I’m not alone in noticing how time accelerates as we grow older, and as the seasons grow ever more brief the holidays are gone in a wink.  This poem by Nancy Price about Halloween catches a little of that.  She’s an Iowan whose poems are so heartfelt, clear and useful that we could run them every week and none of you would complain. [Introduction by Ted Kooser.]

Trick or Treat

The ghost is a torn sheet,

the skeleton’s suit came from a rack in a store

the witch is flameproof, but who knows

what dark streets they have taken here?

Brother Death, here is a candy bar.

For the lady wearing the hat from Salem: gum.

And a penny for each eye, Lost Soul.

They fade away with their heavy sacks.

Thanks!  I yell just in time.

                                                 Thanks for another year!

I just had my last roll of film developed, and it made me kind of sad. I entered the digital photo age kicking and screaming. I loved my 35mm camera, loved the packets of shiny photos I had developed, loved the photo albums and scrapbooks I made with them. I feared my digital photos would never make it off my hard drive into prints. (I was mostly right about that, too. I don’t know which is worse: boxes of unsorted prints or computer files of unsorted images!)

I’m totally a digital convert now—I love the ability to take tons of photos and, even better, the simple software that allows me to crop and otherwise enhance them so I have images I think are beautiful. I’m looking into websites that allow you to make photo books to replace the scrapbooks and photo albums I used to make. The excitement of sending my film away and seeing if the photos I took are as good as I think they will be has been replaced by immediately checking the images, then popping a memory card into my laptop. Now that I’m converted to digital, I’m going to sell my 35mm SLR camera. It makes me a little sad, but I don’t need it or use it anymore.

So what was on that roll of film? Before-and-after photos of our kitchen when we changed the countertops from Formica to granite and added a new backsplash. (We made this home improvement right before Christmas—that’s when we do all our home improvements. It adds that perfect touch of panic to the festivities.) My husband and I were thinner. Nick was shorter. And Crusher was still with us. (Sniffle.)

Sometimes technology makes life better—it certainly has made photography more fun and easier for me, even though I still have a lot more to learn. My husband says I’ll soon exchange my paper books for an e-reader, but I’m not so sure about that. There’s more to reading a book than seeing words on a page.

How has technology made your life better? Is there anything you said you’d never do/try/use that you now find indispensable, like my digital camera?

I’ve spent far, far too much time meandering through (in? on?) the internet lately. In order to justify that to myself, I thought I’d share some of my happy discoveries. Because I want everyone to waste as much time have as much fun as I do…

Puppy cam! Click here for a peek into the puppy room at the Service Dog Project in Ipswich, MA where mom Chaos is caring for her week-old puppies. 

Already thinking about the holidays, I found this post to have some really sweet handmade gift ideas. 

Scott Adams (the creator of “Dilbert”) on “engineering happiness”. 

Laure Ferlita shared this link with me. Gorgeous photography. 

For a good laugh (no pun intended), visit Jason Good at http://jasongood.net/. One of my favorite posts is here. 

I just discovered this blog, which has a philosophy I can agree with. I particularly liked this post. 

Have you discovered anything fun lately?

“Happiness is not a brilliant climax to years of grim struggle and anxiety. It is a long succession of little decisions simply to be happy in the moment.”

—J. Donald Walters 

Note: Today is the 10^th annual Take Back Your Time Day. Read more about it here or here.

Finally we had some gorgeous, fall-like weather this weekend, so my husband, mother-in-law and I checked out an orchid show and sale at the USF Botanical Gardens in Tampa. Lucky for us, there were only 12 vendors. We still managed to buy six orchids.

It’s a sickness, I tell you.

My husband and I go for variety in both size and color. I’m partial to scented orchids, my husband likes the dramatic and unusual ones. (If it’s variety you want, orchids are your flower: according to Wikipedia, orchids are one of the largest families of flowering plants, with more than 20,000 species found in 880 genera. Horticulturalists have produced more than 100,000 hybrids and cultivars since the introduction of tropical species in the 19th century.)

The new additions joined their brethren on our lanai where I hope they’ll be happy. One of my next chores needs to be writing down what types of orchids I have and what conditions they like.

I never thought I’d be interested in orchids. I’ve always preferred flowers like peonies, hydrangeas, roses. I can’t grow those here in Florida—at least not very successfully. (I’ve also become resigned to the lack of tulips and daffodils in my life.) But I can grow orchids—they thrive in our humid climate, so I’m going with the flow. If I can’t have a cottage garden, I’ll have a tropical one instead. At least I have flowers.

Here are the new additions. This one is tiny:

At the other extreme, this vanda is huge: 

This one, also a vanda, is scented:

Just love the color of this:

This was unlabeled, but I think it’s a phaleonopsis:

I don’t know what this is, either, and am not sure of what the label says. Any ideas?

It felt good to be outside (and not be sweaty), to drink in the beauty of the flowers, to be with people I love, while at the same time fanning my passion for orchids. A satisfactory Saturday.

How have you fed your passions lately?

I’ve shared pictures of the shelves before, but this is what they look like now. A few things moved around, a few books disposed of and a few more purchased. 

Under my window, I have a white bench with some magazines, an African violet and some storage boxes for hiding messy projects (if only I could remember I put the projects in there…).

My desk—so wonderful to have room to spread out, and to have my little bits and bobs displayed. Last week I had some fresh flowers in that bare space on the left. On top of the hutch is my collection of old Nancy Drew books. 

I love this glider rocker for reading, writing (I write most first drafts in long hand) and thinking deep thoughts. I’ve had this chair since before my son was born, and I spent countless hours in it, feeding, rocking and singing to him. We recovered it a few years ago so it could go in the office. When I’m not in the chair, one of Scout’s dog beds is. She divides her time between my office and my husband’s.

Next to the rocker is a lateral filing cabinet and hutch. I still need to purge the files as well as arrange the photos and books a bit better.

This is the armoire desk we bought for me when my husband and I were trying to share the office. It’s now my—trumpet fanfare—art station. I keep all my supplies here, and can use the desk top to sketch and paint. It also stores some random office supplies I don’t have room for elsewhere.

Having my own space means a lot to me. I can play music. I can shut the door. I control the ceiling fan, a major bone of contention between me and my husband. It means I (we) take my work seriously because we’ve made a space for me to do it, rather than keeping me bouncing from one place to another.

I didn’t realize until I had to share how much having my own space meant to me. Every other place I tried to work (except my bedroom and that was an issue in itself) made me feel I was on display and I was frequently interrupted. I felt like I “wasn’t doing anything” when I was sitting quietly reading or thinking or even web surfing for work. Now I can daydream, think, and read to my heart’s content and no one looks over my shoulder while I do it. Or asks me what’s for dinner or if I’m doing laundry later.

And that, my friends, is my new artistic space.

I am very happy.

At the beginning of the famous novel, "Remembrance of Things Past," the mere taste of a biscuit started Marcel Proust on a seven-volume remembrance. Here a bulldozer turns up an old doorknob, and look what happens in Shirley Buettner's imagination. [Introduction by Ted Kooser.]

Discovered 

While clearing the west

quarter for more cropland,

the Cat quarried

a porcelain doorknob

oystered in earth,

grained and crazed

like an historic egg,

with a screwless stem of

rusted and pitted iron.

I turn its cold white roundness

with my palm and

open the oak door

fitted with oval glass,

fretted with wood ivy,

and call my frontier neighbor.

Her voice comes distant but

clear, scolding children

in overalls

and highbutton shoes.

A bucket of fresh eggs and

a clutch of rhubarb rest

on her daisied oil-cloth.

She knew I would knock someday,

wanting in.