The Light Switch

                       I have long been fascinated by the under-appreciated light switch.

 

 

 

It is a mechanical magic trick….now you see it, now you don’t!  Any unassuming little light switch is a sure-fire entertainer for a little one; I remember holding my giggling grandson while he discovered the fascination of this out-of-reach wonder on the hallway wall.  What I hardly noticed he found delightful….it was, after all,  just a light switch.

In our daily speech we use the example of the lowly light switch to explain instant changes in mood, life goals and emotions, as in:  “We seemed to be getting along just fine and suddenly her mood changed like a light switch”!  

On any given day most of us use a light switch at least a dozen times without ever giving it a thought; somehow we know the little piece of plastic has the strength to stop the powerful surge of electricity in an instant.   Ever wonder exactly how that happens?   Me either…….   

Now we stand looking toward Labor Day; the time when Mother Nature flips her “light switch”.  We’ve no sooner torn the page off the calendar than the big switch occurs……..viola!   Go to bed on August 31^st with the ceiling fan slashing the humid night air….wake on the morning of September 1^st to see leaves lazily drifting past the bedroom window.  Wear a sleeveless blouse to work one day, pull a sweater out of the closet for the next.   The light switch has somehow been thrown and we didn’t even notice.

The next time you turn on a lamp or flip the switch that brings your room to life remember:  the light switch is a metaphor for life.    The things that make such a big difference in our lives we often take for granted; often we forget how powerful these small things are.   Pay attention to the small things and most of the time the big things will take care of themselves….because change can happen in an instant.

                                                               Life is Good

Authentic

Authentic…not false or copied; genuine; real: having the origin supported by unquestionable evidence; authenticated; verified; conforming to an original.

It is so easy for us to tell one another “be yourself”…….how many times have I said to someone, “just be who you are!” But how many of us actually follow our own advice?

Recently I’ve had some health issues that have held my attention; for a while it looked as if I might be introduced to a drug that would cost me my hair. I was assured it would grow back in, but it gave me pause to wonder what color my hair might be, and what would the texture be? I’ve heard women say their hair came back white, or curly or straight after some treatments. How would I look totally bald….and how would I look when the hair grew back?

At the moment I seem to have dodged the “hair loss drug” bullet, but this has set me on a new path. My last trip to the hairdresser I told Casey I wanted to let my hair go natural. You must understand that I have no idea what “natural “ is….I haven’t seen my own hair color in so many years that I have no idea what that might be. I do know, however, a good part of it is going to be white.

Casey is a wonderful hairdresser….she’s given me some of the best “hair years” of my life. I know my hair color epiphany took her completely by surprise. She studied me from the left. She studied me from the right. She ran her hand up the back of my head and finally said, “Well, you have a young face so I think you can pull it off.”

I have not arrived at this decision without giving it a great deal of thought. I realize I will most likely look “older”……but then I AM older! A little color from a dish and brush doesn’t convince anyone I’m 25…least of all me. No…I want to let my hair be the color it actually is because that's part of who I actually am. It’s really just as simple as that.

The last few years have been a wonderful journey of retirement from a long broadcast career….discovering the outdoors, kayaking and beachcombing….then becoming reacquainted with my love of the written word. I have been fortunate to have a friend who opened a door to me that I never would have found. That is my involvement with Heart of Ohio Magazine.

Perhaps it’s an age thing…perhaps it comes from taking time to think about things because of my recent health issues…but the fact is I want to be authentic in all areas of my life. I want to be me. Having said that, I know I have some “ugly hair” days ahead. Every woman reading this will understand the trauma associated with letting your hair grow out of a bad cut…let alone letting it grow to its natural state after years of coloring.

There are some things that could change my mind. I have my husband to consider; if he sees the white haired me and says “Whoa!” I may not be as inclined to be quite as “authentic”. 




Or, if the two of us are at dinner and a waiter says, " and what will your mother be having?"....all bets are off. Like every female on the planet I reserve the right to change my mind without notice.

It’s a little thing. It’s a big thing. It’s an authentic thing. I’ll just be the short, unobtrusive woman in the babushka for the next six months.

. LIFE IS GOOD

Race car or old, brown Hudson?

Once in a great while I run up on a picture that speaks to me….and this one is a pip.

I have this theory that we may have limited our enjoyment of life because of the shallow, mind numbing advertising that pounds us every waking moment of the day.  You cannot watch fifteen minutes of TV, listen to ten minutes of radio or even close a toilet stall door without experiencing an advertising “impression”.   People and products leer at us from the back of bus stop seats, stare out over the landscape from billboards and slogans and special offers are dragged along behind airplanes.  This expensive graffitti invades every waking moment of our days. 

