What is it with men and directions? I just don’t understand this issue. My husband, who is exceptional in so many ways, simply does not get the idea of asking for directions when he is lost.
The closest he has ever come to admitting he was lost was the day he called me from his truck, and said that he wanted me to get out the six county map (Chicago and suburbs), and see if I could advise him how to get where he was going. Unfortunately, rather than pull over and give me some time to flip through the pages to find his starting point, he kept driving! ARRRGH!!!
He finally hit a road he recognized, and back-tracked as I frantically searched through the pages, trying to figure out how to get him where he needed to go.
When we travel, he drives, for the most part, and I sit with a Rand McNally map of the US on my lap. On long trips he never argues with me about what direction to go. Even in Chicago he turns when I tell him to. Unfortunately, one day I said “Turn Left HERE!” and we ended up going the wrong way on a one way street. Luckily, it was at a time of the evening when there was little traffic and we made it to the next block safely. I told you he was exceptional.
Still, when we are in the ‘burbs, he and I would NEVER choose the same path to get where we are going. For a while it became a bone of contention between us, and now it’s graduated to the family joke. My mother used to dread riding with us because we were likely to bicker about how to get where we were going.
I believe in taking the less traveled route, even if it means I have to make a few more turns. I travel at off peak times (IF there is such a thing out here, any longer). DH, on the other hand, is used to driving a 14 foot stake bed truck that is restricted to certain roads. He ALWAYS chooses the route with the fewest turns, and this habit leaches over to his private driving as well.
Being a boat owner, DH is the proud owner of three, or maybe it’s four, hand held GPS devices. I’m tempted to buy him one of the watch styled ones for our anniversary. Then he’ll always be able to tell me where he WAS!
ARRGH!!!

I was reading yesterday, and came across the word “voluptuary,” and paused to wonder if there are voluptuaries today.
Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, 1998 defines it this way:
voluptuary \Vo*lup”tu*a*ry\ (?; 135), n.; pl. Voluptuaries. [L. voluptuarius or voluptarius, fr. voluptas pleasure.] A voluptuous person; one who makes his physical enjoyment his chief care; one addicted to luxury, and the gratification of sensual appetites.
Syn: Sensualist; epicure.
I browsed at Google in an effort to see if there were famous 20th century voluptuaries, and found the word tied to the United Nations, sex, disipation, Anne Rice, the Kama Sutra, French cuisine, prostitution, literature, chinchilla, dance, Tolstoy and assorted other entries. There was even a reference to mental voluptuaries.
So, a voluptuary is a person who spends his or her time in the pursuit of personal pleasure. That pleasure may be sexual, or sensual. It can be tactile, or mental, or gustatory.
I wonder if you can be a part-time voluptuary? Do you need to have great wealth to be one? Can you be a working stiff and still be a voluptuary?
I always thought of Pashas with their harems when I saw the word voluptuary. Picture a man reclining on a collection of pillows, having a small child fan the air with peacock feathers, a scantily clad woman searching a tray for the most delictable morsel to feed him.
I suppose today’s voluptuary is the man who drives an expensive car loaded with all the accessories ever invented, or the woman who choses to clothe herself in silk and fur. On very rare occasions, I have been a voluptuary when dining out, but unlike Nero Wolfe, those occasions have been few and far between. I suspect if the third world knew of the word, they would consider every inhabitant of the western world to be a voluptuary.
I think I’ll create a female character for an on-going series of stories who has chosen the life of a voluptuary. You know, they say that you should write about what you know. I’ll have to do a LOT of research! *G*

I heard on the radio this morning that Cook County, the home of Chicago, Illinois has 135 languages spoken within it’s boundaries.
AND, 35%…..that’s THIRTY-FIVE PERCENT of the households in the county do not use English as the language spoken in the home.
Spanish, Polish, one of the Chinese dialects. What the heck are the OTHER 132 languages???

