February 28, 2021--National Essay Day
It's go time. Time to crank out the ole essay. Writing a daily blog on a daily basis is hard, but today is National Essay Day. I cannot let this opportunity go by without paying homage to the dreaded essay. In all of my years of reading, correcting, grading, reading, correcting, grading and so on, no one ever mentioned that there is a national day for this. Turns out, I was an English teacher. So shoot me. Somebody had to do it. I would often tell people I was a teacher when asked what I did for a living, but of course they always followed up with, "What do you teach?" When I told them, "English," they would stare blankly at me usually. They still do. However, I now answer, "I'm a retired school teacher." Then the same question follows, and I get that blank stare followed by awkward silence. Sometimes I use poor grammar or drop a curse word just to make them feel at ease. Ain't that something? Damn. Many people, it seems, did not have a good English learning experience. I know this. And sometimes in that split moment of silent awkwardness after they find out what I did for a living, I can feel all of the anxiety of their English class experience shooting at me through some psychic void. I don't know what to do about this. I am sorry people didn't like school or reading and writing, which is most of school. I liked school. Even on the worst day of teaching, I liked it. But it is a lot to take when everyone's bad school experience comes flying at you through the spiritual realm where they have hidden it. Somewhere out there in the nethersphere, all of this bad energy is floating around that was born of bad grades, writer's block, and receiving a beautiful paper back so marked up in red ink, it looks like a crime scene. But enough about me. I can take all that an English teaching career entails. Here is what I learned recently about essay writing. Back in time, during the French Revolution, there was this dude named Michel de Montaigne, and no--he was not one of the three musketeers. Anyways, he was a philosopher whose essays often digressed into anecdotes and personal ruminations. Hmm, sounds familiar. He was most famous for entertaining doubt that began at that time. He coined the phrase, in French, "Que sais-je?" ("What do I know?"). In French, essai translates as trial, test, or attempt. Why did I not know that? I never made the connection before today. I would have changed my teaching a bit if only I had known that an essay is something that was passed around during the French Revolution in an attempt to contain one's thoughts. So, what do I know? Anyone can write an essay, really. Maybe, just maybe it comes more naturally to some folks. Here is a true confession. I often have words, thoughts, and ideas dancing around inside my head. Like heavy thoughts. Big ideas. And words and phrases that follow a certain cadence. Maybe everyone does, but someone told me recently that is not always the case. So, here on this blog, and certainly on National Essay Day, I hope to celebrate my attempts. Each piece is its own trial or test. I hope you like them. Vive la France. February 27, 2021--No Brainer Day
The summer of Miley Cyrus's "Wreaking Ball," I enrolled in a week long professional development class for my job. It was held in one of the district's elementary schools, and I never had so much fun doing nothing in my entire life. Each morning I would arrive and find several of my mates sitting around a table near the front of the room, looking like they had spent the previous night in the pub. As the elder member of our squad, I looked that way, too. However, my appearance was just how I look. They probably had spent all night in a pub. Good thing coffee and doughnuts were plentiful. After signing in we would sit and stare at each other while waiting for new information to appear in the way of instruction. It never did. It was a repeat class for me because apparently I had failed the first one. Actually, it was a repeat class for all of us. We had, each one of us, somehow failed to pass muster at the end of the school term. Or maybe someone had told us that if you had enough professional development hours acquired, you need not ever attend a faculty meeting again. So the class was a repeat, and after the coffee kicked in, we would yuck it up in an insane manner. We learned quickly that if you feign enthusiam, the teacher likes you better. So we were downright raucous. If the teacher asked someone to share, all of our hands shot up into the air. We applauded the smallest contribution from other tables to the class discussion. By the second day, the instructor introduced a topic called a brain break. A brain break is just what it sounds like—a break from whatever students are focusing on. Short brain breaks during work time have been shown to have real benefits. They reduce stress and frustration and increase attention and productivity. We asked for brain breaks often, and the instructor gave them to us. I mean he had to model his own design. So, like any class of kids soon learns, if you just want to catch up on what was on television the night before, you ask for a brain break. I had forgotten about the brain break idea until recently. I started using it in my personal life. Recently when Husband launched into his plan for remodeling and reconstructing our laundry room, I had to ask for a brain break. First he said something about an insurance adjuster and what we might get to fix our broken water pipe from the winter storm. Next he suggested several things that need to be done after the pipes were fixed. He lost me somewhere between, "We're gonna need a sheetrock company," and "We need a plumber who knows his way around copper pipes." Normally Husband is not so loquacious, but when something like our home is in jeapardy, he can wax on. Finally, I raised my hand student-like. He paused. "Yes?" he asked. "Excuse me, Sir," I said, "but I need a brain break." "Fine," he replied, "but we'll take this up again in five minutes." "Oh, I'm gonna need longer than that," I said. He wandered back into the laundry room with his flashlight and mirror. He had removed the ceiling sheetrock and you could see all the way into our attic. On a brain break, you are supposed to do something like doodle or color to let your mind rest. Of course I did neither of those things. I got myself a hot cup of latte and surfed the web on my phone. February 26, 2021--Tell a Fairy Tale Day
Once upon a time there was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children, she didn't know what to do. Well, actually, she only had two children, but they were both high maintenance. There was a boy and girl as well as two dogs, a bunny rabbit, two canaries and a hamster. In short, it was a shoe full of chaos. On a daily basis. That is why the woman was old. Or at least she often felt old. "What's a nice girl like me doing in a mess like this?" she often asked herself. Here is how she got into this mess. One day she had been a bridesmaid at yet another wedding. While there, the band had played a song she had never heard before. It went like this, Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary How does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells, And pretty maids all in a row. As the woman stood for photographs with the wedding party, she knew what the song meant. She had been afraid to open her heart to someone. She had countless suitors and had dismissed them all. She thought of someone she had once been involved with. And she sang this song, Bobby Shatfo's gone to sea, Silver Buckles at his knee; He'll come back and marry me, Handsome Bobby Shafto. Problem was, he did not come back. He was too busy shinning his silver buckles, she surmised. The next man she met would be the one who would stay with her forever she thought. And so she went about her daily affairs, but did not meet a man. "One man is all I need," she said. One day she rode her horse to Banbury Cross. She had on a new outfit and felt like a fine lady. She arrived at the town, and she realized she had forgotten to lace the stirrups onto her horse's saddle. She spied a young man who resembled Bobby Shafto to some degree. However, she shortly discovered he was so much more. She spoke to him, "Excuse me sir, can you help me dismount?" He lifted her down from her steed with his strong arms, and there was a magical charge in the air. They lingered a bit too long with his arms around her. She looked into his eyes, and those eyes were true. And that is how she knew. He sang her this song, With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, She shall have music wherever she goes. And so that is how she got herself into this fine mess. He meant what he had sang about rings. They soon married, and after that they had all (or both of) those children. And after some time had passed, she told her husband that the shoe they lived in was getting too small. So he found them a bigger place to live, under a hill. And true to his word, this is the song he sings for her, There is a young(ish) woman who lives under a hill, And if she's