It’s not bad enough that we simply must drive home the message of every sale, every new product and improvement on an old one…..but we also “advertise” who and what we are supposed to be.   This is especially true for women.    Evidently we are to be unlined, overdressed ectomorphs our entire lives.   To be less than we see in this picture is to be invisible….or at the very least un-chic!   And that, my friend, is the great advertising lie.

 Sporting the predictable bored super-model expression and flowing hair, this young woman embodies the “marvelously messy” look that fashion magazines would have us strive for.   In truth, she couldn’t possibly stumble around on those cobble stones in those stiletto heels….and that tiny purse has no room for tissues, candy, and the current McDonald’s fun meal toy waiting to be opened.  The bicycles in the background represent health; I can’t wait to see her try to ride one in those pegged pants and six inch heels.   Her round shoulders and concave chest would lead me to believe this young lady has lived on lettuce wraps for a long, long time….and her precarious stance makes me wonder if she isn’t waiting for someone to literally pick her up and take her away from all this. 

Most real women wear “mom jeans” and carry a purse big enough to accommodate enough things to keep her kids clean, fed and quiet when the need arises.  The foot miles we put in on any given day require comfortable shoes and clothes that can be thrown into the washer.  

I have long ago turned off and tuned out everything that tells me my life would be better if I only wore the right (sparkly) eye shadow…if I would only buy the handbag that Angelina Jolie carries…or lose enough weight.   I refuse to apologise for being who I am…and I do not envy the emaciated women in stiletto heels who are held up as “role models” to the women of this era.

In short I am not in the market for a “new and improved” anything….and I sure don’t look at pictures like this and feel I’m not being all that I can be.  Like Popeye the Sailor I yam whut I yam.  I wish every one of us would look for ways to translate that to our daughters and granddaughters; turn off the soul sucking hype and enjoy your life! 

I think my son must have been about ten when he summed it up this way: “Mom, there are two kinds of women.  Race cars and old brown Hudsons.”   I haven’t a clue where he came up with that, but I’ve always remembered it and never, for one second, have I regretted being an “old, brown Hudson”. 

                                  Life is Good

Little things that last a lifetime...

Looking through pictures and posts I found this picture of a Mercury head dime.   It took my thoughts back to two of these dimes that were very precious; I just didn’t know it at the time.

My three children are very close in age, and when they were small it seemed my washer and dryer never stopped.  One hot summer day I was distressed to find more water on the basement floor than there was in the washer.  This was a greatly appreciated turquoise stack set that my Dad had bought for us.   They were gently used when I got them and hadn’t stopped since.

I tried to find the source of the water but eventually I gave up and called my Dad.  In those early days of marriage my husband worked long hours, and Pop was the one I always called for help.  Of course he came over right away.

Soon my little washer looked naked as Pop took panels off, removing things I didn’t know could be removed.  He was flat on his belly on the basement floor, muttering expletives, when I finally heard him say, “Here’s your problem!”

He rolled over to show me the two Mercury head dimes he held in the palm of his hand.  They had somehow gotten into the pump and had been tumbling around in the water so long that the copper edges had worn, forming a copper ring around each dime.

I get my “ I can fix it” mentality from my Pop.  Instead of an expensive new pump, he went to the store and bought some gunk you would use to fix an aquarium.   Keeping his fingers in the pump he repaired the hole, keeping his hand in the washer until the patch dried.  Viola!   My little turquoise washer was as good as new.   I thought my Pop could fix anything….or at least he’d try.  Nothing was really broken till he ran out of duct tape; the fix might not be pretty but it was a fix.

I held on to the dimes; I asked my husband to drill tiny holes in them (my apologies to the US Treasury) and put sterling silver wires through them to create pierced earrings that I still have today.

Fast forward about thirty five years, give or take a few.   I sat at my Pop’s bedside, knowing he was very near his last hours on this earth.  I had returned to be with him in the middle of the night; now I was holding his hand and talking to him without knowing if he could hear me.  The very precious time was ticking away.

I talked on and on about everything and anything I could think of…from the activity of the squirrel outside his window to what the newspaper held….all with no response.   I chattered on as if, somehow, my voice could anchor him here.

Finally I got around to telling him what a wonderful father he had always been, and how much I had learned from him.  I recounted the story about the Mercury head dimes he had pulled from the pump that day, reminding him about the good laugh I’d had at his expense when his hand got stuck in the machine.   I smiled as I reminded him how he had saved the day by fixing my washer…….and he squeezed my hand.

