SCATTERED RESOLVE

The New Year 2010 is looming, and I’ve been thinking. People who know me know just how dangerous this can be, and they get out of my way to miss the flying debris.

As I do daily, I wake to a new determination and declaration of an old new sense of values that inevitably wanes as the day, month and/or year progresses, as I get side tracked with the tedium of daily living. I remind myself that there are no big deals in life except for the miracle of life itself. No strife for me, as I remind myself that I can regroup and start my day over at any time of day I choose, with a new determination and declaration of an old sense of…

Sometimes, that’s how my day goes; derailing and getting back on track. That’s hardly a large accomplishment by some standards. But it is for me, by virtue of the fact that I get back on at all. There some days when I just shrug, and forget that I’ve wandered off course and need to get back to what I’ve set out to do. A number of things can distract me; a phone call, having a light bulb come on in my head for a new story, and rushing to my computer to get a tag on it. Or it might have just been to get something out to thaw for the evening meal, or simply taking a break. If I don’t get back on track, I will follow the stray course aimlessly, and feel at the end of the day that I had failed. Nothing was accomplished. What an awful feeling to end the day with. I needed to get my main objective back in my sights. It might have been something with a long term goal…something to aim for. Whatever the case, I constantly get off course, and at one point, I didn’t seem to care. However, it makes a big difference to me at this point in my life.

I do the very same thing in the yard. The yard itself is an overwhelmingly huge, and a daunting task that is constantly demanding attention. If I don’t have a plan, I will get sidetracked by something in the outer parameters that needs attention. If a flowerbed needs cleaning out, I will see something close by that needs trimming, and before you know it, I’ve moved down the entire side of the yard trimming, but not getting the flowerbed cleaned out. Before I am aware of it, I’ve started yet another huge project that one cannot possibly finish in one day and I did not achieve what I had set out to do. Therefore, my main goal has been thwarted. I suppose I need to wear blinders and carry a list on a string around my neck.

On a good day…that is, when there are no interruptions, I will forge through my self assigned task with the determination of an ant readying for the winter. Upon finishing the project, I pat myself on the back, shower, eat and fall into bed feeling the satisfaction of having completed the task. It’s a good feeling, and I almost always wake the next morning with that same good feeling of accomplishment. I’m then free to map out another project. These days just don’t happen very often. It’s an occasion to celebrate …out to eat and all.

House cleaning is a different matter. On “scattered” days, I will jump into a task with that same determination that I need to get started on a yard project…no plan at hand. As I wade into the middle of a mired mess I get totally overwhelmed and start picking through the debris to be moved, tossed or given away. Groan! What am I supposed to do with all this crap? If it’s mine, I can usually make a decision to toss or give away. If it’s not mine it's a different story. Thus; I have devised my “wandering figure eight” method of placing or redistributing the items that don’t belong. Lately, I’ve added a small laundry basket to toss things in that belong elsewhere. I simply start in a room that I’d planned to clean, tossing items in the basket that need to be elsewhere. When the basket is full, I move to the next room, placing items from the basket where they belong in that room and placing other items in the basket that need to be in other rooms; then move on to the next room mapped out in my figure eight. And so on through out the house until I’m back in the room where I started. After that, say, I need to dust or vacuum. That’s an easy one. There’s only one thing at a time to drag around with me in my figure eight. Dusting comes first, then starting over with vacuuming. Bathrooms are all together a different matter. That requires that I carry a small bucket with bathroom cleaning items in it, from one bathroom at a time. In the bucket are paper towels, rags, bathroom cleaner, toilet bowl cleaner and a scrubbing broom for the sunken shower. By the way, I’ve vowed never to even consider a house with a sunken tub again.

Cooking is also a different matter, but I’ve devised a plan that will eliminate the problem of leaving out a vital ingredient. I simply do what they do on cooking shows, lining everything up that I could possibly need to use, as well as a page magnifier for the directions on putting the ingredients together. I have been known to put the horse before the cart a number of times. For some reason, though, the cooking seems much more logical, and comes much easier than cleaning house. Perhaps it’s because I get to taste as I move along from step to step.

It’s the big stuff that really throws me off; you know, like big closets full of old clothes, Christmas decorations not used in 20 years, and those horrible drawers in the kitchen and other rooms that are designated as “valuable shit” drawers. Sorry if the term is as offensive as the drawers are. I cannot think of a more apt description. There are things like old booklets and warranties for things we no longer own, twisties, rubber bands, tack hammers, loose screws, dried up Super Glue and single shoe laces. These drawers literally bulge with “valuable shit”.

Here is where the logic comes in. Using such things as a reward is sometimes futile. So, I’ve decided that I would truly feel much more like completing a task in a timely fashion if I go ahead and take the reward beforehand. This will require a great deal of concentration and resolve on my part. I’ll have to have a plan. As a pre project incentive, I can pick something out that I’ve wanted to do, like go get a pedicure, or go have lunch with a friend. The logic in this is that it’s really an incentive, and the real reward comes after the completion of the task. It’s the wonderful feeling of having completed something that has always been so daunting. Get my drift?

So, the plan is in place to begin immediately after ringing in the New Year. This is going to be The Year of Completing Projects. 2010, here I come!

As I do daily, I wake to a new determination and declaration of an old new sense of values that inevitably wanes as the day, month and/or year progresses, as I get side tracked with the tedium of daily living. I remind myself that there are no big deals in life except for the miracle of life itself. No strife for me, as I remind myself that I can regroup and start my day over at any time of day I choose, with a new determination and declaration of an old sense of…

MY VERY OWN GRINCH

Actually, he’s a very sweet Roy-Grinch, and I can see his frustration with this season, but I don’t know why he can’t just suck it up! I guess that, combined with our advancing age, ills and temperaments it causes this frustration that comes with the Christmas season, particularly the commercialism that has taken over. After all, it’s only once a year thing, and we’ve honed this gift giving thing down to a fine art. Besides, don’t we give these things because we want to share good cheer and good will of the season with the people we love? Have we lost the message in the madness?

Try to see this season in a positive light. The older we get, the more we can get away with. I, myself, will be first to tell a clerk, “Merry CHRISTMAS!” in advance of their “Happy Holidays” offering. This throws them off. I can be a bit of a bully at times. I just look them straight in the eye and say it very clearly; at which time some of them cast their eyes down, and glancing side to side, saying under their breath, “You too.” We don’t have to guess that their store managers have instructed them to say “Happy Holidays” instead of making any reference at all to CHRISTMAS, as it could possibly offend customers that do not observe our Christmas celebration. Bah! And Humbug! to them if they can’t take the heat. I’ve never seen anyone go off on a clerk for saying “Merry Christmas” to a customer. Most, though, do reply back with a hearty “Merry Christmas to you, too!”

Over they years, I seem to have developed the Little Red Hen attitude, I have been giving myself first billing on all cards and gifts, as my special Roy-Grinch is not the one who wraps, decorates, bakes, mails gifts to all the grands and cleans the house in preparation of the upcoming Christmas celebration. He usually takes one big shopping trip with me to buy gifts. The rest of his shopping is done piece meal, and none of my business. Granted, he did get the tree out of the rafters in the garage, and he generously contributes his share of $$’s to the Christmas cause. He has actually wrapped gifts to me to stick under the tree in the living room. He points them out and dares me to touch or, God forbid, damage any of the wrapping. “NO PEEKING!!!!!” He says. "And stay out of my closet!" Geeeeeeezzzzze what-a-Grinch!

The grandkids are getting a little harder to buy for, as their interests change with every inch of growth. But, it so much fun to go to the toy department and actually play with some of the toys, and see what new fangled contraptions toy companies have come up with to entertain these smart kids. I’ve finished baking cookies and other homemade libations to mail to our grandchildren. Actually, I got it all mailed today! I’m nearly done with the shopping. Just a few more items to pick up, and I’m waiting for the arrival of a special order. There are stocking stuffers and some birthday items that I need to pick up, as my special Roy-Grinch is having a birthday just before Christmas. What a bummer! But, he doesn’t even carp or fuss about it being so close to Christmas. In fact, he just doesn’t mention it. For that he gets extra points.

Yesterday, I finally dragged the “pre-lit-tree-with-no-lights-on-it” out of the garage and assembled it in the living room. Last year I gave up on trying to keep the lights working on it and ripped them all off. I didn’t like the “Retro-multicolored lights” that were on it anyway. The Grinch bought two boxes of 300 white mini-lites for it without even batting an eye. Give the Roy-Grinch some good points. It’s actually going to be a pretty tree. He also built a wooden stand to put it on, so it would be even taller and we could fit more presents under it.

