SUPER MOON

Super moon so bright

I can reach out and touch it 
Mother Nature's gift

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

DELUSIONS

Felicia drags her weary butt into the dreary office and plops into her saggy office chair which belches out a breathy whoosh.   A small burst of greyish stuffing springs out the side and then slowly drifts downward, adding to the light coating of dust on the thin, industrial gray wall-to-wall carpeting.  Hmm, thinks Felicia, it kinda matches.  

Sighing mightily, she just sits there for a few minutes before she begins the ush - opening blinds, allowing the drippy day to invade the chilly office; booting up the thermostat to counteract the drippy drearies; giving the old, squat coffee maker a thump to start the water flowing and the other ten or twenty things that she’s done so automatically, for so many years.  Just the ush, ma’am, just the ush.

Finally finished with the every-day start up crap, Felicia resumes her slump in the weary chair.  The telephone rings, startling her so much that she almost slides out of her chair.  Sitting up straight, she reaches for the phone and jumps again as the fax machine rings, almost under her hand.  Just as she gets to the phone, she hears someone pounding on the entry door, screaming, “Let me in, PLEASE!”

The hand reaching for the telephone freezes as the screaming voice reaches a pitch only dogs could hear and then slams into silence.  With a whiny screech, the fax machine starts chugging out its message.   Felicia jumps to her feet and starts running to the front door.  A garbage can someone has thoughtfully emptied and put down right in her path and not back in its usual spot under her desk, almost does her in, but with a powerful leap she sails over it by just a hair’s width.  “Whew, almost tripped over that!”  A fleeting thought crosses Felicia’s mind.  “I coulda been killed if I hadn’t gotten over that!”  Small and cluttered, the office is fraught with potential landmines – large, old-fashioned gray, melamine desks with sharp corners, tables on wheels, also with corners capable of taking out an eye, drills and saws and cutting blades taking up most of the horizontal surfaces – tools of the office furniture installation trade.  Falling in any direction would have resulted in a cracked skull against something nearby.  Hitting a razor-sharp corner would definitely result in massive bleeding, along with a concussion.   

Felicia reaches the entry door in a flash but it seems to take forever.  One hand on the push bar and the other on the dead-bolt lock, she peers out.  No one’s to be seen.  Something below waist level catches her eye and she glances down.  A  half-smoked cigarette lays on the damp stoop, smoke lazily drifting upward in the still air.  A reformed smoker, the smell is making

Felicia feel a bit queasy as it reaches her noble nose, causing her nostrils to flare in a most dramatic way.  It smells kinda weird and looks funny too.  An arrogant looking eagle is at the top of the white tube just below the brown, speckled filter top.  Faint pinstripes wind around the white part, hardly discernible to Felicia’s squinting eyes.  Hmm, she ponders, I wonder what kind of cigarette this is.  I’ve never seen an eagle on any Canadian cigarette I’ve ever smoked, or American or Danish (one mad-cap vacation she took ages ago) for that matter.  

Running back to her desk, this time swerving around the garbage can, she grabs a tissue from the box in her drawer and a large paperclip from the magnetic holder on her desk and goes back to the door.  The cigarette is still there and has inexorably burned down almost to the weird looking eagle.  Felicia squats down, calf muscles protesting at the unexpected exercise, and carefully pinches out the burning end of the butt with the paperclip, pressing it against the cement stoop.  Still using the paperclip, Felicia teases the now-extinguished cigarette onto the tissue and retreats into the sanctuary of the office, eyes darting back and forth trying to spot the woman (she thought) who screamed.   It sure sounded like a female voice.  Who else could have emitted that ear-splitting shriek?

Back at her desk, Felicia fishes around in the top drawer, trying to find the plastic baggie she saw there a few weeks ago.  It would be perfect to keep the butt in.  Reaching to the very back of the over-stuffed drawer, Felicia’s straining fingers finally feels the thin plastic, which is almost over the edge of the back and carefully teases it to the middle of the drawer where she can finally pick it up.  She carefully scoops up the white tissue the cigarette is resting in, folds it neatly at all four corners towards the centre, making a trim square , cautiously inserting it into the baggie, zipping the top closed with a schhhhhhhh sound. 

