Lost and found

LOST: My mind, very nearly. Work has been extraordinarily hectic. I've been arriving home physically exhausted and mentally drained. The physical tiredness is mostly centered in my neck and shoulders, the muscles I tend to clench tightly when I'm stressed. (Just FYI, I had neck-and-shoulder pain for almost the entire year of 1982. In January of '83, I broke up with my boyfriend. The pain miraculously went away about two days after he did.)

FOUND: A special locket I'd put in a "really safe place," a place so safe I couldn't remember it for several days. I'll write this weekend and tell you why it was important to find the locket.

LOST: A handful of old photos I've been trying to find for almost two years. They're some of my favorites, ones that I've pulled out and scanned to make copies for others. Unfortunately, those scans were on my last computer, the one that died, so I don't have backup copies. I usually keep my photos filed by decade, and I'd pulled some of the best ones from each file and put them all together in a folder so I could keep track of which ones I'd copied. I'm still hoping they'll turn up, but after searching for them for so long, I've run out of places to look. So far I've insisted on thinking of them as "misplaced." Now I'm beginning to move out of denial and consider the possibility that they might be lost for good. It breaks my heart.

FOUND: Two state quarters I didn't have yet. Yes, I collect them; don't ask me why. This is my ninth year of never paying for anything with exact change. Instead, I always round up to the nearest dollar, hoping each purchase will be the one that lands me a "wanted" quarter. (Let me assure any muggers reading this, you do NOT want to be hit by my very heavy purse.)

LOST: Any shred of interest I may have ever had in young, slutty, drug-or-alcohol-impaired celebrities. I will vote for whichever presidential candidate promises to banish news about Lindsay, Britney and Paris for at least a week.

FOUND: Lost, the ABC TV series that I ignored after the first episode, despite rave reviews. My daughter, a huge fan, recently acquired the first two seasons on DVD and left them here for me to watch. Initially I wasn't all that interested, but last Saturday night I settled in to try to figure out what I was missing. After a couple more episodes, I was hooked. I've already watched the entire first season and can't wait for the weekend to immerse myself in Season Two.

Kadi's step-by-step guide to a perfect day

Kadi may be getting old, but she still knows how to have a good time. She asked me to pass these tips along to all the other dogs who read this blog:

Step 1: Convince your people to fill your pool. If your cuteness isn't enough to get the job done, try some heavy panting to prey on their sympathies.










Step 2: After they've filled the pool, test the temperature of the water.












Step 3: Have yourself a little drink. After all that panting, you'll need it.












Step 4: Ease yourself gently into the water.













Step 5: Relax for approximately 45 seconds.












Step 6: Stand up and make some waves.













Step 7: Step out of the pool and shake vigorously.












Step 8: Hurl your body to the ground.













Step 9: Roll around with reckless abandon.













Step 10: Race around the yard, stopping to pee at least twice along the way (this keeps the pool sanitary).











Repeat Steps 3-10 until you (or your people) are worn out and ready for a nap.

Sneaky diva

Soooo, I was driving home from work, singing along with the car radio like all the women in my family do. The radio was turned up loud, and I was singing like I meant it -- and then I had to slow down for a stoplight. That's when I began to analyze my actions and to wonder if I'm crazy or if other people behave the same way under similar circumstances. I couldn't wait to get home and ask your opinion.

It seems that if the wheels on my car are turning, I'm quite comfortable putting my heart and soul into accompanying the music on the radio. It doesn't matter how many lanes of traffic there are or how many people might possibly see me; as long as we're all moving, everything's fine. I figure nobody will get more than a passing glance at me, and they'll forget it before they've gone another half mile.

My discomfort begins when I have to stop. That's when a driver in the next lane would have time to casually glance my way and not only notice my gigantic mouth movements but study them. That's when the self-consciousness really creeps in.

The obvious solution would be to stop singing then -- but I can't do it. I have to sing it all the way to the end, especially if it's a good song. Instead, I try to disguise the fact that I'm singing.

