beard.

Good night, Mama in her stained apron.

Good night, chattering little birds.

Good night dreaming dogs,

Good night snoring hogs,

Good night whispering kids—

That’s right, Mama can always hear this.

Good night horses,

Good night goats,

Don’t eat until you choke.

But most of all, good night deer,

Good night stars,

Good night wherever you are.

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Good night deer

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She was, however, terrified of spiders.

When her mother pointed the fallacy of this to her, Mitzie scrunched up her nose and turned her head.  ”Bugs are not spiders, spiders are not bugs.”  That’s all she would say about that, and her mother threw her hands up and went to make dinner.

As one afraid of spiders, there were many places Mitzi Matterhorn did not dwell.  Stairwells were out, particularly dark and shadowy ones with lots of dusty corners perfect for spiderwebs.  Closets, unless well lighted and walk-in, were off limits.  Pantries, laundry rooms and the coat room at school also made the list, and her exasperated friends grew quite tired of fetching her boots and her snacks daily.  ”Why can’t you get  your own crackers?” they would whine, and Mitzi would scrunch her  nose and cross her arms over her chest, glaring her best glare.  ”Do you WANT me to be bit by spiders?  Do you want a black widow to crawl into my left ear and out my right?  Do you want a tarantula to tap dance on my skull?”

At this point, yes, her friends rather did, but one never said such things aloud.  Instead they’d hand her the boots and crackers and grumble under their breath as they chewed.  Mitzi would pretend not to hear them, and everything would start all over again the next day.

Of course, there was no way this could continue forever. At some point Mitzi would grow up and have a home of her own, and unless she married the world’s richest exterminator, her future husband couldn’t spend his every waking hour scouting spiders for her.  Her friends would have jobs or children, and as much as she tried, she couldn’t train her pudgy pug Priscilla to search for spiders.  Instead of pointing out the spiders, Priscilla would slurp up their webs– and sometimes, much to Mitzi’s disgust, the spiders as well.  After the one incident with the jumping spider, she’d scrubbed Priscilla’s tongue so hard she was sure the pug couldn’t taste her kibble for a week.  After that, Priscilla ignored every spider– particularly the tasty looking ones.

So, there was only one thing to do.  Mitzie Matterhorn would have to develop the world’s best, 100 percent foolproof spider away spray. Oh, sure, she could just get over her fear like her mother suggested, but what would the fun of that be?  Why would she have to change? It was the spiders that were the problem, not her.  As Mitzie tended to enjoy art and writing more than science, she didn’t just need the world’s best, 100 percent foolproof spider away spray, but a scientist to create it.

That’s how she ended up on Herr Vempkauff’s porch at nine on a Saturday morning.  Everyone knows you never disturb a mad scientist that early, particularly on a weekend as they’ve been up creating chaos all night, but Mitzie didn’t care.  There was a tiny web in her kitchen right by the fridge that morning.  If she didn’t act fast, she’d have to throw everything out for fear a spider slipped inside and stamped their sticky eight feet all over everything and if she did that, her mother would have to go to the store.  Her mother hated going to the store.  This was not a good situation for anyone.  ”Herr Vempkauff?” she shouted, knocking.  ”Herr Vempkauff, hello?”

The door flung open and a wild-haired, bug-eyed, lanky old dotterer thrust his head out the screen.  ”Grasshoppers!  Can’t you see I’m sleeping?”

“It’s nine in the morning.”  Mitzie was unimpressed.  Actually, she was downright judgmental.

“Fine.  I’ll march over to your home at four in the morning and we’ll call it square.”  Herr Vempkauff started to slam the door.

“Wait!” Mitzie cried.  ”I have a job for you.”

“Can you pay?” Herr Vempkauff was unimpressed.  Actually, he was downright judgmental.

“I can pay you in love and endless appreciation.”

Herr Vempkauff started to slam the door.

“And coupons!” Mitzie howled.

The frizzy head poked back out.  Mad scientists, as a rule, were frugal.  Herr Vempkauff was downright cheap.  ”What’s the catch?”

