Locks of Love Pass It Around

　

　



I know some of you are familiar with Locks of Love and there are some of you that aren’t. And the majority of you are scratching your head: how has this got anything to do with your latest book Devil’s Concubine?

Well, it has some bearing on the book. We are dealing with people who are getting scalped remember? When I did my research for a place to send hair to be made into wigs the one place that popped up on the computer screen was Locks of Love. I had heard about Locks of Love through various organizations but wasn't thoroughly up to speed on the how and what they did. Just brief information which I knew was wigs for disadvantage children. Anything more than that I was unaware of.

So with my trusty computer I went on the search to find out more about the organization. Really to see how it worked so I could base a scene in Devil’s Concubine. Moments later I was reading everything about this non profit organization and was not only learning how it operated but how it helped thousands of children. I read about their interesting organization which I informed a few of my long-haired friends, especially the ones who were thinking of cutting their hair short and they kindly donated to the cause after my research. I’m very proud of those friends.

Even though I used a fictitious name for my Locks of Love in Devil’s Concubine, it was the same basis as Locks of Love. It was a brief moment in the book that this was used, but still I wanted to share Locks of Love with you because it’s a worth-while mission.

Let me explain about Locks of Love. Locks of Love, is a public non-profit organization that provides hair pieces to financially disadvantaged children under the age of 21. This group is trying to restore a sense of self, confidence and normalcy to children who are suffering from hair loss. I know it’s hard enough for adults to swallow when they lose their hair, but for a child who is growing up around other kids it’s extremely hard.

The names these children endure can be brutal. If Locks of Love can bring this to some child that is financially disadvantaged it lifts the burdens not only on the parents who can’t afford such and can only stand by and watch the ignorance of others, but lifts the emotional burden these children have to endure.

These children are not just cancer patients, they are also children with alopecia and burn victims. As a burn victim I understand the horrors and name-calling and the low self-esteem some of these children endure and any way we can help is important.

Now I know some of you reading this are genuinely interested so I thought it would be nice for my fans to get the opportunity to learn about this organization and perhaps interest you into a donation of some sort whether it be hair or financial.

To donate your hair they do have a few guidelines and they are simple and easy to follow.

Donated hair must be ten inches or longer. Curly hair may be pulled straight to meet the requirement.

Hair may not be bleached, chemically damaged or over processed; perm or colored hair is accepted.

Hair must be in the form of a clean, dry ponytail or braid. Sorry, but I was informed dreadlocks are not accepted.

Hair that is less than ten inches or grey is separated from the donation and sold to off set manufacturing costs.

Now that you know the guidelines to donating your hair here is the website to contact them about your donation
http://locksoflove.org/mission.html

Now if you can’t donate hair, and still would like to help, they will take financial donations and that is tax deductible.

In my research I discovered many notable donors such as Gabe Carmi (Chicago Bears first-round draft pick), George Parros (National Hockey League player) and Lamb of God drummer Chris. The list goes on.

I’m sure you have heard criticism for their practice in selling donated hair. Well as mentioned above they have guide lines and some of the unusable hair like bleached, highlighted, gray and hair shorter than ten inches are sold to offset the cost of custom wigs.

Now I know some of you are scratching your head and saying, “Well, Carla, this is all nice that you are talking about Locks of Love but what about your book? How does Devil’s Concubine come into play?”

This is my answer, sometimes our detective in this case Detective Gavin Reece is thrown down the wrong road to confuse him about who is killing people. We call this in the writing world a red herring. But sometimes a worthy organization puts things back into perspective and can point us in the right direction to catch a murderer.

So the next time you have decided to cut that long hair that goes down your back, think about donating it to Locks of Love and make a child’s day.

Want to purchase the latest book? Here's a link.

http://www.amazon.com/Devils-Concubine-Carla-Landreth/dp/1621417816/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1361803843&sr=8-1&keywords=carla+landreth

Indians Weren't the Only Ones

　

As part of my series to tease you about my latest book Devil’s Concubine, I thought one of the things we should discuss is scalping. Yes, the victims in my novel are scalped by a murderer. But since scalping is not heard of these days and if so, a rarity I thought we should take a look at why it was done and how it has some bearing on my latest novel Devil’s Concubine.

I wish I could say the American Indians were the ones that were the only ones to practice such horrific acts of scalping people, but evidence shows this is not true. Well, there went my history lesson from childhood.

Rumor has it and even evidence proves other races and nations were doing this practice way before some of my ancesters. What groups you ask? As far back as B.C, the Scythians were scalping their enemies. Some Anglo-Saxons, French, Persians and Visigoths, just to name a few were also doing this horrendous act. So since this practice wasn’t something new it made me wonder, why is it the American Indians always get the bad wrap on such?

I guess one of the first things we need to do is look how the procedure was done. It certainly wasn’t like one of those cheesy westerns we watched as a child. All I can say is thank goodness for film regulations at the time or the invasion of the frogs wouldn’t have been the only thing I feared as a child.

The method to this grisly practice was taking a tomahawk and striking the victim on the head, which usually killed them, if not you can imagine what the scene would have been. The Indian would then take his crude knife and make incision at the front of the forehead to around the back of the head. Then with a foot on the victim’s shoulder or back, pull off the scalp from back to front.

That was just the scalping. Once this step was done the Indian would attach this scalp he had obtained to his scalper’s belt. As he left he would give a death cry. Once back at his camp as they say or where ever he could go without being pursued, he would finish scrapping the skin from the scalp. He would make a hoop out of wood and stretch the skin over the hoop and put it in the sun.

He would comb the hair and paint the skin red before he attached this scalp to a stick. He would carry this stick home and you guessed it, the more scalps the better.

Now that was pretty gruesome, but imagine doing something like that now days? I could get more graphic but I believe you reading my book would be the benefit at this point. The question now if you did a modern day scalping, is why?

Once again I must look back at why this was done and this is what I discovered.

There were three reasons for scalping, one profit. You guessed it money, even then money played a part in this act. You sell a scalp back in 1703 for 12 pounds by the time we hit 1723 scalps going price was 100 pounds. The French did this mostly, but still there was a profit in these scalps. However, Indians still made money as well selling these items.

Second reason Power. Again you guessed it: somebody who had the most power had the most scalps. He must have been a good warrior to be able to come home with 8-10 scalps. The women must have swarmed around him.

The third had to do with war. These scalps were prizes and sometimes the most brutal Indians took body parts along with hair to show what they took from the enemy. Sometimes bounties were placed on such body parts. Of course give credit where it’s due on this. The practice of paying a bounty for a body part was a European idea.

Now that I have you engrossed, I should tell you a little about a modern scalping. Let’s see, our murderer decides to subdue you, by any means. He doesn’t kill you, holds you hostage, tortures you for some reason unknown, before he skins your head, not using a tomahawk but surgical tools that a skilled surgeon would use and leaves you to suffer. But don’t worry, you won’t suffer long before he decides to cut your throat.

Oh my, I have your attention now.

As I sketched out my story from all angles, one thing I had to focus on was my murderer. Yes, he is scalping victims and yes, I used the format I just explained earlier, except in Devil’s Concubine, our murderer isn’t an American Indian back in the old days, but a modern man with a way to hide his trophies from the world. And the way he hides things makes you think twice about your own hair.

My character is very careful in his acts of murder, but sometimes a murderer even has a heart. As does this one when he shows mercy by dumping his victims where they can be found. The question you will be asking yourself over and over throughout the whole book is why?

Could this murderer being doing this for profit? Is it for power he wants and gains over his victims? Or is it for a private war that has tormented him for years? Devil’s Concubine is a very sick and twisted tale of murder and one you will surely enjoy.

The Cost of Looking Good

　

Today I thought we should examine the cost of looking good since my latest book Devil’s Concubine is using the back drop of people’s grooming habits. I felt it fitting that we discuss the cost of looking good, the pros and cons and how sometimes the cost is way too much.

I noticed when I was researching for my book, that people’s grooming habits nearly run the economy and play a major factor in our everyday life. Believe it or not our looks can determine from who we marry down to getting that dream job. Looks means everything in our world and it has a nice price attached to it.

Shampoo, conditioners, mousse, gels, hair spray, stuff to make your hair straight, curly, shiny-- the list is endless. Just imagine: that’s just the hair care. Other stuff such as body wash, face creams, perfumes, lotions, deodorant, it seems endless. Every day it seems something new is coming out and something more improved. That stuff comes at a price even though it may cost eight dollars. Eight dollars adds up fast, when you become obsessed.

Clothing comes next in the obsession of looking good. I mean the latest fashion is every season not once a year. Four times a year, with the changing of the seasons a new clothing line comes out. By the time you start to wear one season another season comes along. People’s closets are so packed we are constantly cleaning it out to make room for the next season, very rarely keeping some key pieces that will go through the years.

Shoes and accessories are in a category by themselves however, with jewelry you can make it work with anything unlike the other that changes with the wind. Grandma’s necklace will go with any outfit any season unlike the shoes you bought last year that now doesn’t match the new spring collection you bought the other day.

Hair salons make quite a bit of business off of us also. Women especially, we go to get hair cuts, the latest style, waxing, manicures, pedicures, nails polished, tanning--again the list goes on with those high end salons. It hasn’t been until recently the market has started to include men who we have called metro sexual with the same services.

We all do this. Repeat; we all do! So that’s why I find it ironic how much time and money we spend on looking good. However sometimes this becomes an obsessive behavior which can lead to serious problems. In fact they have television shows on it and it’s sad.

