Oh yeah

Don't those telemarketers whose opening words are "Do not hang up," realize they have just elicited the fastest hang-up known to man. Who could resist the challenge.

In Dreams

The dream was a telephone conversation from Shirley to Dave, asking if Little Bobby could come back to our house to play with the toys, particularly a large cardboard fort with lots of accessories, which we've never  had.  But then, the last time Bobby was in Valley Falls was probably in 1965 or earlier, so I may have forgotten.

Love, not Like BS

"I love him (or her) but right now I don't like him."  People say this when they're angry at someone close to them.  They try to cover their bases by proclaiming their innate and constant love for a person who has displeased them in some way, who they are willing to admit they are not liking at the present time. Sorry, this statement cannot be true. You cannot love a person if you don't like them.  You may love someone at the same time you feel disappointment in them,  or worry, or even fear.  It is impossible to love a person you dislike.  To say so is an attempt to fool yourself, to give consent to the anger, disgust or resentment you are feeling.  It is possible for the dislike to be temporary, even sporadic, and after the feeling of disliking has passed, love may re-enter the picture.  If you've ever been in  a position to observe the facial expressions of people who dislike each other, to hear the words spoken, you know that there is no love present. Look in the eyes.  Listen to the words.  Don't kid yourself that love for and dislike of somebody can co-exist; the words and emotions they convey are by definition mutually exclusive. Love is a stronger version of like, and you can't have the former without the latter. 

gif me not

 I like words, but not this one in particular.  Word of the Year notwithstanding, acronyms which segue into words can be awkward, especially if they are not destined to be permanent additions to the language.  Technology changes so rapidly that much of the terminology associated with today's innovations is obsolete tomorrow, and thus the vocabulary is too.
     Part of the cachet of using a trendy word such as "gif" stems from considering oneself hip and knowledgeable, and on the cutting edge.  The word becomes a familiar sight, repeatedly appearing, perpetuated by a select few.  I contend that a word formed from technology  is not a successful word if it does not meet the criteria of being popularly understood.  Technical jargon does not deserve the status of a word simply because the first letters of a technical process are splintered off and shaped into a "new word." 
    Radar---Yes, it's a word, an acronym at that.  We all think we know what radar is, what it means, though it's  kind of sloppy as acronyms go, being formed from the first 2 letters of "radio" for the ra; a single letter d for detection; the letter a representing the word "and"-usually eliminated from acronyms;  and then a single r for recharging.  Currently we use the word, but with no concern for its derivation.
  Gif-----Time will tell if it holds up as a word.  But it's ugly, both as word and acronym.  Here's why:  What is a gif, you might ask.  The answer being, it's an acronym, formed from the letters for Graphics Interchange Format.  So how  does that help?  To better answer your question, it's an image, part of which  moves, like a waving hand.  Might not a better acronym be vpowm, video, part of which moves. 
  Snafu----we don't even want to go there, as in acronym.

Pigtails

When I started school, there was no kindergarten.  First and Second grades at the Valley Falls School were in the same room, and the teacher was Mrs. Flynn.  I think she was Bill Reilly's sister.  My brother was in second grade, on the left side of the room, next to the windows.  First grade was on the right side, near the door to the hallway.  The principal's office, with secretary, a woman who constantly cleared her throat, was at the front of the classroom; access to the office meant walking across the front of the classroom.  There were probably no more than 5 or 6 rows of seats, with about the same number of desks in each. I seem to remember there were only 2 rows of second graders and maybe 3 rows of first graders.  I sat in the first grade row across from my brother's desk  in the second grade.  On the first day of school, he, being a seasoned veteran to my brand new status, pointed out 2 first-grade girls seated side by side, and said, "Those 2 are about the best."   I was sitting behind the two girls and with one look, I was in total agreement.  They  were obviously friends with each other and seemed to know the teacher and  the school building.  I knew nothing or nobody and so that was enough to make me admire them, but what really fascinated me and filled me with envy was their hair.  Each of them wore braids, as did I, but their braids were smooth and flat, and tucked in at the ends. My hair then was long and  thick and curly and my mother wove a top braid along the top on each side into the basic braid.  Even so, there was always a cloud of frizzy curls escaping from the bulky braiding.  The ends were thick and left unbraided for the last few inches, like a paintbrush, I thought, compared to the tight narrow straight-haired braids of the 2 girls.  One of the girls had blonde hair, while the other had black hair.  And tied at the ends of each of their super-slick braids were the most beautiful plaid, obviously brand new hair ribbons I had ever seen.  I thought they looked like  the open wings of butterflies perched on the ends  of their braids. Any ribbons I wore were narrow, wrinkly strips rescued from candy boxes.  That was my first introduction, sort of, to Ruthie Osterhout and Barbara Spence.

