Don't care...

The honey badger did what?

On the skids

First the F-Word, then the gambling, followed by the inevitable and dreaded double negative. Where do I go from here?

The car ride

We were migrants ourselves back then in the post-depression years. My father had left the farm to enter the army after World War I, and when he got out the family farm was no more. Jobs were scarce, and after his stint in the CCC, he married, started a family, and worked at a variety of jobs to support his family and pay the rent. The work was not steady, and he had to move to where he could get to work, a total of 6 times in about 6 years. During one of the moves, we were all to get in the car so he could take care of details, one of which was to visit the then landlord. My father was behind the wheel and my sister and I were already in the back seat, waiting for my mother and brother to join us, when my mother called out from the doorway to tell my father that Joseph had gotten sick and they couldn't join us. My father started the short drive down the hill toward the landlord's house, probably to settle accounts prior to the move. I remember feeling a surge of fear and panic that my mother was not coming with us. We had never gone anywhere without her up to then, pretty usual behavior for those times when fathers typically had little to do with rearing young children except spend most of their waking hours working to support them. Leisurely drives were non-existent; travel was serious business. If I had been familiar with the word kidnapped, that is how i would have described the situation. I did not want to go anywhere without my mother, though if my older brother had been with us, I would have felt some measure of familiarity and security. Anyway, we arrived at our destination, my sister and I huddled in the cavernous back seat. My father got out of the car, and engaged in converation with the man he'd gone to meet. An endless conversation, it seemed, to the 2 of us miserable little kids in the back of the car. It seemed my father had forgotten all about us, as we sat in silence. We seldom spoke out about anything, backward little country kids as we were. After what seemed like hours and hours, something even more ominous happened. The 2 men walked around the corner of a barn, out of our sight, I'm sure now to talk about cows or crops or such. Real fear swept over me, as we waited and waited ever longer and longer. I abandoned all hope of my father's ever re-appearing, certain he'd forgotten all about us. As perhaps in truth he had Finally, I said to my sister, who was probably less than 3 years old, let's get out of the car. I remember her standing on the floorboards in the back seat looking confused, and even to me, not as terrified as I was feeling. She asked why and I told her we had to go home. Being little, she didn't ask any more questions but followed me out of the car. I led her out of the barnyard driveway to the road. Our house was pretty close by and though we'd never walked that road before, we started up the hill toward where I was pretty sure our house was. We'd walked only a short distance when, to our amazement, we saw our mother walking down the road toward the farm. Evidently we had been gone for much too long a time, and she was concerned about what could possibly have taken such a long time. "There's Mommy," cried out Dorothy and started to run up the road toward her, like the near baby that she was.
"No," I said, "we should go into the field to hide ourselves and run home from there so Mommy won't see us and know that we got out of the car without telling Daddy." But she paid no attention to me and ran toward Mommy, while I dragged myself along through the ditch, full of shame and worry that I would be blamed for leaving the car and taking my sister with me. I can still remember that I felt hot and sweaty and guilty and scared and most of all ashamed that I had displeased my mother. As it turned out, my mother was very glad to have found us, and she was not at all angry nor did she ever blame us. What she may have said to our father about his seeming to forget us had nothing to do with us. But I still have a vivid memory of how I felt. It's odd that I remember so well what I did and how I felt, but it's hard to reconcile the sharpness of what I was thinking with what I was not thinking: my plan had been to sneak back up to the house and just be there. I had no thought of how I was going to explain, or any concept that anyone would ask how we came to be there while the car was not. I hope it's because that type of behavior is normal for a four-year-old, and that it's not because I was a really stupid child.

The crib

We were little kids, my sister and I, separated in age by 18 months. I slept in what would now be called a youth bed, of white metal, with a higher rail at the head of the bed but open at the sides near the foot. My sister was in a typical high-sided metal bed. It was brown, and looked like a tall tower. Our mother was not near, probably out doing chores, when my sister woke up crying. She was standing up in her crib and sobbing, wanting to get out of bed. I thought I would help her, so I climbed up on the highest part of my bed, which was close to hers. I managed to wiggle myself over to her bed and dropped down into her tall crib. But instead of being able to help her get out, I was now also a prisoner in her big brown crib. I was thwarted by being unable to help her get out, not to mention worried that I had done something wrong, and I'm sure my mother must have found two crying girls, both prisoners in a single cell, with one unable to help the other. I remember this decades later, and little has changed. My sister is unable to extricate herself from that which imprisons her, and I can't help.

