Saturday, March 23, 2019

A LOVING RECIPE FOR A PERFECT CUP OF TEA - Anonymous





A LOVING  RECIPE FOR A PERFECT CUP OF TEA 



1 Willing friend who loves to sit and share
1 Grateful heart to have a friend that cares
1 Beautiful garden to show us God is near

Many wonderful memories of times shared throughout the years
Lots of smiles and laughter to brighten up our days
Many prayers that we prayed for each other along the way
I’m so blessed to have a friend like you to share in everything I do. 
For one special friend sharing a special cup of tea truly makes this a perfect recipe.    

 Anonymous









Friday, March 22, 2019

NOTHING SAYS SPRING LIKE DAFFODILS ! - by Marilyn Lott



NOTHING  SAYS  SPRING  LIKE  DAFFODILS !



by  Marilyn Lott



We watch as the little crocus heads
Pop out of the ground in spring
Primroses so sweet and colorful
Is a flower warm weather brings


Fruit blossoms take our breath away
And fill our world with color
But the Daffodils with their yellow coats
Bring us springtime like no other


Tiny blue and white forget-me-nots
I treasure every single one
So many springtime flowers
Open up to the brilliant sun


Many things this time of year
Give my heart a thrill
It’s the time of year I love the most, but...
Nothing says spring like Daffodils!  













THANK YOU FOR THE FLOWERS - by Joanna Fuchs


               



THANK YOU FOR THE FLOWERS 


by Joanna Fuchs


Thank you for the lovely gift;
You didn’t have to do it.
You have a good and gracious heart,
But then, I always knew it.



I love this, and I think of you
With fondness and with pleasure;
The gift is great, but even more,
It’s your thoughtfulness I treasure.





Thursday, March 21, 2019

ANDREW LAW (1873–1967) - painter



Andrew Law (1873–1967) was a Scottish artist and portrait painter. Law rarely exhibited outside of the west of Scotland, but, during a long career based on private commissions, he produced a significant body of work.

Law was born at Crosshouse in Ayrshire, where his father was a miner and later a publican. Law went to school in Kilmarnock and took evening classes at the Kilmarnock Academy. In 1891, he was awarded the National Medal for Success in Art and won a place at the Glasgow School of Art, where his tutor was Fra Newbery. In 1896, Law was awarded a travelling scholarship and spent six months studying in Paris, where he took lessons from Robert Henri and attended classes at the Académie Delécluse. Law returned to Kilmarnock and began a successful career accepting private portrait commissions.

Law married Elizabeth Wilson in 1912, and the couple moved to Glasgow, where Law continued with his commissioned work. Among these commissions was the full-length portrait of the footballer Alan Morton, which still hangs in the Ibrox Stadium. Law was active in the Glasgow Art Club and also taught part-time at the Glasgow School of Art until his retirement in 1938.  Law exhibited regularly at the Royal Scottish Academy, at the Glasgow Institute of Fine Art and at the Paris Salon.  His only one-man show was in 1958, and in later life, he continued to paint rural and street scenes around Kilmarnock.

A portrait painted by Law of his fellow Scot and artist Ancell Stronach was lost in the fire in the Mackintosh Building at the Glasgow School of Art on 23 May 2014. 
















THE BIRDS IN THE LETTER-BOX By Rene Bazin


Bazin portrait, c. 1905
René François Nicolas Marie Bazin ( 1853 – 1932)


René François Nicolas Marie Bazin  was a French novelist.

Born at Angers, he studied law in Paris, and on his return to Angers became Professor of Law in the Catholic university. In 1876, Bazin married Aline Bricard. The couple had two sons and six daughters. He contributed to Parisian journals a series of sketches of provincial life and descriptions of travel, and wrote Stephanette (1884), but he made his reputation with Une Tache d'Encre (A Spot of Ink) (1888), which received a prize from the Academy.  He was admitted to the Académie française on 28 April 1904, to replace Ernest Legouvé.

René Bazin was a Knight Commander of the Order of St. Gregory the Great, and was President of the Corporation des Publicistes Chretiens


https://i.pinimg.com/originals/37/26/e0/3726e0129de7c2b2ce028a6c13fad31b.jpg


Nothing can describe the peace that surrounded the country parsonage. The parish was small, moderately honest, prosperous, and was used to the old priest, who had ruled it for thirty years. The town ended at the parsonage, and there began meadows which sloped down to the river and were filled in summer with the perfume of flowers and all the music of the earth. Behind the great house a kitchen-garden encroached on the meadow. The first ray of the sun was for it, and so was the last. Here the cherries ripened in May, and the currants often earlier, and a week before Assumption, usually, you could not pass within a hundred feet without breathing among the hedges the heavy odor of the melons.

