Ransom Eli Olds, Inventor, Automater: Darn, Did I Give That One Away?

Fannie Cranium:

This month’s contribution to the Blog of Funny Names. Sorry I’m late in responding to comments. I’ve been on the road. Safe travels everyone.

Originally posted on The Blog of Funny Names:

Some names speak greatness. Ransom Eli Olds is a doozy. Let’s take stock here. His father, Pliny Fiske Olds married Sarah Whipple and great things happened.

In 1889 Ransom married Metta Ursula Woodard. Off to a rolling start.

By 1894 Ransom claims to have built his first steam car and in 1896 he followed up with his first gasoline powered automobile.

Olds Pirate Racing Car driven by the man himself on a Florida beach. He could have said,  "Avast there matey. Get out of me way or I'll run ye over." Olds Pirate Racing Car driven by the man himself on a Florida beach. He could have said, “Avast there matey. Get out of me way or I’ll run ye over.” But he didn’t. He left them in his dust.

Ransom invented the modern day assembly line. I know, I thought that was a Ford invention, too. Ford borrowed the idea.

Watch out trivia night people, we’re just warming up.

He formed the Olds Motor Vehicle Company in Lansing, Michigan in 1897. Needing an infusion of cash, the company was…

View original 390 more words

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Bunny Meets Sandals and Sock, Oh My! Redux II

Happy 4th of July to our American readers. To those of you outside the states,  you might enjoy meeting Bunny not long after she and George moved to the Pacific Northwest. The original story posted in October 2011. It’s been embellished since.

 *  *  *

The mid-morning sun crested the giant cedar trees on Saturday, June 25th. It rays spread across Gig Harbor, Washington. Reflecting off the immaculate white cement driveway in front of George and Bunny Gutierrez’s home. Not a single speck of moss in sight.

“George, honey, what on earth are they wearing?” Bunny asked, with her refined Texas accent. Her long blond hair swept back into a pony tail behind her head, crowning her statuesque figure. Her eyebrows arching enough to cause her pony tail to go out of sync.

He scanned the street.

“Who, darlin’, are you talking about?” asked George, with his soft spoken Texas accent. A contrast to the bass voice emanating from his lineman’s frame. A pencil thin black mustache and goatee framing his mouth.

“Over there.” she said, pointing across the street. “Would you look at Richard and Fannie.  “They can’t seriously be going out in public dressed like that?”

“Well, it is a bit unusual, but I’m sure they have a good explanation,” he said, with his usual calm.

“Well I’m sorry, I can’t let them leave looking like that, it just isn’t right,” Bunny said. Her pony tail bobbing at an angle as though it took on a life of its own.

George put his arm around her waist and held her back. “You may not leave this driveway until you are rational. Don’t make me carry you into the house.”

“George, you wouldn’t dare,” Bunny said. Fire flared in her blue eyes.

“Bunny, I love you enough to keep you from making a spectacle of yourself in front of the neighbors. Now if you can calm down, we’ll both walk over and speak to them like the civilized human beings that we are.”

George let her go. Bunny stood tall. She measured him for a moment.

“Very well, George, follow me,” she said, her back stiffening.

Bunny marched across the street. George trotted behind her.

Before Bunny could say anything, George called out, “Hey y’all, where’re you headed?”

“We’re going to camp a couple days at Surprise Lake up on the Pacific Crest Trail. Thought we’d hike in and do some fishing,” Richard said, putting the tent in the back of the Love Wagon. A red Ford F150 sporting a queen futon and disco ball.

Leaning forward, Bunny blurted, “What on earth are you wearing?”

“Hiking clothes?” I asked, running my fingers through my short brown hair.

“I can see that. I meant on your feet,” said Bunny, putting her hands on her hips.

We looked at our feet. A smile possessed my lips.

“You’ve never seen sandals?” I asked, my evil twin taking over. “They don’t have sandals in Texas?”

“Fannie, do not toy with me, you know very well what I’m talking about.” Her southern lilt tilting.

“Bunny, it’s 65 degrees out here, it’s too warm to wear our boots. Besides, we may have to cross a couple of streams and our feet might get wet,” I said, “they’ll need to dry out.”

Shaking her head as if wagged by her pony tail, Bunny said, “Honey, I cannot in all honesty, let you all leave here wearing socks with your sandals. It’s just not done.”

