Well it finally stopped

After 30 hours of continuous snow, it has finally stopped. There is at least 20 inches on the ground. 20 inches of white stuff. We no longer have cheap labor as both children have moved out. Its up to the hubby and I to blaze a trail to the shed and get the shovels. And start digging. Because of the sheer volume of the stuff, you have to shovel layers. So you are essentially shoveling three times in one spot before reaching the ground level. We are not young anymore. And we definitely are no longer in shape (shape being a relative term--I for example am sort of round--that's a shape, isn't it--but I digress).

We do have a small version of a snow blower. We hadn't used it for a couple of years, so getting it to start was a gamble. After much blowing and blustering both by man and machine, it sputtered to a start. It worked on the driveway which was a blessing. The drive is not paved, it's lined with red stones and it is very long, seemingly more so with all that snow! It was used as well to clear the walkways, which I had already cleared with the handy dandy shovel, the one which holds onto the snow every 4th shovelful, so you have to bang it to release the hold, then re-shovel it back up again. It would have been entertaining, except I was too tired by then to be amused. I went around whacking the bushes to remove the snow which threatened to snap off the branches. Amusing sidelight--the next door neighbor is fanatical about leaves on her lawn; even blows them in the dark--by whacking the shrubbery, I loosed some leaves onto her pristine white yard. I anticipate the leaf blower will be whipped out posthaste to eliminate the offending debris.

Our neighbor on the other side has one of those industrial strength snow-blowers. The kind that can pick up and throw snowmen before they have a chance to retaliate. He is a considerate and kind man, helping out the neighbors all around. He has offered to help us clear our drive, but the results of the last effort--flinging red stones causing all to take cover under the bushes out front, he does not offer to help us out with the driveway. Instead, he has that cheap labor I mentioned before, children, come over and work on the ice encrusted sidewalk in front of our house, where the snowplow has filled in the nice pathway made by my trusty shovel. I offer them hot chocolate and cookies, since I have no money, I couldn't get to the bank. They smile politely and keep shoveling. I bet they complain to their dad when they get done.

When the sun finally goes down at the end of the day, my husband and I and the heating pad are happily ensconced on the couch, watching football. The Christmas lights the neighbors have put about look wonderful on the snow. I really do like snow to look at. Just not to shovel. Happy Holidays.

The End of the Day

It's technically the end of the day for me. 9:30 at night signifies that its time for "sleepertowns" as Jim would say. I begin the routine of answering last minute e-mails, putting away things standing longingly on the side of the sink which have dried and I've ignored, I perhaps play one more game of computer solitaire hoping to beat it this time. My eyes get droopy and my hearing aids come out (hope nobody calls I want to talk to).

But tonight there is a sense of anticipation before going to bed. Tomorrow is predicted a HUGE snowstorm. I have milk, eggs and bread in the house and I have no where to go tomorrow. I'm looking forward to a day of baking and decorating and doing all the holiday things I can't do during the week after work, 'cause I'm too tired.

So I'm not real tired right now, I'm looking forward to the snow and the wind. Of course, when I have to go out and help shovel the 3 mile driveway, I will not be quite so excited. But right now, before it actually begins to snow I feel a small excitement building. It's probably a hold over from my childhood days. I wonder if the meteorologists are exaggerating as they tend to do. I wonder if I'll be able to teach my class on Sunday. I wonder how it will look and sound and feel. When it snows its so restful and quiet. For a person who wears hearing aids to say it's quiet, well, then it must be quiet. But there is a hushed kind of breathing the snow has, that I just love.

A snow day before Christmas. I'm really looking forward to waking up tomorrow.

Girl on a sidewalk

Out of the corner of my eye
I saw a shape on the sidewalk
Because it was not something that belonged there
I stopped
As did another.

The shape was a young lady,
Laid out by a bicycle fall
Her backpack flung off to the side
The bike lounging lazily on its side near her

She was wearing red pants
Blood red, but not hers-blood that is
And they were short, too short for the cooler weather
She didn't appear to be shaken or scared

The other lady who stopped and I hoovered around her
Without touching--I work in a school, I know what I can and cannot do
As she picked herself up and accepted our
Mother-like admonishments: are you alright? are you hurt? can you walk?

