Preaching to the Electronic Choir

 

The alarm on my iPad went off at six a.m. sharp, just as Siri had promised.  Before I rolled out of bed she informed me I could expect a sunny, 70 degree fall day.   I love it when she has good news for me.

Driving into work I was entranced by the changing colors of the leaves until my car chimed to get my attention.  It nicely pointed out that my trunk was open, a fact underscored every time I hit a bump by the gentle bobbing of the trunk lid in my rearview mirror.  Last week the car informed me I had a tire with low air pressure, something I never would have noticed until I needed road-side service.  My devoted Chevrolet always nags me till I fasten my seat belt and warns me that I’m low on fuel with a ‘get gas dummy’ light.  I know I take it for granted, but this car is so thoughtful in so many ways.  My husband’s van is even more sophisticated, with a hands-free, voice recognition phone system, satellite radio, CD/DVD players and sliding doors that open and close with the touch of a key fob button.  Get carried away with the remote and the automatic doors and tailgate give it the appearance of one of the shape-changing Transformers. 

Settling in at my desk I check my iPhone and discover two voicemails.  As I touch the screen the phone effortlessly redials the callers.   Next, as I return emails and prepare for a morning meeting, my printer warns that I will soon be out of ink.  Oh, bother.   The ‘15 minutes till the meeting starts’ reminder on my computer screen makes me realize I have just enough time left to check the tracking report for a package I’m expecting to arrive at my home later today; the workday is officially underway.

I recently spent the evening with two of my (seven) wonderful grandchildren.  I scooped up the girls from two separate locations; we had dinner, and then headed back to their house for the evening.  When an impromptu concert broke out I snapped photos of the viola playing duo with my iPad.  A bit later we downloaded an app to learn French and spent the rest of the time laughing as we learned new words.  Thirteen year old Sam served as instructor, nine year old Meg and I were the struggling students.  Siri (the voice of iPad) must have had a good time as well because when Meg prompted her, she told us a joke!  Out of town on a business trip, their Dad kept texted me on his progress as he headed home along the route that On Star had downloaded to his car.  

When I call my bank, my doctor, my pharmacy, the chamber of commerce or any other number of places I get a recorded voice with instructions on how best to work my way through their automated maze.   I come in contact with a real person only as a last resort; that doesn’t happen if I do what the electronic voices tell me to do. 

Automated systems give and take my money; I’m almost on a first name basis with my ATM. My favorite grocery offers me a self-scan option that I use frequently, and I religiously take my symptoms to the internet before I take them to my doctor.   At some point I bet that grocery store scanner technology will evolve and make my doctor obsolete, too.  No appointment necessary, just point the scanner gun at your aching knee and the problem and solution will pop up on the screen!

We seem to be on the road to making people obsolete… I actually think we’ve already blazed the trail and we’re just waiting for the paving to be completed!   Don’t get me wrong…..these technological perks are often great stuff.  Some of them save time, some seem to actually take more time, and some have just been created to waste my time.  It’s the ones that keep my learning curve straight up that sometimes just drive me nuts. 

My prediction is that humans will continue to communicate less and less.   I can see the enthusiasm for talking to one another falling to the level of the appreciation a wife experiences when trying to talk to her husband during an OSU bowl game.  I’m not saying it’s a good thing, and I’m not prepared to say it’s a bad thing.   Speaking as a soon-to-be-completely-unnecessary human being….It is what it is. 

I don’t know how long it will be before the machines completely take over the world, but I will have made my point when Siri calls my Garmin to direct me the restaurant where an anniversary party has been planned for my burglar alarm and his main squeeze, our answering machine.

                                                                       Life is Good  

 

 

To be...or not to be grey

It was just about this time last year I came to the decision that I was no longer going to color my hair….I wanted to see the ‘authentic’ me.  (Blog: ‘Authentic’, August 2012)    I had discussed it with my hairdresser at my last coloring session in July; in August I set off to claim my natural hair color, whatever that might be.  In truth I hadn't seen my natural hair color in so many years I was hard pressed to remember.

