Feather or not

Since I started writing this blog, it’s as if my brain has developed a filter dedicated specifically to this effort. Every mundane thing that happens in the course of my day must pass briefly through my “blogworthy” filter. Most days this process is sort of like panning for gold in the bathwater.

After I bought the digital camera –- mostly for the purpose of adding color to my blog –- the same kind of filtering mindset started happening with whatever passes across my line of vision. “Oh,” I think, “let me take a picture of this interesting patch of rust; I may need that someday.”

It’s because of this skewed thinking that I was briefly excited yesterday when I opened the door to let the dogs in and spotted a single feather lying right outside the door. “That’s kind of pretty,” I thought, “let me get a photo of that.”

In the span of mere seconds, I took a half dozen steps, picked up my camera, took off the lens cap, turned the camera on, and headed back to the door. During that same span of seconds, Lucy (one of the dogs I’d just let in) watched my every move. I opened the door and she darted out, grabbed the feather in her mouth, and ran out into the yard with it. Lucy’s brain apparently has its own filters.

You might think that would be the end of this little anecdote, but you’d be wrong. You see, I walked outside today and happened to notice that same feather sticking up in the grass. I kept it under surveillance while Butch and Kadi were outside, trying not to alert them to my interest in it. They couldn't have cared less.

As soon as I got the dogs back in the house, I grabbed the camera, did a quick 180-degree turn and went back outside by myself. I retrieved the feather and posed it ever so carefully on the patio, just where I’d seen it yesterday, and took the picture without any canine interference.



This photo, then, is a testament to my tenacity. If I ever manipulate the environment to set up a shot that shows my spirit of spontaneity, I'll be sure to post that, too.

Flies on the rise

It's not unusual for me to to find a fly inside my home in the summer; it usually happens two or three times a year. When it does, I swat the vile thing and go on about my business.

Something has changed in the past few days. The flies have become more aggressive. As I sit here writing, two of them are taking turns buzzing my head and landing just out of reach. Yesterday I killed three or four others, and there were a couple more the day before. My home is becoming a habitat for flymanity. My daughter says she's been seeing more of them in her home, too, so I'm not the only one under attack.

I don't notice more flies than usual outside, but the ones that are out there seem to be hell-bent on finding their way into the house. They're like six-legged illegal immigrants, plotting to find weaknesses in my borders and sneak across in search of a better life. Except I don't think they'll really find anything much better once they're inside.

The outside food supply should be more than adequate; there's a virtual fly buffet as close as my garbage can. If flies can get through the tiny crack under the back door, they could easily get inside the tied end of a plastic trash bag.

No, they must be looking for something else. The only thing I can think of that they can find inside the house but not outside is cool air. Has the earth's atmosphere warmed to the point that even the insects are desperate for air conditioning?

I'm trying to put this fly-thing in perspective. I've lived through worse cases in my own life. When we lived in Georgia, the flies were so thick one summer that it was nearly impossible to barbecue outside. On one occasion my husband came up with the idea of offering a bounty on fly carcasses -- a nickel each fly, plus a 25-cent bonus after every 20 -- and my girls racked up.

It's not even as if I'm an excellent housekeeper and the flies defile my otherwise pristine environment. My dogs probably track in more germs than the flies bring in, but Butch and Kadi don't make a beeline to put their dirty feet on the rim of my Diet Coke. Flies do. There's just something about those nasty little creatures sitting on my things, rubbing their front legs together like greedy hands, that offends me to my core. "Ohmigod," they seem to say gleefully, "look at all this stuff just here for the taking."

I know it's petty to whine about a couple of flies in the house. I see television news documentaries in which flies are crawling on the eyes and mouths of impoverished African children. Those poor kids just take it in stride; flies are the least of their worries. I know I should be ashamed of myself, and I promise I will be -- as soon as all the flies are gone.

Ah, well, maybe it's unrealistic to expect to keep all the flies out. They sure don't call them "houseflies" for nothing. Hmmmm. Now that I think about it, I haven't seen any spiders in the house in a couple of months. Maybe I should let a couple more of these guys in to assist me.

Cooking with Velvet

Dateline is on as I write this, and Stone Phillips is talking about how much responsibility the food industry should bear for the obesity epidemic in America. They're showing stacks of Oreos and close-ups of people taking huge bites out of Big Macs. Man, this is making me soooo hungry!

I agree that the food industry influences both children and adults to make poor diet choices, but I believe adults, at least, are responsible for their own choices. If I decide to shove fat-and-sugar-laden goodies in my mouth -- and pay somebody to let me do it -- I shouldn't be allowed to sue that somebody.

I do have to admit that there are a lot more choices to tempt children now than there used to be. When my sister and I were kids, we managed to get pocket money a couple of times a week to spend on comic books, candy or ice cream (although the ice cream purchases didn't always work out). Most of the time, though, we made snacks with whatever was available at home.

So, in the interest of encouraging healthier eating, I thought I'd post recipes for a couple of snacks that my sister and I made over and over. The first one was our favorite:

* * * * * * * * * *

Mustard Sandwich

2 slices fresh white bread
1-1/2 teaspoons yellow mustard

Spread mustard on one slice of white bread, being careful not to get any on the crust.

Place the second slice of white bread on top of the mustard.

Wipe a clean spot on the kitchen counter and place the sandwich on that clean spot. Climb up on the counter and sit on the sandwich, wiggling back and forth until sandwich is paper thin. (NOTE: Final step of preparation should be performed by oldest, heaviest child.)

* * * * * * * * * *

Pickle Sandwich

1 large sweet gherkin
1 slice white bread

Dry pickle thoroughly (under your armpit is a good place, if your shirt isn't too dirty).

Place pickle at one edge of white bread and roll, jelly roll style, squeezing bread tightly around pickle as you roll.

Finished sandwich should look like a greyish-white cylinder with a puffy bread-crust pinwheel at each end.

Enjoy!

* * * * * * * * * *

Okay, that's all the food talk I can stand right now. I'm goin' to Mickey D's or Sonic (depending on whether or not traffic allows me to cross to the McDonald's side of the road).

A book as old as I am

My cousin K. asked me in a recent e-mail if I'd ever read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I remembered that there'd been a movie by that name, but I couldn't remember if I'd ever seen it, and I was positive I'd never read the book. A favorite book of hers, it was written by Betty Smith and published mere months after I was born.

K. told me she'd read "Tree" for the first time at age 10 and several times since then. She said she was in the mood for it again and asked if I'd be interested in reading it at the same time. We could have our own book club via e-mail, she suggested. I agreed to give it a try, ordered the book, and started reading it at bedtime Saturday night.

In a word, wow! I feel like crying, not because of what was in the book, but because of what wasn't. I finished reading the book, but the book is clearly not finished with me. I want more pages, additional chapters. I want to know much more about what happened to these characters who etched themselves into my heart in approximately 500 pages.

The first chapter of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is set in the year 1912. About that same time, give or take a year, my grandmother's youngest siblings, Ruth and Loren, posed for this photo. They would have been only slightly younger than Francie and Neeley were, and I imagined, as I read, that the fictional kids in Brooklyn might have resembled these two Missouri kids.

The central character, Francie, was a book lover from an early age, as was I. I'd like to know if books continued to enrich her life as she aged beyond the pages of the story. And I wonder if Francie's first heartbreak made her forever cautious about falling in love. How many times did she give love a chance before she finally found it...or stopped looking?

Francie's younger brother, Neeley, was growing up into the physical image of his father by the end of the book. I'm under the impression that he became a stronger person than his father, but did he accede to his mother's wishes and become a doctor, or did he follow his own heart?

And what of their mother, Katie? She was a pragmatic and cynical young woman (much like my own mother). Did she soften as she grew older and her life became a little easier (much as my own mother did)?

I thought of my father (not the most responsible of young men) as I read. If he'd been around more in my early years, would his parenting style have resembled that of Francie and Neeley's father, Johnny (another not-so-responsible young man)? Would he have loved us more freely and indulgently than our mother did, because he had a wife and two children, while Mother (like Katie) had two children and a man-child to worry about? I think I understand both my parents better after reading this book.

By the final chapter, set in the fall of 1918, World War I had affected people in Brooklyn in much the same way it affected my Missouri ancestors. My grandfather, pictured here in his gas mask (no, I do NOT look just like him), went to fight in France. My grandmother found a job as a telephone operator. They wouldn't meet until 1919, after he came home. As I read this book, I began to imagine them as young people just beginning to make their own way in the world. I know how things turned out for them, but I wish I'd thought to ask them if things turned out the way they'd dreamed they would.

To my cousin K., I'd like to say thank you so much for recommending this book. It's amazing how relevant it is this many years after it was written. I'd also like to say that if you'll be so kind as to consider this blog entry part of our two-person-book-club discussion, then it's your turn now. Tell me what this book means to you.

