...'to unite or grow together, to come together for a common purpose'. It came to mind when reading an article in a recent TIME magazine, about popular media. Written by Judy Berman (who might be a media critic) after viewing an FX show, the comedy 'Better Things'. I wrote down a portion of a sentence to ponder.
Not being a consumer of any video or action packed media, I do not know what the program or show or series is about, but reading piqued my interest. Not enough to go back to Mediacom and sign up for cable, but some small degree of curiosity. I just recently went through a convoluted process of finally getting them to take everything off that can be seen on the big screen television that sits on the shelf in my house.
You know I am the person who lives with electronic devices I do not know how to use, cannot even turn it on. I do not see any point in paying over $100 every month for something I don't use. My house is not the place to visit, with the expectation we will sit and watch TV. I can read, or put stuff on the blog (which lately cannot be accessed by my admirers as it has some sort of dread bug I have not figured out how to destroy/remove/cleanse.) Also there is the option of just going to bed, which is often a very good choice in order to be at work at five or six a.m.
The quote, excerpted from a short two column article by J. Berman: ..."you don't notice narratives coalescing until they are fully formed." Made in reference to the story line as scriptwriters brainstorm for a broadcast program on FX. But it made me think about: Life. How we don't see things coming together in mundane daily occurrences, until we have the vantage point of being able to look back on situations and circumstances and observe that 'coming together'. You might want to attribute that unexpected confluence to harmonic convergence. You might believe in luck, or just happenstance.
You might choose to believe something to be preordained, as it was simply inevitable. Or in a more negative mode, you would think yourself to be in an equally inevitable situation of feeling doomed, with no hope of delivery, but none-the-less a series of events leading to a foreordained destiny. Either a positive outcome or a negative one, still it is what happens when you believe the fortune cookie: Fate.
Not me. I believe a power far greater than humans has influence in our lives. The Great Mystery (a term often found in use by Native Americans to explain the unexplainable) leads us in our daily lives, pointing us towards a future we are not yet prepared to examine or understand. We plod through our lives daily, with our heads down, looking at our feet, rarely seeing the wonders of our surroundings, seldom lifting our eyes to look at the miracles each day presents. When you see the dependably returning miracles of spring, how can you not believe in God?
The wording may be a little off, as I cannot quote directly, but this is from a Tony Hillerman book: 'If you think things happen at random, you are looking at life from the wrong perspective'. So - I am convinced every thing happens for a reason.
Saturday, March 2, 2019
on the road again...
... after several months of staying fairly close to home, other than those exhausting trips made in one day to Valdosta and back, tending to the business of guardianship of the Auntie. For several years I have enjoyed monthly visits to Chattanooga, and taking the time to drive to TN and hang out with family. We put our heads together over the holidays or early in the new year along with freshly minted calendars and pick a weekend each month when I can take time off and make the drive to visit on a weekend. Some of the trips will entail a specific event or project, while others have no reason other than being together, time spent enjoying being with entertaining people.
We went to the Tennessee Aquarium last night for a special event. If you are out in the retail world at all, you are aware that this time of year is Girl Scout Cookie season. Young Scouts will be standing near the entrance to shops, stores, eateries, commercial enterprises by folding tables laden with the current assortment of cookies available for purchase. You should always ask these girls what they plan to do with the funds they will receive after expenses are paid, and how they are going to use these resources for the betterment of their group or the world at large. The girls are expected to have well-thought-out answers, and concrete plans for how their plans will be implemented. Part of cookie sales is the training to handle finances, considering how they will use the profits after they pay for the goods, and what they can do to make the world a better place with the resources they have available.
The event last night at the Aquarium 'Cookie Creations' was an opportunity to sample foods that had cookies as an ingredient. A local catering firm was hired to provide the goods, making up recipes that had one of seven types of Girl Scout Cookies. From shrimp that was baked with a cookie coating, to meatballs incorporating cookies and waffles with cookie crumbs in the batter - all good eats. Then we went on a tour of the fishes, where there were cookie and beer parings! I am not a beer aficionado, but determined to not miss out on anything: willingly sampled every offering. Admittedly the cookies provided at every stop were the best part, I did taste a variety of new beers I would have never otherwise tried.
I've not been to visit the fishes for years, and enjoyed walking through the exhibits. Some amazingly huge amphibians, interesting displays, fascinating turtle lore, creepy reptiles and huge tanks with large captive specimens, calmly swimming day and night. Really a treat to walk through when the place is not bursting with the pandemonium that accompanies small children, chaotic school tours, noisy conversation, rowdy field trip participants and bustling baby carriages.
We went to the Tennessee Aquarium last night for a special event. If you are out in the retail world at all, you are aware that this time of year is Girl Scout Cookie season. Young Scouts will be standing near the entrance to shops, stores, eateries, commercial enterprises by folding tables laden with the current assortment of cookies available for purchase. You should always ask these girls what they plan to do with the funds they will receive after expenses are paid, and how they are going to use these resources for the betterment of their group or the world at large. The girls are expected to have well-thought-out answers, and concrete plans for how their plans will be implemented. Part of cookie sales is the training to handle finances, considering how they will use the profits after they pay for the goods, and what they can do to make the world a better place with the resources they have available.
The event last night at the Aquarium 'Cookie Creations' was an opportunity to sample foods that had cookies as an ingredient. A local catering firm was hired to provide the goods, making up recipes that had one of seven types of Girl Scout Cookies. From shrimp that was baked with a cookie coating, to meatballs incorporating cookies and waffles with cookie crumbs in the batter - all good eats. Then we went on a tour of the fishes, where there were cookie and beer parings! I am not a beer aficionado, but determined to not miss out on anything: willingly sampled every offering. Admittedly the cookies provided at every stop were the best part, I did taste a variety of new beers I would have never otherwise tried.
I've not been to visit the fishes for years, and enjoyed walking through the exhibits. Some amazingly huge amphibians, interesting displays, fascinating turtle lore, creepy reptiles and huge tanks with large captive specimens, calmly swimming day and night. Really a treat to walk through when the place is not bursting with the pandemonium that accompanies small children, chaotic school tours, noisy conversation, rowdy field trip participants and bustling baby carriages.
about that swim meet...
... where I did another stint of volunteering on Friday. The meet at the Aquatics Center was continuing on Friday, and I offered to donate half of my day to the event. Meaning I had to be on site at 7:30, and would serve as a volunteer for the first shift. The program of events was planned to give everyone from competitors to cleaning crew a break in the middle of the day.Allowing the students and coaches to leave the premises to get lunch, and dry out before the second half of the planned relays/medleys and singles events.
Competitive swimming is something that has never caught my interest, so I do not know anything about it. My knowledge is practically non-existent, other than occasionally seeing the cream of the crop when televised with world class athletes. In order to have the skills they do, they start young and commit to years of daily practice, developing speed. as their bodies mature. Like getting to the national level of competition in any arena, it takes devotion, dedication, and years of getting up early before classes. Being a diligent student, then returning to more practice after school, weekends spent traveling and a willingness to give up other things with greater appeal to young people.
There were dozens of young people I saw in my time on Thursday afternoon and Friday morning at the NAIA meet. (National Association of Independent Athletes? I never asked, and everyone assumed I was far more knowledgeable than I was!) From colleges I was unfamiliar with, arriving in middle Georgia in those big charter-type buses from all over the US. I asked a swimmer if most of the attendees would be on athletic scholarships and she said yes. Smaller, independent colleges, who still want to participate in national events, but may not have the resources to produce powerhouse football teams yet still want to be visible, make a name for themselves in the world of sports.
I was sitting in a wide hallway area with benches and space for teams to gather. My job was to guard a door, refuse entry to anyone who wanted to pass through. The door is actually the entrance to a short hallway where there are lockers lining the walls, and four 'family' style changing rooms. Now being used, during this event as a space for the people who perform drug-testing to do their secretive work. I was instructed to tell anyone attempting to open the doors there was 'no entry'. The signs posted indicated the doors were not to be opened, but you would be surprised at the number of people who either cannot read, think it does apply to them or do not know the meaning of 'No'. My job was to tell them: 'No'.
It was really dull, but I had book and spent several hours on Thursday afternoon reading. Also walking to and fro in that small space so I could keep an eye on my assignment, while getting some exercise. There was plenty of foot traffic, athletes, coaches, parents, supporters, employees of the parks and rec. department, law enforcement, but most ignored me. Though it appeared to be a pointless endeavor, I was assured it was a very important job, necessary to keep the door closed and the people within uninterrupted in their work.
Competitive swimming is something that has never caught my interest, so I do not know anything about it. My knowledge is practically non-existent, other than occasionally seeing the cream of the crop when televised with world class athletes. In order to have the skills they do, they start young and commit to years of daily practice, developing speed. as their bodies mature. Like getting to the national level of competition in any arena, it takes devotion, dedication, and years of getting up early before classes. Being a diligent student, then returning to more practice after school, weekends spent traveling and a willingness to give up other things with greater appeal to young people.
There were dozens of young people I saw in my time on Thursday afternoon and Friday morning at the NAIA meet. (National Association of Independent Athletes? I never asked, and everyone assumed I was far more knowledgeable than I was!) From colleges I was unfamiliar with, arriving in middle Georgia in those big charter-type buses from all over the US. I asked a swimmer if most of the attendees would be on athletic scholarships and she said yes. Smaller, independent colleges, who still want to participate in national events, but may not have the resources to produce powerhouse football teams yet still want to be visible, make a name for themselves in the world of sports.
I was sitting in a wide hallway area with benches and space for teams to gather. My job was to guard a door, refuse entry to anyone who wanted to pass through. The door is actually the entrance to a short hallway where there are lockers lining the walls, and four 'family' style changing rooms. Now being used, during this event as a space for the people who perform drug-testing to do their secretive work. I was instructed to tell anyone attempting to open the doors there was 'no entry'. The signs posted indicated the doors were not to be opened, but you would be surprised at the number of people who either cannot read, think it does apply to them or do not know the meaning of 'No'. My job was to tell them: 'No'.
It was really dull, but I had book and spent several hours on Thursday afternoon reading. Also walking to and fro in that small space so I could keep an eye on my assignment, while getting some exercise. There was plenty of foot traffic, athletes, coaches, parents, supporters, employees of the parks and rec. department, law enforcement, but most ignored me. Though it appeared to be a pointless endeavor, I was assured it was a very important job, necessary to keep the door closed and the people within uninterrupted in their work.
Thursday, February 28, 2019
volunteering...
... today for the Sports Council. This is the organization that was started from scratch back in 1996 when the Olympics were held in Georgia. Women's Fastpitch Softball was proposed as a new addition to the competition, and games were held here, with teams from all over the world coming to compete for Olympic Gold.
My job assignment was probably the most worst boring volunteer position ever. Sitting by a door and telling people they cannot open this door. Few actually wanted to go in, and the ones who heard 'sorry, you cannot go in', were remarkably agreeable, taking the long way around instead of that handy short cut. The organizers had actually blocked off a breezeway (fortunately not an exit or the fire marshal would have been standing on his head), to use that small space for people who set up drug testing. I guess that has started to be an issue in any competition, with required proof to keep everyone on the up and up. Sad that this has become necessary to prevent cheating in collegiate sports and performance enhancing drugs at bay.
I was there from 2:30 until 8:00. I am very thankful I had a book in my car. One I had started months ago,but left in my car and never went back to finish. The venue for the swim meet was the city aquatics center, close to the main branch of the public library: a building filled with things to read!
It was the NAIA Championships. I have no idea what that means, but there were college age swimmers from all over the US there competing. Bringing dollars into town when they came for the event, staying in motel rooms and eating Georgia food.
I will go back in the morning at 7:30 until noon. I plan to take my computer so I can keep boredom at bay, even if it requires watching hours of lame, cheezy YouTube videos. Or blogging, pondering the universe...
My job assignment was probably the most worst boring volunteer position ever. Sitting by a door and telling people they cannot open this door. Few actually wanted to go in, and the ones who heard 'sorry, you cannot go in', were remarkably agreeable, taking the long way around instead of that handy short cut. The organizers had actually blocked off a breezeway (fortunately not an exit or the fire marshal would have been standing on his head), to use that small space for people who set up drug testing. I guess that has started to be an issue in any competition, with required proof to keep everyone on the up and up. Sad that this has become necessary to prevent cheating in collegiate sports and performance enhancing drugs at bay.
I was there from 2:30 until 8:00. I am very thankful I had a book in my car. One I had started months ago,but left in my car and never went back to finish. The venue for the swim meet was the city aquatics center, close to the main branch of the public library: a building filled with things to read!
It was the NAIA Championships. I have no idea what that means, but there were college age swimmers from all over the US there competing. Bringing dollars into town when they came for the event, staying in motel rooms and eating Georgia food.
I will go back in the morning at 7:30 until noon. I plan to take my computer so I can keep boredom at bay, even if it requires watching hours of lame, cheezy YouTube videos. Or blogging, pondering the universe...
found: my personal banker...
... at the branch near the mall, where I was greeted, assisted, and made to feel like a valued customer. I had such a crummy experience when I stopped in the branch that would be most convenient I had to wonder if it would be best to change to a different financial institution. But went to the bank a bit less accessible for my needs, and closer in to town, and met with someone who was amazingly helpful and seemed truly interested in problem solving with me. So, yay, I have found myself a banker who I can work with, someone who knows people that can help me get the info. I need.
I recall when we first entered the world of social security payments, and discovered that it is 'income' even though you are just getting back the funds you were taxed and paid into the system all those working years. So unless you set aside a portion for Uncle Sam's needs you will be in the hole at income tax time. Pretty annoying to feel like you are being taxed within an inch of your life/sanity. I decided when I signed on early, that the best idea would be to open a savings account linked to checking in order to have funds transferred monthly as a cushion, a form of insurance, when the time came to pony up for taxes. If I don't need it, I am building up a nest egg, but if I do end up having to fork over extra when taxes are filed, I will be prepared and it will be less painful when I can borrow from myself!
Now that my payments have increased considerably, I thought it would be wise to do the same thing with the extra funds. Especially after getting so annoyed when my tax refund from the state last year was rolled over and paid toward federal taxes due. Remember the story of when I never even got to get my greedy little hands on the hundreds of dollars I would have gotten back from GA tax refund?
I need to go back and revisit the W2 form again, and figure out what would be a reasonable, safe amount to have withheld to make it all come out more-or-less even. Get to the place where I do not owe GA or Uncle Sam, even if I do not get any back, I just do not like the idea of paying taxes out of every paycheck, and then forking over more on April 15.
I recall when we first entered the world of social security payments, and discovered that it is 'income' even though you are just getting back the funds you were taxed and paid into the system all those working years. So unless you set aside a portion for Uncle Sam's needs you will be in the hole at income tax time. Pretty annoying to feel like you are being taxed within an inch of your life/sanity. I decided when I signed on early, that the best idea would be to open a savings account linked to checking in order to have funds transferred monthly as a cushion, a form of insurance, when the time came to pony up for taxes. If I don't need it, I am building up a nest egg, but if I do end up having to fork over extra when taxes are filed, I will be prepared and it will be less painful when I can borrow from myself!
Now that my payments have increased considerably, I thought it would be wise to do the same thing with the extra funds. Especially after getting so annoyed when my tax refund from the state last year was rolled over and paid toward federal taxes due. Remember the story of when I never even got to get my greedy little hands on the hundreds of dollars I would have gotten back from GA tax refund?