not gone, she lives there still. And you may think that this where the story ends, my friend. If only that were true. You see, it cannot end properly without one final word, or warning. This is the tale of a man and woman, and it is the tale of how things go. Storms of conflict knocked on their door. There were floods, pestilences, plagues, afflictions and calamities. Of course they were happy. To say otherwise would be a falsehood. Yet, as the youngish woman grew older, she became wise. She knew that misfortune would occasionally blow their way. In the end, all those mishaps only served to make their happiness more precious. You cannot have the flowers without the rain, it seems. And so they lived. February 25, 2021--Quiet Day Today is Quiet Day. It is a day to stop the noise around us and try to be quiet. Suggestions are to have a personal day of retreat--whatever that may mean to you. You could take a quiet walk in nature, practice yoga and/or meditation, find a quiet space, or just turn off the alerts on all your devices. Like my mother, I have found writing to be a good way to quiet my own thoughts. Her genre is poetry, and yesterday I rediscovered one of her books of it. When I was younger, I didn't pay much attention to her writing, but now that I am older, and now that she has Alzheimer's disease, her poems are taking on new meaning for me. I am borrowing one of her poems today to help all of us enjoy a quiet moment on this Quiet Day. The Garden in Your Heart by Gloria Ann Kaminsky Greenwood Let not your heart be troubled, Nor let it be afraid. Picture a beautiful garden Growing Roses, full of shade. In the morning, rays of sunshine, Peep beyond the garden wall. Roses grow like wildflowers Climbing gracefully--growing tall. Such pleasure to enjoy it; To tend, to water, to care. Such tending brings contentment. Beauty and love to share. God has put a garden like this In each and every heart. All our life time we must tend it; Plant the seeds of faith to start. Give them water, sunlight beaming, And in your heart they'll grow. Keep the bad thoughts weeded and The seeds of love you'll sow. February 24, 2021--Inconvenience Yourself Day
Today's word of the day is inconvenience. It comes from the Latin inconvenientia which means incongruity or inconsistency. Its opposite is convenient which means agreeing or fitting. Today we should celebrate our word of the day by doing something inconvenient. It seems fitting today that we would celebrate this word, as many of us in local surroundings are still waiting for their broken pipes to be fixed, myself included. However, there is a plumber appointment on my docket at three o'clock this afternoon. In the meantime, I am still experiencing a strong inconvenience, but I have utitlized my creativity to get through this lack of water. For example, I have found that it is easier to have a big bucket of water near the toilet with a smaller pitcher that will fit inside of it. Then one can just scoop and pour from the large bucket into the toilet tank in order to be able to flush. But enough about that matter. During the recent winter snowpocalyse here in Texas, my husband put his creative skills to use. When the second cold front hit Tuesday night, Husband was able to put pots at the end of the spouts of our rain gutters and thus 'harvest' water for our use. And no, of course it was not for drinking or washing dishes. If this crisis continues, I expect to open my backdoor one day and find some kind of pulley system or water wheel that is sending water to the right places. One thing we have learned is that all of us need a rain barrel somewhere. We don't have one, but it would have frozen over if we had. Although it might have been helpful after the cold stopped and we were left bereft with little water. Water is a scarce resource the world over. And we use five gallons of it with every single toilet flush. There is nothing to be done about this problem in the short term. I mean we gotta be able to flush. And there is a bunch of research on the newer, cleaner toilets. Most consumers agree that the three gallon toilet tanks only make you flush twice as much or often, thus rendering six gallons of water used for a typical (ahem) "movement." What it all boils down to, essentially, in life is our need to flush. Without it, we are nothing. No longer separated from the animals, if we have no place to put our waste. We are waiting for some new technology to make its way into world of potties. When that day comes, someone will open a store, and it will be called, "World of Potties." It will sell a newer, improved commode that will only take a small amount of water to flush. And one day, all of God's children the world over will have water to flush. And a better life. And then, humanity will be saved through sanitation! We must always make the effort to remember our humanity. And it is an effort. I newly admire my husband. He has relentlessly refilled our tanks toting five gallon buckets of water all over the house, including upstairs. I have told him I can refill my own tank, yet he persists. It's a new kind of love--this checking my commode to make sure there is enough water to flush. I suppose this topic is growing a bit tiresome. But I was surprised to find out that today is Inconvenience Yourself Day. We have all inconvenienced ourselves at one time or another. It is a part of daily living. If you can't inconvenience yourself to some degree, I imagine you are pretty lonely. Anyways, this day hit a precisely the right moment. I hope to never have to write on topic of flushing again. Blushing, yes. But not flushing. Addendum: Local plumbing expert has informed me that our toilets are 3.5 gallon flushers and the newer improved ones flush only 1.5 gallons of water. Even so, it is a lot of water, especially when it is in short supply. February 23, 2021--Plant the Seeds of Greatness Month
I never thought I would say this, but I wish I lived in New York about now. Somewhere upstate, like Syracruse. Oh, heck, I'd even take New York City. Even better though would be Flushing, an appropriately named neighborhood in Queens, New York. Normally, I'm not a hater. But these past two months have been kind of depleting. Like I'm ready to just give it all up. Does anyone know if we're still having a pandemic because I haven't heard anything more. Around this part of the world, there are dirty people walking around in even dirtier clothes. My house still does not have running water. We are subsisting on a running trickle into a bathtub full of it. This is the water we use to flush and wash whatever dishes we have amassed for the day. And this all due to a broken water pipe in the laundry room. We are on the waiting list of every plumber we ever heard of, so no worries. We are drinking from bottled water that is hard to find in any stores. And for showers, we can go to our health club which has an abundance of running water. Or we can just do without one-which is my preferred choice. Today is day ten for me of no shower. I hope to set a world record. It would be nice to be known for something. I did break down a few days ago and got a shampoo and blowout at a salon which had plenty of running water. And I have perfected the ice cold gypsy wash. So just to clarify, we have invested a small fortune in paper products in the way of paper plates and drinking cups. This will cut down on how many dishes we are forced to clean by hand after toting buckets from the bathtub to the kitchen sink. The rest of our fortune has been spent on ready to eat meals that you heat in the oven or microwave to abolish the need for dirtying pots and pans. Yesterday, Husband came home from somewhere and announced he had just marked three items off of his bucket list. Upon further inquiry, he produced three square buckets that (in his opinion) would be the answer to our weariness of hand filling the tanks of three toilets. Instead of filling a pitcher of water from the bathtub and pouring it into the toilet tank five times for one single flush, we would just fill one of his super buckets once. Tote it to the commode and voila. When I tried to lift one of his buckets full of water, I told him he was full of it. It was too heavy for my slight arm. By his calculations, I will be ready for the East German swimming team at the end of this experience. I apologize for writing so much about the toilet in this post. That is what we have been reduced to, though. Anything less than these heroic acts of valor would equate us with the animals. I was thinking about antique porcelain chamber pots last night. In times of yore, these were the standard bearers of all things excrementally wasted. And think of Victorian Era homes! So much fru fru and swirly gigs on the interior. And to think that someone had to tote the filled chamber pot out to the back pasture or hole in the ground. Thinking on this made me happy to pour five pitchers of water into my toilet tank five times in order to flush once. And by the way, does anyone know if we are still having a pandemic? Because if we are, I feel like I have not been invited. Could you put in a good word for me, please? February 22, 2021--Woolworth's Day
