The Great Drapery Hanging

jez-timms-iotaVuS6laQ-unsplashI’ve had a drapery hanging ordeal at my house this week. You see, I have these wonderful draperies that are loosely woven. They have a separate lining that can be drawn to let the light though in day or can be closed at night for privacy. They were made for another house that I lived in and when I moved, I kept them.

Of course, draperies made for one house never work in another, so they have been stored in my attic for years, waiting for the day when I would take down the cheap tiebacks in the living room and hang them. Though the curtains on the windows were cheap, they had one great advantage — they were already hung.

Eventually, I redecorated the living room and decided to wash the tiebacks. Sun and age had done their job, and what came out of the washing machine was a bunch of strings. When something is that old, it is best just to leave it alone, I found.

But wait, I have other drapes! They were in their plastic wrap, covered with dust in the attic. Though old, they had not been subjected to wear and were almost like new. Since couldn’t find a rod long enough to hang them, I ordered one off the net, and finally did the detested task of putting them up.

End of story? Hardly.

My new kitten took an instant liking to the drapes — or should I say to climbing them with little claws digging. After saving the drapes all these years, now they were being destroyed by a kitten.

No one had much advice other than to take the drapes down until she was older. Take them down? I had just put them up. The idea was to not buy more cheap drapes, and I could not leave my windows bare with all the world looking in.

Meanwhile, the kitten learned to climb to the top of the drapes and sat on the rod, looking down at the me. I must admit it would have been amusing if we were not talking about my best drapes.

As soon as the cat was fully grown and much stronger, she simply by-passed the climbing part and leapt from the back of the chair to the top of the curtain rod. Old habits are hard to break, and cats apparently can walk a tightrope — or a curtain rod.

The size and weight of the animal eventually took their toll, and the curtain rod broke. The beautiful draperies hung sadly, dragging the floor and refusing to open. Each time the cat decided to play king of the world, things got worse.

Nothing to do but buy a new rod and rehang them.

Every time I hang curtain rods, I think of the classic story by Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych. You probably read it in college lit. Ilych died a prolonged and painful death during which people became alienated to his suffering and eventual death. It’s a terrible story, but just as terrible is that the injury that led to his fatal condition was a fall while hanging draperies.

So here I am jumping from lamp table to chair hanging draperies and hoping I don’t end up like Ivan Ilych.

As it turned out, the rod was not broken — naturally — since I had already bought a new one. The rod had just somehow slipped out at a joint. I could have fixed it months ago instead of putting up with sagging drapes due to my fear of hanging curtain rods.

I’m not sure who to blame this particular ordeal on, myself, the cat, or Leo Tolstoy.

Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss


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Progress Comes to Town


My one-horse hometown finally got too big for its britches and started to grow. They’ve been working on the new shopping center over by the Interstate for some time. I didn’t really pay much attention. After all, there seems to be a bulldozer digging dirt somewhere every place you look these days.

Then it opened.

New stores, a discount store, a department store, all kinds of little shops. It’s like another whole city over there, only two miles away. Other people seem to be like me, though. They can’t get used to the idea of shopping somewhere else. You still can’t find a place to park at Walmart while the aisles at the new Target are like a bowling alley.

I guess we will all adjust sooner or later.

I went to Target the other day. It was my daughter’s birthday and I wanted to get a gift card. I looked around a little bit, but it was like any other new store. I couldn’t find stuff, didn’t know where to look, and had to ask someone. It was annoying.

Some people are freaking out about it. “It’s killing the old downtown,” they say. “Need to support our local merchants,” yadda, yadda. I’m not against people making a living, but, face it, this town has been dead for a long time. It just didn’t have enough sense to shut its eyes. Maybe a few new stores will rattle the cage and wake up the economy.

Yesterday my printer cartridge ran out of ink. “Oh, rats! Have to go all the way to Staples in Murfreesboro to get a new one.” Then I remembered. We have a Staples store here now! So, I hopped in my shoes and took off for the new shopping center. I could park right by the door. The crowds haven’t found it yet.”

I just hope they have what I need, I thought. I didn’t need to worry. All the shelves were fully stocked. Wonder if they could have that jump drive like I’ve been looking for? I need some printer paper, and some photo paper, and well, you get the picture. By the time I got out of there the printer cartridge cost me $200 with all the extras. This new shopping center may be a little bit too handy.

