.. my brother. His sweet wife talked about his job, and how much he loved to work. He was, I know, a very smart guy. The thing he did was work with computers: which is like a foreign country with an unknown language to me. She said he loved what he did every day so much that it was really not unpleasant: the sort of thing that you have heard people say they would do for nothing they found it such a great experience. Well.... I certainly never had a job like that!
He had an engineering degree from Auburn. His employer paid for him get a Master's degree, I think in some mid-western university. It took several summers to complete, and I assume it was in some sort of tech. field, but do not know the specifics. But he took it by the horns and plowed right through. I think this was when he was employed by AT&T, but might have started back in the Lucent days.
She told me that he would get calls in the middle of the night, when there was a computer problem that no one could resolve. When the co-workers had attempted to figure out the glitch, and tried everything they knew to do. In exasperation, they would give him a call and describe the situation that baffled them. He would say: "Do this, and this and this." Which would often be the solution.
And if that did not work, he would get up and go to work in the wee hours. Just put on his pants and shirt, shoes and socks and head in to ponder and figure out how to make the equipment do what they wanted it to do. After several hours and much pondering, the day shift would show up for work. Wearing neckties as was expected of all male employees. But here was the man who had been there half the night without a tie. Along would come a manager and harass him about his apparel. He would explain he came in at 12 or 2 or 4 to tinker and get things back in good working order - sans tie.
She told me: The company eventually changed the rule about neckties, to allow him to come to work in the middle of the night when he was the only one who could trouble shoot and find the solution. He was so valuable they would not send him home when the system was down, and finally decided to just let that little bit of unnecessary propriety go. Reminding me of how amused I was when I went back to my parents house as an adult and heard my mom say about my dad: "He is happiest when something is broke and needs fixing."
Saturday, March 31, 2018
a story about ...
... my brother, that needs to be told and shared with people who will be amused. When I was there visiting earlier this week, his wife and I spent a good bit of time just talking, about his working years, the person he is, and how co-workers related to him over time. I've known he has what I would call a 'dry wit', in that you had to know him, and spend time around him to know if he was joking or possibly being a smart ass. What might be referred to as a sense of humor that is slightly off center. Even as a teenager, his way of looking at the world was a bit off kilter. He did love puns, and was really sharp-witted in conversation, making 'funnies' that many never actually caught on to, but if you did, you would crack up.
The wife, even now, says she is not always sure how to respond to things that he says: serious or being funny? Depends on the circumstances, I suppose. He said some things when I was there that were hilarious, but easily overlooked if you were not paying attention. So even as his health declines, that sense of humor is still there, slipping in witticism and catching you off guard. He struggles with finding the right words, and I think that is part of the illness, as his mental abilities are slowly being consumed, with this evil in his head that affects his memory. But still remarkably sharp.
He was telling me a story, when I was sitting talking to him, as his mind wandered. About his grandson, who is about two and a half. One hundred percent little boy: busy, busy, busy and always getting into something. Loves anything with wheels: car, trucks, earth-movers, tracked vehicles, and especially ones that make a lot of noise, he can duplicate as he rolls them across the floor or table.
The story he told was something that sounds like a dream, or more likely just occurring inside his head as he struggles with this debilitating illness. He reported that Sonny, the grandson, was wearing overalls - and that the last time he counted there were 131 Sonnys. I distinctly recall that he used the word 'replicating', and that it was difficult to keep up with them all, as the numbers were continually increasing. But he figured out the way to keep them all under control, by putting up pegs in the wall, and hanging them up in rows, by the straps on their overalls.
When his wife heard the story, about the little people being stored on the wall to keep them from wandering off, she was very worried. Concerned that the little ones would be hurt hanging there from the pegs. But he assured her that they were perfectly content, just hanging there, cheerfully talking to each other, wiggling. They were flapping around, waiting for their turn to be taken down and given the opportunity to run around freely.
The really interesting part is that they were all hanging on the walls in the basement of Sonny's uncle. My brother had been doing some work in the unfinished 'bonus' area of his son's house back in the fall. Running electricity, hanging light fixtures, putting up two-by-fours, and installing sheet-rock, adding molding, installing doors, painting. Building some shelving to make the new rooms useful. Trying to help get the basement finished so they could use the space for storage.
I presume remembering all the work he had done in his son's house to help them get it finished, combined with his love of that little guy and devotion to family came together into this hilarious tale.
He told me years ago that he planned to spend the rest of his life in Virginia, because his sons thought of it as home, and he so wanted to be there to have the pleasure of being a grandparent. The parents of Sonny also have a daughter, who is in Kindergarten, and crazy about her Pop and Mimi.
The wife, even now, says she is not always sure how to respond to things that he says: serious or being funny? Depends on the circumstances, I suppose. He said some things when I was there that were hilarious, but easily overlooked if you were not paying attention. So even as his health declines, that sense of humor is still there, slipping in witticism and catching you off guard. He struggles with finding the right words, and I think that is part of the illness, as his mental abilities are slowly being consumed, with this evil in his head that affects his memory. But still remarkably sharp.
He was telling me a story, when I was sitting talking to him, as his mind wandered. About his grandson, who is about two and a half. One hundred percent little boy: busy, busy, busy and always getting into something. Loves anything with wheels: car, trucks, earth-movers, tracked vehicles, and especially ones that make a lot of noise, he can duplicate as he rolls them across the floor or table.
The story he told was something that sounds like a dream, or more likely just occurring inside his head as he struggles with this debilitating illness. He reported that Sonny, the grandson, was wearing overalls - and that the last time he counted there were 131 Sonnys. I distinctly recall that he used the word 'replicating', and that it was difficult to keep up with them all, as the numbers were continually increasing. But he figured out the way to keep them all under control, by putting up pegs in the wall, and hanging them up in rows, by the straps on their overalls.
When his wife heard the story, about the little people being stored on the wall to keep them from wandering off, she was very worried. Concerned that the little ones would be hurt hanging there from the pegs. But he assured her that they were perfectly content, just hanging there, cheerfully talking to each other, wiggling. They were flapping around, waiting for their turn to be taken down and given the opportunity to run around freely.
The really interesting part is that they were all hanging on the walls in the basement of Sonny's uncle. My brother had been doing some work in the unfinished 'bonus' area of his son's house back in the fall. Running electricity, hanging light fixtures, putting up two-by-fours, and installing sheet-rock, adding molding, installing doors, painting. Building some shelving to make the new rooms useful. Trying to help get the basement finished so they could use the space for storage.
I presume remembering all the work he had done in his son's house to help them get it finished, combined with his love of that little guy and devotion to family came together into this hilarious tale.
He told me years ago that he planned to spend the rest of his life in Virginia, because his sons thought of it as home, and he so wanted to be there to have the pleasure of being a grandparent. The parents of Sonny also have a daughter, who is in Kindergarten, and crazy about her Pop and Mimi.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
possibly the most ...
...depressing book I have ever read. While being so intriguing I could not put it down, and finished in one day. I started it Sunday night, but only got about twenty pages into it before my eyes would not stay open, and I had to turn out the light. Got started again while waiting at the airport for my flight to VA, having arrived much too early with lots of time on my hands. In the land of $2.50 sodas where I refused to put my cash into vending (even though they would happily take my plastic for payment.)
I'd been to the library on Saturday afternoon, looking for something to amuse myself with while traveling. And stopped at the bookshelf near the entrance where the 'Friends' always has a selection of paperbacks ready to be picked up for $1. Sadly, I accidentally stole them, when I went on into the stacks to find a talking book and forgot to stop and pay on the way out. I feel really badly about this and hope the library does not read my blog, to discover the theft and come bang on my door, demanding restitution.
The title of the book is "The Road". By highly acclaimed, well known author Cormac McCarthy. You might have seen the movie, based on the book, if you want to be realllllyyy depressed. About a man and his young son, trying to survive in a post-nuclear world. Everything is gray, burned to a crisp, constantly covered in ash. They struggle to find food, cover from cold and rain, protect themselves from predators who are also looking for food and ways to survive. The two are walking, trudging along abandoned roadways or running scared through charred forests being hounded by men who are chasing them.
It was sad, and left me feeling blue. Finished before I went to bed last night. Well written, so beautifully phrased and worded that I could not stop, turning page after page. Though I knew it would end badly, I read all the way to the last page. Where I found short paragraphs about some of McCarthy's other books that made me want to read them all. A trilogy written about cowboys from early in the twentieth century that I think I would really enjoy. Plus another that was a movie, filled with violence and gore: "No Country For Old Men", which I am pretty sure I do not want to read, from what I vaguely recall about the trailer that was way too gritty and graphic for my sensibilities.
I'd been to the library on Saturday afternoon, looking for something to amuse myself with while traveling. And stopped at the bookshelf near the entrance where the 'Friends' always has a selection of paperbacks ready to be picked up for $1. Sadly, I accidentally stole them, when I went on into the stacks to find a talking book and forgot to stop and pay on the way out. I feel really badly about this and hope the library does not read my blog, to discover the theft and come bang on my door, demanding restitution.
The title of the book is "The Road". By highly acclaimed, well known author Cormac McCarthy. You might have seen the movie, based on the book, if you want to be realllllyyy depressed. About a man and his young son, trying to survive in a post-nuclear world. Everything is gray, burned to a crisp, constantly covered in ash. They struggle to find food, cover from cold and rain, protect themselves from predators who are also looking for food and ways to survive. The two are walking, trudging along abandoned roadways or running scared through charred forests being hounded by men who are chasing them.
It was sad, and left me feeling blue. Finished before I went to bed last night. Well written, so beautifully phrased and worded that I could not stop, turning page after page. Though I knew it would end badly, I read all the way to the last page. Where I found short paragraphs about some of McCarthy's other books that made me want to read them all. A trilogy written about cowboys from early in the twentieth century that I think I would really enjoy. Plus another that was a movie, filled with violence and gore: "No Country For Old Men", which I am pretty sure I do not want to read, from what I vaguely recall about the trailer that was way too gritty and graphic for my sensibilities.
book review: "Manitou Canyon"...
... another in the series I have become addicted to by William Kent Krueger. Following the same family living in the northern reaches of Minnesota. These people have as much drama in their lives as the afternoon stories my grandmother used to watch on television when I was a kid. Cork O'Connor will find himself lured into some crisis, and end up with a convoluted trail of bedlam, often bloody, occasionally with numerous corpses, that it takes an entire book to untangle. His family is often drawn in, and their lives in the home on Gooseberry Lane disrupted when circumstances bring chaos into their lives.
In the most recent read, Cork is asked by a pair of young adults to help find their missing grandfather. The parents were killed years ago, and the grandfather raised the two children, with the boy and girl being cared for by nannies, and sent to expensive boarding schools. The grandfather, John Harris grew up in the small town of Aurora where the O'Connor family lives, Cork several years younger than John, though they were neighbors and friends. When the Harris family: John and two young adults were out on a camping trip in the Boundary Waters, the elder Harris vanished. Search and Rescue teams spent days looking, but found nothing. After law enforcement ended their efforts, Cork was hired.
This takes place two weeks before Cork's daughter Jenny is to be married. When Cork and the girl also disappear into the wilderness, the O'Connor family begins a desperate search. Cork's son Steve comes home, enters the picture and joins in the search, along with Jenny's finance, Cork's friend and mentor Henry, a native healer and Rani, Henry's protege. The plot twists and turns, as the abductees are forced to travel north into Canada, paddling canoes, portaging between lakes, camping in increasingly cold and difficult weather.
No spoiler here. Just lots of tense moments in the telling/reading of the tale as I listened while driving. I've listened to so many of the stories by Krueger, and feel like I am personally acquainted with those characters who people his tales of the north woods and Ojibwa nation, I don't want them to end. And especially do not want to get to the end of all the books he has written - running out of stories about the O'Connors and extended family.
