Looking at RR's bottle tree, loving it and thinking that perhaps it's all in the artistic talent and eye of the maker.....and of course placement and lack of resin gnomes and frogs that make is pretty. When he retired, my uncle started "making things" He had seen a wind chime made from various cut off bottles, with a hole drilled and carefully arranged so they all didn't clang together at once. So he took to glomming on to every empty bottle he could find, cutting it and stringing it up and giving it away. His next project was wind chimes made from forks and spoons strung on a bent coat hanger. They clanked in a breeze. Then there was another man who took up rug hooking when he retired. He bought kits and tied knots like mad. Their house was covered with furry rugs, hanging on benches, on the back of the sofa, on floors and piled in a corner. Another person took up needle point and in 5 or 6 years all available space was covered with needle point renditions of someone else's art. We had Pinky, Blue Boy, The Mona Lisa and even Van Gogh's sunflowers. A beautiful home was turned into a display of kitsch....but it kept them off the streets! LOL! I have seen some very lovely "art" made from broken pottery....but I have also seen some stuff that is pretty much broken dishes glued to something. The line between art and craft is fine.....and the line between craft and junk perhaps even finer....and some don't seem to see it. As an example, I made a trip to New York several years ago to see Christo's Gates. I found it moving, exilerating and endlessly fascinating. I posted on another forum what I had done and how wonderful I thought it was.....and was booed and hooted at ridiculed for bothering to view something quite as silly as that. Art doesn't need the approval of others to be "art". Van Gogh died penniless with a stash of things like whirling suns and swirling clouds and flowers beneath his bed. Pollock also died broke. Frieda Kahlo's work never sold until after her death when Madonna started collecting. I have seen several gardens that were full of "repurposed" items, the toilet planter, the shoe planter, the frog under the hosta and the elf sitting on a rock. Some were lovely and charming, while a few others were a collection of junk. What makes the difference? I guess it's the skill of the person putting it all together. Scuse the ramble, I guess it always boils down to "To each his own" or "chacon a son gout", but I never understand why someone feels the need to defend their own taste, or feel insulted if someone else doesn't like what you like. Why would anyone feel threatened because I don't like plastic gnomes in my yard, nor Robert Kincade (however he spells his name) on my walls nor canned soup in my casseroles? It's your house, do what you like. Linda C

I'd probably make a comment to her, (loud, since she probably is saving the batteries on her hearing aid) something to the effect that this isn't the line for casket selection but I understand why she's in such a hurry, and tell her I hope her life-alert works when she breaks her hip! Well, maybe not, but if I were in the right mood... There's a diner that I stop at occasionally. Clientèle is largely elders (lots of Buicks parked out front!) and it's a lot of fun to go there. Friendly folks. Not a lot of places I go to these days where I'm the kid of the crowd anymore it seems! When it comes to butting into line, there's other groups that frustrate me. How many times I'm heading to the number dispenser and someone runs over, jumps in front and grabs a number so they can be ahead of me. But they're in a bigger rush than I am. I should start carrying a cane.... and trip 'em! :) But, that would be wrong... wouldn't it?

I lurk here, a lot. I don't usually have much to say, although I do enjoy your posts. I posted on GJ for a long time, but that was a long time ago. Things evolve, a bunch of new ones join up, and the forum changes. It is the way it is supposed to be, I think. I am coming out of lurkdom to tell you that I do have some of those tires in my garden. They are painted all sorts of garish colors, and I actually grow vegetables in them. My DH cut them for me, and spent time turning them inside-out for me, and I am not going to hurt his feelings now by not using them. Besides, we have the most unbelievable black gumbo soil here. None of this nice sandy loam for us. God gave us soil that has absolutely no air in it, slick as boiled okra when it is wet, adobe when it is dried. So, we grow in raised beds, and these cute little beds are perfect. Fill them with good topsoil, good compost, and we can grow anything. A tire will grow 2 or 3 nice tomato plants, a couple of peppers, a package of lettuce seeds, or beets, or carrots, or maybe an eggplant or a couple of zuchini plants. I can weedeat the pathways to keep them neat. The tires do hold up very well to the punishment of the weed whacker, and they will last longer than all of us will. I guess I could paint them all green so they wouldn't stand out so much, but it's just a vegetable garden. And my grandkids love them. They each have a little salad garden in their own tire! LOL Janie

