Anyone Still Out There?

Hello!  

I cannot believe that it's nearly 
3 years -- years! -- since
I last published a blog post.  

Wow.  I am the very definition of lazy. 

I'm not sure I remember how to do this.

The last time I wrote a blog post on this date of September 18 was in 2013.  It was about psychedelic forsythia leaves in the autumn, old doorknobs and rim locks in our old house, and our two dear dogs, Gilda (L) and Dylan DiPoochy (R).

Sadly, only Dylan is still with us.  

Our beautiful Gilda left us two summers ago.  Dylan is now 10 years old.

Time flies when you're having fun.

And you know what else you do when you're having fun?  

You paint your front door pink.  

Because what looks friendlier than a pink front door?

I mean, who would not want to buy a 187-year old house

with a pink front door?  Hmm?

Yes, friends. 

That Old House is for sale.  

It seems odd to even write that.

When we fell in love with and bought this house in 2008, we were 55 years old, and retirement wasn't on our radar yet, and we never thought, "Gee, all these stairs," or "Gee, our kids will be scattered," "Gee, so many rooms to clean!" or "Gee, how will we pay these New Jersey taxes on a fixed income?"

Image courtesy of https://thegraphicsfairy.com/

But now?  We're both 67.

Yes, time does indeed fly when you're not looking!

Howard is ready to retire.

He is tired of the commute into New York City.

(Even though there is good public transportation.

Tell your friends who might want a wonderful old house on good bus and train lines!)

And I realized, as I went looking for pictures of the house, or pictures of parties or events here, or information on pretty much anything else about our home, as I was reminiscing ... I could find anything I wanted on this blog.

  

This poor old blog that I neglected for years,

after I ran out of ideas.  Or stamina.

My writing corner, with a strange bearded man in residence.
Where all the bloggy magic used to happen.  :-)

But now, I am going to chronicle the selling of That Old House, the process, the downsizing, the choices of new location, new dwelling. 

I'll have these newer posts to look back on, when Howard and I are retired and living in a Sears refrigerator box under a bridge somewhere.  Come visit!

:-)

P.S.  Have you retired yet?

All best wishes, Cass

Where've I Been? Right Here!

Happy Summer!

Well ... it's been a long time since I've updated That Old House. 

Since 'way back in February, in fact, when we still had

several feet of snow on the ground, and ice-encrusted windows.

(shudder)

It's a prettier picture now, isn't it?

(Even with all the weeds.)

Confession:  This picture is more than a month old.  The garden is much

advanced since then, but I am too lazy busy to take a new shot.

Mr. Dylan DiPoochy, dog-about-town, is happy

that trips to The Great Outdoors no longer mean a freezing bippy.

Mrs. Gilda-The-Red, pictured in that snowy shot above,

luxuriates on the Grandma swing in the garden.

Gilda is a Great Outdoors kind of gal.

Dylan?  Not so much.

He likes a nice cushy sofa better than

a patch of warm earth.

To each his or her own, eh?

And that's it for today.

Many thanks for the sweet messages I've gotten over the past

few months, for your wonderful kindness,

and I apologize for just disappearing with no explanation.

Because ... honestly? ... there really is no explanation.

I just ran out of steam.

But I think my supply of hot air is bubbling up again.

I'm back.  :-)

See you tomorrow, my friends!

I'm off to re-stock my antiques booth today.  Pictures to follow!

Love and blessings to all; I wish you a wonderful Sunday ... Cass

Picture Postcard Perfect

Okay, I know it's not Spring.
But the Summer flowers are slumping,
and since nothing makes me happier than seeing
flowers that look like they are wearing their
very best over-the-top party dresses . . . . 

Four gorgeous Irises, that once upon a time,

from 2009 to this past May,

bloomed merrily, if briefly, in our borders.

Do you think they'd make pretty postcards?

"Greetings from the gardens at That Old House."

Or, more accurately,

"Greetings from the scraggly borders at That Old House!"