In the most recent read, Cork is asked by a pair of young adults to help find their missing grandfather. The parents were killed years ago, and the grandfather raised the two children, with the boy and girl being cared for by nannies, and sent to expensive boarding schools. The grandfather, John Harris grew up in the small town of Aurora where the O'Connor family lives, Cork several years younger than John, though they were neighbors and friends. When the Harris family: John and two young adults were out on a camping trip in the Boundary Waters, the elder Harris vanished. Search and Rescue teams spent days looking, but found nothing. After law enforcement ended their efforts, Cork was hired.
This takes place two weeks before Cork's daughter Jenny is to be married. When Cork and the girl also disappear into the wilderness, the O'Connor family begins a desperate search. Cork's son Steve comes home, enters the picture and joins in the search, along with Jenny's finance, Cork's friend and mentor Henry, a native healer and Rani, Henry's protege. The plot twists and turns, as the abductees are forced to travel north into Canada, paddling canoes, portaging between lakes, camping in increasingly cold and difficult weather.
No spoiler here. Just lots of tense moments in the telling/reading of the tale as I listened while driving. I've listened to so many of the stories by Krueger, and feel like I am personally acquainted with those characters who people his tales of the north woods and Ojibwa nation, I don't want them to end. And especially do not want to get to the end of all the books he has written - running out of stories about the O'Connors and extended family.
even though...
...it is in poor taste, and not something you would tell a small child due to requiring unwanted explanations, it is still funny. Someone told me a joke at work recently that was so amusing I started laughing long before the punch line. Just the set up, when you have a good imagination and are able to form a mental picture was so hilarious, I was entertained before he even got to the part meant to be funny.
The co-worker started by telling me: "there are two potatoes standing on the street corner." Doesn't that present an interesting picture in your head? Are you laughing already, with the idea of Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head standing on a busy corner in some large city, waiting for the traffic light to change so they can cross the intersection? While waiting for traffic to clear, swapping out various parts, changing mouths or ears? It made a marvelous image when he started telling the story... Causing me to crack up before he even got underway, so he said "have you heard this?" I said no, but the snapshot that appeared in my head when that thought went in was so amusing I could not help but laugh.
He went on: starting over with the idea of the family of potatoes standing on the sidewalk, and asked if I knew how to tell which one was the prostitute? I thought to myself 'Uh-oh, where is this going?' But took a chance and said "I don't know." The answer: You have to look for the one that has a sticker that says "I-da-ho".
Say it aloud. Think about it!
The co-worker started by telling me: "there are two potatoes standing on the street corner." Doesn't that present an interesting picture in your head? Are you laughing already, with the idea of Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head standing on a busy corner in some large city, waiting for the traffic light to change so they can cross the intersection? While waiting for traffic to clear, swapping out various parts, changing mouths or ears? It made a marvelous image when he started telling the story... Causing me to crack up before he even got underway, so he said "have you heard this?" I said no, but the snapshot that appeared in my head when that thought went in was so amusing I could not help but laugh.
He went on: starting over with the idea of the family of potatoes standing on the sidewalk, and asked if I knew how to tell which one was the prostitute? I thought to myself 'Uh-oh, where is this going?' But took a chance and said "I don't know." The answer: You have to look for the one that has a sticker that says "I-da-ho".
Say it aloud. Think about it!
Monday, March 26, 2018
traveling to ...
... Virginia to spend a couple of days with my brother and his sweet wife. I have not been in about a month, and do not talk to her much as I am reluctant to call and have her feel like she needs to answer if the timing is not good for conversing. She did call last week, and said she was getting second hand info. from other people and wanted to get it from the source.
I had written, to let her know about travel plans, inquiring to be sure the timing was ok. After first asking my supervisor at work for approval to take time off right before the upcoming busy retail weekend. I had the idea that I could get the retired Delta friend to get me another of the discounted tickets I traveled on during the last trip. But she was really discouraging, saying between a holiday weekend and a gazillion people on spring break it was Not a Good Time to Travel.So no Buddy Pass for me, but my plans were laid: I bought a ticket atfull price just to be certain I would get on the flight I wanted.
Uneventful trip, even though the instructions I printed indicated that getting to the airport two hours early would be wise due to construction chaos around the terminal. Which caused me to have much extra time on my hands and nearly finish one of the two books I brought as a diversion on my travels. Things went smoothly until arriving at my destination, when the travel arrangements went awry.
The family friend who has been so dependable about ferrying from the RIC failed to show, though we had made plans for her to pick me up upon arrival. After standing in a brisk wind for twenty minutes, getting thoroughly chilled as the temperature dropped precipitously, I checked my phone, found a missed call. She was stalled along the roadway with two flat tires.
Standing on the sidewalk looking at a row of yellow cabs, I decided to just take a taxi. Without giving myself time to consider how uneasy I felt the last time I was in a cab with a strange man many years ago. I know now I should have paused and allowed myself ample time to be equally unsettled today: he could speak or spell or read English. And as soon as he put the vehicle in gear, the doors locked and I was stuck. Though he seemed to be convinced that the GPS in his phone was the solution, he could not get the name of the street spelled right, which convinced me I was not in the right vehicle!
I finally persuaded him to unlock the door, so I could get out of his conveyance, after threatening to get my phone out to call the police. He was probably as annoyed as I was due to loosing a fare as well as his place in the taxi lineup. I was so freaked out when he expected me to put the address in his phone I did not want to go any place with a man who had not mastered the language. That was just 'way more stress than I needed in my life, so I moved on to plan B. Called the nephew and he came to take me to the house. Finally safely delivered to my destination.
I had written, to let her know about travel plans, inquiring to be sure the timing was ok. After first asking my supervisor at work for approval to take time off right before the upcoming busy retail weekend. I had the idea that I could get the retired Delta friend to get me another of the discounted tickets I traveled on during the last trip. But she was really discouraging, saying between a holiday weekend and a gazillion people on spring break it was Not a Good Time to Travel.So no Buddy Pass for me, but my plans were laid: I bought a ticket atfull price just to be certain I would get on the flight I wanted.
Uneventful trip, even though the instructions I printed indicated that getting to the airport two hours early would be wise due to construction chaos around the terminal. Which caused me to have much extra time on my hands and nearly finish one of the two books I brought as a diversion on my travels. Things went smoothly until arriving at my destination, when the travel arrangements went awry.
The family friend who has been so dependable about ferrying from the RIC failed to show, though we had made plans for her to pick me up upon arrival. After standing in a brisk wind for twenty minutes, getting thoroughly chilled as the temperature dropped precipitously, I checked my phone, found a missed call. She was stalled along the roadway with two flat tires.
Standing on the sidewalk looking at a row of yellow cabs, I decided to just take a taxi. Without giving myself time to consider how uneasy I felt the last time I was in a cab with a strange man many years ago. I know now I should have paused and allowed myself ample time to be equally unsettled today: he could speak or spell or read English. And as soon as he put the vehicle in gear, the doors locked and I was stuck. Though he seemed to be convinced that the GPS in his phone was the solution, he could not get the name of the street spelled right, which convinced me I was not in the right vehicle!
I finally persuaded him to unlock the door, so I could get out of his conveyance, after threatening to get my phone out to call the police. He was probably as annoyed as I was due to loosing a fare as well as his place in the taxi lineup. I was so freaked out when he expected me to put the address in his phone I did not want to go any place with a man who had not mastered the language. That was just 'way more stress than I needed in my life, so I moved on to plan B. Called the nephew and he came to take me to the house. Finally safely delivered to my destination.
Sunday, March 25, 2018
driving on the interstate...
.. highway after a long day at work. I was on the schedule to be on the job from 7 till 4, and called to ask if I could come in sooner and get it over with. Hoping to be allowed to arrive at 5 and be finished by 2 with a break for going to church at 9:30. As it turned out I did get there at to start working at 5:00 a.m., which means I had to set the alarm for 4:00. And was able to get finished up and out the door by 2:30.
I went home to throw some stuff in a suitcase in a most haphazard manner, completely disorganized, not sure if I should be packing for winter or spring. Got on the road and headed north, to drive up to Decatur. Listening to a talking book, but tired from being on my feets all day, plus that very early (4:00 a.m.) start. Comfortable in my little Toyota, glad to be sitting down after working all day. Obviously weary, thinking: "I am just going to have to pull off and take a little nap to refresh my brain before something really bad happens out here on the interstate highway."
I have a completely untested, unproven theory about the cause of sudden onset, dangerous sleepiness while driving: re-breathing. In a closed up vehicle full of carbon dioxide, you are not getting enough oxygen in your system to keep your brain alert. Not as bad as breathing exhaust fumes, and filling your blood stream with carbon monoxide, but certainly not beneficial when you run off the road into a tree or oncoming semi. When you crack the window open to get fresh air in the cabin, you generally find yourself becoming more alert and less drowsy.
I went home to throw some stuff in a suitcase in a most haphazard manner, completely disorganized, not sure if I should be packing for winter or spring. Got on the road and headed north, to drive up to Decatur. Listening to a talking book, but tired from being on my feets all day, plus that very early (4:00 a.m.) start. Comfortable in my little Toyota, glad to be sitting down after working all day. Obviously weary, thinking: "I am just going to have to pull off and take a little nap to refresh my brain before something really bad happens out here on the interstate highway."
I have a completely untested, unproven theory about the cause of sudden onset, dangerous sleepiness while driving: re-breathing. In a closed up vehicle full of carbon dioxide, you are not getting enough oxygen in your system to keep your brain alert. Not as bad as breathing exhaust fumes, and filling your blood stream with carbon monoxide, but certainly not beneficial when you run off the road into a tree or oncoming semi. When you crack the window open to get fresh air in the cabin, you generally find yourself becoming more alert and less drowsy.
Saturday, March 24, 2018
another weekend...
... spent in Harris County, when volunteering (again!) my time. This donation of my person was at Callaway Gardens, for their annual spring plant sale. I gave away half of Friday and most of Saturday to be an extra set of hands and feet for a vendor from Roanoke AL who was there with homegrown plants to sell. It was a little different from recent years when I have been up to Callaway to help with plant sales.
When I arrived, there was no particular assignment, no specific job for me on the list of volunteers. I went to be useful, so walked up to someone who was unloading plants and said: "I am here to help, put me to work." She said her name was Suzanna, and that she was a one-woman business. I spent several hours making tags for plants without identifiers, pricing things, rearranging pots on tables, making it appear organized. Business was a bit slow on Friday, but there were a number of folks attending classes with expert speakers. Those people attending the gardening workshops,would come through in clumps, dragging noisy little red wagons they would fill with plants to take home and nurture.
Suzanna reportedly grows most of the plants she sells, with greenhouses on her own property. Starting many of the things either from seeds or cuttings of plants that are already established. I can imagine it to be tiring work, putting in lots of hours that would eventually become exhausting no matter how much you think you enjoy propagating or planting wee little seeds. And once you get started down this path, you have to keep going when you realize you have invested so much time, effort and funding into the project you continue with the far off hope of eventually making a profit. I can see how it would be an endeavor where you feel like you keep digging that hole you are in deeper and deeper?
In years past, the vendors have been assigned spaces under the big circus tent you can see from Highway 27 as you drive north towards Pine Mountain village. The Gardens would expect a percentage of everything vendors sold over the four days of sales. This year, vendors had to rent space and pay an up front fee for their booth. Then handle all the sales to customers, making change and charging tax independently. It seems reasonable to assume that the change would benefit the Gardens financially, but I cannot imagine how just a flat fee for the booth area would improve their income from the event. Most of the manpower that was handling sales in the past when the event was there under the Big Top tent was volunteer labor, people donating their time over several days. I saw many volunteers just sitting around over the two days I was there, people doing nothing but chatting, occupying chairs all day long. Making it obvious they had more people than jobs that needed doing.
I know she was disappointed with the poor sales on Friday, but think she made up for lack of customers and business by the volume today. I don't know how much she sold, as I declined to handle any of her money (plus many were paying with cards/plastic) though I have the sense that today was a good day during which she sold many of her larger/higher priced pots. She was going home overnight and returning Sunday morning with more things people were inquiring about, and will hopefully feel like the weekend was a success. I heard her say she was going to shows/sales nearly every week for the next couple of months. Making me very thankful I am not self-employed!