I kept talking, telling him I still had the earrings I had made….and he squeezed my hand again.  I knew then that he realized I was there and that this time we had together was some of the most valuable time I would ever have in my life.  That was the last response he made to any stimulation….I am eternally grateful I was there.

As I’ve grown older I’ve come to realize that our lives are made up of small things that, as they happen, we don’t see for the big things they actually are.  Embrace the small things.

                                                          Life is Good 

The Appliance Coroner

Into each life a little rain must fall…..it was a rainy Friday morning and I was trying to get some housework done before the weather cleared up and distracted me from all the chores I needed to do.   Dusting, sweeping, mopping; laundry spinning in the washer and tumbling in the dryer.   Ah…..housework.

I dragged my trusty vacuum cleaner from the closet and proceeded to plug it in.   You know how it is; when you’ve had an appliance for some time you get used to the noise it makes.   Well…this was not a noise this particular vacuum cleaner had ever made.   Being mechanically inclined I performed step one of my bag of tricks to remedy the situation.   I picked the vacuum up and bounced it a couple of times on the floor.   The oddly high pitched “trying to suck up a cocker spaniel” noise continued.

Time for trick number two….and this is a specialty….appliance swearing.   Over the years I’ve learned that bouncing and swearing have kept my vacuum cleaners running at peak performance.   Not so this time. 

Time for the heavy duty work to begin.  Butter knife?  Check!   Coat hanger?  Check!  I flipped that bad boy onto its back and removed every screw that would come out.  Now I had several pieces of vacuum cleaner, but I could tell the belt was still intact and in place.   With the pieces scattered around me I turned it on once again and I could see sparks coming from a place I’ve never seen sparks before.    Hmmmm……..

As I worked on the vacuum it brought back memories of previous appliances and the repairman we always called to fix them.   I will call him Ronnie McNew the Appliance Guru ….the names have been changed to protect the innocent.    That’s not true; the names have been changed so he won’t sue me.

Washer, dryer, fridge….we’ve replaced them all multiple times over the years.  If the washer isn’t sloshing call Ronnie….If the dryer isn’t drying call Ronnie…..that refrigerator acting like a warming unit?  Call Ronnie.

Being slow on the uptake, I continued to call Ronnie over and over again.  He never actually fixed anything, but he was a really nice guy, and he always showed up.   Here is a regular “Ronnie” visit:

“Hello Mrs. Coon.   Wife says your (washer, dryer, dishwasher) is acting up on you”, Ronnie would say.

“Hi, Ronnie.   Yeah…it’s going “whumpa whumpa” and not (sloshing, drying, cleaning).  Can you fix it?”

Scrunching up his face he’d say, “I’ll get my tool box and be right back.”

Ronnie generally stayed less than an hour.  Eventually he’d call me to the (basement, kitchen, laundry room) and say, “Gee Mrs. Coon.   I’ve taken this apart and the gazaxtihagen is worn out, plus the belts are all frayed.  It would cost more to fix it than to buy a new one.  I sure wouldn’t put the money in it.”

About the fourth or fifth time this same exact thing happened the light went on as I wrote the check for the “service call”.   I was paying Ronnie to pronounce my appliances dead! He had never salvaged even one appliance.  He wasn’t a repairman…..he was the appliance coroner!

And so, as I watched the sparks flying from my vacuum cleaner, I smiled.  My bounce and swear technique may not be the best way to fix something.   On the other hand, if that doesn’t work I just assume it’s dead and go buy another appliance. 

Okay…I’m contributing to the landfill and doing nothing for the environment by junking these items and buying new ones, I know.   But I am saving the $55.00 service call by pronouncing my own appliances DOA; and I quiet that guilty little voice by telling myself I'm contributing to the economy!!   

                                                          Life is Good

The Bucket List

This weekend we were sitting around talking with friends and the subject of the “bucket list” came up in the conversation.   Seems most of us have one, even if we didn’t know that’s what it’s called.

As we sat and talked about what we might have missed in life and what we'd like to do before we exit, some of the group had long bucket lists consisting of things like parachuting out of a plane…visiting the North Pole…climbing a mountain…meeting a movie star,  things like that.  It just brought home how very lucky I am.  I don’t really HAVE a bucket list!

I have always been so fortunate to have jobs that gave me the opportunity to see and do things that really put a crimp in my bucket list, I guess.  Working in radio for a zillion years I met a smattering of famous people…enough of them to know that traveling around the country (or world) making public appearances and living on the smiles of strangers is not what I’d like to do.  Nope, no bucket listing for fame.