My dad would stop by Woolworth's every day when he got off the bus which he rode to his boarding house from his office at Houston Lighting and Power Company (now Reliant Energy). You would think he would stop and get himself something to eat at their instore dinner, but that was not his purpose. Socks. Socks were his purpose. He was new to Houston, and he had no means to do laundry. He would purchase a clean pair of socks for the next day at the end of each work day. Why didn't he just buy a week's worth at a time? I have no idea. Perhaps he could not even afford more than one pair on a daily basis. Perhaps he just wanted some human interaction by way of buying something. Maybe there was a store clerk he was sweet on at the time. Whatever his reasons, he only bought one pair a day on an extremely consistent basis. For his investment, he had to only put up one thin dime. If ten cents a day could buy happiness, he would be the happiest man in the universe. For all of his efforts, he was able to work up the courage to ask my mom to eat lunch at the same table with him at the Houston Lighting and Power Company where she also worked. Clean socks give a man confidence. So one day, the same day that he asked her to sit with him, they met and got married and had two kids. That was all the information that was available to me for a very long time. I know now that they dated. They got to know one another. And they kissed. But not all on the same day. Recently my mom disclosed that my dad would walk her back to her office after lunch. "Why didn't they take the elevator," I wondered. "Well, if he had done that," my thoughts continued, "there would be no time to work up more courage to kiss her. And no privacy either." What a sly dog my old man was! It must have been the Woolworth's socks. They were sending their sexual powers clean up his legs to his brain and back down to his nether regions and then back up to his brain again. In the time it took to set one single footfall on the stairs, his brain had worked out all the mechanics involved. And so my mother became his victim. And by that, I mean willing participant, as in the love song, "Victim of Love." My parents fell in love on the staircase of an office building in downtown Houston. My mother said they used to "make out" there every day, after lunch. That sentence is completely cringeworthy I know. I threw up a little bit in my mouth as I wrote it. So, because of my proclivity to imagine things unimaginable I am able to say with some certainty that HL&P (as it was called) went under due to the fact that the company was not watching their stairwells. I can see all kinds of young couples, new to the workforce, taking breaks and long lunches under the stairs, on the stairs and everywhere around the stairs in various stages of dress and engagement of a very personal nature. The year was 1957. By May of 1958, my parents were married, and the following March, my brother was born. And what it can be all traced back to were those magical dime store socks. February 21, 2021--National Responsible Pet Owner Day
My dog tried to commit suicide during this past week as the winter storm raged. Twice. Not the storm, the suicide. The Old Man is seventeen years old. He is now on suicide watch, but I think we will lift it after today. We gave him extra blankets and warmth by the way of love during the last seven days as the temperatures steadily dropped both outside and in. We lost our power on Sunday night and did not get it back until Thursday near bedtime. Whatever we did for The Old Man from Monday to Thursday, it was not enough. He lay on his bed throughout the ordeal, a shriveled up mess. You could say that not only did we lose our electrical power, but we all lost our will power to do anything, besides try to get warm. And The Old Man lost his power to keep on living. I imagine it's like this in any life or death situation. The weakest and oldest of a group is the first to succumb. The Old Man is our oldest, and although he is a strong breed, he is our weakest link. I checked on him periodically as the blizzard blew outside. He lay shriveled and diminished on his cot. He refused to eat, even when offered a raw egg or gravy from a leftover roast in our refrigerator. When a grown-ass dog refuses gravy previously on his owner's table, he is in grave danger. He would not go outside either. A normal day for The Old Man is to wake up mid-morning, stretch and yawn, and report to duty in the backyard. If it is raining, he gets a reprieve, but normally, even on the hottest day, he willingly exits the house. The next thing he does is wander around the garden checking things out. I imagine he could tell you the minutest detail of changes to our lawn under normal circumstances. After his security check, he does his business behind the garage and then eats from his bowl on the patio. He spends the rest of his day in various spots and locations napping in the sun, changing positions as the day progresses. If our car pulls into the driveway, he will arise and bark at us as if he has not seen us in years. As the sun starts to fade, he comes inside and has his second meal of the day. Then before bed, its out again for one more check around the yard. After that, he is back inside to go puppy nite-nite. During our cold crisis, he finally left his bed at midnight on Tuesday and asked to go outside. We let him out and waited. After thirty minutes, Husband went to check on him. He found him in the middle of the yard, in a fetal position, trying to die. It was ten degrees out there. I fetched a towel and Husband carried him back inside. The next night, the same event occured. We concluded that The Old Man just didn't want to live anymore. His second suicide attempt was on Wednesday night and by Thursday evening, we had electrical power again. Saturday the weather had warmed up sufficiently to melt most of the ice. The Old Man once again assumed his usual routine of a sunny day. I cannot figure him out, except to say that I totally understand. This weather situation was his last straw. I am with him in that regard. Five days of frigid temperatures with no way to get warm is enough to try all men's souls, and all beasts' as well. February 20th, 2021--Clean Out Your Bookcase Day
The first piece of furniture my husband and I bought together as a married couple was a bookcase. Our apartment had a large and mostly empty living room, and we were in need of a book storage solution. We are both avid readers and were fresh out of college. We had amassed plenty of books between the two of us. The case we bought is one we still own, although it has long ago been relegated to my husband's study. It doesn't quite fit in with our current furnishings. Matter of fact, it never really fit that first apartment either. In truth, it has not fit any place we have ever lived, but we bought it together. So much in love was I, that I willingly compromised my own judgement as to what would fit the aesthetic of our living room. As I mentioned before, our living room was large. Large, long and tall. Kind of like a bowling alley. The reason I say this is because not only was the room retangularly shaped, the floor was also slightly slanted. If I had a bowling ball back then I could have practiced my game. The slant never bothered us much. We were on the second floor, and you never really noticed the floor tilting unless you got up from the sofa too fast, or you had been drinking. But it did slant. We called that room our fun house ride because it inclined to the right as you entered from the front door, much like a whacky walk thru ride you find only at cheap and inferior carnivals. We bought a bookcase that was also long and tall, like the room and like my husband. I thought the tall book case would be an ironic commentary on Huband's height and our first apartment. I know. It was dumb. But we laughed together at the idea and bought it anyway. Once we got it home, it still was not big enough to hold our comprehensive collection of books. What we had to do was part with some of them. It was the first time we had to compromise on what to keep and what to pitch. We each took turns putting a book in the discard pile. It was not easy. Luckily, some of the books we had were duplicates. So that was an easy fix. Since we were acting as a unit, there was no need to keep two of the same thing. After that round, though, we had to work through our feelings about the books. Just because one of us liked a book a great deal was no reason to hang onto it. We had to whittle the process down to the bare bones or book spines, so to speak. We had to ask ourselves why we were keeping something that no longer served us. What I kept was two of my college textbooks, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare and A Collection of Modern Drama that I still have to this day. What I got rid of was other textbooks that were less important to me, such as lots of collections of short stories. What I had to give up that was a sacrifice for me was The Complete Works of John Milton. It