#ThursdayDoors | Visiting Fort Pulaski [Not Moultrie], An American Civil [Not Revolutionary] War Site

PLEASE NOTE: It’s been brought to my attention by my husband that these photos are from Fort Pulaski, south of Savannah, GA.  I had my forts wrong.  However, considering that Fort Pulaski is named for a Revolutionary War general my idea of posting these pics on George Washington’s birthday still makes sense.

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Today, in honor of George Washington’s birthday, I’m joining Thursday Doors, hosted by Norm Frampton, so that I can share with you the following door photos + a little bit of American Revolutionary War history.

I took these photos last April when we visited Fort Moultrie, on Sullivan’s Island, SC.  

The fort is named for a Revolutionary war general, who, on June 28, 1776, defended Charleston, SC, from the British.  Since then the fort has been rebuilt a few times and gone through a few more wars.  At the end of WWII the fort closed.  

The day we visited Fort Moultrie Pulaski the weather was sunny and mild, lending an unexpected peaceful vibe to the entire well-kept large complex.  

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Outer perimeter of Fort Moultrie Pulaski, surrounded by a moat, with visible cannon ball damage on the brick wall.

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DOOR leading into interior of fort.

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DOORS on one small part of the storage area that forms the perimeter of the inside of the fort.

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DOORS in a row leading to storage areas shown with people walking above the storage areas to give a sense of scale.

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DOOR into stairwell that goes up to the area where people were walking.

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DOOR into officers’ quarters.

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Photo of lighthouse in Charleston Harbor as seen from Fort Moultrie Pulaski.

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A Conversation: Blue Is My Color, But I’m Not Blue

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Oh dear, I got myself into a confusing conversation about, of all things, my mental health.

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Which is fine.  I’m a bit cynical + anxious, but considering Cadet Bone Spurs is our so-called president, who isn’t?

Anyhoo, I was at the doc’s office having my quarterly micropeel with an aesthetician I’ve seen once before.  She had with her a new-to-this-practice aesthetician-in-training.  Both women, in their 40s, had worked in medical practices for decades.

I was wearing a cornflower blue cardigan sweater because: 1) I’ve worn shades of blue since I can remember;  & 2) as a graying blonde this particular shade of blue is flattering on me, if I do say so myself.

I walked into the procedure room and the aesthetician-in-training mentioned that I look good in blue.  To which I said: “Thank you, blue is the color of my life.”

Because it is.  If I’m not wearing blue, I’m probably wearing teal.  Another color of my life.

But not part of this story.

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Now as I’m standing there in the procedure room, there’s a pause while both women look at me, troubled, concerned– ready to help.

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They start saying, alternately: “Oh, I’m so sorry.”  “I know this time of year can be difficult when you’re dealing with depression.”  “How are you doing today?”  “You can talk to us… we understand.”

They had tears in their eyes.

Yet there I was, about as emotionally balanced as I ever am, suddenly aware of what they thought I’d said, trying to explain to them that I meant BLUE the color– not blue, a reference to depression.

But do you have any idea how difficult it is to dissuade someone that you aren’t depressed when they’ve misinterpreted what you said, thinking that you’ve felt comfortable enough with them to share your pain?

Anything I said sounded like I was in denial, trying to back-pedal about a mental health problem.  While in fact I was trying to explain to them that as a rosacea-challenged fading summer blonde, blue is a pretty color for me to wear.

Blue with green undertones. Blue with purple undertones.

Just plain blue.

Light blue. Medium blue. Dark blue.


It took some doing on my part but I think that I convinced them in a polite way that my mental health was fine, and that while I appreciated their concern, I was being literal about the color blue.

That really, I’ve not been sad or depressed my whole life.

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But honestly… talk about a weirdly awkward situation to be in.  One that only I could get myself into, I suspect.

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3 True Confessions Because You, My Gentle Readers, Need To Know


It’s entirely possible that I’m not going to be an Instagram star. 

Since November I’ve tried to get into my Instagram groove by posting three photos a week, usually all at once (because I forget to post them when I take them).  Also, I’m following a few people there because social media is, after all, social.

HOWEVER, easy and sweet as I think Instagram is, it isn’t calling to me.  For some reason its charms have yet to woo me.  I like it, I enjoy glancing at the photos posted there, but I’m vague about why it’s a thing– and why/how someone becomes a star.

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I’m enjoying the Winter Olympics this year because they are Bob-Costas-free.

Sure, some people somewhere must have liked Bob Costas as the host of the Olympics, but I was not one of them.  To me he combined Alex Trebek’s know-it-all-ness with Tom Cruise’s smugness– and I did not like him because of it.

HOWEVER, NBC’s new Winter Olympics host, Mike Tirico, is delightful.  He reports on what is happening in a pleasant, informative way that does not make me want to yell at him.  And guess thee what?  Because of him I’m not changing the channel away from the Olympics when the host is on the screen.

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I’ve increased the size of my font on my computer.

There is no surer sign of impending decrepitude than the size of the font that one uses.  Tiny font, great eyes– young.  Medium font, okay eyes– middle age.  Large font, lousy eyes– one foot in the grave.

HOWEVER, on the flip side of this depressing thought, I have to admit that seeing the words clearly on the screen has encouraged me to sit up straighter, thereby improving my posture.  And that, Alas, poor Yorick, might be enough to keep my other foot out of the grave… for a while longer.

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Gentle Readers, feel free to share your true confessions in the comment section below. How else are we going to get the party started in here?

