Coffee – Black

People are surprised to discover coffee and caffeine act as a downer for me rather than an upper. People don’t realize redheads experience the world in subtle, different ways than the general public.

  1. Our skin lacks pigment and therefore burns quite easily. Well-known fact.
  2. Redheads require more anesthesia during surgical procedures because we seem to be immune to most pain relievers. Unfortunate, indeed.
  3. Sleep aids have been known to have the reverse effects on redheads.

In my case, my body does not metabolize caffeine in an effective manner. I have been known to drink a cup of black coffee right before bed to help me relax.

Coffee – that bold, beautiful, elixir of life – has become a “comfort blanket” if you will. The warmth and aroma is soothing. I find my anxiety seep away with each sip, and the endorphins it releases calms my mind and soul.

I’m fairly certain there is coffee in heaven.

While others drink coffee to wake up, I drink coffee simply to feel good.

Contrary-wise, if it’s a sugar macchiato or latte, you better believe I will be bouncing off the walls.

This has been,

Fanny T. Crispin


Grace for the Road

I stole this title from another blog. 😏

Do you remember what it was like to be a child? I think some of us have gone so long in this world, we forget sometimes.

I remember feeling content to lie in a field dreaming of clouds.

I remember believing friendships would last forever.

There were days I felt pain, but it was such a minor distraction compared to the prospect of adventure.

Fear didn’t hold me back for long, because I dared to be bold.

I remember having energy for days.

There wasn’t so much worry about wanting or having. Sure, I was greedy like every child, but those were little distractions in the midst of all the fun we gained just breathing and living.

I wasn’t as strong back then.

I believed a lot of lies.

And fell for a lot of mean jokes.

But at least I still saw the potential in others.

My mom was my rock (she still is. Her truth is unwavering.)

Looking back, I feel I haven’t changed at all. Every day there’s a child inside me desiring to stand out, feel special, be brave, and believe in fairies. I still have a knack for putting off chores. I daydream more than most. I can forgive, but I’m terrible at forgetting.

I look back and realize children are just small adults with small perceptions of the world. Sometimes they get it right, and sometimes they get it wrong. The difference between a child and an adult is the child has an adult coaxing them to forgive and grant second chances.

But then again, adults have that too, don’t they? So really, we’re not that different from our younger selves.

Give a little grace along the road.

This has been,

Fanny T. Crispin


Autumn Musings

Is fall really official if you haven’t visited an apple orchard, pumpkin patch, or corn maze yet?


I remember reading about the “Indian Summer” in history class, but now I don’t recall why it was called that. Is a last burst of heat really worthy of being named Summer?


It’s strange how the autumn mood takes over you. It affects people differently, I’ve noticed. I’m usually kicking and screaming until that first wave of cool, crisp weather… Then suddenly happily resign myself to the season.


Do you know, I actually LIKE football when this season hits? I enjoy the excitement and enthusiasm.


What is everyone dressing as for All Hallows Eve?


Interesting to note, what happens on All Hallows DAY and why don’t we celebrate?


This has been,

Fan T. C.


Life in a Nutshell – Cramped and Ornery

When the RN at the Emercency Center pulled out a wicked looking needle and said, “Where do you want it?” I knew we were in trouble.

It’s been about two weeks in which my husband has been dealing with some strange back and leg pain localized in the…uh, *cough* gluteus maximus. He has been seeing a chiropractor for it and stretching at home to alleviate pressure of the muscles on a nerve. Two days ago, he felt really good! We thought he was on the downhill slide and finally kicked this thing.

Tonight, at 3:00AM, it was the worst it’s ever been.

During the evening, we had been stretching GW’s legs, icing, and using topical analgesics trying to offer some relief to the muscle cramping, shooting pain in his asscheek and leg. We thought it subsided, and he went to bed hoping for a good night’s sleep and a better day.

It woke him out of a dead sleep – the tightening, cramping muscles of his butt and calf. The pain was so intense, he couldn’t keep silent. I got up to fetch more ice. We stretched his leg, but nothing seemed to subside the pain. Finally, I looked at my husband and said, “It’s time to go to the ER.”

It wasn’t the first time we had gone to the ER during our almost 4 years together, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. We checked in, and the RN took GW’s blood pressure – the usual routine. Then he starts with the typical questions, “What brings you in tonight? Can you rate your pain? Where is it located?” The RN glances up slyly and asks, “Is this a result of domestic abuse?” He looks at me – all mockery of condemning.

We laugh in surprise – weary chuckles, grateful for the small relief.

I don’t remember his name. I remember reading the nametag, but at 3:00AM, my memory isn’t strong.

This man was on his eighth night shift in a row and still carried on with energy, compassion, and attentiveness toward patients. As he situated us in the room to wait for the doctor, he looked down at my husband stiff as a board upon the bed, and with the deepest sympathy in his eyes said, “You are by far the single most uncomfortable-looking person I’ve seen all night. Can I get you a warm blanket?”

He made our night. Periodically checking in on us or to administer the medication, he remained witty and pleasant. By the way, there was no injected medication. The needle was there all right, complete with impish delight from our RN as he watched our faces go from pale to ghostly. But it turned out to be a liquid syringe taken orally.


GW is on the mend. Slowly but surely, the pressure on the nerve is subsiding. He’s at least able to work since walking seems to help.

We’ll never forget our time in the ER.

God bless the good people of Earth.

This has been,

Fan T. C.


What’s in a Book?

I bought a book, ladies and gents. Aye, a fine book. Perusing a dusty, little used bookstore was not as inspiring or even as exciting as I had first hoped. There were maybe 5 bookshelves sparingly stocked with other people’s words bound in various formats. But I found one. One lonely soul among the lost.

Before I share the title, I want to read to you the excerpt which made me desire this book with abundant glee, enough to dig up a whole 2 dollars so that I might purchase it from the disinterested (and vaguely “touched”) bookstore keeper.

In the display cases of commercial photographers in the (blank) market towns there is mute but graphic evidence of the terrors which marriage holds for the (blank) male. Testimony to the foreboding the (blank)man feels about matrimony is written unsparingly in the displays of wedding-party photographs. The centerpiece is always the bridegroom, trussed up for once in his life in formal attire. He stands there stiff with fright and stares wildly into the camera’s eye. Ranked beside him is the best man, who looks almost as miserable as his doomed friend. The other males in the wedding party try to conceal an expression of pity or contempt, if unmarried themselves, or a sort of gloating commiseration, if married. On the face of the bride there is often a look of bewildered triumph, as though she were still unable to believe the trembling specimen beside her has knelt with her before the parish priest. She may also be conscious of the fact the bridegroom’s mother, even though he may be a boy of forty-eight, is looking daggers because a scheming female has snatched her son away in the prime of his youth.





I have a feeling this may prove most amusing to idle away the wee hours.

This has been,

Fanny T. Crispin