was a sacrifice at the time, but over the years, while I have occasionally used the other two anthologies, I have never felt a need to look at any of Mr. Milton's writings. I only wanted to keep it, I think, because it was the textbook used in one of the hardest courses I have ever taken. It was kind of a souvenir of struggle, much like a scar. It was a difficult choice, but in the end, I dumped Milton. Good riddance to bad rubbish. You should not hold on to things that have left you scarred. Except only sometimes in your mind. I also insisted on keeping my collection of Nancy Drew books. I still have them although they are currently hidden away from public view. Nancy Drew has always been one of my best friends Many of my Nancy Drews were from my grandma's attic, anyway. Anything that had lived for a time in Granny's attic deserved to continue living in the broad light of day. Husband made his own sacrifices, but I could not tell you what they were anymore. We compromised our way through that first bookcase and found out things we never knew about each other in the process. As the years have gone by, we have had to do the same thing over and over again, with books, VCR tapes, DVD's, CD's and other personal belongings. Both like and unlike our first apartment, it seems that today our lives and tastes run large, but certainly not empty. February 18, 2021--National Battery Day
Texas, we just got sucker-punched, and it does not feel good. I talking about the winter storm, of course. Today, after 66 hours of no power (with an 8 hour intermittent rolling power in between hour 54 and 55), we now have power. And it has a permanent feel to it. But as we all now know, nothing is permanent. Ever. My power came back at the eleventh hour of my emotional well-being during this crisis. We have had bitter cold weather before. We have had snow. We have had ice. We were told to prepare. We went to our stores. We bought chili kits, water, hot cocoa mix, and other cold weather items. Some of us bought batteries. In a hurricane, we expect power to go out. And we expect to lose our supply of water. But hurricane season is when the weather is hot. Many of us own generators to provide electricity when the power from the ulitities are off. I do not own one, but that is soon to change. The one thing no one counted on during this winter storm was losing power for the amount of time we did not have it. I wish I had bought firewood. When you are living in below freezing temperatures for a prolonged period of time, it can do things to your brain. Things that you are surprised about. My house was forty-four degrees upstairs. We had no way to measure the temperature downstairs, but if heat rises, it had to be colder than that. Downstairs, we have a fireplace, put we have never used it. Until last night, that is. Our fireplace had not been utilized for two reasons. First, we have not needed it. With central air and heat, it never gets really cold enough to light a fire. Secondly, one of us (not me) is deathly afraid that I will burn the house down. And after last night, that is certainly a possibility. Yesterday, I remembered that I still had an old Duraflame log from our previous house. Husband searched the garage and found it. I cleared my art installation out of the hearth and preceded to light the log. Everyone else went to bed. The log never completely took off, but I stayed up with it to make sure it did not reach flaming status while we all slept. We do not even own a fireplace screen as I got rid of our old one. I had some kind of unspoken agreement with Husband that in this house I would stop burning things. By this I mean candles. And the fireplace, Now I use candles only on the dinning room table during a special meal. For the smell you get from bigger candles, I prefer the safer hot plate type things that melt the wax, but there is no flame. Husband was always paranoid about my use of fire in our previous home. Maybe he had good reason to be. I was kind of queen of the burning flame back then. I also utilized the fireplace in that house a great deal. I know that a Duraflame log is great, but the real trick is stacking fireplace logs against it, so the flame will catch onto them. Then, you have a real fire that will last as long as you want it to. Last night, as I watched the last flickering life of my ancient Duraflame log burn nearly out, I looked about my house. I thought, "You know I could keep this fire going. I could warm up this entire room. I only need some more wood to add to it." I gazed around the room and considered which piece of furniture would tear apart the most easily and could be burned. Seriously. If it were not for Husband and Son sleeping in the next room, and unspoken promises about pyrotechnics, I probably would have done it. And I probably would be dead now because our homes are not built for the kind of flames that would have created. And our modern furnishings are not built for burning. By that I mean the paint and stains and who knows what chemicals put into the manufacturing process of our contemporary possessions would have released crazy unbreathable stuff into our house. And I would have killed us all. Or sent us to the hospital. To borrow a phrase from one of my favorite books, it would be, "Oh, calamity!" We already have enough calamities on our hands. We have a broken water pipe. Still no discernable running water. Water that must be boiled to drink. And we have no way to tell if our power situation is subject to change without notice. So I am extremely happy that all of Husband's admonitions finally got through. Apologies for taking a blogging break. When you are in survival mode, you cannot create anything except a way to survive a little longer. Also, there was no power, no wifi, and even our cell phones were in and out of access to the internet although we have unlimited data. As I write this post, there are still thousands of fellow Texans without power. So I do feel a little bit guilty that I am able to sit in a warm home today. I'm with you, cold people, in thought though. That doesn't mean much, but here is what I learned from my ordeal. Be prepared for everything, including calamities that seem impossible. You never know when the next sucker-punch is coming. February 14, 2021--Valentine's Day
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. It is a completely manufactured holiday. But still we sink into it. We buy things. We make cards. We have high expectations. Even when we are single. I don't think I ever had a valentine on Valentine's Day until I met my future husband. Once, someone gave me a homemade valentine card that was extremely cheesy. He only meant it out of friendship and pity, though. I still have it because it was the first time a guy ever gave me anything on Valentine's Day. For our first Valentine's Day, my future husband took me out to eat at a fancy restaurant. I didn't notice at first that all of the flowers on the tables were different than the ones on our table. At the end of the meal, my husband told me the flowers on our table were mine. He had made a reservation at the restaurant, then sometime during the day, he had hand delivered my flowers to the restaurant with instructions to place them on our reserved table. Now that was creative. He also gave me a handmade card which I will not reprint here. It's too personal. Also kind of mushy. That's what Valentine's Day is essentially, isn't it? It is a day to be all cornball syrupy and sentimental. It's a day to say to your beloved, "Ah, shucks, I didn't know you felt that way about me, you big old hunk of romantic, drippy burning love." Except that after so many years entwined together, you do know it. Or at least you should. I still like Valentine's Day. I do. But I prefer those romantic gestures that are unexpected. Like the time my grandpa gave the winning bid in a silent auction for a quilt he gave to my grandma because he knew she liked it. Or the fact that my grandpa on my mother's side went to visit my grandma every single day when she was in a nursing home at the end of her life. Every. Single. Day. My own parents did not stay together for the long haul. They went their separate ways after forty years together. However, my dad could wax poetic on cards. Some of the things he wrote on my mother's Valentine's Day cards and birthday cards could fill a vat of sugar. I wish I still had a couple of those cards now. It was good to grow up sneaking a peek at reading Dad's cards to my mother over the years, knowing that my parents loved each other. Until they didn't, that is. But by then, I was thirty-five years old. Old enough to know better about romantic love and Valentine's Day. When my parents broke up their marriage, I was married myself with one small child. My expectations about romance had already been formed. And in the throws of raising a child and with one child yet to be born, you might say I was in the middle of my greatest romance. If you are still waiting for your greatest romance, I will tell you to try to enjoy the wait. And when romance blows your way, catch that wave and ride it like a boss. It will wash you ashore in the wet sand leaving you thinking, "What the hell just happened?" Let it wash you back out with the tide so you can ride it in again. And again. Because romance is not a day. It is not a week or month or year. And it certainly is not something you can predict with a calendar. February 13, 2021--Get a Different Name Day by Ingrid Schwabenland You can call me Inez. You can call me Sarah. You can call me Suzette. You can call me Greta. You can call me anything, but stop calling me by my name. When did Karen become so derogatory? I was named after my mother's best friend, Karen Kraley. I have never met her, though. My mother has all kinds of zany tales of things she and this Karen did together in high school. I think Karen Kraley was a bridesmaid in Mother's wedding, as well. Maybe I inherited some of my sense of crazy from my namesake. I have seen the memes online about some chick who happens to be named Karen asking for more than her fair share of something. Or complaining to the management. Or both. But what really got to me was when politicians started using the name "Karen" as a new ad hominem argument. What? Really? That's a new low. I first came to know about the defamation of the name Karen from my daughter. We went over the following list together:
