begging and pleading...

... the sort of desperation you might see from kids in the checkout line when Mom makes the mistake of taking small needy children to shop. As they spot all those tempting items placed at eye level for the under-four-feet crowd, and proceed to insist they are frantically in need of sugar to fuel their already hyper energy level. While Mom, already frazzled, is trying to do four things at once: loading items on conveyor belt, keep a watchful eye, converse with the cashier, find her plastic payment and hopefully maintain sanity long enough to get food and family safely home.

The guy who makes out the weekly schedule has been hearing too much whining from me. Urgently imploring, week after week, for more work: and not really for the paycheck! I have been working about twenty hours a week at my little jobette, while hoping for twenty five. My goal has been to accumulate enough time from week to week to have worked a thousand hours by the middle of October. As the months pass, and those pages on the calendar flip, it has been a struggle to get the time needed in order to receive employee benefits. There was a time, before the economy tanked and employers were more generous with workers the perks were easier to accrue. But in recent years, corporations have made guidelines more stringent and benefits harder to accumulate: tightening belts has become a necessity.

In order to be granted the benefit: 1) work a thousand hours prior to your hire date, 2) be vested, 3) be employed on Dec. 31. I'm nearly there with # 1, and cannot do anything about # 3 until the end of the year, though I do plan to continue my employment. The target is to receive more stock in the privately owned company, granted to associates who met the requirements. I am finished with my work schedule for this week, and will have over the minimum when this week is included in the total.

Oddly enough: I don't know precisely what it amounts to! The complicated formula that is used for evaluating, deciding who gets what is far beyond my comprehension - I just know that I am nearly certain of qualifying. How the company decides the amount of stock apportioned to each employee is something I have never questioned, just thankful to be included as the recipient of the gift. The most recent evaluation of shares was over $42, not insignificant when you consider: entirely owned by the employees. It will be interesting if I can remember to pay attention from last year's benefits  in order to make a comparison and see how much has accumulated. People who have been with the company for years claim to be millionaires, (that won't be me!) having accumulated stock and used the dividends to purchase even more. Pretty nice retirement, huh?

today is...

... my brother's birthday. I have been thinking of him all day. For a number of years, since our dad died in 2000,  I have mailed my brother a gift card to go some place for ice cream on our dad's birthday, to celebrate the man who did love to eat a bowl of made-from-scratch peach or strawberry ice cream when fresh fruit is in season. Several days ago, I sent a gift card to my sister-in-law, and hope she took the peeps some place to sit and lick a big drippy cone and think about their grandpa. He was so crazy about those little people, and took such delight in spending time with his grandkids.

Some years ago, I realized that when your mom is gone, there is no guarantee that there is anybody  who will remember or help you celebrate that day. I wrote him a card to let him know that I did, and would remember. Now I am remembering the card he sent me some years ago that had a picture of a dill pickle on the front. On the inside the wording was something like: 'bet you never expected to get a pickle for your birthday, didja?'

on the fritz...

...  an entire swimming pool! The consolidated government public pool where I had been going to swim a couple of days a week: broken, closed for repairs. Several years ago the city built a public indoor pool to satisfy the clamor of those few citizens who had been vociferously demanding an opportunity to swim indoors year 'round. Aquatic enthusiasts who had sufficient family history to exert their influence, insisting the Natatorium would be a marvel, as well as an asset to the community. It is a beautiful facility, and as you might have guessed, this vast, show-place of a building requires expensive maintenance. Employees who sit and watch people swim all day: trained, certified life guards to protect us from ourselves.

I started swimming a couple of days a week, but when I had the 'incident' last fall, and could not immerse my arm, the water exercising ceased. It took a while to get back in the groove, regain motivation and interest in going to the pool. To get thirty minutes of swimming done takes about two hours: you have to get there, park in the city-owned deck, walk to the building. Pay your fee to swim, strip, get on your suit, get wet and do laps for half an hour, while avoiding all the other people splashing around, turning the water into an obstacle course. Then do all the above in reverse when you get finished, plus shower.

This all occurs in the smaller of two pools that is almost bath-water temperature. Not sure of the precise degree, but a whole lot warmer than the other larger pool that is designed for laps/swim lanes and diving. It is a huge noisy facility when there are kids present. There will be occasional closures on a weekend when there is a competition scheduled but otherwise the building is open either early or late six days a week.

It has been closed for several weeks, due to maintenance. While this facility has been unavailable, another city pool has remained open past the usual closure date when schools start, for citizens with the compulsive urge to swim regularly. Though I have been tempted to go to the outdoor pool, there has been, once again, a serious motivation problem. A bag of gear, with suit, towel, misc. personal hygiene supplies, lives in my car, hoping to provide the impetus for some weightless exercise, but it's been a while. My hope is that motivation will return when that nice big 'concrete pond' of nearly bath temperature water is back in service.

book reveiw: "The Second Life of Nick Mason"...

... written by Steve Hamilton, who is according to the jacket blurb a 'New York Times Bestselling Author'. I listened, rather than read, as I found the randomly selected Talking Book as a set of seven Cd's on the shelf in the library. It was filled with the F-word and gratuitous violence. If you like bloody murderous rages, and lots of expletives, you would most certainly enjoy the book. Even though there were  a number of homicides and obscenities through out, my thought is it is excellent material for a screenplay. R-rated, but fast paced and tightly written.

Even though it was filled with foul language, and descriptions of unnecessary gore, it was an interesting tale, based in Chicago, where the protagonist grew up. Nick was sent to prison in Terre Haute, sentenced 25-to-life for killing a federal agent. Even though he was  not the one who pulled the trigger, he was part of a drug smuggling scheme gone wrong.  Five years into his sentence, he encountered a mobster who was running his very profitable, successful business from the inside, filled with books and personal items that are not usually allowed in the inmate population. Recruited to be a hit man, he is released, and returns to Chicago. Set up in an expensive apartment, with high end autos to drive and a bogus job in a ritzy restaurant, he soon finds what he is obligated to do in return for his freedom.

The plot involved dirty cops, drugs, and of course, plenty of blood and gore splashing across the screen it it were a movie. Lots of fast cars and chases, with sirens and flashing lights tearing through the city streets in the dead of night, piles of bodies in abandoned houses, women in need of rescue. The usual expected from paid assassins, with lots of loose threads left hanging at the end, leaving the perfect opportunity for a sequel.

substituting...

... today and again on Friday. Today is a half day, so I have time this morning to try to get some little things done at home before I have to leave for the job. This one is working as an aide in a Kindergarten class room. Which is the same thing I was doing when I took the first job of the new school year, at a small elementary school. When I discovered that I could take jobs replacing classroom teachers who were only going to be out for a half-day, and get credit for having been on the job for a full day, I admit to doing the Happy Dance. Even though the pay is less, knowing I can put up another hash-mark on the wall as I inch my way towards the ultimate goal of twenty days is very gratifying.

I still cannot explain why I put the effort in. When talking to a friend who works as a sub., but only at one school, I found she really struggled to get that minimum as the school year drew to a close back in May. She told me she wanted to be the one to make the decision: be able to tell the school system she would or would not continue to accept the 'day labor' assignments. Self-flagellating just so she would be the one deciding, she would be telling them she would or wouldn't be doing the work. I had not thought of it in those terms, and feel like she has a good point.

