Requiem

Dorothy Evelyn Rita Madigan King Madigan 12-29-39
She didn't want to be alone.

Occupy this!

All those Occupy protesters camping out with no clear focus: Why not occupy the meat counter of your local supermarkets and protest the prices, such as more than $4.00 per lb for ground beef that's at least 15% fat. We're going to need a lot more helper in our Hamburger Helper.

And another thing...

For years and years, I was the only one who made the bed. When I was incapacitated for a while several years ago, he would make the bed sometimes. Instead of turning the sheets and bedspread down at the head of the bed like a normal person, he would fold the sheets and comforter over at the foot of the bed. At first I thought it just a case of retarded development, and sometimes I would correct it and other times just let it be. When he persisted in this practice every time, I pointed out that he was not following proper bed-making procedure. He said he didn't like the extra folds around his neck, preferred them at the foot of the bed. I have no answer for such thinking. (Yes, I do--it's stupid.)

Dichotomy

How can two people live together for more than forty years and see things entirely differently? Case in point: I think of Christmas Eve as the day before Christmas, but his concept of Christmas Eve is the evening before Christmas. It's not important, has never made a difference, both interpretations have credibility, but wouldn't it just seem that some convergence of thought would have developed over all those years.

Now I get it

At a certain time in their lives, my mother and her sister began to qualify their future plans and coming events by using the words, "God willing, or "if I'm still around." I don't remember how old I was when their vocabulary changed in this way, but I know I was young enough to resent hearing those words. I hated hearing them speak that way; in my heart I wanted them to be around forever, in a way thought they would be, and I didn't like the chill that went down my spine when the fated expressions were uttered. Any more than I don't remember when they started to verbalize their mortality, I don't remember when I began to follow that thought pattern myself. I'm thnking that my mother was preparing not only herself for the inevitable, but also letting us get used to the idea. In that respect, she was not successful; everybody must die, but the concept of knowing that doesn't explain anything, does it?

Who's there?

We're supposed to recommend to the needy adolescents in our program that they seek out a trusted adult, to help counsel them in times of trouble. And that would be------a member of the clergy? A coach? A psychologist? An elected official?

XYZ Factor

I think I would be more receptive to rap if the singers didn't grunt. I don't get how they represent. Uhhh!

God and Country

Country singers reek at singing Christmas songs. They sound off-key even to me. And those twangy voices are what you might hear in Purgatory. Where is Elvis when we need him?

My Christmas Wish List

Not that a single person has asked, so Dear Santa, I am counting on you. My first request is the same as for the last 12 years. I need a new lint brush, not just any old lint brush but a replacement for a 30 year old model. I don't want the kind with the bristles, I don't want the kind with the flimsy (usually red) pads that fall off after a few uses, I don't want the roll around type, and I don't want one with replaceable inserts. The one I want would be white plastic, about a foot long counting the handle, with a 5 inch oval cleaning surface, firmly secured. The cleaning head does reverse for left or right hand use. The handle on mine has broken off, and the cleaning head has so many miles on it that it's worn down to the bare surface, but it still works better than the other dozen or so that I've tried to replace it with. A modest request but I'm pretty sure an impossible one. And the list gets even harder: second on my list is a way for me to learn how to put pictures in ebay or facebook, or email, or any place. If there is an App for that, one that doesn't involve murder, mayhem or divorce, please leave it under the tree. And third, I would like you to help me pot a fig tree.

PS to Santa: 2 out of 3 so far.

Publicized Junk

"Ameliorate is a word. Google it!"

I hate myself....

for, without thinking, viewing the pictures of the Duggars' dead fetus.

The News Today

A message just in case it should ever happen to you: If someone steals your identity and/or hijacks your credit rating, don't just report it to your card company. Everyone knows that any fraud will be reimbursed. Be sure to act out your horror when you can't make a purchase. Make that purchase a touchy-feeley one, like a Christmas gift for a child--a three-year-old girl would be ideal. Check to see that there are witnesses before you disintegrate into tears. And, above all, be sure that you contact your local TV station. You'll be guaranteed that gifts will flood in. And there's a lot less collateral damage than leaving Christmas presents in your car, where a thief will most likely find them. Bah, Humbug!

TV's Most Disgusting Sights

#3) Dr. Oz palpating a cadaver organ assisted by an adoring fan. HE's a rock star?

#2) A cat, no matter how adorable, using a litter box. Who needs to be reminded?

#1) Anything to do with the Kardashians. Speaking of cats and cadavers.

Horror Movie

Our family had gone to the movie theater only a few times when we were little. My mother did like the idea of going to the movies but the budget was tight and my father worked every day, and it was not the thing then to ever take a day off work, and certainly not in order to take the family to the movies. We went a few times, on Saturdays; I remember The Bijou Theater, I think on Hoosick Street. I don't think there were too many movies made then for children anyway, and I found out that some of what were comedies scared the daylights out of us, particularly frightening Dorothy, the youngest and the most emotional. A memorable opening scene showed a man lying on his sickbed, while outside someone was riding a bicycle at night, in the rain, amidst the sound of howling dogs. Or so I recall, something like that. Dorothy was terrified, I was nervous, and Joseph never commented.

But the movie that marked me for life was the one I saw in first grade. We weren't shown many movies in school back then: later I remember watching some really boring film about composers, and probably a few educational public health reels, boring even to us culturally starved children, and once we were treated to a western, starring a cowboy on a white horse, possibly Hopalong Cassidy. The movie shown to us in first grade was probably also a message movie, though the message was lost on me. I was too overwhelmed by the content to take away anything except the feeling of constant worry that it instilled in me. The movie starred,or so it seems to me, a young girl who I identified with. We both had long pigtails. I surmised later that the actress might have been Margaret O'Brien. People used to compare my looks to her. I didn't think she was that cute, but I did admire her braids, longer than mine. The movie started with the mornings in the lives of 5 families, all preparing for the day ahead. I think the movie must have announced that something terrible was to happen to one of the families that day. One family featured was an Italian family with 5 or so children, with the father driving off to work in an old truck which had faulty brakes, which he knew needed fixing, when he had the time and money. Another may have been a teenager, with a penchant for speed, and who had been warned by his parents about the dangers. The other families and details have faded from my memory except for the that of the pigtailed girl, and her little brother. Their mother was widowed, a single mom a rarity back then. (Most likely, her husband had been lost at war.) The mother was off to look for a job, and was bidding goodbye to her daughter, telling her to look after her little brother. So all of the families drove off to start their day. Close to twilight, when all left at home anxiously awaited the return of their loved ones. One by one, they all returned to the embrace of their families. Only two were left. We saw a scene of the Italian wife and all the little kids wondering where Daddy was, and another scene of the pigtailed girl and her baby brother waiting for Mommy to come home. The two kids were sitting at the kitchen table, the girl visibly agitated while the toddler played with his toy cars. She wondered aloud what was keeping Mommy, and the little boy smashed one of his little cars into the other, and said "Mommy's car go boom." His sister looked aghast and told him to never say that again. The final scene showed the children sitting somberly while some adults were preparing to take the kids and their belongings out of their house. ...Pretty much every time after that,whenever my mother, or father, or anyone I knew was out in a car, I would get that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. And what's more pathetic, that's not in the past tense.

Somebody Help Me

Three flights of stairs in the elementary school, but only two flights in the middle school. Near the top of the second flight, a young teacher, descending at a fast clip, advised over her shoulder that there were elevators available, (for the likes of me, I suppose.) "Thanks," I offered, "maybe on the way down." " Oh, I wouldn't take the elevator," came another voice, male this time, "The custodian got stuck in the elevator yesterday, for quite a while, and it hasn't been fixed yet."

Yesterday, I contemplated taking a shorter route home, but opted not to, because the driver has to keep the gas pedal depressed on an incline while waiting to merge out onto the state road, and I don't like that balancing act. So I drove the longer way only to be held up in traffic at the site of a massive rollover and deploying of junk all over the road. If I had that Crystal Ball, I would know what to do; where is it anyway?

Holiday Greetings

Wishing all my loyal blog followers the happiest of holidays, and May a Jaguar rip out the Throat of an Antelope. (I hear that's trending now.)

Mindedlessness

From an early age, I've wondered how other people's minds worked, so that I might be able to form a mold for my own thoughts. I can remember looking up at my mother's face while we were in church. I was small, and her expression, reserved for religious occasions, seemed far away, physically and emotionally, from what was familiar to me. She was intent on the priest's words and I could hear the words, thought I understood them, but they had no impact on me. I knew I was missing some link, but I didn't know what it was. It was the same effect as when I would read the newspaper, and try to figure out why my father would react so strongly to the words he read. I read them, and...nothing. The words didn't move me at all, not newsprint, not homilies. Later on, I would have the same feeling when I attended concerts, or musical performances. Those in the audience sat with rapt attention on their faces. What was going on in their minds, were they thinking how beautiful the music was, or were they at that state where thoughts dissolve into pure consciousness without thinking. I took a graduate course in religions years ago; one of the books we read was the Bhagavad Gita, which delved into the principles of Meditation: when our thoughts die out,we enter into a new level of consciousness which we can then begin to explore freely without the disturbances of thought. If I had known then what was to come later in life, I would have taken meditating more seriously, anything to stop the flow of conscious thought, any measure to achieve the eternal level of pure consciousness far removed from thinking. But I don't know. Meditation is supposed to be an involved and painstaking process, fraught with the ironic axiom that if you set out to meditate it will not be meditation. Yet I know people who seem able to empty their minds of conscious thought, and I don't think it was through a conscious process. When asked what they are thinking, they answer nothing, when a loved one has a crisis, or a person is unaccounted for, or a health diagnosis is pending, they can sleep, and wait for answers to come in due time. Conscious thinking brings all sorts of unnecessary issues into play, not at all conducive to peace of mind. The purity of self realization filters out all the excessive and useless thought and permits the flow of pure consciousness. I'm good with that, who wants the morass of a troubled mind. If I live another full lifetime, I could possibly attain that goal, but in this lifetime, I cannot conceive of having even an instant of thought-free time, even if I'm only thinking of what I'm thinking about. A Blog in place of the Bhagavad Gita may be a poor substitute, but it's all I can muster.