U R 2 good 2 B 4-gotten

School started this week in Ascension Parish. Seeing so many little ones crossing the street hand-in-hand with their parents, ably assisted by the crossing guard, I'm reminded of the excitement I used to feel in my own childhood at the beginning of each school year.

I loved school more than anything in the early grades, and the start of a new school year was the best part. I especially loved school supplies.

There was someting about fresh tablets and sharpened No. 2 pencils that signified new beginnings. I might make mistakes later on, but no blemishes would go with me into my new classroom.

On the way to school that first day I'd stick my face into the bagful of school supplies and inhale the magnificent aroma of crayons. The only thing in there that smelled almost as wonderful as the crayons was the oil cloth. I shopped carefully each year to find the most beautifully patterned square of waterproof cloth available, even though it was destined to remain rolled up, rubberbanded, and stashed in my desk to await the occasional messy art project.

Scent wasn't the only attraction. Somewhere along the way I'd picked up the bad habit of biting my pencils. Each new yellow pencil soon became ugly, but there was something indescribably satisfying about the sound and feel of my eyeteeth crunching into wood. I'd also discovered that the elongated pink erasers were pleasingly chewy, but the big square art-gum erasers crumbled too easily. Then, of course, there was creamy white paste. I didn't eat it by the jarful the way a couple of my classmates did, but I tasted it often enough to understand why they did it.

Along with the excitement, the first day of school always brought a little uneasiness. Would my classroom be upstairs or down, and what if I couldn't find it? Which teacher would I get? Would she be nice or mean? Would there be some kids I already knew in my class? What if one of the books that was issued to me had been written in by the kid who'd had it the year before and the teacher thought I did it? Somehow, all those worrisome issues resolved themselves without trauma.

When my sister and I traveled back to our hometown a few years ago, we visited all of our old schools. It was summertime, so the schools were closed, but we stopped the car long enough at each place to see what we could see.

Our longest stop was at Phelps, the elementary school we'd both attended. I think it felt natural to both of us to be back there. We pointed things out to each other, noting, for example, the recessed area on the back of the building where we'd played the dreaded dodge ball games. We stood on the same stairs we'd climbed over and over as our legs grew from first-grade length to several inches longer. We smelled the schoolyard dust of hundreds of past recesses and imagined long lines of children, arms entwined, shouting out the commands of Red Rover.

Most of all, through our peaceful moments of reverie, we paid silent homage to old classmates and old teachers. They signed our autograph books way back in the 1950s, and they also wrote their names in our memories and our hearts.

Slow news day

One might think I could get a job for Inside Edition, as adept as I'm becoming at repackaging the same news and stretching it out over several days. There's nothing exciting or original about this blog entry, but feel free to "stay tuned for recent developments" in my rather bland existence.

The vet called today and said, "Kadi's test results were good; she doesn't have Cushing's disease." Now, that was good news, but we aren't out of the woods yet. I have to take her back next Tuesday for an abdominal ultrasound. They're still trying to find some reason for the abnormal results on her initial blood test.

Still no electrical power at the office today. I stayed there until just before noon, by which time my hair and clothes were soaked with sweat and I smelled like I'd been running a marathon. (That should probably read "like I think I'd smell after running a marathon"; it's a lot easier for me to imagine the smell than it is to imagine the running.) The electricians had completed repairs of the wiring on the building, but the city inspector still had to come out and give his stamp of approval before the electric company could connect their power line (which they'd left hanging in a nearby tree) to the box.

This afternoon at 2:30, while I was stretched out on the recliner with a book, I got a phone call saying that the power had been restored. I did the right thing and called my boss at home to tell him the news, and he did what I was hoping he'd do and said it was too late to try to save the day. That was all I needed to hear. I put down the book and took a nap.

There'll still be telephone system issues to tackle tomorrow morning, but at least we'll be cool and comfortable and can start getting our ducks in a row.

Putting tomorrow on hold

Do you know how much a modern office relies on electricity? I got a good lesson in that when I arrived at work Friday morning. A truck had hit the corner of our building the night before, tearing down the conduit for the wiring and pulling the electrical box itself off the wall. Uh-oh.

I couldn't answer the phones because our phone system runs on electricity. I tried to use my cell phone to retrieve voice mail messages but couldn't get a signal inside the metal-roofed building. Even if I'd been able to get calls, I couldn't have scheduled appointments, because my calendar is on my computer.

I couldn't type letters or documents because the transcriber and the computer were down. I couldn't mail the letters I'd typed the day before because I couldn't make file copies of them or use the postage meter.

As I sat there in the narrow stream of sunlight that came through the open door, doing everything I could do with nothing more than paper, pen, and a working stapler, the lack of air conditioning became increasingly problematical. Finally, at 10:00 a.m., I called it quits, put a sign on the door, locked up, and headed for home. My boss wasn't in the office on Friday, but I'm quite sure he would have done the same.

The owner of the building told me they hoped to have the power up late Friday afternoon, but "to be honest, it'll probably be sometime on Monday." The battery backup on our phone system lasts a matter of hours, not days, so even if we do have electricity in the morning, I'll have to wait for a telephone systems repair service to come out and reprogram our phones. Only after they finish their work will we start getting calls from all the people who were frustrated in their attempts to reach us on Friday.

But that's tomorrow's mess to deal with. That and whatever the vet has to tell me about Kadi's test results. Tonight I'll fold my laundry, watch Big Brother with a large yellow dog tucked under each arm, and go to bed with a good book.

Where the mild things grow

My older daughter has fond memories of a large fig tree that grew in a special backyard of her childhood. She planted this tree last year in a corner of my backyard. It's still small, but it's producing enough fruit to feed her appetite and her soul.

She also planted this tangelo tree, still a scrawny thing in its second year. All of its energy seems to be going into fruit production and none into the expansion of its own height and breadth. It might have grown larger if we'd nipped some of the fruits in the bud, literally, but that would have seemed like a lack of gratitude to a little tree that was obviously trying so hard. Maybe next year.

The gardenia has been blooming for months now, but the summer heat is taking its toll. This blossom, the brightest on the bush, seems faded in comparison to the earlier flowers. But close your eyes and take a whiff. The fragrance is as bold and fresh as ever.

Our neighbor planted the morning glories on the fence between our homes. The vines creep out longer each day, the tendrils reaching out from the fence and seeking purchase on the driveway. In the evenings I notice the encroaching vines. In the mornings, all I see is brilliant blue-purple flowers raising their faces to the sun. Glory, indeed!

Veterinary veterans

Butch and Kadi both had appointments with the vet yesterday. It was time for their annual checkups and vaccinations, so I scheduled them for dental cleaning at the same time. They’re 8 and 9, respectively, and I have personal experience in the importance of being able to chew properly when one is getting on up in age.

The dental cleaning requires anesthesia, so the dogs couldn’t have food or water after midnight Wednesday night. For Butch that wasn’t a problem, but Kadi woke me up no less than five times to alert me to the fact that the water dish was empty. Yesterday morning, when I opened the gate that keeps them in the bedroom area at night, Butch trotted to the back door, as both of them usually do, but Kadi ran instead to the second water dish, the big one we keep in the den. Much to her dismay, that one had been picked up and moved, too.

I didn’t want them to eat grass or drink rainwater, so instead of opening the door to let them run into the backyard on their own, I put their leashes on and went out with them. It was still dark outside. I squinted my eyes to try to see the wet ground better and avoid stepping in poop. Instead, I stepped into a hill of fire ants. Believe me, I'd rather have stepped in the poop.

By the time we got back inside, both dogs were thoroughly confused by the change in our morning routine. I took their leashes off and they ran to stand expectantly in front of the treat cabinet, the next step in the usual beginning of our day. When I skipped that step, they looked at me as if they thought I’d totally lost my mind.

I can handle Butch or Kadi on a leash, but not both of them together, so my daughter came over early to go with us to the vet. Thank goodness.

This was the first time Butch has been in the car since his checkup a few days after his eye surgery last year. I was worried that he’d be afraid, that he’d remember the trauma of that experience and spend his day in fear. In fact, he was trembling as he rode in the car, but when we got to the vet’s office, you would have thought we’d just walked through the gates of Disney World. He started sniffing the floors and wagging his tail, turning enthusiastically toward each human voice he heard. “I know where I am,” he seemed to be saying, “and I have friends here.” I guess soooo. He spent a lot of time at that animal clinic last year, and he won the hearts of everybody there.

Late in the afternoon, when we went back to pick them up, I spoke to Dr. Lee, the vet who’d performed Butch’s eye surgery. “Did you see my boy?” I asked.

He smiled and said, “See him? We hung out and played for a while.” He beamed when he told us that Butch had recognized his voice. “He was in a cage with his back to me when I first saw him,” he said, “and then I spoke and he just went crazy. He knew exactly who I was.”

