In the past week or so I've heard three different people begin conversations with those words. I totally understand the reason for the disclaimer. As a matter of fact, I've prefaced my own questions with it more times than I care to remember.
My high school graduation was on a Friday night. The following Monday, I began my first job. I was officially a secretary for a couple of East Texas lawyers. That particular Monday fell on Memorial Day, so nobody was in the office except one attorney, the office manager, and me.
The attorney dictated more than a dozen letters, I remember, and I captured in precise Gregg shorthand every word he spoke. I didn't have to ask him even once to slow down or repeat anything. I began to relax, to think I might be able to do this grown-up job. At the end of the dictation session, the lawyer handed me two client files. "When Jo comes in tomorrow," he said, "ask her if these files are ready to discard."
The next day I met the rest of the staff, including Jo. Sometime around mid-morning I took the two files to Jo and said, "Mr. S. wanted me to ask you if these files are ready to discard."
Jo, flipping through the files, replied, "Yep, they sure are." She handed them back to me without further instructions.
All day long those files sat on the corner of my desk. It seemed odd to me that they'd just throw the files away. What if the clients came back and wanted to discuss their cases again? I didn't want to ask for specific instructions because I didn't want to appear stupid. I was an honor graduate, I reasoned, and "discard" was a simple word.
Before I went home that day I threw the two files in the trash. The cleaning lady came after the office closed and emptied all the wastebaskets. Mine was nice and empty the next morning.
On the afternoon of my third day there, another secretary took me on a little tour. She showed me the law library, the office supply cabinet, and a wall of file cabinets known as the "discard files," where they kept the files on every case they'd had since the firm began in 1927.
I might have been only 17, but I was a girl who took pride in being honest and forthright, in doing the right thing. It was an innocent mistake, and it crossed my mind that if I confessed right at that moment, there probably wouldn't be any severe consequences. Nevertheless, I. Kept. My. Mouth. Shut. Once that opportunity slipped away, the innocence was gone. I worked there for a little over a year (until I got married). I thought about it all the time, but I never figured out a smooth way to confess.
Fast forward about 20 years to a time when I lived in a different state and had a different job, this time in human resources. Every time we hired someone new, regardless of the job the person had been hired to do, I told the discard-file story at the end of the new-employee orientation. "I don't care how stupid you think your question might be," I'd say with a smile, "we want you to ask it."
Sometimes sounding stupid is the lesser evil.
.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
Living the good life
This past weekend was nearly perfect. I spent most of Saturday doing genealogy research. A single clue in the 1920 U.S. Census led to a wealth of information I hadn't uncovered before. It was like finding a key to a treasure chest, opening it and finding a key to a second treasure chest, which contained a map to another buried treasure, and on and on and on. So much fun.
Mother's Day was delightful. The family got together at my younger daughter's house for boiled crawfish, lots of laughter, and much the same kind of day we had last year. The location was different, as were the gifts, but the rest of it was familiar right down to the finale of Survivor to cap off the day. In this case familiarity does not breed contempt; I could do it again today, tomorrow, and the day after that.
My kids are so thoughtful, and I'm not speaking only about their perfect choices for Mother's Day gifts or even the lawn-mowing I appreciate so much. They show they care in little ways all year long: a hard-to-reach light bulb changed, a dishwasher emptied, a newspaper brought in from the end of the driveway, a phone call fit into an extremely busy schedule. They're good people, and I'm lucky to have them.
On top of cutting the grass and trimming weeds at the end of last week, my son-in-law made time to clear away the heavy, dirt-filled pots (I killed the plants) from my patio and to fold up and put away the extra-large dog kennel that's too heavy and bulky for me to handle by myself. I enjoy sitting out there in the late afternoon, when the sun is less brutal, and he made it a nicer place to be.
The only point of concern the whole weekend was the point on top of Butch's noggin: a big goose egg showed up Saturday morning and lasted almost until bedtime. I didn't see it happen, so I'm not sure how he did it, but the location of the bump made the CSI part of me think he must have raised his head up under a table or something.
I'm glad I didn't see it happen. A hit that hard would have freaked me out, and it didn't seem to bother him much at all. When I first noticed the bump, he was in the act of using his nose to flip my hand off the computer mouse, then grabbing my wrist in his mouth to pull me where he wanted me to go (to the treat cabinet, of course). He was obviously happy and hungry, and his brain was functioning well enough to figure out how to get me to do what he wanted, so I knew it couldn't be too bad.
Weekends like this past one always make me feel very, very grateful. I hope yours was as good.
Mother's Day was delightful. The family got together at my younger daughter's house for boiled crawfish, lots of laughter, and much the same kind of day we had last year. The location was different, as were the gifts, but the rest of it was familiar right down to the finale of Survivor to cap off the day. In this case familiarity does not breed contempt; I could do it again today, tomorrow, and the day after that.
My kids are so thoughtful, and I'm not speaking only about their perfect choices for Mother's Day gifts or even the lawn-mowing I appreciate so much. They show they care in little ways all year long: a hard-to-reach light bulb changed, a dishwasher emptied, a newspaper brought in from the end of the driveway, a phone call fit into an extremely busy schedule. They're good people, and I'm lucky to have them.
On top of cutting the grass and trimming weeds at the end of last week, my son-in-law made time to clear away the heavy, dirt-filled pots (I killed the plants) from my patio and to fold up and put away the extra-large dog kennel that's too heavy and bulky for me to handle by myself. I enjoy sitting out there in the late afternoon, when the sun is less brutal, and he made it a nicer place to be.
The only point of concern the whole weekend was the point on top of Butch's noggin: a big goose egg showed up Saturday morning and lasted almost until bedtime. I didn't see it happen, so I'm not sure how he did it, but the location of the bump made the CSI part of me think he must have raised his head up under a table or something. I'm glad I didn't see it happen. A hit that hard would have freaked me out, and it didn't seem to bother him much at all. When I first noticed the bump, he was in the act of using his nose to flip my hand off the computer mouse, then grabbing my wrist in his mouth to pull me where he wanted me to go (to the treat cabinet, of course). He was obviously happy and hungry, and his brain was functioning well enough to figure out how to get me to do what he wanted, so I knew it couldn't be too bad.
Weekends like this past one always make me feel very, very grateful. I hope yours was as good.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
7 Random Facts/Habits About Me
Carmon tagged me with this meme, so I'll give it a go:
1. I have to work really hard to remember to keep my mouth shut and not offer advice unless I'm asked for it. My brain seems to have been hardwired into problem-solving mode. That's a helpful quality in a work situation, where I can easily figure out what might go wrong in a specific situation and work out the kinks or prepare a backup plan. It's also been helpful in my personal life, except in the area of relationships, where I've too often forged straight ahead in spite of the potential problems I've spotted.
The downside of being a problem solver, as my children will gladly confirm, is that if you tell me your exciting plan, I can shoot it full of holes before either one of us ever sees it coming. "Have you thought about this?" I'll ask...or "what will you do if that happens?" My heart's in the right place -- to help you make your plan as solid as it can be -- but you won't appreciate that fact while your bubble is bursting.
Even with the bias toward problem solving, I'm an optimist. I always feel confident that everything will turn out just fine once those pesky problems have been removed.
2. My earliest memory is of my father, in his army uniform, holding me in his arms as we watched a truck roll by. It was a flatbed military truck with rails built around the sides, and it was loaded with standing, waving soldiers. As they passed us, one of them tossed an orange to my dad, and he handed it to me. I don't know exactly how old I was when that happened, but I do know it happened in Salina, Kansas. I was 18 months old when we left there.
3. I've worn the same hairstyle for about ten years. For at least the last five of those years, I've cut my own hair to avoid the hours of small talk in the beauty shop. The pros do a better job than I do, but not that much better, and my own mistakes don't annoy me as much as theirs do.
4. If I have a chocolate craving I can't fight any longer, I make "emergency fudge." I dump confectioner's sugar in a small bowl, plop a big blob of peanut butter on top of it, and squirt in just enough chocolate syrup to allow me to mix everything together. When the mixture reaches a thick, doughy consistency, I knead it for a minute, then roll it up and eat it like a candy bar.
5. I once paid money to spend the day behind the scenes at the zoo. Ten of us, all women, signed up for the experience. In addition to the usual zoo tours, we spent time in the baby animal nursery, the kitchen where all the animals' food is prepared, the hatchery where the chicks are raised to feed the reptiles, and inside the elephant house. I actually helped bathe an elephant, and I loved every minute of it.
6. In high school I focused on getting good grades. All my friends were other nerds, although we didn't use that word back then. When I graduated and started working, a new, non-nerdy friend convinced me to "dumb down" and use improper grammar so the boys wouldn't be intimidated and would like me better. It worked like magic! Unfortunately, it didn't take me long to realize I wasn't all that interested in the kind of boys it worked on. That may have been my first lesson in the value of quality over quantity.
7. Years and years ago, on a long flight home from San Francisco, I had a rousing conversation with the seatmate to my right, a perfect stranger who was a decent-looking guy on a business trip. We talked and laughed for a couple of hours, then I dozed off. When I woke up, just as the plane was preparing to land in New Orleans, he leaned over and kissed me, right smack on the lips. It startled me for a moment, then I kissed him back. That one kiss was all there was to it. We didn't exchange phone numbers or even last names. When we exited the plane, we went our separate ways, and that was the end of that.
And that, dear readers, is the end of this.
I won't officially tag anyone, but I'll mention a few folks just in case they're interested: maxngabbie, duly inspired, sister-three.
1. I have to work really hard to remember to keep my mouth shut and not offer advice unless I'm asked for it. My brain seems to have been hardwired into problem-solving mode. That's a helpful quality in a work situation, where I can easily figure out what might go wrong in a specific situation and work out the kinks or prepare a backup plan. It's also been helpful in my personal life, except in the area of relationships, where I've too often forged straight ahead in spite of the potential problems I've spotted.
The downside of being a problem solver, as my children will gladly confirm, is that if you tell me your exciting plan, I can shoot it full of holes before either one of us ever sees it coming. "Have you thought about this?" I'll ask...or "what will you do if that happens?" My heart's in the right place -- to help you make your plan as solid as it can be -- but you won't appreciate that fact while your bubble is bursting.
Even with the bias toward problem solving, I'm an optimist. I always feel confident that everything will turn out just fine once those pesky problems have been removed.
2. My earliest memory is of my father, in his army uniform, holding me in his arms as we watched a truck roll by. It was a flatbed military truck with rails built around the sides, and it was loaded with standing, waving soldiers. As they passed us, one of them tossed an orange to my dad, and he handed it to me. I don't know exactly how old I was when that happened, but I do know it happened in Salina, Kansas. I was 18 months old when we left there.
3. I've worn the same hairstyle for about ten years. For at least the last five of those years, I've cut my own hair to avoid the hours of small talk in the beauty shop. The pros do a better job than I do, but not that much better, and my own mistakes don't annoy me as much as theirs do.
4. If I have a chocolate craving I can't fight any longer, I make "emergency fudge." I dump confectioner's sugar in a small bowl, plop a big blob of peanut butter on top of it, and squirt in just enough chocolate syrup to allow me to mix everything together. When the mixture reaches a thick, doughy consistency, I knead it for a minute, then roll it up and eat it like a candy bar.
5. I once paid money to spend the day behind the scenes at the zoo. Ten of us, all women, signed up for the experience. In addition to the usual zoo tours, we spent time in the baby animal nursery, the kitchen where all the animals' food is prepared, the hatchery where the chicks are raised to feed the reptiles, and inside the elephant house. I actually helped bathe an elephant, and I loved every minute of it.
6. In high school I focused on getting good grades. All my friends were other nerds, although we didn't use that word back then. When I graduated and started working, a new, non-nerdy friend convinced me to "dumb down" and use improper grammar so the boys wouldn't be intimidated and would like me better. It worked like magic! Unfortunately, it didn't take me long to realize I wasn't all that interested in the kind of boys it worked on. That may have been my first lesson in the value of quality over quantity.
