A Young Man's Fancy.....

I believe it was Alfred, Lord Tennyson who wrote:  “In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love”, making it obvious he did not live in Ohio.   If he had his poem might have read more along the lines of: “In spring a young man’s fancy turns to fishing and the stalking of small animals that happen to be in season”.

If Lord Tennyson had done his homework he would have known it is females who have romantic thoughts come spring.  Actually, women are susceptible to these thoughts 365 days a year.  From planting a flower garden to planning a wedding, women are the ones who work to create a candle lit existence for two.  It’s just a fact of life, we are the romantics.

The difference between men and women is really apparent when

you take a look at the pictures we have taken.     Nothing makes a man happier than having his picture snapped holding up a string of fish, grasping the antlers of a dead deer, or a standing beside pile of dead pheasant.  It’s the “hunter-gatherer” thing. 

On the other hand, many women see a camera as an opportunity to capture a romantic moment.  A woman’s pictures often include wine glasses, flowers and fireplaces.  It’s the “nesting” gene.  

When I became engaged “back in the day” it was the custom to have a formal picture taken and placed in the local newspaper.  The engagement picture was always the same; the future bride, alone, usually wearing helmet hair and pearls.  The lucky groom did not have to endure having his picture taken until the wedding day, likely one of the few times he would be forced to wear a “monkey suit”.   Now, like so many other things, this custom seems to have changed and, as I thumb through the occasional newspaper, I see the lucky couple posed together for the engagement announcement.

Maybe the change says something about how couples view marriage today…..maybe not.

I am a person who understands the real story is often one that must be read between the lines, so allow me to share this with you.    If you’re not paying attention you might jump to the conclusion that the picture of a man holding a dead deer by the antlers and the picture of a young couple poised to begin their life together have nothing in common…..but you would be wrong.  In truth both pictures should bear the same caption:

                                                       Look What I Bagged!!!

               It would seem women and men are not so different after all……..Life is Good

The Coin

    

 A couple of us were talking the other day at the office about things that really touch the heart.   I think we all have things that have happened to us that just tug at our heart strings.   Later, when we remember them, they still shine in our memories.  For me this is one of those stories

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My husband, Larry, is a very little boy playing in the upstairs hallway of his family home.  Rummaging in places he isn't supposed to be in he’s found an old coin that belongs to his dad.  It is very large in his small hand, and although he knows he’s not supposed to have it, the temptation is too much for a small, mischievous, boy to resist. 

The hallway floor is hardwood boards with gapped spaces that are bigger in some places than others.   This little guy is amazed to find a space that the coin fits into just perfectly as he plays there on the floor.  As his little hands fumble with the big coin it slips into the wide space and disappears from sight.  Crestfallen, he knows he has to tell his mom. Just as he suspected,  he receives a sound spanking for taking the coin and then losing it.   It is a long ago memory that stays with him all his life.

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Several years ago my late Mother-in-law’s home was acquired by our nephew.  He announced that he was going to redo the entire house, and knowing his talent for doing this kind of work we stopped by the old house to check on his progress.  Standing in the nearly gutted house I remembered the years of family gatherings, the happy holidays we spent here, and the story my husband had told me about the coin.  Taking my nephew aside I told him the story and where the coin went into the floor upstairs.   He went over to the steps, picked something up and said, “This one?”  He had already found it!   I wanted to buy it from him, but he wouldn’t accept anything for it as he put the big coin into my hand. 

I had a wonderful time deciding what to do with the coin.   I knew it would mean a lot to my husband to have this back, straight from that long ago day.  I decided to have it mounted with a little plaque under the coin for the wall in his den.

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I could hardly wait for Larry’s birthday that year.  I am the world’s worst when it comes to keeping a gift I’ve gotten for someone.  I usually end up shopping early, giving that gift to whomever it was meant for, then running out on the eve of the gift giving occasion and grabbing something else!  This was a special gift though, and I mustered all my self-control to keep the secret.

When his birthday finally arrived we had the usual cake, ice cream and gift shirt ceremony, and then I gave him the last small box.  My husband pulled the paper from the gift box, looking curious.  He opened it and took out the plaque.  He looked at me, puzzled for just a second, and I said, “Remember the coin?”  

His face broke out in a grin and his eyes misted as he read the inscription on the small brass plaque….”Nothing is Ever Really Lost”.