All in all, Butch had a pretty good day. Kadi, on the other hand, didn’t get her teeth cleaned because pre-anesthesia blood tests showed she might have a problem that would make anesthesia dangerous for her. They called to tell me what was going on, and I authorized them to do another diagnostic test. The problems Kadi was having back in June, although they’ve subsided to a large degree, may have been symptoms of something more serious.

We should have test results by Monday at the latest. In the meantime, we’ll go about our business as usual, and we’ll wait. I will not borrow trouble.

The leader of the pack

I usually enjoy the sounds of a good thunderstorm, but we've had one almost every day for the past couple of weeks. Frankly, I've reached my quota. That's enough rain, thank you very much.

In this part of the country, thunderstorms frequently mean power outages, and today I was one of the Lucky Lightning Lotto winners. I stepped into my living room after work, flipped the light switch, and nothing happened. Oh, joy! No air conditioner, no computer, no TV, no phone (except the cell).

It was unbelievably dark at only 5:30 in the afternoon. Even with the blinds open, there was barely enough light for me to find my way to the candle stash. While I was feeling around for matches, with Kadi pressing her agitated self against the back of my legs, something crossed my mind that brought a big smile to my face.

I realized that in the worst case scenario -- candles burned down to nubs, flashlight rolled out of reach under the sofa -- all I'd have to do was hold on to Butch. My little blind dog knew exactly where he was.

It made me feel good for him to have the advantage over us for a change, even if he didn't know it.

Maximum mall bangs

Prompted by my sister's joy at meeting her newest grandchild yesterday, I've been thinking off and on all day about the differences between parenting and grandparenting and how much easier the latter is. I don't know whether the difference lies in an increase of patience as we grow older or a decrease in responsibility. After all, we grandparents can hand the kids back at the end of the day.

One specific Saturday with my granddaughter stands out. She was eight years old. She'd stayed with me the night before, and we were headed to the movies to see Beethoven, a Disney movie about a St. Bernard. She had her picture taken at the movie theater that day, her head resting on the back of a live St. Bernard that was there for just that purpose. I wish I had that picture to prove my point, but I'm sure she took it home with her that evening.

Up until that day, if she stayed with me, she'd let me do her hair before we went out. That time, though, she told me she could do it herself. She opened her suitcase to show me she'd brought all the necessary equipment. I loved her beautiful hair, blond and hanging to the middle of her back. All it needed, I thought, was a good brushing, and she could certainly do that.

Wrong! She stepped out of the bathroom with her hair looking as bad as I'd ever seen it. She had teased the front into the most atrocious pile of mall bangs you can imagine and sprayed them to stand about five inches high above her forehead. The thing was, though, when I was finally able to tear my eyes away from those bangs and look at her face below them, I saw a beautiful child who was positively beaming with pride. She thought she looked wonderful. That was all I needed to know. The bangs stayed. I told her how proud I was of her that she could fix her hair herself, and we went to the movies.

If either of my own daughters had botched a hairdo at that same age, I'm sure I'd have stepped in to redo it before I let them out in public. They might have messed it up later, but by golly, they were going to walk out the door looking good. I wonder now if I did that for them, or if I did it because their appearance might reflect on my motherhood credentials.

By the time my granddaughter came along, how she felt about herself was way more important to me than what strangers at the movie theater might think of either of us. I wouldn't have burst her bubble of pride for anything in the world.

In my own childhood, my mother was the critical one who pushed me to do better, and my grandmother was the one who just loved me the way I was. I preferred the unconditional approval, of course, but the things my mother taught me were important to my becoming a civilized human being with a modicum of socially acceptable behavioral skills.

If I came to any conclusion today, it was this: mothers and grandmothers have different roles to fulfill. Working together, we provide a pretty good balance.


Five generations in 1984: L-R, my mother, my grandmother, my granddaughter, me (speaking of big hair), my younger daughter.

Welcome, Presley Paige...

I've been waiting on pins and needles tonight for a call from my sister, and the call just came. Today she welcomed into the world her fourth grandchild, a beautiful baby girl. Mother and child--and the rest of the family--are doing well.

Just wanted to take a moment to welcome you into the family, little one. You'll find that we're far from perfect, but you'll have a good time and you'll be well loved.

Myassa's Dragon -- for Sandy, because she asked

Sandy’s blog, ”To Touch a Unicorn,” is a mystical place, a world of fairy tales and fantasies and all things magical. It touches a spark of imagination that lets my inner child run free, and I love to visit there.

In today’s entry Sandy tells about the Chinese legend of dragons, their origin and their magical powers. If you haven’t read it, go there now; I’ll wait for you.




Oh, there you are. Did you have a nice visit?

In response to Sandy’s post, I asked her if she’d ever heard of a dragon that’s become well known to me in recent years. With a smile, she requested more information. Now, I don’t know how old Sandy is, but I’m guessing she’s many years younger than I. Otherwise, she’d know about this legend. Or maybe she does know and just wants to hear the story.

Apparently, many centuries ago, there was a lively village girl named Myassa, who could work all day and dance all night, until one day in her 20th year. On that day, at the edge of the dark forest, she encountered a huge dragon, with blazing red eyes, his body covered in deep-green scales the size of dinner plates. This was not a fire-breathing dragon, oh, no. Instead, it was a fire-inhaling dragon. It stopped in its tracks when it saw Myassa, cocked its head to get a better look, and then, with one mighty intake of breath, sucked all the fire right out of her.

From that day forward, the legend goes, Myassa was just not the same. She still worked –- she had no choice-- but she tired quickly. And if the fiddlers and the pipers played, Myassa was content to watch the others dance and remember the days when her own feet flew.

As much as I loved fairy tales in my childhood, I was an adult before I ever heard about Myassa and her dragon. Even then, when I heard it mentioned, it was sometimes whispered, almost as an apology.

I’d say to my husband on a Saturday night, “I have a good idea; let’s get a babysitter and go dancing tonight.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he’d say. Then he’d look at me, seeking understanding, and say, “Myassa’s dragon, you know?”

I’d ask a friend, “How’d you like to go to the fair this weekend?”

She’d shake her head and say, “I’m sorry, but I’m just not up to it. Myassa’s dragon.”

I didn’t have to hear that phrase uttered too many times before I became aware of how dramatically that particular dragon had affected Myassa and all those who encountered it after her. And then, sometime after my 50th year, I met the dragon myself. I've never been able to see its green scales and red eyes the way Myassa saw them, but the dragon has revealed its presence to me in many, many ways.

If you were to ask me today if I’d like to ride with you to Wal-Mart just to get out of the house for a little while, I’d say, “Thanks for asking, but no, I’ll stay home. Myassa’s dragon.”

If you were to see the puffs of yellow dog hair on my floor and wonder why I haven’t swept them up, there’d really be just one reason: Myassa’s dragon.

Myassa’s dragon stole into my life and sucked the energy right out of me, and I will blame it from now until the end of my days for all those things I can’t seem to get around to doing.

Losing My Prescriptions

If REM were to sing about my Saturday afternoon, it would go like this:

That’s me at the corner,
that’s me at the stoplight,
I’m leaving my prescriptions,
trying to keep up with bags
and I don’t know if I can do it,
oh, no, I’ve paid too much,
I haven’t bags enough,
I thought they were in my backseat,
I thought they were in my trunk,
I think I’m not too old to cry...

Here’s what happened: The last stop on my list of errands today was the Kmart pharmacy to pick up prescriptions. While I was in Kmart, I decided to shop for some other things and ended up walking toward my car with a cart containing a number of plastic shopping bags and other large items.

When I’d parked, I'd pulled through one parking space and into another so I wouldn't have to back out. Another car had immediately pulled into the space behind me. That would have been fine if I'd stopped after buying the prescriptions, but now I needed my trunk, which was no longer accessible. Not only that, but the cars that had parked next to me while I was in the store were so close I couldn’t squeeze the shopping cart through to reach my trunk from either side. I briefly considered putting everything in the backseat, but I'd have had to make a dozen trips, closing the car door after each one because of the narrow passage.

There was nothing to do but get in my car and pull it forward, even though that meant blocking one lane of traffic for a couple of minutes. I tossed stuff into the trunk as fast as I could, gave the (seemingly) empty cart a little push toward a group of others nearby, jumped back in the driver’s seat, and headed for home.

Fifteen minutes later, as I pulled into my driveway, it crossed my mind that I didn’t remember putting the bag of prescriptions into the car. I don’t normally put them in the trunk because of the heat, but I didn’t remember putting them anywhere in the car. The last time I’d seen that little bag, it was nestled in the kiddy-seat part of the shopping cart, right behind the big, solid-plastic flap that covers up the leg holes –- the only piece on the whole cart you can’t see through.

I took all the bags into the house, checked inside each one, then went back out to check the car again. I was mentally kicking myself all over the place. If I’d left the bag of prescriptions in the cart, I thought, they’d be long gone. No doubt some young punks trolling the parking lot would have found them and would be on their way to peddle them, pill by pill, to kids who wanted to get high. Kids who wouldn’t know the pills were for high blood pressure and high cholesterol.