Sitting back in her under-stuffed chair, Felicia stares at the ‘evidence’ centered in the middle of her otherwise empty green blotter and then wonders what in the hell she’s going to do with it 

now.  No crime has been committed, as far she could tell.  There’s no body, bleeding, dead or otherwise that she can see.  Had the screaming woman been kidnapped by the Russian mob?  Even if I call the police, thinks Felicia, what in the heck would I tell them?   Just call me Spade - Felicia Spade - and she gives a  sharp tug on her imaginary snap-brimmed hat, giggling all the while.  Just the facts, ma’am, just the facts.   

Lost in thought and not quite sure what, if anything, she should do next, Felicia drifts into a slo-mo day-dream, which flits across her slightly out-of-focus bright blue eyes.   Five minutes goes by, then ten, not that Felicia notices.  Just around the fifteen minute mark, Felicia once again almost topples out of her well-worn chair, as a sharp rat-ta-tat rattles the thin glass on the front door.

Felicia scrambles out of the wobbly chair, almost toppling it over as it shoots out from under her well-padded behind and makes a break for the wall, which is very close behind her.  Catching it before it can punch a hole in the thinnest drywall Felicia’s ever seen, she puts the brakes on it and then rushes toward the entry way.  Stopping suddenly, Felicia plasters herself flush to the wall so that she can sneak up to the door without being seen until the last possible moment.  Who knew who was out there?  It could be the homicidal maniac who’d been after the screaming woman earlier. 

Felicia peers around the corner and sees a well-groomed, mature, stylishly attired woman, flaming red hair (it just couldn’t be real at her age), and youthfully styled bob, which defies the damp day and clings to her head like a helmet, instead of frizzing out in a full-blown Afro, like Felicia’s.  A lit cigarette dangles languidly from impeccably manicured French-tipped fingers and smoke slowly drifts up as the stranger waits patiently by the door. 

Deciding that this older woman does not pose an immediate threat, Felicia straightens up to her full 5’ 8” height, squares her considerable shoulders, made even wider by the out-dated shoulder pads sewn into her well-worn black and white hounds-tooth blazer, which tops clean black jeans and slowly approaches the outside door.  She pauses before throwing back the well-oiled dead-bolt and scanning the surrounding area with suspicious eyes, mostly just acres of wet asphalt parking lots, serving the many industrial units the neighbourhood is comprised of.  

Not seeing any shady characters lurking 
about, Felicia unlocks the door and asks, “May I help you?”  The older woman turns to face Felicia full on and says, very slowly, “Do you speak Romanian?”  Now, that’s a stretch, Felicia thinks to herself.  She shakes her head, and repeats her question.  The drifting cigarette smoke teases Felicia’s nose and she looks at the cigarette it's coming from, spotting  the arrogant eagle up near the top.  Ah ha!  It’s the screaming woman from before.  Now, it’s the stranger’s turn to shake her head and she says, in stop-and-start English, that she just wanted to let Felicia know that she had been the one who had been banging on the door earlier.  Continuing in sparse English, she explained that she really had to use a bathroom.   When the door wasn't answered quickly, she had dashed around the corner to the next-door neighbour and went in there.   Apparently, when you gotta go, you just gotta go!

Closing the door and snicking the dead-bolt into place, Felicia returns to her gloomy space, reclaims the runaway chair and settles her bum in the dip in the middle, which her toches and a few other’s over the years have carved into the centre of the faux leather.  A chuckle escapes her generous lips, which rapidly turns into full-blown guffaws   Pretty soon, she laughs herself silly, tears stream down her face, and she clutches her aching stomach.  So much for kidnapping and murder and what a great way to start an otherwise dreary day!

      

 © 2015 Phyllis Mahon - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

Dear Dad,

It's been soooooooo many years since I saw you last, 37 to be exact. What a wonderful father and role model you were and still are, 'cause so many of the things I learned at your side still serve me well.

One of the brightest nuggets I still live by, is when you taught me (and my three sisters) how to look after ourselves 'cause nobody else was going to do it for us.

After twelve years of marriage, my husband left me and our then-9-year-old daughter and your wisdom was never truer.

