I hope you dance

The woman wrote to the advice columnist, concerned  about her eighty-two year old mother.  Seems the mother had of late taken up dancing, having joined a studio where she took lessons, and traveled with the dance troupe to various locations, and at considerable expense, up to six figures.    The daughter worried that the dance studio was leading her mother on, with extensive praise for her dancing abilities. The daughter had attempted to intervene, but had gotten the message that it was none of her business.  The mother is financially well-off, and able to support herself very comfortably.  The daughter says she is worried that her mother's money will be spent, and that then when she has to provide care for her mother the money will be gone.  I say Boo Hoo.

Speechifying

Either the speakers aren't saying what they mean to say, or I'm not hearing what  I think they said.  I just heard Jeb Bush, introducing a young black man, make the point that because the Republicans  provided him a choice of schools, he "got a good election."  Did he mean to say education? I don't know what to make of these speeches.  Maybe Clint will clear things up later tonight when he "surprises" us.

Nuff said?

Sometimes a blog is not enough...

Key Note

I think Chris Christie just kicked off his own presidential campaign.  Of course the announcers are saying he "literally brought the crowd to its feet."  He ordered them, several times, to stand up, and they did.  I guess that's a sure way to get a standing ovation.  Christie, son of a man who worked at Breyers Ice Cream plant (who'd have guessed), opened by taking credit for union busting, not of the teamsters, but of teachers.  Does anyone really think that  teachers can be expected to be as enthusiastic and dynamic in their twentieth year in the classroom as when they first started, and if they wind down a little and are no longer at their absolute peak performance, are they to be put out to pasture with no benefits to be replaced by a younger crop.
   Christie got one of the most enthusiastic reactions to his saying,   " Real leaders don't follow polls.  They change polls."  I don't understand what this means, in effect.  Any more than his references to America's "second generation."  (Or was it "second Century"?)  The audience seemed to get it, but what the heck does it mean, either way?  I think that's what he said. 
    After Christie finished citing his long-dead mother, who instilled the importance of respect over love, thereby  contradicting Mrs. Romney's message of love, he praised his own efforts at bringing those snotty teachers' unions under control. He then listed two columns with all the good beliefs held by Republicans, and all the negative qualities held by Democrats.  Them vs Us.  I can't see how he knows what "we" all think.    Oh, yes, his family had also been very poor.  The audience seemed to contain an inordinate number of elderly folk, and the camera kept homing in on the same few young people who then cheered vociferously.  I would say educators should beware.
  P.S.    I wonder when Charley Rose sleeps. 

Oh, Yeah?

Well, my father may not have been a Welsh coal miner, but we didn't have indoor plumbing until we were in high school.  And my father's father didn't have a high school education either, and neither did my father.  Or my mother, or her mother, or father.  So there.  And we almost lived in a basement apartment.  But, Alas!  I did have a storybook marriage, so I guess you win.  Laughing all the way.  
Damn!  I know where I went wrong.  I didn't meet my husband at a high school dance.  I met him at a bar. Ulp, make that nightclub.  My mother always told me........

Lost, a thought

I miss my sister, in ways both great and small, and sometimes for the  stupidest of reasons.  Tonight I was watching Norah  O' Donnell, the beautiful news anchor.  She was wearing a red dress, or top, but the sleeves were about two inches too short, and her upper arms did not display well.  Dorothy was the only person in the world who would understand my comment, and I felt a pang of grief knowing that I have nobody to talk about such things with .  My silly shallow self.......

Catchy-Phrase

Let's see.  Shall it be:  We built IT.  or We BUILT it.  Or maybe WE built it.
The chant  kind of seemed to go over like a lead balloon, so maybe it will fade into oblivion,   Or just maybe it will catch on and  rival in popularity the theme of the  Schaghticoke Fair:    "HAPPY Feet" or "Happy FEET"  ??
Really?

No! No! No!

I will not click on the story of a bride who died while  trashing her wedding gown in the river, or the story of a nine-year old girl who gave birth, or of the man who was shot to death while staging some kind of Yeti prank.   The worst I will admit to is watching parts of the Republican Convention. 

