December 21, 2015

No Batteries Required

There are those who do and those who don't; tinsel, that is.  I've wavered from year to year, personally.  The other night I was looking back at pictures of Christmases long ago spent at Grandma's house on the farm, and I noticed sparkly, shining strands of tinsel strewn from the tip top to the bottom of the tree.  (And this was genuine aluminum tinsel, mind you, not the plastic static-cling sort you find today).  My mother used to string our tree with tinsel and gather it up at the end of the season to be used the next year.

Staring back from the black and white snap shot with the white scalloped edge framing the picture were my sisters and me posed in front of the tree so many years ago, bright smiles plastered on our faces.  The two older girls were in their customary matching dresses - that year hand made out of green corduroy material - me, I had on a red velvet dress with white tulle' skirt.

We made a truly colorful ensemble and even though it was a black and white photo, somehow the hues colorfully emanate from the paper for me.  The colors that I see blend into a delightfully festive feast for the eyes, and I imagine they were enhanced by the dangling, reflective tinsel on the tree behind us.

Back them, quite a few years more than I care to admit, the colors of Christmas came from the sparkle of lights (usually, screw-in type bulbs that were replaceable were they to burn out), or from bubble lights boiling magically on the tree, and the silvery, whimsical ornaments adorning the bows. 

It was a simpler time.

Toys, too, were of the simpler sort back in, as I describe, the "dark ages".  It's hard to recall any particular toy that we received at Christmas time that required batteries.  Well, perhaps one or two, but as I remember once those batteries finally quit working they were not replaced, rending the toy silent and requiring us to devise an entirely different method to make play with them any fun.

Our board games didn't have electronic spinners, the spelling board I had and loved didn't come equipped with push buttons and sound and our stuffed animals didn't talk or make noise.  Our favorite toys required NO batteries.  I recall some of our favorite, most beloved toys, some of which my siblings and I most likely still own and secretly take out to play with now and then.  See how many of them you remember:

Gumby and Pokey, Barbie & Ken dolls, Slinky, Battling Tops,Troll dolls, See & Spell, Josie and Johnny West, paper dolls, Tinker Toys, Cooties, Lincoln Logs, Tog'ls, ice skates, Mini Grip Gravity, playing cards, Monopoly, Shenanigans, SuperBall, Hot Wheels, Rock 'em Sock ' em Robots, Play-Doh, Spirograph, Spinning Tops, Footsie Toy, View Master, Silly Putty, Clacker Balls, Barrel Full of Monkeys, Etch a Sketch, and a Rubik's Cube, to name just a few.

The toys we did NOT have included an Easy Bake Oven (we learned our way around the real kitchen an early age), Incredible Edibles (probably because of the macabre twist that this represented), or the game Operation.  These all required batteries or electricity after all.

We did, however, have a set of Walkie Talkies that were an awful lot of fun. They required 9-volt batteries and when we were fortunate to have a fresh set of batteries spent many hours using those two-way radios.  I also had what was perhaps all time favorite toy:  a Mattel talking telephone.  It came complete with miniature records that could be loaded into the phone and would provide a conversation with you.  This in fact resembles closely the CD players of today that were at that time not even on the horizon (we were still playing 33 and 45 rpm records at the time).Today it pulls a premium price on Ebay.  I'm not sure what I was thinking when I got rid of that treasured toy.

These days, unless you're shopping the aisles of a retro/reminiscing store, it's tough to find any plaything that isn't driven by AA batteries.  It's a little disconcerting.  The best advice I can offer is this:  buy one of those value packs of batteries and gift wrap those along with the toys.  They'll be every bit as appreciated as the new toy will be.

Or.....buy a book and give that.  (The kind that doesn't talk to you, that is).  You can't go wrong with a book and it will be usable long after the batteries from all of those new-fangled toys are drained completely of their usefulness.

And remember, these are the days that will be fondly remembered oh so many years from now, so try to make them memorable in a wonderful fashion,  I guarantee that things will never be the same again and so treasure the times now, whatever they may be. Hard times are fleeting and forgotten while the good times live on for all times. 

Merry Christmas and a blessed new year to you all.  Make today a beloved memory for tomorrow!

        

December 14, 2015

Beauty is in the Eye of the Viewer

Last week I shared the feelings of joy and elation that I felt after receiving a much-yearned for Crissy doll at Christmas time many years ago.  That story brought a confessional from my little brother, who admitted to pulling my doll’s hair out to its full length and swinging her around in circles over his head.  I couldn't believe it!!  Well, at least he apologized about the matter.

I forgive him and it’s okay, because I used to dress his Johnny West doll in Barbie clothing.  Sometimes it’d be jaunty Ken doll attire but other times John would sport frilly ball gowns and high heels.  I even twisted the jointed John man in odd ways such as ape-like poses or other ways so as to make him look positively silly. Or put him in one of the plastic sports cars that our Barbies used to drive. 