Litigation

Anyone familiar with Jones v. Board of Education? 

The Elephant in the Room

   It was a dream. Of course it was: how else could a large elephant have gotten upstairs in the house.  I was trying to get to sleep with my young daughter when the elephant entered from another room, and began nosing around. I was not in favor of this so I roughly swatted its trunk away, realizing right away that I shouldn't have.  It only made the elephant more aggressive in its persistence.   The animal eventually went into the other bedroom, and I felt relieved, but only until I heard it throwing up. I went to check, and saw that it had vomited in the next room. Then it came into the room which I had just come from and performed an even worse bodily function; an elephant can deposit a pile of residue about two feet wide and three feet high.  I had no idea even how to begin to clean up the double messes, so I did the only thing I could do---I went to find my mother.  She and her sister had moved the furniture away from the walls in a downstairs room and were re-plastering the worn areas.  I told her that the elephant was sick and had disgraced itself upstairs, twice, and that I was sorry but I couldn't overcome the smell enough to try to clean it up.  She said she'd take care of it later.  I felt somewhat guilty about pawning the disgusting task off on her, but it wasn't my elephant. 

Hackery

 Yesterday I was sitting at my computer when the phone rang.  It was a warning, in broken English, that my computer was being hacked.  He said he was from the government, and that I should turn on my computer so he could stop the hacker.  I politely declined:  actually, I just hung up. 

Just When I Need It the Most

My Health Insurance has changed, unexpectedly and without notice.  From my retirement date in 2006 until November 1, 2012, my coverage was ideal, compensating for the years of low salary, no vacation or holiday pay, and zero sick leave.  The  Teachers' Union to which I belong has opened a grievance, but resolution will probably be far off, and not guaranteed to be favorable.  Ironically, except for the year of 2003, when I was still actively contributing to my health insurance, my claims have been  relatively few.  But now I'm one of those needy and sickly senior citizens, as my claims this year are sure to attest.   Even with the changes and increased financial responsibility, the policy is still pretty good though, so I won't have to cut my pills in half to save money.   Thank heaven and/or Obama for Medicare.

.

To sing

 Why are all the singers on "The Voice" better than any of the singers on "American Idol?"   Well, maybe because "Voice" singers are professional, so that could be the answer, but the unanswered question is why is Randy Jackson such a jerk?

In a Vacuum

  I own a Dyson vacuum cleaner; it's bagless and I would not go back to the type with bags.   It was a gift, and I'm pretty sure it was ordered from a late night TV info-mercial.
  Another ad featured the Ear Vac, a device which uses vacuum power to suction out earwax, instead of employing the potentially  painful  and dangerous practice of inserting a Q-tip into the ear canal.  I get the shivers thinking what else might be vacuumed out: it doesn't seem like a good idea.
    Late tonight I saw another vacuum ad, this time for the PosTvac.  The tip-off  to its use should have been apparent when the camera panned to the tire swing hanging from a tree, but it still caught me off guard.  Is nothing spared from the suction of the vacuum?
  

Smelling a rat...

  Can you think of any valid reason why a thriving medical practice would bring in a new doctor, advertising his "48 years of medical experience?"  I mean, after 48 years?????

