... because I have not been to view a movie at the 'walk in' in weeks, so there is nothing 'current' to talk about. I think the last one I saw on the big screen was Tarzan, and it was at the cheap seats about a month ago. It was pretty good, but I must confess I often get so caught up and mesmerized by the special effects I am not a good judge of script quality or acting skills.
The one we saw one night this week, sitting on the couch, was a DVD from the library. Periodically I will go and check out a handful from the shelves, and bring them home to watch at night. I often claim to be a person who does not watch television, and (possibly bragging) then immediately report how much reading I do. But part of the reason for not being a tv consumer is the fact that it requires such a complicated process to operate. There is probably only one remote necessary to actually turn on the television, but it takes three to get the DVD's going. Therefore I never view a movie alone - cannot go through the complicated, process without someone else available to do all the buttons on all the remotes necessary to actually get to the watching part. Sad, isn't it? But the lack of tech. skills is the reason I do so much book reading...you know how 'low tech' turning the page is!
The movie is 'Changeling', with the lead part played by Angelina Jolie. I am not a huge fan, but she did an excellent job. The story is about Carolyn Collins, who lived in Los Angeles in the late 1920's and early '30's. She was a single mother with a young son, named Walter. She was called in to work one Saturday, and left Walter (maybe 10 or 12 years old) at home alone. Upon her return, he had disappeared. Completely vanished without a trace. She searched, desperate to find him, but no one had any sightings or clues to offer. When she reported to the police, they were not helpful. Law enforcement eventually got involved, but as the story unfolds, when they returned her son to her: it was not her child.
There had been an ongoing brouhaha brewing in the police department with bribery, corruption, aggressive behavior, from the chief on down. They were in need of media coverage of something uplifting to improve their image, and refused to believe the boy was not her son. The story of what she went through while police denied a mistake is horrendous: she was forced into a mental institution, a humiliating body cavity inspection, badgered by nurses and doctors, blasted with fire hose, submitting to horrifying subjugation. Punished for telling the truth, as happens when the truth is not popular or well accepted.
On her behalf, a local minister (played by John Malkovich - in the only favorable part I have ever seen him cast) took up a crusade to rally the citizens and force her release. The plot gets far more gruesome than I would normally care for, but so fascinating I could not stop. You see the humiliation and demeaning behavior of men and medical professionals, people in power over captives and females. When those in authority have the ability to exert control over those weaker, or underlings they often do so with brutal force. It is a realistic depiction of what circumstances were like during that era, when mental hospitals were able to incarcerate at will, with little recourse for those who were held captive.
At the end, you see in the credits, it was directed by Clint Eastwood. And that makes you remember the short line at the beginning of the movie that it is A True Story. I'm not sure how old it is, but you can probably find it on Amazon, if not at your local library. Well worth the time.
Thursday, October 6, 2016
Tuesday, October 4, 2016
another driving opportunity...
...similar to some in the past. When I take an assignment to pick up a person who needs to get to an appointment at the local cancer center. Usually for treatment, or possibly just some lab/blood work. But almost always to the building where most cancer care in our area occurs, associated with the local medical center. A couple of times the appointment has been for getting someone to a doctor's office, but those are pretty rare.
The job for tomorrow is to pick up a man who needs to be at the treatment center at 9:00 am. And will be there for four hours. I usually take a book, sit in the lobby/waiting area, and read while waiting for them to get finished, with most being there for less than an hour. But I will go in the morning and pick him, and wife up to deliver at nine a.m. And run some errands, kill time until they are finished and need a ride back home at 1:00. Probably go to Sam's club to do the weekly shopping for church staff during the four hours between delivery and pick up.
I am assuming he will be sitting in one of their lounge chairs, with a needle in his arm, being infused with some dread, toxic chemicals designed to combat the spreading disease. I am more than willing to help in this small way, to make their lives only incrementally easier as they do not have the worry of transportation amongst all their other problems. I will (we should all) be very thankful as I am, every day, for good health.
The job for tomorrow is to pick up a man who needs to be at the treatment center at 9:00 am. And will be there for four hours. I usually take a book, sit in the lobby/waiting area, and read while waiting for them to get finished, with most being there for less than an hour. But I will go in the morning and pick him, and wife up to deliver at nine a.m. And run some errands, kill time until they are finished and need a ride back home at 1:00. Probably go to Sam's club to do the weekly shopping for church staff during the four hours between delivery and pick up.