If you are male and reading this you may be thinking, “What’s the big deal?”   If, however, you are a balding man reading this you know just how important hair can be.  (You don't know what you've got till it's gone)   The beauty industry rakes in billions of dollars each year that everyday people like us spend trying to look better.    But don't get all judgemental, because that's not money spent by strictly women. Hair Club for Men and other companies give men a second chance to have a full head of hair.  There are special hair color systems for men, spray-on hair to cover bald spots, Rogaine to stimulate hair re-growth, and toupees if that should fail.  Both sexes are imminently susceptible to the siren song of youth-promising products.  Coloring your hair is just the tip of the rejuveniation ice berg.

For those of you who are considering this ‘let’s get back to basics’ move let me give you a few tips I’ve learned to get through it: 

My hair was decidedly blonde for a long.  (I decided I wanted to be blonde, so I was)  When I made the choice to let it all grow out I got the advice of my terrific hair dresser.  Kasey suggested we put some very light streaks throughout, anticipating a lot of gray/white to come!  She was right.  Doing this very light colored frosting helped make the process go much easier.

Knowing how I had always used special shampoos to keep the color in, I did the reverse and used harsher shampoos in an effort to let the color drab out a bit.  That also seemed to help! 

I washed my hair daily because the colors seemed to blend better when my hair was squeaky clean.

I went to the internet to look for pictures of women with gray hair.  There was no shortage of energetic, happy and vibrant women who had embraced their natural color.  I decided then that, for me, gray was the new blonde!

Most of all, I was determined to have a sense of humor about it; I knew if I didn’t make a big deal out of it wouldn’t be a big deal.  Wear a hat…wear a babushka….it will grow!!

One year later I’ve arrived at the point where my hair is all grown out…and the funniest thing has happened!  During the many years I colored my hair I’d sometimes have a stranger tell me she loved my haircut, but I never had anyone ask me what color my hair was.   Now, perhaps just because it's different,  I have women ask what color I’m doing my hair these days, “Is that ash blonde or what?”     I’ve decided to dub this color ‘Late in Life Diana’….because that’s honestly what it is.

I was at lunch the other day with a friend, chuckling about how people ask about my hair color, when a woman I’d never seen before stopped at our table and said she loved my hair color!  We both burst into laughter; maybe getting older won’t be as bad as I thought.

It’s such a little thing, but I love the freedom of not having to worry about coloring my ‘roots’.   Talking to women about hair coloring the comments ranged from “You’re so brave…wish I wasn’t so hung up on my hair!” to “What’s the big deal?  My hair started turning gray in my thirties!”.

Although the change is less than I expected, it is really a whole new ball game dealing with my "natural hair".  It's baby fine, with very little body.  For the first time I'm having to learn about hair products; for the first time I own hair spray.  I also find I'm spending more time on my hair than I ever have...with not very satisfying results.  I suppose there's a learning curve, but I'll get the hang of it.

And so it is that I have reached ‘authentic’ status in just one short year.  Like everything else this experience, as frivolous as it is, has taught me a lesson I needed to learn: 

                          Be who you are….whatever age you are….and you will be authentic.

                                                                            Life is Good

  

 

 

 

 

Time Passages

 

“Aging is not lost youth, but a new stage of opportunity and strength.  It is a different stage of life, and if you are going to pretend it’s youth you are going to miss it.  You are going to miss the surprises, the possibilities, and the evolution that we are just beginning to know about because there are no role models, no guideposts, and no signs.”  Betty Friedan

Talking with some friends and acquaintances not too long ago I did something I’d not done for a while; I sat back and actually listened.  The conversation bounced from what prescriptions each was taking, what aches and pains they were experiencing and who is likely to be in hospice care within the next few months. I was experiencing the unpleasant one-up-manship that occurs so often when people my age get together.  Each one seemed to feel that “age” was some dirty trick that was being played on him/her.  I sat there absorbing the bad news and complaints until I’d had enough fun for one evening.

Yes, we are aging.  Yes, it is challenging.  No, you don’t have to turn it into an ever expanding monologue every time you meet someone.  There needs to be an “aging etiquette” manual written for us seniors.  Here’s a good start:

Stop using “old speak”.   This self-deprecating dialogue is a symptom of your own feelings of inadequacy.  You may not be 25 any longer, but you still have more to offer than a catalog of your short comings.  Replace the things you believe you can no longer do with things you can and talk about those. 