I remember as a child watching my grandmother doing her hair every morning in her bedroom. She would sit at her antique vanity dresser with a giant mirror. Each side of the mirror had drawers which were full of hairspray, makeup, combs, brushes, curlers, perfume and tons of Avon products. She was a fan of Avon and collected many of the bottles. She would work on her hair at least a good ten to fifteen minutes, sometimes longer depending on the occasion.

She didn’t wear a whole lot of makeup but she did put on a little. Once she had her hair the way she wanted, she would pull out the Aqua Net hair spray, which was popular at the time and spray her hair like a crop duster. That room was so overpowering with Aqua Net it was almost unbearable. In fact she believed in her hairspray so much she should have had stock in it as much as she had stock-piled.

I remember when the stuff went on sale, my grandma loved sales, perhaps that’s where I get my frugal shopping. But once again my grandma should have had stock in Aqua Net. Even when she died and they cleaned out her house she still had tons of that stuff. Cabinets full of Aqua Net, a staple in her life.

Now I have a sister who will buy eye shadow no matter what. She has so much of the stuff I bet she doesn’t even use half of it, but she loves the stuff. Every time she shops she always finds herself buying compacts of eye shadow.

My own daughter loves lipstick and lip gloss. She has so much of the stuff there are times I have to say no, I’m not getting it. Now that she’s a young adult she buys her own and some times when you have to dig in her purse for something you pick up several tubes of lip balm before you find what you are looking for.

I’m sure when it comes to your grooming habits we all have certain products we love to use; I love L’Oreal for makeup, Cover Girl for eye shadow, and Clinque for mascara. Mind you I love these products, but I don’t stock-pile them.

My cousin has a fetish for lotions. She buys lotions constantly and sometimes it’s unbearable.

I say when we start buying it as if we are buying stock we may have a problem.

So how much do you think it costs to have all the beauty in the world? Plenty and some people will go without essentials such as not paying an entire electric bill or skip payment on the card to buy that extra stuff or to try out the latest makeup that was advertised in Cosmo. If you can look in you cabinet, closets and under the bathroom sink and see you have products you have started to use then decided something else came along better then you may have a problem.

Sometimes we aren’t aware of this problem. But sometimes we are aware of such or at least the people around us are. Sometimes such as women who have had children like one of my characters in my story, find it difficult to feel pretty and become obsessed with their looks. People who have been through a horrific accident find themselves becoming worried with looks.

But what can be upsetting for us is when people prey upon those who are weak like in my book. People who worry about their looks, who may seem confident in who they are but behind closed doors, go into a frenzy searching for what to wear to the next gala are the ones who fall victim.

In my novel Devil’s Concubine we see what drives the murderer to target his victims and the price of looking good comes at the highest price around--death.

Paper back
http://www.amazon.com/Devils-Concubine-Carla-Landreth/dp/1621417816/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1358178253&sr=8-1&keywords=carla+landreth

Kindle
http://www.amazon.com/Devils-Concubine-ebook/dp/B00AOSEM52/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1358178253&sr=8-2&keywords=carla+landreth

We All Have Hair Fetish

　

They call people who have a hair fetish trichophilia. But after researching my latest book, Devil’s Concubine, I discovered this little fetish is more than just liking hair-- it’s a strange addiction.

For those of you who are unaware of this fetish, I should explain what is a Trichophilia? Trichophilia comes from the Greek “trica” meaning hair and “philia” meaning love. It is when a person sees hair, mostly the head hair, but other hair as well, such as chest, pubic, leg, under arm, stomach, as erotic, becoming sexually aroused, by either feeling, cutting, seeing or being groomed. Hair color and hair styles also play a factor in trichophilia. This certainly applied to my murderer in Devil’s Concubine.

Hair doesn’t have any intrinsic sexual value; however, hair is recognized for its erotic significance, especially in women. Hair plays a major role in art and literature as a sign of beauty, vanity, eroticism and even fashion. Hair can determine how healthy we are and effect our religious beliefs. Hair can sometimes give off subconscious flirting signals or tell when we are nervous, such as when we play with it. Hair can even attract us a mate since head hair is regarded as a person’s secondary sexual characteristic.

But does this determine if we are trichophilia? My research was astounding.

I live in a small town where beauty salons and churches are in competition and it was no wonder I found many ladies going to the salons on a weekly basis.

My aunt has gone to the beauty salon every since I was a child. Rain, sleet, snow or shine, that woman goes to the beauty salon every Thursday at four o’clock. Unless it falls on a holiday then she would have her hair done the day before. Every Thursday she will get into her car and drive miles from her rural home into town just to get her hair done. She will be there for at least an hour before she pulls a scarf over her hair, which by the way her hair is so stiff from the cans of hairspray they sprayed on it she really doesn’t need the scarf but she insists, to make her way back home in time to cook supper for my uncle. She’s been doing this since she was in her thirties and probably before then. So for about an hour and a few bucks she’s done until next week. Is she a trichophilia? The answer will surprise you; yes.

Now I know my aunt isn’t getting sexually aroused by this little trip that she takes every Thursday. In fact I doubt if any of the old ladies that go each week to get their hair done is there for the immense sexual pleasure. But they are getting a dose of production of endorphins every time they go into the salon; studies show this and that is what is so surprising.

Imagine laying back, wonderful smelling soaps being massaged into your hair, there is laughter from the people around you along with gossip. This is an endorphin high for them.

But it’s not just old ladies filling up the shops that are feeling this endorphin high as they say. The younger ones are getting a big charge off of it as well, probably more so than the older ladies.

Women have stated on more than one occasion, I always flip my hair to make sure they notice I have been to the salon or I did up my hair especially for my date. These women are sexually charged from their hair. I might add these women get in groups and have to quickly point out their latest do when they are congregated together, which leads to an endorphin high when they receive those compliments from one another.

It’s not just women who are reaching this endorphin high from their hair. Men also have a fetish with well groomed hair. Perhaps not to the extreme as a woman but they do have this thing when it comes to their heads as well.

Hair care products have become a million dollar business and with advertisements announcing they have the most new innovative product that will make your hair thicker, vibrant, fuller, curlier, straighter, softer, younger looking and so forth, who can not help become a little obsessed with their hair? Do we become the next victim of trichophilia? The answer is no, but we are teetering towards it.

Hair fetish isn’t anything new. In fact as a baby I bet you didn’t realize you were fascinated with hair. You touched your own head feeling the uniqueness of this feeling and let’s not forget the many times you played with a parents’ or an adult’s hair fascinated by the strands presented to you. By the time you are able to hold a brush we are brushing, touching and styling our hair. This will carry us to the day we die.

My question I put before you is would someone kill because of this fetish? And if so, why? As I did my research for Devil’s Concubine I figured my murderer was on an endorphin high when he scalped his victims. The character has many factors that play a role in his decision to hunt down a victim, trap them and then take their hair in such a horrendous way.

So we must determine when do you cross the line to be considered a trichophilia or someone who just wants their hair done on a weekly basis? There is no clear-cut answer. We all have some form of this, if you care anything about your hair. But when we become so obsessed with our hair, when we will kill for hair is when it becomes trichophilia like in Devil’s Concubine.

Paperback:
http://www.amazon.com/Devils-Concubine-Carla-Landreth/dp/1621417816/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1357569558&sr=8-1&keywords=carla+landreth

E-book:
http://www.amazon.com/Devils-Concubine-ebook/dp/B00AOSEM52/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1357569558&sr=8-4&keywords=carla+landreth
 

Carla Landreth Shares Her Latest Book

　

　

　

Sometimes as you go along the path of life you get kicked in the gut, hoping you don’t get back up, but not for me, not this writer. I have always worked hard and persevere in anything I do. Whether it be my role as mom, wife, or writer I have always thrown myself into my work.

It’s my passion for telling tales, and that would never disappear no matter how bad my life could get. It’s been a long five years for this author, but she has prevailed. I have pushed myself beyond limits others would not do.

Six years ago my last book, Silk Stocking Road, was a factually inspired story about racism and murder in the 1920’s. Set in the small backdrop of my home town of De Leon, Texas. That was my last book.

So much has happened since that little book came out, my husband’s death, my role as parent would be tested, decisions in my life would change dramatically and my writing would be set aside for a time being.

But who knew this year would be an interesting year. Not only did Silk Stocking Road get pitched to film producers, I got to meet people along the way, who would be not only sparking me back into life, but in my writing as well, and oh yeah, I got a new publisher--BookLocker.

Today, I have a new book coming out and my awaiting fans who have asked over and over again over the last five years, “When is the next book?” will finally have to wait no more.

I should explain how I got the idea for such a book. One day while watching a cheesy western on television, I got an idea when one of the women was scalped. As you know I can have an imagination. What if someone scalped a person now days? Why would they do such act? Before I knew it, I had my trusty legal pad and pencil and was sketching out the latest novel.

In one afternoon I had outlined a novel with characters. In four months I had completed the manuscript and now in one week that book will be out in markets across the globe.

As you know, it wouldn’t be a Carla Landreth novel without the most surprising ending and, yes, it’s a complete page turner. I was thrilled when my editor read the novel and reported back, “You certainly went outside the box and this time your mystery readers are in for a real treat.” I take that as a very good compliment, considering he has worked with greats such as Stephen King and Joyce Carol Oats in the past. Today, I thought it’s time to share what the buzz is all about and gear you all up for it’s release.

What is the story called? Devil’s Concubine.

What is it about? A fictional mystery set in small town Texas, a homicide detective is about to encounter the strangest and most bizarre case of his career.

