When the Phone Rings

Have you ever given any thought about how many emotions can be invoked by the sound of a telephone?  I haven't for a long time, if I ever really have at all. 

A few weeks ago I had dinner with a friend who was leaving for an extended stay out of state.  She was looking forward to seeing old friends there, and even more excited about seeing her youngest son marry his long time sweetheart.  I don’t even remember what I said to her as we left the restaurant.    Maybe we joked about her paying the bill next time….I’m sure we complained about the bone chilling cold…perhaps I told her I’d see her at the winter’s end when she got back to town.  As it turns out it will be the last time I ever speak to her; I am saddened that I can’t remember our final words.

When the phone rang last week I looked at the screen and knew it was my husband calling from home.   I assumed it was one of our many ‘stop and pick up’ calls we make so often.  The call was just another run of the mill interruption in a day full of interruptions at the office.  In fact it was my husband delivering the news that my friend was gravely ill, and her sister would like to talk to me.

The face of my friend was in my mind the whole time I spoke with her sister.  It seems she had become ill and had ended up in a far-away emergency room.   Doctors discovered the reason for her illness, a devastating cancer  no other professional had been able to diagnose even though she has been in chronic discomfort for years.  No “patch you up and send you home” illness, this one.  She deteriorated rapidly and was eventually put into the ICU by the weekend. 

This kind and gentle soul is a woman with whom I’ve been friends for over fifty years.   As she lies fighting for her life, thousands of miles away, I wish I could sit by her bed and try to comfort her.  All I can do is pray for her and for her family who is doing just that.

 

Now I am waiting for the phone to ring.   Every single time it does I feel a cold finger run up my spine; it is a call I do not want to receive.  I’ve promised myself this experience will change the way I do things from this time on.  I want the parting words I speak to my friends to be memorable and honest.  From now on I will hug my friends close and say, “You are my friend, and I love you.”    I will say it because I want these to be our last words, spoken in the hope that we will meet again.   More importantly I will say it to honor my dear friend, to whom I can no longer say the words, and hope that she can hear me.

                                                                    Life is Good

Bottoms Up!!

I have recently completed, and survived, the test that strikes fear in the hearts of most men and women…...the colonoscopy.

 

Like everything else in my life, I made the appointment and gave very little thought to it until the day was almost upon me.  I have to say I’ve had this test several times before and knew what to expect.  Monday evening I read through the materials to make sure I was doing what I was supposed to be doing.  I realized I was supposed to have stopped taking aspirin five days ago….scratch that.  I read through the “day-before-lift-off” dietary instructions.  Clear liquid,check…jello,check…coffee with no cream…groan.  Okay…it’s basically one full day of aggravation, but I had a lot of writing to do so I would be able to keep my mind off food, and drink, and comfort.

Opening the bag from the pharmacy I realized the medical “Drain-O”  they give prescribed looked different this time.  I read the directions on the huge white bottle, which did not match the directions on the sheet given to me by my physician.   A call to the druggist (“That’s what they called in…so it’s definitely not our fault”) confirmed that I had the wrong concoction.   Now I knew I’d have to follow the diet sheet tomorrow and get the other stuff called in, picked up and ready to go before six p.m.   That’s actually the “witching hour” when you start to swill the awful stuff that causes your intestines to go into full battle mode.

Tuesday morning I called the doctor’s office to explain my dilemma.  After talking with the nurse (“That’s not what I called in…so it’s definitely not my fault”) she agreed to call in the proper stuff, which I would pick up after work.

After listening to the druggist explain (a.) what was called in,  (b.) how it was interpreted, (c.) what I was given, and (d.) why it’s not the fault of said druggist, said druggist’s staff, anyone who has ever worked in that particular drug chain or any of their relatives, I paid for the nasty stuff and went home.

Now we’re on track.   I have the big white bottle marked off into four parts, one part to be drunk every fifteen minutes until it’s all gone or you pass out.  After you finish that 32 oz assault you need to drink 8 oz. of plain water, and mentally prepare yourself for the next 32 oz sip-fest.

 

At this point the good news is your hunger is completely gone….maybe for the rest of your life.  Drinking the murky, room temperature, slightly thickened liquid took all of my will power.  The taste wass less repugnant than some of the stuff I’d had in the past…but even the “new improved” version of this was like drinking thick swamp water, with a twist of lemon.  The only way I can get through it is to carefully park my mind someplace else, then open my throat and pour it down.