I am assuming he will be sitting in one of their lounge chairs, with a needle in his arm, being infused with some dread, toxic chemicals designed to combat the spreading disease. I am more than willing to help in this small way, to make their lives only incrementally easier as they do not have the worry of transportation amongst all their other problems. I will (we should all) be very thankful as I am, every day, for good health.
Monday, October 3, 2016
making the (un-scarey) scare crow...
... with some co-conspirators who are also fellow master gardening friends. The local botanical garden is always trying to raise awareness, not always funds, by doing things to help the public be more knowledgeable about the facilities and opportunities to be had at our beautifully blooming space. A spring plant show and sale, with various vendors providing interesting wares. An annual day lily show with plants for sale, and knowledgeable speakers. Community Easter egg hunt. A big fundraiser event in the fall that brings a high profile, well-known gardening expert to town to give a talk at a luncheon, with a silent auction of donated items to help bring interested patrons to shop and enjoy a catered meal. Fall Festival, usually scheduled close to Halloween.
There are several different opportunities to win prizes for 'best of' in the contest. Which we have already spent on materials to assemble the man we will enter. So when we have a party to celebrate our success, it will be BYOB. Our man, dressed in plaid shirt and overalls, sitting in a wheelbarrow goes up the middle of the month, to remain through the fall festival event on Oct. 29. It should be amusing, as I understand there are at least two dozen entries.
with age, comes...
... a willingness to tell stories on myself, admit to foolish behavior and share moments of the ridiculous. Here is my funny story that occured about a week ago, when I went to bed too early one night. I was really tired, plus wanted to get away from the persistent blaring of the television. I generally have a library book in progress, reading myself to sleep after I get in bed. I was obviously so weary I did not read long, before my eyes wouldn't stay open and I fell asleep. Probably around 8:30 or so. Which I readily agree is 'too early', as anyone who crashes at that time, is almost guaranteed to be wide awake at 4 a.m., wishing to go back to sleep, but rarely finding any significant rest.
But what happened here: I startled awake, looked at the digital numbers on the clock and panicked. Thought I was late for work, and jumped out of bed and into my clothes, ready to tie on my shoes and dash out the door. Thinking it was 5:39, and I had to be at work at 6:00 a.m. Holy cow! I am so diligent about being there on time, and generally clock in four or five minutes early, rather than late, I am never clocking in even a minute past my scheduled time.
I knew I could do it, and get there to be clocking in at six, if all the lights were green and I could inch up a few miles over the speed limit. But when I looked at the clock on the wall in the kitchen, I discovered it was really 9:41 p.m. Meaning I could go back to bed and wake up again the next morning in ample time for work. The '5' and the '9' on the digital clock face looked so much alike when I startled awake after only an hour's sleep - I thought I had failed to set the alarm and was dangerously close to being late for work.
But what happened here: I startled awake, looked at the digital numbers on the clock and panicked. Thought I was late for work, and jumped out of bed and into my clothes, ready to tie on my shoes and dash out the door. Thinking it was 5:39, and I had to be at work at 6:00 a.m. Holy cow! I am so diligent about being there on time, and generally clock in four or five minutes early, rather than late, I am never clocking in even a minute past my scheduled time.
I knew I could do it, and get there to be clocking in at six, if all the lights were green and I could inch up a few miles over the speed limit. But when I looked at the clock on the wall in the kitchen, I discovered it was really 9:41 p.m. Meaning I could go back to bed and wake up again the next morning in ample time for work. The '5' and the '9' on the digital clock face looked so much alike when I startled awake after only an hour's sleep - I thought I had failed to set the alarm and was dangerously close to being late for work.
sporadically, inconsistently...
... intermittently providing a pair of hands with free labor to help with work in the local botanical garden. I have been volunteering there for years, in a haphazard sort of way. Not one of the faithful few who make the plans, laying groundwork for various annual events and motivating us worker-bees to jump in for manhandling projects as needed. Like lots of non-profits, it would cease to be successful without the many hours of volunteer efforts, both brainpower and manually.