Detective Gavin Reece is called to the scene of a gruesome murder. The victim is female and has been scalped. He believes this case to be cult related. However Detective Reece soon learns, with the help of his retiring partner and his new partner-to-be, nothing seems as it appears in this case. Reece will uncover a murderer’s seven year methodical killing spree.

In two weeks Detective Reece’s professional and personal life will interfere with this case. But when the killer has targeted one of their own, Detective Reece will do the most unthinkable act in his career, use riddles from an innocent man to catch a monstrous killer.

There you have it.

Over the next few weeks or at least the next few months, my blog, for those of you who follow my blog, I really appreciate it by the way, will see that each article I write will reflect some aspect of Devil’s Concubine. So I believe my readers will be in for a treat with that.

I am also asking my readers to not be shy and give a review of the latest book when you read it. You’d be surprised how many writers like me depend on your reviews.

As I said things are starting to get back into the groove around here and my fans, who I want to thank for being patient, will be seeing a lot more books in the future. Life may have kicked this writer, but she’s not going down without a fight!

This book will be available through Amazon or BookLocker But for those of you who want to learn more about me or any of my books, you can visit my website at
www.carlalandreth.com .


http://www.amazon.com/Devils-Concubine-Carla-Landreth/dp/1621417816/ref=sr_1_7?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1354228430&sr=1-7&keywords=carla+Landreth

Everything Has an Age Limit

Everything Has an Age Limit

 

 

There comes a time in every body's life we have to accept the fact we are older. With age comes letting go of the past. Like going past it's expiration's date, you need to throw away or at least put it up in a box to bring out later to share memories with your grand kids.

So what is it that needs to go to the attic as they say? Well, Carla is sounding off on this and hopefully some of you will catch my drift.

The first thing that needs to go is halter tops. Sorry, they are only good if you are pencil thin and have Heidi Klum's body or not past the age of twenty one, possibly twenty three, depending on how you are doing body wise. It irritates me to see these over weight, middle aged women putting on these halter tops thinking they are still young. It's nice to think you are young, but wearing your daughter's or grand daughter's halter top? Also tube tops are a no, no. Don't forget what comes with age. Whatever wasn't sagging before is now rushing to go south. We don't want to see it.

Makeup is great to hide the flaws that age has given us, but do you really think you need that eighties blue eye shadow, bright red lipstick or that bright blush? The answer is no. You have no idea how much you look like a clown coming down the street with all that bright stuff on, it's scary. Add the big teased hair and you definitely look like a clown.

Speaking of hair, big teased hair is out, unless you are trying to hide the balding spot on the top of your head. A good hairdresser knows a few tricks without making you look like you belong to the Happy Beehive Club. Color is an issue. Believe it or not the older we get, our hair color is not suppose to be the same as it was in your twenties. Hair color needs to be chosen carefully, not what looks good on the box, which means stay away from the coal black hair or the bright red you are fancying right about now.

That perfume you wore in high school is no longer in style and please don't go for that stuff that smells like baby powder with flowers, what we call old lady perfume. It may turn grandpa on, but guess what? The rest of us are suffering two isles over.

The casual dress you wore when you were a teen and got you the Most Best Dress award at high school, doesn't mean you should carry that style up into your older age. I'm referring to those ladies and men stuck with seventies polyester suits, sixties micro minis and the Madonna look. Don't you just hate it when someone who is dressed like this says, "Everything comes back into style." Obviously we haven't been reading the complete article in Cosmo when it said it has been reinvented.

I remember an old woman in our little community, Mrs. Green, she was about seventy at the time and she was a huge embarrassment. But in her little mind she was still Mrs. Robinson. Wearing the big hair, bright makeup and yes, those halter tops. I won't mention the Daisy Duke shorts that only showed her wrinkled legs, saggy ass and high heels to boot. Everybody in town used her in a joke and when Tammy Faye came on we weren't shocked as rest of America. In fact we thought Tammy was a little tame compared to Mrs. Green.

I remember how many times she went for the men in our little community. The women found it amusing as this little old lady flirted her way with their spouses, boyfriends, dads, brothers, and uncles. There was no age limit as well, ask some of the young boys who worked at our local grocery store (sorry Steve) who was honored to carry her groceries out to her old Buick. The woman, herself thought she was a cougar while the town saw her as a joke and harmless.

Recently however in my little town I am seeing more and more of these little ladies on the move. At first I thought it was just my little town, I was wrong. It's hitting all of the little towns of America. It's an epidemic! I'm here to tell you please, please control yourselves. Everything has an age limit and I wish you all would see it.

If you still want to dress this way after I have said you look embarrassing not only to yourself but to your family and friends, then I suggest you get with your significant other and play games in the bedroom. Everybody likes to play fantasies in the bedroom. Like, what character am I? Like I said there comes a time when age limit plays a part in our decision making as we get older and I think its high tide you think before you put on those things for everyday use.





Books by Carla Landreth
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=carla+landreth

Are We Having Fun Yet?

Picture this; my cousin, Becky and I have taken to an afternoon of fun at the local strip mall. Window shopping, which has become some what of a lost art. For those of you who don't know what that means, it means, you go into a store and don't buy a damn thing. You look, you touch, you put down and you walk out.

My daughter, George, needs something from Rue 21, a favorite among the teens and some adults as well. So we go in, while she searches for what she wants, we adults will browse around the store. I must make a quick note here, browsing for us is really playing around with the merchandise.

The store is unusually packed on this nice warm Saturday afternoon, but that doesn't stop Becky and me from doing our usual fun. We head over toward the jewelry, but not before we get caught by the panty bin. As we pick up some of the ridiculous panties, it is agreed, that only low class hookers would be wearing them and only if they were dead. We giggle, cracking jokes at the many things we see in this bin before finally making our way over to the jewelry.

The latest style however hasn't exactly hit a high note with us. The new style is owls and we cringe at the sight as everybody oohs and aahs over the latest fad.

That 70's craze that swept America and my Aunt Carolyn, has someway made its way back. My aunt was so obsessed with this craze she decorated her entire house with owls. The sad part, you go into her house to this day and owls still dominate the decor, talk about freaky.

So every time Becky and I see these owls, a blast from the past, we giggle and think of our aunt and her obsessive love for the fine feathered friends.

Today our jokes would be no different as we skimmed over the stuff. We are laughing, making little comments, some are clean, some are not so clean, but it's all in good fun. We keep them low and to ourselves but the laughter we have to share.

Now before I go any further with this story, let me say when Becky and I are hanging out together we have a blast. Don't get me wrong we know when to have fun and when to be on our best behavior. But overall expect fun when you hang out with us.

So Becky and I are having a blast. George normally keeps her distance from us, except today. This may have been a day she should have stayed away from us.

As we are laughing, having the time of our life, not caring what the world around us thinks, we are quickly approached by a serious woman, who asks us, have we been drinking?

Besides being stunned, we can't help but laugh, not only at the woman, but the entire situation. When we finally told her we haven't had a drop and that we were just having fun. We, however, got the impression she thought we were lying even though she said, "I wish I had that much energy." As the lady walked away we decided to go back to our fun despite being accused of public intoxication.

Later that night it occurred to me, that people now days have lost their spunk for fun. We were having so much fun and were so happy doing so, that nobody, not even a room full of people, could tell the difference between being drunk and being happy.

Now mind you we weren't being disruptive with our fun. In fact the oodles of teens and their nasty gossip were louder than us. We kept the jokes to ourselves except the laughing and you can't exactly muffle that when it's a good joke.

I have noticed that true fun, has disappeared in the population of America. If you don't believe me, next time you go to the mall, do some people watching, the conversations are tragic and scary. Not to mention the pouty people who had to drive to the mall and complain about the whole situation. Still not convinced, try Facebook and Twitter, more complaints than from a hooker having a slow day. Now don't get me wrong we all have fun to an extent, but the kind of fun I'm talking about is the kind of fun that is so exhilarating that when the day is over you don't forget it. Twenty years from now I'll remember the famous day of my false public intoxication.

So I got to wondering, who's the culprit here? What has caused us to lose our fun mechanism? With a little research I think I found what is interfering with this little gene we call fun.

Schedules--we all live by them, in fact that's how the world runs; on schedules. But have you ever thought that sometimes you need to throw the schedule out the window. Sure every Saturday morning you get up, clean your house, do the weekly shopping, come home, plop your butt in front of the TV and call it a day. Sounds fun but when you factor in you clean house for two hours, get ready to go shopping in ten minutes, then shop for three hours...you get my point here. We demand schedules which, is interfering with fun.

Pair Down--In our society today we are in so many activities that it's a wonder we can even think. I call this category stress burners. Every hour of our spare time is spent doing sport events, school events, church events, work events, no wonder nobody has time to let lose. Sure those things can be fun but once again I'm talking about absolute fun. I feel if you are being pulled in so many directions, perhaps it's time to cut back on those activities. Clutter free life is not only for the house but your social life as well.

Spontaneity--We certainly lack this in our life. When was the last time at the last minute you decided to change something? Like instead of going to the movies, go outside and visit with your neighbor instead. Pop over and get an ice cream cone just plain cone not some fancy stuff in a cup you always get at the local Dairy Queen. While remodeling the house, you suddenly abandon work and go off with your spouse and have wild sex. How about calling your boss and tell him your taking a personal day. Then do something total out of character. Spontaneity hardly exists these days we live by timed schedules.

Smile and laugh--People don't do this enough, hence forth why we are discussing this. I have discovered people who smile more have a better life in general and those who laugh more are happier. I know what you are saying, what is there to laugh about in this day and age? Well, if you got rid of the schedules every once in a while and pair down social obligations just a little and throw caution to the wind when it comes to your spontaneity, you would be smiling and laughing more.

