Tag Archives: Bobbi Rankin

Mom’s Tea Cups ©

A family’s tea cups speak to Bobbi Rankin

tea cupsThe English have a long-standing tradition of afternoon tea.  It’s a social event, a way to meet people and when the chips are down they always find comfort and stability in coming together for tea and cucumber sandwiches.

This ancient tradition was carried over the pond by my great grandmother when her daughter, my grandmother, was very young.  Their destination was a small town in Montana where they settled to live, work and raise their children.  As my grandmother established her own home and family, she made it a point to serve afternoon tea.  Serving tea in the dainty cups and saucers helped to bring to this uncivilized cowboy town, the civility and comfort this tradition represented.

My mother grew up with this tradition flowing through her veins and cherished her own cup of afternoon tea.  I can still see this dignified woman (The 1950’s Woman) holding the saucer in her left hand and with her pinkie poised, the cup in her right.   She would gaze out the window seemingly to remember the afternoon teas spent with her mother.

As the years went on and my parents left Montana to capture a new life in California, my mom brought along her cherished tea cup collection.  This collection no longer sat on an open wooden shelf in the kitchen of their Montana countryside home.  Instead, my mom created a place of honor for those precious porcelain pieces and the memories they inspired.  She purchased a tall, lighted cabinet that proudly displayed her cup and saucer collection.

My mom never lost the place a cup of afternoon tea filled in her daily life, until came the time when this tradition was replaced with jobs and family related restraints.  However, she held onto the pure enjoyment that drinking tea brought her and the place it held in the social gatherings of family and friends.

tea cupsThe day finally came when I had to decide what to do with her collection.  While I do enjoy an occasional cup of tea, I’m a coffee drinker.  When I would drink tea at my mom’s home, I’d gladly use her cup and saucer.  Anywhere else, I’m happy with a mug.  You see where this is going, I’m sure.  Literally, what am I to do with this collection?  My mom kept many things she never used.  I’m one who keeps only what I use and let others have the overflow.

I did find a solution in giving away a set to any members of our family who wanted to treasure my mom’s memory.  I too kept the set I most frequently used when sharing a cup with her.  This English tradition doesn’t flow through my veins but the memory of that time of precious civility and afternoon tea with my mom comes flowing back to me whenever I see the set sitting proudly in the corner of my kitchen, right next to my favorite mug.

photos courtesy  Bobbi Rankin

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Hiking Path ©

Hiking with Bobbi Rankin

hikingI hike, she runs.

The path I usually hike, in the foothills near my home, has become mundane.  I have the choice of at least 5 different routes I can trek over these beautiful tree covered hills, with sweeping views and roaming grasslands.  I’ve been hiking them for a few years and I’ve seen all this beauty from every possible angle.  I’m ready for some new adventure, new hills to climb, new vistas to find. Until one day last week, I brought my daughter along.

She’s a runner.  Her mother, that’s me, is a hiker/walker.  Because of the pace difference I was all of a sudden viewing this familiar area with a new set of eyes.  Immediately, she began to run circles around me.  Her motivation is get out there and get back, as quick as possible.  For me it’s quite different.  I place one foot methodically in front of another, pacing myself as I mosey on down the path.  She’d run way out in front of me then comes running back.  Back and forth, back and forth.  This method is being used so we can “spend time together”.

As she approaches, I’d comment on that amazing oat tree or try to draw her into looking at the view.  On and On I droll, not realizing that the runner is constantly looking at the ground and not enjoying the views, nor the flora and fauna.  That’s not why she runs.  The sheer pleasure of running in record time, is the personal goal of my daughter.  That quick and efficient way to exercise.  All in all I’m thankful that we really do enjoy each others company and we did enjoy the day.

hikingIn that process I began to see my mundane hiking trail from a different perspective.  My next trek to the foothills was met with a new vitality that had slipped away from me over time.  I began to hike those hills with a new energy and a feeling of freshness.

