Stained Glass

    I've never really liked stained glass.  When I was little, growing up in the post-depression years, no one had much, including us, and everyone seemed to make do with hand me down possessions, and repaired items, a precursor to today's recycling and thrift shop culture, though back then it was not a choice.  The church we attended was likewise somewhat rundown and in need of repairs, as were many buildings before public funding and Urban Renewal and such. The church had stained glass windows; those above the altar were large scenic depictions of figures both angelic and demonic.  The small glass pieces were inset among metal brackets in random shapes.  It looked to me as  though they'd been broken and repaired, and I didn't like the looks of them, partly because of the grotesque figures, but also because the windows lacked smoothness and symmetry.  In addition, I most likely thought the word stained was not a good thing for glass to be.
   I know people, rational adults, who have taken classes on how to make stained glass, and I could never see the point of patching broken pieces together to try to replicate the stained glass of old.  I didn't care for the appearance of it then, and I still don't.  Frosted glass is another subject entirely; there was, and is, in our old house, a pane of frosted glass in the heavy front door, valid for its purpose of insuring privacy and also for the simple beauty of its symmetry and design. 
    I've been fortunate throughout my life to have had few  acute onset illnesses.  But on the eve of Christmas Eve in 2003, I'd been sick, with what turned out to be Type A Influenza.   During the height of that illness and just prior to the first  emergency room visit of my life, I went into our bathroom; to my eyes,  the mirror of the bathroom cabinet had transformed from the  pure glass it had formerly been into  a vivid display of the most monstrous stained glass imaginable.  The tones were all in blue, which might seem to be visually pleasing, but instead was a  horrendous and sickening sight.  That is when I knew I was really sick---broken, stained and fragmented.

Car called Cube

Driving home the othe day, I noticed the car ahead of me bore the letters CUBE, a Nissan as I later learned.  It's beyond me why anyone would want to design a car shaped like a cube, not very aerodynamic I would guess.  But I suppose it would be good if you wanted to carry a lot of rectangular packages.....

Commencement Snobbery

I heard the first report of a college graduation somewhere the other day, so it's only a matter of time until numerous  commencement speakers are going to be addressing the bright and shining faces of those who will be deemed, by those purporting to know,  "the best and the brightest."  For such a superlative to hold any meaning at all requires that there must be somewhere  out there a control group if you will composed of "the worst and the dullest."   Really, it means nothing to have everything if you're unable to measure your gains against those who have much less.  That's the way capitalism works.