She was almost serene in her re-assembly of stuff
The only give away, the bright red flush to her cheeks
And I wondered, since I didn't see it, did she really fall?
Or was this some experiment to see if someone would notice?
The other woman offered to drive her home, but she politely refused
Even though, she told us, she lived quite a ways away.

She got back on the bike and began to pedal stoically on
Without a backward glance to the would-be rescurers
Her pony tail bouncing at each crack in the sidewalk.
We looked at each other, the woman and I and I could see her question, too.
Did she fall? Was she running away and stopped to rest? Was she trying
to see if anyone cared that a young lady off her bike in red pants would lay on
the cold sidewalk on a winter afternoon?
I wondered as I drove on and I still do, sketching scenarios of the whys and
wherefores.

the dentist in your mind

Okay, I don't like going to the dentist. He isn't a bad man. He goes out of his way to be gentle and speak gently to me. He knows I have sensitive teeth, so he makes sure I have enough numbing agent in my mouth before he even attempts to drill anything. He is really a great guy. His son has joined him in the practice and from what I can tell he is also gentle and kind, although kind of young.

Ah, but the anticipation is always worse than the actual event. I imagine all sorts of horrors: he'll have a substitute there and they won't have read what a fanatical, whimpering bowl of jello I am and will say, "Novocaine? No one uses that stuff anymore!" and commence drilling; he will look inside my mouth and tell me that the entire right side of my face will collapse unless I remove all of the teeth there--okay that actually wouldn't be so bad, they at least knock you out for that; the scenarios are endless. They all end up with me whimpering in the chair and begging to be left alone. I prolong any visit as long as possible. Even if a tooth is bothering me. I just know he'll find something that has to be taken care of that day and it will NOT be a good thing.

I used to go to a dentist who would give me laughing gas before even coming at me with the Novocaine. THAT'S how nervous I was. They don't do that anymore. I did however see one ad in a local paper. The guy was advertising that he guarantees no pain while he works on you. I was wondering how he could say that? What does he do? Hit you over the head with a bat before he begins? But no, that would be painful. Maybe he gives you whatever the oral surgeon gives you to knock you out, so you don't care what he does with your mouth. I kind of like that idea. I think I'll bring it up to my current dentist the next time I see him...in another couple of years...you know, when I can no longer put it off.

a question of light

I'm sitting on the bed around 9:30 at night and the quirky lights have just gone out up stairs. But the light over the pillow is still on. It illuminates the left side of my face and causes a reflection on the screen of the laptop I'm writing on. It is the reflection that got my attention this evening.

I have always thought that I was not vain. Until I colored my hair to cover the gray. And started applying make-up a little more than haphazardly. When my reflection is seen this evening, the lines around my mouth and onto my cheek are in more vivid detail than perhaps I'd like. I can see the fine fuzz of hair on my face--it gives my left side a sort of silvery cast. I got thinking about our ancient ancestors and when the facial hair began to disappear, did they miss it? I'm wearing my old roundish glasses and I realize I'm looking at my mother's face as much as my own. I have always thought my ears too big and in this half-light the lobes of them loom large under the fringe of my short hair. I read somewhere that your ears continue to grow all your life. Yikes! By the time I'm 80, I'll have elephant ears, flapping along with my jowls and loose upper arms. I could be a one man band in my declining years.

I realize the lines radiating from my mouth are "laugh lines" and they resemble my Dad. Not too much of my outward self resembles him. It isn't a bad legacy I guess. I cannot see the whole of my face, I don't like looking at it that much anyway and avoid it except for the make-up, hair routine in the morning. I don't hate my face, I just don't pay much attention to it after primping it for the day. But the half shadow makes me look a lot more serious--except for the laugh lines. I look tired I think. My eyelids are sort of droopy, maybe I'm trying to look interesting for this piece? No, I'm just tired.

That small group of hair at my temple which never seems to do what I want them to do are flipping out horizontally again. When I wake up in the morning, they are almost determined to be doing anything but what the other hairs are doing. They are my defiant streak I guess.