Hex on the Factor

I'm cringing. There ought to be a law against the exploitation of children. Is it in the genre of entertainment to watch a teenaged girl be tortured for the second week in a row? And the "sing for your life" gauntlet is just a sham anyway. And if a judge can't judge, why hold the title of judge. But that had to have been one of the most uncomfortable displays ever. Simon Cowell should rethink his show. And didn't he used to say children should not perform in public?

Preposition Please

OK, take your pick: Presents on the tree, by the tree, 'neath the tree, from the tree, below the tree, and the tree (oops, a conjunction), or "unereath" (slur as needed here). Why can't we all just get along?

The Icks Factor

L.A. is the only person I've ever seen who keeps time and indicates mad cool approval by turning his head side to side, instead of nodding up and down. Seems hard to do. Nicole S. seems dumb as a rock. That shaggy singer looked lost in the desert, thirsting for water. Rachel Crow is borderline between obnoxious and just plain annoying. Melanie Imaro has an awesome voice, but her please may I just say something routine along with her on again, off again Hispanic accent is wearing a little thin. And those hair extensions from hell. Marcus Canty is a mediocre singer with phony puppy dog expression in his eyes bordering on the absurd, and weighted down by the gigantic crucifix hanging to his stomach. So all hail the winner, the tattoed rapper singer who has overcome adversity and drugs to give Simon's new show an edgy success story. Let's see what the re-habbed rapper does with the 5 mil or whatever it is.

Christmas Spritcz

I didn't know that there was a song called "Red Solo Cup" sung by Country's Entertainer of the Year Toby Keith, and I don't care. The only thing more unsettling was a rather bloated looking Michael Bublie trying to affect a light touch as the host of a show. The skits looked worse than the lamest of SNL, and his chat with the child actors had me silently saying, "Watch out, kids, for the hugging and Nooo, don't be sitting on that nice man's lap." And his so-cool hip hop tempo "Baby, It's Cold Outside" with Kellie Pickler reminded me of the mating dance of those little birds you see on Animal Planet--or YouTube. What's next?

Blank Slate

I guess I could say I've always kept a kind of blog, except back then it would have been called a diary, and later on a journal. In seventh grade, everybody was required to have a notebook for social studies, and it had to be one of those black and white notebooks, the only color at the time, though now they come in a variety of colors and designs. We wrote, in pencil, the facts the teacher wrote on the blackboard, lots and lots of words. We were to keep those notebooks, as a study guide, I guess, though they were subject to be called in if the teacher (Mrs. Foster) had reason to suspect lack of due diligence on the part of the note-taker. Me being a strict follower of rules, I had no cause for concern on that front, but I did violate the integrity of the notebook's purpose by keeping my own little journal in the margins, writing sideways so as not to intrude on the actual note taking. It was the year my grandmother took sick and died, and I secretly kept an account as the events unfolded. I can remember my first post: "Oct.8, Nanny fell." After she died, about a month later, I used my eraser to clear the margins of all my scribbled notes. We didn't have delete buttons then.

Self Aggrandizement

I wonder when it became customary for game show contestants, Hollywood stars and generic celebrities to refer to their "beautiful wives" or" wonderful husbands" and "beautiful and wonderful children." Didn't there used to be a time when it was considered poor taste to compliment yourself, your family and your lot in life, and praise words were left to others to bestow on you?

December 7

They had gone in to town together; I don't know what day of the week it was, but it must have been a Saturday. Otherwise they would have been at work. Couldn't have been a Sunday, because nothing was open on Sunday back then. The wives would have stayed at home of course, with us kids. Upon their return, my father and Tommy were in the barn, in the house on what is now called Brundige Road. The entrance to the barn had a raised stoop and my father was sitting on that stoop with a hammer in his hand pounding out the beat to the song they were singing---"When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again."

Talk to the Animal...

I've never been one to talk to animals, except to call them, yell at them when they're in the wrong, and praise them when they've behaved well.  So that's how it is with our present cat, with one exception.  When I'm ready to  leave the house for an extended period of time, I find myself  telling Maybe, curled up on the couch, that I've left the kitchen door ajar so that she can go to where her litter box is.  She always looks at me, widening her eyes slightly, and so far seems to have complied. 

Shopping Mania

I used to shop, a lot.  And walk.  Early on, we used to walk all over the city of Troy.  If we went shopping, it seemed only fair to visit all the stores:  Frears, Denbys, Peerless, Up-to-Date, Towne Shop, and others that I can't even remember, even Stanley's way down the street.  The only discomfort I remember was the stores' being so warm in the winter that we had to take  our coats, usually heavy woolen coats, and hats and gloves of course, off and on in each store,  and then carry them around with all our purchases and stash them while we tried things on.  I can remember later when I worked at the Education Building, shopping in downtown Albany by myself at night, trying to find the right party dress, or buying mens' clothes at Spector's.  I think Colonie Center was the first mall  in the area, and opened in the early-ish 60's.   Hallelujah, indoor shopping!  And you could check your coats and earlier purchases in lockers.  Macy's was at one end and Sears was at the other, and a million jillion stores in between.  By now, Dorothy and my other friends were married, so I mostly shopped alone.  One night I was shopping there and had parked by Macy's. When I went to leave, closing time, I think it was 10:00 p.m., had come and the Macy's exit was locked.  I had to go all the way to the Sears exit to get out.  I was Christmas shopping, had packages to carry, it was cold and dark outside, and there were snowbanks.  Not only that, there was a steep bank dividing the 2 parking lots, it was hilly, I had to walk completely around the mall in the dark and cold, and then try to find my car.  I was completely disoriented, having known where I'd parked in relation to Macy's but had no reference point at all once I'd circled the mall.  And no one else was around: the other shoppers had a better sense of time, I guess.  Oh, the horror!  Another memory I have of that mall was going there each Christmas with Ma and Marilyn and David to have their pictures taken with Santa.  Of course we had to go to the upper level to look down and take in Santa's display, little choo-choo and all.  Ma would get so nervous; she was afraid the kids would fall through the railing.  I tried to reassure her that they couldn't fit through the openings, but she still had that fear. 
     
        So it was a relief to her when Clifton Country Mall opened and everything was on one level.  That opening pretty much coincided with Danny's first Christmas, I seem to recall, so Ma no longer had to worry about a grandchild or two dropping down onto Santa's lap.  But 1978 was the year Ma had her heart attack, and that pretty much signified that what had become our  routine was going to be changed.  Before that happened, her only weakness was in her knees, and she was so strong and seemed so ageless that it seemed that time sort of hung suspended.  Getting old, it seems, is rather like the sun shining in on the carpet;  you don't realize  how  much the carpet  has faded until you move that chair, and find that what had seemed like a gradual process has taken a serious toll.

Is it true?

"I'm walking the floor over you.

I can't sleep a wink;

That is two."
     WTH, Did Ernest Tubb have a lisp? Or did he used to be able to pronounce "true" and then he took an arrow to the knee?

Words to live by

Life can be a challenge.

Life can seem impossible.

It's never easy when there's so much on the line,

But you and I can make a difference.

There's a mission just for you and me.

Just look inside and you will find just what you can do.

(You can quote me on that.)

Correction

FYI: It's not that I can't spell. I just can't type, or see, or edit. I don;t know why my editing feature ceased working. It used to allow editing: then it took an arrow to the knee. (I know, unfunny, trite

Children and Trust

I'd just gotten the census for a new family in West Hebron, on the same road as a family I was already working with. They were scheduled to move in that week, so I pulled off the road into the site where the trailer had been plopped down in the middle of a field, no driveway, just tire tracks. I 'd seen bicycles off the roadside, and thought that maybe the kids I had been working with, just a distance up the country road, were visiting the 2 young girls of the new family. As I got out of the car, I could hear music, very loud, coming fom inside the trailer. When I knocked on the door, the music suddenly went silent, and no one came to the door. A lot of strange things occur in this job, so I didn't think too much of it, but got back in my car and went to the other house. No one was home there either, again another fairly regular occurrence, so I got back in my car and on the way back decided to stop in again at the new household. This time, I didn't even bother geting out of my car, but just beeped the horn. As soon as I did so, the 2 girls came bouncing out of the trailer right over to my car, and leaned into the car window to tell me, "We saw you when you were here before, but our parents told us never to answer the door if we were home alone." (The parents, in the process of moving in on that late summer afternoon, had had to make a last trip to deliver some more stuff, and had briefly left the girls, aged 8 and 10, with those strict orders.)

Sabotage or Coincidence??

Since I promoted Freschetti's Pineapple and Canadian Bacon Pizza on my fabulous blog, I have looked in vain for one of the few foods I crave. For the last month or so, Shop N Save has had all the other varieties of that brand's frozen pizza in stock, but not the Pineapple one. Either the vast contingent of my Blog followers have stormed the frozen food aisle, making off with my pizza, or else it's such an unpopular choice they've stopped making it. As a matter of fact, the same thing happened with the flavor of frozen yogurt I mentioned last summer. Oh the horor!

Me Me

I used to be a contender: then I took an arrow in the knee.