I need to go back and revisit the W2 form again, and figure out what would be a reasonable, safe amount to have withheld to make it all come out more-or-less even. Get to the place where I do not owe GA or Uncle Sam, even if I do not get any back, I just do not like the idea of paying taxes out of every paycheck, and then forking over more on April 15.
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
a lot of business...
... to be done at a local bank branch, but they were not so friendly, welcoming. I finally attracted someone's attention (while being consistently well behaved), who nodded at me, and said he would be with me shortly. Apparently his definition of 'shortly' and mine are not related, as I eventually left with all that business un-done. Not 'undone' in the sense that it fell apart, but undone as it never got started, so nothing occurred to help with resolution of my concerns.
I still need to go get questions answered and problems resolved, but will take my business to another branch and hope for more positive, interactive staff at the next close-est branch when I go to establish a relationship with my personal banking representative.They just did not seem to be concerned with customer service, or interested in making an effort to be accomodating. I know I do not have big piles of cash, like Scrooge McDuck in the cartoons/comic books, when he is taking a bath in cash, swimming in his vault full of lucre. But they did not know that, or anything else about me.
I went in after work, and was in work clothing: black pants, ugly green knit shirt I have to wear on the job, and sneakers. Decent dressed: not in pajamas like I often seen shopping, pushing a grocery cart at work. I felt I looked ok, but not paint-spattered, or raggedy like you can see in the bank lobby, cashing pay checks. Cannot say if they were short-handed, under-staffed, or that sense of distracted employees is standard. They seemed to not be in a hurry to greet, or assist, so I won't be in a hurry to go back into that particular branch bank in the future.
I still need to go get questions answered and problems resolved, but will take my business to another branch and hope for more positive, interactive staff at the next close-est branch when I go to establish a relationship with my personal banking representative.They just did not seem to be concerned with customer service, or interested in making an effort to be accomodating. I know I do not have big piles of cash, like Scrooge McDuck in the cartoons/comic books, when he is taking a bath in cash, swimming in his vault full of lucre. But they did not know that, or anything else about me.
I went in after work, and was in work clothing: black pants, ugly green knit shirt I have to wear on the job, and sneakers. Decent dressed: not in pajamas like I often seen shopping, pushing a grocery cart at work. I felt I looked ok, but not paint-spattered, or raggedy like you can see in the bank lobby, cashing pay checks. Cannot say if they were short-handed, under-staffed, or that sense of distracted employees is standard. They seemed to not be in a hurry to greet, or assist, so I won't be in a hurry to go back into that particular branch bank in the future.
book review: "in Pieces"...
... a memoir by Sally Field, published in 2018. I heard a review on public radio, some time ago, that must have been the author talking about it soon after it came out, in the way that writers feel they are forced to 'do the circuit' when their books are published. Meet-and-greets, readings, signings at Barnes and Noble to push the product when their editors line up lots of opportunities for readers to have an 'in person' experience with authors.
She had an interesting life in film and television. Starting with 'Gidget' on the beaches of SoCal, and the nun who has the ability to take to the air. Then there was another made-for-TV series when she was a young woman who has ESP, scripts written to give inside info. similar to what she might have known, as per scripted stories from her experience in the convent with a direct line to heaven.
Her home life was fraught: mom divorced, raising Sally and an older brother. She then married a man who started out in acting as a stunt man. He became well known, and eventually cast in a Western series. Chaotic family life, with drinking, fighting, shouting at night, plus the man was a molester. Much to hide from, things overlooked, or ignored for many years. Plenty of opportunity for dysfunction, with ongoing therapy over most of her lifetime.
She was won an award for "Sybil," as a young woman with mental illness in a movie made with Joanne Woodward. Then made a number of light, silly movies with people like Burt Reynolds, who was dysfunction personified if we believe the version in this book. She has been acclaimed for her body of work, most recently as Mary Todd Lincoln in the movie starring Daniel Day Lewis. A stalwart in the film industry, and highly respected for her accomplishments, though put through the mill as a female actor as were many from the era.
I enjoyed the book, even though it took me several weeks to finish, having to re-check from the library a couple of times. Well written as she kept voluminous journals over the years of her acting career, and was able to provide interesting details from years ago. Some pretty damning evidence at the end as she had conversations with her mother about the step-father and experiences of her youth, but probably not nearly as uncommon as you would like to believe.
She had an interesting life in film and television. Starting with 'Gidget' on the beaches of SoCal, and the nun who has the ability to take to the air. Then there was another made-for-TV series when she was a young woman who has ESP, scripts written to give inside info. similar to what she might have known, as per scripted stories from her experience in the convent with a direct line to heaven.
Her home life was fraught: mom divorced, raising Sally and an older brother. She then married a man who started out in acting as a stunt man. He became well known, and eventually cast in a Western series. Chaotic family life, with drinking, fighting, shouting at night, plus the man was a molester. Much to hide from, things overlooked, or ignored for many years. Plenty of opportunity for dysfunction, with ongoing therapy over most of her lifetime.
She was won an award for "Sybil," as a young woman with mental illness in a movie made with Joanne Woodward. Then made a number of light, silly movies with people like Burt Reynolds, who was dysfunction personified if we believe the version in this book. She has been acclaimed for her body of work, most recently as Mary Todd Lincoln in the movie starring Daniel Day Lewis. A stalwart in the film industry, and highly respected for her accomplishments, though put through the mill as a female actor as were many from the era.
I enjoyed the book, even though it took me several weeks to finish, having to re-check from the library a couple of times. Well written as she kept voluminous journals over the years of her acting career, and was able to provide interesting details from years ago. Some pretty damning evidence at the end as she had conversations with her mother about the step-father and experiences of her youth, but probably not nearly as uncommon as you would like to believe.
Monday, February 25, 2019
book review: "Girl in Disguise"...
... written by Greer Macallister, who is reportedly a USA Today Best Selling Author, according to the wording on the boxed set of Cds. Published in 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc. Really good reading, and well researched to boot.
Kate Warne is the lead character. A single woman living in Chicago, in the middle 1800's, a few years before the heated arguments preceding the declaration of war in the US. She was married, had a child that was still born, and husband no longer on the scene. Alone, no skills, nothing that might help her to become self-supporting. She applies for a job with Allan Pinkerton as he is in the early stages of recruiting to form the Pinkerton Detective Agency. As you might suspect, there has never been a female operative, both Pinkerton and his agents are suspicious, doubtful, reluctant to even think of a woman as qualified to suss out criminals, suspicious characters, alleged evil-doers.
She is desperate for employment, eventually persuaded the disinclined Pinkerton to take her on. He begins to train her, and help her to learn the ropes of subterfuge, investigations, cloaking her identity with disguises, using guile to gain needed information.The author has obviously done her homework, as a tremendous amount of research is evident with each turn of the page. Kate is assigned a number of investigations, and sent out to inquire about details related to several cases: bank robbery, mysterious homicides. She has great powers of observation, and readily uncovers details of the various crimes no one else can claim. Historical facts woven into the tale include two separate meetings with Abraham Lincoln, once in a small Illinois town, and again as the president elect.
She is sent as a spy to the south, from their home base in Chicago, before the beginning of conflict in the Civil War. She develops a back story, invents her history and charms many in society as she travels to New Orleans, Birmingham, Atlanta, Charlotte, other points where the rebels are fomenting insurrection, collecting information. Her cover story is she is a married woman, in the company of her fellow-spy/fictitious husband Tim Bellamy. They spend so much time together, they eventually do become a couple. But when Pinkerton discovers their engagement and plans to wed after the war, she is separated from Tim, and he is sent away. His identify is discovered, he is hanged as a Union spy. You keep hoping, expecting with each turn of the page, that Tim will return, it was only a case of mistaken identity...
I really enjoyed this story, even though it took me weeks to finish the nine discs. Plenty of action, well written with details of towns and military to make it seem most realistic, the people came to life and I found myself pulled into their stories as the book was read while I was driving. Well written, believable characters, so detailed it is difficult to realize it is fiction and not an accurate telling of footnotes from that time in history.
Kate Warne is the lead character. A single woman living in Chicago, in the middle 1800's, a few years before the heated arguments preceding the declaration of war in the US. She was married, had a child that was still born, and husband no longer on the scene. Alone, no skills, nothing that might help her to become self-supporting. She applies for a job with Allan Pinkerton as he is in the early stages of recruiting to form the Pinkerton Detective Agency. As you might suspect, there has never been a female operative, both Pinkerton and his agents are suspicious, doubtful, reluctant to even think of a woman as qualified to suss out criminals, suspicious characters, alleged evil-doers.
She is desperate for employment, eventually persuaded the disinclined Pinkerton to take her on. He begins to train her, and help her to learn the ropes of subterfuge, investigations, cloaking her identity with disguises, using guile to gain needed information.The author has obviously done her homework, as a tremendous amount of research is evident with each turn of the page. Kate is assigned a number of investigations, and sent out to inquire about details related to several cases: bank robbery, mysterious homicides. She has great powers of observation, and readily uncovers details of the various crimes no one else can claim. Historical facts woven into the tale include two separate meetings with Abraham Lincoln, once in a small Illinois town, and again as the president elect.
She is sent as a spy to the south, from their home base in Chicago, before the beginning of conflict in the Civil War. She develops a back story, invents her history and charms many in society as she travels to New Orleans, Birmingham, Atlanta, Charlotte, other points where the rebels are fomenting insurrection, collecting information. Her cover story is she is a married woman, in the company of her fellow-spy/fictitious husband Tim Bellamy. They spend so much time together, they eventually do become a couple. But when Pinkerton discovers their engagement and plans to wed after the war, she is separated from Tim, and he is sent away. His identify is discovered, he is hanged as a Union spy. You keep hoping, expecting with each turn of the page, that Tim will return, it was only a case of mistaken identity...
I really enjoyed this story, even though it took me weeks to finish the nine discs. Plenty of action, well written with details of towns and military to make it seem most realistic, the people came to life and I found myself pulled into their stories as the book was read while I was driving. Well written, believable characters, so detailed it is difficult to realize it is fiction and not an accurate telling of footnotes from that time in history.
Friday, February 22, 2019
in order to...
... avoid having to confess how long it has been since that kitchen floor was really cleaned I got up early this morning and swept and mopped. Thereby allowing me to feel self-righteous and enjoy my sparkly spotless floor for at least a week. Partially due to the fact there is no one around who will spill stuff on it to create sticky spots from failure to take food to eat at the table like a civilized person. You would absolutely not believe how many dead ants I swept up, though I am thankful they all appear to be corpses, it is possible I am still providing the perfect environment for an ant colony.
The last time it got cleaned, it was what my mom would likely refer to as 'a lick and a promise', though I am not absolutely clear on what that means? I've always thought 'sort of half-arsed', doing the job in such a poor way that it would soon require a do-over. Swiffer is a poor excuse for cleaning, but will do in a pinch if you are desperate and short on time. I am not much fond of that short-cut method as those little wet mopping pads are so aggravating when they keep slipping off and you have to stop forty times to put it back on again. But a quick solution when time is of the essence.
It was a productive day. Floor swept and mopped.
Papers sorted to take to CPA for getting taxes done, though my expectation was I would still be organizing, shuffling papers into next week. I called to ask if I could drop by and leave it for him to look at, decide if I need to gather up other/different documentation. Hopeful I had everything necessary, and will not hear until it is time to sign. Not looking forward to having him say: 'Ready'.
I expect it will be a traumatic event when he calls: getting mentally prepared to pay a pile to satisfy both the state and Uncle Sam. When we filed last year, I should have gotten hundreds back in a refund from the state, but was told it would be applied to the amount we owed for federal. I was so thoroughly annoyed with the idea of letting my state refund roll over for satisfying Uncle Sam, I changed my withholding. Hoping to avoid that scenario again: if I did not have as much withheld, there would not be extra to dump into paying into federal coffers. Sadly, now it appears I might have shot myself in the foot with that ploy...since I will be the one paying the full amount.
Sounding like a good plan, but now I fear I will be paying both state and federal requirements, the price we pay for enjoying the benefits of being US citizens. Also supporting all those incarcerated behind bars for long sentences we will be required to feed, clothe, shelter, provide with free health care. It's the American Way!
The last time it got cleaned, it was what my mom would likely refer to as 'a lick and a promise', though I am not absolutely clear on what that means? I've always thought 'sort of half-arsed', doing the job in such a poor way that it would soon require a do-over. Swiffer is a poor excuse for cleaning, but will do in a pinch if you are desperate and short on time. I am not much fond of that short-cut method as those little wet mopping pads are so aggravating when they keep slipping off and you have to stop forty times to put it back on again. But a quick solution when time is of the essence.
It was a productive day. Floor swept and mopped.
Papers sorted to take to CPA for getting taxes done, though my expectation was I would still be organizing, shuffling papers into next week. I called to ask if I could drop by and leave it for him to look at, decide if I need to gather up other/different documentation. Hopeful I had everything necessary, and will not hear until it is time to sign. Not looking forward to having him say: 'Ready'.
I expect it will be a traumatic event when he calls: getting mentally prepared to pay a pile to satisfy both the state and Uncle Sam. When we filed last year, I should have gotten hundreds back in a refund from the state, but was told it would be applied to the amount we owed for federal. I was so thoroughly annoyed with the idea of letting my state refund roll over for satisfying Uncle Sam, I changed my withholding. Hoping to avoid that scenario again: if I did not have as much withheld, there would not be extra to dump into paying into federal coffers. Sadly, now it appears I might have shot myself in the foot with that ploy...since I will be the one paying the full amount.
Sounding like a good plan, but now I fear I will be paying both state and federal requirements, the price we pay for enjoying the benefits of being US citizens. Also supporting all those incarcerated behind bars for long sentences we will be required to feed, clothe, shelter, provide with free health care. It's the American Way!
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
finding internet, part 3...
... when rolling along the city streets, and seeing a little campaign-sized sign for "Internet -39.99" with a number to call. I quickly grabbed my pen and wrote it down before the light changed, and made the call when I got home. Who answered? 'Edward'. I assumed a company who was trying to lure me into a package, that would give me what I wanted, then attempt to boost the price with add-on frou-frou. But it was only 'Edward'. Who is working for WOW on commission. He reported he had put the signs out to drum up business, which is, I suppose, a great way to increase your income or get votes.
I could not even recall what company this was, before seeing panel/work trucks all over town with WOW decals plastered on the sides. They used to be Knology, remember? We talked, he said they really could provide residential, high-speed internet for about forty bucks a month (plus rental on modem). I said sign me up. Then he wanted my address. I told him and he said he knew the company supplied service to a public golf course nearby. Oh, yay! That made me even more confident I had solved the over-priced wi-fi problem, and could now get what I wanted at a price I wanted.
He called me back to report that he cannot help. No service on my side of the street. Really? I had even shared the amusing story of taking my lap-top to the repair shop for service, amazed and delighted when bumped to the head of the line. I told the receptionist the only thing I knew was that the 'blog will not publish', and when she heard that, she assumed I was running a business! Great amusement for me, but no argument when she promised fast attention. The call to pick it up came within hours, and I thought the problem had been resolved. So sorry,all you blog readers out there, as well as so very aggravating that is not yet healthy. But the experience of going to the repair shop was also somewhat useful, when I could report to 'Edward' the tale of my conflated enterprise, who then attempted to get me hooked up with service as a 'business'.