Locaton, location, location

  If you live anywhere in the area, your cataract surgery will most likely take place at the Albany Regional Eye Surgery Center in Latham.  A great many  opthalmologic practices  take turns using it. It's kind of reminiscent of "The Sting."  You'd think it was the facility belonging to your doctor, with permanent-appearing  signage and physician name plates, etc.  That's true one day, but the next, another practice resides there; only the names have been changed.
  

Operation Cataract

    In 2009, I had cataract surgery.  After overcoming the usual trepidation about having something sharp enter your eye, on purpose, the procedure itself is a smooth operation indeed.
   The process  can be likened to  driving your car through Hoffman's Deluxe Carwash on a busy day.  Upon entering the anteroom to the sterile operating room, a team of workers descends on you in rapid order:  an attendant clads you in a gown while another puts a protective covering over your hair at the same time you're being seated, at which time another person puts the little booties on your feet, someone else slaps a wristband on you, somebody blocks off  the eye that's not being operated on, and you're asked, for the first of at least a dozen times your name and birthdate and the reason for your visit, and which eye is being done that day.  That team disperses, their work done for now, on to the next patient in the stall next to you.  The medical specialists enter next, and start the process of IV and again ascertaining if you know who you are and why you're here, and of course, which eye.  Different practitioners insert drops, in a series of 10 or more applications spaced over a period of time. The anesthesiologist interviews you, letting you select your drug of choice from his list, and of course then  disappears, as is their wont, only to be manifested later as a stealth apparition existing somewhere from above and behind; you're pretty much blind by then anyway because of all the drops and since your good eye is covered.  The surgeon drops in to let you know he's here, and to check to see if you're in operable condition.  He times it so that you're partially sedated by then and are not likely to tie him up with chatter; his time is far too valuable to spend on conversation.  What you thought was a chair that you were sitting in is actually on wheels, and so you're whisked into the operating arena in a semi-conscious state, enough so that you don't move during surgery.  You're transferred to the operating table, and subjected to a lot of noise and light, at minimum discomfort, though you realize your head is being restrained in some fashion, and that could bother you a little. In a little while you will be chaired out of the operating theater and offered crackers and juice before you are released.  I think you're supposed to be un-sedated  enough to be able to chew and swallow  before you're released.  And, leaving behind your old dried-up lens that is called a cataract because it makes you look at things as from behind a waterfall, you embark on a life of new vision.

Chasing Waterfalls

  What do cataract surgery and the picture of Dorian Gray have in common?  After you have your cataracts removed and look in the mirror, the image that appears reflects the grim reality of yourself  that Dorian saw when he looked at his picture. Even though you may not have engaged in as much debauchery as Dorian, accumulated  years are evil in their own way, and take just as certain a  toll.   Old age is the work of the devil.

Poultry Spotting

Finally, I saw the chicken.   She, for I believe it is a hen, was walking along the sidewalk, scratching a little now and then, because the sidewalk is covered in a layer of dirt and gravel, hard to resist.  Probably she is a Rhode Island Red, or a cross with something else, because she looked fairly light-boned.  She was alone, and didn't appear to mind being so.

Walt Whitman

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed

.... Stands the lilac bush-tall-growing
With heart shaped leaves of rich green,
 With many a pointed blossom rising, delicate,
With the perfume strong I love.
With every leaf a miracle
And from this bush in the dooryard,
With delicate colored blossoms
And heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig with flowers I break."

The Zen of Mad Men

   "Wait patiently by the side of the river to see the bodies of your enemies float by."  And that Don Draper is such a cad-----kind of like Jay Gatsby without the idealism. 

Yeah, But Really?

     I don't think anyone can be shocked anymore, but that doesn't negate the possibility of being surprised at the lack of good taste, especially when dealing with anything connected to children. This past Mother's Day  WNYT sponsored  a 5K race  in  Saratoga Springs, a memoriam by   Kelly's Angels, for the benefit of helping children cope with the loss of a parent due to cancer.  The name of the race is "Run Like A Mother."  The name seems to be based on some book so titled, but really?   T-shirts and all? 