February 27, 1973

I remember the clothes we wore that day. I wore a ski jacket, dark blue with pale blue spots. I'd bought it when I was still single, at Cohoes Manufacturing on a shopping trip with Pat White, the exchange teacher from England, and another teacher when we were planning a ski trip. It was a nice jacket, and I received compliments when I wore it. (OMG--this can't be my life I'm writing about). The day was quite warm for February, so the kids wore only the jackets of their snowsuits. Marilyn's was pink, and David, who was 2 years old, wore his first winter jacket, not a one-piece snowsuit. The jacket was blue, with a few red accents, including a little airplane embroidered on the front. The jacket had pockets, which may have contributed to his fate, and the hood was shallow and didn't come very far forward on his head, which may have been a life saver. As was our usual routine, we all got into my old Impala Supersport convertible and drove to the post office to get my mother's mail. The post office than, before handicap accessibility, had steps on the side as well as the front steps. As I ushered the kids up the side steps, we were met by a large black German Shepherd, who was evidently anxiously waiting for his owner to emerge from the building. He came toward the 3 of us in a very friendly manner; I remember he had silver chains with tags attached to them that were jangling as he moved toward us. He appeared very friendly, tail wagging and body moving, and I recall moving the kids to my right, against the wall so that he would not accidentally knock them down the steps. We went into the post office, spoke to his owner who was chatting with Gloria the postmistress. Looking back, I can think that they'd probably been talking for quite a while, possibly a cause of the dog's anxiety. Marilyn used the combination to open Ma's mailbox. (People were astonished she could do so, because the boxes were fairly new, and baffled a lot of the customers.) As we left with the mail, I started to take David's hand to help him down the single step at the door, but he pulled his hand away, wanting to put it in his "new pocket." The dog came to the doorway as we left, saw his owner was not coming out and retreated to the far side of the porch, out of our area, or so I thought. Marilyn was a few steps ahead of me on the porch, David a few steps behind, and I was scanning the mail which I was holding when I heard a terrible sound behind me, incredibly loud snarling, and a child's cries. Looking back, I saw this huge dog, (130 + lbs) on top of and mauling David, who was 28 months old and weighed 27 pounds. David had been knocked onto his back, and the dog was repeatedly biting at his head. The 3 of us were all still on the concrete porch, but I remember it seemed a mile away from where I was to where David was being attacked. I ran to the scene: I have no memory of any encounter with the dog. I think he might have just left when I got there. I'm not sure. I picked David up, his whole head covered with and dripping blood and carried him back into the post office, which I'd just left seconds ago. Marilyn followed me in. The owner was horrified when she learned what happened. Gloria brought us into the back, sat us down, took a box of kleenex, and placed them all on David's bleeding head, while she called 911 and Dave at work. I remember asking her to look and see if David's eye was there. I wasn't able to look. She lifted off the wad of blood stained kleenex, and told me that his eye was there. (Later I learned that in one of the bites, the dog's tooth was stopped by the drawstring in the jacket hood, and that bite ended just above his eye. That shallow hood may have saved his eye.) The ambulance came, Joyce Bott had come in to get her mail, and she drove Marilyn to Ma's. She later told me that she thought Marilyn was about 5 or 6 because she gave such clear directions to the house. I hadn't thought to do so. Of course, there's much more to the story, maybe for another day,or maybe not. I know when I finally got home from the hospital for a while, after the surgery and when Dorothy and Gus came to relieve us, I put my ski jacket in the sink to soak, and the water turned red with blood and clots. David did get an infection, Dr. Grattan ordered the dog euthanized amidst owner protests because the dog had had his rabies shots. Dr's case was that because the teeth had penetrated the skull, the 10-day wait for test results could be deadly. He also told us that because of the force of the bites that if the dog had bitten him anywhere else but the head, he probably would not have survived. David still has the scars to show, a little more noticeable now than when he had his mane of hair. But at least his brain was unaffected. My mother always had a dread of any fever or injury that could result in a person's being "not quite right." She had prayed and kept the candles lighted for the 3 days he was in the hospital. Because she was watching Marilyn, she didn't see him until he came home from the hospital. He walked into her house, and the first thing he said was ,"Nana, did you get your mail?" She told me that she knew then that he was all right.

Damn Horses

My mother loved horses all her life. When she was young and the family moved to Pittstown after her brother was killed in a tragic accident, they invested in a plowhorse to help work the fields. The remaining brother worked with the horse, and my mother said he hated it, both the field work and the horse. Not my mother, though, she would ride that horse to school, probably her only happy memory of attending that Cooksboro school. After she married, and we kids were born, our family would visit the old homestead every two weeks. One year, on our return trip, my father pulled in to what must have been a recently opened business venture, horseback riding. Several horses were available to be ridden for what must have been a small fee, and so my mother must have saved up for us kids to have the experience of our first horseback ride. I was small enough for someone to have lifted me onto the horse, and I remember it seemed a long way up. The horse I was on would barely move, keeping its head down to eat the sparse grass growing along the edges of the "trail." I don't remember where the other kids were when the owners decided to feed the horses; they must have already returned to the starting point. Feeding the horses meant throwing hay down beneath the apple tree where the horses were stationed. When my horse saw the food, which was all he'd been interested in during the ride, he took off at a fast pace----toward the food, which was under the tree. Somehow I managed to stay on his back; that is until he reached the tree where the hay was strewn. The next thing I remembered was a bump on my forehead where my head had crashed into the tree branch. I realize now that the ranch was early LAZY J, and that the horses were probably very hungry. I also realize I will never share my mother's love for horses.

Close Call on Aznuzewski

Aznuzewski Lane is a long, very long, and picturesque driveway, or rather private road, off Route 40 heading toward Greenwich, and I'm pretty sure I almost died there. I drove down that road on a beautiful September day trying to find a teenager who was in our program. She had left home and was said to be living with her grandparents at that address. I parked my car in front of the trailer that was on the property where the worker lived. I stepped out of the car and saw a large white German Shepherd lying near the doorstep. He didn't bark, or even get up when I spoke to him. His demeanor seemed non-threatening, so I went up the step and knocked on the door. No one responded so I started back to my car. I could see to my left a large barn where a mare was tied to a post at the end of the barn , with her colt free by her side. A man, the grandfather, drove up in the field across from the driveway where I was getting ready to leave. He sat on the tractor, and told me that his grand-daughter was not living there at the time, and was proceeding to tell me where she might be found when all of a sudden he yelled to me. "Watch out for that horse!" I'm standing across the drive from where he was sitting on his tractor in the field, and there is the colt charging down from the other end of the driveway straight at me. I was more than willing to "Watch out," but couldn't see where that would get me. If I'd tried to run toward my car, my back would be turned,and I was pretty sure I couldn't make it in time anyway. It is true this was only a colt, but it was a very tall and large colt, almost full grown, just not yet filled out to horse status. I must have appeared pretty helpless, because suddenly the man jumped off his tractor just as the colt neared where I was awaiting my fate, assuming that I was to be kicked by a horse. The grandfather ran up to the horse, yelling at it as loud as he could, and smacked it as hard as he could. The colt ran back to its mother. The man, climbing back on his tractor, told me that it was a particularly mean horse. I asked him if it kicked, (since I'd been readying myself for that.) "No, he said,"it jumps up on you." I knew then that I would have been dead.

Dose of Reality

At one point in our lives, my mother decided we were in need of medicine. She must have heard it from Agnes, or else from Arthur Godfrey (if his radio show even had a medical segment.) Anyway, from wherever she had gleaned the information, she thought it in our best interest for us to take 2 Milk of Magnesia tablets weekly, the chosen day being Friday. The little white pills had to be chewed; they tasted awful and had the consistency of chalk. I can remember all 3 of us protesting and I recall gagging, but my mother insisted they were good for us. I don't recall how long we were subjected to this torture. It seemed endless, at least in child time. And it might have been longer until one day my mother was cleaning, probably the requisite intensive spring cleaning of those years. Taking off the couch cushions, and reaching down into the depths at the back of the couch, she made a discovery---a cache of the Milk of Magnesia pills, wait, more than one area, a hoard on either end of the couch, multiple doses of sticky, decomposing little white pills. Again, she interrogated us. Again, I was totally surprised, astonished beyond belief. Since there was obviously more than one perpetrator, my mother did not pursue the subject. She was not a big fan of medicating anyway, was only doing so because it was the advice of the time, and was most likely glad of an excuse to stop the pills. I can't recall if I was more shocked because the other 2 had been so defiant as to break the rules, or if I felt left out because doing so had never even crossed my mind. I guess that proves I lacked imagination-- a whole lifetime of following the rules and what has it gotten me but a bitter pill to swallow.

The dog didn't do it!

One day my mother went outside and found a hole dug on the side of the house, in close proximity to where she had planted some flowers. The dog was tied outside to the nearby doghouse, so she scolded him and probably gave him a few whacks too. The next day, another digging, and repeat the process. Bad dog! Then a third hole, again the same location. My mother, frustrated at his disobedience, dragged the animal over to the site of the big dig so as to reinforce that he was never to do that again. Surprise! She found that the dog's chain did not reach that far, so he was innocent. There had to be another digger. The only other potential suspects were us three kids, so she asked us who had dug the hole. I was astonished at the question. We really never did anything wrong, and I had no idea who could possibly have done such a thing. She got three no's for answers. Finally, my mother put on her hat---serious business--and announced she was going up to see the judge: Judge Center lived upstreet in one of the big white houses there--maybe Overocker's. My stomach turned over, and I'm sure I was shaking, because I couldn't even imagine what was going to happen. Was somebody going to jail? Finally, as my mother was opening the kitchen door, Dorothy, in tears, confessed that she had dug the hole. I don't remember what her punishment was, probably just my mother's disapproval. I probably suffered more out of shock at the whole situation. Just in the last year, talking over old times, I asked Dorothy about it and why she had dug all those holes. She seemed bemused and a little pensive, and said she just felt like it. Now I understand.