Confidence Lost

     Approaching the start of kindergarten and his fifth birthday seems to have shaken his confidence.  Rather than having an  answer to everything, and offering unsolicited advice to others, as in his younger days,  he now has taken a new direction.  Unable to locate his sandals drove him to the edge of despair, and the cry of distress that he is not good at ever finding anything, and moreover the proclamation that he is "miserable at everything."   (Maybe he just needs a longer nap.) 

Hell

I think all we need to know of eternal damnation can be gleaned from being sequestered in a room with thirty female senior citizens who are encouraged to ask questions or comment on a given subject.  IHS

Fair Warning

This morning Ben arrived at my  house, early because they were going to Lake George.  We worked on entries for the Schaghticoke Fair.  He and his brother have entered six kinds of cookies:  butter, sugar, snickerdoodles, oatmeal, peanut butter and chocolate chip.  We taste tested and all seem to be winners, except maybe the oatmeal cookies because I had inadvertently bought the refined oats instead of the whole oats, and they could be a little soggy, or mealy. The peanut butter cookies are topped with peanut halves, courtesy of Five Guys Burgers.  Besides their hearty and low-cost hamburgers with all the toppings, including grilled mushrooms, and their delicious french fries, there are complimentary peanuts in the shell. We needed only 3 extra peanuts.  They'll never miss them.   In addition to the cookies, Greg has entered  white frosted cupcakes, and Ben the deluxe decorated cupcakes.  The theme of the Fair (with winning design courtesy of Lauren Madigan) is Happy Feet.  So Ben' s cupcakes are topped with penguins fashioned from gumdrops, TicTacs, and Mini-Oreos.  They are presently sitting in my refrigerator, actively deteriorating, so by Tuesday afternoon's  judging, the penguins may have sunk completely into the cupcakes.  Tomorrow, the boys are supposed to show up to work on their floral arrangements. BTW:  Where have all the flowers gone?   I've been told that the early spring allowed them to bloom early, but accordingly they are dying sooner also.  Nothing's blooming around here, except hydrangeas, and the Fair judges don't consider them flowers.  ***Kill me now.

Ennui

Since I don't seem to have a job any more, or anything worthwhile to do, I'll probably just blog myself to death, or else somebody else will put me out of my misery. 

Status Report

   Why does the status of "Single Mother"  trump everything else on the face of the earth?  Back in the days of yore, the term single mother was applied to widows, mothers of young children who had lost their husbands to death, frequently in  military service.  Later the term covered  women whose husbands left them.  Then as society no longer stoned, but condoned, out of wedlock pregnancies, a whole slew of single mothers emerged.  So while my sympathies extend to all the women trying to raise children alone,  many of these "single mothers" are dating or living with boyfriends who are not the fathers of their children, so how single are they really?  One woman I knew was married to, and then divorced, a very well off attorney.  He paid full  child support of course, but when she sought employment, she included single mother on her resume, and that seemed to be a plus on her securing a sought-after employment position.     A few weeks ago, the Albany newspaper's advocate  represented a woman who was having a dispute with a utility company.  Primary in her defense was her status as a single mother, but that didn't seem to have any real bearing on her case. Many single mothers do quite well on their own, boyfriend or not.  Today's paper relates the case of a neighbor to neighbor dispute over Wetlands, and one of the parties is a "single mother."   What the heck does that have to do with it?  I'm not even going to go Conservative and point out that a great number of "single mothers"  have multiple children by different fathers, but I know this is true.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.  But I'm not looking forward to being bumped in line at the grocery store to yield my place to a mother who happens to be unmarried.  Harrumph!

"But I won't do that"

I refuse--refuse---refuse to click on the story, "Man mistakes son for monkey, shoots him dead."     I'm sure there's a lot of tragedy involved, but I can't go there.   Kind of like the Barbara Walters interview of Casey Dugard.  I was in the other room and still cringing: some things are better left unsaid, for public consumption anyway.  Isn't that what psychologists and hushed tones are for?