But also readily admit that it is emotionally demanding, stressful work under the best of circumstances. And you never get the 'best circumstances' when you go into a room full of strangers who are intent on being oppositional, putting all their effort towards making your life difficult for the next seven hours. My theory: you need to be able to identify, call them by name. If you can name the culprit, it will stop him/her in their tracks. Once they realize you know who they are, they will usually change tack, improve behavior and become much more manageable.

So I will round up some lunch, get myself dressed and head out for the school. Start mentally preparing for the half day of wrangling five year olds, the headache that is almost a certainty when taking my shift on lunch duty. I will find reasons to be amused by little people, see kids experiencing and exploring, discovering the world, gaining knowledge and learning about themselves. I can do this!

book review: "Little Black Lies"...

... is another book by Sandra Block, an author I just recently discovered, and wanted to read more of her work. Having recently read one of her books with the resident Dr. Zoe Goldman as the main character, I assumed Zoe would be in the "Lies" volume with all her personality quirks, doubts about her ability to be a provider in a mental health setting. Dr. Goldman is a well thought out piece of fiction, and could easily have some personal issues that the author is well acquainted with in her home life.

Dr. Goldman is working in a mental hospital in Buffalo, NY., under supervision. She encounters a number of patients, admitted for a variety of ills. One particular patient seems to have a special connection, and attaches her health and well being to Zoe. In addition to working the long hours required by her profession, often on call overnight, Zoe's personal life is a shambles, with a significant other that is on-again, off-again. Plus her mother is in nursing care, descending into the lost world of dementia.

While Zoe meets the demands of her profession, she is also attempting to sort out her personal history. Her mother told her as a child she was her foster parent, then adopted her through the court system, relocating to give the family a fresh start. Zoe is obsessed with digging into her childhood, searching for clues of her birth family. The bit of information she received from her adoptive mom do not seem to add up, as there is no documented history in published news of the fire her mom claims she survived as a child. The plot thickens considerably, with the patient from the hospital playing an unexpected part in Zoe's search for her early history.

Zoe is an easy person to like, who has lots of frailties, she readily admits. She is struggling with doubt,, on meds. for anxiety and ADHD, seeing a therapist, has a hard time with relationships. Occasionally seeming to be a candidate for admission to a mental hospital, while being on the staff there. I enjoyed reading this book, especially after being introduced to Dr. Goldman in the one that was written after "Lies." Good entertainment, with a well-wrought plot and realistic characters.

recruiting ....

... event for Girl Scouts on Saturday. If I had not been in the shade, under a canopy to protect us a little from the blistering hot sun, I believe I would have perished from the heat. The event was held in a greenspace adjacent to the RiverWalk downtown, within rock throwing distance of the muddy Chattahoochee. I don't know how it has happened that most of the area I (mistakenly) thought was public, city-owned property has been sold and developed by private enterprise in recent years. But there is little left that provides the citizens an opportunity to picnic and socialize, play, walk dogs, enjoy the scenery - mostly owned by corporations that have limited public access.

The area where we were gathered, close to a street with a bridge that crosses the river, has been used and enjoyed in recent years by many organizations promoting events that would have a large attendance, in need of easy access for patrons and plenteous parking. The wide, open space is about the size of a football field - lots of room to run and play games. Various vendors had over dozen small canopies/tents set up, with chairs and tables for people to sit in the blessed shade.  A number are partners with Girl Scouts, people with an interest in helping publicize and promote the goal of Helping Girls Grow Strong. There were a number of young scouts there, members of organized troops with adult support, who had set up various attractions to show some of the fun things Girls do when they participate in Scouting/

I was invited to help a couple of life-long Adult scouts who have had a troop for years. Their focus was on showing girls things they would learn about the outdoors: camping, cooking, environmental safety. Plus, of course, when you go to camp, you know you have to do crafts, right? I spent the two hours I was there in the miserable heat cutting yarn, showing dozens of little people how to make friendship bracelets by braiding three different colored strings together with a knot at one end and a loop at the other. I was quite surprised at the number of girls who said they did not know how to braid: I was certain everyone had sat behind a girl with long hair in a school room, and sneakily practiced her braiding skills on friends and classmates. Amusing, entertaining and educational with lots of youngsters signed up to get connected to Girl Scout

looking for...

...a chair, spending hours on Friday visiting all the thrift stores in town hoping to find a light-weight folding chair I can use with the Auntie. She has lost the ability to walk, or more likely just hyper-anxious about the possibility of falling and serious injury, which is always a concern as we age. It reality it appears we loose independence in increments, which should make it easier to 'accept the things we cannot change'.

The last time I was with her, with several appointments in various medical offices, plus lunch and a little time to waste in between, I think I wrangled the heavy awkward wheel chair she needed in and out of my car a minimum of six times. Fortunately one of the offices had rolling chairs on hand, so it was just a matter of transferring. Getting those big weighty metal devices in the back seat and out again for moving her from the car to the waiting room got more and more challenging as the day progressed. The miserable temperature of south Georgia in August added to the aggravating experience.

Even though it will be a couple of weeks before there are more appointments on my calendar, I know I need to be industriously searching for a chair that will make the experience easier. I went to four stores on Friday, and left my name and number at two of them, hoping they will let me know when they get one donated that is serviceable. Transport does the same thing a big awkward wheel chair does, but the wheels are much smaller - and all the same size. The difference is in the weight and ease of folding/lifting to get the chair into the car, after the person being moved is situated. Wheels are about the size of what you would see on a child's red wagon, rubber tires, maybe ten inches in diameter. Just  whole lot less weight and much easier to transport the Transport Chair!

numbers...arrrggghhhh....

... frustrating, aggravating, annoying, irritating, various and sundry other descriptive words to express how difficult it is for someone like me with no math skills to decipher the secret code that completely baffles the math impaired. I have spent literally hours in an effort to reconcile my check book with the most recent bank statement. Sadly, I have learned how pointless it is to put the effort in late in the day when my brain cells have been exhausted, after hours of rubbing together to produce coherent sentences and the appearance of capability. I made the mistake of devoting time to an attempt at the fine balance one night recently, and finally realized I needed to put it aside. The time had come for me to rest my weary brain and start again in the early morning when the gray matter was as alert and coherent as it will ever be.

At it again this morning, when I had nothing else to do other than devote my time to wrangling numbers to make them properly squeeze into spaces I feel they were not designed to be forced into. Even with a well rested, refreshed, clear-thinking brain that enjoyed a good night's sleep, there was far too much of my morning occupied by juggling, shuffling and rearranging the numerals over and over to make everything properly align. Why is it so stinking hard? Partially because my brain is simply not wired for this type computational work. Partially because I have no desire to be the painstaking meticulous person who makes everything stand in perfect rows, in precise formation at the end of the day. Left brained in a right brained world.

When I am whining in an effort to be scheduled for more work hours (= more pay), I occasionally am given the option of being trained to be a cashier. My consistent refusal is related to my knowledge of this chronic math disability. I know I cannot count. People who easily manage numbers, will laugh and seem to be both amused and confounded by the idea that there are people in the world who struggle with all things numerical. Honestly- I struggle with it too, especially when it appears to be so easy for others who laugh when I admit to my impairment - thinking it is a joke. No laughing matter here!

I know there are many times and places that require that precision, many jobs where it is necessary if not essential to have everything in perfect alignment. That is the world we live in. It's just always been a struggle for me to fit in. Sadly, this confession extends to very limited technology skills. I spent an hour this morning on hold, or punching keys as instructed to try to get into a site for garnering travel rewards. After the service rep. lead me through repeated starts, I still cannot get there. All I wanted was to get credit for tickets purchased and distances traveled. Do I want to call that toll free number again and start over? Probably will just forgo the benefit....

book review: "The Girl With No Name"...