THE PERICHOLE

When I was in high schoool , I read "The Bridge of San Luis Rey" and one of the characters was La Perichole, a woman whose looks had been so disfigured by smallpox that she refused to go out, or to be seen without a veil. I'm pretty much at that point now, and I don't even own  a veil. I think the effects of time are even worse than smallpox. The only other memory I have of that novel, besides the names of twins Manuel and Esteban, is the theme arrived at, something like: There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the only bridge between the two is love." So I guess I'll hang a drape over all the mirrors in my house, and cross that bridge when I come to it.

Seasonal Loss

Are we ready for the heart breaking story which surfaces every year at this time, where a thief breaks into a family's house (or sometimes car), and makes off with all the children's Christmas presents ? The usual amount of the loss is $800, adjustable, of course, for inflation.

The Power of Print

There were no books in our house. The reason were compelling: books were an extravagance, my parents, as renters who had moved at least 6 times in the first 7 years of their marriage, had no place for book storage or relocation, and, busy with the struggle for survival, they had no time for leisure reading. And, until we moved to VF, none of the houses we lived in had electricity, so reading time was pretty much limited to the daylight hours. Oh, there was an ancient Bible handed down from some forbearer, and my father had a picture album from WWI, and an old dictionary. Even so, I think all 3 of us kids could read before we started school, probably thanks to my mother's teaching us the A, B, C's when she could find the time. So, we had no books, but as I recall, we always had the newspaper, The Troy Record, delivered every day. In the early years, it came by US Mail. In the absence of even radio reports, newspapers were the method of finding out what was happening in the world. My father would read the paper after supper. I would watch him when he read the news, and quite often, listen to him, because at times he would become infuriated with what he was reading, and relay his feeling to my mother in a very emotional manner. His reactions were so heated, and his opinions so strong, that I wondered what the paper could have said to make my otherwise calm and quiet father so angry. I was so curious that I couldn't wait to be able to read the "big words" to find out if I would get heated up too. As soon as I could read most words, I would sneak away with the paper (I thought my reading it might have been frowned on), and read as much as I could. While I could read the words, it was still a mystery to me how those words could have elicited any reaction at all. I chalked it up to those few "big words" that I didn't know. I was far too young to understand politics.

Anticipation

Assisting with fourth grade homework, I saw the elementary school menu. Among the information printed on it was an announcement of a dance for fifth and sixth graders. I pointed out that next year, he'd be able to attend those dances. He was instantly interested in the idea, and asked if that was the type of dance where the boys asked the girls to dance. I said it could be and he asked what if he asked a girl to dance and she said no.

Really?

So I'm supposed to go to Rite Aid and make my selection from a "pegged bag" or a "laydown bag?" That sounds like talk of the trade to me. WTH---too much trouble to translate into consumer terms?

The Chute

The walls look weathered, and worn with time,

But still sturdy enough to do their job.

The force of life surges through,

Always in motion,

Though the pace and the goals are set

With different outcomes in mind.

Some deliberate, hesitating slightly

Before moving forward,

Trusting that they have a choice.

Others plunge ahead, reckless,

No thought, go with the flow.

The course is longer than expected

And with some alterations, and

Narrow channels branching off.

But the walls are always there,

Fading paint and unyielding structure.

The passers-through make their selection,

Each opting for their own direction.

Pulsing forward, seeking what comes next.

But all will find at the end of the run

That common truths prevail:

There is no stepping backward,

And, as diverse as the forward path is,

The exit is the same.

Gobble-de-Gook

I have now roasted my 44th Thanksgiving turkey. It's a good thing I didn't keep them all, because it would take a lot of scratch feed and cracked corn to feed that size flock.

Literal Comfort--Ignore the idiom.

When we were really little, a few houses before we moved to Valley Falls, my mother would leave us in the house while she did chores. One of those chores was milking and caring for a cow. In their early married years, my parents lived on a dairy farm, one of the most upscale and well cared for in the area. My mother, always an animal lover, would go to the barns to watch the milking. Before milking machines, cows were milked by hand into open buckets. Those buckets were a magnet for flies, and even at that well-tended dairy farm, one of the steps in processing the milk was to strain it to separate out the flies. My mother was appalled at the thought of feeding her babies fly-strained milk, and so had bought a family cow, over which she had more environmental control: she could shoo the flies away before they fell into the pail. Hand milking, and I suppose shooing flies, took a long time, and so we kids were in the house by ourselves and left alone. Well, not really alone, because our Uncle Joe lived with us in an upstairs room. By then, he had lost his wife to cancer, his only child to drowning and his left arm to an accident at the Powder Mills. Thinking back, it's no wonder that he, forced to live with his younger brother's family, had pretty much withdrawn from family life, and lived as independently as possible. He was always very kind to us kids though, and seemed to welcome our company when we followed him around outside. So when Ma was gone for what seemed an eternity, and when the house seemed empty and lonely with only my brother and sister, I would call up into the grate in the ceiling, "Joe, are you up there?" "Yes," he would answer, as he would walk around his room. "Can't you hear me--I'm walking the floor over you." Those were the words to a popular song at the time, which carried quite a different meaning, but I was reassured to hear his voice , and his footsteps overhead.

In Bloom

I brought most of Dorothy's plants to my house this summer, though not until after a period of neglect had occurred. One was a cactus, but we were not sure what kind until last week, when it burst into bloom just as a Thanksgiving Cactus should. The blossoms are a rosy peach color and there are 47 of them so far. I counted them.

Innocence Lost

The teacher in me tries to make every event a learning experience, so when the third grader showed me his report card, and one of the comment categories was "strives to do his best," I asked if he knew the meaning of strive. He and his brother figured out the meaning from context, so I used another commenton the report that "he is coming out of his shell" to illustrate idioms, which we'd previously talked about. They worked that one out, and the brother says he knew another idiom kind of like that,"coming out of the closet."

Steps and Stairs

A series of inconsequential events:
About a dozen years ago, my job took me to a family who lived in a trailer home, kind of set into a hillside. A deck had been added to the front entrance, which you reached by climbing 7 0r 8 steps. I think the father of the family might have built it. It was a quite well-constructed deck and stairway; I knew he had re-built an entire set of second-story stairs in another home the family had lived in. Anyway, on a day in late November, I had an appointment to help the 3 kids with their homework. As usual, I parked my car at the bottom of the driveway, climbed the hill to the trailer, walked up the stairs to the deck, and found the door open. I called into the open door: no one was at home. With my pocketbook in one hand and my bag of tutoring materials in the other, I left to return to my car, intending to wait for a while to see if they showed up. When I walked to the end of the deck, and started to take the first step down, my feet flew out from under me on the slipperiest bare wood I'd ever encountered. I slid down all of the 7 or so steps as if on a ski slope. There at the bottom of the flight of steps, the builder had erected a substantial post. I latched on to that post, hugging it for dear life even as I was still in downhill motion, and saved myself, not even dropping my bags in the process. A little shaken, I went to my car to collect my thoughts. I'd no sooner sat down, when a furnace repair truck pulled up, the workers got out, and one called over to me, "Hey, if you're going in that house, watch out on the stairs-----they're really slippery." Oh, thanks, I answered; I was so glad no one had witnessed my swan dive.

Another near step to disaster:
This was an old trailer, recently plopped in the middle of a field, a distance from the farm where the family worked. They were new to me on this day when I parked my car and climbed a quite steep set of stairs that were attached to the front door of the trailer. Or so I thought. As soon as I left the ground and put my feet on the first step, the whole flight of steps reared back like a bucking bronco-------they weren't attached to the trailer at all. As it turned out, the family didn't even use that front door---the steps were apparently just for decoration, or more probably a mandated "safety requirement." Fortunately that was in the years before my knees betrayed me, and I didn''t get hurt that time either.
Even earlier, I worked at an old school in South Troy, where a young member of our staff had set up the tutoring schedule, and then had left this employment for greener pastures. I took over her job, and so her schedule. There were 6 students at our program in the school and the school had 3 floors. My predecessor was young, agile, and must have been into running track, because she had scheduled back-to-back sessions on: Floor#3, then Floor #2, again to Floor #1, back to Floor #3, and then of course back down stairs. One of the kinder teachers, knowing the route I took, suggested that I take the elevator, but I declined. Its use was intended only for the handicapped, you had to get a key, and at the time I was still vital enough that I didn't want to appear old. Besides, that was the year a young criminal had tampered with the outside fire escape, then caused a disturbance to call the principal out there, which caused him to fall with the disabled fire escape and to become permanently paralyzed. (That youth later murdered the aunt he lived with.)

For Rent

525,000 minutes since last year,

That is the sum of the moments so dear

525, 600 minutes, since I cooked the Thanksgiving

turkey last year.

And how do you measure, measure those dinners

Sometimes touched with laughter, sometimes with a tear?

In guests fed, in Grace said,

By portions, by fortunes,

In wishes or dishes on which we were fed?

525, 600 minutes

Of everyone armed with a fork and a knife,

Is that how you measure a year in the life,

In preparing dressing,

Or pre-mealtime stressing

The measure of joy

Or the specter of life?

Well, how about

15, 840 minutes of cooking,

88 drumsticks to serve to the crowd,

The time's now to sing out

The answer is coming,

The waited-for answer

So clear and so loud.

In heartbreak, in cheesecake,

The journeys we must take,

It all comes together,

The way that we feel.

In snowfalls, in wishbones,

In calls made from cellphones,

with meal cost and souls lost,

The measure of life is

Played out on a reel.

How about that?

