April 28, 2021--National Tell a Story Day
A group of third grade girls were about to attend their first ever over night camping adventure. The name of their group was officially called The Pioneer Pups. They would have to complete a total of three overnight adventures before they could graduate and become Pioneer Punks. Upon arriving at Camp Whispering Pines, they were escorted to their cabins by the robust and flannel shirted Captain Whispering Pines. Once there, they spent a considerable amount of time sorting out bunk bed arrangements. Girls who were known to need to go the restroom during the night were assigned lower bunks. Team leaders, made up of loving but unlucky moms, got their own room in a downstairs loft. The girls were assigned the upstairs bunks. The pine trees of Camp Whispering Pines made it feel like a real tree house as they tended to create odd shadows and brush against the windows at night. After a dinner of hot dogs and chili, the Pioneer Pups were given the opportunity to go on a hayride after dark. On the hayride, some of the girls got overly excited and started throwing hay at each other. In order to calm them all down, Captain Pines decided to tell them a story. "Does anyone know why these woods are called Whispering Pines?" he began. All eyes were on him. "It's because of a young boy about your age. When he was here with his parents, years ago, he contracted diphtheria--a disease for which there was no cure." He added, "Back then." "His parents did everything they could to help him, but..." Captain Pines just looked down and shook his head for effect. "They sent for a doctor, but by the time the doctor arrived, it was too late. Little Johnny, as he was called, had died." There was a collective gasp from the Pioneer Pups. Captain Pines continued, "The doctor didn't know the name of the disease, but one thing he did know was that it could spread. He told the parents that the best thing to do would be to cremate the body as soon as possible. A large pine tree was felled, Little Johnny was put into a pine box his father built, and a clearing was made to build a fire. Right about here in these woods." At that point, the hay wagon came to a complete and abrupt spot. Some of the girls screamed, but just a little. One of them started crying silently, and another one reached into her pocket and got out her cell phone. Captain Pines eyed this last one carefully. The girl with the phone, Lacey, felt his watchful eyes and looked back at him. "Oh, yer phone won't do anything out here, this deep into the woods...," he began. Lacey's eyes filled with tears. "I just want to go home," she mumbled. One of the adult team members sat up straight from her comfortable position. "Captain Pines," she stated. "You're scaring our girls. You need to stop telling this story." Captain Pines stared back at her. "Well, don't say I didn't warn ya," he began. And then he stood up on the hay wagon and jumped off. He didn't exactly nail his landing, but he managed to pick himself up. He then began walking off the path that the hay wagon was on, and continued on his own, off the road and deeper and straighter into the woods. The hay wagon, which had no driver but only an old horse, then bobbed a bit before it went into action. In silence, the Pioneer Pups and their trusty team leaders rode back past the quiet mess hall, the eerily empty Captain's Quarters, and on to their cabin. The tired gelding stopped in front of it, and the girls and adults disembarked. When the last member was off, the horse executed a precarious turn and walked back towards the barn which was behind the mess hall. The adults eyed each other briefly, then entered the cabin. Once inside they were met with twenty-seven teary eyed and emotionally ravaged girls. After pajamas were found, put on and compared, hair was combed, and the last tooth was brushed, they all, adults and girls alike, climbed into their bunks. But rest and sleep were elusive. The fits of drama and crying passed from bunk to bunk much like the diphtheria in the story that Captain Pines had told. By the time morning came, three girls were packed and ready to go home, one had headache, and two of them had come down with a fever. Two of the adult leaders had vowed to quit the Pioneers permanently, and the head honcho had composed a strongly worded letter to the owner and CEO of Camp Whispering Pines--in her head. In the end, stray shoes and mismatched socks were left haphazardly under the bunk beds. Long hairs and forlorn elastic bands meant for pony tails filled the bath room countertop. Tear stained mattresses were piled on the floor, and one clogged toilet waited for a plunger. Whatever had happened to Little Johnny and what became of Captain Whispering Pines was never discussed again. The following year, only twelve of the twenty-seven original Pioneer Pups had been promoted to Pioneer Punks. And those punks would live up to their name. April 25, 2021--International Marriage Day
I've been married for 32 years. It doesn't make sense when I do the math because I'm only thirty-nine years old. I've reached the age of my grandma. For my entire life, Nanny always said she was thirty-nine and holding. I didn't know for the longest time that she "borrowed" that joke from Jack Benny. When I was a little kid and she said it, it didn't make sense to me. Everyone would laugh, but I would just say, "What does that mean?" Then I reached the age of thirty-nine, and it all made sense. When I was thirty-nine years old, I had a nine year old and a two year old. My life was definitely different than Nanny's life at any age. When Nanny was thirty-nine, she had been married for most of it and had two adult children. She was a full time homemaker for most of her life, and I was not. She had a hot meal on the table at five thirty everyday. I wish I could say I have done the same, but I have not. I never saw either one of my grandfathers make anything in the kitchen besides a cup of coffee. In my grandparents' world, the wife was in charge of cooking. I think I could have lived this way, but in working full time, it became less of an option. I had a friend over once who had lived most of her life according to the societal norms of my grandparents era. She was a full time house wife. While she was here, she noticed my husband loading the dishwasher. I said something about how he had cooked dinner and always liked to clean up immediately afterwards. "Do you like to cook?" she asked him. "I like to eat," he responded. I was proud of that moment. Husband and I live in a different world than our parents and grandparents. Just as our children and grandchildren will live in a different world than ours. So today is International Marriage Day. And although our worlds are different than our parents', some things are the same. At the heart of every marriage ceremony I have ever witnessed, including my own, are these words, 4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. I Corinthians 13:4-8 Honestly though, most ceremonies are founded only on the first three of these tenets--patience, kindness, and lack of envy. Fairly easy promises to keep if you think about it. I have always had a problem with not keeping a record of wrongs. And even though I know it is bad form to bring out my inventory of past wrongs when I am trying to make a point, I really did not know this notion was Biblical. I mean I knew it was against the greatest commandment, "You shall love your neighbor as yourself." (Mathew 22:35-40). However, that commandment is vague in its message, a bit, I think. I mean a spouse is not a neighbor, at least in most circumstances. I wish I had been schooled better in this text that is often used in marriage ceremonies. I wish I could tell you about all the times I tried to garner support for my point of view with my spouse by whipping out my inventory list. I don't believe he keeps a list of my wrongs and bull headedness to bring out in a similar manner. But if he did, his list about me would be twice again as long. One thing I learned from both of my grandmothers is the phrase, "Don't air your dirty laundry in public." And here my friends, this blog post must stop. Heeding both grandma's advice and going against my gossipy nature, I cannot tell you what is on my inventory list of past wrongs. As a matter of fact, as of today I am shredding it. All we have is the now, anyway. Also, verse 7 from I Corinthians should be the jumping off place for marriage ceremonies, anyway. "Love always protects." Always. April 24, 2021-World Tai Chi and Qigong Day
My brother practices the art/sport of Tai Chi. I confess I don't know what that is except something to celebrate today. Oh, I have seen people out on their sidewalks in the wee, small hours of the morning practicing it. It definitely has a unique look about it. If you didn't know better, you might think those people doing warrior poses on their driveways were whacked in the head with something, or maybe they were just working on their Jedi training. You know what else I know absolutely noting about, but still enough to make me look stupid? Star Wars, of course. There are 47,500,000 fan pages for the Star Wars franchise if you just google it. That means that I may be one of the few people on this planet who still does not get it. I mean I try to get it, but most of the Star Wars movies to me have seemed sort of, well... lame. And I have seen all of them. To explain what I mean by lame is that mostly there are a series of explosions to begin each movie, and then there is some kind of plot that is hard to follow surrounded by intermittent, fun-loving animal characters and robots. I don't know why I have a hard time understanding these movies, except that they start with explosions and then end the same way. The last scene is always the hero getting honored in some way, either formally or informally. There is never any explanation of why the wars of Star Wars occurred, except, oh yeah, Darth Who and Darth This and That and any one who is a Sith Something--they are all evil. They went over to the dark side at some point in their lives. But why? Why did they turn evil? I always want to know why because I think evil is a lot more complex. I think it crosses over into each of us as a series of short, yet