here's her BAKE A THON post! Aunt Marlens Bake-a-thon: The Report This will be as long as the day was. At 8 a.m. the cleaning lady Marta arrived along with her sister Carmen and a friend she introduced as Rosa. Rosa is a stern-looking hefty woman who looked like she could take on The Rock (thatÂs another wrestler, Murphy!). She was perfect for the ordeal to come! I was going to give them each a cattle prod for disciplinary purposes but then realized I had not caller-blocked the number to the child abuse hotline. At 8:20 the doorbell rang and I opened the door, me a vision of holiday loveliness in my bright red outfit with my Santa Claus and U.S. flag pins and my red Christmas ball earrings. Immediately, a 5-year old with chicken pox was thrown at me! I tried to throw him back but his mother stuck her foot in the door while screaming that the red spots on his face were only an allergy reaction and that he was fine. He was holding on to my neck, smiling and asking for cookies, so maybe he was fine. Nevertheless, I asked his mother to raise her right hand and solemnly swear Bin Ladin was not using her child as a weapon of mass destruction. She laughed, kissed me and ran happily to her car. And weÂre off! By 9:30 the gang was all here. I had 17 offspring ranging from 3 to 17 years of age. Besides all the food I had in the house, I also had diapers, milk bottles, baby food and what look like a miniature turkey baster which I was told is used to stick it up a kidÂs nose to extract snots. I took a moment to threaten the 13-year old FSK. Those are not his initials; itÂs just how I think of him. It stands for Future Serial Killer. (Oh, you donÂt know him so pipe down!). He has not done anything really terrible yet, but give him time. He does play these horrible practical jokes which are anything but funny. Like the time he put lots of plastic puke in the bathroom during a family fiesta and one of the grandmothers wet her pants cause she could not bear to go in there. I told him with me he had to toe the line or lose both his feet. I divided the gang into 4 groups and named the 4 oldest kids "Baking Coordinators." There are glass double doors leading from the kitchen/family room into the covered terrace so tables were set up outside so the mixing could take place there in order to minimize a decrease in property value. There was noise and measuring and mixing. There was so much flour in the air I thought foghorns would be set off. The FSK found a brownie mix in the pantry and asked if he could make that. I agreed figuring while he is doing that he will not be stealing the keys to my car to go joy riding and maiming people. The chicken pox kid was trying to add blue food coloring to confectionerÂs sugar and had more on him than in the bowl. With the red splotches and blue food coloring on his face against his ivory white skin he looked as if he had some sort of patriotic fungus. I did not see any of the 4 dogs about and I was told they were cowering in a corner of the living room. MartaÂs resolution to "clean up as we go" was futile within the hour. As I was measuring chocolate chips the 5-year old next to me mumbled something about earrings and stuck a maraschino cherry in my ear, apparently thinking it matched my earrings. I smiled and patted her head lovingly. I then was going to remove the cherry so I could stick it up her nose but I realized it was helping to dim the off-key screeching of Christmas carols coming in from the terrace. It was a horrible sound, but on the bright side, it was deterring crime in the neighborhood. So I left the cherry where it was and went to stand on the other side of her hoping sheÂd find another ingredient for the other ear. Just then Carmen let out a scream and said, "Senora, one of your dogs is licking diarrhea off his rear end!" We all gasped and turned to look at Wolfgang doing just that, but I knew it wasnÂt diarrhea! The FSK had smeared brownie mix on his rump to freak us out! I TOLD YOU!! I knew I was going to kill him and was pondering how to dispose of the body among the cookie batches when Rosa got in his face and told him, in no uncertain terms, that if Wolfgang was not cleaned up within 5 minutes he would be the one licking the dogÂs butt. I am now officially in favor of human cloning as long as it is confined to Rosa. I loooooove that woman! The three of them went off towards the guest bathroom and the baking continued. They returned looking like the U.S. Swim Team and Rosa announced the guest bathroom was now an indoor pool. By about 5 p.m. we wrapped the cookies for the ride home and a few parents were already there. Then there was silence and it was time for Aunt Marlen to cry her eyes out and babble incoherently. You see, last year the kids had pooled their allowance money and with a little help from the parents gifted me with the most beautiful cut crystal cake plate with dome and matching server. I was hysterical at the time but this year I told them they were positively forbidden from spending their money on me. As they stood there in silence smiling at me I said there had better not be a gift for me. The 9-year old piped up that there was a gift, but that nobody had spent any money ON me but FOR me. And I was handed a letter which certified that a $100 contribution had been made in my honor to the local animal shelter. "ItÂs for the doggies, Aunt Marlen" I was told. And at that time all pain left me and I thanked God for every brat around me. And whose idea was it? THE FSKÂS!!!! And he sat there, grinning at me, all of his wet self! I know what you are thinking, that I pegged him wrong. Well, I didnÂt! He will still grow up to be a serial killer but at least now there is hope he will only murder other serial killers instead of innocent people. Hugs and lots of kisses on my wet cheeks followed and I was alone at last. I went to the master bedroom and looked at the reflection in the mirror. I looked like one those weird Trekkies. I had lots of food all over my person. I didnÂt even know some of the ingredients had gone into the cookies! I would have given myself up to end world hunger but I know even starving people could not bring themselves to lick me. I then heard DHÂs arrival from work. He walked into the bedroom, took one look at me and said in his supportive tender loving way, "Wow, you look like nuclear waste!" Caught in the spirit of the moment, I asked him in a sultry voice if he wanted "to get it on." He replied that he not only DID NOT want to get it on, he wanted to get out of the house. I told him as long as he was out, to pick up a pizza for dinner and headed for the shower. I ate my pizza in bed. Thus, concluded Aunt MarlenÂs Sixth Annual Christmas Cookie Bake-A-Thon. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night! I have the one too where she made the giant muffins...just got to find it!