Checkers and Compliments

If I try really hard, I think I can come up with a total of about 11 compliments that I've received in my life. One of them had to do with checkers. Back in those days, so hard for even today's poor to comprehend, people did not buy things, except for basic necessities. My father decided we were old enough to learn the game of checkers, but we had neither checkers nor a checker board. I remember he took an old broom handle, marked it into 24 even sections, sawed them through, and painted half of them red, leaving the other 12 their natural color. He probably used cardboard or maybe a piece of plywood for the checkerboard; I can't say I remember. I do remember his sitting in his usual chair by the window, with the checker game laid out on the footstool in front of him, and me sitting on the floor learning to play, and then playing the game. It's odd I don't remember Joe or Dorothy playing; I'm sure they did. I only know I loved to play, and remember plotting advance strategies in my head, what man I would move if he made that move, and alternately what I would do if he moved there. My father played seriously, with deliberation, so I had plenty of time to plot out several different scenarios depending on where he made his move. I know it was before we had television so I was probably 9 or 10 years old at the most. I must have gotten pretty good at the game because one day my father paid me what I thought was the utmost compliment. He said I was as good as, no, even better than, some of the regulars who used to meet and play checkers at the railroad station. My father had evidently done that in his earlier days, possibly only 10 or 15 years previously, and while I would have realized that, and I did know where the train station was and knew that nothing much happened there anymore, I was still young enough to imagine myself walking into that train station and beating a path of victory through all those seasoned checker tournament contenders. All hail the child checker champion! Who said fame doesn't go to your head.

Top Ten List

Top Ten List of Things That Could Have Become Family Traditions, But Didn't

10) Evening walks through the village with my mother

9) Playing checkers after supper with my father

8) Attending the Schaghticoke Fair in one fell swoop--everybody, all day,one day only

7) Family trip to Borden's to get apples and cider

6) Memorial Day visits to cemeteries, later adapted to stopping at Stewart's for ice cream cones

5) Spending the time waiting for Christmas Eve Midnight Mass (always at midnight) by a family card game---Whatever happened to "Pit?"

4) Driving around the area with friends looking at Christmas lights

3) Easter corsages or buttonaires for everybody!

2) Sending Christmas cards by the dozens to practically everybody we knew

and

1) Cooking the Thanksgiving Turkey----------Hey, wait! I'm still trying, Damn it.

Have a ccokte....

I remember this story being related by my father more than my having a vivid memory of it, though I can conjure up some memory of it. When Joseph was about three years old, he would play at handing out imaginary cookies. "Here, have a cookie," he'd offer, and give a pretend cookie to my parents, and probably me. ( Dorothy was probably not yet born, as almost 4 years separated them.) I gather Joseph would act out this little routine on a regular basis, after supper time. My father had what I guess would be called a rather dry sense of humor, though probably not much opportunity for humor existed in life back then. One evening, when Joseph offered my father the imaginary cookie, my father, instead of pretending to eat the non-existent cookie in keeping with the unwritten rule of the game, opened his hand to reveal a real cookie that he had bought and hidden til then, and proceeded to eat it. "Yum, this is a good cookie." I don't remember the child's reaction, but I do recall my father's thinking it was a great prank, so I assume he must have given cookies to all present. Could that have been the end of the game for Joseph: I guess that's a question only he can answer.

The Shortcut

When we were kids, we walked to school. From our house, we took the shortcut. We did not use the sidewalk in front of our house, but we would leave by the back door, follow a path along the back of the then deserted stone building next door to us, and then pass by the 3 garbage can/ burn barrels under the huge double cottonwood tree behind the Valley Inn. From there we would make our way through the back yard of the corner building that was then the Post Office. The ground floor tenants then were Norah and Tom McMahon, and he kept a very tidy and well maintained back yard with plantings and flower gardens, the only blot on the landscape being the worn trail which we and other kids followed on our shortcut path. There was a driveway then on the south side of the building which was used by the mail personnel, mainly Bill O'Neill. (An added treat was that he would discard pennies on the gravel, for us kids to find. Especially the silver pennies, which were out of favor because they could so easily be confused with dimes. ) We would follow that driveway out to the village sidewalk. There, at least when we were little, before we began the uphill section of our walk, we would turn and wave to our mother, who would wave back to us from the kitchen window. I remember feeling comforted seeing her standing there, tall and in her house dress; we knew she'd be there when we got home. She never let us know she was worried about our encountering any dangers, but I always thought that was because she knew we were cautious enough to avoid any trouble. She may have been a little concerned, though, because the son of the couple who ran the Valley Inn, where we trespassed daily with no thought of repercussions, was "not quite right." The way you could tell was that he walked vey fast and swung his arms vigorously as he walked, and he always wore a fresh white shirt, rolled up at the elbows. He would also pick up scraps of paper as he walked, maybe because his duties at the Valley Inn conssisted of keeping the grounds neat. He certainly never interfered with any of us kids, though I seem to have a vague memory of some problem or irregularity involving him. I would have heard this only from listening to "big people talk" so it would have had no bearing on us kids. It seems strange now, but as kids we had no regard for property lines--we took the shortest distance to where we wanted to go, and no one seemed to mind, not then.

Promises

How many promises have I made in my lifetime and how many have I kept? My answer to the first part would be probably not very many, and to the second part probably most of them. Im sure some were forgotten promises, and others had faded into oblivion before they ever came to be realized, but I do remember the first serious promise I ever made, and it was to a goat. She was a brown goat, and so her name may have been Brownie: it's hard to recall her name, out of the many goats that have passed through my life. I was no more than 10 years old, and the goat had once belonged to us, but my mother had given the goat to her sister, who lived with my grandmother a distance away, on a ten acre or so plot of land. Plenty of room for a little goat, one would think. But the matriarch, born and raised on lesser acreage in Ireland, had her own firm ideas of how animals should be controlled, and confined. She dictated that Brownie be hobbled, as well as tied to the chain when she was staked out to graze. I was horrified at the sight, Brownie, legs imprisoned, being unable to gambol about, as she was accustomed to do, within the periphery of her tether. Of course I had no power or even a voice, during those times. The best I could do was go to the shed at the end of the afternoon, where Brownie was stabled. So I made a solemn vow to the goat that I would somehow free her from her hobbled life. Now I don't know if you've ever looked deep into the eyes of a nanny goat with your own eyes full of tears, and promised a reprieve, but I can tell you that it's a memorable experience

First of all, a goat's pupils are not round, but are little rectangles. Secondly, I was not sure if I was supposed to be taking an oath on behalf of a goat. And of course I had not the slightest idea how I could carry out my promise to bring the goat back home. As it turned out, the promise was kept, though not because I had anything to do with it. I never told a soul. But my mother, evidently feeling much the same as I, did reclaim the goat, not right away, acting more out of diplomacy than urgency. The goat was unshackled and my first oath to a goat was upheld.

Semantics

When people say they are "starting their own traditions," they are by definition incorrect. It is not possible to start a tradition: you can begin a practice which may eventually become a tradition, but the derivation of the word is from the Latin "to hand over," ie. the handing down of elements of a culture from generation to generation---an inherited, established, or customary pattern of thoughts, actions or behaviors. The term "new tradition" is an oxymoron. Attention must be paid.

ANTICIPATION STAGNATION

My agenda, and I do have one,

Always is set the night before.

In the mid-night, I search my mind,

Sorting out the things to do

That will order my life, a little.

The list grows long, but possible,

I'm impatient for day to break

So I can start the process--

Make that call, update my files,

Clean this, shop for that,

Throw something away,

Pack something else for another time---

And here's where plans go awry:

Too early in the week to call,

Or too early in the day,

Too near lunchtime, then closing time.

Too chilly inside yet to shower,

Too chilly to go outside yet.

A box of letters or photos, or personal papers

Too difficult yet to go through.

I check my calendar---days unblocked,

Plenty of time later, so it seems.

I begin to plan, sort of,

For still another day--Hurry sunset,

So a new day can begin.

Clean like crazy

If a parent, let's focus on the mother, neglects her children because she spends too much time drinking, gambling, smoking or otherwise partying, she is guilty and charged, right? She is held responsible for her kids' care, even if she has an addiction, a habit, a compulsion or other mental affliction. But if a mother forgets to even feed her young children because she has a compulsion to keep cleaning the house, no red flags go up. Cleanliness is good. (I only know what I read in the papers.)

April 27, 1953

Where were you on this day? Not yet born, or outside playing in the spring rain? On that day, an RPI professor and his class detected unusually high levels of radiation in the area, and in the water of the Tomhannock Reservoir, and thus Troy's drinking water. Two days before, nuclear test "Simon" was conducted in Nevada, and the fallout followed a path leading into Troy up to southern Vermont, or right up Route 40. I remember a teacher who lived in Melrose was interested in a study that was done (unofficially, I presume) in relation to unusually high incidences of cancer in the Melrose area. The study was doomed to failure because the testing was ruled classified. The government did reassure the worried, though, by saying the amounts of radiation, though measurably higher than ordinary, posed no health threat. Unfortunately and ironically, that teacher, his wife and young son who lived in Melrose for years, all developed cancer, the teacher dying from it. Of course, we'll never know what if any, cancer threat that incident posed, but we do know that something causes cancer, and the medical community has no clear answer as to what the cause or causes may be. A book by Bill Heller addresses the incident: "A Good Day Has No Rain: The Truth about How Nuclear Test Fallout Contaminated Upstate New York." An excerpt from "Secret Fallout--Low Level Radiation from Hiroshima to Three Mile Island" by Dr. Ernest Sternglass is titled THE TROY INCIDENT. It can be read online http:www.ratical.com/radiation/SecretFallout/

And the doctor said...

