Today kicks off the spring El Pout fishing weekend. Big Guy and about 20 buddies will fish Friday and Saturday at a lake on the Missouri-Arkansas border. Sunday, they return home with dirty laundry, muddy shoes and stories they aren't going to share. Twice, Big Guy left the house this morning. First time, he remembered he remembered his fishing gear. Second time, he remembered his work backpack. It seems that Big Guy forgot he is working one-half day before splitting town.
I look forward to my twice yearly El Pout weekends. The flurry of scooting Big Guy out the door takes me back to the first day of kindergarten for Daisy and then Birdie. Without fail, Big Guy is nearly that excited every time he departs on this fishing trip. And I know that when he returns, he will be a more relaxed, less stressed mate. Big Guy works hard. This weekend with his work buddies and a few other guys gives him a chance to play hard, too.
This time, my El Pout weekend is extra special. Daisy's music sorority is hosting a Mom's Weekend in Columbia, Mo. Sis flies in from Atlanta and then she and I will drive together to Columbia and camp at Daisy's apartment. Birdie will drive up from Fayetteville, Ark. Without fish, water or mud, the four of us will play and feel the pleasure of being with good friends.
On Sunday, we will hug each other hard, pledge to do it again and return to our responsibilities. We won't create a pile of laundry as massive as the one Big Guy creates; neither will mud cake our shoes. But we will have stories and they won't be ones for sharing.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Thursday, April 17, 2014
To Lunch With Daisy
Daisy likes to circle back. She will drop an idea at my feet, let it sit awhile and then follow up to see how what she wants compares to what I'm willing to do. If my thoughts aren't aligned with hers, she circles around a few times more and rechecks to see if I've fixed my thinking.
So when Daisy suggested that I meet her for lunch, I knew I would be dining with Daisy. I'd made the overall vague lunching offer four years ago when she committed to attend the University of Missouri. "It's close enough that I can come for lunch!," I declared. And those words didn't scare her to a more distant school.
Truly, I don't see Daisy often. I did want to do lunch. I didn't want to drive two hours one way to lunch in Columbia, then drive two hours back. So I proposed that Daisy drive my way 30 minutes on Interstate 70 and I'd drive her way an hour and a half. We'd meet in Kingdom City.
A traffic jam derailed the simplicity of my plan. Thirty minutes from Daisy, my Escape crawled on the highway, I crept one and a half miles until the next exit. Then I drove a narrow paved ditch-lined road, through the wooded hills, dips, curves and small towns that prove why in Missouri trees and memories of trees are valued over straight pathways.
An hour and a half late, I met Daisy for lunch. I drove three hours to get there. Never have I wolfed down a pancake at Denny's as fast as the one I demolished at 2:45 that afternoon. In the nearly empty restaurant, we touched base with each other, good conversation between two women.
All too soon, lunch ended. Daisy had a volunteer children's choir practice to lead. I had St. Louis rush hour to face. With reluctance, we hugged and went our opposite ways on I-70. The other side of the interstate, I could see, was still blocked. What I'd missed witnessing before--the wreck of a tractor trailer--lay visible. Someone didn't make lunch, I thought. And my lunch with Daisy was so good.
www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com: This woman is far too unlucky for me to stand near during a thunderstorm, I thought.
So when Daisy suggested that I meet her for lunch, I knew I would be dining with Daisy. I'd made the overall vague lunching offer four years ago when she committed to attend the University of Missouri. "It's close enough that I can come for lunch!," I declared. And those words didn't scare her to a more distant school.
Truly, I don't see Daisy often. I did want to do lunch. I didn't want to drive two hours one way to lunch in Columbia, then drive two hours back. So I proposed that Daisy drive my way 30 minutes on Interstate 70 and I'd drive her way an hour and a half. We'd meet in Kingdom City.
A traffic jam derailed the simplicity of my plan. Thirty minutes from Daisy, my Escape crawled on the highway, I crept one and a half miles until the next exit. Then I drove a narrow paved ditch-lined road, through the wooded hills, dips, curves and small towns that prove why in Missouri trees and memories of trees are valued over straight pathways.
