THE CHEESE HAS FALLEN OFF OF HER CRACKER!

There is a command by God, in the Bible (King James version), that goes something like this: “And you, be ye fruitful, and multiply; bring forth abundantly in the earth, and multiply therein.” There was a reason for that. The world needed populating back then, and it did not take long. Later, here on this continent, new settlers were having very large families. There was also logic in this. They needed all the hands they could get to help with the farming and ranching. A family of twelve children was not uncommon.

I know what some of you must be thinking….. “Well, you, yourself are second oldest of eleven siblings. Where’s the logic in that?” My answer would be, “Well, I don’t really know right off hand, but I’d guess it had something to do with a.) Dad having been a devout Catholic, and b.) I suspect that Mom really loved being pregnant from beginning to end. She must have gotten some kind euphoria from it.” To me there is no logic in having a bunch of kids just because the Catholic Church said to. However, I would not trade anything for any one of my siblings. They are all special. I really believe that Mom and Dad both truly loved children. It just did not turn out the way they had romanticized it would be.

Here’s what I’m getting at. The 33 year old woman in Los Angeles who has added octuplets to her brood of 6 (ages 2 to 7), is off her bean. This whole thing has become a sideshow attraction. There are or should be limits. It is of my opinion that The cheese has slipped off her cracker! (For nostalgia buffs, I first heard Andy Taylor say that to Barney Fife ... I think.) Her own mother thinks it’s because Nadya Suleman grew up an only child.

What? Is she then punishing her parents? It certainly appears she is doing just that. She has thrust total responsibility on them, financially and as caretakers. A neighbor has said that she (Ms. Suleman) is a good mother, and that she loves children, and has always wanted a large family. And, where is the husband/father/provider in all of this? Oh … there isn’t one. And, what’s more, the 6 older children (includes one set of twins) were also a product of invetro fertilization. It appears here, that her desire for children over-rode any logic and/or common sense.

The doctor that implanted her because of her, “clogged fallopian tubes” has no cheese left on her cracker either. There are some huge medical and ethical questions looming here, not to mention questioning the sanity of an unemployed, unwed woman who thinks she needs invetro fertilization to have more and more babies on her own, at her parent's expense. Are there any ethics in that? Will tax payers have to foot any part of this bill for hospitalization and medicine for these eight babies?

It appears that there are many sides to this. One of these sides could be that this woman (Ms. Suleman), saw that there were families on television that were being paid to have their unusually large family lives televised. She has hired a firm to handle T.V. shows, book offers and other media deals. It’s too early to discuss how much money she might get for this, but she is asking two million to tell her story. Hmmmmmm..... There seems to be a motive here.

There is the Duggar family of 18 children. I’m not absolutely certain if Mrs. Duggar is through having babies, but they’re now focusing on her oldest who has just gotten married, and experienced his very first kiss on national television at his own wedding. My oldest daughter says that she thinks they are their very own cult.

Then there is Jon and Kate Plus 8. Bless them. Here, I don’t see much intention as far as trying to set a record. I don’t think they were trying for another multiple birth as much as they just wanted to have another baby. They did, however, go for fertility treatments when they were not getting pregnant right away. When they were found to have multiples hatching, I believe there must have been a real moral dilemma about terminating any one of them. I do believe their intentions were good, and the media stepped in with a way for them to take care of these babies. This show focuses on parents of multiples and every day trials and tribulations therein. I won’t be doing this myself (all those babies) in my next life.

As I said, there are many sides to all of this. The world and the economy are in a very angry, volatile state, and over population is literally pushing us off continents. All of these children are innocent. Now what?

From the Domino Effect to the Shrine in the Back Yard

Sometimes things just start happening in my life that could only be described as The Domino Effect. This particular chain reaction started about three weeks ago.

Our 27 year old electric stove top had begun to flat-line, and the burners were very close to letting go to fall through to the abyss beneath, and I had vowed not to spend another penny on drip pans or beauty rings. I should have remembered the rule of things happening in threes, but my excitement over getting a new cook-top over-rode the negative thought.

So, off to Home Depot we trotted to have a look at new stove-tops. I had never seen such an array of new-fangled appliances. There were ranges that you only had to touch to give a command. I asked if there was one that took voice commands, and the kindly salesman looked over the top of his glasses at me as if to say, Oh, you poor woman! We chose a glass flat-top model, in white, with five burners. The two burners on the left share a bridge between them that provides a place to put a griddle. We were both a little uncomfortable with the touch model, and chose one with the old fashioned knobs. The only real draw back with this kind of range top is that you can only use stainless steel. Fortunately, we have that, but needed to get rid of the other pots and pans with copper bottoms and the few aluminum ones. No coated cookware or cast iron, either. Our amicable salesman said that our new appliance could be delivered by Friday afternoon or early Saturday. This would be in time to show it off to our Friday Night Dinner Club over the week-end.

On the day before we were to receive our new stove-top, I received a call from a woman at G.E. She sounded totally bored with her job, and that’s very dangerous in these times. She informed me that the stove-top would not be delivered on the date previously promised. I bravely asked why. She actually yawned, “I don’t know. That’s just what they told me. It won’t be delivered until Monday. Someone will give you a call. Thank you for your patience.” What was I to say? I’d already told my girlfriends about my new stove-top. They wanted to see. This was going to be a big let down.

The delivery came on Monday, and a few minutes later, the installer showed up to install it in the ceramic tile counter. Some extra cutting was required, as the stove-top was a bit larger than the old one. The guy started cutting and gently dropped it in to the space. I was ready to be impressed and awed with my new glass stove-top, but the installer kept trying to maneuver it this way and that, and finally he said that the range-top was an odd shape and didn’t fit precisely enough in the hole he had cut. It was horrible! There were big gaps all the way around. He tried to stall my mounting panic by saying, “Well, it can be calked. I’ll see if I have some in my truck.” I could not imagine calking it, as there was a special seal already furnished. It wouldn’t work with the gaps around it. The installer came back from his truck with, “I don’t have any calk, but you can get some and fill it in.” I told him that it wasn’t satisfactory,and further more, that we should not have to do that anyway. The guy as much as shrugged, and left. Like, it was now out of his hands. I was livid!

I called our salesman right away and told him that the whole thing was just one horrible nightmare. He said he’d come after work and see what he could do. As it turned out, he didn’t make it that night, but came the next day at lunch and started fixing it. He really was good, and caulked expertly around the entire thing. He said it would take about two more caulkings after that, and that he’d come back the next day for the next application. I was calming down a little. Within the next couple of days the caulking job was finished, and the new stove-top looks and works just fine. I could start cooking on it.

Here’s where it gets interesting. After the man left, I got on the computer to write. I was doing some research online for a story I was going to submit to Helium. As I clicked and rejected one item and then another, I clicked on one item that looked like it might be the just the information I was looking for. My heart stopped when a window popped up saying that there was a virus lurking. It jumped into my throat when a window that looked like our virus scan program popped up asking if I wanted to scan. My first reaction was Of course I want to scan for this thing! As I clicked “Yes”, it occurred to me that our virus scan would automatically scan without prompting. It was one of those moments, like when you’ve left your keys in the ignition with the motor running; you’ve locked the doors and you step out of the car. You can’t catch the door before it slams shut…..Shit! Shit! Shit! (Go ahead and ask me how I know this. I dare you.) I had downloaded a virus! Yes….I did it! It was me! I called the Royster immediately to tell him what I had done. I was right next to tears, but damned if I’d let this machine see me cry.

The Royster asked me what I had done, and then asked me point blank, “You clicked ‘Yes’, didn’t you? Please tell me you didn’t click ‘Yes’.” I started stammering, hoping that this was one horrible dream. “Um…well…err…Yes, I guess I did.” He was just as distraught as I knew he’d be. He simply does not take news like this gracefully at all. This was not a pretty scene. Anyone who knows The Royster knows what he’s like at a time like this. A person could suffocate in his panicked frenzy.

The Royster knows an IT guy that lives close by. John came over to have a look and to start work on it. I was just sweating bullets, but tried to remember that most of the things we think are lost in a computer are retrievable. Also, that Roy backs up everything pretty regularly. Without going into much detail here, John was able to fix it, but not without much ado. I tried to stay busy downstairs, while Roy plied him with beer and humor. The two of them labored long and hard over it, until it was finally fixed. I could breathe again, and The Royster was calm again. For the next few days, it was smooth sailing.