“I love your store!” I told the checker at the cash register. “You have everything that everyone else is sold out of!”

She looked a bit surprised, but soon came to her senses. “Do you have our Rewards Card?” Ah, yes, the impersonal, “personal touch” of these big box stores. She found my card on the computer faster than I could find it in my wallet.

Yeah, it’s going to take me a while. I’m just not used to the Big City being in my front yard. It’s always been down the road a bit, just inconvenient enough to keep me at home.

History has a place and sometimes it can be revitalized. There are examples, usually where there is high-density population and little place for growth — or a lot of tourists. But I think we are stuck with the inevitable. People are going where they can shop conveniently, find what they need, and most of all where there is parking.

Me too.

Now if I can just figure out how to get in and out of the danged place without turning at the wrong light, on the wrong road, or the one that doesn’t go anywhere.
At least I knew where I was in the old town, even though I might have to circle that stupid roundabout three times before I could get out of it.

The bull dozers are still digging and more stores are going up all the time. You can’t stop progress, they say. Newer is better. Asphalt will surely inherit the earth.

Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss
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Learning to Drive

chevyAt the age of sixteen one of the most important things in life was learning to drive. My early driving experience was in an old 50’s Chevrolet that belonged to my family. It was black and looked a lot like a bug – not the Volkswagen Beetle variety, but more like a large black roach.

What it lacked in appearance, however, it made up for just by being a set of wheels.

The old Chevy had a clutch and standard transmission. The clutch pedal was next to the brake and every time you stopped, you had to step on the clutch to disengage the transmission or the motor would die. You shifted gears a lot with a standard transmission, from low, to second, to high with each stop, while slowly letting out the clutch after each shift and giving the motor gas. I did a lot of jerking and killing the motor until I learn how to make it all work together.

Daddy didn’t much want to let me borrow the car keys, but he didn’t want to say no either, so he devised various ways to discourage me. I had to be able to back it out of the driveway myself if I wanted to drive the car. That seems easy enough until you find out that the driveway was two narrow strips of concrete about a foot wide and only about 6 inches from the side of the house. I knew that if I scrapped the house and wrecked the car that was the end of my driving forever.

Daddy never had the motivation or patience to teach me to drive. I received my driver’s license in summer school. My friend Kathy and I got up at 6 AM and stood in line at the front door of the high school to register for the drivers’ education class. Demand exceeded availability.

In the class a group of four of us were in the car at the same time, Pat, Bugsy, Kathy and me. If Daddy thought I was an irresponsible driver, he should have seen Bugsy. We sat in the back seat and covered our eyes when Bugsy took the wheel. Our instructor, Mr. Dumont, had a lot of patience, fortunately, and an emergency brake on his side of the car.

It was Mr. Dumont who suggested that we would earn trust and use of the car keys easier if we would show interest in the family car at times other than when we wanted to use it, such as, by offering to wash it. However, Daddy became wise to that and soon wanted me to wash it first before I could use it to go anywhere. The old Chevy took me to many a school function and football game in high school and was the cleanest roach in town.

Being the piece of junk that it was, the car had a few unusual mechanical problems. It would occasionally lock up and refuse to go. I had to learn to wiggle the part under the hood that would make it unlock. Eventually, Daddy ingeniously wired the choke to the offending part so it could be wiggled without even getting out of the car.

Driving in those days was much more of a challenge than it is now with automatic transmissions and complex computers that prevent imaginative do-it-yourself fixes. Cars were a very big part of life in the time of drive-in restaurants, drive-in movies, family road trips, and cruising.

Somehow I drove through my teens without accident or incident and earned my access to wheels. Becoming independent and being able to go places on my own was part of becoming an adult and learning responsibility.

And as an added bonus, driving just about anything else in the world seemed easy after learning to drive in the old 50’s Chevrolet.

Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss
Posted in Automotive, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Water, Water Everywhere

With Hurricane Dorian bearing down on the East Coast and perhaps staying out to sea instead of hitting land, I was reminded of this experience a few years ago. Bad as it was, this current storm could be worse — much worse.