While I was fluffing out the branches of the un-pre-lit tree, our dog Hank started pacing and drooling. For some reason, the tree made him nervous. I guess old farts just don’t like change. After a bit, he started walking under the branches and actually scratching his back on them. The tree teetered dangerously, so I removed the tree from the wooden stand. Hey! It looks better that way, and Hank quit passing under it to scratch his back. He actually settled down to watch me finish assembling it. I left it that way for Roy-Grinch to see before putting lights on it. Again, he didn’t bat an eye at my decision to not use the wooden box stand. More points in his favor.

I know that I’m going to be decorating this tree myself, as it is the Roy-Grinche’s own tradition to just watch. When I’m done, he will put a single ornament in place on the tree, and we will turn on the tree lights and turn off the living room lights. We will sit on the couch, holding hands, to admire our beautiful little Christmas tree … my hero, our dog and me. He really is my hero, even if he’s a bit of a Grinch once a year. We are ready for Christmas and whatever it brings. There will be Peace on Earth and good will to spread with my hero the Good-Grinch, our good dog, Hank and me.
BRING IT!

STILL CLUTTERED AFTER ALL THESE YEARS - Different Stuff.

Ever take a good look at the items on your nightstand? What was on my night stand 20 years ago….maybe 40 years ago? Take an inventory yourself and then compare it to what was there 40 years ago. What lurks on the kitchen table, kitchen counter, and on the bathroom sink, and God forbid, in the medicine cabinet? It’s certainly not the same. Good science fiction is made of this stuff.

I’m aiming this at myself and my Baby Boomer peers. As I dusted around all the stuff on my nightstand, I thought about how things have changed over the many years. Among other things, there has always been the pair of reading glasses and a box of tissue. Many things have been added over the years. I know this, because it’s more difficult to move everything to dust…when I get around to it. Each time I dust, I gather up most of the stuff and put it into one of the three drawers below. Each time I go to dust, there it is again, out on top of the nightstand for the world to see.

On my nightstand, a stack of books to read has always been there, reading glasses, a box of tissue, my inhaler, eye drops, Mentholatum, Halls Lozenges, a saline solution nose spray, nail file, hand/body lotion, a note pad, a pad of Post-Its, a pencil, a pen and a white-out pen (for the daily crossword in the newspaper), and a plastic bag of doggie treats. I’d say that’s a far cry from what anyone of my generation would have had on their nightstand 40 years ago; and I daresay that what’s there now is pretty similar to most of my Boomer peers. I didn’t mention the remote control, and/ or the phone, as they’re not always there. Those are community items.

On my kitchen table, there is a pair of reading glasses, a large spiral notebook with a pencil stuck in the spine; one of those nice thick spirals with four partitions for semesters, I guess. With the pencil, I’ve divided each page into quarters as I go along. Each quarter is one day. On each quarter is a list of things to do, look up, research, oil change, things to get at the store and people to contact. And, most important, doctor, dental and eye exam appointments. As I turn the pages, it seems to get more complicated. There are Post-Its added on each page; notes of my notes. This is because while I do figure eights through the house, cleaning as I go, I keep a Post-It pad on me with a pencil behind my ear. I’m afraid I’ll forget to do or buy something vital. Today, I have to buy Antioxidants, my Spiriva, a toilet tank arm with chain for the master bathroom, and a few items at the grocery store. As I go along, I write down new items or chores that need to be done. I slap them down on the designated day in my big spiral. That’s a pretty good system, that admittedly, I took the idea from my #2 daughter. But, as I recall, there was a time when I didn’t need to make a list.

On my kitchen counter is a recipe book standing in a wooden holder that the Royster made for me many years ago, a pair of reading glasses, a box of tissue, on the tea cart, a huge canister of Metamucil, tomatoes in the window to be turned every other day, my beloved stereo in the window above the sink. I didn’t mention that there are various decorative items (dust catchers) in the window. Everyone has them…don’t they?

Today, I have various cleaning items lined up on the counter to remind me that there is dust that needs tending to. Usually, I just write my name or a message in the dust and go on to the really obvious stuff. However, my ceiling fans look like they’re all wearing angora sweaters. It has worked in the past to just leave the fans on 24/7. But, as I walked into the living room last week to discover what looked like little caterpillars on the carpet. Hank was giving them a curious look. Upon investigating, I discovered that they were nice thick two inch long pieces of dust. The fan had just been flinging little pieces off. I turned off the ceiling fan and studied on how to get the dust off the fan 24’ up in the air. Several years ago, The Royster devised an extended cane fishing pole with a feather duster at the end. It’s his invention, so I’ll let him use it. I know I’ll have a clean up to do after he’s done.

On the bathroom sink counter, is a small freestanding cabinet that I insisted on to help keep the clutter on the sink counter corralled. It worked beautifully for a week. The Royster hates the cabinet, even though he performed the “some assembly required” task. The clutter keeps spilling out of the cabinet onto the counter. There does seem to be the alternative of built in sliding door cabinets under the vanity mirror. That doesn’t seem to be an option right now. I just put the overflow in the medicine cabinet or under the sink.

Where does it all come from? It just seems to mate and propagate! We always open the medicine cabinet slowly, to avoid getting conked on the head by something falling out. There are all kinds of OTC remedies, patches, salves ointments and sprays for joint pain along various other OTC pain relievers. If one is bad for your liver, the other is bad for your kidneys. According to doctors who care about us, we Boomers are supposed to use the Tylenol exclusively. That’s the one that’s bad for your kidneys. I guess you can get a spare kidney easier than you can get a spare liver. Vitamins take up a great deal of space, and prescription meds for the both of us do end up on the sink ….where we can see them and remember to take them. Both of us try to keep the prescription stuff down to a minimum, though our dentist has prescribed a pain reliever “to have on hand”. That has been “on hand” long enough that it might be time to throw it out and start over. Neither of us likes to take pain medication, as it’s terribly constipating. I did not mention various pots and jars of miracle lotions and creams and make-up because it’s a given. Besides, I try to keep all that corralled in the cabinet. No sense in giving away all my beauty secrets.

In the “water closet” on the back of the toilet; matches, candles, reading glasses, and a small waste basket with various reading material stacked on it and a box of baby wipes off to the side. Don’t ask. If I didn’t say Preparation H, it’s because I know someone else will say it.

Finally, I’m embarrassed to say that this stuff has been haunting counters and nightstands long enough that I cannot for the life of me remember what used to be there. Someone please remind me. Was there ever room for a small plate of cookies?

COMFORTABLE IN THE BRIAR PATCH

The discussion was about being on Facebook, playing games and/or taking up a hobby like researching ones own genealogy; and how much of a waste of time it was or was not.

My friend said, “I just don’t do that stuff….It’s such a waste of time.” … and … “I, I … just can’t allow myself to do that. I just don’t have the time!”

I wasted no time with a retort. “You’re retired, you love to communicate, you text and you’re having a second awakening! Who told you that you can’t take up a hobby, communicate with friends from the past or play?”

I know for a fact that this friend is retired, frets, worries and texts. Could renewing an old talent, an old friendship, opening new avenues to communication, or playing games be any more a waste of time than worrying, fretting and texting? And, who said it was a waste of time? Is it not creative, informative and fun? Granted some of these games are like crack cocaine to some of us. All of these thoughts brought me to thoughts of the human psyche, and how we can fashion statements to ourselves and apply them, just to keep us in a self imprisoning comfort zone. I don’t think that we were originally (genetically) wired for comfort, but more probably we were wired for challenge and survival, and not necessarily in that order.

Is there anyone out there that doesn’t have a comfort zone in the most inhospitable places of their psyche? A place where, no matter how inconvenient, financially draining, painful or sad, a person can find more alleged comfort in that place than they would find making a change or a shift to a spot more encouraging, happy, spiritually uplifting and infinitely more affable and fitting. This is the place where we hide, locked in from everyone else in a place to cry, mourn, grieve, struggle and wallow in self pity. And yet, we seem to be happy there. How utterly uninspiring. Therapists call this a Comfort Zone. I call it my Briar Patch.

It doesn’t matter what our comfort zone/briar patch is made up of. It’s an excuse. It could be holding back from applying for the job that could be, putting off getting on a healthier way of life, putting off setting money aside for savings, keeping to yourself and never joining anything, not reconnecting with old friends or not taking up an old love such as art, reading or writing. It is still squandering all your time so that there is never any left for anything that would get us out of there. Whatever it is, we’re all sealed up in our own little world, closing our eyes to the possibilities and potentialities that are right there in front of us. If we don’t go “out there”, then we can’t be turned down, hurt or left out. No challenges for sure!

