Exactly 13 days into 2014, I kicked my "be more tolerant to others" New Year's resolution straight to the curb. Someone cocooned in an office 1,000 miles away scratched through my line of copy "Suffolk County covers the eastern two-thirds of Long Island." Until it was gone, I hadn't known I cared about Suffolk County or Long Island or how much of Long Island is covered by Suffolk County. Now a visit to Long Island, specifically the eastern two-thirds, is on my bucket list.
On a good day, a penciled out line doesn't send me into an emotional tailspin. Freely, I scratch through the words of other writers, and I expect others will scratch through mine. I recognize that a good editor improves the words crafted by a good writer. Most often, a trimmed word or a crossed line rightfully removes an impediment. But on that day, on the subject of Long Island, I couldn't see it.
Three days after my tirade, I feel better. I look forward to sightseeing Long Island. I will stand with one foot in Suffolk County and my other foot in whatever county accounts for its remainder. I will say, "Wow! Who knew how big Long Island could be? It takes more than one county to cover this much turf!" At that moment, I will be awed and amazed. I just know it.
Missing on Monday was a "thank you." The Long Island edit came from someone who can't say thank you. And it was made at the close of a really long day that capped off a whole series of long days.
I have recovered my inner zen. I also named my no-thank-you guy "Toad," unfair to toads everywhere (sorry) but it feels really good. And I have the joy of Long Island penciled in on my bucket list. Next time I write, I plan to squeeze a totally off-topic Jamaica into my story. As soon as Toad deletes that island paradise, it'll go right on the bucket list. And I will remember to thank myself.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Monday, January 13, 2014
Advice for Penpal's Goldilocks
Christmas Penpal sent the family a Christmas card. It arrived in an envelope marked "K***" on the front as this penpal truly doesn't know exactly to whom she writes. I plan to send a card back. I know, it's January, but I still plan to send a card back. I asked Birdie and Daisy for advice they might share with Penpal's adorable three-year-old Goldilocks. Birdie, having noticed the Penpal Family relocation to one of those big mountain, lots of trees outdoor states--suggested that Goldilocks ask for a pony for Christmas. Then Birdie amended that advice, "ask for ponies." Ironic, as Birdie doesn't care for ponies, having discovered that you can ask your horse to trot through the ocean surf, but that doesn't mean it will do so in a way that is pleasing to the rider.
Daisy claimed to have no advice for Goldilocks. I suspect she wanted to tell her to grab everything that's good as quickly as possible. Should a sibling arrive one day, life will change as Goldilocks knows it. She will gain a playmate--and that playmate will want every single toy. That playmate will also, even at 20 years old, need written proof that it is not her turn to put the ornament Marshmallow Angel on the top of the tree.
That usurper playmate (Birdie) also this year suggest a sisters-only post-Christmas weekend trip by train to Chicago. The trip makes up for a lot of unhappily shared stuff over the years. And with written proof of whose turn it really was to plant Marshmallow Angel on top--Goldilocks, like Daisy, will survive whatever sibling may or may not appear. But still, as Daisy would note, grab everything that's good as quickly as possible. Leave the pony wish for someone else.
Daisy claimed to have no advice for Goldilocks. I suspect she wanted to tell her to grab everything that's good as quickly as possible. Should a sibling arrive one day, life will change as Goldilocks knows it. She will gain a playmate--and that playmate will want every single toy. That playmate will also, even at 20 years old, need written proof that it is not her turn to put the ornament Marshmallow Angel on the top of the tree.
That usurper playmate (Birdie) also this year suggest a sisters-only post-Christmas weekend trip by train to Chicago. The trip makes up for a lot of unhappily shared stuff over the years. And with written proof of whose turn it really was to plant Marshmallow Angel on top--Goldilocks, like Daisy, will survive whatever sibling may or may not appear. But still, as Daisy would note, grab everything that's good as quickly as possible. Leave the pony wish for someone else.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Snakes
Snakes are my oldest memory. I remember my three-year-old self, crying and angry, standing on the driveway of our house at Fort Huachucha, Ariz. I watched my dad kill a batch of baby rattlesnakes. I didn't want the snakes to die.
Twice recently, I've revisited snakes. Big Guy and I encountered a 7-foot Burmese python stretched long on the evening pavement near our Laguna Beach cabin. Non-native pythons are crushing the life from the Florida wild. Our find was an impressive specimen--one that used to ride draped lazily around its owner's head (and that would be another story). With reluctance, we called the sheriff, who called the game warden, who removed the now agitated python in a pillow case.
Snakes reentered my thoughts as Sis and I, along with Mom and others, attended the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tenn. Two separate tellers--one in front of hundreds of listeners, and the other simply in front of 10--related the story of the snake and the frog. Both are predators and prey as they simultaneously swallow each other and disappear. Sis missed that day of telling. An early morning phone call told her a snake bit Middle Child near the ankle. It didn't sound serious, but hours later, as tellers began to speak, another call came. Sis learned the hospital emergency room wasn't releasing Middle Child.