Causing me to ponder what a huge can of worms that would be if I attempted to get a business license, involving questions about zoning, major tax ramifications, as well as a huge pain in the sitter. I laid in bed early one morning and considering the idea of a license which took off down a number of ill-advised rabbit trails, causing me to stuff that plan into the bottom of the trash can, hopefully permanently hiding it from discovery.
No luck with WOW, either residential or business. I am now pondering the likelihood of inviting myself to hook up with the neighbors who do have WOW. Necessary to run their cash registers and computers, and if they would share the password, I would not be greedy. That would make me really happy, to have access when they do not need it at night, and the price would be excellent as well!
I could not even recall what company this was, before seeing panel/work trucks all over town with WOW decals plastered on the sides. They used to be Knology, remember? We talked, he said they really could provide residential, high-speed internet for about forty bucks a month (plus rental on modem). I said sign me up. Then he wanted my address. I told him and he said he knew the company supplied service to a public golf course nearby. Oh, yay! That made me even more confident I had solved the over-priced wi-fi problem, and could now get what I wanted at a price I wanted.
He called me back to report that he cannot help. No service on my side of the street. Really? I had even shared the amusing story of taking my lap-top to the repair shop for service, amazed and delighted when bumped to the head of the line. I told the receptionist the only thing I knew was that the 'blog will not publish', and when she heard that, she assumed I was running a business! Great amusement for me, but no argument when she promised fast attention. The call to pick it up came within hours, and I thought the problem had been resolved. So sorry,all you blog readers out there, as well as so very aggravating that is not yet healthy. But the experience of going to the repair shop was also somewhat useful, when I could report to 'Edward' the tale of my conflated enterprise, who then attempted to get me hooked up with service as a 'business'.
Causing me to ponder what a huge can of worms that would be if I attempted to get a business license, involving questions about zoning, major tax ramifications, as well as a huge pain in the sitter. I laid in bed early one morning and considering the idea of a license which took off down a number of ill-advised rabbit trails, causing me to stuff that plan into the bottom of the trash can, hopefully permanently hiding it from discovery.
No luck with WOW, either residential or business. I am now pondering the likelihood of inviting myself to hook up with the neighbors who do have WOW. Necessary to run their cash registers and computers, and if they would share the password, I would not be greedy. That would make me really happy, to have access when they do not need it at night, and the price would be excellent as well!
life lessons...
... even though my original proposal for a title was something more descriptive, less forgiving like: 'failed craft projects', or 'you should know better by now', or a variety of other appropriate and far less cleverly worded titles. I was pondering the chronic and acute mess that faces me in my laundry room, namely that whole wall of shelves holding boxes and stacks of things I know will be needed as soon as I donate to the non-profit or next trash pickup day. Murphy's Law is still in effect: 'You will find it in the last place you look' because you stop looking when you find IT, be that lost item keys, glasses, calendar, etc.
I was pondering life, foibles, our failings as humans, being American while driving back from Decatur in the early hours this morning. About the joys of citizenship and living in American: we do love to have our choices. There is something so classically 'us' when we go to the store and find 99 different types of coffee, but not the one we were looking for! Or 999 different choices of breakfast options, and this is just on the grocery aisle in the boxed items with dozens of dry cereal to decide upon, then all manner of portable hand-held nutrition bars, as well as a vast variety of flavors of instant oatmeal. And then: Pop Tarts in a class by its-own-self. That sugary fruit-filled confection someone had the brilliant idea of adding icing to the top, and then making the filling out of sugar and cinnamon.
Back from being off track: We Love Choices. From years of working in retail, I am convinced that we do love to make a thousand small decisions when pushing a grocery cart. Almost as if: were there not all those wee small choices between varieties of cereal, or coffee, or types of fresh apples, oranges, grapes, potatoes, we would not purchase any at all. Crazy! Especially when so many people in the world are hungry, struggling, living in tents, standing in line for meager portions to feed their families, wondering about potable water, fuel to heat the meal, where the next one might be coming from.
Oh, sorry. I got off track again, wandering dangerously close to preaching.More digressing, but I will try to do better: Prepared to write a commentary of how long it took for me to realize how prone I am to start a project that lingers around in a slow painful death before being donated to charity, or someone who mentions enjoying hooked rugs, crochet, knitting, paint-by-numbers, etc. I have learned to just not start it to begin with. Helpful that I have never ever looked at Pintrest, as I have it on good authority it is not only addictive, but a tragic way to invest hours you will never get back after squandering scrolling the Internet.
I just offered to be a volunteer for someone who is organizing a painting project. I like to paint, and will supply my own brush. Even so, it is just not in me to go to the craft store and purchase the components, think that I will bring home parts to assemble. After boxing and sending numerous half-done crafty things out in the world as orphans, hoping some kind-hearted soul will find, adopt and give them love, three squares, and a place to call home I know better! That won't be me at the hobby store with the thought that there are projects out there awaiting my attention. My creativity (along with Elvis) 'has left the building'.
finding internet, part 2...
...is part of the story that should have been written before part one, but since I only recently concluded that it is going to be a long sad tale, the beginning of that woeful tale never made it into print. It started weeks ago, when the statement for cell phone service arrived, and I decided to limit service to what I thought was reasonable. Not a huge agreement including all the add-ons available with cell service. Roaming is nice, as is actually talking to people I want to communicate with. Paranoia is in order when you realize that the downside of roaming is satellites are tracking your every breath. Someone can follow your every move, purchase, interaction, trip to the bathroom as well as any illicit behavior should you happen to misbehave.
The idea of hanky-panky does not interest me in the least, but I do occasionally get paranoid about Big Brother knowing where I went and how long I stayed. Basic, decent service. I don't need to get email, or spend hours on facebook, or devote excessive time to googling or YouTube on a small screen. Just basic stuff, and minimal gigs - whatever gigs are. Decent service is all I am asking.
A trip to the AT&T store, weeks ago, to reduce service and eliminate things I do not use, want pay for. Then an inquiry about adding internet at home, as I know the providers like to make you think you are getting a great 'deal' when they can bundle, combine services on one statement. But wonder of wonder: when they looked up the address, reported they do not provide cable. Interestingly, their cell service out in our area has been shoddy and spotty for years. Making me wonder why the guy who was paying the bill did not make any effort to shop around in an effort to get both a better price and more reliable service.
But knowing the parent company purchased the Dish company some years ago, makes me wonder? Asking several people who reported their cable was supplied by AT&T, makes me wonder? What is it about me that causes people to think I just fell off the turnip truck? You would think all the gray hair would count for some degree of experience, right? Yes, I did grow up in south Georgia living on a dirt road, but don't the years and life-lessons-learned count for something?
The idea of hanky-panky does not interest me in the least, but I do occasionally get paranoid about Big Brother knowing where I went and how long I stayed. Basic, decent service. I don't need to get email, or spend hours on facebook, or devote excessive time to googling or YouTube on a small screen. Just basic stuff, and minimal gigs - whatever gigs are. Decent service is all I am asking.
A trip to the AT&T store, weeks ago, to reduce service and eliminate things I do not use, want pay for. Then an inquiry about adding internet at home, as I know the providers like to make you think you are getting a great 'deal' when they can bundle, combine services on one statement. But wonder of wonder: when they looked up the address, reported they do not provide cable. Interestingly, their cell service out in our area has been shoddy and spotty for years. Making me wonder why the guy who was paying the bill did not make any effort to shop around in an effort to get both a better price and more reliable service.
But knowing the parent company purchased the Dish company some years ago, makes me wonder? Asking several people who reported their cable was supplied by AT&T, makes me wonder? What is it about me that causes people to think I just fell off the turnip truck? You would think all the gray hair would count for some degree of experience, right? Yes, I did grow up in south Georgia living on a dirt road, but don't the years and life-lessons-learned count for something?
finding internet....
... that does not feel like highway robbery, those guys with dirty bandanas over their noses, brandishing six-shooters holding up the stage coach filled with terrified Aunt Bee-like passengers. When I discovered the statement for service from Mediacom could run as high as $400 a month, I knew that was not going to work for me. Especially due to the fact (embarrassing confession here) I cannot even turn the TV on. Not that I want to, as I long ago decided to not devote my time to the brain-eating, butt-numbing, time-consuming act of viewing. Yes, I am aware there is some really interesting programming out there, so it is possible the baby is being tossed out with the bathwater, but there is no place/time in my life to devote to flipping through dozens of channels/choices.
After being amazed, astounded, and horrified at the recent payments for accessing cable choices, the request was made to take the superfluous program options off. Hoping to whittle the next statement down to something more reasonable, within the parameters of resources available. I actually appeared in person at the store and made my plea, providing much more personal information than intended. When the most recent statement arrived last week, it was nearly twenty dollars more than the previous one that had all the bells and whistles, after my face-to-face request to whittle it down to 'basic'. Arggggghhhhh....
The current bill was a stunner. About twenty dollars more than the one that nearly caused my eyeballs to fall out of my head a month ago. After a brief period of shouting four letter words, causing the air to turn blue as I was talking to myself, I called customer service. Politely explaining the dilemma to a very patient, helpful customer service rep., the request was made to completely eliminate any television service at all. You might recall the report of attempting to reduce the bill last year by changing to Direct TV? Now owned, I think by AT&T? The price was 'too good to be true'. When the installer came and reported he would have to put the dish on a post in the precise middle of the lawn, we both laughed heartily. Then said 'No, thank you'. So that is not an option.
Not only did the nice person who answered my call agree to cancel service, she also took nearly $100 off the bill, reducing the cost to just over $80, which still requires a bandana-trimmed, boot-wearing, bean-eating, campfire-sitting cowboy in my opinion. Because now service is only for internet, plus modem. I have discovered I can purchase a modem (but of course, I cannot install it!) instead of renting, paying month after month after month to use one from Mediacom.
Do not come to my house expecting to watch the news or weather. You likely get all that on your phone anyway, but you most definitely will not be enjoying viewing on the wide screen here. I have had the passing thought of getting rid of it completely, especially after a recent conversation with a friend who said she just bougth one after having her home be a tv-free zone for fifteen years.
After being amazed, astounded, and horrified at the recent payments for accessing cable choices, the request was made to take the superfluous program options off. Hoping to whittle the next statement down to something more reasonable, within the parameters of resources available. I actually appeared in person at the store and made my plea, providing much more personal information than intended. When the most recent statement arrived last week, it was nearly twenty dollars more than the previous one that had all the bells and whistles, after my face-to-face request to whittle it down to 'basic'. Arggggghhhhh....
The current bill was a stunner. About twenty dollars more than the one that nearly caused my eyeballs to fall out of my head a month ago. After a brief period of shouting four letter words, causing the air to turn blue as I was talking to myself, I called customer service. Politely explaining the dilemma to a very patient, helpful customer service rep., the request was made to completely eliminate any television service at all. You might recall the report of attempting to reduce the bill last year by changing to Direct TV? Now owned, I think by AT&T? The price was 'too good to be true'. When the installer came and reported he would have to put the dish on a post in the precise middle of the lawn, we both laughed heartily. Then said 'No, thank you'. So that is not an option.
Not only did the nice person who answered my call agree to cancel service, she also took nearly $100 off the bill, reducing the cost to just over $80, which still requires a bandana-trimmed, boot-wearing, bean-eating, campfire-sitting cowboy in my opinion. Because now service is only for internet, plus modem. I have discovered I can purchase a modem (but of course, I cannot install it!) instead of renting, paying month after month after month to use one from Mediacom.
Do not come to my house expecting to watch the news or weather. You likely get all that on your phone anyway, but you most definitely will not be enjoying viewing on the wide screen here. I have had the passing thought of getting rid of it completely, especially after a recent conversation with a friend who said she just bougth one after having her home be a tv-free zone for fifteen years.
Sunday, February 17, 2019
trying to leave...
... early from work today, with no success. I'm not sure that the experience could be described as the opposite of success, which would be 'failure', as it was a productive day. But from the standpoint of that plan to exit before the scheduled time - it did not happen as expected. In fact, by the time I got out the door and headed across the parking lot, it was nearly an hour past my official 'go' time.
It was a good day, even though longer than it should have been. Half of the day was spent doing the work I signed on to do years ago, but rare is the opportunity to get any floral stuff done. Even though the schedule often has me working on the days my co-worker is off, many of those days seem to get so swamped with production: making salads or prepping stuff in the produce dept. Those few days when there is time for being creative are so uncommon as to be amazingly scarce. Thus today was a better than average day.
The plan for leaving early was due to my desire to drive to Atlanta for a birthday party at the Varsity. Well known local landmark that serves the greasiest fries in town, along with chili dogs and fried apple pies. None of which I had plans to consume, intending to take a green salad and avoid all the fatty stuff on the menu. Sadly, I accidentally ate an apple pie. It was maybe a 3.5 on a 1-10 scale. The filling seemed to be the consistency of applesauce. I won't make that mistake again.
The birthday girl is 94. Family and friends gathered to celebrate with Varsity food and chocolate topped cupcakes. And more celebrating tomorrow, which is the actual birth date. Sad to think she probably will not remember any of the fun she had today, as she had a stroke just over a year ago, and her short term memory is nearly non-existent. But there is always more fun to be had on the morrow!
It was a good day, even though longer than it should have been. Half of the day was spent doing the work I signed on to do years ago, but rare is the opportunity to get any floral stuff done. Even though the schedule often has me working on the days my co-worker is off, many of those days seem to get so swamped with production: making salads or prepping stuff in the produce dept. Those few days when there is time for being creative are so uncommon as to be amazingly scarce. Thus today was a better than average day.
The plan for leaving early was due to my desire to drive to Atlanta for a birthday party at the Varsity. Well known local landmark that serves the greasiest fries in town, along with chili dogs and fried apple pies. None of which I had plans to consume, intending to take a green salad and avoid all the fatty stuff on the menu. Sadly, I accidentally ate an apple pie. It was maybe a 3.5 on a 1-10 scale. The filling seemed to be the consistency of applesauce. I won't make that mistake again.
The birthday girl is 94. Family and friends gathered to celebrate with Varsity food and chocolate topped cupcakes. And more celebrating tomorrow, which is the actual birth date. Sad to think she probably will not remember any of the fun she had today, as she had a stroke just over a year ago, and her short term memory is nearly non-existent. But there is always more fun to be had on the morrow!
Saturday, February 16, 2019
mystery man...
... was who my co-worker thought I was having lunch with on Friday. I said when I went in at 6 am, that I had some place to be at noon, so I would be finishing up and heading out the door around 11:30. She-who-loves-to-know asked me where I was going, and I said to a luncheon. She was not satisfied and wanted to know who I would be lunching with. Instead of telling her the short answer, she got the long one.
Explaining about how when my daughters were small, beginning to go out into the world to interact with other people when their mother was not always present, they were being trained to be truthful. I told them they should always make an effort to be honest, because it is the right thing to do. Plus when you start with fibbing it is hard to keep your stories straight, so just easier to always be the one who is being straightforward. Then you have no problem remembering what you told to who, and which falsehood was left where.
BUT: it is not necessary to tell everything you know. You can keep information to yourself, and not be a blabbermouth. Be honest, but have some discretion, as you do not have to volunteer information that no one needs to know. You have good judgment, and it will improve, be honed over time. Just think before you open your mouth. One of them is much more adept than her sister at skirting the truth.