As I said before, virtually everyone has one of these Comfort Zones that we are in and out of. We are just not aware of the subtle change from being in the real world to snuggling in your own misery. We feel safe there. (And, I do like to refer to mine as my Briar Patch.) Hmmmm … Very odd indeed. Why do we find this place comfortable? It just doesn’t make any sense at all. The answer is as odd as the question itself. Fear … Fear of making a change, or taking a risk, that would change things. The genuine (but irrational) fear that if we take a step out of that “safe” place, that we might fail, or even worse, that we might succeed; and if we did happen to succeed, then possibly we might be expected to succeed again and again. Practice makes perfect, so it seems logical that we’d want to come on out of there and succeed until we get it right. But no. We use every measure of procrastination available to stay in our “comfort zone / briar patch”, never to be all we could be.

What if …… God forbid ….. we should step outside this little space we have confined ourselves to? What then would take place in our world? And, what if we should find that we hate it? What if we decide we like it? Are we so pig-headed that we just want to prove a point? Or, are we so insecure in our own abilities that we can’t believe for a second that we could actually enjoy success of one kind or another.

Let’s say we decide to be brave and come out of there and rock the boat, shake things up a bit! What would happen? Brer Bear and Brer Fox might certainly be after us. But, we have out run them before. We can do it again. And in the meantime, we are running towards something else … something like a goal. I have heard that you’re only a failure if you give up. Isn’t giving up just not trying? In hiding in that Comfort Zone, or Briar Patch, aren’t we then doomed to failure because the only thing we are trying to do is stay in there? It would be logical to assume that if we don’t come out of there, then we are setting ourselves up to fail, so we don’t have to take a chance.

COME OUT OF THERE THIS INSTANT! Come out and meet the challenges you are meant to meet. Come out of there and live a longer and happier life!

Well, I can say I am truly inspired by my own pep talk! That's why I'm still sitting here in my pajamas at my computer at 9:00 a.m. Actually .... I'm out of here!

WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE….. Recently

This year, our annual off-season vacation took us to see Bryce Canyon and Zion. The canyons along the Utah and Arizona border are a series of elevated steps on a Grand Geologic Staircase. I’d never thought of it that way.

Our vacation started out with the usual list of things for me to pack. After The Royster booked airlines, vehicles and accommodations, I lined up our suitcases in the living room and started tossing various items in the bags, crossing items off the list as I go. Bear in mind, that it wouldn’t be a real vacation if I didn’t forget something. This time I didn’t forget anything … I don’t think, but I did pack the wrong down vest for The Royster. It used to be his, but he outgrew it over a period of 40 years. Suffice to say, it was an unpleasant surprise. But, I had mine! As it turned out, I could not get everything in the suit cases, no matter how hard I tried. We were to leave early Thursday morning. Something had to be done. So, I kenneled our dog, Hank, and headed out to buy larger piece of luggage. Hiking boots take up a lot of room, as do coats and sweatshirts.

We flew out to Las Vegas, picked up our rent car and found a Wal-Mart. We bought an ice chest and food for our stay in a log cabin. Our first destination was Panguitch, Utah. We loaded up the car and then headed for Utah. And, though we had been in Utah two or three times before, I’d never heard of Panguitch until The Royster booked our accommodations there. It was a log cabin, built in 1863, was restored and added to. The location was out in the middle of nowhere … a ranch. There is a main house, and three cabins. Ours was the smaller, older one … very quaint, indeed. Everything we would need was furnished. All we needed to bring was food and clothing.


When we got there, we dragged in our massive luggage and started looking around. It was perfect! The view was beautiful, and our cabin backed up to the horse pasture. The bed room was upstairs in the loft. There was a small furnished kitchen with dining area, a bathroom, and a living room with a fireplace. What more could we ask for? I looked around the living room and noticed that there was no television.

“Hey! There’s not a T.V. down here! Guess it’s upstairs in the bedroom.” I said.

“Nope, it’s not.” Said The Royster, leaning over the railing from upstairs.

So much for our T.V. habit of morning and evening news, CNN and Bloomberg, sports and the Discovery channels. And how on earth would be wake up in the morning without the news automatically coming on?

About that time, our hostess trotted up to the back door to see that we were comfortable. I mentioned that there was no T.V. She said that being the rustic cabin that it was, they decided that the theme should continue that way with no T.V. It was the only cabin that didn’t have one. FINE! We’d just have to read, play games and talk to each other. And, actually, it wasn’t so bad. We did read, talk and played some Farkle. After all, most of our time was spent going to Bryce Canyon and surrounding sites of interest. I think that to make up for our disappointment in not having a T.V., our hostess brought us freshly baked chocolate chip cookies daily while we were there. That helped a lot. One day she brought zucchini bread. There were three horses and a filly that we fed apples and pears to ... more new BFFE's.

Also, during our stay in the cabin, we were graced with a visit almost every morning by a beautiful Golden Lab named Jesse. He would show up at breakfast, just waiting at the door (no barking included) to be invited in. He would politely go sniffing around in the kitchen, including the garbage; no action was taken there, then the living room. He would sit and wait to be given a morsel left over from breakfast, and then help himself to a nice spot in front of the fire place. We totally ate this up. What a wonderful new friend! When we were checking out to head to Zion, our host said, “What a con-dog! He’s not allowed in the house!” I guess we’re just suckers for that kind of thing, because we missed our own con-dog, Hank. In addition to that, we were treated to about 20 turkeys marching across the pasture behind our cabin.

Bryce Canyon was just plain awesome! It’s hard to believe that all of that was formed by wind, and water. The Steps, being The Grand Canyon, Zion, and Bryce, took 200 million years to form. We walked and climbed on various levels of Bryce, going back and forth to each station to catch specific formations with the sun shining just right. While The Royster took pictures, I made two new best friends. Ravens are very smart, and they can pick out a sucker in a large crowd from a mile away. Two of them, a male and a female, spotted “the cracker lady” immediately. I was willing, too! I found them to be very friendly, and even gentle. You wouldn’t think they’d be gentle, but the female, (being the larger of the two) just hopped up beside me as though she was going to take my hand off, and then very gingerly plucked the morsel from my fingers. They were soon showing up at each station just as we arrived, taking turns receiving the host of Ritz Crackers. There was one raven that just let everyone that drove up know that he owned that spot by pecking loudly on the fender of whichever car that he decided was in violation of a parking rule.

The rock formations, or Hoo Doos were awe inspiring. They were many and varied, depending on the location. My favorites were in the Devil’s Garden. This one is located about a 16.5 mile drive down Hole-in-the-Rock Road. It’s a dirt road from Escalante Rte. 12. You can just wander around, look and climb. It’s not a really big area, but non-the-less, extremely inspiring. The rock formations are smooth, and just very appealing to look at.


We moved on to Zion, in Springdale, Utah; staying at the Bumbleberry Inn. The room was a generous size and the view was a spectacular red mountain seen off our balcony. We dumped our luggage and sat on the balcony to relax and enjoy the view. After a moment, we realized that immediately behind our unit was a farm at the bottom of the mountain. There was a really well built duck pond with about 18-20 mallard ducks swimming. I thought it was odd that there were three gorgeous roosters pecking around in the grass in the same enclosure. One of the ducks would quack a “statement”, at which all the others would chime in. To me, it sounded as though one of them had just told a joke that the others found uproariously funny. After they finished their dip in the pond, the ducks all assembled in a spot in the sun to dry and preen. After a few moments, the three roosters joined them. This seemed to be a set routine. The roosters started prancing around the pond, followed by all of the ducks, in a single file. Hmmmm … a duck parade, led by three very colorful roosters. What a sight! Sorry … was so entranced that I didn’t get a picture of it.

That was the beginning of our entertainment in Zion. The first really good picture we got was a picture of a big horn sheep at the east entrance to the park. We just happened to stop at the right place at the right time, because there just aren’t a whole lot of them there, and only on the east side of the park. He appeared to be fairy young by the size of his horns. It’s just plain baffling how they just trot horizontally across the face of a steep mountain.

Zion Park is different from Bryce Canyon, whereas you just drive from station to station in Bryce. In Zion, you take a bus from your hotel to the park at no cost. Springdale is so small that besides parking at your hotel, there just isn’t any parking. Once you got to the park, you would take another bus. This time, you could get off at any of about six stops to wander and investigate, hike and/or climb all you want; depending on your physical condition and/or desire to exert a lot of energy … or not until the park closes. Buses run until about 9 p.m. We certainly did our share of hiking, but declined the rock climbing and the longest paths. There were rock climbers that we saw on the straight up and down faces of the mountains. When they walked through the park, they clinked with all their climbing gear. The Royster and I decided that neither of us needed that kind of adrenalin rush. Hmmmm ….. possibly in another life … Nah!

We did manage to see the Emerald Pools, Hanging Gardens and the River Hike along the Virgin River. The river hike was long enough, but at the point where the canyon narrows, you had to walk 97% in the water. Since it was cold enough, being in October, we declined that part. We noticed one brave couple forging on to wade through the cold water into the narrows. There is a big-screen movie to watch about the ancients that lived there and what they used these narrows for. It was very interesting. There was a clay pot of corn on display that was found in tact, and estimated to be at least 1000 years old. Mostly, we did our own investigating, climbing and hiking.