I have been a couple of times to participate in the 'first Monday' work days: just show up and be prepared to do whatever needs doing. A pair of gloves, clippers, clothing that will tolerate dirt, and a fairly willing body for providing the gardens with several hours of upkeep in the area that most needs attention. My expertise lies in highly skilled weeding. I've long felt that pulling weeds is some of the best 'therapy' you can get for such a bargain price. The satisfaction of knowing that particular weed will not make seeds and multiply prolifically in the next growing season. Plus the gratification of a much cleaner, tidier space, and the opportunity to be productive with your hands in an environment of beauty: outdoors in fresh air, sunshine, the glory of nature.
I will gather up my tools, gloves, clippers, grubby working-in-the-yard shoes on, head out to the botanical gardens and give them a couple of hours of my time. Perfect weather for puttering around in a beautiful space with blooms, pollinators, fellow diggers and bright sunshine on a crisp cool morning. The gardens will benefit from our collective donated time, and we will all get excellent 'therapy' for no extra charge!
I have been a couple of times to participate in the 'first Monday' work days: just show up and be prepared to do whatever needs doing. A pair of gloves, clippers, clothing that will tolerate dirt, and a fairly willing body for providing the gardens with several hours of upkeep in the area that most needs attention. My expertise lies in highly skilled weeding. I've long felt that pulling weeds is some of the best 'therapy' you can get for such a bargain price. The satisfaction of knowing that particular weed will not make seeds and multiply prolifically in the next growing season. Plus the gratification of a much cleaner, tidier space, and the opportunity to be productive with your hands in an environment of beauty: outdoors in fresh air, sunshine, the glory of nature.
I will gather up my tools, gloves, clippers, grubby working-in-the-yard shoes on, head out to the botanical gardens and give them a couple of hours of my time. Perfect weather for puttering around in a beautiful space with blooms, pollinators, fellow diggers and bright sunshine on a crisp cool morning. The gardens will benefit from our collective donated time, and we will all get excellent 'therapy' for no extra charge!
Sunday, October 2, 2016
not getting there...
...on Sunday morning. Even when I have to go to work on Sunday at 6 a.m., I can usually get to church. Taking an early lunch break to run to the 9:00 service and get back to the job by 10:30'ish. But it did not happen today. There was just too much to try to get done, and not nearly enough time to accomplish everything. When I realized there was no way I could let go at nine, I consoled myself with the idea that I could go to the eleven o'clock service, which I never attend.
And sadly today was not the exception. I just did not get there at all. So had to console myself with the next thought that I could get to lifeschool class at 5:30, which I did, but not nearly as satisfying as all that uplifting praise music. Plus an opportunity to be spoon fed a thought-y, meaningful, meaty message that would provide the nourishment to get me through the week.
And sadly today was not the exception. I just did not get there at all. So had to console myself with the next thought that I could get to lifeschool class at 5:30, which I did, but not nearly as satisfying as all that uplifting praise music. Plus an opportunity to be spoon fed a thought-y, meaningful, meaty message that would provide the nourishment to get me through the week.
book review: "The Road to Little Dribbling"...
...by Bill Bryson. Listening to the DVDs/talking book version as I drive across, then up and down the state. If you you read 'A Walk in the Woods', and found it amusing, you will also enjoy the dry wit and black humor found in his second walk through various villages and along footpaths in England. If you did not think the 'Walk' book was entertaining, and don't want to read about his travels to little known museums and odd points of interest, you won't be reading this one.
I have wished several times while reading and listening that I had known to read the 'Road' book before we went on our trip this summer. But we likely would not have had time to poke around and find the obscure places he occasionally enjoys, and reports on as remarkably well preserved important places of history, or tacky little outposts he regrets veering off to visit. He wrote another book relating his experiences in touring Great Britain by foot some years ago, after meeting, then marrying a woman who was a citizen. Settling down to live the life of a Brit.
A couple of funny stories from the book: one about taking a walk along a narrow footpath, through a densely wooded area, where he encounters a local 'dowager' walking her dog. The animal stops to do his business, and they both quietly wait and observe the progress. When the canine has completed his work, it is apparent the woman has no intention of picking up the result. With Bryson looking at the steaming pile, he asked her if she was going to leave it there in the narrow path for the next passerby to find on the bottom of a shoe. Her response was that she planned to 'cover it', which she proceeded to do, by raking a few dried leaves over the stinking mess, before turning to resume her walk. Bryson reports he then lifted his walking staff, and beat her to a bloody pulp, rolled the body off into the underbrush. Just kidding, but in the telling, it is obvious he seriously considered doing bodily harm.