I think that coin was the best gift I’ve ever had the privilege of giving to someone I love.   Life is Good.

Adventures in a Corn Field

 The day was sunny and windy, rather mild for January.  I was off to meet Sister Jane Frances Omlor, a Franciscan nun who, I am told, loves to build things.  This time it’s a straw bale house in Tiffin, Ohio.

I’m always looking for a good story for Heart of Ohio Magazine, and this one promised to be just that.  Waiting in the lobby of the convent for Sister to arrive I was struck by the beauty of the place, and as I investigated my surroundings a small lady with short, steel grey hair and spectacles came into the room.   Even leaning on a cane she moved quickly, and there was no doubt this was Sister Jane Frances.

In a small room off the lobby I began to ask questions of the Sister.  At first she seemed distracted, probably because she had just come from a funeral and she had completely forgotten I was coming.  Several minutes into the conversation her concentration locked on, and she began to tell me a little about her life.  This was not an easy life she had chosen, and she talked about her mission in the West Virginia coal country, where she built a straw house to be used as a chapel.   In my mind there is nothing more interesting than the combination of faith and determination, and Sister Jane Frances has both. 

Eventually we got around to her project of the straw bale house, and the Sister said, “Oh, it’s so much easier to show you on my laptop.  And we can visit the house; it’s just in the corn field out back.”

As hard as it was to keep up with her, I managed to follow her across a courtyard, upstairs, and into her tiny office.   Stacked and piled and spilling over, she explained her office was also the place where a lot of the things they sold in their gift shop were kept.  Calling up the website (www.projectstraw.com) she showed me the plans and work on the straw bale house. 

“Now, would you like to see it?   No one is working there today; the holidays have slowed things down.  But we’ll be back in full swing soon.   It’s been pretty cold, so the ground should be frozen,” she said.

We bustled into my convertible and drove around the campus, finally coming to the end of the asphalt drive.

“Head right out there,” she pointed to a glistening trail of slime that my mind refused to recognize as  a road!  “Just gun it and don’t slow down for anything,” Sister said.   Taking her advice literally I stepped down on the gas and we shot out into the corn field. 

Her estimate of the firmness of the field was a little off to say the least…it was the consistency of cake batter.  My poor little convertible seemed to be trying to learn to swim, and my spinning wheels threw mud everywhere.   We arrived at the straw house where I finally came to a stop, parking on what seemed to be the only solid piece of ground in sight.

Opening my car door, I slipped and slid to the back door of the house.  Sister followed along, her three legged cane sinking into the muck, but not slowing her down in the least.  The only thing that slug more mud than my Sebring was the Sister herself. 

The straw bale house is a sun filled structure with walls twenty inches thick.  Even on this January day it was pleasant, and the tour was wonderful. 

 Sister showed me an area around a window where she had applied the clay over a grapevine.  Its twists and turns around the beautifully rounded shape of the window added dimension and interest to the surrounding wall.  I loved the smooth clay walls, the natural colors and the openness of the whole structure.   I can see how one would become attracted to the beauty of a structure like this one.  The organic feel of the house seems to be that of something sprung directly from the earth.

 

It was obvious from the tour that Sister Jane Francis knows her stuff.  She is undaunted by contracting details and technologies that would probably make my head explode, and she is interesting as she explains them.  Soon our tour of the straw bale bungalow was over and it was time to head back to the convent.

As we exited the back door I looked up at the huge windmill constructed behind the house to provide electricity.  The thought, “I’ll huff, and I’ll puff and I’ll bloooowwww your house down” crossed my mind, but I’m not nearly secure enough to joke with a nun, so I held my tongue.

Sister surveyed the field looking, I suppose, for a better way to go back.  “I guess the best we can do is back up over there and gun it again.  This happened to me last week, too,” she said.

“You know, Sister.  A little prayer might be in order here,” I said.  She dipped her head for a brief moment and chirped, “Done.   Let’s go.”

We fishtailed through the field, throwing mud and laughing as we went.  To be honest I thought we were a candidate for a tow truck, but somehow we made it.   The good Sister chuckled and said, “See?”

Pavement hadn’t felt this good to me in a very long time, and I breathed a sigh of relief.  “Drive over that way and pull in front of the garage,” Sister instructed.   I did as I was told, and the moment the wheels stopped turning she hopped from the car and pushed open a side door in the building, “I’ll wash your car off,” she called.