So far my methods of subterfuge are limited. If I'm stopped at a short light and the other traffic is only on one side of me, I can put up my hand on that side to cover my moving lips and pretend to scratch my nose or rub my eye. Unfortunately, scratching or rubbing for more than a few seconds looks almost as weird as the singing does.

A longer stop brings me to attempted ventriloquism. I had to resort to that this afternoon, and let me just note here that it's extremely unfulfilling to sing without moving my lips when a really good song demands to be belted out in a big way. The main problem is all those b, p and m sounds that get in the way.

Today, for example, I was having a wonderful time singing along with Brad Paisley and Alison Krauss to their mournful hit, "Whiskey Lullaby." As I approached the stoplight, we'd just finished the first verse and launched into the chorus. Brad and Alison continued to sing beautifully, but I, because of the cars stopped on either side of me, tried to sing without moving my lips. My version of the lyrics came out like this:

"He fut that vottle to his head and fulled the trigger
And finally drank away her nenory
Life is short vut this tine it was vigger
Than the strength he had to get uff off his knees
We found hin with his face down in the fillow
With a note that said I'll love her till I die
And when we vuried hin veneath the willow
The angels sang a whiskey lullavy."

It's a great song, but it loses a little something in the translation, don't you think? After that, I didn't really have the heart for the lovely "la-la-la" part of it.

So, my question to you is a) do you think I'm totally nuts, or b) do you have these problems, too? If you chose "b" -- and I hope at least a couple of you did -- please 'fess up and tell me whether or not you've discovered any better stealth maneuvers.

"Heeeeeere I come to save the daaaaaay..."

Half an hour before dark yesterday, I sat down to see what was on TV. Kadi lay nearby, but Butch had elected to climb onto the futon in the den rather than join us in the living room.

Just as I got comfortable, Butch began to make "grrruffff" noises, quiet little sounds that are half growl, half warning bark. After he'd done it three or four times, I could hear his feet scrambling to get off the futon, and I knew I was in trouble.

We had come back in the house less than ten minutes earlier. I knew he didn't need to go outside again. Whatever was bugging him didn't seem to be bothering Kadi, so I felt fairly sure there was no danger lurking at the back door. Nevertheless, here he came, dancing around me like a prizefighter before the first round, his ears perked up Rin Tin Tin style. "Butch," I said sharply, "go lay down." Huh-uh. Not gonna do it.

Instead he began barking louder, a desperate, high-pitched, pleading sound that fell somewhere between a whine and a bark, letting me know that his business was urgent, that life as we knew it would cease to exist if I didn't let him outside immediately. It was Butch's impersonation of Lassie's "come-quick-Timmy's-in-the-well" speech. I decided it was easier to let him out again than to try to reason with him.

When my feet hit the floor, he whirled around and ran full-speed through the house, barely missing end tables and dining room chairs, and hurtled through the back door the instant it was opened. I swear the size of his chest expanded with each step as he ran toward the back fence, barking fiercely all the way.

Fearful that he'd smack headlong into the fence, I called repeatedly for him to slow down. He didn't drop speed, but he did manage to pull himself to an abrupt stop just a few feet short of a crash. By then I could hear the distant HONK-pause-HONK-pause-HONK of a neighbor's car alarm. Evidently, that was the sound that had provoked Butch's distress. He faced the general direction of the honking sound, threw his head so far back it lifted his front feet off the ground, and gave four mighty barks in succession. Then he listened for about five seconds and did it again.

The barking continued -- four barks, listen, four more barks -- until somebody, somewhere, turned off the car alarm. As soon as the honking stopped, Butch cocked his head at various angles to listen carefully, then turned back toward the house. He seemed pleased with himself. He held his head high, did a perky little trot-step all the way back to the door, stepped inside, made his way straight to the living room and lay down to rest.

So what if he can't see? The man of the house has to step up and take charge when a situation needs correcting. Good job, Mighty Dog!

"This may be a stupid question, but...."

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

"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!

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.