There is a one hour wait between the first bottle of this stuff and the second.  Before I knew it I was mixing the two packets of powder in the big canister, adding room temperature water to the fill line, and shivering as I anticipate drinking 32 more ounces of this stuff.

As I drank the first 8 ounces of the second bottle a deep rumble began.   Somewhere in the center of my body a hot, clawing creature seemed to be looking for an escape route.  Since I knew perfectly well what that route would be, I decided it was time to set up shop in the bathroom.  That’s pretty much where the rest of the evening was spent.  The only thing that made it even remotely bearable was Wi-Fi. 

After what seemed like an endless night, morning arrived. The gut wrenching siege seemed to be over just in time to head to the hospital for the procedure.  I felt like a dried corn husk, but coffee, water, even chewing gum was forbidden.

As I’m wheeled into a procedure suite I spy my trusty physician, whom I’d seen just two days ago at a strings recital.   We chatted about children, grandchildren and husbands before getting down to business. 

As we made small talk, which I was desperate to keep going,  I was acutely aware of the nurses in the room as they prepared some dreadful looking equipment for my procedure.  One nurse wrestled impossibly long tubes, another had hoses slung over her shoulder and other things that might have come straight from the garden shed.   Isn’t that the new and improved pocket hose?  Did you get the second one free by just paying the shipping and handling?

 

Finally I could keep the doctor’s attention on other things no longer.  Right on schedule an IV dripped some cloudy looking stuff into the veins of my right arm.  A quiet, but friendly, nurse repositioned me just as the light switch in my brain clicked off.

A short time later I emerged from my black velvet cocoon to the sound of a chirpy young nurse telling me how wonderfully I’d done.  Not being able to remember any of it (thankfully) I had to take her word for the fact that I may just be an outstanding colonoscopy patient.  She chatted on as the fog began to clear from my head and I said the first thing that popped into my mind, “Can I get a cup of coffee now?”

If I knew where research was being done to simplify and/or improve this necessary test I would support the effort.  Show me where they’re working to come up with a better tasting drink, or a device being that can be contained in a capsule and

downed with coffee, and I will write a check to support the work.   As it is, I likely won’t have to submit to this undignified test again for several years.  I want to go on record as saying I am grateful for the tests that help us stay healthy…no matter how unpleasant they are.   Let’s make a toast to the doctors who perform these on a daily basis.

                             
 This one’s for you, doctor….bottoms up!!! 

                                                          Life is Good   

      

Dirty Feet

I have to admit I enjoyed my time away this past month.  It gave me time to relax and reflect.
A long vacation gives us the luxurious time to read the books you got for Christmas and time to search the Internet for impossible projects for your home.   Another of the things it allows time for, on the inevitable rainy day, is to watch television.  That’s something I don’t do very much, and my ‘stay in the house’ days in February reminded me just why I gave it up.

In February we lost some personalities that I remembered very well from my childhood.  One was Shirley Temple, the little girl against whom all other little girls were measured back in the day.  Although her movies were already considered old, with dimples and bouncing curls and talent she danced her way through my early
television experience.  Watching her routines with Arthur Treacher (later the fish and chips king) was pure magic.  Every little girl of my generation wanted to be either Shirley Temple or Annette Funicello from the Mickey Mouse Club.   Today my grandchildren are exposed to Honey Boo Boo and her dreadful family, and more is the pity.

In that same time frame we also lost Sid Caesar.  My parents always loved Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca.  They were part of our family evening line up along with Your Hit Parade, Ed Sullivan, Perry Mason and, of course, an endless assortment of westerns.  The comedy was silly and slapstick, but my Dad thought Sid Caesar was a comedic genius.   Years later my husband and I would look up to see him taking a seat in Wolf’s Deli on West 57^Th Street in New York.  Caesar was working on Broadway at the time, looking very dapper in his black turtle neck with the Times tucked under his arm.   He sure wouldn’t make it on television today.

 

Today we seem to find great humor in putting inappropriate sentences into the mouths of children and the elderly.  Personally I don’t enjoy the raunchy comments written for elderly women like Betty White.  She has the show about Cleveland and another one with “comedy” vignettes that have elderly people doing outrageous things. One episode I could not get away from fast enough had an 80 something woman making sexual advances to young men on a city street.    It seems we laugh at situations and conversations that would have horrified people not so many years ago.

