TEXTERS - All Thumbs

What is this world coming to? Never thought I’d be asking that question, but people are becoming push-button zombies in a push-button world with a push-button mentality; and we are fast becoming a nation of people with deformed thumbs and no voices. We are regressing!

We have a friend that we haven’t seen or heard her voice in 5 years. No, no, I take that back. We did run in to her at her job at a restaurant a couple of years ago. She had this frustrated look about her…..like she couldn’t speak, and her eyes were glazed and sunken in. I noticed too, that her thumbs had become a bit deformed. They were bent at 90° angles, like those little hammers inside a piano that strike the cords. Eventually, she did get something out. “Where have ya’ll been, and why haven’t you come to see me?” Her speech was very uneven and stilted. She acted nervous, and kept reaching into her apron pocket to have a look at her cell phone. After breaking into a cold sweat, she abruptly excused herself and disappeared into the kitchen.

A couple of minutes later my cell phone rang, and then Roy’s cell phone rang. We looked at each other, and then checked out our phones. This is something I don’t usually do while dining out, because we consider it rude to talk on the phone while dining or walking through the grocery store. This was an exception, because we both suspected that we were in receipt of a text message. Sure enough, we each had a text message from our dear friend in the restaurant kitchen. We both looked up to see her with cell phone in hand, peeking out of the swinging kitchen door looking very expectantly at us. She only has thumbs for us.

We both have the texting capabilities on our cell phones, but we don’t pay for the service because we don’t want to text. So, every time we open a text message we are charged something like 20¢ each time we opt see a text message sent to us. We have called her and left voice messages for her that we are not texters. We’ve e-mailed her personal notes. I will say, that she has quit sending us e-mail instructing us to “Forward this to 300 of your closest friends if you love Jesus.” And “Strawberry Shortcake says to pass this I heart you message to all of your girlfriends!” Haven’t received a MAXINE e-mail in a while, either.

I broke the rule first and read the message from her. “Wer have u guys bn? y hvnt u ansd my txt msgs? Iv bn worried sik abt u. wut hv u 2 bn up 2?

I swear that she motioned us to text her back. I’d already crossed the line by opening the text message to read, so I just shook my head and motioned for her to come out so we could order our dinner. After a minute, she came back to our table, and then proceeded to fumble for her order pad and pencil. Her poor thumbs had lost their ability to assist her in the physical act of writing with a pen or pencil. After what seemed to be an eternity, she wrote down our order and disappeared into the kitchen once again.

About 15 minutes later, our cell phones were ringing again. Roy read that one. It said “Fris or rngs?” He cupped his hands at his mouth and yelled “FRIES!!!!” His phone rang again, and the text read, “drsng?” He again cupped his hands at his mouth and yelled “RANCH!!!!” Ten minutes later, our dinner arrived. We saw her peeking out from the kitchen again. She finally brought us our dinner. Everything was there, and she smiled and said:

“wl tht b al?”

LITTLE CORNER STORES

Dad had the milk money all lined up on the book case. Depending on how much it was at the time (3¢, 5¢ or 7¢) it was lined up in little stacks of coins that we’d take on our way out the door with our sack lunches. We were on the honor system that we would only buy whole milk….not chocolate milk. Nothing was ever said about possibly saving the milk money for candy after school.

We’d walk to school and back every day. That’s just the way it was. If we argued, Dad would go into his story about, “When I was a boy…” He made it sound as though he really had it rough when he was a kid. Our eyes started to roll as soon as he started into this dissertation. According to him, he walked 15 miles to school every day in 6’ of snow, and sometimes with an anvil on his shoulder. Needless to say, we all got a kick out of that story.

Walking to and from school wasn’t so bad. We had our friends and cousins to walk with. One yard on the way to school had the whole front yard filled with mint instead of grass. This was great. We’d just snag some to chew on the way to school. The woman standing on the porch watching us didn’t seem to mind. There were little corner stores every few blocks. The little Mom and Pop stores were scattered every 3 or 4 blocks. If we saved our milk money, we could get penny candy on the way. Mostly, it was after school that we stopped. Each little store was unique in its own way, but all of them sold the same things.

To start with, there was usually a wooden porch bigger than most modern day porches. There was a squeaky old screen door. You stepped in onto a wooden floor that gave slightly as you walked around the store. There were ceiling fans, barrels filled with pickles, dried beans or apples. Up in the front was the cash register. The woman that stood there usually had on a white apron and Dr. Scholl’s lace-up high heals with her hose neatly rolled down to just below her knee. She wore a hair net and had a pencil stuck somewhere in her hair. When we arrived after school, she manned her post at the hand cranked register, ready to take our pennies for the candy we selected.


There were all day suckers, little Tootsie Rolls, Root Beer Barrels, Peanut Butter Logs, Gum Balls, Bazooka Bubble Gum, Grape Gum, Sour Balls, Sour Cherries, Peanut Patties, Baby Ruth, Butter Fingers, Sugar Babies, Red Hot Tamales, …..Well, now I’m getting into the 5¢ candy.

In the back was always a meat market. Everyone knew the butcher. You could pick out just what you wanted, and have him slice up whatever you wanted. There were all sorts of huge rolls of bologna, salami, pickle loaf and cheeses. Today, all that simple stuff is in a place in the grocery store called the Deli, and the price is marked up because actually they have to talk to you and then slice it up for you.

Mom would call the butcher and order whatever she needed…pork chops, ground meat or a roast. We really loved it when she’d order mock chicken legs made from seasoned ground beef and rolled in Corn Flakes. The butcher would mold the ground beef around wooden sticks and shape them like chicken legs before rolling them in crushed corn flakes. What a guy!!!! Later Mom or Dad would go pick them up on large cookie sheets, and then Mom would bake them in the oven for dinner. This way, everyone got a drumstick.

Sometimes Mom would send one of us to the store with about 50¢ to get a loaf of bread and a pack of L&M's for her; with instructions to “Bring me the change.” Believe it or not, cigarettes were only about 25¢, and the clerk actually sold them to us. Bread was only about 10¢, cabbage was 6¢ per lb., coffee was 37¢ lb. (freshly ground), and grape jam was about 20¢.

Gone are those days. I really loved going into those little stores. Just take a mental walk into one of those little stores. The aroma of those stores is unmatched by anything of today’s grocery store. The service was personal and also unbeatable by today’s standards. Look around and pick up something for dinner. You can get anything you need at the little corner store.

SPECIAL BIRTHDAYS!

Birthdays are supposed to be special occasions depicting the arrival of a person on this planet. It is supposed to be celebrated yearly on the day that person is born. I don't know of any culture that doesn't acknowledge this wonderful event.

But alas……, having been born second in a long line of siblings (eleven to be exact), I don’t recall a birthday celebration in my behalf when I was a child other than someone telling me on the way out the door, “Oh, happy birthday!” I will say, that my grandmothers on both sides sent me birthday cards; sometimes with money in them, or took me shopping. I do vaguely remember a trip to the zoo one January. I was told I was 3 years old. Mostly, I remember the otters. I wanted to swim with them, and prepared to do so, by taking off my clothes before my mother could stop me. Believe it or not, I do have a vague recollection of this. She, herself was enwrapped with the antics of the otters, and therefore not paying close attention. Otters have been my favorite zoo visit since then. I do try to keep my clothes on.

Oh, I digress. Here’s the reason I have no recollection of birthday celebrations of my youth. First of all, I was born on January 3rd, 1948. People are broke from Christmas, hung over from celebrating the New Year; and just plain tired of partying at that time. Later, I noted that it was hard enough just being the first middle child of all those other siblings. While the oldest sibling basks forever in the light of being the first, I knew instinctively before I was born that I would not be an only child. Carved on the uterine wall was, “J-the-Q August 1945”. “J-the-Q” stood for Joanie the Queen. She was my only older sibling. Being second meant that I would be the first child not acknowledged for anything other than being the second arrival. Each new arrival after that meant that the one just before was dropped in the dust like an old toy.  As our numbers grew, our birthdays were celebrated by going to the zoo or a picnic at Mary’s Creek. I do have fond memories of these outings. I think Mary’s Creek is only a memory now.

With each new arrival, I was more and more distanced from being cute and adorable. I had to become obnoxious to get attention. This included whining, tattling and other mischievous deeds. Never mind that A.D.D. took over and I didn’t have to try. Since I was the only child that didn’t get blue or brown eyes (Mine are green.), I sneaked a peek at my birth certificate to see if I was adopted. I had actually hoped that I was adopted. It never occurred to me that a second child of that many siblings would certainly not be adopted. Besides, I looked too much like my mother, had the trademark dimple in my chin (from Dad), and had inherited other physical markings of our “brood”. No way was I adopted.

