Happy Pills

Doesn't everyone call
antidepressants "happy pills"? 

I have a love/hate relationship with my happy pills.

I love them because (1) I think they saved my life, and (2) they make it so that I can be the woman, wife, mother, and worker I want to be.

Working for the Weekend

Don't you just lurrrv weekends?

All work-week long, even years after we've given up our party-hardy college ways, we wait for Friday so we can let loose. Even when we love our jobs, weekends represent that low-key time with family and friends. Time to catch up and get caught up with chores and errands. Friday nights are pizza nights, catch-as-catch-can nights, dinner-in-front-of-the-TV nights. Bedtime? Who cares.

Well, except at our house: we still have to get up by 9 on Saturday mornings, so the cleaning ladies [Yippee! Cleaning ladies!] can have their run of the house. So we do try to get everyone in bed by midnight. Me included.

[Note: Steve invariably is in bed by 10:15 p.m. and is up by 6:30 a.m. The whole stay-up-late-and-sleep-in thing is anathema to him.]

Our Saturday-morning routine varies a little, depending on what else is planned for the day and how rich and hungry we are. On nothing-planned mornings just after payday and if everyone is very hungry, we go to Cora's for a slow, delicious breakfast. On busy-broke mornings, we hit McDonald's.

This past Saturday (just after payday), the line-up at Cora's was too long, so Emily, Peter and I went to Kettleman's Bagels. The food and coffee were great, so I think we'll go back there again. (Steve and Brian were camping in the wet, wet woods.)

Wood-oven, Montreal-style bagels, smokey, slightly sweet and hard as rocks.
YUM!

Chocolate Homentaschen. YUM again!

Peter's slowly learning to be my photography subject.

Lox and bagel with cream cheese, Bermuda onions, capers and tomato.
The bagel on the right is Peter's BLT.
YUM again-again!

After breakfast, Peter wandered the mall while Emily and I decided to go for mani-pedi.

(You should've seen the looks the elderly woman beside Emily gave us!
Like she'd never seen two-tone hair or nose piercings.
Or a mother taking pictures of her daughter.
The lady's hair was burnt-orange and her face was sour. No lie.)

Emily wanted stripes, but the aesthetician wasn't sure about that.
So she got an abstract flower instead.

Happy toes!
They were in desperate need, with all the work I've done in the garden.

After that, we went shopping, natch, then went home to take care of the pool and the laundry. A Saturday well spent.

Muddy Waters

Our pool construction was completed so late last fall (October!) that we didn't even turn on the pump or the heater. It would've cost a fortune to heat all that water and, frankly, when it's chilly and rainy out, who feels like swimming? Not I!

So we covered it with a big, blue tarp to keep the leaves and rain out, and we let it be. Come spring, we drained all the melted snow and ice off of the pool cover, and this is what we saw.

Steve dropped a brick onto the tarp in the deep end,
so that he could syphon off as much water as possible
before removing the cover.

It was still too cold to open the pool, so we focused on getting the terraces and gardens done. We're still plodding away at those. Finally, after a miserably rainy May, June brought some sunshine with it, so we pulled off the cover. This is what we were greeted with:

We accidentally spilled much of the contents of the cover
- including the brick - into the pool. Plus more leaves and pollen fell.
(The hose is topping up the water. It took HOURS.
Good thing we don't live in Barrhaven where there is a water ban in effect.)

There is so much dirt and algae in the water
that it is opaque in the deep end.

A visit to the pool company ($250) and two days of chemical blasting later, and the pool looked like this.

The algae are dead, but are suspended in the water, so it is
still so cloudy that you can't see the bottom, but at least it's not green.

A full series of chemical treatments - over the course of a week - and the water now looks like this:

Look: you can see the bottom (occluded by the reflection and still a little cloudy).
In fact, you can see the brick that fell off the protective tarp into the pool.

By the way, the water isn't actually blue; it only looks that way because of the blue liner and the reflection of the sky.

So far, it is not heated, but Emily has been in swimming. I'm still waiting for a sunny day when I happen to be in town. Then we need to clear all the work equipment off the patio so we can have a PARTY!

On the Road Again

Every so often it happens that Steve's job and mine go through almost concurrent spates of travel. We are just nearing the end of one such period.