I'm one of the 45 million Americans who don’t have health insurance, and those five prescriptions cost me $414. Trying to find a bright side to the situation, I reminded myself that there are a lot of people in worse shape than I am. I do have some savings. I could come up with the extra money if I had to. I’d call Kmart, and if nobody had turned the prescriptions in, I’d just ask the pharmacy to refill them and I’d suck up the loss. That’s a high price to pay for stupidity, money I certainly can’t afford to lose, but I'm old enough to know that some of life’s lessons are learned the hard way.

That train of thought was followed by another, more alarming one: it wasn't going to be that easy. All those medications were on the last refill. I’d called in for updated prescriptions a couple of times already. This time I'd have to go back to the doctor before I could get new ones. Well, I thought, maybe the pharmacist could call the doctor and get her to approve just one more refill of each medication. Surely they’d all understand the situation. But at nearly 5:00 p.m. on a Saturday, how much would they care?

I fumbled through the phone book. By the time I found Kmart’s number, I was in a state of high anxiety. In the high-pitched, whiny voice that I detest but can’t seem to control, I told the girl who answered the phone that I’d left there less than 30 minutes ago and had left a bag of prescriptions in the parking lot. She asked for my name. I gave it to her, and she said, “I have your prescriptions at the service desk.” That’s when I burst into tears. Thank God for good Samaritans!

I’d worry that this might have been a “senior moment” if I hadn’t done things like this occasionally throughout my life. I’ve left half a dozen umbrellas in restaurants over the course of the past 20 years. Usually, I’ve been lucky (knocking on wood here) and the more important items I’ve left behind have been found.

My self-confidence took a hit today, but there's no question in my mind that I got off easy. What will I remember most about this incident? No question about that, either; I'll remember the kindness of strangers.

The temptation was unbearable

Did you see the news about Barney, the doberman who tore up a teddy bear once owned by Elvis? I saw it on the Today Show the other morning, and I don't know which was funnier--the look on Barney's face as he stood among the ruins, or the laughter that the show's off-camera people couldn't hold back.

Here's a link to the Today Show segment. You'll have to click on the "Launch" button and sit through a short commercial, but it's worth it.

Then, if you're interested in more details, try this link to the CBC interview. This time, click on the Lucy Van Oldenbarneveld video.

If you own or have ever owned a dog, you can almost imagine how something like this could have happened. I would have loved to have been able to read Barney's mind right about the time he began to think this would be a good idea.

Enjoy.

He's baaaaaack!

Arriving home from work yesterday, I stopped my car at the end of the driveway to check the mailbox and noticed my son-in-law's pickup truck parked by my house. About that time I saw him in the backyard, passing by on the riding mower. And about three feet behind him, I saw this guy:


This is the first time I've seen the peacock since the long visit I posted about back in June. The hen hasn't been around, either. We're at least a month past the incubation period for peacock eggs (according to various Internet sources), so I guess the nest full of "peababies" I'd hoped to see didn't exist--at least not nearby.

When my son-in-law stopped the mower, I commented, "Looks like you had some help back there."

"I did," he said, "and he's been following me like a dog."

The peacock stuck around for a while, looking for goodies in the fresh-cut grass. I, having learned my lesson with last week's grass-allergy problems, didn't go out to play with him this time. But you can bet I have fresh batteries in the camera in case he comes around over the weekend.

Outdoor plumbing

There was a reference to an outhouse in a blog I read yesterday, and my mind immediately flashed back to the one time in my life when I had the misfortune opportunity to visit an outhouse. It happened sometime in the 50s, when we lived in Missouri, but I have no idea whose property we were on or why we were there. I do, however, have some pretty specific memories about my outhouse experience:

The smell.
Admittedly, one outhouse is a small sample, so I don't know if they all smell that bad. The scent of that one seems to have permanently imbedded itself in my brain in a matter of minutes. There's no doubt in my mind that if someone blindfolded me and led me into that outhouse, I'd recognize my surroundings without touching a thing.

The darkness.
It was broad daylight outside, but the only light in the outhouse was the little bit of sunlight coming through the cracks between the boards and the cut-out on the door. Must have been scary at night. (Lanterns, maybe?)

The floor plan.
I don't know whether this is an unusual thing or not, but this particular outhouse was a two-holer. That may have been the first time in my life I'd ever considered the possibility that there might be pairs of people who'd enjoy sitting side by side as they answered Nature's call.

The black holes.
Maybe outhouses are designed to be dark so people can't see what lurks beneath the cut-out seat. When I looked in, all I saw was blackness. The hole appeared to be very, very deep.

My little sister's love. This one surprises you, no doubt, but it's the reason why this outhouse memory is an important one for me. I don't know how old we were, certainly no older than six and ten. However old my sister was, that's how many years it had been (from my spoiled perspective) since she'd ruined the good thing I'd had going on. She'd singlehandedly destroyed my queendom by virtue of (a) being born and (b) being especially cute. I would be grown before I'd understand that she hadn't done it on purpose.

That day at the outhouse, though, I found out she loved me in spite of our sibling rivalry. I might never have known her true feelings even then if she hadn't peered into one of those deep black holes and become mightily afraid. As for myself, I was desperate. I moved past her, pulled down my shorts and my pastel, day-of-the-week panties, and perched over the edge of a hole that was way bigger than my skinny bottom. And that's when my little sister, in an act of love that moves me to this day, dropped to a squat on the ground in front of me, wrapped her arms tightly around my dangling legs, and held on for dear life until I was finished.

Sis, I haven't thought about this in years and years, and I wonder if you remember it at all. Whether you do or not, I just want to tell you how much I appreciated your concern that day. That was possibly the first time in my life that I came close to falling into deep s**t, and you were there to save me. Sure wish you'd been around some of the later times.

Happy Birthday, Mama-Too

I've never been a stickler for celebrating a birthday on the exact anniversary of the birth, but my nonchalant attitude about it didn't come from my mother. Her birthday was her special day, and any acknowledgment of it before or after that exact 24-hour period didn't count. Today's the day, and I'm not about to let it pass without recognition.

My mother, christened Wanda June, acquired a new name on this day when she held my firstborn child. As much as she loved my new daughter, she was less than thrilled at the idea of being called "grandma." After all, she was only 38 years old. Before the day was out, she had named herself "Mama-Too"--as in, "I feel like I'm her mama, too." More grandchildren followed, and the name stuck.

For most of my adult life, I've lived geographically apart from my mother. We kept in touch by mail or long-distance calls, and in the last two decades of her life, I lived near enough that we could visit two or three times a year. Always, though, I was acutely aware of the distance between us.

Her death in 1999 came unexpectedly. The shock of it left her children and grandchildren with a pain so raw and open that, for a number of years, it was her death, not her life, that came to mind when we thought of her. I can still tap into that pain in the span of a heartbeat, but time has been kind. In the memories that come first these days, she is very much alive.

I'd read enough to expect that the grief would diminish with time, but something else has happened that I never would have imagined. The distance I always felt between my mother and me has completely disappeared. In fact, I feel closer to her now than I ever have, and the whole idea of that just knocks my socks off.

In the first years after Mother's death, I'd frequently catch myself wanting to pick up the phone to call her and talk about something I'd seen on the news or something that had happened in the family. Each time was a fresh reminder that I couldn't talk to her anymore. And then, one day, I discovered I could. She doesn't talk back, so it isn't exactly a discussion that we have, but we do have a connection.

This reconfigured relationship with my mother isn't a "ghostly" thing. I don't see her or hear her. I don't "feel her presence" in a literal sense. Somehow, I just know she's with me. In fact, it seems that she's with a number of us, and she's chosen a unique way to make us aware of it.

My mother was famous in our family for her uncanny ability to pull into a crowded parking lot and find an empty space right in front of the door. It happened so regularly that we began to take it for granted, and it never failed to delight her.

I don't know how long it was after Mother died--a couple of years at least--before I noticed that I'd been having a string of exceptionally good luck finding parking places. I began to pay attention. It doesn't happen every time, but more often than not, I'll drive in and find a prime parking spot without any extra effort. Soon after I noticed this unusual good luck, I got in the habit of saying, "Thank you, Mama-Too," each time it happened.

After a while, I mentioned it to my daughters. Both of them told me they'd begun to notice the same phenomenon as they ran their own errands. They, too, began responding, "Thank you, Mama-Too."

After a year or so of privileged parking, I went on a road trip with my sister and her husband. Miles and miles into the trip, while we were talking about Mother, I risked raising their concerns about my sanity by telling them, in a joking way, that Mother had been helping my girls and me find good parking places. To my surprise, this wasn't news to them. "The same thing's been happening to us," my sister said. "It happens all the time, and every time it does, we say, 'Thank you, Mama-Too.'"