Sure the co-worker in the next cubical may think you have cracked when you start laughing out loud when you think back of the unadulterated fun you had over the weekend, but who cares, you found fun. That poor schmuck had to endure his rigorous schedule, which includes, two hours of cleaning house, three hours of shopping, two school functions which ran two hours each, a baseball game that went into over time that made him late for the boring company picnic, a short conversation with the preacher that turned into thirty minutes, and listen to his in-laws complain how he cooked the hamburgers wrong because he was trying to beat the sun going down.

My brother, Jason once posted on his Facebook, "If life's a journey, then where are the rest stops?" My answer is quite simple. You make them with fun. You find this little gem and the rest of the world isn't so bad and the rest stops are more exciting.

So what does all it all mean? It means, in order to have this absolute fun I talk about, you have to toss the freaking schedule sometimes, disappoint a few obligations, do things on a whim every once and a while and smile and laugh you're way through it. That's pure fun.

Hey Becky, they are getting a shipment of drag queen shoes, should we go look at them?

    

   Books by Carla Landreth
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=carla+landreth

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=carla+landreth

My Halloween Spider and Mrs. Strasner

When I was a kid at my house, there was no celebrating Halloween. My parents were convinced it was a devil holiday and that was it. No argument. So while my parents may have bought candy and that was a rarity, for the trick or treaters, we, meaning my kid brother, Jason and I, weren't allowed to dress up or go from door to door to trick or treat. Instead my parents loaded us up in the car and took us to both grandparent's and that was it.

I remember in school after the holiday, kids would bring some of their treats to school and snack on them at recess, leaving me feeling snubbed. Oh well, I had come to accept this as part of my world until I got into second grade.

My second grade teacher was Lurlene Strasner. A very smart woman or at least I thought she was. I heard getting her for a teacher was the best thing; however Wylie Jean Stokes was good also. Of course you know later I had Mrs. Stokes and she influenced my life profoundly even to this day.

Mrs. Strasner was one of those teachers who wanted to really teach, she believed in the rule not to leave one child behind before that rule even existed.

She made learning as much fun as watching the History Channel. She made it fun and educational. I learned more in that class than any other elementary class. She was real good in teaching us history before it became a requirement and fueled my love for the subject after that. She didn't bring out the books and say lets read this, take a test and call it that, not Mrs. Strasner.

Now while most teachers don't think to use the famous day by day chart, called the Calendar, Mrs. Strasner did.

I learned so much about the holidays that I was so unaware that I didn't know much about them until I got her class. When Halloween was fast approaching she began our studies on this wicked and controversial holiday.

I remember how she approached the holiday in question, "Does anybody know anything about All Hallows Eve?" The whole class sat quietly looking at each other waiting for someone anybody in our group to speak up. There was no answer. She then asked, "Does anybody know anything about Halloween?"

All hands came up!

She smiled, "Does anybody know what it means?" Those hands were up again like bingo winners at a bingo game. But the answer that was given was wrong. No it was not a devil worshipping holiday nor was it a holiday for candy.

She explained that Halloween was All Hallows Eve. From there we got a fascinating lesson, about truths, myths, the origin of the holiday and that it was observed around the world. We learned that certain cultures celebrated it differently and some cultures had added traditions and so forth. I told you she was a good teacher.

We read stories that related to Halloween and even watched a small cartoon on the projector called, The Headless Horseman. Our spelling words, even math had to do with Halloween, this went on for a good two weeks.

Now you would think that this would have been it, but it wasn't. Each day we learned something or did a project and I loved the projects we did. They were crafts and let's be honest; if kids can do things with their hands they will learn more. I told you she was ahead of her time.

Well one day Mrs. Strasner had a box of sticks that looked like she made poor Mr. Strasner gather from the yard. They were about a foot long and had several little tiny limbs branched from the larger limb. We all sat at our desk completely excited.

Before we got started she told us to bring out our scissors, glue, and a piece of Manila paper, pencil and ruler, which like good excited kids that's what we did. The very first thing she told us to do was write our name at the bottom of the paper.

She then came around each desk placing one of those little branches in front of us on our manila paper and told us not to play with them. As soon as she got those limbs to each student she came by with these little black pre-made pompoms. They were not real large but not too small either. She again laid one at each desk.

The anticipation was growing.

Then she came by with two little eyes and laid them beside our pompom and then she came by with white yarn. Now she pulled it out of the skein two times explaining that when she pulled it out each time and brought it to the tip of her nose it was roughly a yard. Of course she wanted to know how much she was giving us if she was doing this process twice. Then she would ask you to cut the yarn and place it on your desk.

Do you know how hard it is for a child to sit still with these marvelous things staring at us, not easy, but with Mrs. Strasner she told marvelous stories which entertained us which kept our mind occupied.

Once she was back at the front of the room she explained what we were doing we were making spiders and spider webs. She told us to take out our ruler and measure off so many inches on our yarn. I think it was six inches, I could be wrong. She then came by with a black sharpie and marked it. Math lesson 101 as they say was done. We had to glue the eyes to the pom pom and leave that on the Manila paper.

They would be drying while we did the next step. She told us to take our yarn and wrap it around the little limb we had. She told us to use our imaginations when doing this, but to leave where she marked on our yarn dangling down.

I remember we were so excited we couldn't help but talk to our neighbors with all the excitement. Yes, we still maintained a soft voice even with our neighbors. I must explain this because many teachers who are reading this now wonder; how did she do that?

Well, Mrs. Strasner taught us at the very beginning of the school year about our indoor voice. She explained to us the only time we use that loud voice is if we are in trouble. She pointed out your parents don't yell at the neighbors next door when they are right beside each other, now do they? She was right. I don't remember my parents ever raising their voice to people in public, so why should I, unless as she said you were in pain or in trouble and needed help. We were also rewarded at the end of the week if we had followed this rule and it usually was good.

Now back to my story.

Some of us really got to playing with our yarn and made what we thought was designs of what our spider would weave in the night. Mrs. Strasner went around checking our progress, encouraging those who weren't doing so good and praising those that were moving along fine.

When this step was done she moved to the next which was now glue our spider to the end of the yarn.

By the way this step was easier said than done, but we all glued the best we could then she told us to lay our spiders on the paper at the front of our desk. She would call each of you to carefully take your spiders still on the paper to the book case and lay them on top where she said they were going to get some sunning to dry.

We would forget these little critters until the next day. She told us to go and get our spiders and put them at our desk. We were so excited. We sat at our desk and she told us to bring out a sheet of notebook paper and our pencil and we had to write a short story about our spider in cursive writing. Yes, I had fun writing my story and yes at the end of the day we got our grade on our story and handwriting. Good story idea, but bad handwriting. To this day I still laugh about it. It wouldn't be the only time poor Mrs. Strasner would be working on my handwriting.

We would bring these creatures home and I remember for years I kept that thing until we moved and then lost it. We still however, never got to trick or treat, but I did learn Halloween wasn't a bad holiday all because of Mrs. Strasner.

When I had kids I sort of carried that crafting life with me and the history along with it. Each year I made those same little spiders with my kids, except we would go out together and pick the limb ourselves, bonding time as they say between mother and child. I also remember watching my kids with excitement in their eyes, as mine, when I was a child in school and feeling a little bit like Mrs. Strasner as I watched them make their spiders and spider webs.

A memory from school I carried to my children, who to this day laugh when they remember getting to make Halloween spiders for many years.





Books by Carla Landreth
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=carla+landreth
    

Bucket List

I know what some of you are thinking, bucket lists Carla. Are you dying? The answer is no, but I have recently discovered through my friends that they all have bucket lists. In fact they have this little document right up there with their wills. Now Carla is unfamiliar with bucket lists since she has lived under a rock for the last forty two years to know what exactly a bucket list is.

All my friends are in agreement when they told me this, a bucket list is a list of things you want to do before you die. Now most people don't make these lists unless they get the bad news they have some disease and the possibility of the grim reaper knocking at the door, hence forth why most people don't even think of the bucket list. But I have some eccentric friends and they live outside the box and recently their influences have me going outside my box.

I was wondering if this list is more than just a bucket list. And after listening to my friends opinions of why they have one while watching the kids by the pool on a hot summer day, I came to the conclusion these lists are more than just something we want to do before we die. I thought hard on this and this was my conclusion.

I think these bucket lists are more than what we want to do before we die, they are our dreams, desires, and what drives us to be creative in our lives. Remember when you were young and you were told you can do whatever you want when you grow up. The world is your oyster and you have the power to do whatever you want, well, somewhere along the way of the teen age years and college years they get lost. This is due to career choices, relationships, marriage, children, heck let's just say it, life in general.

As we get older we abandon the childish dreams we had and try to keep our head above the water for the fear of drowning in life's tidewater. Now that we are older and closer to an end we look back with regrets. You know what I mean, that little voice you're hearing right now that's saying I should have, when you did the other instead because of outside influences.

Now that the subject is brought up, you wonder did your bucket have a leak along the way, because mine sure did, as I think back. There's no need to be ashamed if you never thought of a bucket list. I never gave it much thought myself until, it was posed to me and I realized some of those dreams I always wanted to do was a form of a bucket list.

Before we move any further on the subject I want to say one thing about bucket lists, they are what you really would like to do. My one friend has on her bucket list, to sky dive nude if she can find a pilot interested in doing such. So far all of the pilots require clothing. While my one friend, who doesn't have a list by the way, has said she always wanted to spend the night on a remote island with George Clooney. Which do you think is more realistic? That's what bucket lists are realistic goals.