Then there was the matter of the 30 year old dryer. With the week-end at hand, I had been doing laundry. As the buzzer on the dryer sounded, I hurried to take the clothes out of the dryer before they wrinkled. As I did this, The Royster drove into the driveway. The clothes were still wet! Quickly, I tried to think of something cheerful to tell The Royster as he walked in the door, but absolutely nothing came to mind. As he approached the back door with a very pleased grin on his face, all I could come up with was, “It didn’t work! The damn dryer didn’t dry the clothes!” His smile disappeared, and I sensed that there would be an explosion. Oh! God!

He didn’t look happy about it, but surprisingly, he did not explode with his usual flare. He went to the bedroom and changed clothes, and came out to have a look. “Well …” he said. "This dryer has just died. It’s about 30 years old, and I guess it was time. Let’s go to Home Depot and look for a dryer.” I was very pleasantly surprised. So we went to H.D. to pick out a no-frills clothes dryer. It would be delivered on Tuesday. I could wait that long. After all, I still had a clothes line strung up behind the garage. It came in handy during Ike, and I would do for now as well.

I’ve almost forgotten entirely what this was leading to ….Oh! Yes! The Shrine! On the way home from H.D., The Royster said he’d been thinking all day about getting a really cool smoker and building a pad and a tin roof to cover it with. That was what that smile had been about when he’d arrived home, before the news about the dryer. He went on to describe how he would build the shed.

The next morning, we went to Academy just to look, and he bought his smoker. He certainly deserved it. We dropped it off at the house and then went to get the lumber and corrugated tin that we would need for this shed / smokehouse. While he measured and cut lumber, I went to get the stones we’d need for the pad to sit it on.


The Royster worked in the cold, grinning and thinking about future culinary delights with his new smoker, and the shrine he was building to house it in. It was almost complete on the first day, and it stands waiting for Super Bowl Sunday and its first task of smoking brisket and hang down. What a finale to the dreaded Domino Effect.

UP-DATE ON WORKING OUT AT THE "Y"

Before the age of 55, I had maintained a fairly youthful appearance, body and spirit … almost buff, actually, if I may brag a little. Keeping a full time job, and keeping up home and yard seemed to be enough to keep me that way, and still let me eat like a man. Since then, the spirit has remained youthful, but, I just don’t feel the same on the inside as I have started looking on the outside. After a particularly dibilitating illness everything started to go south. My muscles atrophied, and my strength waned. I took an early retirement and didn’t do much but write and keep house, and until a few months ago, I hadn't done anything seriously about shaping up. No diet worked by itself.

By the time I was 58, my entire body (according to magazine articles) had become a veritable deli / pastry shop. I first started noticing this one day while talking to my brother, GIII, on the phone while I sat at my computer. As I glanced down to my lap to see where I’d dropped cookie crumbs on my lap (wearing cut-offs);the conversation went like this:

“Oh, my God!” I screeched,

“What’s wrong, Sis!!?” Said GIII.

“I have Mom’s legs!!!” I whailed.

“Oh, no! Not YOU!” “What the hell happened?” He said.

Let me tell you this right now. Our mother had eleven children, and I never ever knew her to exercise a day in her life. Her weight was up and down all of her adult life, not including pregnancies. Her legs looked as though they were filled with lumpy oatmeal. This is not to say she was unattractive otherwise … just when she wore shorts.

I had noticed that I had what is referred to as a muffin top above my to-the-waist jeans. My butt was becoming a large loaf of dimpled Focaccia bread. My thighs were definitely lumpy curds and whey, and my upper arms were large elongated lobes of raw dough, draped from elbow to armpit, and swinging freely. BINGO!

I will say here, that women over 50 should not read magazines, or pay any attention to online ads for diets. It’s very intimidating and disheartening because they only use models’ bodies to show the after shots of people who have allegedly lost a lot of weight. They just glue a lay-person’s head on the model's body, and even the face is airbrushed and narrowed. Anyone can do that in Photo-Shop.

You just don’t see that your honey is aging and putting on the pounds right along with you. I whined and mewled that I’d started getting flabby (at least), and he smiled and hugged me and told me that I was just fine with him. In actuality, I heard, Well, I love you any way. I know this is true, because when he whined and mewled that he was aging and gaining weight, I told him, that as far as I was concerned, he was the sexiest man on earth. At which he said, “Yeah, but you’re prejudice!” Humph! True enough, even though he is to me the man that hung the moon and stars.

That doesn’t make up for the way I feel about what was happening to my body! So, I joined a gym and was evaluated by a trainer. That must have been what I needed. This trainer was not quite my age, but she looked really great, and I felt like a real lump next to her. I was to begin my training immediately.

Good! That’s what was needed. I started working out four times a week in the Women’s Health and Fitness Room, as opposed to the big co-ed equipment room. I did not want to or need to be around a lot of testosterone while working out. I did two miles on a treadmill at 3.5 mph. This takes me almost 45 minutes. I really thought that was great, until some young thing with a pony tail jumped on the treadmill to my right. “Good morning!” She chirped sweetly. And then she turned her treadmill on to a full gallop. Egad! I tried to remember that she must have been only about 20 years old. I noticed too, that she had not started to sweat. Then she cranked up the speed. By that time I’d just reached 2 miles, and was glad to get on with my work-out … elsewhere.

There are ten weight-bearing machines that I am using in my circuit training. With each piece of equipment, I set the seat and the weight according to what I can do with some effort. There are about three of those that just intimidate the hell out of me. One is the Leg Extender. You sit with the tops of you feet under a padded, weighted bar (about 20 lb.). The object is to lift it with your feet twelve times, rest and do twelve more. The burning pain on the tops of my thighs reminded me of the ring of fire referred to in child birth. This is when the head crowns, and it so does feel like a ring of fire!

The other two intimidating ones deal with the arms. The Arm Curl is one I’m still trying to adjust to. I Can’t seem to do more than 15 to 20 lb. A very large woman approached me while I was trying to get three more in, and told me not to bend my wrists. FINE! Add to my struggle! Actually, I just told her thank you. She explained that I could hurt my wrists by letting them pull the weight. Thank you, but that just made it harder … another ring of fire on the back of my arms.

By the time I’m finished, I have a healthy, misty glow going on and am terribly thirsty. I go over to the very nice water cooler provided and drink up what I need. I chat with the trainer on duty for a minute and then head out. As I drive home, I think of the progress I’ve made in the past two months. My bingo arms aren’t hanging as badly, and my jeans are actually fitting better. I am still not weighing for another month or so. The scale in the kitchen still has a post-it over the readout that says 140 lb. As far as I’m concerned, that’s just fine with me. I’m doing what I need to be doing. My trainer said so!

Now, I’ve got to deal with my sweet Royster, who is also my very own diet saboteur. “No, you go ahead and have ice cream. I’ll just have this nice small tub of yogurt.”

Shoes! Shoes! Glorious SHOES!!

Since the beginning of the human race, about 6 million years ago; when humans started finding a way to tie elephant hide to their feet to protect them, woman have had a very special relationship with shoes. I am certainly no exception to that rule, and I was getting self conscious about how many pairs of shoes were actually in my closet. I didn’t even like the Royster to go into my closet. He might start counting.

Cleaning out the closet became paramount to doing something about this … or to make me feel better … less guilty. Of what, I don’t really know. I am retired, and there just aren’t many places I can wear all those shoes. I just don’t want to give them up. Clothes from my working days are still in there. I might be able to wear them some day … somewhere. Who am I kidding? My daily wear consists of jeans and T-shirts with tennis shoes or Crocs. In the summer, its Capri’s and flip-flops. I haven’t worn anything nicer than Dockers and a nice blouse in about 5 years. Maybe I’ll give all of my good work clothes to a women’s charity….except maybe the shoes. Dang!

Since I didn’t make any New Year’s resolutions, I won’t resolve to clean up and give away stuff in my closet. Actually, I’ve already started doing things I’ve procrastinated doing for a lifetime. I joined a gym, and have started going four days a week, Monday through Thursday to work out for a couple of hours. This is something I’ve really wanted to do. The more I go to the gym, the more I want to go. It’s sort of addictive, like … uhhhh … shoes. And the gym puts me out and away from the beckoning closet.