Dentition Phobia

  Today I had my temperature taken: it was 98.6.  The nurse said I was average, and then, a bit remorseful, changed my status to normal.  That's the way it's always been: I have no apparent outstanding characteristics;my life is  pretty much an open book.  When we were in 8th grade, our guidance counselor, who was a full-time business teacher, administered an official-seeming aptitude test and then met with each of us to go over the results and try to direct us into an appropriate vocation.  Some kids came out from the meeting declaring that they were meant to be a nurse, a secretary, or a mechanic.  When it was my turn, Mrs. P. showed me the line representing aptitude, and it was flat, no peaks or valleys at all; she didn't know what I wanted to be, said I may be open to any career.  I took it to mean I was so boring she was unable to help me. Part of the fault may have been with the way I answered the test, because there were many duplicate questions inserted throughout the pages of the booklet.  I still remember one question asked which choice  I would prefer:  helping a child to repair his wagon, reading a book, and 2 other options.  I loved to read, so chose that a time or two, but then figured I would need some fresh air and chose the wagon repair in a few other questions. After the same question appeared multiple times, I figured the wagon would be fixed by now, and it was time to do something else.   I think I followed this pattern throughout the test; I changed things up enough to earn a flat line when it came to aptitude.  Who knows; my first and only evaluation may have been a self fulfilling prophecy.  I grew up having no eccentricities or charming quirks, or even predictable behavior patterns.
    However, I have always had a phobia concerning teeth, mine in particular.  An unspoken phobia up to now, because who cares to hear such things, except you, Dear Blog.  (Jeopardy time--TBC)
    Back in the day, not much thought was given to teeth, or to dental care in general. Most adults had dentures, even those who were financially well off.  I think I first visited a dentist when I was 11 years old, for a toothache, and he wasn't much help at all.  Hardly any children went to the dentist back then, as my memory serves.  So I don't know where my tooth phobia came from.  I can only speculate.
    At one point in my childhood, the people who owned the former garage/ cinder block building next door to our house deposited a number of very large rocks on the property behind the building, next to our back yard.  Massive pieces of stone dumped off in a hodge podge assimilation, probably 15 to 20 huge rocks piled on top or next to each other.  These rocks attracted all the kids in our section of the neighborhood, and indeed from all over the town.  "The rocks" were a sort of informal gathering place; all you had to do was sit on the rocks on a sunny summer day, and you were sure to be joined by any number of friends looking for something to do.  A favorite game was a cross between "Follow the Leader"  and "I Dare You."  The rocks had been strewn in a random array, some piled as high as 3 atop each other, and some a distance apart.  Jumping across the chasms created from various heights was a real challenge, but we all participated at some level.  Each one of us at times failed to make the landing and our legs would slip down into the deep crevices between the rocks.  Skinned knees, bruised elbows, and even bumped heads were a common hazard, and I suffered my share of the injuries and observed more in others, especially among the smaller kids whose legs were too short to safely leap from rock to rock.  Even then, though, my greatest dread was that somebody would hit their mouth and knock out their teeth, though among all the injuries, no one ever lost a tooth on the rocks. 
     My mother cared for younger children, and one of their toys was a shark, evidently the kind of toy you had to put together..  The shark had its rows of teeth in a press-on assemblage, all the tiny sharp teeth on a strip which popped into little holes on its jawbone.  The toy was well played with to the point where the teeth would separate from the jaw, and the kids would ask me to fix it, which I did.  For a period of time, I used to have dreams where my teeth would similarly fall out, attached in a single strip.  Of course, I never told anyone because who would care, and what difference would it make.  Later on, according to Uncle Pete's Dream Book, and  the pseudo-dream analysts, I came to know that dreaming of losing teeth is common and reflective of some psychological issue or other, but that seemed irrelevant to me.
   Last week, during a dental visit, I finally, after all these years, told the truth, or at least some of it.  "No, I don't need any painkillers, or sedative, for a dental cleaning," I told the hygienist, "and no, I'm not afraid of the pain.  I have the feeling that the scaling instrument is going to cause my teeth to crumble away."  She assured me that would not happen and that my teeth were stronger than that.  I thanked her for her advice and confidence, but truth be told, there is no incentive strong enough to have me, for example, bite into an apple.  I'm pretty sure that with my first bite my front teeth would snap off and be lodged in that apple.

Vale of Outhouses

    When we moved to Valley Falls in the mid-forties, almost every house in the village had an outhouse in the back yard.  Rural areas, even villages, back then, mostly lacked sewage systems and so relied on the primitive structures known as outdoor toilets, or outhouses.  Some of the outhouses were modest one-holers, with a single door.  A few of them boasted 2 holes, but the outhouse in our back yard was a masterpiece of outhouses of  the rich and famous variety.  Our outhouse had 2 wide doors, separate entrances with each side having 2 holes for double seating if necessary: the rare attraction of a 4-seater.   Passersby, visitors to the confectionery store attached to our house, would comment that never had they seen such an elaborate building, of its type of course.  The explanation lay in the reason for its construction;  the house once had a barroom in the section which later became home to the confectionery store.  So the outdoor toilet had a side dedicated for ladies, which was on the right facing it, and the left side was for the gentlemen.  I can only imagine the reason for the 2 holes on each side.  If the bar was open during late hours, and I assume it must have been, and the customers had to "use the facilities,"  then, as now, the ladies must have accompanied each other to the restroom, so to speak.  Going into a backyard alone could well have been considered unseemly, if not downright dangerous.  I have no theory as to the double holes on the men's side; perhaps they just liked company, or maybe in case of simultaneous urgencies. 
   Prominently located in the middle of the back yard, which was  also the  central  playground for many of the kids in our area, meant that the outhouse was featured in a great many  of our childhood activities.  Too many to elaborate on at this hour, though one time my brother convinced a neighborhood child to see how long he could remain locked inside the little building.  The boy agreed to the challenge, my brother spun the wooden block which locked the door from the outside, and he proceeded to describe how all the air was being used up inside the outhouse, and there was not enough to sustain life inside.  In just a few minutes, the little prisoner cried uncle, and came out gasping for air.  Who needed summer youth programs back then?