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Fantasy Football & the Hot Tub


It’s a terrible thing when you cannot enjoy the luxury of a weekend at a state park resort, but this is the position in which I found myself. Normally, a weekend away from home is an adventure to look forward to, but on this particular weekend my honey’s fantasy football league was having a party at the resort.

To say that I don’t like football is to understate the matter. To state that I HATE football is closer to the truth, but still not quite passionate enough to express the true depth of my feelings. Of course, there was this hot tub at the resort where I could soak away my displeasure and sooth my arthritic bones in liquid warmth. So, yes, I would make the ultimate sacrifice and go to this football party, I thought, as the hot tub called my name.

We arrived and I dutifully went to the testosterone saturated party room. There was food — so I ate. They passed out trophies — so I took pictures. So far, so good. Then it was time for the customary playing of poker and watching of football on TV.

The hot tub called my name even louder than before. “Is it okay if I leave now?” I asked my honey.

I slipped away to change into my bathing suit. Unfortunately, the only bathing suit I had was at least ten years old. I didn’t bother to try it on before I came as I had to wear it; I didn’t have another one. I managed to squeeze into the bathing suit, but my tummy wouldn’t suck in enough to keep my flab from showing. Oh, well, it’s dark outside. Maybe no one will see. I must remember to go shopping for a swimsuit with one of those little skirts, the kind that old ladies wear.

As I arrived at the pool, I realized that my hopes for privacy were lost. Sitting on the side of the hot tub were three plump ladies in shorts with their feet soaking in the tub. I nearly turned around and went back, but the hot tub was screaming my name and my arthritis was throbbing.

I opened the pool door. “How’s the water, ladies?” They didn’t seem any more thrilled at my interruption than I was at their presence. I wondered if they were looking at my flab. However, they were all so overweight that none of them could possibly wear a bathing suit, even if they sucked in and held their breath forever.

The hot water felt wonderful as I submerged in it up to my neck. “This is great for my arthritis!” I didn’t know that I was in the hot tub with three witches until they lit up their cigarettes. They had to be witches! Who in their right mind would smoke in a hot tub except a witch?

“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.” The water bubbled and the steam rose into the cool night air. The witches cackled and continued their conversation, ignoring my presence. I tried to relax, but the water seemed to become hotter and hotter and the smoke thicker.

“Fire burn, and caldron bubble.” Finally, I knew I had to get out or pass out. I decided to call it a night. “You ladies have a nice evening,” I said as I made my exit, stage left.

“How was the hot tub?” my honey asked me later.

“Oh, it was a bit crowed, so I didn’t stay long.” I didn’t mention my narrow escape from the witches’ brew. My honey is a realist and he would have said it was my imagination working overtime.

But, witches are every bit as real as fantasy football teams, and nobody questions their reality.

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
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Let’s Just Walk


We walked, and walked and walked. It’s seemed as if we had been walking for years. Why, oh why, did I ever think this was a good idea? I definitely would not have agreed to come to this game if I had known about THE WALK, which is about a mile for the average fan, about fifty for old women with bad knees.

I thought we were getting here early to find a good parking spot, over two hours before the game. We did find a parking place, how close is a matter of opinion. It was too late to change my mind, so I agreed that we could just walk to the stadium, hoping I could make it, and plotting the murder of my son who gave us the pre-season tickets.

Fast walkers zipped past as I did my best to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Why is everyone in such a hurry? I wondered. It’s two hours until game time. “Slow down! You’ll live longer.” They ignored me, of course, and continue to rush past. Don’t they realize the seats are reserved?

My honey started to get impatient. “Come on!” he said.

“I can’t walk any faster,” I replied with my best shut-up-or-I-may-kill-you look.

He slowed his pace to mine and we continue to walk. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Okay? My knees are killing me!” How could I possibly be okay while trying to walk a marathon?

“Water!” I gasped. “I must have water!” Like a dying person in the desert, my body was starting to dehydrate. The street turned to sand and cactus sprouted as I inched my body toward an oasis. Well, actually it was a street vendor selling bottled water out of an ice cooler, but it looked like an oasis to me.

We walked past ticket scalpers and T-shirt vendors and crossed a parking lot long ago filled to capacity with people and cars. They must have been here since noon, tailgating and partying, waiting for the game to start. Busloads of people who parked in remote lots passed us by with a swish of heat and exhaust fumes. It’s all a plot to torment me more, I thought.

