Here is a list of Family Blogs. A Blog is a journal you may enter about your life, thoughts, interesting experiences, or lessons you've learned. Post an opinion, impart words of wisdom, or talk about something interesting in your day. Update your blog on a regular basis, or just whenever you have something to say. Creating a blog is a good way to share something of yourself with others. Reading blogs is a good way to learn more about others. Click here to post a blog.
What is the most important thing in your life?
What is the most important thing in your life? Is it your husband/wife, bf/gf, family and which member/s, friends, your job, pets or anything else?
Would you like to share this with your blog family?
Would you like to share this with your blog family?
Bling or "Stuff"!!
The term bling means ostentatious clothing and jewelry. A DOOOOD my age just goes for "stuff" or threads and scratch as we called clothing and jewelry when we were young. Scratch also meant money!
I bring that up because when I was young I liked threads, not scratch so much and limited to a watch, but threads were my thing.
I used to wear suits to class at Pasadena (CA) City College. I also had some mean "stomps" (shoes) or "Calkos", if your Hispanic. I was styling.
Age has caught up with me because now I don't care how I look. And sometimes it draws stares and smirks from people. I don't really match stuff like I used to and style doesn't mean much. I was thinking about how long I had some of my "threads" and it's approaching between 10 and 20 years. I had to chuckle remembering my youth!! I wouldn't be causht "dead" not styling!
Last Sunday, after church, I went to eat at a Mexican restaurant. It was named "De La Michoacan". As I walked in I went to the "library" (restroom) because that's what us old guys do. I walked past a White couple and they were .... smirking!! I chuckled inwardly because my "threads" were in tune with "old man" style. And that's what brings this blog up.
All of my "threads" were gifts from my children. I have taken care of them to preserve them as long as possible because the love and affection I feel towards my children and our loving relationship. I know I must have looked corny but when you wear something that symbolizes the love I described above then nothing else matters. Heck, I have a long worn out pair of "Nike" socks that my twins gave me 25 years ago. I look at them with a feeling of tenderness in my heart because I know who gave them to me.
My oldest daughter went on a trip to New Orleans about 30 years ago and I still have the Tee. Yeah, the collar is frayed, it has holes in it and I don't care. I don't wear the socks and the Tee anymore. I keep them carefully folded up and in 2 special places. They are wrapped in a plastic bag and in my heart.
They have given me an array of clothing and most of it doesn't match because these "threads" were given to me over the years, yep, all from 10 to 20 years old, but they are still wearable so wear them proudly I do!! If this couple that smirked at me on Sunday only knew what an old man with wonderful children has on his body and in his heart I am sure they would smile. But they didn't know and that's understandable. There was no meanness intended.
In truth, I also smirked at them because they were both covered with "Tatts". The woman, very attractive had sleeves of "Tatts" and so did her partner. A very handsome looking man! They made a good looking couple but those "Tatts" ruined their appearance. My opinion so it don't mean "jack"!!
Now, I can hardly wait til Sunday to find the most imperfect wardrobe but totally filled with memories and love!
I give the Lord Jesus Christ all praise, credit, honor and Glory!1 Amen & Amen!!
I bring that up because when I was young I liked threads, not scratch so much and limited to a watch, but threads were my thing.
I used to wear suits to class at Pasadena (CA) City College. I also had some mean "stomps" (shoes) or "Calkos", if your Hispanic. I was styling.
Age has caught up with me because now I don't care how I look. And sometimes it draws stares and smirks from people. I don't really match stuff like I used to and style doesn't mean much. I was thinking about how long I had some of my "threads" and it's approaching between 10 and 20 years. I had to chuckle remembering my youth!! I wouldn't be causht "dead" not styling!
Last Sunday, after church, I went to eat at a Mexican restaurant. It was named "De La Michoacan". As I walked in I went to the "library" (restroom) because that's what us old guys do. I walked past a White couple and they were .... smirking!! I chuckled inwardly because my "threads" were in tune with "old man" style. And that's what brings this blog up.
All of my "threads" were gifts from my children. I have taken care of them to preserve them as long as possible because the love and affection I feel towards my children and our loving relationship. I know I must have looked corny but when you wear something that symbolizes the love I described above then nothing else matters. Heck, I have a long worn out pair of "Nike" socks that my twins gave me 25 years ago. I look at them with a feeling of tenderness in my heart because I know who gave them to me.