The convertible was covered with mud, from rag top to rims.   To my chagrin Sister Jane Francis worked her way around the car with a green garden hose in one hand, her cane in the other. 

I stood there in the watery January sunshine, watching this amazing little nun wash my car.   At first I was horrified, then I felt guilty, and finally I just had to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.    Soon the big mud ball was once again a car and I was taking the good Sister back around to the front of the campus and the convent.

I pulled away with the Sister waving in my rear view mirror, heading back to Mansfield with the thought of just how lucky I am.  Writing for Heart of Ohio I meet such interesting people!  I thoroughly enjoyed my time with Sister Jane Francis, and I am impressed with the straw bale house and all the promise it holds.   She obviously knows her stuff about a lot of things….and she does a pretty decent job on a car wash.   Life is Good.    

Read “Spinning Straw Into Gold” in the March/April issue of Heart of Ohio Magazine for the story about the straw bale house.

And that's how I roll.....

               It doesn’t seem like a big deal, but when you’re married anything can happen.

This is not one of those disgusting commercials that starts with, “It’s time to get real about what happens in the bathroom”, and then deteriorates into a lesson on what should never be discussed on television.  However, it is about the bathroom.

If you are a person who has been married for a number of years you understand that there are always tiny “stress fractures” in any relationship.     There is the ever grating “Mom always did it this way”, or the day you learned that your mate considers the use of a clothes hangar or screwing the cap back on the toothpaste to be far above his/her engineering skills.     Then of course, the ever present “what’s to eat?” …a question that actually translates to “when are you fixing me something to eat?”   These are just a few of dozens of little things that a couple learns to work out…or learns to ignore.

And so we come to the granddaddy of all issues, the one that can send a couple running to a marriage counselor faster than any other; the toilet paper roll.

The first stress factor in this major issue occurs when one partner never replaces the toilet paper.   First you pass the offending partner in the hallway just as he/she is exiting the water closet.   You may or may not have heard this partner yanking the toilet paper roll as if trying to start a cranky out board motor.   Taking responsibility for one’s own well-being it is important to say here that, while it is true that anyone who plans ahead is never in a paperless predicament, we’ve all been there.   Once you raise your voice to summon your partner to bring you a roll of paper (that he/she should have replaced to begin with) it may take a while for the sound level in your home to return to normal.  

The next stress factor occurs when one partner always replaces the toilet paper the WRONG WAY.  Of all the things couples deal with this may be one of the most difficult because there are people…who shall remain nameless…who refuse to admit there is a right way and a wrong way to install a roll of toilet paper. 

 Ah-ha!   You say it’s just a roll of paper, you say it cannot be installed improperly?  You say wrong!!    Who among us has not had to spin and hunt, spin and hunt, spin and hunt for the end of the paper roll because it was installed improperly?   

But it’s not just an ill-informed spouse who can ruin your day.  It recently became necessary for me to visit the accommodations at a local store.   I soon discovered that the huge roll in the big plastic container attached to the cubicle wall had been installed in such a manner that the paper tore on top of the roll, up inside the plastic box.   I could see the end of the roll, but my attempt to get my hand up into the holder to grasp it ended in frustration and a scraped hand.  I had visions of getting my hand lodged in the dispenser and having to call 911 to send a rescue squad to extricate me.    I was finally able to inch the roll with an ink pen I fished from my purse.   But even when it became possible to grasp the end of the roll the installation error caused it to tear one or two sheets at a time.  What should have taken twenty seconds took several minutes and my entire storehouse of patience.  Did I mention the fact that I broke a perfectly good ballpoint pen in the process?

I’ve given this whole thing some thought.  While I’ve not come up with a suitable punishment for this infraction, I do believe it should at least be raised to a ticketing offense.     In my continuing effort to preserve the institution of marriage ( so that my husband and I have someone to go out to dinner with) I have included this instructional diagram.

 Please study the diagram carefully and share it with your significant other.  You may also want to make copies to pass out in crowds or to tape to stall walls.  This is an issue that has waited long enough to be addressed.   You can thank me later.

                                                                          Life is Good.

Age does have some benefits....

After four weeks in the sunshine, we are home to deal with the leftovers of our Ohio winter.   We had a wonderful time in Florida.   I did a lot of writing, we rode bikes, went kayaking, walked on the beach, and I am something I never thought I’d be… shopped out.   Now that’s what I call a successful vacation!