I am sorry about that bro, and I guess we’re even. (Wait a minute, I doubt that will ever come to pass).  But there still is this matter of your caveman mentality that led you to drag my doll around by her hair…..it’s a good thing that you grew out of that.

On the lighter side, we piled into the van the other night and headed out for a Christmas light viewing while visiting my brother and his family. 

Some of the neighborhoods were lavishly bedecked in tasteful displays of lights and decorations.  We oohed and aaahed just like we were watching a Fourth of July display.  Other neighborhoods elicited a simple, “uninspired” comment from the front seat.  Where was the Christmas spirit in these dark and dank neighborhoods we all wondered.  What were these humbug party pooper wet blankets thinking?

There was, of course, constructive critique from the family’s chief lighting design engineer.  The colors weren’t right, or the lights didn’t reach the top of the tree, or the display had no uniformity or there was no theme to it all…..everyone's a critic I suppose.

You have to understand, there is a good deal of peer pressure involved here.  When the neighbors hang more lights than Clark Griswold could ever in his wildest dreams imagine, it’s just natural to feel the need to decorate at least one little tree in your yard.   (I’ve solved that problem at my house this holiday season and have taken to leaving the front porch light on so as not to appear to be a non-conformist).

When it comes to Christmas lighting, beauty truly is in the eyes of the onlooker.  Some purists like white lights, others prefer multi-colored strands.  Some are old school and stick with the big oversized light bulbs and others choose the mini led lights. Some hang lovely icicle strands from their roof line, others don the trees with lighted garlands.  And some go for a psychedelic light show with blinky, flashing lights.  There weren’t many of those on display and it makes you wonder if it’s a conspiracy of sorts and manufacturers have discontinued making those highly annoying things. (Wouldn’t hurt my feelings one bit).

I say it was all good because someone took the time and made the effort to light up their yard for all of us to enjoy. 

The life-sized animated Santa Claus encased in a clear plastic box was a little disconcerting, I'll have to admit. He kept trying to tell us something as his finger wagged up and down but none of us could hear his words from the vacuum sealed coffin.  I loved the massive deciduous tree completely bedazzled in green lights.  The green tree, they all said, you just have to see it and they were right.  From blocks away the sky glowed like a nuclear test site.   Neighbors nearby don't even bother to decorate their homes with that emerald beauty standing nearby.  No need to compete.

The viewing was a success albeit a bit longer than anticipated with an errant turn that lead us to a remote edge of town.  But even so, we discovered some nicely lit houses out there as we tried to find our way back to the streets of the city.  

Traveling home at the end of the weekend,  close to home I neared the outskirts of Iona, cloaked in a heavy fog.  What greeted me put a smile on my face: that little berg was lit up with Christmas decorations in full force!  Nearly every house along the few blocks through town was aglow.  One sported candy canes across the front yard, another sparkled with thousands of lights on trees and the house. Yet another had electrified candles in every window of the older two-story house.

It was a beautiful sight and I must say that I was very impressed Iona! Thanks for beaming me in safely on a wintry, foggy night. Indeed, it was very inspired!

December 7, 2015

Some Dreams are Forever

Christmas is the time for reflecting and reminiscing.  And what kid doesn't spend more than a little time dreaming of what is to come as the season unfolds.  Well, it's not only  kids who can while the time away in a reverie of thoughts, but certainly as I remember, there was a great deal of dreaming on my part when I was but a youngster and December rolled around.

It usually began in November as the date of birthday crept forward and finally arrived.  What, I wondered, would I find wrapped up and surrounding the homemade cake topped with candles just for me.  We were by no means materialistic youngsters growing up in our house.  But the days and moments leading up to that special day were filled with anticipation and dreaming.

Usually along about that time the mailman delivered the JCPenney Wishbook.  That slim mail order edition was pure magic in our eyes and many hours were spent paging slowly through the catalog and dreaming of "what ifs" and "if onlys" that could somehow be.  I recall the pages depicting the realistic play kitchens with little girls in dresses and bobby socks gleefully practicing their domestic skills just like their mothers.  Young boys drove full sized pedal cars that so resembled the real thing.  The kids all looked so very happy on the pages of that Wish Book.

I particularly enjoyed the section filled with musical instruments:  the guitars and flutes and trumpets and pianos.  And the drum sets.  I really wanted one of those.  Page after page after page of delights were there in full color to please the eye.  And tempt the soul. There was even a section filled with Christmas trees and decorations of every sort. And festive holiday attire, and table settings, and gadgets and appliances galore.  It was a veritable feast for the eyes. 