While he didn't precisely tell me to put a lime in the coconut, he may as well have. He, pleased with the results of my cholesterol and other blood tests, advised me to keep doing exactly what I'd been doing. So I'll just have to continue my diet of Klondike bars, Butterfinger Crunch candy bars, frozen yogurt with peanut butter cups, supplemented by oatmeal with cranberries and walnuts, and Freschetti's pineapple and Canadian bacon topped pizza. I figure that must somehow fit into the new food pyramid.

Burgled #2

In November of 1997, I had attended the Migrant Conference in Syracuse. That was the only year I didn't drive, riding with Valerie, another tutor, who had picked me up at my house, and drove me home on a Wednesday afternoon. My car had been parked in my driveway during my 3 days in Syracuse. The next morning, I drove to Salem where I spent most of the day tutoring at the school and then the home of a family I worked with. I drove home to my empty house---Dave was at work and Danny at St. Lawrence----to find we'd been burgled again, 10 years after the first burglary where 3 guys (And I think I knew who, but of course no one was ever charged) had kicked in the front door, and made off with our computer, TV, stereo with speakers, and some loose cash. Again the door had been kicked in, and this time havoc reigned. Pretty much everything of value had been stolen----electronics, a new shop vac, and this time a lot of cash that I had not yet deposited. The thieves had removed the pillowcases from our beds, and emptied the contents of the dresser drawers into the empty cases. My drawer had held a collection of my jewelry, some of it quite valuable, some of it nostalgic, including items that had belonged to my mother. The investigating trooper said it seemed professional, but how much brains does it take to do that, if you've watched even one crime show. Besides, the trooper told me they'd catch the thieves, and of course that didn't happen. Somewhere I have a list of all our missing property, all our valuables. I do recall feeling some resentment that the only thing left this time was our living room TV, too old and outdated for them to bother with. I know it was 10 years old because we'd had to replace it after the first burglary. All the rooms had been turned upside down. I remember the trooper asked me if things usually looked like that, and I felt insulted--of courde not! I also remember Rosemary coming up with Joe and her being in tears. At first that surprised me: I don't think the impact had registered yet. Investigation had proved fruitless, but I do believe I know who did it. Because of the time I'd been gone, the break-in had to have occurred between 11 and 3, when I got home. That day was garbage day, and pick-up was usually at noon. The garbage collector was new, perhaps this was only his second week: at the time pick-up was twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Dave asked the driver next time, if he'd noticed anything, and he said no. To me, this is the evidence: there had been snow on the ground, and a set of tire tracks had led from our driveway area out across our adjoining lot onto the highway. Someone had driven out onto the road bypassing our driveway, which had been free of our cars--empty. So something must have been blocking the driveway---something like a large garbage truck. Serving as a barrier so no one could see a bunch of stuff being hauled out of our house on a busy road in broad daylight. Stuff like a oomputer, televisions, a shop vac, a large , and new, carpet shampooer, and bags full of our personal belongings. That new garbage hauler didn't stay on the job very long after that, as I recall, probably having made enough money to set himself up in business. And they say crime doesn't pay.

NOW HEAR THIS

Eyes furtively seeking at first a route of escape,

Then like a captured wild creature

The fixed gaze, resigned to its prison:

I'm here for you now is the message.

Air your opinion, state your case,

But, please, not too many details.

Life does go on, you know.

Cold Feet

I read somewhere a long time ago an article that said something like this: native Tibetans are well suited to serve as mountain guides in adverse weather conditions because they acclimate to the cold weather. Their feet don't freeze while they sleep in their tents because the blood supply to their feet is short circuited, thus reducing the need for active blood circulation and the resultant pain as the body attempts to keep the feet warm. Over the years, I've tried, or at least wished, to develop the Tibetan trait, but so far no such luck. Sometimes, even when sleeping conditions are not particularly cold, my feet get so cold I can't sleep. Regardless of how many blankets are on the bed, no matter how hard I try to wrap the blankets and even the comforter snugly around each foot, my feet still stay cold, and prevent sleep. Those are the times I try to channel those Sherpa guides, but all in vain. Worse, and as a testament to my laziness, I know what the perfect solution is: all I need to do is get out of bed and put on a pair of socks.

"Say the secret word and a ....."

Andrew, age 4, had the beginnings of a cold. While playing with his toys, he'd coughed a few times and then sneezed. His grandfather was watching TV, pretty much oblivious to what was going on around him. He heard Andrew ask him if he knew the Password. Papa guessed: "Is it Shazam?" No, said Andrew. Papa tried again: "Abracadabra? Open Sesame?" "No, that's not it," corrected Andrew. "When somebody sneezes, you're supposed to say the password, God bless you."

Importance of Literacy---Irony of Ironies

There was a lengthy letter published in the "Pulse of the People" section of today's Record. I was tempted to pass over it, but then wondered why anyone would write such a long article, and why the publisher would print it. I read it and found it had apparently been an assignment of some sort written by a student at Tech Valley High School, whose student body comprises the best and brightest of the area. I hope the students are technologically gifted because the letter is a distinctly horrible literary example. I don't want to criticize the student who wrote it, but I question why, if she had submitted it to her mentor for a class assignment, as it seems, why that mentor would not have addressed some of the glaring issues that make the work a nonsensical exercise in redundancy, circular reasoning, and poor writing. Some of the language is distorted: "This just comes to show how necessary is in everyday life so that people can hold up a job..." Goes to show and hold down a job are accepted idioms. "It is very important for men, women and children to be literate because it helps them an immense amount in the 21st century just to take control of their life and make other things much simpler." That immense amount is sure to help all, and after control of life is established, what other things are to be made simpler? "Along with slavery being very unconstitutional (For shame!) and most of the time a cruel act, (so they say) it impacted the voting rights that slaves had because that, along with most if not all of their other rights were taken away from them." This sentence is a grammatical monstrosity, and does not parse. "Adults at the lowest levels of literacy earn about $230 to $240 per week, work only 18 to 19 hours each year..." The writer has used a number of inserted footnotes, but the effect is muddied. "Many struggles are made in society for those who cannot read for apparent reasons and the ones stated with the above statistics." WHAT? "The shocking facts, statements, and statistics stated here are more than enough information ...." The reader should be the judge of that. "Relating this to the past with unfortunate actions taken place during the time of slavery can help us to appreciate how lucky those of us who can read and write (though not very well) should be. " (Those unfortunate time of slavery actions!) Saving the best for last, "With the fast paced changes that occur in literacy in the times we live in, (What are these fast changes and we do live in the times) it is hard to predict what literacy requirements will be later on in the mid-21st century." Yes, my child, you do need a concluding sentence for your essay, but it should tie in with your thesis: you addressed neither fast paced changes nor predictions. But your final point is well taken, and unfortunately I think I can predict what the literacy requirements are fated to be, and yes, the mid-21st century is "later on." ******* If Ms Brandenberg received an A on this paper, as she is evidently proud of it, she and others may have been dealt a grave injustice.

Horoscopes

I never have believed there is any truth in horoscopes.

There are too many people to be divided into too few groups

For there to be any significance.

But I read them anyway, two each day.

Seconds after I've read them, I don't recall what they said.

I never read my husband's, though I know he's a Leo;

I seldom read my childrens's, each a different sign:

Taurus, Libra, Aquarius. And even more rarely,

Do I scan the horoscopes of my grandchildren.

But she, in the spirit of her life, for a time,

Thought they held some truth, and believed a little,

Or pretended to, which amounts to the same thing,

So I keep reading them, as hope-less as ever.

To Seed or Not to Seed

I bought some red grapes at the store the other day. Biting into one---they were jumbo grapes--I felt the crunch of seeds. I'm not used to that, but thinking back, I seem to recall they were advertised as "seeded grapes." That didn't register with me at all when I bought them, so I guess I have no cause to complain. But thinking about it, the word "seeded" meaning seeds are present strikes me as wrong. "Peeled" potatoes do not have the peels on them, "cored" apples have had the cores removed, "shelled" peas are no longer in the shell, and someone has pulled the husks off "husked" corn. Moreover, if used in referring to food, the words mashed, diced, chopped, baked, fried, pureed, floured, coated, battered, scrambled, etc. all indicate that something has been done to the food by somebody, not something left in its natural state. That's what the past tense, the "ed" ending means. You can buy free range turkeys and you can buy eviscerated turkeys, but the latter are definitely not in their natural state. Seedless grapes I can understand; Luther Burbank may be proud. Seeded grapes makes me wonder what genius took the trouble to stick all those little seeds into each grape.

Wish Fulfillment

It was here---as promised. Green Ice Cream! It must have been near St. Patrick's Day, and I was about 7 years old. Sealtest Ice Cream had promised a new flavor and it had finally arrived. And the store was right next door, attached to our very house. The posted signs showed the delicious looking scoops of pale green ice cream. I wanted it so badly; it looked like no ice cream I'd ever seen, and I loved ice cream. I was not in the habit of begging my parents for anything, or even asking, because all of us kids pretty much knew that only our basic needs were filled; in that time period, there were few extras. But I was so eager to try that green ice cream, I must have made my feeling known because I remember my mother's trying to scrape together enough money to buy that pint of ice cream. The price was 37 Cents. The 3 of us kids put together our money, my father added what was in his pocket, my mother delved down into her pocketbook. Still not enough money, until the last desperate digging down below the sofa cushions finally came up with the grand sum. I remember holding the money in my hand and running out the front door across the porch into Sara's Store. (Actually at the time it was still called Jack's Confectionery Store.) I paid for the pint of ice cream, and ran back into the huse, excited to experience the taste of that brand new flavor. My mother did as she customarily did, laying flat the pint carton, and slicing the little brick into 5 even pieces. I grabbed my dish and tasted----the green ice cream was pistachio and I hated it. Still do

Day of the Dead

"The world of dead exceeds the living one."