My oldest daughter went on a trip to New Orleans about 30 years ago and I still have the Tee. Yeah, the collar is frayed, it has holes in it and I don't care. I don't wear the socks and the Tee anymore. I keep them carefully folded up and in 2 special places. They are wrapped in a plastic bag and in my heart.
They have given me an array of clothing and most of it doesn't match because these "threads" were given to me over the years, yep, all from 10 to 20 years old, but they are still wearable so wear them proudly I do!! If this couple that smirked at me on Sunday only knew what an old man with wonderful children has on his body and in his heart I am sure they would smile. But they didn't know and that's understandable. There was no meanness intended.
In truth, I also smirked at them because they were both covered with "Tatts". The woman, very attractive had sleeves of "Tatts" and so did her partner. A very handsome looking man! They made a good looking couple but those "Tatts" ruined their appearance. My opinion so it don't mean "jack"!!
Now, I can hardly wait til Sunday to find the most imperfect wardrobe but totally filled with memories and love!
I give the Lord Jesus Christ all praise, credit, honor and Glory!1 Amen & Amen!!
PAY ME (part two)
THE NIGHT my father died in England, me and my brothers were ripped from sleep in that same room at a disorienting, early hour. I still remember the lightbulb’s harsh flare.
My brothers were summoned to the kitchen. I was left wee and cold among the thrown-back blankets, straining to catch snatches of the low agonised talk that had invaded the house. I heard “massive heart attack”, “bringing him home”, “coffin closed”.
They said I was too small to be at the funeral.
The house soured after that. My mother fell into a dark eclipse that let out neither brightness nor warmth. Thick shadows seemed to gradually fill the rooms, forcing expulsions. Seeing too much, saying too little, I endured a long, growing up wait until escape.
I administer two legacies now. A house that sits boarded up, awaiting sale, empty save for one back room, filled to bursting with oddments. I can never get around to its clearing.
And I have memories that have blended with imagination to take on, in their frequent revisiting, the surreal quality of recurrent dream.
In one such journey, I see myself creeping with coin in hand, moving clumsily in the dark around shrouded furniture to disinter my moneybox once more.
But when I press my penny down, up out of the black cloak comes a man’s face unsettlingly familiar and not unlike my own, and a grip I cannot resist seizes the hand that holds my offering and pulls me downwards into a deep and whispering dark.
My granny was right: “Sure, that oul’ thing’ll only scar’ the child.”
My brothers were summoned to the kitchen. I was left wee and cold among the thrown-back blankets, straining to catch snatches of the low agonised talk that had invaded the house. I heard “massive heart attack”, “bringing him home”, “coffin closed”.
They said I was too small to be at the funeral.
The house soured after that. My mother fell into a dark eclipse that let out neither brightness nor warmth. Thick shadows seemed to gradually fill the rooms, forcing expulsions. Seeing too much, saying too little, I endured a long, growing up wait until escape.
I administer two legacies now. A house that sits boarded up, awaiting sale, empty save for one back room, filled to bursting with oddments. I can never get around to its clearing.
And I have memories that have blended with imagination to take on, in their frequent revisiting, the surreal quality of recurrent dream.
In one such journey, I see myself creeping with coin in hand, moving clumsily in the dark around shrouded furniture to disinter my moneybox once more.
But when I press my penny down, up out of the black cloak comes a man’s face unsettlingly familiar and not unlike my own, and a grip I cannot resist seizes the hand that holds my offering and pulls me downwards into a deep and whispering dark.
My granny was right: “Sure, that oul’ thing’ll only scar’ the child.”
PAY ME (part one)
PAY ME
He slept in the back bedroom of the small end bungalow that was our home place, a room into which the high hedge let only meagre light, even on the sunniest day.
My aunt took him home with her from a seaside holiday. Invited here for my amusement, he struck a ghoulish tone that discomforted us beneath our laughter.
My grandmother, in her drawn-out Border brogue, would say: “Sure that oul’ thing’ll only scar’ the child.”
And so, after commanding an initial place of sideboard prominence, he found himself confined in a drawer of a dressing table in a corner of the back bedroom. There he would lie waiting for his rest to be disturbed by someone, usually me, making secret pilgrimage to the grim collection point he presided over.
He was a plastic skeleton in a novelty moneybox.
He was the dread numismatist of my childhood.
The rectangle of thin tin was fashioned like a coffin. Painted on its sides were cobwebs dripping with fat spiders, flittering bats with wet, red mouths. A black cloth concealed the coffin’s contents from sight.
And there was a button, marked in scarlet, with the instruction PAY ME illuminated in shivery capitals.