Words: More or Less

 Sometimes I come across a word, in a book, a crossword puzzzle, or heard on television, a perfectly familiar word, and I wonder-----have I ever used that word:  Spoken it?  Written it?  Time was when  I used a lot more words than I do now, all those written term papers, all those years in the classroom, those rambling discussions with friends, and others, aimed at discovering who we were.  Arguments, debates, confessions, explanations.  Even today, if words had mass, took up physical space, I could easily speak enough words to fill a room, or even the entire house,  just by talking.  But circumstance inevitably applies its own restrictions, and, though it would seem  incomprehensible to the self I used to be, some days now I speak hardly a word.  ****So many words, so little opportunity.

One Last Look

The house was done,
Stripped and drained of the stuff of life,
 Like a corpse,
And infused with the cold liquids of gloss and polish
That simulate a life within,
Absent the heartbeat.
The illusion is of perfecton
That all, unblemished, is a possibility here.
But the rooms have a hollow echo.

On to the outside,
To the flowers and the plantings.
We work in the warmth of the doomed sunlight,
Clipping, pruning, digging and even replanting,
Trying to restore what had been lost
When the force that was its creator
Weakened, and then died.

The chill remains inside;
Out here we have more hope.
"You can live on here," I breathe.
Flowers symbolize eternal life,
Don't they?

One, and only one, last look, I tell myself.
So, just before a year has passed,
And against the voices that tell me no,
I drive down the familiar road.
The early promise of budding life
Calls for me to see what she had loved,
And what we'd tried to keep alive.

The tulips should be ready,
The giant peonies showing promise,
Her beloved roses still waiting,
The scores of other flowers and shrubs,
Chosen from her yearly catalog searches
Soon to emerge into various displays.

The glory of the street, and her special pride:
A  lovely and rare Variegated Butterfly Bush,
Carefully pruned and nurtured
To dominate this spring, to be a standout amidst beauty.

I drive my car past her house without looking yet.
I circle the loop and stop in front.
The side of the house where her flowers once grew is   
Empty--
The entire area barren, dug up, just black soil,
Awaiting, without doubt, a new imprint.
The butterfly bush has been cut down, gone.

Only Words

    I've always liked words, and stories, and what they leave us with.  Some fairy tales were scary when we were little, with  menaces such  a kidnapping dwarf, a big bad wolf, and a hunter with a gun.  I remember crying over the suffering of Ginger and Merrylegs, feeling sad for the lost and lonely Lassie trying to find her way back home, and my heart breaking over Old Yeller and the Red Pony. The images are forever etched in my memory.
    I remember being fascinated, though, by a story from a much less respected genre, the American folk tale:  I was never much impressed by those stories nor by Paul Bunyan, who I considered an unreliable blowhard, yet one of his tales left an indelible mark.  He is describing how cold the weather was, and he relates that it was so cold that words froze as they fell out of people's mouths, and no one knew what was said until the spring thaw.  I was intrigued by the concept of words having a solid form.  It seemed right to me that they should. You could write words down, which gives them substance, why then shouldn't they have a physical counterpart as well. 
   During my adolescent religious period, I got into what may have been a type of passing trend, because I don't hear much of it anymore, though I suppose that could be because I am no longer in that theater. Mental prayer was what they called it, and that meant you were supposed to be able to pray in a higher form without using words, not even in your mind.  This was in direct contrast to what the "migrant nuns" taught when they came to our neck of the woods--- that praying doesn't count unless you move your lips.  TBC---my eyes go to sleep before I do nowadays--more's the pity
  

Futility

     I was outside a few hours ago, trying to find a place to plant zinnia seeds.  I so looked forward to doing this all through the long drawn-out spring, when I bought the colorful packets of seeds.  But now that the time is right, the ground is hard and dry as a bone, and there are immovable rocks in my way.  I sense that my efforts will be less than stellar, but am still hopeful--maybe tomorrow---if it doesn't rain.  I come inside, and feel a pinching on the inside of my arm; a tick is trying to burrow its way in, has gotten maybe 1/4 of the way.  It's on the inside of my right arm, so I need help to tweeze it out. 