Channel surfing during some inclement vacation weather gave me more information about shows than I really ever needed to know.    I now know there are at least four shows about life in Alaska that make me very thankful I live someplace else…anywhere else, actually.  There’s a show about an obscenely wealthy family of duck call producers, and one about backwoods entrepreneurs who produce moonshine.  There are shows about drag queens and drag racers, chefs and psychics and psycho-babble experts.  With the legalization of marijuana in a couple of states I bet we’ll soon be setting the DVR to record new shows about producing and using what promises to be the new favorite American crop.  It’s all about entertainment…right?  

The ugliness of confrontational TV shows that drag the most personal and sordid details of the participants lives into the spotlight is mind numbing.  Why anyone would want to air their dirty laundry on national TV while they scream obscenities (bleep-bleep-bleep) at one another is simply beyond my comprehension.  "Today we will interview a woman who claims to be the schizophrenic step child of a hearing impaired devil worshiper!"  I always wonder where they find these poor souls…but there appears to be a stream of them steady enough to keep Jerry Springer in expensive suits.

I am reminded of a quote I once read. I’ve long since forgotten who said it but it went something like, “I refuse to let anyone walk through my mind with their dirty feet.”  That still seems to me to be a very wise statement. 

I don't want to sound preach-y here, but even if you don’t watch a lot of TV, you really should take the time to go around the dial just to see what’s on.  Is this really  what you want to invite into your home…and into your mind?  It might be as disturbing to you as it is to me when you think about what our children watch on a daily basis.  

I’m not naive enough to suggest we return to the Shirley Temple days;  I know perfectly well the Good Ship Lolly Pop sailed a long time ago. However, if what's on TV right now represents what we have become, I'm afraid we may discover that we are all holding hands on the deck of the Titanic.

                                        Life is Good  

                                                   

Reach out and Put the Touch on Someone

Funny how old advertising slogans stay with you.   “Reach out and touch someone” keeps coming back to my mind a lot these days.  It a telephone company campaign urging people to keep up their family connections by using the phone.  This was back in the days when we watched our long distance fees.  That’s not why it keeps coming to my mind, however.

I consider myself to be a reasonably generous person.  I’ll lend a hand, or a blouse, or some money to friends and family when it’s necessary.  That’s what we do…we take care of our own, right?  But for the last few years giving to United Way and the Red Cross and the church and the local food pantry doesn’t seem to be nearly enough.

My husband and I just recently returned from a trip to Florida.  Since our stay was a month long we had to shop for groceries and toiletries from time to time.  At the entrance and exit to almost every store a table was set up to collect money for football teams, new fire trucks, a bird sanctuary or pet rescue.  Stopping at a traffic light you might get a tap on your window from band students collecting money for new uniforms or firemen carrying a boot they hope to fill for whatever cause they’re trying to fund.

 

Back in town after our break from the winter weather we find cashiers (as they are instructed to do) asking if we’d like to “round up” for the domestic violence shelter, or donate a dollar for juvenile diabetes. In restaurant waitresses are hawking shamrocks that will be signed and posted on the restaurant walls if you donate a dollar.   This is also the season when parents help their kids sell cookies, candy bars, popcorn and assorted gift items by sheepishly leaving the signup sheets in break rooms at every business.

Not to be forgotten in the continuous pitch on the internet of acquaintances who are in “sales”.  These internet entrepreneurs never seem expand their pool of potential customers to anyone other than their Face Book friends list.  “I’m close to my goal on my (fill in the blank) party or order…can’t someone help me out and buy something?”   Electronic panhandling is rampant.  I never thought I’d miss the days when your friends actually invited you to their homes to share punch and cookies so they could guilt you into buying something or booking a “party”, but I do.

My email in-box is filled every day with requests from political parties who “try not to come to our members too often” but seem to overcome that thought on a weekly basis.  I hear daily from deserving programs and hospitals and not so deserving televangelists, from groups sinking wells and building schools in foreign countries and organizations who strive to feed the hungry on our own shores.

 

Snail mail doesn’t suffer any shortage of donation requests either.  Daily I am asked to support the fund raising efforts for wounded veterans, children in poor countries in need of surgery, food, and shelter, abused animals.  Groups trying to save the rain forest or seals or polar bears, also find their way to my mail box with great regularity. 

      

This endless winter will soon be over and the walks and 5K runs, always for a good cause, will begin.  A dollar a mile to help find a cure for any number of dreadful diseases…and watch out for youngsters brandishing “Car Wash!!!” signs who will be charging your vehicle at every turn.