Stockholm Syndrome

Now that I have only one car at my disposal, I'm beginning to look on the one remaining as less of an enemy than it seemed at first. It does offer a smooth ride, it is convenient and a safety plus to be able to select the radio station and adjust the volume by a thumb touch on the steering wheel, and I must admit that the heated seat is welcome against the unseasonable chill.  Of course, the other car did have automatic start, which could heat the entire car.  What's more, I found that when the Honda's  driver door swings all the way open, I can't reach to close it from the driver's seat.  I'm trying to be positive; I supopose reading the manual could lead to more discoveries.---I hate to read instructions.

Scram.

Get off my lawn!

Recidivism

   Part of the reason I was in no hurry to grow up was adult  clothing of the time.  My mother wore a dress every day of her life, and that meant nylon stockings (except for rayon hose during wartime), and those stockings were secured by garters attached to a girdle.  Horrible, I thought.  When I became of age to wear stockings, the innovation to hold the stockings up was a garter belt, a welcome alternative to the dreaded  girdle, but still so many unwelcome parts, tentatively attached garters among them.  The invention of pantyhose a few years later  meant liberation from the constrictions of the antiquated trappings of feminine servitude.  Pantyhose: a smooth, non-constricting way to look presentable in skirts and dresses.  Freedom at last from the garters and belts.  Then came women's battle to wear pants in public, and don't think it wasn't a battle. But women persevered, and the acceptance of pants meant even more freedom.  Even pantyhose were no longer a daily mandate.
   And now all appears to be lost.  Women have voluntarily succumbed to the wearing of Spanx  and other compression-type body stockings.  Why, oh why, I'll never understand.  These surgical-looking things don't look good even on models.  They conceal nothing as far as I can see; wearing one is a dead giveaway; the Spanx wearer never has a waist, sometimes has telltale elasticized panels exposed, and often suffers from reflux.  Don't they realize what their forebears went through to earn the right to be free from repressive underwear?
   

Oxymoronic

The early morning TV Special offers leggings featuring "360 degrees of seamless comfortable compression."  That would be compression from the waist to the ankles.  Comfortable?  I think not. 

Angry Old Birds

There is nothing more caustic than an old coot, as witnessed in the helpful lifestyle hints offered by the AARP.  Scroll through the list of the boring and banal advice down to the comment section.  Most of the comments  seem to be from  former editors, teachers, or gonzo journalists intent on pointing out  how ridiculous the suggestions are.  "Give us some real help," they demand, "not this pap."  Who would have thought there were so many angry old retired people? 

Black Birds

For the past week, ever since the last snowfall, a flock of about 60 to 100 black birds has been visiting the birdfeeder in our back yard.  At first we thought they were those ill reputed starlings or grackles, those gangster birds we resent feeding.  On closer look, there were only about 10 of the large birds of that type; the majority are smaller, with a stripe on their wings.  A few have the red stripe characteristic of the red winged blackbird, but in most, as far as we can determine, the stripe is white.  None of our bird books tell us anything about a white winged blackbird.  The female redwinged blackbird is described as brownish, not black, but all the birds in our backyard flock appear to be black, so either the females have been left elsewhere, or Audubon pinned the wrong bird carcass.   The book does say that blackbirds tend to travel with other black birds, such as starlings; therefore as is said, birds of a feather flock together. 