Google this

The internet has destroyed the credibility of history, if indeed there  ever was any credibility attached to history.  You could blame it on the blog.  If I were to blog some information about a relative, or of any person or event, and anyone were to google that name or event, the blogged narrative would appear for all the world to see.   And you know there are many who believe anything they read, especially on the internet.  Ahh, the power to control minds.....

Winning, not whining.

Dave, about 15 minutes before the running of the Travers, asked if I wanted to  bet.  I hadn't realized today was the day, so I looked through the newspaper and picked two horses in Race 15, almost ready to start.  When I was at Saratoga a few weeks ago, I lost on every bet I made, except for the race I bet just before I left the track, a horse named Dan & Sheila.  It came in first, and paid the grand sum of $7.20.  I thought Dave could cash in the ticket at OTB, (though it turns out that's not the case.)  So I told Dave to "bet it all."  And the 2 horses I'd picked, Alpha to win, and Golden Ticket to place (separate bets) finished in a dead heat.    So I'm sitting here waiting to see how rich I'm going to be.  Maybe rich enough to buy a handful of lottery tickets....   P.S. The payoff amount was $72. 

INFLATION

     The invoice is from the Thomas H. Nealon Funeral Home, for the final expenses of the husband  of Ellen Donovan.  It is dated December 29, 1905, and the total is $166.50.  The casket, lined and complete with pillow set, was billed at $75.00.  The cemetery lot was $20.00 plus another $5.00 for opening the grave.  The hearse was $6.00, the three coaches were $3.00 each and the gloves to bearers, lined because it was December, were $3.00.  The funeral Mass was a major expense at $12.00 and there was a $5.00 payment to Mr. Meister for a suit of clothes. 
     The financial hardship must have been tremendous for the widow, mother of five young children, of course unemployed, and in a time before social security.  My mother, born in the month of March, was nine months old when her father died young, of the then prevalent tuberculosis.  My mother had no memory of her father, but she used to relate what her mother told her:   Her father used to remark how amazed he was that the baby, but nine months of age, was walking. Little Mary must have been an early walker in an early time
. 
  ELEVEN YEARS LATER:
    The invoice is from  Frank P. Himes, Undertaker, this time for the funeral expenses of Timothy Donovan, son of Ellen Donovan Hogan.  It is dated October 16, 1916, and the total is $156.   The casket was $75.  There was no fee for the cemetery lot, presumably purchased when  Timothy's father died.  The hearse was $7.00, two coaches were $5.00, and the gloves $2.50, probably unlined.  The Mass was $10.00, and there was a Burial Robe this time, at $9.00. The other listed expenses are about the same as previously. 
      Young Timothy, the eldest child, was less than eighteen years old when he died, and had already been working for several years to support his family.  His widowed mother had remarried, to a widower, a common practice necessary to the survival of both then, and they'd had one more child before she was widowed a second time.  Timmy had worked at various jobs when he could, in the city of Troy, where the family lived.  He had helped to clear out several churches when fires struck, also a frequent occurrence then, as now, in the city.  He had one job helping the owner of a grocery store when flooding ruined the  inventory.  His pay was in  canned goods, much appreciated by his family but with one drawback. The cans the grocer paid Timmy with had lost their paper labels, and so the contents were a mystery until they were opened.  My mother remembers sitting down to supper, and not knowing if the meal was going to be peas or peaches.
    Unfortunately, the last job Timmy held ended in his death.  The job was at the Cluett Building in Troy, and it was either painting or window washing--the details are lost to me. The job did involve a scaffolding and it held three men, teenaged Timmy and two older, more seasoned workers, of an  ethnicity other than Irish, as it happened.    On the day the scaffolding broke, the two older workers each grabbed on to the rope along the side, and Timmy, with nothing to cling to, fell---five? six? seven?--- stories to his death.  Or so the tale was told.
       So, as the Invoice records, the widowed Mrs. John Hogan  was responsible for only $56 of her son's final expenses.  The  Maryland Casualty Co. paid the sum of $100 to the funeral home. 
       And that's the way it was.....
    P.S.  A portrait of Timothy Donovan is presently on display at the Schaghticoke Fair.  (Some old records spell his name as "Thimothy."  Perhaps a misspelling, or maybe that was a spelling then.  IDK
     PPS   The picture was awarded a First Place Blue Ribbon.