Richard and I laughed.

“Oh, that’s what’s eating you,” Richard said, his tall lean frame making him look like a flag pole next to George. “I couldn’t figure out what you were talking about.”

“Bunny, you haven’t lived here long enough yet. It’s customary here to wear hiking socks with sandals because the weather can be very iffy,” I said, my eyes twinkling.

“Fannie, we have lived here for six months. I’ve never seen anyone in their right mind wearing wool socks with sandals,” Bunny said.

“Darlin’, remember when we were in Florida, we saw several people wearing socks with sandals,” George said.

“George, they were old and wearing trouser socks. Clearly they were suffering from senility.”

“Bunny, if I can prove to you I’m not making this up, will you calm down?” I asked.

Bunny stared at me for a few moments.

“All right, if you can prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt, I will. But if you can’t, the socks come off,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

George leaned toward Richard. He whispered, “She better know what she’s doing or all hell is going to break loose.”

Richard smiled at George. He whispered, “Trust me, she does.”

“Bunny, would you please follow me into the house?” I asked, leading the way.

I fired up the Garronculator. I clicked on our favorite link. The video started.

Bunny’s jaw dropped to the floor.

“Bunny, darlin’, I don’t think I have ever seen you speechless before,” George said, shaking his head. To me, he said, “You know that wouldn’t fly in any other part of the country because no one would believe it?”

“Bunny, I’d be happy to get you the trading card if you want,” I said, suppressing the laughter.

Her jaw worked up and down a few times. She took the mouse away from me, scooted me out of the chair and started searching PEMCO’s website.

“This is a real company?” she asked.

“Yes, they are as local as they come,” I said.

“You’re not trying to pull one over on me?”

“No, they’re real. Go to the Better Business Bureau’s website if you don’t believe me.”

Bunny typed it in faster than I could say it.

“Honey, I can’t believe this, you’re not making this up.”


“Sandals and socks?”


“Fannie, honey, I’ll never be caught dead in sandals and socks,” she said, her pony tail vibrating, “and this will take some getting used to.”

“Trust me,” said Richard, “you’ll see a lot of people wearing them during the fall.”

“Un huh,” Bunny said, staring at the monitor.

“Bunny,” I said, my grin causing my dimples to double exponentially, “welcome to the Pacific Northwest.”

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Yoga is Not For Sissies, Redux II

Thank you for joining me for the summer redux series. I will be re-posting stories you may not have read, in the fashion of a summer re-run. We’ll get back to our regular posting schedule in a few weeks. The original “Yoga is not for Sissies” story posted back in July 2011. It’s been embellished a little since then.

 * * *

Rain mixed with snow fell from the night sky over Gig Harbor, Washington.

Crack. The Yule log split sending sparks up the chimney. Two orange cats formed a fur knot in the far corner of the living room sofa.

Flames reflected from the red, silver, gold and green foil wrapped boxes under the Christmas tree. The smell of hot apple pie battled with the fruit, brandy and spices of the mince meat pie, the undercurrents of roast turkey faded to the background.

My family filed into the living room after dessert.

Lenora Jane, the oldest—a towering five-feet tall in heels—with an attitude to match the altitude, tucked her shoulder-length brown hair-model locks behind one ear. She handed me a long, slender box wrapped in silver foil dotted in small, white snow flakes. A two-inch-wide white-lace ribbon held a small cedar bough, miniature cones, and dried red berries in place of a bow.

“Fannie, I want you to open my gift first,” Lenora Jane said, smiling. She rocked back and forth on her heels. Straightening her blouse, she asked, “Well?”

I slid the ribbon from the package. It slipped from my fingers. Eleanor, my younger and tallest sister by one-quarter of an inch, dove for the ribbon like bridesmaids in The Hamptons dive for a coveted bouquet. “Whatever you do, don’t rip the paper, I can re-use it,” she said, holding out her hand.

I rolled my eyes. I slid my finger under the two, slender strips of tape. Pop. Pop. The paper fell free. Eleanor caught it.  Gary Bromley’s Yoga Class in a box. “Contains instructional book, DVD and Yoga mat.”

“I know you’ll love it,” Lenora Jane said, beaming. “I saw it written on your bucket list at Thanksgiving.”

