BACK WHEN WE WERE CUTE AND ADORABLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hummingbird Wars and Dragonflies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GARDEN CONVERSATIONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY LEFT BRAIN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He: Okay, Smart Ass! Move over!

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

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

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

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

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

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

He: So, where to you want to go?

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

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

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

He: Or maybe …

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

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

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

YOU ONLY GET ONE SHOT - No Re-do’s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A SIMPLE BURIAL FOR THE OL’ DAISY DUKES

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

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


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

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

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

HOUNDED BY A PRO

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

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

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

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

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

R. - “Where’s Hank?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NAP TIME IN THE SUMMER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NEW-FANGLED ELECTRONICS & STUFF

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MUSIC THAT MOVES ME

Free-Dancing in the Kitchen

We have always had music in the kitchen along with every other room in the house. The Royster makes sure that there is music everywhere in the house as well as in the garage and back yard. That’s one of his M passions. He seems to be passionate about things that begin with the letter M. There’s Mom, Michael (his son), Melissa, Music, Money, Muscle Cars, and Motorcycles. I’m sure that there are more M’s, but these are the most evident. And of these M’s, the very biggest one for him is music.

For every MP3 he compiles of various artists for himself, he makes one for the kitchen stereo, and one for my stereo in the truck. Among these are The 1812 Overture, Kitaro, Pink Floyd, definitely Susan Boyle for sure, The Indigo Girls, Brenda Lee, Diana Krall, Susan Tedeschi, James Taylor, Eric Clapton, Carly Simon, Elton John, The Boss Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, Eric Clapton, The Everly Brothers, and Buckwheat Zydeco. The list could go on forever. I will have to say that he’s never made an MP3 that included The 1812 Overture however, but it does play on in my head on occasion. And then there is Susan Boyle. I don’t think she has anything out yet, but you can be assured I’ll have one of hers as soon as it comes out.

This morning, while free-dancing to Sam Cooke on my kitchen stereo, I was thinking of the importance of music. I have long believed that different music affects different people in different ways, and I’m sure it just depends on the beat going on in your head and the blood coursing through your veins; your temperament, your chemistry and your moods, who you are and where you’ve been. It’s not only important to certain people, but it moves the entire world. Everyone in this world responds to music in one form or another. It moves people to new ideas and feelings and inspires important decisions.

It doesn’t matter if you are conscious of what’s on the radio or not; it’s affecting you. Even with the sounds of silence in the yard in the morning or in the night, there is a beat, a tune or a tempo in every breeze, bird singing, frogs chirping, water running, falling rain, the hum of an air conditioner, distant trains and your very own heartbeat. There is music everywhere.

Music, whatever it is attached to, be it dancing, singing, playing a musical instrument, or just hearing a rhythm in one’s head, is moving us at all times. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with physics. Even sports activities and events are subject to these beat and rhythms. Images of our universe are always accompanied with dramatic music. People are inspired by sounds they hear around them to compose music, songs, and dances or even to write stories and poetry. Some people are instantly lifted up to feel joy, while some music will move someone else to tears. Music will take you back to places in your heart of long ago, and awaken old memories. It will make you hum, sing, sway and dance. Smells and aromas are powerful and thought provoking, but not the way music will move a person. Music just moves my feet! I suspect that I might have missed my calling.

Getting back to free-dancing in the kitchen … I’m pretty darned good at this, especially unobserved, and at times like that I could really use a whole basketball court. I’m always delighted when The Royster joins me in dancing in the kitchen. That’s always special to both of us. It says that for the moment we’re both on the same frequency. Not that we’re at odds at any given time, but that we just happen to be more in tune with each other at that time, without any words needed.

Whatever happens to be on my plate, the music in the kitchen is very special to me. It lifts my spirits, boosts my energy, substantiates my life dramas and, in moments of sadness, will join me to make the sadness more bearable. Mostly, music is my friend, and is always there to host my every mood.

I think I’ll keep dancing in the kitchen and listening to compositions made in the silence of night and morning awakenings. It is life in process.