Oh, shoot.

Silver bullet, I can understand, the kind rumored to be able to kill werewolves.  However, silver bullet seems to have morphed into magic bullet: "I'm sorry, I can't answer your question. I don't have a magic bullet."  A bullet made of silver is a possibility, I guess, but has there ever been a single instance of a magic bullet?  And what would it be capable of?  Maybe it could be fired into that crystal ball which no one ever possesses either. 

The Case and The Compass

It was red, about 8 inches long and 4 inches high, and closed with a zipper along the top.  I was never fortunate enough to own one of the expensive pencil boxes flaunted by those kids from the wealthier families, but my pencil case more than served its purpose from when I received it in third grade right up into junior high school.  I loved all the things that little red case held-- pencils, the yellow kind with the erasers on the end; those nice pink and gray erasers with one end, the softer pink side, for erasing pencil marks, and the other side, gray and grittier, for erasing marks in ink, though  somewhat less successfully; a mechanical lead pencil, with a little box of lead, and a few tiny extra erasers; a six-inch ruler, at first of wood and later plastic; a small hand-held  pencil sharpener------all things which fit so well, smelled so good, and behaved so well in the confines of their little red compartment. And then there was the compass; I didn't have the same feeling for it at all.  It was metal, never seemed to fully live up to its promise, and  had that sharp pointed end capable of puncturing not only the red case, but also fingers that were grasping for a pencil, eraser, or ruler.  I didn't really understand  its purpose either, other than to draw a circle, and even then it depended on whether that broken-off stub of  pencil fit into that metal, supposedly adjustable, shaft.  I considered the compass an intruder into the caressable items of my pencil case, a hard and misshapen thing with no clear purpose.  A harbinger of things to come.

Help...

Timmy's in the well, but his dog is dead, so nobody will even look for him.

For want of a nail,.....

 We all know it when we suffer serious misfortune, which we tend to attribute  to bad luck.  Many of us would say our  bad luck is more prevalent than our good luck.  However, because it is impossible to prove a negative, most of us, unless we win a million in the lottery, do not count among our portions of good luck the times that misfortune is averted, which can be a stroke of extraordinarily good luck:
   "He was leaving the rental house, home to a number of college students, when he noticed that the battery compartment to the only smoke detector was dangling open, empty of  batteries.  He dropped some money on the table, to buy new batteries, he told them, to replace those which had been appropriated for other use. He was ready to drive home, after a long day, when, so uncharacteristic of  him at the time, he had a sudden thought, or instinct, that none of the inhabitants would be likely to take the time to go buy batteries, so he took a trip into town, bought the batteries, returned to the house and installed them in the smoke detector.  Three days later, in the predawn hours, the smoke alarm activated, waking all seven residents of the house in time for them to escape what would have been almost certain disaster."
   The bad luck was monumental at the time--the fear, loss, relocations--financial and emotional issues that consumed precious time and assets.  But all is tempered by the passing of time, and what once was devastating is now only a dimming memory confined to the category of bad luck.  What turned out to have been immensely good luck was the placement of a few batteries, just in case.  By the time we live to ripe old ages, there are probably thousands and thousands of times that the good has triumphed over the bad.  We all remember the time we stubbed our toe, really bad, on that stand in the living room, but what about the millions of times we passed by that stand without injury?
   

Thanatopsis

Enough said.