An hour and a half late, I met Daisy for lunch. I drove three hours to get there. Never have I wolfed down a pancake at Denny's as fast as the one I demolished at 2:45 that afternoon. In the nearly empty restaurant, we touched base with each other, good conversation between two women.
All too soon, lunch ended. Daisy had a volunteer children's choir practice to lead. I had St. Louis rush hour to face. With reluctance, we hugged and went our opposite ways on I-70. The other side of the interstate, I could see, was still blocked. What I'd missed witnessing before--the wreck of a tractor trailer--lay visible. Someone didn't make lunch, I thought. And my lunch with Daisy was so good.
www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com: This woman is far too unlucky for me to stand near during a thunderstorm, I thought.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Sink, Float, Listen
Big Guy dug a pond for me and I slipped my mosquito fish into the water. After two days of marveling at their stillness, I figured out they were dead. Unlike goldfish carcasses that float, this pair of dead gambusia sank to the bottom, companionably near one another in their watery grave.
Big Guy was out of town when the gambusia died. That gave me plenty of time to restock with feeder goldfish. They are my go-to fish--cramped together in aquariums earmarked for tiny starter fish bowls belonging to proud children who will forget them after a day and go back to whining for a puppy. (The dead fish, one week later, being proof they aren't ready for a puppy.)
I don't over think where to procure feeder goldfish. Neither do I expect most of them to survive very long. On this day, I went to the Wal-Mart on St. Charles Rock Road. This store at this location reminds me of feeder goldfish. It serves a part of St. Louis where success is measured in touchable, feel-able steps like keeping your kid in high school, planning a summer trip to Six Flags and throwing a few tomatoes in the ground and hoping it's not too early.
I'm not always comfortable at this Wal-Mart. I don't like how the security guard so visibly patrols the parking lot in his car. And the cars in the parking lot bear wear, lots of wear. Even before I park and enter the store, I worry--what if a ragamuffin car backs into my car and the driver doesn't have insurance?
On that day, my thinking felt wrong and dripped with a smattering of racism. Then intentional listening stepped in to change me.
I have tried hard this year to be fully engaged in the conversations that I have--even in the polite back and forth with strangers. As I approached the fish tanks at the back of the Wal-Mart, I noticed the young man stocking the tanks. I didn't see a person--I saw cornrowed-hair and slouching khaki pants with ravel-edged pockets. I felt relief that he was there, and I didn't have to find someone to scoop 38-cent fish.
The worker talked fish as he scooped. I wanted about 20 of them. I said, "You know a lot about fish." He answered, "It's been three years and I'm still learning."
And with those words, for the very first time, I saw him. This person likes the fish; he is a learner and for three years, he has been learning about fish.
Intentional listening took me outside myself and, for a moment, I met someone I didn't know. I bought 25 feeder goldfish and turned them loose in the pond. Only one died. It floats while the gambusia continue to sleep on the bottom.
Big Guy was out of town when the gambusia died. That gave me plenty of time to restock with feeder goldfish. They are my go-to fish--cramped together in aquariums earmarked for tiny starter fish bowls belonging to proud children who will forget them after a day and go back to whining for a puppy. (The dead fish, one week later, being proof they aren't ready for a puppy.)
I don't over think where to procure feeder goldfish. Neither do I expect most of them to survive very long. On this day, I went to the Wal-Mart on St. Charles Rock Road. This store at this location reminds me of feeder goldfish. It serves a part of St. Louis where success is measured in touchable, feel-able steps like keeping your kid in high school, planning a summer trip to Six Flags and throwing a few tomatoes in the ground and hoping it's not too early.
I'm not always comfortable at this Wal-Mart. I don't like how the security guard so visibly patrols the parking lot in his car. And the cars in the parking lot bear wear, lots of wear. Even before I park and enter the store, I worry--what if a ragamuffin car backs into my car and the driver doesn't have insurance?
On that day, my thinking felt wrong and dripped with a smattering of racism. Then intentional listening stepped in to change me.