My bucket list resides in an envelope taped to the back of a rolling, two-drawer file cabinet tucked underneath Richard’s desk. Dust bunnies keep twenty-four hour surveillance. The dust bunnies told no tales of tampering. Professor Moriarty wouldn’t have lasted one round with her.

I gave her a big hug. Check another item off the bucket list.

Two months later during my annual physical, my doctor said, “You shrank one-half inch. You might try Yoga.”

Coming from a vertically challenged family, I watched the video. Yoga is not for sissies.

I rolled out the aquamarine Yoga mat that matched the box, DVD and companion book.

“Relax back into Peaceful pose extending out one leg at a time.”

Richard sat in the swivel rocker and watched me work through the video. Ten minutes in he joined me.

“Now let’s do Eagle folding its wings.”

Pop, pop, pop.

With each new pose, Richard’s hip moved closer to the anatomically correct position.

“From Downward Dog, move your right leg forward between your arms.”

When we finished, Richard walked out of the room. No limp. I ordered a Yoga mat and two carrying cases.

 * * *

Yoga, week three. Towering over me, Richard recovered more than an inch of height. I yearned for a Yoga-induced yoctometer.

“…taking the counter posture, holding Palm Tree.”

For the first time ever, Richard’s knuckles grazed the ceiling. I touched my toes.

“Relax back into Child pose.”

Richard’s yoga mat arrived along with our carrying cases. Have Yoga mats, will travel.

The next day we visited an orthopedic surgeon.

“There is a half-inch difference between the two hips joints. We’re going to take you off the arthritis medications and schedule you for hip replacement surgery,” the doctor said. “I can get you onto the books in late May.”

“Fannie, why don’t we go on a road trip before the surgery?” Richard asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know, just in case. . .”

Searching his eyes, I said, “You’re on.”

Two weeks before our trip, Richard brought in the suit cases. “It never hurts to be prepared,” he said.

The next morning, while I held monkey pose—snap, snap, snap, snap—like Robert Wallace yelling freedom with his last breath. Richard grabbed the chair next to him, his eyes bulged—my bra committed suicide.

A devilish grin spread across his face. “Now that’s what I call a wardrobe malfunction.”

Grasping my chest with both arms, I said, “Well I guess I know what I’ll be doing later.”

* * *

As I listened to the phone ring, the memory of sun-warmed lavender tickled my nose.

“Hi, it’s Fannie. I need some bras.”

“Fannie, I am out of your size right now, let me order them and I‘ll call you when they come in,” she said. “What colors do you want?”

“Colors?” I asked. The pitch of my voice climbed the stairs in the Statue of Liberty “Just beige.”

“What? You need to live a little. They also come in cocoa latte, purple, black—and red.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for color,” I said, my legs bouncing on the bar stool rest.

“Yes, you are. Every woman, no matter who they are, needs a little excitement in their lingerie. You’ll just feel better. Now what colors do you want?”

“I’m leaving on a trip in two weeks,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut, “how about black?”

“Come on,” she said, infusing the force of a lead weight dropping from the Tower of Pisa into her voice.

“All right,” I said, shaking my head, “one of each color.”

* * *

The day before we left, Richard placed the giant, analog sports timer on the wall of the family room and set it to count down the next twenty-four hours before we left.

Ring, Ring.

Richard answered the phone. “Fannie, it’s the Bra Lady.”

She said, “Fannie, your new bras arrived and you can’t leave town without them.  Where can I meet you? I’m not at my shop.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m driving back from an errand,” she said. “I’ll be cutting down Peacock Hill on the way back into town.”

“That’s perfect. I have to drop my cats off at the kennel, Where do you want to meet?”

“How about the parking lot of Merle Norman. Say, in ten minutes?” she asked.

“I’m on my way,” I said, ushering the two cats out to the Love Wagon. A red Ford F150 with a queen futon and disco ball.

A late model white sedan waited in the parking lot. I drove up next to her and rolled down my window.

“This is so clandestine,” she said, winking. “I even put them in an unmarked brown paper bag.  Where else are you going to get service like this?” she asked, handing me the bag through the window.

We laughed.

If the police saw our little transaction, imagine the fun of showing them bras.

* * *

3 a.m., the alarm clock crowed like a rooster avoiding castration.

“Mom, I just want five more minutes. I promise I’ll get right up. . .zzzzzz.”