insidious chances or opportunities. Watching the character of Anakin reach adulthood and then go all dark on the universe and us was just too much. I always remained unconvinced about his evil intent. And why would anyone blow up an entire planet? That just seems wasteful. Not to mention the fact that it should do something really bad to the gravitational pull of the universe, making it bad for EVERYONE, including all the Darths. One character from Star Wars that I dearly miss is Quigong Jin, played by actor Liam Neesom. I have seen Liam Neesom in other movies, but I didn't fall madly in love with him like I did when he portrayed Qui-gon Jin. Something about Mr. Jin and his search for righteousness took my breath away. And also his hair. The way it was all pulled back like some rebel, hippie, biker dude. I was sad when he got killed off. I figured the actor, Liam Neesom, had better roles offered to him and needed to get out of the franchise, though. So I had to be understanding. And do you know who Qui-gon reminded me of? Natty Bumppo in The Last of the Mohicans (played by Daniel Day-Lewis in the 1992 film), that's who. I think Qui-gon and Natty Bumppo have so much in common that they could be the same character who occur in different time periods. And although Qui-gon died, he did in fact come back to life according to some Star Wars Fandom sites. He apparently just got so in tune with his Source Energy that he found a way to inhabit a voice, but not a body. So if everything that goes around does, in fact, come around, and if the universe is on a loop, Qui-Gon and Bumppo could be the same character. Either that, or George Lucas has read the novel, The Last of the Mohicans, by James Fennimore Cooper. Thinking about Natty Bumppo made me think of Daniel Boone, another fighter of the American Frontier. My brother had a Daniel Boone doll, or action figure (as he often corrected me), that he got for Christmas one year. When I thought about Daniel Boone, I started thinking about my brother. My brother practices the art/sport of Tai Chi. Related to Tai Chi is the practice known as Qi Gong. Qi Gong is an internal process that has external movements. Qi means “life force,” the energy that powers our body and spirit. Gong is the term meaning work or gather. Qi Gong together means a form of movement and mind using intention and mindfulness to guide qi to make qi work. Natty Bumppo did it. Daniel Boone did it. So did Qui-Gon Jin. If only Fess Park, who is the actor who portrayed Daniel Boone, had the hair to match his rebellious, yet attentive nature. Societal norms had their influence, I guess. Next time I see a group of people practicing Tai Chi in their driveway, I'm gonna be mindful of their reverence for Qi. April 23, 2021--Take a Chance Day
I spoke, and H&M listened. Thank you H&M for finally entering the sustainability conversation and at last addressing the elephant in the room. A few blogs ago, I wrote about the lack of sustainability in clothing companies, known as 'fast fashion.' I did not name H&M, but in the past, it has been right up there with Charlotte Russe and Forever XXI in creating some of the world's fastest and worst made fashion. H&M (which stands for Hennes and Mauritz) is a Swedish discount retailer that has been in the business since 1947. I saw on the news this week that they have been changing up some of their policies, and upon examination of their website, it appears to be true. At the beginning of their new philosophy is new fabric. A whole bunch of fancy names for organically made and recycled material. Keeping it organic, they have pledged to not use any dyes. Everything will be a neutral color. Hmmm. Guess we won't need to worry about turning our society into something from The Handmaid's Tale. There will not be room for red or blue identifying dress for the different levels of society. We will all be walking around in beige. H&M is promoting an instore recycling machine called Looop. Currently, there is only one, and it is in Sweden. Customers bring in their old garments and turn them into Looop to watch them get recycled. There is only one place this happens in the entire world--which makes it seem like just a bunch of glory seeking promotion, if you ask me. The last time I was at Epcot in Disney World, about half of the entire park was dedicated to innovation. I think Disney and H&M should team up. H&M wants to clean up their use of water. So...Yay! That sounds great. They also want no pesticides used in their products and to eliminate single use packaging. The last time I was in an H&M store, the only packaging I remember is the bag to put your purchase in at the end of a sale. I hate plastic bags as much as the next guy, but I am not a fan of walking through a mall carrying my purchase. Let's wait and see how this idea transpires. I can imagine myself stopping by the food court after shopping at H&M, and spilling taco sauce all over my brand new purchase. H&M wants better fashion transparency. They are implementing a bar code scan system that will tell you where your product has been made. But it is actually only a list of where it and similar products were made around the world. No way to find out where your actual product was created. Look for a green hang tag in stores that designate the item as a conscious product. My consumer experience tells me that although they say they will have a conscious product in each department, don't count on very many items. I guess it will come down to how well these conscious products sell. If we buy them out, then they will likely supply more, but only if we do not supplement our taste for fast fashion with non-conscious products. Currently I give H&M a generous C+, mainly because I have no way of knowing if they are actually complying with their new mandates. They say they are for fair wages, banning forced labor and child labor, and animal welfare. That they have to advertise that they are against forced and child labor says plenty about the fashion industry, doesn't it? No one could be for these things, except for the bottom line bean counters and production experts who stand behind the protective sign of corporate America and/or Sweden. H&M is a public limited company that is listed on the Nasdaq in Stockholm. What that means is that without a degree in international economics, there is no way to tell anything about this company. I know people who love H&M and swear they can not find clothes to fit them anywhere else. On the H&M website, it lists fashion sizes for the curvy gal, like me. Problem is that the H&M store closest to my house does not cater to us buxom beauties. I have to drive fifteen miles to find a store that does. So for my buck, I plan to keep on doing what I have been doing--shop my own closet. I recently found out that anything from the nineties is now considered vintage. I probably have enough for my own resale store. April 22, 2021--In God We Trust Day
Two days ago, I rode my bicycle a different route. There is a house in my neighborhood that got remodeled about ten years ago. It had a front wall that was only there as a sort of privacy wall making a courtyard for the homeowners. I knew those homeowners, but only as acquaintances. They had that wall knocked down, and have since moved. I wanted to see if I could still find the house. So I set off on my usual bicycle route, but only backwards. I wasn't sitting backwards on the bike, but going about my usual route from start to finish but reversed, if you will. I once read in Oprah magazine that if you are having a problem which you cannot see a solution for you should reverse something in your daily life to get your brain thinking about things in a new way. That was not what I was going for this week, though. This trick from Oprah is down right dangerous to perform if you are not trying to solve a puzzle in your brain. I do not suggest it unless you are certain you do not have a solution to your problem. I not only did not have a solution, I didn't even have a problem. I was all about my daily routine, albeit back-ass-wards, and even earlier than usual, when I saw a beautiful Cherrywood etagere out by the curb, just waiting for someone to take it to its new home. That's what folks do around here, it seems. If you have grown tired of your home furnishings and want to get rid of them, just set them on the curb. Someone is bound to pick them up. I stopped my bike to have a closer look. The homeowner was still bringing out glass pains that fit into each shelf. "You're my first customer," he said. "It's a nice piece," I replied, "but I'm afraid I don't have room for it. And my husband would kill me if I brought another stick of furniture into our house." I continued on my route. I never found the wall-less house, but I did find a stop sign, or rather, it found me. I was returning home, and decided to ride on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. There was a corner up ahead, but I have taken the opposite corner many times. Almost daily. Piece of cake. What I failed to notice was that the corner I was approaching was edgy. And by edgy, I mean it had acquired new curbs, and they are quite close together. I never go very fast on my bicycle. I am sure I look like Almira Gulch from The Wizard of Oz as I fastidiously pedal around the 'hood. Adding to all of this drama was the fact that I could not get the Cherrywood etagere out of my mind. I was too busy thinking about where I could place that thing in my house to notice how sharp the corner was that I was approaching. When I was at the corner, I turned, but it was not wide enough at my current state of slow. The first thing I noticed was the brand new curb that my bicycle, of its own accord, had decided to jump. The next thing that happened was the stop sign reached out and sucker punched me in the left shoulder. As the sidewalk came up to meet me, I wanted to stop, but I couldn't. With the bicycle on its side, I gingerly sat up and checked for blood. None. Good. This might not be so bad. I decided to just try to stand up slowly, in keeping with my usual mode of operation. Before I could get up, a car was at the curb with its window down, "Do you need help?" said the driver. I gave him my best thumbs up and a big smile. "Oh, no, I'm fine." I would do this five more times before I was in an upright position. It's really nice that people are so willing to help. Since there were no visible injuries and the bicycle appeared no worse for wear, I got myself back up on that pony and I peddled home. Today I sit bruised and sore. After I got home, I told my story, and Husband went and got the Cherrywood etagere for me. I knew he would think it superfluous, and we certainly do not have room. When he came home with it, I was surprised because I thought he was going on a different errand when he left the house. "I can't believe you got it for me," I said. "Well, if it's worth crashing your bike over, I figured it's worth having." I only have one question, now. Do you ice a sprain or wrap it? April 21, 2021-World Creativity and Innovation Day