I don’t know if everyone got the idea from the long established campaign of The Salvation Army, an organization I believe does a great deal of good.  Personally, I try to remember to keep change in my purse at Christmas because I suffer an hour long guilt trip every time I pass a bell ringer and fail to contribute. 

   

If I put money into the container on the way into the store I feel I have to explain myself to get out the door if the bell ringer looks over at me as I exit.  “Uh…you got me coming in.  I..uh…I gave the cashier my change”.  I slink away after rummaging through my coat pockets that produce nothing but a lint covered cough drop.  “Really….I gave you money on the way in.”

It probably sounds jaded, but I know a lot of these requests are strictly raising money to support the overpaid infrastructure of the organization.  That is not to say all of these things are run by con artists; but it’s really hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys any more.  I prefer to support local efforts whose results can be documented and, hopefully, witnessed.

 

I am not making light of the needs we have in our country and around the world.    It just seems to me that we pay more than enough in taxes to take much better care of the needs of our citizenry without having to constantly pass the hat. 

As irritating as this constant barrage of arm twisting can be, I will keep contributing to things I believe in and reevaluate them from time to time as the “reach out and touch someone” landscape changes and evolves.

                                                             Life is Good

Chasing a ghost...

Some things are easy to write about…and some things are not.  Sometimes I think it's better to have a moment and not look at it too closely.  It’s taken me eight months to write about this, I’m not certain just why.

Last June Larry and I had a grandson graduating from high school.  On the appointed day we arrived at the high school, trooped into the gymnasium with several hundred other proud parents/grandparents and assorted relatives and proceeded to look for a seat in the bleachers.  I hadn’t been seated in the bleachers for a lot of years…their comfort level has not improved one iota since I was in high school.

The temperature of the gym seemed to go up with every person who entered on this sultry, hot June day.  Finally, as we sat looking for just the right cowlick peeking out from under a purple mortar board, we saw him.  It was a very proud moment to see this young man, so full of promise, stride into the gym and take a seat.

As we sat waiting for the diplomas to be handed out, I looked around just taking in the crowd and looking for familiar faces.  Finally, across the gym I saw one.  My eyes rested on an older man seated just inside the door on a wheeled walker or maybe a transport wheelchair.  The man had a thin, silver comb over.  He wore an ever-present plaid shirt and tan pants.  His white socks and black shoes, also predictable,  completed the outfit.   I could see his white billy-goat whiskers, his silver watch on his left arm, and silver rimmed glasses that he slid down his nose as he read the commencement booklet.  Eventually he looked up and our eyes seemed to lock.  I sat looking for what seemed like forever at my Dad.

I’ve read the phrase “the hair stood up on the back of my neck” before without ever really understanding it…now I did.  My father died seven years ago, and on this far removed June day I’m sitting in a high school gymnasium looking him full in the face.   From a distance…yes…but if this wasn't Pop it had to be his doppelganger.

I had my iPad in my lap.  Switching it on I quickly snapped a picture just to make sure he’d show up…he did. Dragging my fingertips across the screen I "bloomed" the picture and peered at it closely. (what the?.....)   I snapped two more and decided I simply had to go across the gym to see this man close up.  Closing my iPad, I turned to my husband to tell him why I why I would be climbing through this crush to the gym floor and heading out the door.  Before I could do that I looked up and the man was gone.  I had not seen him come in, I did not see him leave, but the spot he occupied just a heartbeat ago was empty.

To say I was shaken would be putting it mildly.  I fought off the urge to get out of that gym and chase the man down; I knew he couldn’t have gotten far with a walker/wheelchair.  Instead, I took a deep, calming breath and decided against it.   I stayed and watched my grandson receive his diploma and toss his cap into the air instead.

I’m not superstitious, and logically I knew that couldn’t be my dad.   The beauty of the whole thing is that, whoever the man was, he gave me a few seconds with my beloved father at an event he would have attended if it were at all possible.  I know that, for just a moment, I was tempted to chase a ghost; I stayed in the bleachers because my Pop wouldn’t have wanted me to miss this for the world.   Maybe...just maybe....he didn't miss it either.

                                                             Life is Good

 

Bear With Me......

 

 

The weather forecast is dire...the two weeks just behind us have been frigid and bleak.  The beauty that one finds in a winter scene has given way to frozen landscape, snow rollers and trees that groan under the strain of their icy burden.  If I sound as if I am sick of winter....I am.