There are other things I’ve started bending my daily life around. First things first! Perhaps once a week, I will take six items and put them in a bag by the front door for the next charity that calls. They all call around the same time. I know what their M.O. is. They have snoops to find out when their competition will be picking up, and then they arrange to call and pick up a day earlier. My theory on this is First-Come-First-Serve. My problem with stock-piling items to give away is that if they are there in the bag for too long, I’ll go back and go through them, take things out and put them back in the closet. I just know I’ll be able to wear them again …… particularly the shoes. All women divide their closets in to Big Clothes and Small Clothes. The multi-size jeans system has always worked for me. I’ve always keep the current size up front and the sizes too big or too small way back in the back. Actually, the too small jeans have been in the back of the closet for two years. Maybe I’ll just keep three pair as a goal to work for, and give away the other eight pair. I know I can get in them some day.

A couple of months ago, I started making some headway in the direction of cleaning my closet. As I approached my closet door I began to feel a bit uneasy. When I opened the door, the pit of my stomach lurched. I couldn’t actually walk into the walk-in closet. Over the course of two years, I’ve been reaching over because I could not walk into the closet. Sometimes I’d just shuffle into the closet about a foot through the pile of shoes on the floor. Looking up, I saw shoes in boxes on the shelf the length and width of the closet, and three deep. I suppose that is the reason there is such a pile on the floor. There was just no room on the shelf …… OR maybe I was just too lazy to start a fourth row of shoes.

I bravely forged into the massive pile on the floor, picking through shoes, coat hangers and empty shoe boxes. I managed to part with my penny loafers, saving the 1948 penny and the current penny out of the slots on the top of each shoe. Those pennies are to be glued to my urn upon my passing. Maybe I shouldn’t say that I’ve given my beloved penny loafers away because the loafers are still in the bag by the front door, waiting … waiting. I’d sure love to find another pair of penny loafers … uhh … just for old time sake, and maybe a pair of really good saddle oxfords to wear with jeans. Okay. I’m supposed to be planning on giving away things (shoes) I no longer need / wear, not my next shoe shopping excursion.

I finally had sorted through the mess on the floor, and neatly lined up pairs of shoes that I would keep for the time being. It pleases me that I can actually walk into the closet. There are several pairs of shoes in bags by the front door, awaiting the next charity pick up. Next, I will get to the clothes that are jammed so close together that they require ironing before they can be worn. That will be next.

One of my girl friends friends, Karin, had damage from IKE. A tree had fallen on the part of their house that was their closet. Now, I have always been pea-green with envy of her closet any way. It’s the size of my kitchen, for pity sake! And, it has a bank of dresser drawers in the middle. Here’s the deal with that. They had the closet restored and lined with cedar. The carpenters made special slots for all of her purses and had more shoe shelves made. I really liked the special purse accommodations. She confessed that she actually had three huge storage boxes full of shoes that still would not fit in the closet without spilling out on the floor.

Here’s the deal. I have recently visited dear friends who have actually offered to show me their closets! Imagine that. I have never invited anyone to see my closet. One of these lovely women is a friend that I’ve known for thirty years or so, and had never been to her house before. I will protect her identity, and just call her Mary T. She lives pretty far away from me, so it wasn’t like I’d just popped over to see if she wanted to go shopping. We were going to lunch. I went to the door, and was greeted with, “I’m so glad you made it! Come on in and have some coffee.”

Really pleased to see my friend, I said, "I’d love some coffee! Your house is beautiful!"

As she led me in the house, she chirped, “ Let me show you the house while the coffee makes.

The whole house was really roomy, with an upstairs den in between the bedrooms and baths. It was just beautiful! Mary was really enthusiastic about showing me the house. It was almost like she couldn’t wait to show me her closet. Downstairs was the den, kitchen, dining room, and the master bedroom. Finally we came to the master bedroom. She said:

“Want to see my closet?”

Trying not to appear eager, I said, “Well … ummm, sure!”

No on had ever really invited me to see their closet before. I was wondering if I was going to see something spectacular. She threw open the door, and I was immediately awe-stricken. It was my closet times three … no … four or five. If I squinted, I could see that the closet was roomy enough, but the pile of shoes in the floor was only the beginning. There were rows of shoes, shoes and shoes. I saw that she shared the closet with her husband. Mary occupied three fourths of the closet from top to bottom. He only got the right side, his shoes neatly lined up on the floor.

“I’ve got three more closets just like this one.” she beamed.
I had to ask, “Mary, how many pairs of shoes do you think you might have? Just give me a round figure.”

After a moments’ calculation, she finally said, “I’d guess about 200 pairs, not including the ones I’m putting in the garage sale.”

She must have seen that I was a bit envious, because she said, “I’m going to have a garage sale. Here, I’ll show you what I’ve corralled”.

We went down stairs and threw open the door to a sitting room. I gasped, and then started wishing we were the same size. The room had organized stacks and stacks of beautiful clothes. She doesn’t have any place to wear her work wardrobe, either.

This show of honesty and openness just endeared her to me more. She showed me her vulnerability, and it’s made me braver about my own collection of shoes and clothes … things that, in the past, I just haven’t been able to part with. It will be much easier now, for me to go home and clean out my closet, work wardrobe, shoes and all.

You know, I really was impressed with the special slots for purses that my friend, Karin had built into her closet. Hmmmmmmmm. Perhaps I’ll go shopping for purses soon. Maybe the Royster will make some special purse accommodations in my closet for me. After all, I’m too old to be carrying around a fanny pack for a purse. Anyone want to go shopping?

I STILL GET EXCITED

The girls are grown and gone, but I still get excited about Christmas. All of the grandchildren are far away, but I still get excited about Christmas. I’m almost 63 years old, I live with The Royster Grinch, and I still get excited about Christmas. No matter what we say or do, it shows up every year. The music and decorations start appearing in the stores just after midnight the day after Thanksgiving, and in many places sooner than that. There’s just no getting around it. To tell you the truth, I could do with out the whole Black Friday thing, even though it officially ushers in the Christmas sales. I just don’t go out on that day. If you go out on that day, you are literally taking your life in your hands. It’s just not right.

I don’t think there was a time when I really dreaded Christmas. I still get excited. Left to my own resources, I’ll go out shopping a little at a time. Every time I see someone with a scowl or frown, I just smile at them. And every time I’ve done that, I've gotten a smile back. It’s uncanny … every time! Think about it. Just maybe a smile turned someone’s lousy shopping day around. I am a people watcher, and I swear, that I can almost hear them thinking, wondering and concentrating.

Getting ready for Christmas is never easy. I’m exhausted from trying to put up the pre-lit tree we bought last year. The lights didn’t work last year, so I called to see if they would let me go exchange the tree for another. Noooooo, they would not. However, if I could tell them what string on the tree was not working, they would send me a new strand. So I crawled around under the tree to read the tiny printed matter attached to the limbs where the lights did not work. I was on the phone for 30 minutes under the tree trying to read the little tags.

At LAST!  I found the right set and read the little tag off to the girl on the other end of the phone line. She said they would rush our new lights out, and all I’d have to do would be remove the old string of lights, and put on the new. I could get out from under the tree and get on with Christmas. Uhh ... no, I couldn’t. I was on my back with a flashlight in my mouth, and paralyzed under the tree. I could NOT move from that spot. Finally, after a brief conversation with my self I was able to crawl out relatively unscathed, but sore.

In the mean time, The Grinch and I went to Sears Hardware to buy some lights to lie on the dull branches until the new lights arrived. Needless-to-say, the lights didn’t arrive until after Christmas.

Well, that was last year, and guess what. The lights don’t work this year either. I had the two strings of lights from Sears. One worked and one did not. Fine, we’ll just do with the one that works … sort of. I took bulbs out of the string that doesn’t work, and replaced dead bulbs in the one that sort of worked. The tree is up, and the lights are sort of on the tree. I’ll decorate it today. This should disguise the fact that there are a lot of dead lights on the tree.

When this tree comes down after Christmas, I am going to donate it to the curb and do what we’ve always done (next year). It was serenely ceremonious. We would just go to Home Depot or Kroger and buy a $30 tree. On the way home, we’d stop at the dollar store around the corner and buy 6 cans of flocking and go home. We’d put the tree in the stand in the driveway, flock it, let it dry and haul it in the house. I would decorate while The Grinch enjoyed watching and directing. After the tree was decorated we would sit together on the couch with the lights out and candles lit, admiring our little $36 tree. It couldn’t be more simple.

This is what we want, isn’t it? I mean, aside from the fact that the commercialism has muddied up the true meaning of Christmas, we go shopping, start baking, mailing cards and gifts, start decorating and putting up the Christmas tree. We even sing a little with the music on the radio. I honestly believe that the true meaning and spirit of Christmas is in the hearts of everyone who gives a gift. We know what this celebration is for, and we truly have giving in our hearts. I don’t believe that this Christian celebration will ever be done away with just because it might offend people of other faiths or atheists. It won’t be taken from us.

