A Little of What You Fancy

One Glass of Red Wine a Day

I don’t know where this came from but obviously it was a keeper.

My father used to say: A little of what you fancy does you good. And they say red wine does one good, a fact I’m very glad to know. I have other habits which may or may not be bad for me, but if I fancy them, they must be doing me good.

I wrote a song about things I like (specially for my P.A. who is top of my list); it is called: The Food of Love (Shakespeare’s music notwithstanding)

I like cream in my coffee; I like green chile stew.

But when it comes to the food of love

Baby, I”ll take music – and you.

I like all kinds of fine wine, at a cozy dinner for two,

But even better to satisfy me, is a cup of loving from you.

Everybody needs someone, to feed their fantasy,

So from the a la carte of men, I’ll order you for me.

I like all kinds of ice cream, pies and chocolate too,

Got a real sweet tooth for those yummy things

But there’s nothing sweeter than you!

Loses something without the music, but I can’t help that. And I don’t know how to get my song lines together like Judy’s poems do. Advice?

Who is the Real Villain?

I was reading a longread.blog by Jia Tolentino and this quote jumped out at me:

There’s a line in “The Rabbit Hole as Likely Explanation” by Ann Beattie: “You think you understand the problem you’re facing, only to find out there is another, totally unexpected problem.”

I’ve never read Ann Beattie’s books but her statement hit home. More than one writer has sworn that the characters take on their own lives. When this happened to me, it was startling, spooky in fact.

The villain in my play was clear cut; couldn’t have been anyone else. But even as I was writing the  last scene, the denouement when the story would be wound up, the villain just changed – from the nasty husband to the browbeaten wife. I didn’t do it, it just happened, and now I am stumped. Where do I go from here?

My play just sits there, and now and again I take it out and reread it.But the final scenes escape me while I try to rearrange my head around this rearrangement of the roles.

Maybe I’m waiting for them to roll back again.

Singing is a Better Sound

Well I found my song. Can’t put the tune here too (unless someone tells me how to do that!), and to my surprise I found it isn’t as much of an upper as I had remembered. In fact it finishes up rather a downer.

But here it is anyway.

Singing is a better sound than sighing,
Even when there’s no one there
To sing along with me.

Singing is a better sound than crying,
Even when the music
Is in a minor key.

When I’m feeling lonely and unhappy
Thinking of the tender magic we once wove,

Singing cheers my heart and lifts my spirits,
Even when it’s to myself
I’m singing words of love.

Someday when I’m old and grey they’ll see me
Walking on my lonely way,
Singing as I go.

They will say “There goes that happy lady/fella”
And the sadness that I feel
Well, maybe it won’t show.

Better than to suffer and be silent.
Better than to mutter out loud, foolishly.

Songs of love can make a person happy,
Even if that person will be
Anyone but me.
Country & Western song (two-step).

Barbara Witemeyer
Albuquerque, NM
2 December 1995

Keep on Singing!


80 Years Young

Young At Heart

Daily post – What are your thoughts on aging? How will you stay young at heart as you get older?

At my 80th birthday party a friend asked me for my ‘secret.’ Why do I not show my age either physically or mentally (except sometimes)?

I usually say it is the great genes from my mother’s side of the family. They all lived to be over ninety; my last two aunts died just before their 102nd and 105th birthdays.

But it’s not just that, and of course that isn’t a secret.

Many of my friends, my younger sister included, say that they don’t know that old wrinkly person they see when then look in the mirror. And it upsets them.

I, on the other hand, always smile at myself. Blow the wrinkles. I’m happy to see me.

One of my favorite songs is called The Middle Years. It comes from the musical Your Own Thing based on Twelfth Night. The Countess sings it when she is thinking about life. One line goes: I’ve got a few wrinkles, I wear them with pride. I’ve worked hard for them, I’ve nothing to hide.

That’s my attitude, exactly.

I volunteer a lot; usually dashing from one thing to another. One friend calls me a hummingbird.

And I do hum (the musical kind, I hasten to add); I sing all the time around the house. And laugh a lot. Find the funny side of things. I’m sure that’s a good thing to do.

So not really any secrets to my aging – reaching 80; what I’m doing is maybe more like ripening (I’ve never considered myself really mature).

The only hard part is seeing younger friends struggling with nasty illnesses and dying. But it doesn’t make me aware of my mortality; that isn’t me. When my time comes, I shan’t be aware of it anyway.

So, go ahead smile, laugh and sing. I wrote a song about that. Look for “Singing is a Better Sound Than Sighing” on my next blog.




French Toast & Partridges


And by French toast I don’t mean “a votre santé” – I mean the egg & milk soaked bread that is so delicious when fried.

I picked this up from the Wikipedia entry:

“The usual French name is pain perdu ‘lost bread’, as it is a way to reclaim stale or otherwise “lost” bread. It may also be called pain doré ‘gilded bread’.[8] The term pain perdu was formerly used metaphorically to mean sunk costs.”

And as ”payn purdyeu, the dish was widely known in medieval Europe.” Not a million miles from pain perdu, but apparently made mostly with milk as a kind of soaked bread soup. Hmmmm. Doesn’t really appeal.

And here’s another French oddity – or maybe I’ve made this one up just because I like the sounds of words.

Think of the “12 Days of Christmas song.” The first day is a partridge in a pear tree. But the French for partridge is perdrix, pronounced ‘pear tree’ or near enough. So technically you could be talking about a partridge in a partridge, or a perdrix in a pear tree.

No, I haven’t been drinking. But I might make French Toast for breakfast, and though we are not having partridge for dinner tomorrow, I’ll raise a glass anyway.

A votre santé!


We got the tree yesterday – a pinon pine which smells lovely – but it is still settling before I cover it with four sets of lights; a long one with small white lights, and three plastic chile-covered: red, yellow and green (we resisted the purple ones). See picture on the right.

The poinsettias under the piano were for a New Year party. We didn’t have a tree that year as we were with family in Texas. So as soon as we got home I rushed into the local garden center to see if they had anything left over; and they did. And on sale! I got those five for $3 total. And don’t you love the Santa pot?

This week I will be making my starry mince pies again. A fiddle, but worth it. And the brandy butter for the pudds which are ready to reboil on Friday.

Whatever you celebrate and however you celebrate, if you didn’t do Christmas in July already, my very best wishes for this festive season to all my blogging friends.

Talk to you again soon.


Daily Prompt – when did you feel insecure?

My Personal Assistant is 6’4″ – or was at the time. Old age has cut off an inch or so.

We were still courting and had gone on holiday to Wales. In the middle of February – a crazy time. Everything was frozen and/or closed.

But we were young(er) and enjoying his Spring break.

The Pembrokeshire Coast is a lovely, long scenic area on the west side of Wales, the Atlantic Ocean beating against the rocky shore.

I don’t know to this day if he was showing off, feeling macho, or what. The sign clearly warned against walking on the rocks that stuck out into the ocean.

So when he ventured out a bit, and then a bit further, then past the sign, I was distinctly uncomfortable. We weren’t yet at the point in our relationship when I could order him to come back, not to go any further.

I watched anxiously. What could I do if he fell? I didn’t want to go out there myself. Nobody else was around. This was before cell phones were in everyone’s pocket. So I couldn’t call for help. I began to panic.

This was a BIG man; I am 5’3″. What if he slipped and broke a leg. No way could I catch him, or pick him up or save him from a watery grave.

Suddenly I had a thought. I put my hand in my pocket and relaxed. No worries. He had given me the car keys.

He survived. But thirty years later I still keep my set clipped to my trousers.