I have grown used to Walmart's long check out lines. They have five thousand cash registers, but if you don't want to check yourself out, then you will wait in a line that winds to the back of the store for the only check out station that is manned by a real human. I have never complained to anyone about this mockery of customer service. Although, I have thought about it. More than once. Anyway, my soul was well as I slowly worked my way up to the the cashier. That's when I noticed that it was a young man. Maybe sixteen years old. He was working slowly. Obviously, he was a new employee. Nothing wrong with that. However, as I looked around me at all of the patrons waiting in line, I saw that all of us were wearing the requisite masks--even the small children. As I got closer to my turn to cash out, it hit me. This man-child who was running the register had a face mask on. Oh, indeed he did. But guess what? It was only covering his mouth. His nose was free and clear. At one point, he had to call for back-up help. A Walmart manager came scurrying over. She gave his register some change and then left for her break. This felt like an outrage. Walmart requires a mask from its consumers in order to have the priviledge of shopping there. Shouldn't its employees also have to comply? And shouldn't management pay closer attention to their compliance? Or lack thereof? I felt myself becoming incensed the closer it got to my turn to pay for my purchases. As it ended up, I said nothing. DID YOU HEAR ME, WORLD? I SAID NOTHING. Nada. Silence from me on this issue as I checked out. The reason for my lack of complaint was because I could not think of a way in the moment to not come across as a b#%ch. Or a Karen. I am always about killing someone with kindness. Perhaps I was just tired of standing still. Or of waiting. I formulated ideas in my head. When measured out, every way I could think of for stating my case would have come across as mean. So now, the situation is off my chest. I have expressed my concerns. Are ya listening, WALMART? Oh, heck. Just call me Karen. Try as I might, I'll never be an Ingrid, Inez, Sarah, Suzette, or Greta. Not even a Penelope. Having the name of Karen is a special calling. May I wear it well. February 12, 2021--National Day of the Penny Everyone should dig through their couch cushions today and find any lost or stray items--in particularly, coins. Pennies will do, but larger amounts work as well, if not better. Recently, I reorganized our kitchen cabinets and came across a large jar of money. It was all coins, taken from stray change found laying about the house over a period of ten years or so. When I counted it, it came to forty dollars. Now that is a windfall. I could have taken it to a bank and deposited it, but I came up with a better plan. I bagged it up and took it to my daughter, who is at college, when I last visited her. She initially did not even want it. Can you imagine? I was transported to a time during my own college years when a forty dollar gift of a bag of coins would have felt like a stroke of good luck. My daughter didn't see it that way. She is used to paying for everything with her debit card. She asked me, "What am I supposed to do with that?" I was flabbergasted. "Well, spend it, of course." "I don't need it." "Oh, yes you do. What if there is a crisis of some sort and all of the power goes out all over town? What are you going to use to buy food and gas?" "If all the power goes out all over town, then why would the stores be open?" Did she really just say that? Unbelievable. "Stores always stay open, even in a power outage," I replied. "Just keep it. You might need it." And then her bank called about some strange purchases on her debit card. They cancelled the card due to the fact that the purchases were not hers. Someone had gotten hold of her account number. The bank would send her a new card. I spoke to her over the phone. "Do you still have that sack of money I gave you?" I asked. Of course she did. "You can use that to buy food until you get your new debit card." I don't think she liked that idea very much. No one in her peer group ever went to a grocery store or restaurant and counted out their payment in coins. I don't know why they didn't. It seemed perfectly legitimate to me. I used to buy gas for my car from quarters I found strewn about my brother's bedroom. It was a sad day for my social life when he moved out of our parents' house. Later, Daughter got her new debit card and all seemed right with her world. "Did you use the coins I gave you?" I asked over the phone. "No. I have another debit card from Venmo. I just used that." I had to remember what Venmo was. It is a mobile payment service from the makers of Paypal. It allows the users to transfer cash via their mobil phones from one bank account to another. "O.K., right," I thought. I do not have a Paypal or Venmo account. Why should I? I have a credit card that is paid off in full each month. I once had a friend who would throw pennies away when she got them back as change. I felt this was wrong, but I couldn't stop her. And this was a long time ago--way before Paypal and Venmo. I guess the millenials among us do not need to dig through their couch cushions today for stray pennies. They all have a Paypal and/or a Venmo account. All this information just begs the question though--are we approaching the day when the younger generation will not even recognize the coins of the realm? What will the tooth fairy do? Just transfer money via tooth fairy.com to the child's Venmo? February 11, 2021--Be Electrific Day
Happy Birthday, Thomas Alva Edison. Other than Jesus, you may just be the most important person in the world. Or the universe. If you had not invented the light bulb, then I would be writing this post by hand and then possibly taking it to a type setter who would then painstakingly set the words into type using ink and some kind of stamps. After that, I would need to pay another person to make said printed writing into a template of some kind where the ink would be applied via hand turned rollers and then would need time to dry. After all of that, I might be able to walk around my neighborhood crying, "Hear Ye, Hear Ye...the Keeper of the Zoo has just written another blog," while handing out free scandal sheets. Some of you would stop to read it, but most of the world would just scroll--I mean stroll on by. So Thomas Alva Edison, we owe you quite a lot. Thomas Alva Edison was born in 1847, and boy did people name their children weird names back then. Edison's old man was Samuel Ogden Edison, Jr. So, we can surmise that there was a tradition in the Edison family to give their boys some crazy middle names. The name Ogdon comes from Anglo-Saxon Brittish history. It means, "he who lives near an Oak Valley." Alva, on the other hand has two meanings, or it could just be a unisex name. Copious research reveals that the name Alva, of Irish origin, means 'white,' and is often give to Irish girls. In Hebrew, on the other hand, it means "exalted one or famous one." Well, I guess we know which meaning was intended for our old boy, Thomas. Thomas Edison is responsible for the use of direct current electricity. His rival, Nikola Tesla, wanted to use alternating current. It was the 1880s. Nobody knew anything about how our world would eventually turn out. The ensuing race to power the world is known as the War of the Currents. Here is how the world eventually turned out. We live in the age of light. We have the power to stay inside our own homes and not leave them unless we want to, or we are orederd not to. Supplies can be ordered from your computer and delivered to you. All of this is possible because of electricity. It is not even necessary anymore to use acutal currency as transactions can also be electronically completed. I bet Thomas Alva Edison never imagined a time when people would be willing to voluntarily go off the grid. February 10th, 2021--National Hot Breakfast Month