I went through my adult life with a few birthday celebrations, mostly acknowledged by my own daughters, and birthday calls and cards from my parents and siblings. These were very much appreciated. I looked forward to the mail daily in the month of January, and didn’t care if the cards were late. I have learned to celebrate my entire birthday month.

One such January on my birthday, it had snowed. This was a rare thing in Houston, Texas. My husband had gone to work, and the kids had gone to school. I looked out in the back yard, and noted that our two dogs had escaped the back yard through a hole in the fence. I went out in a poncho and some leather moccasins to corral the dogs and repair the fence. It had warmed up considerably. That having been done, I headed toward the back door. I heard the phone ring, and started running. There was no way I was going to miss a birthday call. I ran through the living room on the carpet and into the kitchen to get the phone. As soon as my feet hit the kitchen floor, I found myself suspended in slow motion four feet off the floor and falling. I hit the floor on my tail bone with a very loud thud. I actually heard a snap, and thought I’d broken my back. It certainly knocked the wind out of me. The phone was still ringing, and as I turned to crawl to answer it there was agonizing pain emanating from my coccyx.

I answered the phone, gasping for air.

Me: “Hello…gasp…!!!”
Caller: “M’liss?”
Me: “…groan! Gasp! … Yeah…” I knew the voice. It was my sister # 4 … Sibling # 5, Claire.
Claire: “Happy Birthday! You sound like you’ve hurt yourself.”
Me: “I did. I think I broke my tail bone getting to the phone… gasp!”
Claire: “Oooooh! That’s horrible! Do you know who this is?”
Me: “It’s Claire.”
Claire: “Noooooo! It’s Anne!”
Me: “I know this is Claire! Thanks for remembering my birthday. You were first! …gasp!”
Claire: “I’m sorry you’ve hurt yourself. Maybe you should get it looked at.”
Me: “Thanks, I think I’d better go now…to the emergency room.”

That was my 40th birthday. I ended up calling my husband to come home. I couldn’t even bend down to get my jeans on. He took me to the emergency room where I was x-rayed and told … “Sweetie, you’ve broken your coccyx in half! That’s hard to do since it’s made of cartilage. Were you playing football?” I was given a prescription of pain killer, and told to stay down for 6 weeks. Actually, I had no choice.

So, I lay prone on the couch in a wonderful haze of pain killer. My girls waited on my every whim, and escorted me (one on each side) around the house when I needed to get up. They wanted me to get well fast, since they were having to do everything from cleaning to cooking to laundry. In the meantime, I had gotten both boxes of Trivial Pursuit cards and studied them for six weeks. I’m a pro!

That is one of three of the most memorable birthdays I’ve had in my life. The others were a surprise birthday party given to me by Roy when I turned 50, and another surprise ambush at the Brenham Municipal Airport for my 60th birthday. This was given by my siblings and extensions. Each one has been the best birthday party I’ve ever had. January isn’t such a bad time to be born after all.

THE LAND OF GRANDS

As soon as my oldest daughter told me that she was pregnant with our first grandchild I filed off my fingernails. I wouldn’t want to scratch this baby while bathing it. Next I started sterilizing the house. This baby will not crawl around on a floor with germs on it.

Later on in this pregnancy I started hunting for the perfect high chair. No, it would not be one of the new-fangled ones on the market for $300. I cruised around in the antique and re-sale shops. It had to be reminiscent of feeding my own children. Done! Within two weeks I’d found the perfect highchair and arranged it in a place of honor in the kitchen. That afternoon, I had been clipping my nails again, and as I put the clippers up in a childproof container in the bathroom cabinet with double child-proof latches, I noticed something on my forehead in the mirror.

Oh, my gosh! It was a huge red welt! This could be contagious. I immediately ran to get ice to put on it. That might head it off. This couldn’t be happening. I lay down for thirty minutes with the ice on the welt. This should do the trick. I went back into the bathroom to have a look at it. The welt was much bigger and now scarlet red! I shrieked and looked closer. It looked like it was forming letters. Oh-my-God! Reading backwards in the mirror, it spelled out, S-U-C-K-E-R ! The thing has remained glaring for years, getting bigger and redder with the birth of every grandchild. The only time it slightly abates is when I form the word NO, or leave my portable picture album at home. The welt stays away for the most part until I’m around the grandchildren again. I’ve started wearing concealer on my forehead when I’m around them. Bangs just aren’t enough. I just don’t want to scare them. Well, If the truth were to be known, I’m really just worried that they will soon be able to read it. The older ones have already caught glimpses, but when the twins learn to read it, I’m sure they will take extreme advantage of me.

This summer has been full of grandchildren. The first wave was four of them (all girls) from Arizona; ages 11, 13, 14, & 15. They are Savannah, Caitlin, Bailley and their lovely step sister Sonita. I had forgotten how much teen-age girls eat. They more or less descended upon the house like a plague of locust. They eat as much as boys that age. We went to the grocery store every single day.

Roy was first to entertain them. My friend, Ginger had come down from Fort Worth to go to an annual barbeque at Bolivar Peninsula. I was to be her date for this event, as her husband was at home having an affair with the voluptuous carrot cake left in his charge. Roy bravely offered to entertain the girls while we were gone. Well, he did an excellent job. He took them to Sam’s and H.E.B. to help him hunt for dinner. Everything was corralled in aisles for them. All they had to do was locate their target, shoot and toss it in the basket! I must say they did a great job. By the time we returned around 7:00 p.m., dinner was ready to go on the grill. Roy made some of the most humongous hamburgers I’ve ever seen. They were the big juicy kind that used to be offered at hamburger stands in the 50’s and 60’s. These were the kind that dripped down your chin and sleeve. It was a supreme treat!

Soon after I settled into the routine of feed, hunt, gather and feed; things smoothed out some. The girls were surprisingly adept at finding good food at reasonable prices. I felt bad when Sonita shyly approached me one afternoon with “Um….uh…….are we allowed to have pretzels?” The poor little thing. But wait!!!! What a break! A huge bag of pretzels at the grocery store was only $1.00 per bag. “Of course you can have pretzels, sweetie!” That turned out to be a life saving staple. So, every afternoon while we waited for their dad to pick them up, we played black jack and had iced coffee and ate a whole bag of pretzels. They also came in handy when I'd lost all my poker chips. The girls let me keep playing with the pretzel chips.

For six weeks, they went swimming; bowling, to the movies, to the roller rink, got pedicures, and went to the library nearly every single day. The library was a very special trip, as they could sign in for the use of a computer for an hour at a time. This was vital to them to keep in touch with their friends back home. We roasted wieners on the barbecue pit twice, ate watermelon, made smoothies and made up some awesome iced coffee. There was a sewing lesson somewhere in there. We made pillows out of scraps that I had left over from making some whimsical 7’ long poly pythons. T.V. was a series of the Disney Channel shows and oddly enough, cooking shows. Which one, depended on whose turn it was to watch what.

The first time I was approached about the iced coffee, Savannah had asked me if she could have some. Since this is what I’ve done with the left over cold coffee every day since I was abut eleven years old, I thought this could be something great, and it was. We added sweetener and Mexican vanilla to the coffee, and frothed up some milk. Then, we poured the milk and coffee together over ice. They loved it! Savannah chanted “Mena does Starbucks!”

The smoothies were equally as awesome. We more than often had these for lunch, instead of sandwiches. We’d just get out the blender, yogurt, strawberries, milk vanilla and bananas. Since they all loved these, there was no bickering about who gets what. “YEAH!!!!! Mena does Smoothie King!!!!!”

All of this was very successful, but I was running out of ideas that sounded appealing to any of the girls. This was because they’d had all the fun they could stand, and had become very homesick for Arizona and their friends. After another week (6 all together) they were just chomping at the bit to go home. Even the computers at the library weren’t enough. They have their limits, and they wanted to go home to be with their friends. By now the scarlet welt on my forehead was throbbing, and I was running out of concealer.

Soon after they’d all left for Arizona, Leslie brought Lucy and Max to visit for a long week-end while she went to visit a friend. Lucy and Max are 5, so it wasn’t hard at all to entertain them. We went to the club pool, armed with foam noodles to play with in the water, bottles of Crystal Light, sun screen towels and water. We were all cranked up to get in the pool. I got in first and told them to jump in. As soon as they took the first step down into the water, the lifeguard blew his whistle. "Thweeeeeeeeeet! Adult swim!" The look on their faces registered beyond disappointment. It went all the way to shock! I couldn’t believe it! The lifeguard looked at me and said, “Sorry.” I wanted to tell him Don't apologize to me you idiot! Tell these babies you're sorry!

