World's most beautiful libraries...

This sumptuous volume contains Höfer’s famously ascetic images of the British Library in London, the Escorial in Spain, the Whitney Museum and the Pierpoint Library in New York, the Bibliothèque nationale de France in Paris, the Villa Medici in Rome and the Hamburg University Library, among others.

Thank you, Coolhunter!

$%^&* lawyers...

Trying to sell my late dam's house, I had a lawyer yesterday spend twenty timed minutes telling me that I couldn;t get something done in the next hour. Maybe if you would stop saying there isn't enough time...

They can cause more trouble than they are worth.

"But Staghounds, YOU are a lawyer!"

No, I have a law license. A law license doesn't any more make me a lawyer than a driving license makes me a driver.

Post FUNeral reception...

At the risk of further offending all my reader-

So, after the funeral there was a reception, and we worked the room as we were supposed to do.

Two funny things happened.

My sire died when I was little, some 30 years ago. (That wasn't funny, wait for it.)

Of the mourners, maybe two dozen came up to me and said the same thing, something along the lines of:

"I was sorry to hear about your mother. I knew your father, he was really something."

Delivered as a nine year old might say,

"I finished brushing my teeth. And TOMORROW"S CHRISTMAS!!!!

Interesting that at her funeral, he was the one on their minds. Both my littermates remarked on the same phenomenon, so it's not just me this time. About twice a year, someone seeks me out or hears my name (I'm actually Staghounds III, he was Staghounds Jr.) and tells me what a fine fellow he was. He must have been.

The second funny thing, a former neighbor a few years younger than the departed came up to me:

FN- "I was sorry to hear about your mother."

Staghounds- Yes ma'am, thank you for coming."

"I heard that you divorced a few years ago, is that true?"

"Yes, ma'am, it is."

"Well (name of daughter) always thought you were cute, and she's not attached either. Here's her number, give her a call if you like."

Come to think of it, there was another daughter-of-a-friend-of-the-departed who was decked more for a club than a cathedral, and who was awfully friendly.

(Not that I'm looking, but a compliment is always welcome.)

We are practical and direct people. I like that about us.

And the pineapple was ripe and fresh.

Later we went to the old drug store by our neighborhood. My sister sat beside a stranger who had tater tots, a delicacy unavailable in her flash European capital of residence. So she asked him for one and he said "What?"

"Come on. We just went to our mother's funeral."

Later, she looked around nostalgically and sighed.

"Ah, the drug store. Yet another place where our mother us in public."

Good times.

Putting the FUN in funeral...

First, for the sensitive soul among my reader, let's just say that my littermates and I used to dream that we lived in the warm emotional peace of 426 North Bristol Avenue.

(Pre death, my littermate said to the doctor, "Isn't there something you can do to... send her off?")

So anyway, the funeral came on and there were many laughs. To start with, the obituary. The dam had a sister, call her M, and a Brother, call him E. My littermate wrote the obituary. When we got to the cathedral M went up to Littermate.

M- "You left my name out of the obituary."

LM- "Sorry, I didn't know sisters and brothers had to be mentioned."

"You left my name out."

"As I said, never did this before."

"I thought you did it on purpose."

"No, just didn't know."

"You left E's name out too."

"AS I said, I don't write many obituaries. I'll do better next time."

Staghounds- "The torch has been passed."

So, into the cathedral. The ashes, in their 9x9 inch cardboard box, were on a stool up by the altar, covered with a white cloth. The service wends its way to the "homily", the saying of nice things about the star of the show.

The dam was very, um, unreconstructed in her racial attitudes. She didn't dislike black folks, but she thought of them as domestic animals. Teaching them to read or allowing them to vote were just bad ideas.

So the priestess who was preaching the homily, after an advert for the Wednesday healing service ( not so effective, in this case) said,

"I am reminded of a poem by May-a Angelo (Yes, pronounced that way).

After I mentally corrected the pronunciation, I looked at my littermates. All three of us were chewing our tongues and checking the ash box- I SWEAR I heard it rattle a bit.

Then I looked back at the crowd. One could tell which of them knew the old bat AND knew who Maya Angelou is, because those people were also chewing THEIR tongues and looking for the ash box to explode.

It was PERFECT. The departed hated the very IDEA of Maya Angelou. I can't imagine anything that would have angered her more than to have old May-a quoted at her funeral.

So after it was over, out we went. I was carrying the ashes, and walked up to the car.

Pop the trunk, threw in the box. THUNK.

Closed the lid, WHUMP.

Staghounds- "THAT was satisfying. Let's hear that again."

Pop. THUNK. WHUMP.

SH- "Wish we could have done that ten years ago."

LM- "It wouldn't have been nearly as satisfying, what with the flailing arms and the screaming."

As I said, putting the fun in funeral.

Tomorrow, post funeral reception giggles.

What a joy it must be to make music like this...

Jo Ann Smith on the autoharp.