Friday, December 18, 2009
1997's pictures show the first celebration for my youngest grandchild. The stars weren't limited to the tree. As it happens every time we have a new baby in the family, those eyes twinkled in the hearts of all of us, as we relived our own first-remembered Yuletide through the stars in the new child's eyes. I ran back down the years and reached out with little-girl arms to hear again a dear old great-grandmother whispering in my little-girl ear, "Now, don't forget." Before regressing quite so far, I had other, "visions" with not a sugar plum in sight. I saw holidays slipping past, with different, "youngest" grandchildren laughing merrily at some grand, shimmering tandenbaum. And further back to my own babies. How clearly I can see them toddling by in their sailer suits and ruffled dresses.
Through irridescent, wintry clouds of splendor, through times of trouble and hearts we would swear were broken beyond recycling; through falling snow flakes, rain drops and hopes, December 25th keeps coming. A few soft words inhabit northern winds, "Now, don't forget...." I see Christmas when hugging a friend I have had since girlho9od. We did our shopping, "downtown" before malls were anything but big hammers. With fur-lined boots and parka's we walked past store-fronts festooned with greens and colored lights. Carols poured forth from overhead speakers far above us and we talked about "Little Women's" Jo who sold her hair to buy a present for her mother. We couldn't wait to begin purchasing gift with our allowances. It snowed for days that winter, and I foun d a sled under the Christmas tree. But just before I went to sleep on Christmas Eve I heard that whisper, "Now, don't forget..."
I see Christmas when I think of my parents and grandparents...remembering gifts of Nancy Drew myteries, ice skates, bicycles,scooters, dolls and even a small bright red kiddy car when I was four-years old. I see a sweet-faced aunt touch my cheek and say softly, "Now, don't forget..."
Different days with grow-up presents came too quickly, at least in retrospect. Then one December 7th, and for a long few years the world wasn't sure there would be more Christmases. But, of course there were, along with lockets and high-heeled slippers, and Evening in Paris perfumes. I had an uncle in France on one of those holidays, who would have traded his evening in Paris for most anybody. He was carrying a rifle through mud up to his knees and hadn't been able to change his socks for weeks. Still, I heard it yet again, "Now, don't forget..."
Some people say, "That is more than I care to remember." Not me. Every one is a gift to acknowledge and recall.; even the years I made the biggest fool of myself--the most colossal errors in judgement. Christmas is always there at the end to bring about healing when we remember what this day is all about. Sooner or later this season, I will be bending over a small bed, touching a soft cheek and whispering," Now, don't forget...Joy to the world, the Lord is come!"
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
I don't know how to correct it....sorry
In 1930 , December came puffing and blowing, dumping immence skies full of snow over Puget Sound. Numbing Arctic winds finger-painted the scene with silvery strokes and on one particular snow-filled morning a Western Washington farming community went about its business. at 10:30 a.m. a mournful, drawn-out whistle led a swaying freight train out of the deep forest to halt at the wooden water tower where it would spend an hour- and-a-half taking on a fresh supply
Thus begins a true-to-life tale.
The trains carried the men from one ocean to the other, then back again; men who had taken to the open road for one reasons or another. Some were good men, some maybe not so good, but a large number were husbands and fathers striving to come through for the families waiting at home. Finding even the bare requirements of dood on a daily basis was a challenge. Every day hundreds of down-at-the-heels men app;roached hundreds of back doors across the country hoping for wood to chop or ditches to dig in exchange for a meal.
Women bore their own kind of burden;months taken up with trying to fill children with scanty rations and imaginations.
LIttle old Mrs. Moore had no such worries. The modest farm produced plenty for the two of them. She and her husband Knapp, had raised their one child long ago and soon would be celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary. She put anothehr stick of wood in the cook stove, check on the baking bread in the oven and eased down into the waiting rocking chair.
As the train gave a long, steamy, "Sheeeeeeesh," a long man jumped down from one of the middle boxcars, pulled his tattered overcoat close around his neck and took off at a slow and cumbersome run across the frosty field.