I have tried hard this year to be fully engaged in the conversations that I have--even in the polite back and forth with strangers. As I approached the fish tanks at the back of the Wal-Mart, I noticed the young man stocking the tanks. I didn't see a person--I saw cornrowed-hair and slouching khaki pants with ravel-edged pockets. I felt relief that he was there, and I didn't have to find someone to scoop 38-cent fish.
The worker talked fish as he scooped. I wanted about 20 of them. I said, "You know a lot about fish." He answered, "It's been three years and I'm still learning."
And with those words, for the very first time, I saw him. This person likes the fish; he is a learner and for three years, he has been learning about fish.
Intentional listening took me outside myself and, for a moment, I met someone I didn't know. I bought 25 feeder goldfish and turned them loose in the pond. Only one died. It floats while the gambusia continue to sleep on the bottom.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Spring Clean
I want to live in a flat world that ends with an edge. With one push of a Swiffler, I want the dust, dirt, bug carcasses, pet hair and bunched up stiff tissues to swoosh over an edge and into another world.
This week, I am spring-cleaning. I've cleared out three closets, two bathrooms and half of a bedroom. I have a lot of house left to go. The right sides, left sides, front sides, back sides and bottoms of most of what fills my home no longer amuse me with cuteness, usefulness, whimsy or eclectic slant.
If I could find a white towel, I would raise it in surrender. If Big Guy journeys on a long trip, I will hire a bulldozer and shove the entire house with contents across the street into the yard of the house recently sold for taxes on the courthouse steps. My junk can join the junk that is already there.
Freed of the responsibility, I will start over with a very small tent. I have the summer to think through a better plan--one that springs me free of dust and clutter.
This week, I am spring-cleaning. I've cleared out three closets, two bathrooms and half of a bedroom. I have a lot of house left to go. The right sides, left sides, front sides, back sides and bottoms of most of what fills my home no longer amuse me with cuteness, usefulness, whimsy or eclectic slant.
If I could find a white towel, I would raise it in surrender. If Big Guy journeys on a long trip, I will hire a bulldozer and shove the entire house with contents across the street into the yard of the house recently sold for taxes on the courthouse steps. My junk can join the junk that is already there.
Freed of the responsibility, I will start over with a very small tent. I have the summer to think through a better plan--one that springs me free of dust and clutter.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
The Guy Who Always Walked His Dog
The world fit Bob poorly. I knew him--everyone knew him--as the guy who always walked his dog. Bob didn't seem to do much else. A neatly dressed, tall and slender man, Bob 'talked dogs' to a few dog lovers. But most of us, including me, viewed him as a silent, predictable presence in our neighborhood.
Until today, I didn't know where Bob lived. But someone pointed me toward his house. As I drew closer, it was easy to spot. Two cuttings of fresh flowers and a stuffed dog toy were tied around the mailbox post.
One week ago, as I discovered today, Bob shot and killed himself. He left a note in the mailbox of a kind and gentle neighbor. It didn't take long for her to figure out what he'd done. He also left a five-page letter specifying where his things should go and naming whom he hoped would take in his dog Walter. And he washed the car in his driveway--one he bought five years ago, never registered and never drove.
With Bob gone, I know more about him. He was 59 years old. Five years ago, he lost his job with the water department. His house was in foreclosure and the electric power was turned off. No one in the neighborhood knew that Bob barely existed. And he wouldn't take help from his siblings. They weren't close, it is said.
The dog lover who told me about Bob grieves for him. She said she wished she'd known--she would have paid a bill for him. But Bob needed a job, one that would let him keep to himself and give him time to walk Walter. And he may have needed treatment for whatever about him made him keep his distance. But jobs, of any type, when you are 59 years old are difficult to come by. And health insurance, access to doctors or a willingness to even speak to one were probably well out of Bob's mental or financial reach.
Our loosely woven safety net of social services might have helped Bob. But in their kindness and efficiency, they would have wanted conversations with him. And Bob only talked about Walter.
Bob picked up a loaded gun, took aim and accomplished his goal. He kept his privacy and our neighborhood lost a good guy who walked his dog all the time.
