Thirty days hath Septober, April, June, and No Wonder; all the rest have peanut butter except chifforobe:  it's a tall thing with big drawers. a jingle or ditty that comes to mind almost every year at this time, on this day date as November fades into December and it occurs to me that the Holiday Season has gotten real and me here within it.  Recently, maybe it was last week, I'd have to look back at the date/time marked on the photographs I snapped, I paused at the Guy plot at Greenwood Cemetery, Bill Guy's grave. Bill, Jr as he sometimes was called even though he was not a Junior, he was William Burgin Guy for his mother's maiden name Mary Burgin. Also called Bill, his father was William A. Guy. Anyway, Bill's mother could be a little risqué and one day, we were probably eight, nine, ten, maybe he was eleven and I was twelve, Bill came out with that, and of course we boys had a real good snicker at the word "drawers", which we took as naug

Lots of beauty, color as last evening we returned from Thanksgiving Day at Breakfast Point PCB to 7H. Moon & Venus, with Jupiter faint,  and Oaks by the Bay Park next door to us here, the Christmas display. Thanks to, no, belay that, Because of Hurricane Michael, this time last year we had been living at Panama City Beach for several weeks and today a year ago 29 Nov 2018 moved from our second beach accommodation to our third apartment, across Philips Inlet Bridge over into South Walton, The Point at Inlet Beach, a block down the sidewalk to Rosemary Beach. We stayed there two or three weeks, then across to an identical but reversed apartment on the other side of the place. Continuing our Hurrication Exile, it was pleasant and a blessing given all that was going on and was uninhabitable here in Bay County, and we were grateful, thankful that Britany & Ray took us under their care. My blog +Time may not be widely read, but whoever does read it will be disappointed th

An article in The Smithsonian Magazine online reminds me that, especially for us Southerners, we do not need turkey or ham on the table for today's Thanksgiving Feast. Appetites vary, and tastes, by what is available and by what has come to be custom.  Turkey may have been the choice Yankee food for the Pilgrims way up North, but down here in the Sourh we have our own customs. As chronicled, scroll down, possum or raccoon is a relished delicacy more than fit for the feast. Roasted, grilled, barbecue, Preparation instructions are readily available on the internet, and delicious recipes for cooking and serving a scrumptious and memorable Thanksgiving dinner that will make family members proud and have guests raving afterward and hoping to be invited back next year. And remember that presentation is everything: ++++++ Finally, good, better, perhaps even best of all, for supper after returning from Black Friday shopping, instead of turkey hash, whic

Although searching online I cannot find the title, in my professional library remnants - - in 1998 before leaving Apalachicola I got rid of two-thirds of it, with half the remaining third to PC home the Old Place and half packed away and eventually to church office at Holy Nativity, then 2014 in process of moving from the Old Place to 7H gave another third to the public library and another third to the parish library and brought another third here to 7H - - there is a volume I was given by a university professor friend and parishioner sometime between 1985 and 1990 that I read and value and still consult from Time to Time, that I thought I "knew" (but evidently only "assumed" because it didn't google for me this morning) was titled "Places of the Heart" (not the 2015 book by Colin Ellard). It isn't here in the tiny remnant at 7H and I wouldn't have tossed it, so in Time I'll go through boxes of the remnant in my once shattered and now re

Involved with Thanksgiving Weekend, I can't walk Friday, but yesterday we resumed almost our regular walk. Down 2nd Street toward the Bay and I snapped some colors and our dock that we think was there before us and, but for HMichael, would have outlived us, and we would have been glad of it. The crane in the background is at Panama City Marina, IDK, maybe still picking up boats from the Bay bottom? One thing we've notice here is that there are zero pleasure boats out on the Bay anymore, even during the summer and fall and even Saturdays and Sundays when the surface traffic used to fill the Bay with human life. People who lost their boats in HMichael either weren't covered by insurance, or used the insurance money for work on their house, or found out the truth of the saying "the second happiest day in my life was the day I got my boat; the happiest was the day I got rid of it" and are doing other things anymore, eh?  After yesterday morning's ea

School is out for Thanksgiving Week, and every year's end as we go into the holiday season my memories stir. It's interesting to be an age that my grandfather was in some of my memories, and think about him at this age thinking about his grandfather at this age. But then his Weller grandfather was an Episcopal priest who died during the 1847 yellow fever epidemic in Vicksburg, Mississippi, where he was rector of Christ Church. I know nothing about Pop's other grandfather. Like death itself, generations slip away into oblivion. Though I held Pop somewhat in awe as an old man all my life, he was 63 when I was born, I enjoyed and loved my grandfather, and too late as for so many who get to this age and wish thinking back, I could have done so much more with him, because at this age he lived right here in StAndrews, and I grew up here. I was in college when he was my age, but even then I was home frequently. and could have visited with him more; I had time, and at 84 he ha

Sunday once again so again because every Sunday is Resurrection, my favorite Easter hymn, "Welcome happy morning!" age to age shall say. All the years I was in charge of Episcopal parishes we sang that as our opening hymn on Easter Day. Hell today is vanquished, Heaven is won today. Notwithstanding that about 1925 for reasons good and sufficient to him, the Pope declared this Sunday to be observed as the Feast of Christ the King and everyone down to the last anti-Papist Protestant saluted, fell into line, and marched, the Episcopal Church since about 1970*, I'm an Episcopalian Episcopalian, Episcopalian and how I love it, I'm an Episcopalian, Episcopalian until I die. sung to the tune of the Can-Can Dance in the 1950s musical about Toulouse Lautrec, with the Song from the Moulin Rouge so for the moment I'm sticking with The Sunday Next Before Advent, Stir-Up Sunday, ordered our fruitcake, the fruit of good living, and it's on its way from Eilenb

The part of me that others see is not real. The real me, who is inside, stops and goes in to look at the new 1949 Nash cars on display every time I leave Bay Hospital crossing MLK heading west on East 6th Street the few blocks to where it ends at Hamilton Avenue and you have to turn right or left. I turn left toward the traffic light at Hamilton and US98, park by the side of the dealership and go inside to admire the cars and collect another brochure. The "bathtub Nash", the cars are frankly ugly, a roach comes to mind. But they are long and roomy.   I tried to see them beautiful in their day but even then it didn't work, ugly is ugly, and those cars are ugly as sin and gone. In later years, early Navy,  we had two Nash station wagons that by then were no longer called Nash but Rambler. Eventually Rambler Classic, which was the mid-size car as in small Rambler American, medium Rambler Classic, and the large, luxurious Rambler Ambassador. Stationed at Mayport i