Now, you might think our fortunate parking experiences are just random events in the universe. Or you might think that nothing's changed at all, that we just pay more attention to the good parking experiences than the bad ones. You might possibly be right, but don't even think about saying those things to me. All I know is that every single time it happens--and it happens a lot--I get a huge rush of joy and an immediate mental image of my beautiful mother, laughing out loud in delight at her own cleverness, letting us know she's still around.

Happy birthday, Mama-Too, and thank you. Thank you for everything.

Bake-off Bulletin

I mentioned in yesterday's post that the reason I'd been standing in the fresh-cut grass on Friday was to talk to my grandson. The main thing I wanted to ask him about, the thing that had aroused my curiosity enough to ignore the grass pollen, was his rumored participation in an upcoming bake-off.

This young man, who towers over me now, spends a huge portion of his time on the sports field, football and baseball mostly, but from the time he was just a little guy, he's had an interest in cooking, too. I dearly love a man who can cook, and we have several in our family now.

The story my grandson told me is that his sister and her fiance were discussing which of the two of them could make the best dessert, and that discussion led to one challenging the other to a bake-off. My grandson, never one to leave his two cents' worth out of a good discussion, ended up with an invitation to put up or shut up. And that's why my older daughter, his aunt, ran into him at the grocery store the other day when he was purchasing "practice" ingredients.

I missed the bake-off, but I talked with my younger daughter, his mom, a few minutes ago, and she gave me the play-by-play. Three judges had been selected ahead of time. Apparently, they took their job seriously. They used pads and pencils to make notes as they sampled the various entries, and they discussed among themselves the specific flavors they tasted in each dish.

Here are the final results:

My granddaughter, who served tiramisu, topped with shaved chocolate, in martini glasses, won first prize for presentation.

Her fiance served a triple-chocolate cake and won first prize for taste.

My grandson would have won, the judges agreed, except that he accidentally left the eggs out of his white-chocolate cake, leaving it rather flat and crumbly.

Never give up, big boy. There's always next year.

Alas! It's grass!

For the better part of the past two days, I’ve been in a Benadryl-induced stupor, necessitated by an allergy to one of the best-smelling things in the world: fresh-cut grass. To my knowledge, I never had allergies in my life until I was 42. One night that year I went to bed with a light case of the sniffles, and the next morning I woke up in a world of spinning rooms. For the next three days, if I ventured out of bed at all, I lurched like a stumbling drunk.

At the time I had no idea what caused it. My grandmother, Lola (a/k/a Mammaw), used to have “dizzy spells” occasionally and had been told by her doctor that it was an inner-ear condition. I assumed that must be my problem, too, and in a way it was. At the time, I was too sick to go to the doctor for a diagnosis. Mammaw lived to the age of 92 despite her occasional dizziness, so I decided just to stay in bed and wait it out.

My boyfriend back then (the magician), suggested that my dizziness might be allergy related, but I pooh-poohed that idea immediately. Allergies were his affliction, not mine. Then, a few days after I was on my feet again, I picked up a magazine and discovered an article about allergic reactions. One of them, to my surprise, was dizziness. The article described symptoms just like those I’d experienced, and it suggested antihistamines for relief.

Next time--and there have been many next times, more in the spring and fall--I was prepared. I’ve learned through experience that I can prevent full-blown vertigo by taking Benadryl at the first sign of symptoms. If I don't pay attention to the least little bit of drippiness in my nose, that drippy fluid will build up inside my ear canals in a matter of hours and I'll become one sick drunk.

You'll be glad to know I’ve just deleted an additional half page full of boring, allergy-related stuff. Let’s just sum it up by saying I walked outside on Friday while my daughter was cutting my grass–-even though I knew I shouldn’t be out there–-and inhaled a snootful of airborne grass pollen. The histamines my body produced in response to that particular dose of pollen have put up a mighty battle, so I’ve taken more Benadryl than usual. And all I’ve wanted to do this weekend is sleep.

Now that you’ve read all the boring, allergy-related stuff I didn’t delete, I’m sure you could use a little nap yourself. Sweet dreams.

Thy page offendeth me

Way back here, in one of my first blog entries, I wrote about how nervewracking it is to be distracted in the middle of a good book by errors that should have been discovered before publication. Tonight I'll write about it again, because it drives me insane.

I'm not talking about an occasional typo; we've all done that, and it's hard to spot when you're proofreading your own writing. I'm talking about segments of text that make you go, "Huhhhh???" With a book, especially, you'd think at least a few people would have read it prior to publication, and you'd think that at least one of them might have stumbled over the offending passage.

I've read several books in Jonathan Kellerman's Alex Delaware series and liked them all, but it seems as if all the editors were Gone when it came time to proofread his newest one. On page 57, Dr. Delaware and his homicide-cop buddy, Milo Sturgis, are interviewing a witness, one Shayndie Winograd. A good third of the page is devoted to Shayndie's son, Gershie, who is running around the apartment, and Dr. Delaware notes that "he looked to be about three."

Reading a little further, then turning the page, Shayndie excuses herself to "check on the babies." When she returns, Milo inquires about how many babies there are. "Twins," she said. "Seven months ago."

Milo was thinking like I'm thinking as I read this. "Mazel tov," said Milo. (Okay, I didn't think "Mazel tov," but I thought the next part.) "Three's a lot to handle." That's probably what you were thinking, too, but then Shayndie comes back with this:

"Shayndie Winograd smiled. 'Three would be easy. I've got six, five are school-age.'"

Okay, now, wait just a doggone minute! She has six kids and five are school aged? Even if Gershie Yoel, who "looked to be about three," was small for his age, what about the seven-month-old twins? The word "twins" means two babies as far as I know. Six kids minus two kids would be four possible school-aged children, right? Not five. Unless one of the twins is a genius, and the other is a...well, a seven-month-old baby.

I rest my case. I'm still reading, but don't think for a minute that this isn't stuck in the back of my mind, making me wonder what kind of a fool they think I am and what they're gonna try to pull on me next.

Stairway to a hasty exit

On the car radio today, I heard Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven," a song I'd enjoy listening to except that it always reminds me of how lousy I am at making small talk.

In 1981 there was a lot of stuff on the news about "backward masking" on popular record albums. For you young whippersnappers, we're talking vinyl albums here, records that would normally be played in one direction on a turntable but could, with a little manual effort, be turned backward to produce a garbled sound. The news was that Satanic messages were being recorded backwards in an attempt to imprint those messages on listeners' subconscious minds. "Stairway" was one of the songs implicated.

The night I first read in the newspaper about that subject, my initial reaction was to doubt it seriously. I didn't think music moguls would waste their time (spelled m-o-n-e-y) to do such a thing. It just didn't make sense.

I showed the article to my daughter, who had that album in her collection, and we decided to give it a test. We put the record on the turntable and used one finger to spin it backwards. Most of it was inaudible, but the words "because I live with Satan" were quite clear. Hmmmm.

My daughter and I stayed up late that night discussing the implications of such a thing. We talked about why somebody would want to do that in the first place (a gimmick to sell records was our best guess), and we talked about how anybody could possibly believe that people's brains could hear a subliminal message and somehow know subconsciously to reverse it into a relevant phrase. Get real. We had a lively discussion that lasted until well past midnight.

The next day I had a date. We were going with a group of people on a motorhome to the LSU-Ole Miss football game. I don't know why I agreed to go in the first place. I'm not a football fan, I get carsick riding sideways, and I was going to be confined in close quarters with a bunch of people I didn't know. Oh, goody.

During the get-acquainted portion of the ride, when snacks and drinks were flowing freely (my drink of choice was Tab back then), the men all clustered at the back of the motorhome. The women, of whom I knew exactly one, stayed up front on the built-in sofas.

I'm shy, so I'm not usually quick to pick up the conversational ball, but that day I was still pumped about the interesting discussion with my daughter the night before. When there was a lull in the conversation, I brought it up: "Did any of you read that article in the paper yesterday about 'Stairway to Heaven'?"

A couple of people said they had, so I told them about our experiment, and I told them what we'd heard. I didn't express an opinion or make any judgment about it whatsoever, just introduced it as a topic of discussion. And they all smiled politely, blinked a couple of times, and looked at me as if I had a huge booger hanging out of my nose.

Somebody mumbled, "Hmmm," and shook her head for emphasis, and that was pretty much all of our discussion. Within less than a minute the conversation had shifted to something the rest of the ladies found much more stimulating: where to buy diamonds at a discount.

About that time the carsickness (or some other kind of nausea) took hold, and I moved to the front of the bus to sit by the driver, facing forward. That's where I stayed for the rest of the ride.

Okay, I'll admit to being naive. I like nothing better than a discussion you can sink your teeth into, and most of the really good friends I've had in my life have been the same way. Somehow, it hadn't yet registered on me that not everyone in the world finds fun in a vigorous exchange of ideas, but I learned it pretty quickly that night. It wasn't that kind of a party. Okay. My bad.

