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Whenever she felt besieged by doubts, she would think of herself as standing valiantly alone, as almost heroic, so as to squash her uncertainty.

Chimamanda Ngozi

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1970 Monte Carlo

1956 Buick Roadmaster

1950 Frazer

Je suis pret means I am ready!

1963 Cadillac

Hello fellow yinzers! If you are interested in cars and are available anywhere from 5 – 9, please do yourself a favor and go to the Starlite Car Cruise that is happening tonight in Wexford. We met our friend Kristen (Can you see your reflection in the Nova picture?) last week for the festivities and had a thoroughly good time. It is a rather huge affair, with row upon row of amazing autos of all ages and a small section of motorcycles, too. We went on Pontiac night (tonight is trucks), and I was incredibly happy to drool over many a beautiful GTO, though I didn’t get a decent picture of one because of shadows and open hoods and such. Wah!

They also have a good selection of snacks and drinks (I recommend the kettle corn), so it’s okay to arrive hungry. It’s also right by a few restaurants; we enjoyed dinner at the Dive but the #15 plate at Forgotten Taste is pretty terrific, too. The Giant Eagle Market District shopping center at Pine Township is also across the road, so you know, you can mix business with pleasure. We did.

Alright, pitch over. However you spend your evening, I hope it is lovely!




Hullo Sunday, with a longer than expected walk in warmer than expected weather. Dare I say a tad humid? Most definitely, air fragrant with ripe, moist earth and delicate blossoming daphne, cherry, and plum.

Our walk went long because of Paul, whom we met while I was gaping and guffawing at his 1960 Two Door Rambler Wagon (keep scrolling to see the terrific details). He also had a pretty fabulous Chevelle Station Wagon, a gorgeous blue of the midnight sky variety. We chatted a bit, and he asked us if we were in a hurry because the garage held yet another treasure, this 1932 Chevrolet. It’s a dazzler.

The steering wheel is wood and hand made.

It has a glorious patina in a thousand shades of rust. When I asked him if he was going to paint it another color, he uttered, much to my delight, “Rust IS a color.”

It is a gem, truly, with parts gathered here, there, everywhere. And when I heard the pleasant rumble of the engine, I smiled and said, “That’s alright!”

It really was. How lucky we were to catch him at the right time!

The Rambler. Like driving the summer sky…



I ain’t no saint, but I’ve tried never to do anything that would hurt my family or offend God…I figure all any kid needs is hope and the feeling he or she belongs. If I could do or say anything that would give some kid that feeling, I would believe I had contributed something to the world.

Elvis Presley

As promised, this is the 1956 Cadillac Eldorado I saw a while back. It is one of only forty-eight known to exist (!). Elvis owned one in purple. Click here to learn more about it or his other Cadillacs.

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I sit on the back porch, feet up, nibbling cheese. Guilty pleasure that, any variety but goat, the miserable, ever-present tang clinging to my throat, no matter what they say.

It is heavy with heat and this scramble on the keyboard a break from lying prostrate with a book propped on my chest. Though the reading could be better. I vacillate between two lesser books that also happen to be the favorites of people dear to me. I hate that, hate that I see their earnest faces and kind eyes in the midst of my dislike. And now, an invocation of whatever spirit will make my next read so wholly captivating that I read until my eyes ache and pulse quickens.

A trio of hummingbirds competes for our garden, and I marvel at the fierceness, the fantastic fluttered wing spirals and wild chirps of battle.

A crow breaks a cracker in the bird bath, some snack gleaned elsewhere and slowly savored here. She is quiet and delicate in her work, and I marvel at the fact that she does it all without hands. Her onyx feathers gleam, and she watches me, coyly perhaps. We are friends but not that kind, not yet, her penetrating eyes intent on me as I speak to her, of her beauty, mucky messes, and occasional early wake-up calls. She’s finished eating and scratches her head with her left foot, even considers a bath, lightly splashing with her beak, no matter the diminutive size of the vessel in relation to her body.

A squirrel is five feet away from her, hoovering every last remnant the finches and sparrows and jays messily toss out of the feeder, some silent agreement, perhaps. Another claws madly in a wild dash up the neighbor’s sequoia.

Paris is stretched on the concrete of the patio, five feet from me, wholly unaware of the life that surrounds her, pretending she is some Egyptian, I think, so regal is her posture.

I hear the bushtits flit about and a robin chirp in the distance. Children rough house nearby and the steady thrum of traffic drones in the distance, though sometimes I cannot hear it and am elsewhere, some fine elysian field, where all that I love lasts and there is no rush to capture it for another hour.

Happy Birthday, Allison!