Today, there are two weeks and two days until Christmas Day. I will bake, wrap gifts and listen to my Christmas music. I will remember what Christmas is all about and think of my girls when they were little, waiting at the top of the stairs for the magic to begin. After the tree was turned on, candles lit, coffee making, quiches baking, angel chimes and Christmas music ... "Okay Girls, You can come down now! Merry Christmas!!"


I still get excited about Christmas ... and so does the Grinch.

CRUSHING ADOLESCENTS

It is entirely possible that some of the guys I dated in my high school or church group were actually shy. I preferred to think of them as gentlemanly. In hind sight, I believe that the ones that were really shy were only afraid of being turned down. They just couldn’t see themselves as actually being attractive enough to get the attention of a girl that they were interested in. What if she says “no”? 

 

Being an adolescent girl in the 60's, and driven by raging hormones as we all are at that age was tough. It's really hard on a girl, and I've been told by my male peers that it's equally tough on the boys at that age. There are all kinds of insecurities, fears, uncertainties, and of course, there is the added challenge of school. I took into consideration that a boy that I was interested in at the time might not be the least bit interested in me. Mostly I just knew that the guy might be a bit shy, or at least a gentleman. Those were the ones I was attracted to. It also gave an interesting challenge, in that I had to be a little more reserved myself, giving the poor guy a little wiggle room; and waiting was not easy for me. 

When I was attracted to a boy, I made it known through whatever venue was at my disposal. Usually, the initial display on my part was eye contact. If I'd known then that all I needed to do was to make eye contact, smile and turn to walk away, I wouldn't have put any young man on the spot by approaching them with a really shallow, stupid question (also known as a line). Yes, girls do that too. It was brazen, I know, but in those early adolescent years, many of us didn't know many of the subtleties of attraction. We send out signals with the subtleness of a moose in heat. I was one of those that had no shame. 

 

The high school halls were filled with the scent of English Leather (testosterone) and Chantilly (estrogen). What a nocuous, if not combustible combination. Boys beat their chests and hooted while the girls paraded up and down the halls nodding, smiling and blushing; pretending to be shy and embarrassed. The Rec. or Recreation Center, our local public gym, was what was available to us for basketball, volleyball, gymnastics, dance lessons, and parties. This was the perfect opportunity for the hormone pumped youth to show up and get close … really close. A dance instructor was provided, but she couldn’t seem to get us interested in the Fox Trot or the Waltz. She would show us what to do and we would pair off to slow dance. You couldn’t slip a piece of onion skin paper between the dancing couples. The poor woman finally threw in the towel when we’d start in on The Twist. She started showing up only as a chaperone, to remind us that the music had stopped and we could release our vice grips on one another. 

 

There were also parents who showed up to sit in the bleachers and visit with one another and occasionally commenting, “Oh! Aren’t they cute?” None of us really had enough confidence to just go up to some one and introduce ourselves. We were all shy, not just the guys, and we had to play the games. Wasn’t it fun, though? Wonder if the games are any different now, or are there even any games like that now? The guys that were just good friends were the best. Now, I often think of them fondly. I truly loved them. They were the shy ones … the gentlemen. We were friends, the ones I liked the best.

Games of the Imagination

I think that allowing a child to use their very own imagination is very critical in their development. Alone, a broom becomes a horse. Pots and pans with wooden spoons becomes a set of drums. A very large cardboard box and a box of crayons becomes a playhouse. And did you know that Tinker Toys can be two-way radio? A big can of blocks will stir the blandest of imaginations. Lincoln Logs and Erector Sets were the mothers of invention for kids from 5 and up. Lego’s are still really great creative inspiration, though they did not have them when I would have been of age to play with them.

Growing up with my siblings and cousins there was always something to do. There were games that only required a playmate or two. We played hide and seek up and down the block until dark. Sidewalk skating, hopscotch, jumping rope and tag were favorites. We could play at the park a block away, or ride our bikes until dinner time, and we did. Swinging Statue and Crack the Whip have probably been outlawed because someone might get hurt. We were only allowed a limited time to watch T.V., and even then it was a family pastime.

We, The Club, had a favorite game called Time Machine. All it takes is three little girls with huge imaginations and a few props. That’s all. You can be anyone you want, and you can go anywhere and do anything. In our case, it was a big cotton rope, knotted at the end and a sand box. The huge closet in the big bedroom upstairs was our Time Machine. We would go in there and invent our story line. When we re-emerged, we were in a different time and place.

I don’t remember exactly where we left off because it was a lifetime ago. The three of us invented times and places that we would magically appear in. It seemed that Judy, our cousin, was the ring leader in this game of dashing off into time. My sister, Anne (14 months younger than me), and I were perfectly happy to let Judy (only 9 months my junior) lead the way. It would have been four of us but by the time we’d gotten to these imaginative games, our older sister, Joanie, had other interests. Usually, she had her nose stuck in a book or she was off visiting her girlfriends and talking about boys. I guess she just sort of out-grew us.

It was decided that the time frame was somewhere in the 18th century. I am sure that this burst of ingenious imagination was sparked by the wonderful story our mothers had read to us, Swiss Family Robinson by Johann Wyss. We altered it a bit, so instead of the family of four boys a mother and a father, it was three beautiful young women shipwrecked on a deserted island. They must make use of the natural resources and some items recovered from their ship, to survive. We had washed up on shore, with a number of goats, chickens and supplies from the wrecked ship. We foraged for food, built tree houses, fetched buckets of water and milked the goats. I don’t recall that any one of us ever slaughtered one of the goats or chickens. That just wasn’t in our repertoire.

“Hey! You missed the bank! The vine swings this way over the stream! You are IN the stream!” Judy yelled with great knowledge and conviction.

“No I am not! We never talked about which way the stream would go anyway. It goes this way!” I would yell back.

Of course this game inevitably involved three strapping young men, presumably stranded months before us, who wanted to rescue us.

This ritualistic enchantment was only interrupted by our Aunt, who was Judy’s mother. She would call us over to a window for a brief Spanish lesson or to read something from a book on Astronomy or Entomology or about dinosaurs. These mini lessons were only a few minutes long, and then we would resume our time machine game. This one particular time machine game carried us through an entire summer.

Zoom back to the present with me for a moment.

I have grandchildren ranging in age from 6 to 15. There are certainly a lot of educational toys, like Leap Pad and Leap Frog games. I’ve been looking at toys and games of the current generation of children between the ages of 2years old through 12 years old. There are all kinds of electronic toys and games that actually do everything for you. All you have to do is move your thumbs and watch. There is even Guitar Hero for the kids when they outgrow these hand-held educational toys. You plug it in to the T.V. and plunk a sort of air guitar with no strings, according to colors displayed on the television screen. I’ve watched my grandson play with that, and it really looks like fun. But what does that really teach a child, anyway? I can see that it might teach some fine motor skills coordination. Let's not forget iPods for the older kiddies. These toys are very clever, but it still does not stoke imaginations the way simple things would.

The three of us have emerged from our childhood Time Machine in to senior adulthood, and as different as night and day. All of us fondly remember the creative game we played, and now we think of the impact it had on each of us … the directions it took us individually. It stirred up our imaginations and helped us become just who we are today. We can all agree that we three have never ceased to image what could be, and just how very powerful that can be.

So, today I am going into my closet to imagine what my day will be like. I can make it anything I want it to be. I will re-emerge into the world I have created in my mind. Forgive me if I seem to be having more fun than the rest of you.

About a year ago I started a really good thing in going to the YMCA to work out. I would have preferred a friend to accompany me for encouragement and company, but for some reason I could not persuade any of my friends to join me in this adventure. So, I enjoyed doing this by my self three days a week for several months. With the aerobics first, followed by using the exercise equipment, I felt much better, and actually had a good time doing it.

However, after about six months, I started slacking off, and I think that I was actually seeking an excuse to not go. Whether it was boredom or the lack of an exercise buddy, I didn’t really have the enthusiasm that had been mine in the beginning of this quest. An excuse finally presented itself. My annual mammogram came back messy; messy meaning just that. There was garbage in the right breast that wasn’t an immediate threat to me, but it just wasn’t supposed to be there. According to the doctor, it had to come out. I had the out-patient surgery, or day surgery, and returned home to recover.

