All Things Ebay!

Where have I been? Who am I? Where do I begin! I sell/bid, therefore I am. ebay that is. Wow. Have been immersed in an entirely parallel universe. Who would have thought? Well, I guess someone did. What genius, what simplicity, what you can find in ebay world is endless, limitless, OMG!

I'm hooked. I've got a lot of inventory and I am divesting! Whew! It's amazing. Anyway, it's the reason I haven't been writing. What I have been writing is great text to sell my stuff! So far, I've sold three things. And I'm getting more and more on site. What a great way to have a yard sale that no one has to come to your house for!

Ebay people are polite, quick to respond to questions, quick to ship your winning bids and quick to rate you either as a seller or a buyer. It's a nice parallel universe. And I'm learning a lot.

Anyone have anything they need sold? I'm watching ebay videos and reading tips and even an "Ebay for Dummies" book that is pretty good.

I have to go to bed now because my eyeballs hurt from staring at my hopefully selling items (and looking up things and watching cool stuff to see what it sells for) all day. It's just plain addicting!

Other items: Kittens are now three weeks old (tomorrow). They've doubled in size and are actually getting coordinated. They can leap and land on top of each other and walk in straight lines. They change and improve daily as to what they can do. The cage is going to get really small really fast. I am lucky enough to have been loaned a great cage that is tall and has levels so they will be able to climb as they will be doing really soon. It also has a hammock or two to go inside and I'm sure they'll have some fun with that!

The kittens are all spoken for. Originally, I had 4 people wanting 3 kittens, but it is now 3 for 3. It is going to be the hardest thing I do to hand them over to their new "parents". I will miss them because they have been so much fun.

Momma Cat (Noche) is staying with me though. She's really getting to like me. She loves to be petted and she's still the very best Mom any kittens could hope for!

Good night!!!

Soaring with Eagles

I'm sure you've seen buzzards circling high up in the sky. They are coasting on the thermals, their keen eyes and nostrils sensitive to any problems requiring nature's equivalent of haz/mat/crime scene clean up technicians.

I see them all the time, often swooping down low, casting their shadows across the yard like the smoke monster in Lost. Occasionally, a few will land in a dead tree in the back pasture where they can scope out the road and canal to the north. This annoys the dogs who bark obsessively at these seriously unattractive, bald-headed carrion hunters.

Until last week, I never really looked up in the sky when local buzzards were playing in the thermals above the house. Saturday, the phrase "soaring with eagles" took on an entirely new meaning for me. Eagles? I'm sure you're wondering why, all of a sudden we're talking about eagles, the symbol of our country, those beautiful, enormous, white headed, white tailed patriarchs of the winds. We were discussing buzzards.

Here is the connection. The other day I discovered eagles often soar with buzzards. I happened to look up as a shadow crossed the yard. The buzzard who caught my eye had a white head and a white tail. I looked again at this huge bird and realized I was watching an eagle as he circled upward into the sky, surrounded by a dozen buzzards.

I learned a very important lesson. Always look up. Even though there are buzzards in the sky, you may just spot an eagle if you look hard enough.

Moving Along...

It took me a long time, but I'm on a roll. I've got 15 stories posted and lots more to tell. This is actually fun! I want to thank anyone and everyone who has taken the time to read my work and let me know you haven't fallen asleep yet (or maybe you are just being kind and supportive...) I really appreciate it!


If you started reading at the beginning, I've gone back and placed some photos in the stories and will be placing more. I believe a picture is worth more than a thousand words and these photos are much better than my text.


Thanks again! Carol


For those of you who don't know what a Gumbo Limbo Tree looks like, it is in the sidebar of the blog but here it is again a bit bigger so you can see how beautiful the tree really is. This tree grew from a tiny stick cut from another tree and is still growing and looking wonderful in my Mother's back yard. I have two trees that were grown from it (two more tiny sticks) and they are getting big here at home.


Welcome to:

Under the Gumbo Limbo

Stories My Mother Gave Me

I grew up in Lake Worth, a tiny dot on the South Florida map, south of West Palm Beach, and west of the magical isle of Palm Beach. West Palm was created by Henry Morrison Flagler in the late 1800s for the workers who built the crown jewel of his empire: Palm Beach. 

Flagler was an eccentric railroad tycoon who masterminded the Florida East Coast Railroad, the first overseas railroad that ended in the tiny island bastion of Key West. Unfortunately, this railroad also ended in disaster after losing a harrowing battle with the hurricane of 1935. The remains of that railroad can still be seen on the drive down the Florida Keys, that is if you are not actually driving on the railroad bed itself.

Flagler also developed the nineteenth century equivalent of modern day Sandals getaways in the Florida cities of St. Augustine and Palm Beach. Eccentric is a kind word for a man who, after the death of his first wife, chose to marry an extremely young woman.