It didn't take long to amass a long list of wishes:  Spirograph set, Lincoln Logs, Tinkertoys (the deluxe set of course), Barbie dolls and accessories, Troll dolls, a sewing kit, the frilly princess costumes complete with high heels.  The list went on and on I'm sure.  

We knew that our family probably could not afford most of the toys found in those pages of that magical book, but it never stopped us kids from dreaming and wishing. And we always received at least one very special gift chosen specially for each one of us.  How wonderful and what a blessing to have been taught to appreciate what we had.

They sell those Wish Books on e-bay now.  The really old "vintage" models from the 1970s sell for upwards of $45.00 each. Hard to imagine, isn't it.

One year I wanted nothing more than my very own Crissy doll.  This was no ordinary doll mind you.  She was taller than a Barbie and deemed a beautiful fashion doll.  But the best thing about Crissy, besides the color of her glowing red hair, was the fact that it could magically grow to floor length in a lovely shiny cascade.  Then with the crank of a button on her back, it could be shortened. I just knew that Crissy had to belong to me somehow, some way.  

And so I hinted and I begged and I dog-eared the page in the Wish Book where Crissy dolls were listed.  I did everything in my power to let it be known that more than anything else in the world, I wanted a Crissy doll of my very own.  That year, about my 10th, my birthday celebration consisted of yet another pink birthday cake (my special request of course), and being made to feel like the princess of the day in our house.  

I recall I even had a couple of girlfriends over to help to celebrate the milestone birthday.  I recollect confiding to them that I thought I was going to get a Crissy doll for my birthday that year. I was so sure of it.  Dreams don't always come true like you expect them to and that year for my birthday I received many wonderful gifts. But no Crissy doll.

So soon the birthday was over and then came Thanksgiving and then the Christmas season was in full swing. And so was the Wish Book dreaming.  You can bet that thoughts of Crissy did not leave my head.  Christmas so quickly rolled around and the anticipation was finally over.  The time had come for us to exchange gifts around our tree, and we did so in a meaningful manner, thoughtfully gifting one after another between family members. Each gift had been carefully chosen and purchased with hard earned dollars.  Truly the gift of love was in the air around our Christmas trees every year.

The last gift I opened, of course, was a Crissy doll.  My very own.  I don't imagine I slept that night but if I did, it was clinging tightly to my new treasure.  I still have my Crissy doll and I can't imagine ever parting with her.  Why would I give up something that I had dreamed so long to have.

After all, some dreams are meant to hold onto forever, no matter how big or small they are.  

November 30, 2015

Kind Acts Are All Around Us

It's oft been said that "no act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted."  (Just who did say that I wonder?).   So often don't we get distracted with our own agendas and lives and forget to take a look around us.  And though many will bemoan the fact that these are dark times we're living in, there really is a lot of good going on. So don't blink, you might just miss it!

I pondered that notion recently after witnessing a rash of good-deed-doing and think it's as good a time as any to share some of those actions with you.

The other day my mother dialed my cell phone and got, as is usually the case, my voice mail. (Her timing isn't always that great). She proceeded to leave a lovely birthday message on my phone in hopes that I'd hear it later when I was available.  Minutes later her own phone rang with a stranger on the other end of the line.  

"I just received your message," the caller said, "and I wanted you to know that you dialed the wrong number.  "I have a daughter of my own and I knew how important that phone call was," she continued.  This unknown phone call recipient and my mother proceeded to converse for several minutes, exchanging friendly small talk.  They ended the conversation as long distant, anonymous friends.

Later that day the folks went out for a fill up at the gas station.  As they were driving down the busy four lane road on their way home, a fellow drove up on their side frantically gesturing toward the back of their vehicle.  Turns out they forgot to put the gas cap back on the fill pipe and the flap was blowing in the breeze.  That certainly was a nice, yet unnecessary gesture on the motorists part, I thought. (And it beats other sorts of gestures some motorists are apt to make).

I attended a concert event the other night.  It had sold out weeks before so you can imagine the throngs of people there were waiting to enter the auditorium and be seated.  While standing in the lobby, a gentleman next to me said that he'd picked up a stray glove in the parking lot.  "I'll just put it over there on the table, and someone will come looking for it," he said.  I recall smiling warmly and telling him that it was very thoughtful of him to do that.  Later that night, my friend discovered he was missing one of his own gloves.  Could it be, might it be, I wondered, that very same glove that had been rescued by the thoughtful stranger?  Indeed it was!  

Yet again at another crowded event, I was touched by a kind soul who said, "After you," and courteously offered me to go ahead of him.  

And then there are  those thoughtful drivers who yield to others despite the fact that we're all in one big rush to get somewhere. Allowing another driver to ease into traffic in a merging situation shows constraint and good manners.