I have taken your words to heart and tried to live my life with the honesty, integrity, morals and principles you lived by and instilled in all of us.

Thank you, dad, for being my dad and a job well done.

That's me (daughter #2) rowing. Sitting beside my dad is daughter #3. The whole time we were out on the water (not long enough in my estimation) my mom stood on the bank and screamed at him to bring us back). She was a non-swimmer and in her opinion, if the water was over your head, it was too deep! It's still a funny and precious memory.

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

MURDER IN THE FIRST: Tragedy in Sandycove Acres

Image:  CTV News

Who’d ever think that something as dark and nasty as Murder in the First Degree would ever happen in a place like Sandycove Acres?   It’s definitely the closest I've ever been to it, outside of murder mysteries, the sustenance of my reading life.  I’d even thought about writing one (fictional, of course).  Then I decided that I’d rather be reading them, without having to write them first. 

It’s different, though, when murder happens only a short block from where you live.  The reactions of various residents dumbfound me and I wonder about the mentality of some old people.  Though my hair colour speaks to maturity (yep, I’m a grey hair), I like to think of myself as an open-minded person, who does not have the audacity to think that I should be judge, jury and executioner.  I’ll leave that to a higher being.   

For a few days after this horrific act, comments made by some of the residents I  meet in my travels, astound me and I shake my head in wonderment that these people truly believe what they believe.  What do they believe you ask?  Why, their thinking is that people ‘like that’ shouldn’t be allowed to live in Sandycove Acres.  They believe that something like murder couldn'’t happen here in Sandycove Acres and even more astonishing, shouldn't happen here.   I ask you, why should Sandycove Acres be exempt?  Are we not all human?  If you prick us do we not bleed? 

Image:  Innisfil Journal, Mark Wanzel

Regretfully, on that beautiful sun-shiny day,  one person inflicted upon the fragility of old age, an apparently impulsive act of anger and yes, perhaps, even rage and struck her.  Only the two people in that house, that day, truly know what catalyst loosed the demons which had been chained for years.  Even with the intensive police presence, Command Post and CSI-type investigation, and a trial (I assume one’s coming), will we ever know the truth of that day?  There is only one person left alive who can relay the events which lead to the end of this apparently beloved woman’s life.  One of the things that I have learned in this life time, is that there’s always two sides to a story and the truth usually lies somewhere in the middle.  We will only know one side of this story - his.  How can the truth be found if there is no middle?    

Image:  CTV News

As I make my daily rounds with Sofie, The Wonder Dog, there is no other topic of conversation.  On the day it happened, one of the residents I see frequently on my walks, told me what happened, mentioning that the police and the “CIA” had blocked off the street and weren't telling anybody anything. It took me a couple of minutes but then my lips twitch in amusement when I realize that  the “CIA” is the CSI (Crime Scene Investigators), working out of their enormous trailer, referred to as “Mission Command” by another man I met a day or so later.

A few days later, I stop by the Administration building to drop something off, and I pass on a few of the comments I've been privy to, to Joanie, one of the receptionists and also a resident of SCA.  One of remarks was, “I've never had to lock my door in all the years I've been living here but I’m going to start now.”  I was gob smacked when Joanie agreed that people shouldn’t have to lock their doors here in Sandycove Acres.

Are people here so naive that they still think that way in this day and age?  Just because SCA is a little ‘out there’ as far as location goes, do the bad guys not have cars?  Hell, even feet will do – there are quite a number of residences in the neighbourhood, outside of SCA.  Bad guys live anywhere and everywhere.  

I share a story with Joanie, which I had heard from an ‘older’ woman about a year ago.  She lives in the south end of South Park and she warned me to make sure to keep my car doors locked as someone had ‘broken into’ her (unlocked) car and stolen the quarter she kept there for the shopping cart at No Frills.  Imagine, someone who is desperate (dumb?) enough to risk being caught and charged with theft, all for the gain of a quarter.      