With this new realization of the beauty and views, I now see this path as a gift to me.  I have many ways I can enjoy the time I spend hiking.  I can look outward, catching as in a butterfly net, all this has to offer me.  I have a few friends that occasionally hike along with me.  We talk, laugh and listen to the stories we tell each other.  There are times I listen to my iPod.  I have moments where mindfulness is what I crave to restore and heal.  Walking through what I call the woodland chapel, now covered like a carpet of spring green clover, is my sanctuary.

This time I spend, a few days a week, hiking those hills is precious to me.  I relish the exercise it provides, the meditation I need and the time with friends.  All of this is valuable to keep me feeling young and vibrant.  My free outdoor hiking time is irreplaceable.  Want to join me?

photos by bobbi & shinazy

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Downtown, A Fine Place To Be ©

Going downtown with Bobbi Rankin

downtown

 Downtown, things will be great when you’re

  Downtown, don’t wait a minute more

   Downtown, everything’s waiting for you

No finer place for sure and the boutique was the frosting on the cake.

In the downtown area, where I grew up, were a large number of shops and stores. 

Some were practical as the Five & Dime, where you could sit at the counter and eat a juicy $.50 hamburger, including fries.  Across the street was the fabric store.  We students from the local high school sewing class bought our colorful fabric there.  Next to that was the hardware store.  It was your typical nuts and bolts kinda store.  A place where the locals see each other and gossip about the less meaningful happenings around town.  There were of course, the stationery store, shoe store and many other places we would roam in and out of on a sunny afternoon. 

A town can’t do without a theater and that was located on the corner near the downtown area.  My friends and I would walk to town and see the latest Saturday afternoon matinee.   We would scamper up into the balcony and find our seats clearly way away from the couples that dotted the landscape, for obvious reasons.  Giggling and trying not to see who was with whom, we ate our popcorn in total rapture of the picture show.

But the best of all stores and shops was the ladies boutique.  My mom – The 50’s Mom – was a saleslady at a mall in the next town; I understood that boutiques were a new concept.  This was where you could find not only the most current fashions but also the higher end, more trendy attire.  I clearly remember when I bought a formal at this boutique in the downtown area, knowing that no one else would have the same dress.  What a thrill.

So, you can imagine my next thrill, when I got my first job there!  Yes, at the boutique, my favorite place in the midst of all the mundane, everyday downtown shops.  I was hired at $1.25 and hour and worked one and a half days a week.  Being a senior and wanting to borrow my parent’s car, I found myself in the greatest of both worlds.    And the only two worlds I cared about at that time.  I was now working at my favorite place AND being paid for it.   Well maybe three worlds, I now had gas money so my friends could go cruising the main drag and get a Coke at the local drive-in.

Life was good downtown and at my favorite boutique, not to mention using my parent’s car, cruising and hanging out at the local drive-in.  I continued working at the boutique through my second year at the junior college.  I then moved on, leaving the downtown and boutique behind, trying my hand at growing up.

Downtown, no finer place……………( Petula Clark )

photo by shinazy

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Casual Cyclist ©

Cyclist and storyteller: Bobbi Rankin

cyclistI’m one of the casual cyclist.

I like my 7-speed Specialized with its comfy seat and handy basket.  I look forward to a time in my week when all the signs point to a good cycling day.

It’s one of those mornings and I wake up early, but not too early.  I look out the window and see the morning fog is receding back over the coastal hills and the wind, the wind is . . . clam.   I hear my bike calling to me from the garage.  Do you hear it say,  “Climb on board and let’s go for a ride?  Let the wind blow through you hair and helmet” (yes, my girls make me wear a helmet).   I do, I hear it say, “Let’s go cycling.”

The path I frequent meanders along the local waterways.  It is a popular place for the serious and casual cyclist, the wanderer, joggers and folks walking their dogs.  Fortunately for all of us, the path is well marked to keep us going in the right direction, similar to driving your car.