With the first major snow dumping on us recently, once again I experienced a heartwarming "do-good" from the kind soul who regular-as-clockwork clears the sidewalks and driveway at my house.  Seems no matter how I plan, he always beats me to the task.  How does one express gratitude for such kindness?  I can only attempt it.

Finally, let's not overlook the folks whose job it is to help and protect us every day.  It's a thankless job that our law enforcement officers perform but I'm here to say that it is more than appreciated.  A few weeks ago I arrived home from work and discovered a wild animal  on the back porch. It was clearly rabid and safety concerns led me to contact the local police department.  It wasn't long before an officer showed up and assisted me in taking care of the situation.  I thanked the young officer but I don't know if he understood fully the gratitude that I was feeling.  

Saying "thanks" just doesn't seem enough in some situations.  Yet it warms my heart to discover that there are so many wonderful acts of kindness going on all over, both big and not so big.  Take a look for yourself and you will surely discover some for yourself.

And while you're at it, consider the Boy Scout creed that says: "Do a good turn daily and help when you are needed."

By the way, the incomparable Aesop penned the thoughtful phrase, "No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted."  Such wise, timeless words.

November 23, 2015
That Was a Day to Remember (or Perhaps Forget?)

Well it's here again:  that day when folks (most of them) have a holiday break from the real world and gather together to observe and carry on traditions as old as time.  Perhaps it's a good thing that the calendar directs us to stop, look and listen, for it forces us to reflect for at least a day upon what we should be thinking about every other day of the year.

The debate has heated in recent years as to whether the commercialism should ease off or halt for at least a moment, allowing for those in the service industry to gobble down a bite or two of mashed potatoes and dressing before attending to the doting public.  Whatever you choose to embrace, try to remember that there are blessings beyond belief everywhere you turn.  And take a moment this Thanksgiving to say a heartfelt "thanks" for all that we have been given.

Of course the holiday is steeped in tradition and it is the time to reflect on those times gone by and those with which we have shared so much.  Being raised in a family of numerous aunts and uncles  and dozens of cousins, those gatherings remain dear and near to my heart.  But sometimes it's the stories told that are most cherished.  

Like the story of the time my father brought his lovely intended (my mother) to his family's Thanksgiving for the very first time.  They were achingly young and in love and Dad, eager to share the wonderful woman who would one day become my mother, with his entire family, invited her to his family's Thanksgiving dinner.

A Hudson feast was one of remarkable proportions with nothing spared.  The family may have lived frugally 364 days of the year, but on Thanksgiving, all the stops were pulled out.  Mind you, this was a family that loved a feast and knew how to put it away.  Mom, raised a farm girl and no stranger to the rough and tumble, had nevertheless a gentile air about her and was determined to present the very finest impression imaginable to the family of her true love.

And so she braved with a smile on her face meeting the brothers and the uncles and mother and father that first Thanksgiving they were together.  According to legend, all seemed to be going rather well through the meal with plenty of chatter and chewing. And then dessert was served.  The traditional pumpkin pie was brought on board  and and passed around the table. (Traditionally, the pieces of pie were distributed from one to the other around the table until all had been served).  

Following closely behind was something new to a Hudson Thanksgiving dinner:  canned Ready Whip.  In his defense, it was a new fangled device and I'm sure my grandfather didn't really know quite how to operate it.  Needless to say, just as he attempted to slather the stuff onto his slice of pie, something went awry and mom was left with a generous coating of white sticky whipped cream all over her lovely new angora sweater.  

I'm not quite sure what happened from there - for some reason no one has quite elaborated on that all these years. I don't think it was a case of censorship but rather something the whole family just chose to forget.  But I'm sure the desserts were all enjoyed and  finished and dishes gathered and washed.  And mom and dad went on to marry and enjoy more than 65 years of wedded bliss together (and counting).  But hearkening back to that very first encounter, one wonders just what she was thinking about when she said "yes" to dad's proposal.

Other Thanksgivings will forever be immortalized in my memory, such as the year that we planned on joining the family, a state away, and were thwarted by a last minute Minnesota blizzard.  The hamburger in the freezer came in handy that time when mom made her delicious Thanksgiving meatloaf.  I don't remember what we did with the 75 place setting/nut cups that mom had painstakingly constructed for the holiday gathering.

Or the year I waited patiently for son #1 to arrive.  He was due on Thanksgiving day but chose to hold off a week before making his appearance.  And there was the time that I hosted my family and friends for the feast at my house.  It was a true joy to cook for my loved ones and I hope I get the chance to do that again one of these days.  