Over the years I became President of the Ohio Association of Broadcasters, a responsibility that took me on lobbying trips to Washington.  We kept appointments with Congressmen, dashing from building to building to keep stay on schedule.  I’ve been chewed out by a high official over the “wardrobe malfunction” that occurred during the super bowl and the F-bomb thrown at the crowd when Bono grew testy.  I’ve attended cocktail parties and receptions at the Capitol, and then walked around the hill soaking in the history as I made my way back to the hotel.  I had a meeting in the "hide away" below ground that had belonged to John F Kennedy.   I rode the Congressional subway with Ted Kennedy sitting behind me, and watched Hillary Clinton make a speech while I sat in the balcony and marveled at the fact that I was actually sitting in the balcony watching Hillary Clinton make a speech.   No bucket list there…..

Years ago I had a project, the Richland Carrousel Park, entrusted to me to bring to completion.  What a wonderful, abstract thing it was to do!  It was truly starting from the ground floor, and I learned a great deal.  Every time I drive through the downtown and hear the tinkling carousel music I think about the day that organ was installed….the day the center pole was erected….the grand opening.   All the creative ideas, the open possibilities, just placed in my hands to accomplish.  I was so lucky to have that experience, and it held me in good stead when I returned to broadcast after eighteen months and moved into managing radio stations. That alone must have taken half a dozen things off my bucket list.

I’ve ridden elephants and hot air balloons…traveled in Europe and taken cruises to other exciting places.  If I have any bucket list of places to which I’d like to travel they would be here in this country, but I can pretty much see everything that I want to from my back door. 

My husband and I have raised a beautiful family.  We are proud of our children and grandchildren.  We both are happy about the fact that there’s no one on earth we’d rather spend time with than our own children.  There is absolutely no bucket list with any family notes on it.

My husband has put up with me, supported me in every crazy thing I’ve tried, and still loves me.  How did I ever get that lucky?  I have no bucket list when it comes to marriage; I may have kicked a few dents in it but that bucket is still solid.

And now…after “retiring”….here I am editing a magazine.  A new career with a new learning curve at this stage of life.  Heart of Ohio Magazine is a labor of love for me, and that is also true for Diane Brown (publisher and owner of Sun Graphics)   I am so glad I said yes when she asked if I’d like to talk over an idea she had.    I have no bucket list that says “when I retire I want to”……I’m in the middle of doing it!

And so, here I am….a woman without a bucket list.   To be honest I have lived my life thus far without any game plan; it’s only fitting that I finish it the same way.   And how can I complain when my bucket runneth over?

                                                                      

                                                   LIFE IS GOOD

The Good Soldier

                                                                

  In late May I placed a call Sheila Hall Larson to ask if she would be willing to talk to me about an article for Heart of Ohio Magazine.  Urged on by my daughter, Chief Master Sergeant Wendy Hunt of the 179^th, I had decided to try to do the article.  She had the utmost admiration and respect for the General, and she felt this was a story people would want to hear.

Brigadier General Fred Larson died on January 1, 2012. Knowing it had been less than six months I was afraid it might be too soon for Mrs. Larson to talk about his loss, but Wendy kept asking and I finally made the call.

Sheila Larson is a gracious woman, but talking to her I could tell she was a little reluctant about the article.  I assured her that she would have complete control of the finished product, and she agreed to meet with me.

On the day of our meeting  I pulled into Sheila’s driveway and she met me at the door.  An attractive woman in her sixties, Sheila Larson has an air of composure about her that I am not certain I could muster at this stage of the grief process.  I liked her immediately; the fact that she had nice things to say about my daughter and son in law certainly didn’t hurt.

Sitting at her kitchen table she spoke openly about the loss of her husband and who he was.  “The people who worked for him either loved him or hated him.  Fred was a taskmaster, and he didn’t hesitate to point out the good or the bad.  But he also did a great deal of mentoring, and his door was always open because he wanted to be approachable.  My husband was a humble man who paid attention to his troops.  When someone would talk to Fred about his or her chances for advancement he would say, “The job you have right now is the most important job.  Learn to do that well, then set your goals.”

I was sitting across the table from a woman whose husband had been a career soldier; what part did Sheila play in that?  “Fred and I were a good team,” she said with obvious pride.

“When he was commander at the base he told me he was not concerned about his troops, but he was concerned about their families.   That’s when we decided the 179^th needed a Family Support Group.   Ellen Drouhard and I put some people together and we held our first meeting in early 1988.   In September we sent out a survey to see how much interest there was in a group like this, and then we got to work creating what we perceived the 179^th really needed.   We fashioned it after a very successful group in Oregon, but shaped it to serve our needs.” Sheila said.