Understand that “How are you?” is NOT an open invitation for a list of your complaints.  It is a polite greeting that should be answered with something along the lines of  “Pretty good!”  If you are doing well enough to meet and greet people you’re doing better than some.

Books, hobbies, movies and magazines are things to be shared and discussed with friends and family.  Bowel problems, muscle spasms and drug reactions are not great topics of conversation unless you are participating in a medical study.

Are you doing the best you can with what you still have to work with?  Are you getting enough rest, exercise and stimulation?  Take a walk, read a book (or write one!) or listen to music.   Open your mind and close your mouth for a while…you might see or hear something worth discussing later!

It is important to cultivate a grateful heart.    There are so many people of all ages in worse situations than you; don’t waste your energy lamenting the fact that you have so many years behind you.  Celebrate the very moment in which you stand and look to the future knowing you have the same control over it that you have always enjoyed.  Absolutely none.

I’m not suggesting we all become martyrs…”don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine”.  Instead I am suggesting we share the good news first.  I once knew a woman in her nineties who answered every, “Hello, how are you?” with:  “I’m still above ground!” and a big smile.  She was someone I crossed the street to greet every time I saw her.

For a good number of years had the privilege to manage radio stations for a man who made his home in Cleveland.  Radio was a passion, but his real job was as an attorney.  Already in his 70’s when I started working for him, he still practiced law and had his fingers in a lot of things.  As I got to know him I learned about his health challenges, and there were many.  In his 80’s he had frequent hospital stays, a wheel chair and constant pain to contend with, but I never heard him complain.  He never grouched about aging, he simply adjusted his life to be able to continue to do as much as he possibly could.  I will always remember him for his grace and his grateful spirit; he is my role model for aging and I hope I can do it half as well.

Aging is not for sissies; that much is very true.  I have officially arrived at an age that guarantees I will not die young...and I am grateful for every second of it.

 

LIFE IS GOOD

 

 

Food for Thought

Last week I thought I had hit the recipe lottery!  One of the local on-line pages I read regularly put me in touch with a gal I really wanted to know.   She is related to the family who ran a restaurant in town many years ago.   When my husband and I were first married we ate at the Boston Spaghetti House every chance we got.  It was nothing more than a one room hole-in-the-wall that served the best spaghetti I’ve ever eaten in my life.

The years have flown by, but I well remember those early days when we often had too much month left at the end of the money.  But, if we were very careful, we sometimes had four or five dollars left just before payday.  That was plenty of cash to buy two heaping plates of spaghetti, a half loaf of squishy-soft Italian bread and all the water you could drink. 

The moment you pulled into the parking lot of this tiny place the smell of garlic and onion and oregano curled its way into your nostrils.  My stomach would begin to make noises usually associated with whale distress signals as I anticipated the delicious meal ahead. 

Eating out was a special treat in those days; we didn’t have the money required for much more than this spaghetti house.  Although it improved over the years, at that time my newly-wed cooking skills were stretched to the breaking point after I fried an egg and/or opened a can of soup.  Needless to say we really looked forward to this occasional spaghetti dinner.

We spent many Saturday evenings there, meeting friends, laughing and talking and getting on with life.  

As the years passed our family grew, our income grew, but I never outgrew my love of the sauce created in that tiny kitchen at the Boston.  It was brown, not red.  The meat was finely processed but abundant, and the taste was unique.  Try as I might, I was never able to duplicate it. 

I have spent many research hours in cookbooks and on the web searching for a recipe like the one the cook used way back then.  I’ve read every recipe from Bolognese to Italian Gravy…all for nothing.  The end result is always hours of preparation, plenty of money and thousands of gallons of dish water to clean up what always turns out to be a disappointing result.   I’ve found some really good sauce recipes….just not the Boston sauce.  What is the ingredient I’ve been missing?

Then, last week, I connected with this lady and I thought I finally had it!  !  After chatting with her on line, she graciously sent me her Mother’s recipe!  Working behind the scenes, her Mother must have made many, many gallons of sauce for the hungry newlyweds and old derelicts that came through the doors each night. I was thrilled beyond explanation; I had found the Holy Grail of spaghetti sauce recipes.