I think for the first time I understand why some animals hibernate.  Bears gorge themselves on berries, plants, and any slower animals they happen upon in preparation.  They pile on a thick layer of fat,  then simply curl up and sleep.   All in all not a bad way to diet.

Although I spent the fall months bulking up as if I were planning a long fast, I have remained awake. In the few hours of watery daylight we seem to eek out at this time of year I feel lethargic at best.   Most mornings it is nearly dark when I leave the house, often it is dark when I return.   By seven pm I feel as if I've been up for days, and my instincts tell me it is time to sleep, sleep, sleep. With the same helpless feelings I experienced fighting  insomnia over the last forty years, I now find myself dealing with a desire to sleep ten hours a day.

It was February of last year when my insomnia left and my desire to hibernate kicked in.  Over my lifetime I have taken herbs, prescription drugs, purchased every shape and size of bed pillow on the market, and tried every kookie thing friends and acquaintances suggested, to help me sleep.  I've put Vicks Vapo Rub on my feet and worn heavy socks to bed.  I've drunk hot milk, hot toddies and eaten pasta before bedtime on the promise that carbs make you sleepy.  I've tried to sleep propped up, flat out, and slightly tipsy....all to no avail.  I was completely resigned to being what I had always been; the woman running on three or four hours sleep every day.

Nothing had changed when we left for vacation last year at this time.  No medicine, no diet changes, no exercise program....nothing was different.  We headed south, and our first night we stayed at a beautiful new hotel.  I admired the lovely room, crawled into what looked like an acre of white linen, and slept like a baby for the first time in a very long time.

The next morning I felt something strange; eventually I realized this foreign feeling was what some people referred to as 'rested'.  I chalked it up to the hotel bed.   It only confirmed what I've always firmly believed....hotel bedding comes straight from heaven and cannot be purchased by mere mortals.

We arrived at our destination and proceeded to enjoy the sun, the sand, and doing nothing.  A couple of days passed before it dawned on me that I had continued to sleep through the night.  I wasn't the first one up to make coffee...and I had missed the sunrise!  What in the world?

That whole vacation time I was afraid to look at my sleeping experience too closely for fear I'd screw it up.  Before I knew it we were heading home...and I seemed to be leaving my insomnia in the rear view mirror.

And so, here I am one year later fighting off my desire to hibernate.  I am convinced I could crawl into bed on October 31st and rub the sleep from my eyes on April 1st.  I no longer get up at two a.m. to write, I don't haunt the internet hoping for a sleepless Facebook friend to chat with.  The only down side I can find is I now have six fewer hours each day to work with. I can live with that.

If I had a clue as to why this change has occurred I would share the wealth with the multitude of women my age who complain of being unable to sleep, or stay asleep, every single night.  I don't have a magic potion...all I have to share with you is the hope that one day you will wake up rested and refreshed.  It may take you a while to identify the feeling....but once you get used to it you'll love it.

I don't try to explain it and I don't question it.  I know my night-prowling insomnia can return whenever it wants to...so I don't look a gift horse (or a hibernating bear) in the mouth.

                                                             Life is Good

Picture This

 

 

 

The best gift I received this past Christmas was some photographs of my grandchildren.  Although I have enough picture frames stashed in the basement to open my own gift shop, I decided I wanted something different.  Without hesitation I jumped on the internet and started looking around.

As my electronic shopping progressed things started opening that I hadn’t clicked on; one of them being the website for Saks Fifth Avenue.   Being the TJ Maxx kind of gal I am I don’t shop Saks very often, but what the heck.  I typed in ‘picture frames’ and was immediately dumped out on the Ralph Lauren items on their site.  Fine with me…I love everything Ralph Lauren does, except the fashion photos with emaciated, ectomorphic females striking impossible poses.  Generally these skinny young lasses are standing in positions that only occur just before your legs go out from under you on an icy sidewalk.  They’re young….they’ll learn…and that’s another column.

My cursor finally arrived at an attractive brown frame.  Scrolling down I discovered it was the “Ralph Lauren, Bennett series, faux (that still means fake, right?) Croc picture frame.  Choose from 5 x 7 or 8 ½ x 11 sizes and this tastefully crafted, imported (that still means made in Japan, doesn’t it?) frame will only set you back from $395.00 to $695.00.  The body of the descriptive copy assured me it ‘exudes modern polish’. 

My mind immediately began to play out the conversation I would have with my husband if a bill arrived for this picture frame…….