3:10 a.m. the second alarm heralded the second coming.

“All right already, we’re getting up,” I said, waving my hand in the general direction of the alarm clock. And catching nothing but air.

Richard leaped out of bed with the enthusiasm of a morning person. He turned the clock off. My zombie avatar clanked as the motors revved my body upright. Wool socks muffling my feet thumping while moving around the house pretending humanity.

4:30 a.m.. The sun still asleep in bed. We burned pavement. The longest vacation of our marriage. Two days later we arrived in Sturgis, South Dakota, with the rising moon.

Richard pulled into the parking lot of the Super 8. The clerk handed us a key for a room on the first floor. Richard and I fist bumped when we reached our room at the end of the corridor.

“Feel like a little Yoga to work out the drive?” I asked, winking.

Richard and I rolled out our mats.

“Well at least we won’t wake the neighbors,” he said, grinning.

When we checked out the next morning the young man behind the counter stared at Richard and his towering frame.

“You can do Yoga?” he asked, scratching his chin. “I tried Yoga once. It nearly killed me.”

Richard said, “You’re doing it all wrong.  Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Yes,” he said, blinking his eyes.

“Here’s what you do,” Richard said, leaning his arm on the counter, “dress your girlfriend up in spandex. Get out the Yoga DVD. Put her mat in front of yours. Better yet, have her invite some of her girlfriends over. Its important they wear spandex as well. Stand in back. Ten minutes in, you won’t feel a thing. Trust me.”

He whispered into my ear, “Or you can wear really great underwear. That did it for me.”

Three days before Richard’s hip surgery, my doctor measured me again. We found the missing half inch.

* * *

If the male population in Sturgis dies from Yoga, we didn’t do it. If the population surges outside of Rally week, they’re on their own.

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Chocolate and Chip, Redux II

Welcome to the summer redux series. I will be re-posting some stories you may not have read in the fashion of a summer re-run. We’ll get back to our regular posting schedule in a few weeks. The original Chocolate and Chip story posted back in August 2012. It’s been embellished a little since then.

 * * *

The hot mid-morning rays of an August sun raced across the hilltops, which crowned Gig Harbor, Washington, on their way to a small brown and gray rambler in a cul de sac. The sunlight streamed through the windows. It illuminated the dining room table as Bunny Gutierrez and Clarissa Taylor walked into our home.

Bunny asked, with her refined Texas accent, “Fannie is that real?” Pointing to the two-foot tall chocolate bunny sitting on a white doily adorning the red table cloth. Her long blond hair swept back into a pony tail behind her head, crowning her statuesque figure.

“If you mean is it real chocolate? No.” I said, smiling, “Though it does look good enough to eat.”

Bunny lifted the rabbit from the table. “All it’s missing is the smell,” she said. She handed it to Clarissa.

“Fannie, I hope this means you’re serving something chocolate today?” Clarissa asked, smiling. Putting the rabbit back on the table. Tucking a lock of her red curly hair behind her ear, she said, “Or this bunny may not make it out of here alive.”

“I’ve heard that before, but you’re in luck,” I said, leading them into the sunny yellow kitchen. “Aunt Verla gave me a chocolate mold for helping with the clean up when their hot water tank ruptured.  So I molded some chocolate last night. What did you two bring?”

“I bought French Vanilla Tea,” Bunny said, opening a small black foil bag of loose leaf tea. Vanilla perfumed the air.

“That should be illegal,” Clarissa said, smelling the air. “I brought short bread cookies and some home made jam.”

“Where did you get the rabbit?” Bunny asked, as I put the tea kettle on the stove.

“It was our turn to host Easter Dinner this year,” I said, “but we didn’t have any decorations. I wanted something for the hearth.”

 * * *

Richard Cranium grabbed a shopping cart. “Wanna go for a ride little girl?” he asked. The devil on his shoulder winking.

“Very funny,” I said, laughing. “I know I’m short, but I’m not that short.”

“If you change your mind, your chariot await madame,” he said, laughing.

He followed me into the store. Fluorescent lights flickered above our heads. We headed for produce. Nestled in a display of lilies, carnations and roses, seventeen chocolate bunnies statues of various sizes shimmered like the chocolate Venus statue summoned Alfred Molina.

Seven people stood in front of the display in chocolate induced silence. We joined them.