As a Lake Worth native, I have my sources. Growing up in a tiny town compared to the magnificent city of the gods known as Palm Beach gives a person a certain perspective and valuable insider/outsider knowledge. 

I was always aware that I did not live on Palm Beach. I say “on” because it is an island. I lived on the mainland. Anyone not living on the island aspired to be on the island as much as possible and would do anything to achieve that goal. That included selling clothes in the shops on Worth Avenue, waiting tables in the many fine restaurants on the island or modeling clothes for international haute couture designers with storefronts on the "avenue". To me, Palm Beach was always a place to explore, nothing more.

During the season, my mother was employed part time by Saks Fifth Avenue. She woke up,  got dressed in ordinary clothes every day, left my brother and I with our housekeeper and drove to Worth Avenue to work.

She modeled the latest of Saks' New York and French fashions during afternoon lunch at the famed and infamous Everglades Club. Once the scented perfume of Palm Beach had filled her lungs, she became obsessed and mesmerized by the island's allure. 

Between the hours of 11 and 3, the lunching hours of the rich and famous Everglades Club members, my mother and several other aspiring models strolled gracefully and unobtrusively around linen covered tables set with silver and crystal. A Saks director explained each outfit and the models discretely showed attached price tags to anyone who bothered to ask.

Bits and pieces of my mother's outfits came home with her. Some were paid for outright, others pilfered from clothing and shoes strewn across the floor of the first floor dressing rooms. As an accomplished seamstress, she was able to create exact copies of the clothes she modeled during the week. For the rest of her life, clothing and fashion were her favorite vices.

My mother's design obsession required multiple trips each week to Sally’s Fabrics, a sewing and material Mecca for Lake Worth shoppers. The center of our town consisted of two streets that went opposite ways. Lake Avenue had the best antique stores and galleries and continued over the bridge to the beaches of South Palm Beach. Lucerne boasted the best dress shops and secret dining nooks. These were the places my mother was drawn to whenever we were downtown.

I was never interested in sewing, antiques or clothes. I was a reader. My own personal Lake Worth Mecca was its elegant public library. Built of marble with high ceilings and antique wooden furniture that looked like it had come from the Spanish Inquisition, it was my favorite place in all the world. 

In this literary mausoleum, varnished teak newspaper poles were attached to the latest Lake Worth Herald and West Palm Beach newspapers. The poles enabled the elderly news mongers to read them without actually holding the messy newsprint in their hands as they perused the current news. It also saved them 10 cents.

On my frequent visits, I made my way around the old men who always smelled like cigar or cigarette smoke and headed for the Young Adult Literature. By the time I was twelve, I'd read almost every book in the entire section. The stories I read transported me from an ordinary world to wonderful lands of adventure, heroism and romance. The books I read while growing up created an avid interest in research and writing. My mother's colorful life gave me an unlimited and unending source of stories. She always encouraged me to write. She confidently sent me to the best schools she could afford where she knew I would eventually find my way to becoming the person I wanted to be. For her generosity, her sense of adventure and her lust for living, I will always be grateful.

This story is dedicated to my mother, Elizabeth Carol Nunemaker Hubman Gammons Grill Allen, a strong, charismatic woman with many husbands and a multitude of talents. For me, she will always be forever young.

The Things I Wear

I often wear my father's brown suede jacket to keep me warm outside and my mother's sage chenille bathrobe to keep me warm inside. I wear my step-mother's anniversary ring and my grandfather's burgundy Chinese robe. I wear my dad's flannel shirts, several pairs of his warmest socks, two of my mom's favorite nightgowns and her vintage costume jewelry. I set my table with my step-mother's silver and my grandparents' two sets of china. I have a chain and pendant my grandmother once thought she lost and found again in a pocket of her purse. I was with her that day. The look on her face was priceless. I will never forget it.

I found an old set of brass wind chimes when I cleaned out my mother's house. I took them home and hung them in the wind. Every time I hear them chime it's as if she's speaking to me. I'm glad they found their voice.

I have a file of all of their birth and death certificates. I am the keeper of all they were because they are gone. Their treasures keep me close to them and them close to me.

Every single day, I wear their love and memories in my heart.

The Case of the Very Fat Shop Cat

Dan's new Shop Cat (new only because the first Shop Cat now lives here at home with us-see bottom photo) is a dainty, solid black feral female that had slowly become really rotund during the last three or four months (left photo). One weekend, as a favor, I examined her from as close as I could get and decided this couldn't be a pregnancy because it had gone on too long. 

What could it be? My thoughts ranged from a tumor, severe parasite infestation, FIP, etc., etc., etc. Concerned, Dan trained Shop Cat to eat her meals in a kitty carrier and, at a pre-arranged time, he caught her so I could take her to our vet. I had been told this was a wild, feral cat! She occasionally let people pet her but was skittish and distrusting. I'd petted her once or twice prior to that day so I was expecting the worst. She didn't like the carrier and let us know it.