Towards the end of our stay there, we were driving along one leg of the road on the East side. You had to go into a tunnel through a mountain. That ride is over 1.5 miles. That ride alone is awesome. By-the-way, there are big windows through out the tunnel for ventilation.

As we drove along on the east entrance road, we would stop to get out and investigate. At one place, the rock was smooth, colorful and inviting. We stopped to snoop around. Roy immediately climbed down and found a narrow canyon to wander through. I can’t really explain the feeling you get when you walk through one of these. Awesome is good, but it would be more a spiritual experience. As I was following his voice from above, I spied an opening that can only be described as a cave. How did he miss that? I directed him, via voice, to that opening, and followed his voice. I kept asking Roy how far he was in the tunnel, as his voice kept getting further and further away. The Royster said he kept taking pictures in the dark so that he could see where he was going. Eventually, after a curve in the tunnel, he reached the other end, which came out on the other side of the road. I was chomping at the bit to climb down, and finally found a place were there was less chance of breaking my neck. After a bit of climbing, and delicate foot purchases, I made it down there, and we walked through the narrow canyon, and then we went to the cave. It was man made, but still … our footprints were the only human footprints there. This is where NO MAN HAS GONE … recently. It dawned on me after the fact that we had been trouncing around there as though we lived there; not bothering to watch were we were plodding along. The rattle snake is the only venomous snake there, and they were still out, looking for their places of hibernation. Believe me! I certainly paid more attention after that realization.

If it was not for the fact that there is still so much to see here in our U.S.A., we would make a return trip. Maybe we will anyway. You certainly could not see all of it in just eight days. The land outside the parks is beautiful, but the parks hold a special magic and spirituality, giving a person a feeling of reverence. Yup! I’d definitely go there again.

CURSE OF THE PURSE

It’s a given. The All American Girl/Woman loves to buy shoes and purses. I do love shoes, and have written a long dissertation about having to clean out my closet, and part with some of the shoe collection that I had acquired over the years. I don’t know of any woman who easily gives up any of her beloved shoes. I did end up keeping some that, if not in style, will soon be back. It is also assumed that all women also love purses, and that they (we) keep a large horde of purses in the closet at all times; one to match each pair of shoes.

Purses are burdensome luggage. I have a sister that doesn’t carry a purse. She doesn’t even carry cash. She carries whatever card she intends to use in her pocket, along with her keys, and a lip gloss. I don’t really like carrying all that stuff around with me, but I find myself doing just that; carrying around a bunch of stuff that I don’t need. Maybe I thought I needed it when I stuck it in there. When was the last time I came rushing forward in an emergency with an item that happened to be in my purse? Never, would be the answer to that. I find myself carrying a purse that can carry a cell phone, wallet, check book, credit cards, a bag within that purse of make-up repair items, comb, brush, small hair spray, possibly a small curling iron, hand sanitizer, hand lotion, chewing gum, cough drops, Pro-Air inhaler, a dozen assorted pens, a measuring tape, a compass (now really!), receipts from everywhere I’ve been in the past month, and wads of unused tissue that I thought I might need. Well it started out neatly folded and ready for any sneeze. This is not to mention all of the “crumbs” at the bottom of the purse, like safety pens, paper clips, wadded gum wrappers, and who knows what else. How did I ever fit a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in there back when I smoked? What was next ….. a pint of…oh, well never mind.

Every year, I decide that I need to pare down to a size that only carries barest essentials. Those little crocheted bags called The Sack are great. What a great start for the New Year. They are light, and it keeps me from loading unnecessary items into it that just won’t fit. The only make up I find I use during any busy day is lipstick…No, I take that back. I mostly use my Burt’s Bees lip balm. That’s even better. This is perfect. Only taking what I’ll need for the day requires that I think every morning, before leaving the house, about where I’ll be at any time during the day, and what I will need. The givens are, keys, cash, driver’s license, health insurance card, pen, perhaps one check, maybe a credit card, a couple of cough drops, inhaler, cell phone, and a pen. That should do it. There is a box of tissue in the truck. I’m all set.

This works for a while, but there are occasions where I will require a few more items, like when we went boating with friends a few weeks ago. Of course I would need sun screen, hair brush, face moisturizer, and some “enhancement” items, possibly some deodorant, a change of clothes. Okay, I got a big bag out and added all those items, and then just popped my little purse inside that. STOP! This is just what I’ve been trying to avoid, but it’s only for a day on the lake. After we got home after a day of boating, I dumped my huge bag in the chair in the kitchen, where it remained for the rest of the week end, only taking the small purse out to carry to the store a time or two.

And so, it started all over again with that burdensome baggage that the All American Girl/Woman carries around. The next week, I found myself loading the whole thing in the back seat of my truck to go to the store, and then just taking the little sack in with me. You never know when you will need a fresh change of clothes or sun screen after having cruised around in Kroger for 30 minutes.

We are taking our fall vacation to Utah in a couple of weeks. Needless to say I’m really stoked about it. My fashion sense has kicked in, as it does on rare occasions. I simply cannot carry that tiny, cream colored, crocheted sack in the fall in Utah, while hiking through parks and canyons. This thought gnawed at me for a couple of days last week until I just had to find something else more practical, and preferably something that made better fashion sense. I also needed a pair of brown jeans to go with the brown and pink tennis shoes that The Royster gave me a couple of years ago. Off to Kohl’s I went. On my list were 1) brown jean, 2) a practical top to match, and 3) a practical yet fashionable bag for trip.

On arrival at Kohl’s I went straight for the Ladies Jeans. Starting at the back wall, where the jeans are neatly folded in little cubicles on the wall according to size, I searched for brown jeans. I worked my way up to the front of that department and saw some very nice looking Gloria Vanderbilt stretch jeans, and in brown. I looked for my size, hoping that I had dropped back down to a more acceptable size. Then I looked for that same size in long. No luck, but I picked up a pair and started looking for a matching top. That didn’t take long. Found a light pull over knit brown, pink and cream…Perfect! I headed to the dressing room. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the jeans not only fit, but were long enough. What a bonus! I headed to the purses.

Not being much of an expert on purses, simply because I resent having to carry all that stuff, I didn’t know where to start. There was another woman in the area, looking at the kind of bag I was interested in. We chatted about which purses were practical and which were not…..Your guess is as good as mine. I finally saw one that I thought would fill the bill; a very nice, large brown, leather-like purse. The leather-like material was soft. Yes there were inside compartments for a cell phone, make-up and a slot for whatever I could fit in it. The strap was wide enough and soft enough that it wouldn’t cut into my shoulder. Off I went to buy my selections. I felt very fashion savvy, indeed.

Upon arriving home with my purchases, I carefully removed all the tags, and hung the jeans and knit top in the closet. I hung the purse on the back of a kitchen chair, so that I could see it and start planning what to put in it for the trip. The big straw bag that I had packed for the boat outing was still in the chair, filled with all the necessary items for outing, plus my little crocheted sack. I’ll just sort that stuff later.

Yesterday, knowing that we would be going out to eat with friends, I dutifully unloaded the straw purse, and stored it back in the top shelf of my closet. I threw away all wadded tissue, threw away or put away anything I didn’t want to load into the new bag, and started putting essentials into the new bag. I even put away the little cream colored sack; an awfully brave move for me. Into the new purse went cell phone, wallet with check book, all essential cards, hair brush, cough drops, two pens, make-up bag, Pro-Air inhaler, a pack of gum, pictures of grands, hand sanitizer and car keys. I hefted it up with my right hand to check the weight. Hmmmm. Yup! That’s about right. It could probably give someone a concussion. I opened it up and peeked in. Holy smoke! The only thing I could see was what my next purchase would be. Tomorrow I’ll go buy one of those small LED stick up lights to stick on the inside, just so I can see where I’m going in there. Satisfied with that, I went to dress for dinner.

At dinner, the other two ladies at the table commented on what a lovely new bag I had, and marveled at what a big girl thing I had done, not only in buying a new purse, but a big one. You see, they know me well enough to know how I hate carrying a bag at all, and how hard it was for me to buy a new big bag! "Awww, Sweetie, you did the big girl thing!" Thank you ladies, for understanding!

BACK WHEN WE WERE CUTE AND ADORABLE

Back in the 60’s we wore flowers in our hair, Earth Shoes, granny glasses, love beads and hip-slung bell bottoms, declared by George Carlin to be “big enough to house a hippie commune under each leg”.