“No catch.”  Mitzie’s mother was a champion coupon clipper.  If she had to go to the store, she wanted it to count for something.  Mitzie extended the envelope of coupons she’d swiped from her mother’s box.  It was a hefty price to pay, but sacrifices must be made in the name of science.  Herr Vempkauff peeked inside and whistled.  ”Ok.  You got me.  What’s the job?”

“I need a spider-away spray.  One that’s 100 percent foolproof.”

Herr Vempkauff smirked.  ”Are you scared of bugs?”

“No, spiders.  And I’m not scared, I just don’t appreciate them.  Particularly anywhere near me.”

“Bugs are spiders,” Herr Vempkauff pointed out.

“No, they are not.”  Mitzie gnashed her teeth together.  ”Spiders are not bugs and bugs are not spiders.”  She scrunched her nose and stuck out her hand, determined to seal this deal properly.  ”Deal?”

Herr Vempkauff tucked the envelope under his arm and closed his callused hand around hers.  ”Deal.”  This time, he gently slammed the door.  ”Come back at two!”

Mitzie rolled her eyes.  She was going to have to train this mad scientist to work on proper hours and not burn daylight.  ”Isn’t this exciting, Priscilla?” she asked her faithful pug, lounging in the sunlit steps.  ”Soon, we’ll have no spiders.”

Priscilla’s stomach rumbled in sympathy.

To be continued….

Thanks for your kind words on my last post!  I’ll come visit everyone this weekend!

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Mitzi Matterhorn Was Not Afraid Of Bugs

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Dear Squeaky,*

It’s been a year now since your death.  A big year for both of us, with a lot of changes—you battling cancel and winning the fight to find peace, me breaking the three year cycle of depression and self-destruction by moving to a new town and starting graduate school.  My major?  Education, writing and literacy.  You always told me that my writing was my gift, and I could do  a lot better than writing fluff features as a reporter for the local paper.  Call it layoffs or divine intervention on your part, but I’m happier than I’ve been in five years.

Considering that I woke up this morning looking at my new thirty-year-old face, that’s saying a lot.   Ben says I’m better than I ever looked, but you and I both know true love is the best concealer there is.  It may just be the eight new pounds I got as a birthday gift, but at least they went to most of the right places.  You should have seen him—he was hopping around like the toad that lives in the garden.  “Your present’s here!” he exclaimed, flinging open the side door.  A man in a double-walled tired pickup pulled up with a Big Green Egg ( a ceramic smoker) in the back.  I was so excited I thought my face would split in two.  “How can we afford this?” I whispered while the man was rolling it down the ramp and up to our porch, scared to say anything too loud, for sure he’d know we were a fraud and take that beautiful smoker away.

You would have been so proud of him, Squeaky.  He took a page out of your Woody’s book and flung an arm around my shoulders, kissing my cheek.  “Darling, you’ve worked so hard this year, you deserve it.”

The next night, he surprised me by having the neighbors and all our friends over for a brisket and barbecued ribs dinner he smoked himself (with a lot of help from the neighbors).  You’d love Robin and Greg—they’re the nicest people you ever met, with four great kids. Robin reminds me a lot of you—she never says a bad word about anyone and she’s always laughing.  Little Annie is an artist and drew me a card.  They gave me the second surprise of the day, backing their Excursion up to the garage with five bags of deer corn in it.  I don’t know what made me happier—a bunch of barbecue or feeding all the whitetail and axis that have permanently camped out behind the house.  (If you thought your squirrels were demanding, you’ve never met a nursing whitetail Mama!”

“It’s almost been a year,” Ben told me the other day on our nightly walk, wrapping his fingers around mine.  “Could you imagine last year we’d be taking walks at 7 o’clock without a single car on the road, or feeding deer by hand?”

“No,” I told him, and I meant it.  Of course, one year ago we were living in boxes while you were fighting to go home.  The night you died we were broken into, a drug addict taking every piece of jewelry I owned except what I wear every day, like my wedding rings.  What hurt the most was not the necklace I wore to prom or the sapphire necklace and earring set my mother had given me for my 16^th birthday, but my charm bracelet, the one with the little blue fish that flapped his tail you had given me.  The detective actually found the bracelet later at a pawn shop—but the fish was gone.  It’s fitting, really.  Sometimes you have to let go of the things most important to you in life even if it hurts.  You just have to have faith that something is better on the other side.  After you passed, I couldn’t function for a week. I moved on autopilot, directing movers and unpacking boxes.  A new town, new house and fresh start didn’t ease the pain of knowing that I could never call your house again or drive up and see your serene smile.