Just saying

Michelle Obama has her work cut out for her if she expects teachers to implement her campaign against childhood obesity, at least by example.  An informal survey of  educators' magazines I receive shows approximately two out of three educational professionals  are definitely overweight if not obese.  Either life is good, or else the poor overworked teachers don't have time to eat proper meals.  Alas!

In Vain

Attempting to ban cellphones from the classroom is like Prohibition----impossible to enforce and doomed to failure.  And who dares to interfere with the American way of spirits and conversation anyway.

Hypocrites.

Everyone agrees that bullying is bad.  The worst possible scenario is that it could contribute to the victim's death, the terrible result of the influence of others.  However, the media aggrandizes risk-taking, death defying behaviors on the part of people who are driven to do so by the reinforcement, emotional or financial, of others.  On "America's Got Talent," the judges  admired the most the acts which were most likely to lead to injury or death if the slightest thing went wrong.  They labeled patently  non-lethal acts as boring, talented as they might be. Skilled as the daredevils may be, we know that things can go wrong.  As witnessed during the Olympics, the best and most experienced athletes  can inexplicably fall off the pommel horse, or drop from the trapeze, or trip over their own feet while running.  So when a blindfolded archer shoots an arrow into an apple an inch above his head, we know that he could have been killed.  Yet we encourage the behavior anyway.  Without the imminent risk of death, there would be no reward of fame or money. That is why they perform, to seek approval from us  vicarious thrill seekers.  Bullies are condemned for getting enjoyment from inflicting misery on others, often because the perpetrators feel insecure or incomplete themselves. Those who encourage dangerous, deadly behaviors in others do so because they want to enjoy the thrill of danger, don't wish to put themselves in harm's way, but enjoy seeing others put their lives in jeopardy.  I would call it a more cowardly type of bullying, endangering the lives of others for self gratification.

Lead us not

As far as "The Record"  is concerned, and other writings as well, the past tense of the verb "lead" is dead.  The principal parts are "lead, led, led."  Present tense, past tense, and past participle.   I lead a  cow to slaughter today, I led a cow to slaughter yesterday, and I have led a  cow to slaughter every day for a year. (You could substitute to pasture)  When is the last time you have seen that 3-letter word, led,  printed in the newspaper?   Yes, there is a noun, the name of a substance, in pencils, gun barrels, etc. that is spelled the   same as the present tense of the verb we're talking about, but pronounced without the long "e" sound.   THEY ARE TWO DIFFERENT WORDS.

Stainless

Stainless steel, you monolithic and boring monstrosity foisted on  unwary consumers for a few decades now---move over.  You're being replaced by  White Ice.  Now doesn't that sound a lot better.  It always seemed so wrong to name  an appliance  for what it does not possess--like stains.  They probably won't call the new color line dentless or scratchless or dirtless White Ice.  Though White Ice does sound more like a Disney movie. 

Breaking News

Hot off the presses:  a new study that shows almost half of  our  doctors suffer from high emotional exhaustion, and therefore high depersonalization scores.  Brace yourself for the shock:   this leads to their viewing their patients as objects rather than as  human beings. Part of the problem is that doctors have had to take on a higher patient load to make up for declining reimbursement rates.     This doctor burnout affects emergency room and family care doctors more than dermatologists and preventive care doctors.  Only about one-fourth of the surveyed doctors contributed to the survey, presumably those who felt most burned out.  The survey was led by a doctor at the Mayo Clinic, who concludes that as more and more people get health care under Obama's Affordable Care Act, the pressure on doctors will increase.  Maybe we should make sure that Romney and Ryan get elected so that fewer people are taking advantage of health care, and our doctors will be less burdened and burnt out.  Down with emergency care and up with dermatology!