“Richard that looks good enough to eat,” I whispered, wiping the drool from the corner of my mouth, “what do you think?”

“Which one do you want?” he asked, his blue eyes locked on the display.

“I think this medium sized one,” I said, removing a rabbit from the display. Breaking the spell, seven of our rabbit’s siblings found new homes.

We strolled through the store like proud parents along with seven other proud parents. Nodding acknowledgments to our fellow chocolate bunny enthusiasts in the frozen food section.

Richard buckled the bunny in the middle seat of the Love Wagon. A red Ford F150 with queen futon and miniature disco ball. I climbed into the passenger seat.

“What should we name him?” I asked, running my fingers over his ears.

“How about Ears?” Richard asked.

“That might not be a good idea. I’m like Sally Forth. I would be tempted to eat them,” I said, reliving eating the tastiest part of a chocolate bunny. “If we’re going that route, how about Chocolate?”

Richard nodded his head. “Chocolate it is.”

Richard parked the Love Wagon, a red for F150, in the driveway. I carried Chocolate into the house. Richard cleared the hearth.

Placing Chocolate on the right hand side of the white-brick fireplace, I asked, “What do you think?

“He’s too close to the wood box and might get broken,” Richard said, moving Chocolate to the other side of the hearth. “How about now?”

“Much better,” I said.

Wicket and Sadie, our orange Tabbies, leaped onto the hearth. The cats sniffed the statue. Wicket looked at Chocolate, looked at us, he bathed a spot on his left shoulder. He sniffed the statue one more time. He and Sadie walked over to the sofa. Shoving a throw pillow onto the floor with his head, they curled up together.

“Well I guess we don’t have to worry about the cats,” I said, picking up the pillow. “I’m going into Tacoma tomorrow to pick up some candy, do you want to come?”

“You don’t have to ask me twice.”

We entered the tiny entrance of Johnson’s Candy Company, chocolate and caramel infused the air. We shuffled single file into the store. Glass display cases filled with hand made chocolates of every description drew multiple lines three people deep. We passed the glass cases into the seasonal section. I squeezed through a gap between die hard candy fans for the last basket.

Richard tapped me on the shoulder.  Leaning close to my ear so he could be heard, he said, “Fannie, look over there on the far side of the counter, dark chocolate bunny ears.”

“Where?” I asked. My head snapping around almost hitting him in the nose.

Richard guided me to the basket filled with ears.

“My family will go crazy,” I said, salivating. I wiped my hands on my pants. Picking one up, I said, “Richard, it’s 90 percent ears. It’s got a tiny head and body.” Clasping it to my chest, I said, “Pure genius.”

“Get at least two dozen, maybe more. Once your family see this, it’ll be a melee.”

The day before Easter Aunt Verla called.

“Fannie, Bud’s home for a week, I want to make sure you have space available at the table for him,” Aunt Verla said, in her crisp fashion.

“Of course, Aunt Verla,” I said, a rolling my eyes, I always save a space for my favorite cousin. “We’d love to see him.”

A weak sun filtered through thick gray clouds Easter morning.

“Richard, would you help me set the table?” I asked, taking the tablecloth from the rough hewn oak chest my grandfather made.

“Sure,” Richard said, grabbing the plates from the china hutch. “You know, it’s a good thing we got extra ears. Make sure you stash a few otherwise Bud’ll snitch ‘em all.”

“Way ahead of you,” I said, “I’ve got ’em in an empty oversized orange juice concentrate container in the freezer buried beneath a pork roast and a lasagna. If any one will find it, it’ll be Lenora Jane.”

“I swear your older sister is part blood hound,” Richard said, with a wink.

“I think she would’ve made a great CSI,” I said, laughing.

The aroma of honey roasted ham filled the house. The doorbell rang. Richard answered the door. On the porch stood my parents, aunt and uncle.

“Velverlorn, Verla, you look stunning,” Richard said, biting his tongue.

The women floated into the house wearing matching Betty White wigs and lavender polyester pant suits from the Eighty’s. My father and Uncle Carl sported tan polyester pants and matching Polo shirts.

“I see you’re all outfitted for Easter,” Richard said.

A few moments later, Lenora Jane with husband, Steve, arrived with cousins, Butch and Bud. The last to arrive, my younger sister, Eleanor.