I put her in the car, transported her to the vet and talked my way into a waiting room so she didn't have to sit in the lobby with DOGS.

I took her out of the carrier and wrapped her in a towel so she wouldn't be scared. To my amazement, she cuddled up to me and started purring. I'm a sucker for cats who purr. Yes, I know, most cats purr. We'd lost our oldest cat last year, a Russian Blue named Arthur Ashe. The thing I missed most about him was his peaceful, loud purring. (But I digress, that is another story for another time). 

By the time the vet stepped into the room, Shop Cat and I were in love.

Doc performed an exam as we discussed the potential possibilities of the cat's round, tight abdomen. He checked for worms, listened to her heart and even shaved her belly to see if she had been previously spayed. She had not. She handled the shaving like a pro. 

She was negative for worms, had a strong heart beat and pulse, good gum color and all the right vital signs. The only thing left to do was an X-ray. The tech wrapped her in a towel and carried her out of the room.

Another tech brought a portable x-ray screen into the exam room and set it up. That's when I started to get worried. I'd just fallen in love with Shop Cat and now she was going to have some serious or exotic, terminal malady. Doc came back and explained that even though the X-ray was a little dark, the problem was clearly visible. 

In the background you can hear an imaginary drum roll along with gasps of surprise!

The dire diagnosis was—wait—are you sitting down? Shop Cat was ready to give birth in about a week! Perfectly outlined in the X-ray were several not-so-tiny kittens.

This was quite a blow for the great Sherlock Holmes of veterinary technician diagnosticians. I was right but I was wrong. My original assumption was correct. More people were feeding Shop Cat than anyone knew. That was the main reason she started getting fat. This was a few months before she found herself in a family way. 

I'd never considered this possibility because she'd been hanging around the shop since Dan brought the previous Shop Cat, Ashley, home to live with us. Everyone thought Shop Cat was one of those unfortunate cats who'd once been loved, taken care of and spayed, then left, lost or dumped. During the time she'd been around the shop, the black cat had never had any kittens. (Explanation: Shop Cat 1 is named after Arthur Ashe because she's a Russian Blue—but that's another story...) 

After Doc congratulated me and wished me good luck, I carefully tucked Shop Cat into her carrier and drove back to Jupiter Farms. Before I reached home, I'd already named her Noche (night in Spanish). She's going to live with us. After she has her kittens and they're weaned, she'll be making another trip to see Doc. She's going to be spayed so this kind of situation never happens again! Oh, and by the way, DOES ANYONE WANT A KITTEN?


Photos:
Top L: Shop Cat 2 aka "Noche"
Bottom Right: Shop Cat 1 aka Ashley

... _______________ ...

Update: The next day at work, two of Dan's fellow employees said they wanted a kitten and they haven't even been born yet. Not bad for a very fat shop cat!


Second Update: (3/15/10) The kittens are 1 week old tonight. They are healthy and happy and Noche is the best MOM. There's still one kitten unspoken for? Any takers? Photos will be posted soon. Right now they are little black blobs against a background of a black mother cat!

My Adopted Greyhound, Skipper, AKA Anchor Man

Honestly, who would bet on a greyhound named Anchor Man? He was not fast enough for the dog track but fortunately he ended up with Greyhound Pets of America instead of being euthanized as the majority of non-winning greyhound athletes are, even today.

A few years after moving to the Farms, I volunteered with the GPA to work with any difficult or unadoptable greyhounds. Normally, greyhounds quickly adapt to normal life and rapidly become couch potatoes enjoying soap operas and sleeping on beds. Occasionally, a dog will have some trouble adjusting and need a little persuasion and understanding. That's where I came into the picture.

Skipper was a very tall, lanky, stunning black and white male greyhound. He had been adopted and the home didn't work out. Requirements for adopting greyhounds are simple. All you need is a large, fenced in yard for them to run, a lot of love and understanding, dog food, toys, bones, treats, a couch and a bed to sleep on and a little more love, just for good measure.

When I brought him home, Dan said he looked like Ben Johnson, the Olympic runner who was disqualified for using steroids. Skipper's hind thighs were huge. He was muscled and quick. Our two acre, fenced in yard was a quick 10 second zip around the fence posts.

The first thing we found out about Skipper was that he didn't know either of his two names! He had to learn who he was. This became problematic several times in the first few months when Skipper decided our front gate was a starting gate and took off after an imaginary stuffed rabbit. I had to chase him with the car because I couldn't keep up with him on foot. To resolve this issue, we attached a leash to the gate and whenever we opened it and Skipper was outside, he dutifully stood on the leash until the gate was closed. Eventually, Skipper learned his name. After that, he learned to come when called. Dog treats and cookies worked well. After that, Skipper was never late for dinner!