Family Bibles

I'm drawing somewhat closer to the disposition of those things I was entrusted with, but there are certain items which defy being disposed of.  At present, on my kitchen table  are two family Bibles, of different families.  Granted, Bibles are not the definitive record of family life, a status they once held, but still they were presented as gifts to family  by other members of the family, and so retain  both a historic and religious mystique.  I have no desire  to keep the memories and memorabilia which were meant for others, but what do I do with them?  I do not want to toss them in the trash, or the recycling bin.  One of them has the dates of weddings and births, and First Confessions, and Communions.  The gifter and the giftees are now deceased, but there are descendants who may, or may not, be interested in such ephemera.  I don't know.  The other Bible has one of the gifters still alive, as far as I know, but I have no knowledge of her whereabouts, or whether she would be receptive to the reawakening of such a voice from the past.  Since the Bibles had been  presented on joyous occasions, the beginning of a union, the births of children and the celebratory events of their lives, I tend to think  that after all these years and the inevitable sorrows that transpire over those years, the re-emergence  of these Bibles can only heighten the heartbreak of what has been lost.  So in the meantime, my kitchen table bears the weight of all the wishes and prayers that didn't come true, and of all the joys that blossomed and then died, as  flowers are destined to do. 

WHAT'S SO FUNNY?

     She was only 16 when she started college, and  not that far removed from our years of Religious Instruction brought to us then by the sober and humorless Catholic nuns.   So it was probably not that surprising that in our years of hitching various rides to college, and so being contained in vehicles for what was more than an hour's ride each way (no Northway then), when  we were sometimes subjected to jokes, many of them typical office style, blue, or "dirty" jokes, that Dorothy would become offended and refuse to laugh.  At 16, somewhat of a little prude, or else lacking  a sense of humor.
     She was not one to repeat any  jokes, of course, until one day she told Ma a joke, and couldn't keep herself from laughing during her narration of the tale. I wasn't present during the recitation of the story, but Ma came to me later, saying, "Dorothy told me this story which she found so funny that she could hardly talk during the telling of it, but I don't get it. I didn't want to tell her, but  I don't see anything very funny about it.   Here's the story.  what do you make of it?"
          A rabbit and a turtle were friends all their lives,sharing everything together, with a sympathetic appreciation and understanding of each other, and with similar views on life in general.  But, inevitably, they grew up and older, and apart, and out of touch with each other.  As it happened, years later, they met by chance and reviewed their accomplishments in life.  Turtle had become a successful entrepreneur and was now living in an impressive mansion on a hill, while Rabbit was the owner of a fertilizer business, doing okay, but living a much more humble life.  They re-established their friendship, and Turtle even placed an order with Rabbit to have some fertilizer delivered to the grounds of his home.  Rabbit was looking forward to visiting his old friend again, so on the day of the fertilizer delivery, he rang the bell of the mansion at the appointed time, in eager anticipation of the grand tour of Turtle's fine home.  But instead a butler answered the door, and told Rabbit, in clipped tones, that "Mr. Tur-TELL is down by the well. What can I do for you?"  Rabbit, poor as he may have been, but still proud, responded, "Just tell Mr. Tur-TELL when he's back from the well  that Mr. Rab-BIT is here with the shit."

The Good Old Days or How I Survived Hell

BORN TOO SOON  (WAY TOO SOON):   I commuted to college back in the day, and that doesn't mean that I drove myself  there at convenient times. Having neither a car nor a driver's license, I had to depend on the ordained bus and train schedules, or on the kindness or financial need of fellow commuters, and needless to say none of the above provided a direct route. My point being that I was constrained to specific times that I could be present at the college.  Education courses were a mandated part of the curriculum then, and in addition I was an English major.  Both of these courses required tons of reading, and what made matters more difficult, the professors of both English and Education had a propensity to assign required reading from books that were so rare, or else out of print, that they could only be found  on the Reserved Shelf at the college library.  We students actually had to sign up for a time slot when we could access the books, and since all members of the class had to read the same books in a specific time period, it was a major accomplishment to be able to find an open time slot that coincided with my fixed travel schedule.  Worse, on several occasions, when I was able to arrange for the right book at the right time,  I would find that the assigned pages of said book had been scissored right out.  I'm sure that would have been an act  worthy of expulsion  at the time, but I never knew of anyone getting caught. I  had neither the imagination nor the nerve to even think of such a dire act, but I somehow managed to graduate anyway. 
     We like to think that life used to be so simple compared to today, but I believe otherwise.  I had to go through a hellish process to be able to read an assignment:   today's students use their cells to take a picture of assigned chapters even in their own texts, just so they don't have to carry the book home.  What could be simpler than that! 