The Vietnam War was going on and we protested or joined.  Either way, we had our own strong beliefs.  That war was not an "official" war, but it went on from 1961 through 1975.  It  was said that that war was to keep communism from spreading.  Vietnam was split in 1954 into two parts; the communist north, and the democratic south.  During that war, about 58,200 Americans were killed; friends, family and school mates.  There were some 304,000 wounded out of the 2.59 million who served in the war.  Families of the dead, MIA's and injured still suffer to this day.  During the war, our national debt was increased by $146 billion.  After the war, Indonesia, Singapore, Thailand, Malaysia and the Philippines stayed free from communism.  

We grew our own vegetables, and other green things; and learned to can and preserve the food we grew. We made bread, sewed our own clothes and made our own candles. We drove Volkswagen Vans and beat up old school buses painted with flowers to represent who we were and what we stood for. We were rebellious and we loved our music. The music was like a news flash to us. We couldn’t get enough of it. We saw the Beatles’ debut on the Ed Sullivan Show on February 9th of 1964. The Beatles, God bless them, brought rock ‘n’ roll a new definition … a new dimension, and we loved them immediately! I was at the Knights of Columbus Hall in Fort Worth with our C.Y.O. group. That was an unforgettable event and back when we were cute and adorable.

Our generation of Baby Boomer hippies followed on the heels of people like Woody Guthrie and Jack Kerouac, of the Beat Generation. Those people and events culminated to what became an earthshaking generation of the people that we were in the 60’s, and are still today; and to bring together the biggest gathering of people and music in our history, combined to shout our message to the world in a small rural town of Bethel, New York from August 15th to August 18th, 1969. We called it Woodstock. We had a message to get across, and we did it in a huge way … and we were cute and adorable, and our parents were horrified.

We had toned muscles, smooth skin, long hair, agility, stamina, and most of us could read a newspaper without holding it at arms length away and without reading glasses. We were enthusiastic and passionate about our beliefs, and stood up for them. We paid attention to news headlines and had our own strong political beliefs and ideals. We dared to protest, and held fast to our dreams.

Some of us mourn the passing of our youth. Our muscles softened, skin got lax, and we cut our graying hair. Most of us don’t have the stamina and agility we used to have, but we still read the newspaper, and we still get excited about what we believe in, what we’ve nourished for the past 50+ years. The world as we knew it in the 50’s and 60’s will never be the same. We still keep up with each other, and we still love each other. I’m wondering just how many of us realize the impact we Baby Boomers have had on society to this very day. Our peace sign prevails to this day. We have our place in history, and a remarkable one at that. I’m proud to be a part of that generation that has carried us through so much, and is still carrying us. We are stronger for it, and we still stand up for ourselves, and our beliefs. We make a difference in how things are run, and we are still cute and adorable, no matter what age.

Today children dress up as hippies for Halloween. They come to the door wearing flowers in their hair, granny glasses, love beads and hip-slung bell bottoms.  They hold up two fingers, saying “Peace brother!” and "Make love, not war!" They bear the peace symbol that encompasses what we stood for and still stand for. My heart thumps with pride seeing them, because they are so cute and adorable. Just like we were and  still are today. Long live our legend and long may our story be told!

Hummingbird Wars and Dragonflies

This is the time of year when the hummingbirds start coming around, and the dragonflies are hatched, mating, laying eggs and just looking magnificent. At dawn on any given day, we can go out to sit on the deck or patio and just watch the little hummers start their day by defending their assigned feeder. Some hover high up in the tree tops to get a good view of who’s in the neighborhood, while others light on a near by tree limb. They are very territorial and ferocious little fighters, and there can never be enough feeders out for them. There is a sentry for each one.

They weren’t at war this morning … just a few females darting back and forth to the feeders. They seemed to be taunting each other. This one is MY feeder. All others stay away! On occasion, one of them would dart over to another’s feeder; only to be fiercely chassed away by the sentry assigned to that feeder.

About two years ago they were so plentiful that there would be about 15 or more flying right over our heads on the patio. We had five feeders out, and each one was guarded by a different hummingbird. You could hear them smack in mid air. They are tenacious little creatures, never leaving their post. They hide in the trees above the feeders, watching for trespassers. As soon as one lights on a feeder the sentry assigned to that one darts out of the trees to chase them off, and sometimes they wage war.

Getting out to the battlefield early, I was armed only with my bowl of cereal, a cup of coffee and my trusty watch dog, Hank. As we sat there on the patio watching the war, I noticed that Hank was paying close attention to the lawn chairs on the patio. Upon closer examination, I saw that that there were little pink spots all over the patio chairs. Oh! My gosh! It’s hummingbird poo! Good job, Hank! I finished my cereal, and then got the hose to spray it down. Little did I know that this was going to be a morning ritual for a couple of weeks more. The Royster managed to get some really good pictures of these tiny warriors in mid-flight.

As the days went by, we invited people over to enjoy watching the warring little birds defend the feeders. Their numbers increased, and at times we couldn’t count how many of the little hummers were buzzing round our heads. They weren’t afraid of us, and some would come within an inch of my ear, zooming about. When they’d fight in mid air, and as I said before, we could hear them smack together. They are very tough little birds, but unfortunately, we found a couple of casualties. Our guests didn’t seem to mind the little pink dots on their clothing, if they noticed at all, and darned if I was going to tell them if they couldn’t figure it out for themselves. Why spoil a perfectly good show.

In the late afternoon, the dragonflies make a splendid appearance in great numbers. They zoom in and out of plants and soar off to other flowers. I found that I could coax a dragonfly off of the plant that it lit and onto a stick that I held. Not only would the beauty stay on the stick for long periods of time; but even if you startled it away, it would fly back to light on the end of the stick over and over again. I could study up close the color, the eyes, the gossamer wings, and the segmented body of the dragonfly. Eventually, I got one to sit on my hand. What a beautiful creature! For some reason I felt very privileged as well as empowered. At the same time I felt humbled that such a beautiful thing could choose to study me as well. It stayed there for a long time. I was totally enchanted, studying the dragonfly at every angle. Eventually it flew off.

I had the opportunity a few weeks ago to show a bunch of children how to catch a dragonfly and study it. They too were enchanted. They spent the next hour, each trying to catch their own dragonfly on a stick. Nearly all of them were successful. My day was made.

I‘ve always wondered if it wasn’t a sign of getting old, or older to be so enrapt with the nature in my own back yard, whether it’s feeding the squirrels and watching their antics or spying at woodpeckers, jays, mockingbirds and hawks with the binoculars. And, if that means getting old or older, then I will take it.

GARDEN CONVERSATIONS

Conceivably, I am not the only one that talks to ghosts. Lord knows, there are plenty of opportunities. I believe that if you are thinking about someone you have loved, and that has passed on, they come to comfort or give advice and/or moral support and encouragement. Certainly, none of the spirits I talk to or listen to are there to give ill-advice or to do any harm at all. They just sort of pop up as I work in the garden.

Dad pops in once in a while to tell me to use a bale of hay and some manure in the flower beds. He was always growing something. He was an Ag major at Cornell before he enlisted in the Marines. Just think if he’d been able to finish college after the war.

Mom was always planting bluebonnets and iris in the side bed by the driveway. She just follows and chats pleasantly…mostly keeping me company while I rake, chop and weed. Her forte was mostly in the literary field. Sometimes she follows me around in the house.

My grandmother, we call Munnie, is usually right over my shoulder. That’s some task, as she was pretty short in stature. She stands there in her apron and her tight little fist on her hip. She advises me, “You should do your gardening as soon as light hits. It’s too hot out here for you.” And a little later, “Your mint is doing very well!” “Next year, you should plant a vegetable garden.” And, “It’s very good to stay busy! That way you stay out of trouble!” She was always worried about that....keeping me out of trouble.

My grandfather, aka, Granddad, talks to me of many things. His philosophies are genuine and amusing at the same time. He tells the story of Jonah and the Whale. “M’liss, someday, people are going to read that ‘Harry was in a pickle’, and they're gonna believe it!” He told that one to me when explaining his philosophy of the Bible just before I married. He likes my fruit trees, and oddly, he loves my little cactus plants….specifically the giant pencil cactus that Anne gave me years ago. It was only a little thing then.

Speaking of cactus….There’s Aunt Ollie. To some of us she was Aunt Cactus, because at times, she could be a bit prickly. She’s another that’s always there. She actually answers some of my questions. She usually makes her presence know with the same question, “Harvested any broomsticks today?” No, I don’t fly them. Mine is the latest model….solar powered Dyson. Actually, Aunt Ollie used to come get me to help her work in her yard when I was just a little girl. She would say to Mom, “Sis, I need to borrow Missy. That child could grow a broomstick!”

My sister, Joanie is another one who is ever present. She detested working in the yard, but she loves the Plumbago plants in the back yard, and loves to hang around in my tropical pathway near the shower. I think she likes the calm there. Mostly, she just smiles. Sometimes, she asks me questions about my life. Other times, she tells me that she so happy that I’m happy. Our conversations really help me sort things out.