Another thing we learned was that Skipper didn't know how to play. Our four other dogs at the time were our alpha female Wolf Hybrid named Chari (short for Carcharodon carcharias or Great White Shark) and a Shepherd Collie mix named Lump, who was my sweetest dog of all time. Then there was Dump, Lump's look-a-like as a puppy, a female Shepherd Collie mix who grew up to look nothing like her mentor, Lump but inherited her personality. Speedo, a male Corgi-Sheltie mix rounded out the furry troupes. I found Speedo at a local feed store. He had a severe hookworm infection and was so scared when I picked him up to bring him home, he went perfectly stiff in my arms.

Lump and Dump were our original two dogs when we moved to the Farms. Chari came shortly after when I heard that a young man was desperately trying to find a home for his Wolf Hybrid because he'd had to move and leave her with friends. I'd always wanted a Wolf Hybrid so I talked Dan into meeting her. Dan walked down to our front gate when the young man brought Chari to meet us. By the time they had walked back to the house together, Dan was already talking about putting some weight on Chari. From that day, she belonged to Dan.

Later Speedo came to us and now Skipper had joined our pack. Chari and Lump were old enough that they simply tolerated the newest addition by acknowledging his presence. The younger pair, Dump and Speedo decided Skipper was cool, especially when he ran fast. They began their friendship by trailing behind him wherever he ran by many horse lengths. Daily training saw them get faster and faster. Speedo especially enjoyed the challenge of trying to keep up with Skipper so eventually we gave him the title of "Fasted Short-Legged Corgi Mix in the World."

Skipper settled in well. After learning his name, he had to learn how to play. The reason Skipper didn't know his name was because, in the racing greyhound business, it wasn't necessary. He was a commodity, a product that either ran fast and made his owner money or was eliminated. Greyhounds aren't really allowed to play at all. They are taught to run. Occasionally, they are trained to run with other dogs, but the dogs are usually muzzled and running is the only game they learn.

Watching Skipper learn how to play with Dump and Speedo was fun was great entertainment. He was the tallest dog of the pack and when he wasn't running he wasn't exactly graceful on his long, thin legs. The one thing Skipper did know was respect. He never hurt either of his new friends and he always relinquished the ball or bone to them. There wasn't an aggressive bone in his body.

After about a year, we realized that the huge, muscular thighs were gone and Skipper just looked like an ordinary fit young dog. He was five years old and his Ben Johnson look had obviously been caused by the steroids used in racing greyhounds at the time.

I took Skipper to obedience school. My friend Kathy enrolled her Irish Wolfhound, Bear and the two dogs became great friends. They graduated at the bottom of their class and accepted their awards with nobility. Both dogs learned how to sit, stay, heel and come. They weren't class superstars but they learned.

It wasn't comfortable for Skipper to sit. It seemed unnatural to him so when he learned to sit in class, it was a miraculous feat. Normally, my greyhound was stretched out like the Sphinx or in fast forward motion. Oh, and one other position—on his back, with all four legs stretched out, usually sound asleep. This was his favorite and he practiced it daily in Dan's favorite Lazy Boy recliner. It was a Kodak moment. Skipper's tail draped off one side of the recliner and his head reposed on the armrest. His body twisted and turned to fit in the seat and he was on his back. His eyes were closed and he was in heaven. I never had the heart to make him get off the furniture.

Skipper shared his life with us for four years. He was a canine Pinocchio, a wooden, emotionless animal who came to life and became a real dog. He had a huge heart and was loving and loyal to us and to his fellow dogs. When the end came for Skipper, it came with the diagnosis of bone cancer. He was in terrible pain for a few hours. When he began to cry, we called our vet who came and examined him. We all agreed he needed to be relieved of his pain and it was done quickly.

His Ben Johnson steroids had not helped him win money at the track and they were responsible for shortening his life. We all missed him terribly. One day, we were sitting on the porch and all of a sudden, Speedo leaped up and started to run. A dirt bike was coming down our road headed for the empty lot next door. The bike would drive down our fence line and when Skipper was alive, he had always been at the front post ready for them when they got there. Then, his greatest joy was leaving them in his dust as he raced to his imaginary finish line.

Dan and I watched as Speedo caught the bike at the front post. Then "Fastest Short Legged Corgi Mix in the World" stayed out in front for most of the run. His mentor would have been proud. We had buried Skipper at his front post starting line. As I watched Speedo racing with wild abandon, I had tears in my eyes. I think Dan did too. I will always be thankful that I wagered on a greyhound named Anchor Man. I made a bet that he could become a real dog and he truly was a winner for me.