After sitting all day by the pool watching my darling kids and thinking back how many times Darrell had these wild dreams, which turns out weren't wild after all. I decided to come up with my own bucket list. A great list of realistic goals and possible one or two that maybe out of reach, but not really if you know who I am. I have also explained my reasoning, which is another good tip this is a realistic bucket list. By the way I'm changing the title "Bucket List" to "My Lifelong Wish List".

Here we go.

1. Fall in love again. Some people think I'm completely mad wanting this but if you know Carla, I am a romantic creature at heart. True love is an exhilarating feeling, better than any drug can give you. Not that I've tried drugs. I haven't, but I was given some meds after giving birth to a ten pound child that put me in la la land for a few days. Being in love makes you come alive. Imagine each gentle caress, the soft whispers, and searing touches. Imagine catching your breath when they walk in the room or your heart pounds when you think of them. Just laying your head, on their chest to hear their heart beat; magical. As humans we need love. Yes, with love sometimes comes arguments, disappointments, lies, deceit and anger, but to me the pros certainly out weigh the cons when it comes to love.

2. To walk the red carpet. Now it can be to one of my works or something a friend had done, but it is something that has been made into film. This is one thing I have always wanted to do since I was a teen. I even have in mind the dress I want to wear. That dress will be smoking hot black with a slit exposing my nice legs. Fake diamonds, since I can't afford the real ones. The necklace would ever so gently be dipping, almost pointing to my nice tan cleavage. I would be wearing the most gorgeous heels. Screw the doctor about not wearing high heels, for this occasion I intend on doing such and he can't stop me, unless the arthritis acts up, then I'll just pop some pills and go on my merry way.

3. Pose nude. Now don't get your knickers in a twist. It's not what you think. I don't want to pose for Playboy, please Hugh Hefner doesn't need to go into bankruptcy over me and I certainly won't do the vulgar Larry Flint either. I don't want a painting of me either. The idea an artist making my boobs look like sea monsters gone wild, would be hard to swallow. No, I want to be pinup style type of nude. Think Betty Paige, without the whips please. Now I have two reasons why I'm doing this, but my main reason is this. When I'm in the nursing home, I want this photo blown up and placed above my bed. I will be Miss Popular at the nursing home, while you other hens get snubbed. Sure my sex life will be shot to hell by then, but those men who thought I wasn't good enough when I was young will regret not checking it out before they made their decision to close that door.

4. To appear in Country Living magazine. I work hard for my house damn it. When my husband was alive we ripped the house completely apart and rebuilt it and were still building when he died. A widow woman, who took the plans of her dream home and fulfilled them in the midst of renovations to me, makes an interesting story, Sure the back story is, I cried, called the deceased husband names, chewed out and insulted people who didn't do their job and over extend the budget with my desires. At least nobody came off the ladder, cut their body with tin from installing the tin roof ourselves, electrocuted when changing out light fixtures or nail gunned themselves while putting siding on the house. It's a great house done with lots of love.

5. Take a lover. Now, I know this one caught lots of people off guard it caught me off guard as well. I figure if I don't fall in love, which is looking more what is going to happen. I will take a lover. Mind you I will do this much later when all prospects have petered out as they say. I've given myself an age limit when to find a lover. If I'm not in love by the time I'm forty five, I'm pulling the lover card out. Now I also have requirements for my lover. He must have a full head of hair (pony tails will not be accepted) and his teeth. No one with a criminal record, (i.e.: murder) or drug addicts or drunks. Please if you are over weight just keep walking. I know I'm not thin, but really the beer gut over the pants is not coming near me.

6. Ride a Harley. My husband would have been thrilled with me trying this one. He always tried to get me on a motorcycle and I always said no. Perhaps this is owed to him. Now, before anybody shows up in my drive way with your motor cycle, thinking I'm getting on; think again. I have a few stipulations. First, it must be only a Harley. No crotch rockets. If you have a significant other, stay away. The last thing I need is that person thinking odd things about us. I mean really, think about it, we are in an odd position. Another thing, I want a clean cut looking man. Remember in number 5 about qualifications for a lover? That's what I want. The last and foremost, don't you dare speed, because if we survive the speed thing, when I get off, you better have some damn good health insurance! You're going to need it.

7. One thing I would like to do is, get up one day, early morning, a feat in itself. Grab my duffel bag, throw some crap in it and then get in the car and just go. No place in particular just get up and go. No I wouldn't be answering my phone. In fact I would leave a little note for my kids to let them know I'm ok and I'm going to be gone a few days. I'd have my phone, it's a necessity in case I got lost, car accident, or car broke down. I'd have my phone in case of emergency. For the most part however I wouldn't use my phone. I'd drive anywhere to San Antonio to New Orleans. Whatever floats my fancy at the time.

8. Well, with all the above comes some reality. I would have to lose at least ten pounds to even contemplate the above mention. If you think I'm getting down to my skivvies, walking the red carpet, taking a lover, appearing in a national magazine, and ride a Harley with my legs nearly in the air, with this little bit of pudgy, think again. I have taken measurements and have discovered losing ten pounds will put me on the right path to gaining the above mention goals.

9. Writing my Biography. I would write my bio from the time I was a child to the time I'm old and have nothing more going on in my life. I would tell everything from my abuse as a child to my zany adventures as an adult. I would let people know its okay to be weak and vulnerable at times as long as determination and will power gave them strength to overcome obstacles. I would hope someone reading my bio would learn from my life's story as much as I had learned about myself.

There you have it, Carla's Life Long Wish List. Do you have a life long wish list? If not perhaps it's time for you to think about one.



Books by Carla Landreth
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=carla+landreth

Sleepless Nights and Clowns

I had no intentions of writing this but since my friend Andrea thought it was so hilarious and laughed so hard when I told her what happened to my toe, I thought, oh well, the rest of the world should get a giggle out of it. I'm sure my friend, Ted will since he is the culprit that introduced me to this whole thing.

As a child I loved clowns, they made me laugh. I especially loved the ones at the circus. How they would chase each other with a bucket, which I would think was full of water and then they would throw it at one of the clowns and it would hit the audience, turning out to be confetti. I also enjoyed them at birthday parties the things they could do with balloons were absolutely phenomenon. Ah childhood memories.

I never had a problem with clowns until recently. I must say I met a very nice man who is an actor/ stuntman and now friend. His name is Ted Alderman. I was total fascinated and intrigued by his work and the more he told me about his work, the more he drew me in. I watched several movies that starred him and have thoroughly enjoyed watching him perform. Yes, some are a little on the weird side, but that's what makes him an interesting person and has made me a huge fan of his.

But there's one movie he was in "Torment" which starred a clown as a serial killer. Scary movie and probably should have turned it off before I proceeded any further with this little horror flick. Especially, when the woman saw a black trash bag that look like it had somebody trying to get out of it. Now I am one who will watch a whole movie because, I support the artist in their works. No matter how bad the movie is I will watch it through. I may not ever watch it again but I will finish the movie. Believe me I have driven my cousin crazy forcing her to watch such films. The Last Mistress was quite interesting French film, sure you had to do a lot of reading but it was worth it. Hey, these people have worked hard they deserve to be seen. But when it comes to Ted and his friends I will be the first to admit; I will certainly stand in line to watch the film no matter how bad he thinks it is or anybody else thinks. Even if it's a freaky scary movie I will watch it.

The movie as I said is about a sadistic clown going around killing people. Starring my friend, Ted Alderman, as the handsome Sheriff Trembath and the beautiful Suzi Lorraine as Lauren, who is isolated at a river cottage with her husband played by Tom Stedham. The facial expression on this clown scares the hell out of me. He looks likes like Ronald McDonald from the dead, pumped up on crack with a nose that oddly reminds me of an old man's penis. I was flashed once at a nursing home if you're wondering how I compared the nose and penis thing.

Still I watched it and because of that little flick I now have issues with clowns.

What kind of issues? Well, now if I see anything with a clown I'm in for a sleepless night. It doesn't matter if the movie is a comedy, sad, melodrama or even a circus that comes to town. If it has a clown, I'm guaranteed a night of tossing and turning. I just can't sleep. A weird clown killing people enters my mind. The fear of a deranged clown going around killing people freaks me out. Do you know how real that is? A freaky clown shouldn't be bothering me, but it does. I'm a widow woman, home most of the time by myself with the fear a clown could be lurking about. Clowns; I shudder at the thought. This brings me to my little incident which involved this new fear.

Picture this; I had spent the whole day before preparing for the annual Memorial Day party which commences at my house every year without fail. I finally got the pool cleared, plants all planted, coolers cleaned ready for ice and drinks that will fill them, all lights are hung and checked. Trash cans with bags expecting the over flow of paper good items, all making my home ready for fun.

I had bought new tiki torches this year. Oh they are so beautiful, made out of colored glass and metal. These will last longer than wicker ones which caught fire a few days earlier. Lucky for me my cousin, Becky and my daughter, George Anne, were with the water hose putting them out before the dry lawn caught fire and burned down the neighborhood. Well, while I was out buying the new tiki torches, I found these cute totem poles which you can put tea candles in and their faces light up giving you that island affect. But anybody who knows Carla knows she's not into candles outside. Please, the tiki torches, literally on fire was almost too much excitement. So to be on the safe side I bought some solar lights. Slipped them in and bam all seven of the totem poles light up the pool deck steps in the dark. Along with the flamingos that light up in bright pink color, the pool deck with clear and blue lights and the swimming pool itself is bright from the light that is showing the bottom of the pool. Yes, Carla is party ready!