I'LL GET TO THAT LATER

I have touched briefly on Spring Cleaning recently. It’s one thing to clean out one’s own dresser drawers, but I have it on good authority that there is much more to it than that. A dear friend of mine, Jackie, is on a roll and has begged online for friends and family to “Somebody please stop me!” She will have everything spotless before going out to California in a couple of weeks. Sorry I won’t be able to make the same claim before heading out to see my daughter and her brood in Arizona next month. I have not had to beg anyone to stop me, however I am haunted by several cabinets, closets and drawers that I have not gotten to … yet.

Once you have cleaned the attic, there should be no more concern about it unless you are in and out of there on a regular basis. I cleaned ours in preparation for a new A/C and heating system and insulation two years ago. It’s still pristine. Give me a drum roll and a round of applause, please. I'm really proud of the clean attic, and feel inclined to show it off when we have guests.

The garage is The Royster’s domain. The yard is mine. 'Nuf' said about that.

The closet I am considering next is in the kitchen. It’s very large, and I think it was designed to store small kitchen appliances. One could have an entire garage sale based on what’s in that closet alone. I know that there is a Wok in there that has not been used in about 20 years. There are three crock pots, a toaster oven, my mixer, a small vacuum cleaner and a filing cabinet. Oh! … And my nebulizer is right at eye level. That’s very important to know. Beyond that, who knows? There could be a giant Aardvark in there and I probably would not know. By the way, there is a reason that I am not using “we” in this. That would be because I’m the only one that goes in there. Family and friends that come into this house seem to have a natural fear of opening those big double doors. The Royster is just plain terrified. I could hide an entire Christmas in there, if there was room, and it would be safe from prying eyes. The only draw back about that is that all that stuff would be lost … secure and for good. The rest of the stuff in this closet is clutter that was gathered from the kitchen table, counters and desk tops in preparation for guests. Obviously, it cannot be anything that I have needed, or I would know what else is in there.

There are several other areas of community clutter that are in dire need of attention. There are two wet bars in our house. As far as I am concerned, this could not possibly still be considered a selling point for a home. We do not even use one wet bar. We are teetotalers and have absolutely no use of one wet bar. However, that has not stopped us from chunking stuff behind them. The one downstairs has a small TV set that is reserved for when we want to sit out on the deck to watch a ball game or a movie. We even have a TV Converter Box for it. It’s never been hooked up. There are a number of gadgets, candles and small remote control cars; not to mention drawers full of old photographs and memorabilia, like battery operated Cheap Sun Glasses that flash in different colors from a ZZ Top Concert. This rat hole is its own challenge.

The upstairs wet bar harbors all of my sewing notions, supplies, fabrics and craft crap. It started out in some kind of order, but none of it is any particular order now. Don’t get me wrong. I do use this stuff often, and I know where to find whatever I need. It’s a matter of trying to get to the things I need without spilling a huge jar of buttons or a huge bag of tiny beads into the carpet. It just takes a while. I do know where the card table is, and my sewing machine and my glue gun (and I know how to use it). That’s a start. My big plan for these wet bars is to have them torn out and replaced by cabinets, drawers and desks. I keep hearing in the back of my head, “Dream on, dreamer!”

So you see, I have my choice of major community clutters to clean out. My only serious fear is that I could be sucked into the Twilight Zone; not that it would not be interesting. Somebody please stop me!

In the mean time, I will just write a note in the dust on the coffee table to anyone looking for me, “See me in the back yard cleaning out Monster Flower Beds!" … And somehow I feel much safer there among the leaves, weeds, cat briar, bugs and snakes.

So, What Are You Saving It For?

Tradition has always been important in our family. There were always special occasions that we would dress up for and the good dishes, silverware and recipes we would use for these special occasions. Our “good clothes” or “special occasion clothes” were reserved for special events, outings and special company. There were also people that we only saw on these special occasions, which made it that much more special. All of my aunts and uncles and cousins were there.

My grandmother had a collection of amber crystal plates, goblets, wine glasses, salad bowls, luncheon sets, etc. She also had several sets of sterling silver and china that she used for these special occasions. I remember commenting to our grandmother how pretty these amber crystal dishes were. She must have remembered, because she left them to me when she died. How very special that she left to me the very things I had admired as a child. I always remember the amber plates adorned with a piece of homemade pecan pie or pumpkin pie. For years, these cherished dishes remained in their boxes in the attic. By the time I had thought of these wonderful dishes, the occasion to use them was already upon us, and it was too late to fetch them out of the attic. Mostly, any entertaining we did was very casual, so I never got them out of the attic.