And at www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com: I stare at her intently, dreading the answer, yet compelled to ask, "Did you eat your babies?"
Until today, I didn't know where Bob lived. But someone pointed me toward his house. As I drew closer, it was easy to spot. Two cuttings of fresh flowers and a stuffed dog toy were tied around the mailbox post.
One week ago, as I discovered today, Bob shot and killed himself. He left a note in the mailbox of a kind and gentle neighbor. It didn't take long for her to figure out what he'd done. He also left a five-page letter specifying where his things should go and naming whom he hoped would take in his dog Walter. And he washed the car in his driveway--one he bought five years ago, never registered and never drove.
With Bob gone, I know more about him. He was 59 years old. Five years ago, he lost his job with the water department. His house was in foreclosure and the electric power was turned off. No one in the neighborhood knew that Bob barely existed. And he wouldn't take help from his siblings. They weren't close, it is said.
The dog lover who told me about Bob grieves for him. She said she wished she'd known--she would have paid a bill for him. But Bob needed a job, one that would let him keep to himself and give him time to walk Walter. And he may have needed treatment for whatever about him made him keep his distance. But jobs, of any type, when you are 59 years old are difficult to come by. And health insurance, access to doctors or a willingness to even speak to one were probably well out of Bob's mental or financial reach.
Our loosely woven safety net of social services might have helped Bob. But in their kindness and efficiency, they would have wanted conversations with him. And Bob only talked about Walter.
Bob picked up a loaded gun, took aim and accomplished his goal. He kept his privacy and our neighborhood lost a good guy who walked his dog all the time.
And at www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com: I stare at her intently, dreading the answer, yet compelled to ask, "Did you eat your babies?"
Monday, April 7, 2014
Love Digs Deep
Big Guy's love for me runs deep. I have a hole in my front yard to prove it.
It all starts with mosquito-fish. Two of them, each no bigger than one-half inch in length, rode in a water-filled plastic bottle (aka a recyclable water bottle) for five days as I traveled from Phinizy Swamp in Georgia to St. Louis, Mo. From there, I moved the critters to a square jar on my bedroom nightstand.
However, much as we are promised a mansion in heaven, these fish are in line for better digs. And they don't have to die to get there. Big Guy has constructed a front yard pond. It's roughly the circumference of a kiddie pool, though oddly shaped, and about 16 inches deep. To pay their rent, I expect the mosquito-fish to eat lots of mosquito-larvae and birth lots of fish babies so there's even more fish to eat more mosquitoes.
As we (meaning Big Guy) prepared the pond, we unearthed tree roots, bathroom tile scraps, night-crawlers and the other mish-mash that makes yard soil so unique. I figured out why bad guys dig shallow graves--digging is hard work and they don't love whomever they are dumping. As the day slipped by, I realized that my mosquito-fish, content with 10 ounces of water in a water bottle, would do o.k. in a five-inch deep plastic bucket or even released into the larger, turtle filled pond a few streets away. But when I get fixated on an idea, no matter how odd, Big Guy does his level best to make my vision come true. He is a deep digger; he loves me, and that's why my fish are moving on up.
So back to that mansion in heaven, I hope I am charged with a task far finer than reproducing by the hundreds and eating mosquito larvae. What I'd really like, now and for infinity and for forever, is to spend my time taking care of Big Guy.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Angelina, I Heard You
I do small things to grab attention.
For example, at Girl Scout day camp I ripped off my t-shirt and threw it on the ground. Two factors in my defense--a wasp crept underneath my shirt and it was very hot.
Another example, also a Girl Scout one, I tried to squat and pee in a cup. Totally missed, drenching one jean leg and one boot with a fresh stream of urine. Again, two factors--I really had to go and the horse-riding facility only offered a stall, as its real stall wasn't working.
So I'm not one to judge. But, Angelina irradiated herself for FloNotes. I found out when Big Guy and I invited Brad and Angelina to come visit one evening. First, they said no. Then, they relented, explaining that Angelina was radioactive. So while they weren't willing to subject strangers to radiation, they would come to our house.