Then I told the co-worker that the rest of the story, having nothing to hide, even though she began to assume I was not going to reveal details of my lunch plans. Once a month with a group of women, most of whom have grey hair, some tottering along with canes or walkers, who gather at the Wynn House to enjoy a brief lecture on a variety of predetermined topics. Afterward, we move into the dining room for a prepared meal, served on china, with cloth napkins. Attractive seasonal centerpieces on a white table cloth, appropriate to current holidays or various occasions noted on the calendar.
I think she was seriously disappointed: a) that I told her the truth, and there was nothing illicit about my luncheon engagement, and b) they were all women, with fairly dull lives, knowing that the delicious lunch of hot chicken salad, green beans and homemade rolls was the highlight of their week.
Mystery man... as in: I do not know who the person was who cut up the tree blocking the driveway.
Explaining about how when my daughters were small, beginning to go out into the world to interact with other people when their mother was not always present, they were being trained to be truthful. I told them they should always make an effort to be honest, because it is the right thing to do. Plus when you start with fibbing it is hard to keep your stories straight, so just easier to always be the one who is being straightforward. Then you have no problem remembering what you told to who, and which falsehood was left where.
BUT: it is not necessary to tell everything you know. You can keep information to yourself, and not be a blabbermouth. Be honest, but have some discretion, as you do not have to volunteer information that no one needs to know. You have good judgment, and it will improve, be honed over time. Just think before you open your mouth. One of them is much more adept than her sister at skirting the truth.
Then I told the co-worker that the rest of the story, having nothing to hide, even though she began to assume I was not going to reveal details of my lunch plans. Once a month with a group of women, most of whom have grey hair, some tottering along with canes or walkers, who gather at the Wynn House to enjoy a brief lecture on a variety of predetermined topics. Afterward, we move into the dining room for a prepared meal, served on china, with cloth napkins. Attractive seasonal centerpieces on a white table cloth, appropriate to current holidays or various occasions noted on the calendar.
I think she was seriously disappointed: a) that I told her the truth, and there was nothing illicit about my luncheon engagement, and b) they were all women, with fairly dull lives, knowing that the delicious lunch of hot chicken salad, green beans and homemade rolls was the highlight of their week.
Mystery man... as in: I do not know who the person was who cut up the tree blocking the driveway.
Friday, February 15, 2019
according to...
... the fit bit I gave myself for a Christmas gift, I walked over seven miles yesterday. In my opinion, that is highly unlikely, even though it was a long day, and I was on my feets from 7 am until nearly 5 pm, except for a thirty minute lunch break. We are scheduled to take an hour for lunch, so everyone actually has a nine-hour day on-site, unless you leave the store to go eat. When you take that sixty minutes off in the middle, you end up with forty. Heaven help the person who accidentally gets forty hours and one minute over!
I've always been curious to know how many miles I put in on a really busy day: which would be any day before any crazy-making holiday. Since yesterday was February 14, it qualifies as the most crazy-making of any on the calendar for people in the floral business, partially because it is the only one that you cannot spread out over a week. Easter and Mother's Day are not such complete pandemonium, and generally purchases for those events take place over a number of days before that Sunday. But V-Day: wham-o!
Often, after working all day I can come home and rest, sit down and ponder the universe, possibly take an unintentional nap, and get up to wander in the yard, or walk down the street. But yesterday, when I got off work, I was worthless. Sitting here, looking out at all the mess in the yard after the bad windstorm on Tuesday, I was completely inert, unable to generate the energy to go out there and pick up the first limb.
We pretty much sold everything we had. When I went in to work this morning, there was one vase in the back cooler, an order that did not get picked up/purchased with a dozen red roses. I put it out on the sales floor, in our reach-in cooler for sale. Thinking if 'he' went home last night without remembering, getting them today was not going to get him out of the doghouse, so I might as well try to sell them to someone else.
A few bunches of cut flowers left over, things that just came in from the warehouse on Thursday, but so fresh, with tight blooms, you could not tell what color many of the flowers were. It looked like nothing but scraps were left when I got there. About eighteen helium-filled mylar heart-shaped balloons left, but I think we must have filled up over 500. No roses, nearly no plants, almost no but flowers left to sell by the time the store closes, which I assume means it was a roaring success.
I've always been curious to know how many miles I put in on a really busy day: which would be any day before any crazy-making holiday. Since yesterday was February 14, it qualifies as the most crazy-making of any on the calendar for people in the floral business, partially because it is the only one that you cannot spread out over a week. Easter and Mother's Day are not such complete pandemonium, and generally purchases for those events take place over a number of days before that Sunday. But V-Day: wham-o!
Often, after working all day I can come home and rest, sit down and ponder the universe, possibly take an unintentional nap, and get up to wander in the yard, or walk down the street. But yesterday, when I got off work, I was worthless. Sitting here, looking out at all the mess in the yard after the bad windstorm on Tuesday, I was completely inert, unable to generate the energy to go out there and pick up the first limb.
We pretty much sold everything we had. When I went in to work this morning, there was one vase in the back cooler, an order that did not get picked up/purchased with a dozen red roses. I put it out on the sales floor, in our reach-in cooler for sale. Thinking if 'he' went home last night without remembering, getting them today was not going to get him out of the doghouse, so I might as well try to sell them to someone else.
A few bunches of cut flowers left over, things that just came in from the warehouse on Thursday, but so fresh, with tight blooms, you could not tell what color many of the flowers were. It looked like nothing but scraps were left when I got there. About eighteen helium-filled mylar heart-shaped balloons left, but I think we must have filled up over 500. No roses, nearly no plants, almost no but flowers left to sell by the time the store closes, which I assume means it was a roaring success.
Thursday, February 14, 2019
another valentines...
...day thought, something that always comes to mind when the fourteenth of February occurs: remembering my dad who insisted he had to plant new potatoes on this date. Even though he was not a farmer in the most commonly used definition of the term, he did enjoy planting things and watching them grow. Whether of an ornamental nature or vegetables for consumption, when he retired and had the time to grow, water and nurture, he took pleasure in the process and product of a well-tended home and landscape.
I cannot recall inquiring as to the necessity of getting the seed potatoes put to bed on that specific date, but assume the source of all planting wisdom, The Farmer's Almanac, instructed thusly. Not sure I ever asked to know why it was essential to have the task accomplished on that particular day, but I know in the years when he did not devote his days to gainful employ, he was quite diligent about attending to his planting schedule. He also planted beans, to enjoy with the new potatoes when they matured and were ready for the dinner table.
The man also had some very strong opinions about tomatoes: you should only eat them with homemade mayonnaise. He grew the ones he preferred, with just the proper balance of acidic to big, fat, juicy. Ordering the seeds from the catalog, after perusing all the choices in the cold, dreary days of winter. Carefully planting them in a perfect mix of potting soil for the best start, warmed in his greenhouse built in the backyard. Then transplanting when the winter days were tapering off into warm sunny spring. Feeding, watering, watching, waiting.
The homemade mayonnaise recipe had been perfected years ago, under the tutelage of his mother. Back in the day when it was all assembled and whisked together by hand. More recently done with an electric mixer, after carefully measuring proportions, slowly blending each ingredient in the proper sequence. And in his later years, assembled ingredients were turned into yellow gold recipe in the convenient blender, again tediously, deliberately pouring the measured oil, salt, lemon juice in slowly reaching perfect consistency for slathering on bread before applying the juicy slice of tomato.
Sorry: I did not have the foresight to take lessons, so I cannot offer to come to your house and make mayonnaise. Personally, I rarely eat it, so if I did make it, most would go in the trash here. Even though my mouth has not had any in over twenty years, my taste buds remember how smooth, tangy and tasty that perfect concoction was. He actually had neighbors and friends request a batch. I don't recall anyone asking for the recipe, but do remember times when he would be making it for delivery to someone who knew how wonderful it was, and had occasion to ask for a taste of the wonderfulness of homemade mayonnaise.
I cannot recall inquiring as to the necessity of getting the seed potatoes put to bed on that specific date, but assume the source of all planting wisdom, The Farmer's Almanac, instructed thusly. Not sure I ever asked to know why it was essential to have the task accomplished on that particular day, but I know in the years when he did not devote his days to gainful employ, he was quite diligent about attending to his planting schedule. He also planted beans, to enjoy with the new potatoes when they matured and were ready for the dinner table.
The man also had some very strong opinions about tomatoes: you should only eat them with homemade mayonnaise. He grew the ones he preferred, with just the proper balance of acidic to big, fat, juicy. Ordering the seeds from the catalog, after perusing all the choices in the cold, dreary days of winter. Carefully planting them in a perfect mix of potting soil for the best start, warmed in his greenhouse built in the backyard. Then transplanting when the winter days were tapering off into warm sunny spring. Feeding, watering, watching, waiting.
The homemade mayonnaise recipe had been perfected years ago, under the tutelage of his mother. Back in the day when it was all assembled and whisked together by hand. More recently done with an electric mixer, after carefully measuring proportions, slowly blending each ingredient in the proper sequence. And in his later years, assembled ingredients were turned into yellow gold recipe in the convenient blender, again tediously, deliberately pouring the measured oil, salt, lemon juice in slowly reaching perfect consistency for slathering on bread before applying the juicy slice of tomato.
Sorry: I did not have the foresight to take lessons, so I cannot offer to come to your house and make mayonnaise. Personally, I rarely eat it, so if I did make it, most would go in the trash here. Even though my mouth has not had any in over twenty years, my taste buds remember how smooth, tangy and tasty that perfect concoction was. He actually had neighbors and friends request a batch. I don't recall anyone asking for the recipe, but do remember times when he would be making it for delivery to someone who knew how wonderful it was, and had occasion to ask for a taste of the wonderfulness of homemade mayonnaise.
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
valentines....
...day, February 14. I expect to put in a long day at work. Selling dozens and dozens and dozens of dozen roses, both as cash-and-carry bouquets for $19.99, and in vases with a bit of fluff and greenery, for $34.99. Plus a variety of mixed flower bouquets and innumerable plants in pots.
Valentine's Day was my grandmother's birthday. She loved to plant and watch things grow, but she lived in the era when 'well-bred' women did not actually do any planting, instead supervising the yard man who would come and do her bidding. Hyacinths fragrantly blooming in the early spring, dozens of tiny blossoms on upright stalks in pink, white and lavender are beginning to peep out of the cold damp earth and make me think of my grandmother. The man who came to do her dirty work planted the bulbs in the fall, and covered them with pine straw mulch, tending them until the green sword-shaped leaves and narrow stalks filled with buds began to come up and show their colors. After the blooms faded, he dug each bulb and put them in bags, let them rest, and stored them over the summer. The cycle started again each fall, with the bulbs going back into the ground, nestled in the dark, cold earth awaiting the changing seasons.
She also loved camellias. Not my favorite, but she had a number of huge camellia bushes growing in the yard, and would clip the blooms to decorate in her house in the cold winter months when all else was drab and dull. She would air-layer sections of the branches, to get new plants from the mother and share with people who admired her colorfully blooming plants. I know some of the children of those plants are still around, thriving in landscapes in south Georgia, all started from the mother bush owned by my grandmother.
So, maybe my love of 'hole-digging' as a form of therapy came from her? Or my dad, who passed it along, as he did enjoy gardening both ornamentals and vegetables in his back yard when he had time to putter around.
Valentine's Day was my grandmother's birthday. She loved to plant and watch things grow, but she lived in the era when 'well-bred' women did not actually do any planting, instead supervising the yard man who would come and do her bidding. Hyacinths fragrantly blooming in the early spring, dozens of tiny blossoms on upright stalks in pink, white and lavender are beginning to peep out of the cold damp earth and make me think of my grandmother. The man who came to do her dirty work planted the bulbs in the fall, and covered them with pine straw mulch, tending them until the green sword-shaped leaves and narrow stalks filled with buds began to come up and show their colors. After the blooms faded, he dug each bulb and put them in bags, let them rest, and stored them over the summer. The cycle started again each fall, with the bulbs going back into the ground, nestled in the dark, cold earth awaiting the changing seasons.
She also loved camellias. Not my favorite, but she had a number of huge camellia bushes growing in the yard, and would clip the blooms to decorate in her house in the cold winter months when all else was drab and dull. She would air-layer sections of the branches, to get new plants from the mother and share with people who admired her colorfully blooming plants. I know some of the children of those plants are still around, thriving in landscapes in south Georgia, all started from the mother bush owned by my grandmother.
So, maybe my love of 'hole-digging' as a form of therapy came from her? Or my dad, who passed it along, as he did enjoy gardening both ornamentals and vegetables in his back yard when he had time to putter around.
a bug in the blog...
... caused it to not go out into the universe when I finished composing and was ready to print. I cannot explain any better, because I do not understand it myself, so not able to provide information about something that is explained in a foreign language: computer speak. I thought I could get it fixed for free, and was hoping that a guy I know who is a whiz might help with resolving the problem. Hoping for a middle man to supply contact info., to no avail, I moved on to plan B.
Not the solution. Plan B. involved trying to get a kid who helps with tech stuff at church to figure it out. He thought I should buy a virus protection plan. I was reluctant, but also desperate. When I had a problem some years ago, I was told that the 'plans' are nearly worthless, just a way to lure innocents into thinking they are defending their devices from being swarmed by evil-doers. I was lead to believe that the programs you put on your electronics will have enough protection built in that any extra security is superfluous. So I was happy to not be paying for stuff I did not want, or need all this time.
Until the kid made me think the way to solve the 'won't publish' problem was to pay for a one year subscription to Macafee. So I did. But when I got home and completed the installation process, I was no better off - still had that warning. Danger, Will Robinson, danger, danger!
I decided I should take it to the experts. Was going to the computer shop on my lunch break: closed, possibly forever, but definitely today, as the gate was padlocked. A co-worker had suggested another repair shop down the street, so I thought: might as well. I went in groveling, begging and saying lots of pitiful things to try to get them to drop everything profitable they were doing to devote all their attention and resources to ME. All I knew to say: the blog won't publish.
I don't know what happened, other than to say to my way of thinking it was a miracle. They called mid-afternoon, and reported it was ready for me to pick up. If you can purchase an actual miracle for $99, you should probably consider putting several on lay-a-way, so you can have plenty available when the need arises. I hope the problem is solved.
Not the solution. Plan B. involved trying to get a kid who helps with tech stuff at church to figure it out. He thought I should buy a virus protection plan. I was reluctant, but also desperate. When I had a problem some years ago, I was told that the 'plans' are nearly worthless, just a way to lure innocents into thinking they are defending their devices from being swarmed by evil-doers. I was lead to believe that the programs you put on your electronics will have enough protection built in that any extra security is superfluous. So I was happy to not be paying for stuff I did not want, or need all this time.
Until the kid made me think the way to solve the 'won't publish' problem was to pay for a one year subscription to Macafee. So I did. But when I got home and completed the installation process, I was no better off - still had that warning. Danger, Will Robinson, danger, danger!
I decided I should take it to the experts. Was going to the computer shop on my lunch break: closed, possibly forever, but definitely today, as the gate was padlocked. A co-worker had suggested another repair shop down the street, so I thought: might as well. I went in groveling, begging and saying lots of pitiful things to try to get them to drop everything profitable they were doing to devote all their attention and resources to ME. All I knew to say: the blog won't publish.
I don't know what happened, other than to say to my way of thinking it was a miracle. They called mid-afternoon, and reported it was ready for me to pick up. If you can purchase an actual miracle for $99, you should probably consider putting several on lay-a-way, so you can have plenty available when the need arises. I hope the problem is solved.