In the recent past years, I’ve been privileged to stay with my very dear friend, Ginger, when visiting in Fort Worth. She has always managed to make me feel like royalty while I am there. I can have my choice of guest rooms, and at meal times, she uses sterling silver eating utensils and some really nice pottery place settings. First of all, Ginger collects lots of things. Anything old, used and beat up in an estate sale, antique shop, flea market or garage sale gets snapped up by Ginger. If she doesn’t have at least two of any particular item, she has to have it. One day I commented that it always made me feel special because she used her “good dishes and silverware”. She said:

“My grandmother would say she was ‘laying it back’ when she received something new (a gown, tablecloth, dishes etc) meaning she would keep it for a special occasion. I told her to use it, why save it for Grandpaw's next wife?????”

Excellent observation, and I’d tend to agree with Ginger’s philosophy. I like it, and I must admit that I’ve got several really nice dresses and a number of pairs of shoes that I just won’t part with. Possibly there will be an occasion to wear something besides jeans, cut-off, tee-shirts and flip-flops to. Maybe there will be a wedding, funeral or Christmas party to dress up for. I won’t care if it is out of style. They're classic now!

So, what are we saving this wonderful stuff for? We don’t have much in this household that is “just for looking at”, or just for display in the attic. If it doesn’t have a function, I’m not interested in dusting it. The stuff that we do have that’s just for looking at does collect dust. We actually have some surfaces (tables, sideboards, shelves and counter tops) that are so cluttered with stuff that I put off dusting. You have to move everything, or you’ll knock it over dusting. I’m all for boxing this stuff up for the attic if there happens to be someone in this house that just can’t part with it. There are only two of us.

I want to use the dining room furniture that was my Father’s great aunt’s. It’s pre-civil war. The sideboard still has droplets of milk spilled on it from when I was two. We’ve had the table restored because thirteen people sat around that table every night that I was growing up, and it got really, really, really used. Now it sits in our very small dining room just waiting to have a family around it again. I’ve just made up my mind that it will be used again; maybe the next time we have company. I’ll give it a good dusting, and perhaps it will get enough use that it won’t be collecting dust in the future.

We have started using “the good silver” more on a daily basis. I still can’t bring myself to use it on T.V. tray while we watch television. However, I’m working on it. Hmmmm…..maybe tonight. Look out Honey! I’m using the “good silver” tonight! Who knows what will happen! Maybe there will be some ghostly apparitions!

AT THE NAIL SALON

To me, there is nothing more relaxing than getting your feet pampered after a full winter of neglect. I’d been to several nail salons, each with a promising name:

GOOD NAIL
HAPPY NAIL
NAIL TO GO
BEAUTIFUL NAIL
FINGER FABULOUS

… and the list goes on.

The first time I went to this particular nail salon, Perfect Nail, I was very pleasantly surprised. The woman escorted me back to a chair, turned it on, and started running warm water in the basin for my feet. She sprinkled some blue crystals in and stirred it around and motioned for me to put my feet in. It felt nice.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“It Nancy! That my American name.” She replied

“That’s a good one.” I said. “What's your Vietnamese name?”

“Yes, it Thuy. It pronounce Tooeee! I not like it. I like American name.” She said this with much conviction.

“Okay, Nancy! Here’s the nail polish I want to use.” I said as I handed her the bottle of O.P.I. Jewel of India. “Let’s get these feet scraped and painted!”

Nancy scanned my face, and I wondered what she was looking for. We didn’t know each other well enough to read each other’s faces, yet. She must have seen the puzzled look on my face, though, and said, “I look at eyebrows. You want me do eyebrows?”

Aha! She was wanting to wax my eyebrows. Those who know me know how pitifully sparse my eyebrows are anyway. I really have to work on them with everything in my make-up cabinet to make it look like they exist. If there does happen to be any stray growth, it’s nothing one single pluck with the tweezers won’t handle. If the truth were to be known, there's more hair on my chin.

“Uh …Not today, Nancy. They’re just fine right now.” She then started checking out my chin and upper lip. It’s a good thing I’d just used a depilatory cream. She was really hunting for something extra to do.