So off I go, casually cycling along minding my own business and there, right in front of me is a person haphazardly walking their dog while taking on a cell phone. Yikes, I ring my bell and I say, “Heads up” in a voice that is sure to be heard.   Just in time I see the dog being pulled to the side of the sheepishly smiling person.

As I come around the next corner, in the middle of the road is a family gathered around a stroller rearranging the baby’s blankets.  I grab my brakes, stand on my pedals and loudly say . . . “Heads up.”  Much to their surprise they see that I’m heading right for them.  I do stop, just in time, cause if I hit them I’d be in big trouble.  I like to stay out of trouble.

Ok, two close calls and as I look far ahead of me I see no more obstacles in my way.  I’m glad to say the coast was clear.

Finally, I’m cruising along without a worry or thought in my head.  When low and behold, before me comes a gaggle of geese mossing along enjoying their day as they waddle across my path on their way to the water.  Well, no bell ringing or yelling, “Heads up” will change the course of these geese that, by the way, think they own this water rich area where I live.  So, all that is left to do is stop and lets these geese meander on down to the waters edge.  Obviously the geese can’t read the well-marked path!

I come to a bench where I can sit to take in the beauty of the marshland and all the activity of the local water foul.  I relax into the bench while eating my lunch and enjoying the peace and quiet. Then I begin to laugh at myself as I admit, casual cycling means just that, casual and not taking myself so seriously.  As usual I’ve enjoyed my day in this cycling friendly area.

The bottom line is, it’s always a pleasure to be a cyclist and be with good friends, my bike and me.

photo by bobbi rankin

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Half Dome Reality ©

Bobbi Rankin at Half Dome

half domeHalf Dome became a reality to me this summer.  That awemanousness  (my new word) of a mountain is indescribable.  Or I could say a mastodon of a mountain.  That giant rock that sits among the clouds 8’000 feet above sea level and 4’000 feet above the Yosemite Valley floor, the distance I climbed.  This hike was on my bucket list and the reality is I can now cross it off.

This was nothing I had ever experienced before.  The training was necessary to make this climb and have the feel of fulfillment and not the anguish of defeat.  I say that because being prepared elevates the anxiety, fear and problems that can occur if you aren’t in shape for this “ mother of all hikes”.  And that’s the reality of this hike.

We started early and got back late.  We had plenty of energy bars and electrolytes to drink.  The energy needed for this hike is the most important ingredient along with physical training.

Nature at its best is how many describe Yosemite.  The wonder and majesty of the granite mountains are breath taking.  The trail to Half Dome is sprinkled throughout with winding tree covered trails, many stairs that are chipped into the granite and beautiful waterfalls.  The Merced River pushes it roaring waters over the cliffs at Vernal and Nevada Falls – such a sight to behold.

When I finally arrived at the base of Sub Dome I’m not sure I’m ready for this untethered climb of over 800 granite cut stairs.   As I have come to realize, not much is said about the Sub Dome.  I now know it is harder to climb than the cables of the Half Dome.  I climb the Sub and get to the base of Half Dome.  I pause to take in the enormity of this next phase of the trip and reflect on how far I have come.   As I look around, I realize that this vast wilderness is there for my pleasure, I respect that and I’m grateful for the experience so far.

What lay ahead is my goal.  Where I’ve come from, is my journey.  Along with me on this journey was Rick, or more fondly referred to as “Mr. Half Dome”. This trip was his 32 in ten years and I felt the privilege of him sharing the stories and folk lore of the trail, the mountain and giving me the grand tour.

The cables were the next adventure waiting for me to grab hold of.  And grab I did climbing almost straight up 800 feet to the top.  I felt the reality of my journey the minute my feet touched the top of the Dome.  At the top, I’d come 4’000 feet to be part of and experience something that was so much bigger than I could have imagined when I had looked up at it from the Valley floor.  There I was eye to eye with the tops of the neighboring mountains taking in that mystical, majestic and spiritual moment.  One I’ll never forget.

In my world this was a reality that was so tangible and mystical that it took my breath away.  In my world this was the hike legends are made of.   In my world I am preparing to do this again next summer.