Lenora Jane, the first person into the living room, asked, “Is that real?” Pointing to Chocolate on the hearth.

Laughing, I said, “No. We did name him Chocolate though. If you like that, you should see what we have in the dining room.”

Everyone filed into the dining room. Each plate featured chocolate bunny ears. We experienced an involuntary moment of silence.

Bud broke the silence, “No way.”

“That’s just wrong,” Eleanor said, “where’s the body?”

My mother and aunt, in unison, said, “dark. . .chocolate. . .ears.”

After everyone left for the evening, Richard walked out to the freezer. He removed the lasagna and pot roast. An empty orange juice container leaned against the back wall. He shook his head.

He walked back into the house in time to hear me yell, “Where’s Chocolate?”

Richard joined me in the living room staring at the empty space where Chocolate once stood. A yellow sticky note read, “Chip and I’ve gone on a road trip. Be back soon.”

 * * *

“Chip, who’s Chip?” Bunny asked.

“Chip’s the family poltergeist who, according to my grandmother, haunts this house,” I said, smiling.  “When we were young, my grandmother would tell us the story every time we came over. So my sisters, cousins and I used to blame anything that happened on Chip.”

The tea kettle whistled. Clarissa grabbed the tea kettle from the stove.  She poured the boiling water into the Brown Betty teapot. “Whatever you do,” Clarissa said, shaking the short red curls framing her round face, “don’t mention Chip when Verla or Velverlorn are over. I made that mistake once when we were kids. I’ll never do it again.”

“They did give you an ear full didn’t they,” I said, laughing. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“So what happened to Chocolate?” Clarissa asked.

“Two days later, a picture showed up on our front door,” I said, smiling, “Chocolate on the Bogue viewing platform in downtown Gig Harbor. The next day standing at the fisherman’s statue at Jerisich Dock. We got a picture a day until Friday.”

Chocolate at Jurasich Park, near the shelter where we danced.

Chocolate at Jurasich Park.

The doorbell rang. Richard opened the door. No one stood on the porch.  He closed the door.

“Richard, who was at the door?” I asked, from the bedroom.

“Nobody, I think someone pulled a ding-dong dash.”

The doorbell rang again.

I joined Richard. He opened the front door. No one stood on the porch. I looked down. Below the door bell stood Chocolate with a note. “Chip couldn’t open the door, it’s cold out here, let me in.”

“Richard and I laughed,” I said. “We walked outside but didn’t see anyone. So I brought Chocolate back inside and put him back on the hearth to get warm,” I said, smiling.

“Fannie honey, now that’s funny. Chocolate’s a regular traveling garden gnome,” Bunny said, “have any of your relatives confessed?”

“Not one,” I said, shaking my head.

Thud. We jumped.

“That sounds like it came from the dining room,” I said.

Chocolate lay on his side on the dining room table.

“Where are the cats?” Clarissa asked, looking under the table her bright red ringlets falling across her face.

“Over there,” I said, pointing.

The cats stared at us from their supine position on the living room sofa.

“How’d they do that?” Bunny asked, pulling her blond pony tail.

“Ladies, I think you just met Chip,” I said, grinning.

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If You Are A Quote Lover, Day 3: The Finale

The blog challenge, If You Are a Quote Lover.  We wrap up today.

Fellow BoFN blogger, Mark Bialczak, of markbialczak.com nominated me for this challenge. Thank you, Mark. Visit his blog if you haven’t stopped by already. He blogs every day.

Here are the rules:

Post your three favorite quotes, one each for three consecutive days.

With each post nominate three bloggers for the challenge.

Recognize the blogger who nominated you.

Day 3:

If blogging is a bowl of cherries, why are my dishes stacking up?

My hat is tipped to those of you who blog every day. This challenge —more challenging than the challenge first appeared. And I enjoyed it.

But I won’t be taking up the daily gauntlet. Phew.

The quote:

To Finish is to Win.
Now for my three final nominations:

I Don’t Get It, Things That Don’t Make Sense, written by fellow BoFN blogger Kerbey. She posts photos with witty comments. When you visit, beware you don’t snort any liquids on your screen. http://sanceau.com

Blogger, LFFL writes the blog, Loving Food, Fashion and Life. Her adventures in food are hilarious and she always gives a “take away” at the end of each post. http://lovingfoodfashionlife.com

Bonseye, The Way I See it, written by Bonnie. She posts insightful and humorous pieces. She’s been featured on Freshly Pressed. https://paperkeeper.wordpress.com

Thank you for joining me for the challenge. Tomorrow we return to our regular programming schedule. :)

See you around BloggyVille.