About that time, a very husky young man plopped down in the chair next to me. He looked a bit like a linebacker all cleaned up. He was very well dressed, and looked as though he’d just gotten out of the barber’s chair. He settled in the chair, shucked off his boots and rolled up his jeans. The girl assigned to take care of his feet (American name, Julie) had the warm, blue water just right for him, and he sunk his hairy feet into the warm swirling water. You could see the pleasure creeping on to his face.

He must have seen me observing him. I was really pleasantly surprised to see a man just sashay in and plop down in a chair to have his feet messed with. He was completely uninhibited.

“My wife got me to doin’ this.” He said as a matter-of-factly. “It took her the better part of three years to talk me into it, but now I look forward to this every month. She buys dinner every time I come sit in the chair and get my feet worked on.”

I wondered if she got to choose the restaurant, or if he chose Mel’s, where you can get all the country cooking you want, and maybe take you chances on the huge killer hamburger to get your name on the wall. Eat it all in record time and it’s F-R-E-E!!!

Julie was happily scrubbing his feet, and his foot jerked uncontrollably when she passed the scrubber down his arch. He laughed and said he’d never get used to that part. I know… me either. Smiling, he said to Julie, “Go ahead and dip ‘em in wax today, honey! It’s our fifth anniversary!”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Angus Brodie!”

“Well, congratulations, Angus!” I offered.

“Thanks! It’s been great! She’s a good woman!”

“You want wax, too?” Nancy asked.

She was so earnest with that query, I told her, “Sure, Nancy! Give me the works!” This put a huge smile on her face, and she worked happily finishing up my feet and preparing to dip them in wax. For those of you men who have never been to have your feet worked on like this, it’s going to be a very pleasant surprise.

Both Julie and Nancy were ready for us. They each had the wax tub at our feet. I’ll warn you, it’s pretty warm, but it feels good. Dip, wait, dip, wait, dip and wait a few minutes for the wax to set up a bit. After a few minutes, the wax is rolled down and off of the toes. My toes were now ready for the nail polish.

Julie asked Angus, “You want same polish today?”

The air was suddenly still and totally silent. Angus cut me a side glance, obviously embarrassed.

“Uh … Err … No, uh, not today!” He said almost in a whisper, as he stared at the mural on the wall straight ahead. That little extra must have been reserved for when there was no one sitting on either side of him. I had to pretend I didn’t hear that, so I just bit my cheeks to keep form smiling, and I changed the subject.

“Umm …where will you and your wife eat tonight?” I asked.

The atmosphere had returned to its former state, and he said, “Mel’s! We’re going to Mel’s tonight! My favorite food in the whole world. You can get real food, cooked any way you want it.”

Wow! It was true! They were actually going to Mel's, and I'd guessed it! He sounded genuinely relieved to have the subject turned to food, and away from the question about his nail polish preference.

Julie was through pampering him, and Angus tipped her generously and got up from the chair.

“Nice talkin’ to ya! Hope you have a great evening! I know I will!”

He had a big smile on his face as he strode gracefully to the door. I couldn’t help thinking that he was leaving with Happy Feet, and I smiled broadly!

Guys, give it a try! A pedicure is not just for sissies any more! Angus loved it, and obviously had a lot to look forward to that night for his anniversary.

Nancy looked at my hands and asked if she could give me a basic manicure with a buffing.

“Sure thing, Nancy. I really need it.” And so went my afternoon at Perfect Nail.

SPRING CLEANING

Guys, this offering is about panties. Continue reading at your own risk and/or discretion.

This is something I make a stab at every year. The important factor here is that I try. I’ve never claimed to be a June Clever. First of all, I only wear a dress on special occasions (and it’s usually denim), and I don’t have a three strand pearl necklace, or a husband named Ward, or sons named The Beaver and Wally.

The scenario every spring is that I vow to clean out a closet, cabinet, drawer, dresser and or some other rat hole at least once a week. The problem with this is that it’s such a traumatic experience, it sort of peters out before I’ve finished top to bottom. Let’s just say that I’ve decided to start a new family tradition, specifically among us women folk. New inspiration is hanging in the air; new meaning to spring cleaning.

I had finally gotten to my dresser drawers last week. The bottom T-shirt and Shorts drawer went smoothly. I knocked it down to stuff I can actually wear and tossed out stuff I had not worn in a year or more. The “Kiss me, I’m Irish” shirt that used to be Mom’s will be proudly worn by someone else who needs a kiss. The next drawer was a little more detailed. Most people close to me know that I love socks. It was definitely harder to part with some of the socks I’d collected over the years. The donation was huge, and I can finally open and close the drawer without having to jam stuff back in and hold it there while I try to close it. A huge burden was lifted when that drawer was done.