Larry and I set out that very day to get the ingredients.  The recipe was for a large quantity, but we decided to go ahead and make it that way so we wouldn’t compromise the results in any way!  We shopped and chopped and stirred and stirred and stirred.  I was concerned that the sauce bubbling away in the biggest soup pot I own didn’t resemble the sauce I remembered.  I poo-pooed my own misgivings and kept cooking.

Finally the sauce was done; exactly to the recipe.   I anxiously filled a small dish and took it into my husband’s den.  As he tasted, then tasted again I impatiently shifted from foot to foot.  “Well?  What do you think?”  He was silent; his forehead wrinkled in thought.   Finally I took a sample myself.  No dice.  This is good sauce, but it’s not THAT sauce.   Sigh.

So…I start all over in my search for the delicious sauce we both remember from so long ago.  I froze most of the vat of sauce I just made.  It’s good…but it’s not right.

Maybe that’s what I get for chasing a memory…for trying to recreate the past.  I’ve already read the complete works of half a dozen chefs and pestered everyone in this town trying to find this recipe; I’m much too tenacious to stop now.

If I ever find that recipe I am going to throw the biggest spaghetti dinner that anyone has ever seen.  I promise to feed everyone I know, and anyone who doesn’t move fast enough to get away from me!   It’s my own personal quest.  Everybody needs one, don’t they?

 

                                                                             Life is Good 

 

 

 

Take a Look in the Mirror

It’s funny how our habits change as we age.   When I was a young girl I never passed a store window without checking out my hair…never walked past a mirror that I didn’t primp just a little bit.  Today, I’m just the opposite; with age comes freedom.

My “beauty regime” includes Noxzema, a comb…and my all-important ‘chap stick’.  A quick face wash, tooth brushing, hair brushing and a little eye make-up and I’m on the road again.   I’ve pretty well become a ‘this is as good as it’s going to get’ gal….and I’m okay with that.

I remember once, years ago, a hair dresser (who shall remain nameless) wanted to “surprise” me.  She had always done a wonderful job and, having just returned from a training session, she was full of new ideas.  I reluctantly agreed to let her try something new with my hair.  Keeping my back to the mirror she snipped and slathered and washed and combed and dried while I waited patiently.   When she finally spun me around I had blonde and burgundy hair.  I was sure at some point I had shared with her my belief that hair should only be the colors one naturally finds in nature; evidently she had forgotten.  After I restated the belief she got busy redoing my hair color.   We both learned something.  She learned that purple may not be the best color to use when surprising someone, I learned to always check the mirror!

Just this week I was getting ready early one morning to chauffeur my Mom to a doctor’s appointment.  I got up early and, as it often happens, had screwed around till the last minute to get myself ready.  I grabbed a pair of jeans from the dryer, raked a comb through my hair and grabbed a chap stick I found lurking on top of the dryer.  I had obviously fished it from a pocket before washing pants or shorts.  It wasn’t my usual brand, but it was handy, so I stuck it into my jeans pocket and left.

If you have an elderly parent you know it’s always an unpredictable thing when you take him/her someplace.  Dealing with Mom, her walker, her purse, and anything else she has to have with her at the time (often it’s a huge flashlight?) I juggled our way into the Doctor’s office.    We sank into chairs to wait for her to be called to the inner sanctum.   

As is my habit, I fished in my pocket for the chap-stick; finding it I ‘mooshed’ it all over my lips, then opened my IPad to read while we waited. 

Finally called into the examining room, we sat again.  Once again I pulled my chap stick out and ‘mooshed’ it all over my lips.  The appointment passed without consequence; in a little over an hour I had deposited Mom at home and I headed in to the office.

In my car I pulled out the old ‘mooshing’ stick and….you guessed it.

Finally, I was settled at my desk.  I hadn’t realized it before writing this, but I obviously have a ‘mooshing’ habit…because I pulled the stick from my pocket and spread it all over my lips again.   This time I got some of the creamy stuff on my finger.  It was blue.  A nice blueberry blue…likely full of antioxidants and vitamins…blue.  Pursing my lips I pulled a small mirrored box from my desk drawer and saw that I had been ‘mooshing’ blue stuff all over my mouth for the past few hours. 

With a deep sigh I realized I had spent the morning dashing around sporting a lip color that is generally only seen in people who have been submerged in ice water and are approaching hypothermia.  My lips were a nice, soft, mooshy, cyanotic blue.  I’m amazed a nurse or the doctor hadn’t started chest compressions on me after having a look at my ghoulish lip color!