Nearby Mrs. Moore had heard the whistle. She roused herself, put on a pot of coffee and began to slice potatoes and ham into a frying pan. He would be hurrying along now, one of the fellows who, "rode the rails" in these hard times. There was never more than one man at a time looking for a hand out at the Moore farm on the daily runs. This seemed to be the procedure amongst the travelers. Farmers in other areas reported the same routine. The elderly lady continued to work at the stove and decided she would have her visitor cut some kindling.
When the box in the woodshed was full of newly chopped kindling he took an armload and walked to the back porch. After dumping the wood into a container near the back entrance he shook the snow from his worn coat, slapped his hat against his leg and entered the country kitchen. He looked to be about 35 years-old . His face was craggy and thin, almost to the point of gauntness, with cheeks reddend by too many winter rides in icy boxcars.
She chatted of this and that, plaing dishes and utensils on the table while pointing him to the wash basin and a hanging towel.
He didn't talk much , spending his energy on the food in front of him, but nodded politely when he felt a response was necessary. His, hostess, seated at last with her own cup of coffee, thought she saw him send a fleeting glance of longing toward the tiny decorated fir tree in the dim parlor. But, if so, it was quickly suppressed. Then, as he was finishing up the last scraps of the meal she watched as his eyes wandered to the back door window. There was a large card there, suspended by a string and facing the outside.
"I know," she said, though he hadn't asked, "We can't see it from in here. I just never got around to turning it around. It's what the angels told the shepherds," 'Peace on earth, good will to men."
Her grey head turned toward the message, "Seems to me we humans get that backwards today. We keep wanting thhe peace, and all the things that go with it, without giving the good will first."
The sojourner put down the checkered napkin and asked without much interest, "What is good will anyway?"
Almona Moore massaged one arthritic hand with the other, thinking carefully about her answer. "Well, it's wanting to be helpful," she said, "It's looking for, being aware of--no, it's looking for opportunities to be giving even when it isn't so easy. It's a willingness, an attitude. Yes, that's it. It's an attitude of kindness."
The man answered, "Hmm."
Suddenly Mrs. Moore spotted a sack on the chair by the door. She rose as quickly as her 80 year-old arthritic body would allow, put her hand to her cheeck and keened, "Oh, dear my poor husband has forgotten his lunch." She glanced at the clock on the shelf. It showed 11:45, There was still time if...her visitor saw the clock also.
"You see," the woman continued frowning, "My husband had a chance to make a little money today reparing a neighbors fence, but he's not even completely over being sick and he just can't go without this meal. What in the world can I do?" The faded blue eyes looked straight at the man sitting at her table
"Well, how far away is this neighbor?"
"A mile or so down the road," was the hopeful answer as she pointed in the opposite direction from the halted train.
Rising to shrug into his coat, the man replied, "Sure do thank you for the food, Ma'am, but I can't do that. Gotta get that train. I'd have to walk clean into Tacoma otherwise."
The lady sat back down, holding tightly to the sack, and sighed, "Yes. well, goodbye then."
A gust of frigid air came in as the man went out. "So long, Ma'm. Sorry."
He walked 10 paces in the crunchy snow and stopped. Slowly, by small jerks, he turned his head and looked over his shoulder. He could see that sign as if it had a built-in light. That one word sure looked brighter than the rest. GOODWILL. He couldn't figure how he missed seeing that on his way in. He growled, "Shoot!" as if somebody was giving him an arguement, and kicked at a mound of snow. Finally he turned reluctently all the way around and began to retrace his steps. The door opened before he knocked and Mrs. Moore handed him two sacks. "Straight down this road, Son. Mr. McGreggor's place. You can't miss it. Biggest barn you ever saw. Oh, Yes, and that large bag is for you. I wrapped up that ham shank, some bread and a few winter apples for later.
The fellow shook his head and took the bags. "How did you know I'd go?"
"Just thought I saw a lot of goodwill in you young man."
"Yeah, and I'll regret it when I find myself shiverin' in somebody's haystack tonight."
"No," she said firmly, "You won't."