Here comes the true inspiration of which I speak. Finally! This top drawer almost never gets sorted. Panties and bras from years before live in there. For some reason, I’ve never been able to just toss them away or give them to the next charity that calls. Instead of just sorting through, I actually pulled the drawer out and dumped it on the bed. Oh-My-Gawd! How could all of that fit into this one drawer? After sitting on the bed staring at this heap, I made a decision right then and there. I’d just throw out the old panties and bras and buy all new! What a concept! And so was inspired to begin the sorting.

As I sorted through the piles and piles of panties and bras, I wondered why I had kept all of them, and what was so compelling about those panties that I just didn’t toss them a long time ago? Did I actually believe that it would be wasteful to get rid of them? Is this a Baby-Boomer thing? They were dingy; the elastic was practically gone; not to mention that I hadn’t even seen most of these items in three years. What special occasion was I saving these for? The ones that were actually in good shape and pretty also happened to be too small, much to my chagrin. They went into the give away bag. By the end of the afternoon I’d gotten it down to absolutely three pairs that I kept. I needed to go shopping immediately! As exhausted as I was from this task, I managed to get my self into my truck and head out to buy more panties and bras.

I was amazed at the mind boggling assortment. As many other things are … there are just too many to choose from. A clerk ambled over and asked if she could help me find something. I must have walked in with a question mark on my face, so I decided to have a little fun with her.

“Uh … Where are the panties with the days of the week on them?” That got me an amused, but shocked look. When she finally found her words, the clerk said: “Well, you’d probably find some in the little girls section, but probably not in … uh … women’s sizes.”

I’m not sure how she meant that, but I assumed there hadn’t been any panties with the days of the week on them in the women’s department recently, if ever. You could hardly classify days of the week panties, lingerie. So, I decided to pretend I was shopping for someone else. This girl wasn’t going to be any fun.

“Well, my granddaughter is coming to visit, and I want to make sure … Uh … I’ll just check that out when I’m through shopping for me.” That prompted,

“What can I help you find for you? Would you be interested in a colorful thong?” Well, no. I’m not in the shoe department, now am I? And, I don’t think it matters if my panties and bras match my flip-flops.

Actually, I was pretty sure that what I wanted was comfortable and ergonomically designed; nothing binding or suffocating. I supposed I mean cotton, to the waist and high cut legs. At this description, the clerk led me to several choices. She actually showed me to the items that I described to her right off the bat. This trip was easier than I thought it would be. I selected several pairs of panties and bras, paid for them and drove home with a very satisfied smug. Smug about what, I don’t know, but that’s how I felt, like I’d outsmarted someone … probably me.

I called one of my sisters to tell her of this new, wonderfully freeing tradition that I was starting. She agreed, and vowed to clean out her drawers the next day.

The next day, I felt that I needed to just get out of the house. I called my dear friend Marilyn to see if she’d have lunch with me. Her husband usually joins us, which is always just fine with me. They work in the same area, and he is very entertaining. We selected a restaurant and time to meet. I dressed and got there in time to pull up at the same time they were pulling up.

Marilyn and I mostly just chatter on as though Raymond wasn’t even there. Not that we ignore him. He’s usually just in awe of our conversations, and plain speechless. We’re that comfortable in his presence. I told Marilyn about my new tradition of throwing out old undies and buying new every year. I could tell that she was really enchanted by this whole idea. As we chattered back and forth, we got interrupted by Raymond.

“Hey! I totally approve of this! Aaannnd, you have my permission to take my wife shopping for new lingerie, because all of her panties are…!” At that point Marilyn stopped her husband from saying any more. “We won’t discuss my underwear, Raymond!”

I jumped in with, “Marilyn! You and I will go shopping next week! Isn’t there a Fredericks of Hollywood at Willowbrook Mall?” Raymond’s eyes started to water and bug-out, as I knew they would, so Marilyn piped in, “OKAY! We’ll go shopping!” And she changed the subject. Now, did you hear anything from Sylvia? She was asking about you. Clever exit, Marilyn.