One of the best things I ever did as a mom was to teach my kids to get their own breakfast. I did this from a very early age, out of desperation. I am notoriously late to anything I attend. I was late to work and school before I ever had kids or dreamed of becoming a mother. That is just the way I roll, I guess. I have written about my chronic lateness before and chalked it up to just plain not giving a damn. And I'm not changing that idea. February is hot breakfast month, and my kids were able to provide their own hot breakfast throughout their school years. Yes, it was more costly. I had to buy frozen waffles and pancakes. And I chose to buy the nutritionally good ones that do not contain any GMOs or high fructose corn syrup. It was the price I was willing to pay. We also stopped using anything but pure maple syrup as soon as we realized that the other stuff was bad. Having both of my children make their own breakfast allowed me some time to get my own act together before we headed out the door. Don't worry, they were never allowed only waffles or pancakes. They could make their own toast or bagels. They could have cereal or any variety of instant hot cereals. They would grocery shop with me and pick their choices. Of course, the cereal had to be parent approved, meaning no high fructose corn syrup. We still bought Fruit Loops and Lucky Charms. However, those are dessert cereals around here. Something meant to be eaten late at night when you can't sleep or right before bed. Our family has never been the kind to eat dessert right after dinner, anyways. Once in a blue moon, I would make homemade oatmeal. Or their dad would. I regret that they never really had a good old homemade eggs and bacon breakfast on school mornings, but they did have one on the weekends. Remember, I worked all of those years when they were in school. If I had been a stay at home mom, then the homemade hot breakfasts would have been easier to do. And if you are a stay-at-home mom, and your kids are not eating a homemade hot breakfast, then I am going to mom shame you right now. Shame. You can drive those babies to school in pajamas for God's sake. Now get in there, and fry 'em up some bacon. Do not allow them to think the freshmen fifteen is a natural consequence of eating at the college cafeteria every morning. We all know it's gained from drinking beer. They should know that, too. February 9, 2021--National Blah Buster Month
Outside, it is dark and gloomy. And a gloomy mood permeates my household and my brain. Perhaps if it weren't for this dang pandemic, then we would all feel better. We would have places to go, people to meet, and things to do. Today is the the fortieth day of 2021 and so far, it has been a 'meh' year. Other than shopping for food and supplies, about the only place I have been on a regular basis is church. And when I say church, I mean the service only. Previously upon a Sunday morning, you could get bagels, doughnuts and coffee before the 11:00 service. And over at the other campus of where I worship, you could get a mighty good oatmeal, peanut butter, or chocolate chip cookie. You could also have your choice of hot tea or coffee. I miss my hot tea to sip through Sunday School. Now when I go to church, I must make sure I have had a good breakfast before hand because there is no more free food. Well, that is not entirely correct. Right before you enter my house of worship for the weekly service, you are handed a snack, so to speak. It is a tiny plastic bag consisting of two parts. First there is a small crumb of bread packed nicely in its own container. Secondly, there's a miniscule plastic cup of grape juice complete with its own plastic snap on lid. I would like to say these things are snacks, but they are really not. For example, to eat them before you are told to would be a transgression of divine law. Even if you haven't had a thing to eat since the night before. And so this is what it has come to. The only break in my week of complete boredom is attending services upon a Sunday morning, and then waiting to see if anyone unpacks his small picnic and devours it before he is told to do so in communion with others and God, and the Divine Spirit within us all. And speaking of spirits, mine were not lifted at all while visiting my local Walmart yesterday. It seems the buyers for Walmart miscalculated greatly. The clothing departments for both ladies and men are now stocked with country and western duds, as if we are going to have a trail ride through the city of Houston, as per usual during February. I can remember a time when I hunted high and low for a pair of little girl's pink cowboy boots for a certain someone to wear to school on Go Texan Day, which probably will not be celebrated this year. I went all over town that year and came up empty handed. To make it up to my daughter, years later, I spent exorbitant cash on a pair of women's cowboy boots that she wore once in high school on a trip to the Big D (that's Dallas for all of you non-Texans). The good news is those shiny red cowgirl boots have become all dust covered and dirty the last time I checked. My cowgirl has been volunteering her time at college at a horse stable where hippotherapy is taught. That does lift my spirit. And now, I must go outside. You see, the sun has appeared from behind a cloud and may only be out for five minutes or so. It is time to commune with nature and get my spirit lifted, however transient it may be. February 8, 2021--Call Everyone Dave Day/National Kite Flying Day/Girl Scout Cookie Day
Greetings Dave, Today is Call Everyone Dave Day. Even though I don't understand it, it seems like a good idea. Why not call everyone Dave? It comes from a Brittish television comedy, "Only Fools and Horses," which I admit I have never watched. It goes against my writer's creed a little bit to write about something that I know absolutely nothing about. (I know. Hard to believe, right?) However, I pledge to watch it in the future. It appears to be available on Netflix, so I am putting in my lineup. In the meantime, I am calling everyone Dave today. Including those people who are actually Dave. Recently I was invited to a Kite Flying Festival. On the beach. It was great fun. What does one do at a Kite Flying Festival? Well, one walks around and admires the kites. Here is what I learned. There are people who I will now refer to as kite people. Not Dave, but kite people. They are mostly retired or self-employed. What they do is invest their savings into all kinds of kites and campers. They drive around the country (or the state) to various kite festivals. When there, they set up camp, get their expensive kites (up to $3000.00 each) up in the air, and then spend the day looking at them. I could think of worse things to do with one's time. They were pretty cool to look at (the kites, not the people), and it was all for free. I don't think these folks make much money at their craft. But I wonder what they put on their income tax form. Is kite person something the federal government would accept as a legitimate occupation? Finally, today is Girl Scout Cookie Day. I bought my first two boxes of the year yesterday when a sweet little urchin banged on my door. I have nothing at all against the individual Girl Scouts. In fact, I am a recovering Girl Scout Assistant Leader. But Girl Scouts of America, your motto is "Be prepared." How come you didn't prepare your customers for your new higher priced cookies? At my end of the world, Girl Scout cookies are going for five bucks a box, and what's more, the cookie is smaller. It is smaller in size than I ever remember it. One box of thin mints isn't going to cut it anymore. I'm down for eating two boxes at a sitting. This is how the opioid crisis began, my friends. I mean Daves. Get everyone hooked on your product, then raise the prices while simultaneously lowering the amount or size of it. We Girl Scout cookie enthusiasts will go broke stoking our habit. Before we do, it's not too late to join the kite people. I'm up for pooling my savings on kites with any Dave out there before I spend it all on thin mints. February 7, 2021-Wave Back at your Neighbor Day
I am waving back at all of you today. Or am I drowning instead? One of my favorite poems is"Not Waving, But Drowning," by Stevie Smith: Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he’s dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning. I love this poem so much that I have it memorized, and it is one that I always repeat part of whenever someone says, "Oh, look, he (or she) is waving at you." The thing is, one never really knows, do they? Is that person waving, or is he drowning in something? One could drown in their own thoughts. Or they could be drowning in sea of love. Either way, they are not in the present. Or at least not in reality. If I were to drown in any fashion, I would want it to be in a sea of love, but an examination of the song and lyrics where that line comes from, "Sara," by Stevie Nicks, leaves one feeling completely sad. This whole drowning business is not good. The connotation of the word 'drowning' is to be overwhelmed, or destroy or get rid of by immersion. Someone could drown himself in his drink. Also, not good. So the next time you wave at someone, just ponder for a second. You may not know them very well, and if that is the case, then what might they be going though? I reject the whole premise of waving back at your neighbor today. Let us now promote a neighborhood drum circle instead. In said circle, we would all beat and march to our own neighborhood drum beat until we all eventually hear each other's beats and come together in one loud and noisy crescendo of love and world peace. How's that sound? February 6, 2021--Lame Duck Day