There are ghosts in the house too. Gammie, our Yankee grandmother, hovers over me when I set the table. She is most proud that I remember exactly how she taught me to set a table. Down here, in the South, it's called "laying the table". She also reminds me regularly to polish my silver. That seemed to be a good thing to give little girls to do. You know … to keep them busy so they wouldn’t become heathens. Well, part of that worked. I do polish my silver. Now, being a grandmother, I understand why they worried so about their granddaughters and grandsons ... but mostly about the granddaughters.

My Great Aunt Bibi is still looking for a tissue. We went to see her in a retirement home when Barbara was a baby, about 40 years ago. She is Bibi’s namesake. "When she saw us, she immediately got teary, saying, "Oh! It's Georgie's little girl!" Then, she frantically looked for tissue stored in her ample bosom, saying; “I know I had two of them when I came in here.” I keep a box of Kleenex on the tea cart in the kitchen for Aunt Bibi.

Lastly, the father of my daughters comes around on occasion. I think he wants me to know he’s also watching the girls. And, sometimes, I tell on them to him, as if he didn’t already know. I guess I'm hoping that he haunts them too. He lets me know that he is calm and at peace now.

Conversations with these friendly and loving spirits helps my chores in the garden move smoothly and it goes much faster. I feel that I have the company and comfort of these people who used to walk among us. I believe they are here to comfort us and take away our fears of dying and death, to make us more conscious and grateful of what we have today … right here and now.

There are more, and there are some that haven’t yet come to visit. Haven’t heard from Uncle George, Uncle Torch or Aunt Joanie, Aunt Mary Ann or Uncle Danny. I have fond memories of them, and I expect they will come to visit, sooner or later. I hope they do. They are welcomed here.

MY LEFT BRAIN

I did not coin the phrase My Left Brain. It came from a very gifted speaker and comedian, Jeanne Robertson. I saw one of her videos on the subject, and decided that it just fits perfectly for this article. I refer to my Magnificent Other, also known as The Royster. I say that this fits perfectly, because we seem to supply a balance of choices between us. It’s worked out that way.

Strange I should wake this morning thinking how different we are from Men. I’ve told the Royster many times, “If I were any more like you, you wouldn’t like me very much!” I say this when he’s trying to sway me to his way of doing things. I will admit that he has some pretty good, almost ingenious ideas, but they are not always the way I see things. My way works very nicely for me most of the time, and my question to anyone trying to sway me to their way of thinking or doing things would be, Since my way works perfectly for me, would you be willing to abandon your way, and do it my way? I’ve asked this question of anyone challenging my way of getting around a computer. Here is an example, hypothetically, of course.

He: Why are you doing it that way? It’s wrong!

Me: Oh yeah? Then how would you do it? I’ll bet my way takes fewer strokes than your way.

He: Well, let me sit there, and I’ll show you.

Me: Not on your life! The last time you did that, you lost my document that had taken me three days to put together! Better just tell me!

He: Well, I can’t just tell you. I’ll have to show you!

Me: Well then, NO! You are not touching this. Tell you what…you just get one of your own documents to show me on.

He: Okay, Smart Ass! Move over!

So, I move over, and Mr. Better Way sits down and brings up the last document he has done. He then proceedes to push buttons, scroll, and push more buttons, seemingly looking for something.

He: Aha! Here it is!....poke! click! Oh! My God! Where did it go? Look what you made me do!

As I said, this is a hypothetical example of one of our conversations.

I have heard that people who use more key-strokes than others are a bit old fashioned and traditional. I think that’s endearing….rather sweet. That is a pretty apt description of The Royster. Change doesn’t come easy for this man; certainly not without clawing and screaming.

Right now, we are in the troughs of planning our annual semi-road trip. I say semi because sometimes we fly to our destination and then rent a 4-wheel drive SUV, and take back roads to places of interest. This way, we’ve seen what no tourist ever gets to see.

I usually let The Royster get started on this. He’s really good at it, and comes up with some of the most fun and interesting places to see and visit. I interject and plant seeds here and there, as well as help sort out travel accommodations. However, if there are too many choices, I get really impatient, not to mention confused. We were consulting the big Atlas last night.

He: So, where to you want to go?

Me: I like the idea of going to Zion in Utah.

He: Well we could stay here, and then drive up this highway and across here,
down to Colorado, and to Cortez, and back to … and then … OR we could …

Me: Wait a minute. What if we started out in Colorado and then…

He: Or maybe …

So, I’ve made a file for this year’s vacation. I look forward to it wherever we go. Weather thou goest, I go.

Men and women think so differently for a reason. These differences strike a balance between the sexes. When one can’t seem to come up with a plan, the other provides it. Where one is weak, the other is strong. A man can come up with a plan that is absolutely ingenious. At the same time, there is always a woman who will shoot holes in it or will find fault in his plan; or even come up with a better plan. A man gets the whole picture in a box, and the woman smoothes the corners out to make a circle. So, who’s method, plan idea is the best?

I can only answer that with: Whichever method gets the results you are reaching for is the better way, method or idea. If you can show me a way, method or idea that I like better, then that’s the way I will do it. Since that may not come to pass, then why don’t you do it my way?

YOU ONLY GET ONE SHOT - No Re-do’s

You can have as many shots at marriage as you want. You can divorce and pick someone else, or you can divorce and re-marry the person you originally chose. You can stay married to the same spouse, renew your wedding vows and celebrate with another wedding if you want to. That’s a good thing. And, you can do any of that as many times as you want. I guess the only real rule here is that you have to divorce one person, before you marry another, and I hope that rule never changes.

Raising kids though, you only get one shot per child. That’s all. One shot. And, I don’t care how well you think you are doing, you’re going to find that these kids have their own agenda, and will end up doing what they are destined to do any way. In my experience, it doesn’t always work to use the same techniques on one child that worked on another. Though each child inherited half of the mother’s genes and half of the father’s genes, they are still individuals with separate souls, spirits and personalities. You have to keep coming up with different plans constantly. For example, I would ground one child, who would take it like a pro. Send them up to clean their room or give them a chore to do, after which they were sent to their room to think about the horrible deed that got them grounded. The room may not get cleaned, but this is the same child that would not repeat that same offense twice. However, they would soon devise a plan by which they can get around it in a different way, and a simple play on words might get them off the hook.

On the other hand you have a child that won’t take grounding well at all. This child will scream, cry, beg and carry on, hoping you will relent. I learned the hard way, that instead of relenting, you say something like, “When your dad gets home, we’ll see what he says about you rolling a man hole cover down the street into the Sheriff’s patrol car.” This is good for at least a couple of hours of peace, and sometimes until Dad gets home. This is where Dad has to be a firm disciplinarian. If he can’t be, then it’s back on Mom’s shoulders. This is when I started taking stuff away, and possibly loading up some charity bags full of their most prized belongings. And sometimes that worked. As I said before these two children are just different people. They respond differently.

NOTE: The manhole cover incident is only an example. My girls never rolled a manhole cover down the street, but I don’t think my brother ever got caught for it. And further, I only found out about it from an old neighborhood friend that just told me not a week ago.

There is more than one “phase” in a child’s’ life whereby they do stupid things. How many adults out there can remember this scenario? I mean, as a child. Go ahead. Go back there in your mind, and put your self in the position of being grilled by one or both of your parents. I guess this goes without saying. Very uncomfortable, isn’t it? However, no matter how the question is posed to the child: "Oh, why on earth did you do that!!!?" The answer will always be, “I don’t know!” The reason for that is actually that they really don’t know. In other words, the child knows that they did something incredibly stupid, but they just don’t know why. They can’t tell you, no matter how you pose the question.

I cannot tell you why, at the age of 7, I cartwheeled down the front steps of Denver Elementary School. Even though I executed the cartwheel perfectly, I came out of it only to run straight into the flagpole with my head. It should have knocked me out cold, but my cousin and playground companion, Judy, was there to pick me up. And, instead of telling me what an incredibly stupid thing I had done, she took me aside to soothe the growing lump on my forehead. She reminded me much later in life that she baited me by daring me to do it. I never could leave a dare alone.

After the kids leave the nest, you find that they still do some stupid things. In as much as you are still trying to offer guidance, they still are ignoring it. Other people who have experienced this before you remind you that there’s really nothing you can do about it any more. If they didn’t learn before leaving the nest, they will just have to learn it on their own. The only thing you can do about that is keep the communications open and observe how they do things. You will see that the some of the methods they use, and that you disapprove of are the same methods that you used. The methods you learned from. Now you know better, but you have to stand back and let them learn that for themselves.