7. Years and years ago, on a long flight home from San Francisco, I had a rousing conversation with the seatmate to my right, a perfect stranger who was a decent-looking guy on a business trip. We talked and laughed for a couple of hours, then I dozed off. When I woke up, just as the plane was preparing to land in New Orleans, he leaned over and kissed me, right smack on the lips. It startled me for a moment, then I kissed him back. That one kiss was all there was to it. We didn't exchange phone numbers or even last names. When we exited the plane, we went our separate ways, and that was the end of that.
And that, dear readers, is the end of this.
I won't officially tag anyone, but I'll mention a few folks just in case they're interested: maxngabbie, duly inspired, sister-three.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Warm fuzzies
My beadmaker daughter, Kim, had company this past week in the person of Priss, another beadmaker who was once a frequent commenter here. I've missed her warmth, her wit and her intellect on this site, but let me assure you she's even better in person. What a pleasant, lovely human being! She's driving back home to Georgia tomorrow, and I wish her a safe journey.
I'm feeling happy tonight and wanted to write a happy blog entry, but to be honest, I've waited too late and I'm way too sleepy. (Still having a few problems with the energy thing, I guess.) I'll take my happy self to bed and incorporate some of those sweet feelings into my dreams.
For you, I'll send out some warm fuzzy feelings another way, through one of my favorite YouTube videos. Click on the link, settle back, feel the love.
I'm feeling happy tonight and wanted to write a happy blog entry, but to be honest, I've waited too late and I'm way too sleepy. (Still having a few problems with the energy thing, I guess.) I'll take my happy self to bed and incorporate some of those sweet feelings into my dreams.
For you, I'll send out some warm fuzzy feelings another way, through one of my favorite YouTube videos. Click on the link, settle back, feel the love.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
I fee-eel goo-ood (dah-da-dah-da-dah-da-dah)
Yesterday morning I woke up feeling good for the first time in over a week. What a relief!
I couldn't honestly tell you what was the matter with me, only that I hurt--all over--and could have slept 20 hours a day if circumstances had allowed. The knee pain that's almost always with me revved up to an overwhelming degree. The right knee, the one I broke in 1968, the one that's so arthritic now I can't even straighten out that leg, screamed at me every time I stepped on my right foot: "Owwww! Stop it! What the hell are you doing? Arrrrrgggh! Don't walk on me!"
The left knee, perhaps sensing that I was favoring its cranky companion, was having none of it. When I stepped on the left foot, the ligaments on either side of the kneecap pinged like razor-wire harpstrings.
But the knees, and their Croc-shodden cousins, the always tender feet, weren't the only source of trouble. All the joints in my body ached, first one, then another, in a kind of traveling pain that had all the intensity of a bad toothache. I never knew where the next attack would come from. It was as if tiny cowboys were herding cattle along the neural pathways of my body, and each time they'd round 'em up near an ankle or an elbow, a finger or a toe, there'd be shouts of "Yee-haw!" that sent me reeling.
My energy level was non-existent. By the end of the second day my sense of humor had died and my ability to concentrate lay in shreds. Standing in one spot long enough to shower was misery. Food didn't appeal to me, and my stomach was upset, either from stress or from not eating properly.
I missed work on Monday. The rest of the week I managed to drag myself there, but what I accomplished in four days should have been done in one. The bright spot of my work week occurred when an elderly client came in, assisted by a walker. The old man looked pretty feeble, but that walker? It was looking good to me. Real good.
The smart thing to do, I suppose, would have been to go to the doctor. Due to the lack of health insurance, that's never my first option. I kept thinking I'd wake up feeling better the next day, or the next one after that. Sure enough, that's what happened yesterday.
Fortunately, I've picked up a number of useful coping skills as I've traveled the path of my life, and one of the best ones is the ability to differentiate between things I have to do (feed the dogs) and things I can put off until another day (answering e-mail). Let's just say that many, many things have been postponed. Some of them (keeping in touch with my cyberfriends, doing a good job at work) were things I value; others (making the bed), not so much.
I've spent the last two days catching up on household chores and projects I've let slide, so I'm back here now with a clean conscience. Thanks so much for the warm thoughts you've been sending my way. I appreciate all of you.
I couldn't honestly tell you what was the matter with me, only that I hurt--all over--and could have slept 20 hours a day if circumstances had allowed. The knee pain that's almost always with me revved up to an overwhelming degree. The right knee, the one I broke in 1968, the one that's so arthritic now I can't even straighten out that leg, screamed at me every time I stepped on my right foot: "Owwww! Stop it! What the hell are you doing? Arrrrrgggh! Don't walk on me!"
The left knee, perhaps sensing that I was favoring its cranky companion, was having none of it. When I stepped on the left foot, the ligaments on either side of the kneecap pinged like razor-wire harpstrings.
But the knees, and their Croc-shodden cousins, the always tender feet, weren't the only source of trouble. All the joints in my body ached, first one, then another, in a kind of traveling pain that had all the intensity of a bad toothache. I never knew where the next attack would come from. It was as if tiny cowboys were herding cattle along the neural pathways of my body, and each time they'd round 'em up near an ankle or an elbow, a finger or a toe, there'd be shouts of "Yee-haw!" that sent me reeling.
My energy level was non-existent. By the end of the second day my sense of humor had died and my ability to concentrate lay in shreds. Standing in one spot long enough to shower was misery. Food didn't appeal to me, and my stomach was upset, either from stress or from not eating properly.
I missed work on Monday. The rest of the week I managed to drag myself there, but what I accomplished in four days should have been done in one. The bright spot of my work week occurred when an elderly client came in, assisted by a walker. The old man looked pretty feeble, but that walker? It was looking good to me. Real good.
The smart thing to do, I suppose, would have been to go to the doctor. Due to the lack of health insurance, that's never my first option. I kept thinking I'd wake up feeling better the next day, or the next one after that. Sure enough, that's what happened yesterday.
Fortunately, I've picked up a number of useful coping skills as I've traveled the path of my life, and one of the best ones is the ability to differentiate between things I have to do (feed the dogs) and things I can put off until another day (answering e-mail). Let's just say that many, many things have been postponed. Some of them (keeping in touch with my cyberfriends, doing a good job at work) were things I value; others (making the bed), not so much.
I've spent the last two days catching up on household chores and projects I've let slide, so I'm back here now with a clean conscience. Thanks so much for the warm thoughts you've been sending my way. I appreciate all of you.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
A short note...
...to say I've been missing you.
For the past few days I've been under the weather--nothing serious, but some kind of bug has dragged me down to a level where I haven't felt like writing or even much like reading. Today was better, thank goodness, and I'm looking forward to catching up with you on your blogs and doing a better job of maintaining my own.
I did attempt to write something new earlier this evening, but halfway into it my energy fizzled out, and I gave up the effort. I'll try again tomorrow.
In the meantime, just to stay in the game, I'll offer you a rerun of one of my favorite early posts.
See you soon.
For the past few days I've been under the weather--nothing serious, but some kind of bug has dragged me down to a level where I haven't felt like writing or even much like reading. Today was better, thank goodness, and I'm looking forward to catching up with you on your blogs and doing a better job of maintaining my own.
I did attempt to write something new earlier this evening, but halfway into it my energy fizzled out, and I gave up the effort. I'll try again tomorrow.
In the meantime, just to stay in the game, I'll offer you a rerun of one of my favorite early posts.
See you soon.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
What was I thinking?
Betty (Sister-Three) of Galla Creek Ephemeris posted a picture today of her little granddaughter riding in the kind of red-and-yellow plastic toy car that's been a favorite of toddlers for years. My grandson had one when he was small (he's 17 now), but the one I remember best belonged to my niece when she was about three years old.
On the occasion I'm thinking about, the family had gathered in my sister's living room in East Texas. As the adults took advantage of the opportunity to visit in person for a change, I noticed that my niece seemed to be a little frustrated that she wasn't getting the attention she was used to. She was riding from person to person in her little car, trying to engage someone in her game.
When she "drove" up to me, I told her how much I liked her car and asked her where she planned to go next. She announced that she was going to the Dairy Queen.
"Oh, good," I said, "I'm really hungry. Would you mind picking up a couple of things for me?" She told me she'd do it, so I reached in my pretend purse, extracted some pretend money, and counted it out into her hand. I asked her to bring me a hamburger and a Coke, and I peeled off a couple more imaginary bills and suggested she might like to get something for herself.
My niece smiled as she drove her car to the far side of the room. I watched her climb out of the car, give her order and her pretend money to the imaginary Dairy Queen worker beside the draperies, then wait for her change and the food. Once that transaction was completed, she drove back to where I sat on the sofa and handed me the food I'd ordered. I thanked her profusely.
Her smile was so bright I decided to extend the game. "You know what?" I asked. "I'm thinking some ice cream might be good for dessert. If I give you some more money, would you go get us some ice cream?"
My niece's smile evaporated instantly. She rolled her eyes and gave me a look of exasperation. "I just got back," she said. "I'm not going again."
Heh! She's all grown up now. I can't wait for her to have a little girl of her own.
On the occasion I'm thinking about, the family had gathered in my sister's living room in East Texas. As the adults took advantage of the opportunity to visit in person for a change, I noticed that my niece seemed to be a little frustrated that she wasn't getting the attention she was used to. She was riding from person to person in her little car, trying to engage someone in her game.
When she "drove" up to me, I told her how much I liked her car and asked her where she planned to go next. She announced that she was going to the Dairy Queen.
"Oh, good," I said, "I'm really hungry. Would you mind picking up a couple of things for me?" She told me she'd do it, so I reached in my pretend purse, extracted some pretend money, and counted it out into her hand. I asked her to bring me a hamburger and a Coke, and I peeled off a couple more imaginary bills and suggested she might like to get something for herself.
My niece smiled as she drove her car to the far side of the room. I watched her climb out of the car, give her order and her pretend money to the imaginary Dairy Queen worker beside the draperies, then wait for her change and the food. Once that transaction was completed, she drove back to where I sat on the sofa and handed me the food I'd ordered. I thanked her profusely.
Her smile was so bright I decided to extend the game. "You know what?" I asked. "I'm thinking some ice cream might be good for dessert. If I give you some more money, would you go get us some ice cream?"
My niece's smile evaporated instantly. She rolled her eyes and gave me a look of exasperation. "I just got back," she said. "I'm not going again."
Heh! She's all grown up now. I can't wait for her to have a little girl of her own.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Sis, do you remember?
Driving home for lunch today, I spotted the large leaves of a catalpa tree and took a quick trip back in time. The second picture on this page (the one with the large green leaves and the small white flowers--the picture I considered "borrowing" and posting here, but we all know we aren't supposed to do that) looks like a catalpa tree that was in the front yard of my childhood home.
There were lots of trees in that yard but only one catalpa tree. Its white blossoms were tubular shaped, with ruffles on their edges, and each bloom was just the right size to fit a small girl's finger. My sister and I used to cover our fingertips with blossoms and pretend we were wearing lacy gloves.
The catalpa tree grew in the strip of grass that separated the sidewalk from the street, the same grassy strip where we played under the streetlights on summer nights: Here I come. Where you from? New Orleans. What's your trade? Lemonade. Show me something if you're not afraid.
Those were the days before air conditioning and television drove everyone indoors. While we kids played under the streetlights or ventured into darker areas to catch lightning bugs, the grown-ups sat on nearby porch swings to stay cool and keep watch. Their murmured voices made us feel safe in spite of the darkness.
I miss those days.
There were lots of trees in that yard but only one catalpa tree. Its white blossoms were tubular shaped, with ruffles on their edges, and each bloom was just the right size to fit a small girl's finger. My sister and I used to cover our fingertips with blossoms and pretend we were wearing lacy gloves.