... written by Sandra Block. It was such good entertainment, I have already looked to see if the library can provide more of her published work. The main character is a young woman who is learning how to become a psychiatrist, working in a mental hospital in New England. She is not yet fully trained, and would be, I guess, what used to be called an 'intern', practicing the art under the supervision of another medical professional.

Zoe Goldman, working in a psych. hospital, is under the tutelage of an older physician, Dr. Tad Berringer. Zoe is assigned a teen aged girl who was brought in when the girl was found lying in the street. This young person cannot remember anything, seems catatonic, unresponsive. The staff refers to her as Jane  Doe, begins to try various tactics and medications in an effort to help her regain consciousness. This young mysterious patient does regain some clarity, but  seems to have a split personality. She talks of vague memories involving another person, a limo. and men chasing her. But cannot tell them who she is, or provide details to assist in identifying her background.

Zoe has her own problems, and relates small details, bringing her foibles  and humanity to life. She is very attracted to the supervising physician, even though she knows he is married. As Dr. B. gains her trust, she realizes he has an alcohol problem, and debates about reporting him. He admits to trying to get the drinking under control, going to AA meetings, while he continues to supervise the staff at the hospital.

The young Jane Doe suddenly reverts to that inert state, and Zoe tries to figure out what caused the change. Dr. B wants to perform electro-shock therapy on Jane Doe, hoping this last ditch effort will be effective. Zoe is completely opposed to this final option, and begs the doctor not to move forward. Here the plot thickens considerably - so you will have to read the book to find the surprising ending.

The other book I found by this author is "Little Black Lies", which I have already started. There was a reference in "The Girl..." to "Black", and I expect it will be as enjoyable as the first one by this author.

about 'biscuit poisoning'...

... a term first heard from a family friend. A man who had a long successful prosperous career as an orthopedic surgeon. His mom lived in the house next door to may parents for many years, though the son spent his career practicing the fine art of bone repair in Savannah. He is now retired, and found his second calling as a professional photographer. The story I heard about his current work, self-employed at special events and take pictures, is that he just happened into it, when a friend asked if he wanted to go along on a photo-shoot. The semi-retired doctor found that he had a great time being a 'go-fer', assistant to the man taking the pictures. He observed, and began asking questions, then was eventually supplied with a camera to help out. Over time, with experience, he began getting referrals, then working on his own using those new-fangled digital cameras, developing skills that created a demand for all the employment he wanted.

We were sitting here at the dinner table, where The Man Who Lives Here was enjoying some hot biscuits. You would think after all these years of watching him eat his version of 'delicious', I would have become inured to the manner in which he enjoys a hot biscuit. But I guess I will always be amazed: He splits the biscuit open, and puts a pat of butter on both sides. Not just one pat, then closing to help the butter melt, but a separate slice on each half of the warm biscuit. He would happily do the same to a day-old, cold biscuit, these just happened to be freshly baked, still warm enough to melt butter. Then he applies a large swipe of peanut butter to each half, lets it sit long enough to begin to melt, and pops it in his mouth. Those biscuits are loaded, I mean loaded with fat. As is the butter. As is the peanut butter. So basically: fat x 3.

After watching this happen a couple of times, I reminded him about the tale I heard from the now-retired surgeon in Savannah. Back in the day when everyone in his group orthopedic practice had to take a turn of being on call overnight at the local hospital, Dr. W. would have reason to be in the ER for the graveyard shift. He said when middle-aged, portly men would appear in the wee hours with classic heart attack symptoms they attempted to pass of as indigestion. Until their wives forced them to make the late night trip, seeking medical assistance, where Dr. W. would diagnose their problems as 'biscuit poisoning'. If they were not actively having cardiac arrest, he would tell them they needed to mend their ways, alter their eating patterns to eliminate so much of the fatty stuff that was loaded with heart-clogging cholesterol. The primary diagnosis of those overweight guys who were enjoying all the perks of a well-heeled successful life was 'biscuit poisoning': too many with sausage or gravy or peanut butter and melting butter leaking out between the fingers.

hard to believe..

... and even harder to figure out why, especially when you consider I did it to myself. When I think or talk of doing some highly unpalatable, thoroughly distasteful task I will often preface it by  saying: 'I would rather drop a brick on my toe than...(fill in the blank).' This morning I am sincerely hoping that today won't turn into one of those experiences that are filled with remorse and regret before the day is over!

I have agreed to spend the next four days in a classroom as a substitute teacher. Hard to believe that is happening to the person who makes so many disparaging remarks about the work and finds the idea of  spending the day trapped in a small space with dozens of untethered children highly aggravating. I did it to myself! Obviously in a moment of weakness, when I was taken by surprise.

When I got the call from the administrative assistant at the school were I spent a day in a pre-K classroom the week before,  was driving to Decatur on Thursday afternoon. I told her I did not know what my calendar for the following week looked like and wold have to call back when I could how my part time work schedule was going to be. Meaning I was unprepared to make a commitment. They were looking for someone to work all week, and I knew I had to be at my jobette on Monday. As it turned out, I was apparently the best bet, (or possibly the only choice?) as she called me back on Friday morning and asked if I could take the position.

It will be substitute for an art teacher, in the elementary grades. Hopefully it will be a good experience. I have had enough time to get really anxious about it - so went over to the school yesterday after work to ask for a peek at the lesson plans. That was only semi-helpful, as I woke a dozen times during the night, fretting over what/how to do what the lesson plans indicate as today's assignment. I just have to keep reminding myself I am smarter than they are, and practice the fine art of Being Flexible. Sort of like the

watermelon cake...

... is something I thought of when I was at work today. A long day, going in early to be there when they first fire up the ovens in the bakery and begin to heat up the oil in the cooker for having hot fried chicken for Sunday lunch customers. The earliest arrivals in the produce department look at dates on all the fresh prep. stuff, discard those that must go away, and refill with fresh cut fruit, salads, and yogurt parfaits for shoppers as they prepare for a busy week ahead.

One of the people who was supposed to arrive at 5 a.m., failed to show up. She called to talk to department manager at a little after 6:00, and provided a lame excuse as her best offer. Reporting she spent the night at the ER with a friend, she could not get to work at all today. I asked why he did not tell her to go take a nap and come in late?  But I've heard him say he knows people will call and say they are sick when they would rather miss a whole day than show up late: how that is advantageous I cannot fathom. As a part time worker I get no sick days or vacation time, so none of it makes sense to me.

The young man who was working in the prep. area with me had not expected to spend his day cutting fresh fruit, but willingly jumped into the position. I told him I would wrap, with the very thin plastic/shrink wrap, if he would cut watermelon just to speed things along. As I was getting the slices and quartered melons ready to price and put out in the cooler on the sales floor, I thought about watermelon cake.

You would laugh heartily if you could see a picture. Especially if I could find the photo I ripped out of a magazine years ago along with a recipe for making a cake that looked just like a slice of watermelon. I have amused myself all day thinking about it, and wondering who I made that hilarious cake for 'way back when. It really did look just like a wedge/slice of juicy red ripe watermelon.