I only stayed in for a couple of minutes, since I was the only adult in the Olympic size pool. I felt as though I should perform a water ballet or start doing laps, so I hung out with Max and Lucy in the baby pool while the lifeguard took a break. Soon, the lifeguard came over and told me that the baby pool was for children 5 and under, so I took my feet out. He said, “No, I mean these kids. They’re too old to be in the baby pool.” I told him they would not be six years old until September. He looked at them, and then at me as if maybe I was just telling a bald-faced lie. Apparently, he decided not to challenge it, and walked back to his throne. “Thweeeeeeeeeet! All swim! And then resumed talking to a bevy of adoring little girls.

After running and jumping into the pool several times, Max and Lucy decided that they wanted to go down the big tube slide at the deep end. I decided I’d be right there in the water to help them to the side. Treading water was a snap for me…..er…It used to be. After about the third time for each of the kids, I started to get tired. If I’d sunk to the bottom, the lifeguard wouldn’t have seen me. He was still occupied with his adoring harem. I told the kids to hold up for a while, and made it over to the ladder. After what seemed like forever, I caught my breath, and climbed out. Guess I’d just forgotten how old I am, and what my physical limitations are. The kids were good. After that, I just sat at the side, ready to jump in if it looked like there was any struggle. Max and Lucy are very good swimmers.

The next day, I took Max and Lucy to see Wall-E. As soon as we got there, we bought tickets, hit the restrooms, and then the snack bar. I got them each a Kid’s Pack, which consisted of popcorn, candy and a drink. It was very reasonable, and I wouldn’t have known about that if Leslie hadn’t told me. They didn't have such considerations when I was a kid; but then again, popcorn was only 5¢.

The movie itself was very entertaining. It was about how our planet got so filled with trash and garbage that mankind had to seek refuge in a huge space station to float around space until the earth was once again habitable. Enter Wall-E, a sweet little robot that was placed there to clean up the mess alone. Someone forgot to turn him off when mankind left the planet. Wall-E has found a plant growing in an old refrigerator. In the same refrigerator, he finds and adopts a cockroach as a pet. A space ship comes and leaves another robot called Eve (Extraterrestrial Vegetation Evaluator). Wall-E becomes very smitten with her, and …… Oh, well, I won’t give the plot away. The kids loved it, but I think it was a little long for 5 year olds. They started squirming a little towards the end.

The next day, Roy cranked up the old Harley Davidson. Max and Lucy had both been begging to go for a ride. Lucy told Max that she would give him her turn, and Max was eager to hop on. I folded up a small towel inside the helmet so that it would fit the kids better. Max was definitely a little apprehensive at first, but with some coaxing from Roy, he was feeling a lot more confident, even a little cocky by the time he returned from his ride. He announced to Lucy that it really wasn’t scary at all. She said, “I know.” Just like she was an old pro at motorcycle riding. When Lucy’s turn came around, she hopped on giggling with anticipation. As soon as Roy accelerated forward, she was squealing with glee. I could hear her all the way around the block. “Faster! Faster, RoyPa!” Lucy knows no fear.

It was time for these cuties to go home. I got a call from Leslie on the way home, announcing that Lucy decided that if she could be a super hero, she would be ARGUE GIRL! Believe me, the moniker fits. I’ll probably make her an outfit, complete with cape and possibly a cummerbund. Of course the colors would be pink and purple. I was already missing them, and I'll suffer some Grandmother's withdrawl; and Roy and I both need a rest. Besides, I need a few days to ice the scarlet welt back down, and to get some more concealer. That was so much fun!

MORNING – IT’S FOR THE BIRDS!

Dad used to get us up at the crack of dawn every day, winter and summer without fail. No, it wasn’t the crack of dawn. It was even before the crack of dawn. We called that “dark thirty”. He would start out at the foot of the stairs with his official Marine Corps whistle. Then he'd come up and flip the light on and off. If that didn’t get us out of bed, he’d raise the windows and pull the covers off of us. I’m guessing now that he couldn’t bear to think that he was raising a bunch of lazy kids. I don’t think it was because he just wanted a bunch of kids to keep him company while he lit fires and drank coffee. If it wasn’t for 5:30 Mass, it was to do calisthenics before school. If we tried to go back to sleep, we got needled until we got out of bed. If we didn’t get out of bed after he got tired of needling us, we got fined extra chores and demerits. You might as well just get up. NO ONE got to sleep in, with the exception of Mom. After he'd let her sleep as long as he could possibly stand it, he took her a cup of coffee and some toast... every single day!

We’ll talk about “The Schedule of Merits and Demerits” on another page. Actually, there are several stories about being dug out of bed in the mornings. But, later. I just want to talk about birds right now.

Since those days, I’ve always had the habit of getting up early. I really do enjoy the peace with my cup of coffee, and I do try not to wake anyone else. When I was working, I’d get up at 4:30 or 5:00 every morning just to have that few minutes to read the newspaper and catch some of the morning news on T.V. before leaving for work. I’d sometimes watch re-runs of old sit-coms. Mr. Ed was one of my favorites.

Now that I’m retired, I still get up at 4:30, get the coffee going, work the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, and sit out on the deck to listen to the different birds wake up. There’s even one bird that starts making a racket at about 2:30 a.m. I have no idea what kind of bird would be awake at that time of day to make such a racket, but I do know it’s not an owl. Maybe the noisy bird is blind. The reason I know that there is a bird chirping at that time, is because when my Night Blooming Cerus is in bloom, I do get up to go out to watch and possibly take pictures. That’s when I hear the crazy bird racket. Later on, say around 5:30 or 6:00a.m. other birds start to stir.

I can identify a couple of different woodpeckers, mockingbirds and hawks. There are some that I won’t even to venture a guess as to what kind of bird. The sounds though, are spectacular. I can hear one of them calling cheap! cheap! cheap!. It’s answered by another that I assume is of the same plumage saying tofutti! tofutti! tofutti! ……whatever that’s supposed to mean. Another bird declares, purdy! purdy! purdy! The woodpeckers sometimes actually do sound like Woody Woodpecker.

About a week ago, I saw two piliated woodpeckers on the same tree. They looked like they were just hanging out looking for bugs. As they moved around the tree trunk, a third piliated woodpecker came into view. She was obviously the center of attention in that trio. What a beauty! These birds are about 19” long. They make a big racket when they’re sounding ……knock…knock…knock! Sounding just means that they are hammering (usually in the morning) on something hard and hollow to see who else is in the neighborhood. The smaller red-headed woodpeckers will get on the metal guttering on the house and pound away, to see who will answer. There is always an answer in the distance. This will go on for a long as an hour. The first time I heard this ritual I nearly jumped out of my skin. The guttering of choice happened to be just outside the window of our office. I was sitting here, lost in thought about something I was reading. You can imagine the machine gun sound that that small bird produced.

There are many varieties of woodpeckers in our area. The ones I mostly see besides the piliated and the red-headed are the ladder back and the Downy. They’re very small, and shy. I might not have seen them at all but for their shy little tapping.

There is a pair of hawks that have lived near by for many years now. They start their shopping at dawn. They make wide circles, and are nearly always together. They usually start making a racket when they find something. Sometimes I can see that they’ve captured a snake or a squirrel. One evening, while Roy and I were sitting out on the deck, I heard a mocking bird really fussing, and then I heard a hawk screaming back. Feathers started falling from above. As we followed the feathers up, we finally saw a mockingbird out on the end of a limb; a respectable distance from a hawk on the same limb. Apparently, the hawk had made a meal of one of the mockingbirds’ buddies or maybe its mate. The mockingbird was really giving the hawk a bunch of grief. The hawk answered back, and was more than likely inviting the mockingbird to dinner.

I still haven’t figured out what kind of birds says, “boogity, boogity, boogity, SHOOP!” It usually gets a reply of “cheater! cheater! cheater!” Apparently, those birds were influenced by the doo-wop and shoop, shoop songs of the early 50’s through the early 60’s. Possibly it has ties with the Rockin’ Robin. Who knows……….

Hank sits out on the deck with me. Since he doesn’t hear very well any more, I suspect he’s just hoping that the squirrels will wake up to play with him. He’s quiet and respectful of our morning ritual, but I suspect that if a squirrel went running across the yard, he’d have to start making a lot of noise, and run after it.

After we hear the first locust rattling, it’s time to go in the house. That’s the signal that the heat is beginning to climb. I’ll be back out there tomorrow, and maybe I’ll figure out who the “boogity, cheater, purdy and the shoop-shoop birds are. I even think there's a "she-bop, she-bop" bird out there too. I really want to see that one.

Sheeple/People and Global Warming

I'm using this particular blog as a bully pulpit. Just something I need to say, and at the same time, I do encourage some feed-back. Jump right in! Just click on comments at the bottom of this dissertation and hammer away!

Wikipedia says that “The implication of sheeple is that they are a collective people who believe whatever they are told, especially if told so by authority figures, without processing it to be sure that it is an accurate representation of the real world around them. The term is generally used in a political or religious sense.”

