In this time of political unrest and the Covid pandemic, I’d like to lighten the mood by sharing some dashes of wisdom and humor from a charming little book titled Quotable Texas Women. Compiled by Susie Kelly Flatau and Lou Halsell Rodenberger, the quotes touch on many subjects. I’ve chosen a few to make you smile. And think.
The first
rule of holes: when you’re in one, stop digging. ~Molly Ivins, (1944– 2007) newspaper columnist,
author, political commentator, and humorist
Older?
It’s who you’ve always been, only later.
~Jan Epton
Seale, 2012 Texas Poet Laureate
I confess
a great fondness for librarians. They are the quiet custodians of our most
valuable treasure. ~Evelyn Oppenheimer (1907-1998)
book reviewer, writer, literary agent, editor
Cowgirls
are ordinary women who have done extraordinary things. It’s a spirit they have.
~Pat Riley, Miss Rodeo Texas
Laughing
at yourself is the shampoo of the soul. ~Artie Stockton,
author
Cook
things so you can tell what they are. Good plain food ain’t committed no crime
and don’t need no disguise. ~Mary Lasswell, (1905-1994)
author
When in
doubt—don’t. ~Joan R. Neubauer, author
If you
can’t make up your mind, “What the hell” is usually the right answer.
~Ellen Reid Smith, author
My
husband says he can read me like an open book. The only problem is he doesn’t
know what page I’m on. ~Sydney Newman Dotson, producer, screenwriter,
author
At the
end of your life, you will never regret not having passed one more test,
winning one more verdict, or not closing one more deal. You will regret time
not spent with a husband, a child, a friend, or a parent.
~Barbara Bush, (1925–2018) former first lady of the United
States
It’s not
just enough to swing at the ball. You’ve got to loosen your girdle and let ’er
fly. ~Babe Didrikson Zaharias, (1911–1956) champion
golfer, winner of 2 gold medals in track and field at 1932 Olympics
I am
woman—hear me roar . . . or is that my vacuum cleaner?
~Liz Carpenter, (1920–2010) feminist, reporter, media
advisor, speech writer, political humorist
With
his aching head full of questions, he decided to see what lay beyond the hotel.
Striding to the entrance, he pushed open the heavy door and stepped outside. He
was greeted by a cold wind that whipped his hair around and cut through his thin
shirt. The sight of a wide thoroughfare bustling with activity startled him.
Horse-drawn carriages of all shapes and sizes competed for space with
pedestrians and an occasional horseman. Hearing a strange clacking sound, he
turned his head to look up the street. He gasped, eyes nearly bugging out at
what he saw. Charging toward him was a monster!
Painted
in bright colors, the vehicle – or creature – moved along some sort of tracks
in the middle of the street, with no horses pulling it. Raphael closed his eyes
and rubbed his aching head, certain he must be seeing things, but when he
opened his eyes the monster was still coming. The clack of metal wheels on
metal tracks closed in on him.
Heart
thumping in his chest, he stumbled backward, accidentally treading on a dainty foot.
A woman’s shriek rang in his ears. Lurching away, he spun to face his victim.
“Mrs.
Reynolds!” he blurted in surprise, dismayed by her pained expression and the
way she bit her bottom lip. “I apologize for my clumsiness. Are you badly hurt?”
She
expelled a shaky breath. “My toes are bruised, but I’ll survive. What are you
doing out here without a coat in the middle of winter, sir? And why did you
suddenly jump back like that?”
He
turned halfway around and pointed at the ugly contraption that had clattered to
a halt in front of the hotel, allowing people to climb into it. “That thing
frightened me, I am ashamed to say. What is it? How does it move by itself
without any horses to pull it?”
His
lovely companion laughed. “Haven’t you ever seen a trolley, um, otherwise known
as a streetcar? Oh dear!” She pressed gloved hands to her cheeks, her beautiful
blue eyes filled with compassion. “Even if you did see one before, you don’t
remember it, do you?”
Forced
to continue the subterfuge he had begun, he shook his head. “No, I do not. Can
you tell me what makes it move?”
“It
runs on electricity. Do you know, I mean remember, what that is?”
“Regretfully,
I do not. Please explain.”
“I’ll
try, but I’m no expert on these modern conveniences.” She pointed skyward above
the trolley, which was beginning to move again. “See that cable stretching along
the street up there, and the pole connecting it to the trolley?”
“Yes,
I see them.” He had not paid attention to these things before, too shocked by
the strange conveyance to notice anything else.
“Well,
the cable and pole carry electricity which runs the motor that turns the
trolley wheels on the tracks.” Smiling, she gazed at him expectantly.
“Understand?”
He
started to nod but stopped, frowning. “Sí, but what is this electricity?”
Mrs.
Reynolds blinked twice then stared at him blankly. “It-it’s like lightning,
sort of, and very powerful. If you were to touch the cable . . .” She pointed
upward again to the mysterious metal line. “. . . it would electrocute you,
that is it would kill you instantly.”
Raphael
gaped at her, then at the cable, completely astounded. He knew the power of
lightning, of course, but learning it had somehow been captured in such a way left
him speechless. Chills raced up and down his spine. Who had come up with this
strange way of traveling and why had he never heard of it before?
“Now
answer my first question,” Mrs. Reynolds said, breaking into his uneasy thoughts.
“What are you doing out here in just that flimsy shirt? You must be freezing in
this wind.”
He
had forgotten the cold. Glancing down at his thin shirt, he realized he was
shivering. “El portero, I mean the concierge told me this is an island. I
wanted to see what it looks like.”
His interrogator sighed. “Well, you aren’t going to
see much of it dressed as you are now. You’ll freeze to death. Come on, we’ll
find you a coat to wear for the time being. Then we’ll see about getting you
properly clothed.”
Lyn Horner is
a multi-published, award-winning author of western historical romance and paranormal
romantic suspense novels, all spiced with sensual romance. She is a former
fashion illustrator and art instructor who resides in Fort Worth, Texas –
“Where the West Begins” - with her husband and two very spoiled cats. As well as crafting passionate
love stories, Lyn enjoys reading, gardening, genealogy, visiting with family
and friends, and cuddling her furry, four-legged babies.
Amazon Author Page: viewAuthor.at/LynHornerAmazon (universal link)
Website: Lyn
Horner’s Corner
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