The party will go without incident. The pool is busy with splashing water and laughter, the grill is getting its first real workout, music playing, setting the party mood and Carla's entertaining. By late night the guest have left including my kids who are residents at the home. Yes, they went to stay at their friends house leaving me alone with Chloe, my little miniature pincher, who is spoiled rotten by me of course and has been in many recent adventures with me.

I decide I will clean up in the morning, too partied out. Right now I will go in, take a shower to remove the latest smell of chlorine and smoke from the grill and after that I will relax in front of the television, which I always do in the evenings and write a little before I call it a night.

Now about three o'clock in the morning, Chloe is in my bedroom whining, which means one thing. She needs to go out to do her business. Since the kids aren't home, guess who has to get out of bed, take her out to do her business? You guessed it, Carla.

So I slink out of bed, Chloe ahead of me jumping as we go to the door. I'm amazed she didn't pee with all the jumping. But as soon as I let her out my imagination takes over. The automatic light, that usual comes on when she steps out didn't this time and in fact didn't come on when I stepped out. So no full moon, and with a dog that is black you can guess I've lost her. I'm trying to hear for her tags on her collar, but I realize Marion had taken it off when she gave her a bath before she left. A tag less dog; great. As I am searching for Chloe, I see these two beady eyes at the pool that looks like those eyes of that damn clown in "Torment" and I freak out. I'm calling Chloe, in a low voice I might add. Since I can't find her immediately I go to the other side of the office where there is another back door and grab my broom. It hangs by the door and pursued to attack whatever is out there with two beady eyes, all the while still calling Chloe.

Of course as Carla gets closer to the deck she realizes that's it's not a freaky clown, but one of those damn totem poles that I put the solar lights in. Of course, I see them all when I approach the steps and realize all seven of them are staring at me; freaky looking little things. To make sure this little incident doesn't happen again, I go over and turn their head facing the back of the steps. Relieved it was just my imagination I call for Chloe but she doesn't respond. Instead we have decided to play a game of hide and seek. All I can think of is she's out behind the pool deck farting around.

So here I am half naked in my night shirt, a broom in my hand, calling for a dog name Chloe. But she doesn't come to me, so I figure it's time to turn on the pool lights. That usually brings her to me when I turn on the lights. I go to turn on the switch in the house, stump my toe on the way back, by hitting the deck in the dark which gave me a bad toe nail. I get to the back door which the light decides to work then and who is sleeping at the back door waiting for me; Chloe.

Now I know some of you are laughing finding this whole thing funny. You can just see paranoid Carla in her night shirt, calling for a little dog, thinking she has a demented clown on her pool deck ready to snatch her away, but it's not funny. I haven't been frightened like that since that time I was a child and I saw that horror flick about the frogs invading the world. It took me years to not fear frogs and still not a big fan of them.

So what has Carla learned from this, besides her imagination takes over easily. The next time I fear a clown in my backyard, I'm calling Ted up out of his nice, deep, slumber sleep. I don't care if it's one, two or even three in the morning. If I can't sleep why should the man who stars in really good horror flicks get to sleep and oh yeah, the dog, will just have to piss in the house!


Books by Carla Landreth
 http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=carla+landreth

Here's to You Mrs. Robinson

We all know that song. Simon and Garfunkel made it popular with the movie 'The Graduate' and it has been the musical feature in my freaky dreams for years. But have you ever really thought about the song? It's about a woman seducing a much younger man, hiding secrets from her loved ones, all the while acting like the perfect mom in the world. We call these women now days; cougars, but in reality they are nothing more than Mrs. Robinson and frankly, I like the word Mrs. Robinson better if you ask me. Cougar makes it sound so dirty. I think however the point of this story is to let every woman out there know they have been a Mrs. Robinson at one time in their life. Perhaps you just didn't realize it but you have.

As Valentines Day approaches, I think back to the loves of my life, which weren't many, but as I think back, one in particular love affair sticks out. This was before my husband, this was way back when I was in De Leon Jr. High and I was in eighth grade. I would have to say this was probably the real true love as they say, not so much for me, but for a little boy on the bus.

I shall begin this story with the fact I had to ride a crowded bus to and from school each day. Bus number thirteen, was driven by Hopei Alexander. He had the worse bus route you could imagine. Not only was it the longest at the time, but it was also the one that housed many kids. This bus was so crowded many students had to stand in the isle of the bus due to the over crowding.

Now before I proceed, I must explain a few things about this bus. One, the smaller children sat near the front of the bus. There was a reason for this. You see the high school kids and yes, we had plenty who road the bus, they always sat in the back of the bus. There was a reason for this. The older kids sat in the back to make out, which was done on a regular basis. There was a reason they called the Hispanic John Travolta look alike by the nickname 'Speedy'. If these older kids weren't making out, then you could guarantee they had their heads sticking out the windows yelling profanity to the world. I can't tell you how many times, Hopei, with his cigar in his mouth, would yell and point at those kids in the mirror to remind them he was watching. Frankly, if you ask me the sleazy kids sat in the back of the bus. Now if you wonder did, Miss Carla ever sit in the back of the bus? The answer is no. I was too much of a lady to do such and the fact Hopei knew my parents personally was enough to keep me away from that end of the bus.

Each day the bus would gather the elementary students and bus them across town to the Jr. High where, not only did the Jr. High kids get on, but also the High School kids. Now I made sure I was quick in getting my stuff from my locker, because if you weren't on the bus fast enough you would be standing on the way home or until the bus lost some of the kids at their stops. So I always made sure I got my stuff and high tailed it to the bus.

Now once you got on the bus you would be there for a good fifteen minutes. Because as I mentioned earlier, our school was much bigger in those days which meant more students, which also meant, fifteen minutes spent waiting on the bus for the students to load up then another fifteen minutes to go through town to get home. But I always, no matter what got on the bus and found me a seat, usually with one of my younger siblings.

Well, there came a time that I didn't make it on time , in fact if I can recall, a teacher had to keep me behind to talk about a paper and all I could do was think 'great I'm standing on the bus going home'. When I finally reached the bus it was as I knew it would be standing room only.

Oh well, I just sucked it up and stood there. But suddenly I felt this little soft tap on my shoulder. I glanced down and there he was standing in a seat. A small blue eyed, blond haired boy with missing front teeth, smiling up at me as if he had found his first true love. His name was Patrick. I never learned his last name, which is a shame now, but at the time, his first name was enough. Patrick wanted me to sit with him and his sister Rebecca, who was also, blonde haired and blued eyed like her brother.

I took a seat of course, because I just didn't want to stand on that bus, but what I didn't know was that this little boy was going to want me to sit with him everyday from that day forward.

Patrick was cute and sweet and loved to talk. He would tell me about his day and how he loved recess that was his favorite time of the day. While telling me all of this, his sister rolled her eyes and would say repeatedly, "If he is bothering you tell him to shut up." He wasn't a bother, he was in first grade and obviously had his first crush and not on a teacher.

Now, every morning I got on the bus Patrick and Rebecca were not on the bus because their father went to work and he dropped them off at school. But in the afternoon, he couldn't bring them home so they rode the bus. And every afternoon, Patrick and his sister were waiting for me. I was always guaranteed a seat even if I was late because Patrick made sure I was going to sit by him no matter what.

Our relationship was friendly and since we had to sit on the bus for a good thirty minutes he would bring out his homework, which was a little reader book he had to read and insist I help him with his reading. It was no problem really. But I can hear some of you say, I wouldn't have helped him. But he was so cute and well he did save me a place on the bus every day.

Now puppy love is what I called this, harmless to the ones around you, but Patrick was getting in deep. I soon realized this when I got on the bus one day and he pulled out a honey bun from his back pack. He had brought the honey bun from home and it had sit in his back pack all day. Now at first, I thought well, he was just bringing this for a one time deal. So I opened the honey bun and we shared it. Boy was I not thinking. Every day after that, Patrick had some sort of little Debbie Snack cake for us. Sure it was smashed at times from being in his back pack all day, but like a lady we sat, read and ate. I soon learned from his sister, that he insisted his mother purchase these little cakes each week, so he and I could bond.

I see all of your faces right now, laughing at the very thought of a first grader, saving his little snack cake for an eighth grader, but it was harmless or at least I thought it was harmless. Christmas rolled around and I would be getting a Christmas gift from Patrick. Lip gloss. Cherry flavored to be exact. Well, that afternoon when I got home I called my grandma to let her know I needed a cheap present for a little boy. I didn't care what it was just something cheap. Well, she bought a little Hot Wheel for the boy. It wasn't a real Hot Wheel, just a knock off from the Dollar store, but still it was suppose to mimic it and well, he was in love with it.

Valentines Day isn't my favorite holiday. Everybody around me loves Valentines Day. I was never a fan of it, because I didn't get the flowers or the boxes of candy or anything like that. The girls in my class would always get things like that, but not me. But this year I thought I would be nice and give Patrick and Rebecca a Valentines Day card with a sucker.

Well, I got on the bus as I normally did and I took my seat next to them. I quickly handed Patrick and Rebecca their card and sucker. Patrick was smiling his teeth were finally coming in. I saw Rebecca smiling also. She nudged him as he dug into his back pack. Well, our relationship was about to hit a high note.

Patrick brought out a box of candy; it was a small box with those little hearts in it, a card and something inside the card that was hard and lumpy. I opened the card and what was in it; a necklace. It was fake gold, with two hearts and a rose holding them together. I was suddenly plastered with a kiss on the cheek and a hug. Boy was I not only impressed, a little embarrassed but thought perhaps this relationship had gone too far.