Since I cannot find the original, I have tried to remember how the thing went together: starts a large bowl, that you put some tinted cake batter in, the vilest shade of green you can make with food coloring. I think you bake it to keep it in place, so the colors don't run together. Then you added a layer inside that of a lighter shade of green, to mimic the inner part of the rind that is nearly white. I guess you have to bake that as well. Then you tint the rest of the cake batter a heart-stopping red, add a few chocolate chips to represent the seeds, and put it back in the oven.

When it comes out, you flip the bowl over, and ice it with butter cream, tinted a dark green, adding stripes if you are truly ambitious. When you cut it half, then quarters, and serve smaller slices on plates, with a vivid imagination, it really does resemble wedges of fresh cut watermelon. Pretty funny. I remember my aunt was there when it was served, and talked for many years after the birthday about that unique cake. Wish I could find that page from the magazine, but I think I must have given it to some one who thought they would try to duplicate and make that amusing cake for a birthday.

driving to SC...

... to visit my pen pal ho lives in Greenville. I went up to Decatur on Thursday afternoon, waiting until traffic got as bad as it could possibly get in the going-home gridlock, and waded right in. Fortunately it was not so bad, since I was going in the opposite direction of most of those other five million people who were desperately trying to leave work, so they could get up and do that teeth-grinding, frustrating drive in the morning. Spent the night in order to make today's driving two hours easier, giving me an early start to beat the rush hour conglomeration of a gazillion cars, trucks, vans, semi-trailers.

It was an uneventful drive. Enjoyed a visit with my friend in Greenville, who is always a delight to see and talk with. He admits he is slowing down, recognizing the need to curtail some of his activities and reduce his commitments and social engagements. I reminded him we were not designed to last forever, though I think to be as spry as he is at 94, he is in remarkably good condition. We had discussions about a variety of topics, including various pharmaceuticals he told his doctor he did not want to take, sorry neighbors who won't keep their yards tidy, the state of US politics (a touchy subject I try to avoid as he might have a cap that says 'Make America Great Again', along with the ones that identify him as a WWII Veteran) and what to have for lunch.

When I left his house, I stopped at a corner store to buy gas, before getting back on I-85 to drive into Atlanta. I am continually telling anyone who will listen what good mileage I get in my little Toyota. Folks who randomly stop and ask me how I like my car hear me say: 'it's my second one, I wore the first one out!', then proceed to describe how I can fill the tank and jump on the interstate and get nearly seventy (70!) miles to the gallon. Admittedly, that sounds hard to believe, especially unlikely to grasp for anyone who drives a gigantic gas guzzler like a pick up truck. But it's true.

Before starting my 287 mile drive back from SC, I reset my mileage indicator, to prove excellent results, but no one would be there as a witness. I pulled off at the Welcome Center, soon after crossing back into GA, to take a picture of the display. The top number on the right side is the time, under that is the miles per gallon. After I got underway, it was actually 71 mpg, but decreased upon slowing down to make the stop, and take the photo. Documented proof!

deja vu here...

... but first you need a little 'back story. I was at home most of the day, puttering around, being very productive. I cleaned and dusted and swept and mopped and swabbed and sorted and recycled and washing/drying/folding and even did a bit of cooking (if melting butter and peanut butter and chocolate chips for muddy buddies with corn chex counts?)

I was doing the mopping part, which I thoroughly dislike, but feel sooooo self-righteous when it is done. Happened notice a little magnet on the auxiliary fridge with a small photo of an engaged couple that said 'save the date'. The date was actually today! Years ago, of course, but how unlikely that I would notice that faded-out magnet and it would be the same date?

Making me remember going to Florida for that wedding all those years ago. The in-laws were supposed to be keeping and controlling two very large dogs, but for some unknown reason brought the canines to the dinner after the dress rehearsal at the church. Those long-legged dogs were thrilled to be at the party, even though they had not been invited. Their happy tails were whipping around, banging into all the guests. And drooling mouths on the other ends of those bodies were at the perfect height to eat off every plate in the room.

How ironic that I was sitting down to eat a take-out salad today, and there was a happy-tailed dog with drooling mouth  that came and rested his chin on the table awaiting a handout. On that very same calendar day, years later as I was thinking of the memorable wedding party when the uninvited guests came and slobbered on every one's plates, and slurped up the punch. Those amusing people we witnessed pledging their troth  back then, now have two small busy amusing people of their own, along with more long-legged, tail-wagging, plate-cleaning greyhounds, rescued after they retired from racing. Did you know the greyhounds and whippets have so little body fat, they have to wear clothes in cold weather? I have seen them with T-shirts on, just to keep from shivering.

book review: "Sacred Clowns"...

... written by an author I have enjoyed over the years: Tony Hillerman. This is one of his older books, published originally in 1993. Some stories have been re-released in larger books that are 'collections', and he has written some non-fiction. He received many awards for his writings, based on his life and research as he lived among the southwest Native Americans.  I've read so many of his books, as he describes the personalities and quirks of his two primary characters, I feel like I know them personally: Joe Leaphorn and Jim Chee, members of the Navajo Tribal Police.

The clowns in the title are natives dressed in costume, during a performance of rituals in a pueblo (village). Men who perform are readily recognizable to those who know them, so the idea of wearing costumes and masks is part of the farce. This group puts on a show to help their community see the folly of their ways, through amusing activities the clowns devise as they do silly stunts and remind the on-lookers of their origins. Showing the people the value of their heritage, predating written history. Guiding their friends and families to see the necessity to remain true to their sacred stories and oral history, as opposed to being influenced by popular culture and ways of the white man.

The story line introduces the Lincoln Cane belonging to the Pueblo. A copy of the highly valued cane has been made by a shop class teacher, and is displayed at the performance to remind the community of their history, how people can be persuaded to sell valuable artifacts to collectors for money. Lincoln Cane? President Lincoln had a number of walking canes made and presented to many of the tribes in the southwest, made of ebony wood, topped with silver knob heads, engraved with words to honor the different pueblos as well as date and Lincoln's signature.

History of those honorary walking sticks goes back to Spanish times, when the southwest US, Mexico and central America were invaded and controlled by Spain. Canes were made and given to tribes to acknowledge a friendship, and demonstrate a degree of independence and respect the Spanish showed the natives. Many have been lost or stolen or sold. Possibly in the hands of well-heeled collectors, white men with the resources to afford purchasing illegally sold artifacts. One is in the Smithsonian Museum. Though Hillerman's characters are fictitious, the back-story of the canes is well documented.

A very interesting and educational tale. Disparate story lines are followed by Leaphorn and Chee, and eventually come together to reveal the truth. Evildoers are unveiled, wrongs made right. Sadly Hillerman died several years ago so there won't be any more mysteries featuring these two. I still occasionally find one of his books at the library that I have not read, or re-read one to enjoy the amusing, interesting characters' activities for the second time.

bucket list...

... something I never even knew. Never had the thought to put on the list, with never any possibility of being able to mark it off: being in a movie! I did - and hope it does not end up on the cutting room floor. But even if that occurs - I can still report that it did happen, and I've taken part in the making. You will most assuredly have to look quick to see me, but I am there, and have hundreds of witnesses.

The group of people from Albany, GA. about ninety miles southeast of Columbus, in the southwest quadrant of the state have made a number of movies with a religious, redemptive theme. About people in crisis and the choices they make. The Kendrick brothers, from Sherwood Baptist, started making movies families could view together and discuss. They wanted to create films that would provide wholesome entertainment, find common ground with opportunities to talk about morals and character. They were here last week, filming a story about a young girl who went out for track and surprised everyone, including herself, by becoming an accomplished runner. I don't know the whole story, but the working title is '6K'. There were signs along the street, near the school where they were shooting the film so it is apparently '6K' is what they were using to direct people to the location.