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
suddenly...
..there was very bad weather, an unexpected storm today with drenching rains and high winds. It is likely that the weather guys predicted it, and the people who devote excessive amounts of time to fretting over things they cannot control were not surprised. I know what ever the weather is here today is what the people to the west sent us overnight. If they had cold windy weather overnight in the states to the west: Mississippi and Louisiana, maybe even Texas, we would be getting it today. If they had blistering hot summer, we should expect more of the same.
I don't pay much attention to the prognosticators who want to warn about changes providing dire reports of something terrible that may or may not occur. There is nothing I can do to circumvent or postpone, so I just accept and try to dress accordingly: to keep warm when it is chilly, and hope I have on enough layers for each day's activities. Or possibly decide to not put on the warm wool socks when it seems to be moderating enough for me to not be chronically cold.
When I was at work this afternoon, people came in the store looking like drowned rats. Men with shirts stuck to their backs from torrential rain. Women shaking umbrellas with sodden shoes and socks. Many mentioning how the suddenly saturated weather seemed to come by surprise, an unexpected downpour.
Upon leaving work, and heading into town for some errands, there were a number of power lines down, and several traffic lights that had been so buffeted by strong winds they had smashed onto the pavement. Requiring public safety vehicles and police to block off intersections, downed lines and create detours to avoid dangerous travel. I went on about my business, but surprised to see so many places where the traffic lights had suffered, overwhelmed by the weather. I think that powerful blow was what I have heard referred to as a 'wind shear', which is a sudden forceful blow in a small area.
It blew the top out of a pine tree, in front of the house that fell and blocked the driveway. I am so very glad I moved the pickup truck to a well-traveled venue, so it was not parked out in a spot where it would surely have be smooshed. The truck now sits out near the street on the property of a State Farm agent, where I have left two other vehicles, with the hope that voluminous traffic might attract one who will want it. I really need for someone to want it, and be willing to pay for me for it, so I can get the title from the loan company before they change hands (hasn't your mortgage been sold and resold, so you don't know who to send the payment to?) and it becomes a moot point.
I called a friend and said: "I need a man and a chain saw." It is cut up into manageable sized pieces, so I am very thankful for the mystery man who showed up and went to work while I was gone from home. But still a mess for the person who will have to drag it up the street to put in the trash. That will not be me, so I have to find the 'other man' who will clean up and get it moved to be picked up by city trash truck. I expect those slices of pine trunk are still much to large for me to manhandle up a steep hill, so even though I can get in and out of the driveway, I will have to pay someone to relocate.
I don't pay much attention to the prognosticators who want to warn about changes providing dire reports of something terrible that may or may not occur. There is nothing I can do to circumvent or postpone, so I just accept and try to dress accordingly: to keep warm when it is chilly, and hope I have on enough layers for each day's activities. Or possibly decide to not put on the warm wool socks when it seems to be moderating enough for me to not be chronically cold.
When I was at work this afternoon, people came in the store looking like drowned rats. Men with shirts stuck to their backs from torrential rain. Women shaking umbrellas with sodden shoes and socks. Many mentioning how the suddenly saturated weather seemed to come by surprise, an unexpected downpour.
Upon leaving work, and heading into town for some errands, there were a number of power lines down, and several traffic lights that had been so buffeted by strong winds they had smashed onto the pavement. Requiring public safety vehicles and police to block off intersections, downed lines and create detours to avoid dangerous travel. I went on about my business, but surprised to see so many places where the traffic lights had suffered, overwhelmed by the weather. I think that powerful blow was what I have heard referred to as a 'wind shear', which is a sudden forceful blow in a small area.
It blew the top out of a pine tree, in front of the house that fell and blocked the driveway. I am so very glad I moved the pickup truck to a well-traveled venue, so it was not parked out in a spot where it would surely have be smooshed. The truck now sits out near the street on the property of a State Farm agent, where I have left two other vehicles, with the hope that voluminous traffic might attract one who will want it. I really need for someone to want it, and be willing to pay for me for it, so I can get the title from the loan company before they change hands (hasn't your mortgage been sold and resold, so you don't know who to send the payment to?) and it becomes a moot point.
I called a friend and said: "I need a man and a chain saw." It is cut up into manageable sized pieces, so I am very thankful for the mystery man who showed up and went to work while I was gone from home. But still a mess for the person who will have to drag it up the street to put in the trash. That will not be me, so I have to find the 'other man' who will clean up and get it moved to be picked up by city trash truck. I expect those slices of pine trunk are still much to large for me to manhandle up a steep hill, so even though I can get in and out of the driveway, I will have to pay someone to relocate.
Monday, February 11, 2019
book review: "Cave of Bones"...
... written by Anne Hillerman, who I assume is the wife of well-known author Tony Hillerman. Read as a talking book, so there was no info. inside the back fly-leaf for knowing more about the author. I have read a number of books written over the years by Tony Hillerman, some I've enjoyed more than once, as the characters that fill the pages seem like old friends to be revisited.
The lead in this tome was Officer Bernadette Manuelito, who has now married Sgt. Jim Chee. They are employed by the Navajo Tribal Police, and work in the vast area of the Four Corners in the southwest, covering the many uninhabited dusty miles of the reservation. Chee and his former boss Joe Leaphorn are brought into the story, as they investigate questionable behavior by members of the tribe, with the different story lines eventually coming together.
Manuelito is drawn into a search for a missing person, who vanished in a severe, barren landscape filled with caves where ancient burials have occurred. The man who disappeared was part of a program to help at risk teenagers who are in a program designed to develop character, independence.
Search and Rescue teams spend days out int the lava flow fields called El Malpais, hoping to find him alive. Manuelito and Chee chase threads of the plot, as their investigation leads them into blinding snowstorms, college campus buildings, encountering various natives who play parts in the complicated tale.
A boxed set of eight Cds, I listened during those multiple trips to Valdosta in the past week. Great traveling companions, since I have 'known' them all for years, and enjoyed being reacquainted with the Navajo law enforcement workers. Easy to get involved, and hard to stop trying to help those fictitious characters, warning them of danger or offering advice.
The lead in this tome was Officer Bernadette Manuelito, who has now married Sgt. Jim Chee. They are employed by the Navajo Tribal Police, and work in the vast area of the Four Corners in the southwest, covering the many uninhabited dusty miles of the reservation. Chee and his former boss Joe Leaphorn are brought into the story, as they investigate questionable behavior by members of the tribe, with the different story lines eventually coming together.
Manuelito is drawn into a search for a missing person, who vanished in a severe, barren landscape filled with caves where ancient burials have occurred. The man who disappeared was part of a program to help at risk teenagers who are in a program designed to develop character, independence.
Search and Rescue teams spend days out int the lava flow fields called El Malpais, hoping to find him alive. Manuelito and Chee chase threads of the plot, as their investigation leads them into blinding snowstorms, college campus buildings, encountering various natives who play parts in the complicated tale.
A boxed set of eight Cds, I listened during those multiple trips to Valdosta in the past week. Great traveling companions, since I have 'known' them all for years, and enjoyed being reacquainted with the Navajo law enforcement workers. Easy to get involved, and hard to stop trying to help those fictitious characters, warning them of danger or offering advice.
foolishly, mistakenly...
... expecting that the visit I made to the Social Security office several weeks ago was sufficient to take care of all the questions, providing sufficient answers needed to make necessary changes. The first mistake was me thinking that dealing with any entity of the government would be easy, simple to accomplish and speedily resolved. Ha! Even though we are totally dependent on electronic devices to store information, and they actually have access to all the facts needed, they want more and more and more proof.
The letter came last Thursday. One of many form letters they gleefully generate on a daily basis, demanding documents to prove my existence. They have all that, at their fingertips - waiting in where/how-ever data is stored out there in the galaxy or cloud as it floats around aimlessly, like alphabet pasta in vegetable soup. But they want me to prove my existence. Again. There are so many records that document me and all the minutiae of my life, it is very frustrating to be at the mercy of the system.
Foolish me, to think the time and trouble invested in going to the office several weeks ago would be sufficient to meet the ridiculous demands of their desire to make life difficult. I went with what I believed to be appropriate and sufficient paperwork, along with my book to take a number, sit and wait for my turn. Expecting at that time to have to justify, and provide convoluted, repeated explanations. Surprisingly: None needed. The man at the window, behind the shatterproof plastic, told me they already had all the information, and did not even want to make copies of my papers. Wow. He said everything was already in the system. I was amazed, astounded, astonished as well as delighted: no need to fret, or make another trip, wait in line again with additional documentation.
Foolish me: how silly to assume it would be that easy when I knew I was dealing with the US government. The letter that arrived last week demands I send three different documents. Not bring with me, but put in the mail, and hope they would be returned. Specifically demanding to see originals of the paperwork, not copies, but certified, notarized with raised seal originals. Do they really believe I will put these in the mail to Philadelphia and sit by with my hands in my lap, hoping they won't get lost in the USPS system? Another ha,ha,ha...
An amusing aside: there are three different people in the system with the same name, all related to me. He was so confused by those identical names, and struggled to understand that all those people are not me with three different birth dates. All he had to do was ask for my birth-date, but he sat there looking at the screen muttering to himself, baffled by all those females with identical names. The guys in my family are no better, even though there is some variation in the middle names, too many began with some derivative of Thomas. Fortunately I did not have to explain all the males as well.
I've looked up the hours the SS office here is open, and plan to be the first in line this morning. I have enough experience to know I need to take reading material: the current library book is already in the bag along with the papers. Even though I know for an absolute fact that all this information is already in their system, having previously submitted each of the forms myself over the years, I will submit. Do as instructed, and provide the forms requested. But I am not putting stuff in the mail and spend weeks wondering which black hole it vanished into when the address on postage paid envelope wants me to think it would be delivered to Philadelphia.
I should have known it was too easy: when I went weeks ago, and the man said, "Oh, we don't need that information, it's all right here in the computer." Remember that old tired joke about the guy who knocks on your door and says "I'm from the IRS, and I'm here to help." Does that apply to Social Security as well? Yes, I think it should. Even though your first thought should be 'where's my gun', and the second:' run for the hills', you cannot win. You are outnumbered and they will track you, wear you down until you surrender the certified copy of your birth certificate...
The letter came last Thursday. One of many form letters they gleefully generate on a daily basis, demanding documents to prove my existence. They have all that, at their fingertips - waiting in where/how-ever data is stored out there in the galaxy or cloud as it floats around aimlessly, like alphabet pasta in vegetable soup. But they want me to prove my existence. Again. There are so many records that document me and all the minutiae of my life, it is very frustrating to be at the mercy of the system.
Foolish me, to think the time and trouble invested in going to the office several weeks ago would be sufficient to meet the ridiculous demands of their desire to make life difficult. I went with what I believed to be appropriate and sufficient paperwork, along with my book to take a number, sit and wait for my turn. Expecting at that time to have to justify, and provide convoluted, repeated explanations. Surprisingly: None needed. The man at the window, behind the shatterproof plastic, told me they already had all the information, and did not even want to make copies of my papers. Wow. He said everything was already in the system. I was amazed, astounded, astonished as well as delighted: no need to fret, or make another trip, wait in line again with additional documentation.
Foolish me: how silly to assume it would be that easy when I knew I was dealing with the US government. The letter that arrived last week demands I send three different documents. Not bring with me, but put in the mail, and hope they would be returned. Specifically demanding to see originals of the paperwork, not copies, but certified, notarized with raised seal originals. Do they really believe I will put these in the mail to Philadelphia and sit by with my hands in my lap, hoping they won't get lost in the USPS system? Another ha,ha,ha...
An amusing aside: there are three different people in the system with the same name, all related to me. He was so confused by those identical names, and struggled to understand that all those people are not me with three different birth dates. All he had to do was ask for my birth-date, but he sat there looking at the screen muttering to himself, baffled by all those females with identical names. The guys in my family are no better, even though there is some variation in the middle names, too many began with some derivative of Thomas. Fortunately I did not have to explain all the males as well.
I've looked up the hours the SS office here is open, and plan to be the first in line this morning. I have enough experience to know I need to take reading material: the current library book is already in the bag along with the papers. Even though I know for an absolute fact that all this information is already in their system, having previously submitted each of the forms myself over the years, I will submit. Do as instructed, and provide the forms requested. But I am not putting stuff in the mail and spend weeks wondering which black hole it vanished into when the address on postage paid envelope wants me to think it would be delivered to Philadelphia.
I should have known it was too easy: when I went weeks ago, and the man said, "Oh, we don't need that information, it's all right here in the computer." Remember that old tired joke about the guy who knocks on your door and says "I'm from the IRS, and I'm here to help." Does that apply to Social Security as well? Yes, I think it should. Even though your first thought should be 'where's my gun', and the second:' run for the hills', you cannot win. You are outnumbered and they will track you, wear you down until you surrender the certified copy of your birth certificate...
Sunday, February 10, 2019
dozens and dozens...
... of daffodil bulbs I planted in the past week or so: mostly dug up by culprits who obviously thought they might be good to eat. I do not know if the evil-doers were squirrels or chipmunks, maybe raccoons or armadillos, who knows? When I went out in the yard this afternoon, to admire the bulbs that have started to bloom, showing off their early spring colors, I found many of the great big fat bulbs laying around on the leaf mulch near the holes I had so laboriously dug. Adding some good rich black potting soil and a sprinkle of fertilizer to boost growth to give them a good start, then inserting the bulb and covering with soil, leaf mulch. Just unearthed and left there, ignored...
I have to wonder if the little sneaks were sitting up in the trees watching while I was out there jumping up and down on the shovel, pushing the barrow around the yard, deciding where the next series of holes for ready-to-sprout bulbs should be located. I suspect they were hiding behind various tree trunks, chortling, waiting for me to go around the corner of the house so they could jump in and start pawing up the dirt, anticipating a delicious meal. The daffodils were obviously not to their liking, as I had to replant dozens of bulbs today. Aggravating, but I am thankful their lunch choice was not appealing and they left the rejected items close by to be put back in the holes again.
The ones that were gloriously blooming are some that were planted some years ago. Probably, as best I can recall, some of the ones that were rescued from work, where they were potted in a far-away greenhouse, forced to bloom out of season, and headed for the dumpster. I'm thinking the ones I saw today were a delightful surprise as my dad said (with great certainty): 'bulbs, once forced to bloom early, will never perform well when planted in the yard'.
I love the tiny ones, with the petite little 'cups and saucers'. Often found in florist shops planted in containers with an assortment of other bloomers, combined in the fashion of a spring dish garden. Surprised they have recovered from the greenhouse mistreatment well enough to be showing signs of an early spring out in the leaf mulch at my house.
Saturday, February 9, 2019
either macabre or ironic...
... possibly both, after I composed an obituary for my auntie and sent it out to interested parties. The recipients included three cousins, plus my daughters and several friends of hers I had contact info. for. The definition of macabre: having to do with death, tending to produce horror in a beholder or dwelling on the gruesome. Ironic refers to an incongruity between the actual result of a sequence of events and the normal or expected result. Maybe obit. writing is somewhere in between? Possibly qualifying as maudlin? (Which, according to Webster, is defined as 'drunk enough to be emotionally silly'...applicable to any number of situations in my opinion!)