Rebecca told me he had saved some of his Christmas money to buy that for me. Ah young love as they say. While most girls my age would find this disgusting, I couldn't help but think how sweet.

Well, I wore that necklace quite often however I would wear something different to school but change into the heart necklace before I got on the bus. My crush affair would come to an end soon, when Patrick one day had to tell me, with tears in his eyes that he and his family were moving away. I did have a smidgen of a broken heart. Mind you I said smidgen, in truth I thought to myself, now I would be fighting for a seat on the bus for sure.

I know this is silly, but it did break my heart the day I got on the bus and there was no Patrick. No listening to him read or talks about his day or shares a honey bun. Tender moments as they say gone. Of course as they say, I moved on rather quickly, but I always thought of my Mrs. Robinson moment with Patrick.

I still have the Valentines card he gave me that was crudely scribbled with his name and I still have the necklace, it lost its luster many years ago, meaning the fake gold finally rubbed off. But I sometimes think, I wonder, after all these years. What lucky girl got to be Patrick's girlfriend or wife? Was or is he attentive to them as he was to me? She would have been lucky to have such a boy in her life especially if she knew what he was like as a first grader Romeo.

Now ladies, the next time you state you have never been a Mrs. Robinson. Think hard before you answer. Sure you may not have been like Mrs. Robinson in the Graduate, but I think if you look hard at yourself, you will see there were moments you could be classified as one. Perhaps, it was just puppy love like Patrick or something more sinister. But I think every woman can safely say, at least one time in their life they got to be a type of Mrs. Robinson.

So, Here's to you Mrs. Robinson...



     Books by Carla Landreth
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=carla+landreth

Feathers Anyone?

I had written this story for a snow day, but it doesn't look like we are going to get any beautiful white snow this year, but I'm posting anyway.

It is said that most people recall their first memory around the age of three. So thinking back I do recall around the age of three my very first snow. Now at the time I didn't know it was snow but as you get older you look back and say, "Ah, ha!"

When I was around three, Jason and I had gotten up on bitter cold morning. Most mornings we slept in, which I think was a relief for my mother.

I really don't remember what we ate that morning, if we ate anything, but I do remember watching a little television. There really wasn't much on in the morning. I'm pretty sure we watched PBS but couldn't be for sure. In the afternoon was a whole different story. Gilligan's Island followed up with the Banana Splits. Sometimes we watched the Monkee's, if we remembered, which we normally did and of course my mother's favorite Bewitched and Brady Bunch. Jason loved the Partridge family and the Bugaloos. If we got up early enough we could watch The Three Stooges and Penelope Pit Stop.

Anyway, back to what I was talking about. It was a bitter cold morning and we watched a little television. I remember getting dressed and Jason, who was two at the time, was having trouble getting dressed. As a big sister (only by 15 months) I helped him with the buttons on his shirt, but the truth is; I wasn't much good at it either.

My mother made sure we were dressed properly for the day and I remember telling her we wanted to go out and play. My poor mother tried to keep us in most of the morning, but wasn't having much luck and finally gave in to us kids.

Jason and I went outside to play in our yard that, by the way was unfenced. This is the early 70's and children missing; was a rarity. Not saying it didn't happen, it was just a rarity. Plus we had the neighbors around to watch us. Most of them were old and knew when we were out and sort of watched us as they say.

My mother bundled us up and sent us out, while she did things around the house. Jason and I loved going to this big Mulberry tree in the backyard. That was one of our favorite places to go. No grass grew under it, so we played in the sand with our toys. I must say toys for us, was a premium. Jason had his trucks and cars, but I had butter dishes and old worn out spoons. We could play for hours in the dirt with these few tools of pleasure, as they say.

By lunch time our grandma and grandpa Montague had came by the house with some dumplings for lunch. We normally went with them at lunch time, a treat for us kids, but today grandma had too much to do. So instead she brought us lunch and sat and ate with us talking with mama. Grandpa had already stuffed his face and was bundled up outside talking with the neighbors. I told you we had a lot of old people in the neighborhood.

I can recall hearing grandma getting onto mama for letting us kids play out in this cold and mama replying 'well you try to keep them in.' Soon grandma would be gone and Jason and I would be back out playing in the backyard under the big Mulberry tree.

We got bored and played with the family dog, Bandit. He was a Benji dog but at the time he was considered more of a mutt. He had a brother Nelson, who lived down the street with our grandma Swinney. Bandit was loads of fun and he was very protective of us kids but he also liked to run off and visit the neighborhood. Poor Bandit would be snatched up by today's standards, no leash, no collar, no shots, just a dog that slept on the front porch each day and night.

We played on the front porch for a while until something caught our attention. This little feather fell between me and Jason. Now you can imagine what we thought, where did it come from?

Another one fell to the ground we quickly went over to see it. This time it was bigger and so very dainty as we bent down to see it closer. Jason tried to pick it up but it disappeared before we could touch it.

I told Jason, I thought Mrs. Bernae, our neighbor's, chickens must be molting again. (A term you learn very early in life with chickens. For those of you who don't know, chickens lose their feathers to make room for summer feathers) However this was strange that those feathers were disappearing in front of our very own eyes. Soon, those feathers were flying around and falling to the ground and for some reason they weren't going away anymore.

We sat on the porch and watched it for a while until Jason thought it was time to go in and I had to agree. I wasn't sure what was happening but I knew it wasn't too bad but not good either.

My mother was unaware of this fact. She had been doing household chores and didn't pay one bit attention to what was going on outside.

We told her we were hungry and of course she had the television on to our favorite shows. Of course all mothers have to ask their young ones what have you been doing? Our answer was nothing, but I did tell her somebody was throwing feathers all over the place out there.

I think my mother thought I had a wild imagination then. She didn't believe me when I told her somebody is pitching feathers all over the lawn. Of course I went on about it until she finally went to the door to see what I was babbling on about.

Jason and I went over to the big window to look out while my mother stood at the door looking out.

Since the time we had went into the house, those feathers had really taken over the lawn. I was shocked at how much Mrs. Bernae's chickens were losing their feathers and wondered how they were going to stay warm for the winter.

"See, I told you somebody is pitching feathers," I told my mom, who was laughing at us. I didn't find it funny, I was really worried. If these feathers did come from those chickens they were going to be dead soon.

Those small feathers had turned into a full force storm of feathers, whirling around covering the lawn with a fresh blanket of white.

Poor Bandit sat on the porch staring as if this was nothing new. I thought Bandit should come in but my mother protested that and told me he is a dog he will live, he had enough fur on him.

My mother finally explained to me and Jason what was going on. She told us it was snowing and when the weather got just right, that's when it snows. It wasn't Mrs. Bernae's chickens losing their feathers nor was Bandit, who I kept trying to let into the house, would be swallowed up by the snow.

She tried her best to explain what snow was and I think any child at that age fears it to a point, yet wants to know more. My fears were calmed and I think Jason's was too, but Jason had something to say about this whole thing.

"Well, I don't care what it is, but if daddy thinks, I'm going out there to clean that up, he's got another thing coming!"


Books by Carla Landreth
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=carla+landreth

The Good Samaratian In Town

The other day as I got something for the angel tree, I couldn't help but think of a time in my childhood and smiled. I wondered was I changing this child's life as mine was profoundly changed. This story I'm about to tell truly inspires us and has always reminded me who I am today. Hope you enjoy.

Many of you that know me, know that I grew up poor and for those of you who didn't know, well, you know now. We didn't have much and what we did have, we cherished knowing full well if we broke it there was no replacing.

Christmas was always slim around our house. My father may have had a blue collar job, the pay was minimum and Christmas bonuses were far few and in between.

Somehow though, my parents managed. They usually went to re-sale shops or the dollar store to get Christmas. We always had something under the tree. It may not have been much but it was something.

I believe people come into our lives with a purpose. Sure it may only be briefly that we know them or it could be a life time. But in either case, people venture into our lives for a reason and I believe it when I tell this story of the Good Samaritan in town.

I remember one year was a bad year. I mean bad. And Santa was probably not going to be coming to the house like he had in the past. I was a teenager by this time and saw things that my younger siblings were unaware of. By then I had quit making Christmas list, knowing full well I wasn't going to get what I wished for.

We did have a Christmas but it was fairly slim and I was grateful for the items I received. Most of the stuff was second hand but that didn't matter, for us kids it was Santa had came to the house.

Well, one day a very nice man came to the house. Trent Thomas was his name. I'm not sure if my father was working for his family at the time, but I do remember my father worked for them at one time. Anyway I remember Trent coming up to the house and Daddy went out to see him.

Later daddy returned with four gift wrapped boxes. My father said Santa came by while he was out talking. The boxes were nicely wrapped and the way they were addressed made us kids laugh.

Instead of names on each package, apparently the Mr. Thomas had a time trying to remember four children's name. So, on each box it read; the oldest girl, the youngest girl, the oldest boy, the youngest boy.

Well, that's what my father did, gave each of us our present. We tore into those little packages like there was no tomorrow. I really can't recall what my siblings got, but I remember what I got; a plush Teddy Bear.

I was beyond thrilled. It was so soft. I remember for months I kept that teddy bear nearby for comfort when things got bad around the house.

Even though the teddy bear, which I still, have; was a simple gift. That simple gift to me was a signal someone out there in this big old world cared about me and my siblings.

Now most people would have just said I did my part to society and be done with it. But Mr. Thomas was different. The following year we got another gift from the family. That year I received a watermelon necklace, it too, I still have. But the following year would be the year that would actually change my life and make me who I am today.