But you must not think that the abbé of St. Philémon was a gourmand. He had reached the age when appetite is only a memory. His shoulders were bent, his face was wrinkled, he had two little gray eyes, one of which could not see any longer, and he was so deaf in one ear that if you happened to be on that side you just had to get round on the other.

Mercy, no! he did not eat all the fruits in his orchard. The boys got their share, and a big share but the biggest share, by all odds, was eaten by the birds, the blackbirds, who lived there very comfortably all the year, and sang in return the best they could; the orioles, pretty birds of passage, who helped them in summer, and the sparrows, and the warblers of every variety; and the tomtits, swarms of them, with feathers as thick as your fingers, and they hung on the branches and pecked at a grape or scratched a pear veritable little beasts of prey, whose only “thank you” was a shrill cry like a saw.

Even to them, old age had made the abbé of St. Philémon indulgent. “The beasts cannot correct their faults,” he used to say; “if I got angry at them for not changing I’d have to get angry with a good many of my parishioners!”

And he contented himself with clapping his hands together loud when he went into his orchard, so he should not see too much stealing.

Then there was a spreading of wings, as if all the silly flowers cut off by a great wind were flying away; gray, and white, and yellow, and mottled, a short flight, a rustling of leaves, and then quiet for five minutes. But what minutes! Fancy, if you can, that there was not one factory in the village, not a weaver or a blacksmith, and that the noise of men with their horses and cattle, spreading over the wide, distant plains, melted into the whispering of the breeze and was lost. Mills were unknown, the roads were little frequented, the railroads were very far away. Indeed, if the ravagers of his garden had repented for long the abbé would have fallen asleep of the silence over his breviary.

Fortunately, their return was prompt; a sparrow led the way, a jay followed, and then the whole swarm was back at work. And the abbé could walk up and down, close his book or open it, and murmur: “They’ll not leave me a berry this year!”

It made no difference; not a bird left his prey, any more than if the good abbé had been a cone-shaped pear-tree, with thick leaves, balancing himself on the gravel of the walk.

The birds know that those who complain take no action. Every year they built their nests around the parsonage of St. Philémon in greater numbers than anywhere else. The best places were quickly taken, the hollows in the trees, the holes in the walls, the forks of the apple-trees and the elms, and you could see a brown beak, like the point of a sword, sticking out of a wisp of straw between all the rafters of the roof. One year, when all the places were taken, I suppose, a tomtit, in her embarrassment, spied the slit of the letter-box protected by its little roof, at the right of the parsonage gate. She slipped in, was satisfied with the result of her explorations, and brought the materials to build a nest. There was nothing she neglected that would make it warm, neither the feathers, nor the horsehair, nor the wool, nor even the scales of lichens that cover old wood.

One morning the housekeeper came in perfectly furious, carrying a paper. She had found it under the laurel bush, at the foot of the garden.

“Look, sir, a paper, and dirty, too! They are up to fine doings!”

“Who, Philomène?”

“Your miserable birds; all the birds that you let stay here! Pretty soon they’ll be building their nests in your soup-tureens!”

“I haven’t but one.”

“Haven’t they got the idea of laying their eggs in your letter-box! I opened it because the postman rang and that doesn’t happen every day. It was full of straw and horsehair and spiders’ webs, with enough feathers to make a quilt, and, in the midst of all that, a beast that I didn’t see hissed at me like a viper!”

The abbé of St. Philémon began to laugh like a grandfather when he hears of a baby’s pranks.

“That must be a tomtit,” said he, “they are the only birds clever enough to think of it. Be careful not to touch it, Philomène.”

“No fear of that; it is not nice enough!”

The abbé went hastily through the garden, the house, the court planted with asparagus, till he came to the wall which separated the parsonage from the public road, and there he carefully opened the letter-box, in which there would have been room enough for all the mail received in a year by all the inhabitants of the village.

Sure enough, he was not mistaken. The shape of the nest, like a pine-cone, its color and texture, and the lining, which showed through, made him smile. He heard the hiss of the brooding bird inside and replied:

“Rest easy, little one, I know you. Twenty-one days to hatch your eggs and three weeks to raise your family; that is what you want? You shall have it. I’ll take away the key.”