This was the beginning of my procrastination. I didn’t go back to the gym for a year. What gold-bricking! I had used the surgery as an excuse not to go work out. I squeezed that excuse for an entire year until my annual mammogram rolled around again. Once more, there was more trash, but in both sides this time. Again, this was not a threat to me, but needed to be cleaned out. There was more surgery, and more guilt piling up on me for not going back to the gym. My recovery went fine, and I was released by my doctor to do whatever I wanted to do.

There were no more excuses. In the back of my mind, a voice kept saying, “You have no muscle tone, and the scales ARE correct!” My thighs were looking more like curds and whey. The painful awareness that I could no longer squeeze into my favorite jeans just haunted me. I could not make myself toss them into the bag by the front door designated for the next charity that called for a clothing donation. Actually, there were many items of clothing in my closet that I could not bring myself to donate. After all, I might be able to wear them again. Right?

Though the YMCA that I gone to previously was conveniently close by, small and had everything that I needed; there was still something lacking. The small facility had seemed so perfect with its Silver Sneaker group showing up every day, but it had not been enough to keep me coming back. Could the Silver Sneakers program have been way too much structure for me? Who could keep up with 86 year old, 4’9” Celeste, who could bench press her own weight? After all, I am genetically pre-disposed to fighting structure and discipline, no matter who imposes it. It goes waaaayyyyy back in the family genes on both sides.

I’d driven by the BIG ONE (YMCA), which was further by about 1.5 miles. Wanting to see what that one had to offer I drove there to see what made it so much more appealing. I scanned my Y-card, which had to be re-activated, and then asked to speak to someone about a program that would fit my rebelliousness. The woman escorted me back in to what seemed to be catacomb of halls to a small office. I was told to wait until the Coordinator of Rebelling Procrastinators called me. The young woman was wonderful! Seems she had seen me coming. She was so good that she dissolved any future excuses and made me think that this experience would be like going to a day spa every day. I fell into her pitch and she designed a 4 day a week program that would fit me perfectly. I was to report to the equipment room the next day for orientation.

There was a silver haired older man sitting at the desk in the equipment room. I say older because I knew he was older than me. I was introduced to Aldo, who would give me an orientation to the equipment I would be using. This included gauging my personal physique and statistics to the various machines. That’s right. You get your very own pin number for each machine. Once you’ve entered your pin number, the computer gauges the resistance, and then tells that person exactly how many, how fast or how slow. It will tell you to slow down, or speed up as needed. Once you’ve reached your limit you’re done on that machine. On to the next one!

Aldo was very fit and very knowledgeable. He took me through three different rooms full of equipment, and introduced me to each one I’d be using. As we programmed each machine, he told me a little about himself. He’d come from out of state, and was going through a divorce which would be final in two weeks. He’d be glad to help me out any time I needed him. Just ask … any time! What a nice guy!

I went for my first class the next morning. This would be the H2O stretch, which was more like water yoga. The indoor pool was the perfect temperature so I got right in. There were about twelve of us, including two older men (older than me). Again, I think I was the youngest person there. I found out quickly just how out of shape I am. My balance was severely off, and the instructor, Rosie, told me that this would get much better with each session.

A very tall, very thin woman walked in. She was very attractive, and dressed in what I can only think to call water clothing (not a bathing suit), that included gloves with webbed fingers and water shoes. She appeared to be made up of string, steel and rubber-bands. I’m sure she knew I wondered why on earth she was there. She introduced herself right away, and told me that she was not an instructor, but that she would help me since I was new. Lorie also told me that she was a marathon runner, and she came in there daily to stretch before her runs. I asked her how long she had been a marathon runner, and she told me she’d been running for about 40 years. YIKES! She was much closer to my age than I would have ever guessed. She looked only fortyish. Mind you, I am aware that she is not simply lucky. She’s worked for it.

The H2O stretch went well. It actually made me feel great! The bursitis in my hip had quit nagging me, but I didn’t take notice of that until I started to get in my truck to leave. It didn’t hurt to hitch myself up there into the seat. This was great encouragement for me to report back on Monday for the weight-bearing equipment, the tread mill and water aerobics. I should be through before 10:30.

It would be totally unrealistic goal to use a picture of myself taken 30+ years ago. That one was taken back in the cute and adorable days. If I thought I was fat then, I was just out of my mind. I Can't believe I was that hot! Just being aware that it exists is enough.

I decided that it wasn’t doing me any good at all to weigh in every morning on the scale in the kitchen. So, I got a post it and wrote 140 on it and pasted it onto the display on the scale. There! That’s something I can aim at, and it’s not unrealistic. I’m not even tempted to get on that scale until I actually feel a difference, and who knows when that might be. Until then, that’s my weight. I just go by the jeans that hang on the dresser drawer knob in plain sight. Now if I just had a buddy to trade encouragements with.

Are You Listening to me?

I really thought my kids just never listened to me, and when they were infants, I didn’t have a clue as to what they were doing gurgling while they were supposed to be napping or going to sleep for the night. Just by chance, I caught a portion of The Baby Human on the Discovery Channel, and it all seems so logical now, and I now have new admiration and respect for a baby’s learning process. Its just plain awesome!

There is a very critical time in the growth of a baby when they are just starting to babble. This would be a stage just beyond cooing and kicking, say 7 months to a year. They are actually sitting in the highchair holding a spoon. You've got their rapt attention, and you are trying to teach them a word. You hold their little hand and tell them, "hand" or "finger" or "spoon". At that particular time, they are looking you right in the eye and calculating just what you are saying. You hold up a ball and tell the baby, "ball!" After a day of feeding, playing, bathing and babbling you put the precious little bundle to bed in their crib to go to sleep. After a while, you peek in to check on them to see if they've gone to sleep, and you wonder why this baby isn't asleep yet. There in the semi-dark the child is touching fingers and trying to form words, the baby actually makes a sound that sounds like, "Ball".

This baby is actually practicing what's been said to him/her all day long. The child is actually doing homework. Don't believe it? Try again the next day. Look in on the baby again. You will find that they do this at nap time too. Later, while riding in the back seat, you hear something repeated that you had said not a minute earlier. Maybe it's not something you want to hear coming from your precious baby. The baby is merely copying you … doing their homework.

This goes on throughout adolescence. You just don't think they hear you. They are not listening. Let me tell you. They are hearing every word you say, and are observing what you do. I used to hate it when my own father would say "Do as I say, not as I do!" This is very confusing to a child, and always detrimental. Sometimes parents are not the best example to follow, especially when they don't give due credit to their children, who are sopping up every word and action they see and hear from their parents. As teens, they are still watching your every move, and hearing your every word. I guess it's just not cool to let you know that they hear you. Well, I guess that's never changed.

Pay attention, parents! If you are aware that the child is mimicking every word and action of their parents or peers, you will be more careful of your own actions and words. When you are loving to the child and to each other, the child will learn to be loving. When they observe anger, sarcasm, violence, they are going to copy it. Do your homework. The baby is always doing homework. It's that simple.

Give a Hand UP, Not a Hand Out

Our welfare system has gotten way out of hand. There needs to be a halt to generation welfare fraud. However, at the same time, it is critical that we recognize that there are people who truly need the temporary help of welfare. Temporary is the key factor in this.

Many of us have driven through some of the saddest reservations in our western most states. And, maybe we've stopped at the roadside stands and looked at the beautiful things they made, and maybe even bought something. It's really sad to see the hovels they live in out in the desert; especially after having visited the lush cities and towns. These people have to haul water to their homes.

Our forbearers stole the land from the American Natives, corralled them in the most inhospitable parts of the country. They took the land along the most beautiful and hospitable of parts of the country along the rivers and lakesides. They killed buffalo for sport. And, because the American Indians had no more food, and they wanted their land back, our forbearers gave these Native Americans fire water and guns to pacify them. Many people scoff at them and label them incompetent, lazy and dirty. This isn’t the only culture in our United States that is in this shape.

Africans were brought over to this continent for the purpose of slavery; that was just as deplorable. They were taken from their own continent and stripped of any identity and dignity. The black slaves were eventually set free to fend for themselves in a land that was hostile to them. Great waves of discrimination and violence have resulted in this.

It doesn’t stop there. Irish and Chinese immigrants were “employed” as slave laborers. As most of these immigrants stepped off the boat at Ellis Island on the east coast or Angel Island at San Francisco they immediately sought work. Many started working as indentured slaves just to pay for their transport into the United States. Men worked on railroads, in the fields and in mines. Women worked as maids, cooks, launderers and even as prostitutes when they could not find other work.

