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!