After an email notice about an opportunity to be an extra, I responded, but heard nothing. Another email from a friend got me started again, and I went last week to the school, following email instruction and signage to the cafeteria. Nothing happened that day due to pounding rainstorm, but the following day, when I went back, we were in the bleachers, as part of the crowd at the track meet. I don't think I have ever been so hot in my life, out in the blazing sun for hours.

Watch for me in the stands, wearing a red T shirt and my tie-dyed bucket hat. Try not to laugh. But instead think: how are you doing on your bucket list? Next project: find a parade and insert myself...

PS: The title of the movie, where you will see me in the stands during the awards after the 'track meet' filmed at Brookstone School, is 'Overcomer'. I expect it will take at least a year to do all the editing, promotional work and release for viewing at commercial theaters.

must have...

... completely taken leave of my senses. Remember that little slogan/bumper sticker you used to see plastered everywhere that said 'Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most"? That must be me, after I went online browsing for a job last night to fill a blank square on my calendar with a substitute teaching job. I am hoping that going in early and only being their until noon will minimize the possibility of completely loosing it.

Factor in the knowledge that the smallest people in school are the least likely to be resistant to instruction by adults. And the fact that the youngest ones are the first to go to lunch: they have breakfast until about 8:30, and start going to eat again around 10:30, so the likelihood of me leaving with sanity intact is fairly good. After I discovered that putting in half-days count as having 'worked' (even though being there for four hours won't pay as well as toughing it out on the front lines for the duration), I have gotten adept at searching out the shorter days.

I cannot say why I keep doing it. In talking to a friend (who also struggled last school year to get in the required minimum number of days), I conclude it's just to prove a point. If I want to quit - I want  it to be because I am the one who decided. It rubs me the wrong way for the system to make the decision for me: I would rather me be the decider, the person who gets to say 'that's enough'.

So - I am off to spend the morning with a rowdy group of four year olds, who have only been in the classroom for a week. We will all be fumbling around together, learning the ropes, and trying to follow the teacher's instructions. Nineteen more to go! I hope I can get at least half of them done in the next few weeks, while there is a slow-down with scheduling in my 'real' part time job...

that global ...

... positioning device a friend gave me several years ago seems to not be so remarkably accurate. I know they need to be updated periodically, to guide wayfaring travelers to their destinations. Upon receiving the gift, I did not understand that to be true. Thinking the world 'as we know it' is fairly well-known. Believing most places are fairly stable, well explored and charted by centuries of cartographers (or now: google-earth) for getting us where we want to be.

I have gradually, grudgingly come to accept that things continue to evolve: even in places we consider familiar, something unexpected can pop up and throw your navigational skills for a loop. Though my GPS device was programmed, and provided with the most up-to-date maps available (back in 2012) there are streets, buildings, possibly even towns newly incorporated that did not exist those few years ago. It is a difficult thing to confess, as my family continues to incrementally push, pull, and prod me into learning new skills and mastering technology, but it is apparently time to get that 'thing' on your cell phone that can figure out where you are, and how to help you get to where you want to be.

I was driving in what was a familiar area of town, the place where I have lived for many years, and discovered a new street. There are many thoroughfares in this place I have yet to travel, parts of the town I have never seen, but this one was right here. In my vicinity, less than two miles from my house. A great, wide, four lane road, with grassy median filled with landscape plantings: oak trees, crape myrtles, ornamental grasses, all well maintained. Huh? How long must I have had my head in the sand to not notice all the big yellow equipment and paving machines necessary to build a street with all that infrastructure: bridges, drainage, underground power supply, sidewalks, curbing, miles of asphalt.

This grand new discovery connects two roads I have traveled innumerable times in the years of residence, so I am doubly surprised to find something so nearby, conveniently located: both new and foreign to me. Hard to believe I was doing such a poor job of paying attention - when I think of myself as aware, cognizant of my surroundings, especially attentive to what is going on in my neighborhood, after a burglary/home invasion a couple of years ago. But that construction crew who likely took years to complete the project slipped that one right by me!

here you have...

... more than you ever wanted to know about Arbor Day. Due mostly to my being assigned to give a thirty second talk at a meeting today. A year or so ago, due to not having my plate overloaded with volunteer activities, I took up a position with a local environmental organization. I got myself officially sworn in as a board member of Keep Columbus Beautiful last August, and have been actively involved in a number of community wide events. Participating in various programs to promote awareness about litter, water preservation, recycling, efforts to keep the community clean and safe for man and beast.

The first board meeting kicking off a calendar full of opportunities for involvement occurred today. I was volunteered to share a little info. about Arbor Day. Here is what I discovered: for your edification when you find yourself inveigled in the next trivia competition. The name comes from the Latin word for 'tree', and was begun in Nebraska by a Mr. J. Sterling Morton, who was the editor of a local newspaper (a perfect bully pulpit for espousing any cause, right?) He and his wife bought 160 acres of land in very flat, nearly treeless Nebraska City, and decided to plant trees. According to Wikipedia, nearly one million were planted, though there was no time frame given for this forest-full of saplings to have appeared. He was also influential in promoting Arbor Day in Europe and Australia.

Now you need to be aware of something positive about President Richard Nixon. I know: a sad case, with not much good to glean from his time as our leader. But he did:ensure the passage of The Clean Air Act, The Clean Water Act, Endangered Species Act. And signed the bill that created the Environmental Protection Agency. Sadly, most of these new laws came into being as a result of thousands of people participating in hundreds of protests about damage being done to the land, water and air we all depend on. Nixon also declared the first Earth Day in 1970, with that particular date of April 22 being the birth date of Mr. Morton- everything that goes around comes around, right?

Morton died in 1902. His life and legacy are commemorated with a statue  in Washington, D.C., dedicated to the 'Father of Arbor Day' in the National Hall of Fame. I am sure he lead a much more interesting life, with ample details of his upstanding citizenry, and various calls to action published to inflame the population of Nebraska City, NE. That is for you to google up on your own...

flyin' back..

... to ATL on Thursday afternoon.  Took much longer than I had planned, but I got down, and out (of the terminal) and safely back home, in time to fall into bed, exhausted from travels. I decided it would not be judicious to set my watch for Central Standard Time adjustment when we crossed over, so left it on Eastern Daylight. Also left my appetite on Georgia time, to avoid confusing my taste buds.

When I woke up Thursday morning, on the edge of wakefulness, I began to ponder the day and realized I would be leaving St. Louis at 4 o'clock Eastern time (according to my un-adjusted watch), instead of the 3:00 that was the official departure time. Even so, I did not want to chance getting stuck in a long line going through the x-ray machines and being processed by TSA. We decided I should get there by 1:00 for a 3:00 flight. I am still surprised I got through the inspection process in record time, did not know I was 'pre-checked', or that the lines would be astoundingly short compared to tedious congestion of Atlanta. Plus I kept on my shoes, not required to separate out any belongings: computer, personal items, things they are so hard-nosed about in other airports.