The catalpa tree grew in the strip of grass that separated the sidewalk from the street, the same grassy strip where we played under the streetlights on summer nights: Here I come. Where you from? New Orleans. What's your trade? Lemonade. Show me something if you're not afraid.
Those were the days before air conditioning and television drove everyone indoors. While we kids played under the streetlights or ventured into darker areas to catch lightning bugs, the grown-ups sat on nearby porch swings to stay cool and keep watch. Their murmured voices made us feel safe in spite of the darkness.
I miss those days.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Wide world
This page needs a little color, so I'll show you some horizontal slices of photos that were otherwise without any redeeming qualities. That cropping tool certainly comes in handy.
These mailboxes sit at the end of my driveway:
Here's where I get on the interstate each afternoon to drive home from work:
And here's what I see from the exit ramp:
The road I take to work in the morning is a more rural one. This little cluster of buildings isn't too impressive close up, but I like the way it sits amid the lines of the surrounding scenery.
A helpful gust of wind held this flag out almost straight:
These beasts of burden live in a field inside the city limits, right next to a middle school:
This photo of an unkempt vacant lot proves what a difference the right light can make:
I set the camera directly on the patio to take a picture of this clover patch at the edge of it:
The reason these photo fragments were rescued? There's a slim chance I might someday switch to a blog template with a banner across the top. In other words, it's that packrat thing again.
These mailboxes sit at the end of my driveway:
Here's where I get on the interstate each afternoon to drive home from work:
And here's what I see from the exit ramp:
The road I take to work in the morning is a more rural one. This little cluster of buildings isn't too impressive close up, but I like the way it sits amid the lines of the surrounding scenery.
A helpful gust of wind held this flag out almost straight:
These beasts of burden live in a field inside the city limits, right next to a middle school:
This photo of an unkempt vacant lot proves what a difference the right light can make:
I set the camera directly on the patio to take a picture of this clover patch at the edge of it:
The reason these photo fragments were rescued? There's a slim chance I might someday switch to a blog template with a banner across the top. In other words, it's that packrat thing again.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
A not-so-brief editorial
In the last couple of days I've spent hours making notes and "writing" in my mind about the experiences that have made me believe we need better gun-control laws in this country. Each experience was a story that would stand alone, and I figured it would take several posts to tell you about all of them. As it turns out, between the constant news coverage and my own thought processes about the subject, I can no longer stand the idea of immersing myself in that dark place long enough to tell the stories in their entirety. Instead, I'll leave out the details to combine everything into one long post, and tomorrow I'll move on to focus on sunshine and fresh air.
Here are the short versions:
1. My grandfather, a WWI infantryman, kept his service revolver after the war was over. My mother, who was not supposed to touch it, remembered taking it out frequently to show it to visiting playmates. When she told me about it, she marveled at the fact that she'd lived through it to tell about it.
2. My own father, who fought in WWII, brought home a sword instead of a gun. I remember cowering in the corner of my childhood bedroom as my teenaged uncle took the sword from its sheath, pointed it at me and leaped around like a Samurai warrior. He was teasing, intending to scare me but not to harm me. I'm probably alive because he was teasing with a sword instead of a gun.
3. In the mid-'70s, a young man and his wife, not well known to me but related by marriage, were shot and killed by a friend of theirs. They left a three-year old daughter and two sets of devastated parents and siblings. The killer told the police that the three of them were "partying" together when the two men got into a friendly discussion about whether knives or guns made better weapons. The discussion never even escalated into an argument, because the killer, who happened to have his gun with him, used it to prove his point.
4. In the early '80s, I picked up my husband's gun, one that had been in our home throughout all the years we'd been married, to move it to a safer hiding place before an out-of-town trip. I was careful to hold it by the handle and not touch the trigger, but it didn't matter. Within two seconds after I picked it up, the gun went off and shot a hole through the bedroom wall, all the way through the outside brick. Thank God it was pointed away from me when it fired. And thank God my daughters weren't in the path of the shot that wasn't supposed to have fired.
5. In the course of the past 20 years, members of my family in Texas and Louisiana have mourned with three different sets of friends whose adolescent children, in separate incidents, killed themselves with their parents' guns. My own good friend, walking his dog in the woods behind his house one afternoon, stumbled across the body of his neighbor's teenaged daughter, who'd done the same thing. These four children all came from good families, familes who would have done anything possible to help if they'd only known help was needed. The children, unfortunately, were too young and inexperienced to understand that painful emotions usually don't last. They hurt, they had the means to stop the pain quickly, and they chose to bail out rather than talk about their feelings.
6. For two years in the late '90s, I volunteered as a crisis-intervention counselor on a suicide prevention hotline. Some of the people who called the hotline had given a lot of thought to the idea of killing themselves, and the individual methods by which they planned to do it covered a wide spectrum. Of all those callers, the ones who worried me most were the ones who had access to guns. Those were the people who, if they decided to set their plans in motion, wouldn't have the luxury of changing their minds at the last second and calling 911. Guns are too good at what they do.
I understand that guns can serve a useful purpose in well-trained hands, and I respect the rights of people to protect themselves. If guns were used strictly as defensive weapons, you wouldn't hear a peep out of me. What I don't understand is, if their purpose is protection, why so many of the guns being sold are called "assault weapons."
I totally get the concept that "guns don't kill people; people kill people," but the truth is that people with guns kill other people (and themselves) in numbers that are alarming in comparison to the number of deaths by other violent means. The statistics speak directly to the nature and efficiency of the weapon.
A gun in the hands of a curious child is a deadly accident waiting to happen. A gun in the hands of a despondent person may end his life before he can even begin to imagine a brighter tomorrow. Guns in the hands of street punks and drug dealers fill the ten o'clock news almost every night with stories of young lives ended abruptly and needlessly. And then there are the gun-toters who make the national news, the psychopaths who kill randomly at Columbine, Virginia Tech, and a peaceful Amish schoolhouse.
It isn't your gun I want to take; it's theirs. But promise me you'll be careful with yours.
Here are the short versions:
1. My grandfather, a WWI infantryman, kept his service revolver after the war was over. My mother, who was not supposed to touch it, remembered taking it out frequently to show it to visiting playmates. When she told me about it, she marveled at the fact that she'd lived through it to tell about it.
2. My own father, who fought in WWII, brought home a sword instead of a gun. I remember cowering in the corner of my childhood bedroom as my teenaged uncle took the sword from its sheath, pointed it at me and leaped around like a Samurai warrior. He was teasing, intending to scare me but not to harm me. I'm probably alive because he was teasing with a sword instead of a gun.
3. In the mid-'70s, a young man and his wife, not well known to me but related by marriage, were shot and killed by a friend of theirs. They left a three-year old daughter and two sets of devastated parents and siblings. The killer told the police that the three of them were "partying" together when the two men got into a friendly discussion about whether knives or guns made better weapons. The discussion never even escalated into an argument, because the killer, who happened to have his gun with him, used it to prove his point.
4. In the early '80s, I picked up my husband's gun, one that had been in our home throughout all the years we'd been married, to move it to a safer hiding place before an out-of-town trip. I was careful to hold it by the handle and not touch the trigger, but it didn't matter. Within two seconds after I picked it up, the gun went off and shot a hole through the bedroom wall, all the way through the outside brick. Thank God it was pointed away from me when it fired. And thank God my daughters weren't in the path of the shot that wasn't supposed to have fired.
5. In the course of the past 20 years, members of my family in Texas and Louisiana have mourned with three different sets of friends whose adolescent children, in separate incidents, killed themselves with their parents' guns. My own good friend, walking his dog in the woods behind his house one afternoon, stumbled across the body of his neighbor's teenaged daughter, who'd done the same thing. These four children all came from good families, familes who would have done anything possible to help if they'd only known help was needed. The children, unfortunately, were too young and inexperienced to understand that painful emotions usually don't last. They hurt, they had the means to stop the pain quickly, and they chose to bail out rather than talk about their feelings.
6. For two years in the late '90s, I volunteered as a crisis-intervention counselor on a suicide prevention hotline. Some of the people who called the hotline had given a lot of thought to the idea of killing themselves, and the individual methods by which they planned to do it covered a wide spectrum. Of all those callers, the ones who worried me most were the ones who had access to guns. Those were the people who, if they decided to set their plans in motion, wouldn't have the luxury of changing their minds at the last second and calling 911. Guns are too good at what they do.
I understand that guns can serve a useful purpose in well-trained hands, and I respect the rights of people to protect themselves. If guns were used strictly as defensive weapons, you wouldn't hear a peep out of me. What I don't understand is, if their purpose is protection, why so many of the guns being sold are called "assault weapons."
I totally get the concept that "guns don't kill people; people kill people," but the truth is that people with guns kill other people (and themselves) in numbers that are alarming in comparison to the number of deaths by other violent means. The statistics speak directly to the nature and efficiency of the weapon.
A gun in the hands of a curious child is a deadly accident waiting to happen. A gun in the hands of a despondent person may end his life before he can even begin to imagine a brighter tomorrow. Guns in the hands of street punks and drug dealers fill the ten o'clock news almost every night with stories of young lives ended abruptly and needlessly. And then there are the gun-toters who make the national news, the psychopaths who kill randomly at Columbine, Virginia Tech, and a peaceful Amish schoolhouse.
It isn't your gun I want to take; it's theirs. But promise me you'll be careful with yours.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Blacksburg, Virginia - 4/16/07
Another American tragedy brought to us courtesy of the NRA and the Charlton Heston School of Problem Resolution.
May they rest in peace.
May they rest in peace.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Taking the easy way out
Do you feel guilty when you've neglected your blog for several days? I do. I feel as if I'm reneging on a promise I made to myself, although there never was actually any such promise.
Sometimes I get in a mood where I don't feel like talking, and that mood apparently carries over to writing, too. To be more specific, sometimes it feels as if communicating by any method whatsoever takes more energy than I have available, and the best thing I can do at those times is plop myself down in a quiet spot, plug myself in to one mindless activity or another, and let my batteries recharge.
So, because I'm feeling guilty, and because I haven't recharged enough to write (or even enough to power a pocket flashlight), I'm taking the easy way out with a meme.
I don't remember what this one's called or where I found it. The only rule is that all answers have to be exactly three words long. I won't tag anyone (which would require too much thinking), but help yourself if you like it--or if you have guilt issues of your own to assuage.
01. Where is your cell phone? On the charger.
02. Boyfriend/girlfriend? Long gone, thanks!
03. Hair? Cut it myself.
04. Your mother? Did her best.
05. Your father? Mostly wasn’t around.
06. Your favorite item(s)? Old family photos.
07. Your dream last night? Sorry, can’t remember.
08. Your favorite drink? Icy Diet Coke.
09. Your dream guy/girl? Handsome professor type.
10. The room you are in? Needs more light.
11. Your fear? Losing my independence.
12. What do you want to be in 10 years? Busy with hobbies.
13. Who did you hang out with last night? Two silly dogs.
14. What are you not? Energetic, neat, mean.
15. Are you in love? With my doggies.
16. One of your wish list items? More reading time.
17. What time is it? Fast approaching bedtime.
18. The last thing you did? Folded clean laundry.
19. What are you wearing? Comfy soft knits.
20. Your favorite book? Tademy’s Cane River.
21. The last thing you ate? One perfect banana.
22. Your life? Very few regrets.
23. Your mood? Is usually better.
24. Your friends? Few in number.
25. What are you thinking about right now? Chores still undone.
26. Your car? Unexciting imported sedan.
27. What are you doing at this moment? Limiting word usage.
28. Your summer? Heat, humidity expected.
29. Your relationship status? Content without one.
30. What is on your TV screen? Diamond jewelry commercial.
31. When is the last time you laughed? Today on telephone.
32. Last time you cried? Monday, March 19th.
33. School? Always wanted more.
Sometimes I get in a mood where I don't feel like talking, and that mood apparently carries over to writing, too. To be more specific, sometimes it feels as if communicating by any method whatsoever takes more energy than I have available, and the best thing I can do at those times is plop myself down in a quiet spot, plug myself in to one mindless activity or another, and let my batteries recharge.