I've written two obituaries in the past month. And have been threatening to write my own for years, in order to leave out stuff that I consider nobody's business - as well as add some details the writers might not think appropriate or worth mentioning. A friend I spoke with today asked if I was 'going into business', and questioned as to what I would charge to write his. After we both had a hearty laugh, I suggested that we would need to talk about it first. He laughed again and said: "If we don't talk first, it will be too late!" Whereupon I clarified and said we should discuss the pertinent facts before I can compose, as well as before he took all the information with him and there was no one left to answer the questions, in order to report his history for publication.
I can say I do not have much to regret in my life, but I will always wish I had asked my dad questions about his early years, and military service. He took all the answers before I came to the realization I should have been talking with him about his life before, literally, I came on the scene. There is much I would like to know, and often think how much I would have liked to hear him talk about his time in Europe during WWII as well as life in the small town where I grew up.
This is what will be printed in the paper next week:
I've written two obituaries in the past month. And have been threatening to write my own for years, in order to leave out stuff that I consider nobody's business - as well as add some details the writers might not think appropriate or worth mentioning. A friend I spoke with today asked if I was 'going into business', and questioned as to what I would charge to write his. After we both had a hearty laugh, I suggested that we would need to talk about it first. He laughed again and said: "If we don't talk first, it will be too late!" Whereupon I clarified and said we should discuss the pertinent facts before I can compose, as well as before he took all the information with him and there was no one left to answer the questions, in order to report his history for publication.
I can say I do not have much to regret in my life, but I will always wish I had asked my dad questions about his early years, and military service. He took all the answers before I came to the realization I should have been talking with him about his life before, literally, I came on the scene. There is much I would like to know, and often think how much I would have liked to hear him talk about his time in Europe during WWII as well as life in the small town where I grew up.
This is what will be printed in the paper next week:
C.B. departed this world on February 8, 2019. She
was born in Quitman, GA, the last of four siblings to F. T. and C.
B. As a child she enjoyed all the benefits of growing up in a small rural
community, and had lifelong friendships she nurtured over many years. She
is predeceased by her parents and three siblings. Ms. B. leaves three nieces and one nephew.
C. B. loved life. She enjoyed her many friendships
and all the people she met in her travels over the years. She did love to go
places and see things, experiencing cultures and societies all over the world. A
woman with boundless curiosity who was interested in exploring the planet.
Ms. B. was a retired educator, having taught in a number
of schools all over the state from Marietta to Brunswick, Savannah to Valdosta.
She taught English and Literature to generations of high school students. And
after retiring from public schools, she went to Poland as a Peace Corps
volunteer to teach English as a Second Language to students in Eastern Europe.
Prior to her service as an international volunteer, she was a devoted
care-giver for several years to her aging mother.
The family will have a private service at a later date.
Those who wish to send remembrances may make donations to the Brooks County
Library, 404 Barwick Rd., Quitman, GA, 31643, designated as memorial gifts in memory of one who loved
books, reading, and the written word.
The family is being served by the professional and
caring staff of Music Funeral Services/Azalea Crematory, Valdosta, GA.
Friday, February 8, 2019
back in...
... Valdosta today, for the third time in less than a week. Here last Saturday when the auntie was transported to the ER, then admitted to the hospital. You know nothing happens in hospitals on the weekend, so that was an exercise in futility. They will feed you, record your vital signs, provide Rx as ordered, but unless there is a dire situation, do little more than maintain the status quo.
Finally made progress when I went back on Monday morning, hoping to have her transferred to an inpatient hospice program. No beds available. Now what? A nurse recalled being able to return patients to the facility she came from once a hospice worker made an assessment. Yay. She went right back to where she came from two days prior. Under hospice care - which astounded me, as I did not have any reason to think they would allow someone of her 'iffy' status.
In retrospect, I can imagine they have people who come in the front door in relatively good health, just needing some support and meals provided to continue to live independently. As well as residents who cannot live on their own, due to health concerns or mental instability.Then they continue to decline, or the natural process of aging will incrementally demonstrate there is a need for a higher level of care to manage daily needs.
The auntie was back in a place where the staff knew her, cared for her needs, and was available to assist. She died this morning. The disease that affected her father, brother and sister overwhelmed her system. I cannot tell any more because I don't know any more. I do know she is at peace, no longer struggling with something she cannot control, or frustrated with not being able to assert her strong will and force the change she would desire.
I told someone earlier in the week that IF I knew then what I know now, I would never have let her be admitted to the hospital, never allowed them to keep her there for three days. If I had known she was so close to the end, I would not have even let them deliver her to the ER, but left her in the place where the staff knew and cared for her, was available to help with anything she needed. This is a prime example of what my mom would refer to as 'twenty-twenty hindsight'.If I only knew then what I know now....
Finally made progress when I went back on Monday morning, hoping to have her transferred to an inpatient hospice program. No beds available. Now what? A nurse recalled being able to return patients to the facility she came from once a hospice worker made an assessment. Yay. She went right back to where she came from two days prior. Under hospice care - which astounded me, as I did not have any reason to think they would allow someone of her 'iffy' status.
In retrospect, I can imagine they have people who come in the front door in relatively good health, just needing some support and meals provided to continue to live independently. As well as residents who cannot live on their own, due to health concerns or mental instability.Then they continue to decline, or the natural process of aging will incrementally demonstrate there is a need for a higher level of care to manage daily needs.
The auntie was back in a place where the staff knew her, cared for her needs, and was available to assist. She died this morning. The disease that affected her father, brother and sister overwhelmed her system. I cannot tell any more because I don't know any more. I do know she is at peace, no longer struggling with something she cannot control, or frustrated with not being able to assert her strong will and force the change she would desire.
I told someone earlier in the week that IF I knew then what I know now, I would never have let her be admitted to the hospital, never allowed them to keep her there for three days. If I had known she was so close to the end, I would not have even let them deliver her to the ER, but left her in the place where the staff knew and cared for her, was available to help with anything she needed. This is a prime example of what my mom would refer to as 'twenty-twenty hindsight'.If I only knew then what I know now....
Thursday, February 7, 2019
book review: "Educated"...
...written by Tara Westbrook. Amazing story - you should read it for yourself! Checked out from the library, I had a hard time getting started. But once I began to get interested, it was really hard to put down, as fascinating story of such bizarreness it is difficult to comprehend it is a memoir rather than fiction, a completely made up tale just conjured from imagination.
Tara was born and raised in rural Idaho, to Mormon parents who did not believe in sending children to school, taking medical crises to doctors or hospitals, any support or expectations from the government. Her father was brutal, mean spirited, manipulative and extremely difficult to live with -a man who would not broach having his word questioned. Suggestions that teachings from the Book of Mormon or the Bible were not absolute fact were met with shouted disdain, derision as well as physical punishment. His sons saw that demanding, belittling behavior and believed verbal and physical abuse was acceptable, a way to gain control over people and situations.
Her mother was a gentle spirit, but very much under the thumb of her husband, never questioning his demanding authority. Cooperating with her husband at the expense of raising caring compassionate children into functioning adults. It was a truly amazing tale of profound dysfunction. I kept expecting multiple wives to appear in the narrative, though I decided her father struggled so to provide for the family, the idea of more mouths to feed/support was not feasible.
Tara never entered a classroom until she was seventeen, much of her education was done independently, self-taught in order to satisfy take evaluation tests as a prerequisite for acceptance at BYU in Salt Lake City. She struggled for years with self-doubt, feeling like a charlatan, believing she was faking her way in her classes, often depressed, unable to function after demeaning interactions with her family in Idaho. After a BA at BYU, she was encouraged professors who saw her emerging talents and gifts, she applied for a Gates Cambridge Scholarship and went to England, where she earned a MPhil degree and a PhD in history.
It should have a happy ending, but she is estranged from many family members. When her paternal grandmother died and she returned to Idaho for the service, Tara reconnected with extended family, three brothers and their families. Sad that people can be so badgered and bullied and emotionally beat down, they loose sight of themselves as decent human beings. It took her many years, being away from the caustic environment of her childhood to gain a sense of self-worth and self-respect.\You cannot help but admire someone who was so emotionally abused who can make the changes necessary to let go of the past and live up to her potential.
Tara was born and raised in rural Idaho, to Mormon parents who did not believe in sending children to school, taking medical crises to doctors or hospitals, any support or expectations from the government. Her father was brutal, mean spirited, manipulative and extremely difficult to live with -a man who would not broach having his word questioned. Suggestions that teachings from the Book of Mormon or the Bible were not absolute fact were met with shouted disdain, derision as well as physical punishment. His sons saw that demanding, belittling behavior and believed verbal and physical abuse was acceptable, a way to gain control over people and situations.
Her mother was a gentle spirit, but very much under the thumb of her husband, never questioning his demanding authority. Cooperating with her husband at the expense of raising caring compassionate children into functioning adults. It was a truly amazing tale of profound dysfunction. I kept expecting multiple wives to appear in the narrative, though I decided her father struggled so to provide for the family, the idea of more mouths to feed/support was not feasible.
Tara never entered a classroom until she was seventeen, much of her education was done independently, self-taught in order to satisfy take evaluation tests as a prerequisite for acceptance at BYU in Salt Lake City. She struggled for years with self-doubt, feeling like a charlatan, believing she was faking her way in her classes, often depressed, unable to function after demeaning interactions with her family in Idaho. After a BA at BYU, she was encouraged professors who saw her emerging talents and gifts, she applied for a Gates Cambridge Scholarship and went to England, where she earned a MPhil degree and a PhD in history.
It should have a happy ending, but she is estranged from many family members. When her paternal grandmother died and she returned to Idaho for the service, Tara reconnected with extended family, three brothers and their families. Sad that people can be so badgered and bullied and emotionally beat down, they loose sight of themselves as decent human beings. It took her many years, being away from the caustic environment of her childhood to gain a sense of self-worth and self-respect.\You cannot help but admire someone who was so emotionally abused who can make the changes necessary to let go of the past and live up to her potential.
409 miles...
... when I drove from Decatur to Greenville SC and back to my starting point. Getting safely back home and falling into bed. I was typing 'crashing' as a reference to being so exhausted you can barely brush your teeth prior to head landing on pillow, but that implies I did not actually arrive back at the starting point intact. I did. Even though my brain was so weary I now am amazed there was no report of an accident or call to 911 from some wooded ravine along the interstate highway.
Having not been to visit my pen pal since early November, I really wanted to go and spend the day. We never do anything worth reporting: sitting around talking, eating lunch, possibly wandering around in his yard looking at things growing. I have taken him a number of plants over the years: always try to have something in my hand that he can enjoy seeing blooming. The last time, back in the fall, I took a pot of pansies, as I know they will survive the cold and be pretty with almost continuous blooms during the winter months.
Over the years as I have made that trip numerous times to spend the day, I've taken a number of amaryllis bulbs, that put a big show with gigantic red flowers after several weeks of nurturing. These he will eventually plant out in his yard where they will re-bloom year after year. This time I took a pot of hyacinth bulbs, found at Walmart, just barely peeking out of the dirt. These are reliable bloomers, and easy to plant afterward, to come back and bloom again every spring.
We had a good visit, and I left there mid-afternoon to return to GA. Planning to stop once I got back to Atlanta to visit a cousin briefly, I also spent a bit of time with the daughter who lives in Decatur. All that stopping and starting, chatting and commiserating about life, caused me to be nearly nine o'clock getting home where I did brush my teeth, but did not need to be rocked to sleep before closing my eyes. Having left Decatur at 6:01 am, and been on the road for over six hours, I had no problem drifting off to dreamland.
Having not been to visit my pen pal since early November, I really wanted to go and spend the day. We never do anything worth reporting: sitting around talking, eating lunch, possibly wandering around in his yard looking at things growing. I have taken him a number of plants over the years: always try to have something in my hand that he can enjoy seeing blooming. The last time, back in the fall, I took a pot of pansies, as I know they will survive the cold and be pretty with almost continuous blooms during the winter months.
Over the years as I have made that trip numerous times to spend the day, I've taken a number of amaryllis bulbs, that put a big show with gigantic red flowers after several weeks of nurturing. These he will eventually plant out in his yard where they will re-bloom year after year. This time I took a pot of hyacinth bulbs, found at Walmart, just barely peeking out of the dirt. These are reliable bloomers, and easy to plant afterward, to come back and bloom again every spring.
We had a good visit, and I left there mid-afternoon to return to GA. Planning to stop once I got back to Atlanta to visit a cousin briefly, I also spent a bit of time with the daughter who lives in Decatur. All that stopping and starting, chatting and commiserating about life, caused me to be nearly nine o'clock getting home where I did brush my teeth, but did not need to be rocked to sleep before closing my eyes. Having left Decatur at 6:01 am, and been on the road for over six hours, I had no problem drifting off to dreamland.
Monday, February 4, 2019
back on the road...
... driving to south Georgia in the dark and early morning fog. As soon as I got underway, I turned on the radio to discover that there was dense low lying fog blanketing the southwest part of the state. Just my luck: the part I would be traveling. Dense was an understatement: it appeared to be the kind of thing that had the temperature been lower, it might be described as 'white out' conditions.
It took about an hour longer than usual to make the trip to Valdosta, as visibility was so poor I was not whizzing along at the usual rate of speed. I was concerned about wildlife, especially fleet-footed deer appearing as apparitions out of the nothingness along the highway. Causing me to be driving slower and with caution: something I do not usually observe, but prefer to toss it out the window and let it be buffeted by tail winds as I zip along.
The auntie has been in the hospital since last Saturday. I got a call from the residence where she lives reporting she was having trouble breathing, and was to be transported to the local ER. Where she was admitted to ICU, but soon relocated into a room on a floor with standard level of care. She has been an inpatient since the admitting occurred last weekend, but will soon be returned to the place where she started from. Going back to assisted living facility where she has been for nearly two years.
Nieces have been here with her the entire time, while she has been poked and prodded. Her health has declined to the point that is is not much awareness of the people in her presence or her surroundings. My goal is for her to be comfortable and well cared for. I believe the staff here has done an excellent job, and feel that the workers at the facility she will return to have done the same. h
Just had a long conversation with hospice intake worker, and feel like things are coming together for return to the assisted living facility where she has been residing. Hopefully she will be relocated today, and be back in familiar environment with trusted and known caregivers today. I clearly recall my dad saying in the last months of his life, and have often quoted, though I know it is not 'original' from his mouth: "Old Age Ain't for Sissies".
It took about an hour longer than usual to make the trip to Valdosta, as visibility was so poor I was not whizzing along at the usual rate of speed. I was concerned about wildlife, especially fleet-footed deer appearing as apparitions out of the nothingness along the highway. Causing me to be driving slower and with caution: something I do not usually observe, but prefer to toss it out the window and let it be buffeted by tail winds as I zip along.
The auntie has been in the hospital since last Saturday. I got a call from the residence where she lives reporting she was having trouble breathing, and was to be transported to the local ER. Where she was admitted to ICU, but soon relocated into a room on a floor with standard level of care. She has been an inpatient since the admitting occurred last weekend, but will soon be returned to the place where she started from. Going back to assisted living facility where she has been for nearly two years.
Nieces have been here with her the entire time, while she has been poked and prodded. Her health has declined to the point that is is not much awareness of the people in her presence or her surroundings. My goal is for her to be comfortable and well cared for. I believe the staff here has done an excellent job, and feel that the workers at the facility she will return to have done the same. h
Just had a long conversation with hospice intake worker, and feel like things are coming together for return to the assisted living facility where she has been residing. Hopefully she will be relocated today, and be back in familiar environment with trusted and known caregivers today. I clearly recall my dad saying in the last months of his life, and have often quoted, though I know it is not 'original' from his mouth: "Old Age Ain't for Sissies".
it was not even...