I know many of you have inspired to be something because of something tragic in your life or what you believe. I was inspired by a family who gave me the tools to be who I am today.

That year Mr. Thomas brought by the gifts and as usual my father handed them out. I still can't recall what my siblings got but I do remember what I got.

I opened my gift and inside was this notebook, but not just any notebook. I had seen these notebooks all over school. For those of you who are young and reading this I don't mean computer laptops. I mean a notebook that held paper.

The notebook was blue and on the outside were clear Ziploc plastic covers. This was the fancy version of the Trapper Keeper, all the rage when I was in school.

Girls really liked them. They would have their favorite teen idol's picture they had cut from the teen mags and place them in the clear pocket.

I was going to be like the others now and have me a Trapper Keeper and could put pictures in the clear sides. Have to say, I really didn't have any teen pictures at the time so I would be searching for a few of those.

Inside my trapper was notebook paper. I'm sure it was just a ream of the stuff, but it sure seemed like two or three packages filled it. I also got pens and pencils to go with my new notebook and paper.

Now most kids would probably think this was a stupid gift, but for me it meant the world. You see, I did a lot of day dreaming as a child.

As the oldest I felt it was my job to keep the siblings dreaming too. So many nights while we were all trying to get to sleep I remember telling stories until we all passed out. I sometimes took old school papers and wrote on the back of them story ideas I had.

I know this is weird when I say this, especially coming from a teenager at the time, but I thought it to be a sign. A sign I should write down all my stories or at least my ideas and lock them away from the rest of the world.

Later I would sit in my room and write poems and short stories and dream of the day I would be a writer. I did this for hours. My imagination went wild with stories all because someone gave me paper and the writing tools to do such. Of course it would be my teacher, Mrs. Wylie Jean Stokes, who would foster those writing skills that were inside of me.

The following year, and many years after that we would receive five dollar bills instead of the usual wrapped package. And every year I always bought pens and paper along with a little candy. I would go to my room and write.

Trent Thomas gave to us every year, gave me something, the one thing that to this day reflects who I am, Texas Author Carla Landreth.

So remember the next time you go out your way to help a child, you could be helping a future doctor, lawyer, teacher, policeman or writer.

Now wait, this story isn't over! That's what you are saying. The burning question you want to know is who did I put in my Trapper Keeper?

Good question. Well, this is the kicker. I convinced my grandma to buy me one of those teen magazines with the stars in it. She had this funny notion there might be a picture of Rudy Valentino, she had a crush on the dead man. She already had a picture of Clark Gable. As a teen I rolled my eyes knowing full well that wasn't possible but I wasn't going to argue.

In my Keeper, I had Michael J Fox, he was on Family Ties at the time, Billy Hufsey, he was on Fame, later I would get signed picture from him, in fact several, before he dropped off the face of the earth, and well I had a group picture of the A-Team. I traded off John Travolta and Ralph Macchio for it. I had a severe crush on Faceman or at least the guy who played him--Dirk Benedict. I was able to later collect a few more pictures of the A-team by trading. As they say, I grew up from adolescent heart throbs and moved on to greener pastures.


Books by Carla Landreth
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=carla+landreth

That New Invention. . . Satin Balls

Does anyone remember the little invention of the satin balls? You don't see them much anymore I guess if you go to E-bay they will have them, but for the most part they are a distant memory for some.

The first ones to come out were made of Styrofoam, covered in millions of little strands of satin. Any color in the book was out there, blue, red, white, green, pink, you named it, it was out there. Later they could be bought made of plastic covered in the same satin.

They were the latest craze to hit the Christmas market since the lit lawn moulds. Who could forget them they would be all shiny and satin and placed on your tree? It was the new invention for Christmas balls instead of the old glass balls.

My Aunt Carolyn bought them and gave them away as Christmas presents one year after she bought beads and had them beaded up like they were some fancy Faberge Christmas ball for the rich. I remember both grandparents running out buying them a set of the latest invention.

I remember the kids talking about this shatter proof balls their parents bought instead of the old stand by glass balls. In fact, every tree you met had shiny satin balls.

Now you know with every good thing there is always a draw back. These beautiful satin ornaments had their share; the biggest problem? Well, let's say you put the ornaments up in a box like you did your other little ornaments. Then the following year you brought them down to put on the tree and wham! Those shatter proof balls weren't snag proof.

That's right; those pretty little balls were now like mice had invaded your pristine box and had a field day with the satin. Nobody knew that when you put them up you were to remove the hooks, who knew. It never failed if one came undone so did the rest.

Now you would think this would have deterred people from going out and buying them another box of these little shiny ornaments; wrong. People thought they were so pretty they couldn't resist. And our fine American stores discovered this and plotted to make more money by just about only offering these satin balls or the expensive glass ornaments, which had fallen out with the public.

I can't say they weren't pretty, they were. But you know a many of ornaments went to the trash to be forgotten. I myself thought the satin balls were pretty but I'm a type of person thinking our old ornaments are just as good and they had a memory to go with them.

Sure these Satin balls made for an interesting tree and were cheaper than glass but for me they just didn't have the luster as the handmade ones or the glass ones that dolled up a tree.

My father had been eyeing these satin balls for a while and one Christmas season he had decided to replace our old ornaments with the new and fancy satin balls. He had joined the Satin ball craze!

Now he didn't want to mix these nice ornaments with the others he already had. In fact he informed mama the others can go into the trash; for which they did.

My kid brother, Jason and I weren't pleased with this new idea of his. We liked our old pink, red and blue glass balls. Sure some were losing their luster, but we've had these balls every since we can remember and tossing them aside wasn't setting well with us.

I have to say when it came to Christmas my father controlled the tree. We hardly got to put an ornament on the tree without it being moved by him. I mean I do that now, but I do it when the kids aren't looking; like when they have gone to bed. By then they have forgotten where they put the ornaments. Not my father he did it in front of you with a few choice words that usually damped our holiday spirit.

It was the Christmas holiday vacation and we kids were out of school. We became bored rather quickly and rather quickly our mother shoved us kids outside.

We had this old barn it was quite nice actually for a barn. It had a wooden floor and the roof didn't leak. Part of it was used for housing chicken and goat feed from the elements. The other part was used as our play house.

Our play house was everything to us it was a house, a school, a department store, grocery store, even a cruise ship at one time. You see we had an imagination and all we needed were a few things to help us along. I remember our play money was cut up newspaper with numbers on it. I remember digging in the trash getting out old cans, cleaning them and using them for our grocery store. Our old school work that we brought home was used for our own little play school.

We used our imagination and this holiday break wasn't going to change that, but we had become bored. As we sat there at our little table and make shift chairs (five gallon metal buckets) we were still bummed about the ornaments that had been tossed into the trash.

Well, that is until we found out Jason had fetched them out of the trash. He had some how managed to hide them from our father. He brought them out so we could stare at them on the table. We wondered what we could do with them. We didn't have a tree nor did we have any bailing wire or string to hang them from the rafters of the barn.

Then I remembered seeing a blood weed, some of you call it a milk weed. It's a pesky weed that when you cut it bleeds out milky stuff. It's also prickly if you let it go and can become a bush. Well, I remember one in the very back of the property had grown quite big and since the cold had sit in the weed had dried up.

I gave Jason the idea to go out and chop it down while I found a bucket of some sort to put dirt in for the tree. We had to have a tree stand so the bucket of dirt would do just fine.

It took him a while but he finally came back with the weed that had a three inch stem which meant Jason had to get the axe because the roots where too deep and he couldn't bend it to break it. The thing was too prickly to pull out of the ground as well. I had the bucket which was nothing more than an old feed can that had accumulated a hole in it and had become useless to feed the chickens with.

We put the weed on the table and with our two other siblings, we decorated our so called tree with the old ornaments.

Jason pointed out we needed garland, something our father didn't throw out. So we took some of those old school papers and colored the backs of them and made them into paper chains.

I wasn't pleased with a naked tree I told him. Meaning it didn't have any presents under it. Once again we dug into the trash and found some small boxes my parents had thrown away. We got some newspaper and wrapped them up, later sneaking a bow or two from the bow box.

For days our mother noted we sure were going outside and playing a lot in the barn. She never went to the barn so she just assumed it was just us playing around.

We knew we could get into trouble for digging in the trash we did before, so we weren't going to chance it this time, by telling mama what we had done. However where there is a good plan there is always a flaw; especially when children are involved.

You see, we forgot that our father would be checking the barn at some point to make sure the chickens and goats had enough feed. We never thought about that.

So you can imagine what four children did when that darn barn door opened and there stood our father. We came off our buckets as they say and stood beside each other. One moment we are admiring our handy work the next we know our father is going to tear it down and whip us.

Jason and I dreaded this moment. Once he stepped into the barn we knew we were dead. First we would get a whipping for digging in the trash, another for using the axe to cut the weed down, another for using tape to wrap empty boxes, another for stealing bows, wasting glue, our list of whippings was longer than our Christmas list. If only we had thought about him checking on the feed.

We were ready for the yelling and the whipping that we would receive, however my father must have been hit in the head that day.

To our surprise, yes, he cursed, even in the good mood that man cursed. But to our surprise, he thought it was cute. We haven't figured out if we just caught him in a good mood or if he really thought what we did was adorable as my mother quoted.

Of course we explained we like the old glass ones as well as the new ones he bought, but there were still some good glass balls and felt he shouldn't have thrown them away.

One thing was for sure, the following year and some years after that some of our glass balls would be perched with the satin balls or plastic balls or handmade items. Just because it's old doesn't mean it needs to go to the trash.



Books by Carla Landreth
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=carla+landreth