The reality is…I can.

photo by Mr. Half Dome

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The 1950’s Woman ©

A Story by Bobbi Rankin

In the 1950’s, it was not normal to have a mom who worked. The norm was a mom who stayed home and did ALL the housework, shopping (if she drove), cooking and caring for the children. However, not my mom, she went to work. By the time I started school, off she would go to her job and me being the youngest, after school I would go to my friends house, where there was a stay-at-home mom waiting to feed us cookies and milk. After all it was the 50’s.

You do remember those days of “Father Knows Best” and “Leave It to Beaver”?

Do you remember how the mom would have the dinner ready and waiting for dad to come home from work and all the family would sit down together while mom served them their meals?

You remember watching those shows and feeling comfy knowing they were familiar scenes of your daily life. I remember them too but my home life was different. My dad went off to work every day too, but he was the one who sat with me to watch those classic shows of our black and white TV.

There were many times my dad would hop in the car to go do the grocery shopping, by himself. He would also help with the cooking and cleaning. We had hardwood floors that needed waxing twice a year. Dad would always help my mom do that tedious job.

You may wonder why my mom would leave her family to fend for themselves while she was fulfulling her own wants and desires (how scandalous, for sure). She did it not only for her own needs, but also for our family. She worked for the extra income. She worked for the desire to be a more satisfied woman.

My mom grew up in Montana and eventually became a teacher in a one-room school. Her students were mostly Native Americans. Occasionally she traveled back and forth alone on the train from Montana to San Francisco to visit her sister. My mom married in her late 20’s, also not a normal thing for those days. She was an independent woman, as we say today and woman in her own right. A woman who did things out of the norm.

There were times it bothered me to see my mom go off to work in her fashionable black dress, pearls and black heels. That meant she would not be waiting for me after school. I would not find her in a neatly pressed apron with warm, fresh from the oven, cookies and milk. It was, at times, not what I wanted. 

After 3rd grade I became a “latch key kid”. Rarely did I let that dampen my day. What came of those carefree days is that I pretty much raised myself but always knew I was growing up in a loving and caring environment. 

Being “neglected” is not in my vocabulary nor is it in my personality. I was always proud of my mom, she was always a lady, showed her love for our family and me and she was independent. I guess I did well with that 50”s mom of mine. I think some of her independence rubbed off on me. At least I hope it did.

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Cowboy Bill and the Ranch©

This story written by Bobbi Rankin

I still remember those long Sunday drives up the Bayshore, through the city and over the Golden Gate Bridge, on our way to the country, with the three of us sisters sitting in the backseat (without seatbelts) of our parents ’49 Plymouth.  The backseat felt huge and as we sank into the cushions, barely able to see out the windows.  Being the youngest, I saw only the sky as we rode over the bridge wanting to so badly to see the wide-open spaces of the ocean that stretch out to the west of us.  My sisters would often exclaim, “Look, I see a boat out on the bay, an unusual sight in those days.

My excitement soon overtook me and I cared less about the ocean or the boat, as we got closer to The Ranch.  The Ranch was where my cowboy Uncle Bill lived with his wife, Julie and their horses.  The Ranch is where the haylofts, buggies, horses and hammocks were beckoning me to hurry up.  As my mind swiftly began to enjoy my time there, I tried to stay calm but to no avail, annoying the heck out of my older sisters.  When we’d come to that last bend in the road, one of our parents would always say, “First one to see the house gets a pony” and we would immediately sit up, straining to look over the high front seats, wanting to be the one who gets that first glimpse of Uncle Bill’s Ranch.  I’d yell, “I see it, I see it” simultaneously with one of my sister…….” jinks, jinks you owe me a coke” she says to me as I waited in anticipation of getting out of the car and breathing in that wonderful hay and horse fill country air.  As far back as I can remember, I have always been tantalized by the smell of horses and hay.