Some of our time was spent on the beach, some was spent pool side, but suffice it to say we were outdoors a lot.  That’s not new for me anymore, because the last few years I’ve spent a lot of time in the sun.  These past few summers I have been tan for the first time in my adult life.   Knowing full well what much smarter people say about the dangers of sun exposure,  I do enjoy being outdoors.  As foolish as I may be I  only use sun screen when I think about it instead of being diligent.

During every warm weather forecast and on every doctor show they tell you to slather yourself with sunscreen, avoid the sun during the hottest part of the day, and cover up.  We all have the advantage of knowing that our time in the sun contributes to wrinkles and increases the chance of skin cancer.   What a departure from when I was growing up.   As a child  my nose and shoulders  were red and peeling almost all summer long because,   in those long ago days,  we thought playing outside was good for you and a sunburn was just part of that.  I’m not even certain they had sun block when I was a kid.  Nearly everyone I knew poured on the baby oil or tanning lotion to increase the chance of a golden brown tan, not eliminate it!  From what I've read I know the damage was done during those childhood years and there's not much I can do about it at this age, so I don't worry about it.

I’m not recommending anyone be as fool hardy as I am, but here is my rationale: I’m old, I've earned it.   For many years  the only light my skin saw came from the fluorescent lights in an office. Summer and winter were basically the same for me.  I didn't have time to even think about being a "sun worshiper"  because I had children to raise and  a stressful job to keep me busy. I seldom took vacation time, and when I did I somehow didn’t find time to be out in the sunshine anyway. I lived like a hot house flower, running from one climate controlled office to another.  Then a few years ago I left my desk chair.....I retired.

The first summer I was retired I took up kayaking. I must admit I had to take a bit of a shortcut, because I can’t swim. Yes….I go out in a kayak on Lake Erie wearing a life vest knowing full well that I cannot swim a stroke. I am careful, I always wear my vest, but once again my rationale is: I’m old, I've earned it.

We took our bicycles to Florida with us this year and we rode most evenings. I’m not a long distance rider, but I do enjoy the feeling of freedom you enjoy when you’re outdoors riding a bicycle. I’ve taken a couple of tumbles, skinned a leg and conked my head, and my husband would really like it if I would wear a helmet….but of course I won’t. I got through my first childhood without a helmet; I’m going for it without one in my second.  I'm old, I've earned it.

Please don’t get the impression I am not thankful for my health, because I most certainly am. But there comes a time in life, and I think your retirement is that time, when you have to say, “I’m going to enjoy myself.” The later in life you take that attitude is probably the better. Just look at it this way…the longer you wait to make dumb decisions, the fewer years you have to deal with the possible consequences.

Now I am semi-retired, working as the editor of Heart of Ohio Magazine. That takes up some of my time and it keeps me active and engaged. When I’m not busy working on the magazine I am often   enjoying one of my hobbies. This is the time of life I have given myself permission to work less, play more….and worry not at all. My advancing age also gives me the right to give advice, so for all you younger folks I have some wisdom to share. Take good care of yourself right now while you are young.  Stay out of the tanning beds, wear your sun screen, your helmet and your life jacket.  Eat your veggies, don't drink or smoke or take drugs.   Then, when you get old, you’ll have time to do the things you were too smart to do earlier in life.

I'm enjoying retirement, or my version of it.  I look at this as the time of my life I paid for with my youth.  If I sit in the sun, commune with nature in a kayak, or ride my bike sans helmet I do so because I've come to the understanding that I am officially too old to die young.   I am thankful for every moment, every day.....Life is Good.

                                            

The Eye of the Beholder....

They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.   I know that is true, but I’m here to tell you the standard changes considerably as we get older.

Sitting around the pool in Ponce Inlet, Florida I realized just how different retirement age is from teen age.    Not just the aches and pains and number of prescriptions, but the standard for how we look. 

I’m a people watcher, and I always feel that I fade into the background as I observe the rest of the parade going by.  Today the hot Florida temps heat suntan lotion on sun browned skin, filling the air with a smell reminiscent of hot macaroons fresh from the oven.  By this stage in life no one is worrying about sun damage or skin cancer.    A dozen or so seniors, I’d say ages seventy five and up, congregate in  lounge chairs to talk about television shows, paperback books they have exchanged, and where the best discount dinners can be found at the four o’clock hour.   They laugh and chide one another for being old.   One man laughs as he relates his story about running a red light earlier in the day.  It seems he has just returned from the emergency room after wiping out a pickup truck and his own SUV.  I eavesdrop on the friendly banter and piece together their stories.