I’m sure I bought this stick for one of the grandkids; it may have been left behind from someone’s Christmas stocking or birthday gift.  How it arrived on my dryer is a mystery, but it did reinforce one thing I seem to have forgotten:  Always….always…. check the mirror.

 

                                                                Life is Good

 

 

 

 

Conversation with a granddaughter.....

 

 

Not long ago I was driving to the Dairy Queen with one of my seven beautiful grand kids, Megan, in the back seat.   At the ripe old age of nearly nine, she’s very interesting to talk to.  Somehow the subject came around to super-powers.   If you could have just one, what would it be?

Megan decided invincibility would be her choice.   Someone with that power could never be harmed physically…good choice.  (We didn’t go down the path of kryptonite)

My choice was a toss-up between invisibility and the ability to read minds.  She agreed that both of those would be awesome powers to have.  I asked how she would deal with the moral issues those powers would create for most of us puny mortals?

“What’s a moral issue, Grandma?” Meg queried.

“Well, with great power comes great temptation.  If you were invisible, you could walk into a jewelry store, pop a big diamond ring into your mouth and walk out with it.  No one would ever know it was you,” I explained.

Meg pointed out that people would see your clothes even if you were invisible, and then collapsed in an attack of giggles as we decided you’d have to be naked to make that scenario work!

“How would reading minds give you a moral issue?” she asked.

“If you could read minds you could always win at poker, you could be a star on Jeopardy…things like that,” I said.

“That’s cheating, though,” she countered.

“I agree.  But if you could do it you’d be tempted.   It might be hard to remember that, just because you CAN do something, it may still not be the right thing to do,” I told her.

“I think they should only give super-powers to good people,” Meg decided.

I couldn’t agree with her more.  Now if we only had a litmus test for ‘goodness’, we could make certain only the best of the best had real power in their hands.

That kind of test might prevent us from electing men who send pictures of their privates to women they don’t even know…it might stop politicians from taking bribes and keeping their ill-gotten gains in their freezer…heck, it might even mean that interns serving in the halls of our government were safe from all forms of lechery.  What a concept.

It’s so easy to talk to an almost nine year old; easy to exchange ideas and think through your beliefs.  Maybe Megan should talk to Congress.

                                               Life is Good

 

 

What in the world???

 

 

 

Of all the things we have lost in this country I think the loss of a community sense of shame has got to be the most devastating.

If you watched the music awards show the other evening I hope you were appalled.   I hope you became so irate you wrote a scathing letter to MTV, your congressman, the Alliance of Ministers…..somebody!!

The “performance” of Miley Cyrus was the most disgusting thing I’ve seen in a long, long time….and I didn’t even watch the show!   All I had to do was watch any news program and there it was.  It’s not bad enough this “Sodom and Gomorrah” set to music performance was on once, but it’s being shown over and over.  I’m sure it has gone exactly as planned.

People on TV lament the fact that Miley chose to act this way.  They make it sound as if it were her idea; on the spur of the moment she came up with this tongue lolling, sex reenactment on her own.  Not so.

Miley Cyrus was performing a carefully choreographed “dance routine” that was created by some ‘professional’ who was trying to get a response.  She was paired with other celebrated deviants on the stage, and she’s just young enough and dumb enough to go along with it.

The people at MTV know perfectly well what they are doing because they do it every year.  This stuff is aimed at YOUR twelve year old…MY nine year old grandchildren…the ten, eleven and twelve year old ‘tweens’ who are impressionable, their minds like sponges. 

I firmly believe this type of programming makes those producers, choreographers, and executives nothing better than child predators!  They fashion this porn, put it to ‘music’ with obscene and degrading lyrics, then put it out there for these young kids to watch and emulate.   Many of our children are forming their beliefs using information from a universe that doesn’t even exist.  We allow them to sit in a near hypnotic state and watch this flickering porn to their hearts content.   The sexualization of our children begins the moment they are parked in front of the television and doesn’t stop there.   It’s todays music, advertising, movies, and youth programming as well.  It is an epidemic.