When we were kids and the family was not traveling to the join the rest of the family's gathering, we most generally had a guest or two, or three at our Thanksgiving feasts.  In fact, there is not one recollection when we didn't have several special "guests" at our table for the holiday. One year it was a Greek college school mate of my sister's.  Another year, a young couple who couldn't get home to their family's celebration.  Yet another, dear friends who served as substitute grandparents to us kids. They were all family to us and together we gave thanks and shared a meal. 

There was always room for just one more at our table and that is a philosophy I heartily embrace.   I may not have it all but I can share what I have. And though my folks have never served canned Ready Whip at their table since that fateful day, I myself keep a can in the refrigerator at all times just in case the need arises for a little levity now and then.

November 16, 2015
Variety is the Spice of Life

I rearranged the furniture in my house the other day.  I tore into the project on Friday night and woke to a full blown disaster area that was once the living room on Saturday morning.  I reasoned my way through the mire, reminding myself that after all, it’d been probably a good 15 years since I’d moved anything around. It was high time for a shake-up.

In the wake of my fervent decorating were stacks of nick-knacks in boxes, framed photographs piled high, and books.  Books everywhere.  You see, perhaps the most challenging part of the project wasn’t just where to position the couch and coffee table. Or where to hang the art prints.  It was of course, where to locate my cherished collection of books.

And so I pondered.  But that doesn’t get you far, really.  In my past experience, you just have to move stuff until it feels right.  It’s something like a jigsaw puzzle:  the picture isn’t clear until you fit all of the pieces into perfect place.

So I tried putting the couch against the front windows.  I lived with that situation for a day until I agreed with myself that it just didn’t feel quite right.  And though the thought of maneuvering that beast again wasn’t something I was keen to do, I went to tugging the behemoth monster inch, by inch, across the room to the other wall. There it sat in its new home. Waiting for the next move I might make. Again I slept on it.  Or rather, fell into bed in sheer exhaustion.  There I tossed and turned, I’m sure unable to shut off the brain functions that tugged with just what I should do with the furniture placement.

The plan was to tote my big book shelf and stand it in the dining room where it would be filled with all manner of books to digest as I’m dining by candlelight.  Plan C sounded good in theory. And besides, I’d run out of wall space on which to put the bookshelf.

In the meantime I’d emptied every one of my three bookshelves and piled staggeringly high towers of books off to the side.  It was all I could do not to give in to the willpower to sit and read the day away – some of those books that I haven’t read yet vow to read one day.

Once the cabinets were back into their new spot I started loading books once again.  Moving books is nothing new for me – I was a librarian for almost a quarter of a century and it’s what we do.  But it’s not an easy task and I reasoned that even though I don’t work out as often as I should I still know how to do some serious weight lifting when I have to.

 

An hour later and no less than 8 finger nails sacrificed, the bookshelves were full and looking smart as ever.  I sat down, arms limp from the exertion, and slowly, began to shake my head.  In a true feng shui realization, I told myself that it just wasn’t right and I knew I could not live with what I had done.  And so, it was time to take the books out.

Again. 

Then tote all 100 pound of the big oak bookshelf across the room to where I just knew it would “work”.  You guessed it, the darned thing ended up exactly where it had started three days ago.  I guess it was just the right thing to do. 

It wasn’t until I was almost done tasking that I remembered my moving me – and so I called them into practice.  No, I didn’t hire a bunch of strong arms (though now that I think of it, that might not have been such a bad idea).  I brought out my plastic disks, the “moving men” and placed the furniture atop and voile’, I was moving furniture with one hand tied behind my back.  Well, almost. 

And so now I have a “new” living room and dining room configuration.  And it feels so keen to walk in and see my handiwork, almost like walking into a new living space. 

When we were kids, our mother used to delight in rearranging our furniture with the changing of the seasons.  This time of year, with winter on the prowl, she’d place the couch against the window, I guess in an effort to block out the cold, howling winds.  We’d arrive home from school to a brand new home – she’d work her magic on the furniture placement once again.

I guess I come by my need for change naturally, and determinedly.  I’m pretty sure mom had no help whatsoever in toting our couch across the room – sheer will power and I’m so glad I inherited that from her.  I’m not planning on moving much of anything for a while now.  At least I don’t think…..but I really should get to work organizing those book shelves….alphabetically or by Dewey Decimal, that is the question.

The next time I decide to move things around, I think I’ll have a few friends over and see if I can appeal to their good nature to help me out in my weak desperation.  Either that or I might just have to find a few good, strong bodybuilders to lend a hand.

November 9, 2015
Life is Made of Little Stitches

It's cold and dark in the evenings now and I guess the time has arrived for diversionary tactics for those of us who live here on the prairie.  We're on the cusp of brittle air and frostbitten toes.  Winter.  Even though we're not quite there the time has come for me to go in search of the more-than-one unfinished knitting project that I somehow always manage to pile up en masse.  (Along with the far too large yarn stash....)