He surely did shiver that night, but there was a warm spot somewhere near the area of his heart that kept from getting in at all.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
21/2 diced peeled potatoes
2 tsp salt
1 Tbls oil
2 tsps chili powder
1 recipe corn dumplings (given below)
2 cu pinto beans
1 lag. chopped onion
2 beef boullion cubes
3 lg fresh tomatoes
Mix potatoes, beans and salt and 3 cu water in good sized kettle. Sauate onions in oil. Add 2 boullion cubes. Add chilii powder and tomatoes. Stir well and add to first mixture. Bring to boil and simmer for 30 min. Drop dumplings by heating tablespoons on top of stew. Cover and simmer for 10 minutes. Causes aggressive behavior in some.
1 cu canned corn
1 cu flour
1 tsp soda
3 Tbls cornmeal
salt to taste
buttermilk to moisten
Mix ingredients until blended . Keep dough fairly stiff.
Maybe there is a large critter in your life, sniffing the air for some sweet sustenance as he comes in from swinging from tree to tree.
And, one evening very soon, after he has showered and changed his loin cloth you may present him with one of the best meals he has ever bounded through. We sincerely hope your Tarzan is a bit more talkative at dinner.
Believe it or not, we are about to end this thing, but must add just a couple more paragraphs to explain ourselves in regards to Janes's kitchen utensils. Perhaps you think we have been particularly nasty in witholding information about Jane's preparation tools. That's because they ARE particularly nasty. A blackened pot, a filthy stick and a few crummy hot rocks. UGH we simply cannot discuss it. But we have nearly forgotten Jane's all-time, top-of-the-list, very favortite: YOUR GUESS IS AS GOOD AS MINE HORS d' OEUVRES. DEFINETELY YUMMY SHE INSISTS. And it is only a matter of walking the banks of the river--any-river will do--and grabbing everything that moves. Our kitchen testers refer to this, "dish" as CANAPES WITH CRUNCH
Hope you've had fun, I sure have
Monday, November 23, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Our next offering is; a tasty surprise.
SAFARI SO GOOD, CHEETAH'S HEAT-A-POT
1 frying chicken, cut-up
1/3 cu. butter
salt and pepper
1/2 cu. sliced onion
2 cu. light cream
Cheetah fooled around and came up with this recipe. Season chicken pieces with salt and pepper. Roll in flour, saute in butter. Place in greased casserole. Saute onions in drippings in pan until lightly browned. Add cream and pour over chicken. Cover tightly and bake in 325 oven for 2 1/2 hrs, or until tender. Serves 6
AND IF YOU BELIEVE THE MONKEY MADE THIS DISH WE'VE GOT A BRIDGE WE WOULD LIKE TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Edgar Rice Burroughs never imagined a, "Jane". At least we don't think he did. It was just Tarzan and the Apes, and for we ladies, that can get a little boring. Someone else thought so too apparently, for some, "romantic " came along and brought Jane into the pictures--movies that is. It certainly made it more interesting for the female audience. A beautiful cultured woman destined to spend the rest of her life with ...well, let's turn our thoughts to something a little more pleasant; like the next recipe
OKEE DOKEE PEACHY TAPIOKEE'
2 cups canned peaches, sliced
Peach juice and water to make 1/4 cup
2 Tbl Minute Tapioca
1/4 cup sugar
1/8 tsp salt
3 Tbls lemon juice
Combine tapioca, sugar, salt and liquid, (not lemon juice) in pan and mix well. Bring to boil, stirring constantly. Remove from heat, add lemon juice and fruit. It will be thin until it cools. Chill. Serves 4-5
More about Jane
So Jane and Tarzan formed an alliance. They were a couple, as Tarzan so aptly put it, "Me Tarzan" you Jane. The guy knew a good thing when he saw it. A banana and a chaw of bark may be okay for a bachelor, but something in his genes, shouted, "You Jane, you COOK.!!!"
To be continued
Friday, November 13, 2009
thinks it is quite good as slapstick comedy goes and might make an acceptable, "coffee table" piece. Forgive me if you think it is the silliest piece of writing you have ever seen.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Some years ago Pearl Bailey recorded a song titled, "Mama, a Rainbow." The lyricist wrote of unique presents he might give his mother...some gift to surpass all those that had gone before. His ideas were imaginitive and mostly impossible. Thinking of that old song prompted me to make a list of my own.