Let me just expound on that a bit. Sheeple are people who need so desperately to find a place to belong that they become one of those collective people who will join any group or cause that won’t turn their backs on them or kick them out. There are also Sheeple who are just lonely lost souls who want so desperately to belong somewhere, that they will join any one of many, many twelve step programs mostly because they aren’t usually kicked out. They are actually told, "Keep coming back!" Don’t get me wrong. I thank God that there are twelve-step programs. A bunch of us would certainly be lost if not for these organizations. Would we not? They serve a purpose, and help solve many problems of society. Many, many people have been saved from their own demise by these wonderful organizations.

However, I suspect that most of the sheeple that I speak of have some personality conflicts that seem to rub most prospective friends and organizations the wrong way. They don’t bother to check out facts before they decide to join in the march. They are so lonely and lost that they will jump into any group, feinting support and enthusiasm in order to be accepted. Sometimes They actually accept what they are told as the whole truth…no matter what, and they sometimes get a little over zealous.

For example, many years ago, I was taking my daughter to her obstetrics appointment. She was 8.5 months pregnant with her first child, and was starting to resemble a Conestoga wagon stumbling along on a prairie, riddled with gopher holes. Poor thing wasn’t really in good shape to drive, so I drove her. As we approached the parking area of the doctor’s building, there were Pro-Life marchers carrying signs and pacing up and down the sidewalk in front of the building. I parked the car, and we started towards the office building. As we neared, a man carrying a Pro-Life sign with a picture of a fetus on it came running up to us. Before we could dodge the guy, he was in our faces screaming, “Don’t do it! This is a child of God that deserves to live!!” We elbowed our way to the door past the man, but not before I shot him a barb of, “Can’t you see this woman is desperate!?” The Man’s jaw dropped down and he backed off. The elements of surpirse and shock stunned him momentarily. Apparently, there was or had been an abortion clinic in that building; and apparently this man was one of the Sheeple People of whom I speak.

That having been said, I will describe another type of sheeple. These are people who can’t seem to define themselves, so they define themselves by whatever popular belief is going around. Yes, here it comes! The Global Warming Sheeple. These are people who really want to find a blame to hang on someone or some thing for what this planet is doing. Listen up! The global warming thing is really happening, but people cannot cause this to happen. We should have seen this coming. History repeats itself, and we haven’t been paying attention. This planet is not doing anything it hasn’t done before. After all, it’s just history. We have just not been prepared for it.

There are natural occurrences that cause plenty of problems. Volcanoes erupt and throw off lava, magma and volcanic ash, all of which can be very hazardous. Cracks open up in the ocean and leak oil into the oceans on a regular basis. Cracks open up in our earth and release gasses and chemicals every day. What do you think Old Faithful is, a perfume factory? Tectonic plates move around and re-arrange continents. Hurricanes, and tsunamis hit our coast lines and destroy what we’ve built. Tornados will uproot whole towns. Weather changes and we can't stop it. At best, we can try to prepare for it.

There are also problems that we’ve caused ourselves, and we can certainly do something about that that. To be fair, we do need to recycle. We need to figure out what to do with our garbage. Last I heard, New York City scows are cruising around full of garbage looking for a place to put it. We need to quit cutting down our rain forests. We need to clean up the air, and we need to do something about the huge problem of American Gasoline / Energy Glut, and the lack of product thereof; find new sources and resources.

We have not caused global warming. So, let’s quit trying to lay the blame somewhere, and just do something about it! Let’s quit being a nation of Sheeple and start looking at facts and history, do some research to see what can be done to take care of our selves and our planet. The answers are at our finger tips, and within our grasp. We can pollute the air, and we can push each other off of continents with over population; and we can destroy people and countries, but we cannot destroy this planet. Why do we all of a sudden think that we’ve caused this global warming cycle? Why do we even think we’re powerful enough to do that?

POMEGRANATE WARS

Just grab one, rip it open with your teeth, and lob it at the enemy… hard! Running as fast as I could, I caught one anyway right between the shoulder blades. That one stung! I knew who threw that one. It was Bobby, the kid down the street. So, I ran around the other side of the house to pick up more artillery. Snagging three, I ripped one of them open with my teeth. I couldn’t resist taking a big juicy bite before lobbing it over the fence at my cousin. I nailed him right on top of the head. The next one was for Bobby. Thwap! Got him! Right in the middle of his clean white t-shirt! The stain was set. His mom will be really mad!

Pomegranate wars were the best! The only time we had more fun with them is when we went by one of the three or four big bushes and collected a shirt full of the grenades to take over the hill. This is where the war games were the most fun. We actually had tall grass and bamboo cane to hide in. After this particular war, we all congregated around the old hackberry tree in the back yard. All of us were covered and dripping in the blood-red pomegranate juice. Some of us actually re-ran the course to pick up used “ammunition”. Then, we’d take turns hosing each other down before our grandmother could see the mess we’d made with the pomegranates. “You kids! I'm gonna jerk a knot in someone's tail, if you don't leave my pomegranate bushes alone! You’re ruining them….just ruining them!” I’m really surprised that there aren’t pomegranate bushes growing wild over the hillside where we used to play.

If we’d only known then, just exactly how precious that particular fruit would be today, or that it contained nutrients and antioxidants….things that would be beneficial to all of us. Perhaps it just wasn’t known then, even by medical science. We’d never heard of antioxidants. The only thing we new about those things is that “an apple a day keeps the doctor away” and orange juice had all the vitamin C we would need for the day. Carrots would enable us to have x-ray vision, milk had calcium and grew strong bones, and vegetables provided vitamins, minerals and roughage. That’s what our parents and grandparents would tell us, and so it was.

There used to be an old man named Mr. Wood that would come by in a beat up old pick up truck. I’d say he was in his mid 40’s to early 50’s. That was old to us in the mid to late 50’s. The back of his truck was loaded up with produce of all kinds, from tomatoes, green beans and squash to sugar cane, rutabaga and yes pomegranates. Mr. Wood would drive slowly down the street ringing a cow bell, calling everyone out to come pick out what they wanted to buy off the truck. We’d all run out to see what he had, because he’d always give us kids a bite of something sweet….usually a wedge of watermelon or a stick of sugar cane each. The cost of the produce was always reasonable, if not just down right cheap. You could fill up a grocery store basket off the back of Mr. Wood’s truck for less than $5. "Them's real good tomaters, Ms. Lewis."

Look at just how far we’ve come today! It’s been discovered that pomegranates are useful for things other than hillside warfare. However, if you check out the prices at any grocery store, you will see that a quart bottle of this fruity elixir will run you at least $9. The raw fruits I’ve seen are at least $3 each. I can only attribute this to demand. The demand is prompted by what medical science has found out about it. It’s loaded with antioxidants, not to mention all the vitamins. It may prevent and control prostate cancer, reduce the risk of breast cancer and other cancers, improves blood flow to the heart, reduces plaque in the arteries, prevents heart disease and reduces the risk of heart attacks. And that’s just for starters.

Pomegranates are well suited to a semi-desert environment as well as a semi-tropical environment. You can have them at your beck and call. They’re easy to grow, and can be harvested in the fall through January. If you’ve got a juicer, you can have pomegranate juice year round for the simple cost of the bush you’ve planted. Well, if you freeze the juice you can have it year round.

Berries of all kinds are like pure gold today. They are also high in antioxidants and have various curative properties. Cherries are good for taking care of joint inflammation. The produce aisle of any grocery store is almost like walking through a natural pharmacy. There’s something to fix what ever ails a person. And, this is separate and apart from what’s been sectioned off and called the “Health Food Section”. Is this supposed to mean that they’re finally admitting that all the processed foods in the rest of the store isn’t really as good for you as they originally said it was?

I can truly say that eating healthy is almost as expensive as going to the doctor, or picking up prescriptions at the pharmacy. But, I’d much rather eat foods that are beneficial to my health than take medicine prescribed by a doctor. Doctors would rather you take the medicine they prescribe. I guess that’s because they don’t have time to read all there is to know about the benefits of natural food.

Medical science is always coming up with new information every day about various foods and what they’ve discovered they can do. Green tea is said to open up your arteries. We’ve always known honey is a natural antibiotic. It’s better to eat honey that’s been collected in your geographic area because it’s beneficial to easing airborne allergies. There’s just no end to the benefits of natural foods.

If you think the cost of the fruit is too much, look it up on line. Find out the nutritional values, and medicinal properties. An ounce of prevention is worth a lot these days. Then, go to a local produce stand. It's more reasonable there. And every body listen up, especially all you Baby Boomers! I’ve heard on the news that watermelons are the new natural Viagra. And, I always thought it was pumpkin pie.