There were 46 names on the Remembrance list of Transfiguration Parish's All Souls Liturgy. So members of the 46 families remembered their dead with prayers, a rose and an inscription of the name of their loved one, permanently written in a book for all time. The living assume to know about permanence, but only the dead can know what everlasting means. Our concept of eternity has one end rooted in life and the other end stretched out into the numbness of the unknown. The dead, though, are already at that terminal which has no other end. Maybe that's why, as in the lore of All Souls' Day, they return out of hunger and passion for the life they remembered to haunt, or at least occupy for a single night, the warmth of the living. Graves grow cold in November.

Feet Position

The cat is lying on the living room floor in the sun spot, with its feet extended, paws up. If mice liked to do that, perhaps Cheney and a few others would have taken the easy way out, and saved us all from a lot of misery.

Snowbound (in a way)

"How strange it seems, with so much gone,

Of life and love, to still live on."

Beyond the battle, you have the best

That heaven itself could give you--rest.

Rest from all bitter thoughts and things.

And know that from us our blessings went

With you beneath that low green tent

Whose curtain never outward swings.

Personal question

I had an appointment at the opthalmologists' office today, where I've been going for about 50 years. Updating my info, pretty much all the same as last time, the assistant asked, "And how long have you been living alone?" When I said never, she said that was odd, because that was what was in my chart.

Must be because I go to all my appoinments by myself. "Poor thing!" Anyway, my vision was fine despite all my conditions, BUT You can't win 'em all; they offered that complimentary hearing test which I took only last year, and I missed 2 beeps in my left ear, so I'm eligible (!) for the extensive test. I'm asked to refer anyone else who might want a free hearing test; they don't even have to be a patient there. Do I know anyone with a hearing problem? Best af all, I saw a new associate doctor named Dr. Contractor. And even better, I got to drive home in the gently falling snow.

Spelling lesson

On the 4th grader's spelling list was the word "smokepipe." They are studying compound words. Now I know peacepipe and smokestack, but I have no recall of smokepipe. I'm so certain it's not in any of my dictionaries that I won't even look; maybe it's in the Urban Dictionary, or Wikipedia, but I doubt it. Another word on the list was bigboned: maybe that was hyphenated. A word, but odd for 4th grade. And I don't even want to know how the Urban Dictionary would define that one.

Disambiguation is me

I think I might need a Venn Diagram in order to understand the difference between unambiguous and disambiguous. I think someone just made the latter term up, so that people could interpret the word without delving too deeply into derivation and meaning. If you can't comprehend the meaning of a word in our vocabulary, simply coin a new word that will mean what you want it to, the pragmatic approach.

F.Y.I.

I've found a kindred spirit, in the vein of take what you can get. " FYI---Technically, I don't really have a hearing problem, but when everybody is talking at the same time and everything, and there's a lot of background noise and a lot going on, technically I can hear everything but I can't really understand and listen to it, so I don't really hear, but technically I 'm not really deaf or anything. FYI" That, FYI, is what happens when I see a Venn Diagram. There's a lot going on, in circles yet, all at the same time and technically I can see everything but everything swirls around so I just stop understanding what I read, but technically I'm not illiterate or anything. FYI

It's Nice

It's nice to have no expectations.

Then disappointment never cuts you down.

It's nice to be self sufficient.

Then no one needs to worry about you.

It's good not to ask of others.

Then they are released from obligation

And seek you out because they want to.

But it can be lukewarm there,

On the back burner.

Dinner was ready a long time ago.

OMG

I need to get out of the house: look what happens when I stay home.

Driving Memories

Way back when, as a passenger on long road trips,

After everyday conversation had ended,

My mind would, as it did and still does in church,

Seem to replay every event of my life,

Every thought I'd ever held.

At the end of my train of life thoughts and stories,

I'd ask the driver, silent for a time by then,

What he was thinking about.

The answer was always the same--nothing.

I was young enough then, I suppose,

To believe that everyone's mind

Worked pretty much the same way.

I didn't believe it was true--

That anyone's mind could hold no thoughts,

I could only think that some thoughts

Were too personal to share.

But we grow older, and life gets colder

And now I think of nothing too.

Venn Venting

I hate Venn Diagrams, at least when they are used in teaching writing strategies. To use the Venn Diagram to show all possible logical outcomes in simple set relationships or statistics is one thing. To use overlapping circles to show thought relationships or arguments in a thesis or to organize points in essay form is counterintuitive to the point of inhibiting the thought process. You have a paragraph of similarities, you have a paragraph of differences, in logical linear order. Then you're left with the contents of half circles swirling around in a formation that defies being translated into written form. I say keep statistics out of our written language. Prose is a beautiful thing!

The Dying Man

Six houses up the street a man lay dying. He had seemed like an ordinary man of that time, older, first-generation, working class, married with grown children, on the usual speaking terms with the other adults on the street. But now he lay on his deathbed, and all that had formerly served as his identity was now irrelevant. Death then was more or less a community event; to the child I was then it seemed a very lengthy process, but I suppose it may not have been a very long time at all, any more than my considering him a very old man, when he may have been only 60 or so. It was early enough that I hadn't yet started to fear my parents' deaths, and since the dying neighbor was a generation older, I still felt secure. At any rate, the village doctor would make his house calls, visiting more and more often as his patient weakened. The neighbor women would help, sitting watch with the patient's wife, and assisting the doctor when needed. I remember one of the neighbor women coming to report the man's daily status to my mother, who, busy caring for three young children, was not expected yet to tender bedside duty. I never paid much attention to what was said, until the day the man died. The woman told my mother that when he realized he was dying, he cursed all the living, and swore he wanted the world to end. Having eavesdropped on the conversation, I couldn't ask any questions, so I came to the conclusion that it was because he was so old, or because he'd come from another country. I never did find satisfactory answer, but I think I'm getting closer.

Stranger Danger

Shouldn't that ill-mannered child in the car commercial be told that it's not only rude but risky behavior to hang out near gas stations and ask strangers about using the bathroom. That ad seems so wrong on so many levels.

Sound Effect

If I scream as loud as I can, so loud it knocks over a tree in the forest behind my house, but no one is around to hear it fall, did it make any sound?

You did, huh/

I have joined a health -related site, for one of those rather rare conditions, syndromes, diseases, not usually diagnosed without extensive testing and labwork, and therefore the diagnosis pretty much belongs to the fully insured, educated well-off segment of our society. One of the oft-proclaimed mantras of the group is "Fire your doctor" if he or she does not live up to your expectations. One of the directors has fired his doctors for not fully answering his questions, or for the feeling he was slighted by insufficient examinations, or lack of referrals to a more experienced practitioner. Another board member did the same, thinking the doctor was not as informed as he should have been. That is the consensus of the group. Most of the aforementioned founding members of the group have relatives or spouses who are doctors or are hospital affiliated, and evidently have the financial ability to travel far and wide in search of the best medical care. And so they advise others to do the same. I fully agree that is the best policy. I have done the same many times, but in a slightly different manner. Instead of letting the doctor know in no uncertain terms he or she is fired, I have slunk out of the office mumbling to myself that I will never go back to that doctor. For example, I will never return to the dentist who sent a new member of the staff to respond to an ongoing problem relating to work he himself had done, I will never go back to the radiologist who shredded a critically important X-ray, or to a primary care doctor I'd seen for 4 years who, during my last 2 consecutive visits, asked if I'd ever seen her before, and then ignoring what would develop into life or death issues, asked me what I did for entertainment. I don't want to go back to the doctor who stood at least 6 feet away from me, once for a rash and once for a sore throat. I can't go back to the doctor who lost his license for improperly dispensing prescriptions, nor to the doctor, nearing retirement,who had none of the latest information. I wil never again go to the doctor who was chatting with an acquaintance in a room while I waited across the hall, and when she realized she'd forgotten my appointment, told the nurse I must have left the room. No, I don't plan to go back, but I can't say I fired them. First, none of them would ever know as they certainly don't think they work for me, and second, they would not in the least care if they ever knew I'd fired them. There are more than enough patients to go around. I hate a lot of things about most of the doctors I still do occasionally see. I think 7 to 10 warning signs on the walls are off-putting, even if they don't particularly apply. "Stand behind the line until you're called," reads one. And of course, no cell phones, bring in your Rx bottles, the penalty if you don't have your co-pay, another penalty if your check bounces, a charge if you forget to ask for your refill, and another charge if you don't give sufficient notice for a cancellation. And if you want test results, call, go to the proper extension, leave a message for a callback, (3 dfferent times, I never got called back). And this in a cardiologist's office. And this is one of the doctors I do still go to, I guess the best of the worst. But probably the biggest reason no to fire your doctor is that they almost all seem to work together. And now that even more of the hospitals are consolidating, what chance do we have of being choosy? Why would any doctor who owns a vacation home, works only 3 days a week, and drives to golf courses in a Mercedes care if a peon fires him? And if anyone has just cause to bring a lawsuit, that's what malpractice is for, and the resulting increases are built into payment received. So for those who believe firing your doctor is a viable option, a reality check is in order.

The Why Factor

I think Simon Cowell should have titled his new show "The Z Factor." As in "Zzzzz, I'm asleep. " How many times can we listen to ------"This would mean the world to me, This would mean everything to me, I wanna give momma her dream home, I was born for this, It's all I ever wanted, my kids need new shoes." Come on, we all have problems, entertain us--Sing, dammit.

And begging while trying to perform in their sponsors' Taj Mahal's is just downright grotesque.