How wonderful it would be to hand Mama a reservoir of liquid sunsets to swim in whenever she pleased. Or, be able to hand her the reins of a diamond-saddled silver charger to carry her to Camelot, or Shangri-la. What about a golden door, always open, to that ever-blooming Secret Garden? Or, consider one perfect, cobalt blue and star-strewn night for Molther to fall asleep curled up in the hand of God; with a dream of girlhood to go with it; a dream so real a pale blue ribbon from yesterday would be on her pillow in the morning, along with the scent of Lily of the Valley. And years! Oh , yes! I would give her lots of extra spun-gold, carefree years.
All of us would like to see our mother's eyes shine with joy at whatever we choose to give her on Mother's Day, or her birthday. Because if we are blessed enough to still be able to look at her beautiful face we want her to know how very much we love her.
In my mother's case it is doubly difficult to find a gift because she is ...not an average woman. For years I had my suspicians and they were confirmed not long ago when she informed me she needed to shop for a black leather out fit. Surely I hadn't heard her correctly, "Black leather?"
"Yes, a jacket and a pair of pants."
"Oh, you mean for one of the grandkids?"
"Now Audrey, which one of the kids could possibly need an outfit like that?"
Who indeed? And yet it was an ensemble my 89-year-old mother deemed a must-have for her wardrobe. Quickly, I looked at this lady who brought me into the world. It was she alright."You want to purchase leather pants and a jacket?"
That's right with silver buttons and lots of fringe."
The matriarch of our family is as alert, concise and witty as she has always been, and it never entered my mind to think she had slipped a cog overnight. "Mother,what is all this about?"
She glanced sideways at me, lifted her head a few inches and answered, "I'm riding with the gang."
This was sounding serious--maybe even dangerous. I began to recall the fact that my mother had always been a brave individual. She had many daredevil childhood exploits to her creditm and when I was a baby one of Mom's favorite pastimes was doing barrel rolls over P:uget Sound in an open-cockpit, two seater plane. (As a passenger.)
With a little more prompting I learned my little 5'1" grey-haired mama had been riding with a Christian motorcycle club associated with her church. She loved it! No, she didn't drive, but sat behind the driver. They all wore black leather with silver buttons and lots of fringe. She just want to fit in.
Mom is quite well known in our rural community and surprisingly everybody loves her. I say, "surprisingly" because, as I mentioned before she is a one-of-a-kind, strong-willed female, and a mother in eveny DNA corner of her determined body. She is still perfectly comfortable threatening me and all of creation with the disciplinary wooden spoon. Happily, most of us can finally out-run her.
By the way I discovered that perfect gift for her and every mother. Mom is the one who told me what it is. We have it with us day and night, even though it's priceless and precious. Everyone of us has an allotment of it and yet it can't be seen, held or saved. It is continuously passing through our fingers and when it's gone, so are we. We can't hang on to it, but we can throw it away. Shakespeare called it, "...an inaudible and noiseless foot."
Yes, it's , TIME, the invisible commodity our mother's want from us more than anything. If we are still so blessed as to have our mother's here, and it is possible, go spend a day of minutes with your mom.
Sometimes I write fiction...this isn't and my mom is everything I've related here...and lots more.
She passed on to be with her Lord 2 years ago at 94 years of age.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Two of my grandchildren, knowing that I am a writer,wanted to know how to write a story. My first inclination was to suggest we wait for another time. It was really an excuse but, an idea came to me and it led to an interesting undertaking.
Connor was 13 at the time and Katie was 9. They liked the challenge I gave them, and, although it isn't completed as yet, and may never be, they always remember that it is here.
It began with me writing a sentence out of my head; "The young man was on the beach when he saw the big dog fighting the waves, trying to get to shore."
Next I ask Connor to add another sentence. At first, he found it difficult but came up with, "And, to the amazement of the boy a dolphin appeared and guided the exhausted dog almost to his feet."
Now, it was Katie's turn. She took some time and finally added, "The young man sat, a little big shaky and a little bit afraid as the big German Shepherd loped past him towards the forest behind them."