But, as I’m sure you know, life doesn’t stop for one broken heart.

School helped a lot.  I’m taking a full load and holding a 4.0.  I still freelance on the side for fun, because you were right.  “Why do it if it’s not fun?” you always said, and I agree. I found out I had a bunch of food allergies, which cleared up my stomach issues (I know, I know, you’d been asking me to for years.)  It’s all right though.  The extra weight though was just what my body (and soul) needed.  The doctors were all shocked; they said it couldn’t be done.  By next fall we’ll have our own little one—if it’s a little girl, I’m going to name her after you.

If we were having tuna salad (I haven’t been able to touch it since you left) and your favorite potato chips, I know you’d look at me and say, “What about your writing, Miranda?  Your art?  School is nice, but what have you done for your soul?”

“Well, Squeaky,” I’d say, reaching for another potato chip.  “I’ve finished a new book and found a new art class—something actually in town that won’t break this starving student’s budget.”  I’d wait for your dry chuckle, like leaves dancing across the back porch.  “I may get my doctorate.  I want to open a school.”

I can see your thick white brow raise, your chin set between your sleek white bob.  Even at the end, a hair was never out of place.  “Oh?”

That’s when I’d grin.  “A school for art, and writing.  For children and adults.  A place where people can gather and share ideas and hone their craft, no matter what level they’re at.”  I’d lean across and touch your wrinkled hand.  “No one wants to write anymore, Squeaky.  Half of the kids I tutor don’t even know what a persuasive essay is!  If I don’t do something, there won’t be books by the time I get around to having kids!”

“I always wanted to be a writer.”  You said it every time I came over, always with the same wistful smile.

“I always wanted to be an artist,” I’d reply.  We’d look at each other and laugh, for we were two sides of the same coin.  An artist who dabbled in writing and a writer who dabbled in painting.  “Painting is important for writing,” you once told me.  “They go together so well.”

Thanks to you, Squeaky, all the kids that go to my school will know this as well as you and I do.

I know you’re busy working on a giant mural in heaven, but I just had to write.  I miss you so much sometimes it hurts to breathe.

Later, I’ll go upstairs and paint in the studio Ben built me, just because you said I needed to have my own space.  Don’t worry about me.  As you always said, “I’m on my way.”

Love,

Me

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Dear Squeaky,

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Someone surprised me with a smoker….

Happy Birthday to Me.

If one has to turn 30….

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“Your birthday present is here.”

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Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Come see me tomorrow!

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As to where I’ve gone… Try going here.  

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Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

If you’re curious….

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I think I’ll have a banana.   Off of Ben’s head.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends! 

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Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Today for lunch…

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When I was reading Huffington Post this morning, I saw this story of a pony backing her foal in a corner during a barn fire and shielding her with her own body to save her and bawled.

Since then, I’ve become addicted to their Facebook page and been watching the updates on Butterscotch and her mom, Bella, after the owners surrendered them to the shelter.  On top of donating my own money, I’ll send a free autographed book of Blue Mermaid or a personal painting of a horse to anyone who sends them a donation!  Let’s help Butterscotch and Bella heal up and go back to prancing in a brand new barn!

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends! 

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Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Let’s help Butterscotch!

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Painting by Miranda Koerner

The King of the Seals hopes you have a happy Friday!

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Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

The King of The Seals says….

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The lovely folks at the Association of Women in Communications San Antonio were kind enough to invite me out last night to promote Blue Mermaid  and talk about the challenges of being an author.  A few ladies bought my book and had me sign it, which was flattering and squirm inducing, since I always feel like an idiot.  Several said they thought my talk was hilarious.  I told them to call Ben and tell him that.

He thinks I’m lying.

It was lovely spending a day talking to ladies who love writing as much as I do!

For more fun, visit my sister blog, Words n'Whimsy or sign up for my newsletter (both buttons on sidebar!)

Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Some people think I’m hilarious.

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We like corn.

We really like corn.

Have we told  you that we like corn?