As we climbed the big wooden stair to the front door, it swung open and there in its huge wooded frame stood my tall, rugged and good-looking Uncle, welcoming us into their home.  I was instantly engulfed with the familiar smells of leather, wood stove and wool rugs as if warm caring arms were wrapping themselves around me.  I loved that feeling.  I loved that place.  I loved being there.  I was in awe of my cowboy Uncle Bill.  Everywhere I looked; there was evidence of his personality and passions.

The simple Craftsman home fit their style and needs, two bedrooms and a bath, with an all-in-one living and dining area.  One of the first things I did upon arriving was to go look in my Uncle’s bedroom.  This bunkhouse style room was a delight for me, a one-day-only cowgirl.  The walls were paneled and hanging from them were his stirrups, holsters and a Stetsons hat.  He had a wooden bunk bed with an original Indian blanket for a cover.  Being born and reared near a Montana Reservation, the whole family was familiar to the ways and wears of the Crow and Blackfoot.  The wooded rocker atop a wood floor was the only other piece of furniture besides a small dresser.  The room spoke western, cowboy and manly.  I could just feel myself on a ranch is the wilds of Montana.  Stark is a good first impression but I could see his past and his present lifestyle all wrapped up in one.  If I was a cowgirl that day, this was my favorite room and I remember thinking that it must have smelled like a bunkhouse.

This was heaven to me or at least what I thought heaven should be or was it just that I was always so happy to be at the Ranch.  To me it felt like we had driven to another world or maybe Montana, for surely this is what Montana must be like.  I was sure the books I would read could never give me the thrills and adventures I had on the Ranch.

It was beginning to get dark as we climb back into the backseat of my parent’s car and begin our trip home.  That cowgirl was being left behind waiting for my return…..and I would return.  By the time we started over the bridge I would sit in anticipation of the foghorn as it signaled the approaching ships that the “gate’ into the bay, was near.  As we winded our way south through the city, I would slowly return to that city girl who had arrived at the Ranch just that morning.  My day-visit felt like a month, a place to become whoever I wanted to be and use my imagination in ways the city could never provide for me.  The many adventures left me tired for sure but bored, never!

photo by bobbi

Rosaries For My Sister

This story written by Bobbi Rankin

 

When I first heard this story, I was enchanted.  I was sitting with my two sisters, one of my nieces and we were taking turns talking of family history and telling our stories.  Our parents Helene and John Rankin came to California from Montana in 1942, hoping for a more prosperous life.  My sisters, who were older than I, had taken a bus trip back to Montana to stay a month with our Grandparents, Bessie and Carl Rankin.  This is their story…

It was the summer of 1947, the country was still recuperating from the war and travel, even to see family, was not nearly as common as it is today.  As they boarded the bus, they looked around in bewilderment and uncertainty.  Accompanied by an Aunt they hardly knew and only remembered as being stern, the two sisters waited for their long journey to begin.  At the ages of 7 and 8, they had no idea what lay ahead except that their Grandparents would be waiting for them to arrive.  The bus and travel was such a new and unfamiliar experience and “when will we be there and how much further” were questions that Aunt Fritzie was not accustom to.

Aunt Fritzie was a strange old bird, as they say.  A short stout woman with almost black dyed hair and very red lips, that left both of the girls a little frightened.  Wanting to go visit her home in Montana, she agreed to chaperon the girls.  This gave their parents some time alone with the new baby and the sisters were excited to see their Grandparents with whom they had fond memories.  Of course, Aunt Fritzie had no patience for the little ones.

The days were long as they rode through the scrublands of Nevada.  For as far as the eye could see those flatlands were void of towns, houses and trees.  In 1947, there was little attention paid to children and their need for entertainment, so their hours were spent either looking around at the others on the bus or out the window at the barren land.

As the bus finally pulled into the station in Hardin, Montana, the girls saw two familiar faces searching the windows for their granddaughters.  The sisters became excited as they spotted their grandparents.  They got off the bus and ran toward the out stretched arms of Grandmother Rankin, relived that this long trip was over.  Grandmother could not get over how the two young girls had grown.  They were so much taller than the last time they had all been together.  The sisters immediately felt comfortable in the presence of these familiar people.  They waved goodbye to Auntie Fritzie again relieved that they would not have to spend any more time in her presence.