I keep going back to the lines on my cheek. They are deeper, more etched. Some would say it gives my face character. I just think they are part of a canvas that each day I paint over without obliterating them. Not that I'm trying to, really. But I don't go out of my way to point them out either. And so to bed. Time for another night of observations to go the way of the quirky lights. Over and dark.

And the good news is...

I got an e-mail from a really wonderful friend--kind, funny, so compassionate it makes your teeth ache--that she has been asked to write a book. Now, I know she likes to write, but doesn't really do much of it at all. And I'm sure she can string her thoughts, words and deeds together in a coherent and probably moving tome. But let me remind you of this--someone ASKED her to write this book.

Here I am slogging away for months at a time, refining, refining, touching up, throwing out lines after lines, pages after pages in the hope that someday I can submit either one of two stories to be published and ... someone has asked her to write.

To be fair, I haven't got the "low-down" yet on what the topic is and whom it was that asked her. She so excited I could hear her voice go up a couple of octaves just from reading the e-mail. I'm going to call her tomorrow and find out the details.

But just for now...someone asked her to write a book. I'll be a better Christian about this later I think.

the driving experience

I have noticed a new experience while driving. It may be that it was in existence for a while, but I have seen it more and more lately and its sort of disturbing. It goes like this: you are in a line of traffic that just made it through a light, so everyone is feeling pretty good about themselves. There's probably about 10 to 15 cars who are tooling down the road, when a gap develops between say the third and six cars. It's a wide enough gap that if someone was going to enter the traffic, they could do it, but they would have to gun it to make sure the next guy didn't try to speed up to close the gap. What happens though is this--a car approaching a stop sign from a side street, see the gap and decides, oh, hell why stop? and cruises right into the gap of traffic without missing a beat (or creating an accident). Technically speaking the driver hasn't hurt anyone. They have essentially merged into ongoing traffic. But the stop sign is there for a reason, isn't it? They totally ignore the stop and keep cruising. The one time I saw someone do this, I was sure they didn't even ponder the traffic coming their way in the lane closest to them, they just saw that gap and went for it! I don't know why this disturbs me so much, but it does. I feel like it's going to end badly for someone and I'm hoping that someone isn't me. Part of me wishes I could have flashing lights attached to the car so that when someone does do this, I could scare them enough that they wouldn't do it again. But really, is it possible to scare people that badly? I mean how many drive while talking on the phone or texting. No one is that scared anymore. Fear factor alone keeps me from doing stupid stuff. But that doesn't seem to be a deterrent any more...whine, whine, whine. I'm getting old and I hear myself. Ewww.

how did we ever get along?

It became apparent two days ago that the microwave was broken. It doesn't heat. The light goes on, the turntable goes 'round, but the heat ain't there (does this sound like anyone you know?). Anyway, there are several points to make about this particular piece of machinery.

We installed this one ourselves. Well, sort of. When our daughter was still in residence after college she had a bunch of friends come over frequently and the gender of the friends were male. They would yuck it up on the porch watching TV, trading work stories and getting increasingly louder as the evening wore on. My husband, never one to ignore a gift horse (or a room full of young males who could probably lift more than he alone) enlisted their help in getting the microwave in place. I should point out that this is a "range top model" which means it is anchored above the top of the stove and has a vent fan attached. It was a heavy son-of-a-gun and I knew I wasn't going to lift it. So he and the "boys" got the thing in place and he secured it. It was hilarious and interesting to watch their interactions as they worked together. If we have to get rid of the thing now that it isn't working, I will be sorry to part with the memories.

The second thing occurred to me quite by surprise. I haven't cooked vegetables on the top of a stove for a very long time. How long you may ask? I really can't remember. In our first home we had a microwave. This is where I learned how to cook, mixing this and that, timing this and that. And the humming, ding of the microwave was the barometer of finished vegetables. I got out a pack of frozen corn last night and had to read the directions for how to cook on the top of the stove! Of course, I had to find my glasses first, then write down the salient points because the sieve-like appendage of a brain I have doesn't retain anything for two minutes. I had to find a pen that would write. I had to find a piece of paper that didn't have anything already written on it. I had to put the corn back in the freezer while I searched for all these things. What an ordeal! By the time I figured everything out, it was about 20 minutes later. No wonder the microwave is a time saving device. It probably doesn't cook anything any faster, but you don't have to go through all this crap to just cook stuff.