LOOK I’M A SUPER HEROINE

Things have been as hectic lately as a Shell station selling gas for 0.979 per gallon. Everyone’s in line to be serviced, and just when I think I’m at my wit’s end and just when I think no one appreciates me, I’m pulled out of my own tail-spin by my hero, Rockin’ Roy. He lets me know that I’m his SUPER-HERO.

We’ve managed to get Rockin Roy’s mom back to her assisted living apartment. That was no small feat, spending all day last Friday wading through red tape and sitting in the lobby of the nursing home with Gen, who didn’t seem to know she was getting her wish….getting sprung. She had just spent a month at the nursing home getting therapy, and she was getting to go back to her own furniture and friends at the assisted living apartment. There are some loose ends to tie up, such as arranging for the upgrade of her care at the Atria, straightening up her meds list and turning her back over to the care of her own doctor, and making sure she has everything she needs. This last stroke has increased her “needs list” quite a bit. Bless the wonderful people who take care of her at the Atria.

In the mean time, three of our granddaughters plus their beautiful stepsister were here to visit for an unknown length of time. They are here visiting from Bullhead City, AZ. We were originally to share visits between their dad (Buford), and his sister, their Aunt Deborah. This is going to be fun! I had plans of library, skating, bowling and swimming, and just hanging out with the girls.

My dear friend, Ginger arrived on Friday afternoon as planned for an annual party on Bolivar Peninsula and to visit with us. She asked me to be her “date” for this event, as her husband elected to stay in Fort Worth to be left alone with an entire carrot cake left in the refrigerator. We know that’s why he didn’t come. Of course I would go with her for a day of sun and food and fun one the beach! We were to get up early Saturday and head down to the ferry from Galveston to Bolivar.

The three of us went out to eat that night at a steakhouse with four more of our friends. This is our usual Friday night fare, and a grand time was shared by all. We even got some pretty goofy pictures before heading home to relax and get ready for our adventure to Bolivar Peninsula.

As we walked in the back door, the phone rang. It was our oldest granddaughter, in tears saying between sobs, that her daddy had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance with a possible stroke. “Don’t worry honey, I’ll be right there to get you girls!” My imagination pictured four little girls sitting on the curb, sobbing while waiting for their grandmother to come save the day. Ginger and I jumped into the Durango and headed over to get the girls. Thankfully, they were not alone. Their Aunt Deborah had been the one to call an ambulance before zooming 50 miles to over-see her brother getting loaded up to go to the hospital and to take care of the girls until I could get there. She must have flown, and it’s a wonder that she didn’t get a ticket. I was really surprised to see her. She lives a long way away and she was there so fast.

We loaded up the girls, introductions were made all around, and we headed to the house. We got the girls settled in, making sleeping assignments for everyone. I was prepared to just stay home the next day and let Ginger go on to her party alone. Rockin'Roy stepped in and volunteered to entertain the girls so that Ginger and I could go on to with our plans for fun, sun and food at Bolivar. What a guy! With that, we all turned in for the night.

The three of us arose the next morning to enjoy coffee and sit out on the deck before the girls got up. We dressed and headed out for a day at the beach. I knew Roy would royally entertain the four little girls bravely, and I didn’t worry about them. Ginger and I had a great time, great food, conversation with people our own age, and I even got the first sunburn (not a bad one) I’ve had in years. Even that was sort of a good feeling. We headed back to Spring, and called our respective home-base contacts. As I suspected, Rockin’ Roy had the girls out hunting for food at the great hunting reserve, H.E.B. This is one of those hunting reserves where all the “game” is rounded up for you in isles, and you just throw it in the basket and shoot it with a check, cash or debit card. What a brave man!

The next morning, the three of us got up once more and met on the deck for coffee and the Sunday paper. We walked across the street to visit a bit with Lou the Bromeliad Man. That’s always enchanting. Ginger walked away with a treasure trove of plants from Lou the Bromeliad Man and some from our own back yard.

Monday, Rockin’ Roy left for work, and the girls and I were left to our own resources. We tried the library, but it was not opened yet. So, we did the old standby thing and went to the grocery store again. Came back to the house and checked on their daddy. He’s still in the hospital, but is going to be alright. We went back to the library later in the afternoon. Two out of the four actually got books, but mostly they all wanted to touch (via email) base with their friends back home. Yes sireee! They went there to get online to visit. Why, in my day, we went to the library to get books and to do term papers!

Today, I think we’ll make smoothies for breakfast, go pick blackberries and maybe go to the pool. Because Rockin’ Roy told me I’m his super hero, I will make it through this day and more.

MY DREAM SHE-CAVE

or

Utility rooms are a necessary evil……..or are they necessarily evil? We are back-door people, therefore, all of our friends come to the back door. The front door is reserved strictly for people canvassing for sales, kids asking for funding so that they can go to Europe for the summer, ministers trying to save my soul and Girl Scouts of America. It’s also a place to leave donations for pick-up and for large parcels of mail, UPS, Fed Ex and etc. Come to think of it, anyone who’s ever been to our house to visit before knows to go to the back door. The first thing they come into is a very small room only big enough for the washer, dryer and freezer. The half bath is stuck at the end like an afterthought. If you’re very large you have to suck it in to get in there. You literally cannot turn around in there without knocking something off the wall or the counter.

First of all, the location for a utility room is all wrong. The utility room should be discretely attached to the master bedroom and facing the back yard. My idea of a utility room has been in my mind for years. So far, the only person I’ve seen come close to my specs has been my sister, Anne. She’s the one that convinced me that the logical place for a utility room is off of the master bedroom. She is absolutely correct as far as I’m concerned. She even has secret passages to her project room, and I remain pea-green with envy.

Most men have their own space. A place where they can go to not be disturbed. It’s a place where they display all of their trophies and neon beer-signs. They can smoke their stinky cigars, watch whatever they want on TV, and play computer games endlessly. If it’s not a MAN-CAVE DEN or a MAN-CAVE OFFICE, then it’s a MAN-CAVE GARAGE. There used to be Monster House and Monster Garage. Now there is THE MAN-CAVE, but, I’ve never seen a design for a SHE-CAVE. I had a really hard time even finding a picture of what might be a She-Cave.

If I haven’t made myself perfectly clear, I’ll just say that I WANT ONE!!!!! I’ll even make myself more clear than that. I do not want your MAN-CAVE. The Royster has been more than gracious in sharing his office and garage with me, but I just want my own, and I intend to take things just a bit further. I not only want a utility room / sewing / beading / writing room, but a place of solitude. This idea sprang from watching DIY and all of the reality shows on room and home do-overs.

For starters, my She-Cave will be as a large a master bedroom, and it will be located discretely off the back of the master bedroom. My list of specs for this room is as such:
• I guess a washer and dryer would be in order.
• Closet, cabinets, shelves for storage
• Desk with computer and phone
• A sewing machine area
• A 5’ X 6’ project table (to my waist) with a lighted surface for tracings and plug outlets.
• Proper lighting through out
• Good ventilation because I intend to use my beading torch
• A sink with hot and cold running water (definitely NOT for cleaning fish).
• A Coffee Pot
• Small refrigerator
• A small television
• Window facing the back yard
• A door opening to the back yard
• An ironing board that folds up in to its own cabinet - I guess this just goes with my generation.
• A small couch and a chair for visitors.

Well, that’s just about it. I don’t think it’s too much. Every woman should have one. I’d even share it with the Royster for special projects, like a nice stained glass project. Now I’ve got to justify this and make it happen. What do you think?

Wish me luck.

ONLY IN THE WEE HOURS

A LABOR OF LOVE

An eerie feeling woke me suddenly, and I bolted straight up in bed. Oh My gosh! It’s started! I looked at the clock. It was 4:00 a.m.

“Honey! Wake up! It’s time! Throw something on and let’s go!”

“Okay…..What time did it start?”

“About 9:30 last night!”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?!”

“Well, it wasn’t far enough along yet, but it is now! HURRY!!!”

I threw on my robe, grabbed the camera, some scissors and a flashlight and dashed out to the back yard. Let me tell you…..This is quite an event for a 60 year old woman. Roy was right behind me, ready to help with the scissors.

“We’ve made it in time!” Snap-flash, snap-flash. “They’re only just finished opening!”

“Good! You just keep taking pictures and I’ll get us some coffee and I’ll be right back out to help you.”

This has become an annual event. A dear neighbor gave me a Night-blooming Cerus about two years ago. The first time it bloomed, it only had two blooms. This year there were four. These are absolutely some of the most gorgeous flowers I’ve ever seen. Their aroma is to die for. I expect there will be more next year, and we will rise to the occasion once again.

Since I’ve retired, it’s been my business to keep track of every bloom in the yard, from the orange, lemon and lime trees to the Angel Trumpets, Magnolias, Hibiscus, Plumbago, cactus flowers and African Iris. This is a new fascination with us. I guess it just goes with our age. It’s a new appreciation.