Being a ‘city’ girl most of my life, despite moving to SCA from the Town Down Under a couple of years ago, I always lock my doors, whether house or car.  Why wouldn't I?  There are some strange characters living in South Park and I've met a number of them.  Some of them even live on my street.  A few people were muttering about making SCA a gated community.  Hmmm, I wonder, how would that be accomplished?  There are acres of property loosely ‘guarded’ by split cedar rails and patchy cedar hedges.  Each part of the park, North and South sides, have two access roads.  How much would it cost to barricade us in here?  For our own protection, of course.  Do these people even stop to think about what they’re saying before it flies out their mouths?  The man who stands accused lives but a few yards from their homes.

Interestingly enough, Joanie goes on to tell me how, not that many years ago, some of the residents did ask (demand?) that the park be gated.  They backed off pretty quickly after SCA admin looked into it and advised that it could be done but that the cost would be prohibitive.  Oh, and that the cost would be passed onto the residents (of course).  Who did they think would pay?  I find the mind set here pretty weird a lot of the time.  There is such a sense of entitlement I haven’t quite figured out why, yet.  Oh, and then, after the demands have been made and quite often met, they start airing their resentment about having SCA Administration interfering in their lives.  Cake, anyone?

The person I feel for the most is the one left behind to cope with the messy aftermath – his wife.  Believe me, people here are not subtle with their feelings.  Some people are surprised that someone “like that” is even married.  Sadly, it seems no one is shy about sharing their thoughts.  Some people have even had the effrontery to voice them to this beleaguered woman, who is sticking by her man.   

The bail hearing was held Friday, June 7, 2014, a week to the day of The Homicide.  I haven’t heard the outcome but I’m sure if the man who stands accused of this crime does get bail and is released and comes back to South Park, I will hear about it soon enough.  There is a very real possibility that he will be released until the trial, despite some of the residents’ assertions that he’s already locked up for life because of his mental health issues, the proverbial key tossed into Lake Simcoe – it and him never to be seen again.

© 2014 Phyllis Mahon aka Undercover Sandycove-r 

FIRST KISS

Growing up in Montreal, Quebec, was an interesting time during the late '60s, early '70s.  One of my very first boyfriends, Cyprian Phillip Theo...., is an army cadet and at 14 (and a half) years old, I find this sooooooo exciting.  Short and stocky, his swarthy complexion and full lips attest to his Greek heritage.  He is also captain of the football team at the high school we both go to and for which I am a cheerleader.  We hang out together with a bunch of our friends, mostly fellow cheerleaders and his buddies from the squad.   

One chilly spring evening we head out on an actual date.  He has planned our evening very carefully and won't reveal where we’re going. Not knowing that makes it hard to decide what to wear and I agonize over what would be appropriate.  I try on eight or nine different outfits and combinations of them and finally decide to dress up a bit but wore flats so that I wouldn't tower over Cyprian, since we are exactly the same height in bare feet.

Taking a few buses and then the metro (subway) to our destination keeps the secret until we get off the train at Place Ville Marie, a subterranean shopping Mecca of downtown Montreal.  Harsh winters in Montreal have created this underground world and we wander through the concourses, holding hands (his is kinda sweaty) window shopping, idly talking about our school's spring carnival, which had been held a few weeks before.

After an hour or so, Cyprian leads me over to a bank of elevators and presses the up button.  I’m curious about what was up but he doesn't give anything away.  The car doors slowly slide open and Cyprian presents a couple of tickets to the uniformed attendant, who’s standing by the controls.  I am intrigued.  Why do we need tickets to ride the elevator?   Something was up, literally.  The elevator doors whoosh closed and our ascent starts with a jerk. 

Keeping an eye on the car attendant, Cyprian nudges me to the back of the car, behind the uniformed attendant.  The edge of a small, 3-legged stool tucked into the corner hits the back of my legs and I’m kinda leaning backwards a bit.  Awkwardly, I shift over to the right, so I don’t end up sitting down.  That would put my head at a level on Cyprian which would be REALLY embarrassing! 

Once I’m up against the wall, Cyprian puts his hand up beside my head and leans in.  My heart is thumping a mile a minute and I can feel Cyprian's warm breath on my cheek.  Expecting to feel his hot lips press against mine, I’m really surprised when, instead, he whispers in my ear, “Can I kiss you?”  Man, talk about killing the mood!  I duck under his outstretched arm and scoot to the attendant’s side.  I can tell Cyprian is surprised by my actions but at that moment, I don't care.   