So a repair man or perhaps woman will come out Wednesday to either fix it or tell us to get a new one. My husband says that we can get a small counter top model for a relatively cheap price. But the monster above the stove-top cooks things so much faster than one of the little models. We have to decide what we want to do. I'm looking to get a new one, personally. Maybe one that will install itself. But I'm not that hopeful. I'll let you know what happens. Just listen for the ding.

The mail as a microcism: Discuss

When I get home from work, especially in the months of November and December I let out the cat and try to grab all the mail from the little red mailbox attached to the wall next to the front door. I say try to grab because during these months the mail box is stuffed with catalogs, flyers, junk mail and more catalogs. 'Tis the season you know. All this stuff. Who buys all this stuff? From weird little photo holders to Hans Solo in Carbonite as a desk. I really can't imagine who buys this stuff. The Sharper Image is always entertaining, but the Orvis catalog? Not so much. The really amusing thing, though is how my husband plunks them on the table to peruse after dinner. He excitedly points out the more bizarre and outlandish items, trying to goad me into either thinking he really is excited about the items or that this is something that we really can't do without. This never really works, but I give him points for sincerity.

There are people who buy this stuff, right? I mean they don't just make these catalogs to peruse. People with money to burn (who are they?) must sometimes purchase stuff out of there, right? I just don't know anybody that does.

Now I'm not talking about the "mainstream" catalogs, like L.L. Bean or even the Current Catalog which has stationery and stamps and even checkbooks for crying out loud. These are what I would call normal things. No, the over-the-top catalogs are the ones I'm talking about. They're entertaining, sure, but really besides Donald Trump, who has the money for this stuff?

Maybe someday when I win the lottery and don't know what to do with all my millions, I'll consent to buy my son that Hans Solo desk, but maybe I'll invest instead in a new larger mailbox and keep myself entertained for the rest of the holiday season.

Gifts

Every once in a while someone gets it right. I don't get another candle, or trinket for the china cabinet. Every now and then I get--tickets to a show. I wanted to see White Christmas last year in the worst way. But it just didn't work out. I love the movie, but the stage show added some Irving Berlin to jazz it up and well, I just love Irving Berlin anything. My husband bought us tickets to see it. For this year. Right after Thanksgiving. He knows I'll be sad this year. The youngest won't be home for either Thanksgiving or Christmas since he's working retail this year. And I get teary eyed just thinking about it. So I got this great gift. It will be just the thing.

But really the best gift was my husband. The man upstairs sleeping right now. He was sort of grouchy when he went to bed. He's tired. He went for a HUGE bike ride with his brother today and he's very tired. But even though he's tired and a little grumpy, he's still the best thing that ever happened to me. He shows me that I'm lovable. He shows me that there are worst things in life than a bad day. He stands with me in our sorrow and grief and mourning over the children moving on, even though that's what they're supposed to do. He likes my cooking--can't figure that out--I'm mediocre at best. He laughs at the same things I do (mostly) and understands those things that made me mad, even though they don't make him mad. He does not show physical affection in public, but once in a while, if I take his hand, he'll squeeze it just to prove he could do it if he wanted to--he just doesn't want to. I'm a better grown-up with him than without him. I'm a better person with him than without him. Yup, he's the best thing I ever got. Thank the good Lord.