This spectacular event is really special since they only bloom once a year, and then only at night. As soon as dawn hits, they’re gone until next year. Gone are the days when we could have pulled an all-nighter to watch this event unfold. First of all, at that young age, an all-nighter would NOT have been to watch a bunch of flowers open. Secondly, Night-bloomers were Night-blooming-Car-Parkers in those days. I guess something like this might have been wasted on youth. It was hard enough to drag out of bed in the mornings for school.

We’ve both worked very hard in the yard, specifically the back yard. It’s become a tropical sanctuary. We love to sit out there in the evenings and early in the mornings to absorb the soul soothing tranquility that we’ve created over the years. It’s been worth every last drop of blood, sweat and tears shed over the years in this undertaking.

Oh, it’s still not finished, and probably won’t ever be. It’ll be a labor of love for as long as we live here.

Wasted Days and Wasted Nights

That old Freddy Fender tune hums in the back of my mind. Many nights I laid awake tossing and turning, and for as many days I went from task to task fretting and could not for the life of me figure out why.

The core of things came to light one day when I discovered that I was brooding about something that had occurred in my life when I was very young; something that I let get under my skin that long ago. How could a person hang on to something that supposedly no longer had the power or strength to hurt? The only value it still held was that at one time, it was a learning tool; something in my path that I dealt with poorly or maybe didn’t handle at all. That must have been the key. Possibly I didn’t handle it right then and there, or maybe I just hadn’t learned what I was supposed to learn from that experience that was right there in my path to learn from. Thank goodness I’ve learned to search for the source of uncomfortable feelings, take it out and examine it, and discard it into the pile of Lessons Finally Learned. Why on earth would I let something that ancient cause such havoc in my life today? Could it be guilt? I had taken it to confession. This was not an isolated incident with just one thing, but several things through out a lifetime that occasionally come up from the past to make me feel uncomfortable to the point of feeling suffocated.

I was born in 1948, and raised in the then Catholic tradition of “fear, guilt and shame”, and according to all of my Catechism teachers and all of the nuns and priests, I owned all of these loathsome traits. My little 6 year old soul was already black. I remember my first confession, as I was preparing for my first Communion. What horrible sins could a six or seven year old have, that they must kneel in a small, very dark closet and beg forgiveness from a man they could not see, a man who would pass judgment on them and punish them with penance? I remember specifically telling the priest hearing my confession that I could not think of anything I had done wrong. The priest’s reply was, “No one is without sin! You must tell me your sins!” So, I actually started making things up to pacify the priest. Actually, My grandmother had just told me the day before, that I was growing up too fast, and that it was “…just a sin the way you are growing up so fast!” “Well…I… I committed adultery.” I said with shame. I could hear nothing of the priest except the sound of choking. That confession saved a lot of time, and the priest gave me my forgiveness and my penance, and I was free to go; and to receive my First Holy Communion.

From that time on, I spent many a Saturday afternoon standing or kneeling with friends in our youth group all lined up for the confessional. I spent almost that length of time going over my “mea culpa” list with a priest that was, in my opinion, more curious and prying than someone should be who was supposed to administer absolution and penance for your sins. Also, as I grew older, I no longer had to make up something to tell the priest. There were sins to be committed around every corner. Some of these priests only stopped their queries short of asking for names and phone numbers, and it seems they always knew who they were talking to as surely as we knew which priest was sitting on the other side of the screen. The priest sitting on the other side of the screen was usually the same priest that ran our local C.Y.O. group (Catholic Youth Organization). This was a Holy Man of the Cloth, above reproach, and to be respected and trusted beyond all else.

Please bear in mind that back then, the Catholic Church had changed little from the 14th century. It was still pretty archaic. I believe now things have changed a great deal. This was a huge contradiction of what we were taught in our Catechism class, that the Catholic Church will never change. We were also told not to ever question Catholic teachings or Catholic authority. That was what they called blind faith.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe that confession is good for the soul, but just not that way. It’s one thing to sit face to face and talk with another person about your own sins and shortcomings, but it’s quite another to be required to sit cloistered in a dark closet to confess to another human being that you don’t even know. This person could be yawning or snickering behind the screen.

To be fair, there were some really devout and honest priests that truly had our best interest at heart. They earnestly wanted to help people. These priests were everyone’s favorites, and the only ones that made me feel that that I was truly forgiven for my sins. They let you know they were human and that humans make human mistakes. Unfortunately, there weren’t very many of them, and the ones that I knew and who were my favorites eventually left the priesthood to marry. Even as a young girl, I respected and admired these men for that. It must have been a really agonizing decision for them to make. If I knew where to find them, I’d trust them to mentor me today.

Anger is another aspect that can trigger these uncomfortable feelings. If you are wondering why being angry makes you feel so uncomfortable, I believe it’s because anger is a symptom of fear. When you don’t understand something, you understandably fear. For instance, people fear the unknown, so they fight, kill or flee whatever it is that they don’t understand. People fear that someone will hurt them or fear that someone or something will take something away from them. Anger wells up when someone or something threatens you. When children fear the dark, they plan all kinds of defenses (usually angry) to fend off the monsters of the dark. “I will kick them and hit them with a big stick, and stab them with a knife!” Once you let go of the fear, the anger will go away. Once you let go of anger, then fear will go away. Fear and anger nearly always go hand-in-hand.

Some harbor childhood fear and anger into their adult lives. This causes blaming. The blaming thing in adulthood is just another way to deflect blame for bad behavior. They blame an imperfect childhood for their own present behavior. Well, this is just wrong. You’ve known the difference between right and wrong since you were five years old. Forgive yourself and your offenders and get on with your life! As someone close to me used to say, “Build a bridge and get over it!” Adulthood is complicated enough without bringing a bunch of anger, resentment and fear from childhood into it. As far as I’m concerned, you are officially grown up when you can forgive all of the indiscretions of childhood, your own and those of others; just and/or unjust. Just let go of them. They were learning tools then, and you should have learned from them. If not, dig them out and have a look at them. See what you might have missed and then toss them into that pile of Lessons Finally Learned.

My Lessons Finally Learned pile has grown into a huge mound. It may grow bigger still, but I’m glad for having invented it. I’ve finally started getting some sleep, and the humming of Wasted Days and Wasted Nights has stopped droning in the back of my head. I’ve forgiven myself and others of my childhood. I’m a pretty decent person, and my soul is no longer black, but I intend to keep working on it. It still needs work.

THE WAY I SEE IT

You are who you are and I am who I am because that's the way The Powers That Be made us. I have total faith in that. Granted, every thing we are exposed to from environment to people, places and things helps bring out who we actually are. It's a matter of what we do with it. Our whole lives are a challenge, and I sincerely believe that we are here to love, learn and create. That seems pretty simple, but it's as complex as all get-out.

I don't believe that our parents have much influence, if any, on exactly who we actually are. We've inherited their genes for our physical attributes, and we take on some of our parents' mannerisms and quirks, and we certainly ascribe to some of their beliefs and teachings. This is because we are exposed to them day and night for the first 18 to 20 years of our lives.

Our parents are here to raise us into adults, teach us, shape us and to put us on the right track to adulthood according to their own learned knowledge, beliefs and values. That's all they have for this grueling task. For all of that, even with their influence, we will form our own beliefs as we grow into our own selves anyway. We know of right from wrong and good from bad by the time we are five years old. After that, we just have to learn how to use that knowledge. We still need to be guided and coached.

Why does it always shock and distress parents when their children don't always share their own values? We learn behavior patterns, mannerisms and habits (good and bad) from them. But, the person we ultimately become is exactly who we already are. I think we actually know exactly who we are the moment we are born, but soon forget as soon as the delivery room lights hit our little faces. At that very moment, we are a new little mind to bend.

Our challenges and choices eventually mold us into that which we are and will be forever more. The challenges are already lined up, and our choices determine when we meet these challenges.

That may sound just trivial, but I believe it's the truth. We are all born with separate and uniquely different souls and spirits, with a whole set of challenges to meet. It's not IF we meet these challenges but when, and when we meet these challenges is solely up to us. Oh, we will meet all of them if we live long enough. We choose to meet them whether we are conscious of the choice or not, now or later. When we meet them depends on when we recognize that we can't move forward to the next challenge until we take care of the one right in front of us.

Isn't that just the way it is? I mean, there are certain steps we have to take before we can run on to the next one. Don't we have to acknowledge that there is a challenge, a problem to solve or an inquisition to face? I'm guessing that the acknowledgment of this challenge is the first step. The next step would be to examine the possibilities. After that, acceptance of the challenge would be in order, and then actually taking new steps to meet the challenge or solve the problem.