All I’m saying is that this new tradition is extremely elating and spirit freeing, if only to liberate a woman from the old dingy, stretched and worn undergarments. Really! It was all I needed to get back into the spirit of spring. Who knows, you guys just might want to try it. You know you could probably read the Sunday funnies through those old boxers, and I’m not mending the crotches one more time.

PEEK-A-POSSUM

It was just a routine Wednesday night, and we were settling in for our usual 9:00 p.m. Night at The Eye-Lid Movies at the Anderson-Brown Arms. It always feels so nice to snuggle down with one’s pillows arranged just so and the T.V. turned down and set to turn off within a short time, err…well, just long enough for the Royster to start snoring. Hank has been out and has had his treats. He’s circling around for the best spot on his bed. It’s always such a peaceful time.

But Hark! I hear a sound emanating from the kitchen. Let’s see …. The dog is in here with us, and the dishwasher isn’t running. Could it have been the back door? I got up and crept in the dark into the living room. At this point, I heard Hank’s food dish suddenly scoot across the kitchen floor. All was quiet until,

“…crunch, crunch, crunch.”

At that, I turned on the kitchen light in time to see a blur leap from Hank’s food dish and disappear behind the writing desk in the kitchen. I ran back to the bedroom to tell the Royster.

“Honey! Come in here quick! There’s something in the kitchen!”

He started reaching for the drawer where he keeps his Dirty Harry Special pistol.

“No, No! It’s a critter!” I said. His face fell with disappointment, and he followed me to the kitchen. “It’s under the desk.” I said.

We got in there just in time to see some movement under the desk. The Royster said he saw it, and it was a huge giant fanged monster of a rat!

“It was this big!” And, he held his hand about three feet apart, like he was telling a fish story. He went to the pantry to get the broom with which to smash the big ugly thing and save the day.

Right about then is when I saw it too! “Uh … Honey, I think it’s a baby possum. I’ll bet it came in while Hank and I were in the back yard on the patio. I left the door open for a little while.”

The Royster started poking the broom handle under the desk. I got a coat hanger and stretched it out so that I could poke at it too. We moved the desk away from the wall (what a mess), and continued to poke at the poor frightened thing. Finally it broke loose and fled to the other side of the kitchen. And, it was indeed a baby possum. It was so scared that it couldn’t even hiss. He just sat there quivering and held his little mouth open and showed us his little milk teeth.

Roy headed over with the broom to corral it and shoo it out the back door, but the critter wouldn’t have any of it. He was shooing and I was blocking. The critter darted to the left towards the dining room, and right under my feet. I almost crushed it, and lifted my foot and caught myself on the door, which opened. The little possum ran into the dining room, and tried to hide, but got shooed towards the front door. Roy then opened the front door so that he could use the broom like a hockey stick and knock him out to the front yard, but he little possum outsmarted that maneuver and hid behind the umbrella stand and finally got out a couple of baby hisses at The Royster. Roy swears that the little thing was hissing in Spanish or French.

“Get a paper sack! Quick! Hurry!” He said.

I went to the pantry and got a paper sack and held it open in the corner so that the little possum would have nowhere else to go. After a few pokes with the broom, the possum went into the sack, but ran back out again and back to the safety of the corner behind the umbrella stand. The Royster administered a two more pokes with the broom, and the critter went again into the paper sack. I crumpled the sack closed and lifted it up triumphantly.

“Go get the camera! We’ll take a picture!” Said Roy.

I went to get the camera, leaving The Royster holding the bag, so to speak. We took some pictures for our Critter Album, and Roy took the possum out to release him back into the wild.

You’d think that would be the end of that story. However, after what seemed like 30 minutes The Royster finally came in to tell me about his further adventures with the baby possum. It seems that before he actually freed the little thing, they tried to stare each other down with the possum continuing his threatening hissing and backing up; each time with a little harassing from Roy, poking, pulling its tail or tickling its little pink nose with a twig. He never did figure out what language the little critter was hissing in, and poor ol’ Hank never knew what was going on. He only knew that there was a funny smell in the kitchen.

PULL YOUR PANTS UP!