He:  “Someone must have stolen our credit card!  There’s a charge on here for seven hundred bucks to Saks Fifth Avenue.”

Me:   “Well, ah……”         

He:  Huh?

Me:  “You remember the terrific pictures we got of the children for Christmas?  I had enough frames for all but one, so I shopped on the internet.”

He:  Ashen faced, “You paid seven hundred dollars for a picture frame?”

Me:  “Not JUST a picture frame. A Ralph Lauren Bennett series faux croc picture frame!  And it’s imported…”

He:  “That still means made in Japan, doesn’t it?”

Me:   “The smaller one was only four hundred dollars, but the picture was too large, so I thought…..”

He:  “You paid seven hundred dollars for a picture frame.”  This time it was not a question, but a tightly controlled statement of fact.

Me:  “They gave me free shipping….”

At this point my day dream stops, because even I can’t imagine what my husband might do next if he discovered a seven hundred dollar picture frame on our charge card.  Let’s just say if you have to explain it, you probably can’t afford it.

                                                                    Life is Good

 

Just Talk to the Bird

I am a great collector of pictures that ‘speak’ to me.  That’s not quite accurate…I am an accumulator, not a collector.  Be that as it may I save pictures that touch my heart and speak to my mind in files on my laptop, on my iPad, in my iPhone.   I squirrel away manila files that have clippings and I have photo albums with pictures that are going to be my future projects or goals I’ve set for myself.  Suffice it to say…I’m a picture hoarder.

Today my iPad warned me that my hoarding has reached critical mass, and I must purge some things or pay the technical consequences.  That started me looking through pictures and this one struck a cord with me……

 

Studying this I wondered why I chose to save this picture?  It's not as if I'm for or against birds….they serve their purpose and I serve my own.  I guess too many of them put me into “Alfred Hitchcock” mode, and I begin to worry that they might swoop down on me.   Twice in my lifetime I’ve had a bird decide to come into the closed dining room window without invitation.   After repeatedly throwing itself against the glass for days on end, the bird finally left…I’m not sure if it was in a birdie rescue squad or not.

So…I studied the picture and, as they always do, it spoke to me.   It said “faith”.  Here is a beautiful creature of nature enjoying a meal for which it neither worked nor paid.  It isn’t carrying a water bottle, a billfold or credit cards, and it isn’t scurrying off to a job.  The bird takes it on faith that there will be another tree or bush with fruit for him to eat.  He knows water will be provided, and he desires nothing more.  The bird obviously lives close enough to nature to know his needs will be met.  I need to take a lesson from this bird.

Each morning as I struggle to my car carrying a heavy assortment of what I have determined to be my daily needs, I know there must be a better way.  In my wheeled laptop case I have my computer for writing.  In one of the side pockets I carry my ipad; another pocket contains all the cords and converters needed to feed power to all of my devices. Over my shoulder the strap of my purse digs in; the weight of my handbag is unbelieveable!  Then I’m also schlepping my lunch bag, which contains enough food to save the Donnor party.  I usually have at least one bottle of water, and into this juggling act I add a travel mug of coffee. 

Between computers and cell phone and daytimer I carry enough electronics to operate the space shuttle, and if I am stranded in a snow drift I have food for at least one uncomfortable, but life sustaining, week.  My enormous handbag contains a dozen or so credit cards stuffed into a billfold large enough to live on its own, at least a months accumulation of unopened mail and sales receipts, and a bag of makeup that I do not use but won’t leave home without.  At any given time I’ve got at least four dollars in paper money and a minimum of seventeen dollars in change lurking at the bottom of the bag.  I also carry tea bags and the brand of artificial sweetner I prefer.  Restaurants generally don’t carry it, but I can never find it in this mess when I need it anyway.

I admire women who carry tiny little purses because I know they have more faith in the world than I do.  Unless I leave the house with all this ‘stuff’ I feel vulnerable and unprepared to deal with life.  I obviously lack the faith that the little bird in the picture has…and I envy him.   I have this abiding understanding that someday all this stuff will come in handy; the never ending scavenger hunt that has become my daily routine will pay off.    

And so, the picture of this lovely bird whispers to me about faith, while my urban survivalist instincts keep me dragging things to and from my car.  But just remember this…if you’re one of those people who goes out into the world totally unprepared and suddenly discovers you’re in desperate need of a colander…just talk to the bird.