I learned something else that night, too. I learned not to reveal too much of myself to people until I know them really well and know that their minds are (a) open and (b) engaged. I also learned to avoid those kinds of close encounters as much as possible. If, God forbid, you should happen to catch me at one of them, you can find me easily. I'll be the lady munching on the Doritos and the seven-layer-dip...just listening.

Driving ambition

I just came from an online visit with sassy-sistah, who had surgery recently. She wrote that today was the first day she's been out of the house since then and said, "It felt a little strange to drive again, to be honest."

That reminded me of a woman I used to work with (let's call her "Lynne") who lived with her elderly mother and spent a great deal of time taking her mother here and there for medical and dental appointments, shopping, etc. At one point, Lynne's mother had to have surgery, and Lynne took off work one morning to take her to a pre-op doctor's appointment.

When Lynne returned to work, she told us the appointment went better than expected. "In fact," she said, "Mama's not dreading the surgery any longer; she's actually looking forward to it now."

"That's odd," someone commented. "What did the doctor say that made her change her mind about it?"

"Well," Lynne said, "he told her that she'd be able to drive three weeks after the operation, and Mama said, 'Ooh, that's wonderful, Doctor, 'cause I ain't never been able to drive in my life up to now.'"

Two steps forward, one step back

First step forward:
Uncovering the stepping stones. When I moved here, there were stepping stones from the driveway back to the shed only. If we wanted to go from the patio to the shed or from the patio to the driveway, especially if rain had turned the backyard swampy, we were S.O.L.

I'd thought about adding more stepping stones years before we did it, but Butch's impending blindness was the motivation I needed to finally get it done. I wanted him to become familiar with them while he still had a little vision, so we rushed the project and completed it mere weeks before his eye surgery.

The stepping stones weren't my idea; I'd read about their usefulness in a book on blind dogs and I can testify to their value. Butch depends on them. If we call him when he's way at the back of the property, he takes off in a trot toward the house. He runs until his feet touch the stepping stones, then follows their path to the patio. Today, thanks to a crew of people with weedeaters and edgers, we reclaimed them from the thick St. Augustine grass that threatened to swallow them.

Second step forward:
This afternoon I spent an hour or so with the ongoing project of scanning all my old photos. This was a baby step, but a step in the right direction nonetheless. I could scan them much faster if I could control my need to study each and every one of them, but then it would be just labor. Doing it this way is a labor of love.

And one step back:
A step in time, that is. Friday night I had the pleasure of a phone call from friends we'd known in 1970 when we lived in Miami. They were good friends for the year and a half we were there, and after we moved away, we stayed in touch through Christmas cards for a few years. Then we moved again...and then they moved...and after a couple more moves for each of us, we lost touch.

Thanks to the Information Age and the excellent memory of the husband in this pair, he tracked my ex to the home of my former mother-in-law, who told him of Hus2's death and gave him a clue that led him to a successful Internet search for me.

It was fun to spend time on the phone catching up with them. We've all lived through a lot since those carefree days, and we've all changed a lot, too--inside and out.

While the inside changes may have been the most profound, the outside are the most obvious. This photo was taken in Miami in 1970. My girls grew into women a long time ago, and I grew, too, expanding my horizons as well as my waistline. I like to think that the free-spirited woman pictured here is still very much a part of who I am, but, much like an old tree, I have a lot more rings beneath my bark than I did 36 years ago. Inside and out.

Sister Mary Katherine

Dog discipline at my house consists of rolling up a newspaper in one hand, slapping it in the palm of the other hand, and saying, with a stern voice and expression, “Do you want me to spank you with a paper?” That pretty much stops the unwanted behavior. And if I’m incapable of judging which behavior is unwanted, Kadi stands ready to help me.

Have I mentioned that Kadi is a card-carrying goody-two-shoes? Her mission in life is to be THE perfect dog, and if she sometimes falls short, it isn’t for lack of trying.

Early in John Grogan’s wonderful book, Marley and Me, he wrote about his childhood dog, Shaun, a/k/a Saint Shaun. That struck me really funny, because Kadi, a/k/a Kadi Marie (I’m in Catholic country; all kids have to have a saint name), has long been called Sister Mary Katherine, as well.

I love that her goals are so lofty except that she applies her high standards of behavior to all the rest of us. One example: My daughter was getting ready to do laundry here one day and I was in another room. I could hear her talking softly, then she called, “Mom, what’s the matter with Kadi?”

I hollered back, “What do you mean, ‘what’s the matter with Kadi?’ What’s she doing?”

My daughter said, “Well, she’s just acting weird. She’s sitting here with her head hanging down and her ears back, looking like she’s just lost her best friend.”

I walked back into the kitchen, where my washer and dryer are, and spotted the problem immediately. My daughter had dumped all the clothes out into the middle of the kitchen floor to sort them into loads. Kadi sat right next to them, and the expression on her long face said, “I cannot believe you’ve made this mess. I love you, but I’ve never been more disappointed in you than I am right now.”

When Butch was a puppy, Kadi ratted him out every chance she got. She’d come and find me, her ears laid back flat against her skull, and give me that “you’d-better-come-with-me-it’s-an-emergency" look, and, sure enough, I’d find a pile of poop or new chew marks on the furniture.


Recently, Kadi seems to have focused her behavior modification program on Lucy, my granddog. Granted, Lucy isn’t perfect. She’s a year old now, but she’s still a wild baby thing who likes to explore her every impulse. A couple of weeks ago Lucy’s impulse was to chew on the corner of my coffee table, and Kadi, thank goodness, came running in to get me. Kadi weighs five times as much as Lucy and probably could have stopped the chewing on her own if she’d wanted to (I’ve seen her head-butt Lucy on more than one occasion), but she apparently wanted me to see it for myself.

One of the not-so-endearing things Lucy has been doing a lot lately is frenzied scratching on the door. It doesn’t matter whether she’s inside or outside, she pretty much wants to be on the side where she isn’t, and she wants one of us to open the door for her. Now! The reason all this is on my mind is that Kadi just now demonstrated the new trick she's added to her tattling repertoire in the last couple of days.

Lucy scratches on the door, I yell at her to stop it, and Kadi runs up to me and shoves her big head under my armpit. She stays like that for a few seconds, her eyes covered by my arm, then she peeks out and rolls her eyes at me imploringly. “Oh, gawd, she’s doing it again,” she seems to be saying. “Do you think maybe you should roll up a newspaper?”

Green Peace

The last few entries I've written have been exceptionally long, so I thought I'd give us all a rest tonight--and brighten up my blog at the same time. Here are a few peaceful images I snapped earlier this year. (Warning to fellow allergy sufferers: Beware of hidden pollen in these photos.)

Pegboard predicament

Sweet-Sister Three commented on yesterday's post as follows: "Tie the can behind your car and drag it to their office. Leave it there. Take the cheese and stinky stuff along!!" Not a bad idea, and the visuals it conjures up are hilarious. The reality is that I don't think I'm up to the task of towing a trashcan in traffic. I'm still suffering from the trauma of a bad experience I had when we first moved to Long Island, New York.

Prior to the move to New York in 1973, we were living in tiny, sleepy Vidalia, Georgia. (We lived there twice, actually; this was the first time.) I don't think there was any road in town that had more than two lanes. In fact, the major traffic problem in Vidalia was getting stuck behind someone who'd stopped to talk to a friend in an oncoming vehicle. Traffic would line up in both directions while the friends exchanged pleasantries, then they'd wave goodbye and we'd all mosey on down the road. We were in Vidalia for almost two years, and I got used to that leisurely pace.

Fast forward to New York. We'd moved to Farmingdale, about a 30-minute drive from New York City, and I never really knew where Farmingdale ended and the next village began. They were all crammed together, one after the other, all the way into the city. Slicing through them, separating the North Shore from the South Shore, was the Hempstead Turnpike, at that time eight lanes of fast-moving traffic.

As soon as we'd unpacked our furniture, Hus2 started fixing up his workshop in the garage. He liked to build things, and he liked to have all his tools organized just so. Since I wasn't doing anything, he asked me to go to the lumberyard and get him two 4'x 8' sheets of pegboard. I was kind of nervous about the fast traffic, but it was a fairly straight shot from home to the lumberyard, and Hus2 told me I needed to get used to driving in that traffic. The girls jumped in the car with me, and off we went.

At the lumberyard, I asked for pegboard. Because I didn't know the difference between tempered and untempered pegboard (it's an issue of strength), I made my decision on the basis of price, and we proceeded to the checkout counter.

I was driving a brand-new 1973 Monte Carlo, so even though Hus2 had assured me the lumberyard would be able to tie the pegboard securely to the roof of the car, I was skeptical and said so. "They do it all the time," he'd said. "It won't be a problem."