Wrong Way

All too often we read about a deadly crash on the Northway involving a driver going the wrong way . How could this happen, we ask. The crash is usually explained by saying the driver must be intoxicated, elderly, inexperienced, or in some way otherwise impaired. Usually there are such contributing factors, but most new drivers, and elderly drivers, and those under the influence of some sort of drugs,do not enter a major highway in the wrong lane. I think there is another factor, and that is the placement of signs at the access ramps. Take, for example, (and this is not the only such in the area) the Northway ramps at Exit 9 in Clifton Park. There are 2 Southbound entry lanes right next to the 2 Northbound exit lanes. On the narrow median separating the entry lanes from the exit lanes is a big red sign reading Do Not Enter. When you head south into the entry lane, the sign is as close to you as it would be to the errant driver who might be thinking of mistakenly entering the exit lane to the north. So there are 4 lanes side by side and equally spaced and the Do Not Enter sign is smack in the center, seemingly warning drivers entering the left southbound lane not to do so. A few yards down the road is another red sign warning, "Wrong Lane, Go Back." Again this sign is right in the middle of the 4 lanes, and easily read by southbound drivers who are in their correct lane. Thus, we as drivers become accustomed to disregarding large warning signs. The signs look as if they apply to us, but we know they do not; they're meant for any potentially misguided drivers who might be one lane over from us. And becoming used to thinking warning signs right in our faces do not mean us is a recipe for disaster. We do all right in familiar and ordinary circumstances, but different locations, snowstorms, rainfall, driver fatigue, and yes, even the effects of drugs can be lethal when combined with an awareness that some signs do not always mean exactly what they say. Ambiguous appearing signs may not be the primary cause of wrong-way accidents, but should definitely be considered as a contributing factor.

Forget to read

Quite a few years ago, I listened on NPR to the interview of a man who was suffering from early Alzheimer's Disease. I think it was early in the medical awareness of the disease. At the time, people used to think that you would not know it if you were afflicted with the disease, because you would forget how you used to be. Reports also tried to reassure you that if you were worried about having it, you were okay, for the same reason as above. That of course turned out to be far from true. The NPR interview was the first time I'd ever heard a person with Alzheimer's talk about his journey into that land, and the man was very articulate, defining his limitations, and regretting how the diagnosis had impacted his life and how it would continue to do so. The man said he, once an avid booklover, could no longer read. The interviewer homed in on this statement, and several times during the interview, asked the man why: was he unable to read the words, or could he not understand what he read. For some reason, or reasons, the man being interviewed could not address the question, despite being very forthright about everything else. I too wondered what he'd meant when he said he could no longer read.

Some years later, I asked a doctor the same question: " Why could a person suffering from Alzheimer's be unable to read?" The doctor, an opthalmologist with a PhD., quickly responded that it was a simple case of their not remembering what they'd read in the preceding paragraph. I am not a doctor, and don't have a PhD, but I don't think the answer is that clear-cut, that what is read is too soon forgotten. I think the letters of the words don't assemble in the same configuration as before, and the words don't connect to the meaning. So reading words is not worth the effort.

I saw Glen Campbell on TV today acknowledging his disease. He hit all the right notes and played all the right chords, and is going on tour. I wonder if he can still read.

Measures

I own three sets of measuring cups now,

Twelve in all, plain aluminum everyday measuring cups.

The two sets are identical,

The cups a generation older differ only slightly.

My mother used to sing when she baked,

A reprieve from the daily task

Of putting basic staple meals on the table.

She'd bake cookies, oatmeal and molasses,

Apple pies and banana bread,

And once she even made eclairs.

She used measuring cups for those recipes.

For everything else, she used her own judgment.

My sister would have measured all her recipes,

Being a very detail oriented person.

In the more than forty years she owed the cups,

She did over her kitchens, and indeed her entire homes,

Several times: out with the old, in with the new.

But she kept in use her measuring cups.

Not being able to improve on their plain and homely function.

I have owned for four decades and more

Exactly the same set of measuring cups as she,

I never knew that though until just recently.

I suppose we discussed and compared almost everything

During all those years.

But not a set of plain old everyday measuring cups.

So now I own three sets of cups that my mother and sister and I

Used so often to carefully measure out sugar and flour and milk and water,

And, without being aware of it, time.

Irony of Ironies

Wouldn't it be a kick in the head if you went through all the trouble and pain of a sex change operation and then turned out to be gay?

Pumpkins and scars

Ben entered the Times Union Halloween Contest. I told him I liked the language he used. He waxed profound, saying "A scar is the living death of life." I asked him what that meant, but he was too busy watching cartoons to answer.

Burgled #1and Denial

It was in 1986, I think, and I had substituted at HVC that day in the high school. I left in the morning, taking Marilyn and Danny with me. David was still home, not yet ready, but Dave was to drop him off at school on his way to work. At the end of the subbing day, I picked Danny up at the Elementary School and drove him home. Marilyn and David would take the bus, both probably staying later, Marilyn for field hockey, and David maybe for computer or maybe going home. I parked in the driveway, and walking into the house noticed coins in the driveway. I figured Dave must have a hole in his pocket--car keys did that to suit pants. Then I saw that the front door was open. I thought Davis had probably been the last one out the door, late as usual, and had neglected to close the door. When I stepped inside, I saw the TV in the living room was gone, and the cords were dangling off the shelf. I told myself the TV must have conked out and Dave had brought it to Albany with him for repairs, and carrying it out the door, had left the front door ajar. Then I saw that the stereo speakers were also missing, as was our computer. I told Danny to go out and lock himself in the car. I guess I knew it may not have been smart to go inside, but I had to find out where David was. I was almost certain Marilyn was staying late at school, but I didn't know about David. He was about in 8th grade and quite a small kid at the time, and once I realized someone had broken into the house, I was afraid David might have taken the regular bus home, and been there and who knows, taken away or worse. I called the school, (Remember-no cell phones as yet) and after Sandy Malone told me both Marilyn and David were at school. I called the police, and went out and waited in the car with Danny. He didn't say much as I recall, but he was only about 8 or 9, and must have been scared, at least a little. I remember when the State Trooper arrived, I said I thought I'd heard noises inside. Later I realized that my ears were ringing from the stress. Also, he'd asked if anything, dog or such, was inside, and I told him our dog was tied outside. After he went in, with gun drawn, I remembered I'd forgotten to tell him our cat was inside and I thought he might shoot it if it jumped out at him. Nike was that kind if cat. I thought of going in to save my cat, but having seen the gun in shooting mode, I stayed outside.

What if?

If Steve Jobs had applied his genius to the field of medicine, he might have changed the world by implementing a cure for cancer. Now we might have to wait 500 years for another such intellect to

Mess with the IRS

If a Supreme Court Justice inadvertently does not correctly report family income because he does not understand the filing instructions, what hope do we have? I'm going to Times Square.

Cripes!

It's getting harder and harder to maintain my instrument.

Inflation

I just found out I can do the bobsled run at Mt. Von Hoevenberg for only $79.00. On February 15, 1964, I don't remember what the fee was, but I'm sure it has been adjusted for inflation. Whatever it cost at the time, it was worth it though

Who cares?

It's true: the honey badger really don't care

ONLY WORDS--SEMANTICALLY SPEAKING

Elementary students are being asked to identify "high-frequency words." I know the English language pretty well, but that term was a mystery to me. I guessed, and then researched, finding that high frequency words are the most frequently used words in the English language. Why not say that, then,instead of introducing quasi-scientific jargon into the language. I think of high-frequency words as ear-piercing sounds, or those audible only to dogs.

Rachel, please change

Rachel Ray, I know you think it's clever to squeeze the juice out of a lemon by holding it cut side down, so as to capture the seeds in your hand, but I wince every time I see you do it. Today, you squeezed the juice, through your bare fingers, over an already cooked steak. I realize your hands are clean, but still--why not squeeze the top uncut part of the lemon, and use a little strainer to catch the seeds. I'm not overly fastidious, but I couldn't bring myself to squeeze juice through my fingers even if I were the only one to eat it. Ickk.

Toxic Forwards

Obsessive compulsive behavior is present a little bit in each of us. We all have our little idiosyncrasies, such as being made slightly crazy by toothpaste caps being left off, toilet seats being left up, cupboard doors being left ajar. Only when a compulsion begins to interfere with the way we live our lives does a problem arise. If you need to go back inside the house to make sure you didn't leave the hairdryer on, or turn the burner off under the kettle, that isn't a problem. It affects only yourself, and causes no harm. If you go back inside 20 times to check the same thing, you probably have a problem because it consumes too much of your time, and thus would make you run late for appointments and such. Some people are so conscious of their repetitive behaviors that the awareness is more of a problem than the behaviors themselves. They label themselves as obsessive compulsive, and live by that diagnosis. Probably one of the worst things for them is to open any email that implores them to forward the message under penalties ranging from bad luck to death for recipients and their families if they fail to forward the attached treatise. Ironically, the emails are usually religious or inspirational in nature, with angels, beautiful flowers and rainbows, and adorable children and animals. Wonderful, and often specific, awards await them if they comply. But---failure to do as bid will result in equally wondrous punishments. Make no mistake about it; you will suffer if you don't obey. Talk about your "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God." Vengeance will rain down upon those who doth not forward what is commanded, or requested via emailing forwards to 7 or more of your friends. Though difficult to figure out where the email originated, it's probably safe to assume it wasn't written by God. Greeting card sales are down somewhat, so perhaps those verse writers branched out into the internet. Imagine if your obsessive compulsion is triggered by the prospect of an unlocked front door, and you need to check to make sure no one breaks in while you're away and steals the family silver. Now imagine that your obsessiveness is aroused by believing you or your loved ones are going to hell if you don't forward an insipid email to your circle of friends. I would label those emails as hazardous to the health of an obsessive compulsive. I would advise them to compulsively press the delete button.