I remember a particular day when, having lifted the moneybox from the drawer, I stood poised with a brown penny hot in my small hand.
An emaciated light squeezed its way between the almost closed curtains. In the backyard I could hear my mother and granny working at the mangle, its grind and the skite of water from the scrunched clothes throwing out familiar, reassuring sounds.
I placed my coin carefully on the button, and pressed down.
A creaky whirr commenced, the workings of the toy’s internal mechanism ingeniously suggestive of a wooden lid resisting its slow opening outwards.
Then, out from under the jet black cloth, came a long, luminous arm of bone, the hand hooked clawlike to drag the coin down into the dark innards of the coffin where it rattled eerily to rest.
And, as the hand retreated, from under the top of the cloth cover appeared a livid green skull that seemed to nod acknowledgement of the token before bobbing back into the folds of its uneasy sleep.
The skull’s tilt forward brought its empty eye sockets and its stripped grin level with my child’s line of vision. The effect, burned into the retina of my imagination’s eye, was one of recognition.
I should have let it go at that, and slipped away into the sun. But I wanted to copy the daring of my older brothers. So, offering no coin this time, I reached my finger forward and pressed down again and again upon the button.
The skeleton’s arm shout out in search of its reward, dropped back with nothing, shot out again. And as the claw of bone scraped along the tin in frustration, the skull rattled back and forth to complete the mime of thwarted anger.
I was hypnotised by the rhythm set by the tiny deaths-head, and the guilt and fear that suddenly filled me permeated the plaything with menace. A message passed between us in a language that would resist full translation until years had elapsed. Trying to trick me was a big mistake, the skull seemed to say. If you don’t pay me, now you’ll pay me later.
I hurried away while the skeleton was still in motion.
He slept in the back bedroom of the small end bungalow that was our home place, a room into which the high hedge let only meagre light, even on the sunniest day.
My aunt took him home with her from a seaside holiday. Invited here for my amusement, he struck a ghoulish tone that discomforted us beneath our laughter.
My grandmother, in her drawn-out Border brogue, would say: “Sure that oul’ thing’ll only scar’ the child.”
And so, after commanding an initial place of sideboard prominence, he found himself confined in a drawer of a dressing table in a corner of the back bedroom. There he would lie waiting for his rest to be disturbed by someone, usually me, making secret pilgrimage to the grim collection point he presided over.
He was a plastic skeleton in a novelty moneybox.
He was the dread numismatist of my childhood.
The rectangle of thin tin was fashioned like a coffin. Painted on its sides were cobwebs dripping with fat spiders, flittering bats with wet, red mouths. A black cloth concealed the coffin’s contents from sight.
And there was a button, marked in scarlet, with the instruction PAY ME illuminated in shivery capitals.
I remember a particular day when, having lifted the moneybox from the drawer, I stood poised with a brown penny hot in my small hand.
An emaciated light squeezed its way between the almost closed curtains. In the backyard I could hear my mother and granny working at the mangle, its grind and the skite of water from the scrunched clothes throwing out familiar, reassuring sounds.
I placed my coin carefully on the button, and pressed down.
A creaky whirr commenced, the workings of the toy’s internal mechanism ingeniously suggestive of a wooden lid resisting its slow opening outwards.
Then, out from under the jet black cloth, came a long, luminous arm of bone, the hand hooked clawlike to drag the coin down into the dark innards of the coffin where it rattled eerily to rest.
And, as the hand retreated, from under the top of the cloth cover appeared a livid green skull that seemed to nod acknowledgement of the token before bobbing back into the folds of its uneasy sleep.
The skull’s tilt forward brought its empty eye sockets and its stripped grin level with my child’s line of vision. The effect, burned into the retina of my imagination’s eye, was one of recognition.
I should have let it go at that, and slipped away into the sun. But I wanted to copy the daring of my older brothers. So, offering no coin this time, I reached my finger forward and pressed down again and again upon the button.
The skeleton’s arm shout out in search of its reward, dropped back with nothing, shot out again. And as the claw of bone scraped along the tin in frustration, the skull rattled back and forth to complete the mime of thwarted anger.
I was hypnotised by the rhythm set by the tiny deaths-head, and the guilt and fear that suddenly filled me permeated the plaything with menace. A message passed between us in a language that would resist full translation until years had elapsed. Trying to trick me was a big mistake, the skull seemed to say. If you don’t pay me, now you’ll pay me later.
I hurried away while the skeleton was still in motion.