The guy at the lumberyard didn't seem to think it was a problem, either. He whipped one sheet of pegboard up on top of my car, poked twine through one of the holes at the front end of it and made a long loop that he tied to my front bumper. Then he laid the other sheet of pegboard on top of the first one. He ran more twine through the front car windows, wrapping it over the middle of the two sheets of pegboard to tie them together to the top of the car. He moved back a couple of feet and repeated the process by running the twine through the rear windows of the car, then tied it off. "That," he said, brushing his hands together to dust them off, "should do the job."

We got back inside the car, and the first thing I noticed was that the pegboard was hanging by several inches over the front and rear windows. I slouched down in the seat a little to see through the windshield better and decided I'd have to rely on the side mirrors to see what was behind me. Very carefully, I pulled out onto the Hempstead Turnpike, worked my way up to a speed consistent with the rest of the traffic, and moved into one of the middle lanes.

That's when all hell broke loose. A gust of wind caught up under the inexpensive, untempered pegboard. It might have sent both whole sheets flying, except the twine held them down in some places. Instead, the wind just broke them all to pieces. Pieces of pegboard, large and small, were flying from the roof of my car across multiple lanes of traffic. It must have looked like they were raining from the sky. Brakes were squealing all over the place and drivers were swerving from one lane to another to try to avoid getting hit.

It was extremely frightening, but the part my daughters and I remember most is the rest of the drive home. There was no more pegboard on our car except for one piece, about the size of a cookie sheet. It was the piece that was tied to my front bumper by twine through one of its holes, and it twisted and flipped on its long tether, waving and threatening other vehicles, all but screaming, "Over here, look at us!" For three more miles, all the way home, that freakin' piece of pegboard bounced and banged against my brand-new car, and I was too scared to stop and untie it.

My husband, poor thing, saw us drive up and didn't realize how much danger he was in when he asked, reasonably, "What happened to my pegboard?"

I tossed him a fierce look over my shoulder as I speedwalked toward the front door, my shoulders hunched and my purse tucked under my arm. "If you want your damned pegboard," I snapped, "you go get it. It's all over the Hempstead Turnpike." Then I burst into tears.

So, Sweet-Sister Three, yours was a good idea, but I think I'll pass. I can just imagine that big blue can flying over my car at the end of a tow rope.

The Garbage Man Can

You must be sick to death of me whining about my garbage can woes, but you're not half as sick of it as I am. Last night, once again, I couldn't move my lidless garbage can because it was full of rainwater, and I had to wrestle the can to the ground to pour the water out so I could take the garbage out to the road.

In fact, last night was the worst night yet. It rained almost every day this week, so the rain had steeped in the can for a few days and turned into a foul, sun-brewed, refuse tea. As I poured the vile stuff out, trying to keep it from running over my feet, it carried a few french fries and half of a rotten fish sandwich out with the flow. You can imagine how much fun that was to pick up.

I tried to call my "waste management company" again today. Once more, I waited on hold for an interminable amount of time and, once more, I had to give up to answer a call on another line. Of the times I've tried to call, I've only made contact with a human being once. Obviously, it's time to try a different tactic.

I've thought about writing a letter for a while now, but they must get stacks and stacks of them considering their recent service problems. What are the odds they'd draw mine out of the complaint lottery and respond to it?

Well, I think I am going the letter route, but outside the regular channels. Before I do something I might regret, read this, if you have time, and tell me if you think it might work:

*********

Unnamed (for now) Waste Management Service
Baton Rouge, Louisiana

Dear Person Who Opens the Mail:

Yes, that's right, I mean you, the mail-opening person. Can you help me, please? I've had a problem with my trash pickup service recently and can't seem to connect with anyone who has the authority to resolve this problem; therefore, I'm hoping to enlist you in my endeavor to get a new garbage can to replace the one that's been broken for weeks now.

I would deeply appreciate it if you, my new mail-opening friend, would direct this letter to the person in your office who has the best singing voice and/or the most guts, then persuade that person (and backup singers if there are any volunteers) to take it to the office of the Vice President in Charge of Who Gets Replacement Cans, then sing the enclosed song aloud to that V.P. I'd be grateful beyond words.

I look forward to hearing from someone representing your company within a week from the date of this letter. I've taken the liberty of posting this request online on my blog (without identifying your company at this point) and will be happy to post the company's response as well.

Thank you in advance for any assistance you can provide. I can be reached by phone at the numbers above.

Sincerely,
Velvet Sacks (Readers, I'll use my real name, of course.)

Here's the song:

THE GARBAGE MAN
(to be sung to the tune of "The Candy Man")

1st Verse:

Who can take my trashcan,
(Who can take my trashcan)
empty out the load,
toss the can and leave it
helter-skelter in the road?
The garbage man can.
Oh, the garbage man can.
Just look at what he did,
holy crap, he broke the lid,
I need a new trash can.

2nd Verse:

When next I took the trash out,
(When next I took the trash out)
there'd been a lot of rain,
I couldn't budge the can until
I tipped it o'er to drain,
but the garbage man can.
Oh, the garbage man can.
He spied my broken lid
and he hauled it off, he did,
I need a new trash can.

Chorus:

No lid's on the bin;
rain keeps pouring in;
flies go in and out as they please,
crawl on spoiled tuna and cheese,
lay their eggs and spread disease.

3rd Verse:

I called your office number,
(I called your office number)
requested a new can;
the girl said she'd discuss it
with the manager man.
Oh, the garbage man can.
Yes, the garbage man can.
You have not returned my call,
and I'm begging now, y'all,
I need a new trash can.

A little story about a special day in the woods

This is a true story. Only the species have been changed to protect the innocent.

Once upon a time there was a mother bird whose nest had been tossed and blown by mighty winds until mere pieces of it, fragments that held her precious young, clung precariously to the forked branch where it rested. The mother bird was sorry she hadn’t made her nest stronger, but she’d built it by herself, without the help of her mate, and it was the best she’d been able to do.

The mother bird could have considered her plight quietly. She could have gone about the business of finding worms and bugs to feed to her baby and ignored the fact that stronger winds were on their way. She could have tucked her head beneath her wing and mourned the inevitable future loss of her nest. But this mother loved her baby too much for that.

Instead, she sang out. She flew far and wide, singing her loudest song to every creature of the forest. She sang about the nest that was falling apart and the baby whose safety depended on it. In her strong, clear voice, she asked for help, if any could offer it, and the other forest creatures heard her, loud and clear.

“We can pull strong grasses,” the rabbits said in response, and began to do so at once.

“And we can carry twigs,” said the squirrels, who sprang into action without waiting for anyone to tell them what needed to be done.

“Leaves,” said the robins. “We’ll pick leaves.”

The redbirds sang out to the rabbits and the squirrels and the robins, “Bring us your grasses and your twigs and your leaves, and we’ll work together to weave them tightly onto the branches.”

And off to work they all went. They pulled grasses, carried twigs, picked leaves, wove it all together, and stood back to observe the nest they’d built. They knew the nest was strong enough to withstand the next mighty wind and even a few strong gusts after that. The mother bird sang in the nest beside her baby, and all the forest creatures felt touched by the magic they’d created together.

All the forest creatures, that is, except one.

At the other side of the forest lived a skunk. He was once a popular creature in the woods, but that was before he began to spray his putrid scent into the faces of the other animals at his whim. If one creature remarked, “Look what wonderful long ears the rabbit has,” the skunk sprayed the rabbit at their first encounter.

“My ears,” said the skunk, “hear better than the rabbit’s, and what’s more, I heard first.”

If another creature remarked, “Doesn’t the squirrel have a glorious, fluffy tail?,” the skunk could not rest until he had sprayed the squirrel.

“My tail is the most wonderful tail of all,” said the skunk. “And all the other creatures only wish they could spray like I do.”

If the robin said of the redbird, “Those are the most beautiful feathers I’ve ever seen,” the skunk sprayed the redbird. And the robin.

“You think red is the most beautiful color?” the skunk asked in disbelief. “Look at me. Look at my shiny black fur with its white stripe down the back, the stripe that I designed and generously granted God permission to use. Doesn’t it just take your breath away?”

Most of the forest animals tried not to cross the skunk's path at all. Some of the others who had known the skunk for a while, and many who knew him only by reputation, had tried to get along with the skunk by agreeing with everything he said before that special day. “Of course, you are the most beautiful,” they’d always said. “Your ears are wonderful, and your tail...oh, please, could you show your tail again? Very carefully, perhaps?” They’d always said those things before because they knew one thing for certain: should they disagree with the skunk, they were in for a powerful spraying. It was easier to befriend the sprayer than to be the one getting sprayed.

By the time the day arrived when the creatures built the nest together, the skunk had developed an unfortunate problem. The trouble was that he’d used his sprayer too frequently. He’d sprayed and sprayed and sprayed until the forest reeked of his scent, and all the other creatures had long since learned that his stink wouldn’t kill them. The skunk, who had not yet learned that same lesson, continued to spray at every opportunity.