Legos are a hot commodity. Thieves are making off with plenty of money by stealing Lego sets from toy stores. Some of the hard to find sets are worth upwards of $500.00. Lego sets have been the target of professional shop lifters and crime rings around the country. Legos are made around the world--in Denmark, Hungary, the Czech Republic, Mexico, and China. I suppose the ultimate heist would be to break into a Lego factory and steal a whole truck load of them. Maybe that is why they are kept on the go as they are made. The design and molds of the famous bricks are created in Denmark, the actual bricks are forged in China and Mexico, and the packaging is done in Hungary and the Czech Republic, or something about like that. A corporation this large is subject to changes and factory closings at a moment's notice. Let's think about the carbon footprint of a typical new Lego set. With so many different locations involved, is it any wonder that they are so costly? Gone is the day when we thought that Lego sets were created, made, packaged, and sold in Denmark. When I was growing up, I had a friend who was from Sweden. She and her twin brother lived down the street from my grandmother. Her name was Susan, but she and her brother reminded me of Buffy and Jodie from the old television show, Family Affair. Susan had a Swedish wooden doll house, and what I mean by Swedish is that is was an unpainted, nearly unfinished pine wooden house with little pine wooden people who lived in it. And the mother of the wooden people had a red Swedish scarf around her head. This doll house looked like it had come from IKEA before IKEA was invented. These children had all sorts of Scandinavian toys including an original version of a Husker du game. Her brother had some original Lego bricks and building sets which I am sure today would go for a pretty sum on eBay. And I feel almost certain that these Danish bricks were made at the original Denmark Lego factory, perhaps by elves. Neither my brother nor I grew up with Legos. They were relatively new to Americans when we were kids. We had seen them and knew what they were, but none of our friends had them, except for Susan's brother. Susan and I spent many an hour playing in her bedroom. Unlike every other American child I knew, Susan and her brother shared the same room. Keeping toys nice and separated wasn't her parents priority either. At any given time, you could find all kinds of pieces of toys all over their bedroom. Once we played Monopoly using Lego bricks for game tokens. Except for Susan. Her game piece was the wooden boy from the doll house family. When that boy got a good look at the real estate that could be bought for the price of one single Lego brick, he became addicted. The next time I was invited over to Susan's house to play, we tried playing doll house, but so much time had passed by the time we got all of the doll house pieces separated from the game pieces, we lost interest. One thing we never did find that day, however, was the little wooden doll house boy. Every time I asked Susan if she knew where he was, she changed the subject. I even tried to look in between the covers of the unmade beds, but I could not find anything. When Susan's twin brother came in and saw me looking on his bed, he hopped on Susan's bed and started throwing Lego bricks at me. Susan had an older sister who had her own room. Susan led me away from the room she shared with her twin into her sister's private bedroom. There we played Barbie dolls, but it felt invasive to me. "Won't your sister get mad at us for being in here?" I kept asking. Susan was reassuring. "She doesn't care," she would say. The next time I visited Susan's house, her brother had been given his own smaller room, and she then shared the bigger bedroom with her older sister, who was seldom home. After a few years, my grandmother moved from that neighborhood, and I lost track of Susan. Her family had always been strange and different to me. For example, the television was usually on in their den when her father was home. I never once stepped into that room. Or their kitchen, either. I only knew where it was because you could see it from the front door. Rather, we always played in their front living room or one of the two children's bedrooms. One day, I was in an antiques store, many years later. I saw a doll house much like the one once owned by Susan. It had grown dusty and dilapidated in its corner of the shop. I stepped over to take a closer look at it. Weeds had started growing up where once flower beds had been painted on the outside of it. In its attic, there were stacks of those original Lego bricks. The little wooden girl was gone, and the wooden man was passed out on the wooden sofa. Outside on the wooden sidewalk, the wooden mother had removed her red Swedish scarf. She kneeled down and scrubbed in vain, trying to remove a stain from the front stoop that looked suspiciously like blood. The stain was the exact same size as the little wooden boy who had gone missing all those years ago. I was silently thankful that the little wooden girl had gotten out. Perhaps she had moved back to Sweden. I wish I could say I was surprised at this turn of events, but I wasn't. The payout for the Lego bricks was just too enticing, it seemed. April 20, 2021--National Poetry Month Blackout poetry is made by coloring over parts of an existing text, so that only selected words remain visible, creating a poem. The black out poem below is made from the first paragraphs of the novel, Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen. I like black out poetry because it goes to the very essence of a thought or idea. It does not need to be a complete sentence, and what better way to conquer the fear of the empty space of a blank page staring back at you. You may feel uninspired, but black out poetry is a way to immediately overcome your writer's block or obstacles. I once made a complete book of blackout poetry from a children's book. I don't have the book any longer, but not because I didn't like it. The pages got really crispy and stuck together because of the paint I used to create the black out part. It is hard to throw out art. Use the link above to create your own black out poem. April 19, 2021-National Poetry Month/Bicycle Day A villanelle is French verse form consisting of five three-line stanzas and a final quatrain, with the first and third lines of the first stanza repeating alternately in the following stanzas. These two refrain lines form the final couplet in the quatrain. One of the most famous villanelle poems is "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night," by Dylan Thomas. Like many famous poems, it is about life and death. My version of a villanelle is more simplistic. It is not about life and death. Or is it? The Villanelle of The Bike A Villanelle by K. Schwabenland Karen couldn't stop thinking about the bike. It was just so coasting and so fast. Never had she known anything so psych. Karen was bored of acting so ladylike. All age indignities she would outlast. Karen couldn't stop thinking about the bike. She would ride the trails meant to hike. She had become a bike enthusi-ast. Never had she known anything so psych. She never knew when the riding urge would strike. This time she had gone completely daft. Karen couldn't stop thinking about the bike. She would not heed her husband's gripes. Over time she perfected her riding craft. Never had she known anything so psych. "If from the street her body he had to wipe" Was a misnomer. She didn't intend to crash. Karen couldn't stop thinking about the bike. Never had she known anything so psych. April 18, 2021-National Poetry Month
How do you express your love? If you lived in Shakespeare's day, you might write a sonnet. Just pick the one thing you are most passionate about or the thing that you love beyond all reason. And then create a poem for it. A sonnet is a fourteen line poem that follows a prescribed rhyme scheme. There should be three four line stanzas that describe the subject and the final couplet (two rhyming lines) should draw a conclusion or make a comment on the subject. Below is my humble example. Soon, June A Sonnet by K .Schwabenland My soft summer, you inspire me to write. I love the way you sink in, swim and sleep, Invading my mind day and through the night, First cold touch of pool water--knee-deep. Let me compare you to a sandy dune? You make it into a castle strong-hold. Gold sun heats the border shore of June, And wind blows it into an the endless wold. How do I love you? Let me count the ways. I love your sandals, toenails and style. Thinking of spaghetti straps fills my days. My love for you is a tropical isle. Now I must away with a longing heart, Remember my heated words whilst we're apart. April 17, 2021--International Haiku Day
A haiku is a Japanese form of poetry that uses seventeen syllables. To celebrate today, I have written some haiku poetry that describes how I spend my retirement/pandemic time. Damp break of the day A content husband drinking By the coffee pot Near stormy noontide My pink, fast bicycle runs Before the bull dog Questionable route Spinning slow bicycle flies Despite the neighbor Peaceful afternoon Thankfully play piano With no audience Music past teatime Powerful ballad blares and Bangs from the keys Bakery evening A small, quiet kitchen feeds All the family Untroubled nighttime Those clean, old pajamas sleep Through television April 16, 2021-National Earth Poetry Month