As I gasped for air, I could see a camel caravan through the heat waves in the distance. Actually, it turned out to be mounted police on horses here to control the crowd. “Don’t worry; I’m way too worn-out from the walking to cause any trouble.” We continued our trek across the bridge, being careful to avoid the droppings left by the police camels.

My knees hurt, my feet hurt, my lungs hurt. “Call the paramedics! I can’t make it any further.” My dying wish was for a foot massage. But by then we had actually arrived at the stadium.

We went through the turnstile and were inside. I SURVIVED!

In spite of how exhausted I was, I felt like doing a celebration dance – until I saw the ramps leading to the upper decks of the stadium. “I can’t do it. I can’t walk any more. Haven’t these people heard of escalators? I’m going to faint right here and crack my head on the concrete. I’m dying of heat exhaustion. I can’t walk another step.”

Round, and round, up and up, further and further we walked “Where are these seats? In a weather balloon?” We continued to climb the ramps, passing mountain goats, rock climbers, and scenic overlooks of the city below. Okay, so I was having delusions again. Who wouldn’t?

“I’m having a heart attack, a heatstroke! Where is the first aid station? I need a stretcher.” Just seconds before I hit the ground, we stopped at a refreshment stand and I bought a $5 diet coke which revived me enough to stagger to my seat.

Only sixty minutes till game time and the stadium is nearly empty? Mostly likely they are all outside still looking for parking because, unlike me, they are wise enough not to try to just walk.

Copyright 2003 Sheila Moss
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Groovy Grandma


I don’t know where I’ve been living — somewhere on another planet, apparently, somewhere so far behind times that downloading music from the internet doesn’t
exist as a reality of everyday life.

On this alien planet, people know about downloading music but get all they need from radio, TV, and the other electronic means that bombard them every day. They have no need or desire to download music to a cell phone to carry around with them.

They actually have other things to do besides listen to music 24/7. Imagine that!

However, this is another planet, not another galaxy. They have seen teenagers with headphones grooving to rock. They always presumed it was another teen fad, like MySpace or Hanna Montana. It wasn’t something that the average grandma needed to concern herself with.

Then grandma needed a gift for her grandchild. She looked up the list of age appropriate gifts for grandchildren and there it was right at the top: MP3 player

MP3 player? Boy, that’s enough to shock any grandma back to earth, especially when she is so out of sync with the times that she isn’t sure exactly what an MP3 player is, much less what it does.

It sounds like something a grandchild would love, though. She remembers the tacky little radio with headphones that she got from the dollar store and how crazy he was about it until it fell apart and quit working. What can you expect for a dollar?

The grandma felt herself being snatched right into the 21st century. But those electronic things are expensive, aren’t they? This is something older kids save for or beg for or both, something even an indulgent grandma wouldn’t hand over to an 8-year-old to smash.

So, grandma decides to investigate. Thank goodness for Google. It has save many an old fogy’s self-image. The search helps to explain. There are many music players cheaper, easier, some created just for the younger market — Disney players and kid-friendly players with uncomplicated features.

Armed with this information, grandma decides to take the electronic plunge and purchase a player for her adorable grandson. She settles on a low-priced one, part toy, part music player; it’s made for beginners.

Buying the player gets a grandma halfway there. The other half is learning to download music from the net onto the device. It seems there are multiple sites: YouTube, Pandora, SoundCloud, and numerous others that she has never heard of. Each one claims to be better, bigger, and to have more music selections.

It’s so hard to keep up these days.

This is one time that it pays to be a grandma, i.e. not born yesterday. Grandmas may not know about music, but they do know about Consumer Guide. She finds information that sends her rocketing to out-of-the-world music sites.

And so, that’s how I became a groovy grandma with a music player, headphones and unlimited downloads. If you don’t like the song, just go to another one.

Yep, I’m grooving, moving and shaking. Now, if I can just figure out a way to get that player away from the kid so I can download some more oldies for myself.

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
Updated 2019
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The Germ Freak


Recently, while waiting in a doctor’s waiting room, I was forced by boredom to flip through one of those heath magazines written specifically for doctor’s waiting rooms. It somewhat reminded me of a high school health education class, with a few horrifying differences.