Starting with nothing the group set out to form a support system that would serve the families when they needed help most.

“We held bake sales, sold Christmas ornaments and other fund raisers all the time because we had absolutely no money.  I remember once selling cookies in the chow hall and a military member asked me if I had a vendor’s license,” she laughed.

“The timing was right for the FSG, as we became known.  Eventually it became a part of the members  pre-mobilization briefing.   We did training with other bases in Ohio and other states, too.   I’m happy to say it is still a vital part of the 179^th, helping families while their loved ones are away serving our country.”

I listened and made notes and soaked in Sheila Larson’s calm; I appreciated what a strong woman she is.   The demands and deployments her husband’s chosen career demanded must have been hard to bear for someone left behind to hold down the fort, but she shows no signs of that.  She speaks quietly about a remarkable man with whom she was half the team; a loving family and a network of friends who keep her strong today. 

I did not know Brigadier General Fred Larson, but meeting him for the first time through the eyes of his wife was an honor.   I know she is accurate when she says, “Fred and I were a good team”.   

 I also believe that somewhere he’s smiling and saying:

“We were a good team, and you are still the good soldier.”

Eternal Life on the Internet

I must confess that I love today’s social technology!  I text and email and send pictures, write this blog….and on and on.  When Pinterest (electronic hoarding) wasn’t working correctly recently it put a crimp in my evening entertainment! (I actually got some housework done)  I confess I would give up my TV, something I really don’t care about any more, before I would let anyone touch my computer.   I’m hooked.

Of all the things I enjoy I especially like Facebook. It has allowed me to reconnect with so many people I went to school with and other people I had lost touch with years ago.   I’ve also made some new friends and acquaintances and this social medium allows me to get to know more about their lives and their families.  I love looking for pictures and posts that I think will amuse or pique the interest of my “friends”, and I look forward to the interaction each day.   It’s an amazing and useful tool that I utilize every day.

All that enjoyment is not without its flip side, however.    Over the last couple of years I’ve lost some friends and a family member whose Facebook pages are still on line.   I have a tough time wrapping my head around the fact that their faces still smile at me from the computer…their albums are still available to view and, in some cases, updated by friends or family….but they no longer exist.  How can that be?

 A couple of these pages I’ve visited numerous times, especially on a birthday or holiday.  I never leave a message…and if I did for whom would it be intended?  At times it seems poignant…at time ghoulish.   This electronic “grave visit” can be confusing.  The customs of how we honor and remember our dead are changing with the technology.   I’ve signed a good number of electronic guest books the last few years, and I see more and more permanent memorial pages on web.  They strike me as an electronic tombstone with music.

Perhaps the days of the carved angel over the grave are coming to an end….replaced by a selection of Beatles songs and a slideshow presentation of the lost loved ones life.  Instead of visiting the graveyard will tomorrow’s mourner be vising the memorial site from the comfort of the recliner? 

I have pictures of loved ones that I cherish, but somehow a Facebook page seems to keep a person alive in a way that doesn’t actually make sense to me.   I guess it’s not a good thing or a bad thing…..it is what it is.   Like so many things in today’s world it confuses and fascinates me.

                                                        Life is Good (and death is different)

 

The Pelee Island Gang

The other evening we were sitting around with some other long-married couples talking about when we first started out.   I remember those days well, when there was too much month left at the end of the money. We would gather up our pop bottles and take them back to the grocery store to collect the deposit.   Were we really that young and that poor?   Of course we were.

We talked about vacations back in the day, and what constituted “roughing it”.  That brought back memories of a one week vacation on Pelee Island. 

We were a young family that summer, our children were probably nine, ten and eleven years old, and ready for an adventure.   We were heading to Canadian waters to camp on Pelee Island….we would live on the beach for a week.   Everyone was excited…we were five couples with a bakers dozen of kids under the age of twelve.  We all knew one another from work…we were the staff of WMAN radio…the WMAN ALL STARS.   We played softball together, rode elephants together, participated in water ball fights and sat around in each others homes eating pizza and talking about “the business”.   What could possibly go wrong?

From the outset I had a sneaking feeling this might not be as much fun as everyone else thought it would be….but then I tend to be a realist.  The other couples were experienced campers, and they owned things like tents and Colman stoves and other things for which I had no frame of reference.   So, when we decided we were going to take the kids and go along, we had to hit a sporting goods department before we set sail.