Second Thoughts

  During the last few years of her life, she was in and out of the hospital, a place she despised.  She had been in the vanguard as far as health was concerned.  Way before it was mainstream, she advocated for her own health by  eliminating  desserts, drinking orange juice, and, unusual in the 1950's, engaging in what would now be called power walks, up and down the rural road where she lived, daily walks at a rapid pace.  So when her health started to fail despite her regime, she was at first in denial, and being a person without faith in the afterlife, most likely frightened.  Her husband was dead, so difficult as it must have been for her fiercely independent spirit, she asked for help, by calling my mother.
   So as it happened, it fell on me to drive her to the hospital when she was in distress.  Only I and one other person could possibly know what that entailed.  She was far from the ideal patient.  At the time, there were 3 hospitals in the city she lived in, and we alternated, going from one to the other. 
   Typical of her background and the time in which she lived, she was of  a frugal nature, and her financial assets, though modest by any standards, were of major importance to her.  Sensing the end might be near, because, after all, a common belief of her age group was that hospitals were where you went to die, she would apparently assess her circumstance at the time, as to who would get what upon her passing.  She would summon her lawyer, at first the one who had drawn up her will, and later whatever lawyer she could prevail upon to come to the hospital for semi-regular revisions to her will.  She would never tip her hand as to what heir she was displeased with, or what offense she may have endured or imagined, but she was adamant in her demands.  
    Her plight was a tragic comedy, typical of a person making unrealistic and frivolous demands upon others while faced with  the impending end of her own life--nothing funny about that.  Upon analysis, it seems that it is natural to want to control whatever you can---even if it's only money. 

Mantra

"If you see something, say something."  Go ahead, damn it, don't be afraid.

Where Have All the (Purple) Flowers Gone?

    When we were in the first few grades of school in Valley Falls, a springtime ritual for all us little girls was  picking violets to bring home to our mothers. Violets grew alongside many of the sidewalks, and in the ditches near the school, but the richest violet lode was adjacent to the Catholic Church.  There was an old wrought iron section of fencing between what was most likely the border of the church property and the shallow bank that was beside the little-used road.  We thought it was acceptable, not a sin, to pick the violets outside the fence, but would not venture inside the old piece of fencing to pick the flowers inside, though the fence was forgotten and guarded nothing.  We girls picked handfuls and handfuls of violets, and in those days, and years, violets were purple.  We were excited to find the rare cache of white violets.  They were much prized as an exception.  I couldn't say when was the last time I picked violets, or even paid much attention to them.  But it is a beautiful sight and a welcome harbinger of spring to see our lawn studded with violets.  However, for a number of years now, the violets are mostly white, with only a few purple flowers.  The white violets have spots of blue near the center, with yellow in the middle.  The purple violets have yellow centers, no signs of white.  I wonder why violets aren't violet anymore.......