And so, as the forest creatures gathered together and admired their handiwork, they weren’t too surprised when the skunk ambled out of the bushes and walked slowly toward them, curious about what had drawn them all together.

Said a rabbit, “Oh, here comes the skunk. We knew he’d show up sooner or later.”

Said one squirrel to another, “He has a reputation for spraying, but don’t worry about it. The scent won’t cling for long.”

“Well, look at this,” said the skunk, making his way into the center of the circle. “I see you’ve all worked together to build a nest; isn’t that special?” The skunk looked around from one animal to the next, studying their faces with a smirk on his own. “You’ve wasted your time, squirrels,” the skunk said. “You should have been gathering nuts. And you,” he said to the rabbits, “what’s in this for you? You should be out digging burrows.” The skunk roared with laughter at the other animals. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “I could have built that nest faster and better all by myself.”

At that very moment, a breeze kicked up and the leaves on the trees began to stir. The skunk, startled by the movement, stopped laughing and planted his front feet firmly on the ground. He lifted his back legs, raised his tail, and began to spray with all the fury he could muster. Before the animals could move, a mighty wind blew in from above, and the animals watched in wonder as a powerful little twister swirled right in the middle of their circle, completely surrounding the skunk.

As the wind died down, the animals looked up at the tree, not at the skunk lying soiled and disheveled at their feet. They smiled and congratulated each other as they saw the mother bird standing on the edge of her very sturdy nest, feeding her baby. And they felt really good.

Then a beautiful, gentle redbird flew low around the circle of his forest friends and sang in his sweetest voice, “You know, the skunk was once a magnificent creature; you have to give him that. He does have perky little ears, and that fancy tail with it’s sprayer attachment is a powerful tool. That stripe design is pretty awesome, too.” All the other creatures nodded in agreement. “The sad thing,” the redbird sang, “is that all the stink has finally stuck to the skunk.”

The end.

Thanks for BEARing with me...

This week has definitely been the worst period of blogging negligence in my entire (short) career. I feared that some of you, thinking I’d abandoned this feeble noble effort, might have moved on to plow more fertile fields. Nothing was growing on this idle plot of cyberspace.

There was only one night that I was actually too busy to get to my computer. That was Wednesday, the night my daughter came over with eight huge bags of goodies for the benefit auctions. There were so many donations that it took two of us working until well past my bedtime to separate them into reasonable auction lots, and it was really fun to do. Unfortunately, that experience demonstrated once again how much stamina I no longer have. My behind dragged the floor for two days afterwards.

On Thursday night I darted in after work and plugged in that little haiku-thingie, so you’d know I was alive and well, and planned to come back and post something more substantial after Big Brother. Hah! I fell asleep and didn't wake up until after the eviction. I watched the last few minutes, then hurried back to my computer to see the kickoff of the first batch of auctions. Whoopeeee! Very exciting! And that's about the time that my computer started sloooooooooooowing dooooowwwwwnnnn and then just froze.

I'd tried to switch back and forth between eBay and my favorite blogs right before that happened, something I've done a hundred times before without any difficulties whatsoever, so my first thought was that I shouldn't have clicked on the "install updates" window that had popped up the day before. I rebooted and tried again. It started up okay, but I could only switch between windows half a dozen times before it would lock up again. Talk about aggravating! I’d read somebody's blog, write a comment, enter my login information and try to submit the comment, and it would just sit there. It wouldn't send, nor could I even move to another window. In fact, by that time I couldn’t even reboot; I’d have to push the button to turn off the computer. My sparklingly brilliant comment, of course, would be lost (as would be my temper).

Friday was more of the same, but by then I’d figured out that I could get online as long as I didn't mess around. I'd have to take care of urgent e-mails, check the auctions, read one or two blogs if I could, then reboot again. Over and over. Still, by late Friday I’d managed to find out that Carmon had gone away to an art show, Janet had been stuck in an elevator at the hospital, Mike's father-in-law had passed away and Mike was taking good care of Daisy, and Dooce could be brave and funny in the face of newly discovered skin cancer. That’s how fast things were happening in other people’s lives while I sat here and fought with my stupid computer.

Today was much better. It dawned on me this morning to check my cookie cache. I tried to identify which cookies I needed to save, but it didn’t take long to remember that I’m not that detail oriented , so I just adopted a mercenary attitude and deleted every single one of the little suckers, friend and foe alike. My immediate computer problems were solved instantly. The problem of figuring out what the heck all my passwords were will take a bit more research, but at least it won’t have to be done all at once.

Soooo. Enough complaints. The good news is that the auctions have raised more than $10,000 in less than 48 hours, enough to save the house, provide a little cushion for the lampworker who is no longer a damsel in distress, and put big grins on the faces of all the people who pulled together to make this happen. It felt so good today to give a big hug and a hearty high-five to the one of them I love most.

It feels good to be back here, too. I know it hasn't been all that long, but I’ve missed being among my fellow writers and readers and can’t wait to catch up.

Haiku FAQ

Why limit it to
five syllables, then seven,
then five more? That's stupid dumb.

Bead Angels

If you've happened to link to my daughter's site lately, you've noticed that she's been immersed in a huge project for the past couple of weeks. A fellow lampwork artist, struggling to keep her house after her son's medical bills nearly put them under, told her story on her own website and hoped for a miracle. Someone on a lampworking forum read it and suggested a benefit auction on eBay. Before the day was out, people from all over came together to try to make a difference for one of their own.

I've been amazed to see the packages roll in. I'm an optimist by nature, but never in my wildest dreams did I think people would respond this generously. Whether or not you're interested in the auctions, you might enjoy seeing the beautiful beads that some of these artists have created, as well as the wonderful jewelry that other designers have made with lampworked beads. If you're not particularly interested in that kind of thing, click on the link anyway; just scroll through the pages really fast and enjoy the kaleidoscope of colors.

I'm sure that our semi-rural mail carrier is ecstatic that today was the last day for donations to be received. There's a lot of work still to be done, and the goal is to have multiple auctions up and running by this Thursday night. It's been exciting to sit close by and watch this project come together.

I don't know what constitutes a miracle these days, but if miracles involve angels, I know where to find a lot of them.


History of Art Glass Lampworking

Droopy Drawers

That's what they called me back in 1944-45, when elastic was in short supply because all the rubber was needed for the war effort. As you can see by this snapshot of me with my uncle (who's only seven years older than I), I earned the nickname honestly.


If I were to post a current photo of myself, you'd definitely see the resemblance to this baby picture. Especially in the cheeks and thighs; after all these years, they look pretty much the same. I couldn't pull off a hat like that now, but I'd probably try the sweater, weather permitting. Also, I'm pleased to tell you that my shoes and underwear fit better these days and that I've always worn my skirts at a more modest length (except for a couple of years in Miami in the early '70s).

The only other thing I'd like to point out is that by the tender age of two, I'd mastered Renee Zellweger's over-the-shoulder red-carpet pose. Hmmmm. Maybe I should have gone into show biz.

Tennis elbow and other ailments

Tennis, tennis, tennis! Crapping all over my TV schedule! Well, maybe not all over, but it's totally rearranged my Must-See-TV.

I sat down this morning with a Diet Coke, the Sunday paper, and a plan to catch the news on TV at the same time. I expected to watch Weekend Today at 8:00, like I always do, so I was a little surprised when I flipped on the TV at 7:58 and Weekend Today was ending. Hunhh?

When Meet the Press started immediately afterward, I had to go look at two clocks to be sure I hadn't somehow lost a whole hour of my life. And then it hit me: Wimbledon.

I've never been either an athlete or an athletic supporter (old joke, sorry). I've never enjoyed playing games where balls were being hurled or batted toward my face. My instinct, which should have been to hurl or bat the ball back, has always been to throw my arms over my head and duck.

There are only two games involving a ball that I actually enjoy. The first is fetch, which I'll play with my dogs as long as they agree to bring the ball back to me, not throw it, and the other is bowling. I like the fact that the bowling ball moves relatively slowly and is supposed to stay away from people's heads.

I haven't been bowling in a long, long time, but I still think of it fondly. That's probably because the only athletic achievement of my life occurred when a friend talked me into joining a bowling league way back in the '80s. My score didn't improve much from beginning to end of the season, but I did win a trophy--for perfect attendance.

Tennis, on the other hand, evokes memories of nothing but pain and humiliation. I enrolled for tennis lessons in the early '70s. (What was I thinking?) At the first lesson, we chased balls for the better part of an hour, then we started working on our serves. I watched the instructor intently and listened carefully. Still, when it came time for us students to try it for ourselves, I was apparently the only one who'd missed a key piece of advice. With my left hand, I tossed the ball up into the air, just as he'd demonstrated, but with the racket in my right hand, I reached back and whacked the hell out of the backside of my head. Somehow the concept of straightening out my elbow had escaped me.

That first tennis lesson was the last one, too. Wimbledon, schmimbledon!