I said fine. After all, I wanted to see Angelina glow. Much to my disappointment, no visible glow. She had swallowed a tiny radioactive pill to kill a naughty thyroid (message to self, don't cross Angelina). The physicians cautioned her--you're hot, for about a week. That means that after 25 years of marriage, Brad had a hot woman, a really hot woman for one week, and he was sleeping in the guest room.
Angelina warned us to keep our distance as we drank wine, played Password and drank wine. Then we played cards and drank wine. We switched from wine to ice cream drumsticks--except for Brad who ate pistachios with their greenish hue, perhaps longing for untouchable Angelina. I clinched fourth place at cards, winkin,' blinkin' and nod figured into a Password victory while no one knew that an office casserole is a conglomeration.
Mostly I forgot about Angelina's radioactive glow. I remember she said--"now this is FloNotes-worthy." And we discussed, or rather I brought up, the amount of radioactive waste Angelina was shedding into her neighborhood's sewer system. Her neighborhood squabbles constantly. If it knew Angelina was glowing, someone would compel her to log each time she flushes and keep details on any clean-up. Her plea for FloNotes to return is the sort of news that grabs attention.
For example, at Girl Scout day camp I ripped off my t-shirt and threw it on the ground. Two factors in my defense--a wasp crept underneath my shirt and it was very hot.
Another example, also a Girl Scout one, I tried to squat and pee in a cup. Totally missed, drenching one jean leg and one boot with a fresh stream of urine. Again, two factors--I really had to go and the horse-riding facility only offered a stall, as its real stall wasn't working.
So I'm not one to judge. But, Angelina irradiated herself for FloNotes. I found out when Big Guy and I invited Brad and Angelina to come visit one evening. First, they said no. Then, they relented, explaining that Angelina was radioactive. So while they weren't willing to subject strangers to radiation, they would come to our house.
I said fine. After all, I wanted to see Angelina glow. Much to my disappointment, no visible glow. She had swallowed a tiny radioactive pill to kill a naughty thyroid (message to self, don't cross Angelina). The physicians cautioned her--you're hot, for about a week. That means that after 25 years of marriage, Brad had a hot woman, a really hot woman for one week, and he was sleeping in the guest room.
Angelina warned us to keep our distance as we drank wine, played Password and drank wine. Then we played cards and drank wine. We switched from wine to ice cream drumsticks--except for Brad who ate pistachios with their greenish hue, perhaps longing for untouchable Angelina. I clinched fourth place at cards, winkin,' blinkin' and nod figured into a Password victory while no one knew that an office casserole is a conglomeration.
Mostly I forgot about Angelina's radioactive glow. I remember she said--"now this is FloNotes-worthy." And we discussed, or rather I brought up, the amount of radioactive waste Angelina was shedding into her neighborhood's sewer system. Her neighborhood squabbles constantly. If it knew Angelina was glowing, someone would compel her to log each time she flushes and keep details on any clean-up. Her plea for FloNotes to return is the sort of news that grabs attention.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
FloNotes-Fine
Angelina irradiated herself. Sis is shedding a straying spouse. Birdie treated herself to Taylor Swift bangs. Big Guy baby-talked Tequila (the dog). Daisy crashed her car. The neighbors had their house sold on the courthouse steps. And Cracker, the cat, kept right on butt-scooting across the carpet. It's unanimous, FloNotes needs a comeback!
For more than six months, I've worried that my friends, family and I are dull. I haven't had a steady stream of words to fill up the FloNotes. And so I let it die in favor of sewing, reading and napping.
Little things told me I was off track--like the weekend that I stitched my finger with the sewing machine needle and Big Guy caught himself on fire--right after I said, "I wouldn't do that." I can find exciting to write about among my friends and family or I can injure those around me, if needed.
I won't give up the sewing, reading or napping. But the grocery store is out. I will write until I have only my words to eat.
It feels good to be FloNotes-fine again. And here's a teaser for my new blog MosquitoNotes. www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com
MosquitoNotes: For nearly a week, across 700 miles, Gambusia affinis rode cocooned in a water bottle, squeezed tight into my Ford Escape's cup-holder. I'd stumbled on a strategy to kill, provided no one got thirsty.