I advised Sis to stay at the festival--a five-hour drive from home--and let Middle Child, who is nearly 25 years old, work out the emergency with his father's help. It wasn't good advice, and Sis didn't take it. She left.
Well-mothered, Middle Child survived--snake-bitten leg intact and sleep deprived from a one-night hospital stay. Today, the snake most likely still lurks in the pine tree woods near Sis's home. No one has found it. Sis got her time to mother--as a son, no matter what the age, is still a child.
But Sis missed the tale, twice told. Snakes die when they're in the wrong place. Sometimes frogs die, too.
Twice recently, I've revisited snakes. Big Guy and I encountered a 7-foot Burmese python stretched long on the evening pavement near our Laguna Beach cabin. Non-native pythons are crushing the life from the Florida wild. Our find was an impressive specimen--one that used to ride draped lazily around its owner's head (and that would be another story). With reluctance, we called the sheriff, who called the game warden, who removed the now agitated python in a pillow case.
Snakes reentered my thoughts as Sis and I, along with Mom and others, attended the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tenn. Two separate tellers--one in front of hundreds of listeners, and the other simply in front of 10--related the story of the snake and the frog. Both are predators and prey as they simultaneously swallow each other and disappear. Sis missed that day of telling. An early morning phone call told her a snake bit Middle Child near the ankle. It didn't sound serious, but hours later, as tellers began to speak, another call came. Sis learned the hospital emergency room wasn't releasing Middle Child.
I advised Sis to stay at the festival--a five-hour drive from home--and let Middle Child, who is nearly 25 years old, work out the emergency with his father's help. It wasn't good advice, and Sis didn't take it. She left.
Well-mothered, Middle Child survived--snake-bitten leg intact and sleep deprived from a one-night hospital stay. Today, the snake most likely still lurks in the pine tree woods near Sis's home. No one has found it. Sis got her time to mother--as a son, no matter what the age, is still a child.
But Sis missed the tale, twice told. Snakes die when they're in the wrong place. Sometimes frogs die, too.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Socks With Sandals
As Tequila and I walk around the neighborhood, I'm often asked if I enjoy my life as an empty-nester. Most often I reply, too rapidly, "It's great." An awkward silence follows.
Whomever asked the question never says what they think out loud--but I can imagine: "Daisy and Birdie seem like such nice girls. How can their mom be so cheerful about having them gone? What don't I know about those girls? Maybe they weren't nice? Perhaps they bullied their parents, stole the last bit of ice cream from the freezer or left their undies lying in the living room. Or wait, could it be that she needed them gone--that their rooms have been rented to strangers? Perhaps, she is running a sock knitting sweatshop or breeding beagles in their bedrooms...no wait, probably not beagles--those would be too noisy."
Invariably, to break the wild train of thoughts, the questioner casts eyes downward and the simple truth reveals itself: I am wearing shapeless white socks with my beat-up sandals, a fashion choice the girls can't tolerate. They have their standards--skimpy skirts, wedged sandals, a blue-etched heart tattoo and a nose piercing. And I have mine. And now, while they are miles away, it is my time to enjoy being me.
Whomever asked the question never says what they think out loud--but I can imagine: "Daisy and Birdie seem like such nice girls. How can their mom be so cheerful about having them gone? What don't I know about those girls? Maybe they weren't nice? Perhaps they bullied their parents, stole the last bit of ice cream from the freezer or left their undies lying in the living room. Or wait, could it be that she needed them gone--that their rooms have been rented to strangers? Perhaps, she is running a sock knitting sweatshop or breeding beagles in their bedrooms...no wait, probably not beagles--those would be too noisy."
Invariably, to break the wild train of thoughts, the questioner casts eyes downward and the simple truth reveals itself: I am wearing shapeless white socks with my beat-up sandals, a fashion choice the girls can't tolerate. They have their standards--skimpy skirts, wedged sandals, a blue-etched heart tattoo and a nose piercing. And I have mine. And now, while they are miles away, it is my time to enjoy being me.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Ark Ability
When God directed Noah to build an ark, the sun shone bright in an optimistic clear sky. Of that I feel certain. No mortal, in the mother of all downpours, would leave a warm and cozy tent to whack at trees as raindrops fall in waves. God needed the ark built well in advance. What is it about long-lasting rain that reminds us we might need an ark? And who would we invite to join us on an ark should we have room to offer? I'd invite my mom as she can cook. And Big Guy can come, too. If it weren't raining, I might ask around the neighborhood and evaluate others for what they might bring to my ark, like strong arms for bailing. But right now, a nap calls to be followed by Judge Judy. Eventually, the rain will stop, I think. Chances are, I will forget to assess my neighbors for ark-ability. But there again, if I stock my ark with enough hungry lions, anyone can travel with me. I'm generous that way.