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If You Are A Quote Lover, Day 2

The blog challenge, If You Are a Quote Lover.

Fellow BoFN blogger, Mark Bialczak, of markbialczak.com nominated me for this challenge. Thank you, Mark. Visit his blog if you haven’t stopped by already. He’s a friendly fellow blogger.

Here are the rules.

Post your three favorite quotes, one each for three consecutive days.

With each post nominate three bloggers for the challenge.

Recognize the blogger who nominated you.

Day 2:

This week, the U.S. Open Golf Tournament invaded the little city of University Place, Washington. Our local weekly paper buzzing with news of the tournament for weeks.

My home town on the Washington State’s Olympic Peninsula hosts the closest regional airport to the event. My better half and I live under the flight path of the normally sleepy airport. We know exactly when they arrive.

Our local Rotary built a viewing platform at the airport for the event. So our local citizenry could watch the private planes land with golfers such as Rory McIlroy, Tiger Woods, and Phil Mickelson.

Warren Buffett built a special railroad siding next to the course for his VIP train and guests.

The strangest consequence of hosting a golf major I’ve noticed, many of the rental homes in the area evicted their longtime tenants so they could rent their homes to the VIPs for major mullah. I understand why, but my sympathies go to the displaced families.

The quote:

Chambers Bay Golf the day before the practice rounds. View from Steilacoom, Washington.

Chambers Bay Golf Course (Links if you’re hard core) the day before practice rounds. Morning marine layer burning off.  View from Steilacoom, Washington.

Maybe it should read, “They came, they saw, they stood with 30,000 other people to watch—QUIETLY.”

Now for my three nominations:

e-Tinkerbell’s Blog written by Stefy, an Italian school teacher. She blogs in English, giving life to mythology and history.  https://etinkerbell.wordpress.com

I didn’t have my glasses on, written by ksbeth. She’s a kindergarten teacher in Michigan. She posts fabulous quotes combined with a story told in poetry. If you haven’t visited Beth’s site, you should. http://ididnthavemyglasseson.com

Aplscruf’s Music Blog, Diary of a Married Groupie, written by my good friend, Aplscruf, who may “shoot” me when she read this. She is my connection to new music and my very first subscriber. She interviews musician, writes about concerts, venues, and features new music and artists on her blog. https://aplscruf.wordpress.com/

Tomorrow: The final installment of this challenge. Enjoy your Tuesday.

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If You Are A Quote Lover

Enter the blog challenge, If You Are a Quote Lover, which requires three days of consecutive posting. Fellow BoFN blogger, Mark Bialczak, of markbialczak.com nominated me for this challenge because I left a quote in his comments, which fits the challenge. Thank you, Mark. Visit his blog if you haven’t stopped by already. He’s a friendly fellow blogger.

This is a first for me. I’ve never written more than two posts in any one week period—EVER.

Here are the rules:

Post your three favorite quotes, one each for three consecutive days.

With each post nominate three bloggers for the challenge.

Recognize the blogger who nominated you.

Day 1:

Last week, we enjoyed a cat emergency, which inspired the short story, “Pill Pockets for Your Pain,” the events were changed to protect the guilty critter.  Reminding me of my all time favorite Erma Bombeck quote:

Erma Bombeck

Now for my three nominations:

Per his blog, he is the second place looser for the 2015 Bloggies for the category “Weblog of the Year”. He was hoping for third place. Right now he has guest bloggers filling his bitter pages. If you haven’t visited Ben’s Bitter Blog, you should. He might just bitter at you. http://bensbitterblog.com/

The reason I might write two posts in one week, Dave, co-founder of the Blog of Funny Names invited me to join his group blog. This week is his last week of medical school for the school year, so he might actually have some time on his hands. http://funnynamesblog.com/

What makes a story a story? Carla Iacovetti is one of the earliest blogs I followed. She blogs about scriptwriting. https://screenwriteronlocation.wordpress.com/

Enjoy the rest of your day. I’ll haunt your reader tomorrow with part two of this challenge.



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