He did take away the key, and when he had finished the morning’s duties—visits to his parishioners who were ill or in trouble; instructions to a boy who was to pick him out some fruit at the village: a climb up the steeple because a storm had loosened some stones, he remembered the tomtit and began to be afraid she would be troubled by the arrival of a letter while she was hatching her eggs.

The fear was almost groundless, because the people of St. Philémon did not receive any more letters than they sent. The postman had little to do on his rounds but to eat soup at one house, to have a drink at another and, once in a long while, to leave a letter from some conscript, or a bill for taxes at some distant farm. Nevertheless, since St. Robert’s Day was near, which, as you know, comes on the 29th of April, the abbé thought it wise to write to the only three friends worthy of that name, whom death had left him, a layman and two priests: “My friend, do not congratulate me on my saint’s day this year, if you please. It would inconvenience me to receive a letter at this time. Later I shall explain, and you will appreciate my reasons.”

They thought that his eye was worse and did not write.

The abbé of St. Philémon was delighted. For three weeks he never entered his gate one time without thinking of the eggs, speckled with pink, that were lying in the letter-box, and when the twenty-first day came round he bent down and listened with his ear close to the slit of the box. Then he stood up beaming:

“I hear them chirp, Philomène; I hear them chirp. They owe their lives to me, sure enough, and they’ll not be the ones to regret it any more than I.”

He had in his bosom the heart of a child that had never grown old.

Now, at the same time, in the green room of the palace, at the chief town of the department, the bishop was deliberating over the appointments to be made with his regular councillors, his two grand vicars, the dean of the chapter, the secretary-general of the palace, and the director of the great academy. After he had appointed several vicars and priests he made this suggestion:

“Gentlemen of the council, I have in mind a candidate suitable in all respects for the parish of X ; but I think it would be well, at least, to offer that charge and that honor to one of our oldest priests, the abbé of St. Philémon. He will undoubtedly refuse it, and his modesty, no less than his age, will be the cause; but we shall have shown, as far as we could, our appreciation of his virtues.”

The five councilors approved unanimously, and that very evening a letter was sent from the palace, signed by the bishop, and which contained in a postscript: “Answer at once, my dear abbé; or, better, come to see me, because I must submit my appointments to the government within three days.”

The letter arrived at St. Philémon the very day the tomtits were hatched. The postman had difficulty in slipping it into the slit of the box, but it disappeared inside and lay touching the base of the nest, like a white pavement at the bottom of the dark chamber.

The time came when the tiny points on the wings of the little tomtits began to be covered with down. There were fourteen of them, and they twittered and staggered on their little feet, with their beaks open up to their eyes, never ceasing, from morning till night, to wait for food, eat it, digest it, and demand more. That was the first period, when the baby birds hadn’t any sense. But in birds it doesn’t last long. Very soon they quarrelled in the nest, which began to break with the fluttering of their wings, then they tumbled out of it and walked along the side of the box, peeped through the slit at the big world outside, and at last they ventured out.

The abbé of St. Philémon, with a neighboring priest, attended this pleasant garden party. When the little ones appeared beneath the roof of the box two, three, together and took their flight, came back, started again, like bees at the door of a hive, he said:

“Behold, a babyhood ended and a good work accomplished. They are hardy and strong, every one.”

The next day, during his hour of leisure after dinner, the abbé came to the box with the key in his hand. “Tap, tap,” he went. There was no answer. “I thought so,” said he. Then he opened the box and, mingled with the débris of the nest, the letter fell into his hands.

“Good Heavens!” said he, recognizing the writing. “A letter from the bishop; and in what a state! How long has it been here?”

His cheek grew pale as he read.

“Philomène, harness Robin quickly.”

She came to see what was the matter before obeying.

“What have you there, sir?”

“The bishop has been waiting for me three weeks!”

“You’ve missed your chance,” said the old woman.

The abbé was away until the next evening. When he came back he had a peaceful air, but sometimes peace is not attained without effort and we have to struggle to keep it. When he had helped to unharness Robin and had given him some hay, had changed his cassock and unpacked his box, from which he took a dozen little packages of things bought on his visit to the city, it was the very time that the birds assembled in the branches to tell each other about the day. There had been a shower and the drops still fell from the leaves as they were shaken by these bohemian couples looking for a good place to spend the night.