When I arrived, there was no particular assignment, no specific job for me on the list of volunteers. I went to be useful, so walked up to someone who was unloading plants and said: "I am here to help, put me to work." She said her name was Suzanna, and that she was a one-woman business. I spent several hours making tags for plants without identifiers, pricing things, rearranging pots on tables, making it appear organized. Business was a bit slow on Friday, but there were a number of folks attending classes with expert speakers. Those people attending the gardening workshops,would come through in clumps, dragging noisy little red wagons they would fill with plants to take home and nurture.
Suzanna reportedly grows most of the plants she sells, with greenhouses on her own property. Starting many of the things either from seeds or cuttings of plants that are already established. I can imagine it to be tiring work, putting in lots of hours that would eventually become exhausting no matter how much you think you enjoy propagating or planting wee little seeds. And once you get started down this path, you have to keep going when you realize you have invested so much time, effort and funding into the project you continue with the far off hope of eventually making a profit. I can see how it would be an endeavor where you feel like you keep digging that hole you are in deeper and deeper?
In years past, the vendors have been assigned spaces under the big circus tent you can see from Highway 27 as you drive north towards Pine Mountain village. The Gardens would expect a percentage of everything vendors sold over the four days of sales. This year, vendors had to rent space and pay an up front fee for their booth. Then handle all the sales to customers, making change and charging tax independently. It seems reasonable to assume that the change would benefit the Gardens financially, but I cannot imagine how just a flat fee for the booth area would improve their income from the event. Most of the manpower that was handling sales in the past when the event was there under the Big Top tent was volunteer labor, people donating their time over several days. I saw many volunteers just sitting around over the two days I was there, people doing nothing but chatting, occupying chairs all day long. Making it obvious they had more people than jobs that needed doing.
I know she was disappointed with the poor sales on Friday, but think she made up for lack of customers and business by the volume today. I don't know how much she sold, as I declined to handle any of her money (plus many were paying with cards/plastic) though I have the sense that today was a good day during which she sold many of her larger/higher priced pots. She was going home overnight and returning Sunday morning with more things people were inquiring about, and will hopefully feel like the weekend was a success. I heard her say she was going to shows/sales nearly every week for the next couple of months. Making me very thankful I am not self-employed!
Thursday, March 22, 2018
church planter...
I had a friend help me plant the pansies, those teeny ones with the tiny little blooms and smiling faces back in the fall when I was disabled and my right hand was useless. Added a little of the timed-release fertilizer that is pelletized to dissolve over several months, hoping the pansies would do well in the cold weather. They have acclimated really well to contiainer living, blooming since we put them in the pots back in the early fall.
When I planted the big central shrub last spring, I put in some bulbs donated from another friend that I was optimistic about blooming over and over. Really did not expect the pinks/dianthus will do so well - I could not believe my eyes when I walked up and it was so full of tiny little pinks and happy pansy faces. Though the dianthus is supposed to be a perennial, because it is in a big planter and roots would be more exposed to cold weather, I was not expecting it would survive cold weather. What a nice surprise.
The big shrub planted in the middle is a Virgina sweet spire. I recently read an article in the paper about a newer version that has pink blooms, but the two I planted last spring will be white. They are fragrant and a delight to discover when your nose draws you to wonder: 'what in the world is blooming that is so aromatic?' Then you follow your nose, as you track the delicious fragrance wafting on the breeze and see that homely looking little shrub, think: 'what in the world is this blooming thing that is so aromatic?' Ask me. I am the only one who knows!
book review: "The Invention of Wings"...
... written by Sue Monk Kidd. You might think the author's name vaguely familiar, and wonder if you have read some of her other work. Possibly, but more likely you saw a movie adaptation of her book "The Secret Lives of Bees"? About a young girl who was taken in by a family of beekeepers and the lessons learned from having the patience to care for those industrious insects. I'm not sure I saw the movie but read the book and found some good lessons to be discerned from Kidd's fictional writing.
This more recent publication is really interesting. I listened to the Cds, with two different voices reading the stories of the two main characters. A disturbing tale of life in Charleston, SC, in the early 1800's when slavery was a way of life in much of the United States. The story was told from two different viewpoints: a young slave girl and the young daughter of the wealthy family the slave was given to on her eleventh birthday. As children they are very close and spent most of their waking hours together, then the young slave was required to sleep on the floor just outside the bedroom door.
The recording was narrated by two different voices throughout the reading, which helped to make the changes from one character to another more discernible when not looking at the printed page.The daughter Charlotte was well educated for a female of this era, and allowed access to all the books in her attorney father's library. She innocently taught her slave, Hettie, to read, not knowing teaching Negroes to read was a crime. When it was discovered the slave was literate, Charlotte was forbidden to read more of the library books, though she had hoped for a career, following in her father's footsteps as a lawyer.
Over time this young woman came to detest slavery, and eventually went to live in the north and became a Quaker. She and her younger sister felt so strongly about abolition, they traveled and spoke out about slavery, as well as women's rights. At the end of the book, a short recording by the author describes how she discovered the history of these two women, who were virtually disowned by their family as they espoused freeing all the slaves. Real women, though a footnote in history. Kidd makes their story fascinating, adding references to other women of the time who became more well known, outspoken females in a time when women were considered second class citizens, without legal rights.
This more recent publication is really interesting. I listened to the Cds, with two different voices reading the stories of the two main characters. A disturbing tale of life in Charleston, SC, in the early 1800's when slavery was a way of life in much of the United States. The story was told from two different viewpoints: a young slave girl and the young daughter of the wealthy family the slave was given to on her eleventh birthday. As children they are very close and spent most of their waking hours together, then the young slave was required to sleep on the floor just outside the bedroom door.
The recording was narrated by two different voices throughout the reading, which helped to make the changes from one character to another more discernible when not looking at the printed page.The daughter Charlotte was well educated for a female of this era, and allowed access to all the books in her attorney father's library. She innocently taught her slave, Hettie, to read, not knowing teaching Negroes to read was a crime. When it was discovered the slave was literate, Charlotte was forbidden to read more of the library books, though she had hoped for a career, following in her father's footsteps as a lawyer.
Over time this young woman came to detest slavery, and eventually went to live in the north and became a Quaker. She and her younger sister felt so strongly about abolition, they traveled and spoke out about slavery, as well as women's rights. At the end of the book, a short recording by the author describes how she discovered the history of these two women, who were virtually disowned by their family as they espoused freeing all the slaves. Real women, though a footnote in history. Kidd makes their story fascinating, adding references to other women of the time who became more well known, outspoken females in a time when women were considered second class citizens, without legal rights.
it happens to ...
... other people, but has never happened in my many years of being employed in the grocery business. Even though there have been times when I have heard of fellow employees having to work odd hours to satisfy labor needs, I've not been called upon to work a 'split shift'. Until today, when I set my alarm for 4:00 a.m., to be on the job at 5:00. And already back home again, thinking about a nap, and it is shortly past 7:00 a.m.
In an effort to be completely transparent, I readily admit to working for this same employer some years ago when I hoped to be dismissed for the day. In a different department/area of the business where it seemed like there was no possibility of doing the right thing for my manager. So frustrated by the demands of my boss, I actually asked if she wanted to send me home. Making the suggestion myself to avoid spending the rest of the day with her. Knowing she would not agree, because she did not want to stay and work the late shift I had been assigned. Looking back, it is obvious that was not something I was meant to do, and also not worth the aggravation, frustration and stress of thinking I wanted to work full time.
In all truthiness, I must admit that I volunteered to leave today, ready and willing to be sent home and return mid-afternoon. Several people who are normally highly dependable have not been present this week, with legitimate requested time off as paid vacation. All well and good, but resulting in insufficient manpower to accomplish the necessary daily tasks of a business day. Not enough hands to get it all done, while allowing those present to take breaks as required by law.
Leading me to agree to leave after only two hours, and return in the afternoon to finish out my day. I have four more hours to work, and want to get all the time they will allow. In order to generate a decent paycheck, and have the company reimburse the time invested, so it is a mutual agreement. All negotiated to allow the guy who comes in for afternoon work, until the store closes at ten o'clock to take his lunch break. I believe I can find plenty to do to keep myself busy, and feel I am capable of working without supervision, able to do what needs doing. So my split shift is two hours here, and four hours there, getting remarkably close to the maximum forty for the work week that ends on Friday.
I forgot to put on my work shoes before I left home at 4:42 this morning, dashing out the door in my air-conditioned clogs, completely unsuitable for wearing all day on my feets. I was pondering the best way to resolve that crisis of limb extremities: concluded i would just take an early lunch break and run home for shoes that make my feets happy. Then as things evolved, and I offered to be sent home, that problem resolved itself. How convenient! That certainly worked out well...
PS. the nap was excellent. I'm much better prepared for the rest of the day!
In an effort to be completely transparent, I readily admit to working for this same employer some years ago when I hoped to be dismissed for the day. In a different department/area of the business where it seemed like there was no possibility of doing the right thing for my manager. So frustrated by the demands of my boss, I actually asked if she wanted to send me home. Making the suggestion myself to avoid spending the rest of the day with her. Knowing she would not agree, because she did not want to stay and work the late shift I had been assigned. Looking back, it is obvious that was not something I was meant to do, and also not worth the aggravation, frustration and stress of thinking I wanted to work full time.
In all truthiness, I must admit that I volunteered to leave today, ready and willing to be sent home and return mid-afternoon. Several people who are normally highly dependable have not been present this week, with legitimate requested time off as paid vacation. All well and good, but resulting in insufficient manpower to accomplish the necessary daily tasks of a business day. Not enough hands to get it all done, while allowing those present to take breaks as required by law.
Leading me to agree to leave after only two hours, and return in the afternoon to finish out my day. I have four more hours to work, and want to get all the time they will allow. In order to generate a decent paycheck, and have the company reimburse the time invested, so it is a mutual agreement. All negotiated to allow the guy who comes in for afternoon work, until the store closes at ten o'clock to take his lunch break. I believe I can find plenty to do to keep myself busy, and feel I am capable of working without supervision, able to do what needs doing. So my split shift is two hours here, and four hours there, getting remarkably close to the maximum forty for the work week that ends on Friday.
I forgot to put on my work shoes before I left home at 4:42 this morning, dashing out the door in my air-conditioned clogs, completely unsuitable for wearing all day on my feets. I was pondering the best way to resolve that crisis of limb extremities: concluded i would just take an early lunch break and run home for shoes that make my feets happy. Then as things evolved, and I offered to be sent home, that problem resolved itself. How convenient! That certainly worked out well...
PS. the nap was excellent. I'm much better prepared for the rest of the day!
my maternal grandmother...
... was years ahead of Al Gore. She was famously quoted by my mom for half a century before Mr. Gore came along with his theories. Following his claim to have invented the Internet, which set the tone for not believing anything that came out of his mouth, in the manner of the fable "The Boy Who Cried Wolf." Then came the alarm about Global Warming, and all the hazards the planet faces as a result of pollution, wasteful disregard for the air water and soil we depend on for existence. General overall misuse and casual indifference to the resources we appear to believe are endless, but do in fact, have limitations.
I clearly remember my mom quoting her mother-in-law Rosa, when something unexpected would occur on a large scale. Something affecting thousands of individuals: like unexpected storms, or unseasonably cold weather at a time when it would normally be mild. Droughts over a period of years that leave areas desperate for rainfall to replenish lakes and support food crops. Hurricanes that are a hazard of living in the south, especially during the heat of summer if you reside in Florida or near the ocean, either Gulf coast or Atlantic. And tornadoes that can appear out of a cloudless sky on a moments notice, wreak havoc and vanish.
I do not personally remember hearing the statement forth directly from my grandmother, but my mom said it with such authority, I am a believer. The quote from Rosa: 'We are living in the last days". In reality that has been true for two thousand years. I've heard it all my life, and find reason to apply it to things that occur with frightening frequency. Assorted international disasters, as well as horrifying events closer to home.