Spoken Word poetry is performed at events known has poetry slams. Referred to by some as little more than angry yelling, it is a form of poetic performance art relying on diction, rhythm and performance. And, no, I was not drunk when I wrote this. Spoken Word/ Poetry Slam What I really want to say is that I got... nuthin. I started this blog one day on something that seemed whimsical. But the fact of it went much deeper. People in my extended family keep losing their memories. My dad (may he rest in peace), my mom, my maternal grandmother. Should I succumb to whatever brain disease has or had them in its grips, I just want some part of me to remain. So I started writing my memory. When that disease has me in its clutches, I may not even be able to read my memories, but maybe someone else will, and then I will live out loud. What I really want to say is that I was here. I was a piece of matter. I matter. To live a life and not remember any of it is terrible. Or is it? If you are an adult who spends a great deal of time saying things like, "Could you please hand me that crayon?" is that so bad? To be here, to be part of this planet, to participate in God's eternal plan is something. If you fail to make it to the final curtain call, what of it? What if, on the other hand, someone shoves you out for that curtain call, so you walk out on stage, see an audience before you with spotlights blocking most of your view. Not knowing what to do, you just bow because that is the thing that you remember to do. It's your muscle memory working here. You been here before. You have done this before. You have done it all before. In fact, you have done everything before. In the words of Thoreau, you have already lived each season as it passed. You have breathed the air, drank the drink, and tasted the fruit. You have lived each season as it passed and resigned yourself to the influence of the earth. We all can't be famous, and fame or influence is not my purpose. We all can only be. There's a million things I haven't done, but none of that matters. When my memory fades, here's what I hope. When my fellow inmates ask, What's your name, man? I know what my answer will be. "Alexander Hamilton." And my fellow inmate will tell the staff, "She's got...nuthin." April 15, 2021--National Gripe Day/That Sucks Day
Today is National Gripe Day. I don't have anything to complain about, though. I once heard someone say that if you react in anger and frustration at something, that the emotional baggage is really on you. So, if that is the case, then I guess the few annoyances I have living my daily life are trifling. Really they are nothing. Therefore, I won't complain about anything. Instead I will list things that could annoy me, but don't:
April 14, 2021--National Pecan Day The pecan tree is the state tree of Texas. And as such, you might say that there is an abundance of them all over the state. My grandpa's farm in Texas was about ten miles going east off of State Highway 36, and about fifty-one miles outside of Houston. On this piece of land, there was a group of these trees that produced a plethora of pecans each season. It wasn't so much an orchard, but a grove because the trees just naturally occured there in a giant clump. Each fall, we would pile into the back of Grandpa's old blue Chevrolet truck, the kind with the running board on the side, and he would drive us all down the to edge of his land to a place known as The Bottom. It was called The Bottom because there was a great sloping downward of the land before you got there. There were no hills on Granpa's land, only this one spot near the edge of his property where the geography most definitely shifted. There was not a road leading to this spot, rather dirt ruts from years of that same truck driving there. To access it, you had to drive through the cow pasture which was mostly treeless, except for the foiliage that grew around the edges of his pond. That pond is what kept the land so fertile just below it. As a small child, you were not allowed to sit anywhere in the back of the pick up truck but in the middle on the floor bed. Although the safest spot for a child to ride in the back of a pickup truck, it was the worst spot in a kid's mind because you could not see anything but the sky. On every single trip in the back of that truck, I would scramble into the bed of it and sit myself along the ledge where the adults were already lining it. Each and every time, I was told to sit in the middle and on the floor so that I would not fall out. It always frustrated me to not be able to sit on the truck bed's edge. I had no intention of letting myself fall out, but the adults did not understand that. Once there, you were given a rusty metal coffee can in which to place your pecans. You were told to only pick the brown ones, and to not put anything in your can that was green. A growing pecan has a husk which it sheds once it is ready to harvest. After the husk falls off, the pecan should be brown. Some of the pecans on the ground in The Bottom were green. Reasons may vary as to why some pecan trees shed green nuts. In the case of Grandpa's trees, they were purging themselves of too much fruit. Everyone who was in the truck--which was everyone in the family--got to picking nuts off of the ground right away. For seven years, I was the youngest grandchild in that extended family, and for seven years I dittered and dottered my way around the harvesting of the pecan trees. I trailed behind the adults. Most of the pecans got scooped up right away by fast acting and experienced hands. I always had a few greens ones in my can because my thinking was that a little bit of green was o.k. It would rippen like a berry or tomato eventually. No one explained to me that a green pecan doesn't do that. Rather, you can eat one, but you must scrap away the green part of the shell first. Since there was such an abundance of brown pecans down there, no one thought to use the green ones. I can see now how the green ones were just going to be a whole lot of trouble. When my brother looked into my cofffee can, which was frequently, he would always shout out, "She's collecting green ones!" "No, I'm not." But I was. However, I had only picked ones that were a little bit green, not completely green. My mom would come over and inspect my findings. I would be told to dump the green ones out, much to my dismay. After that, on my brother's next visit to my can, he would say, "I've got more pecans than you." Of course he did. He had been running around like a squirrel since we had gotten there. Usually my mother or my aunt would offer me pecans from their can. I didn't want my mother's help, but I would take the offer from my aunt because she was younger and cooler. The pecans were eventually cracked, separated, and eaten. They landed on Granny's table by way of pecan pie and banana nut bread. They found their way inside cookies and on top of fudge. Picking and shelling pecans is hard work. I would say it's worth it, but I ultimately had little to do with the whole process, save my meager contribution upon harvesting. April 13, 2021-International Imposter Awareness Day
The Pretenders are one of my favorite rock bands. And one of their songs, "I'll Stand By You," is the perfect song for today's post. If you want to listen to it, just click on the link. Today is International Imposter Awareness Day. Kind of an oxymoron if you think about it. Imposter Syndrome is not listed in the DSM manual as a real diagnosis, but to those who do suffer from it, it is real. DSM stands for Diagnosis and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, and it is now in its fifth edition. While mental disorder is a broad term, the book is constantly in a state of renewal as more scientific breakthroughs occur. Imposter Syndrome may appear in the manual in the future. One example of this change is autism. It first appeared in the manual as childhood schizophrenia. It is now known that autism is a developmental disorder. All that really means is that it appears to be from a difference in brain development rather than a different source--like some of the diagnoses listed in this book. My son is on the autism spectrum. So I have some experience with this manual. But only enough to be aware that I am an imposter psychologist. When he was a little boy, I took my son, who I will now call Nuke, to a psychologist at his pediatrician's suggestion. He was having trouble in kindergarten. Kindergarten! Of all the things to have trouble in. So this guy who is a child psychologist listened to me as I told him about my son and our life. Then the doctor left the room for a few minutes, and eventually came back with a book--the DSM. I think you may be in a bad place when your mental health professional needs to leave the room and go and fetch his textbook. When he returned with the book, he showed me the page in the manual where my son's symptoms were listed. Unlike a manual you might find in IKEA, there were no instructions on how to put Nuke together better. It only listed the symptoms, and then at the bottom of the page, these words glared back at me: Duration--Life time. Say what? I thought we were only there because my son had trouble cutting with scissors. That day was a great awakening. On the one hand, if our doctor had not had the confidence to go and get his DSM, then we may have been delayed in getting treatment and help for Nuke. I am now thankful that this doctor, who I initially thought was a bit dubious, was not suffering from Imposter Syndrome. If he had been afraid that we would find out that he didn't know everything we expected him to know, then he would not have returned with his doctoring instruction booklet. A change in status is when a person has more of a tendency to feel like an imposter, such as during grad school when a student may be asked to take on more than they can handle. A promotion at a job can feel unwarranted as well. A start in kindergarten could also lead to it. And ultimately, if I am being honest, I have to admit a bit of imposter syndrome myself when picking my son up from a birthday party during that kindergarten year. It made me anxious to walk in and pick him up because I sensed all the other mommies lay waiting in judgment. Before the