Recently, while standing in line at the check out at the grocery store; there was a young man standing in front of me with his pants well below his hips, showing off his boxers below the butt. He was actually clutching the pants in front to keep them from coming off completely, but not to pull them up. I was very tempted, (and I almost did this) to take the cord used to cordon off the check out lane and very casually and gently snap it to one of his back belt-loops. Then, I’d leave that line and go to a different check out line. Thankfully, I thought it through, but not without laughing out loud. The kid actually turned around to see what was so funny. I had to bite my cheeks to stop myself from laughing hysterically. Finally, I realized that there were cameras everywhere, and that I could have been arrested for pulling such a stunt.

In the 60’s girls wore skirts or dresses to school, and the guys were made to follow a dress code as well. Away from school, I wore hip-slung bell bottoms, or hip-slung cut-offs. They were indeed slung on my hips, but no lower. Granted, you could probably house a Hippy commune under each bell-bottomed leg. I also wore a T-shirt, or halter top, and that’s as far as it went. I never burned my bra, either; mostly because I'd waited so long just to be able to say I could wear one. Fortunately, I outgrew that Hippy fashion mode, and managed to get a job after graduation.

Now days, fashion has been taken beyond the edge of the envelope, beyond fashion and straight to offensive attire. Wearing ones’ pants (or not) below the hip should get you warned, if not arrested. It should be considered Indecent Exposure, if not that, then just Indignant Composure! Get those pants pulled up and belted! It’s certainly one thing to make a fashion statement, but quite another to dress so that it’s offensive to other people. Wearing one’s pants below the hip line is absolutely crossing the line. It doesn’t matter if it only shows your underwear or if it shows your butt crack. In my mind, I see that wearing your pants that way, and your cap backwards or even cocked to one side, lowers a persons’ I.Q. considerably, or it was already low in the first place or they would not be dressing that way.

This also goes for women/girls showing their thong underwear and/or tramp stamp, which is a tattoo just over the butt crack; which is also known as butt cleavage. Pray, tell me, just what is the point in that? Is that an advertisement or a billboard of sorts? Listen up, little missy! There is no "tasteful way to show off your tramp stamp"!


Like many other fads, making a fashion statement, or just wanting to be different, the message is that you want to attract attention. Wearing ones’ pants that way tends to make people wonder just what is holding up those pants. Are you bragging about something else that no one can quite see yet? When are you going to show that? If you are doing this to be different, then you’ve failed miserably.

I see this mode of dress everywhere I look these days. I once thought it was only among younger gang members. However, I’ve noticed that many kids dress this way at school here in Texas. And, I have recently seen people over 30 years old showing up in public this way. Do they work? If so, how in the world did that interview go? At any rate, I cannot believe that nothing has been done about this, or how society has simply turned their heads, rather than to actually do something about it. Okay, I’ll say it. “There ought to be a law!”

The Royster likes to watch Cops every now and then on T.V. We saw an episode whereby there was a young man wearing his pants well below his hip line, and his cap backwards. He had just held up a convenience store for a case of beer, cigarettes and other items. The police had been called, and had arrived immediately to see the young man trying to run away with all of these items while at the same time, trying to keep his pants from falling. Of course, his pants fell down, he tripped and one of the police casually walked over and cuffed him. In other episodes, you see these guys being arrested and handcuffed, and begging, “Lemme jes pull up my pants?” Sorry guy. You should have thought of that earlier.

And then there are the extreme body piercings and out of control tattoos, but don’t get me started on those. Maybe another day.

HOW TO FIX A ROCKING TOILET

I know we are not the only household that’s has had something as unique as a rocking toilet. It does not have rockers on it, it doesn’t get up and rock around the clock … err … bathroom, and we don’t live near a railroad track. Sooooo, there’s only one reason this pot should rock. A screw is loose.

We’d both been aware of the rocking that occurred upon planting our fannies on the toilet seat. Fine, so it rocks a little. The Royster discovered that there was something going on when the rug in front of the toilet in the library was getting soaked. Now, it was a problem. It soon became apparent that the plumbers we had to call a couple of years ago, to take care of a sewer line that was being strangled by tree roots, did not seat the pot back on the floor properly. That’s why it rocked, and that’s why the seal was giving up, and that’s why it was leaking.