Water, Water, Everywhere..

They were selling water at the entrance  to the Saratoga Race Course yesterday, at $4.50 per bottle.  On the way out of the track, a young man was hawking the same water at $1.00 a bottle.  When told the water was $4.50 on the way in, he said , "Yeah, that's really a ripoff."

Say what?

In a posting from a random writer:  "If I have to do it, I mine's all well get it over with."      Thinking about it, what does "might as well" really mean anyway?

The Jig Is Up

Who goes there?  A slightly  diminished supply of gumdrops, empty root beer cans on the counter, and most telling of all---Angry Birds on the i-Pad.
The   trail leads to....?

The Good Old Days

"Our old cat was the pet of the family.  When we resided in Rochester, on the banks of the Genesee, one winter Pussy began to grow cross, and for some unaccountable reason, her good natured fits became small by degrees and beautifully less, until we were in danger of getting roundly scratched if we meddled with her ladyship in the least.  My mother finally induced me to part with my pet, and the boys carried her in a bag to the bridge which spanned the Genesee, just above the falls. They "let the cat out of the bag," and saw her take the perilous descent over the fall...."   from "The American Agriculturist,"  June, 1862    So that's where that term comes from--those idioms are literal after all.

What's that?

The boys were here today.  They were inspecting an assortment of men's old jewelry pieces. They're 8 and 10 years of age, and very knowledgeable about a great many things. But I find they do not know (1) what men's cufflinks are.  "They go where, and what are shirt cuffs?"  They do not know (2) what a tie tack is.  "It looks like an earring, and what do you mean, tack a tie to what?"  Likewise, (3) they have never seen a tieclip either it seems. "What do you clip it to?"  (4)  They were totally in the dark as to the function of  a replacement watch band.  "Where does it attach and how do you get the old one off?"  (5) The removable metal buckles from the old canvas military belts reminded one boy of toy tanks.  "A belt buckle?"  Most intriguing (6) to both was an ID bracelet of the old metal chain-link variety, once a staple accessory of coolness. "Why would you have your name on  it?"     I told them to watch "Mad Men" and all will be made clear. 

In brief..

Whatever level of trust the women Olympians had for their undergarments is at least doubled by the male divers' confidence in their Speedos.  ...So much force, so little fabric.

Something that I used to know.

Summer time reading led me to the rereading of some of my old books.  When I first read "The Man Without A Country" when I was in eighth grade, I fully understood what I read.  Now when I come to the closing passage, "In Memory of Philip Nolan," I'm struggling to make sense of what it says:  "He loved his country as no other man has loved her, but no man deserved less at her hands."  Those dratted double negatives make my head spin.

Universal support

I wonder what the word for brassiere is in Brazil.  I guess whatever the word is, it doesn't abbreviate to bra.

Placebo effect

Just put in an order at Amazon for Kineseo tape.  A miracle!

Vocal cord clones

From the other room:   I hear Al Michaels narrating the Olympics, but I picture Howard Stern. 

Professional upskirting

That NYC urologist who was arrested for using his camera to look up women's skirts on the subway platform must be a very dedicated man, pursuing his profession in the field  and off salary at that.  Or else he's another frickin crazy perverted doctor.

Olden Times

Back in the old days, like the 1960's, when a mother wanted to communicate with a son who had moved a distance away, she would write a letter.  Of course there was the telephone, but in those days telephone calls were pretty much reserved for special occasions.  It was expensive to call, and to converse for more than a few minutes.  So the letters would come, not that often really, but often enough to elicit either minor annoyance or amusement on the part of the recipient. The envelopes would often contain newspaper clippings or written accounts of what was happening "back home,"  and the reaction would be that if he was interested in the hometown news, he wouldn't have moved away in the first place.  So young, so supercilious, so cruel.    
      But letter writing is in the past now, replaced by Email or  FaceBook.  And their use bears the unwritten rule----no communications should be more than twenty words, and that's stretching it.  LMFAO

Lah-de-dah

The recording at the medical office announces that they have a locality in each of three cities.  I would have said location, but what do I know.