proverbial sh*t hit the fan that year, when I felt that something was off with my son, but I didn't know just what, I was the pretender. When one of the kindergarten cop mommies looked at me and said, "He did sooo good," it was dripping in condescension. I knew it, but phonily replied back, "It was so generous of (hostess's name inserted here) to invite ALL of the children to the party," while looking directly at her cake riddled child. That comment did not serve me well. However, I was only thinking of my son and the lyrics from, "I'll Stand by You," which go, "...Won't let nobody hurt you. I'll stand by you." And I believe that now, young Nuke, who has grown up, knows that "...I've seen the dark side, too." And he forgives me for it. April 12, 2021-Radiologic and Imaging Nurses Day A B-29 Aircraft was right outside. I could hear it as I lay still as a corpse in my hiding place. It dropped its cargo, but another one was right behind it. Simultaneously, Gestapo men were searching for my hideout. It was dark. If I made one movement, I was dead meat. The technician had handed me a set of headphones before I lay down on the MRI machine's narrow cot. He asked me what music I liked to listen to, and then listed three options. I picked soft rock. As the machine wound up to do its business, the headphones lay silent. Minutes before, as I faced this foe, Husband had been nearby making me fearless. He was my wingman through this course of cancer diagnosis. More specifically, he was the pilot, and I was just the really bad copilot. I watched at home, like a small child, as he scheduled tests and meetings with doctors. In the surgeon's office, Husband asked the questions and took notes while I let my gaze wander to the photographs on the doctor's shelves. I made up stories about the people in them because I could not allow myself to think. Husband and I had been dancing this tango for a short while. With a cancer diagnosis, no one lets you rest for very long. There was a second mammogram, deep tissue biopsies, something having to do with nuclear medicine, and this final indignity--the MRI. Throughout all of it, people were nice. They said things like, "You got this, girl!" The truth of it was, I didn't have it. I didn't have anything because I refused to think much about it. Instead I let Husband do the thinking while my consciousness went to auto pilot. Each trip to the medical center was a new adventure. Sometimes it was like date night during the day with the promise of lunch afterwards. That is how stupidly I was behaving. And then the MRI thing happened. Until that test was performed, Husband was by my side telling them to count down before any injections and holding my hand when the needle went in. All information that needed to be remembered went directly to him bypassing my cranial vortex. If they had looked inside the brain region of my body at the time, they would have discovered a vast empty space. When the MRI nurse dismissed Husband and told him to go sit in the waiting area, my eyes began welling up. After the door shut behind him, she checked my blood pressure and then left me in the MRI vestibule. I was completely alone. There was no one there to make jokes with. So I lost it. When the nurse returned, I told her I was calling it all off. The test, the cancer, everything. Husband was brought back in. I was given some kind of happy pill. The procedure went forward. Inside that MRI machine, it was a complete nightmare. It was loud even with headphones piping in music. I had been told if I made one movement, even opening an eye, the whole test would have to be performed again. So I became Anne Frank, hiding from the Nazis. Soon that was not even enough to soothe me though. The only thing I had not done through any of this was pray. Even with the hospital and near death experience of my son, I had not settled into any kind of daily prayer routine. When I finished a long, winded and winding prayer, the most amazing thing happened. My headphones, which up until then, had played innocuous pop songs, began "You Are Not Alone," by Michael Jackson. That is the moment when I knew I was going to live through that test and all of the rest of the indignities, mortifications, and gasp inducing trauma that the medical establishment would keep throwing at me. So I did. April 11, 2021-Knuckles Down Day
Knuckle Down is a term that comes from shooting marbles. I never played marbles. I've played with marbles, I've collected marbles, and I've lost my marbles. However, I have never played the game of marbles. But my dad did. Dad was born in 1937. Although the world was at war during his formative years, children still went to school and did the normal things. They still had recess. They gathered under shade trees, ate their lunch, and then gambled away their best marbles. Granny's house, where Dad grew up, was full of marbles. You could easily find one by looking under a bed or in a drawer. The best way to find one, though, was to look in her attic. When we kids found one, we would show our Dad, and he would explain how to play marbles to us, yet again. We never played marbles because we never had enough of them to actually play a game. What I never liked about the game of a marbles, though, is that it is a game of chance. You can lose you best marble during any play. It's called playing for keepsies. I have had few things in my life where I was playing for keepsies. The only thing that comes to mind is marriage. It may be the only thing I have ever played for keepsies. I think the term knuckle down should be part of the marriage vows. Forget all of that "to have and to hold from this day forward" crap. Brides and grooms, you just gotta knuckle down together. To knuckle down means to apply oneself seriously to a task. To shoot a marble, you place your fist or knuckles straight down and then shoot a big marble off off your folded index finger with your thumb. I like to think I apply myself seriously to every task I undertake. Just the other day, I was sitting in our den busily cutting and pasting. Our daughter is about to graduate from college, and I was getting graduation announcements ready to mail. My husband looked at me and said, "Are you still doing that?" "Well, you see, I ordered the wrong kind of envelopes. So instead of reordering, I am making my own homemade envelope liners." Husband just shook his head. "You know," I continued, "I always like to make things more complicated than they need to be." "Like our marriage?" he asked. "You do realize that I am holding a pair of scissors, right?" "Point taken." April 10, 2021--Sibling Day To the youngest go the spoils. That's what every oldest child in a family believes. And to the oldest goes the privilege. That is what all youngest siblings think. I am the youngest of two in my family. My brother taught me plenty while growing up with him, but not everything I learned from him served me well. For starters, he is champion cheater at Monopoly. I never knew this until a few years ago when he openly admitted to it. All those games that I lost. His candid disclosure explained it all. I never lost gracefully to him, but I think I've learned how to lose gracefully now by losing so often then. His method of cheating was to be the banker which everyone knows is the person who divvies out the play money that comes with the game. When I wasn't looking, he would slip himself a few hundreds. He kept his money in a pig pile instead of nice neat stacks. That way I would never be able to tell how much he had at any given point. He would stash some of his money underneath the board and tell me that it was his savings account. There are no Monopoly rules on how to arrange your money. If I ever play the game with him again, I will insist on having everyone keep their money in nice neat rows. What am I saying? I'll never play Monopoly with him again. The pressure would be too great. And the pressure that I'm talking about here is the pressure to not end the game the way I usually did. My brother would gloat when he won which infuriated me. I think I was more upset about the gloating than I would have been about the cheating--if I had known about it at the time. What I ultimately learned from our epic Monopoly games was to just not care. I am the least competitive person I know. I can't get behind sports teams, political parties, or even entire countries in the Olympics. I just don't care who brings home the most medals. And all you people out there who cheer on your winning college team? No one cares. Only you do. You care. I mean what is the point of any of it? You march your little silver dog around the board, collecting properties as you go. You eventually land on Boardwalk and have hotels there. None of it matters though because there is going to be some yahoo who pays ill-gotten money upfront in cash, and then tells you to, "Keep the change." So you do, but soon enough, the game is over and the Boardwalk tenant has done you in, yet again. No point. No purpose. Eventually you will lose. To everything there is a season, but the one season that always comes back to you is the one where you have kicked the board over scattering game pieces willy-nilly about the universe. And this catastrophe is because you have a brother who cheated his way through a board game. Siblings Without Rivalry, by Adele Fabar and Elaine Mazlish, is a book that explains that we learn how to resolve conflict from our siblings. I read it when I was thirty-eight years old, as a mom. I wish I someone had taught me the concepts as a kid, though. My method of resolving conflict as a kid followed me into adulthood, just like everyone else's does. It may have served its purpose at one time, but I can't say it was ever effective. And by effective, I mean got the desired results. And the psychic energy I used up is astonishing. I hope I am a saner person today. I haven't kicked over a board game in many years. I have also learned to shed the things that do not serve me well. And that comment about your college teams? Maybe that doesn't serve me so well either. So. ...Yay. Yay, college team. April 9, 2021--Winston Churchill Day