... my yard where I put in three hours of cleaning up on Saturday. The acreage surrounding my house is a mess, with lots of limbs and sticks everywhere, since I have not been out there in weeks or possibly months to do any trash duty. I felt very accomplished when I spent the morning picking up tree trash, but it did not make my yard look any better, because the helpfulness did not occur in my yard.
Left home about 8:30, drove up to Harris County to the retreat center where I find myself volunteering for a weekend each spring and fall. The governing body had declared a work day, and was asking for people to come up and get an assortment of tasks done. I suspect it is really a challenge to get anyone to show up and donate a day to little 'honey-do' jobs, when everyone who might make an appearance knows there is a long list of honey-do projects at home being neglected.The jobs on the list for Saturday included a number of things that required power tools or ladders or both: not something I am interested in or skilled enough to attempt. My laddering days are long past. Plus, I know when you let a man get his hands on an electric or power saw, he is going to be on the lookout for things to cut whether they need it or not!
In the past, I have offered to devote time to painting, when they talk about needing to freshen the dorms or meeting room. I volunteer the information, to anyone who will listen, that I am a 'trained professional', even though my painting skills are not the sort that uses a roller and pan full of liquid. They just assume I am planning to dip my brush in the gallon can and start slapping the paint on the trim when I announce I have my paint brush in the car.
I was picking up tree trash most of the morning, after getting a slow start. Ironic that I was concerned about being late, when I was the first one to arrive. Sitting in the car listening to my talking book, waiting for the organizer to show up and provide direction. Someone else appeared to report our leader had another meeting, but there was a list, so the first person there could just take her pick! Ha! I started picking up tree trash and piling it up for someone else to come along with a gator, or truck and trailer to pick up. If I had been given wheelbarrow I would have cleaned up my mess. As it turned out, I just put in my time and departed. All the while thinking how I should be doing that at my house...
Left home about 8:30, drove up to Harris County to the retreat center where I find myself volunteering for a weekend each spring and fall. The governing body had declared a work day, and was asking for people to come up and get an assortment of tasks done. I suspect it is really a challenge to get anyone to show up and donate a day to little 'honey-do' jobs, when everyone who might make an appearance knows there is a long list of honey-do projects at home being neglected.The jobs on the list for Saturday included a number of things that required power tools or ladders or both: not something I am interested in or skilled enough to attempt. My laddering days are long past. Plus, I know when you let a man get his hands on an electric or power saw, he is going to be on the lookout for things to cut whether they need it or not!
In the past, I have offered to devote time to painting, when they talk about needing to freshen the dorms or meeting room. I volunteer the information, to anyone who will listen, that I am a 'trained professional', even though my painting skills are not the sort that uses a roller and pan full of liquid. They just assume I am planning to dip my brush in the gallon can and start slapping the paint on the trim when I announce I have my paint brush in the car.
I was picking up tree trash most of the morning, after getting a slow start. Ironic that I was concerned about being late, when I was the first one to arrive. Sitting in the car listening to my talking book, waiting for the organizer to show up and provide direction. Someone else appeared to report our leader had another meeting, but there was a list, so the first person there could just take her pick! Ha! I started picking up tree trash and piling it up for someone else to come along with a gator, or truck and trailer to pick up. If I had been given wheelbarrow I would have cleaned up my mess. As it turned out, I just put in my time and departed. All the while thinking how I should be doing that at my house...
book review: "The Color of Water"...
... written by James McBride, back in 1996. Pretty unusual for me to be reading something with a publication date back in the previous century. It was in the library holdings, checked out by a friend who recommended, then loaned it instead of returning it before the due date. A small paperback, with the printed statement that the book had spent two years on the New York Times bestseller list. Which is high praise, and makes it at least worth looking at - so I started in the middle!
Below the author's name on the front cover is also the small factoid reporting he is also the author of "Miracle at St. Anna's", which might be worth reading as I found this one so interesting. McBride has spend years as a journalist, working at a number of news/media outlets, and might have other books to his credit, but I have not yet googled....Oh. I lied: He won the National Book Award in 2013, so obviously quite prolific, publishing a number of highly regarded tomes.
The title refers to McBrides' mother's response when he was a youngster of about nine years of age. He was trying to understand God, hoping to get a straight answer from his mom: she was a white woman of Jewish descent, who had married a black man, had children in many shades of brown, that were raised as Christians. The response he got from his mother was a vague as many when she was questioned about her heritage, family history and life before she became a mother. She told him that God was the color of water, as James tried to understand where he and siblings fit into the schools, churches and neighborhoods they inhabited.
She was an amazing woman, widowed when pregnant with her seventh or eighth child, often seen by others as a misfit in the communities she chose for her family. Ultimately she had twelve children, all well educated, and successful in their professions and communities. The book is written in different voices, half the version as experienced by McBride as a child and young man, the other half a recorded narrative as told to him by his mother when she was persuaded to finally talk about her life. When she chose to leave her family, the Jewish community sat Shiva, and considered her dead, so she never had any contact with family members as an adult. But she was a capable resourceful woman, and did an amazing job of nurturing and guiding those children into capable, contributing adults.
Below the author's name on the front cover is also the small factoid reporting he is also the author of "Miracle at St. Anna's", which might be worth reading as I found this one so interesting. McBride has spend years as a journalist, working at a number of news/media outlets, and might have other books to his credit, but I have not yet googled....Oh. I lied: He won the National Book Award in 2013, so obviously quite prolific, publishing a number of highly regarded tomes.
The title refers to McBrides' mother's response when he was a youngster of about nine years of age. He was trying to understand God, hoping to get a straight answer from his mom: she was a white woman of Jewish descent, who had married a black man, had children in many shades of brown, that were raised as Christians. The response he got from his mother was a vague as many when she was questioned about her heritage, family history and life before she became a mother. She told him that God was the color of water, as James tried to understand where he and siblings fit into the schools, churches and neighborhoods they inhabited.
She was an amazing woman, widowed when pregnant with her seventh or eighth child, often seen by others as a misfit in the communities she chose for her family. Ultimately she had twelve children, all well educated, and successful in their professions and communities. The book is written in different voices, half the version as experienced by McBride as a child and young man, the other half a recorded narrative as told to him by his mother when she was persuaded to finally talk about her life. When she chose to leave her family, the Jewish community sat Shiva, and considered her dead, so she never had any contact with family members as an adult. But she was a capable resourceful woman, and did an amazing job of nurturing and guiding those children into capable, contributing adults.
after work...
... I came straight home and took a nap. Then I got up and went out in the yard to dig holes and plant some neglected bulbs. There are at least one hundred planted tonight that were not there earlier today. I am so excited, and ready for them to all pop up out of the dark and burst into bright yellow blooms!
Yay for daffodils!
The ones I planted that were purchased several weeks ago came from Tractor Supply. Whereupon I received a call to make an emergency trip to the farm store to buy daffodils before they all disappeared. I've been trying in the intervening weeks to get them in the ground, knowing it was imperative I get serious about planting: even going to the plant nursery to find a bag of the fertilizer that is precisely, specifically formulated to provide the best nutrition for bulbs
These bulbs that have been siting in my carport look remarkably like those three pound bags of onions I would bring home from the grocery. In a red mesh bag, with a tag indicating the contents were similar to a King Alfred. But still looking so much like a person taking home a bag of vegetables, I have read tales of people who accidentally sliced up tulips and put them in the pot of soup or stew and fed them to dinner guests who showed up for a meal.
Though I have practically no practical knowledge about daffodils, I do recall that the variety know as King Alfred is one that produces spectacularly large blooms, with the classic look of cup and saucer, both clearly defined. Some have more of a frilly look in the 'cup' part, some multi-colored in shades of red or orange, but I am expecting mine, after being diligently fed with the bulb booster chemicals, to put on a fine show of gigantic yellow flowers that will make me smile when I turn into my driveway.
Yay for daffodils!
The ones I planted that were purchased several weeks ago came from Tractor Supply. Whereupon I received a call to make an emergency trip to the farm store to buy daffodils before they all disappeared. I've been trying in the intervening weeks to get them in the ground, knowing it was imperative I get serious about planting: even going to the plant nursery to find a bag of the fertilizer that is precisely, specifically formulated to provide the best nutrition for bulbs
These bulbs that have been siting in my carport look remarkably like those three pound bags of onions I would bring home from the grocery. In a red mesh bag, with a tag indicating the contents were similar to a King Alfred. But still looking so much like a person taking home a bag of vegetables, I have read tales of people who accidentally sliced up tulips and put them in the pot of soup or stew and fed them to dinner guests who showed up for a meal.
Though I have practically no practical knowledge about daffodils, I do recall that the variety know as King Alfred is one that produces spectacularly large blooms, with the classic look of cup and saucer, both clearly defined. Some have more of a frilly look in the 'cup' part, some multi-colored in shades of red or orange, but I am expecting mine, after being diligently fed with the bulb booster chemicals, to put on a fine show of gigantic yellow flowers that will make me smile when I turn into my driveway.
Wednesday, January 30, 2019
snuggly sleeping...
... in a bed with flannel sheets, which is something I have never experienced before. I don't think those similes that refer to '... like a rock" or "... like a log" are particularly accurate as both of those items found in their natural state are inanimate, so would not actually sleep. Plus if they were able to doze off, would only be disturbed by cataclysmic events like earthquake or tsunami. But I have slept well in the vastly different environment, so far from home and my accustomed space.
We have been staying in the house, except when I went for a walk on Monday afternoon in the sunshine, and going to Cracker Barrel for lunch on Tuesday. The weather is predicted to get really wicked tonight and tomorrow, but I hope to be back in warmer climes by then. Returning to GA later today, and back home tonight in order to be on the job Thursday morning.
I have decided I can tolerate cold as long as the sun is shining. The drab, overcast aspect of winter, when there is rain here, and frozen water falling from the sky in other places would certainly bring on that Seasonal Affective Disorder that is so debilitating. I know there are ways to compensate and counteract the effects of those seemingly endless days of cloudy weather that cause emotional stress and mental fatigue: exercise to release the good stuff, artificial light therapy to brighten/lift a floundering attitude.
I am a big proponent of natural vitamin D. Always been a person who likes the sun, especially in the chill of winter: awaiting the warming rays of natural light, feeling that I must have been a reptile in a former life. The rays of sun on a cold day, especially if there is a protected spot in order to get out of the blustery blowing wind are so comforting. Finding a calm spot to face the warmth is so gratifying, bringing the promise of warmer days to come.
We can all put on enough layers to be relatively comfortable when out in the cold, exposed to the elements. But all those items tend to make you feel like a lumbering bear, and look like the Michelin tire advertisement. With the hope that time will bring a change and allow bare skin to be exposed, warming seasons and reductions of layer upon layer of microfiber, fleece, thermal knits necessary to withstand the chill.
I be ready for spring!
We have been staying in the house, except when I went for a walk on Monday afternoon in the sunshine, and going to Cracker Barrel for lunch on Tuesday. The weather is predicted to get really wicked tonight and tomorrow, but I hope to be back in warmer climes by then. Returning to GA later today, and back home tonight in order to be on the job Thursday morning.
I have decided I can tolerate cold as long as the sun is shining. The drab, overcast aspect of winter, when there is rain here, and frozen water falling from the sky in other places would certainly bring on that Seasonal Affective Disorder that is so debilitating. I know there are ways to compensate and counteract the effects of those seemingly endless days of cloudy weather that cause emotional stress and mental fatigue: exercise to release the good stuff, artificial light therapy to brighten/lift a floundering attitude.
I am a big proponent of natural vitamin D. Always been a person who likes the sun, especially in the chill of winter: awaiting the warming rays of natural light, feeling that I must have been a reptile in a former life. The rays of sun on a cold day, especially if there is a protected spot in order to get out of the blustery blowing wind are so comforting. Finding a calm spot to face the warmth is so gratifying, bringing the promise of warmer days to come.
We can all put on enough layers to be relatively comfortable when out in the cold, exposed to the elements. But all those items tend to make you feel like a lumbering bear, and look like the Michelin tire advertisement. With the hope that time will bring a change and allow bare skin to be exposed, warming seasons and reductions of layer upon layer of microfiber, fleece, thermal knits necessary to withstand the chill.
I be ready for spring!
Tuesday, January 29, 2019
book review: "The Shark"...
... written by Mary T. Burton, published in 2016. Found at the library as a boxed set of Cd's, and listened to while driving to Decatur several times in the past week. Bizarre to think that I made three trips to Atlanta in just over a week. Making me think I should go ahead and find a job there since I seem to be commuting on a semi-regular basis?
The primary character in the story is Riley Tatum, who is a state Trooper in Virginia. She has a shadowy past, a runaway as a teenager trying to avoid a bad situation at home after her mother died and step father became aggressive, overbearing. She lived on the streets in New Orleans for a short time, and ended up with a blank period in her life of about seven days, then got off a bus in Virginia with no knowledge of the recent past. She was given an opportunity to stay in a shelter, work, and returned to school, eventually applying for a law enforcement position.
Her missing days, mysterious past comes back to haunt her when a young girl is found dead, under suspicious circumstances. Riley struggles with trust issues, learned to keep her personal life closed up, determined to be self-sufficient, independent. She encounters a man who works for a private security firm, that had a small part in her police training. This guy, Bowman, is determined to protect Riley, finds himself attracted to her, though she is resistant to his efforts and desire to help. Spoiler: a couple of steamy sex scenes inserted within the mystery/who-dun-it.
I listened to the recording while traveling, so it was stop-and-start over a week or more, with long breaks, making it difficult to follow the story line at times. But well written, with characters that made you want to help them out, as circumstances would get tense, and desperate situations arose. Even though I was listening rather than actually looking at the print, it was a real 'page turner'.
The primary character in the story is Riley Tatum, who is a state Trooper in Virginia. She has a shadowy past, a runaway as a teenager trying to avoid a bad situation at home after her mother died and step father became aggressive, overbearing. She lived on the streets in New Orleans for a short time, and ended up with a blank period in her life of about seven days, then got off a bus in Virginia with no knowledge of the recent past. She was given an opportunity to stay in a shelter, work, and returned to school, eventually applying for a law enforcement position.
Her missing days, mysterious past comes back to haunt her when a young girl is found dead, under suspicious circumstances. Riley struggles with trust issues, learned to keep her personal life closed up, determined to be self-sufficient, independent. She encounters a man who works for a private security firm, that had a small part in her police training. This guy, Bowman, is determined to protect Riley, finds himself attracted to her, though she is resistant to his efforts and desire to help. Spoiler: a couple of steamy sex scenes inserted within the mystery/who-dun-it.
I listened to the recording while traveling, so it was stop-and-start over a week or more, with long breaks, making it difficult to follow the story line at times. But well written, with characters that made you want to help them out, as circumstances would get tense, and desperate situations arose. Even though I was listening rather than actually looking at the print, it was a real 'page turner'.
travelin'...
... to visit the peeps in Virginia. Drove up to Decatur to spend the night in the attic on Sunday, after working until nearly 2:00. After a weekend of house guests, I was not even remotely organized enough to be prepared to take to the highway as soon as I clocked out in the afternoon. Went home to get packed up, in a random half-hearted sense, not knowing what the weather would be later in the week or what I should be wearing. Threw some things in a suitcase, along with a couple of books I wanted to take and leave, and a bit of stitchery from my mother's hands hoping my sister-in-law would accept a gift.