Is any flower more gloriously party-dress pretty

than the rugged iris?  They amaze me, every year.

Buried in blizzards, doused in spring torrents,

persecuted by chipmunks and squirrels,

they still prevail.

Amazing.  What's your favorite flower?  -- Cass

Blog Parties!

A Haven For Vee, for the August Note Card Party.

A Southern Daydreamer for Outdoor Wednesday.

Christmas Primping

It was a working weekend for my husband.

We picked out our fresh tree at a local nursery on Saturday,

and hauled it home in the back of the minivan.

On the drizzly Sunday, up it went in our sunroom.

Howard worked, Dylan snoozed,

I snapped some pictures and, um, supervised.

This year's tree is very dark and dense, and it has

consumed 1,300 lights and still looks not bright.

But since we don't want to cause a brownout in the neighborhood,

we are not adding any more strands!

I began tossing the ornaments on the tree, and as of last night

I'd worked my way through one Rubbermaid bin.  Almost.

Lots more tree and hundreds of ornaments to go! 

Why is it so wickedly hard to take pictures of Christmas trees?

 I decided to take some pictures this morning.

But when I looked at them, they looked . . . odd.
Kind of cool looking, but distinctly odd.

Turns out, Anne had been using my

Nikon Coolpix camera, which I rarely use,

and had left it set on an "only find the red colors" setting.
Duh.

 So what was I doing while Howard was manfully
stringing hundreds of teensy lights in our tree?

 I emptied the Rubbermaid bins full of Christmas decor.  As usual,
the dining room is the staging area.  North Pole, New Jersey.

So things are progressing here at That Old House.

I am getting very into the Christmas spirit, getting excited!

Dylan Dog, however, is taking things rather casually.

As he sees it, his job is still to scramble for treats, be adorable,

perform dogly duties such as being a lap desk for Anne's Ipad,

keep us on our toes by testing his limits

(most recently: "Dylan, no! Don't EAT the tree!"),

and grab a snooze whenever the moment seems right.

Like, now.

So goodbye for this Monday, from me, and Dylan,

and That Old House -- Cass

Blog Parties!

At Little Red House, it's Mosaic Monday, so click here!

At Between Naps On The Porch, Metamorphosis Monday is the place to be. Click!

P.S.  Dear friends -- I, like you, have shed countless tears the past 4 days, in our national -- no, worldwide -- agony of grief for the families in Newtown, Connecticut.  Is there a remedy for these incidents in a free society?  I think the best personal response that I've heard, other than our prayers, thoughts, hearts, is to respond to this random violence with random kindness.  I'm not sure how I'll accomplish this, and this won't affect those at the fringes who perpetrate these monstrous acts, but it is something, and most importantly, it is the opposite of what was done on Friday in that small New England town.  And, I can celebrate the birth of Jesus, and still rejoice in that.

Boo-Boos And Bumps

It's 7:55 on Thursday morning at That Old House,
and Howard and I are waiting for an insurance
adjuster to come at 8:00 and look at the boo-boos
on our house, left by Storm Sandy.

It's a chilly morning.

Not only is there frost on the pumpkins,

there's frost on the red minivan.

Frost is not all that is on the red minivan.

There are lots of boo-boos there, too.

And some deer hairs.

That's a pile of grille and other car parts on the right side of the picture, on the grass.

Last night, on a very dark and wooded part of Route 10

in nearby Randolph, a deer and I crossed paths.

As bad as the minivan is, it's in better shape than the poor deer.

And I am fine.

Except I keep hearing the thud, and seeing the blur of tan fur.

Our insurance company was not surprised;

they are get a lot of these calls.

New Jersey's roads are littered with deer this time of year.

I am sure there's no connection, but there were a lot of deer
in our yard this morning, including an enormous buck with
a very impressive rack.  I got a little nervous, thinking
that they'd sent their best hit man (hit deer?) to get me . . . .
After all, these are Jersey deer!  -- Cass