Once, a long time ago, Husband and I attended a local church where the head minister was in love with Winston Churchill. I would not say his weekly messages were boring. I have sat through worse sermons in my day. Far worse. However, this man's infatuation with Winston Churchill is what kept us coming back each week. We placed silent bets with each other as to when Old Winston would show up. There were quotes and there were anecdotes. If we had started a real wager, then a quotation from Winston Churchill would be worth less than an anecdote. Either way, there was always one or the other. A daily double was when both of them appeared in the same sermon. Listening for Winston's wisdom to grace our weekly sermon kept us both attentive, but perhaps was not the right reason for attending weekly services. On the other hand, sitting through all of them was like making a weekly deposit in our spiritual savings account. In 2009, our son ended up in Texas Children's Hospital for nine long and iffy weeks. One of those weeks he was in intensive care and on a ventilator for five days. This entire nine weeks was a very scary time, but the worst week was the week of intensive care. Nothing can prepare you for seeing your child in a semi-conscious state on a machine that breathes for him. I like to think that all of those Sunday mornings spent together in church helped prepare us all for everything that this experience entailed. Anyways, I hope so. Otherwise, we were just a couple of insincere, superfluous lots wiling away our time on a Sunday morning. Maybe we shouldn't have placed bets with each other on when and how Winston Churchill was going to show up in the weekly sermon. Although we were listening for the wrong reason, it did keep us listening. And if it wasn't for our jointly acquired knowledge about Mr. Churchill, then we would not have known about this quote, "If you're going through hell, keep going." Our son was seventeen years old when he underwent the hospital trauma. Churchill's words became his mantra. When Husband and I sat together in that church and tried to keep from smiling at each other when Churchill showed up in the sermon, we were different people. The "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" had not yet visited us. Oh, those ubiquitous slings and arrows. They visit us all. And I am now happy to tell you that although we did need to take some withdrawals from that spiritual savings account, we knew exactly how and why to do it. I visited the hospital chapel everyday while our son was hospitalized. I was fastidious in my prayer. I knew to ask for something specific. At first it was, "Please, just get him off the ventilator." It moved on down the line throughout all of his recovery until I no longer was asking for a physical manifestation of God's promise. We are stronger people for this experience, and my mind never wanders these days when attending church. Well, actually, that second part is a lie. But you know what they say, right? There's no better place to be forgiven for your lies than by putting your butt in a pew. I try to just stay alert until the confessional part of the service is over. April 8, 2021--Global Remanufacturing Day/Reman Day
When I win the lottery, I know exactly what I am going to do with the money. I am going to open a sustainable clothing/fashion house. Companies are currently trying to do this, but only making small improvements to the planet. One designer who is ahead of the game is Eileen Fisher. She designs luxury brand clothing that is sold in stores where I do not shop. Eileen Fisher is an American designer who was inspired by Japanese design with its classic, yet simple shapes. Her company started in 1984, but did not register on my radar until much later. I do not own any Eileen Fisher pieces, and that is because before I became aware of her social consciousness, the clothing just never appealed to me. Never mind that I couldn't afford it anyway. I never stepped inside an area in a store dedicated to Eileen Fisher. On the rare chance that I bought something really nice for myself, her line of clothes just lodged into my trendy head as boring. Honestly, they are boring. But they are the clothes a woman would keep forever. And until about five years ago, I never I would keep any clothing items that long. Recently, I have done some reading, and my eyes have been opened. The average American throws away about eighty one pounds of textiles each year. Did you ever wonder why your local mall started opening so many clothing stores that you never heard of about ten or fifteen, maybe twenty years ago? It's called fast fashion. I'm talking about you, Forever21, Charlotte Russe, Zara, Top Shop, Victoria's Secret, Urban Outfitters, and even you, GAP. These companies are all known for using sweat shop labor and not paying a living wage to their workers who are located in third world nations. The names of brands are always changing, but this list are the ones I know are bad. Back to fast fashion--Forever21 and Charlotte Russe, in particular, are two of the worst offenders of fast fashion. Not only are they guilty of the sins listed above, but they work to copy designs from the luxury brands in order to spit out new designs every week. If you have bought clothing at either one of these stores, you will know how poorly made they are. Back in the day, you could find something in a store that you liked but could not afford or more likely, could not justify for yourself. So maybe you go workout, practice your jazzercise, or give up french fries for a solid two weeks. You begin to see you owe yourself that new sweater. You return to purchase the item. You buy it and put in the back of your closet so that you will continue your new plan of better health. Only it never works out because you find you have nothing to wear one morning and the new sweater comes out of the back of the closet. Well, you can't do any of that anymore. If you wait two weeks to buy something from a store like Forever21, you could return in two weeks, but all the merchandise will have vastly changed. You many find the sweater you had wanted, but it will be marked down and stretched out incomprehensively from too many people trying it on. It may even have a tear or two. So poorly are the fibers stitched together that they can't even stand up to a moderate amount of try-ons. Eileen Fisher accepts her own clothing back from consumers when it is worn out. Then she has something called Renew Stores where they are resold. I already checked, though. There are no Renew Stores in this state. If the item is stained or worn out so bad that it cannot be resold, it is given to employees who redesign it into something new. This line of items is listed under Broken Clothes on her website. It takes plenty of manpower to run a business like this. One item that might need to be recycled or upcycled would take a creative person to look at the potential of it and then create something new. I want to see this model taken to the next level. When I win the lottery, I will find a warehouse and take all old clothing, not just a certain brand. Then, like designers on television, I will just tell my vision of the old clothing to the seamstresses and pattern writers. Boom. That is my business plan. If you know me very well, you probably will find a fatal flaw with this plan. In order to win the lottery, I have to play the lottery. So maybe I'll just find a couple of million lying around somewhere. Maybe I'll start small. So excuse me now. I've got to get sewing. Hey, Eileen Fisher, you hiring? April 7, 2021--William Wordsworth Day
My babies needed shoes. And by God, they would have them if it were the last thing I did. On a Saturday morning, I gathered them into the car and drove to the mall. Eventually, I would streamline the process, but until I had it all figured out, it went down thusly. The first stop was a mall near our house. It was where my son took art lessons every Saturday. While he drew and painted, I strolled my infant daughter through the mall, looking for the latest bargains or perhaps just a cookie. We did this every Saturday, and it was routine. After dropping off Son, Daughter and I cruised the mall, snacking as we went. I looked at children's shoes. Nothing seemed like it was worth the money, however. We picked up Son when art was done and headed for a department store in the same mall. However, first we had to eat lunch. A stop in the crowded pizza kiosk took longer than expected. Then we hit the shopping trail. We landed in a children's shoe section of a large department store. There we were almost the only shoppers. A salesperson was attentive, measured feet, and brought out shoes at my bidding. The place began to look a mess. This guy kept bringing out more shoes, even ones I didn't ask for. It was such a mess, in fact, I felt guilty if I didn't buy something. I picked out a pair of boys' sandals. However, Daughter was not going to have it. She asserted herself. She must have a pair of girls' sandals with flowers on the toes. I surmised them. They did look smart. "O.K., dammit," I thought. "She shall have sandals with flowers on the toes because here she was. At last." During all my time of trying to conceive this child and carrying her to term, I had my own mantra which is a song by Elton John, "You Will Be Blessed." And that is the song that came into my head as I put the coveted pair of shoes in the box to take home that day. I found myself purchasing two pairs of overpriced children's sandals because I couldn't think of a reason to not do it, although what I had in mind was everyday tennis shoes for both of them. As I checked out, I remembered my old friend, Sears, which back then was still open. We walked to the car. I packed everyone in wearing their new shoes. I folded up the stroller and put it in the trunk. Then we headed to yet another mall. Once there, it was the same routine. Unpack them all, place one in her carriage, buckle, lock, take the other one's hand and walk. We found Sears. Again the same routine, except this store was self-serve. The brand new sandals were kicked off, left in the aisle as dozens of pairs of shoes were tried on. I tied ties. I tied bows. I pushed on toes. I unpacked and repacked shoes in boxes that we were not going to buy. Finally, at last, we settled on shoes for her and shoes for him. She was a fan of the light up sneakers. He, on the other hand, wanted a pair endorsed by the Star Wars franchise. I packed everything back up to the best of my ability. The shoe display in the store did not look the same, however. The fresh tissue paper in the shoe boxes lay a wrinkled mess, and regrettably, I am quite sure that not all of the shoes in the boxes matched the sizes that were on the outside. We stood in line, purchased the shoes, and meandered our way back to the car. I packed them in. We headed home. Once there, Husband met us at the door. He wondered what had taken so long. The kids went inside to play, and I handed him boxes and trash that were the remains of our day. We both went inside, and I sat down. I began explaining how we spent our time searching for shoes. How I bought things I never intended to buy. How happy it made them. How much I had overspent. How exhausted I felt. He looked at me and said, "Two kids. Two malls. Too much." Then he handed me a glass of wine, and so I began a new phenomenon called day drinking. My favorite Wordsworth poem is one that I will close with today. It is one that I often quote the lines from. In fact it is the only lines of poetry that I have memorized, and they have served me well: "The World is Too Much With Us." The world is too much with us; late and soon, .... Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;-- ..... By the end of that day, the world was indeed too much with me. And I had wasted my powers. But did I really? Those baby sandals were the first of many shoes I have had the privilege of providing my daughter. I was there when she was fitted for her first toe shoes, her first pair of boots, and her first of pair high heels. William Wordsworth, I love you and happy birthday. But I think we will have to agree to disagree on this one point. Sometimes spending is finding your power, not wasting it. April 6, 2021--Jump Over Things Day
We were on one of our many trips to Florida's white sandy beaches and green waters. That's the Gulf side for anyone who is not from around here. Husband thought it would be fun to stop overnight in New Orleans. So we did. We stayed in Hotel Monteleone. Opened in 1886 by Antonio Monteleone, an Italian nobleman, the hotel is still family owned and operated. It has been the location for various movies and television shows. The most recent one is Girls Trip (2016) starring Queen Latifah and Tiffany Hadish. It is also an official Literary Landmark, a designation given by the Friends of the Library Association. Famous authors who have stayed there are Truman Capote, Ernest Hemmingway, William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, Anne Rice, and John Grisham. I am a fan of old hotels. The kind with high ceilings and marble staircases. We have stayed in old hotels in San Francisco, Galveston, Colorado, and New Orleans. I have a personal goal of staying in all the historic hotels of the world before I die. When I think of all the cities that have them, I've got a long time ahead of me of soaking in claw foot tubs and lying awake all night worrying about the ghosts that haunt the place. Hotel Monteleone in N'Awlins was right in the French Quarter. We arrived late in the day, got settled in our room, and decided to walk to a restaurant for dinner. Along the way, I insisted on stopping at a sidewalk bar for a drink called a hurricane. Then I had another one when we ate dinner. Husband did not join me in my inebriations that night until we were back at the hotel. For starters, he has never been a fan of fruity drinks. They are the only kind I truly like, though. So with hurricanes for sale on every corner as we walked a few blocks to the eatery, I felt at home. We returned to the hotel with me feeling extremely buzzed. Matter of fact, I was so buzzed that walking back to our accommodations, I took Husband's hand. It was not a romantic gesture so much as just a need to not fall off the curb. I don't remember much of the rest of that evening, but do you know that old hotel rooms are smaller than their more modern counterparts? I only mention this fact because as we stayed in that room, we tripped over our own luggage which was everywhere. Daughter was four years old on this trip. And we carried so much luggage to our tiny room that she had a grand time of playing hot lava all about the room. So there we four were. Husband drinking beers he had stashed in our cooler, me buzzed out on hurricanes, Son playing games on his Gameboy, and Daughter hopping all about the room from suitcase to suitcase to furniture. Hot lava is a game I didn't allow inside at home. I am guessing it was played when I was not around, though. There is no better way to ruin nice couch and chair cushions, however, then to allow them to be strewn about the floor and let little children jump on them. Perhaps I should have been drinking more hurricanes at home because on that night I did not care. When we finally got everyone settled down and climbed into bed, my buzz had worn off, but only a little. However, I wish it hadn't because in the street below, there was a parade going by all night long. Jazz music was on my balcony. I believe some trumpet players had climbed up there by way of a trellis and had started blowing their horns in my ears. Do you know why New Orleans is known for chicory coffee and beignets? They are purely medicinal after a night spent there. If you aren't worried about ghosts coming at you in the night, or your small child getting sent to jail for breaking a lamp when playing hot lava indoors, or how those trumpeters got stationed on your room's balcony overnight, then you don't deserve to stay there. March 5, 2021--Dyngus Day/Dingus Day
I am one quarter Polish, but I have never heard of Dyngus Day/Dingus Day. When I tell you what my research revealed, you will never believe me though. It seems that the Monday after Easter is a holiday celebrated in some Polish communities which involves parades, festivals, and is meant as a way to allow people to blow off steam after the season of Lent. There are multiple and complex parts to this holiday:
My grandpa was one hundred percent Polish, I don't believe he knew anything about this festival. I could not find any place in the state of Texas that celebrated this holiday, either. There are only two things that come remotely close in my personal experience, minus the obvious Polish trappings of polka music and dancing, paczki (cream filled doughnuts), and pierogi (dumplings filled with potatoes, meat, cheese, or fruit) and the ubiquitous sausage or polish hotdogs. Once, when I was a kid, my friend and I were playing inside her garage with the door up. Some boys on the street, including her brothers and mine, shot firecrackers at us from across the street to see what we would do. We screamed, of course. That was the reaction they hoped for, and they replied with more bottle rockets sent our way. I don't know if any real harm could have come from this "game" or not. The firecrackers mostly fizzled or exploded just as they hit the parameter of the garage. Could they have done any lasting damage? I do not know. The parents' car was parked inside the garage, so there was the possibility of igniting it, I suppose. Then there was the hot water heater. I wonder if those things ever blow up? And the garage was filled with all kinds of wood and flammable debris--aerosol cans, lawn mower gasoline, and paint remover to name a few. Why did they do this? Because they could, or they could until they got caught, that is. My friend and I participated in this game by trying to hide in the garage so they would not see us. I don't think we thought of it as "all in good fun," unlike my Polish comrades, though. We were also blissfully unaware about potential danger. I think this game was played out of group think that strikes at odd times. The kind of group think that starts with one person saying, "Let's shoot these fireworks at your sisters and see what happens." Unlike the Dingus Day dousing-females-with-water stunt, I'm fairly certain it wasn't a let's-attract-a-female-by-shooting-explosives-at-your-sisters stunt. One of the bottle rockets came perilously close to my friend's head while we were in her garage that day. We decided to be the smarter of the two involved parties and go inside. Once we were safely inside her house, it put an end to anyone shooting fireworks near an interior dwelling. My other example of something akin to Dingus was a prank that my Grandpa pulled on one or two of his grandchildren. And although it involves water, it bears no other resemblance to the Dingus Day events. Grandpa would ask one of his grandchildren, usually a boy, if they wanted to see stars. If they said they did, he would ask them to lie down on the kitchen floor. Then Grandpa would get his jacket from the coat rack. He would ask someone to hold the arm of the jacket over grandchild's face while he filled a glass with water. Grandpa would then tell the grandchild to lie still while he dumped the water from the glass through the arm of the jacket. When the child eventually got up with a soaking wet face, Grandpa would ask them if they had seen stars. You only had to see this trick performed once in your lifetime to never mention stars in front of Grandpa again. I don't think dousing someone with water is ever fun, but these Dyngus Day Festivals have attracted record number of attendees. There must be something to them, although I cannot understand what that would be. April 4th, 2021--Easter Sunday If you are hosting an egg hunt today, you have my sympathy. When I was growing up, my brother and I hunted eggs every Easter before church, and I am pretty sure nobody cried. Besides single eggs that were hidden around our yard, my dad always built an Easter nest out of grass and put about five or six eggs in it. When the nest was found, it signaled that the hunt was over. When you marry into a family, you carry on with their traditions. But sometimes you insist on keeping your own as well. That makes two traditions to be adhered to for certain holidays. For Easter, my husband and I always had the "Easter Bunny" hide eggs the morning of Easter before the children awoke. Then they would hunt for them after breakfast and before church. That was my tradition, the one that I was familiar