After hearing several reports on public radio that put the fear in my heart, I thought I should get to the airport in ample time to play the 'hurry up and wait' game with TSA. Not knowing how tedious the process would be for getting scanned, inspected, wand-ed, wiped down for contraband, carefully eyed for possible haz-mat. I was really anxious about having plenty of time to make my way to the gate. Which allowed me hours to sit and read, cool my heels awaiting boarding. Amazed that the time between walking in the sliding doors of the terminal until I was rolling my luggage along concourse C was less than thirty minutes. Thankful I brought an interesting book to while away the hours while awaiting arrival of my flight.
The attendant announced the tickets were sold out, and the flight was full so we could expect to arrive in Richmond with a whole set of New Best Friends from being in such close quarters for the duration. I sat next to a person who had been to Chattanooga, took a shuttle to ATL, returning to her home in Richmond. She was squeezed into the middle of a section of three seats, with a highly decorated/inked man in the window seat, and me on the aisle. An uneventful flight, with folks awaiting my arrival in the terminal when we arrived 12 minutes early.
I have learned to play up my disability, use the knee brace to my benefit. After being asked to expose myself, some time ago when inching through a TSA line, and being asked to allow a closer inspection of the supporting device I know to make it visible. Having been asked to peel off clothing for the agents to have a look-see, as the metal support always catches the attention of x-ray machine, causing me to look 'suspicious'... a hearty laugh would be appropriate here! I have learned to wear the support on the outside: putting it on after I get dressed rather than the first thing that goes on in the morning. Not only does it make the inspection process faster, there is the advantage of being shunted off into the line with the more obviously disabled persons on crutches, in rolling chairs, using canes or other assistive devices available to travelers. If the brace does not show, it is much less likely I will be able to drum up sympathy and thereby advancing in the queue. But wearing it where it is apparent I am having a problem (limping is a nice touch to be even more obvious with a sad, pitiful mobility struggle!) helps to be moved into the shorter wait-time line.
The city schools for Richmond were out for a teacher training/planning day, so the energetic, amusing granddaughter was spending the day with us. Her mom had to go to work at the school where she is employed, and number one grandma/sitter was called in to provide support for the first-grader. We spent the day doing crafts of various descriptions, making cookies the grandma had planned, trying to keep up with a very active six-year old. Thankfully parents arrived about 6 o'clock with boxes of take out pizza (as well as her younger brother retrieved from daycare), so we ate amidst mild bedlam of two small children, they loaded up and took the traveling circus home to put little ones to bed.
After hearing several reports on public radio that put the fear in my heart, I thought I should get to the airport in ample time to play the 'hurry up and wait' game with TSA. Not knowing how tedious the process would be for getting scanned, inspected, wand-ed, wiped down for contraband, carefully eyed for possible haz-mat. I was really anxious about having plenty of time to make my way to the gate. Which allowed me hours to sit and read, cool my heels awaiting boarding. Amazed that the time between walking in the sliding doors of the terminal until I was rolling my luggage along concourse C was less than thirty minutes. Thankful I brought an interesting book to while away the hours while awaiting arrival of my flight.
The attendant announced the tickets were sold out, and the flight was full so we could expect to arrive in Richmond with a whole set of New Best Friends from being in such close quarters for the duration. I sat next to a person who had been to Chattanooga, took a shuttle to ATL, returning to her home in Richmond. She was squeezed into the middle of a section of three seats, with a highly decorated/inked man in the window seat, and me on the aisle. An uneventful flight, with folks awaiting my arrival in the terminal when we arrived 12 minutes early.
I have learned to play up my disability, use the knee brace to my benefit. After being asked to expose myself, some time ago when inching through a TSA line, and being asked to allow a closer inspection of the supporting device I know to make it visible. Having been asked to peel off clothing for the agents to have a look-see, as the metal support always catches the attention of x-ray machine, causing me to look 'suspicious'... a hearty laugh would be appropriate here! I have learned to wear the support on the outside: putting it on after I get dressed rather than the first thing that goes on in the morning. Not only does it make the inspection process faster, there is the advantage of being shunted off into the line with the more obviously disabled persons on crutches, in rolling chairs, using canes or other assistive devices available to travelers. If the brace does not show, it is much less likely I will be able to drum up sympathy and thereby advancing in the queue. But wearing it where it is apparent I am having a problem (limping is a nice touch to be even more obvious with a sad, pitiful mobility struggle!) helps to be moved into the shorter wait-time line.
The city schools for Richmond were out for a teacher training/planning day, so the energetic, amusing granddaughter was spending the day with us. Her mom had to go to work at the school where she is employed, and number one grandma/sitter was called in to provide support for the first-grader. We spent the day doing crafts of various descriptions, making cookies the grandma had planned, trying to keep up with a very active six-year old. Thankfully parents arrived about 6 o'clock with boxes of take out pizza (as well as her younger brother retrieved from daycare), so we ate amidst mild bedlam of two small children, they loaded up and took the traveling circus home to put little ones to bed.
Saturday, January 26, 2019
book reveiw: "Flying at Night"...
... by Rebecca L. Brown, published in 2018 by Penguin/Thorndike. Another of those I randomly picked off the shelf when wandering through the stacks of recently printed, newly acquired tomes at the library. It was large print, with a synopsis on the back cover that was appealing, making me think I would give it a try, read a few pages before deciding 'yea' or 'nay'. It was interesting, and I found myself staying up later than usual to turn the pages, immersed in the lives of the characters.
Piper is the primary voice, a woman who set aside a career as a watercolorist in order to take care of her son. Her husband is Issac, an attorney to whom she has been married for years. Issac spends many hours focusing on his work, primarily research to assist those in prison who have been wrongly accused and railroaded into serving long sentences. Their son, Fred is autistic, undiagnosed early on in the story, though already in the education system, struggling with a lack of social skills and bizarre mannerisms associated with children on the spectrum. Issac is devoted to his work, or possibly using it to avoid devoting more time to his family. Piper is very protective of Fred, and often frustrated and angry with Issac for his absence and lack of support.
I've read a number of books on autism, some novels like this, and some first person accounts, written by those diagnosed, in the form of memoirs. It is an intriguing problem, and as you might expect, every individual who has been assessed exhibits the symptoms in unique ways, differently struggling to meld into the mainstream from all others who have behavioral/learning disabilities. All seem to be challenged, but none fit into a tidy succinct diagnosis to provide a formulaic solution for resolving the multitude of symptoms they need to overcome.
A teacher in Fred's school has been observing Fred, along with several other students who could be considered misfit, youngsters who do not easily conform to the expectations of educators. Jack Butler meets with Piper and confesses that he too is on the spectrum, had been evaluated and diagnosed as autistic. Jack feels he can be helpful to Fred, providing advice and assistance for direction Fred needs to adapt, adjust to the classroom teachers' methods and style of instruction. Piper is desperate for someone in her life who is supportive, understanding of her distress and anxiety over her son's lack of progress, acceptance in the classroom, failure to develop necessary social skills to be able to function in society as a whole. She finds herself attracted to Jack, who is on the school staff to provide support for those students who are marginal. Jack, being autistic himself, cannot see or respond to her needs.
Issac and Fred go off on a day trip, planned by the guys, when Piper needs to devote a day to caring for her dad, who as moved into their home after suffering a medical mishap. Issac gives Fred a knife: bad idea. An accident occurs, Issac and Fred gloss over the trip to the ER, not telling Piper about the knife. Then Fred takes the knife to school: another bad idea. Incident ensues, reported to teacher and principal. Fred is suspended from school.
All this time Piper is also struggling with a dysfunctional family she was born into: abusive father, abused mom, distant older brother. Her dad is released from the hospital after his heart attack, but her mother refuses to care for him, leaves town to stay with her sister. What a mess.
There is no clear resolution at the end of the book. It is a sweet, revealing story of how families can love and hate at the same time. Reminding me we all come from dysfunction. Told from perspective of the characters, an interesting read, and well worth your time.
Piper is the primary voice, a woman who set aside a career as a watercolorist in order to take care of her son. Her husband is Issac, an attorney to whom she has been married for years. Issac spends many hours focusing on his work, primarily research to assist those in prison who have been wrongly accused and railroaded into serving long sentences. Their son, Fred is autistic, undiagnosed early on in the story, though already in the education system, struggling with a lack of social skills and bizarre mannerisms associated with children on the spectrum. Issac is devoted to his work, or possibly using it to avoid devoting more time to his family. Piper is very protective of Fred, and often frustrated and angry with Issac for his absence and lack of support.
I've read a number of books on autism, some novels like this, and some first person accounts, written by those diagnosed, in the form of memoirs. It is an intriguing problem, and as you might expect, every individual who has been assessed exhibits the symptoms in unique ways, differently struggling to meld into the mainstream from all others who have behavioral/learning disabilities. All seem to be challenged, but none fit into a tidy succinct diagnosis to provide a formulaic solution for resolving the multitude of symptoms they need to overcome.
A teacher in Fred's school has been observing Fred, along with several other students who could be considered misfit, youngsters who do not easily conform to the expectations of educators. Jack Butler meets with Piper and confesses that he too is on the spectrum, had been evaluated and diagnosed as autistic. Jack feels he can be helpful to Fred, providing advice and assistance for direction Fred needs to adapt, adjust to the classroom teachers' methods and style of instruction. Piper is desperate for someone in her life who is supportive, understanding of her distress and anxiety over her son's lack of progress, acceptance in the classroom, failure to develop necessary social skills to be able to function in society as a whole. She finds herself attracted to Jack, who is on the school staff to provide support for those students who are marginal. Jack, being autistic himself, cannot see or respond to her needs.
Issac and Fred go off on a day trip, planned by the guys, when Piper needs to devote a day to caring for her dad, who as moved into their home after suffering a medical mishap. Issac gives Fred a knife: bad idea. An accident occurs, Issac and Fred gloss over the trip to the ER, not telling Piper about the knife. Then Fred takes the knife to school: another bad idea. Incident ensues, reported to teacher and principal. Fred is suspended from school.
All this time Piper is also struggling with a dysfunctional family she was born into: abusive father, abused mom, distant older brother. Her dad is released from the hospital after his heart attack, but her mother refuses to care for him, leaves town to stay with her sister. What a mess.
There is no clear resolution at the end of the book. It is a sweet, revealing story of how families can love and hate at the same time. Reminding me we all come from dysfunction. Told from perspective of the characters, an interesting read, and well worth your time.
another rider delivered...
... to his treatment appointment at the cancer center. This man lived 'way down off highway 27, on the far side of the military property, in a wee, barely existing town named Omaha. I have accidentally been to Omaha once before, and knew it was so far off the beaten path you would have to deliberately want to go to get there. Not on the way to anywhere.
I will always attempt to engage the riders in some conversation, but usually have little success with the exchange of information. My questions generally receive the most minimal of answers, understandable as the people in need of transport do not know me, and most (including myself) would consider medical information a subject not to be shared with the general public or passersby. Trying to recall the many individuals who have made trips in my little Toyota to the local cancer treatment center, I do not think any have provided details about their diagnosis, and only a couple have reported that they only have 'x number of days' or treatments left. Personally, I am thankful for HIPPA, appreciating the fact that people are not permitted to share info., keeping my business confidential, as well as not providing 'TMI' for the general population.
The info. received via email from the folks who manage the scheduling had me believing the appointment was at 9:15 (on Thursday), and he would be ready to leave by 10:15. I knew it would take me the better part of an hour to get to his home, far and away below the military post, in Stewart County.When I called to confirm, get driving directions for finding him, he requested an earlier pick up time, to allow for going to the lab on-site for testing. I was agreeable, though I would have to set my alarm, get up and leave the house by 6 am. Almost like trudging off to work.
I mistakenly believed the directions received from GPS. I should have just done what the man told me, expect for the fact that his speech was so garbled, I only got about half of what he said. Causing me to wander the streets of Omaha in the semi-dark of early morning, where street signs are a rarity. Most are MIA and the ones there cannot be read in the dark. I finally called him and with help, got back on the right path, to pick him up thirty minutes later than expected.
We arrived at the treatment center, I told him I would be waiting in the lobby, reading my book. It never occurred to me I would be there until nearly 1:30, sitting, standing, walking, gnashing my teeth, aggravated beyond reason, trying to be calm, polite, agreeable while seething with frustration.
Nearly an hour past the time when I understood he would be finished, I had to go looking for him. Reception desk team reported he had another half-hour of treatment, then an hour of education. Arrrggghhh. One thirty in the afternoon is no where near a quarter past ten in the morning.
This has happened to me once before: an appointment that goes on for hours past the posted time. On and on and on, while I sit and wait and wait and wait. Getting more and more annoyed as the minutes and hours tick by, not knowing when the rider will be finished and released to go back home. I hope I will always be capable of appearing calm, holding opinions within when I consider what the people are facing, dealing with, going through. I know they are Dealing with Life-Threatening Problems. But to have me thinking: One Hour, and have it turn into two or three or more is so inconsiderate.
I will always attempt to engage the riders in some conversation, but usually have little success with the exchange of information. My questions generally receive the most minimal of answers, understandable as the people in need of transport do not know me, and most (including myself) would consider medical information a subject not to be shared with the general public or passersby. Trying to recall the many individuals who have made trips in my little Toyota to the local cancer treatment center, I do not think any have provided details about their diagnosis, and only a couple have reported that they only have 'x number of days' or treatments left. Personally, I am thankful for HIPPA, appreciating the fact that people are not permitted to share info., keeping my business confidential, as well as not providing 'TMI' for the general population.
The info. received via email from the folks who manage the scheduling had me believing the appointment was at 9:15 (on Thursday), and he would be ready to leave by 10:15. I knew it would take me the better part of an hour to get to his home, far and away below the military post, in Stewart County.When I called to confirm, get driving directions for finding him, he requested an earlier pick up time, to allow for going to the lab on-site for testing. I was agreeable, though I would have to set my alarm, get up and leave the house by 6 am. Almost like trudging off to work.
I mistakenly believed the directions received from GPS. I should have just done what the man told me, expect for the fact that his speech was so garbled, I only got about half of what he said. Causing me to wander the streets of Omaha in the semi-dark of early morning, where street signs are a rarity. Most are MIA and the ones there cannot be read in the dark. I finally called him and with help, got back on the right path, to pick him up thirty minutes later than expected.
We arrived at the treatment center, I told him I would be waiting in the lobby, reading my book. It never occurred to me I would be there until nearly 1:30, sitting, standing, walking, gnashing my teeth, aggravated beyond reason, trying to be calm, polite, agreeable while seething with frustration.
Nearly an hour past the time when I understood he would be finished, I had to go looking for him. Reception desk team reported he had another half-hour of treatment, then an hour of education. Arrrggghhh. One thirty in the afternoon is no where near a quarter past ten in the morning.
This has happened to me once before: an appointment that goes on for hours past the posted time. On and on and on, while I sit and wait and wait and wait. Getting more and more annoyed as the minutes and hours tick by, not knowing when the rider will be finished and released to go back home. I hope I will always be capable of appearing calm, holding opinions within when I consider what the people are facing, dealing with, going through. I know they are Dealing with Life-Threatening Problems. But to have me thinking: One Hour, and have it turn into two or three or more is so inconsiderate.
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