So, because I'm feeling guilty, and because I haven't recharged enough to write (or even enough to power a pocket flashlight), I'm taking the easy way out with a meme.
I don't remember what this one's called or where I found it. The only rule is that all answers have to be exactly three words long. I won't tag anyone (which would require too much thinking), but help yourself if you like it--or if you have guilt issues of your own to assuage.
01. Where is your cell phone? On the charger.
02. Boyfriend/girlfriend? Long gone, thanks!
03. Hair? Cut it myself.
04. Your mother? Did her best.
05. Your father? Mostly wasn’t around.
06. Your favorite item(s)? Old family photos.
07. Your dream last night? Sorry, can’t remember.
08. Your favorite drink? Icy Diet Coke.
09. Your dream guy/girl? Handsome professor type.
10. The room you are in? Needs more light.
11. Your fear? Losing my independence.
12. What do you want to be in 10 years? Busy with hobbies.
13. Who did you hang out with last night? Two silly dogs.
14. What are you not? Energetic, neat, mean.
15. Are you in love? With my doggies.
16. One of your wish list items? More reading time.
17. What time is it? Fast approaching bedtime.
18. The last thing you did? Folded clean laundry.
19. What are you wearing? Comfy soft knits.
20. Your favorite book? Tademy’s Cane River.
21. The last thing you ate? One perfect banana.
22. Your life? Very few regrets.
23. Your mood? Is usually better.
24. Your friends? Few in number.
25. What are you thinking about right now? Chores still undone.
26. Your car? Unexciting imported sedan.
27. What are you doing at this moment? Limiting word usage.
28. Your summer? Heat, humidity expected.
29. Your relationship status? Content without one.
30. What is on your TV screen? Diamond jewelry commercial.
31. When is the last time you laughed? Today on telephone.
32. Last time you cried? Monday, March 19th.
33. School? Always wanted more.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Flush with Success: A Mathematical Formula
1 Peaceful Lifestyle Near Shopping = 1 Semi-Rural Area
1 Semi-Rural Area - Tax Dollars = 0 City Sewer Systems
0 City Sewer Systems + 1 Necessity to Dispose of Waste = 1 Septic Tank
1 Septic Tank + 8 Hours of Steady Rain = 5 Inches of Debris Floating at Top of Tank
5 Inches of Debris Floating at Top of Tank = 1 Clogged Sewer Drain
1 Clogged Sewer Drain + 2 Large Loads of Laundry = 30 Gallons of Waste Water With No Place to Go
30 Gallons of Waste Water With No Place to Go + 1.5 Hours of Watching TV + 1 Head Up Ass = 10 Gallons of Waste Water Pouring Under Wall into Living Room + 10 Gallons of Waste Water Rising in Bathtub + 10 Gallons of Waste Water Leaking Out Under Toilet = 1 Plumbing Emergency
1 Plumbing Emergency + 1 Late-Night Call to Plumber = 0 Plumbers Available
0 Plumbers Available = 0 Beverages Consumed + 2 Precautionary Imodium Tablets Swallowed + 1 Desperate Use of Toilet Anyway + 1 Lid Firmly Closed + 1 Bathroom Door Closed So Dogs Can't Drink Nasty Water from Tub + 1 Early Bedtime Before Need to Pee Arises Again = Large Quantity of Ignoring Problem Until Next Day
Large Quantity of Ignoring Problem Until Next Day = 1 Early Morning Use of Disgusting Unflushed Toilet + 3 Ounces Purell to Clean Stinky Body Parts + 1 Lunch Hour Spent with Plumber
1 Lunch Hour Spent with Plumber + $89.00 = 1 Drain Cleared + 100 Measures of Gratitude that Problem Wasn't More Serious = Flush With Success
1 Semi-Rural Area - Tax Dollars = 0 City Sewer Systems
0 City Sewer Systems + 1 Necessity to Dispose of Waste = 1 Septic Tank
1 Septic Tank + 8 Hours of Steady Rain = 5 Inches of Debris Floating at Top of Tank
5 Inches of Debris Floating at Top of Tank = 1 Clogged Sewer Drain
1 Clogged Sewer Drain + 2 Large Loads of Laundry = 30 Gallons of Waste Water With No Place to Go
30 Gallons of Waste Water With No Place to Go + 1.5 Hours of Watching TV + 1 Head Up Ass = 10 Gallons of Waste Water Pouring Under Wall into Living Room + 10 Gallons of Waste Water Rising in Bathtub + 10 Gallons of Waste Water Leaking Out Under Toilet = 1 Plumbing Emergency
1 Plumbing Emergency + 1 Late-Night Call to Plumber = 0 Plumbers Available
0 Plumbers Available = 0 Beverages Consumed + 2 Precautionary Imodium Tablets Swallowed + 1 Desperate Use of Toilet Anyway + 1 Lid Firmly Closed + 1 Bathroom Door Closed So Dogs Can't Drink Nasty Water from Tub + 1 Early Bedtime Before Need to Pee Arises Again = Large Quantity of Ignoring Problem Until Next Day
Large Quantity of Ignoring Problem Until Next Day = 1 Early Morning Use of Disgusting Unflushed Toilet + 3 Ounces Purell to Clean Stinky Body Parts + 1 Lunch Hour Spent with Plumber
1 Lunch Hour Spent with Plumber + $89.00 = 1 Drain Cleared + 100 Measures of Gratitude that Problem Wasn't More Serious = Flush With Success
Monday, April 09, 2007
My favorite drop-in visitor...
...came by Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I have to write fast in case he comes again today.
On Friday evening, when our dogs and the neighbor's had loud barking fits, Kim and I went outside and found the peacock on the roof again. This time he was peering over the edge as if he were looking for us. We ducked back in the house, shut the dogs in, grabbed a handful of dry cereal and apple bits, and stepped back outside to offer our guest a snack.
We started by tossing the treats up onto the roof where he snatched them up as quickly as they hit the shingles. Apparently we weren't dispensing them fast enough to suit him. He dropped to the ground, stayed a safe distance away for just a few minutes, then walked onto the patio and helped himself to the bites that had fallen short of the roof.
Saturday evening was a rerun, only the peacock didn't waste so much time sitting on the roof. As soon as he'd assured himself there were no dogs around, he jumped to the ground again. This time, he appeared to be quite interested in whether or not we had something to give him. He was cautious at first, waiting for us to pitch treats to him, but after a while I was able to coax him closer and closer until he took a couple of bites of cereal from my hand.
Yesterday he came early. Just before noon I heard him calling repeatedly, making more noise than I've ever heard from him. I picked up the goody bag and headed outside to find him sitting on the roof of the shed. As soon as he saw me, he hopped down and came quick-stepping. He ate all but the first bite out of my hand. When I decided he'd had enough and stopped feeding him, he walked at a leisurely pace to the very back of the yard, jumped up on the fence, then down on the other side and continued walking until he was out of sight.
We were concerned about feeding him something that might not be good for him, so we checked the Internet to find out what he can eat. Cereal and fruit are okay, thank goodness, and as soon as I go shopping again, he'll have his own personal supply of (highly recommended) dry cat food.
I normally don't like drop-in company, but I'm willing to make an exception for special friends.
On Friday evening, when our dogs and the neighbor's had loud barking fits, Kim and I went outside and found the peacock on the roof again. This time he was peering over the edge as if he were looking for us. We ducked back in the house, shut the dogs in, grabbed a handful of dry cereal and apple bits, and stepped back outside to offer our guest a snack.
We started by tossing the treats up onto the roof where he snatched them up as quickly as they hit the shingles. Apparently we weren't dispensing them fast enough to suit him. He dropped to the ground, stayed a safe distance away for just a few minutes, then walked onto the patio and helped himself to the bites that had fallen short of the roof.
Saturday evening was a rerun, only the peacock didn't waste so much time sitting on the roof. As soon as he'd assured himself there were no dogs around, he jumped to the ground again. This time, he appeared to be quite interested in whether or not we had something to give him. He was cautious at first, waiting for us to pitch treats to him, but after a while I was able to coax him closer and closer until he took a couple of bites of cereal from my hand.Yesterday he came early. Just before noon I heard him calling repeatedly, making more noise than I've ever heard from him. I picked up the goody bag and headed outside to find him sitting on the roof of the shed. As soon as he saw me, he hopped down and came quick-stepping. He ate all but the first bite out of my hand. When I decided he'd had enough and stopped feeding him, he walked at a leisurely pace to the very back of the yard, jumped up on the fence, then down on the other side and continued walking until he was out of sight.
We were concerned about feeding him something that might not be good for him, so we checked the Internet to find out what he can eat. Cereal and fruit are okay, thank goodness, and as soon as I go shopping again, he'll have his own personal supply of (highly recommended) dry cat food.
I normally don't like drop-in company, but I'm willing to make an exception for special friends.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
"This is my Father's world...
...o let me ne'er forget..."
All the Easter Sundays of my childhood were happy ones, filled with baskets of candy and dyed eggs, fluffy, brightly-colored baby chicks, patent-leather Mary Janes, frilly dresses made of pastel organdy or dotted swiss, hats with bows that tied under my chin, and, of course, Sunday School and church packed with other bright and shiny people. Of all those Easters, there’s one I remember best.
In the spring of 1947, when I was four, we lived in a tiny duplex in Springfield, Missouri. In the backyard was what I understand now must have been a chicken coop at one time, but I thought of it as my playhouse. It was about the size of an average bathroom. The top and all four sides were made of wire, and the entire structure was overgrown with leafy green vines.
I remember in particular the contentment I felt as I sat alone inside that green enclosure, leaning against one wire wall, my legs stretched out in front of me with my Easter basket in between them. Birds were singing, and sunbeams pierced through the leaves, brightening the cool, shady spot I’d chosen to enjoy what were two of my favorite things even that long ago: chocolate and solitude.
"This is my Father's world,
the birds their carols raise,
the morning light, the lily white,
declare their maker's praise."
Happy Easter!
All the Easter Sundays of my childhood were happy ones, filled with baskets of candy and dyed eggs, fluffy, brightly-colored baby chicks, patent-leather Mary Janes, frilly dresses made of pastel organdy or dotted swiss, hats with bows that tied under my chin, and, of course, Sunday School and church packed with other bright and shiny people. Of all those Easters, there’s one I remember best.
In the spring of 1947, when I was four, we lived in a tiny duplex in Springfield, Missouri. In the backyard was what I understand now must have been a chicken coop at one time, but I thought of it as my playhouse. It was about the size of an average bathroom. The top and all four sides were made of wire, and the entire structure was overgrown with leafy green vines.
I remember in particular the contentment I felt as I sat alone inside that green enclosure, leaning against one wire wall, my legs stretched out in front of me with my Easter basket in between them. Birds were singing, and sunbeams pierced through the leaves, brightening the cool, shady spot I’d chosen to enjoy what were two of my favorite things even that long ago: chocolate and solitude.
"This is my Father's world,
the birds their carols raise,
the morning light, the lily white,
declare their maker's praise."
Happy Easter!
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Spring is in the air...and in the nostrils
Last spring I wrote about the bedtime ritual Butch and Kadi have established. It's still pretty much the same: Kadi sticks with me to make sure I get the right dog biscuits, while Butch races to wait for us in the bedroom doorway.
One thing is a little different this year, and it bothers me a lot: Butch has been bumping into things as he races from the back door, through the den, the dining room and the hall, and finally into the bedroom. I've noticed him bumping into things outside, too.