Many of these descendants of these immigrants that ended up as slave laborers are only slaves to themselves. They seem to want to hang on to all of that as an excuse for bad behavior or just not working. Our present government feeds into that, which, in turn, encourages a culture of people living off of other peoples’ endeavors. I don’t personally owe them that. Do you?

Here's the deal. We contemporaries were brought up in a world of societal discrimination and distrust on both sides of the coin. We are all descendants of immigrants. I didn't personally endorse slave labor or discrimination, and you didn't personally do it, either. I don’t believe that any of us personally believes that any of that was right the right thing to do

Some of us fail to recognize the American citizens that have brought them selves up from deplorable circumstances to make valuable contributions to our communities and societies. They have pulled them selves up and reached out and taken the education that is given, used it to get ahead and thrive. These people have pride in their education, their work and their country. This is what we have always called The American Dream. I think we have lost sight of that. It needs to be re-established.

Circumstances can hold down smart, intelligent people of all race, creed, color and origin. It's a matter of what you do with what you've got. If someone just needs a hand up, or a foothold to get to where they are going, I am happy to help; but if they just want a handout or a free ride so they can continue living off of the blood, sweat and toiling of others, I don’t feel a bit sorry of them. Those are the ones that give the others a bad name, and they are the ones who make the most protest … “Unfair!” “Look what you’ve done to our people.” The truth is they don’t want to do anything for themselves. They will hang on the shirt tails of people who will swim them to shore, but they won’t swim a stroke to do it alone.

These are generation welfare people from all walks of life that have been taught from infancy that someone else owes them a living because of our past history, or our government is keeping them in poverty. These are the people who have the attitude of "If it's good enough for my mamma, grandma, great-granddaddy, etc., then it's good enough for me. They owe it to me.” These people don't work and don't want to. They don't pay taxes, and never have. They don't pay for anything with anything but their welfare checks, and they are actually paid more money with each baby they pump out. They use their welfare checks to buy lottery tickets, lease luxury cars, and buy beer and or drugs. Our tax dollars pay for all of this, and now it is being proposed that the people who have worked hard for their money will be taxed even more to help take care of these people who don't work and don't want to work.

I think that if we have to have spot testing for drugs and alcohol in the work place, then welfare recipients should be tested for drugs and alcohol to receive their welfare checks. I believe that would make a tremendous difference.

Welfare is for people who are sick or physically unable to work, homeless children or for people who just need a bit of help to get to where they need to go in life. These generation welfare people have to stop wallowing in their own self-pity and self-righteousness and quit blaming others for their plight, expecting someone else to give them a free ride. Stand up and put one foot in front of the other, carry your own weight and do something for the good of all.

BABY BOOMERS - So, here we are.....

The time came before we knew it was upon us. It just sneaked right up our alley. The impact of the realization for each of us as individuals was just shocking and numbing at the same time. Where did the time go? Though I still feel as though I have a full lifetime ahead of me, I realize that I'm on the other side of the mountain, and the momentum is carrying me a little faster than I'd like to go. It's that old paradox of time flying by faster as we get older. More of this paradox is that at 60 years old, I don't feel any older inside. My insides aren't matching my outsides. I have arrived at the age where I look much better in clothes than out of them. This can't be all bad, since it has been said that it's good to be young at heart; not only that, I feel as though I've only just begun. Don't bury me yet!

It's true, you know. We've already experienced most of life's newness and now we are at the time in our lives when we are remembering when, wondering where it went and what on earth has gotten into the youth of today? The youth of today that I speak of are the people that are replacing us. Just who are they? Well, they are not strangers. The people replacing us are our children. We wondered what got into to them, and the kids we are wondering about now are our children's children, our grandchildren. What has gotten into them anyway?

I am seeing a new trend in the youth of today. They tend to take shorter days at work. Nearly all of them work out at one gym or another, and they don't just go out for dinner and party. You could hardly call it a date. This date usually starts out at 10:00 p.m. They usually meet up or hook up with their “date” at a designated hot spot and it goes from there. Where, I just don't know. It would hardly do for one of us (Boomers) to show up at one of these hot spots just to see what goes on. First of all, they'd all just fade into the cracks and disappear from our observance. Secondly, it's waaaayyyyy past our bed time.

There was a time when we would get up, go to work and put in a full day, solve all the problems of the world; come home and mow the lawn, go to the gym, play Spades, Hearts or Scat until 2 a.m. We could actually stay up past 9 p.m., watch an entire movie, finish a project or just read a book. We could party with the best of them until the wee hours and still show up for work the next day, on time. Now, it's lights out between 9 and 9:30 p.m., and that's on the week-ends.

We are still early risers after years of getting up early to go to work. Some of us just plain like getting up that early to greet the day and enjoy the quiet of a bowl of cereal and reading the newspaper. Those old habits are very hard to shake. I have been able to give myself permission to go back to sleep when I wake at 4:00 a.m. This works just fine until our dog starts pacing. If I didn't take his collar off the night before there is an additional clinking of his tags to the pacing and circling that he does when he wants us to get up. If I don't get up with that annoyance, the dog comes up to the bedside and gets as close to my face as he possibly can and stares. Then he gives a very gentle SNORT, or even worse a big BELCH! This means, GET UP! That does it! This is much worse than puppy breath. I simply cannot sleep through that, so I get up and he allows me to accompany him to get the newspaper. I'm up for the day.

We are giving our siblings and cousins and Baby Boomer friends very special turning point birthday parties to keep things in a celebratory mood instead of a mood of dread. Gift are usually gag gifts suitable for depicting our age. I will have to say that the birthday party given for me was one of the best and most upbeat birthday parties I've ever had. It does mark a turning point as well as a special recognition among peers. It is indeed a very special honor, and I will always have that fond memory and feeling of love and special closeness of our generation. You kiddies just turning 30 and 40 count yourselves lucky. You have arrived, and have your toes on the line, waiting for the starting gun. You've only just begun.

Most of us are practicing retiring, if we haven't already retired. We are taking little road trips and venturing away from home and work, a little afraid that it won't be there when we return.


We're getting a first hand look at our future, and it's a bit scary. We are in the final 20 or so years of our lives. That's almost hard to say; to form the words attaching "final days" to ones' self. Even harder, we are now are taking care of our parents, if we haven't already buried them and seen them off to the other side. On the other hand, we are learning once again to have compassion and patience. We will be there some day, and our children will have to learn these traits with us, seeing us into the final days of our lives. And, we want more than anything not to be a burden.

We've learned that being independent and self-sufficient is a gift, not to be taken for granted. It has been arduous getting to this point, and we know that life can be taken from us in the blink of an eye. So, we squeeze out as much as we possibly can savor every moment, because we know that life at all ages and in all forms is just so darned fragile.

RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS - Paying it Forward

Years ago I started thinking about the Lenten season, and what it’s supposed to mean for those few days before Easter. Traditionally, we will give up a thing, or some pleasure that we take for granted every day. This was all fine and good. We spend the next 40 days doing without chocolate, sugar, or peanut butter; or going out with the gang on Friday nights. Some of us even vow that we will quit using elevators and escalators and start taking a parking spot in the farthest corner, making us have to walk a distance to the office building or the grocery store. We might make the supreme sacrifice by stopping by the gym to work out every evening. All of this is supposed to be sacrifice for a mere 40 days.

Here’s my take on those sacrifices. Usually, when we give up favorite foods, such as sugar, chocolate, butter or ice cream, we have in mind losing a few pounds. When we give up going out on Friday nights, we have in mind saving a few dollars. When we park in the farthest corners of parking lots and take stairs instead of elevators or escalators, a person usually has in mind in toning up some muscles…..getting into better shape, or that favorite old pair of jeans. In others words, it’s a selfish endeavor. We’re getting some personal gain out of these sacrifices. That’s right! I said it! It’s a selfish endeavor. Don’t get me wrong, though. Those are all good things to do, but it’s not exactly what a sacrifice is supposed to be…selfish.

I was inspired the movie Pay it Forward. The all star cast is Kevin Spacy, Helen Hunt and Haley Joel Osment. A student takes an assignment from his social studies teacher; Think of an idea to change the world for the better and put it into action. He decides to take the challenge by helping three people, who will, in turn, each help three more people, and so on and so on. It boiled down to random acts of kindness. What a wonderful movie!

Do you know just how incredibly difficult it is to just do a kindness or just help someone just because you want to do it? Here’s even more of a challenge. Let’s say you actually complete a random act of act of kindness, and now you have to keep it to yourself. You cannot tell anyone. You may not toot your own horn AT ALL! You just do it for the sake of doing it, just to help someone else because you want to. If that person says they must repay you somehow, you must tell them, “No, but you must pass a kindness on to someone else.”