For Grandmother, the days seemed long, having these two young and energetic girls in the home all day.  As happy as they were to have these sweet granddaughters, a month now seem like a long time.  With that, she needed to find something to occupy their days while Grandfather was at work.

The Catholic Church was across the street from their apartment and Grandmother knew that there were always things going on there.  The ladies of the parish had many projects and generally kept themselves very busy.  She knew many of these women as some of them, along with the grandparents, were the founding families of Hardin.  Even though Grandfather and Grandmother were staunch Presbyterians, they did mingle with the Catholics.  Grandfather had always kept himself involved in the politics of Hardin and in the public eye therefore, it behooved them to be sociable with all the towns’ people.

The next day Grandmother took the girls by the hand and walked across the street and down into the basement where there was a bustle of activity.  After all, the good churchwoman of the town were the ones who cared for the sick, lonely and dying, and so there was always busy work for these Catholic women to do.

All things of beauty easily distracted the youngest sister.  She saw the world through eyes that cherished flowers, pretty colors or sparkles that shined in the light of day.  She was then immediately drawn to the wall just inside the great hall as they made their way down the stairs.  There, waiting for her eyes to behold was color, lots of color….bright shinny color.  There were reds, blues, purple and all descriptions of mixed colors.  Hanging on the wall there at the foot of the stairs were, in all there array, rosaries.  To her the rosaries hung like necklaces instead of the prayer beads they were intended to be.  Surely, they were waiting for her, waiting to be touched and placed around her neck.  So many, so many colors and beads to see, she could barely take it in.  This sister with the eyes and heart for beauty then walked over to them and very slowly and gently extended her hand, just wanting to have at least one little touch, to feel it between her fingers or maybe to place this beautiful necklace over her head, and to gently dance around in circles.  Just that one day would bring such joy, as she, at age 7, had never known before.

Grandmother, being a gentle person herself, stood by the youngest sister, giving her time to take in all this beauty and desire, then took her hand to steer her away.  She explained that rosaries were for just one thing, they were held while praying, that each bead was a prayer sent to God.  In this young sister’s mind, she too wanted what these Catholics had.  She would promise to pray to God morning and night just to be able to have a string of those beads for her very own.

Just then Grandmother drew her back from her imagination and took both girls into the activity that would hopefully occupy their time for this day and if lucky, for days to come.  Is that not why they came?  This was Grandmothers idea, that there would be enough activity to entertain and keep the girls busy.  The youngest sister, on the other hand, thought that the only reason she was there was to have the privilege of seeing those beautiful hanging necklaces.

At dinner that night while sitting around the table, Grandfather asked the girls what they had done that day.  The older sister immediately started talking about all the busy work they had been a part of and the fun they had at Catholic Church.  At that very minute, Grandfather looked over at Grandmother with a question in his eyes before he could bring himself to ask the question.  What in the world was his wife, his granddaughters for that matter, doing inside a Catholic Church?  Whatever possessed this Presbyterian woman to go inside that church and do busy work with those people!  At that moment, this man of usually few words, forbid them to return.  Forbid them to mingle with these Catholics.  Moreover, that was final!

The youngest sister could not believe what she had heard!  They would not be permitted to go back to the basement across the street.  That basement held such awe and wonderment of those beautiful rosaries.  While lying in bed that night, waiting for sleep to come, she could still see the beauty and sparkle of the Rosaries.  She could still use her imagination to feel the beautiful beads hanging from her neck.

Grandfather had lived among the Crow and Blackfoot Indians since he was a young and newly married surveyor.  His first son, the girl’s father, John Knox Rankin was born on the reservation in 1907.  Grandfather had many friendships with the Indian and local immigrant but for some reason he, as was a common attitude of the time, was prodigious of Catholics.  But to the youngest sister, the only thing she knew was that she would never again lay eyes on that wall in the basement lined with more sparkling beads then she had even known.  To be denied this joy broke her heart and dampened her spirits.