As the weather we observe and live with from day to day vacillates from one extreme to the other, I find myself wondering what's going on. I thought we were into spring, and then go looking for the wool socks I put away, expecting winter was over. I thought I could move warm under-layers to a storage bin until at least November, and then have to dig them out to wear one last time - for the third of the 'last times'. As I am continually, repeatedly reminded: Grandma Rosa was right: The Last Days Are Upon Us.
i
I clearly remember my mom quoting her mother-in-law Rosa, when something unexpected would occur on a large scale. Something affecting thousands of individuals: like unexpected storms, or unseasonably cold weather at a time when it would normally be mild. Droughts over a period of years that leave areas desperate for rainfall to replenish lakes and support food crops. Hurricanes that are a hazard of living in the south, especially during the heat of summer if you reside in Florida or near the ocean, either Gulf coast or Atlantic. And tornadoes that can appear out of a cloudless sky on a moments notice, wreak havoc and vanish.
I do not personally remember hearing the statement forth directly from my grandmother, but my mom said it with such authority, I am a believer. The quote from Rosa: 'We are living in the last days". In reality that has been true for two thousand years. I've heard it all my life, and find reason to apply it to things that occur with frightening frequency. Assorted international disasters, as well as horrifying events closer to home.
As the weather we observe and live with from day to day vacillates from one extreme to the other, I find myself wondering what's going on. I thought we were into spring, and then go looking for the wool socks I put away, expecting winter was over. I thought I could move warm under-layers to a storage bin until at least November, and then have to dig them out to wear one last time - for the third of the 'last times'. As I am continually, repeatedly reminded: Grandma Rosa was right: The Last Days Are Upon Us.
i
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
the thing that happens ....
... when the sun shines, the weather warms, things start turning green. All indicators making me know that spring is on the way: I am some how compelled to take the 'garden shop route' when I need to run into Walmart. Normally I can just dash in and out, grab what I want, and run through the self-check out line, get out the door with that one thing and on my way. But when those colorful bloomers begin to make their appearance in the garden shop, I am suckered into the detour, have lust for things I did not mean to purchase.
It happened about a week ago, causing me to come out the door with at least forty dollars worth of little bags of plant starts I did not intend to purchase. Several peonies, bags of astilbe in colors I have never seen before, and a really pretty purple iris. Most were given away, relieving me of the responsibility of planting and caring for them. There was a time when I would plant things and say: 'OK. I've done my part, now the rest is up to you.' But lately, after investing cash to get the plants home, plus time to put them in a location where I hope they will be happy, with good nutritious soil, I feel the weighty obligation to nurture, water, fertilize, tend.
In a burst of energy, when I got home from eight hours of on-my-feet yesterday, I dug some holes and got the pink, purple, and red astilbe planted. This occurred because I went to Wallyworld again. Thinking I could run in, make my selection, dash through the self-check out line and be on my way. Foolishly thinking I would make a quick trip: failing to consider it was Saturday afternoon, and every redneck from six counties would be there shopping.
Sadly, I was lured into the garden shop, where I was once again lured into making a purchase: bought asparagus starts, which I came home and planted. Out along the property line, next to the asparagus starts from two years ago, that are already industriously making asparagus. The last time I saw some spears that had unexpectedly appeared out there along the fence, I cut them and ate them right there, on the spot: no washing, no cooking, no cleaning, just chomping on freshly harvested asparagus. Yum!
Thursday, March 15, 2018
ready to tell...
...on myself. Even though there was no witness to foolish behavior, I am willing to share. It appears I am easier to amuse as I age, plus there is a complicating or possibly alleviating factor. Over the years, I find things that would have been horrifyingly embarrassing now are closer to the laughable end of the scale rather than mortifying. There is a snippet of video (now transferred to a disc and available for viewing the spectacle) of an early example of tragic humiliation when a youngster dropped a plate of cookies. Leaving me abashed and flabbergasted, making a hasty retreat across the back yard.
That is not the same 'me' as the one today. I am: so what? who cares? get over it! move on with life!
The story starts with filching a container of vegetable soup from the left overs at the retreat center last Sunday. I had asked, politely putting in my request, offering to bring my container to take some some food that would have otherwise gone to the nearby men's shelter as a donation. Remembering to take the plastic bowl and lid, I gave it to the team manager, and she filled with yummy soup. I hoped to make a couple of meals out of it, to feed The Man Who Lives Here, with a quick easy meal. Good plan, right?
But when I got home after four long days of donating my time, and flopped down exhausted on Sunday afternoon, he was eating a bowl of ice cream with peanut butter on it. Which is nearly a balanced meal if you stand far enough away, close one eye and squint with the other.. Protein, milk, etc., etc. At that point, I saw no reason to offer to prepare him anything even remotely similar to nutritious.
On Monday, when he asked 'do we have any supper plans?', I responded: 'soup and a sandwich.' Thinking I could throw a cheese sandwich in the skillet and heat up a bowl of hearty, yummy, healthy vegetable soup. He asked for tomato soup, made with whole milk. My response was 'that might not be one of your choices.' I got up from sitting right here and went in the kitchen to poke around in the pantry and did find a can of Campbell's Tomato. And put it in a sauce pan with milk to heat.
Here is where the laughable part starts: I got a couple of slices of bread, added mayonnaise on both and slices of cheese. Put a pat of butter in the skillet to melt, then laid his sandwich in the pan. Picked up the Time magazine and started reading. Flipped the sandwich over to let it brown on the other side, and get the cheese to melt, creating luscious gooey-ness. I proceeded to get involved in the magazine, thereby letting the bread char instead of toasting in the pan. Oh, s#*t.
When I realized the sandwich was now inedible, I picked up the skillet and walked out of the house. No, I did not run away from home. I just parked the skillet with carbonized bread on the metal chair on the screened porch, and went back in to start over. With a fresh sandwich and clean skillet. Rest assured I did not own up to the minor cooking disaster. Actually, I am of the opinion: If no one knows about it, it didn't happen!
Later, went out in the backyard and tossed the charred sandwich out for recycling. The same place I will occasionally deposit the odd bit of over-ripe fruit or vegetables that are so far past their prime as to be deadly if consumed. Brought the skillet back inside and, after a good scrub, it is back in service.
The Man got fed, the little things in the woods had a nice surprise when they found that well-done sandwich, my skillet survived. Happy ending.
That is not the same 'me' as the one today. I am: so what? who cares? get over it! move on with life!
The story starts with filching a container of vegetable soup from the left overs at the retreat center last Sunday. I had asked, politely putting in my request, offering to bring my container to take some some food that would have otherwise gone to the nearby men's shelter as a donation. Remembering to take the plastic bowl and lid, I gave it to the team manager, and she filled with yummy soup. I hoped to make a couple of meals out of it, to feed The Man Who Lives Here, with a quick easy meal. Good plan, right?
But when I got home after four long days of donating my time, and flopped down exhausted on Sunday afternoon, he was eating a bowl of ice cream with peanut butter on it. Which is nearly a balanced meal if you stand far enough away, close one eye and squint with the other.. Protein, milk, etc., etc. At that point, I saw no reason to offer to prepare him anything even remotely similar to nutritious.
On Monday, when he asked 'do we have any supper plans?', I responded: 'soup and a sandwich.' Thinking I could throw a cheese sandwich in the skillet and heat up a bowl of hearty, yummy, healthy vegetable soup. He asked for tomato soup, made with whole milk. My response was 'that might not be one of your choices.' I got up from sitting right here and went in the kitchen to poke around in the pantry and did find a can of Campbell's Tomato. And put it in a sauce pan with milk to heat.
Here is where the laughable part starts: I got a couple of slices of bread, added mayonnaise on both and slices of cheese. Put a pat of butter in the skillet to melt, then laid his sandwich in the pan. Picked up the Time magazine and started reading. Flipped the sandwich over to let it brown on the other side, and get the cheese to melt, creating luscious gooey-ness. I proceeded to get involved in the magazine, thereby letting the bread char instead of toasting in the pan. Oh, s#*t.
When I realized the sandwich was now inedible, I picked up the skillet and walked out of the house. No, I did not run away from home. I just parked the skillet with carbonized bread on the metal chair on the screened porch, and went back in to start over. With a fresh sandwich and clean skillet. Rest assured I did not own up to the minor cooking disaster. Actually, I am of the opinion: If no one knows about it, it didn't happen!
Later, went out in the backyard and tossed the charred sandwich out for recycling. The same place I will occasionally deposit the odd bit of over-ripe fruit or vegetables that are so far past their prime as to be deadly if consumed. Brought the skillet back inside and, after a good scrub, it is back in service.
The Man got fed, the little things in the woods had a nice surprise when they found that well-done sandwich, my skillet survived. Happy ending.
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
book review: "Vermilion Drift"...
... another of the talking books I have enjoyed reading while driving. Some of the boxed sets of Cds will take me on legitimate road trips, while others never leave town, and are listened to while going to and fro for work or errands and appointments. I find that most of the things I check out usually have about ten discs per box, but one recently was all on one though it was not condensed, a full book length recording.
This one is another by the author I have been reading lately: William Kent Krueger. With the same characters as several other books, read/heard while traveling. They all are set in the northern part of Minnesota, on or near the Ojibwa reservation. Each book has some characters who are native American friends of the O'Connor family. The former sheriff of Tamarack County, Cork, has been hired as a 'consultant'/PI to find the missing sister of an executive who is dealing with EPA about storing hazardous materials in a closed mine his family owns.
When Cork goes down in the mine, taking an elevator down the shaft to get to horizontal tunnels, called 'drifts', they find desiccated bodies of people who have been reported missing. Women who disappeared forty years ago, and have been hidden away in the abandoned mine all this time. As well as the body of the missing sister, who was obviously murdered.The plot, as you might imagine thickens, and is most intriguing as Cork investigates, puts the pieces together to solve the mystery. As usual, I found it hard to turn the car off when arriving at my destination.
As usual the characters, who I feel like I am personally acquainted with after listening to a number of books, are so well written they seem like real people. I've read so much about the O'Connor family and friends, they have come to life. The details Krueger adds to make them seem so realistic: getting out his dad's hand gun from the secured safe in the closet, making the sandwich with dark rye bread, drinking his favorite brand of beer, I think I actually know these people.
This one is another by the author I have been reading lately: William Kent Krueger. With the same characters as several other books, read/heard while traveling. They all are set in the northern part of Minnesota, on or near the Ojibwa reservation. Each book has some characters who are native American friends of the O'Connor family. The former sheriff of Tamarack County, Cork, has been hired as a 'consultant'/PI to find the missing sister of an executive who is dealing with EPA about storing hazardous materials in a closed mine his family owns.
When Cork goes down in the mine, taking an elevator down the shaft to get to horizontal tunnels, called 'drifts', they find desiccated bodies of people who have been reported missing. Women who disappeared forty years ago, and have been hidden away in the abandoned mine all this time. As well as the body of the missing sister, who was obviously murdered.The plot, as you might imagine thickens, and is most intriguing as Cork investigates, puts the pieces together to solve the mystery. As usual, I found it hard to turn the car off when arriving at my destination.
As usual the characters, who I feel like I am personally acquainted with after listening to a number of books, are so well written they seem like real people. I've read so much about the O'Connor family and friends, they have come to life. The details Krueger adds to make them seem so realistic: getting out his dad's hand gun from the secured safe in the closet, making the sandwich with dark rye bread, drinking his favorite brand of beer, I think I actually know these people.
Monday, March 12, 2018
after working today...
... I had a couple of stops to make before getting home. The point at which tires should be rotated for optimal performance has long since passed, so went to the tire store for free service. Well, not actually free, but something they want you to think is a marvelous bonus as a result of buying high-priced, hopefully reliable shoes for your vehicle. Pretty sure the premium quality price included moving the rubber from left to right and front to back far more times than will ever been needed.
I went to get it done last week, and was unwilling to spend the afternoon sitting in that little waiting space with the very loud television tuned to twenty-four hour sports channel. Decided to try my luck today, hoping it would be if not more fruitful and fun, at least faster? Prepared to get it over with, I took the book I have been sporadically reading for weeks. But got engrossed in back issues of "Field and Stream", which is profoundly unlikely reading for someone who knows not a single thing about fish catching and animal shooting.