Elsewhere in the book he tells of planning his route so he could ride on a refurbished steam train. Reporting that there are a great number of organizations in England that people join with a common goal, or interest. Like running steam engines on otherwise abandoned tracks. Or collecting pocket watches. He said that if all the retired engineers in the country could join together and find enough steam engines in need of overhaul, there would be virtually no sales of Viagra in the entire nation. Thinking, I suppose, those grizzled, be-whiskered, crotchety old guys just need an outlet to keep themselves occupied?
Another story was about a walk along an area of the country that is known as the 'Jurassic coast'. It was actually not far from where we were this summer, when in the south west of the nation, near the Channel. I recently read a book about this, telling the story of a young girl who would search the beach below eroding cliffs for collectibles, that she would sell to visitors who were vacationing on the seaside. I thought the book was fiction, but it turns out to be based on a true story of a young woman named Mary Anning. Mary was un-schooled as an archeologist, became well known as a result of her amazing finds on the beach and cliff face. Dang. I wish I had known to go and look!
He does occasionally go on a rant, about some injustice, or pointless law/rule, rude shopkeepers, an occasional failure of service people to be sufficiently prompt, places he visited years ago that no longer exist, or indecipherable timetables for trains. But the times he had me laughing out loud while cruising through the south GA piney woods or along the interstate were well worth those periodic ravings of a disappointed, frustrated tourist. Even those tangents are amusing.
I have wished several times while reading and listening that I had known to read the 'Road' book before we went on our trip this summer. But we likely would not have had time to poke around and find the obscure places he occasionally enjoys, and reports on as remarkably well preserved important places of history, or tacky little outposts he regrets veering off to visit. He wrote another book relating his experiences in touring Great Britain by foot some years ago, after meeting, then marrying a woman who was a citizen. Settling down to live the life of a Brit.
A couple of funny stories from the book: one about taking a walk along a narrow footpath, through a densely wooded area, where he encounters a local 'dowager' walking her dog. The animal stops to do his business, and they both quietly wait and observe the progress. When the canine has completed his work, it is apparent the woman has no intention of picking up the result. With Bryson looking at the steaming pile, he asked her if she was going to leave it there in the narrow path for the next passerby to find on the bottom of a shoe. Her response was that she planned to 'cover it', which she proceeded to do, by raking a few dried leaves over the stinking mess, before turning to resume her walk. Bryson reports he then lifted his walking staff, and beat her to a bloody pulp, rolled the body off into the underbrush. Just kidding, but in the telling, it is obvious he seriously considered doing bodily harm.
Elsewhere in the book he tells of planning his route so he could ride on a refurbished steam train. Reporting that there are a great number of organizations in England that people join with a common goal, or interest. Like running steam engines on otherwise abandoned tracks. Or collecting pocket watches. He said that if all the retired engineers in the country could join together and find enough steam engines in need of overhaul, there would be virtually no sales of Viagra in the entire nation. Thinking, I suppose, those grizzled, be-whiskered, crotchety old guys just need an outlet to keep themselves occupied?
Another story was about a walk along an area of the country that is known as the 'Jurassic coast'. It was actually not far from where we were this summer, when in the south west of the nation, near the Channel. I recently read a book about this, telling the story of a young girl who would search the beach below eroding cliffs for collectibles, that she would sell to visitors who were vacationing on the seaside. I thought the book was fiction, but it turns out to be based on a true story of a young woman named Mary Anning. Mary was un-schooled as an archeologist, became well known as a result of her amazing finds on the beach and cliff face. Dang. I wish I had known to go and look!
He does occasionally go on a rant, about some injustice, or pointless law/rule, rude shopkeepers, an occasional failure of service people to be sufficiently prompt, places he visited years ago that no longer exist, or indecipherable timetables for trains. But the times he had me laughing out loud while cruising through the south GA piney woods or along the interstate were well worth those periodic ravings of a disappointed, frustrated tourist. Even those tangents are amusing.
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