As the days went on there came to be many things of interest and enjoyment for the girls visiting their Grandparents.  As the time came for them to return home, they began to worry about the bus trip and being with that Aunt Fritzie.  The oldest sister told their grandparents that she had a very bad smell and they simply could not sit next to her all the way back to California.  The return trip was delayed for another two weeks much to the joy of all and then our grandparents drove the girls back home.

Knowing my sister as I do today, this story does not surprise me.  One of the reason I am telling this is she is still a lover of all thing beautiful.  She cherishes the new bloom of a rose and the prolific colors of an English garden.  She looks forward to times spent in the D’Orsey or the de Young, viewing works of art.  Sad to see the flowering season end she anxiously waits for the new season of growth and blooms to awaken before her eyes.  Always looking for the sparkle that bring light and joy for her family and the world to see

 

photo by Muffet

Ode to Waxing Leg

This Ode was written by Bobbi Rankin
 
Bobbi’s Legs in Maui
Legs, it’s your turn….
your turn to do something you’ve never done before.
You faithfully have taken me to many places,
you’ve never let me down.
Yes, we’ve done much together.
Now it’s your time,
your turn,
I’m going to wax you for the very first time!
Yes, can you believe it?
We’re going to Maui
the goal is to be smooth, soft and above all
hairless.
There again not wanting to be a slave to the razor,
familiar theme?
Every one of those pesky hairs will be gone by bedtime.
I’ve set it all up
I’ve exfoliated
I’ve dusted with cornstarch,
heated the wax,
sitting on the floor with newspaper all about
let’s get it done!
Ooouch!
Hot wax!
Ok, clam down and do the job,
can’t see the backside of my legs…
apply, pull, pile the hairy wax out of the way.
I’m getting it,
actually pulling those hairy suckers out,
be gone you pesky hairs!
FINALLY
I think I’m done.
I jump up, elated, but oh,
I realize wax is still stuck to my legs
wax is under my fingernails
wax is on the floor.
AND what else do I see?
Hairs sticking up in defiance?
where are my tweezers?
After all the goal is to go to Maui with hairless legs
even if I have to pull ever last renegade out by hand!
Mission accomplished
the goal is completed,
now you smooth legs you can proudly carry me to Maui.
 
I think next time I’ll pay to have this done….            
I’m off to bed.
Ooohhhhh ….the sheets feel so good against these hairless legs!    
 
photo by bobbi

 

FOLLOWER Friday: Ode to Bobbi’s Eyebrows

  An Ode by Bobbi Rankin
Yo, eyebrows where have you gone? 
I see less and less of you every day 
You let me down
You betrayed me
I have a few words for you…… 
In my youth you were strong,
Arched and nicely dark brown. 
You were the envy of my friends
So easy to care for, too. 
I could wink and flirt with confidence
Having the fullness of the perfect brows.
Today, I must color you when I color my hair
I’ve become a slave to my eyebrow pencil. 
Oh, too much pencil color or too little?
This becoming the ongoing morning battle.
Now, more than ever as age begins
To try and take you away,
I need you. 
I need you to be strong
I need you be of color,
To help me face the world
I want you eyebrows to stay the same
And not let me down…
Not disappoint or betray me…
You know what I talkin’ about?
Alas, at this time in my life,
Have I not more fun and important things to do
Than to pour such pity onto myself,
Over eyebrows?
Really?  
I think I do. 
I think I’ll put my cap on
Go for a long walk along the lagoon
Enjoy the world
Enjoy my life as it is today. 
I know for a fact that I have today,
Faded eyebrows 
You aren’t important any more.
I think I’ll save myself this grief
Simply say no more,
About my eyebrow betrayal, that is. 
For as sure as I’m sitting here
I do have more important things to talk about
About . . .
    photo by bobbi
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