If you are reading this and preparing for your first experience in the “great outdoors” let me share with you some things I learned rather quickly.   First of all, when shopping for a tent DO NOT believe anything that is written on the box.   There were lies all OVER that thing.   For instance:   “Sleeps six”.   Maybe six three year olds, or maybe a midget wrestling team…….but not six of anything over five feet tall.   Here’s another lie:   “Easy assembly”.   That is an out and out whopper. 

Having believed everything written on the box and plunked down our money, we put the tent box safely into the van.   We did not try to assemble it…why would we when the box boasted “easy assembly”?  The first time we actually saw the tent was when we opened the carton on the beach; a large brown bag and four hundred aluminum tubes came tumbling out.   My entire attraction to this particular tent had been that I thought it was a nice color.  (I know)

Now here we stood, Larry, me and our three young children, who expected to have a place to sleep for the night.  After trying every configuration imaginable with the aluminum tubes we created a reasonable looking abode that listed only slightly to the right….so we put driftwood on the left corner and smiled at each other.  We pumped up the six air mattresses we planned to sleep on and discovered the tent would only accommodate four of them.  So much for “sleeps six”.

Our friends, the seasoned campers, helped for a while.   Then, realizing our tent raising had great entertainment value, they sat back and nursed a beer….then watched and laughed and drank some more.

Finally it was done, and as I unzipped the front of the tent I held over my head the “no pest” strip that my friend had instructed me to buy.  “Just hang it in the top of the tent and zip it closed.   When you go to bed there won’t be any mosquitoes or flies,” she chirped.   I did as I was told, and there were no flies in the tent at night.  I am also pretty sure that there must have been a class action law suit a few years later that dealt with breathing in no pest strip fumes….but that’s another article.

As a group we set up a kitchen where we would cook communal meals, and everyone dug in and put their gear away.  Cooking was punctuated with  a series of wild dance moves; we quickly learned anything we put down on a table was immediately covered in black flies.  A spoon discarded carelessly during cooking soon became a living, moving object.  Shooing away flies actually took more energy than cooking.

Being the city girl that I am, I would not come to the island without an in depth explanation of what the bathroom facilities would be. (None would have been the honest answer)   I was assured by my cohorts that we would have a tent dedicated to a porta-potty, and there would be privacy and convenience that would satisfy even a stickler for those details…like me.   I won't say my friends lied to me.  Let's just say they "embroidered" the truth.   By day two the porta potty was replaced by a large pit with a big log over it; an old quilt that hung in front of the pit for “privacy” stood straight out in the wind off the lake.  This new make-shift facility was designed and dug by Phil "Scoop" Linne.  When he was finished he had a look of male pride on his face; I had a look of absolute horror on mine.   It was a modest woman’s nightmare.

On the evening of the fourth day it started to rain.  Our waterproof tent…which the box said was designed to laugh at the elements…was soon saturated. The flimsy white roof produced a steady drip into my left ear as I lay on the hard packed sand floor, (the air mattresses flat since day two) stacked like cordwood with my husband and children.  The storm grew worse, the lightning flashes revealing the white ceiling of the tent.  There, crawling toward the no pest strip, were several “sand spiders”; creatures that looked like pop bottle caps with legs.  They inched toward certain death as the no pest strip waited to do its job.  I couldn't take my eyes off them as I came to the realization that they would soon die and rain down on me.  It was a very, very long night.    The next day I spent wrapping the tent in plastic and Saran Wrap in case the rain continued.  It was a waste of time and plastic, but it kept me occupied.

As is usually the case the women did the cooking for the whole crew.  We worked on a folding table and washed things in the lake.  I’m sure Indian women did all of these same things and more without the benefit of a potato peeler.   It seemed we were always preparing a meal, cleaning up after a meal, fixing snacks for the kids, cleaning up after snacks for the kids or talking about what we were going to cook next.  The only real break in that routine was doing laundry in the lake.  The other women in the group considered these things to be “relaxing”.  The days grew longer.

If you are going to go camping these people we were with have got to be some of the most “fun” people on the planet.  We were a close group of coworkers and their spouses; Larry and I have never found a group like them since.   I know they all had a great time, and most were sad when the week was over…..It was the only thing we did not agree on.