How sad the world that inherits the children that are being spoon fed this nasty broth.  Do not let these people walk thru the minds of your precious children with their dirty feet!  Turn off the noise, turn off the ugliness, and turn off the TV!!

The absolute trash that impersonates entertainment today benefits only those who perform it; but they wouldn’t make a dime from it if there were not people that are willing to hand over their money for the privilege of watching and listening.

I really hope someday Miley Cyrus grows enough to look back on this with shame; the people who are using her to make money very likely will not.

                                                         Life is good

 

What's Left Behind?

Clothes make the man.....
                                       
Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend.....
                                                                                             
He who dies with the most toys wins.....

Those little homilies ran through my head as I walked through a lake-front mansion. This was an estate sale that contained the belongings of someone who had obviously lived a financially privileged life.

 
The house sat on three and a half acres of manicured lawns facing the lake; the grounds were dotted with stone terraces and a jewel of an in-ground pool.
 

 I stood looking up at a house that I would guesstimate held twenty five rooms; the huge, etched glass doors invited me in.   As I wandered around I discovered most of the rooms boasted a beautiful, unobstructed, view of Lake Erie. The tag sale was winding down, but some very expensive furnishings still sat in many of the rooms. Tables full of beautiful decorative pieces and monogrammed items, left behind by a man or woman who wouldn’t need them any longer, occupied much of the floor space.

 
It seems that shopping has become our national pass time; we all seem to think what we own is really important. But what can we determine about an individual by the earthly things they have left behind? It was easy to assume this person had enjoyed a pretty healthy bank account at some point in his/her life. Judging by the electric lift chair on the stairs this person’s health may have deteriorated to the point that climbing the beautiful winding stairs was out of the question.

The olympic sized pool remained covered and unused; the hot tub being sold looked as if it, too, had not been enjoyed in a very long time.  The footprint of this house was huge, but one small room in particular was time worn.  It occurred to me that the majority of this person’s days might have been spent there instead of the elegant living room with the sweeping view of the water.  A gourmet kitchen held the most expensive appliances, but the worn out electric fry pan and a dented tea kettle told the story of a person who likely only ate out of necessity. This house had once been a show place, and I'm sure it will be again….but the small details hinted at a very quiet, perhaps lonely, finish to someone’s life.

 A life lived in elegant surroundings; that’s what these things said about their previous owner. But, more importantly, what they did not say spoke volumes. These belongings said nothing about the owner’s heart and soul. There were no comfortable nooks that spoke to the joy of watching the sun rise and set on the lake, no happy faces shining from the expensive picture frames.  Perhaps those personal things had been removed; perhaps they never existed. 

Some of the items seemed to have been collected during travels to foreign countries; maybe brought to this house by a traveling work-a-holic or a happy leisure traveler. Nothing in these things that were being picked over by strangers told me very much about their true owner.   Still and all, the real message was clear:  No matter how much stuff we accumulate, we all die.

I love quotes and snappy sayings. The problem with catchy little phrases is that, while they may scratch the surface of the truth, but they do not penetrate very far.

Clothes do not make the man…I remember my dad’s hugs as he gathered me up in his arms wearing his scratchy work shirt.

 

Diamonds are not a girl’s best friend…a loving spouse, a loyal friend, a caring family; these are jewels.

 

He who dies with the most toys wins is not true at all.    My grandparent’s most prized possessions were their bibles. Both books are dog eared, with passages underlined, scripture and comments in the margins.  They are rich with their thoughts and beliefs, snippets of baby hair, a card from a beloved friend’s funeral, a column cut from a church bulletin.

When I die my loved ones can divide the number of days I have lived by the value of the things I leave behind...and they will learn nothing from doing the math. Some things just don't add up.

 

                                                                       Life is Good

 

Erie Dearie

Over dinner the other evening I was discussing my favorite hobby...kayaking...with a friend. He asked if I had ever fallen out of the kayak or had it flip over on me. I could honestly tell him, "No, I've never had that happen." That won't be true the next time he asks.

Lake Erie can be tricky. She has no patience, so she changes constantly. This morning I set out on a gently rolling lake. The slight undulation of the water only made paddling easier as I headed out along the coast line.

If you do not have a hobby that is always amazing and freeing, I hope you find one. For me that is kayaking. It works the kinks out of the body, puts oxygen deep into your lungs and clears the mind. Blue sky, blue water...the combination is relaxing and invigorating at the same time.