But for some unknown reason the flight was about twenty minutes late boarding, meaning we did not get off the ground nearly as soon as anticipated. Even with the time-traveling of flying back into history by crossing into a different zone, the expected arrival time for landing at ATL was 5:30. There was serious weather occurring as we neared north Georgia, causing the flight to circle for about thirty minutes. I told a seat mate it reminded me of the time I was coming into Atlanta in bad weather many years ago, when we were forced to circle above a thunderstorm. We were up there for so long, the flight was diverted to Chattanooga to refuel. It was a safe landing, as the weather had probably blown out into the Atlantic Ocean by the time we got back to take our place in the landing pattern. I can still be thankful we did not run out of gas while at 20,000 feet.

My daughter, who was not charging me for long term parking while my car was at her house, met me. We had a bite to eat, and I got started home. The parking lot at the airport is a huge mess. I feel like I drove for miles up and down lanes, past concrete barriers, following orange directional arrows to get to the toll booth, insert my ticket and be on my way. Rained all the way down the interstate, but otherwise an uneventful return to fall into bed and sleep like a stone.

postcards from...

... the corner of Kentucky when we crossed the little pointed part on the far south west edge. After leaving Nashville, aka Music City, heading northwest to get to St. Louis by the end of the driving day. The weather looked perfect for continuing the road trip, as we boxed up the cats, our belongings and were ready to load back into the Honda to travel on towards our goal of St. Louis. We ate some seriously over priced oatmeal in the hotel and went to collect the animals and luggage.

I am standing just inside the Hilton hotel, with the luggage and pet carriers on a trolley, waiting for the cousin to go out to bring the car up. As she neared the door,  I pushed the rolling luggage carrier out under the covered portico. Suddenly, and I do mean suddenly: a bruising storm blew up. High winds, heavy pounding rains, out of nowhere! Punishing winds, that might be considered what people in the airline industry call wind shear -really powerful, out of a clear blue sky, profoundly unexpected along with sluicing rain gushing from what had minutes before had been a cloudless sky.

We got back on the right road, in that driving rain storm, that was rapidly blowing through.  Dissipated just a few miles as it moved east, with the sky returning to it's previously bright, sunny clear state. No more blustery drenching rains the rest of the day, so it was pleasant traveling through the fields of soybeans and corn as far as the horizon.

I told my cousin about the little guy starting back to school, needing people to send him postcards from different states. Apparently some sort of summer break lesson in geography, as I think he was given a map of the US to mark states off as cards were delivered to his home address. His grandmother got people interested in supporting the project, so I brought along the mailing address and a few stamps. When we stopped for gas in that little far corner of Kentucky, I bought postcards, and wrote one right there on the spot. The cashier told me if I would stamp it and give it back, she would put the card in their outgoing mail. Vasa has a card coming from Kentucky!

I mailed the rest of "I'm in Kentucky" cards at a post office in Illinois. Did not stop to buy more, so hope I can get one today to send to him before I leave Missouri. A new navigator will take my place riding shotgun after they drop me off at STL Air today. I will present her with stamps and the Columbus address to send more cards to the little guy who is trying to check off all forty-eight states on his US map.

there was probably....

... no mention of the fact that there are two cats involved. The felines have done pretty well, cooped up in luxury carriers while traveling cross country. When I got to SC on Tuesday, they were already in the car, ensconced in the back seat, conversing through the mesh of the collapsible container. They are most definitely indoor cats, likely only experiencing the outside world through screening, or on the occasional trip to the vet. Content within the limits of their known world, therefore easily distressed when forced into confinement to experience the jostling movement of hours of travel.

I can imagine you would feel like a terrible parent should you even consider the possibility of providing some sort of anxiety-reducing substance to make the travels easier on all parties involved. But then - on the other hand - it would profoundly stressful to a spend hours in a vehicle with vocal felines expressing their displeasure with confinement. Remembering traveling with small children, considering the prospect of great distances with the plan of being ready to leave home, start the drive at their bedtime. Driving in the dark is no one's first choice, but the trade-off  of blissful silence in the back seat is most appealing. Less traffic after the sun goes down, and tranquility in the rear of the vehicle.

With forethought, she was equipped with drugs to sedate her feline family Prepared to squirt a small dose of liquid Rx into each one to help reduce apprehension as they travel cross country. My guess is the total drive is nearly 2000 miles - a long way for a pair of cats to be confined in travel containers in a small car. With hours of plaintive calls for rescue if they have not been given medications to make the trip  easier for everyone. It's not my 'call', but I would err on the side of providing the drugs to ease their fears and make the trip less stressful for all.

Traveling miles from home, crossing the continent as settlers in Conestoga wagons did centuries ago, it seems imperative to avoid any of the pitfalls you have the ability to envision in advance. Even with road maps, GPS, knowing the path to your destination I am all for making it as simple as possible. Like the voyagers of yore, there is still a degree of stepping into the unknown into that part of the geography labeled as: 'there be dragons here.'

Her household goods were loaded last week, left in the moving van making a ridiculous, pointless, absurd detour to Baltimore to get to Montana. We will cross the Big Muddy today, after passing though Memphis, and head northwest towards St. Louis. Following the path across the states, cruising the four-laned highways, viewing the passing beauty of America.

and then, after that...

... aggravating day of south GA heat, humidity and stress, I drove 240 more miles to Decatur. Where I spent the night, to get a ride to South Carolina this morning. As I travel with my cousin who drove entire length of  Tennessee today. I remember  many years ago, traveling with small children who would get antsy after fifteen minutes in the back seat, asking 'are we there yet?' and 'how many more miles?' Going on a family vacation and driving across North Carolina the long way from west to east. Looking back it seems like it took several days, but I know we surely did it in only one.

She is driving to Montana. I am not. Not driving at all, and most definitely not going all the way to Montana. Though I am sure it is beautiful there, and the scenery on the way magnificent. Viewing miles and miles of flat as a pancake heartland through the Dakotas and Nebraska. Breath-taking mountains in the distance as you motor across the plains and approach the Rockies. Miles of open grazing lands across the prairies of wild grasses now federally protected in the mid-west. Snow-capped heights and a million shades of green as you travel through national parks and protected forests.

Traveling on to St.Louis tomorrow. More adventures await...

it was exhausting...

... but very satisfying in a perverse, demented sort of way. I spent the day on Monday hauling my auntie from one appointment to another, in the miserable  unrelenting, blistering south Georgia heat. I've started to wonder, question how people survive in such weather, and think of living in a house that was cooled by an attic fan, with windows open all summer. How did we survive? I guess we just didn't know any better in the days before the marvels of HVAC.

When I got out to the facility where the auntie lives, she was sitting in a chair, with a wheelchair available, so I assumed she could not walk, and needed wheels. I must have completely Lost My Mind as I rolled her out to the car, put the folded chair in the back and carted her around ALL day long in that forty pound piece of weighty equipment.Wrestling and cursing, sweating and swearing all day, time after time, as I struggled to fold and insert it back into  my car.

The auntie had three places she had to be in the course of the day on Monday. First we went for a followup visit with the Orthopedic doctor, who put cortisone in her knee about a month ago. The fact that she is actually no longer ambulatory pretty much makes any possibility of joint pain a moot point.  If she isn't walking anyway, not much concern about her knee hurting. Causing me to think that there was not real reason to keep that  appointment that was made  weeks ago. But I thought: if we need to get back in there for some other reason in the future, better we should leave on good terms.

A couple of hours to kill caused me to go to the newly opened community library. An attractive, well appointed spacious facility with lots of empty shelving, so they have room to grow and expand. I was happily typing away, having left the auntie near the entrance where she could observe little people coming in and out, be amused by their antics and activities. She started  shouting after about thirty minutes, loud and disruptive, demanding to leave, so I quickly hustled her out and back to the car.