Knitting is my comfort food and it has oh so many benefits.

Before I can resume knitting that unfinished one-armed sweater I must first figure out where I left off several months ago when spring was promising its arrival with warmer temperatures and outdoor adventures.  I know that I certainly am not alone in the unfinished projects dilemma.  Even my mother, a master knitter, left a few loose ends in her knitting projects. I am happy to say that she endowed upon me her knitting supplies a few years ago.  In the boxes were her vast collection of knitting needles, the cherished knitting book that my father bought for her while they honeymooned in Chicago, and a couple knitting projects that are 3/4 complete.  

 

Those of you needle crafters surely know what I'm talking about here. For us, heaven must be a place where we have taken the final stitch on every single one of those unfinished projects.

I've been a knitter since the age of 10 or 11 when my mother finally gave in to my begging her to teach me. And so she did.  My grandmother had something to do with it too.  Both ladies were avid knitters who could whip up just about any sort of project in a jiffy.

Growing up, we all had an abundance of beautiful, warm winter wear that was knitted with every shade of love imaginable. I don't think we truly appreciated those wonderful hand knit scarves and mittens and hats until our friends started begging for some of their own.  And mom was happy to oblige them.  I think knitting was therapy for her.  I know it is for me.  And a gift hand knitted has yards of love woven into it.  

Knitting is actually a mechanical, hypnotic process.  It's not clear whether it is the constant ticking of one needle against its twin or the slip of the yarn through your fingers as you work it into the pattern, however I do know that it's easy to lose 2 or 3 hours of time lost in a knitting spree.  Once begun it's hard to quit.  "Just one more row....", "I'll stop when I get to the end....", "Oops, I dropped a stitch three rows back...." Never quit before correcting a mistake, Mom preached.  

The only thing worse than having to end one's knitting session reversing your work and tearing out stitches.  Much like turning back the clock, it gets you nowhere.  but you learn, and when you once again put the needles into forward motion, it's so much better. 

Besides its therapeutic abilities, knitting can also teach a few life's lessons, I suppose:

Start with a single strand - and a plan.  Follow the directions and soon you are on a path that leads to the finish. Persevere and don't give up.  Be proud of your accomplishment.  Every one of the stitches you have made yourself.  Some are not quite perfect, yet they are joined by those that are.  But together they complete a beautiful, completed  fabric.

October 26, 2015
Death of a Building

The clinic that I used to go to as a child when sick or needing medical attention was razed this week.  I watched it come down.  It's not easy to see a building die, and judging by the many onlookers and seeing the expressions on their faces, it was evident that I wasn't alone in my thinking.

As difficult as this may be to see, much like a car crash or building ablaze, you just can't seem to look away.  And so I, along with the other watchers, stood by as a witness while the big machine gnawed at and teased away portions of this once vital structure. 

As the massive teeth of the machine eviscerated the building, ripping entrails of foundation and water pipes and electrical wiring and insulation with each bite, the dying structure was rent apart, I could sense at one point that it had finally given in to the inevitable.  It reminded me of the forlorn carrion in the road being slowly consumed by winged creatures. It would die and others survive.

How many lives began and ended there in that building, I wondered as I watched in reverent silence. How many folks had made it their life's duty working there every day for years on end - jobs spent in dedication caring for those in need? Doctors, nurses and volunteers, office workers, technicians, and housekeepers.   How many of those are now gone, as the building soon would be.

  

Now memories are all that will remain.

As I watched, in time the machine pivoted its arm to the main entrance, a brick half-moon shaped area where the name of the clinic once proudly spread across the front. Now there were letters forlornly missing, so it was difficult to even identify the old building.  I braced myself as the machine opened its teeth as widely as possible. Here was the last remaining wall standing in its unique glory.   But the brick wall was no match for the power of this machine that nudged the brick with force.  As parts of it came down, I watched the windows across the top shudder, and I was a bit shocked to discover that it elicited the same reaction from me.  I felt, in a way, a physical revulsion blow through my being.  

I almost cried.

I realize of course that this was only a building.  It consisted of bricks and walls rooms and hallways. So why let it hold such significance, and why the reaction when it was destroyed?  It’s because it was so much more.  The bricks and mortar, the glass and metal, it all made up the whole of this building, so familiar to me and many others. In many ways it was a landmark.  And now it is no longer.

The landscape will be forever changed, a piece of history gone.  Will there be something more to fill its space, I wonder.  Will new life sprout from the ground where the old once stood?  Could this, might this be the birth of a new memory for someone?  

Possibly.  Or most likely, the void will be filled with parked cars as far as the eye can see.  Who knows.

