My teddy bear. He’s slightly older than I am, and recently celebrated his 40th birthday. Yes, those are bald spots on his head, forehead, and belly, where I loved his fur off straight through to the burlap fabric of his body. He also had a squeaky in his left paw, but the rubber bellows that made it squeak have long since rotted away. Poor ol’ much-loved bear.
My frosted glass salad set reflected in the polished surface of the hutch I inherited from my grandmother. Salad set: Hazel Atlas “Gay Fad - Ivy”, ca. 1947. Hutch: Ethan Allen, ca. 1965.
Pumpjack and pipeline, Kern County, California — 31 August, 2011.
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, o’er the shopping carts we watched, were so gallantly streaming.
This image aggravates me more than having the bloats and bad hair on date night. And I took the picture! Masochist! Also? I’m pretty sure you go directly to hell on a slow bus with a seat next to psycho babbling, off-his-meds Charlie Manson for dumping stolen shopping baskets at the base of our nation’s flag. In my perfect pink princess world, you do, anyway.
Diamond quilt patterned antique glass pitcher with silver-plated lids and handle, plus its matching, complete ice sleeve insert.
This is an oddity in my collection. I found it about 15 years ago. The poor lovely was thick with dust and heavily patinated with tarnish, tucked away on a low shelf in a quiet section of an antiques co-op. Something about the graceful curve of the handle and the sharp studs of the diamond quilting drew me right to it. Which was odd for me, yes.
Because I collect Depression Glass…
Green Depression Glass!
And this nice, old pitcher is neither green nor from the Depression. I’m not an expert with this type of glass, but I believe it’s from the late 1940’s to the 1950’s. It’s got a makers mark I don’t recognize, and… That’s all I know about it.
Sure, it’s the oddball in among my painstakingly-matched pieces of green DG. But it’s the perfect oddball for setting out when all that green clashes.
Which it does.
Green can be so temperamental. Sheesh.
I guess an object just sings out when the right person for it comes along. That’s the only explanation I have for the dreamy “Oh, there’s my pitcher! I’ve been looking for you, you naughty thing!” feeling that came over me when I saw it.
Guy spraying tire cleaner on every piece of rubber and plastic all the way around his minivan SUV crossover thing. In the parking lot. Of Walmart. With a full cart of groceries in his trunk.
What… Why… What?
There’s a simple explanation, I’m sure. I bet he was merely fresh from paving a wide swath of minivan murdering spree through the valley. Cops were hot on his single-exhaust tailpipe. Evidence in the form of twisty-tasty DNA was spattered all over the car. Casting about for some way to pull a Dexter, he thought to himself, “Now, gee. Where can I get Blood-Be-Gone spray and pick up that gallon of milk I promised to bring home for the missus? Think, Bob. Think! Oh, of course! Walmart!”