The morning we were to pack up and head to the ferry to return to Sandusky I was up before daylight, ripping my kids out of their sleeping bags and packing the car.   I was not going to take a chance that we might be late for the boat, maybe trapped for another week on this deity forsaken rock.   I was already considering my options if the ferry didn’t show up.   I briefly considered the ramifications of faking a heart attack or hijacking a fishing boat….fortunately it didn’t come to that.   We actually were short one space on the ferry to return, but our friend John Foster and his family stayed over till the next day with his sister who happened to live on the island.  A wise choice…because my third option was to find my potato peeler and take a hostage.

Sunburned and bug bitten, the Pelee Island Gang saddled up and rode back to civilization, following one another like a modern day wagon train.  I came home weary but wiser.  The rest of the group went back a time or two in the summers ahead, but Larry and I hung up our tent and never returned.   Been there…done that…bought the bug spray.

And so, as we recently sat talking about vacations and “roughing it”, I knew immediately what my limits were because they had been sorely tested.  We’ve come a long way from that pop-bottle-returning young couple, and I could write a book about the journey.   I’m not the least bit embarrassed to say that vacationing today in a place with one bathroom is as rough as I intend to get.  “To thine own self be true”……..

Thank you:   John and Geneva Foster, Chuck and Cindy Campbell, Tharen and Phil Linne, Nancy and Charlie Schmidt for a week on the beach we will always remember…..and friendships we still cherish.  A special thanks you to Tharen for posting these pictures on FaceBook and reminding me of this long ago week!!

Lighting the Way

It seems to me that no matter what the” powers that be” are trying to achieve they always create more problems by making new rules.  The latest addition to the traffic laws that I’m aware of is the “if your wipers are on your lights are on” rule.  That’s supposed to magically keep us safe at some level I don’t understand.   In truth is it has just magnified a problem that’s been bugging me for a long, long while.

 I think the majority of new cars have lights that come on automatically when you turn the key.  The lights are purple and piercing like laser beams, and what no one considers is they may have turned the car/truck off with the lights on high beams.   Once again this morning I had a big, manly truck right on my bumper with his bright lights gouging my eyes out of their sockets through my rearview mirrors.   I adjusted both side mirrors away from my line of sight….he obviously didn’t notice.      I turned my rearview mirror down….not something he paid any attention to.   Since he was six inches from my rear bumper you would think he might have seen me adjusting anything shiny to keep his death rays from cooking my retinas…..but no.    This, of course, is at eight o’clock in the morning.   Someone, somewhere did the math and decided that cars/trucks (the Pok-er) with their lights on at eight in the a.m. are less likely to crash than those who (the Pok-ee) are plodding along without lights.   Since I am the “pok-ee” I do not agree.   To make matters worse the authorities created the law that requires everyone to have lights on when it rains, immediately even the OLD cars are wandering around with their bright lights on in broad daylight.   I am all for safety on the roads, but given the fact that many of today’s cars are equipped with headlights that can be monitored from a satellite you can see what a problem it can become if you end up with a truly dedicated tailgater on your bumper.  Rain or shine it can be very uncomfortable. 

Another driving hazard we’ve created is the “two lanes turning” traffic pattern.   If you read signs, if you pay attention, if you have half a brain there is no problem.  Obviously the ones who can meet those standards  are not the people I am meeting at “First Street turning onto Diamond Street as two lanes turn left” in Mansfield each morning.   Two days last week two different drivers almost side swiped me as we had a four wheeled disagreement over which lane I was allowed to occupy.  Here’s the basic rule if you happen to be one of the people I am trying to avoid …..Pick a lane AND STAY THE HECK IN IT.  Two lanes turning are not meant to converge; you should never change lanes during a turn, and you are not welcome in my lane at any time!   One woman at least had the decency to waggle her fingers at me in a concillatory  gesture as she barely missed shearing my driver’s side door off.  I’m assuming it was concillatory ; she was, after all, using all her fingers. 

I confess to being an impatient driver.  The more I’m running late the greater the chances are that I’m going to end up behind some law and order freak doing the speed limit.  However, as I work on my unbelievably long list of things I need to improve upon I wish the “light brighters” and the “tail gaters” would work on their own lists before one of them blinds or runs over me. 

                          Please….dim your lights and watch where you’re going!!!!!! 

This has been a public service “suggestion” from the curmudgeon in the convertible that you nearly
took off the road last week.  In an effort to feel safe on the roadway again I have decided to trade my car in on an urban assault vehicle.  Green is my favorite color, after all, and the trade in value on these things is pretty good.  Oh, and just for the record... I will be using the right lane as we turn left. I suggest you remember that.

                                                
                                                    In spite of my traffic rant, LIFE IS GOOD. 