Following the time spent reading all manner of helpful hints for the best way to score the big buck or lure the large mouth fish, I had to make a stop at Wally world. I made the (unsurprising) mistake of going in the store through the garden shop entrance, and ended up spending over forty bucks on bulbs. Which I now need to make the time to get put in the ground before they sprout and start growing out of the package they were shipped in. There are also several packs of bulbs purchased last fall that make knock on the back door to insist they need holes for insertion as well. Bright spring sunshine beckons!
I went to get it done last week, and was unwilling to spend the afternoon sitting in that little waiting space with the very loud television tuned to twenty-four hour sports channel. Decided to try my luck today, hoping it would be if not more fruitful and fun, at least faster? Prepared to get it over with, I took the book I have been sporadically reading for weeks. But got engrossed in back issues of "Field and Stream", which is profoundly unlikely reading for someone who knows not a single thing about fish catching and animal shooting.
Following the time spent reading all manner of helpful hints for the best way to score the big buck or lure the large mouth fish, I had to make a stop at Wally world. I made the (unsurprising) mistake of going in the store through the garden shop entrance, and ended up spending over forty bucks on bulbs. Which I now need to make the time to get put in the ground before they sprout and start growing out of the package they were shipped in. There are also several packs of bulbs purchased last fall that make knock on the back door to insist they need holes for insertion as well. Bright spring sunshine beckons!
Sunday, March 11, 2018
finishing up....
... the weekend of often cold, and more recently very wet weather at the retreat in Harris County. This event was designed for and peopled by men, with the next one scheduled for the upcoming weekend planned for women, some who are likely wives of the men who were in attendance today. This was a smaller crowd of men than the group of females expected to begin their journey next Thursday: what does this say about gender? There are almost twice as many females signed up to participate for the Women's weekend. Men are harder to persuade to make the commitment for self-improvement? Men already know all the answers? Men are less likely to be interested in building lasting relationships? Hmm....
I was seriously under-dressed when I went up on Thursday afternoon, when the wind blew in off the little lake and we sat thoroughly chilled in the open air shelter as the sun went down. After some digging to unearth my layers of thermal underpinnings I thought had been retired for the season, I went back much better prepared on Friday. The day gradually warmed to the point that I found myself 'over-dressed', and had to shuck layers off. Then Saturday was sunny, clear, warm - a beautiful spring day. Which caused me to be unprepared for bone-chilling blustery weather today. Constant rain, all day long, ranging from drizzle to drenching. Yep: it's March!
My co-worker in the area where I had volunteered to serve was someone I had met, but did not know well at all. It was a great opportunity to spend time together, listen, share, learn, grow. A capable woman with a sweet spirit and generous heart. I discovered what a powerful pray-er she is, and already planning to enlist her the next time I have occasion to recruit Prayer Warriors. Definitely someone you would want on your team when the need arises.
Her husband had recently been hospitalized for a back problem, undergone surgery, but had complications following the operation, causing him to remain as an inpatient for three weeks. But the man was determined to follow through on his commitment to be a volunteer over the weekend at this retreat. He began to feel badly Saturday night, having some alarming symptoms, so she took him home. Not sure what is going on now, but hope he chose to be 'less manly', agreed to seek medical attention needed for best outcome.
People who were there as volunteers did a remarkable amazing job of jumping in, taking up the slack when the co-worker had sudden change of priorities. The final day of the retreat went off without a hitch, as several folks pitched in to get the work done, making the needed adjustments and pulling off the last portion in a seamless manner. I am thankful for all the people who were there as servants and the congregate effort put forth to pull it all together.
I was seriously under-dressed when I went up on Thursday afternoon, when the wind blew in off the little lake and we sat thoroughly chilled in the open air shelter as the sun went down. After some digging to unearth my layers of thermal underpinnings I thought had been retired for the season, I went back much better prepared on Friday. The day gradually warmed to the point that I found myself 'over-dressed', and had to shuck layers off. Then Saturday was sunny, clear, warm - a beautiful spring day. Which caused me to be unprepared for bone-chilling blustery weather today. Constant rain, all day long, ranging from drizzle to drenching. Yep: it's March!
My co-worker in the area where I had volunteered to serve was someone I had met, but did not know well at all. It was a great opportunity to spend time together, listen, share, learn, grow. A capable woman with a sweet spirit and generous heart. I discovered what a powerful pray-er she is, and already planning to enlist her the next time I have occasion to recruit Prayer Warriors. Definitely someone you would want on your team when the need arises.
Her husband had recently been hospitalized for a back problem, undergone surgery, but had complications following the operation, causing him to remain as an inpatient for three weeks. But the man was determined to follow through on his commitment to be a volunteer over the weekend at this retreat. He began to feel badly Saturday night, having some alarming symptoms, so she took him home. Not sure what is going on now, but hope he chose to be 'less manly', agreed to seek medical attention needed for best outcome.
People who were there as volunteers did a remarkable amazing job of jumping in, taking up the slack when the co-worker had sudden change of priorities. The final day of the retreat went off without a hitch, as several folks pitched in to get the work done, making the needed adjustments and pulling off the last portion in a seamless manner. I am thankful for all the people who were there as servants and the congregate effort put forth to pull it all together.
book review: "Long Walk to Freedom"...
... by Nelson Mandela. Published by Little Brown and Co., in 1994. If you were even the least bit aware of current events in the last half of the twentieth century, you know of Mandela and his efforts to force the end of apartheid (apartness) in South Africa. This southern-most nation on the African continent was once a colony of Great Britain, and more recently governed by the Dutch. Both European nations forced native people into submission, in situations almost as intolerable as early US history when humans were bought and sold.
Mandela was born into a royal family, and was groomed in his early years to become an advisor to a king. After his father died when he was young, he was taken under the wing of a local regent, who helped him gain an education, and learn the ways of the privileged class of natives. Mandela as a young adult chose to study law, as he felt education was his best opportunity for success. As he progressed through college classes and was exposed to history, current events, politics and lived in larger cities with students from other cultures he began to see the true situation and plight of the African people.
In protesting mistreatment and unfair circumstances imposed on natives as well as Indians, and all people of color in South Africa, he met other men who were opposed to the injustices forced upon the majority by minority whites. Mandela and many of his compatriots were jailed and spent years as political prisoners, continually demanding equal treatment and opposing unfair laws. He spent nearly three decades in prisons, before being freed. Over time he and his fellows were able to bring the government to the negotiating table and bring about laws that were more equitable and respectful of the people who once owned all the land before being subservient to white colonists.
It was a big thick book, took me weeks to read as I would put it aside for a few days before returning to pick up his story of early life, years as young adult fomenting rebellion, decades of forced labor on Robben Island. And finally the years of intricate negotiations with powerful political forces of the Dutch governing body. Well written, with the occasional word I had to make a note of to look up the definition, filled with interesting details about his youth as well as years of incarceration.
During his time on Robben Island, he had a small garden, gave much of the produce to his jailers, as well as supplying fellow prisoners with fresh fruits and vegetables. "In some ways, I saw the garden as a metaphor for certain aspects of my life. A leader must also tend his garden; he too, plants seeds, and then watches, cultivates and harvests the results. Like the gardener, a leader must take responsibility for what he cultivates; he must mind his work, try to repel enemies, preserve what can be preserved, and eliminate what cannot succeed." (page 426.)
Mandela was born into a royal family, and was groomed in his early years to become an advisor to a king. After his father died when he was young, he was taken under the wing of a local regent, who helped him gain an education, and learn the ways of the privileged class of natives. Mandela as a young adult chose to study law, as he felt education was his best opportunity for success. As he progressed through college classes and was exposed to history, current events, politics and lived in larger cities with students from other cultures he began to see the true situation and plight of the African people.
In protesting mistreatment and unfair circumstances imposed on natives as well as Indians, and all people of color in South Africa, he met other men who were opposed to the injustices forced upon the majority by minority whites. Mandela and many of his compatriots were jailed and spent years as political prisoners, continually demanding equal treatment and opposing unfair laws. He spent nearly three decades in prisons, before being freed. Over time he and his fellows were able to bring the government to the negotiating table and bring about laws that were more equitable and respectful of the people who once owned all the land before being subservient to white colonists.
It was a big thick book, took me weeks to read as I would put it aside for a few days before returning to pick up his story of early life, years as young adult fomenting rebellion, decades of forced labor on Robben Island. And finally the years of intricate negotiations with powerful political forces of the Dutch governing body. Well written, with the occasional word I had to make a note of to look up the definition, filled with interesting details about his youth as well as years of incarceration.
During his time on Robben Island, he had a small garden, gave much of the produce to his jailers, as well as supplying fellow prisoners with fresh fruits and vegetables. "In some ways, I saw the garden as a metaphor for certain aspects of my life. A leader must also tend his garden; he too, plants seeds, and then watches, cultivates and harvests the results. Like the gardener, a leader must take responsibility for what he cultivates; he must mind his work, try to repel enemies, preserve what can be preserved, and eliminate what cannot succeed." (page 426.)
Saturday, March 10, 2018
it is always a good...
... thing when one is willing to report foolish behavior when telling on onself. It even says so on the fridge on a magnet that states: "A person who can laugh at himself will never fail to be amused". I had some of that today, when I was sitting by myself in the little glorified closet/store room where supplies are kept to be used throughout the weekend retreat.
No one else was in there, so I sat reading the book I have put down and taken up again numerous times in recent weeks. Things got quiet in the early afternoon following lunch and clean up, and there was not much productivity occurring. I guess most of the volunteers were taking a break during a lull between assignments. I realized my eyes were getting tired, and I was showing signs of an impending snooze. So I lined up three chairs in a little row, and thought: I will just lay down here for a few minutes and see if I can get myself a little nap while no one is paying attention.
Needless to say, as soon as I got situated, people started coming along, needing various supplies for the next activity.I did not open my eyes or give any sign of being alert/aware. I am sure they all thought: crazy person alert! I might have been able to get a two second snooze. but that was the most unsatisfactory nap I have ever experienced. Resulting in just about what I should have expected from the place I choose in my attempt. Did I mention I woke up at 4 a.m.? It is now nearly eleven p.m., well past the usual time when I put myself to bed. Guess I will give that nap another chance .....
No one else was in there, so I sat reading the book I have put down and taken up again numerous times in recent weeks. Things got quiet in the early afternoon following lunch and clean up, and there was not much productivity occurring. I guess most of the volunteers were taking a break during a lull between assignments. I realized my eyes were getting tired, and I was showing signs of an impending snooze. So I lined up three chairs in a little row, and thought: I will just lay down here for a few minutes and see if I can get myself a little nap while no one is paying attention.
Needless to say, as soon as I got situated, people started coming along, needing various supplies for the next activity.I did not open my eyes or give any sign of being alert/aware. I am sure they all thought: crazy person alert! I might have been able to get a two second snooze. but that was the most unsatisfactory nap I have ever experienced. Resulting in just about what I should have expected from the place I choose in my attempt. Did I mention I woke up at 4 a.m.? It is now nearly eleven p.m., well past the usual time when I put myself to bed. Guess I will give that nap another chance .....
kinda, sorta taking a walk...
... out in the woods of Harris County, which is just north of here. But not actually. I have been devoting my weekend to a semi-annual event called the Walk to Emmaus. Sponsored by a loose-knit brother/sister hood of local people in the community, associated with the National Emmaus group. There are two 'walks' each spring and fall: one for men, followed by one for women the next weekend. Since a dear friend sponsored me years ago, it is something that I participate in when possible. Volunteering my time for three days in order to make the event a life-changing experience for the next group of travelers.
There is considerable preparation required to make these occasions appear to be effortless, with most of the activities going on in ways and places the actual participants are not at all aware of. Purchasing enough food to feed dozens of worker/servants as well as all the people who being introduced to the Emmaus life. Assembling the teams of people who will guide these people on their weekend plus all the invisible volunteers who make it appear seamless, but do all the cooking cleaning, and other tasks associated with success.