It's realizing that the Powers That Be have designed these challenges for us to learn by. Acceptance is a very important step in this. You don't have to like it, but you do have to accept it eventually. I'm told that we are made in God's image. This makes me think of God as one huge kaleidoscope of brilliant color, and I just happen to be one of the tiny, beautiful shards of color, and I am very flattered to be a part of that.

The more challenges we take on, the more we grow, and the more colors we accumulate the more complete we become, and the more we can create, whether it be a sculpture, a building, a work of art in a museum, invent something, or create a wonderful environment for our future generations. Our challenges help us grow enough to meet the criteria for creation, and that is precisely what we are here for; to live, love and create. That's the way I see it. Now, please excuse me. I must be off to work on my own kaleidoscope colors.

Who’s Responsible Debate

Many of you know that I’ve become involved in an online organization of writers from everywhere. Mostly, it’s people like you and me who just enjoy writing. At this site, whatever story, article, essay or debate you write is rated by all the other people who have joined this community of writers. Everyone gets to rate everyone else’s writings. I’m new at this, and only joined because I was cruising around to see what was offered for publishing one’s own work.

So, I’ve found Helium.com (no longer what it used to be) to be an excellent place to write about whatever I know something about. Mostly I’m having a ball. I just snoop around, pick a subject and start writing. Once I’ve checked it for errors, I submit it, at which time I am snapped into a place where I get to rate other people’s work while mine is being rated by others. This is fun!

I started noticing that I was getting pretty good at this when I received my very first ratings. I was just honored! I hadn’t gotten a gold star since the third grade. What elation! I was just on cloud nine. I started writing more and more and would click into the site to check my rating. Egad! I was rating in the top one quarter of most everything I wrote! Conceit was looming.

Last week, while checking my ratings, I noticed that my most current article was rated #1 of 26. Well, there went my ego, right through the roof. Oh! But there’s more! I had a blue star for writing. Well, this spurred me on to write again. I was so excited I could hardly contain myself, and soon I was snooping around for a subject too write about.

And there it was. A debate. Well, I’ve never been very competitive, with the exception of trying to secure more floor in family yack-a-thons. So, I wondered if I could pull this one off. The debate was Should Smokers Bear the Responsibility for Health Risks of Cigarette Smoking? Of course, there was a YES or a NO vote. Clicked on the NO vote, and a blank page popped up for me to begin writing. It didn’t take me long, and when I finished and checked it for errors, I submitted.

Of course, I was checking in and out of Helium to see what my rating was. There weren’t very many submissions yet, but I was #2 of 4 for the NO side of the debate. Not too bad. I decided to check my e-mail before going about my usual chores around the house. I’d check ratings again later.

What a nice surprise! I had an e-mail from one of the other writers. She had placed just one point under me in the ratings. Her note was very pleasant and flattering. Oh! I liked her immediately. I wrote her back and told her thanks very much for the kind and flattering words. And that I liked her article too.

BUT WAIT!!!!!! There was another e-mail from yet another member of Helium. Gosh! I’ll be getting flowers and speaking engagements next. I clicked into that e-mail and read:

“The government made me do it. The ad campaign made me do. Help! Help! I can't control myself, I'm under the control of a mind bending, death ray and nothing is my fault. You are where you are because you put yourself there. To shirk responsibility is juvenile.” Napoleon

Many of you will be pleased to know that I did NOT address this man as Dear Mr. Hot-Snot! No sireee. I maintained a certain amount of brevity and dignity in my response with:

I'm guessing you don't and never have smoked or had any other vices....ever.
I did choose to smoke, albeit at age 14. I also chose to continue to smoke. Unfortunately, it took something stronger than my urge to smoke to quit.
I'm so glad you're free of any bad habits, or anything socially unacceptable.

I read your article too, and it was fair.
M. Brown

He responded with:

"What's fair? The weather is fair. What did you think?
I've got more than my share of bad habits, but I don't point at other things or people and say that's why I'm bad. Everything I am or will every be begins with me. It's called taking responsitility for my actions. If I make a mistake, I try to correct it. If I cause pain to others, I generally apologize. Of course, I smoked just like most kids raised in the 50's and 60's, but just like I said, I knew then that cigarettes were bad for me, I ignored that and continued to smoke. When it came time to quit, I quit. It's that simple."
Napoleon

I don’t mind saying that I was tiring of this little twerp, so I went back and found his article, which was listed as #4 of 5. As I gazed at it, trying to get through, I noticed that he had a particularly long dissertation with NO paragraphs. And, He’d voted on the wrong side. His story indicated that he most certainly did believe that smokers should bear all of the responsibility for the health risks of cigarette smoking. I also clicked in to “Read more about this author.” The only thing there was his dissertation about Smoking. Bingo! I shot back:

"I think you need to learn how to use paragraphs. It makes it easier to read.

You voted on the wrong side. The question was Should Smokers Bear the Responsibility for the Health Risks of Cigarette Smoking? You voted NO. The way your debate Article read, you really meant to say YES Smokers Should Bear the Responsibility of the Health Risks of Cigarette Smoking.

In my debate Article, I’m not shirking responsibility. I own the mistakes I’ve made, and I know what they are without having to have someone else enumerate them for me.

My statement was (and still is) that No, smokers should not have to bear all of the responsibility. We all know the difference between right and wrong by the time we are 5 years old. However, a person still needs guidance for making decisions until they are more of an adult. People who are responsible for targeting minors for their own gain should shoulder the blame as well.

This is a debate, not a rock throwing contest, nor a contest to get on the Don Rickles Heckling Hour.” M. Brown

I have not heard a peep out of “L.T.” since I shot that last note to him. I do hope he learns to use paragraphs, and I wish him success.

I feel much better for having responded to “L.T.”, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. I wonder if he wrote that little note to other debaters. But again, I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.

I just clicked into Helium. I’m #1 of 8 on the NO side. My day is made!

MONKEY BUSINESS

It all started on a whim. Since Anne had worked so hard to get her book on chocolate published, and had her fingers in at least 5 other enterprises, I decided that her logo, Choco Monkie, needed a girlfriend. So, I made a sock monkey for her.

As I made this little monkey, I made up a story to go along with it. She was a French monkey that came over on a boat to live with Anne. I named her Chocolette, and dressed her in a pair of white Capri's with a red and white stripped shirt. And a wide-brimmed straw hat. I put little earrings on her, and gave her a duffel bag that carried a change of clothes for her, a skirt. Anne was delighted, and she carries her with her on speaking engagements.

After that, I decided that I’d make one each for my daughters and grandchildren. I was really having fun with this. I ordered more socks on line, and started in on Savannah’s. After I’d made three of them, a friend of mine asked me to make a pediatrician monkey for her daughter, who was a pediatrician. She loved it, but asked me if I could put hair on her, so I bought some yarn and started fashioning hair for the little monkey. I also found a ”baby” sock monkey that I’d been hanging on our Christmas tree. Soon the baby was affixed in the arms of the pediatrician monkey.

Okay, the ball is rolling. This was fun. It wasn’t just an assembly line of socks and fluff. As each little monkey progressed, it started taking on a personality of its own, and since there was no one but Hank around to hear, I actually started talking to them. Hank listened intently, cocking his head one way and then another. I’m sure he thought I was talking to him. When I’d get quiet, Hank would quietly walk over and very gently grasp the monkey’s tail in his teeth, and very carefully try to ease it off my lap. He must have thought it was his. He’s done that several times. Actually, Hank has his very own sock monkey that I bought at a garage sale for a dime. Unfortunately, it’s in shreds in his toy basket. He still loves it, though.

I made all the rest of the monkeys with hair. I also dressed them to suit personalities and preferences. I made a Grease Monkey for Chris to over see him in the garage, while he restores an old Le Mans. I also had a couple of other requests lined up from friends. I made monkeys for all of my sisters and sisters in law.

Well, I thought that would be the end of it, but as soon as I put away my monkey stuff and stowed my sewing machine, I got three more requests. Why sure! I just whipped those two little charmers out. At last count, I've made about 25 of these little charmers. I wish I could put them all on here, but, alas. There's no room.

At last! I’ll just put my sewing machine up and …………….. “What’s that George? You want a sock monkey too? A what kind of monkey? This will be the crowned jewel of sock monkeys. I’m only in the planning stages so far, but once I get it all together, it’ll go pretty fast. George will have his doll. I will post it for all to see. In the mean time, all of you try to think of what kind of monkey GIII would ask for. It’ll just let it be a big surprise.

WHAT'S YOUR MONIKER?