                                                                 Life is Good  

 

 

2013 Behind me.....2014 Before me.

I am sitting here at my desk looking at a fresh, new calendar for the year 2014.  There’s not a mark on it…but I’m about to start filling the squares with appointments for doctors, dentists, story interviews and get-togethers that are already scheduled and planned.   As I flip through the pages of the retired and marked up 2013 calendar, notes jump out to remind me about the past twelve months of my life.

Looking at these unmarked pages it occurs to me we all start the New Year with some things in common………

For starters, we all have the human body to deal with.  We have all felt the effects of inflation, but even at today’s prices its elements are only worth about $4.70.   Granted, the condition of this vehicle can vary greatly from person to person.  Still…it’s something we all have.

Assuming you have an average human brain, it is processing 400 billion bits of information a second.   At best you’re only aware of about 2,000 of those bits, and your sense of “reality” is filtered through your sense organs.  Think of your brain as a very sophisticated computer….garbage in, garbage out.    

If we are fortunate enough to live, by the end of 2014 we will each have been given 365 days experienced in split second increments. It’s up to use to determine what we do with those seconds, hours, days, weeks and months.  An organized friend of mine says she reaps all kinds of benefits by taking just two minutes a day to be grateful for this life she has been given.  It must be time well invested, because she gets more done in one day than most of us do in a week.

Another friend insists time somehow expands when she fills some of those calendar squares with regular visits to shut-ins, or plans time to sit with a friend who is sick.  Maybe this could be the year you work your plan to visit a nursing home to read to someone who can no longer do that for himself. Perhaps you could fill just one of those calendar squares each month with a scheduled time to reach out and touch someone else’s life.    

Flipping through the pages of this dog-eared date book I know too many of those days were unproductive because I allowed myself to be bored in a world that offers much, but needs even more help.  This used calendar stares back and holds me accountable in a very definite way.

So, here I sit, looking at this colorful new calendar just waiting to be filled with the day to day events that will become the next year of my life.   Even though life is unpredictable and we may not be able to control the number of days we have to fill, we can control how we fill the days we are given.

I’m not suggesting that the year 2014 should be the year you prepare yourself for sainthood, I know I sure won’t.   What I am suggesting is that we all have certain things in common, and if we take control over those we can do uncommon things.  Fill in some of those dates with things that will bring happy memories as you sit and look at 2014 from the other end of the calendar.

                                                      Happy New Year   

                                                           Life is Good 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's Time to say Merry Christmas!!!!

I have discovered the only way I can manage to have any Christmas spirit to enjoy is to be very protective of it.  This year I did something different; I officially started looking, listening and watching Christmas things on December 13^th.  It’s taken some effort, but I think I’ve pulled it off quite nicely, thank you very much!

Since October I have been avoiding displays of Christmas decorations.  This certainly hasn’t been achieved without some real effort…I’ve done it by putting on my shopping blinders and not looking too far to my right or left.  I have dodged displays of the M & M’s characters wearing Christmas hats…Budweiser Clydesdales dancing to Christmas music…and the Grinch leering at me from cardboard cut outs stationed with various and sundry products. 

Recording anything you care to watch and fast forwarding through the commercials is a great way to avoid early Christmas burn out as well.  I don’t know when anything is on…and I can never catch part two of anything…but I have missed all the expensive cars with bows around them…the “as seen on TV” ads for stretchy bras and two hundred foot long garden hoses that you can carry in a match box.  I have also tuned out of the home shopping networks and the Christmas shows that started on November first.  The first Christmas thing I watched was the Celtic Women show on PBS last week.  I was humming Christmas music for a couple of days after that.

I hate to break this news to all the big broadcast companies but…the surprise is over.  Knowing what is coming I’ve turned off my radio.  The war to see who can get 24 hour Christmas music started first has probably been fought in every market…and I don’t care.  When I worked in radio and was forced to listen to Christmas music for eight solid weeks I was ready to bludgeon anyone who wished me “Merry Christmas” by the time it actually rolled around.  Too much of a good thing is….well, too much.

We still get the Sunday paper at our house, so for two months the first thing I’ve done is pull all the “Christmas Giving” sale papers out and toss them in the trash.  Two weeks before Christmas is time enough to look at that stuff, too.

In my sincere efforts to not become a “Christmas Curmudgeon” I have likely missed some good sales…probably missed some Christmas programs that were not too bad…and definitely missed the “After Christmas Sales” that started in mid-December.  But you know what?  I have a healthy Christmas spirit because I haven’t used it all up trying to fend off advertising and premature celebration of an event that should be cherished.  I’ve said “Merry Christmas” and meant it…and I am going to be this protective of my Christmas spirit every year from here on out because it works for me.