Here’s where I would have a hard time. Say, if I bought a Big Mac and took it down to the corner and gave it to a homeless person; I’d nearly burst before my husband came home, and noticing that the house was a mess, and would ask, “Soooo, what’d you do today?”…. and I’d blurt out, “I went to MacDonalds and bought a Big Mac and gave it to the homeless person that stands on the corner of Jones and Red Bluff!” Then I’d await my accolades and pats on the back. What a good girl am I! Again, that’s not how it works. It should be enough of a reward just to help another person. It should be, but I would have to ask myself “Just how do I get to that point?” And my answer would be the obvious; “Well, it just takes practice. You get used to it.” What? It doesn’t come naturally? No, what comes naturally to humans is survival, propagation, success, one-upmanship, compete, compete and compete to name a few natural human instincts.

Here’s another pitfall. It’s never a bad thing to do something good to help someone else. However, if you do a good thing, and say, you were even able to keep it to your self, not telling a soul. And then you turn around and say something unkind about someone, or do something hurtful or to slight someone else in some way. Well, there you go! You’ve just wiped out all of your private Atta-Girls. See? I know about this, because alas, I have experience in it. I’ve choked on my feet with the cattiest of cats. Mea Culpa!

It’s simple to do an act of kindness or to pay it forward, but it just isn’t easy. Sometimes just a smile offered to someone who needs to see one is enough; a phone call to someone who is down in the dumps, or a card to someone, just because you were thinking of them. Put your arm around someone who needs a little comfort. Sometimes, it means extending an olive branch to someone you’ve hurt or been hurt by. It’s still an act of kindness. You don’t have to wait for a crisis of any kind. There doesn’t have to be a personal tragedy, hurricane or a fire. I could simply start by trying to do one small kindness a day, for no particular reason at all.

School Lunches Then Vs. Now

The first generation of my siblings (the first four or five of us) will remember what school lunches were like growing up in the 50’s and 60’s. Everything was homemade. The cafeteria ladies wore white uniforms, hairnets and white aprons and NO plastic gloves. They got there at the crack of dawn, put on their hairnets, washed their hands and cooked our school lunch every day. Everything was fresh and homemade.

There were fresh green beans, real mashed potatoes with lumps, homemade gravy, greens, corn, steamed carrots, peas, roast, chicken, meatloaf, smothered steak, and sometimes liver and onions; just to name a few items. The desserts were absolutely divine; pies with meringue 6” deep, real brownies, cherry cobbler and yellow cake with fudge icing. You could get white vitamin D whole milk, chocolate milk, or iced tea (mostly for the teachers). Real pottery plates (divided) and real stainless steel eating utensils were provided to put on metal trays warm from the big dishwasher. If we were lucky, we’d get to buy a school lunch for about 25 cents.

A dear friend reminded me that the junior high school menu was about the same. He said that high school actually had a little more variety. Ahhhh, yes….. Cokes were available as well as other orange sodas, Grape Nehi and hamburgers on some days of the week. Grilled chicken also hit the menu in high school, and again, always fish on Fridays. If you could imagine Luby’s for school lunch at 25 cents, that’s the way it was; more like eating at Luby’s. Actually, I think the cost went up a little in junior high and high school…but not by much.

Most of the time, we made our lunches, and I really, really, really wanted to buy my lunch. But, alas …… I remember my red plaid lunch box with a thermos that invariably broke after the first week of school. We’d pack a sandwich, milk, fruit and cookies. By the time lunch came around the lunch box usually smelled a little funky, and my orange or apple had smashed my sandwich, which was wrapped in waxed paper. If I was lucky enough to have peanut butter instead of bologna or tuna, I’d usually eat the whole sandwich whether it was smashed or not. Then I’d eat the fruit and crumbled cookies, and maybe drink the milk, which didn’t stay very cold.

After the second or third grade, we just used brown paper bags. We’d trade around a bit, but I usually just ate my own lunch. The real trading didn’t start until we got in to junior high school. By then, we noticed that other kids got stuff that was way cooler than ours. I know we weren’t the only kids that had to take a lunch to school. One girl in my class took a tuna sandwich every single day. We only took tuna on Fridays, and then, when we’d get home we had fish sticks for dinner. In a small nutshell, Catholics refrained from eating meat on Fridays, as a sacrifice in order to make reparation for their / our sins. Apparently, according to the Catholic Church, if you ate meat on Friday, you were going straight to hell. It isn’t so these days, with the exception of Lent….I’ve heard. And even then you can get special dispensation to have whatever you want … in a pinch.

Anyway, school steam table lunches in the 50’s and 60’s were definitely above most school lunch standards of present day. As time slipped by, they seemed to go down hill. I would occasionally go to school to have lunch with my daughters. This was in the mid 70’s and mid 80’s. It had totally changed. They got a plastic partition molded tray. It was served by cafeteria workers wearing baggie gloves. They also wore hair nets. I happened upon Mexican Food day a couple of times. This consisted of a large ice cream scoop of sticky rice in a mound in one of the partitions. A ladle full of canned chili was poured over the rice. On top of that, a hand full of Fritos was sprinkled. A salad of lettuce and a few shaved carrot pieces was added, and half a peach in heavy syrup was spooned into the remaining partition. There was a space for a small carton of milk. This made me more insistent than ever that my kids take their lunches, which they invariably forgot.

I have it on good authority from a friend that goes to lunch with her granddaughter; that school lunches have improved since we (she and I) went to lunch with our own kids. Maybe the schools wised up about putting nutrition before budget. I think that some of the schools have taken the Coke machines out of the cafeterias. It still could never beat the lunches we had when we were growing up in the 60’s. It was a great deal more nutritious, if not just down right wholesome and yummy! Our kids and grandchildren will just never really know what they missed.

EXER-SLEEPING

Modern technology allows us to set our television to wake us up in the morning. This is great, except for the fact that it turns on to the same station we were watching before the TV turned itself off. In this case, we’d gone to sleep watching a documentary on the planet Earth, and I awoke this morning to one of Dad’s all time heroes doing an infomercial …… Jack LaLanne, along with his lovely wife, Elaine. They were promoting their juicer along with their exercise program and equipment. This lovely couple is in their 90’s. This wasn’t exactly what I was in the mood for, as I’d had a bit of surgery this week-end, and am still pretty sore.

I will admit, however, that the little man (at 5’6”) is a dynamo. I also read up on him a bit. Apparently, he became a sugar addict as soon as he emerged from the womb, “causing him to commit acts of violence, including setting his parents' house on fire and attacking his brother with an axe.” Finally their family physician said that Jack was a human garbage can, and so weak that he should be removed from school to regain his strength. Well… what for? …. so that he could get strong enough beat up on the other kids at school? Eventually, he turned himself around at age 18 and started a family bakery of healthy breads and then started a gymnasium where began training firemen and policemen in exercise and weightlifting.


He started his own TV show, aimed at sedentary housewives, and included his lovely wife Elaine, and his dog Happy in the show. It was a hit, and the rest is history. I swear he was much nicer to his dog than he was to his wife. Okay, I digress … enough about Jack.

The memories came tumbling forward into my mind, and I dozed again. Dad was blowing his Marine Corps whistle at the bottom of the stairs for us to get up. It was 5:00 a.m. He was a dyed-in-the-wool Marine, and consequently, a very early riser. Dad just couldn’t stand to let anyone else sleep in. According to him, it was just plain sinful, and a waste of perfectly good daylight, which was never there yet.

I’d been aware when he came up a few minutes earlier to light the space heater in our bedroom before going down to fix coffee for himself and Mom. He did this every morning during the winter … without fail. This started when we, Joanie and Anne and I were just barely of school age. The routine was that he’d warm up the house a little, and would then pry us out of bed to do calisthenics and isometrics. Get this! He never made Mom get up, but I suspect she somehow paid him off.

Back to the whistle blower at the foot of the stairs. Having failed at getting us up, he would come upstairs and flick the over head light on and off. All that got was, “Daaaad….let us sleep…Leave us alone!” Then he’d go to the window and open it to “give us some fresh air”. Again, having failed at having our feet hit the floor he’d throw the covers off of us. That would usually work. Dad would line us up an arm’s length apart in our flannel nighties. Then, in his very best Jack LaLanne demeanor he would instruct us on what to do. Mind you, we’re still giving him, “Daaaad! It’s too early!” At which time he’d just give us another set of jumping jacks to do.

