waste not, want not

“So it is: we are not given a short life but we make it short,
and we are not ill-supplied but wasteful of it.”
Seneca

(a busy and hungry carpenter bee on the Meyer lemon tree / Julie Cook / 2017)

Waste not want not…
is an expression that appears to have its origin in Old English lexicons dating back to 1576.
“For want is nexte to waste, and shame doeth synne ensue,”

A more familiar version emerges in 1721 as the expression
“willful waste makes woeful want”…

Which eventually turned into the short and sweet proverb we use today.

Each of my grandmothers used various versions on me and my cousins when we were all little…
with each version having much the the same meaning….
that our wanting should never be confused with our needing…
and lest we ever dare to be wasteful with what we’d been given…we had been warned.

As it all boils down to the understanding the difference between wanting, needing and wasting…

So as I was watching this carpenter bee enjoying the new blooms on the lemon tree,
I was reminded of that long ago wisdom as I watched him accidentally knock off a few of the petals.

Obviously not one to be wasteful, the bee immediately left the tree, flying down to the
the fallen petals on the sidewalk, making certain he had gotten all the
nectar he could….leaving nothing to waste.

Oh that we mere mortals could be so mindful…

But godliness with contentment is great gain.
For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it.
But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that.
Those who want to get rich fall into temptation and a trap and into many foolish and
harmful desires that plunge people into ruin and destruction.
1 Timothy 6:6-9

Just Peachy

One does a whole painting for one peach and people think just the opposite–
that particular peach is but a detail.
Pablo Picasso

(a close up of a South Carolina peach / Julie Cook / 2015 )

Oh how our time is now quickly passing. . .
Gone too soon will be your tender touch,
your tickely fuzz upon my lips
and your lush sweetness dribbling down my chin. . .

(peach pit / Julie Cook / 2015)

(a close up of a South Carolina peach / Julie Cook / 2015 )

Good to the last drop

“We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean.
But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop.”
Mother Teresa

(a fiery skipper works his charms on a butterfly bush / Julie Cook / 2015)

(a fiery skipper works his charms on a butterfly bush / Julie Cook / 2015)

I’m off to Dad’s today, a day which is now known as a Dad’s day. . .
We’re heading back to the doctor, again.
Just a follow up however or so says the doctor. . .with Dad asking if leaving the house is really necessary—
“Vitamin D dad, you know. . .as in the sun. . . that big hot yellow ball in the sky. . .
it might like to see you every once in a while. . .
You know those folks who suffer in the winter from SAD, that seasonal affective disorder which effects moods due to a lack of exposure to the sun, well. . .I think Dad has had a permeant very pale case. . .

I thought it would be nice to have happy thoughts today as one (in this case moi) never knows what one will find on the other end of the highway (aka at Dad’s). . .
The end of last week was not good—but things seem to be leveling back into place for the time being. . .hence the need for happy thoughts!!!

I just wanted to leave you today with the happy images of a little fiery skipper working hard at getting every last drop of nectar out of the butterfly bush. . .

Here’s to a happy Thursday to all!!!

(a skipper works his charms on a butterfly bush / Julie Cook / 2015)

Ode to a sweet peach

“A Georgia peach, a real Georgia peach, a backyard great-grandmother’s orchard peach, is as thickly furred as a sweater, and so fluent and sweet that once you bite through the flannel, it brings tears to your eyes.”
Melissa Fay Greene, ‘Praying for Sheetrock’

(Peaches /Julie Cook / 2014)

Shhh don’t tell, but these are South Carolina Peaches.
There is nothing more splendid than a summer’s ripe peach. . .

““““““““““` ““““““““““ ““““““““

Visiting cousins, who lived on a small rural farm in mid eastern Georgia, a young city girl, no more than 7, always made an immediate bee line for the orchard.
Standing small before a bountiful quest, yellow jackets zipping from tree to tree, she saw the challenge and heard the call.

Hand over hand–lifting each leg up a tad higher, tender limb upon limb, this little girl would climb higher and further until reaching the tallest branch.
Here hung the largest, the sweetest and ripest fruit.
Peach trees are not tall trees, but to a little girl, they might as well have been giants.

Haphazardly and full of trepidation, she’d unsteadily reach out with one free hand while clinging desperately to the tree with the other small hand.
Barely yet triumphantly grasping the fuzzy prize.

Settling back in the crook of the tree, yellow jackets vying for the first bite,
the young girl held the furry ball to her nose breathing in the heady fragrance.
Savoring the nano second before taking the giant juicy bite, she eagerly bites through the fuzzy outer layer, releasing a flood of sweet nectar which trickles down her chin.

As summers long past come flooding sweetly back with the sight of a single peach . . .