When the whole wide world is fast asleep

I used to wonder what it would be like to wander around during the night. I mean I'm basically a chicken, so going for a walk in the dark is not something I do on purpose. When I have to go out to close the garage doors after dark, I find myself hurrying. I live in suburbia for heaven's sake. What's going to get me? But I still think about it every now and then, walking around in the dark. What would it be like to not be afraid or to be so used to it that it didn't bother me any more. What kinds of people are comfortable in the dark? Policemen have to be I guess. And nightwatchmen. Security guards. People who stock shelves in stores are used to it I suppose. If you had to take a walk around your neighborhood in the dark, late at night, would you get freaked out? Some neighborhoods would--Camden for instance. Or some of those small little towns in the middle of the Pines. With the dogs barking in the distance and the rustling of leaves and twigs breaking (the Jersey Devil is out there, I just know it!) I'm going to do it, one night, I think. I'll take my husband along for protection. And a big honking flashlight that will last for a bazillion hours. Maybe over Christmas break. You know look at the decorations, get frostbite, who knows maybe meet a Hadrosaurus in the bargain. You never know what you'll see or hear. But I'll have to work up to it. Maybe next year.

In The Wee Small Hours

I love the above song for so many reasons. But I'm quoting tonight on it because I got to thinking about those hours in the night. The ones where you wake up after being asleep for a short amount of time and you cannot turn off the synapses for whatever reason and you find yourself staring at the tv or computer screen for hours on end without feeling the least bit sleepy. Or the evenings when you know you should be getting sleepy, tired, whatever you want to call it and well, you just aren't. You pick up a book that in the past has put you to sleep within an hour and suddenly it seems pretty interesting. You try playing countless games of computer solitaire and since you're winning so handily so frequently, you suddenly don't feel like stopping. The funny thing is, you know you'll pay for this in the morning. Monday morning rolls around and you're functioning on 2 hours of sleep and you know by noon you're gonna be mush. But you just can't stop, you just can't relax, you just can't stop thinking.

In the middle of the night is when I find I miss people the most. I used to ache for my dad in the middle of the night. I miss my kids then and my brothers. I see my sister with some regularity, so I don't find I miss her much--is that bad? I even dredge up folks that I haven't seen for umpty ump years, wondering where they are, what they are doing and do they ever think of me? And if they do, is it good?

The problem with those wee small hours is you pack a lot of what-ifs, do-overs, and I-can't-believe-I-said/did/thought that. It's not usually good reflections in the middle of the night. It's usually, for me anyway, regrets and remorse. I'm whining aren't I? Well, it is after all, the middle of the night. And no one is up to hear me.

Halloween from the past

I'd like to reminisce for just a moment about the Halloween's of my past. I really don't remember the costumes too much, although I recall quite clearly going out as a "hobo"--a politically incorrect term if ever there was one. I remember the hauls of enormous amounts of candy we would bring home, usually in a pillowcase of all things (because a bag would break and the pillow case was cooler). The mounds of candy on the living room floor staggered the imagination. Because there are 4 siblings in our family, we would spend hours, even days swapping back and forth for our favorite candies. And nary an x-rayed thought crossed our minds (even after the razor-blade-in-the-apple scare).

But what I remember most was the lady with the fountain in her house. You had to make sure you allotted enough time to go to her house, you see, because you didn't get candy, you got to go into her house and look for pennies. That's right! She opened her doors to a few kids at a time, and you rooted through the house for all the pennies you could get. The concept staggers the mind today! You would no more open your house to a bunch of kids you didn't know today than jump out of the third story window (and you wouldn't do that without making sure all the doors were locked first). Picture if you will, scores of children dressed up in made at home costumes from clowns to ballerinas to doctors to "hobos", going from one house to the next down a nice suburban block. They all troop to each house, go up the long sidewalks to the front steps, ring the bell and when the householder opens the door, they all yell, "Trick or Treat!" The adult (and sometimes the older sibling who no longer does this, but eats the candy just the same) brings out the "full size candy bars!!!" for all and the kids say thanks and troop over to the next house. But as you get to this one block you notice the kids are lined up outside of a small bungalow type home. There are enormous boulders set in stone on the facade of the place and a porch that seems dark, yet inviting on the front of the house. The kids are giggling, and excited, not just by the day, but by the fact that they are going to be NEXT! The older woman opens her front door and a bunch of laughing kids clamber down her front steps you think, comparing notes about the amount of money they found in her house. She allows the next few kids inside and they begin their earnest search. Only the ground floor rooms are part of the search--not the bathroom--this was the 60's after all. You wandered around looking shyly at first when she tells you to look under things and around things you become a little bolder. It's about then that you hear the sound of water and you wonder if she has left the water running in the kitchen sink. You're following the noise when you suddenly look up and see a small pond at the back of her house and IT'S INSIDE THE HOUSE. Now this is the sixties, I'll reiterate, so they didn't have those small ponds they have now with little kitschy waterfalls. This was a pond in her house with all these plants around it, so it looked like it was outside! Only it was inside. And there was water flowing down into the pond but it didn't overflow! Unheard of! It was so magical that you forgot to look for any more pennies! You were amazed. And then your time was up and you had to go outside and you were talking with all the kids who had been in her house with you and while the kids in line outside thought you were discussing the money you found, you were actually discussing the amazing waterfall and pond inside this woman's house!