His routine changed very little in the spring. The routine was pretty much the same, except for the fact that he decided that we needed to go to Lenten Mass with him every morning. “I want three volunteers to go to Mass with me this morning…..Uh…You!...You! and You!” Obligingly, with sleep still in our eyes, we readied ourselves to leave within fifteen minutes. Sometimes, we just tucked our flannel nighties into our panties, put on shoes and socks and our look alike navy blue tweed coats and black velvet hats that tied under the chin. Okay, Daddy. We’re ready.

The cold weather, early morning calisthenics came to a screeching halt one morning. The night before, Joanie hatched up this great idea. "We’ll take our night clothes off (everything) and stuff them under our pillows. Then, when Dad comes up and openes the window and throws the covers off of us, maybe he’ll leave us alone about the exercising." Well, it was a grand plan! I was hesitant, but since Joanie did it first, I followed suit. The next morning Dad fell into our trap. He only yanked the covers off of Joanie, and then he threw the covers back on and left the room. Et Voila!!!!! It worked! He finally just quit bugging us to get up for exercise.

This didn’t mean he wouldn’t roust us out of bed early; just not that way. He still lit the space heater for us, blew the whistle and turned on the lights. If that didn’t work, he’d just pester us, but he didn’t make us do a morning ritual of exercises again. After all, we got all that in school in recess, and later in Phys. Ed. He continued to do his own work out routine to set a good example. And that was as it should have been.

IKE - We had it Pretty Easy

On September 12th around 8:50 p.m., I got a phone call from my dear friend in B.C. Vancouver Island. She was worried about us and the approaching storm that banged at our Texas gulf coast door. We talked briefly and I told her that the storm had not even begun to blow, and tried to convince her that we were well prepared and that we were safe. So far, we were experiencing the calm before the storm. Come on, Ike! Show us what you’ve got! After we’d chatted I hung up the phone, at which time the power immediately went out. IKE had arrived, cutting us off from any form of outside communication. The stillness was eerily chilling, even in the Texas warm evening. It was like in the movies, when an intruder cuts all power to the house before entering to do evil. You want to hold your breath and hide in a corner.

We live about 26 miles north of Houston, about 5 miles west of I-45. During the hurricane season we typically lose a few days of power, and those few days are not always strung together. We keep our supplies in the garage updated, fill big water jugs, plenty of extension cords and flashlight batteries, make sure both vehicles are filled with gas as well as several large gas cans; about 36 gallons. We never experienced they eye of the storm this time. It went east of us, so we didn’t get a break. It just blew all night and most of the next day.

We have one large generator that is capable of running two refrigerators, a freezer, a portable air conditioner for the bedroom, 2 oscillating fans, a small portable television and the coffee pot. We keep this generator running all night, turn it off in the morning and run it on and off throughout the day to keep the food cold and/or frozen. This year Roy bought a small Honda 2000 generator to run in the cool mornings. It’s really quiet, runs for 15 plus hours on a gallon of gasoline, and it enables us to watch the news, make coffee and to have a light to read the paper by. There is a smaller, older generator that we have kept, just in case.

In the very wee hours of September 13th, I heard Roy get up to let the dog out and sit on the protected area of the patio. The temperature had dropped some, and it was still blowing and raining. I found a flashlight and carefully padded through the living room and kitchen to the patio. We pumped up the Coleman camp stove in the garage. On the first morning without electricity we made our traditional hurricane Cowboy Coffee. This is coffee made in the old blue speckled camping coffee pot. You just dump some coffee grounds in the pot and boil the hell out of it and drop in a few ice cubes every now and then to keep it from boiling over on the camp stove. After it settles, everyone comes around to the smell of coffee at the Anderson Arms Campground. “Y’all got the Cowboy Coffee ready yet?” After that, we just set up the coffee pot hooked up to the generator. We sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and waiting for daylight to see what kind of damage Ike might have brought us. The storm had raged all night, and was still blowing and raining. As daylight filtered through, we watched trees lean over at impossible angles. We could also see that there had been no visible damage to the house. We did lose part of a fence, and a couple of tree tops had broken off and fallen right in front of the dining room window. As we looked out the back window, we could see a squirrel curled up under the eaves of the covered deck. I’m sure it’s nest had been blown away. We were so lucky.

On that same day, we got a call from some friends that were out of the country in Paris on business. A neighbor had called them to say that a huge tree had fallen on their house. He wanted to know if we would go have a look. As they live some distance away from our house, we called some mutual friends that lived close by to see if they wanted to go with us to have a look at the damage to the house with the tree on it. The bunch of us loaded up into one vehicle and headed out. Everywhere we went looked like a war zone. There was so much damage….downed power lines, trees down everywhere. Debris was blown all over the place, and the wind and rain was still going on. Granted, it was the tail end of the storm, but no less unpleasant. We dodged trees and power lines on the way there. When we got there, it was as had been described. A huge pine tree had landed on the house, and had settled on the roof of their bedroom closet. What a mess. All we could do for them was to take some pictures. We called them to report what we’d seen. They would be on their way home on Tuesday.

Gas was at a premium at first, and we had to forage for fuel as well as try to find food. Three days after the storm, we got up at 4:00 a.m., loaded our gas cans into my truck and headed north up I-45. There was a full moon, but we didn’t see any gas stations open yet. After about 15 miles, we exited and headed west to see what was out that way. As we approached some lights, we realized that we were in Magnolia. There was a Kroger open, and the gas pumps were open and there wasn’t a line. We’d made it in time. I walked up to the store to refresh our coffee cups. The store was open for business, and they actually had some food. We loaded up stuff to put into the refrigerator. After that, we didn’t have to go far for gas. The stores around us were pretty depleted.

Everyone in the neighborhood contributed to meals for us all. We cooked out and served dinner a couple of times at our house on the deck. In other subdivisions, block parties kept spirits up as well. Some friends of ours gave a great block party. We played dominos while our hostess made rounds of the guests giving shots of various flavors of tequila. They’d been to Mexico and had brought back a lot of tequila. She had decided that she needed to clean out the liquor cabinet. Roy and I were the only ones that did not participate in the tequila shots sporting event. It sure was entertaining though, and we won the dominos game. I guess we’re a nation of spoiled Baby-Boomers.





Our clean up was only difficult for just two people to clean up. It took us three days, and then only because on the second day, I drew a line. We got the front yard sawed up, cleaned up and bagged up on the first day, but it did take from sun up to sun down. On the second day I declared a limit to two people our age. We finished up in the back yard on day three. There were piles of debris on both sides of the front yard that were every bit of 5' high by6' wide and 20' long. It's still out there, waiting to be picked up. No doubt it will take some time.

About 7 days into this, I started to feel an old toothache returning. I’d been babying this tooth for years, hoping that I could just put off the inevitable for a while longer. Finally, I called my dentist, an old school friend actually that I had gone to high school with. They took me that morning, and I had the luxury (if you could call it that) of lying in a dentist chair in the air conditioning while Jim pulled the offending tooth. I’d somehow cracked the roots of the tooth, and it couldn’t be saved anymore. Needless to say, I was pretty sore after the anesthetic wore off, but I did take my friend, Donna up on taking a couple of loads of clothes to her house to wash. I had been washing and hanging them out. They got their electricity back on several days before we did.

This is the longest we’ve gone without power. Our electricity was restored on Sunday, September 28th, on day 16. It’s been an inconvenience, and I don’t care how much or how little one is suffering, boredom does set in. There are still some 100,000 people still without power, some of whom are friends close by. Our friends Madolyn and Ralph just got their power on last night. They were out for 18 days. They lost 13 trees, but oddly enough, there was no damage to their house.

There are so many people who have suffered so much more and lost so much more than we have. The ones who evacuated Galveston and Bolivar would have lost more than possessions had they stayed. As it was, most of them lost everything; not just their homes and possessions, but businesses. Most of that will more than likely be re-built. What I do NOT understand AT ALL is the people who stayed, and particularly the ones who stayed and subjected their families…their children to such a fate. When there is a hurricane headed this way, it only makes sense to get the hell out of there. Some didn’t, and many died.

Yesterday, I was reveling in the luxury of having all of my appliances to clean with when the power surged a couple of times and again went out. I called CenterPoint and then went outside to plant some fig ivy along the fence by our driveway. By the time I finished this little project, the power was back on again. And again I count my blessings and feel such gratitude for the life I’ve been given.

We’re back!