Amenities

So when you're house hunting, rule out any house that does not have (1) granite countertops, (2) stainless steel appliances, (3) hardwood floors. Look for a home that has a "bonus room" whatever the heck that is. And of course that jack and jill bathroom. I wonnder how I live in this house. Really.

Dial 9-1-1

DEREK LAM fashions, whoever you are, you should intercede immediately for your model in the 5 Dresses advertisement. She is way too thin, emaciated even, with stick-like legs and arms. You are doing a disservice to her and to all just by employing her as a model---a model of negative body image and bad health.

All the same

The counselor had asked the client if she had any goals in her life. She answered that no, she used to, but she didn't any more. On the way home, I reminded her that every time she sees a BMW she says she wishes that she owned a Hummer. That's kind of a goal, I said, or maybe it's more like a daydream. Well, she answered, aren't goals and daydreams the same thing? ....Daydream your way to having goals, and make it your goal to have more daydreams.

To be or not to be--offended, that is

After the long trip into the city, and before the show, everyone wanted to use the theater's restrooms. Easy enough for the men and boys, not so good for us women. There was no line to enter the men's room, but the line for the ladies' room extended out the entrance to the lavatory doors and down the side of the room. So I waited until intermission, and not the beginning of intermission but halfway through, when I thought the line might be, if not nonexistent, at least shorter. Unfortunately, not true! There was still a long line, extending out the door and around the room. So I stood in line outside the doors behind at least a dozen and a half people. A matron walked alongside the line and asked me if I wanted to use the handicapped restroom. I was totally surprised---after all I had been STANDING there, not leaning or moaning or crying or anything like that. My mind was on the verge of asking why, but instead I heard myself say "Sure I would." The woman proceeded down the line and asked another woman the same question. Turns out, she was 22 weeks pregnant. So the 2 of us were ushered into a private lavatory "suite" including chairs so you could sit while waiting your turn. There were 3 of us in there and no waiting. I have seldom felt so special and so indignant at the same time.

The moral of the story....

The family had just seen The Lion King on Broadway. Coming out of the theater, seven-year-old Gregory read from a poster on the wall that the play was "based on Shakespeare's Hamlet." I hadn't exactly been aware of that so I asked the kids what the moral of the play was. Ben, aged 9, piped up "Do something bad and you get killed." Kind of simplistic, but I guess it's what most morals add up to.

So lame

It's 4:35 a.m., and I'm waiting for the banana bread to finish baking. I plan to bring it on the Lion King trip tomorrow. Pick-up is scheduled for 9 a.m. I figured I might as well bake it at 3 in the morning since I can't sleep anyway. Because of the noise, I didn't use the electric mixer, but mixed it by hand. All I could see and hear was my mother beating cake batter in a big yellowish bowl which had several darker colored rings around it. I hear the walloping sound of the batter against the side of the bowl, as it swirled around in what looked like one form, all the separate ingredients now in cohesive form bent on a single purpose. My mother was strong then, and capable of making the batter move that way. I would stand peeking over the edge of the kitchen table and wonder how she did it and if I would ever be able to do the same. Many years later, the answer is still no, I can't.

Go indirectly to jail

The man had been in a street fight outside a bar in the city of Troy. He had been struggling with 2 men when he felt another hand on his shoulder. He jabbed his elbow in that direction, and broke the nose of the policeman who had been called to break up the fight. He'd been arrested but was released on probation with the stipulation that he pay the medical bills of the officer in the form of a fine. The perpetrator, not being gainfully employed, could not make a scheduled payment. In order for the police not coming to his door in such an instance, he had to present himself at the jail, or, as the sign in front reads, the public aid facility, or something like that. He had to face the officer with the broken nose and explain the delinquent payment. I asked if the officer had forgiven him and he said of course he had to, since he hadn't known he was elbowing a cop.

Psych Eval.

I was the moral support of one who had to undergo a psychiatric evaluation, and thus was present during her interview. Among the activities and questions the psychiatrist posed was his listing of 4 words which he would later ask her to recall. I sat silent of course, not wanting to interfere with her tests. About 20 minutes later, the psychiatrist asked her to repeat the words he'd given her. She could recall only one of them. He looked at me, sitting in the background, and asked if I could remember the 4 words. Compliantly, I recited "green, pigeon, carrot, banana." I don't know why I was so relieved to have remembered them all. I didn't even get a lollipop.