Don't call Homeland Security yet. I'm only partway on my journey to crazy. It's going to be a great ride.
For more than six months, I've worried that my friends, family and I are dull. I haven't had a steady stream of words to fill up the FloNotes. And so I let it die in favor of sewing, reading and napping.
Little things told me I was off track--like the weekend that I stitched my finger with the sewing machine needle and Big Guy caught himself on fire--right after I said, "I wouldn't do that." I can find exciting to write about among my friends and family or I can injure those around me, if needed.
I won't give up the sewing, reading or napping. But the grocery store is out. I will write until I have only my words to eat.
It feels good to be FloNotes-fine again. And here's a teaser for my new blog MosquitoNotes. www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com
MosquitoNotes: For nearly a week, across 700 miles, Gambusia affinis rode cocooned in a water bottle, squeezed tight into my Ford Escape's cup-holder. I'd stumbled on a strategy to kill, provided no one got thirsty.
Don't call Homeland Security yet. I'm only partway on my journey to crazy. It's going to be a great ride.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Long Island Bucket List
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Conceal and Carry
Palwendy counts the days until she turns 21. Her plan: First, celebrate in Las Vegas. Second, obtain her conceal and carry permit. I know these bits and pieces as I follow her Twitter feed.
I write about Palwendy as she shares living space with my daughter Daisy. I count the days until Daisy finishes spring semester and leaves the house, owned by Palwendy and her absentee parents. I think we will beat Palwendy's legal handgun tote-around permit by a week or so.
College is a tricky time to select where you live and with whom you share space. When I met Palwendy, before Daisy signed the lease, she presented herself as a serious student who drank like a college kid, had a long term boyfriend who visited on weekends and liked to hunt.
Through my Twitter spy, my impressions of Palwendy have changed, considerably. She is a responsible hunter who is overwhelmingly passionate about the kill of the sport, and she eats what she kills. However, she is also a racist boozer who hates her housemates. The boyfriend is gone, replaced by a string of young men, and now finally another "boyfriend," one met on the internet.
And this is where my concern grows. I know that Palwendy respects the power of a rifle. But a handgun is a weapon easily set down and forgotten. Will Palwendy remember the handgun in her purse? Will she feel compelled to show her new acquisition to friends who are less respectful of a handgun's power. In a drunken moment, will she be less respectful? Will there be a new less stable, less mature man brought home? Can a bullet fired in her bedroom break through the door and somehow strike my daughter?
In the fall, Daisy moves into new living quarters with friends that are more familiar. Again, she will share space with a hunter. And that's o.k. I haven't asked Daisy if her new housemates have conceal and carry permits. I've come to realize that it is impossible to know. Someone who doesn't have a conceal and carry permit today may obtain one tomorrow. Or the visiting friend may come bearing a handgun in her purse, backpack or jacket pocket.
I learned from this Palwendy year--do not lease space from someone who owns the property where you live and also lives there. The Palwendy parents know their daughter. The mother parties with Palwendy and somehow overlooks the coarseness that permeates Palwendy's on-line presence. Not all families function the same. I wish conceal and carry advocates would consider who else, other than themselves, may carry a handgun. It might be their child's housemate. And the two may not like one another.
I write about Palwendy as she shares living space with my daughter Daisy. I count the days until Daisy finishes spring semester and leaves the house, owned by Palwendy and her absentee parents. I think we will beat Palwendy's legal handgun tote-around permit by a week or so.
College is a tricky time to select where you live and with whom you share space. When I met Palwendy, before Daisy signed the lease, she presented herself as a serious student who drank like a college kid, had a long term boyfriend who visited on weekends and liked to hunt.
Through my Twitter spy, my impressions of Palwendy have changed, considerably. She is a responsible hunter who is overwhelmingly passionate about the kill of the sport, and she eats what she kills. However, she is also a racist boozer who hates her housemates. The boyfriend is gone, replaced by a string of young men, and now finally another "boyfriend," one met on the internet.