I don't remember much else, but I recall that trip inside vividly. I remember when our parents would drive by the back of her house I would strain to see the jungle growing at the back window which signified the location of the pond. I remember never going back to look for pennies again. But I will always remember that waterfall in her house. And that magical Halloween.

One of those days

I'm having one of those days. Things aren't really wrong, just off kilter. I'm afraid if I get too close to something sharp I could do some serious physical damage to myself, not on purpose mind you, but well, I just wouldn't be able to stop the knife from dropping into my toe or something of that ilk. I put on a striped shirt this morning and decided to wear one of my colorful sweater vests which proclaim the season. But it felt like the striped shirt clashed, so I changed the shirt for my old- reliable-button-down-plain-blouse that goes with everything as it has a non-descript color. I got to work and realized it had a hole in the armpit. That's okay, I'm not raising my hand for anything, but still, it was annoying. Every time I started to try and tame the beast of the data base that requires feeding constantly at work, the phone would ring, the door would buzz, a kid would come in to see the nurse, a teacher would come in and need something right away. I couldn't accomplish anything today. I started getting cranky around lunchtime and stayed that way until the end of the day. I left work, ran to the drug store, ran to the grocery store and ran home thinking I should make this really good dinner. But by the time I got home I didn't have enough time to make it. I know each day is different, so tomorrow will probably be much better. But I'd really like to just try and forget today if possible.

A Liddle Code in the node

I remember getting colds as a child quite frequently. They involved really sore throats and lots and lots of tissues. This was before Puffs, too. You had to be made of stern stuff to wait out a cold. It seemed to last forever (like waiting for Christmas only not as good). And while everyone around you was sniffling and sneezing and wiping their noses on their sleeves, you were vainly trying to not get pink eye to compound the already grotesque stuff coming out of your face. But when I was a child someone cared if I was sick. Someone (read mom) gave me chicken soup, and read to me and allowed me to cuddle up in her lap and even nap in the afternoons. It's no wonder I was always staying home "sick". It was a great place to be. Safe and warm.

But I'm an adult now. I have 120 sick days accumulated because no one takes care of me anymore. I take care of myself and it just isn't as nice and warm as someone doing it for you. Trust me on this. I stayed home today and tried to veg out. But it didn't work. I realized that if I didn't empty the dishwasher, no one would. If I didn't make the bed no one would. And if I took a nap in the afternoon...I would be up until 3:00 in the morning and no better than I was this morning when I decided to make it 119 days. I miss that being tended to. No one does that for adults anymore. What would happen if we instituted the "Rent a mom" program and for a small fee you could have someone...a motherly type (oh, don't get all Gloria Steinham on me...you know what I mean) who would rub your head and feed you chicken soup. How much would you pay. Yeah, I wouldn't pay for that either. It sounds creepy writing it down, but i thought it had potential when I started. Oh, well. I'll just get another hot lemonade and watch some more old movies. Maybe it wasn't such a wasted day after all.