Finally, the elevator lurches to a stop and we step out onto a rooftop terrace.  A light mist blurs the panoramic view of the vast city centre and reminds me of Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds in the oh so romantic movie, Singing in the Rain, my fave.  We are at the top of Place Ville Marie, the tallest office tower in Montreal.  We wander over to the chest-high parapet and lean against it.  Cyprian is clearly discombobulated by my refusal to kiss him and keeps asking, “Why won’t you kiss me?”  His tone is so plaintive I almost capitulate and kiss him but don’t.  Then he implies I “owe” him because of all he has done to woo me.  How rude!  Well, he really has put the nail in this date with that comment.  I don't answer and just suggest we head back to the warmth and dry.

Cyprian sulkily leads the way back to the metro and we catch the last train of the night.  All the way home, he keeps asking why I won’t kiss him, his questions punctuated by the clickity-clack of the subway car wheels.  Every time he asks, I feel less inclined to answer.  After exiting the subway, we find that we have missed the last bus, which would have taken us over the river into Chomedey and that makes the trip home even longer, since Cyprian refuses to call a taxi and insists we walk.  I'm really glad I'm not wearing high heels.  He, of course, as an officer and a  gentleman, will escort me right to my front door.  By now, I have gone past my midnight curfew and know that my mother will be waiting for me at the front door, with blood in her eye and mayhem in her heart.  Curfew is not something treated lightly in our house.

After a mostly silent trek home (Cyprian finally gives up asking me about why I won’t kiss him and doesn't have much of anything else to say, thank goodness) and we finally arrive around 1:30 a.m.  Knowing that my mother is watching and waiting to pounce on me, I run full-tilt up the steps, house key at the ready and, just as I’m about to open the door, I blow Cyprian a loud, smacking kiss then disappear inside.  He shouts something I can't hear, turns sharply on his heels, and strides away.

The next few months at school are really tricky, as I am determined to stay as far away from Cyprian as I can.  It is especially disconcerting, since as a cheerleader, I have to be at all his football games, rah rahhing the team to victory. Thankfully, Cyprian graduates at the end of the year and I’m free to walk the halls of my high school without having to worry about bumping into him ever again.

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon aka Undercover Sandycove-r - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

There Is SOMETHING To Hope For After All

We have moaned and groaned up here in the great while North this endless winter and I can tell you, living in the GBA (Greater Barrie (ON) Area), it's been whiter than white. Bone-chilling cold only offered up the optimistic hope that it was TOO cold to snow.  Sometimes it didn't.  Came across this tonight and felt it had to be shared.  It even elicited a small smile here and there.  Enjoy! 

P.S.  For the metrically challenged, +1 degree Celsius is about 34 degrees Fahrenheit.  Minus 15 Celsius is 5 degrees Fahrenheit.  I just call it BRRRRRRRRR!

COLD BEAUTY

Cold beauty stands tall
Pink light shines through bony limbs 

Icy darkness reigns

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon aka Undercover Sandycove-r - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

DELIGHTFULLY ABNORMAL

A delightfully abnormal person called me Delightfully Abnormal tonight.  I have never been referred to as “delightfully abnormal” and as ambiguous as the appellation seems, I understand immediately and am, at the same time, slightly chagrined and tickled pink. 

What had I expected?  Abnormally delightful people seem to attract quite the number of abnormally delightful people.  We’re magnets, drawing other delightfully abnormal people into our sphere, one-by-one.  Some come reluctantly, unsure why they are there, yet unable to resist, as others have tried before them.  Others, more willingly, ‘cause they’re more in tune with the delightfully abnormal side of themselves. 

Our whole group is delightfully abnormal.  What was I doing with this delightfully abnormal person who has the chutzpah to describe me as such?  We’re hanging in our usual Monday ‘off’-night coffee shop, catching up, sharing, somewhat caring.  The little shop echoes with laughter and camaraderie, as sleet bounces off the two outside glass walls, with almost inaudible clicks.  Condensation starts little runlets from the fog coating the window inside, and it slowly starts slithering down the glass.