Neither of us are plumbers, but we try to fix things before having to call a professional to empty our bank accounts. The Royster was getting dressed to go get some parts at Bob’s. Bob has any and everything you need. I dressed while he was gone, and fretted because I knew this would be a very demanding all day project. Seating a toilet on the seal on the floor is not an easy thing to do for a layman. Everything has to line up perfectly before you put the nuts on the bolts. You’ve just got to hold your mouth just so. Then while you are screwing the nuts on, you have to make sure the rectangular washer underneath does not move one tenth of an iota, or the toilet will not be seated correctly. In the small areas allowed for toilets, that are no bigger than tiny coat closets (water closets), this is nearly an impossible task.

The Royster gets what he thinks he’ll need to start this project, and then assumes the position of a plumber fixing a toilet. Part of my job is to fetch the things he did not anticipate needing.

“Get me some towels, rags and the blue shop towels … and a screw driver”

The other part of my job to stand there and hold a flashlight at impossible angles, at which I fail miserably because there is no room to wedge my arm around to the angle that is required. I braced my legs against the walls on either side of the toilet and lean down, bracing my upper body on the wall in front of me with one arm and with the other arm tried to hold the flashlight just right.

“Now, hold this right here and don’t move it.”

Good job. The first part of this went with out a hitch. He unbolted the toilet from the floor. The next step is to empty the tank out, and then empty as much of the water out of the bowl as possible.

“I need a cup to dip with and a bowl or pan to dip it into.”

I occasionally offer advice (coming from a journeyperson apprentice).

“Why don’t I get that siphon with the pump to get all the water out?”

Royster’s face registered a look of disbelief.

“I absolutely do not want to use the siphon we use for gasoline to siphon out the toilet bowl.”

‘Nuf said. Far be it from me to argue with that logic. It must be logical to him. So, I went to get a cup and a bowl for dipping purposes. In the back of my mind, I knew we’d end up with a flood of toilet bowl water on the carpet, and I swung by the rag cabinet for extra big towels for sopping.

Having returned with these simple but necessary accoutrements, I assumed my post by the door, waiting to be of help. I could see we would need something to sit the toilet on, so I fetched the newspapers from that morning, spread them out and readied a place for the pot. The Royster suggested that we needed much more paper than that, so I retrieved more newspaper, and at last had a landing spot for the toilet.

As Royster straddled the pot, and picked up the heavy &%! #&$#@^^%$, and waddled it out of the water closet, I danced in place wondering if he would hit the papers. He sloshed it over to the paper and sat it down. After looking at what was left of the wax seal in the hole in the floor, he announced that he would have to go back to Bob’s or Sears to get a new wax seal. I was invited to accompany him on this trip. We ended up going to Sears and finding our wax seal and some caulk. This should do the trick.

Seeing the gaping hole in the floor made me think about some cultures that only have a hole in the floor with foot holds on either side of the hole to stand in. You just stand, squat or hover over the hole, do your business and presto chango! All done! Why not? Then I guess we could waddle the toilet out to the back yard to use it as a planter somewhere. We already have a shower out there. It might be easier than the day we had ahead of us.

He did say that we'd have to turn the toilet upside down to fit the wax seal on the bottom. So, we did, and all those huge towels came in right handy. The seal would not stay on the upside down toilet, so we ended up putting it over the hole where the old seal had been. We wrestled for the better part of the morning, trying to lock that sucker down without loosing it's hold on the bolts. That was the hardest part.

As I mentioned before, getting that washer, bolt and nut aligned and screwed in place is pretty tricky. I will not describe each effort the Royster made, other than it was both a painful and valiant effort each time. It wasn’t easy on either of us. At one point, we both just went to our separate corners and sulked.

The fifth time was the charm. At last, he got it seated correctly. He gleefully sat down and wiggled his fanny back and forth to see if he could get it to rock. It seemed stable. Dang! We’d done it!

“Be careful!” I said. “You might dislodge the bolts!”

Still not believing that it could possibly be fixed, he jumped up and offered me the revered spot in the library.

“See if you can make it rock!”

I sat gingerly on the seat and wiggled back and forth, forwards and backwards. Not even a little! No leaks either. The Royster is stubborn that way. Once he starts on a fix-it project, he just won’t let it go, nor will he call some one to do it. That’s to be admired … to a point.

This was something to celebrate, and we did this by having lunch and a nap, as babyboomers do these days. And, as soon as I woke, I went in to check to see if the little rug was dry (it was), and tested to see if it rocked. Nope! It was perfect.