My turn again and I felt as if I had "painted myself into a corner." However, I was able to add, "As he turned to follow the dog, his father's high-pitched whistle called him home."
This time Connor managed this sentence. "After lunch he talked his father into returning to the spot on the beach where he first saw the dog."
It ended with Kate's last entry, "No matter how long they searched, there were no dog prints, only the boy's."
Starting out to be quite a mystery isn't it? It has never been added-to since the week-end they both spent with me, but, hopefully they gained some knowledge about writing and imagination. They both know I still have the beginning of, "The story," and ask about it frequently. Maybe it will never be finished, because it will take all 3 of us, but then...you never know.
(the beautiful German Shepherd on this post belongs to my daughter, Cheryl, and her name is, Akeera)
Monday, October 19, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
codes with her and never looked back.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
Let me tell you a perfect example from my past.
We left Southern California in the early evening, my new husband, my mosquito bites. and I, enroute to the Pacific Northwest. The bites had been acquired during a fishing trip a few days before, and were now itching something awful.
I had worked for eight hours, the last day of a two-week notice, and anticipated sleeping during the night while my husband drove. I would do the day-time driving.
Just after sundown, my mate informed me that he didn't see well driving in the dark...that the oncoming lights blinded him. Oh, goody. We changed places. Almost immediately there was the sound of contented snoring beside me.
It was a long night. By six in the morning my eyes burned, my back hurt, and the mosquitos bites hadn't let up for a minute. And,believe me, it isn't easy to drive and scratch your ankles at the same time When we stopped for breakfast I had the temperment of a wounded grizzly bear, but kept it inside of my twitching body. I prided myself, (oh! oh! there's that word) on always remaining cool and calm.
We entered a crowded restaurant, seated ourselves and waited. Then, we waited some more. We called to a waitress, she waved. Forty-five minutes passed, and so did my appetite for ham and eggs. Tears of frustration threatend, but I would never make a fool of myself like that. When the waitress DID come to take our order, I pulled myself up to what I thought was a regal pose, expounded at length on the inadequacy of the help, the owner, and the entire operation.
The other patrons stared our way, as I at last gave my order. In what I assumed to be my most queenly manner, I then stated, with perfect inuunciation, "Bring me a HUP OF CAUGHT CHOCOLATE AND A BOOTER HORN!!!"
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
My mother was gone for the day and I was taking care of my 2-year-old brother. I was 17 at the time. We were in the kitchen having lunch when it started. Our old house began to creak and shudder, then the floor seemed to shift slightly. For a moment I was frozen to my chair, then I looked at my little brother and realized I had to get him out of the rickety building.
Grabbing the baby, highchair and all, I ran for the back door. Down the stairs I dashed, doing my best to handle the cumbersome chair. The Earth was moving like a sluggish sea. Trees were waving crazily and the telephone poles were leaning, first one way, then another. I was terrified, but managed to get the little guy out of the chair.
Flopping to the ground, I made an arch of my body over my brother in case something fell on us. There was a cacophony of sound around us; horns honking, people yelling, and finally the ground beneath us stopped that awful undulation. It was over.
During all of this commotion my brother hadn't made a sound. I carried him back into the house and sat down on the couch, rocking him back and forth. After a few minutes I stopped rocking and looked down at him, concerned because he was so quiet. His eyes were opened wide with uncertainty, as he said, rather tremulously, "Dat was a big twuck."
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Few sights evoke as much attention, and awe, as that of a large flock of Canadian geese winging their way in their V-formation to the north or south. They speak of the changing of seasons, and also of the value of teamwork.
What many don't know is that when a goose gets sick or, perhaps is wounded by a shot, it never falls from formation by itself. Two other geese also fall out of formation with it and follow the ailing goose down to the ground. One of them is very often the mate of the wounded bird, since geese mate for life and are extremely loyal to their mates. Once on the ground, the healthy birds help protect and care for him as much as possible, even to the point of throwing themselves between the weakened bird and possible predators. They stay with him until he is either able to fly, or until he is dead. Then, and only then, do they launch out on their own. In most cases, they wait for another group of geese to fly overhead and they join them, adding to the safety and flying efficiency of their numbers.