Death and Doctors

     I read an essay,  "How Doctors Die,"  which according to the author is different from the rest of us.  Mostly anecdotal in nature, the essay points out that the great majority of doctors do not opt for extreme life-saving measures such as CPR when they are near death, and have Advance Directives which relay their end-of-life wishes.   The essay was and is the subject of much controversy, lacking actual statistics as it does.  As a means of clarification, Johns Hopkins conducted a survey of doctors and their final wishes, and found that 95% of doctors choose not to have CPR if they are in what is considered an  irreversible coma, while only about 20-25 % of non-doctors are making that choice.  Regular people get much of their medical information from television, where patients  frequently undergo lifesaving CPR and leave the hospital hale and hearty. Doctors are in a position to understand how extremely rare that scenario actually is, and so they choose to avoid what they know would only extend their final agony. 
    I have known  two people who related their tales of coming back from the dead.  One was a student from years ago; she told me as a young teen that she had memories of dying twice over a period of a few years.  She remembered falling aleep on her couch, and waking up to being told that she had died. She had some cognitive issues, but I think she is still alive after these many years,and I seem to recall she'd married and had children.  The other person brought back from the dead used to own a bar in the neighboring village. He'd had a heart attack, stopped breathing, was administered CPR and apparently recovered.  I knew who he was, had taught his children, but had never really spoken to him other than casually.  At the time, I used to take my mother and aunt to the laundromat which was near his home.  The man must have stopped working at his business by then, because he would be walking near the laundromat, or the grocery store just up the street.  He would approach us, and apparently haunted by his escape from death, go over the details, starting with,"You know, I died last summer" (or whatever time it was).  I'm thinking we were not the only ones he told his story to; it must have been an overwhelming compulsion for him to try to find his place back among the living.  I remember feeling sorry for him, as did my mother, and a little uneasy, but I was young then and didn't pay much heed to tales from the other side.  I can't say how long he lived after being revived:  I can only hope he found some measure of peace before he had to face death again.

Patient Portal

I usually confine my medical writings to another, darkside blog, but the Patient Portal is such a significant medical development, its story must be told.  This morning, Wednesday, I went to a local facility to have  bloodwork and other lab tests, of the FU variety.  The prescribing doctor offers a Patient Portal, whereby  patients can register, and access  their medical records through their chosen password.  This evening, I opened the Portal and my morning  test results were readily available.
    It seems like a simple thing, but just think of all the times patients have been worried sick waiting for their test results.  Waiting a week or more may have been justified fifty or even twenty years ago, but now many procedures are computerized and technology makes the results  readily attainable.  It's unnecesarily cruel to have people agonize while waiting to learn their fate.  While it may be simple decency to offer patients timely access to their records, and while we've been hearing about this innovation for some time, I know of only one medical office that has the Patient Portal system up and running.  The reason for the delay may be because the benefit is for the patient, not the doctor, unfortunately not incentive enough to activate just for patients..
      I am awaiting the results of a mammogram from a well respected and recently renovated hospital; they say to expect the report in the mail in a week to ten days.  So while some things may change in a multi-million dollar investment, some things remain stuck in the past. The digitalized exams are read the same day, but the reports have to go from the lab through the mail room, and that can take a while: meanwhile, the patient waits, as did her mother, and grandmother.  When I was at the facility last year, I was given a form to authorize Patient Portal participation, which I signed.  This year, I asked if the program were available, and the answer was yes, but it's only for doctors to access your information.  Very disappointing.  How much more effort would it take?
    Another office proudly proclaimed the Patient Portal a year or so ago, but "has not gotten around to activate it yet." 
    A possible reason for the delay, from a cynical viewpoint, might be that if patients could get their results electronically, a return doctor's visit might not be necessary in some cases.  Doctors do look forward to those FU visits.
    BTW:  My bloodwork was all normal, with only the Total Cholesterol of 200 being borderline normal.  I'm pretty sure it would have been lower if I hadn't eaten 3, yes, count 'em 3,  hot cross buns the day before.  But after Easter, we won't see them for a whole year.

S.O.S.

Sign of Spring:    the crocuses in my front yard have bloomed.  They are yellow, the purple crocuses have disappeared, or at least have not appeared yet.  And the front yard daffodils are almost ready to flower too.  Spring is coming, right on schedule..  Hours later, a purple crocus unfolded. 

OMG! WTF?

  LOL--- Most use it to Laugh Out Loud, some use it for Lots of Luck.  Now we learn that some medical workers use LOL as a designation for patients, meaning Little Old Lady.   They should be dealt with.