The Sink, and vagaries thereof

When I want to fill the kitchen sink with water, it never stays, always drains out. However, if I leave the water running with the idea of flushing out the drains, the sink trap falls into closed position and the water fills to the point of overflow. I tell myself not to take it personally.

Come back?

Where have all my flowers gone?


"How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead."

"Fare thee well and if for ever,
Still for ever fare thee well."

Sure you can

Oh, the angst of the young FB generation. After pouring out their innermost heartaches and despair, along with how long ago they showered and what they ate for breakfast,which was consumed late in the day because who wants to get up early, they wail out the mantra of the day: "I can't do this any more." What is it they can't do? Breathe? Continue their relationship? Certainly not hold a job or stay in school. And why can't they do it any more---it seems to have worked out for them so far. Is it a cry for help, even though they say they don't want any help, or at least they don't want any of their friends to "hit them up." You must be in pure agonizing depression if not one of your 793 Facebook friends is in a position to help you. Oh, the horror!

Please

Please believe me
'Cause all I write is true.
Please delete me
Before you say FU.

Unparalleled

I don't expect that everyone necessarily needs to know parallel structure, but is it too much to ask that certified teachers of English know what the term means, not to mention that they be able to use correct parallel structure? "Her favorite hobbies are juggling, to swim, and having learned origami." OMG

It's is what it is.

There were the times when I taught English. Reading, writing, comprehension, verbal expression were all part of the syllabus. Grammar, mechanics, parallel structure, tense, voice, parts of speech, I taught them all. I taught all right, but who learned what, I can't say. All I want to do now is teach as many people as possible one simple thing-----the proper use of its and it's. Not to mention that there is NO such construction as its' and I hate to even type it here. The apostrophe never comes after the s. The possessive is its and the contraction it's means it is. Simple, right? But it's a rule which has lost its meaning. My life has lost its meaning and it's a sad realization. It's hard to say it's true.

Wealth and death

$ If you have it you don't think about it
so acquiring it is the means of forgetting it
because if you don't have it you'll think about it
and you're embittered thinking about it because
to think about it is to acknowledge yourself
incomplete without it because you know you are
better than that, surely you are better
than the many who have it thus need not
think about it the way, after Death,
you won't think about Death either.
Joyce Carol Oates

So sorry

I am sorry for your loss. I know it's impossible to know how you must feel, but we do understand a little and we care a lot. They say our life is like a book, with chapters of growing up, marriage, babies coming into our lives and then leaving, their weddings, their babies, and the passing of all our joys and cares and sorrows on to the next generation, all completing the circle of life. Even though the passage is inevitable, and means our lives have fulfilled what was meant to be, I have to admit I yearn for those days when we were the ones who the story was about. We were all so glad to have known Bob. He added so much life and spirit each time we saw him. I can still see you, as a young mother, arms filled with toddlers and all their belongings, asking Bob if he would put on Bobby's jacket. He answered yes he would, but he didn't know if it would fit him. I'd always thought he was so serious, but after awhile we caught on to his sense of humor. I hope he would be pleased to be remembered this way. For some reason, none of us here in the isolated Valley read of Bob's passing until the other day. I was looking for some completely different information on the internet, and came across the notice in the paper. We know that you have been through a lot. May you find peace and solace in knowing you have loved and supported Bob for so many years. God bless you. Love, Mary Ellen and all the rest of us ...

Abyss and Abysmal

"Something was dead in each of us, and what was dead was hope."

Has there ever been a time when the emperor wore clothes?

Barley

The boy was in fifth grade back around 1950, and the teacher had caught him breaking a rule. "Do you have something in your mouth, David?" she demanded to know. It was not lunch time, but mid-morning. "Yes," he answered. "What is it," she asked,"and where did you get it?" "It's barley, and I got it out of my pocket," he answered. "Are you hungry,David?" she asked him, with as much sarcasm as a school teacher could muster. "Yes, Ma"am, there wasn't anything for breakfast," he replied stolidly. "Well, you shouldn't be eating in school, she scolded him. And that was the end of it, and that's the way it was in the good old '50's.

Blasphemy

He was playing with a foldable yardstick. "What are you measuring?" I asked. He let out a guttural yell and said he wasn't measuring, that he was spiderman. I told him he shouldn't scream, and I didn't care if he was being spiderman. He answered that I was being "a little bold," and told his father I had said a bad word. The bad word to the three-year-old was that I didn't care. The child is in for an enlightenment.