Now that I’ve confessed to having become a bit reclusive about my holidays I do have to admit I may have overlooked something.  On the way into work this morning I heard Silent Night done to a calypso beat.  When did that happen?

                                     Merry Christmas to all…and to all a good night.

                                                             Life is Good

 

The Duck Hunters

 

Of all the things I am totally sick of, and there are too many to count at this point, the media set-ups and all the corresponding drama has got to be near the top of the list.

Today it is the Duck Dynasty debacle.  I have never seen the show and nothing I’ve seen on the news makes me want to change that fact.  I do not know the name of the long bearded, head banded, Willie Nelson look alike they’ve shown on the web today.  He has also shown up in my email on “support whatshisname” posters for a couple of days now.  He is the latest in a long line of victims in the media shooting gallery…I don’t envy him.

What is the media “shooting gallery” you might ask?  It is the entertainment/news hybrid that now passes for news/information in our society.   This machine selects candidates from a long list of people who are ‘out there’ in the public eye.  The stronger they are in their belief systems, the better target they make.

Enter the long bearded, head banded, Willie Nelson look alike that produces duck calls somewhere in the Deep South.  He and his clan (from what I’ve gleaned only in passing) are very wealthy, very hairy, and very opinionated.  In this instance, I gather they are born again Christians who make no apologies for their beliefs.  The clan is promoted in a reality TV show that showcases their ability to grow hair and produce duck calls…all wrapped up in their box of family values with a big red religious bow on top.

Now….here comes the fun part!!  You get the long bearded leader an interview with one of the hip and sophisticated writers of a trendy magazine.  Can you feel the fun beginning to build??   The bearded man is who he is, and the cagey interviewer knows exactly who he is talking to.  It doesn’t take a lot of figuring to know if you ask this man a direct question he will give you a direct answer.  After all, you’ve gone to their home to make fun of them and show everyone what these plain talking, backwoods hicks look like, right?  This is your opportunity to create something bigger than just a one-time interview, so you ask direct questions you know this man cannot (and will not) back away from.   It’s a short walk to use that answer to stir up a big old controversy that will sell magazines, fill news casts, enrage and outrage a good segment of the population, and make even more Americans afraid to answer a direct question honestly.

These set ups are manufactured by a drama hungry media that has no respect, no sympathy and no conscience.  They love to create these tempests in a tea pot to fill air time and print space.  It really doesn’t matter if the storm is about race, sexual orientation, politics or something else…it all sells.

It’s sad to say, but with each one of these we lose a little more freedom of speech and a little more control over our lives.  We could all do well to live our lives with more dignity and fewer “my way or the highway” thoughts about our fellow man.  I am completely disinterested in what the bearded fellow had to say about his religious beliefs (to which he is entitled, by the way) but I am dismayed by the fact that he is being punished for saying it. 

There will always be disagreements about religion…there will always be rights to fight for and changes that need to be made in this and every society.  Our precious freedom of speech has already been fought and paid for with the blood of our ancestors.  That right gives any bone head, whether he/she is gay, straight, white, black, Christian or atheist, the right to speak out and speak up.  It’s a double edged sword…but it is a righteous one.  

This country desperately needs a hero; someone who can promote the dialog between groups without seeking the spotlight or worrying about producing advertising revenues.  I haven’t seen anyone like that in a long, long time.     

                     In the worlds of the late Rodney King, “Why can’t we all just get along?”

Little Things.

Little Things....

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 are 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 in the washer. The steady stream of hot water was leaking from 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 they arrived.

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 off panels and pulled out parts,  removing things I didn’t even 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!”

Rolling over my dad showed me the two Mercury head dimes he held in the palm of his hand. They had somehow gotten into the pump, tumbling around in the water so long the copper edges now formed a copper ring around each dime.

I ' m proud to say I inherited 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 deep inside the machine until the patch dried. In no time my little turquoise washer was as good as new. I thought my Pop could fix anything….or at least I always knew he’d try. Nothing was really broken till he ran out of duct tape, and while the fix might not be pretty, it was still a fix.

I held on to the tumbled 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. Now 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; I sat 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 cranky washing machine pump that day.  I recounted 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……without opening his eyes 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 often we don’t see for the big things they actually are.   Do yourself a favor, slow down and learn to embrace the small things before they become memories.

                                                                          Life is Good