Tell all. No matter what it is. You know I love it.

Thoughts About Drab Days On A Drab Day In February

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When people talk about how much they hate winters around here, it often has less to do with the snow + ice, and more to do with the lack of bright natural light and showy colors, as shown in the photo above.

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Even the trees around here, who reveal more of themselves in the winter, don’t seem cheerful– making the little boxwood bushes, who do the color green like nobody’s business, seem almost frivolous.

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Of course interspersed with the low-light days we get a day like last Thursday.  A day with the sun shining brightly in the clear blue sky.  A day made for looking up through leafless, snowless tree branches.  A day for contrast.

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But then we’re back to a landscape filled with muted, tea-stained colors– that offer a quiet beauty that appeals to some people, like me, but depresses the heck out of others.

Parsing A Trending Word, Thinking About My Dad

IF I OFFEND YOU, my gentle readers, by mentioning this charmingly old-fashioned word, please forgive me.  But you see, “pissant” was one of my father’s favorite words.

Dad’s been a long time gone from my life, so I’d forgotten about his use of this word.  However when I saw  “pissant” listed as Trending Now on the Merriam-Webster website, I immediately remembered Dad using the word.

OF COURSE WHEN DADDY, a physician, used the word “pissant” it didn’t stand alone.  Oh, no, no, no.  He’d further explain that the “pissant” in question was EITHER “in need of a high colonic” OR “in need of a frontal lobotomy.”

The first phrase, with the enema reference, was for those people who didn’t tell the truth– full of sh!t, ‘ya know?

The second phrase, the brain surgery reference, was for those people who were speaking illogically, making no sense– perhaps crazy.

DAD HAD A WAY WITH WORDS, I’ll give him that.  And because he was never one to not opine about events, people, &/or ideas–  many of his words have stuck with me in one way or another.

Don’t quite know what more to tell you here, my gentle readers.  Just a passing thought, from a blogging wordsmith who came by her love of words + writing early in life.

Listening to her elders [one in particular] go on & on about things. 🙄


Do you ever hear a word and immediately think of someone who uses, or used, that word because the person and the word are inextricably linked together in your mind?

If so, what’s the word and who’s the person? If not, what prompts you to recall someone? Photos? Music? Food? Scent? 


#ThursdayDoors | Visiting A Closed Trail Center On A Winter’s Day

Today I’m joining Thursday Doors, hosted by Norm Frampton, so that I can share with you the following door photos.

I took these photos on Saturday at the Little Miami Scenic River and Trail Center.  It’s part of the Little Miami Conservancy.

The Center is on a 78 mile long biking/hiking trail that starts in Springfield, OH [to the north], goes through 5 Ohio counties, and ends in Cincinnati, OH [to the south].

It being winter the Center was closed, but I did see a few cyclists riding on the trail.  And there were a few other people like me who were moseying around the trail– even though it was a bleak, boring day to be outside.  

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DOOR on the side of the brick building that is the Little Miami Scenic River and Trail Center.

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Look at these happy animals not drawn to scale, but featured nonetheless on this Little Miami Conservancy mural.

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DOOR on the front of the closed Center.

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Plaque commemorating the Lower Little Miami Scenic River: “To protect and enhance the river’s free-flowing character, water quality, & outstandingly remarkable values.” 

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Mural painted on a building next to the Little Miami Scenic River and Trail Center.  From what I can tell this mural has nothing to do with the Center, but considering that Valentine’s Day is almost here… let’s talk about love.

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To Me It Was The Grocery Store, To Dude It Was Noah’s Ark


SO I AM SHOPPING IN Kroger at a particularly busy time of day on a winter’s day when the weather is shifting from snow to rain.  Dude, a 40-something man with graying hair and expensive eyeglasses, is in my way.

Everywhere I go in the store, Dude, in his perfectly pressed dark blue jeans and black hoodie, is there in front of me.

  • In the foyer, Dude grabs the shopping cart I’m reaching for.
  • In the produce section he blocks me from grabbing a Vidalia onion… the mushrooms… a head of iceberg lettuce.
  • In the bakery department he stands indecisively by the rustic sesame seed bread that I want to buy.
  • In the meat department I try to reach for some boneless skinless chicken breasts, but he and his cart are in my way …again… as he ponders all things chicken.

I LOSE TRACK OF DUDE while I’m shopping the interior aisles of the store.  I grab a jar of green olives stuffed with garlic and a box of Cheerios unhindered by his in-the-way-ness.

But he reappears in my life as I walk from the cheese department, where I’ve picked up some Swiss cheese, to the yogurt department where I want to buy one container of plain no-fat yogurt.

It is there, trapped behind this man once again …waiting… that I realize there’s writing on the back of his black hoodie.


I BEGIN TO STALK DUDE as he walks up and down the freezer case aisles, but he never stops to grab something from a freezer case when he’s under a bright overhead light so I’m unable to see the gibberish on the back of his hoodie.

Eventually we both end up in the refrigerated beverage section of the store where Dude reaches for a gallon of iced tea.  He’s standing under a light so I can read the pithinicity that’s written on the back of his hoodie.

Unsurprisingly, it says what I believe to be about the dumbest thing ever, while perfectly explaining Dude’s behavior while shopping in the grocery.  The writing on the hoodie said:

“If you’re going to fight, fight like you are the third monkey on the ramp to Noah’s Ark and brother it’s starting to rain.”