Sunday Visits

When we were little, we regularly visited my mother's family in Cooksboro, and her sister in Melrose.  We also went to Hoosick Falls, where my father's younger brother Frank lived with his family.  That was the only one of my father's relatives who  had children our age;  my father was second youngest, and didn't marry until he was 40.  Visiting was different in those days.  Most of our relatives did not have telephones, so visits were usually reserved for Sundays, on a drop-in basis.  Most people could be found at home, as there  was no place else to go except mornng church services.  Businesses were all closed on Sundays, and anything to do with entertainment was essentially unheard of.  A different world.  My father always had a car, and always an old car with dubious performance capability.  I don't think he ever drove more than 35 miles per hour, whether by  his choice or not was never determined.  Nevertheless, he would feel the need, every few years or so, for us to visit his relatives.  We would undertake the trek to Schenectady, or Glens Falls and it would consume the entire day. The highway system was still quite primitive, with old and narrow roads.  In those days, no one,  at least to my knowledge, ever brought food or drink on a road trip, even, or maybe especially, for kids.  No bathroom stops either, but then with no drinks for the several hours of travel, we were all dehydrated so didn't need to go.  Moreover, maybe because of  the surprise nature of drop-in visits, or maybe because of the Yankee thrift ethic, I don't recall any offerings of food or drink at those distant locations.  I remember being starved and anxious to get home for something to eat. I assume no one wanted to feed people they only saw once every year or so.  Life was so different then.
     While most visits were to places without kids, and therefore tedious and boring for us 3 kids, one visit was memorable, at least to me.  We were at a relative of my father's, fairly local, a farm, probably in the Pittstown area. The man's name seems to have been Dan something, maybe Delurey, though that doesn't seem to be quite right. Again, no kids; it must have been a nice day because we kids were outside, while the adults engaged in talking, which we couldn't stand.  They had a farm collie that  followed us all around, very friendly.  We petted it and played with it for the time we were outside.  Its name might have been Shep, but I'm not sure.  When the time came for us to leave, all the adults, 4 or 5, were standing around the opened door of our big old car while we 3 kids filed in. The dog was sitting in front of them, a perfect family picture.  We kids said goodbye, probably mostly to the dog, when suddenly without any warning or provocation, the dog jumped up and bit me on the forehead. The adults all sprang into action, but it was all a blur.  I'm pretty sure somebody smacked the dog, because when we were leaving, the dog was cowering at the end of the driveway, and it was being consoled by the hired hands, who probably thought some bratty kid had teased it into desperation.  I remember I felt embarrassed and guilty, as if it were my fault that the dog didn't like me, because it really was a nice dog.  All I wanted to do was go home and forget about it;  one of the prime commandments of our childhood was that you did or said nothing to bring attenton to yourself.  Kids were supposed to be silent and invisible, and here I'd been front and center right before a whole group of adults.  Several days later, in the early evening hours, we were playing at our house with a number of neighborhood kids, as was usual, when the man, Dan, showed up to see if my wound was healed, as it were.  I was called from playing so he could see that I was recovering.  Once again, I felt a rush of embarrassment and humiliation, and responsibility for the nice dog's bad action.  My father, always the detective, surmised that the dog might have sat on a cigarette butt that someone had dropped while all were gathered to say goodbye to us.  Some things we'll never know.
    

Specialist Okay

   One  erudite ophthalmic specialist  I have been referred to is an internationally  renowned speaker,  instructor, researcher,  and author of many professional papers and dissertations, 74 so his vitae states.  One of the papers he authored deals with the subject of oral sex among orangutans.

Irritants, of a minor nature

  (1) I'm getting really tired of hearing people say that some problem or event or process is so involved or difficult or heartbreaking that they "can't wrap their head around it."  That might have been fresh  and meaningful the first few times the phrase was uttered, but really, what does it mean?  Wrap your head?  Around what?
   (2) I hope I'll never be forced to put on my jeans or pants after I already have my socks on.  I hate the feeling of having to push my sock-clad foot through the long tunnel of my pants leg, and besides I invariably lose my balance standing on one leg for that long. 

Wake-up Call

  I woke up in a rush, startled to hear my mother calling my name up the same staircase where she used to rouse us for school.  Something was wrong:   it was pitch dark, and I was grown up now, with a clock radio  to wake me up for work.  But it was my mother's voice that sent a chill through me; she was calling my name in a voice filled with a panic I'd never heard before.   She had found my father dead.  Only several hours before that, I was sitting on the floor in front of the living room stove, correcting papers.  He was reading as usual   in his  chair by the window.  He'd gone upstairs to bed while I was alone downstairs.  That was the last time I saw him alive.  He was 71 years old.

Torn

  Part of me wants to shake her, and part of me wants to drive with her to the beach to lie in the sun and empty our minds of all thought, as in the past.

And That's the Way It Was

"Joseph, MaryEllen and Dorothy---Time to get up!" My mother would open the kitchen door and call these words up the back stairway.  We never had alarm clocks then: Ma was always awake.  She would call us for school  after my father left for work, always through  the front door.  We kids didn't drink coffee, but the smell wafted up the stairway when she opened the kitchen door, and it smelled like morning in the  house.  The coffee pot was tan enamel with green trim at the top.