with. Do you know how exhausting all of that is? It's like hosting a party first thing in the morning and then ending it by telling everyone they had to get all dressed up and put on hard shoes to go sit for an hour on an unyielding wooden bench. When we made it to services on time, it was a great relief. Mostly though, we didn't make it on time. By the time the service reached the silent confessional period, I had plenty to confess--all of the false starts and incriminations in the minutes at home before backing out of the drive way may have led to things worthy of confessing. But instead, inside my head I was usually counting. Calculating how many eggs I had hidden and then subtracting how many eggs were in the baskets that were waiting in the car. There may have been one or two that were eaten by the dogs, so that was my overage. After church, we often headed to my Husband's childhood home where his mother prepared dinner for all seven of her grown children and their families. There are fourteen grandchildren on his side of the family, and everyone was prone to show up. The more the merrier is how my mother-in-law saw it. The tradition on Husband's side of the family is to hunt for eggs after the Easter dinner has been consumed. That meant that when everyone was stuffed to the gills on ham and turkey and ready for a nap, someone had to corral all fourteen thousand kids and hide them in a windowless room while another adult went outside and hid the eggs. Once that was completed, it was a free for all. No one stopped them at the door. No one made sure that the smallest amongst them had their preferred basket in their hands. There wasn't even a real signal. Someone would just stick their head in the door and yell, "O.K!" It was go time. The older ones had an advantage, as their legs were faster, and they were more experienced. And so chaos ensued. At the end of it, someone would get the idea to document the pirates with their booty by taking a photograph. Moms and dads who were all brothers and sisters as well would begin to line up their offspring for an Instagram worthy picture. It was all fun and games until the offspring began looking into each other's baskets and someone eventually said, "I got more eggs than you." April 3, 2021--Holy Saturday When I was in sixth grade, I had a good friend in the fifth grade. We met in Sunday School, and she was the coolest girl I have ever met. When our church had the annual Christmas pageant, and we were both angels, she showed up with gold tinsel glued all around her aluminum foil angel wings. I just had wings. And while hers looked like real wings, mine only looked like aluminum foil wrapped around two coat hangers. Then her family moved, but our parents stayed in touch. Occasionally I was invited to spend the night at her house. She also had the coolest house. She had the nicest parents who allowed us to stay up late as long as we didn't make any noise. And during the day, they allowed us to walk to the park in the middle of their neighborhood which had a pool where we swam. On Holy Saturday, which is the Saturday before Easter Sunday, she got confirmed in her new church. That was when I was in seventh grade, and she was in sixth. And it was the coolest confirmation I have ever attended. All of the girls wore white lacy dresses and veils. I couldn't believe it. Veils! I wanted what they were having. After the confirmation, which was held in the evening, there was a party at her house where a crowd of people gathered. I was not the only friend her age who came to this party. And the food they served was all of an Easter kind of vibe. It was the first time I had seen a homemade cake cut up in the shape of a bunny. My family had moved recently as well back then. And the church we attended after the move was the smallest church I have ever been a member of. The students at our new church didn't get confirmed until the eighth grade, and somehow that made it less fun. Because nothing in eighth grade is ever fun. It is a universal rule followed by thirteen-year-olds meant to keep parents and teachers on their toes.* No one wore veils as this was eighth grade (see above*). The morning of the confirmation, as a matter of fact, I was all ready to go wearing my version of white dress which was really off white and plainer than the dresses worn by the girls at my friend's church. I had brushed my hair and put a barrette in it, resigned at the fact that there was to be no veil. That was the unfortunate moment that my brother chose to inform me of my complete unattractiveness. He asked me why I didn't wear make-up and then went off on how terrible my hair looked. My hair back then was a favorite thing for him to criticize. It was long and straight, and nothing I could do to it seemed to tame it. Maybe my mother should have intervened between me and my hair, but she was still going to the salon once a week to get hers poofed up. A year before, Dorothy Hamill had introduced the precision haircut to Americans. A few girls at my school had one. I would eventually get one, but on the morning of my confirmation, I was still sporting a long, straight mess. So there I was all ready to go get indoctrinated, yet I was in tears because my brother had made me feel un-special. And I was already certain that the church ceremony would be a bust. For the party my parents had at our house, there would only be family members. In all, the day would be in no way like my friend's confirmation had been. I have a picture of my parents and me taken at the church that morning. I don't think I look my best, as I had been crying before. A friend came over recently, and we looked at old pictures together. When she got to my confirmation photograph she commented how much my daughter looks like me. While that could be true, I don't wish anyone to look like the way that I felt on that day. However, it was not all a complete bust. I received a cross necklace from my grandparents as a gift. And my aunt gave me a gold heart shaped pendant necklace. All my brother got on his confirmation was money. And when he wasn't home, I sometimes took the liberty of borrowing from his stash. So, there's that. April 1, 2021--Maundy Thursday (The Last Supper)
If I can be indulged one more time, let's talk about Holy Week. Again. Today is the Thursday before Good Friday. Today is the day Jesus ate his last supper because tomorrow is the day that he died. I suppose he got up on the morning that will be tomorrow and perhaps had some kind of flat bread. Or maybe nothing at all. Then he was arrested, imprisoned, and tortured to death. I should know the details better. All those years of watching Bible movies and attending Sunday School has gotten me only so far. I want to do better by way of this blog. Copious research on my part reveals that the last supper was eaten at the feast of Passover. And that brings us to the cross situation. Before that there is the Garden of Gethsemane. More copious research tells me that sometime after the last supper, and before the betrayal, Jesus had time to walk around in a garden where he came to terms with his impending death. And then came the arrest, and after that came a whole bunch of stuff in a rapid fire kind of way. According Learnreligions.com, at 6 a.m. on what we call Good Friday, Jesus stood trial before Pontius Pilate. Pilate didn't know what to do with him, so moved him to Herod's court. At 7 a.m., Herod returned him to Pilate where he was sentenced to death. That is a whole lot of sh*t happening before nine o'clock in the morning. You know on my worst morning, and trust me, I have had plenty, it was nothing compared to Good Friday. It brings a whole new meaning to that old country song, "The Last Thing I Needed, the First Thing This Morning." All of this shifting blame and court rooms and jurisdictions seems completely plausible. In the worst nightmares of the family and followers of Jesus, I can imagine them getting their hopes up at the thought of Pilate judging Jesus. Perhaps they had heard that he would offer leniency. They may have been optimistic (at least some of them, anyway--no matter what they had been told). Then dash it all, the news that Jesus was getting shifted to another court. Another judge. One who was not known for kindness. And then they may have heard that he was moved back to Pilate. The confusion feels palpable, even now. Pilot, in fact, found Jesus innocent. But what was he to do about the fanatics and crowds who were chanting, "Death to Jesus" and Crucify Him"? In lieu of recent events in our own country, isn't it even more clear as to how things played out? Did Pilot even know the power he was unleashing at his decree of death for Jesus? In that one moment, was there hesitation? Was there even the slightest hint of regret? Oh, wow. I didn't start out to write this much about the trial of Jesus. What I was really thinking about was crosses. When I was out shopping this week, I wanted to purchase a chocolate bunny. I told myself it would be for my kids, but I think we all know it was going to actually be for me. I may have mentioned before how the stores I visited were picked over and low in stock on Easter stuff. I could not find any chocolate bunnies, at least not the good kind. I am talking Dove, Ghirardelli, or Godiva here. But there was not a bunny to be found. What one store did have though, was a chocolate cross. I know it is the Easter Season and all, but I don't think I could bring myself to eat a chocolate cross. It seems wrong. I mean here was this man, who was sentenced to die and did, in fact die, on one of those things, which is a most horrendous kind of death. And yes, he rose again and ended the tyranny of the grave. But all these years later, some candy company has marketed edible chocolate crosses for children. Maybe a chocolate candy cross is a way of slapping the old way of death in the face, but it doesn't sit well with me. Maybe it's all the years of accepting Holy Communion, "The body of Christ for the people of Christ." Maybe it's late in the day or the week. Maybe I am crazy, after all, but I just had to pass on the chocolate candy cross. Just no thank you, please. |
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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