We killed a little more time as I struggled with the folding chair more getting in and out, her in and out to go to get some fast food lunch. Then on to the second appt. at 1:00. Where the Dr. decided we needed to come back at 2:00 for a chest xray. More in and out, to go to the drug store and get Rx filled, then back to family practice office, before she had to be at a dental appointment at 3:00. Man! That big, awkward wheelchair is a major pain in the butt - but I could not have gotten any thing done without it, as she cannot get around under her own steam at all.

I was hot, cranky and frustrated with that dang (essential) chair, as I wrangled it into the back seat repeatedly, muttering to myself :'I am not doing this again!' I am not doing this again!' While continuing to do it over and over. I actually stopped at a thrift shop to ask if they had transport chairs, with smaller wheels that are much lighter, designed to fold, more compact for travel. No such luck. But they have my number, I'm on the list. I am not doing that again!

not so sure...

... if the idea of being the 'rescue squad' for turtles has any merit, but I did stop 3 (three!) times when I was driving yesterday to help them get across the road. I always have some degree of anxiety when I slam on brakes, pull over and back up. Or inching along in reverse, while looking in the rear view mirror, hoping other vehicles will make the effort to avoid the slow moving amphibians. I am so oddly delighted at the idea of turtles making a come-back, becoming populous to the point that they are evident everywhere. As their little pea sized brains urge them into risky behavior of tediously crossing busy highways in order to find spouses.

Twice while I was driving south, I pulled over, and backed up to get to the place where the small shelled creatures were creeping across the asphalt. The third rescue involved easing on down to a place where I could safely make a U turn to go back and assist the turtle across the lanes, into the tall grass along the edge of the highway. All three of them had mossy stuff growing on their shells, making them appear very ancient, and were all about the same size: I could barely cover with one hand, so had to use both to pick up for relocating. I will always wonder if they immediately turn around and start inching towards the pavement I was so diligent to help them get across. If their heads are as hard as the houses they transport, I can just imagine how they think: 'I can do it myself', and slowly creeping back onto the road to provide passersby with another opportunity to smash them at 70 m.p.h.

In an effort to get myself back in motion, and head on down the road, I failed to take a photo as proof of the first of the three rescues. By the time I saw the second one, the process became so amusing, I felt the need to document my diligent rescues. I will not return home on the same path, as I really don't want to know if any or all of them came to an untimely end. Hopefully they were all headed home for a big satisfying meal their spouses had prepared for them to enjoy, rather than being the  menu for carnivorous vagrants looking tasty tidbits.

book review: "A Thousand Splendid Suns"...

.. by the Afghan author who also wrote "The Kite Runner", adapted as a screenplay and made into a movie. Khaled Hosseini was born in in Afghanistan, has since moved to the US, a prolific writer who has received quite a bit of literary acclaim. I found this in the library, with the recorded books, eleven discs that have taken me nearly two weeks to complete, since I have not been traveling to spend hours in my car listening.

The story is about two Afghani women, and their lives of hardship in a culture that does not place any value on being female. One of the women was born to a domestic worker, and raised by her single mother, who was shunned by the community where they lived. Her life was hard, but when the struggles of daily survival are all you know, you accept the circumstances as normal. When she went searching for her father, who was prosperous, with several wives and a number of children, her father was persuaded to marry her off. She was given to a man much her senior who lived in Kabul, owned a small shoe shop, made hand made footwear. She was unable to successfully bear children, and frequently physically abused, often treated comtemptously by her husband.

Her husband took a second wife, who soon had a baby girl, but being a female, was considered of little value. The second wife eventually had a second child, a son. The circumstances in Kabul as the Soviets invaded became dire, shortages of everything, constant armed conflict in the streets. Insurgents, backed by other countries, eventually took control of the country as the Soviet army withdrew, but there were still food and medical shortages, hardships in daily life. The difficulties these women faces in their efforts to survive, provide food for the family were unimaginable. The man they lived with was brutal beyond belief. He forced them to put the daughter in an orphanage, as he could not provide food for all of them.

The story was often heart-wrenching, sharing the daily struggles of life in a third world country. Related the efforts of these two women who started off as contentious, but soon became united in their common efforts to survive. I often had to pause the narration, finding the telling of their hardships often too difficult to hear. But finally finished the story, and would recommend it as a true eye-opener for anyone who would like to gain a better sense of life in a war-zone.

big fluffy....

...flower arrangement, in the silver urn that comes down off the pantry shelf once a year. Not sure how this annual donation got started, but it has been going on for quite some time. A local, loosely organized group of artists has a show and sale each year, when they all bring one piece of their work, either painted canvas, watercolor, or a three-dimensional design to contribute to the exhibition. For years the event has been located in the Fine Arts Hall of the University, but more recently in a space provided by the local library. I think the library is a good idea, as it is  more centrally located, easier to access, plenty of parking, and more likely to be enjoyed by the general public.

The Art Guild show opens today, with a reception tonight. My big cut flower arrangement has historically been placed on the carefully arranged table with numerous platters of finger foods: cracker and cheese plates, little pastry cups filled with taste-tempting delights, veggies and dip, tiny sandwiches consumed in one bite, sweets in various sizes and shapes. The fact that all this is free for anyone who shows up usually brings a crowd.

It is a pretty big deal, because there are lots of cash prizes awarded for various categories. When I was there putting my massive arrangement together, someone else was in the room looking at the works that had been hung for display. She started a conversation, and reported she was one of the judges. Something she has never done before, and was a bit anxious about the responsibility after looking at all the talent and skills she could see exhibited in the art displayed. I am thankful to not be making such difficult decisions, choosing the best ones. I took the time to walk through when I finished my floral contribution, and was quite impressed with the variety and quality of the work I saw. Lots of talent and skill represented. Everything from wood-working to fabric/textiles, though the largest number of contributions were two dimensional framed paintings, mostly oils/acrylic or watercolors.

The show will be up for two weeks, then each of the one hundred or so artists will return to reclaim their contribution if it has not been sold to an admirer. I will return to reclaim my container, and put it back on the shelf in the pantry for another year.

and another thing...

... about the Artist's Guild Show. I decided if all those other 'patrons of the arts' could provide awards in memory or honor of people in their lives, I should be doing that too. I kinda, sorta forgot that I had sent them a check weeks ago, to add another cash award when they start giving out money as the Most Best Award ever for people trying to produce good art. Some of those artists who put a piece of their work in the show each year really are people who support themselves with what they create on canvas, or water color paper, or pottery or wood-carving. It is evident from the quality of the products seen hanging in the displays or sitting on the columns showing three-dimensional work.

Other pieces of the art in the show clearly demonstrate that the maker is someone who has not received any training in the fine arts whatsoever. But they are people who love to build, create, put colors together and see what happens. Even those who have no skill, are obviously amateurs, can do amazing things with the tools they have to work with, assembling and designing, having great fun making art.

The email went out to all the members of the guild with guidelines about how to get your entry ready for the show, accompanied by the form you had to complete, about two months ago. I don't paint or create, but I decided I can and should support the arts and artists, provide a little award to encourage someone who is imaginative and creative. The Guild got a check for one hundred dollars, to use at the discretion of the people who were putting the effort into preparing for the show. I don''t know any thing more than that: the part where I put the check in the envelope and put it in the mail for them to give away.

What I do know: the check was a donation to a non-profit, so I can take it off  my income tax. It was designed to be an Award from the F.Family Fun Fund. Well, I thought it was amusing....

drivin' in the rain...