If you Love your Mom
The Translation :
I Will Come Back Mother Kissing Your Luscious Head
Divulging My Longing To You And Sipping Your Right Hand's Essence
Nuzzling My Cheek In Your Feet's Soil
Watering The Ground With My Joyful Tears
How Many Nights You Were Sleepless Working To Get Me Sleeping Like A Kid
And How Many Times You Were Thirsty But You Worked To Water Me With All Tenderness
And I Will Never Forget Your Rainy Eyes When I Was Sick
And Your Restless Eye Scared Of Any Danger May Happen To Me
And What About Our Farewell In That Dawn ,, What A Hard Dawn It Was
No Heart Can Ever Describe The Abandonment That You Faced By Me
Then You Said Something I Couldn't Forget Up Until Now :
It's Impossible That You Will Find Warmer Arms Than Mine
Oh My (( Life's Joy )) The Creator Of The Universe Commanded Me To Be Loyal To You
Your Content Is The Secret Of My Good Fortune And Your Love Is My Faith's Sparkle
Don't Be Sad Mother ,, Here Am I ,, I Came To You With Teary Eyes
Don't Be Sad Mother ,, There Will Be No Separation From Now On ,, Until The Separation Of Death
I Will Come Back Mother Kissing Your Luscious Head
Divulging My Longing To You And Sipping Your Right Hand's Essence
Nuzzling My Cheek In Your Feet's Soil
Watering The Ground With My Joyful Tears
How Many Nights You Were Sleepless Working To Get Me Sleeping Like A Kid
And How Many Times You Were Thirsty But You Worked To Water Me With All Tenderness
And I Will Never Forget Your Rainy Eyes When I Was Sick
And Your Restless Eye Scared Of Any Danger May Happen To Me
And What About Our Farewell In That Dawn ,, What A Hard Dawn It Was
No Heart Can Ever Describe The Abandonment That You Faced By Me
Then You Said Something I Couldn't Forget Up Until Now :
It's Impossible That You Will Find Warmer Arms Than Mine
Oh My (( Life's Joy )) The Creator Of The Universe Commanded Me To Be Loyal To You
Your Content Is The Secret Of My Good Fortune And Your Love Is My Faith's Sparkle
Don't Be Sad Mother ,, Here Am I ,, I Came To You With Teary Eyes
Don't Be Sad Mother ,, There Will Be No Separation From Now On ,, Until The Separation Of Death
Respected Welmannered Decent Caring Loving Blogger
Why Hate 
Why not Love
Why fight
Why not Friendly
Why Criticized :: ::
Why not Favorable
Why Became Enemy
Why not Become Brotherly
What Happened To My Bloggers Family.
Forgive nd Bring Love To Each other.
I am Very Worried About the Bloggers Family.
Why not Love
Why fight
Why not Friendly
Why Criticized :: ::
Why not Favorable
Why Became Enemy
Why not Become Brotherly
What Happened To My Bloggers Family.
Forgive nd Bring Love To Each other.
I am Very Worried About the Bloggers Family.
Panic attacks
2am here..sitting in the middle of darkness...Feel so alone n scared...dont know how to handle my restless mind..
What Should I Do?
What a happy day to meet old friends, half sister, sing along with the guitarist and tomorrow great plans are waiting.
Feeling lucky though he has not come yet
Mom and sister asked me to have a baby even i have not found a good match yet... they both say it is very difficult if i wait longer
what should i do 
CANADA !!!!!
I WAS IN THE PARLIMENT -ON A TOUR - & I COULD NOT HELP BUT NOTICED THAT DESPITE OUR "PRESENT TROUBLED - TIMES " THIS ENTIRE BUILDING SYMBOLIZES THE VERRY "HEART "OF ALL MY "DEAREST -BELIEFS" & I MEAN "MAGICK" ALL OVER THIS CASTLE THERE ARE ENGRAVINGS & STATUES OF "ELEMENTALS " COMING TOGETHER -WITCH MEANS THAT AT SOME POINT IN HISTORY ALL OUR GOVERNMENTS & COUNTRIES & RELIGEONS MADE A "COMMUNION" -WITH THE" ELEMENTAL " FAMILY-FACULTIES " OF THE "EARTH" !!! I LIKE THAT - I WISH WE AS A PEOPLE OF "EARTH" WOULD LIVE & EXIST IN A MANNER "CONSISTANT" WITH THE "HEART" OF THIS "COMMUNION-WITH THE ELEMENTALS" !
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