My little niche is in the area of worship, where I will devote my time each day to setting the scene in a small chapel on the retreat property. The participants are lead through a series of talks by volunteers who share from personal experiences in their lives, telling the 'pilgrims' of things that have impacted them in positive ways. I belive we seldom see how the pieces of our lives fit together, until long after life-changing, watershed events. Then we look back and see how something that appeared insignificant at the time was really a piece of the puzzle dropping into place.
So I am up early every morning to get back out to the retreat center, tucked away on a wooded hillside about forty miles away. And coming home in the dark, ready to tuck myself into bed, to be up and on the road again early the next morning. Adding my efforts to the work of making this event a smoothly run operation. Hoping to be invisible, but have a lasting impact on the lives of the men who took time out to devote their weekends to this experience.
There is considerable preparation required to make these occasions appear to be effortless, with most of the activities going on in ways and places the actual participants are not at all aware of. Purchasing enough food to feed dozens of worker/servants as well as all the people who being introduced to the Emmaus life. Assembling the teams of people who will guide these people on their weekend plus all the invisible volunteers who make it appear seamless, but do all the cooking cleaning, and other tasks associated with success.
My little niche is in the area of worship, where I will devote my time each day to setting the scene in a small chapel on the retreat property. The participants are lead through a series of talks by volunteers who share from personal experiences in their lives, telling the 'pilgrims' of things that have impacted them in positive ways. I belive we seldom see how the pieces of our lives fit together, until long after life-changing, watershed events. Then we look back and see how something that appeared insignificant at the time was really a piece of the puzzle dropping into place.
So I am up early every morning to get back out to the retreat center, tucked away on a wooded hillside about forty miles away. And coming home in the dark, ready to tuck myself into bed, to be up and on the road again early the next morning. Adding my efforts to the work of making this event a smoothly run operation. Hoping to be invisible, but have a lasting impact on the lives of the men who took time out to devote their weekends to this experience.
Thursday, March 8, 2018
it was most definitely....
... 'one of those days': when I felt like I spent more time going and getting back than actually being there. Driving to south Georgia and home again on a beautiful spring day, in order to help my auntie keep a couple of appointments she needed to attend. I got up to leave home before it was light enough to see, enjoyed seeing the sun come up over the farm land, fields and pastures. Looking across the distance of newly plowed or still fallow fields to the tree line as the sky changed from darkest black to rainbow shades of vermilion, peach, and finally palest blue.
The most color in the landscape besides the newly greening leaves was many trees along the right of way with blooming vines of yellow Carolina jasmine. Tiny bright trumpet shaped flowers en masse high in the tops of evergreen pines and still bare deciduous trees. There were a few places where wisteria was in evidence, with vast swaths of lavender blooms covering everything in sight, as the invasive plant gradually attempts to choke out all over vegetation.
The auntie had two appointments: one with a doctor, and the other a follow up visit to her dentist. We went to lunch, and then to the doctor's appointment. Though she has been to this office several times, we had not actually seen the doctor, having always met with a nurse for evaluation and renewing of prescriptions. It can be tedious, building a relationship with new medical personnel, having to re-hash history, and explain things that impact current health situation. But it was good to finally met the doc. Other appt. was to get a new tooth, following the installation of a temporary crown when she saw the dentist in January.
The oddest thing: when she returned to the assisted living facility where she resides, has been living since last June, she claimed to have no knowledge of her residency. She asked why we were going there and I, with much trepidation and anxiety told her: "You live here." She was insistent that she had never been there before. Making me really worried that she would refuse to get out of the car, insisting that she was not going in the building. Certain that even though she has been living here since last summer, there was no reason in the world for her to want to be there.
When I turned the car off, and started getting out to go inside, I wondered to myself what I would do if she simply did not get out. My first thought was that I would call the facility, ask for someone on the staff to come out and help me persuade her to go in. If it required a rolling chair, and brute strength to bodily remove her from my car and take her in - I was willing to participate in that as well. I was profoundly thankful when she got out and without hesitation walked with me in the door, all the while insisting that was not where she lived.
If you had been a witness, you would have seen a palpable sigh of relief when the door closed behind us. No one gets in or out of the building when the door locks after you - coming as well as going. Due, as you might imagine, to the necessary precaution of keeping the memory impaired residents safe from wandering. As we made our way down the hall, staff members were there to welcome her. She recognized them, even though she claimed to have never been there. She was easily distracted by their request that she go along to the dining room to get ready to eat. I thankfully made my exit.
The most color in the landscape besides the newly greening leaves was many trees along the right of way with blooming vines of yellow Carolina jasmine. Tiny bright trumpet shaped flowers en masse high in the tops of evergreen pines and still bare deciduous trees. There were a few places where wisteria was in evidence, with vast swaths of lavender blooms covering everything in sight, as the invasive plant gradually attempts to choke out all over vegetation.
The auntie had two appointments: one with a doctor, and the other a follow up visit to her dentist. We went to lunch, and then to the doctor's appointment. Though she has been to this office several times, we had not actually seen the doctor, having always met with a nurse for evaluation and renewing of prescriptions. It can be tedious, building a relationship with new medical personnel, having to re-hash history, and explain things that impact current health situation. But it was good to finally met the doc. Other appt. was to get a new tooth, following the installation of a temporary crown when she saw the dentist in January.
The oddest thing: when she returned to the assisted living facility where she resides, has been living since last June, she claimed to have no knowledge of her residency. She asked why we were going there and I, with much trepidation and anxiety told her: "You live here." She was insistent that she had never been there before. Making me really worried that she would refuse to get out of the car, insisting that she was not going in the building. Certain that even though she has been living here since last summer, there was no reason in the world for her to want to be there.
When I turned the car off, and started getting out to go inside, I wondered to myself what I would do if she simply did not get out. My first thought was that I would call the facility, ask for someone on the staff to come out and help me persuade her to go in. If it required a rolling chair, and brute strength to bodily remove her from my car and take her in - I was willing to participate in that as well. I was profoundly thankful when she got out and without hesitation walked with me in the door, all the while insisting that was not where she lived.
If you had been a witness, you would have seen a palpable sigh of relief when the door closed behind us. No one gets in or out of the building when the door locks after you - coming as well as going. Due, as you might imagine, to the necessary precaution of keeping the memory impaired residents safe from wandering. As we made our way down the hall, staff members were there to welcome her. She recognized them, even though she claimed to have never been there. She was easily distracted by their request that she go along to the dining room to get ready to eat. I thankfully made my exit.
Monday, March 5, 2018
there are little people...
... in my life who occasionally get a surprise in the mail. Or at least that is what they think, when something completely unexpected is delivered from the USPS addressed to youngsters. But in reality, the 'gift' will really be a bribe. It will be something that I hope will turn them into amazingly capable, productive adults, citizens who contribute in a positive way to our society. Provided, of course, we do not collectively go to hell in a hand-basket before they become adults.
Still in TN, and heard from the resident 'house guest', about a discount book store having a Gigantic, Fantastic Going Out Of Business Sale. (Resident house guest has some health issues, was living here for a short time when he moved to town to accept a job, and has dropped back in for them to provide emotional support as needed while he resolves the medical problems.) I suggested we might trek across town to look at the discounted children's books at the gi-normous sale. Hoping to find some recycled, in good condition literature I can send to those little folk in my life that periodically receive the books to encourage childhood literacy.
Since these kids have been really young, I have been sending them books for their parents to read. The sort of stories that are published with a profusion of illustrations, drawing to capture the attention and imagination of folk who have yet to gain the ability to decipher the printed letters on each page. As they begin to see the words, learn to identify the combinations strung together to build sentences, and learn that the spoken language is also written there, as mom and dad are reading them tales of adventures. Both young school-age girls now have younger brothers, who are stepping out along the path of developing those readiness skills so important to becoming literate.
So before I leave town today, heading back to GA, I plan to go to the book store closing. Hoping to find several stories that will appeal to the youngsters, inspire parents to inspire daughters and sons to beg for bedtime stories. Inching them along towards the essential skill of deciphering their world through the written word.
Still in TN, and heard from the resident 'house guest', about a discount book store having a Gigantic, Fantastic Going Out Of Business Sale. (Resident house guest has some health issues, was living here for a short time when he moved to town to accept a job, and has dropped back in for them to provide emotional support as needed while he resolves the medical problems.) I suggested we might trek across town to look at the discounted children's books at the gi-normous sale. Hoping to find some recycled, in good condition literature I can send to those little folk in my life that periodically receive the books to encourage childhood literacy.
Since these kids have been really young, I have been sending them books for their parents to read. The sort of stories that are published with a profusion of illustrations, drawing to capture the attention and imagination of folk who have yet to gain the ability to decipher the printed letters on each page. As they begin to see the words, learn to identify the combinations strung together to build sentences, and learn that the spoken language is also written there, as mom and dad are reading them tales of adventures. Both young school-age girls now have younger brothers, who are stepping out along the path of developing those readiness skills so important to becoming literate.
So before I leave town today, heading back to GA, I plan to go to the book store closing. Hoping to find several stories that will appeal to the youngsters, inspire parents to inspire daughters and sons to beg for bedtime stories. Inching them along towards the essential skill of deciphering their world through the written word.
update on the auntie...
... whether you want to know or not. My amateur diagnosis is that she is fairly stable. Thankfully I am not there on the scene, living with her when she takes a notion to be cantankerous and disagreeable as she can do in a New York minute. When things do not go to suit her, and she feels no one else is concerned, she can understandably get her feathers ruffled, making demands no one seems to have an urgency about fulfilling.
I get calls from C. several times a week, and have just recently stopped to consider: they are consistently being made late in the afternoon, or evening. The last one from yesterday (which I did not answer, and just now listening to on voice mail) she self-reported that it was 'only 8:30', so she is (somewhat) aware of time. This tells me that the info. I have heard repeatedly over the years about confusion appearing to get worse as the day progresses is (at least in her case) certainly true. Referred to by the researchers/experts in memory loss as 'sun-downing'.
I get calls from C. several times a week, and have just recently stopped to consider: they are consistently being made late in the afternoon, or evening. The last one from yesterday (which I did not answer, and just now listening to on voice mail) she self-reported that it was 'only 8:30', so she is (somewhat) aware of time. This tells me that the info. I have heard repeatedly over the years about confusion appearing to get worse as the day progresses is (at least in her case) certainly true. Referred to by the researchers/experts in memory loss as 'sun-downing'.
I did answer the first (of three) times she called
on Sat. evening, and would like to think she was somewhat placated by
our conversation - though I am well aware that she had Zero memory of anything either
of us said by the time she put the phone receiver down. She told me she
was at the Holiday Inn - which is what I often hear from her -
especially when, for whatever reason, she calls from the desk located at
the intersection of three hallways, where staff is based. Even though
there are few 'nurses' on staff, for lack of a better word, I have
called it the Nurse's Desk. At least half of the calls I get from her
are from the number I have saved for Fellowship, so she is calling
from the desk there rather than the number in her room, which is her
home number, moved from her house. If she were able to process info, form
coherent thoughts, I would wonder if she felt she would be able to 'get
through', more likely to talk to someone if the call were placed by
staff as opposed to attempting to contact me on her 'home' phone.
She seems to pretty consistently leave messages (or tell me if I actually answer) reporting she is at the Holiday Inn, I assume due to the fact that she is standing there at the chest high desk, plus the act of having to request assistance, have them start the call, asking staff for information. And last night, reported how surprised she was that they told her she was near Valdosta. As usual, she needs help, admitting to being badly confused, but saying she would have to leave in the next couple of days, and hoping I could get down there and be helpful. Which I will actually do, when I go on Wednesday to get her to a couple of dr. appt.
She went to dental appt. weeks ago, and had a crown process started, but will go back this week to get the permanent replacement for a tooth that had extensive decay. (I did wonder if it was wise to pay all that $$$ to get it fixed, but you don't know where problems might pop up if you leave something you can remedy un-attended - plus she has always, always been so OCD about dental hygiene, caring for her mouth.) I had conversation with S., the director months ago, relating how she had been pestering for an appt. to get to the dentist so S., after talking to me, made an appt. with the dentist she sees in Valdosta, who also happened to be the one Connie had been seeing, but Connie, being Connie, did not remember she had been going there!