I'll be home just long enough to wash
my underwear and re-pack my suitcase.

I used to envy Steve all the travel he did for work - especially when I was a stay-at-home mom and we couldn't afford hotel vacations. I coveted the thrill of flying to new places, the pleasure of sleeping in a crisply made bed, having a bathroom that was polished daily, eating every meal in a restaurant. All this without the continual interruptions of little people clamouring to have their bottoms wiped. (Or worse, not clamouring, but not doing it themselves, either.)

But I've done more traveling with my last job and this one, and the bloom is off the rose. I now acknowledge the tedium of spending hours in airport concourses, missing flights, or having bags searched. I have a greater appreciation for the feeling of mild panic when things go sideways at home while I'm away and can do nothing to set things right. I've seen how life gets put "on hold" when one of us is away.

I guess, as with most things in life, moderation is a good thing. I do like to travel - both for work and for pleasure - and I certainly enjoy hotel living, but I also like being home. Home is such a very good thing.

It's been a crazy couple of months, and I'm looking forward to having a stay-cation later this summer, once I put my suitcase in longer-term storage.

Birthday Bliss

My birthday present this year was a be-yoo-tiful new Nikon D90 digital SLR camera. I'm still baffled by all of its settings and buttons, but it sure does take some very fine photos. Even the bad photos are better than with my old camera: the underexposed areas have very little noise and the edges do not have the significant warping that I found with my other camera.

I got a lens with a fixed focal length (meaning it does not "zoom"), but a very large aperture (f 1.8) so I can get a really shallow depth of field if I want one and can get more natural light in low-light conditions. I'll admit, I'm having a hard time getting used to not zooming in on things. I'm not sure how long it'll be before I invest in a telephoto lens. But this lens comes highly recommended (the expert whose blog I consulted said he uses this lens 90 % of the time).

As soon as the battery had enough juice to snap a few pictures, I took the camera out to play. (You may have heard me giggling.) [As always, click the pictures to enlarge them.]

These flowers, spiderwort, close up each day as the sun hits them.

This picture is of the same flowers as above,
but taken in the cool of the following morning.
Look at the bee's wings!!

I need to work on the white balance.
I think that purple is supposed to be brown.
Yet the other colours are correct. Hmm.

I want to turn this into a wedding invitation.

For my birthday, Steve took me down to Kingston for a bit of a romantic getaway (and because he had a work-related function, so we combined business with pleasure). We met and married in Kingston, and then went back while Steve did his master's degree, so the city holds lots of fond memories. It's also quite a tourist destination, so it has some nice places to dine (and drink).

We took a detour through Smith's Falls and stopped to snap
a picture of the mural on the side of this building.
It wasn't until I enlarged the photo that I realized the
doors (and the dog) on the "front" of the building were paintings too.

Once in Kingston we settled into our room
(a suite at the Marriott - free with our Marriott points!),
then went to a pizzeria recommended by a colleague of mine
and found a table in the quiet courtyard out back.

The sun set, the lights came on, showing off the rough limestone walls. (Kingston is often called Limestone City because so much of the original architecture was built out of the stone so prevalent in the area.)

This picture was challenging to take,
as the camera wanted to base its exposure readings
on the light at the top.

We had his-and-hers after-dinner drinks.
Can you guess which one is mine?
(I tried to capture the beading of Steve's scotch
around the edge of his glass. It's hard to see.)

It was still too early to head back to the hotel, so we walked around the corner and found another courtyard - this one decked with enchanting fairy lights!

We sat in that festively lit alcove.

I loved being able to intentionally blur the focus on those fairy lights.

And we laughed.

The next day, which happened to be my birthday, we attended the change-of-command parade (no pix), then stopped in for a short visit with some old friends (no pix) on our way back to Ottawa for birthday cake.

Winnie-the-Pooh is well loved at our house.

YUM! Carrot cake.

So THAT was my forty-ninth birthday! Pretty good - and it wasn't even the big 5-0!

I love a parade.

Today, Steve and I attended a change-of-command ceremony. Now, for some people, that would be a definition of torture, but I, for one, enjoy military pageantry. I love the ritual, the regimented choreography, the small rites that could almost go unnoticed but have deep meaning. For those of you unschooled in the mysteries of military, I will share some of the pomp and ceremony* of this particular occasion.