When the kids are finally grown, it doesn’t matter if you approve or disapprove of their choices or actions. They have to start using what you worked so hard to teach them. They are about to get their pay-back with their own children, your grandchildren. Things change dramatically from there. And, you know what to do. You know that children will do what grandparents tell them to do before they will even listen to their very own parents. The reason for this is that you finally know how to get the desired results from a child. It took raising your own to get to this valuable bargaining position. You can now use on your grandchildren what your finally learned by raising your own. Your parents were able to get your kids to mind, and now you know why. There ya’ go! Ante your chips and play your four aces!

By the way, there are no perfect parents. Ozzie and Harriet Nelson were a real life family, with real life kids. They just happened to get their life aired on T.V. It was a great spring board for their very talented rock star, Rick Nelson. They were certainly not without their share of family woes. The Clever family will forever remain a fictional family that everyone measures their growing own up days to. I’ve been guilty of that myself. This is very unrealistic, indeed. How grossly unfair life is! Where is June Clever when you need her?

I am aware that some of you are under the impression that your mother was June Clever. If you are one of those folks, step forward into the circle with the group from the Lucky Sperm Club, or children born into incredible wealth. We will just label you June's Kids. You are to be congratulated for your incredible luck.

And, another thing; Not only will your children still give you more pride, joy and happiness after they are grown, but, there is no rule or guarantee that after they leave the nest that they can’t make you mad, hurt your feelings or break your heart. You are their parent for the rest of your life, and you are still susceptible to all of that, because you love them, no matter what. And that, gentle readers, is what makes the world go round.

A SIMPLE BURIAL FOR THE OL’ DAISY DUKES

This is not just about my own dainty size six Daisy Dukes; “Cut-Offs”, as they are known to most of us Baby Boomers. I gave mine a very simple burial in the bottom of a Salvation Army donation bag about 16 years ago; only until I saw the Salvation Army truck pull up in front of my house. This left little chance that I would retrieve them once again from the donation bag, only to return them safely back to their cherished spot in my dresser drawer. I had out grown those little jewels years before, but until then, I could not bring myself to part with them … just in case I could squeeze into them once more. Only after the truck pulled away from our curb was I able to even think about some deserving young woman finding such a prize on the rack at the Salvation Army. Could she do them justice, though? I wept bitterly. As most women my age, my shorts are of the Bermuda variety, or I wear Capri’s. And, as I’ve said before, I do look much better in clothes than out of them, and have, ever since I out grew my beloved Daisy Dukes…long before I parted with them.

Enough about my reminiscences, wailings and losses. This is about the Royster’s Daisy Dukes. He was going through a drawer full of shorts, deciding which to keep and which to give away. After all, I’d been bugging him for weeks to clean out that drawer. He tried on each pair before making a decision as to their fate. He picked up these very seasoned cut-offs and waved them at me. “Hey! Remember these?” And, he stepped into them as if he’d just worn them yesterday. Yes, he still looked fabulous in them. Even when he tried them on, just two hours ago, they fit, but somehow, it just wasn’t the same. No, it just wasn’t right. He said that he’d only wear them to work in the yard, certainly not to any social events. Well, I should hope not!


It may just be our age, or maybe it’s the fact that his cut-offs still fit him long after I’d out-grown my own, but it’s just not the same. I was hoping he’d put them straight in the donation bag. As it was, he put them in the stack of shorts to save, and I went about my Saturday chores with my mind still on those damned Daisy Dukes! And, they still fit him! How dare him flaunt that pair of cut-offs in front of me; especially since I had out grown mine so many years ago! And, they fit him!

Soon I was absorbed into my lawn watering, laundry washing, and baking. I forgot all about the cut-offs, and was able to be amicable. We ran a couple of errands, and returned to have lunch and rest up, as some of us must do if we are going out for the evening. As I cleaned up our lunch dishes, and walked back to the bedroom, I saw The Royster’s cut-offs in the waste basket. How heart breaking! What a heartless farewell for something so divine, so cherished, so full of history! Oh, the beaches they saw and the parties they went to! If those cut-offs could talk, what tales they would tell! I went to get my camera, and took one last picture of them.

We will always have fond memories of the summer apparel of the 60’s; cut-offs tee-shirts or halter-tops and flip-flops. PARTY TIME!!!!.

HOUNDED BY A PRO

I’ve thought seriously about calling Cesar Millan about this. The only reason I haven’t contacted him is that I know that he will immediately see what milk toast we both are under Hanks whims and demands. He will also tell us that we need to walk Hank twice a day for 45 minutes each time. If I can remember while it’s cool in the mornings, I will load up my pockets with poo bags and take him for a romp around the neighborhood for a few blocks. Maybe Cesar would tell us that Hank is a work dog, and that he needs a job. Snort! I have tried for almost 7 years to get Hank to carry in the newspaper in the morning. The dog knows what I am asking him to do, and knows how to do it, but he just looks at me as if to say…. “Get it yourself, you lazy, bossy, Alpha Lady!” If the truth be known, he enjoys using his energy to show off with the tricks he can still do, and he will at every opportunity. That’s pretty darn good for being 14 years old.

For the last three nights we have had our sleep interrupted by Hank. He would start pacing and panting at about 10:30 p.m. This is how we knew he was getting ready to hound us….literally. His next move was to come to one side of our bed or the other, preferably The Royster’s side, and sit as close as possible, so that he had his nose right in front of his face. Then he would place his paws on the edge of the bed and start with the panting again. This was intended to wake up The Royster, who would immediately send him packing back to his own bed. Maybe he thought this would get better results going to The Royster, because Roy is really Hanks litter mate, and he might get up to play with him. I was only his choice when he was rejected by the occupant on the other side of the bed. He seems to view me (maybe) as “that Alpha Lady that makes me do stuff”.

The first night of his pacing, panting and pawing gave me concern. I truly thought maybe he was sick, or maybe that he even had fleas again. Mind you, Hank had never had fleas before last summer, when, for some reason he got a healthy dose of them. I never saw them until I’d taken him to the vet to see what was wrong with the pacing, panting and pawing dog. I ended up treating every inch of the house with an expensive version boric acid. Believe me, it’s the same stuff with a fancy (technical) name. That seemed to do the trick. This time, I’ve looked in all the usual places on this dog for the tiny, agony causing bugs. No. He doesn’t have any fleas. The groomer also said Hank doesn’t have fleas.

For the next two nights I got up and down several times to play Dog Whisperer. I would sit up, clap my hands loudly (he’s almost deaf), and point to the bedroom exit. At which time Hank would slink out, dejected. Thirty minutes later, he was back at it. Pace, pant, paw. I can’t sleep! Pleeeeeze get up and play with me! I just can’t stay up all by myself! Roy and I were both becoming dangerously sleep deprived, and very frustrated. I would get up and make the dog lie in a prone, submissive position, and then place a claw-like hand on his throat. This is supposed to be like the mother dog’s mouth on her puppy’s neck….disciplining him. This Cesar Millan technique worked for about 45 minutes. I’m not sure how many times I did that, but, the pace, pant and paw would begin anew each time. I started closing the bedroom door to keep him out, which was just agonizing for Hank. Now, he really was really making a scene. He would sit outside our bedroom mumbling, barking and rattling the door.

Last night was about to break both of us. At exactly 10:30 p.m. I could hear the pacing and panting start. I jumped up, threw open the bedroom door, and ran into the living room. Hank could see me coming, and quickly assumed the prone, submissive position. He would actually beat me to it each time. As I’d start to walk away, his head would pop up, and I’d go over and make the claw-like fingers on his throat again. The last time, he headed for the back door, meaning that he really had to go. What - a - liar! I actually felt a little sorry for him, but that didn’t last long. When I let him out, he just went over to his favorite grassy spot by the patio to lie down. I think he was actually waiting for me to pull up a chair and join him. He thought he had won that round. By then, I was wide awake and more than a little irritated, so, I just closed the door….rather firmly. I glanced back to see him get up and head for the door to protest. I just turned around and headed back to bed. The Royster was still awake.

R. - “Where’s Hank?”

M. - “I threw him out in the back yard! He can just sleep out there tonight!”

R. - “Why did you do that? He’ll just be going from one back door to the other, barking all night long! We still won’t get any sleep.”

M. - “Well, YOU to do something with him!

The Royster got up and took a cigarette with him to smoke and have a man-to-man talk with Hank. I think it really made an impression on Hank by throwing him out. He really didn’t want to spend the night alone in the back yard. He slept all night after that….or, he just didn’t disturb us.

I truly believe that as an old dog, Hank is getting way too much sleep during the day. He’s not standing guard at the windows as much. So, I’ve been nudging him awake when I can catch him starting to nap. This morning, I took him outside with me while it was cool enough to do a little gardening. We’d been out there about 30 minutes when he strutted up to me. “Hey! Look at me! I found some really cool mud to roll in!” I wasn’t amused, but I already had the hose in hand to fill up one of the birdbaths, so I just collared Hank and gave him a really good rinsing off, and continued with my back yard chores. In five minutes, movement caught my eye out in the yard. Sure enough, Hank was drying himself off in a select mound of dirt.