And this is where my concern grows. I know that Palwendy respects the power of a rifle. But a handgun is a weapon easily set down and forgotten. Will Palwendy remember the handgun in her purse? Will she feel compelled to show her new acquisition to friends who are less respectful of a handgun's power. In a drunken moment, will she be less respectful? Will there be a new less stable, less mature man brought home? Can a bullet fired in her bedroom break through the door and somehow strike my daughter?
In the fall, Daisy moves into new living quarters with friends that are more familiar. Again, she will share space with a hunter. And that's o.k. I haven't asked Daisy if her new housemates have conceal and carry permits. I've come to realize that it is impossible to know. Someone who doesn't have a conceal and carry permit today may obtain one tomorrow. Or the visiting friend may come bearing a handgun in her purse, backpack or jacket pocket.
I learned from this Palwendy year--do not lease space from someone who owns the property where you live and also lives there. The Palwendy parents know their daughter. The mother parties with Palwendy and somehow overlooks the coarseness that permeates Palwendy's on-line presence. Not all families function the same. I wish conceal and carry advocates would consider who else, other than themselves, may carry a handgun. It might be their child's housemate. And the two may not like one another.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
A Seat At Her Table
I'm thinking about tables. My niece Georgia Woman--nearly two years out of college--is impatient with workplace inequity. Recently, she honed in on what she already knew: For comparable jobs, men make more money than women and men dominate leadership positions and management teams. Women wait to be judged as qualified to sit at the table, rather than nosing out a spot for themselves--asked or not and ready or not. Fed up, Georgia Woman is building her own table. With her blog entry http://connectyourmeetings.com/2013/04/03/a-seat-at-the-table/ construction is underway.
Georgia Woman works in the leisure and hospitality industry, where women fare somewhat better than average. They earn 83.5 cents on the dollar compared to men. That means if a man earns $50,000, a woman earns $41,750. If they each qualify for an end-of-year 15% bonus, the man receives $1,238 more than the woman in holiday cheer. Or consider more grimly, if both pay for a 3Xsalary death benefit and die together, the man's survivors receive nearly $25,000 more in compensation. There is an unfairness in the numbers that women work by every day.
To voice the inequity in pay is like shining a flashlight on the underside of a flipped-over a rock. What other lopsided decisions do women live by and who makes those decisions--not to mention, who benefits. Men, even with their extra pay, may not be the problem. We have to consider the silence of women. It is past time to speak up for what we believe at work, at home and in our religion. We have to push ourselves to lead even when we aren't sure where we are going and/or know that our views aren't liked.
I wonder about the form Georgia Woman intends to give her table. Sometimes a table needs to be round for listening; other times it needs a head clearly marked for where the leader sits. Once she builds her table, will Georgia Woman remember that each surface dent and scratch represents a risk taken? As a fledgling in her industry, Georgia Woman has grabbed a leadership position beyond her years. Many will applaud her. And I predict that many--including me--will want a seat at her table. This woman can lead.
Georgia Woman works in the leisure and hospitality industry, where women fare somewhat better than average. They earn 83.5 cents on the dollar compared to men. That means if a man earns $50,000, a woman earns $41,750. If they each qualify for an end-of-year 15% bonus, the man receives $1,238 more than the woman in holiday cheer. Or consider more grimly, if both pay for a 3Xsalary death benefit and die together, the man's survivors receive nearly $25,000 more in compensation. There is an unfairness in the numbers that women work by every day.
To voice the inequity in pay is like shining a flashlight on the underside of a flipped-over a rock. What other lopsided decisions do women live by and who makes those decisions--not to mention, who benefits. Men, even with their extra pay, may not be the problem. We have to consider the silence of women. It is past time to speak up for what we believe at work, at home and in our religion. We have to push ourselves to lead even when we aren't sure where we are going and/or know that our views aren't liked.