Sunday Shopping redefined

We just got back from the grocery store. Sunday's we usually hit the store before the Eagle's game comes on. It used to be a small thing to go to the grocery store, get stuff for the week and come home, veg out for a while then turn on the game. However, we have a "mega" store now...a Wegmans. For those who are Northern East Coast challenged, this translates to "OHMIGOD look at the fruit/vegetable/prepared foods selection in this place!" This also translates to a major pain for those who want to go to a store, get in and get out. Because Sunday has become the day to gather at Wegman's and see and be seen. There are people collecting in the bread section talking about the previous evening entertainments. There are people in the deli aisle talking about what the kid's schools are doing this week (overheard one conversation in passing, "I think I'll just eat out of the car, it's easier". I do NOT want to know). People in the prepared food aisle were wondering what to eat while watching the game, what to eat while watching the later game, what to have for lunch--before the game. And the people in the fruit and veggie aisle, were just looking self-righteous and smug. It's bewildering and somewhat annoying to have to run the gamut of shopping carts, screaming children, pushy adults and people who seemed to have wandered off the street and are wondering what this place is. I just wanna get my stuff and get out, for crying out loud! The parking lot is huge, and is filled to the gills with everyone in the immediate 15 mile radius. You park in the out reaches of Mongolia, trudge to the store, fight tooth and cart for what you need, come out feeling shell shocked and abused, only to realize you have to trudge back to Outer Mongolia to schlep all your stuff to your car. While you place your beloved "reusable" bags in your car, someone is waiting right behind you to take your space because there are no other spaces.

So maybe my husband and I will have to rethink our Sundays. Perhaps we'll go to the grocery store the evening before. This is a good strategy, except the shelves are not fully stocked because "Sunday's coming", so not only are there ample parking spaces, there is ample shelf with spaces. Flip a coin.

Don't know the answer yet, but let's just say it's a work in progress.

The love of words

So I went to this eyeglass place to get new glasses. There are all sorts of side stories I could give to this: the fact that the glasses weren't really needed as the eyes hadn't changed that much, the fact that the young man trying to help me find frames that weren't the usual huge ovals I've become accustomed to--I've grown accustomed to her frames--, the fact that by the time I'd picked out the frames it was later in the afternoon than I hoped and dinner looked to be a rather slap/dash affair again and to top it off I got a flat tire on the way home...yes, ignoring all these wonderful and enlightening side stories that I might at some time pick up and run with the thing that really made me smile today was the wallpaper at the eyeglass store. I was sitting there waiting for the young man to type/compute and figure out how much these specs were going to run me when I noticed the wallpaper. It was full of words. And not just any words, but words related to seeing, looking, peering...oh, it was amazing! The light blue words marched across the wall with all manner of nuanced meaning from blush (as in the first blush of spring) to gleam to peruse to, well, you get the idea. I wanted that wallpaper in my house! Especially in the living room where I sit and read. In my usual way, I began to peruse if it would come in different colors, then different fonts (hmm, I thought, Courier would look just like a typewriter--wouldn't that be a hoot!). By the time I left the store, I was humming to myself and quite pleased that maybe I could indeed find this somewhere in a wallpaper store and buy it for myself. Unfortunately, all those other things happened and I forgot all about it until just now, at 10:30 at night, when I'm too tired to even look it up on the internet. But tomorrow, well, it is after all, another day (as Scarlet was wont to say).

the past is past

I don't like it when I hear people say, "the past is past" or today is for the living as if those events and people who came before had no say in the present. That's doo-doo. Everyone's past is sculpted, shaped and molded by the past that came before. Would Hitler have become what he was without Germany going through what it did before he even came on the scene? I think not.

Dwelling on the past is probably not the best thing one can do, but seeing it again is not such a bad idea. What is that quote, "those who ignore history, tend to repeat it?". That's probably not the quote exactly but the sentiment is the same. How can I hope to go forward if I cannot respect where I came from? My sense of self was shaped from my parents, my grandparents, other family members, my friends, my not-friends and those quirky satellite-people who I've met over the years.

