Beach House in the Burbs

We live in Georgia, work in the shadow of Kennesaw Mountain--home of Kennesaw Mountain National Battlefield Park, site of the Civil War Battle of Kennesaw--learned the story (at the least the white Southern version) of the War of Northern Aggression before we could speak. But a Civil War trench, right in our own backyard? Doesn't seem likely. We own a of residential lot, left over from Chris's days as a remodeling contractor/builder. We've had it on the market for a while, not really expecting it to sell in this economy, but as our agent says, "it doesn't hurt anything to keep a sign in the yard." Well, we got a contract this week. A very nice surprise. A bigger surprise was one of the special stipulations on the contract. If a Civil War trench exists on the property, the buyers don't have to close. The picture that jumped into my mind when I read that was of Indiana Jones-type archeologists trooping through the wooded lot, then suddenly dropping into a tr...

... OK, not into a bar. It's not a joke. Chris walked into the alternations shop the other day, wearing a cap because his bald head gets cold, to pick up a pair of pants he'd had hemmed. He looked quite handsome in his cap, apparently, because Sandy, the owner, said, "You a very handsome man. You need more hats." So, along with his pants, she handed him a large shopping bag full of a bizarre collection of hats and scarves. I know because he brought them all home. Inside the bag were such treasures as a pink and white baseball cap with an after-market elastic chin strap sewn on, a black straw hat with bright red band, a couple of straw driving caps, two fluffy burgundy hats that you'd have to be really cold to wear out in public. Picture Phyllis Diller-style hats. There were at least a dozen. As I tried on hat after cap, I noticed that they smelled like little old lady, in a good way. A way that reminds me of my great-grandmother and maybe a little of my grandmothe...