October 19, 2015
Looking Back Can Give a Clearer View Ahead

It seems like the more you know, the less you truly know...or maybe the more things change the more they stay the same.  Either way you look at it, don't forget to look back now and then.  You might just be surprised by what's back there (and learn a little something along the way!) 

Looking back at this day in history, how many of these memorable happenings do you recall? Were you there and if so, do you remember the moment that you learned the news?   What will be the momentous occasions that generations to come from now will hold as truly unforgettable?

On this day in:

-1947: The notorious Hollywood Red Scare kicked into high gear.  Chaired by Congressman Parnell Thomas, the subsequent hearings focused on identifying political subversives among Hollywood actors and actresses, writers and directors.  The "Hollywood Ten", as this first group of men were known, resisted, complaining that the hearings held were illegal and violated 1st Amendment Rights. they were sentenced to one year in jail, a fine that was later upheld by the Supreme Court.

-1774: Congress created the Continental Association that launched a complete ban on all trade between America and Great Britain of goods, wares or merchandise.

-1990: Three members of the rap group, 2 Live Crew, were acquitted of obscenity charges. The three had faced a year in prison each for performing their songs, which were considered to be obscene.

1944: Two liquid gas tanks exploded in Cleveland, Ohio, killing 130 people there.

2011: Moammar Gadhafi, the longest serving leader in Africa and the Arab world, was captured and killed by rebel forces. The eccentric 69-year old dictator was accused of numerous human rights crimes.

1977: Three members of the southern rock band, Lynrd Skynrd, died in a plane crash on a flight from Greenville, South Carolina to Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Band members Ronnie Van Zant, Steve Gaines, and Cassie Gaines all died that day. The plane had originally been chartered by the band Aerosmith, who, because of concerns over the flight crew, passed it up.

1803:  The United States senate ratified the Louisiana Purchase, a treaty with France, that allowed the U.S. to effectively double its size.

1818:  The United States and Britain established the 49th parallel as the boundary between Canada and the United States.

1968: Jacqueline Kennedy married Aristotle Onassis.

1964:  Herbert Hoover, the 31st president of the United States, died in New York at the age of 90.

October 12, 2015
Ol' Joe Knew What He Was Doing

I don't know why, but when my two sisters reported that they were making "sloppy Joes" for my father's 88th birthday party I couldn't stop giggling.  You see, I hadn't heard that term for years, I'm pretty sure.  And of course, that led my colorful mind to conjure up images of a food-encrusted, aproned short order chef covered in splattered in stains calling out his orders in military fashion.

"That's a real sloppy guy," I said to myself.  Joe must certainly have been an epic slob to have a sandwich coined after him, I mused. I wonder if he ever realized the significance of his slothfulness.  

Actually the delicious concoction that my sisters created was the same that I'd always been taught to refer to as "BBQ sandwiches" but it was the same delicious comfort food that I knew and loved.  It in fact was the one and only dish that I as a youngster, request ever year when my birthday rolled around and I was given exclusive dictatorial ruling over the family's menu for that one glorious day.  That and of course a pink cake.  That was necessary.

As we pondered the complexities of the sloppy Joe terminology, we dug into the vaults and discovered that indeed the term derived from a short order chef from Sioux City who devised a loose meat sandwich that quickly caught on among his customers.  Since the man was generally a slob, the term soon stuck.  

Since then a plethora of terms to describe the distinctive  sandwich have evolved and depending on the geological location, there are many names for the same dish.  Loose meat, taverns, bbq's, sloppy Joes, and even the Manwiches all refer to the same delectable  dish made with ground beef, ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, onions and mustard.  

I'm sure there are slight variations on the dish from time to time, yet still it remains such a yummy comfort food. I do recall that the Thursday offering of BBQ sandwiches at our school lunchroom was one of three meals that I would readily accept (the others being fried chicken and chili), and eat in entirety.  That pretty much says it all, I imagine. 

Call it what you will but to me, a rose by any other name would smell a sweet, to borrow from my favorite scribner.  It doesn't really matter what you call it,  I will always adore my bbq-loose meat-sloppy Joes.  

October 5, 2015
She's Not Afraid to Talk to Machines

My mom has had some pretty interesting conversations with computers.  It's not the usual talk-to-your-inanimate-desktop-machine variety that we all have had occasion to do in rapt frustration.  These are real, "live" voices continually badgering her on the telephone.  Mom seems to have a penchant for attracting the rude, exotic and unusual animated phone callers.  

Not one to impolitely dismiss someone without cause, she has been known to endure a lengthy, slick pitch before cutting them off with a curt hang up. Other times she will strike up an interchange with the voice on the other end of the line in hopes of achieving a satisfying resolution to the situation.

And you've got to know just how that's going to end.