First, the entire thing takes place on a parade square, which looks to you and me like a big parking lot without painted lines (can you imagine the chaos of such a parking lot?). Ranged along one side of this square are seats and bleachers facing in toward the square. This is where the guests sit.

A picture would really help, wouldn't it?

The tan lines and circles are service members. This parade was a "joint" event, so there were service members from the air, land and sea elements of the Canadian Forces. Each set of three bars in my diagram is a squadron of approximately 50 "souls" (as one commander called them). The circles out in front are the squadron commanders. In the centre, each flag is carried by a soldier, sailor or airman or airwoman. The reviewing officer stands on the raised daïs (the red square).

After the guests were seated, the troops marched in, in exquisitely orderly fashion - sharp uniforms, snappy steps, arms swinging to shoulder height, rifles resting on shoulders. The Sergeants Major tucked their pace sticks under their arms and watched that all was correct. Then the officers marched on, swords tilted at a precise angle. (In real battles, they don't make the officers fight with swords. *phew*)

Then we stood as the parade commander "marched on" the flags, calling the flag-bearers to take their places. In this case, the Canadian flag held the position of honour on the right as you face the reviewing officer, and the Canadian Forces flag was at left.

We remained standing as the (remaining) guests of honour arrived, their sedans driving right onto the parade square and dropping them off in front of the daïs. I don't remember ever seeing this before, but Steve says it is quite typical. This took place in several waves. [Note: wear comfortable shoes as there is a good deal of standing, even if you are in the audience.]

Then there was a lot of marching and saluting, stomping of feet, raising of hilts of swords to chins, saluting, speech-ifying, and so forth. There were a couple of amusing parts:

• After the squadrons and officers marched onto the parade square, they "dressed the line" by holding out their arms and skiddering their feet until they were each precisely one armslength apart from the other. It made a fun shuffling sound.
• The flags are treated as guests of honour, for what they represent. If you pass before them - or if they are carried before you - you salute (if in uniform) or stand at attention.
• Standing on parade is hard work! One officer on today's parade suddenly fell straight backwards, hitting his head - completely unconscious. Another soldier buckled and clung to his rifle to keep from hitting the dirt. In both cases, medics came quickly to take them to medical care. Steve explained that there are tricks to keep the blood circulating.
• At one point the parade commander had the troops and officers remove their hats and give three cheers to the out-going commander. It was one of the more serious "hip-hip-hoorahs" I've ever heard, done in perfect synchrony.

Now, I want you to notice the tents. The reason for the tents is to shelter the dignitaries from inclement weather, such as we had this morning. Here's a bigger view of a tent much like the one used today.

For today's event, they rolled up the sides and ends. The senior officers and their spouses (including Steve and I) sat in the first row, just under the rolled-up panels.

Now. Notice those white "windows" in the panels? In our case, those were screens. As the rain fell today, it ran down the pitched roof of the tent and then pooled until it dripped through the screen - right where Steve and I were sitting. It was pretty humorous as the sudden stream of water poured down, but gave us much sympathy for those men and women standing stoically on the parade square - and for those men and women who have endured - and do endure - much, much worse.

So it rained on my parade, but it wasn't such a bad thing, really.

*Note that I said "pomp and ceremony," not "pomp and circumstance." Pomp and ceremony is what we experience on formal occasions such as weddings and parades. The expression "pomp and circumstance" comes from Shakespeare, and "circumstance" refers to the exact opposite of ceremony: the drudgery, the muck, and the misery. (See Wikipedia)

Gotta Laugh

Somebody probably just farted.
Wasn't me.

One of the therapists who has helped our family used to exhort us to, "Find the funny!" It was his way of saying how important it is to be able to laugh in life.

This is especially true if you have any Eeyore tendencies. Or Rabbit, Kanga, or Piglet tendencies for that matter. (Poohs, Tiggers and Owls seem to be okay as they are. Especially Tiggers.)

But I knew long before that that humour was very important to me. It has long been one of the most attractive traits in anyone I work with or, oh, marry.

My dad started it all.

His favourite weapon in the battle of laughter was fun with words. This included mispronunciations of common words. I've already told you about co-inky-dink, but there was also kuh-niff-ee for knife, and mercy buckets for merci beaucoup. Okay, so he wasn't exactly David Letterman, but he kept us laughing and that's what mattered.