The Indulgence of Annoyance

Sometimes I find it almost comforting to indulge in petty grievances, especially so if they involve inanimate objects.  You have no one but yourself to blame, but the need to vent is there regardless. 
    I hate it when I'm vacuuming and the cord pulls out of the wall.  It's my own fault because while the house is small and the cord is long, I know I can't reach the end of the hallway or the rug at the kitchen door, but I try anyway.  Each direction from the living room outlet, where I begin to vacuum, is about a foot too far from the extended cord, but I try to reach, in vain naturally, and never fail to become irritated when the vacuum stops functioning.  There are plenty of outlets in the house, and it would be a simple matter to just plug into another, but I resist doing that.  I never lose hope that one day I'll succeed.
  There is a sound I hate to hear, usually occurring late at night when I'm ready to go to sleep.  It is the dreaded sound of the TV remote falling on the floor, meaning I'd missed the headboard where  I meant to put it.  Invariably, the remote lands under the bed, from where it is no easy task to retrieve it. Finding it usually means getting out of bed, locating a flashlight and a yardstick or such, getting down on my knees and fishing under the bed. Sometimes the battery guard falls off, and it and the batteries are strewn around the room.  What  choice do I have;  do you know how frustrating it is not to be able to turn the TV off once you've decided to do so.  Trying to ignore the sound then is like trying to ignore Chinese water torture.
    Whether I'm trying to pay a bill online, fill out an application of some type, or just try to download information, there are many times when you have to enter your address.  No problem there, except when it comes to the state, NY is always on the next site choice.  I wish it were right up there  with Alabama and Massachusetts; why does NY have to be relegated to the next page.
    Hearing so much about sugary drinks makes me want one.  Hey, that's what keeps hummingbirds alive, isn't it?  They can't be all bad.
  Locks of Love:  Such a great way to encourage hair donations.  What could be a sweeter story about a girl or woman sacrificing her locks in order to help those who have lost theirs due to cancer or other dread disease.  Except I believe in most cases, that is only a story, not the truth.  If you've ever researched the criteria for what hair can be used for wigmaking, you'll find there are very strict guidelines in order to qualify as a donor.  Besides, artificial hairpieces have come a very long way since the old days when they looked so awful..Most customized wigs or hairpieces now are indistinguishable from real hair, and are better looking and more affordable than donated hair from real heads.  A lovely story though.

Ma

Mary Agnes Donovan Madigan 
March 9, 1905  
  I hope you had a lot of happy birthdays. I miss you more than ever.

The Iceman Cometh Not

Nor does the Breadman, the Insurance man, the Watkins man, the Milkman, the Vegetable man, the Frozen Food man, the Cooks Coffee man, nor any of the various others who used to pay regular household visits.  During the years of my childhood, we did not have a telephone, and my mother was not a social butterfly by any stretch of the imagination.  However, she was a go-to kind of person for the ladies in the neighborhood, and it was a regular occurrence for one or the other of the women to drop in and sit and talk during the afternoon hours.  Most of them did not drive, so they walked to our house, from upstreet or from  down the River Road. 
   We have advanced to  telephone, Facebook, email, Blogging, and of course automobile travel, but communication is almost non-existent. Gone the way of the Iceman......
   