Who doesn't like to get presents? It seems like I am always giving presents because every month has a gift-giving holiday, almost. This means that I am on a constant loop of shopping and giving. And that brings me to my theory of Lame Duck Day. February 14th is Valentine's Day, the next present worthy holiday. I have traditionally given my spouse and children one small gift each for Valentine's Day. After all, it is the day of love, and what better way to say, "I love you," than with a gift? I used to give the children candy inside some kind of heart shaped box, but when I realized that they were coming home from school with as much candy as Halloween provided, I decided I should just stop doing that. My son has received CD's and video games (one or the other) in recent years as my token love gift. And my daughter has received a care package in the mail at college. Today, I will probably shop for something to give to each one of them for a Valentine's Day gift this year. That will bring me to a short lame duck session. Perhaps I should explain. A lame duck session in the government is when a politician does not get reelected but must serve out his term before the newly elected public official takes office. Not much new legislation gets passed during a lame duck session of congress, nor during a presidency lame duck session either. I may ask my son and daughter for some ideas as to what they might like for a Valentine's Day gift this year. If they have a reasonable request, I probably will purchase it for them. And once I have done so, the lame duck session of Valentine's Day will begin. A lame duck session of a holiday means that no new gifts can be bought as a suitable gift has already been purchased. Lame duck holiday sessions apply to all holidays with the gift-giving perrogative. It is particularly harrowing during Christmas when many gifts for different people must be purchased. With so much gift shopping occurring, it is tempting to forego the lame duck session, but so far I have not. In practical terms, a lame duck gift buying session is a time when constituents (or gift receivers) may try to make specific requests previously unspoken of or may try to change their mind about a gift request. If another gift has already been bought, wrapped, and hidden away until the time of opening it, then the lame duck law applies. It will be too late for a new or different gift request after the shopping has occurred. After today or (perhaps tomorrow), the Valentine's Day law for the lame duck session of gift giving will apply. No turnsies-backsies after today. And so with that, happy Valentine's Day! Only eight shopping days left if you haven't already bought something for your loves and/or your lover. Februrary 5, 2021--California Western Monarch Day
My autistic son hates butterflies. He always has. In preparation for this blog post, I interviewed him again about the subject. These are the reasons he still hates butterflies:
We didn't consider our son to be different. We just thought he was quirky and smart. My husband and I realized early on that Muscles Malone had an extremely high intelligence. We had to limit our time with him outdoors when a walk to our neighborhood park became nearly intolerable. Due to his anxiety about the meer possibility of encountering a butterfly, we started to see a problem. I took him to our pediatrician about the matter. That doctor referred us to our first child psychiatrist. We did not get a sense of trust with that man, so put everything on hold for a while. Eventually, we found a great child psychiatrist who tested Muscles and in time gave us his diagnosis of autism. By that time, we had his little sister. By comparing our children's baby milestones, we could definitely see some developmental delays. He remained this doctor's patient until he was twenty-five years old. I would have probably tried to squeeze a few more appointments out of our relationship with her, but she moved out of state. Muscles now sees an adult psychiatrist who is fine, but I do not feel the same connection to him as I did to our former one. I use the term 'our' because I now realize that in treating Muscles, she was also treating me. I often filled in the gaps in her questions to Muscles when on office visits. She was polite and didn't delve into my personal feelings, but always gave unwavering support on what I said we were trying with our son. Initially talking to a psychiatrist was daunting. Once I got over the idea that she did not judge my son or me, I learned to relax and enjoy our visits to her. The visits were harder on my son. He particularly had a hard time during adolescence. He ended up receiving some cognitive behavior therapy as well as psychopharmocology. He initially reacted in a predictable fashion to the therapy, claiming that he found the therapist's questions intrusive and scary. But in time, he warmed up to her and found her less frightening. In the end, these visits proved beneficial to both of us. And there is nothing creepy about that. February 4, 2021-Optimist Day A long, long time ago and in a galaxy far, far away, I played Peppermint Pattie in a summer musical, "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown," while in college. And I cannot think of anyone more optimistic than Peppermint Pattie. She willingly followed Charlie Brown out to the baseball field, ever exuberant that they just might have a win. We all need a win now and again. At the end of the play, the characters sang the song, "Happiness Is..." which I still sing from time to time. I have written the lyrics here with my current commentary for each line. Happiness is finding a pencil. I used to find a pencil every single day when I had my own classroom. Most of the ones I found, though, were all chewed up with broken leads. Pizza with sausage. Any kind of pizza makes me happy, actually. Telling the time. I still, to this day, have trouble telling analog time. Why is the minute hand longer than the hour hand? Or is it Vice-versa? Tying your shoes for the very first time. I took forever to learn how to tie my shoes, and there were plenty of tears aimed at all of the adults who forced this traversty on me. Happiness is playing the drum in your own school band. I never played the drum in my own school band, but once at my daughter's high school open house, I got stuck walking behind the drum line, and it was intense. And happiness is walking hand in hand. Unless you're in seventh grade and you are holding hands with someone because you thought he was cute, but then his clammy hands made you change your mind. Happiness is two kinds of ice-cream. Most definitely. Unless one of those kinds is vanilla, but vanilla with chocolate is still better than just vanilla. Knowing a secret. If I know a secret, I will tell a secret. This line does not even make sense. What good is a secret if you keep it to yourself? Climbing a tree. I used to climb trees, but now I probably would end up hurting myself. Many places now have signs that say you cannot climb a tree anymore due to possible damage to the tree, not the climber. Happiness is five different crayons. Sixteen, twenty-four, forty-eight, or sixty-four different crayons create a happy drawing. But only five different crayons? Nope, I just can't get behind that. Catching a firefly. I remember catching fireflies. We are losing them, due to light pollution, toxicity, and chemicals. Setting them free. What I remember about catching fireflies is that you couldn't set them free because by the time you did, they were already dead. Happiness is being alone every now and then. O.k., yes, but not for an entire year,...and counting. Happiness is coming home again. Coming home again is nice because it implies that you were once home but then, you were not. And now, you have come back again...so Yay! It was a fun play and an honor to be in the cast that summer. Even though currently, we may not be able to apply the standards for happiness set by Charles M. Schulz and all those Peanut characters, we have to start somewhere. So, let today be your happy day, or at least tell yourself that it's going to be happy. Then, you will pass the optimist test. February 3, 2021--Doggy Date Night That dog is deaf, dumb, and blind, but he sure plays a mean pinball. Let me explain. Today is Doggy Date Night, the night