He also introduced the more challenging game of Puns-Around-the-Table where dad and my four brothers would see who could top the previous person's pun the fastest. I chimed in when I could, but my brother Andy almost invariably won those battles.

It left a lasting legacy: love and laughter go together like diarrhea and toilet paper. You could undoubtedly have one without the other, but ... they're SO much better together.

I can't imagine going on a vacation with someone who couldn't laugh at a calamity. Vacations are fraught with potential for disaster!

Or having children with someone who didn't see the lighter side of bleeding nipples, diarrhea down your shirt (from the infant perched on your shoulders), projectile vomit (from toddlers or pregnant wife), and even 2:00 a.m. calls from the police. [Took a while before we laughed at that last one.]

And I have to say, at my age? Sharing a bed with someone who couldn't laugh - or make me laugh - or join me in laughter - while, um, fluffing the pillows ... THAT would be sad at the least and humiliating at the worst.

*shudder*

[I realize this is late for Father's Day. My dad, who died of a heart attack in 1990, has been on my mind all week, but I didn't think I had anything particular to say about him. I was wrong.]

[Plus, I didn't even start this post consciously thinking about my father. I was thinking about laughter and how I have worked with some people who don't seem capable of genuine laughter, and I find them very difficult to get along with.]

Why I Call This Blog "Meanderings"

For me, as a student in English literature, the toughest thing about writing essays was the idea that you knew what you wanted to say before you even put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). The smart students all had 3 x 5 cards with citations and supporting examples, organized according to proof point. They had a thesis statement carefully crafted.

I had those cards, too. But my cards were not organized. They were simply a stack of potential. More than anything, I usually had a catchy introductory sentence.

This is because I'm a very lateral thinker. Often I start writing about something without really knowing what my conclusion is going to be. Like the post I wrote about my dad and spilled milk. I knew I wanted to share the sweet relationship between my dad and me and how the one incident exemplified that, but I didn't know that when it came to the conclusion it would be about things that are worth shedding tears over.

In school (before these newfangled personal computer thingies were available), I would make a wild stab at what my thesis would be, then write my essay, then go back and rewrite the introductory paragraph and thesis statement, then type the whole thing for a "good copy." I write my blog much the same way. I have a general idea of what I want to discuss, but the actual form of the post is quite organic. Frequently, I learn something new along the way.

Of course, writing this way requires a lot of post-brain-dump editing. I probably spend as much time editing my posts as I do writing them. (For those who are curious, it takes me an hour or two to produce most posts (especially if I edit any pictures), though some are shorter.)

Word processing (as it was called back in the day) was a gift from the gods for me. It allowed me to stream my thoughts onto the screen, then drag, delete, and insert to my heart's content.

Occasionally, I forget to edit out all the stray bits from a thread that didn't make it into the final cut. That's why, last week, (my post about odd coincidences — you know, the one where everybody in Ottawa knows someone who lives on our street?) I had a non sequitur at the very beginning of the post about anecdote/antidote. One of my early titles was about anecdotes, and it twigged one of my Grammar Nazi reactions. I forgot to remove that bit when the story strayed far from anecdote land.

If I were going to edit that post today, I'd replace the anecdote/antidote jibe with a note about how my father used to pronounce coincidence as "co-inky-dink." Haha. My dad was such a card. It never got old.

[Can you tell Father's Day is approaching? I've mentioned my father twice in this single post.]

And that, right there, is an example of where my brain goes when one thing leads to another. Thank you for joining me on my occasional peripatetic stroll. I enjoy your company (and comments) and always discover something new.

L'arbre au grand coeur

Have you read Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree? (It's called "L'arbre au grand coeur" in French, which translates roughly to "the big-hearted tree.") It's a heartwarming children's book about generosity and love. It was one of my favourites when I read bedtime stories.

As soon as I saw the tree across the street from our house, I thought of the Giving Tree. It is just so child-friendly. It made me happy.

Our backyard, however, was another matter. Do you remember this picture?

NOT feeling a lot of love here.
July 14, 2010

One of the surprises we've discovered as we've decimated this backyard, however is that we have our own Giving Tree! And it's playing hide-and-seek!