I wonder about the form Georgia Woman intends to give her table. Sometimes a table needs to be round for listening; other times it needs a head clearly marked for where the leader sits. Once she builds her table, will Georgia Woman remember that each surface dent and scratch represents a risk taken? As a fledgling in her industry, Georgia Woman has grabbed a leadership position beyond her years. Many will applaud her. And I predict that many--including me--will want a seat at her table. This woman can lead.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Yes, You Can
At the Village Inn in Bentonville, Ark., the waitress laid a plate of breakfast crepes topped with strawberries and whipped cream in front of Daisy. For Birdie, she set down a dish of scrambled eggs, crisp bacon and hash-browns. For me, it was scrambled eggs, bacon and pancakes.
At that moment--on the Sunday of Mom's Weekend at the University of Arkansas--I unwisely turned the conversation to the small hole Daisy has punched into her right nostril. It has been there for two years. And I still have a hard time accepting that my daughter paid good money to add a hole to her face.
That's when my two sweet daughters morphed into one bundle of adult independence:
"I could get my eyebrow pierced. Both eyebrows if I wanted. And I could pierce them really close to my nose, and you couldn't stop me.
"I could get the middle of my nose pierced. I could get my cheek pierced. Or my tongue pierced and wiggle the stud at you. I could get my lip pierced. "
I could even get my tongue forked," declared The Birdaisy.
"Forked?" I said.
"Yeah, forked--split in two at the tip," confirmed Birdaisy. "And tattoos--I could get as many tattoos as I want. I could get tattoos on my face and you can't stop me."
"Have you added another tattoo?" I asked Birdie.
"I don't know," she replied, with a shrug.
"Seems to me like you should know if you have another tattoo," I said. "And should either of you get your tongue forked, I want to watch."
With our independence and detachment firmly stated, we dove back into breakfast.
"Did you bring me a case of Dr. Pepper?" asked Birdie.
"No. They sell Dr. Pepper in Fayetteville and you have a car to go get it," I answered.
"And, if I put breakfast on my credit card, you'll pay me back?" asked Birdie.
"Yes, I'll pay you back," I say.
I am still mom. I will buy breakfast, but not sugary soda. And I reserve the right to say "I told you so." If there's a future family photo featuring a forked tongue, a pierced cheek or a cat permanently etched into a forehead, I won't be the one wishing for a re-do.
At that moment--on the Sunday of Mom's Weekend at the University of Arkansas--I unwisely turned the conversation to the small hole Daisy has punched into her right nostril. It has been there for two years. And I still have a hard time accepting that my daughter paid good money to add a hole to her face.
That's when my two sweet daughters morphed into one bundle of adult independence:
"I could get my eyebrow pierced. Both eyebrows if I wanted. And I could pierce them really close to my nose, and you couldn't stop me.
"I could get the middle of my nose pierced. I could get my cheek pierced. Or my tongue pierced and wiggle the stud at you. I could get my lip pierced. "
I could even get my tongue forked," declared The Birdaisy.
"Forked?" I said.
"Yeah, forked--split in two at the tip," confirmed Birdaisy. "And tattoos--I could get as many tattoos as I want. I could get tattoos on my face and you can't stop me."
"Have you added another tattoo?" I asked Birdie.
"I don't know," she replied, with a shrug.
"Seems to me like you should know if you have another tattoo," I said. "And should either of you get your tongue forked, I want to watch."
With our independence and detachment firmly stated, we dove back into breakfast.
"Did you bring me a case of Dr. Pepper?" asked Birdie.
"No. They sell Dr. Pepper in Fayetteville and you have a car to go get it," I answered.
"And, if I put breakfast on my credit card, you'll pay me back?" asked Birdie.
"Yes, I'll pay you back," I say.
I am still mom. I will buy breakfast, but not sugary soda. And I reserve the right to say "I told you so." If there's a future family photo featuring a forked tongue, a pierced cheek or a cat permanently etched into a forehead, I won't be the one wishing for a re-do.
Monday, February 11, 2013
When Holidays Collide...
Christmas. Priceless.
Easter. Invaluable.
Put 'em together and it's $32 "firm" at the antique mall.
Easter. Invaluable.
Put 'em together and it's $32 "firm" at the antique mall.
Friday, February 8, 2013
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