Promissory Promises

   I can't stand the way that the word promise is used when it applies to past deeds, as in "I promise you, I never said that,"  or "I promise I didn't have sex with that person."  A promise is a pledge you make for some future action;  "I promise to be true to you all the days of my life." 
   I've made only a few promises in my life, and except for a promise I made to a goat when I was 9 or 10 years old, and my marriage vows if we're counting such things, the rest of the promises were of the default type; my feet were held to the fire when I agreed to  the promises.
   My Aunt Helen had come to live with us when I was  13 years old.  Her mother had died the year before, her brother had finally been free to marry, and the family home did not have room for a wife and a sister.  I walked into our kitchen one day after school to find my mother and Helen having been in deep conversation.  Helen saw me, and continuing with what must have been the topic of their conversation, cried out, to me, "I'm an orphan now.  Don't let them put me in a home.  Please, promise me!"  So I did, I promised her that I would not let them put her in a home.  I had absolutely no idea of how I would do that, or any real conception of what it meant, but she seemed relieved when I said I would not let them put her in a home.  Helen ended up living in my mother's home for 12 years after my mother died.
   My mother had found a lump in her breast when she was about 47 years old.  In those days, that meant hospitalization for several days to a week while they cut out the lump and analyzed it.  It also meant that my mother would be a hospital patient for the very first time in her life, which also meant that she would be contained indoors for the first time in her life.  My mother could not spend a single day without going outside--she had to do her chores as well as get that fresh air.  I remember my father's driving us down to the old Leonard Hospital, where she was a patient on the third floor.  Her room had access to a small balcony, which was where we found her.   She seemed composed, as usual, but she did tell us that the balcony was the only thing that made her stay possible; she couldn't bear it if she'd had to stay inside.  She remained on the balcony at the close of our visit. My father and then my sister said their goodbyes, and as I was doing so, my mother frantically clutched me, saying, "Promise me you'll get me out of here, no matter what happens."  She had to wait there until she received her diagnosis, and a diagnosis of malignancy in those days was associated with death.  Since cancer was only whispered about back then, none of us could have had any idea of what lay in store if bad news was delivered.  She only knew she wanted to be home.  I wanted her home too, so I promised not to leave her there. I had no idea of how to go about that, though I thought my father would drive us home.  The lump was benign, so my mother did get to come home, and I didn't have to do anything about the promise I'd made. 
     The promise to the goat made me feel magically empowered.  The later promises  made me feel old.
 

The Trojan Wards

 The city of Troy has 2 hospitals, and the most favorable thing Healthgrades Rating System has to say about them is that they have a lower than average rate of having foreign objects left in  the patient post surgery. 

LEGO---WTH??

  I read the Sunday paper after a fashion--skimming articles here and there, including Felix Carroll's "Life" column.  Every once in a while, my eye is caught by something that demands attention.  This week it was his article, "Can't we just block all this out?"  The topic:  boyhood, Legos, sex, and yes, Lego Sex.  He starts writing from the point of his memory, at 10 years of age, when he could just "be a boy."  He was fascinated with Legos, but at about that time he seemed to notice his father was beginning to get a little maudlin, anticipating the time when Legos would not be enough to keep his son engaged.  Father and son share the memory of the time,  following "that fearsome sound that echoed from the goo of creation across the spectrum of history...."  and the time that's coming when "you'll be out the front door where you'll put your ear to the ground and follow the sound."  No wonder the father doesn't like change anymore.
     Although the winds of change have started in the boy' life, they are still only rustlings and always away from home, in the schoolyard, among friends, so the boy in him thinks it strange that his father seems aware of the stirrings.  That is a scenario as old as time, the need to have "the talk," formerly about birds and bees, but now somehow centered on Legos.  The boy could not have known that his father learned from his browsing history and discovered "the saddest, sweetest search term he had ever encountered," that being "Lego sex."   If only  Heroic Knight was  changing a race car tire, and Cowboy was smiling only because it was a beautiful day, but alas, time moves us on.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere......

  There are signs everywhere, too  many to pay strict attention to sometimes, and sometimes that is a good thing.  For years, I've been seeing a sign, or a road marking, and totally ignoring it.  Everyone else does too, I'm sure; otherwise there would be an ongoing traffic snarl, if not multiple accidents.
   As you drive off Oakwood Avenue to turn left into the Frear Park circle, the road is clearly marked for the turn with double arrows directing you into the turn lane.  Except the arrows stop short of the entry lane, clearly pointing you directly into the exit lane.   April Fool, year round.

Death Watch

Liz Bishop was reporting the story of a local woman who was bitten by a fox, potentially rabid.  Bishop said the police responded, had shot the fox, and "were waiting for it to die."  Really.