We'll have to put a big rock (or two) up there, so our grandchildren can play hide-and-seek with the tree.

Speaking of trees in our backyard ... I've also fallen in love with the "Fat Albert" spruce tree we planted. Its new growth is such a pretty blue-ish colour.

Does all this make me a tree-hugger? Maybe so.

Trees
by Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

(And I *just* learned that Joyce Kilmer was a man. How did I manage to go through school - including a degree in English literature - and not know this? I learn something new almost every time I write a blog post.)

Procrastination is My Downfall

[Note: I started this post on May 24. Of this year, but still.]

I know where my kids get it from. Every time I ask one of them to do something, I get, "Okay, just a sec. Can it wait til ___________?" Fill in the blank with one of the following:

• a commercial
• I die (video game)
• I finish my homework
• I sign off IM/Facebook/texting
• I finish watching this video
• this paint dries

I have the same dreadful habit of leaving any task until the last possible minute.

In fact, as I write this, I am procrastinating about going upstairs and getting ready for work. I'm always trying to squeeze in one more moment of indulgence.

[BREAK, BREAK: I got that far and realized I was being really stupid.]

So, here we are a full two weeks later, and I still haven't finished this post.

[BREAK, BREAK: Got that far and realized I had nothing witty or insightful to say.]

Some people claim to be procrastinators, but never seem to have missed deadlines or late fees. Their claims to being procrastinators is similar to mine for having Alzheimer's: I have just enough occasional flashes of forgetfulness to keep me aware of how good I have it, but not enough to really impair my life.

MY degree of procrastination, however, puts other sluggards to shame. It has caused crises and screw-ups that cost money (that hits where it hurts).

Ferinstance: my passport has been expired since January. I started the paperwork in December. I got new passport photos taken in February in anticipation of a March trip to California. But that trip fell through so ... no motivation to get anything done.

Remember that inexplicable scratch?
On the right is the passport photo taken the following day
(stylized so it can't be stolen and used for  an illegal passport).

Yes, I'm a little paranoid.

I also have slightly wonky eyes. Never really noticed that before.
They really kind of creep me out.

Also, please note that one is NOT permitted to smile in Canadian passport photos.

The forms sat in my basket since the beginning of February.

In March, I started e-mailing my brother about a potential trip to Georgia to see him and his family. Did that get me off my duff? No.

So, here we are, approximately two weeks from my departure for Georgia. I have an airline ticket and a bevy of family ready to welcome me in Atlanta. What I glaringly DON'T have is a passport that will allow me to cross the border into the U.S. of A.

Fortunately for people like me, Passport Canada has a solution: a $70 "dumbass" fee on top of the usual usurious charge.

And that, my friends, is why I will likely not change my habits: because things usually work out in the end, as long as you're willing to pay the dumbass fine.

The Curmudgeon Talks About the Service Industry

I've been a waitress, and I've worked in retail sales, so I do have an insider perspective on the service industry. Even without that, I think I'd be pretty darned irritated at the kind of customer service I see far too often these days.

Here, for your reading and stewing pleasure, is my list of Service-Industry Dung Beetles (for an explanation of why I call them dung beetles, go here).

It's not a myth.

The Ostrich

You stand in front of her, a counter between you, for interminable minutes and she keeps her head down and eyes averted while you simmer. The paperwork in front of her is much more important than you are.

This irritates me to heck. I don't expect the clerk to drop everything to serve me, but I do like my presence to be acknowledged. A simple, "Hi, I'll be right with you; thank you for your patience," would be so gracious. Usually, the clerk will come up with that sentence if I say, "Hi," to her first, but it shouldn't be that way.

The Blockbuster video store we frequented in Colorado had the annoying habit of cheerily (and jarringly) shouting out, "Hello, welcome to Blockbuster!" as soon as you stepped in the door, then ignoring you when you were ready to check out. [See "The Coffee Klatch" below.]

The receptionist at our local walk-in clinic has honed this skill to a fine art. I think she hates her job.

The Coffee Klatch

There are four people behind the counter and all you want to do is order a burger and a Coke, but they're all so busy kibitzing that you can't even catch anyone's eye. Again, I typically resort to calling out, "Hello," in the hopes that they will have to cease ignoring me. On at least one occasion, I've had the whole group look at me then turn away and continue to ignore me. (I was big and pregnant in a shoe store and really hoped someone would help me on with a pair of shoes.)