In the past month he's smacked into things more frequently than at any time since the days after he first lost his eyes. It doesn't seem to upset him; he just backs up, gives his head a little shake, adjusts his direction and moves on. He still runs, too, which makes me believe his accidents aren't diminishing his confidence.
It isn't as if he bumps into things constantly, more like once every two or three days. If I had no eyes, I'd be thrilled to be able to navigate with no more bumps than that. Still, each time it happens, it breaks my heart.
The only thing I can think of to account for the change is pollen. There's a ton of it this year, and my own allergies are giving me fits. Without his eyes, Butch has to rely on his ears and, even more, on his nose. If his nose is as messed up as mine is, he may not be picking up the subtle scents that signal him to put on the brakes or veer to the side of a fence or a wall.
Before his eye surgery, I bought a variety of scented oils and used them to mark specific places in the house. I'd read that this was helpful, and indeed it was. In the beginning, until Butch got used to the various scents, I freshened the oil markings about once a month. After a while, just as I'd read, he was able to pick up minute traces of the scents and I no longer needed to freshen them.
I think it's time to dig out the oils again and splash on a liberal dose of each scent. I hope I can find the "cheat sheet" I made back then. Putting the rose scent where the strawberry belongs would only confuse him more.
One thing is a little different this year, and it bothers me a lot: Butch has been bumping into things as he races from the back door, through the den, the dining room and the hall, and finally into the bedroom. I've noticed him bumping into things outside, too.
In the past month he's smacked into things more frequently than at any time since the days after he first lost his eyes. It doesn't seem to upset him; he just backs up, gives his head a little shake, adjusts his direction and moves on. He still runs, too, which makes me believe his accidents aren't diminishing his confidence.
It isn't as if he bumps into things constantly, more like once every two or three days. If I had no eyes, I'd be thrilled to be able to navigate with no more bumps than that. Still, each time it happens, it breaks my heart.
The only thing I can think of to account for the change is pollen. There's a ton of it this year, and my own allergies are giving me fits. Without his eyes, Butch has to rely on his ears and, even more, on his nose. If his nose is as messed up as mine is, he may not be picking up the subtle scents that signal him to put on the brakes or veer to the side of a fence or a wall.
Before his eye surgery, I bought a variety of scented oils and used them to mark specific places in the house. I'd read that this was helpful, and indeed it was. In the beginning, until Butch got used to the various scents, I freshened the oil markings about once a month. After a while, just as I'd read, he was able to pick up minute traces of the scents and I no longer needed to freshen them.
I think it's time to dig out the oils again and splash on a liberal dose of each scent. I hope I can find the "cheat sheet" I made back then. Putting the rose scent where the strawberry belongs would only confuse him more.
Monday, April 02, 2007
OK, I'll tell you, but I wish you hadn't asked
My taxes are done, thank goodness. Completing the tax forms wasn't difficult. Rounding up all the records I needed was a greater challenge. I knew exactly where everything was supposed to be, but I'm not conscientious enough about putting every piece of paper in its designated place. I had a little stack of papers here, a little stack there, here a stack, there a stack...well, you get the idea. In fact, I found one small pile of receipts in a basket underneath my coffee table, stuffed there in the midst of a hasty clean-up. They were in a plastic grocery bag on which I'd carefully printed with a Sharpie marker: THIS IS NOT TRASH!
At least the taxes are done. There's one more piece of government-mandated paperwork I have to finish, then I can file all my receipts away again.
Have you ever heard of the American Community Survey? It's put out by the U.S. Census Bureau, who stated in the letter that accompanied it: "The Census Bureau chose your address, not you personally, as part of a randomly selected sample. You are required by United States law to respond to this survey."
The letter also states: "The information collected in the ACS will help decide where new schools, hospitals, and fire stations are needed. The information also is used to develop programs to reduce traffic congestion, provide job training, and plan for the healthcare needs of the elderly." Those goals seem worthwhile, don't they? Who wouldn't want to help out with that?
On the back of the survey form, the Census Bureau estimates that "for the average household, this form will take 38 minutes to complete. Ha! Maybe I'm not average, but it took me more than 38 minutes to gather up all the receipts I need to answer their questions about earnings and household costs. Questions such as how much my mortgage payment is and how much I spent in the last 12 months on gas, electricity, water, etc. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.
I've spent hours poring over old census records looking for information on ancestors, so I appreciate the work the Census Bureau does. I totally recognize the need to collect basic information about U.S. citizens. But I can't imagine why it's important for the government or anyone else to know what time I leave for work in the morning and how long it takes me to get there.
Before I started answering the survey questions, I did a little research about it on the Internet. Here's someone who has some concerns about it, and here's a publication that puts the best possible spin on it.
What do you think?
At least the taxes are done. There's one more piece of government-mandated paperwork I have to finish, then I can file all my receipts away again.
Have you ever heard of the American Community Survey? It's put out by the U.S. Census Bureau, who stated in the letter that accompanied it: "The Census Bureau chose your address, not you personally, as part of a randomly selected sample. You are required by United States law to respond to this survey."
The letter also states: "The information collected in the ACS will help decide where new schools, hospitals, and fire stations are needed. The information also is used to develop programs to reduce traffic congestion, provide job training, and plan for the healthcare needs of the elderly." Those goals seem worthwhile, don't they? Who wouldn't want to help out with that?
On the back of the survey form, the Census Bureau estimates that "for the average household, this form will take 38 minutes to complete. Ha! Maybe I'm not average, but it took me more than 38 minutes to gather up all the receipts I need to answer their questions about earnings and household costs. Questions such as how much my mortgage payment is and how much I spent in the last 12 months on gas, electricity, water, etc. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.
I've spent hours poring over old census records looking for information on ancestors, so I appreciate the work the Census Bureau does. I totally recognize the need to collect basic information about U.S. citizens. But I can't imagine why it's important for the government or anyone else to know what time I leave for work in the morning and how long it takes me to get there.
Before I started answering the survey questions, I did a little research about it on the Internet. Here's someone who has some concerns about it, and here's a publication that puts the best possible spin on it.
What do you think?
Thursday, March 29, 2007
In memoriam -- 21st century style
Some time ago, while doing genealogical research, I came across a webpage dedicated to one of my great-great grandfathers. The site included a photo of his gravestone, at the bottom of which was engraved this phrase:
1st Line: Gone but not for
2nd Line: gotten
Huh? Did the person who carved this gravestone at the end of the 18th century think "forgotten" was two words, or did he just not plan ahead? Maybe it's just me, but I'm thinking if I'd had the job of carving a permanent inscription on stone, I might have laid out the whole message with a piece of chalk before I started cutting.
Nevermind.
It's not the stone I want to talk about but the phrase, "gone but not forgotten," which is apparently a timeless sentiment. As a matter of fact, I saw it again today, painted professionally in large script--stretched out across the width of the dark-tinted rear window of a pimped-out ride.
If you think "Gone But Not Forgotten" is a catchy slogan for a fast, flashy automobile, I'd have to agree with you. That's what I thought it was, too, but I was mistaken.
Centered directly below "Gone But Not Forgotten" was a saucer-sized white dove, and on each side of the dove was a different nickname. (At least I hope they were nicknames; one of them was "Toxic.") Below each name, in the same meticulous script, was a date of birth and a date of death. These two people died about two years apart, both at relatively early ages. I hope they were young enough that they'd have thought it cool to have a car window dedicated to their memory.
The car, which appeared by its squared-off shape to be an '80s model, was in immaculate condition with a gleaming new paint job. The bottom third was the same bright white as the memorial message, and the rest was cherry red. The windows, all tinted way darker than I believe the law allows, provided the touch of black that HGTV designers tell us is needed to "anchor" a good design. And the dazzling spinners on the wheels? Well, they probably cost more than the whole rest of the car.
Shoe-polish messages on car windows are common in this sports-minded part of the country. Usually it's "Go Tigers!!!" or "We're No. 1," so I didn't pay much attention to this one at first. Then I did a double take.
I don't know what to think about this. Part of me thinks, Oh, how sad, he misses his loved ones so much that he painted their names on his car. And another part of me is thinking, HOLY CRAP! HE PAINTED THEIR NAMES ON HIS CAR!?!
I wonder if people in my great-great-grandfather's day ever painted the dearly departed's epitaph on the back end of a wagon and drove it around from farm to farm and into town and back. I like to think not.
1st Line: Gone but not for
2nd Line: gotten
Huh? Did the person who carved this gravestone at the end of the 18th century think "forgotten" was two words, or did he just not plan ahead? Maybe it's just me, but I'm thinking if I'd had the job of carving a permanent inscription on stone, I might have laid out the whole message with a piece of chalk before I started cutting.
Nevermind.
It's not the stone I want to talk about but the phrase, "gone but not forgotten," which is apparently a timeless sentiment. As a matter of fact, I saw it again today, painted professionally in large script--stretched out across the width of the dark-tinted rear window of a pimped-out ride.
If you think "Gone But Not Forgotten" is a catchy slogan for a fast, flashy automobile, I'd have to agree with you. That's what I thought it was, too, but I was mistaken.
Centered directly below "Gone But Not Forgotten" was a saucer-sized white dove, and on each side of the dove was a different nickname. (At least I hope they were nicknames; one of them was "Toxic.") Below each name, in the same meticulous script, was a date of birth and a date of death. These two people died about two years apart, both at relatively early ages. I hope they were young enough that they'd have thought it cool to have a car window dedicated to their memory.
The car, which appeared by its squared-off shape to be an '80s model, was in immaculate condition with a gleaming new paint job. The bottom third was the same bright white as the memorial message, and the rest was cherry red. The windows, all tinted way darker than I believe the law allows, provided the touch of black that HGTV designers tell us is needed to "anchor" a good design. And the dazzling spinners on the wheels? Well, they probably cost more than the whole rest of the car.
Shoe-polish messages on car windows are common in this sports-minded part of the country. Usually it's "Go Tigers!!!" or "We're No. 1," so I didn't pay much attention to this one at first. Then I did a double take.
I don't know what to think about this. Part of me thinks, Oh, how sad, he misses his loved ones so much that he painted their names on his car. And another part of me is thinking, HOLY CRAP! HE PAINTED THEIR NAMES ON HIS CAR!?!
I wonder if people in my great-great-grandfather's day ever painted the dearly departed's epitaph on the back end of a wagon and drove it around from farm to farm and into town and back. I like to think not.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Words from the daughter who did not become a music critic
Subtitle: Famous musical groups of the '70s
I have no idea why this conversational tidbit from long ago popped into my head today, but I've been chuckling at the memory for a couple of hours now:
Younger daughter (at age 10): "Hey, Mom, do you know if the John that sings with Elt is the same one that sings with Olivia Newt?"
I have no idea why this conversational tidbit from long ago popped into my head today, but I've been chuckling at the memory for a couple of hours now:
Younger daughter (at age 10): "Hey, Mom, do you know if the John that sings with Elt is the same one that sings with Olivia Newt?"
"And in my heart you will remain forever young"
I have so many pictures of my first child, portraits and snapshots that show her looking like a tiny angel or a little doll, every hair in place. That’s why this one, taken by a photographer who didn’t show up until after recess, might be my favorite:
It’s hard to believe how long it’s been since that beautiful baby girl arrived. She was six weeks earlier than expected, probably the last time she was early for anything until a few short years ago, when she made peace with the process of evolving into a "mature woman."
Don't let the maturity fool you. She's still youthful in appearance, young at heart and free of spirit, preferring to beat her own trail through the tall grasses of life rather than follow the trampled path of those who came before her. On the wings of her artistic temperament, she has soared to heights the astronauts may never reach and plummeted into the earth's deepest chasms, all in the interest of whatever she's passionate about, and she's brought back souvenirs for the rest of us.