As I glided across the water a glint of blue caught my eye from an area that is fairly inaccessible except by water. The sun shone on this large, blue orb...hmmmm. Could it be a piece of beach glass that large? Naturally, I had to find out!

Pointing the kayak into the beach I realized the undulating water would quickly become white water, and then a crashing wave, as I neared land. Using the paddle as a rudder I positioned the kayak between two big rocks; the wave quickly whisked me past them and deposited me right on the sand. I reached out and picked up the beautiful lemon sized piece of turquoise beach glass that had lured me here, then hopped out of the kayak to explore some more.

I shrugged out of my lifejacket and walked the long stretch of beach, content to be looking for beach glass, cobble stones, and pretty drift wood pieces and fossils. Most days my kayak looks like a garbage scow returning to our home beach.

Finally, I had scoured the sand long enough. Now the waves sounded like slamming car doors as they broke on the huge rocks around me. Looking at the waves I was going to have to overcome to get out of this place, I realized there was a pretty good chance I was going to end up in the water. I tucked my beach glass treasures into the water tight compartment in the kayak; something I'd never felt it necessary to do before.

I pulled the kayak into the water in an effort to get out into some calmer water. Carefully I watched for a break in the waves to hop into the boat. I thought I'd timed it very well until the waves proved me wrong and unceremoniously dumped me out of the boat, and then sent both of us rolling back onto the beach! After repeating this process one more time I pulled the kayak back up on the beach and sat on a big rock to give the whole thing some thought.

I always have a cell phone with me in a water proof envelope, so I knew I could call for help if I needed to do that. But, as I sat there thinking about what that conversation might sound like, I decided it was much too soon to give in. As I sat there thinking I looked down to find another beautiful piece of glass by my foot. It was a sign...okay maybe not a sign...but it made getting dumped into the lake a little more worthwhile. I popped the pretty bobble into my lifejacket pocket and headed out to do battle with the waves once again.

Third time's a charm, they say.....and this time it was true for me. With a great deal of effort I managed to paddle my way back through the waves out into the calmly undulating lake once more.

I remember when I was a young girl listening to guys talk about their cars. "I want to take it out on the highway and open it up....blow some carbon out of the carburetor." I never understood what that meant; but now that statement came back to me as I slipped across the water toward home. I had used every muscle and pushed my energy to the limit...blown some carbon out of my carburetor if you will.  It felt more than good, it felt great.

                                                          Life is Good

 

The Big Bad Wolf

Can someone please explain to me why there are so many absolutely crazy people these days? 

After doing some work on the bathroom at our place at the lake, I find myself with a washer and dryer to sell.  They’re in great shape, they run really well.  We put in a stack set in an effort gain a little floor space in the bathroom, so the old set has now taken up residence with a bunch of other stuff in our garage.

Shouldn’t be a problem, right?   I mean with all the electronic ways to sell things today, they should be gone by tomorrow.   That would be wrong…….

I immediately went to everyone’s favorite….Craigslist.  Since I’m not advertising in the personals column, or looking for a discreet meeting with a massage therapist what could go wrong??

I can only imagine what happens when anyone in any state in the U.S. posts something on Craigslist….alarms bells must go off in every phone tank and scam artist work room in Nigeria.  I immediately got a response that requested my home phone, email address and other important information.   Oddly enough, they were really unconcerned how much I was asking or what the set looked like.  “I will liking you to sell me them…..”

Not to be outdone the next interested person, who just happened to be out of town visiting his/her son, said he/she would be “hoppy” to send me a check and arrange ‘for-to’ get the items later…….uh-huh.

Today I got another inquiry.  This person wants to know if I still have the “item” and would like me to send my email address so we can discuss this matter.   Why do you need my personal address.....you just emailed me!

I have not had even one serious inquiry, just six contacts with people looking for any opportunity to make a quick buck at my expense.  They know they only need a few minutes with some people to arrest their intelligence long enough to fleece them.  I’ve come to the conclusion that the scam artists and crazies have taken over the internet, the phone system and snail mail to ‘reach out and touch someone’.    From the elderly lady who’s been informed by mail that she just won the Publisher’s Clearing House sweepstakes, to the homeowner who will never again lay eyes on the fellow he just paid to seal his driveway ‘next week’…..we all have been introduced to the never ending stream of wolves just looking for a stray to pounce on.