Life is a Contact Sport

It was probably in the neighborhood of fifteen years ago....I was managing WMAN Radio, a long time Ohio State Football affiliate, and we had the team bus scheduled to arrive at an empty storefront at Richland Mall to sign autographs and meet the public. My partner in crime and sales manager, Margie Tasseff, and I had cleaned up the empty store, brought in food for the players and we eagerly awaited the arrival of the bus. Assisted by our sales staff and the on air staff, now the fans were arriving to wait in line.   Hundreds of people were gathering to meet the players, coach John Cooper and former Heisman trophy winner, Archie Griffin.



Planning ahead I had purchased half a dozen footballs for everyone to sign, thinking we could use them as giveaways on the air during the upcoming season. That morning I had received a telephone call from a father whose little boy had broken a leg and was in the hospital recovering. The little guy had been looking forward to meeting Archie Griffin, and now he wasn’t going to be able to do that. Dad asked if I could possible get Archie to sign a poster for the little boy; I agreed that I would.



The day moved in fast forward, but everything was ready as our staff waited for the team to arrive. Finally we got word that the bus had pulled up, and soon a crowd of young men and their entourage filled the room.



In those days my friend Ed Douglas worked for WBNS, the OSU flag station in Columbus, and traveled with the team to these events.  As we stood and chatted the football players ate everything in sight and prepared to sign autographs and take pictures with the crowd that now lined the mall. Soon we were greeted by Archie Griffin, a very pleasant man who greeted the public and my staff graciously. I knew it would be a big success, and I was very happy with the direction in which things were proceeding.



I have to say here that I am the most ignorant human being on the face of the planet when it comes to sports. When something doesn’t interest me I have the ability to purge all that information on that particular subject from my mind….and that has always been the way I’ve dealt with any sports. I don’t care; I do not have the voyeuristic need to watch people play sports. When it came down to sports the arrangement with Margie, a true sports fan, we agreed that I would always smile, nod and let her answer any questions about sports. It worked pretty well for a lot of years.



Suffice it to say I hadn’t a clue who Archie Griffin was, although everyone else was really excited to meet him. As I stood and chatted with Archie and Ed I told Archie about the little boy in the hospital and how his Dad had delivered the poster to the radio station for me to have him sign for the child. Archie asked if the child was in a local hospital and I told him he was. That’s when he floored me with, “Well, we have time to go see him if it’s close. We can be back to sign autographs….let’s go!”



Impressed and really surprised I loaded Archie Griffin and Ed Douglas into my car and off we went to Med Central to see the little boy. At that time of night there was no problem finding a parking place, but as we walked into the hospital people looked, then looked again, and  I heard voices chiming….”Hey, Archie!” We were surrounded by half a dozen fans as we moved to the elevators.

Heading up to the room in the elevator I turned to Archie and said, “Didn’t you play with a helmet on? Everyone knows who you are,” which elicited a big laugh from the football icon.



Once on the floor we walked up to the child’s room and I entered first. A toe headed little boy of about six was flat on his back, his little leg suspended in the air in a heavy white cast. His Mom sat by his bed, and I think there were a couple of other people in the room with them. Walking up to the bed I explained to the little fellow that there was someone here who wanted to meet him; right on cue Archie Griffin walked in wearing a grin from ear to ear. I don’t think I’ve seen many children happier than that little boy was at that moment as his idol stood by his bed. We had brought one of the footballs with us, Archie signed that ball and I believe the child’s cast as well. Dad showed up about that time, having been to the mall to make sure I hadn’t forgotten the poster. It was one of those moments I won’t forget.



Back in my car I turned to Archie Griffin and said, “Mr. Griffin, I may not know anything about football…but I do know a thing or two about people. That was a very nice thing you just did.” Then I called home to tell my husband that I had Archie Griffin in my car and I wished he could be there. He just groaned that this was the final proof that there is absolutely no justice in this world.



I took Ed and Archie back to the mall, where he shook hands and signed footballs and did everything he could to make our radio station look good. What a rare individual; I’m not at all surprised he’s still so popular with Ohio State fans.



A few years after our caravan tour I was at an Ohio State Affiliates dinner at the Wigwam, owned by the Wolfe family, in Columbus. Archie Griffin was there, smiling and shaking hands as he served as the official OSU greeter. The line finally deposited me in front of him and I was certain he wouldn't remember me; I would never have said anything to remind him as the long line of people pressed in behind me. Archie took my hand, shook it and smiled as he met my eyes and said, "Still don't know anything about football, do ya?"



I've met some very interesting and gracious people throughout my career....I think Archie Griffin is at the top of the list.



                                                                      LIFE IS GOOD