The magazine was about germs and how we are subjected to viruses and other diseases in everyday life. First of all, I found out that my desk at work is a disease-laden den of filth. The telephone is the filthiest object in my office, followed by my desktop and then my computer keyboard. According to the magazine, I need to clean everything twice with a disinfecting wipe to rid it of the germs.

It went on to tell how public restrooms are the epitome of the disease-harboring perils in life. Fortunately, there is practical advice on how to avoid subjecting myself to the germs waiting there to infect me, advice such as, “Use the first stall as it tends to be bypassed and used less,” therefore, it has fewer germs hanging around waiting for hapless victims.

Secondly, studies by bathroom spies found that most people do not wash their hands. Of those that do, most do not use soap or do not wash long enough to rid their hands of germs picked up from door locks, faucets, and door knobs. I must be sure to wash, wash, wash and not to touch anything on the way out except with a paper towel or the bathroom spies will report me.

I should not shake hands with anyone or touch handrails on escalators or stairs. I should not press elevator buttons expect with my elbow. Few people will be impressed by my politeness when I refuse to shake hands, so it is necessary to make up some sort of lie, such as, “I have a cold and I’m trying to avoid spreading germs.” If I fall down the escalator and break a leg trying to avoid touching the handrail, remember the positive side, at least I won’t have the flu.

Another prime place to catch disease germs is from grocery store shopping carts. Not only do many unwashed hands touch the handles of these carts, people put their children in them, children who wipe snotty noses ands and then touch the same handle that is used to push the cart. I am not exactly certain how to push a cart without touching the handle or how select produce without touching it with the same hands I use to push the cart, but this is the ideal.

Even the air is polluted with germs. People who sneeze without covering their nose spray germs into the air to be breathed in by other people who then catch their cold. In fact, anyone within three feet of a person with a virus will most likely be breathing their germs, especially in spaces with poor ventilation or where people are in close contact. I am trying to hold my breath as much as possible, but am starting to feel like a germ freak.

I wonder exactly how we are supposed to protect ourselves from all these germs penetrating every aspect of life? My entire world is an infectious disease waiting to create an illness. It is enough to make a person into a germ-a-phobic who spends half the day in the bathroom washing hands.

I’ve been paranoid about germs every since I saw that magazine. My throat felt a little scratchy this morning and I am afraid that I might sneeze before I have time to grab a tissue. How can that be when I’ve been opening doors with my elbow and wiping everything in site with disinfecting wipes?

I really don’t know how I could possibly have caught a virus — unless the person who read the doctor’s office magazine before me sneezed on it or didn’t wash their hands.

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
Posted in Health, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Getting the Kids Back in School


School days, school daze — it’s almost all I hear at this time of the year. Kiddies are all excited about their new backpacks crammed with number-two pencils, three-ring binders, wide-ruled notebook paper, football trading cards, yo-yo’s and whatever else they can sneak in. Yes, I’ve had those calls from the school about the rubber snake too.

Been there. Done that!

In spite a few little setbacks, I was always happy when the kids were back in school. Free at last! After the summer started out as a lazy, carefree, holiday filled with activities like swimming, bike riding, and picnics, it soon turned sour and became a boring, whining, barrage of, “Mom, I don’t have anything to do. I’m bored! Mom??”

No wonder I was out throwing rose petals in front on the school bus and celebrating with a good stiff drink of black coffee before going out for a manicure and a day of shopping to celebrate my escape.

The kids’ excitement over the start of school lasted for about a week of getting up early, cramming down milk and cereal, and running to catch the bus — or until those homework assignments start cutting into after-school playtime with friends and favorite television programs.

Too soon they were dragging home after school with shirttails hanging out and the knee torn out of their new jeans. “I don’t want to look cute,” the ungrateful little snots whined – and this after the fit thrown for $70 tennis shoes.

Now it’s probably, “My backpack doesn’t have wheels and neither do my shoes. I want a backpack like Joey’s. Mine is dumb! I hate my dumb backpack.”

So it goes.

I have been in the driveway with the car’s motor running waiting for the kids to get home on the first day of school with “The List”. We would go straight to the discount store as soon as they got off the bus so we could get their stuff before it was all sold out. Of course, it never worked since all the other moms were also in their driveways with motors running.