...makes me think of a line in a country song about 'cryin' in the rain', but that was not me being weepy when I made a quick trip to Decatur overnight.  My wipers slapped back and forth the entire drive to Atlanta. No mishaps, but more time consuming than normal due to steady rain and slower speeds.

My cuzzin' has had grandchildren visiting for about a month, entertaining little guys who are just a busy as  you would expect a four and a seven year old to be. Moving from one activity to the next with lightening speed, much too fast for the adults to keep up. I often share my theory of the necessity for two adults per child issued for every household, a necessity for adults to maintain sanity, as well as stay ahead of the demands of feeding and laundry of small animals. I discovered this on the day I brought home child #2: it is exhausting work, being a mom. Or grandmother or caregiver to little people.

This guys have a remarkable history: Parents have lived in Moscow in Russia, Beijing in China, and Delhi in India.  Recently relocated to Singapore in the Pacific. He is a news reporter'/journalist and their mom is a writer, has published a couple of books. The family, flying in and out, has been using Decatur as a home base for several weeks, returning to Singapore next week.

Those little guys are really smart. The older one sat and read me a book of riddles, when I asked him to show me how well he reads. My job was to act dumb, and his job was to prove how easily a seven year old can outwit an adult. Reminding me of that television show based on the query: Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader? The riddles were all related to farm yard inhabitants, suitable for small children, so nothing off color. Some of the humor, a play on words, subtle puns might have been too advanced for the average second grader, but he was well above that. I am guessing the first time he read the book, someone assisted him in deciphering the meaning of the jokes he could not find humorous. There was great hilarity when I was continually stumped by the questions.  Out of about thirty riddles, I might have gotten five, as I proceeded to give the appearance of being exceptionally simple-minded.

The boys had been with their dad to a museum, and came home with 'art work' things they had drawn, colored. The younger was showing his illustration of a person. Demonstrating remarkable observation skills and insight for someone his age. Most four-year-olds do not have the discernment to add all the body parts this guy drew - it was obviously the work of a young child, but one who has much awareness of himself and others: legs, arms, hands, feet, fingers, toes, all the components of a human face and head.

I was there for a couple of hours, planning to leave before the family started the process of winding down for the day. I remember the parts of child raising where they get tired and cranky as the day progresses, demanding and insistent. Unhappy with the food they are offered, or unwilling to get in the bath, brush teeth, apply nightwear - so tired from their busy-ness they don't have control and tend to fall apart as the day comes to a close. I deliberately avoided that part, left before the witching hour. And will enjoy remembering the time I spent with bouncy, happy, enthusiastic little people, intensely interested in their world.

It also rained on me almost all the way back home this morning. Making the trip a bit more time consuming that is normally the case, due to cautious reduction in speed. I was certainly happy to be headed south, when I observed a complicated multi-vehicle wreck on the northbound lanes near the Atlanta stadium. Traffic was backed up for miles and miles with thousands of commuters fuming, knowing they would be late for work headed into the downtown metro area.  Other than slippery wet roads, an uneventful trip...

when that guy...

... alternately known as The Man Who Lives Here was talking to me recently, I deliberately did not respond in the conversation. I don't recall what the subject was, or what we were discussing, but it seemed to me like he was just doing the thing females so often will do. We don't really want any one to snatch that issue up as we place it on the table, just need to vent or share about some personal conundrum. You just need to talk it out. Not really needing advice, or for someone to grapple with the problem, wrest it away from the owner and manhandle enough to change an outcome. Just open it up, so it does not fester like an infected wound.

He likely thought I was not listening, or giving him my full attention. But in reality, I decided I should practice the fine and difficult art of keeping my mouth shut. It is profoundly apparent to me after our many years together that he does not want advice. Perhaps he is mellowing as he ages and becoming that person who feels the need to put it out there, knowing there is more room outside than in? Or he is attempting to generate small talk, make conversation in this place of hours-long gaps in interaction?

It is so hard to shut my trap. I do have lots of opinions and more than willing to share with all interested parties, or anyone who will slow down enough to lend an ear. I conclude he does not want advice- mine or anyone else's. In the future I will try my best not to offer opinions. He has heard medical advice over the years that has been blatantly disregarded, resulting in a multiplicity of compounding, disabling problems. All those years of going to appointments, and paying well- educated professionals to provide the benefit of their wisdom and experience has been for nought. There is no reason to expect any alteration on the path, no veering off into sound judgment or changes in a lifetime off poor choices.

I will try to keep my opinions to myself. I often tell people in the workplace when they approach with questions that if I don't know the answer, I will be happy to make something up. I hope most of them realize my response is not serious, but merely put forth for their amusement. But in this day and age of blatant dishonesty spouted forth as representing truth, I guess I need to be a bit more discerning in who might be listening. Cautiously careful to not offer random responses of invented answers, to those who might have been born without a sense of humor. Hard to believe there are people in the world who could have been birthed lacking such a vital part - but it is true!

where ...

... did it go? The summer is speeding by. Virtually over, in fact, for kids who will start back to school next week. In those early years of education - that point when children are sponges, and will readily absorb anything they are exposed to (good or bad! positive or otherwise!), they can hardly wait for that first day: new clothes, new shoes, new supplies. They give the appearance of having all the time in the world - their entire lives of many decades spread out before them like a vast field of wildflowers. Awaiting their approach, ready to be explored with voracious appetites of the young.

Then you look back and think: Whaaat? Where did it go?? There are some school systems, like the ones in Virginia bound by legislature, required to postpone the first day until Tuesday after Labor Day in early September. Other publicly funded schools begin classes in early August, having built in a number of days for teachers to prepare grades, breaks in the fall and spring, plenteous holidays at semester end. Most of the grade schools in this area are gearing up for students to return next week, various county and private facilities attempting to keep to the same calendar for simplicity of programming and scheduled time off.

I am really thankful that is not me. Then I see people who have put in their many years as educators in the classroom, now enjoying their retirement. Reaping the benefits of twenty or thirty years of wrangling reluctant students, getting a steady income, insurance coverage, without the prospect of facing another year of obdurate children. Making me think: If I had put in my time, when I got that degree/certification years ago, that could be me! Knowing those friends and acquaintances are enjoying the thought of Not going back into the halls of education with the freedom to sleep late, drink a leisurely cuppa, take a walk, read all day, make lunch plans at odd hours, travel on a whim.

But then I realize that is me! Sadly, without that nice retirement package of steady income (that can be enhanced with additional schooling/degrees) and secure health coverage for life. Even so, I do have the time to do all those other things, just have to be willing to schedule it around my little jobette. Which is really remarkably flexible, as I can ask for time off when needed, and enjoy travels. I've been surprised the past couple of days, when I would sleep much later than expected. No need to set an alarm, no urgent business in need of attention, plenty of time to putter around doing laundry, sorting the continuous clutter than accumulates in piles every where. (Demonstrating my philosophy of house work that is basically 'tidy up the clutter into neater piles to make it appear to be organized'.)

There is still yard work to be done, things I planned to accomplish today - until I looked out the window as the frog-strangler rains started. The frequent thunderstorms usually occur later in the day, giving time to dig, weed, prune in the morning hours. But with standing water from the recent downpour, not likely any of that will occur today. Hot summer days, and the green that results from plentiful rainfall will  continue here, giving me ample time to get the work done...  finding the Motivation - that's another story entirely!