And she has an appt. with the NP she has seen several times, who writes the Rx for anxiety meds. I called this nurse - back in Jan. I think- when the staff at Fellowship reported C. seemed to be more anxious, agitated (back to her ways of months ago of being belligerent and spouting obscenities when she did not get the desired results from her demands), asking that the nurse call the staff directly to get accurate first hand info. so I would not be the middle man. I assume this all occurred and the dosing of the anti-anxiety meds. increased or altered/changed to make her more tractable.
I've told the people at Fellowship all along, possibly even before Connie landed there, that my goal was to make Connie easy for them to live with. And if, as a side effect/benefit, meds might also make her like Herself better, that would be good too!
She seems to pretty consistently leave messages (or tell me if I actually answer) reporting she is at the Holiday Inn, I assume due to the fact that she is standing there at the chest high desk, plus the act of having to request assistance, have them start the call, asking staff for information. And last night, reported how surprised she was that they told her she was near Valdosta. As usual, she needs help, admitting to being badly confused, but saying she would have to leave in the next couple of days, and hoping I could get down there and be helpful. Which I will actually do, when I go on Wednesday to get her to a couple of dr. appt.
She went to dental appt. weeks ago, and had a crown process started, but will go back this week to get the permanent replacement for a tooth that had extensive decay. (I did wonder if it was wise to pay all that $$$ to get it fixed, but you don't know where problems might pop up if you leave something you can remedy un-attended - plus she has always, always been so OCD about dental hygiene, caring for her mouth.) I had conversation with S., the director months ago, relating how she had been pestering for an appt. to get to the dentist so S., after talking to me, made an appt. with the dentist she sees in Valdosta, who also happened to be the one Connie had been seeing, but Connie, being Connie, did not remember she had been going there!
And she has an appt. with the NP she has seen several times, who writes the Rx for anxiety meds. I called this nurse - back in Jan. I think- when the staff at Fellowship reported C. seemed to be more anxious, agitated (back to her ways of months ago of being belligerent and spouting obscenities when she did not get the desired results from her demands), asking that the nurse call the staff directly to get accurate first hand info. so I would not be the middle man. I assume this all occurred and the dosing of the anti-anxiety meds. increased or altered/changed to make her more tractable.
I've told the people at Fellowship all along, possibly even before Connie landed there, that my goal was to make Connie easy for them to live with. And if, as a side effect/benefit, meds might also make her like Herself better, that would be good too!
Saturday, March 3, 2018
weekend in...
... Tennessee, sleeping in a house surrounded by street lights. So it is never completely dark at night. I am accustomed to sleeping in a room that is much less lit by ambient light, though we do have a neighbor who leaves flood lights on all day and all night. I don't think they ever turn off, so we should be thankful we do not pay her power bill! Not many street lights shining in my bedroom windows,but with that thoughtless neighbor who is apparently somewhat paranoid, who needs city lighting?
'Someone' got up this morning and produced home-made biscuits. She said she is perfecting her skills. After having found a recipe on the Internet that is as simple as the one I have been promoting as the world's best/easiest for years. The amazing biscuit I had this morning has three ingredients: self-rising flour, cold butter and cold buttermilk. Remarkably easy to make. They are so light and fluffy! I observed the masterpiece in progress: discovered you just pat it out on a floured surface, and fold it over. Pat and refold, do it again, then put the cut out circles of dough in a very hot skillet in a very hot oven. Oh, yum!
The one found in the magazine by the southern cooking guru Paula Deen, has three ingredients: what could possibly be easier? Two cups of self-rising flour, a cup and a half of (cholesterol laden, artery clogging) heavy cream and a tablespoon of butter. I will never go back to the complicated recipe of yeast and buttermilk again. Several years ago, I lost my mind, and made a double batch of strawberry jam to give away for Christmas, and included a card with the biscuit recipe. I don't know if any of the recipients actually made the quick bread, but think they would have come out even with the little half-pint jars of jam. It is always a little distressing when you are eating something as wonderful as biscuits and jelly or homemade rolls and gravy and discover one runs out before the other - in a perfect world the bread and topping will always end in unison.
'Someone' got up this morning and produced home-made biscuits. She said she is perfecting her skills. After having found a recipe on the Internet that is as simple as the one I have been promoting as the world's best/easiest for years. The amazing biscuit I had this morning has three ingredients: self-rising flour, cold butter and cold buttermilk. Remarkably easy to make. They are so light and fluffy! I observed the masterpiece in progress: discovered you just pat it out on a floured surface, and fold it over. Pat and refold, do it again, then put the cut out circles of dough in a very hot skillet in a very hot oven. Oh, yum!
The one found in the magazine by the southern cooking guru Paula Deen, has three ingredients: what could possibly be easier? Two cups of self-rising flour, a cup and a half of (cholesterol laden, artery clogging) heavy cream and a tablespoon of butter. I will never go back to the complicated recipe of yeast and buttermilk again. Several years ago, I lost my mind, and made a double batch of strawberry jam to give away for Christmas, and included a card with the biscuit recipe. I don't know if any of the recipients actually made the quick bread, but think they would have come out even with the little half-pint jars of jam. It is always a little distressing when you are eating something as wonderful as biscuits and jelly or homemade rolls and gravy and discover one runs out before the other - in a perfect world the bread and topping will always end in unison.
that dear, sweet friend...
... just written about, who was persuaded to along for 'Read Across America' day at the elementary school, told me about how much she loved to see the bookmobile come as a kid. She would be at her grandmother's house, and get so excited when the roving library from the county would come down the road. My kind of girl: a book lover from an early age.
I don't recall the process of learning how to read, but I do remember how delighted I was to get old enough to be able to check out books on my own. Without the necessity of a parent there to sign a name on the card from the pocket in the inside back cover. Now, no one signs anything: it is all done electronically, and you just pass your bar-code under the scanner to immediately access your information. I hope the' thrill' is still there when little people go to check out age-appropriate books sans parent.
Hearing my friend S. tell about the bookmobile come around made me think about my mom. She was the person who at one point in my early years was the bookmobile. We had an old station wagon, so ancient it had the wood panels on the side. She filled up the back with boxes of library books and went out in the county to take reading material to people who rarely got into town, folks who would never make a trip to the county seat for books.
It was a very rural, agricultural county, many residents only getting into the biggest town in the county on Saturday for supplies. Lots of farming and livestock growing, people who worked from sun up to sun down, then got up the next day and did it over again. Cotton, corn, tobacco, cattle, pigs, chickens, all cash crops growing in the outlying areas. At many intersections, cross-roads out in the county there would be a country store, offering the most basic of saleable items.With a shelf in a corner set up as a lending library. My mom would go to these stores, and swap out boxes of books, visit with the store owner/operator and travel on to the next stop. I was young enough to not be in school, so often taken along with her.
Long before the era of seat belt, so say nothing of booster seats or other child restraints: there I was tumbling around in the back seat digging through the boxes of children's books. Having a feast, there in the 'way back, digging in the boxes, looking at all the illustrations even if I could not read the words. One of my earliest memories of turning pages and the wonderful things to be found between the covers of books.
I don't recall the process of learning how to read, but I do remember how delighted I was to get old enough to be able to check out books on my own. Without the necessity of a parent there to sign a name on the card from the pocket in the inside back cover. Now, no one signs anything: it is all done electronically, and you just pass your bar-code under the scanner to immediately access your information. I hope the' thrill' is still there when little people go to check out age-appropriate books sans parent.
Hearing my friend S. tell about the bookmobile come around made me think about my mom. She was the person who at one point in my early years was the bookmobile. We had an old station wagon, so ancient it had the wood panels on the side. She filled up the back with boxes of library books and went out in the county to take reading material to people who rarely got into town, folks who would never make a trip to the county seat for books.
It was a very rural, agricultural county, many residents only getting into the biggest town in the county on Saturday for supplies. Lots of farming and livestock growing, people who worked from sun up to sun down, then got up the next day and did it over again. Cotton, corn, tobacco, cattle, pigs, chickens, all cash crops growing in the outlying areas. At many intersections, cross-roads out in the county there would be a country store, offering the most basic of saleable items.With a shelf in a corner set up as a lending library. My mom would go to these stores, and swap out boxes of books, visit with the store owner/operator and travel on to the next stop. I was young enough to not be in school, so often taken along with her.
Long before the era of seat belt, so say nothing of booster seats or other child restraints: there I was tumbling around in the back seat digging through the boxes of children's books. Having a feast, there in the 'way back, digging in the boxes, looking at all the illustrations even if I could not read the words. One of my earliest memories of turning pages and the wonderful things to be found between the covers of books.
driving north...
... on a bright sunny beautiful Friday afternoon. Got finished with work an hour and a half late, and loaded up to leave town headed to Tennessee. Where I try/hope/plan to go once a month to spend the weekend with one of my most favorite people. When I see her in December, we will both bring calendars for the new year, and pick tentative weekends each month, hoping nothing will intervene and I can make the trip to visit her in Chattanooga.
It was a gorgeous day. Lots of early spring bloomers in glorious color: red bud trees with their lavender flowers lining each branch. Daffodils nodding in the breeze on hillsides where homes were built a century ago, long since collapsed, leaving huge clumps of bulbs to brighten the landscape each spring. Hundreds of (invasive) Bradford pear trees, volunteering out in the still-bare deciduous forest, covered in brilliant white blossoms. Twining vines of Carolina jasmine high in the tree tops with bright yellow trumpet-shaped blooms by the hundreds turning their faces up towards the sun. A gorgeous day!
Knowing what traffic would be like driving anywhere within fifty miles of Atlanta, I choose to go up state route 27, far to the west of the vehicle clogged interstate. Mostly four-laned, as the north south corridor along the edge of the state from TN to FL, with remarkably little congestion. A pleasant drive, with my talking books to keep me entertained on the four hour drive. A gorgeous day!
It was a gorgeous day. Lots of early spring bloomers in glorious color: red bud trees with their lavender flowers lining each branch. Daffodils nodding in the breeze on hillsides where homes were built a century ago, long since collapsed, leaving huge clumps of bulbs to brighten the landscape each spring. Hundreds of (invasive) Bradford pear trees, volunteering out in the still-bare deciduous forest, covered in brilliant white blossoms. Twining vines of Carolina jasmine high in the tree tops with bright yellow trumpet-shaped blooms by the hundreds turning their faces up towards the sun. A gorgeous day!
Knowing what traffic would be like driving anywhere within fifty miles of Atlanta, I choose to go up state route 27, far to the west of the vehicle clogged interstate. Mostly four-laned, as the north south corridor along the edge of the state from TN to FL, with remarkably little congestion. A pleasant drive, with my talking books to keep me entertained on the four hour drive. A gorgeous day!
celebrating...
... Dr. Seuss' birthday by going to an elementary school with my little selection of books to 'Read Across America'. Somehow got 'drafted' as a volunteer when I received an email from the Literacy Alliance coordinator who sets up adult readers with four year olds in public schools needing assistance in pre-reading skills. I've been doing it for several years, taking an hour from work to go to an elementary school. Where I devote about twenty minutes per, to two students who have been suggested by their pre-K teacher as lagging behind classmates in learning the basics.
I honestly cannot recall how long this has been going or, or how I got started. But I believe so strongly in the importance of literacy, the necessity of learning how to decipher the letters strung together into words I will continue as long as I can. Volunteers go for an eight week stretch in the spring and fall to various schools around town. There is a different person, going each day of the week to read, help with a little work sheet, then giving the child his/her book to take home each Friday.
More and more I realize how vital it is to be able to read to be successful in the world, make your way in our society. An individual who cannot readily understand signs, instructions, written words routinely encountered in daily life will soon feel lost, and be at a constant disadvantage. Can't read equals cannot easily make it in the workplace. We have all head stories about adults who reluctantly confess after many years of laboring in blue collar jobs that they are not literate: ready to learn how. Having struggled in elementary grades, or never actually having the opportunity to get basic education, so not able to understand written language. Adults so determined to learn how, they are willing to go back to grade school, or searching out tutors to help them learn, and study for general education degrees. It must give them a tremendous sense of gratification and accomplishment when they gain those basic skills so many of us take for granted.