Mon ami?

Those FB postings that say I am cleaning out my friends list and ask if you want to remain or not  remind me of those little notes my daughter exchanged with  her fourth grade classmates:  a little folded up scrap of paper with the words "Do you want to be my friend?"  There were  even two little boxes, with the directions, "Check yes or no."  

That's confidence.

My final observation on the Olympians:   they sure do trust their panties.

The Pining Tree

     Out in the yard stood a nice pine tree.  He had a good place, the sun  could get at him, there was fresh air enough, and round him were the animals of the forest and in the summer, the children.  He was carried to that place long ago, in the pocketbook of a woman who with her young son had visited the very first Earth Day at a local shopping center, and in honor of the occasion had been presented with the Pine Tree and his brother.   The two young trees were no more than six or seven inches tall, and spindly, not even the thickness of a pencil.  They were soon put in the ground by the woman and the boy, but, sadly, they were separated.  Pine Tree was planted by the deck of a pool, while his brother was planted way across the yard, near a storage shed.  Unfortunately, due to their shortness of stature, they were not able to see each other, as the distance separating them was too great, and their view was obstructed by obstacles, both natural and manmade. So Pine Tree was unhappy.
     "Rejoice in us," said the Air and the Sunlight, " rejoice in thy fresh youth out here in the open air."  But Pine Tree still grieved, "Oh, to grow, to grow, to become big and old, and be tall, that I might be able to see across the field, and once again delight in seeing my brother."
      The year after he had shot up a good deal, and the year after he was still taller. It is said that with  pine trees you can always tell by the shoots how many years old they are.   And as the years passed, on one fine spring day, Pine Tree was elated to find that he could see his longed for brother.  His brother had grown tall also, though not as tall as Pine Tree, maybe because of location.  But they were very pleased to be able to finally see each other across the yard.  So Pine Tree thought he had attained his wish, that he had experienced with his growth the most delightful of all worldly things.   
        But his happiness was not to last.  One summer day, the clouds opened, a terrible wind arose, and the sky turned a deadly shade of green. All the trees around him blew completely sideways.  Pine Tree was somewhat sheltered, and not quite as tall as he thought he was, so after the dreadful storm, which they called a tornado, Pine Tree was able to right himself and look around at the devastation.  His neighboring trees, many of them, were flattened, never to stand upright again.  He forced himself to look across the yard, toward his brother, and his vision fixed  on a horrible sight:  not only was his brother pine completely uprooted, the shed which in the best of worlds could have protected him, had totally blown apart and collapsed on top of the poor brother pine's remains.  All was lost for Pine Tree. 
    He well knew he could never see his brother again, and he was filled with sadness once more.  But time passed and he continued to grow    ----to be continued 

 

Hair Days

I've taken way more showers since the Olympics started because when I see the lady swimmers emerge from the pool events, all fresh and clean and natural, I just want to get in the shower and wash my hair.  On the other hand, when I see the women running track with their hair extensions and complicated coiffures, I feel like shaving my head.

Sales Support

It seems that if the bra industry had to rely on the Olympic women athletes for sales, they would go out of business, except maybe for the division manufacturing  A-cups or smaller.

It's all coming back to me now.