She's a dreamer, an artist, a writer of infinite skill, a loving daughter/sister/aunt. She’s an intensely private person who thrives on quiet, yet it wouldn’t even occur to her to tiptoe through this world.
Happy birthday, Sweetie. I'd never have imagined I could love you as a grown woman even more than as the precious infant you used to be, but I do.
It’s hard to believe how long it’s been since that beautiful baby girl arrived. She was six weeks earlier than expected, probably the last time she was early for anything until a few short years ago, when she made peace with the process of evolving into a "mature woman."
Don't let the maturity fool you. She's still youthful in appearance, young at heart and free of spirit, preferring to beat her own trail through the tall grasses of life rather than follow the trampled path of those who came before her. On the wings of her artistic temperament, she has soared to heights the astronauts may never reach and plummeted into the earth's deepest chasms, all in the interest of whatever she's passionate about, and she's brought back souvenirs for the rest of us.
She's a dreamer, an artist, a writer of infinite skill, a loving daughter/sister/aunt. She’s an intensely private person who thrives on quiet, yet it wouldn’t even occur to her to tiptoe through this world.
Happy birthday, Sweetie. I'd never have imagined I could love you as a grown woman even more than as the precious infant you used to be, but I do.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Duck love
Working with the duck photos in my last post made me think about the flock of Mallards that lived on the lake behind our home in Georgia in the early '70s. There were so many of them that they sometimes became problematic. They were fond of snacking on expensive, freshly-sown grass seed, and their per-unit output of slippery duck poop was phenomenal.
The ducks gave my daughters, then seven and nine, quite an education. My girls saw eggs hatch into sweet, fluffy ducklings. They saw mother ducks fuss tenderly over straight lines of babies, and they saw the ranks of those ducklings thin alarmingly as some of them became lunch for the lake's population of snapping turtles.
The ducks' mating rituals were a particular source of awkward embarrassment for the parents of young girls. Each evening we'd have a nice family dinner, sitting around the dining table next to glass doors that offered a clear view of the backyard and the lake beyond it. And each evening during mating season, our yard was full of lecherous drakes. As we ate our pork chops and mashed potatoes, they'd work in pairs to corral an available female, then take turns having their way with her, one mounting her enthusiastically while the other darted from one side of her to the other, pecking at her to keep her in her place. Ahem...pass the gravy, please, and tell me, how was your day?
You might think that this "drakes-gone-wild" scenario would top the list of my duck-related memories, but it's another, more tender one that always comes first to mind. One special pair of ducks we knew shared a fairy-tale kind of story: a damsel in distress, a prince who rescued her, and a love strong enough to take on the world.
The feminine half of this pair was a Plain-Jane kind of a gal, neither more nor less attractive (at least to my eyes) than the rest of the mottled-brown females on the lake. On top of that, she was crippled. One of her feet had been mangled, her leg twisted, probably by a snapping turtle. The injury was an old one, long-since healed, but it left her with a severe limp. Though she swam with apparent ease, walking was a struggle. She lurched along at a much slower pace than the rest of the ducks. The good news was she didn't walk alone; her prince was right beside her every difficult step of the way.
The prince was a handsome fellow, as all Mallard drakes are. As he strolled with his lady, he held his brilliant green head high and moved it slowly from side to side, watching their surroundings closely, protectively, always alert.
Sometimes we threw breadcrumbs to the ducks. When one of us stepped outside with the bread bag, the ducks came running. That's how we became familiar with this particular pair, because that's when the prince went into action.
When the food came out, he left his lady. Half running, half flying, he raced to the front of the flock. Once there, he turned and faced all the other ducks. He made himself as tall as possible, flapping his wings and stretching his neck forward in a menacing manner, quacking loudly, running back and forth in a semi-circle to drive the other ducks back away from our steps. His display was so ferocious that the other ducks respected it. They stayed back, looking like a crowd of spectators at a rock concert, all eyes focused on the star of the show.
As the prince staged his spectacle, his lady quietly and slowly made her way into the space he'd cleared behind him, the space where the breadcrumbs fell. He kept up the commotion while she ate her fill. When she finished, then--and only then--he dropped his aggressive stance and let the other ducks move forward. He ate while they did, with his well-fed lady waiting off to one side.
Time after time we witnessed this display of protective love and affection, and every single time, I had the same thoughts: This is the kind of love every girl grows up wanting. This is the stuff of which dreams are made. This little speckled brown girl is one lucky duck.
The ducks gave my daughters, then seven and nine, quite an education. My girls saw eggs hatch into sweet, fluffy ducklings. They saw mother ducks fuss tenderly over straight lines of babies, and they saw the ranks of those ducklings thin alarmingly as some of them became lunch for the lake's population of snapping turtles.
The ducks' mating rituals were a particular source of awkward embarrassment for the parents of young girls. Each evening we'd have a nice family dinner, sitting around the dining table next to glass doors that offered a clear view of the backyard and the lake beyond it. And each evening during mating season, our yard was full of lecherous drakes. As we ate our pork chops and mashed potatoes, they'd work in pairs to corral an available female, then take turns having their way with her, one mounting her enthusiastically while the other darted from one side of her to the other, pecking at her to keep her in her place. Ahem...pass the gravy, please, and tell me, how was your day?
You might think that this "drakes-gone-wild" scenario would top the list of my duck-related memories, but it's another, more tender one that always comes first to mind. One special pair of ducks we knew shared a fairy-tale kind of story: a damsel in distress, a prince who rescued her, and a love strong enough to take on the world.
The feminine half of this pair was a Plain-Jane kind of a gal, neither more nor less attractive (at least to my eyes) than the rest of the mottled-brown females on the lake. On top of that, she was crippled. One of her feet had been mangled, her leg twisted, probably by a snapping turtle. The injury was an old one, long-since healed, but it left her with a severe limp. Though she swam with apparent ease, walking was a struggle. She lurched along at a much slower pace than the rest of the ducks. The good news was she didn't walk alone; her prince was right beside her every difficult step of the way.
The prince was a handsome fellow, as all Mallard drakes are. As he strolled with his lady, he held his brilliant green head high and moved it slowly from side to side, watching their surroundings closely, protectively, always alert.
Sometimes we threw breadcrumbs to the ducks. When one of us stepped outside with the bread bag, the ducks came running. That's how we became familiar with this particular pair, because that's when the prince went into action.
When the food came out, he left his lady. Half running, half flying, he raced to the front of the flock. Once there, he turned and faced all the other ducks. He made himself as tall as possible, flapping his wings and stretching his neck forward in a menacing manner, quacking loudly, running back and forth in a semi-circle to drive the other ducks back away from our steps. His display was so ferocious that the other ducks respected it. They stayed back, looking like a crowd of spectators at a rock concert, all eyes focused on the star of the show.
As the prince staged his spectacle, his lady quietly and slowly made her way into the space he'd cleared behind him, the space where the breadcrumbs fell. He kept up the commotion while she ate her fill. When she finished, then--and only then--he dropped his aggressive stance and let the other ducks move forward. He ate while they did, with his well-fed lady waiting off to one side.
Time after time we witnessed this display of protective love and affection, and every single time, I had the same thoughts: This is the kind of love every girl grows up wanting. This is the stuff of which dreams are made. This little speckled brown girl is one lucky duck.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Fine-feathered fen friends
After this post, I'll stop swamping you with swamp photos. I've saved the bird pictures for last. (I had to print them all out first, so my boss could identify them for us.)
First up is the American Coot. It looks like a duck and swims like a duck--but it isn't a duck. We saw dozens and dozens of these birds.
See what I mean?
Next we have a pair of ducks of the Blue-Winged Teal persuasion. I don't know whether the distinctly marked male was a) foraging for food or b) hiding from the paparazzi.
These beauties are Black-Bellied Whistling Ducks. I love their red bills. You can't tell it here, but they have legs and feet to match.
This is no doubt a happy couple. Reportedly, these ducks pair up for the long haul, sometimes even for life.
It was fairly amazing to see large white blobs scattered among the treetops. This is a Great Egret sitting conspicuously on her nest. I guess this mother-to-be is large enough she doesn't feel the need to hide from predators.
For the grand finale, here's my favorite photo of the whole batch, featuring another Great Egret. I love the way this beautiful bird stands out against the background of Spanish moss, cypress knees and periwinkle.
There you have it, folks. Thanks to digital technology, I can share these "swamp samples" with you fairly easily. If I could figure out some way to share the spiritually restorative quality of that single hour in the swamp, you know I'd do it.
First up is the American Coot. It looks like a duck and swims like a duck--but it isn't a duck. We saw dozens and dozens of these birds.
See what I mean?
Next we have a pair of ducks of the Blue-Winged Teal persuasion. I don't know whether the distinctly marked male was a) foraging for food or b) hiding from the paparazzi.
These beauties are Black-Bellied Whistling Ducks. I love their red bills. You can't tell it here, but they have legs and feet to match.
This is no doubt a happy couple. Reportedly, these ducks pair up for the long haul, sometimes even for life.
It was fairly amazing to see large white blobs scattered among the treetops. This is a Great Egret sitting conspicuously on her nest. I guess this mother-to-be is large enough she doesn't feel the need to hide from predators.
For the grand finale, here's my favorite photo of the whole batch, featuring another Great Egret. I love the way this beautiful bird stands out against the background of Spanish moss, cypress knees and periwinkle.
There you have it, folks. Thanks to digital technology, I can share these "swamp samples" with you fairly easily. If I could figure out some way to share the spiritually restorative quality of that single hour in the swamp, you know I'd do it.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Scary swamp creatures
Several of you mentioned the snakes that live in the swamps, but I didn't see any on Tuesday's tour. Nor did I see any bugs, not even the mosquitos that are the bain of every Louisiana citizen's existence. But you also mentioned alligators. Gators, I've got.
These guys (there are two of them lying side by side here) weren't big as alligators go. I'd estimate they were about six or seven feet long, still big enough to make me glad I was in the truck with the windows rolled up. Click the photo to enlarge it, and while you're looking, tell me if you think that "stick" in the water on the lower-right-hand side of the picture could be a third gator--a submerged one. I didn't see it when I took the photo, but it appears to have bumps on it exactly like those on the backs of the other alligators.
This one, on the other hand, was enormous. He had greenery hanging on his nose, head and shoulders, which made me feel a little sorry for him. It must be awful to have those short, stubby legs that won't reach high enough to pick the grass off his nose. Maybe the camouflage benefit makes up for it.
Here's another shot of the big guy from a different angle. His tail was doubled back, making him appear shorter than he actually was--about half again as big as the other gators we saw. I'm not sure my arms would have reached around his neck even if I'd wanted to try it.
And here we have some black vultures, scavengers rather than predators. The fence in the photo belongs to an oil company that has a small station and a few wells smack in the middle of the swamp. These guys, along with a large group of others on the ground and in the trees, appeared to be hanging out, passing the time until the lunch bell rang.
"Did you get any of that nutria yesterday? Man, that was delicious! I hope another one gets killed today."
These guys (there are two of them lying side by side here) weren't big as alligators go. I'd estimate they were about six or seven feet long, still big enough to make me glad I was in the truck with the windows rolled up. Click the photo to enlarge it, and while you're looking, tell me if you think that "stick" in the water on the lower-right-hand side of the picture could be a third gator--a submerged one. I didn't see it when I took the photo, but it appears to have bumps on it exactly like those on the backs of the other alligators.
This one, on the other hand, was enormous. He had greenery hanging on his nose, head and shoulders, which made me feel a little sorry for him. It must be awful to have those short, stubby legs that won't reach high enough to pick the grass off his nose. Maybe the camouflage benefit makes up for it.
Here's another shot of the big guy from a different angle. His tail was doubled back, making him appear shorter than he actually was--about half again as big as the other gators we saw. I'm not sure my arms would have reached around his neck even if I'd wanted to try it.