I recruited my friend S. to go to the elementary school on Friday morning, spend thirty minutes in a classroom reading. She is a retired educator, having spent the last years of her career as a reading specialist, helping young students who were struggling. So I know she is very capable for instructing, and assisting youngsters who have a hard time with grasping the concepts of phonics and how to break down words to sound them out. I was surprised and amused by her self-doubt, concerns that she would not do a good job, worried about what books to take, who she would be reading to. This from a woman who has six grandchildren and has read them story books for over fifteen years. Probably memorized 'The Cat in the Hat' after repetitive readings over hundreds of nights at bedtime.
I did not tell her she is being groomed to become a literacy volunteer. I had passed her name and number along to the Alliance coordinator, with the suggestion of recruiting her as a regular in the twice yearly reading sessions.Anyone who spent years of her life pulling, pushing, persuading small children to put a fat little finger on each word and say it out loud surely can help a four year old read a ten page book once a week.
I honestly cannot recall how long this has been going or, or how I got started. But I believe so strongly in the importance of literacy, the necessity of learning how to decipher the letters strung together into words I will continue as long as I can. Volunteers go for an eight week stretch in the spring and fall to various schools around town. There is a different person, going each day of the week to read, help with a little work sheet, then giving the child his/her book to take home each Friday.
More and more I realize how vital it is to be able to read to be successful in the world, make your way in our society. An individual who cannot readily understand signs, instructions, written words routinely encountered in daily life will soon feel lost, and be at a constant disadvantage. Can't read equals cannot easily make it in the workplace. We have all head stories about adults who reluctantly confess after many years of laboring in blue collar jobs that they are not literate: ready to learn how. Having struggled in elementary grades, or never actually having the opportunity to get basic education, so not able to understand written language. Adults so determined to learn how, they are willing to go back to grade school, or searching out tutors to help them learn, and study for general education degrees. It must give them a tremendous sense of gratification and accomplishment when they gain those basic skills so many of us take for granted.
I recruited my friend S. to go to the elementary school on Friday morning, spend thirty minutes in a classroom reading. She is a retired educator, having spent the last years of her career as a reading specialist, helping young students who were struggling. So I know she is very capable for instructing, and assisting youngsters who have a hard time with grasping the concepts of phonics and how to break down words to sound them out. I was surprised and amused by her self-doubt, concerns that she would not do a good job, worried about what books to take, who she would be reading to. This from a woman who has six grandchildren and has read them story books for over fifteen years. Probably memorized 'The Cat in the Hat' after repetitive readings over hundreds of nights at bedtime.
I did not tell her she is being groomed to become a literacy volunteer. I had passed her name and number along to the Alliance coordinator, with the suggestion of recruiting her as a regular in the twice yearly reading sessions.Anyone who spent years of her life pulling, pushing, persuading small children to put a fat little finger on each word and say it out loud surely can help a four year old read a ten page book once a week.
Thursday, March 1, 2018
do more...
I met her as she was shopping at my work place, we just talked each time she came in the store, and gradually became friends/lunch buddies. We probably get together every couple of months, when our schedules will allow, coincide with her coming in from 'way out in Marion County and I am off by noon for us to meet and visit. Her 93 (?) year old mother has a home about a block away from J.'s house, and with assistance continues to manage independent living.
I have not seen J. since back in January. She mentioned the last time we met that she had an appointment with dermatology. To let them see what was going on with a small spot on the very top of her head. She is now a 'poster child' for wearing head-coverings and sunscreen. It was melanoma, and it has spread. I try to write her a note at least once a week, words of encouragement. But knowing she has this worry must make her very anxious, for herself and her husband. But especially as the primary caregiver for her mother, who is pretty much housebound and completely dependent on them for daily care: meals, shopping, travel to appointments.
it was a perfectly...
...beauty-full day. Nothing to do, no where that was desperately calling me to provide my undivided attention. Warm sunshine, and recent rains that had washed all the pollen out of the air, so there was not the usual haze floating across your field of vision. Which would normally, at this time of year when all the trees are starting to bloom, make you think your eyeglasses were smudged, in need of cleaning. .
Last Saturday morning: I had returned from a week in Virginia where there were zero signs of spring approaching. Mostly cloudy days, with overcast sky making everything look drab and dreary. No budding trees, to start providing color to bare limbs in the landscape. No early bulb plants trying to reach the light of day, pushing forth from dark earth into sunlight.
And arrived in Atlanta, where all the early bloomers were in glorious color. The bright yellow trumpet shaped blooms of Carolina Jasmine were open high in the tree tops. The brilliantly blooming wee flowers of forsythia was gently swaying on long stems in the breeze. The gorgeous mauve cup-shaped flowers of Japanese Magnolia trees were at their peak. Daffodils of all varieties in profusion. Those Bradford pear trees that have become such a nuisance in the landscape, where they volunteer prolifically, were abloom in great clouds of tiny white blossoms.
A glorious day to be alive. So I took my little cup of hot tea and walked out in the back yard on Eleanor Street where I had spent the night. The chickens had been released to cluck, scratch, roam around in the back yard, where they were industriously rearranging the leaf litter/mulch, hoping to unearth juicy morsels. Sitting in the rocking chair, observing the beauty of the planet as the season almost instantly changed from chilly winter in Virginia to balmy spring of Georgia.
Then: one of my most favorite people brought me a plate of food. Grits and eggs. Perfect. I shared some of the steamy creamy grits with the chickens. The ladies provided great entertainment when they pecked at the little clumps, and got surplus on their beaks: wiped them clean, and went back for more. There was a lot of competition the small morsels of creamy cooked corn, creating much conversation, chatter among the pullets who all came a-runnin' at the first sight of something new to inspect/eat and discuss, in the way only a crowd at a hen-party can do!
Last Saturday morning: I had returned from a week in Virginia where there were zero signs of spring approaching. Mostly cloudy days, with overcast sky making everything look drab and dreary. No budding trees, to start providing color to bare limbs in the landscape. No early bulb plants trying to reach the light of day, pushing forth from dark earth into sunlight.
And arrived in Atlanta, where all the early bloomers were in glorious color. The bright yellow trumpet shaped blooms of Carolina Jasmine were open high in the tree tops. The brilliantly blooming wee flowers of forsythia was gently swaying on long stems in the breeze. The gorgeous mauve cup-shaped flowers of Japanese Magnolia trees were at their peak. Daffodils of all varieties in profusion. Those Bradford pear trees that have become such a nuisance in the landscape, where they volunteer prolifically, were abloom in great clouds of tiny white blossoms.
A glorious day to be alive. So I took my little cup of hot tea and walked out in the back yard on Eleanor Street where I had spent the night. The chickens had been released to cluck, scratch, roam around in the back yard, where they were industriously rearranging the leaf litter/mulch, hoping to unearth juicy morsels. Sitting in the rocking chair, observing the beauty of the planet as the season almost instantly changed from chilly winter in Virginia to balmy spring of Georgia.
Then: one of my most favorite people brought me a plate of food. Grits and eggs. Perfect. I shared some of the steamy creamy grits with the chickens. The ladies provided great entertainment when they pecked at the little clumps, and got surplus on their beaks: wiped them clean, and went back for more. There was a lot of competition the small morsels of creamy cooked corn, creating much conversation, chatter among the pullets who all came a-runnin' at the first sight of something new to inspect/eat and discuss, in the way only a crowd at a hen-party can do!
blooming like crazy...
... in the leaf mulch all over the yard. There were dozens when they came from south Georgia over thirty years ago, and we planted and planted and planted them everywhere. Now there are probably hundreds of dozens. Popping up in places you forget over the summer, fall and winter that you saw such happy plants growing in the spring. With long slender sword-shaped leaves, that seem to have just magically appeared from the dense mulch of dead leaves under all the deciduous trees. Coming up in unlikely spots like in the center of a big rosemary bush that has flopped and expanded. Or squeezing out from under randomly placed pot plants, where they the bulbs have overwintered for years, determined to grow and flourish
The blooms are very small. Most not as big as the end of your pinkie finger. But one of the earliest things to open up and provide color in the drab brown of fallen leaves. Tiny white bell shaped flowers. All with their heads bowed, facing the dense mulch they force their way through over and over from one spring to the next. The wee little blooms have an opening that looks scalloped, sort of like the edge of a serrated knife. Picture the tip of your little finger, almost to the first knuckle, painted white, with un-even edges. Then add the tiniest little dots of pale green around the edge of the white cup there on the end of your finger.
The name remembered from the giver of the bulbs: Snowdrops. They came from my grandmother's yard in south Georgia. My aunt bought, renovated and moved into the house, then began to reinvigorate the landscaping. She dug up bulbs and shared them. I have given many away over the years as they have grown and multiplied, even so: there are surely twice as many as I started with. Trying to get them all in the ground, we thought we would never get those big trash bags full of bulbs emptied! When a breeze blows through the places where they are so prolific, looking like tiny bells on the ends of the nodding stalks, you can almost hear (or at least imagine!) the soft, gentle tinkle of the bells chiming.
a day of sub....
... teaching on Tuesday. It was (surprisingly) a remarkably pleasant experience. Though I expected to go to Valdosta to tend to the auntie, my plans changed. When I had the day off from work, decided to try to get one more day of sub. work to boost my total a bit closer to the necessary minimum of twenty. When searching for something that might be tolerable, there was an opening for an aide in the same elementary school where I was a number of days in December. I accepted a job working as a para-professional in a Kindergarten class.
That was probably one of the best substituting experiences I have ever had. In a classroom with an experienced, highly capable teacher who had excellent management skills. She has been at it for nearly thirty years, and obviously figured out what works and what does not. It appears that firmness and clear expectations are the way to go. When there were problems, she would, without raising her voice, remind them of what was required. I don't think she ever, at any point in the day, had any reason to increase the volume of her voice to get their attention and correct behavior.
There were a number of students who came from Latino families, and some who she said did not speak any English when they started in her class. But pointed out that some of those children, even if not fluent in ESL, were obviously some of the brightest in the classroom. They could grasp what was required of them in order to do the work, and focus to get their assignments completed. A well run and smooth operation.
She told me early in the day that she was retiring the end of this school term. What a loss to the educational system. Those older teachers, with the knowledge and experience to really have a positive impact and truly educate, those who know how to impart the basics for establishing the skills needed to progress in learning: they are ready to get out. She was one of the most capable I have had the pleasure of working with.
At the end of the day, she apologized to me for it being such a rough experience. I responded with the opinion that it had been a pleasure. I did not leave stressed out, no headache, no sense of having been on the front lines of a war zone. Sad that she will be leaving the classroom and taking such a wealth of experience and teaching skills with her when she retires.
That was probably one of the best substituting experiences I have ever had. In a classroom with an experienced, highly capable teacher who had excellent management skills. She has been at it for nearly thirty years, and obviously figured out what works and what does not. It appears that firmness and clear expectations are the way to go. When there were problems, she would, without raising her voice, remind them of what was required. I don't think she ever, at any point in the day, had any reason to increase the volume of her voice to get their attention and correct behavior.
There were a number of students who came from Latino families, and some who she said did not speak any English when they started in her class. But pointed out that some of those children, even if not fluent in ESL, were obviously some of the brightest in the classroom. They could grasp what was required of them in order to do the work, and focus to get their assignments completed. A well run and smooth operation.
She told me early in the day that she was retiring the end of this school term. What a loss to the educational system. Those older teachers, with the knowledge and experience to really have a positive impact and truly educate, those who know how to impart the basics for establishing the skills needed to progress in learning: they are ready to get out. She was one of the most capable I have had the pleasure of working with.
At the end of the day, she apologized to me for it being such a rough experience. I responded with the opinion that it had been a pleasure. I did not leave stressed out, no headache, no sense of having been on the front lines of a war zone. Sad that she will be leaving the classroom and taking such a wealth of experience and teaching skills with her when she retires.
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