I probably haven't shared anything most of you didn't already know....it's just that the migration event is so indicative of our Creators majesty and unending beauty that He has placed all about us.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Can you hear his approach?
He's drivin' a great big pumpkin
That fairy-tale coach
The geese took off
On a wing and a prayer
When they heard the old ice king
Had left his lair
The ruby-red leaves
Are waltzin' the hills
Up and down valleys
Through rooks and through rills
Turkeys are runnin'
While the runnin' is good
Mountains have put on a snow cape
And pulled up the hood
Barns are bulgin'
With hay by the load
Whoa! Here he comes now!
"Round November's road
He's pickin' up speed
A use'n that whip
And Jack Frost's ridin' shot-gun
On his favorite trip
So, run for shelter
And don't look back
Just make sure you have wood
By the ten-cord stack
Get out the quilts
Pile 'em on the bed
Find the raincoats
And why not the sled
The air is gettin' colder
He's right around the bend
May it be a lovely season
Happy Winter, Friend
Monday, September 7, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
My Autumn is a tan, straw-hatted boy strolling and kicking through the gold and bronze riches given up by aspens and maple trees. It is a narrow twisting lane, dividing red-barned farms where plump, rioteously orange pumpkins tumble all together at the gardens edge. The fall of the year is a time and a place where scarecrows humbly bow their floppy heads after a job well done.
Autumn is the cornucopia's bounty gathered in bushels and baskets and jars; it's the pickles and kraut from Grndma's root celler. It's mounds of cornhusks and apples with the taste of honey. It's a great copper-colored moon that dwarf's the planet, and makes a back-drop for a navy-blue horizon.
Autumn must have been born in a Heavenly country house; near pearly gray fences and old crooked gates with a finger of smoke from its chimney and a hint of frosty breath from its throat. Autumn always comes bursting loose from the hills and orchards with colors bright and brilliant. Late August explodes with sunny, saffron tufts of stubble from cut fields. It sizzles with yellow ochres and burnt sienna's left tattered from the harvest; the scene in disarray, with beigy-brown potatoes and amber yams. Autumn came out of Earth's womb with the electric touch of a Master painter and a supernatural color-wheel.
Autumn can't ever be tempted to don a fashionable ensemble. Her gown is every summers glory held captive for the moment among the blazoned, marching hills, with every fiery bush an accessory.
Autumn's trees were born to dance. Any whispery breeze may set the tempo and the waltz begins-across the county, the country, the continent. When the last leaf is on the ground, the golden season tip-toes to the sidelines, making way for Winters hulking, dancing bear.
Yet, Autumn is a stand-up comic, a clown dressed from a cosmic box of crayons. He grins with some unnamed humor bubbling and gurgling up from the ample belly. There is the hint of a wonderful, mind-blowing secret, barely held in check--waiting for the okay to tell it all-----Yesssssssssssssssssss!
Friday, August 28, 2009
Did I take the time to tell her/him how much they were loved? Why didn't I give just one more kiss. Why did I make excuses last night when she wanted to talk? Why didn't we take that get-away cruise? Why didn't we spend more time just being together? No TV, football games, or sit coms?
Monday, August 17, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
A tale is told of a colony of mice who made their home at the bottom of a large upright piano. To them, music was frequent, even routine. It filled all the dark spaces with lovely melodies and harmonies.
At first the mice were impressed by the music. They drew comfort and wonder from the thought that Someone made the music--though invisible to them, yet close to them. They loved to tell stories about the Great Unseen Player whom they could not see.
Then one day an adventuresome mouse climbed up part of the way in the piano and returned with an elaborate explanation about how the music was made. Wires were the secret--tightly stretched wires of various lengths that vibrated and trembled from time to time. A second mouse ventured forth and came back telling of hammers--many hammers dancing and leaping on the wires. The mice decided they must revise their old opinions. The theory they developed was complicated, but complete with evidence...so they claimed. In the end, the mice concluded that they lived in a purely mechanical and mathematical world. The story of the Unseen Player was relegated to mere myth.