The Ninja

from wins.failblog.org

I met this one yesterday in a busy shoe department. While I was browsing the selection, she strolled the aisles, tidying in a desultory and astoundingly random manner. When I was actually ready to try on shoes, she was nowhere to be found, rather like the Shoemaker's Elves.

Suddenly, she appeared. She grudgingly brought me my shoes, then vanished again. It was spooky.

Obviously not a commissioned salesperson.

The Cable Guy

Will he show up? Or will he stand you up? You just never know.

On Friday, I had a date with a pool guy, Derek. (What's not to love about that? Yippee!) I was excited - to open the pool, I mean. Unfortunately, on Friday morning, I realized we hadn't put enough water in the pool to get things started (you have to partially drain it for winter, then top it up in the spring). So I called the pool company and left a message for Derek. Half an hour before the meeting I still hadn't heard back so I headed home, so I would be there when he showed up.

He never showed. Never called (unless he called after I left the office). Yes, it's sort of my fault, but an acknowledgement of my message would have been courteous, so I wouldn't have left work early unnecessarily. I mean, I like working from home, but it really doesn't look good in the office when you leave at 2:30 on a Friday afternoon.

The Palace Guard




As in, Monty Python and the Holy Grail. The classic "You stay here" scene always has me in stitches. ("Seemed a bit daft, me guardin' 'im, 'im bein' a guard.") Too often it feels like we're speaking different languages but using the exact same words and syntax.

Yesterday, I took my boys out to lunch at a poorly run fast-food restaurant and had this conversation with the poor woman behind the counter.

Me: I've already got one burger, so I only need two more: a Great Canadian with cheese and bacon and a Great Canadian without cheese or bacon.

Server: But it says you ordered three burgers.

Me: Yes, we've already got the Bacon-and-Cheese Burger. We just need the two Great Canadian burgers. One with cheese & bacon, one without.

Server: So you only need one burger?

Me: We need two Great Canadian burgers.

Server: Oh. Okay, two Great Canadians.

Me: Yes. 

I figured if they both came with cheese & bacon (or without, for that matter), we could live with it.

---

So there you have it, my short list of traits of annoying service people. What are yours? All commenters receive 500 Internets!

Life's a Picnik!

As I've been learning how to use my point-and-shoot camera, I've also been playing around with the photo-editing software at Picnik.com, and I have to say ... it is super fun!

I even like how, as their web loads, it gives messages like, "painting skies blue" or "buttering sandwiches." I love whimsy!

Yesterday, I decided to really go artsy-fartsy with the boring pictures I took at Brian's band picnic. You've already seen a few of them in my post about that event. Here are a few of more. (I posted these on Facebook. Click to enlarge and get a better view.)

And here, just for your interest, are a couple of before/after juxtapositions.

Tiny Dancer

I'm a bit of a stickler for rules, you may have noticed. There is a right and a wrong way for everything. In this, I am very much like my older son. His world has a lot of black and white, and very little grey.

Sadly, sometimes I come down on the wrong side of black and white. Tonight, for example, we went to Brian's band barbecue fundraiser. It was an extremely casual affair, with picnic blankets, hot dogs, tug-o-war, egg-races, ice cream, and lots of sugar-buzzed little kids running around while parents chatted (and secretly wished the event included beer so they could be buzzed as well).

When the band started playing, my foot started wagging along with Emily's.

Those kids are surprisingly good! 

And while they played, a little girl (about six years old) grabbed some streamers that were lying around and began to dance. She sashayed with wild abandon between the audience and the band.

And I Was Irritated.

The show's not about her, I thought.
She's stealing the attention from the band, I thought.
She's just an attention whore, I thought.
She should be dancing behind the audience, I said to Emily.

Righteous indignation was mine. And then I thought:

Wait a minute. There is music playing. A child is dancing. I am grouchy about it. What is wrong with this picture?

I was wrong with this picture! I'm glad she danced. I hope she never stops.

Let them praise his name with dancing and make music to him with tambourine and harp.                                                                                                                       Psalm 149:3

Sadly, I didn't get a picture of the tiny dancer,
but this wee girl shows the same joy.