you are supposed to take Rover out on a date. I only have one small problem. My dog is deaf, dumb, and blind. And by dumb, I don't mean that he does not speak. I mean that he is literally dumb, as in he does not know where he is in time and space. My dog may be the oldest dog I have ever had, at sixteen years. The website promoting Doggy Date Night states that most dogs can live fifteen years. So I guess he's living on borrowed time. He is either an All American Bull Terrier or a Staffordshire Pit Bull Terrier. We are not sure which. My husband adopted him with my son on a trip to Petsmart sixteen years ago. He was a cute puppy, kind of like Baby Yoda in the way that he constantly got into things he shouldn't have. And, like Baby Yoda, he has such honest eyes. I don't really know if my dog is deaf and blind, but he probably is a little of both. And so, now I must state why I cannot take him anywhere on Doggy Date Night. We already have Doggy Date Night, almost every night. My dog has his own room in our house, also known as the laundry room. That is where his bed is kept, and where he sleeps at night. Well, actually all day as well. Unless the weather is fine, and we force him outside. So for the past year or so, my old dog has been waking up the entire household (but mostly me) with his persistant requests to go outside at one and two a.m. His requests come at all times, so it is not as if we do not let him out during the day. We even insist he go outside one final time before we all go to bed. However, it is all for naught. He still has an urgent need to go outside just when I have started my REM sleep cycle. He is housebroken, so I have a true dilema. If I ignore his early morning requests, will I awaken to a never before seen mess on the floor in my washing room? How humilating for him if it were to happen. And what a mess for someone to clean-up. So I grudgingly get up and let him out. Here is the mystery about it, though. He doesn't just go out and do his business and come right back in. I don't know what is happening out there, and I do not care to explore the situation in my pajamas. Something keeps him busy for up to thirty or forty minutes, though I have grown tired and have gone back to bed waiting on him to bark to come back inside. Don't worry, though. He barks twice as loud when at last he is ready to return to the safety of his own bed. And then I get up, AGAIN, to let him in. He's an old man dog, but it's like having a newborn around again. He sleeps five to six hours at a time during the day. And then instead of sleeping all night, he needs to go outside causing me to be on the same sleep schedule as when my children were infants. I want to ask, "When will this ever stop?" But I am afraid of what the answer could be. One of my favorite quotations is by Henry David Thoreau "Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth." The air is pungent, the drink is water, the fruit is dog chow, and the hour is late. I have resigned myself their influences. February 2, 2021--Tater Tot Day
There is a tator tot story that I feel obliged to tell today, although it is not my story to tell. It was handed down to me like so many school legends are handed down. It seems there was a certain middle school in a small hamlet on the outskirts of a certain metropolis. What had happened was...well, there was this young choir teacher who allowed students to eat their lunch in her choir room in the guise of lunch time choir rehearsals. The truth of it was that no rehearsals ever really took place, as the choir teacher would leave the kids unattended to go eat her lunch with the boys' coaching staff. So the kids would eat their lunch and run amok. There was banging on the piano keys, writing on the chalk board, games of tag, and all sorts of other shenanigans. These kids were normally good, well-behaved youngsters, but given free reign of a classroom during school time was overwhelming to them. Also, there were hormonal changes happening all the time, so they really were not in charge of their own bodies anymore. One day, the game of tag got particularly unwieldy and started to invade the space around the door. During this game, the door to the choir room slammed shut, loudly. Loud enough for the band director to hear it, even though she was busy directing her baby sixth graders who did not yet know how to blow a bubble, let alone a horn. She would do anything to walk away from them. She decided to inspect the situation, and what she found stunned her. There were food trays from the cafeteria, trash, packets of ketchup, text books with torn pages, empty paper cups, spilled sheets of music, overturned chairs, and human bodies everywhere. She started to yell above the din. lt grew quiet. A group of children near the door and nearest to her tried to explain that someone was hurt. She was having none of it. She continued her tirade. "But, Miss," began one youngster, "his thumb was in the door..." She began yelling out an inventory of things the kids should now do. She began with, "Pick up all of this trash," and went on through all that she could see wrong with the situation. Again, the group near the door tried to plead with her. "Miss, he needs the nurse," began the same impertinent kid. "Part of his thumb is missing." "Are you listening to me?" she said, nostrils flaring. "But, Miss, his thumb was in the door when it slammed," continued the kid. She had had enough. She wasn't getting paid enough to see after this disaster. She would just go back to her office inside the band hall and place a telephone call to the front office. Someone from the administration should have already known about this ongoing source of frustration for her. She gave a final judgement call about how ungrateful the lot of these students were. And as she turned to go, feeling that she was fully in charge and having the sense that she had become completely self-actualized, she glanced at the floor near the door. There was a flesh colored piece of matter covered in ketchup. "And somebody pick up this tator tot!" was her final word on the subject. Februrary 1, 2021-Robinson Crusoe Day I wonder if Robinson Crusoe could have been austistic? I had to read the book, by Daniel Defoe, for a course I took in college, "The Seventeenth Century Novel." Robinson Crusoe, while written as a journal, is the modern day prototype of the novel. What struck me when reading it, though, is how Robinson Crusoe, takes an inventory of everything he has when he first lands on the island, and that list alone is enough to make someone change her major. Ultimately, I did not. I just suffered through it--like all college students about to graduate do. So, back to the list--guess who else in my world lives to make lists? My number one autistic household member, Muscles Malone, that's who. List making is his special gift, you might say. That is where I begin my comparison of a typical neuro atypical and Robinson Crusoe. The photograph for today's blog post is the real suitcase that my son packed himself for a family vacation. It weighed eighty pounds. We told him to pack a "To-Do" bag which means a bag or backpack of things to do if you get bored on a trip. I imagine the trip initially seemed a bit boring to him, as we were headed to Washington, D.C., in 2019, to watch his sister give a small presentation at a national psychology conference. Speaking of college, that is what she does. She is a psych major and a better student than I ever was. Hence, the honor, the trip, the complete package. We knew we had some down time before and after her presentation, so we planned all around it. Muscles Malone never had time to get bored, as Washington has plenty of sights to see and museums to visit. It's not terribly hard to get around in, either. However, back to Robinson Crusoe and autism. James Joyce has called Robinson Crusoe a prototype of the Brittish Empire. Let's examine that with the idea of autism in mind, and by that I specifically mean through my own personal knowledge of the main person with autism in my life. The whole Anglo-Saxon spirit in Crusoe: the manly independence, the unconscious cruelty, the persistence, the slow yet efficient intelligence, the sexual apathy, the calculating taciturnity.[17]
Raising a boy on the spectrum has had its own unique set of challenges. And like Mr. Defoe and the other Enlighteners of his age, I hope I have enlightened you to think in a different way about a familar character. Another one of favorite authors, J.K. Rowling, has said, "When in doubt, go to the library!" I am constantly looking to stories and literature to solve my life's problems. Here is yet another book that outlines the autistic character's mind and way of thinking, and it is from the seventeenth century, to boot. Joyce, James (1964). Translated by Prescott, Joseph. "Daniel Defoe". Buffalo Studies (English translation of Italian manuscript ed.). 1: 24–25. |
AuthorKaren Schwabenland--Keeper of a daily blog of written matter, reporter of events large and small, and charlatan extraordinaire Archives
September 2022
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