But, the Unseen Player contiunued to play nonetheless. Note* our family is in the midst of a few medical problems so I have not been on my blog. Hopefully that will be changing very soon
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Another point regarding hair; more and more women are having their hair cut about the length of an ants back. It's the boyish look, supposedly youthful, but isn't it ironica that the actual boys are letting their own hair grow down to the him of their shirt? Am I getting old, Or what? One thing is for sure; nobody is seeing any more of my bumpy skull than is absolutely necessary.
Most of us hae a certain amount of vanity and like to look as good as we can without resorting to extraordinary methods. However, there are those among us who go the extra mile for--what they consider--a pleasant appearance. case in point is the Body Lift. They showed the procedure on TV a while back and I was fascinated. Mind you, there was very little fat to get rid of, it was loose skin; what is more commonly called as flab. One of the women had a 12"wide swath of sking taken from around the waist area. That's right...one foot. The surgeon then took the lower portion, pulled the top part down to meet it and stitched the two pieces together. I thought about this for a long time and decided it wouldn't work for me. Not that I don't have any extra flab, but that is just it. If the surgeon was going to have total success, the lower incision would have to be made at my knees and the upper one just below the neck. When the upper and lower pieces were sewn together I would only be two feet tall; barely able to see over the bottom of my truck window. This simply would not do in this, "drive-up-window" kind of society we live in.
That surgery is definitely not for me. I have very little self-control. That's how I got the extra weight that became the flab in the first place. What if I DID get the Body Lift, with the above mentioned result? I would simply gain more weight, which--as the years passed--would become more flab, and before you could say, "Thumbelina" I would have to go back for another tuck, and then another. One day I would just disapear.
There are other changes we can make for contented living. I'm getting a hobby today, a pet tomorrow, and looking for all the hugs I can get along the way. And, I'll still be 5'6" or thereabouts.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Lecture time again and you knew he was setting out to prove how easy you had it, being practically carried about on a silken pillow, never knowing a moments strain of pain. naturally the anquish of listening to this tale for close to 20 years was never counted.
Dad's five-day-a-week, torturous sojurn to learn his ABC's was made during the Ice Age. Either that or about 40 years before the telling, his neighborhood had a run of bad luck with five or six killing winters and no time out for spring, summer or fall. The freezing snow was a couple of stories high and Pop's shoe soles were as thin as a mouse's ear. If he had a coat at all--the information differed--it resembled Swill cheese more than any piece of clothing.
To hear my father tell it the frozen noses and toes were accepted with a stiff upper lip. (no pun intended.) And arriving at the one-room school house--did you expect anything different--brought little relief. The wood pile was invariably buried beneath a pinnacle of snow one foot short of mountainhood. The only warmth on the premises was from the breath of Smiley Baileys English Sheepdog. Pupils and teacher leaned in toward the animal like sticks for a teepee and studied McGuffey's Reader. When lunchtime came they chopped their sandwiches apart with an axe and...well, you no doubt have all of the piture you can stand by now. And that brings me on my meanering way to the point. Exaggeration is the point. Coincidentally it involves the weather.
Ten years ago, or so, television predictors were the brunt of many a joke. The only members of the population who gave them any credence was their mothers. Their reading were so far off that if they said it would be sunny we got out the sandbags and prepared for a flood. Where did they get their information? From rolling dice? Picking daisy petals? There were those who questioned why they never seemed to consult the sky. Surely big black clouds meant there was more than an even chance of rain. The sun shining in a great expance of blue almost always pointed to ...the sun shining in a great expance of blue.
Enough picking on the weather people. To be fair they didn't have the scientific tools at their disposal they have now, and those tools do an almost fool-proof job. Maybe the lack of a challenge like they were faced with in the past has them bored, because they exaggerate something awful, drawing out what should be a two-minute report to about 10. An evening of winter rain has become, "A storm coming in off the Pacific to pound the coast. Snow falling in the mountains is now, "A blizzard of driving, blinding snow buring the mountain passes.
It's winter neighbors and that's the way winters have been as long as I've lived here. We had some other rough times though. Why, when I was a kid....
Taken from my humor column, Down Home.