Last spring, when Dorothy learned that the wedding was changed from  October  to an earlier date in May, she was happy.  "I should be able to make it,"  she said, undoubtedly sensing that time was drawing to a close, and October seemed so far away.  But May----just around the corner and brimming with hope and promise.   So we went shopping for the occasion.  She already had the centerpiece of her  outfit, a beautiful and expensive sequined jacket she had bought as soon as the engagement was announced, almost a year before.  She needed a blouse to accessorize her outfit, so off we went to JCP.  I was her driver that day, having gone to her house to pick her up, as she was not  quite trusting her driving abilities.  We spent the weekend in Valley Falls, and on the day of her return home, we stopped to shop, and then for lunch.  She must have tried on a dozen or more tops, shell, blouses, tank tops, suitable to wear under that special jacket.  I tired before she did  and sat waiting in the dressing room.  True to her shopping nature, she could not settle on one, but bought three tops, all on sale of course.  She would see which looked best with the jacket when she got home.  But calamity struck like a bludgeon, and so soon after what was to be the last shopping day of her life, she had to tell me that she would not be able to go to the wedding, even though only a few weeks away.  Dorothy was to have done one of the readings at the wedding, and she was so disappointed not to be in attendance.  We came up with an alternative;  Dave drove down to Dorothy's house and videotaped  her reading of the chosen passage, her dressed in what would have been her wedding outfit, and standing on her deck, with her flowers all in bloom with the earliest blossoms.  She looked great, and was joking and laughing at the inevitable flubs, but managed a flawless rendering of the chosen verse.
      At home, we all viewed the video, and I talked about it with her, telling her we presented it to the wedding couple.  Dave brought her a copy, and I remember what she said when I asked her what she thought of it.  She said she hadn't watched it:  she wasn't ready to see it, maybe later.    (Of all the people who I've ever known, she was the least likely to want to live her life in a passive way.  Not on a tape, filmed before, viewed after.  Her life was in the moment.

Shocking

First of all, let me say that I'm sure my mother loved us, even more than life itself.  She would have done anything for us, and actually spent her life doing just that.  But she was afraid of a few things:  one was thunderstorms and another was electricity.  Her fear of the latter may have derived from the mystery of it, having never lived in a house wired for electric power until she was well into her thirties.  When a fuse blew out, as was quite common then, she would send one of us kids out to the attached store, where the fuse boxes were located, to install a new fuse.  I was glad to do so, and became so adept at it that Sara would ask me to replace the fuses in her box also, when they burned out.  I had no fear and it was simple: open the fusebox, take out the old fuse, and put in the new fuse.  Easy enough, even for a child of 9 or 10 years of age, but there was one step I didn't perform.  I never pulled the switch to turn off the power to the box before removing and inserting the fuses.  I didn't know there was such a switch: no one ever told me, so I assume it wasn't common knowledge at the time.  I am also assuming that my mother also asked the other kids to do that job, not just me. 

The Birds

We have a birdfeeder now in our front yard, stocked with sunflower seeds.  Personally, I think the birds should be feeding themselves at this time of year, though they have done their best in starting a garden of their own.  Beneath the feeder is a small crop of corn plants and a few small sunflowers, one already in bloom.  We have seen a wide assortment of birds at the feeder this summer, including flocks of goldfinches, so that's on the plus side.  On the downside is that the seeds attract other wildlife-- many squirrels, chipmunks, and a few rabbits.  So far the woodchucks have not come to the front of the house, as far as I know. 
    Another  negative is the flight path of the birds.  They fly across the driveway and poop on the cars.  But worse, we have suffered many bird strikes.  The impact of an in-flight mourning dove against a triple-pane picture window can rock the house. I figure if they can penetrate an airplane, it's only a matter of time before we have one in our living room.  And the term "breakneck speed"  is not just a figure of speech either; it's a brutal sight, one  PETA would not approve of.

TMI ?

Advice on how to win a Gold Medal :   Keep your hips high and minimize your drag.

Knock, Knock.

I'm waiting for that knock on the door:  "The  dentist/endodontist/oral surgeon is here and would like to take care of that tooth that's been bothering you for about five years now."   Knock, knock:  "The orthopedic surgeon would like to evaluate that difficulty with your knees."   Knock, knock:   "The urology/nephrology team is here, ready to rid you of that persistent kidney stone malady."   No knock on the door--no resolution of the problem.

Snip, Snip, Uh-oh.

I just clipped a little snarl of hair from right  below the cat's ear.  It brought back the memory of when I used to trim my sons' long thick hair.  One time the scissors snipped right through an earlobe.  All I could think of was how to explain to the pediatrician.  But the bleeding stopped.  There may still be a scar on the earlobe, but let's hope the kid didn't remember how it got there.