Adelheid, Addie for short, is the perpetrator of the Delightfully Abnormal moniker.  Addie is short, 5” even or so I think.  Her streaked blondish hair glints with purple, blue and an unlikely red hue in the harsh florescent coffee shop lighting.  Funky earrings, 3 in the left and 4 in the right ear, dangle and dance with the energetic nods and nays of her wildly coiffed head.  Her passions are all things horses and writing and I’m never sure which reigns supreme with her.  I think it’s a matter of whichever is closer at hand.  And so, since her horses are boarded at her Mennonite parent’s farm in the greater Tavistock area, writing gets the nod more often than not.  The world is a better place for that since I have had the pleasure of either reading or listening to Addie’s stories and believe her to be immensely talented.  She’s definitely diverse and always entertaining.  Her almost brutally honest writing about her life hits home because I can identify with her stories. It comforts me to know that there are others like me (delightfully abnormal) out there.   

Even the place where Addie did her growing up years is fascinating, although there really isn’t much to it, especially today, where, alas and alack,  the municipality has given up putting up a place name on the highway, which jets you past Punkeydoodle’s Corner.  People keep stealing the hamlet’s sign out by the busy roadway as fast as the county put one up, so the powers-that-are stopped erecting one.  Now  Punkeydoodle’s Corner has faded into historical obscurity, except in the memories of those who grew up there and have since moved away for busy city lives and for the few that still call the place home.

According to a notorious free online encyclopaedia, Punkeydoodle’s Corner may have been named for the cheery innkeeper who would sing Yankee Doodle so badly,  tavern guests thought he was saying Punkeydoodle’s, or so the legend grew.  Most likely, though, it sprang from a less-than-flattering description of the local pumpkin farmer, a lazy old sot, as characterized by his not-so-loving wife.  The geography of the area has changed somewhat over the years but way back when, in the late 1800s, the tavern was situated at the junction of four Corners, and a hamlet was born with this unique name and with it, somewhat later in its existence, my Delightfully Abnormal friend.

When Addie first told me the name of the place she sprang from, I really thought she was yanking my chain and made it a point to look it up online when I got home.  I came across a terrific image of the place name, posted on busy Highway 6, and knew that Addie was not pulling my leg. Punkeydoodle’s Corner it proudly proclaimed, in glistening white letters, knocked out of a vibrant blue background..  Now, a couple (okay maybe 3 or 4 years later)  I can’t find one anywhere.  I’ve put out a plea to various web sites and my friend, Addie.  I would really like to have that image for this story.

According to local legend, THE most prominent moment in Punkydoodle’s Corner history was Canada Day in 1982.  Joe Clark, Ontario’s illustrious, albeit shortest-tenured Premier (I think), was there in the hamlet for the festivities. It was such a momentous occasion that a post office was opened for 6 hours out of one day to issue commemorative stamps and a decorative pillar, with the place name, was unveiled in his honour.  I have to wonder how this whole PR opportunity came about?  Oh and so far as I know, the pillar has yet to be stolen.

While the spelling and punctuation vary in common usage, the version recognized by both Statistics Canada and the Canadian Geographical Names Data Base is "Punkeydoodles Corners".

Sigh…I seem to have veered slightly off course again, as the focus of this story is not the unusual name of this curve in the road, but Addie and how an unusual place grew my unusual friend.

Driven from life in the Town Down Under, back to her birth place by the harsh economic realities of hubby being self-employed in the music recording field, which, while lucrative, needs more clients than are available, Addie faces the changes head on and with equanimity and courage.  Reading about her day-to-day life, and occasional death of beloved barn cats, her cherished horses and passing on the passion of the equine world by becoming certified to teach the complexities of how to stay on the horse’s back, I am always entertained and awed by the never-ending tales of this Delightfully Abnormal friend.

And, now that a few years have been tucked up under the belt, not only am I tickled pink that this Delightfully Abnormal person has drawn me into the fold, I am honoured.

2014

2014

                                                        

                                               Sun shiny new year

                                     Wishes for prosperity

                                     Happiness and health

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon aka Undercover Sandycove-r - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

JUST ANOTHER DAY

Ghosts of Christmas past

Leave no footprints in the snow

Just another day

© 2013 Phyllis Mahon aka Undercover Sandycover