Because we do.  We really love corn.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  More to come!

For more fun, visit my sister blog, Words n'Whimsy or sign up for my newsletter (both buttons on sidebar!)

Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

We like corn

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So this weekend, in between entertaining my in-laws, my sister was moving.

While hauling boxes up and down the stairs in the grey drizzle, I started thinking about what to do with this blog.  Between school and finishing up a new book and editing one for submission, I need to cut down on the number of posts per week.  After the stalker scare last October, I’d moved to a new blog so I could throw up pictures of my family events and private happenings.  Writer friends warned me that publishing my rough short stories on my blog could hurt my chances of finding an agent and making it into the big five, or make new fans feel like I wasn’t serious.  In addition, the blog world is changing.  People aren’t interested in reading serial stories.  Most people go nuts over the food posts, which makes sense because most of you are food bloggers.  But food isn’t the main part of my life.  I don’t mind occasionally posting a photo and recipe, but I like to tell stories.  It’s what I do.  I just don’t want to take on the promotional duties of creating a new e-zine when I feel there’s no interest.  Although the trend is for writers to market themselves, I don’t feel like that’s the right thing to do.  Instead of telling you how great I am, I’d rather show you and hire someone else to fire off press releases.

Image from Allie Brosh

Over the past couple weeks, I’ve been giggling a lot over the posts on Allie Brosh’s blog Hyperbole and a Half.  Even though I’m about three years behind, which on the Internet is an eternity, I love the way she mixes her wry storytelling style with intentionally awkward illustrations.  So then it hit me.

Why not do a post three times a week of illustrated stories?  I paint and I can have all sorts of fun with painting apps and Picasa.  All I want to do is tell stories anyway.  Then, much like my buddy Erica does (her blog is private so I can’t link), I could put stuff up on Hill Country Princess that I don’t want the Internet sites at large viewing, like stories I’m working on for class or publication or personal family photos.

What do you think, Invisible Friends?  Should we resurrect the Pond?

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Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Moving Epiphanies

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After you’ve had a house full of boys all weekend and your in-laws announce their arrival in two days and their delighted anticipation as to a nice hot meal after a day on the road, there is only one solution for a little duckie who has been cooking and cleaning for five days straight on top of homework and two papers.

The slow cooker.

The best thing about beef tips and rice in the slow cooker as they fall apart the second your fork touches them and have a thick gravy perfect for blanketing rice or noodles.  All you have to do is chop up the meat, toss it in and let it simmer.   Considering I’ll be in class when the in-laws arrive, they get dinner before 10 p.m. and I don’t really have to cook.

Hooray!

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  A new fun tale on Friday!

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Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Slow-cooked Beef Tips

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Eight years later….

It’s like nothing has changed.

Two cartons of eggs, two packages of bacon, a dozen blueberry muffins, two batches of butter milk biscuits from scratch, four dozen cookies, five pounds of steak and two pounds of potatoes plus a whole lot of liquid fun in one weekend makes for three happy friends.

Even if they can’t party at 30 like they did at 18.

Thanks Kurt and John for giving Ben a great 30th birthday!

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  A new story Wednesday! 

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Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Flashback

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Especially when you paint them.

Have a great weekend, ya’ll!

For more fun, visit my sister blog, Words n'Whimsy or sign up for my newsletter (both buttons on sidebar!)

Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Flamingoes Make Fridays Better

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“We’ll be Friends Forever, won’t we, Pooh?’ asked Piglet.
Even longer,’ Pooh answered.”
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  Fun awaits!

For more fun, visit my sister blog, Words n'Whimsy or sign up for my newsletter (both buttons on sidebar!)

Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

Girlfriends

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From the first birthday at Fuddrucker’s when you turned 19…

To the chaos of the working world….

To being King of the Deer in the Hill Country…..

11 years of great birthdays, good birthdays and some not so good.  May this one be the best out of them all.  I love you, darling.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  And wish Ben a happy b-day!

For more fun, visit my sister blog, Words n'Whimsy or sign up for my newsletter (both buttons on sidebar!)

Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

30 years

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A horse is a horse, of course of course….

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Copyright © 2013 - A Duck In Her Pond (aduckinherpond.com)

A new painting

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