The other day when their television service froze in midair, she dialed up the helpline of their cable company in hopes of finding a solution to the situation.  "She hung up on me three times!" Mom uttered in disgust, describing the rudeness of the operator on the line.   Apparently Ms. Computer could not factor exactly what mom was telling it - her grievances did not fit the usual 4 to 5 menu choices given.

Desperately, mom began frustratedly punching buttons in random fashion in hopes of discovering a resolution.  And eventually she found one in the form of a real, living voice on the line.  

This young man, she said, was very helpful and fixed the dilemma of the stuck T.V.  Most likely, the hero-man speculated, the rude operator was the recent hire from the competitor's side.  I contend she was a sour-puss computer that got up on the wrong side of the bed and wasn't in a benevolent mood.  Maybe it was even a Monday.

Mom is the kind of woman who isn't afraid to voice her opinion. So when a favorite product is somehow altered or discontinued, or even substandard,  she has the urge to tell someone. And she doesn't mess around, but goes straight to the top every time.  Often her dialing to complain serves more than one purpose:  the frustration that she feels tends to dissipate somewhat after voicing her disappointment, and sometimes the company even sends her gifts meant to appease her sore soul in the form of coupons or free product certificates.  Whether this makes up for the switch in packaging from a trusted and tried form or the switch to some inane new fangled version it's hard to say.

You have to give my mom credit though.  She has jumped right into the space age rather gracefully.  She has taken to the computer and social media like a pro.  She emails her children and grandchildren and enjoys  receiving their letters.  She even places online orders for merchandise.  Yes, mom is a completely modern, albeit traditional woman.

At first there were a few gaffs, though.  One morning she picked up the phone to discover a voice telling her that her department store order had arrived and was ready for pickup.  "It sure is a nice day, isn't it," Mom said pleasantly.  Then she went on to continue the conversation with the smooth-voiced messenger, only to find that it was a computer, incapable of sensing pleasant or not. 

Eventually she learned to detect such tomfoolery and avoid the pesky telemarketers altogether.  Caller I.D. became a favorite tool of hers. She used it to detect when someone they dubbed "Charlotte" continually phoned them at the same time every day.  Likely some entity bent on preying on folks their age to sell them worthless services, this woman stood no chance with my mother though.  Eventually Charlotte gave up, or more likely placed their number at the bottom of the call cache, and the phone calls discontinued.

Score one for mom.

In the game of telecommunications I'm not sure if one can ever win, but it doesn't hurt to try.  And if you can't win, then at least strike up a conversation with the offender.  Just think, you'll probably be saving some other person from receiving a pesky mechanical call.

September 28, 2015
Some Changes Take Eons, Others a Split Second

Went trekking this past weekend to the (not so) hidden wonderland of the Blue Mount State Park.  Being there traversing the vast topography led me to ponder thoughts far and wide and most definitely days gone by.  The centuries old stones, some as large as buildings, and the ancient oak trees, many have been living longer than most of us have walked this earth, are testament to the fact that we are but a fleeting drop of rain on a windshield.

Sure, we all may get caught up in the intricacies of life, but it so important to take a breath, and a real close look at things now and then.  

Like the bright red tiny little bug I found climbing on the rock that served as a makeshift picnic table in the middle of the park that day.  Had I not looked closely I'd missed seeing it and probably squashed it when I perched there.  It was remarkable and I honestly can say that I have never seen such a brightly-hued little insect.  

High up on a rocky perch was a pair of pigeons who put on quite a show. Oblivious to the humans below, they danced in little circles around each other and brought to mind those costumed square dancers who take turns circling one another.  It was quite remarkable.  

Those rocky ledges, through the years, continuously change in their appearance, with large chunks breaking off and falling to the floor of the quarry.  Colorful red veins of iron deposits that run horizontally through the pink rock provide jigsaw-like hints as to how it all may have fit together at one time.  

At any moment things can change in that park, yet at the same time they never do.  (Except for that big tree branch that fell just inches from where I had just walked - that was a change I'm glad I was far enough away to witness.)

It took millions of years for this landscape to form and the big picture is somewhat hard  to fathom.  As the glacier inched painstakingly slowly over the land, the sand and gravel it trailed etched scratches into the rocks.  Those marks can be seen all over the trails.  And in its wake, the landscape was sculpted and molded into what we see today.

If you have not visited the park before, I recommend that you do so.  It's worth the short drive and the moment that you spy the blue-hued mounds in the distance, you will understand why.  Whether you hike the top of the prairie land and see the wondrous array of wildflowers and rock croppings, (and occasional snake sunning itself on the trail), see the mighty birds gliding on the winds overhead, or espy the park's herd of bison, you will indeed be delighted.  

And do duck into one of the many trails that will lead you on a rocky descent into the depths of the mighty quarry.  You will get quite a workout in the climb back up, but will not be disappointed.