And here we have some black vultures, scavengers rather than predators. The fence in the photo belongs to an oil company that has a small station and a few wells smack in the middle of the swamp. These guys, along with a large group of others on the ground and in the trees, appeared to be hanging out, passing the time until the lunch bell rang.
"Did you get any of that nutria yesterday? Man, that was delicious! I hope another one gets killed today."
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Swamp tour
My boss is back at work, not full days yet, but he's feeling much better and getting back into the swing of things. It feels good to have his company again.
For the past week he's been telling me about short trips he and his wife have been taking into a nearby swamp. He's offered several times to take me there on a lunchtime photo tour, and today was the day.
Oh!My!God! The beauty! And the wildness!
This particular patch of swampland is less than a 15-minute drive from the office, but it's on back roads no one driving by would ever notice. It's the kind of place that's familiar to hunters in this area, but the rest of us usually see places like this only in the slick pages of coffee-table books.
I'll stick with scenery today, and save the wildlife photos for later in the week.
Be sure to click on the photos to enlarge them.
For the past week he's been telling me about short trips he and his wife have been taking into a nearby swamp. He's offered several times to take me there on a lunchtime photo tour, and today was the day.
Oh!My!God! The beauty! And the wildness!
This particular patch of swampland is less than a 15-minute drive from the office, but it's on back roads no one driving by would ever notice. It's the kind of place that's familiar to hunters in this area, but the rest of us usually see places like this only in the slick pages of coffee-table books.
I'll stick with scenery today, and save the wildlife photos for later in the week.
Be sure to click on the photos to enlarge them.
Life is fickle...
...and when we least expect it, the world can turn upside down.
A good friend, one who inspires love and respect in all those who get to know him, is in the middle of the crisis of his lifetime. There's nothing I can do to help him right now, nothing any of his friends can do.
I know the good people who read this blog, and I know you care, but I'm turning off the comments feature on this post. This one isn't about what you think or I think; it's just for him, and I want to keep it that way.
If my friend ever finds this blog and reads it--and I hope someday he will
--he'll read about a lot of happy moments that happened in my life while his was in turmoil. That juxtaposition has been on my mind all day, reminding me once again that life isn't fair.
If my friend ever reads this, I want him to know I was thinking about him. I want him to know I cared enough to put it in writing.
A good friend, one who inspires love and respect in all those who get to know him, is in the middle of the crisis of his lifetime. There's nothing I can do to help him right now, nothing any of his friends can do.
I know the good people who read this blog, and I know you care, but I'm turning off the comments feature on this post. This one isn't about what you think or I think; it's just for him, and I want to keep it that way.
If my friend ever finds this blog and reads it--and I hope someday he will
--he'll read about a lot of happy moments that happened in my life while his was in turmoil. That juxtaposition has been on my mind all day, reminding me once again that life isn't fair.
If my friend ever reads this, I want him to know I was thinking about him. I want him to know I cared enough to put it in writing.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
The best part of last week...
...without a doubt, was the visit by my aunt and uncle from Springfield, Missouri. What a charming pair they are! I know their age in years (thanks to my handy-dandy genealogy database), but their energy and good looks defy how old I know them to be. I feel decrepit sometimes, but these delightful folks are young!
My dad was one of nine children, and this particular uncle is his youngest brother. This photo is how I remembered him for almost 40 years, from the time I left Missouri until I saw him and his lovely wife again at a family reunion in 1996.
It means so much to me that these warm, beautiful people took the time to travel all the way here, and to my sister's home in Texas, to check on the two "little girls" who moved so far away so many years ago. It was a long way to go, especially since my aunt wasn't feeling so well.
I grew up without my father. In fact, I was almost 50 before we communicated frequently enough that I felt I knew him fairly well. Needless to say, there are a lot of gaps in my knowledge of him and his birth family.
By visiting us, my aunt and uncle have given my sister and me the gift of a piece of our father, a piece of our history, a piece of our family.
Priceless!
My dad was one of nine children, and this particular uncle is his youngest brother. This photo is how I remembered him for almost 40 years, from the time I left Missouri until I saw him and his lovely wife again at a family reunion in 1996. It means so much to me that these warm, beautiful people took the time to travel all the way here, and to my sister's home in Texas, to check on the two "little girls" who moved so far away so many years ago. It was a long way to go, especially since my aunt wasn't feeling so well.
I grew up without my father. In fact, I was almost 50 before we communicated frequently enough that I felt I knew him fairly well. Needless to say, there are a lot of gaps in my knowledge of him and his birth family.
By visiting us, my aunt and uncle have given my sister and me the gift of a piece of our father, a piece of our history, a piece of our family.
Priceless!
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Headlines from the last lost eight days
Friday, March 9:
Allergens Declare War!
Local Woman Felled by Attack
Sleeps Away Vital Writing Time
Allergens Declare War!
Local Woman Felled by Attack
Sleeps Away Vital Writing Time
*****************************
Saturday, March 10:
Area Spring Cleanup Begins!
Adult Children Beautify Yard
Woman Hides Indoors from Pollen
*****************************
Sunday, March 11:
Local Woman Desperate for Haircut
Takes Scissors to Own Head!
Early Daylight Saving Time
Takes Toll on Anti-Morning People
*****************************
Monday, March 12:
Multiple Power Surges Terrify Homeowner!
Electronic Special Effects Declared “Award Winning”
*****************************
Tuesday, March 13:
Electrician Named Hero!
Homeowner "Happy and Relieved"
Despite Costs Exceeding One-Week's Pay
Special Afternoon Edition:
Insane Woman Invades Law Office
Forces Stand-Off with Sleep-Deprived Office Worker
*****************************
Wednesday, March 14:
Moved-Up Reunion:
"Wonderfully Successful Event"
Missouri Family Members Arrive Two Days Early
2007 Anti-Clutter Campaign Declared "Lifesaver"
*****************************
Thursday, March 15:
New Episodes!
Ugly Betty and Grey’s Anatomy
Claimed Essential to Restoration of Mental Health
*****************************
Friday, March 16:
Love-Starved!
Large Blind Dog Sleeps
More Than Two Hours on Woman's Lap;
All Hopes of Blogging Thwarted
as Same Sleepiness Overtakes Woman
*****************************
And one additional headline (which I hope will suffice until I run some errands and catch up on reading everyone else's blogs):
Saturday, March 17:
"Life Affirming!"
Local Woman Describes Nature
Observed While Standing in Own Yard
Despite Costs Exceeding One-Week's Pay
Special Afternoon Edition:
Insane Woman Invades Law Office
Forces Stand-Off with Sleep-Deprived Office Worker
*****************************
Wednesday, March 14:
Moved-Up Reunion:
"Wonderfully Successful Event"
Missouri Family Members Arrive Two Days Early
2007 Anti-Clutter Campaign Declared "Lifesaver"
*****************************
Thursday, March 15:
New Episodes!
Ugly Betty and Grey’s Anatomy
Claimed Essential to Restoration of Mental Health
*****************************
Friday, March 16:
Love-Starved!
Large Blind Dog Sleeps
More Than Two Hours on Woman's Lap;
All Hopes of Blogging Thwarted
as Same Sleepiness Overtakes Woman
*****************************
And one additional headline (which I hope will suffice until I run some errands and catch up on reading everyone else's blogs):
Saturday, March 17:
"Life Affirming!"
Local Woman Describes Nature
Observed While Standing in Own Yard
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Things that go bump in the night twilight
The house was quiet except for the clacking of the keys as I typed my last blog entry, and my dogs and granddogs, exhausted from a long outdoor play session, were sleeping soundly. The light that filtered through the blinds was fading fast. I'd need to turn the lamp on soon, then think about making some dinner.
THUWAAAAAAAAACK! Something hit the house, something bigger and heavier than the neighbor boy's basketball, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Inside, the dogs went nuts. They ran to the door, digging at the bottom of it, climbing on top of one another in their urgency to get outside and see what was going on. Outside, the neighbor's dogs raised an equally loud ruckus. I looked out the window and saw them behind the fence on the other side of the driveway, crouched in attack position, barking, snarling, eyes fixed like lasers on the roof of my house.
In that instant, I knew what made the noise, and my spirit soared!
I let the dogs out into the backyard, then grabbed the camera and hurried out the other door to the driveway. It took only a split second to confirm the source of the disturbance. I aimed the camera and took a dozen shots over the next few minutes, hoping to get some good pictures to show you (especially Sister-Three).
Unfortunately, all the photos turned out blurry. Low-light conditions might have been the problem, but it's more likely that my excitement caused my hands to shake. I'll post this one in spite of its fuzziness:
Welcome back, old friend. I've missed you.
THUWAAAAAAAAACK! Something hit the house, something bigger and heavier than the neighbor boy's basketball, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Inside, the dogs went nuts. They ran to the door, digging at the bottom of it, climbing on top of one another in their urgency to get outside and see what was going on. Outside, the neighbor's dogs raised an equally loud ruckus. I looked out the window and saw them behind the fence on the other side of the driveway, crouched in attack position, barking, snarling, eyes fixed like lasers on the roof of my house.
In that instant, I knew what made the noise, and my spirit soared!
I let the dogs out into the backyard, then grabbed the camera and hurried out the other door to the driveway. It took only a split second to confirm the source of the disturbance. I aimed the camera and took a dozen shots over the next few minutes, hoping to get some good pictures to show you (especially Sister-Three).
Unfortunately, all the photos turned out blurry. Low-light conditions might have been the problem, but it's more likely that my excitement caused my hands to shake. I'll post this one in spite of its fuzziness:
Welcome back, old friend. I've missed you.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
You'll always be my baby
Tomorrow will mark 15,695 straight days -- plus a few more, considering leap years -- that you’ve made me proud to be your mother. Even though I'm the parent and you're the youngest child, the baby, there are still things you teach me. You set the bar high with your sweetness, your kindness, and your natural gift for making others feel comfortable. Those qualities, plus a good head on your shoulders and a terrific sense of humor, make you quite a package -- beautiful inside and out.
Happy birthday, baby girl! I hope you're as happy as you've always made me, and I hope you know how much I love you.
Happy birthday, baby girl! I hope you're as happy as you've always made me, and I hope you know how much I love you.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Something in the way she mooooooves...
I've only ever known one cow up close and personal, but I thought of her the other day as I passed this pasture on my way home from work. Her name was Hoover.
When I was 18, sometime in the eight weeks between the date of my first marriage and the discovery that I was expecting a baby, my husband bought a little patch of land he called "the farm." I never really knew what his plans were for the property (I never knew much about any of his business), but it came with a wire fence around it, an open-sided animal shelter, a white Shetland pony named Silly, and Hoover, a very pregnant Jersey cow.
I don't know what arrangements my husband had made to see that the animals were fed on a regular basis, but occasionally, on weekends, we'd ride out to the farm together. While my husband did whatever it was he did on a borrowed tractor, my job was to stay out of his way. Hoover was usually at the far end of the field, and Silly, whenever I'd get close to him, would try to bite me, so I couldn't occupy myself with the animals. Not one to insist on helping with farm chores, I'd walk back into the thick woods that covered a portion of the property and read in the shade.
By the time I found out I was pregnant, my new marriage was already in trouble. Still, I was happy about the news. I thought a baby might be just what we needed to help us focus on working out our differences. Unfortunately, I was not one of those lucky women who look and feel wonderful during pregnancy. I was sick all day every day, with no time off for good behavior. On top of everything else, we were far away from friends and family, and I was working at a job I didn't like. I was lonelier than I'd ever been.
A few months later another young woman my age came to work in our office, and she and I became friends. One Sunday she rode with my husband and me to the farm. He got busy, and my friend and I headed back into the woods. We walked until we came to a little gully, dry at that time from the lack of recent rain. We climbed down into it and sat with the gentle slope of the opposite bank against our backs.