This came in my e-mail today. Given the previous post on Creature Comforts, I thought I’d share it.
The year is 1902 , one hundred years ago… what a difference a century makes. Here are the U.S. statistics for 1902….
The average life expectancy in the US was forty-seven.
Only 14 Percent of the homes in the US had a bathtub.
Only 8 percent of the homes had a telephone.
A three-minute call from Denver to New York City cost eleven dollars.
There were only 8,000 cars in the US and only 144 miles of paved roads.
The maximum speed limit in most cities was 10 mph.
Alabama, Mississippi, Iowa, and Tennessee were each more heavily populated than California. With a mere 1.4 million residents, California was only the 21st most populous state in the Union.
The tallest structure in the world was the Eiffel Tower.
The average wage in the US was 22 cents an hour.
The average US worker made between $200 and $400 per year.
A competent accountant could expect to earn $2000 per year, a dentist $2,500 per year, a veterinarian between $1,500 and $4,000 per year, and a mechanical engineer about $5,000 per year.
More than 95 percent of all births in the US took place at home.
Ninety percent of all US physicians had no college education. Instead, they attended medical schools, many of which were condemned in the press and by the government as “substandard.”
Sugar cost four cents a pound. Eggs were fourteen cents a dozen. Coffee cost fifteen cents a pound.
Most women only washed their hair once a month and used borax or egg yolks for shampoo.
Canada passed a law prohibiting poor people from entering the country for any reason.
The five leading causes of death in the US were:
1. Pneumonia and influenza
2. Tuberculosis
3. Diarrhea
4. Heart disease
5. Stroke
The American flag had 45 stars. Arizona, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Hawaii and Alaska hadn’t been admitted to the Union yet.
The population of Las Vegas, Nevada was 30.
Crossword puzzles, canned beer, and iced tea hadn’t been invented.
There were no Mother’s Day or Father’s Day.
One in ten US adults couldn’t read or write. Only 6 percent of all Americans had graduated from high school.
Marijuana, heroin, and morphine were all available over the counter at corner drugstores. According to one pharmacist, “Heroin clears the complexion, gives buoyancy to the mind, regulates the stomach and the bowels, and is, in fact, a perfect guardian of health.”
Eighteen percent of households in the US had at least one full-time servant or domestic.
There were only about 230 reported murders in the entire US.
Just think what it will be like in another 100 years. It boggles the mind!!

I was thinking about the proliferation of creature comforts during the second half of the 20th century. The list is incredibly long now, due mostly to the strides technology has made.
TV and radio were around before 1950, but I think we’ve just about reached the point where every household has one of each. Okay, maybe not EVERY

…or maybe not so good….
I rarely follow what

As a quilter and a gardener, light has always had an effect on the canvas of my creations. It wasn’t until recently that I realized it affects me when I am at the computer as well.
We have a home office, and a second computer has been set up in the living room. Both rooms have interesting light. The office has a window that looks out over lawn, mature trees, a star magnolia, fosythia and a border of daylilies. The shades of green in pools of sunlight or deepest shade draw your eye, and invite you to daydream. Even in winter, when only the bones of the landscaping exist, the light will draw your eye, exaggerating the contrast of glistening snow and tree trunks wet from melting ice. The angle of the sun in summer keeps it from entering the room. There’s an invisible barrier between that glorious view and the shaded room that reminds you this is supposed to be a place of work.
The computer in the living room sits on an antique trestle table. I’ve clustered treasures on that table to create a nest. There’s a coffee grinder from my grandparent’s home on a farm in Iowa in the 1930s, a frame with one of the few pictures I have of my husband, his arm draped around a fabric moose as tall as he is, a silver wire Christmas ornament from one of my nieces, and the computer. A lamp leaves a pool of light in the center of the table at night, but the light that draws me during the summer afternoons is much more lovely.
The west end of that room has twelve windows that fill it from the peak to about two feet off the floor. There are no curtains. Outside the window is the remains of an old nursery. Some of the trees are in rows and others have been sprinkled through out the regimented lines by an unseen hand. Through out the day and into the night we see a steady passage of deer, racoons, blue jays, cardinals, squirrels and chipmunks. It’s not possible to be bored, here.
When I take my seat at that computer in late afternoon, the sun shines through the upper structure of the trees and dapples the surface of the table. The light is gentle and warming, and I want to use the word “bower” to describe that corner of the room. It’s my personal retreat, a feminine reaction to the masculinity of the rest of the house. The windows let nature in, in the softest of ways. It’s a place where I find peace.
I’ll always carry the image of that summer light and the sense of comfort and beauty it brings to me.