Keep a tight hand on your wallet and a close eye on your elderly relatives; the bad guys never sleep.

 

I Miss my Convertible

Earlier in the year I made the decision that, because of age (the cars, not mine) it was time to trade in my convertible.  It had served me well, but, as the repairs become more than a new car payment would be each month, I eventually came to the decision that the time had come.

I didn’t really choose the car I ended up buying as much as it chose me.  My Mother purchased the car, but shortly the day came when she couldn’t drive any more.  It was serendipitous that her car needed to find a new home and I needed to find another car.

That’s how I came to own a chalk-white, Chevy Impala.  This truly is the “white cotton panty, sensible-shoe, take your vitamins” car of adulthood that I never wanted to own.    In short, it’s a grown up’s car, and I have never cared much for being a grown up.  (Deep sigh)  It was a logical decision, like having your teeth cleaned regularly or keeping up with your mammograms. 

Here’s the big disconnect.  When I was driving my convertible I felt free as a bird as I embraced the only form of going topless in the summer that I am willing to consider.   More importantly, from the first time behind the wheel of that car I detected a kinship with other convertible drivers.  Hair blowing in the wind, my stash of fast food napkins taking flight from the back seat floor…we would nod as we blew past one another.  It was a mute acknowledgement of automotive superiority that I learned to appreciate.  Granted, there wasn’t nearly as much nodding going on in the winter time, but nothing is perfect.

This morning I drove in to work and I saw the lucky convertible drivers whipping along the highway, nodding to one another in their secret way.   I felt abandoned to my chalk-white Chevy Impala for the first time.    

It is what it is.  I am the owner of a chalk-white Chevrolet and I must get on with my life.  My insurance carrier appreciates the change…my sun damaged skin likes the switch...my hair isn’t sunburned, either.  There are positives to every change, and I need to get a grip on those things until I either grow up, or talk my husband into a new convertible.

If you are a chalk-white Chevy driver and a woman you’ve never seen before, driving an identical car, nods at you for no apparent reason chances are it’s me, looking for a little hard-top camaraderie.

                                                                           Life is Good

 

 

The Universal Contract

Over the last few weeks I have been dealing with a couple of people (who shall remain nameless) who seem to have given up on life.  Personal loss, advancing age, boredom, depression...all of these things seem to have converged and the joy of living has dimmed, if not gone completely out.

One person told me, "I agree with Jody Arias on TV.  She was being interviewed and she said she just wanted to die.  She told the reporter death is the ultimate freedom."   Although I have long become accustomed to this persons dark point of view, I admit to being taken aback.    In response I gave the standard "buck up, it's not that bad" speech that I could see had little or no effect.  Words failed me; I left feeling helpless and more than a little sad.

How do you help a person who seems to have given up on this life?   Is it even possible to explain to someone in such a mental state that every second of life is precious?  It brought to my mind the people I have known,  and some I know right now, who are fighting for their lives. Would these two realize how precious their lives are if they actually thought they had only a short time to live?

I'm a grown up; I know the universe isn't based upon what's "fair".  But, if it were, it seems to me there ought to be a system akin to cell phone 'roll over minutes' for our life span.   Let's imagine that we all knew how much time we are allotted, but that time could be cut short by accident or disease or personal choice.   Mr. Smith has the regulation 86.4 years to live, but by the age of 66 he really isn't interested in continuing.  He has another 20.4 years left on his universal contract, right?    It just so happens that Mrs. Jones, age 24, has a disease that will be her end in just a few more months.  Mr. Smith offers her his remaining 20.4 years that he no longer wants.  Those years 'roll over' to Mrs. Jone's universal contract and....voila!    Happy ending.

I'm sure there are some bugs that would have to be worked out.  I'm also sure some hungry capitalist  would likely find a way to make a buck manipulating the system somehow. I suppose such a crazy idea really underscores the reason God runs the universe and I run the vacuum cleaner.  Still, it is a shame that time is too short for those who appreciate it and just a burden to those who don't.

I am grateful for every sunrise....mindful of every sunset.

                                   Life is Good