Monday, April 15, 2013
A Juice Box Or A Moon Leap
The youngest player competing in Augusta National's Masters Golf Tournament was docked a penalty stroke for slow play. Word is, in part, his mother was to blame as she followed her 14-year-old son around the course, urging him to partake of fruit and juice boxes.
I am so envious of her. I would love to follow Birdie around the University of Arkansas--a juice box at the ready should she show the slightest hint of thirst. It won't happen as my little bird would pick up a tree limb, or break off an entire tree, and beat me back to the Missouri line.
And it is not likely I would fare much better with Daisy. The sweet student nurse would likely lure me and my juice boxes into her car and then kick me out in some woodsy pasture surrounded by turkey hunters. The slightest chirp of protest and chances are my feathers would be the ones to fly.
My dear daughters don't want a mom to follow them. But I want them to know, I would if they asked. For them, I would scale rugged mountains, swim the China Sea or leap over the moon. I would eat liver. I would donate a kidney, an eye or an elbow. I would stop traffic, catch a Grand Slam baseball or learn to be a rodeo clown.
I wouldn't succeed at most of these activities the first time. But I would practice a lot and really hard. Birdie and Daisy deserve big band parade fireworks acknowledgement. They are my daughters and I'm proud of the strong, don't-follow-me-with-a-juice-box young women that they've become.
I am so envious of her. I would love to follow Birdie around the University of Arkansas--a juice box at the ready should she show the slightest hint of thirst. It won't happen as my little bird would pick up a tree limb, or break off an entire tree, and beat me back to the Missouri line.
And it is not likely I would fare much better with Daisy. The sweet student nurse would likely lure me and my juice boxes into her car and then kick me out in some woodsy pasture surrounded by turkey hunters. The slightest chirp of protest and chances are my feathers would be the ones to fly.
My dear daughters don't want a mom to follow them. But I want them to know, I would if they asked. For them, I would scale rugged mountains, swim the China Sea or leap over the moon. I would eat liver. I would donate a kidney, an eye or an elbow. I would stop traffic, catch a Grand Slam baseball or learn to be a rodeo clown.
I wouldn't succeed at most of these activities the first time. But I would practice a lot and really hard. Birdie and Daisy deserve big band parade fireworks acknowledgement. They are my daughters and I'm proud of the strong, don't-follow-me-with-a-juice-box young women that they've become.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Background Checks, Worth More Than An Ear-Lick
As I watch two U.S. Senators from different parties stand together to announce their plan to enhance firearm background checks, I fear that one will suddenly lean over and lick the ear of the other. That's what our skinny cat Cracker does to the much heavier Slim Jim right before they break into a brawl.
Get these two felines close enough for a tongue swipe,and an ear-lick fueled fight follows.
While the two first-term senators Joe Manchin (D-WV) and Pat Toomey (R-PA) strive to keep their tongues and ears to themselves, I worry that their example won't hold long enough for the Congress and the Administration to follow suit and work together to pass legislation to make it more difficult for dangerous, mentally ill people to obtain guns.
We can't prevent every tragedy. Naysayers point out that better background checks wouldn't have stopped the delusional young man who killed first-graders at Sandy Hook Elementary School in New Town, Conn. And I believe that holds also for the angry, self-entitled man who murdered my sister-in-law at St. Peters Episcopal Church in Ellicott City, Md. But that's not the point.
Our mission as a thinking people is to do what we can--even if it means starting with a bandage to patch a massive hole in gun misuse. We can do better with background checks. It is not about saving our loved ones, who are lost; it is about saving our loved ones who are still here.
If politicians can behave better than cats poised to brawl, now's the time to prove it. Don't waste the lives we have lost on an ear-lick and a partisan fight.
Get these two felines close enough for a tongue swipe,and an ear-lick fueled fight follows.
While the two first-term senators Joe Manchin (D-WV) and Pat Toomey (R-PA) strive to keep their tongues and ears to themselves, I worry that their example won't hold long enough for the Congress and the Administration to follow suit and work together to pass legislation to make it more difficult for dangerous, mentally ill people to obtain guns.
We can't prevent every tragedy. Naysayers point out that better background checks wouldn't have stopped the delusional young man who killed first-graders at Sandy Hook Elementary School in New Town, Conn. And I believe that holds also for the angry, self-entitled man who murdered my sister-in-law at St. Peters Episcopal Church in Ellicott City, Md. But that's not the point.
Our mission as a thinking people is to do what we can--even if it means starting with a bandage to patch a massive hole in gun misuse. We can do better with background checks. It is not about saving our loved ones, who are lost; it is about saving our loved ones who are still here.
If politicians can behave better than cats poised to brawl, now's the time to prove it. Don't waste the lives we have lost on an ear-lick and a partisan fight.
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