My friend was funny and bright, also a newlywed, and we had plenty of things to talk about. She was a pretty girl, and as we sat there talking, I began to mentally compare my swollen middle to her slender figure. I wondered if I'd ever feel pretty again. I didn't want to burden our budding friendship by talking about my pregnancy issues, so we chatted about other things instead. Even with her good company, I felt lonely. I longed for someone in whom I could confide, someone who could relate to the way it felt to inhabit such an alien, bulky body.
That's what was on my mind when we heard a rustling in the trees. The sound that broke the quiet was unfamiliar and a little frightening, until we looked up to see Hoover coming toward us at a steady pace. Even then, we didn't know what to expect.
Hoover's big belly, heavy with calf, swung from side to side as she walked. At the edge of the gully, she stopped abruptly and stood there for a moment, looking from one of us to the other, as if she were sizing us up. Then she began moving again, ever so carefully, down the slope and across to our side of the gully. She turned herself around and heaved her huge body onto the ground beside me. For the rest of the afternoon she lay there, watching and listening and chewing a little grass...just one of the girls.
From that day on, I loved that cow.
When I was 18, sometime in the eight weeks between the date of my first marriage and the discovery that I was expecting a baby, my husband bought a little patch of land he called "the farm." I never really knew what his plans were for the property (I never knew much about any of his business), but it came with a wire fence around it, an open-sided animal shelter, a white Shetland pony named Silly, and Hoover, a very pregnant Jersey cow.
I don't know what arrangements my husband had made to see that the animals were fed on a regular basis, but occasionally, on weekends, we'd ride out to the farm together. While my husband did whatever it was he did on a borrowed tractor, my job was to stay out of his way. Hoover was usually at the far end of the field, and Silly, whenever I'd get close to him, would try to bite me, so I couldn't occupy myself with the animals. Not one to insist on helping with farm chores, I'd walk back into the thick woods that covered a portion of the property and read in the shade.
By the time I found out I was pregnant, my new marriage was already in trouble. Still, I was happy about the news. I thought a baby might be just what we needed to help us focus on working out our differences. Unfortunately, I was not one of those lucky women who look and feel wonderful during pregnancy. I was sick all day every day, with no time off for good behavior. On top of everything else, we were far away from friends and family, and I was working at a job I didn't like. I was lonelier than I'd ever been.
A few months later another young woman my age came to work in our office, and she and I became friends. One Sunday she rode with my husband and me to the farm. He got busy, and my friend and I headed back into the woods. We walked until we came to a little gully, dry at that time from the lack of recent rain. We climbed down into it and sat with the gentle slope of the opposite bank against our backs.
My friend was funny and bright, also a newlywed, and we had plenty of things to talk about. She was a pretty girl, and as we sat there talking, I began to mentally compare my swollen middle to her slender figure. I wondered if I'd ever feel pretty again. I didn't want to burden our budding friendship by talking about my pregnancy issues, so we chatted about other things instead. Even with her good company, I felt lonely. I longed for someone in whom I could confide, someone who could relate to the way it felt to inhabit such an alien, bulky body.
That's what was on my mind when we heard a rustling in the trees. The sound that broke the quiet was unfamiliar and a little frightening, until we looked up to see Hoover coming toward us at a steady pace. Even then, we didn't know what to expect.
Hoover's big belly, heavy with calf, swung from side to side as she walked. At the edge of the gully, she stopped abruptly and stood there for a moment, looking from one of us to the other, as if she were sizing us up. Then she began moving again, ever so carefully, down the slope and across to our side of the gully. She turned herself around and heaved her huge body onto the ground beside me. For the rest of the afternoon she lay there, watching and listening and chewing a little grass...just one of the girls.
From that day on, I loved that cow.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
I'll have the escargot -- a small order, please
A while back I mentioned the tiny snails that cling to my dogs' fur if they lie down in the backyard for more than a couple of minutes. This one rode in on Kadi's belly this morning, and I thought you might like to see how small they are. Credit for this shot goes to Sister Mary Katherine, who was patient enough to lie on her back, paws in the air, not only while I washed mud off her feet, but also while I went to get the camera, a dime and a little piece of doublestick tape.
Note: No animals were injured in the making of this photo.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Trading Pooches
If you visit here often, you know I share my home with two big dogs. Both of them are getting old, as I am, and mostly we like to do quiet things. Butch, my blind, mixed-breed male is the one pictured here on the sofa, his upper lip succumbing to gravitational forces and his tail tucked protectively over his private parts. Kadi is the Yellow Lab shown sleeping contentedly on the floor (at least she was sleeping until I made intrusive camera noises). I love these dogs almost as much as I love my kids and grandkids.
You might also know, if you've been here before, that I have two daughters, each of whom also has two dogs. My older daughter, Kim, is a beadmaker. She brings her dogs with her to my house five or six days a week because her glass studio is set up in my backyard shed. Winston is her little male Yorkie, shown here in the driver's seat, and Lucy is the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel stretched out tall to keep a lookout. Kim loves her dogs as much as I love mine.
Most evenings Kim waits here until her beads are ready to come out of the kiln. We often eat dinner together, almost always in front of the TV, and then it's playtime with all four dogs. I love Kim's dogs and she loves mine, but, to be honest, each of us is partial to her own set of dogs. I look forward to time at the end of the day with just Butch and Kadi, time for snuggles and belly-rubs before bedtime. Kim, naturally, prefers the company of her own two pups and can't wait to get them home and get some cuddles as they all settle in for the night.
Since each of us humans likes our own dogs best, you might think the dogs would have a similar affinity for their respective mistresses. Not so. Two of our four dogs seem quite willing to make a swap.
There are patterns to our routines, patterns the dogs know better than we do. When Kim gets ready to go home, there are certain things she does, in a certain order, that set off an unwavering chain of events.
Butch pretty much doesn't stop whatever he's doing. He's alert, and we know he's paying attention, but it's no big deal. Kim's going, she's taking the pups, they'll be back tomorrow, whatever. Butch is content.
So is Lucy. She trots with her mom to the table where the leashes are kept. She waits patiently to have hers hooked to her collar, then wraps herself and the leash around Kim's legs two or three times in her haste to leave. It's time to go, what's taking so long? Let's get this show on the road.
Kadi -- my sweet Kadi whose big yellow head is allowed to rest on my pillow -- also follows Kim to the table where the leashes are. And every single night, she pants, she barks, she tap dances from the living room to the den and back again to dance in place, right under Kim's feet, tappity-tappity-tap, woof, woof. She stares into Kim's face with raw eagerness in her eyes. Oh, please, please, please, get my leash, please, please, take me just this one time, oh, please, please, I'll be good, just let me go with you, oh, please, please, puhleeeeeeeeeeeze!
Kadi's nightly betrayal would hurt my feelings if Kim's little Winston didn't show the same kind of disloyalty to her. In fact, if we were handing out Infidelity Awards, Winston would win in both the comedy and drama categories.
Winston is a young dog. He can be leaping and bouncing with reckless abandon -- playing tug-of-war with Lucy as if he'd just consumed large quantities of sugar and caffeine -- but the instant he senses it's time to go home, he shrinks inward, trying to make himself disappear. He flattens himself and slinks along the edges of the furniture, then jumps onto the sofa and tucks himself into the crevice where my thigh meets the sofa cushion. If there isn't time to make the leap to the sofa, he hides behind my feet. Wherever he holes up, he peeks out cautiously and watches. He conceals himself in the same places night after night and still holds out hope that his mom won't find him. When she does (after we play the "where's-Winston?-I-don't-know" game for our own amusement), Kim snaps his leash to his collar and he flops flaccidly to the floor. Urged to stand, he refuses to walk and has to be dragged the first few inches. When he decides to move on his own, he assumes the body posture of an old, old man, head down, shoulders hunched, poor and dejected, without a friend in the world. I don't wanna go home. I'm too tired. I was sooo comfortable, and I don't like to ride in the car. It's too much trouble. Just leave me here, okay? You and Lucy go on without me. I'll be fine, and I'll see you tomorrow. Awwwwwwww, no, no, no! I can't believe you're making me do this. Life is soooo hard.
Fortunately, after we've dashed Kadi's and Winston's dreams once again, it's easy to win back the kind of affection a dog should have for its designated person. All it ever takes is one rawhide chew.
You might also know, if you've been here before, that I have two daughters, each of whom also has two dogs. My older daughter, Kim, is a beadmaker. She brings her dogs with her to my house five or six days a week because her glass studio is set up in my backyard shed. Winston is her little male Yorkie, shown here in the driver's seat, and Lucy is the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel stretched out tall to keep a lookout. Kim loves her dogs as much as I love mine.
Most evenings Kim waits here until her beads are ready to come out of the kiln. We often eat dinner together, almost always in front of the TV, and then it's playtime with all four dogs. I love Kim's dogs and she loves mine, but, to be honest, each of us is partial to her own set of dogs. I look forward to time at the end of the day with just Butch and Kadi, time for snuggles and belly-rubs before bedtime. Kim, naturally, prefers the company of her own two pups and can't wait to get them home and get some cuddles as they all settle in for the night.
Since each of us humans likes our own dogs best, you might think the dogs would have a similar affinity for their respective mistresses. Not so. Two of our four dogs seem quite willing to make a swap.
There are patterns to our routines, patterns the dogs know better than we do. When Kim gets ready to go home, there are certain things she does, in a certain order, that set off an unwavering chain of events.
Butch pretty much doesn't stop whatever he's doing. He's alert, and we know he's paying attention, but it's no big deal. Kim's going, she's taking the pups, they'll be back tomorrow, whatever. Butch is content.
So is Lucy. She trots with her mom to the table where the leashes are kept. She waits patiently to have hers hooked to her collar, then wraps herself and the leash around Kim's legs two or three times in her haste to leave. It's time to go, what's taking so long? Let's get this show on the road.
Kadi -- my sweet Kadi whose big yellow head is allowed to rest on my pillow -- also follows Kim to the table where the leashes are. And every single night, she pants, she barks, she tap dances from the living room to the den and back again to dance in place, right under Kim's feet, tappity-tappity-tap, woof, woof. She stares into Kim's face with raw eagerness in her eyes. Oh, please, please, please, get my leash, please, please, take me just this one time, oh, please, please, I'll be good, just let me go with you, oh, please, please, puhleeeeeeeeeeeze!
Kadi's nightly betrayal would hurt my feelings if Kim's little Winston didn't show the same kind of disloyalty to her. In fact, if we were handing out Infidelity Awards, Winston would win in both the comedy and drama categories.
Winston is a young dog. He can be leaping and bouncing with reckless abandon -- playing tug-of-war with Lucy as if he'd just consumed large quantities of sugar and caffeine -- but the instant he senses it's time to go home, he shrinks inward, trying to make himself disappear. He flattens himself and slinks along the edges of the furniture, then jumps onto the sofa and tucks himself into the crevice where my thigh meets the sofa cushion. If there isn't time to make the leap to the sofa, he hides behind my feet. Wherever he holes up, he peeks out cautiously and watches. He conceals himself in the same places night after night and still holds out hope that his mom won't find him. When she does (after we play the "where's-Winston?-I-don't-know" game for our own amusement), Kim snaps his leash to his collar and he flops flaccidly to the floor. Urged to stand, he refuses to walk and has to be dragged the first few inches. When he decides to move on his own, he assumes the body posture of an old, old man, head down, shoulders hunched, poor and dejected, without a friend in the world. I don't wanna go home. I'm too tired. I was sooo comfortable, and I don't like to ride in the car. It's too much trouble. Just leave me here, okay? You and Lucy go on without me. I'll be fine, and I'll see you tomorrow. Awwwwwwww, no, no, no! I can't believe you're making me do this. Life is soooo hard.
Fortunately, after we've dashed Kadi's and Winston's dreams once again, it's easy to win back the kind of affection a dog should have for its designated person. All it ever takes is one rawhide chew.
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