Saga of a Little WhiteHouse - page one


The moon was full, the hour late, When the phone call came

Your Father's family homestead Has been consumed by flame! 

The folks are safe, the fire put out;  but don't,  just yet, come 'round - 

Since we're all adjusting To the house done down to ground. 

Not quite a hundred years ago, On a finer day, 

Big Jim Smith, "The Chief", had brought his "Else" To live and love and stay! 

His six-foot-four, her four-foot-six, Borne lightly in his arms, 

Would work, and bear, and laugh and fight And work the little farm. 

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Poirot Marathon-ing

This is late being posted because of "'Air-kyool"  - Hercule Poirot.    And I feel fine about it.  Some things are important. Marathoning a series is valid in this case - my life is in flux and it is a fine and affordable distraction; and a lesson in authorship for any writer, and  a quality engagement.  To me, it is an honor thing - he completed the entire series, a thing not easily done! Bravo!   But for me, it is just the epression of it all at this phase of things, of my passion for the mystery-thriller of quality since childhood- so do not gloat, Monsieur! I just happened to be going that way.

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Irish and Other Celtic

Gramps, called "The Chief", celebrated his Saint Patrick's Day Birthday with his darling wife of 50 years,   seven sons, one tiny daughter, their families and a lifetime of friends, associates and neighbors.  The line of party visitors began at dawn andended at midnight.   Those days are passed, but their abundance is mine always to share!  Have some!  

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