In the beginning, the only moniker I owned was Alice Melissa Lewis, but it soon escalated into a whole bunch of identities, aka, George & Alice Marie’s daughter, Joanie’s sister, Oliver and Thelma’s granddaughter (#2), Gammie's grandaughter #2, Ollie’s, Jack’s, George’s, Dan’s, Torch’s, Joan’s, niece. Then I got my own first nick name, Missy. Later there were other nick names added, one of which was M’liss. That was soon changed to Melissa Sit DOWN!!!!!, and still later, Damn it Melissa, Sit Down!!!! Of course, much later, I became Mommy, and then Mom. Even that got changed to Oh! Mooommmmm! And then around the same time it was one word that was two syllables….Mo-om! Oh, and, I am also Aunt…what-ever.

I told my daughters that I would answer to whatever my first grandchild decided to call me. So, around the time my first grandchild, Savannah, was about nine months old, I went with my daughter, her best friend and the kids to a Mexican food restaurant for lunch. Savannah got to sit on a booster seat between us, so I thought this would be the ideal time to try to prompt some kind of name for myself from this child. The conversation went somewhat like this:

“Who’s this, Savannah?” Barbara asked, pointing at me.

Savannah did not really know what she was supposed to say yet, so there was no response. I chimed in pointing to myself with, “Savannah, say Queen Mother…”

This prompted a definite look of disapproval if not disdain from Barbara.

Still no response, so I tried again. Barbara was getting increasingly un-easy, afraid that Savannah just might say Queen Mother. So she said.

“Try to get her to say your name!”

We tried, but got absolutely no verbal response. Savannah just looked at me like she’d never seen such an abomination before, and our food was starting to get cold, so we gave the poor child a break. Savannah kept staring at me, like I was a bug on an ice cream cone.

After a few minutes, I tried again. This time, after about the third time, I begged her. “Say ‘Melissa’ sweetie!”

She started to utter something, and then smacked her chubby little baby hand down on the table three times and said,

“Mefffalla! Medaffala! Mfloonaah!”



To which Barbara said, “Hey! I think she said, 'Mena'!"

How she got Mena out of that, I’ll never know. I’d pretty much lost all hope of being called Queen Mother, so, I decided that Mena couldn’t be all bad, and I’d better stop while I was ahead. After all, it was much better than some names I’d heard people stick their grandmothers with.

Now, I am Mena to all our grandchildren. Because we told the Queen Mother story to Savannah, she and I will share a giggling session every now and then. She’ll say some thing like, “Queen Mother, can we make some Monkey Bread?” That will always get "Of course we can!" and we always dissolve into a fit of secret giggles. I love it when she does that.

Roy is “RoyPa”, and I think that's really sweet. He wishes it was something else, and I always remind him that he could be called PeePa, Crap-Pa, PooPa, or even Grumpy. He’ll answer to RoyPa every time……but not RollyPa. That’s cutting it a bit too close.

I’m still acquiring monikers, but then I’m sort of used to it after all these years. They all fit, and I still know who I am, and that’s a really good thing!

GETTING BUFF

I have found out once again that it can be lonely in a crowd.

Actually, I felt pretty out of place when I first started going to the YMCA. I had started out doing aerobics with the Silver Sneakers group. This is supposed to be people 55 and over, but it’s mostly over. In fact, there were no other people younger than me, and not even one my age. I was the baby. Yes, I am over 55; however most of the people in Silver Sneakers were around 75 and upwards of 95 years old. The reason I felt out of place is because when I first started, I couldn’t keep up with them.

They were warm, friendly and very considerate of me. ” Here, sweetie… just sit right here and I’ll get you some water!” And, “You shouldn’t try to do so much at first!” and…”Claude, keep an eye on this one….she’s new.” This sweet woman (Celeste) is 86. These wonderful women and men show up religiously to do a solid hour of aerobics…..non-stop. Granted, I have a limited breathing capacity. I should have started slowly and worked out a little longer each time.

After a couple of months, I decided that I’d just go to the work-out room and ride the stationary bikes and do some weight bearing exercises. I bought a set of ear phones so I could watch and listen to the news while “spinning”. This was much more to my liking. Yes, I did get winded at first, but it got easier, and I was able to work up to an hour. I was really getting into doing this three days a week. I actually felt smug, and thought of my neighbors sitting at home watching soaps and turning into lumpy curds and whey.

Suddenly, I was snapped out of my self-satisfied, smug-trance when I heard,

“Hey Celeste!” You’re late, Darlin’, so let’s get to work!”

In waltzed all 4’9”, 85 year old of Celeste, waving at everyone; everyone being about eight of the Silver Sneakers group that had sneaked in while I watched the news and enjoyed my smugness. They had just finished doing an hours’ worth of aerobics, and most of them were running on treadmills. Celeste was there to work out with her trainer. I interrupted up my cycling and sauntered over to Celeste, who was bench-pressing her own weight. As I approached, she spoke cheerfully to me:

“Hey Sweetie! We thought you’d given up on the class. Are you coming back? We’ve missed you!”

Well, I honestly didn’t know what to say, so I hatched one up.

“Well, I’ve really had a problem with…..” Celeste interrupted with,

”Do you by any chance know how many reps I’ve done of these lifts?”

I didn’t know, but I told her,

“Six. How many are you supposed to be doing?”

And she said:

“Started on ten today!.......seven…… eight….”

This was wearing me out, so I excused myself and went back to the comfort of my stationary bike, put my headphones back on and closed my eyes to finish my spinning and listening to the news.

As I was dismounting, Celeste came up to me and asked me if I’d like to go have some Mexican Food with her. She was famished! Well, why not! She was just adorable, and I was just a little intimidated with her 85 year old ability, and pea-green with envy of her and her determination and her stamina. We got changed, and she said,

“We’ll go in my car. I think you’ll like it!”

“Sure thing!” I said. “See you in the parking lot.”

We each refilled our water bottles and headed out. I walked over to put my gym bag in my truck. Soon Celeste was there, tooting her horn. She was fast. I turned around to see a fire engine red, 1970 fully loaded and restored Pontiac Firebird. She must have seen my jaw drop down. As I got in, she patted the console of the classic and told me that it was her husband's’ “baby”. It was the first brand new car he’d ever bought. She drove it daily, and he drove the Lexus. Then she volunteered that he was her second husband, and that she’d traded up by marrying a considerably younger man. I guessed that she was probably older by about 23 years. That would make her husband about 63 years old. She did look great. Geeeeeeeezzzzzzze!

Over lunch, she told me that she was probably the most pampered “older woman” that she knew, and I’d have to agree. According to her, he gave her anything she wanted. Her husband worked for HP, and was going to retire in two years. She said that it was her mission to stay in shape for him, so he wouldn’t get bored when he retired. That’s all she volunteered. The little thing ate like a horse and had two giant ‘Ritas on the rocks. What a woman! I had a taco salad and water.

Instead of going home right after lunch, I went back to the Y and picked up three membership applications for the YMCA, determined to recruit some of my friends (my own age) to work out with me. Most of them still work, by the way. I took an application to one of my dearest friends. She was busily getting files together for their CPA. I explained that she could meet me at the Y on her lunch hour or before work. It was very close by and it would be fun. I’d go any time she wanted. I was dangerously close to begging, and I was fighting back tears. She looked at me from across her desk with a look of deep caring and concern, and then burst out laughing and said,

“Are you crazy!?”

That having been a bust, I took an application to my next door neighbor, and she actually agreed to go with me one day as a guest…. just to check it out. She actually got up early the next day and was ready. I was really encouraged. Afterwards, she said that it was just too early for her. She’s a night owl, and I get up entirely too early for her. I just tossed the third application in to the shredder. I’d just have to brave it alone in Silver Sneakers.

‘Nuff said…… I continued to go to the "Y" until I needed some minor surgery, and then placated myself with the excuse that I needed to recover from that surgery before resuming my work-outs at the gym……and my own resolve to work out three times a week just sort of fizzled out, went down the toilet, petered out and went away for the next year.

There is new resolve looming.



In the almost year that I haven’t gone to the gym, I’ve gained about ten pounds. That’s over what I’ve gained over the past five years. I have a closet full of clothes I can’t wear, and I refuse to buy bigger. That is not trading up. It’s not that I expect to get back to the “cute and adorable” days. Those are long past, and I truly wouldn’t trade anything for where I am today. It’s just that I’d dearly love to shape up, tone up and yes…..buff up what I’ve got just one more time. It’s much harder than it used to be. Gone are the days when I could eat all of anything I wanted and maintain a svelte 135 lbs. And, spending the day working in the yard was plenty of exercise. No, I don’t expect to get down to that weight ever again. I just want to take off the additional ten lbs. What that extra ten lbs. is added to, I’m not saying.

So, I’m resolving, once again to get back into decent shape. I’ll go back to the Y. I’m not much of a challenge for myself, because I’m the only one that believes my lies. (No, no, no ! You look great in tight jeans !) I do need the inspiration of anyone willing to sit beside me, exercise with me and crack a whip over my head.

By this time next year, I should be in good enough shape to at least wear Bermuda shorts. Does my butt make these jeans look fat?