One thing that I've dragged along with me all those years is my faith. I learned about it from our parents. I learned that you could sleep in church during the sermon, but don't let anyone see you do it. I learned that fidgeting in the pew was not the proper way to behave and that the songs that were in the red book were there probably 500 years ago and sung in probably the same way. But I also learned that Christianity is community. People caring for each other, when maybe you don't even like each other is what faith and belief in a higher power is what life and existence are supposed to be about. Watching my mother do something as charitable as listening to my Aunt Alice tell the same story for the 50th time without interrupting and saying, "Yes, you said that before," was a lesson that I haven't forgotten even now, when I wished I had. Seeing my dad go over to a friends' house and help them build a deck or rebuild a kitchen (while neglecting what needed to be done at our house) may not have been the best example of caring and giving, but it showed me how generous he was for others. Going to committee meetings seems tedious, but I saw both of our parents do that to show their support and concern for the "work of the church". I learned it wasn't just about the offering on Sunday, but the offering of the self in other places at other times.

Sometimes I watch my children and wonder what they have taken from their views of my husband and I. He stayed home while I went to church, every Sunday, went to Sunday School every Sunday, taught Sunday School every Sunday. They don't go to church and don't seem to miss it at all. Is this a lack of communication? A lack of my influence or simply something they don't think they need to drag along with them? I don't know. And I can't make them take it with them. As much as I wish I could.

so the past which helped to shape me, is not necessarily helping to shape my children. But they'll know I am Christian, I hope by my actions like my parents before me. Maybe that's enough.

Just wondering

So here's the thing about getting older...you are are reminded sometimes delicately, sometimes not that you need to get "check ups" on certain things. You need to get mammograms, colonscopys, ears, eyes and well, in general your body checked on a periodic basis when you reach say 50 or so. I just came back from an eye exam. The doctor proclaimed that my eyes were in excellent condition (except for the tri-focals, which seems a contradiction in terms, but I digress). I'm supposed to go ever 2 years. So if I'm not having trouble with my eyes, why do I have to keep going back every two years? I'm sure he has a perfectly valid reason, maybe his kids aren't done college yet. Oh, that was unfair. I happen to know that all of his kids have graduated and are working at various and sundry jobs. But really. If every time I go to the doctor I'm told, everything looks good, why am I going back?

A couple of years ago a mammogram found a cyst in my breast. After much weeping, wailing and wringing of hands I was wheeled into pre-op only to have the junior surgeon poke a hole in said cyst and deflate it. I was extremely appreciative. But for the next two years I went ever 3 months to have my breasts examined. This was outof pocket money, not insurance covered. There was never another cyst, lump or suspicious whatevers. I know I am lucky and I'm not making light, honest. But for crying out loud--every three months, $95 to a doctor to tell me that everything is fine and good? I'm just not sure the preventative visit was worth it. So I stopped going every three months. I make an appointment after having a mammogram, but no follow ups after that. If nothing shows on the mammo, then nothing she does to me in the office is gonna make a difference. Trust me on this.

The eye doctor gave me a new presecription for my glasses. It's a slightly stronger one. Can I read without it? Absolutely! But this is where the doctors get you...if you don't go for a follow up...what if something is wrong? What if just this ONE TIME you don't go, that one disease is there the next time and it could have been taken care of sooner if you hadn't dissed the doctor's office. What if? What if?

So I guess I'll keep going back and getting looked at in the hopes that I'll be able to spit in the doctor's eye when I'm 80.

If an ant, walking along in a forest

...falls over a log, do the rest of the ants just walk over him? The answer is probably yes. Or they may grab and eat him for not keeping in step. Or they may shove him out of the way, thereby making it impossible for him to ever rejoin the colony as if they can't smell the trail they can't get back. And why you may ask am I thinking of ants? They're all over my kitchen counter! Okay, not that many. But I came home to their meandering scurrying and while mashing them into the counter tops before cleaning the trail away with cleanser, I began to think about where they were coming in and how they managed to find the counter and YEE Gods! they were even on the stove top!

I was in a cleaning frenzy no longer thinking of their little antennae waving about trying to find each other. No ant was safe. I even started picking them up and feeding them to the fish! I know it was cruel, but the fish did look hungry and he hadn't eaten since this morning, so I thought, why not?

And so then after all that, I began to think of all the Nature shows I watched about ants and the above leapt into mind. So now you know.