When we are young we are often so self-conscious  we cannot enjoy being young.  When we get old we leave all that behind us and just enjoy “being”.  This group, in swimwear, walks around the pool, greeting and meeting and enjoying the moment.  I look at them and read the stories of their lives  written in the scars on their bodies.  Here a heart surgery….there a guy in a blue hat  who has had back surgery.  That guy over there in the lounge chair speaks through an electronic voice box and inhales a filterless cigarette through the stoma in his throat.  It is obvious his wife has had both knees replaced.  Burgundy colored patches on the back of the legs of a pretty white haired lady make me wonder what terrible trauma might have created them. 

 It occurs to me this segment of the population that I am slipping into should have its own flag……”The Scars and Stripes”.     These are the veterans of the war between the sexes….the war of industry….the battle of the bulge and the ongoing fight for survival.  Surely they deserve a flag, if not their own anthem!

Arriving at an advanced age even relatively intact, completely unselfconscious and more or less mobile, that’s what it’s all about I guess.  I have a few years, but not many, before I join them.   Maybe while I’m here I’ll just sit by the pool and work on some lyrics for the “Scars and Stripes Forever”.

Bulges, scars and sun spots be damned……Life is Good.

 

He's Lookin' at me!!!!!

This year we spent a month in Florida soaking up the sunshine and walking on the beach.  It’s a wonderful break from the mid-Ohio winter.   My husband does the research, comes up with a place, and off we go.  My contribution to the whole process is getting into the car, my only requirement that we are on the beach.

We like to take our time, and this year’s leisurely pace included a couple of days in Savannah on the way down.   I loved the history of the city, and we had a place right on the river.   We stayed in old warehouse that had been converted into an elegant bed and breakfast.  It was surrounded by cobble stone paths made from the ballast stones of long ago ships and huge live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss.

Arriving in Florida we located the condo and got busy unloading our belongings, not an easy task given the fact that I pack three times more stuff than we actually will ever use.   Once inside I set about stocking the kitchen, putting away clothes and denuding the living room of 99% of the plastic and silk flowers, ferns and vines that graced every table and hung all over the place.   Although the place has a professional cleaning service I still clean surfaces, remote controls etc. before we settle in.   The floors, a beautiful beige stone tile, got a quick dust mopping.  As clean as the place is, the three second rule that applies at home does not apply to anything dropped on the floor at the condo…that’s just the way it is.

Finally I was “bustled out”, and I sank onto the couch with a bottle of water.   As I looked around the room I had the strange feeling of being watched.    That’s odd because  Larry was outside exploring the pool and the beach.   What in the world….???  And then I realize… it’s the coffee table.  

You understand going in that a rented condo has been decorated in someone else’s taste.   It is often a private owners home six months out of the year, and a rental the rest of the time.  Some are tastefully bland, some brightly colored and energetic, often with sea shell touches and ocean scape art.    But this is the first time I’ve been “watched” by a coffee table.   I investigated the thick oval glass top resting on a blue grey “wave”.    Then I realized there was,  not just one, but two dolphins emerging from the wave, both with their watchful dolphin eyes trained right on me.   I moved to the other end of the couch, the beady eyes in their laughing faces moved, too.  I got up and walked around this thing, and the eyes continued to follow me just like the spooky eyes in a painting in a horror movie.   What in the world were they thinking, and I wonder if that monstrosity will fit into the closet that now holds all those plastic plants?    

Renting a condo feels less like being on vacation and more like trying on someone else’s life.   I think it’s because you stock the kitchen, continue to do laundry and make beds just like at home.   But one thing I can't do at home, and one of my greatest pleasures,  is to get up in the morning to walk on the beach.  I love listening to the ocean and the gulls, watching the sun come up.   Living with the beach in your backyard for a month it’s easy to fall into these pleasurable habits and feel as much at home as if you’ve lived here for years.   I have no defenses against things I really enjoy, and it’s such a privilege to possess this little piece of heaven even for a short time.

You know….in spite of the fact that we’ve been sleeping in someone else’s bed and I have the feeling that I’m being stalked by a coffee table…..Life is Good.