I went in and got my skinny Cesar Millan leash, and hooked Hank up to the gate, gathered up my dog washing stuff and gave him a good scrubbing. He doesn’t give me any resistance when I bathe him, but he doesn’t like it because I leave him hooked on the gate until he’s dry enough to let in the house. Today was no exception I left him there in the shade on the patio with several large towels to roll in and a big bowl of water. I was able to ignore Hank's grumbling while I finished cleaning out a flowerbed to put in a variety of mint plants. At least he wasn’t napping. Maybe tonight he will be exhausted enough from “helping” me out in the yard to actually sleep through the night without hounding us. Hell! Maybe I'll be exhausted enough.

I’m off to the eye-lid movies! Night y’all!

NAP TIME IN THE SUMMER

There were several factors in growing up in such a huge family that made every one of us (11 siblings) love the written word. First of all, Mom had an affinity for reading just about anything that passed within her peripheral vision. If it was blowing across the street and looked like it might have some written word on it, she would stop it with her foot and look to see what it said.

So, it would be logical that she would always find a way in her day to read a few pages of her chosen book of the week. And, that she did. There had to be a way to corral all of these children and keep them quiet long enough to get several pages read and digested. Since she was usually pregnant, nap time was a must. There was always a nap time. Nap time was seldom ever missed at our house … every winter, spring, summer and fall. She always started the little ones out with Little Golden Books, Little Black Sambo, The Ugly ducking, Peter and the Wolf, The Three Little Pigs, The Little Train that Could and The Gingerbread Man. In the fall and winter, most of us were in school. The younger kids at home were corralled and put down for naps after lunch, whereby she made a special time to read to these preschoolers until the last one nodded off to sleep. Then she would pick up her big Steinbeck, Hemingway, Zane Grey, Larry McMurtry or Louis L’Amour, just to name a few.

Suffice to say, she always had something to read, and encouraged all of us to do the same. To do this, she read classics to us at nap time. Through the Looking-Glass, Kidnapped, Black Beauty, Treasure Island, Tom Sawyer and The Hobbit were just a few. Mostly I remember naptime in the summer.

In the summer time, from the time I was about six years old, all of us were required to part take in nap time. First, Mom would crank up the old swamp cooler in the window, and then she would situate herself in the middle of her bed with the two youngest; one on either side. Usually the two beside her were of different temperaments, and she held a switch in one hand, mostly to warn them to be still and quiet so that she could read. Everyone else was situated on their pallets on the floor.

With the switch in one hand, and the other holding the current book propped up against her usually very pregnant belly she would begin to read. On occasion, one of the two on the bed would squirm. If it was Georgie, she’d give him a little warning swat with the switch. If it was Danny, then she would tickle his back with the switch. One by one we would all fall asleep. This went on every summer until we were of junior high school age.

Joanie was the first to be excused from nap time. She was allowed to go off to the privacy of her own room and read quietly to herself. And, she was most happy do so. When Anne and I reached that age, we were given the choice of going to lie down in front of the fan in the living room, or some other quiet activity in another part of the house until nap time was over at 3 p.m. We older ones also had the option of walking to the recreation center around 3:30, when the Book Mobile would be there. It was always a really special treat to check out library books in the summer.

I will always remember how much I enjoyed being read to at nap time. Those stories inspired imagination and encouraged us all to be avid readers. Every one of my siblings has a great appreciation for the written word, and the desire write, whether it is a journal, blog or a diary. I think it all goes back to being read to. Just to be read to as a child is probably the greatest inspiration to read that there could be.

NEW-FANGLED ELECTRONICS & STUFF

The electronic computing era started way back in the late 40’s. In about 1956, my third grade science teacher, Miss Philips, predicted to the class that we’d be completely free of paper files by the year 2000. She also predicted that food costs would rise out of sight. She was right about the food, considering that a pack of cigarettes cost about the same as a loaf of bread back then, and that was about 15 to 25 cents. However, we have been reluctant to let go of our beloved paper files. They still exist in every home and business. As I write, I am sitting amid huge filing cabinets, hanging files and upright filing slots, not to mention stacks of files on the floor propped up against the wall with heavy objects.

Why are we so afraid to trust our computers to keep all of this? There are all kinds of computer capabilities. Besides, you can back up files every day if you want to. There are many occasions that require a hard copy, signed and actually in someone’s hands as proof of undying commitment. Why on earth can’t we make our signature once, scan it into the computer and use as it is intended? Some companies and organizations do accept this as a legal signature. I think we’re getting there slowly. Maybe in the future, computers will hold individual finger prints as legal signatures, if it's not already being done.

It took me some time to really get comfortable with computer generated work, but I was way ahead of my boss. In 1993, my boss, Arnie, was still holding his ground that his computer was a #2 pencil, and delete was the eraser on the end of said pencil. I swear he kept a Big Chief Tablet in his brief case. Any computer skills I had were wasted on an IBM Selectric II typewriter. Finally the day came. His boss in the home office in New Orleans (NOLA) required our office to be equipped with computers, and that Arnie would actually have his very own. And, horror of horrors, he would have to use it. Arnie displayed his terror in a fit of temper ... "How DARE they tell me how to run this office!” The man was clearly horrified. He didn’t have a clue as to how to operate a typerwriter keyboard, let alone one with all of those new-fangled buttons and commands. By that time, The Royster had bought our very first computer, and I’d been learning at home for about a year. Actually, I'd had a little computer experience on temporariy job assignments prior to going to work for Arnie at CBC.

The day finally arrived. A couple of computer techs showed up to install two computers; one for my boss and one for me. I was ecstatic, but with their arrival, Arnie disappeared to find a double martini at a near by club. I eagerly watched as the techs installed and instructed me briefly. I finally had a computer, but was still not very computer literate. I guess you could say I was pretty green, actually, but I was still much more computer literate than my boss. This was going to be fun. I knew I’d have to get some guidance from the girls in New Orleans. I’d made friends over there, and met them on monthly commutes to get caught up on barge activity and to get more training.

As soon as the techs left, I called my friend Cheryl, in NOLA to get some guidance. Arnie was missing out on all the fun. She asked for “permission” to view my computer screen and files. I said, “Sure. Go ahead!” She laughed and said that I had to give a command, and then she had to reply to that command. I don’t even remember how we did that, but she was finally able to see what had been installed in my computer, and help me set up files for things I’d be doing.

Finally, she said that we needed to set up my e-mail files so that I could keep in touch with everyone in the New Orleans Office. This was great! I asked her if I’d be required to show Arnie how to use his computer. She said that he would be going over to a little training session over there probably that Thursday and Friday.

Before all was said and done, I thought his training in NOLA wouldn’t arrive soon enough. He kept calling me into his office to show him how to do things as simple as type a letter. I told him to scribble out a letter for me to type, and I’d show him at my computer. He dashed out a letter, and we trotted out to my desk to get the letter typed. I propped up the scribbled letter, and started typing.

“Wait a minute!” he said. “Where did you put the paper?!" "You didn’t put any paper in the ... well, where the hell do you roll the paper in?”

I pointed to the printer, and told him that when I tell the computer to print the letter, it will be printed out there. I typed out the letter quickly, without checking it. This I did on purpose, so that he could red pen all of the mistakes. That had always given him so much pleasure in the past. He reached in his coat for his red pen. He actually kept a red pen in his pocket to mark other people’s mistakes ... not just mine.

“What the hell!?" "This computer is not good!" "Just look at all of these mistakes!” He railed.

“Just mark the mistakes, Arnie, and give it back to me to correct. "This is part of your lesson.” I said.

He did, and handed it back to me. I propped it up on the document holder, and began to correct the letter.

“Wait!” he said. “You’re correcting the wrong one!”

He pointed to the corrected copy on the document holder, and said, “That’s the one you’re supposed to be correcting! "Don’t you just stick it back in the printer?”

I’m sure he imagined that the printer had a little bottle of White Out ready to automatically cover up mistakes so they could be typed over.

“No, Arnie. You correct it here, and re-print it.” I said biting my cheeks to keep from laughing, because I was imagining him with blond hair.

So, until that Thursday, when Arnie would be going to NOLA for his official training, I had jump-started him on some of the basics of the word processing part of using his computer. His training day couldn’t come soon enough for me, because he was running me ragged.

On Thursday morning, I walked into a nice quiet office, and was actually able to get acquainted with my computer all by myself. I made letter templates, created tables to chart barge, movement and information on. Then I called NOLA to learn how to back up all my files. All was good, at least until Monday, when Arnie would be quizzing me again, so I savored this time alone with my very first office computer.