Recognizing their friend and master as he walked up and down the gravel path, they came down, fluttered about him, making an unusually loud noise, and the tomtits, the fourteen of the nest, whose feathers were still not quite grown, essayed their first spirals about the pear-trees and their first cries in the open air.

The abbé of St. Philémon watched them with a fatherly eye, but his tenderness was sad, as we look at things that have cost us dear.

“Well, my little ones, without me you would not be here, and without you I would be dead. I do not regret it at all, but don’t insist. Your thanks are too noisy.”

He clapped his hands impatiently.

He had never been ambitious, that is very sure, and, even at that moment, he told the truth. Nevertheless, the next day, after a night spent in talking to Philomène, he said to her:

“Next year, Philomène, if the tomtit comes back, let me know. It is decidedly inconvenient.”

But the tomtit never came again, and neither did the letter from the bishop!


https://images.fineartamerica.com/images/artworkimages/mediumlarge/1/priest-and-birds-madame-memento.jpg




Wednesday, March 20, 2019

TOO BROKEN TO BREAK - by Belle Messina


 

TOO BROKEN TO BREAK 



by  Belle Messina




Here's to the girl with the invincible spirit,
No matter how confused her soul may be.
She's been broken many times,
Searching for love that was just not there.
She's learned her lesson now, put up her wall,
And never again her heart she'll bare.
For she realized that in the end a body is still a body,
No matter whose it may be,
And love may not exist for anyone,
So we should all just settle and it'll be easy.
But she'll never give in.
All she needs is herself and whoever she is that day,
But this she'll never know,
Because life is surreal
When all she does is feel.
She thinks with her passion,
Sees the world through her heart,
Even though many times it's cold, desolate, and dark.
Yet at the same time she can see that there may be hope out there,
The one nobody else possibly can.
She's a dreamer and an idealist,
Life's greatest pessimist and realist.
She's a contradiction sure
But never a hypocrite,
Because in her soul this all somehow fits.
She wants to explore the world just to understand what she's thinking,
Dig into the deepest corners of her heart to understand the universe.
She often loses herself though,
And who she used to be she can never know.
Yet she's happy like this,
She's free and to no one she'll commit,
Except sometimes when she's all alone,
She just wants some place she can call home.
She knows every side of every story,
Because she has felt absolutely everything,
Often all at once.
This contradiction,
This ability to see in ways that no one else can,
Is it a curse or is it a gift?
Even she cannot understand how or when or why or what,
And sometimes she doesn't even know if it is.
She wants something more,
Even when she is sure there's nothing else out there.
But no, she'll never settle,
Especially for a love, if that even does exist.
She'll always hope there's something out there to bring her bliss. But she doesn't expect it and convinces herself she doesn't want it.
This is how her spirit is infinite.
Oh, how I hope there's something more than this.








RECIPE FOR HAPPILY EVER AFTER - by Ilona M. Blake



RECIPE FOR HAPPILY EVER AFTER


by  Ilona M. Blake


Today will be perfect
In every single way,
A beautiful fairytale
For your wedding day.
The theme of your day
Is to have love and laughter
And to live your days
Happily ever after.


Living happily is
What we need to survive,
So how does one keep
The magic alive?
How do you light a spark
That never goes out?
And how does one live a life
Without fear or doubt?


How do some people manage
To keep their love strong?
And how do some couples
Always feel like they belong?
What do you need to do
To stay in love forever
And make each day special
And grow fonder together?


Well, these very questions
You must address every day.
You must take the time
To go out of your way,
To always share love
And always share laughter,
To do whatever it takes
To live happily ever after.


Here is a recipe
I think is a must,
So let's begin with
Always having trust.
Don't forget it's important
To have total respect,
And to always stay loyal
To keep your love perfect.


You must communicate
Each and every day.
Three special little words
You must never forget to say,
"I love you." It's amazing
How these words make you feel
Happy, safe, and valued,
And they will keep your love real.


A simple act of kindness
Goes a long, long way.
Blend it with understanding
And you can't go astray.
Don't forget friendship.
It will help you to cope.
Add a sprinkle of faith
And an abundance of hope.


Remember your smile.
It is beautiful to see.
It can brighten one's day.
It can make you feel free.
So my wish for you both
Is you always have love and laughter,
And I pray that you will enjoy
Your happily ever after.