The Stuff Legends Are Made Of

It's time for another 

The Note Card Party 
 at 

A Haven For Vee. 

That's when we reach back into the blog archives and choose four pictures to turn into note cards.  They don't have to have a theme, but I'm sort of a themey kind of girl.  I'm so themey,  in fact, that I can be somewhat like a dog on a bone.   

Perhaps you've noticed...

Keeping that in mind, my theme for this month
should be no surprise. 

I'm calling this set
Welcome to Dixie...
  

Where even the trees have beards 

That's just a stereotype, of course.

You don't actually see that many beards in my neck of the woods,
especially the scraggly kind that migrate south of the Chin Peninsula.

It's mainly for the same reason that you don't see a lot of St. Bernards.

When it's 400 degrees in the shade, you don't add fur.

That's what the husband says, anyway, every time I try to convince him to grow one.  Either that, or that beards aren't recommended in his line of work.  It makes you appear less trustworthy, he says...

I say, 

Liar, liar, pants on fire. 

There are lots of trustworthy men bedecked in facial hair, and he knows it. Every year, millions of American mothers take their children to the mall, point to the dude with the long, white, whiskers, and tell them to go sit on his lap. If that's not trustworthy, I don't know what is.   

Personally, I think he's just afraid of the Duchess. 

The Duchess's dislike of facial hair is legendary. I never saw my father with so much as a set of side burns. Oh, he tried to grow a mustache one time  It lasted about an hour. She kept telling him to go back and make it smaller until she succeeded in turning him into Adolf Hitler.   

I, on the other hand, am what you call a pogonophile. I like a beard. I don't want it to look like shredded wheat or anything, but I like a nicely trimmed one.  That's exactly what Sir Lotsa hair had when I met him, too. I would love to show a picture, but unfortunately he only had it for the first month or so after we started dating.  Then, he met The Duchess...

                         

... who very promptly told him he needed to shave his face.  

Which he did. 

Mo-therrr!

Oooh, that woman. I don't know what kind of power she wields, but in thirty- plus years, I have not been able to convince him to grow so much as a goatee.  (That part's fine by me, by the way.  When I say a beard, I mean a beard. Not picky much, am I? ) 

And that's all I have to say about that. 

So where do you stand on the subject of facial hair?  

****

Oh, and for those who really just came here for the note cards, that's Spanish moss growing on those southern trees. It's pretty legendary, too.  The first one was taken in Savannah, the second over the Ogeechee River,  the third down the road at sunset, and the fourth, of course, in the blue hour.