Ordinary dreams: go to the beach, eat mashed potatoes, dress like a Boxer

Ordinary, everyday dreams come true. Go to the beach, if you can. Certainly life is too short NOT to eat mashed potatoes now and then; I haven't included a recipe here but I will if asked, as you well know, my dears. It was a lovely weekend here in northern Florida, so good, in fact, that by sundown Friday I was embarrassingly sunburned. Saturday was gloomy and cool, with a bit of rain. It was a good day to read and nap and...read. And nap. By Sunday the beach beckoned again. The sun showed the way toward spring, and we were grateful. Here is my old boyo, dressed for the chilly west wind, marveling with me at the many blues of the firmaments of the heavens and of the earth. It doesn't matter how many times we go, how many miles we walk, how many fossils we find, how many porpoises we see. You just have to go and see it for yourself, our beloved Guana. It is arguably the least appreciated natural resource in northeast Florida. I know you must be bored, seeing it over again and again. But it's like the myriad shades of green they say you can see in Ireland, only these are colors of blue. The aqua and robin's egg and turquoise shades of the sky, and that stunning clean blue of fall and winter and even sometimes spring in our part of the world. That ultramarine and blue topaz and shadowed grey green the ocean shimmers back at you...you just have to see it.

Of course even the simple magnificence of the beach in winter is eclipsed by Big Events. When your boy comes home from the Navy to eat and sleep and get ready to go far away for more schooling and other big Navy doings, you cook. At least, if you're Angie at Eat Here, that's what you do. You probably can't see it, but he's been away long enough that he got grilled steak and marinated chicken and a big salad with some truly decadent mashed potatoes. These last may in fact constitute a venial sin, but I'm not sure and in any case, I'm pretty sure he thought it was worth it. He leaves at the end of the week, for far-away Connecticut, and I'm pretty sure those of you who kindly read this blog will remember him in your thoughts and prayers and wishes and general petitions to the Great Spirit: all this warmth I gratefully accept.

And one more really delightful thing happened this week. A present I ordered for Rodney arrived today. I gotta tell you: go to Blogging is for Dorks and check out the work. When she says Ultra Cute Crochet, she ain't kiddin'. I saw a sweet little hat she'd made with tiny kitty cat ears, and asked her if she could make a Boxer hat, along the same lines, and sent her a pretty terrible picture of one of our rescued Boxers so she could approximate the ears. Here's Rodney in the hat (look closely for the ears).

Now let me be perfectly clear: our dear friend Lis, she of The Voice, she of the many talents not the least of which is the revival of a hundred-year old tradition of wearable ribbon art, which you can see for yourself, but beware: you will be tempted...it's breathtaking. I lost my train of thought here, but what I was trying to say was, Lis made Rodney a hat he loves, one he wears to the beach on cold, windy days. (See? It didn't make sense when I posted it; with any luck it does now.)

But sweet bald men cannot have too many hats, and who doesn't need to look like a Boxer now and then? Well, okay, I hear you. Still, for someone who rescues Boxers from fates that hardly bear thinking about, this is a good hat to have. Thank you, Erin, from your devoted dork fans. And thank you all for waiting for this post which seemed to take me a week to write. Where do the hours go?

Finally, here is a slightly fuzzy picture of one Boxer tentatively welcoming another. The one on the right, of course, isn't a real Boxer but does occasionally play one on television.