And why is it that the aisles with school supplies are never wide enough? Everyone is snatching, grabbing, and bumping as if they are going to quit making school supplies tomorrow, and they must get a full year’s supply today.

I sneaked a peak on the Internet at the list of school supplies that kids must have nowadays. At least in the olden days I didn’t have to worry about things like hand sanitizer, zip-lock bags, and erasable markers. Guess teachers hadn’t thought about putting them on “The List” yet.

I also couldn’t resist going down the school supply aisle at the Dollar Store, just to see what was there. It was amazing and little resembled the blue cloth notebooks, painted lunchboxes, and tiny scissors that wouldn’t cut of yesteryear.

Yep, I’ve served my time in the playpen. I’ve paid my dues.

Kids will eventually grow up, believe it or not. School days will become a distant memory revived only by the sight of a yellow school bus and the knowledge that you no longer have to worry about whether Johnny remembered his lunch money and if he will lose it before he gets there.

The start of school to us in the privileged, no school-age children group, means little except more traffic during morning rush hour as teachers, buses, and carpools rejoin the madness. It means avoiding certain aisles at certain stores, where harried parents with “The List” and hyper children dig through mountains of school supplies looking for an item that is already sold out.

Good luck! And I’m so glad it’s you now instead of me.

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
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The Starving Artist Art Sale

art“Starving Artist Art Sale this weekend. Real oil paintings at bargain prices!” Okay, I’ll admit it. I was sucked in by a television commercial. Usually, I just ignore this stuff. I know the art isn’t really “art,” just cheap imitations.

Besides, all art snobs know you should buy art first and decorate around it — not buy a painting because it goes with your sofa.

But . . . I’ve really been thinking that I’d like to do something different in the living room. Ever since the great moving episode last summer, one wall has not looked right. I don’t have anything else to do, and it doesn’t cost anything just to look.

“Want to go to the Starving Artist show this weekend?” I asked my honey.


Actually, he likes art, so I didn’t have to twist his arm too hard to convince him.

Now, I’ve always heard that this type of art is mass-produced in China. Like everything else, the Chinese are able to make it faster and cheaper and flood the market with imitations.

They are actually real oil paintings, however, not prints. I suppose it depends on what you want, a genuine, imitation oil painting, or a copy of a better painting. Of course, the best ideal would be to have a good original painting. Unfortunately, real art is often priced out of the range of the average person.

So, I trudged off to the art show at a local motel. As I expected, it was difficult to find anything I liked. Most all of the paintings were of European scenes: mountains, oceans, waterfalls, things the artists had probably never laid eyes on.

In China, they hire anyone who can hold a paintbrush to mass-produce
paintings. An artist may paint as many as thirty pictures in one day. Sometimes several people work on the same painting, each specializing in what they paint best. Or an artist may paint several pictures of the same subject at the same time.

While pay is low according to our standards, apparently many Chinese are anxious to do this work. A shop may hire ten artists to produce originals, which are then copied by other artists. Or, they may make copies of old masterpieces. Many of the artists are very talented and even have degrees in fine art. But they think of the paintings as a commodity, not as a work of art.

Imitation paintings have been around a long time, of course. The art field is saturated with phony art, some of it good enough to fool even the experts. When fraud is exposed, a painting falls in great disfavor, not because it is not still just as good as ever, but because it is not what it was represented to be, i.e. it’s the painter, not the painting that matters.

The Chinese do not think of art as something beautiful to be produced one time. They think of it as a beautiful thing being produced over and over, as in nature. Most of the paintings are sold to commercial buyers, such as hotels and restaurants, who buy art on a large-scale basis. They are also popular with Florida condominium decorators who want pictures that match their decorating scheme and have little concern about art appreciation.

The European themes did not appeal to me. I wanted something more rural and rustic. Then I spotted it! After digging and looking through everything there several times, I saw a framed picture across the room against a wall. It was the only picture like it, old barns, a fence and a wagon. I studied it closer and liked it even more, so I bought it.

It is in my home now on the living room wall. I don’t care that it only cost $59 instead of $1059 and that in was made in China. I like it.

And, did I mention that it matches the sofa perfectly?

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
Posted in Crafts/Hobbies, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments