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 |  Who knows what's to be found inside my head? |
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March 12, 2007 Life in transition. It’s a common theme for everyone, I think. In one way or another all our lives change day-to-day, month-to-month, year-to-year. Sometimes though, the changes come fast and hard. When I got married I moved out of the home I’d lived in since I was eighteen months old. In a few weeks I’ll move out of the house I’ve lived in for the past twenty-eight years, and away from the local I’ve lived in my entire life. After thirty years of being the wife of an executive who worked sixty hours a week, and took numerous business trips out of the country each year, I will find myself the wife of a semi-retired man who works from home. After a lifetime of suburban living, where no convenience is out of walking distance, we’ll be living in the mountains, thirty minutes out of town. Yeah, life is changing. Can I keep up with it? That’s the question. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Sunset in April on the lake in our Forest Lakes back yard. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Thank you to Voxxylady  for the fantastic sig!Thank you to carlton607  for the gift of the awardicon. If you have time, visit his port. He's a talented writer, and I'll bet you enjoy the Cash N'Advance and Gil and Dolores stories.{/b}
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| Well, Thanksgiving is over so now we’re officially in the Christmas season. Of course, some stores have had their displays of Christmas trees and ornaments out for a few weeks already, but now we hear Christmas music playing on the radio. In another week, there will be several Christmas tree lots scattered across town and more houses will be decked out with lights and yard decorations. Turn on the television and it's impossible to miss the frequency of holiday commercials. The merchandising frenzy has begun. This is a time of year that many people can hardly cope with. The stress of shopping and decorating and baking can be overwhelming. Watching greed and materialism overtake the holiday is enough to send many into depression. I have fallen victim to both the stress and depression in years past. There were a few years when I had no heart for Christmas. I put up a front for the girls – we got a tree and I bought presents – but I would have been happier if the season had been cancelled. I was happily saved from that, though. I say, “happily” because Christmas is a season that I really do love to enjoy. I have such fond memories of childhood Christmases – of decorating the house (every horizontal surface got some sort of decoration); watching my father put up the lights on the house and falling asleep to the blink, blink, blink of colored bulbs hung outside my bedroom window; baking cookies, fudge and candy with my mother; shopping in brightly decorated stores and later, malls; decorating the Christmas tree with my sisters and turning off the living room lights to bathe in its soft glow; doing the housecleaning with Christmas music playing, one LP another for hours; wrapping presents and making a special bow for each; making Christmas ornaments to give as family gifts; lighting candles in the bathrooms on Christmas Eve; drifting to sleep on Christmas Eve with the wonderful anticipation of the next morning; the thrill of reaching into my Christmas stocking, wondering what I’d pull out next. The unwrapping of the presents was the culmination – an event the family savored as one gift at a time was unveiled. So many years of these repeated activities and their accompanying emotions of joy have left a memory of Christmas that I can’t separate from myself; the emotions associated with family and Christmas define a part of who I am. During the time when I emotionally boycotted Christmas, part of the depression I felt was, I think, a result of betraying the legacy that had become part of me. I’m not thrilled with the commercialization of Christmas today, but I’ve discovered I can separate myself from it. I immerse myself in the lovely parts of the season celebration. I just love driving up the street and seeing the lights shining along our roof and eves, and the lighted garland bordering the front window. We take time to drive around the neighborhood to enjoy the decorations others have set out to adorn their houses. I enjoy the music of the season – music we only hear a few weeks out of the year. The groves of cut trees occupying portions of the grocery store parking lots smell wonderful and liven up the drab tarmac. Store and mall decorations are colorful, the giant lit trees a wonder, the Santas and elves a friendly presence. Crowds become a theater, standing in line an opportunity to visit with a stranger or lose myself in thought, searching for a parking space a puzzle to be solved – and, oh, the rejoicing when a car pulls out just at the right time! I can even enjoy the television commercials – they are often funny and creative; when they get to be repeated too often, I simply tune them out. I have learned to find enjoyment and joy in these weeks leading up to Christmas by refusing to put pressure on myself, by accepting the busy-ness of the season, by allowing the happy memories of childhood free access to my heart, and finding every reason to be grateful. And in remembering why I celebrate Christmas. It doesn’t matter what goes on around me, and I can participate in Christmas rituals such as decorating and gift giving and parties (complete with white elephant exchanges) without shifting ground or compromising my spiritual standing, and without letting my personal pleasure slip away. My experience has taught me that as long as I have the intention to find joy, I do. Actually, that applies to everything in my life, all year long. |
| After I wrote yesterday’s blog entry, I remembered about an early morning last year when I helped Deresa and other firefighters run their dogs through a training course. The venue was an old hospital that had been destroyed in the 1971 Sylmar earthquake. I suppose it was simply too expensive to restore the old, damaged buildings and rebuild the multi-story hospital, so the property has been left untended all this time. Some of the buildings have served as storage for boxes of light bulbs, old furnishings and other unwanted odds and ends that were left behind; other buildings had been emptied. In the days before the training, Deresa and a few others spent hours onsite, dragging debris and rubble into the rooms. Truckloads of wooden palates and other junk that might be found on a disaster site were distributed throughout the complex. Other volunteers, like myself, arrived in the pre-dawn to hide among the wreckage and pose as victims. I was taken into a back room of a warehouse where I was instructed to wait quietly and play the part of a deaf-mute. In turn, each of the dogs and their handlers entered the building and began searching. I could hear the commands given the dogs over the recorded sound of rattlesnakes in the next room. Chicken ahead: Deresa keeps a number of animals on her property, from goats to chickens to rabbits, and anytime one of the smaller critters dies, it gets put in a freezer for use in dog training. She also has a number of interesting contacts who keep her supplied with valuable training items. So it was no surprise to me when, earlier that morning, she’d pulled out of the firehouse freezer a bag of frozen rattlesnake. The snake, thawed and accompanied by a recording of rattling noises, created a useful distraction for the dogs being tested. It also revealed which dogs needed rattlesnake avoidance training. Back now to the story. I spent about four hours sitting in the dusty, freezing, dark room waiting for dogs to find me. Most did. They entered the room, looked at me, then gave the alert they’d been trained to use. Some simply sat and waited, others barked. The handler is tested too. Not only must he direct his dog correctly, he must watch and understand his dog’s behavior. If a victim is found, he is responsible for gathering information and calling rescue workers. I, being a deaf mute, could not cooperate well with them, and that was part of their challenge. It was interesting to observe my own emotional response to the activity. I was not injured or in need of rescue, but each time I heard the dog and his handler enter the building, a spark of adrenaline flashed through me. I hoped – so hoped – the dog would find me, and each time one did, I was filled with gratitude. I wanted to hug the fellow and say “thank you.” I wanted to express my appreciation to the handler too, but was not allowed to do either. When it was over, I got to go home and take a nap. The firefighters still had more training to do, and then had to clear the rooms of the debris and rubble. It’s a lot of work, and it goes on several times a year in various places across the country. Some of the trainings are held outdoors in the wilderness, where “victims” have to hide and wait in the dirt and heat, fending off insects as well as boredom; sometimes they must make difficult climbs to reach their hiding places. The firefighters and their dogs are always ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice, and on occasion, a moment is all they’re given to get home, pack their gear and head out to do the job. I’ve stopped by Deresa’s to find her in the middle of the living room floor packing her bags with the specific equipment she needed for a job she and Ranger had been called out for. I’ve taken some comfort in knowing if I fell over a cliff while hiking, Desera’s dogs would most likely be the ones to find me  I tell Ron, “If you don’t hear from me, call Deresa.” There was a day, in fact, when she was ready to head out into the hills to search for her ex-husband who’d gone on a hike and hadn’t returned. Turns out he’d gotten lost, and eventually made his way to the highway where he hitched a ride, but if he’d been injured and in need of rescue, Ranger would have found him. And I know the excitement he would have felt upon hearing the dog approach.I consider it a privilege to have had the opportunity to participate in the training of dogs who one day may save a life, or may find a body, and by so doing give comfort and closure to others. |
| Those of you who’ve been reading my blog for a while know about Rowdy, my border collie with a foot fetish, whom I recently had to give away. There are still, quite naturally, moments when I think of him and miss him. But Friday I got a huge reminder in the form of a news article about his grandmother and brother. My friend Deresa, is currently a fire inspector, and also a fire department paramedic – a job she’s performed for thirty years. And she’s been training and working with search and rescue dogs for the past twenty-one years. She’s taken Bella, Rowdy’s grandmother, on numerous search missions, and the dog has come to be quite famous. Deresa and Bella were invited to ride the final float in the 2001 Rose Parade. Here are some excerpts from the article: Teller, with Bella at her side, met face-to-face with the unthinkable disaster at the World Trade Center. It was nothing like what the seasoned rescue worker had ever experienced before, she said. “It was unbelievable. I felt like I was in a Terminator movie,” Teller said. “The magnitude of it was just everywhere. It went on for blocks and blocks.” For the first few days after the towers collapsed, Teller and Bella searched the mountains of concrete and steel for signs of life. It was a dangerous undertaking, with 30-foot drops in between the debris. “We were actually walking on the steel girders. That’s how we got from one place to the other. Bella did very well. It’s amazing how dogs just know. They were good about not jumping off the girders. “I knew when we got in there it was pretty unlikely there was going to be live people. In the rubble we were searching we didn’t see any computers or furniture or file cabinets, like we saw in the Oklahoma City bombing.” Teller gave Bella the signal to search for cadavers. When rescuers found a crushed car under the debris, Bella signaled that a body was inside. Her skills eventually helped the rescuers find several bodies. The team worked 12-hour to 16-hour days for 12 straight days. In the down time, fellow rescue workers relaxed and decompressed by tossing Bella her favorite toy, which she’d be happy to fetch for hours on end. Bella is especially unusual in that she is a cancer survivor. She went through 14 radiation treatments that kept her away from rescue work for six months. When she went to Ground Zero, Bella was considered “up there in age” at nine years old, and she had just recovered from cancer of the leg. Bella has had a long and illustrious career. She helped emergency crews in Oklahoma City find four bodies. In August, 2001, she found the body of a young Simi Valley girl who had been assaulted and murdered, then dumped in a local canyon. Now Bella is 15 years old, and retired. Her son Ranger, and daughter Charlotte (Rowdy’s litter-mate) are taking up the torch. Charlotte is still in training; Ranger has been working for a number of years. Though Deresa has told me Bella was exceptional in that she could switch from live to cadaver searching in mid stream, Ranger is a better search dog for rescue work. Winter before last, Deresa and Ranger went into the local hills to search for survivors of a landslide, caused by torrential rains; they also did search work in Biloxi Miss, which was hit hard by Hurricane Katrina. Sadly, in both cases, Ranger found no one alive. Though news articles inevitably focus on the dogs and their achievements, it’s true that Deresa deserves as much praise as her canines. I’ve known her for going on fourteen years and have seen the dedication and hard work and financial investment required to do this work. She travels the country regularly for training and evaluation sessions, keeping her dogs’ skills honed and helping other owners to bring their dogs up to the job. Deresa and her dogs enjoy the work, and willingly dedicate themselves to all the hours and travel and sleepless weeks required. I admire them all, and was always proud that my dog was related to these accomplished animals. I’ve been proud as well, to know this woman who gives much and works hard for the good of others. |
| I saw a movie a while ago about a wedding planner. This was an Indian film and the organizer of the big event was a little man who had a fascinating habit. He ate marigolds. For some reason, I was enthralled by the sight of this man nibbling on the orange blossoms. At the time I thought this was an ingenious writer’s device to create a memorable character – one who won’t be forgotten on account of his extremely odd behavior. Well, blow me down. What did I find in my grocery store the other day? Packaged marigolds in the cold aisle, next to the fresh thyme and sage and rosemary. Come to find out, the practice of eating flowers isn’t all that unusual. Flowers have been used as a food for thousands of years. Romans commonly used violets in their dishes, Hispanic cultures ate stuffed squash blossoms, Asian Indians used rose petals, and the French liqueur Chartreuse contains carnation petals. Evidently, edible flowers can be quite tasty, and make a nice addition raw in salads, cooked with an appetizer or main course, infused into sauces or added to desserts. I found a list of the twenty most tasty and versatile, but I’ve only listed some of those:  Calendula (Marigold) - A spicy, peppery flavor that turns foods a golden color. Also known as "Poor Man's Saffron" because of their flavor. Use them in soups, pasta, herb-butters, rice dishes or salads, or even try them in scrambled eggs. Carnation - A clove-like flavor, with a spicy/sweet kick. They can be steeped in wine or candy, or used to decorate baked goods. Chrysanthemum - A pungent, slightly bitter flavor, similar to mild cauliflower. These petals should be blanched before using, then make great salad toppers or stir-fry additions. Dandelion - Best when picked young, dandelions have a sweet, honey flavor. They can be made into a potent wine, eaten steamed with rice, or served raw over a salad. Hibiscus - A flavor similar to cranberry and citrus, the petals are slightly acidic. They can be used in salads or boiled to make a tea. Lilac - A pungent, lemon-like flavor with a strong perfume and floral taste. Excellent in salads. Nasturtium - One of the most common edible flowers, they have a sweet, spicy, peppery flavor similar to watercress. The flowers can be used on sandwiches, appetizers or salads, or can be stuffed. Pickled nasturtium seedpods are often used as an inexpensive alternative to capers. Pansy - A mild, grassy, sweet flavor. Excellent for garnishes and added to fruit or vegetable salads, desserts and soups. Queen Anne’s Lace - A mild, carrot-like flavor that's best used in salads. Roses - The flavor is subtle, but similar to green apples and strawberries with fruity, spicy or minty undertones (darker varieties have stronger flavors). Use them in desserts or salads, syrups and jellies, or to make flavored punches or butters. (For an impressive display, try freezing them in ice cube trays and serving the cubes in a punch.) Squash Blossoms - The blossoms from squash and pumpkin have a flavor similar to raw squash and are often served breaded and fried, or stuffed whole. Sunflower - The petals have a slightly bitter flavor and should be blanched before eating, then are great on salads. The sunflower bud has a flavor similar to an artichoke, and can be steamed. Tulip - A sweet, cucumber-like flavor that's excellent on salads. (Only the petals, NOT the bulbs, are edible.) Violet - A sweet, fragrant flavor that works well on salads. Also great for garnishes, desserts and punches.If you decide to experiment with eating flowers, be sure they have not been treated with pesticides, which means don’t get them from the florist, or even from your own yard, if you’ve been spraying. And don’t gather them from the side of the road, where they can pick up all kinds of toxic pollutants. In general, only the petals should be eaten, not the stems, pistils or leaves. And of course, if you have allergies special care must be taken. Now that Fall is upon us, fresh flowers for eating aren’t going to be abundant, but Spring is ahead, out there beckoning from a distance, and the flowers will be waiting.  Something to look forward to |
This past summer, I stood at the sink doing dishes and reading the headline of the little local rag that lands in our driveway every Friday. It said, “No More Power Outages Expected.” I had no sooner read the final word, than the electricity went out. But the thing that makes the moment more memorable is that I was also at the time reciting a mantra: Wash, Dry, and Put Away. Since our girls moved out, I’ve quit using the dishwasher. I hate unloading it, and with just the two of us in the house it seems easier to wash the dishes and put them away as we use them. It further occurred to me that there have always been three-sided mantras in my routine.  Floss, Brush and Rinse – with mouthwash Shed, Wire and Soft (the order of brushes used in grooming the dogs) Saddle, Martingale, and Bridle (tacking up the horse) Dust, Vacuum and Mop (floor cleaning routine) Blot, Tip and Blend (chanted when I was painting) Signal, Look and Turn (while learning to drive) Nose, Mouth and Ears (beddy-by routine – essential oils under the nose, Bert’s Bees on the lips, and iPod or ear plugs in the ears) Press, Twist and Pull (in that order to disengage my feet from the bike pedal clips that attach to the bottom of my riding shoes) Focus, Hold, Press (for taking pictures with my digital camera. The hold is for holding my breath – if I breathe I get a blurry photo!)Then there’s the Drop, Stop and Roll (if I ever find myself on fire) Airway, Breathing and Circulation (in case I ever come across someone who’s unconscious and in need of CPR)I can probably come up with more, if I put my mind to it. I wonder how many of you have hidden triplets in your lives??? Oh, and about that power outage. A car had a run-in with a power pole a few blocks away, so the officials were off the hook. |
| I no longer eat hot dogs, but there was a day when they were a staple in our house. We especially liked them with Denison’s canned chili con carne ladled over them, topped by a sprinkling of cheddar cheese and minced onions. A smear of mustard inside the bun added the perfect zing. Oh, yea, those were good. But like I say, I don’t eat them anymore. Well, that is unless they are all beef, Kosher Hebrew National dogs. I’ll enjoy one of those from time to time. For those of you who enjoy your hot dogs, here are a few interesting thoughts. 20 billion wieners are sold each year. That amounts to 70 dogs per person per year. But the million dollar question is, what are hot dogs made of? According to the National Hot Dog and Sausage Council: "All hot dogs are cured and cooked sausages that consist of mainly pork, beef, chicken and turkey or a combination of meat and poultry. Meats used in hot dogs come from the muscle of the animal and looks much like what you buy in the grocer's case. Other ingredients include water, curing agents and spices, such as garlic, salt, sugar, ground mustard, nutmeg, coriander and white pepper." There are, however a couple of caveats. Aren’t’ there always? On your hot dog label, you may find the phrase, “with variety meats” or “with meat by-products.” Here’s where you may want to shudder, as such “variety meats” include things like liver, kidneys and hearts. Of course, there may be a Texan or two out there who enjoy such delicacies  And I guess, for a hot dog enthusiast, it wouldn’t matter, seeing as how the seasonings pretty much equalize everything. And maybe the organ meats create a to-die-for texture. Economics may also play into the scenario. Hearts are cheap.Here’s another phrase to look for: "made with mechanically separated meats (MSM).” According to the U.S. Food Safety and Inspection Service (FSIS), mechanically separated meat is "a paste-like and batter-like meat product produced by forcing bones, with attached edible meat, under high pressure through a sieve or similar device to separate the bone from the edible meat tissue." Due to fears of mad cow disease, mechanically separated beef is no longer allowed in hot dogs, but your franks can have up to 20 percent mechanically separated pork and there’s no limit for mechanically separated chicken or turkey. Some fun facts to wow your friends with: During last year’s baseball season, Americans ate enough stadium hot dogs to stretch from RFK stadium in Washington DC to At&T stadium in San Francisco. New Yorkers eat the most hot dogs. Travelers in Chicago’s O’Hare airport eat six times more hot dogs than those passing through Los Angeles International and La Guardia airports combined. There is a hot dog season. It stretches from Memorial Day to Labor Day. This is when Americans eat 7 million hot dogs. And on the Fourth of July, we eat 150 million wieners.Apart from the fat content, the danger in eating hot dogs lies with the sodium nitrate and MSG added as seasonings and to preserve the meat. The nitrates have been linked to cancer, and the MSG has been shown to kill off neurons. As a once in a while treat, a hot dog is not likely to cause any of us problems, but whoever’s eating my 70 per year on top of their own, is asking for trouble. Just make sure, if you top your dog with chili, that the chili HAS NO BEANS!! |
Some kids stood in line each day for a hot lunch from the cafeteria. I did this twice that I can remember. The first time was a disaster. Standing in line behind a boy I did not know, I held my money in my hand and counted my coins. I was a little bit nervous because my friends were already eating the lunches they’d brought from home and I worried that they would all be finished and on the playground by the time I sat down with my tray of food. So, I kept one eye on my class lunch table and one eye on the jeans pocket of the boy in front of me. At some point in time, just before arriving at the head of the line to pay, I decided that I had a dime too much money. What to do? Panic set in as I tried to figure out a way to get rid of the extra money. The jeans pocket seemed perfect. I slid the dime, undetected, in that boy’s pants, like a spy making a cold drop. Here I was ditching coins again! Naturally, when I got to the cashier, I was informed that I was a dime short. I couldn’t possibly admit that I had secretly given my dime to that stranger- boy who was already being handed his food. I was told to go to the office. Wide- eyed, I nodded and toddled off, even though I had no idea which of the many doors lining the walk was the office entrance. They were all blank doors, one for the nurse, one for the office, and a couple for some mysterious rooms that I just didn’t even want to know about. Eventually, some big kid showed me the office door, and that is where my memory ends. What happened on the other side of that tall, blue door is buried deep. One lunch period in fourth grade changed my life. In the spring a new girl joined our class. Her name was Christy and she had the longest, thickest brown hair I had ever seen. My mother would never let me grow my hair long like that – it would have been too hard to take care of and impossible to put up in pin curls on Saturday nights. I fell in love with Christy right off the bat and found a way to sit next to her at lunch time. Christy’s mother worked, but somehow managed to make and pack lunches for Christy and her brother. These lunches were works of art. The sandwiches weren’t just bologna or PB&J. They were Egg Salad, piled an inch thick on soft, white bread. There was a baggie bulging with chips and fascinating Desserts. After about a week, while we were still in our awkward stage of budding acquaintance, we were once again sitting next to each other at lunch time. When it came time to advance to Dessert, Christy pulled out hers and I pulled out mine. It was Easter time, and I was not allowed to bring Easter candy to school, so all I had on that day was a dye stained, pre pealed Easter egg, without salt (uggh). Christy had brought a chocolate covered marshmallow bunny. I don’t know if my eyes bulged or saliva dripped from the corner of my mouth, but Christy offered to share her bunny with me. She divided it in two and we each ate half. From that day forward we were best friends, calling each other Bunny – a friendship that lasted all through High School. Even in Jr. and Senior high I always brought my lunch, if I ate any at all. Usually though, I went without. School started early and it was miles away, so I preferred the extra time in bed. Since I generally didn’t bring a lunch, I loved to spend seventy-five cents at “nutrition” for a slice of cinnamon crumb encrusted coffee cake the size of a napkin and an inch and a half thick. Yes indeedy, that was nutrition, allright!  The best part of the day. At lunch time I hit tennis balls against the handball backstop or gossiped with my girlfriends, or watched my boyfriend eat the lunch his mother had made for him. The cafeteria remained a dark, mysterious place the secrets of which I had no interest in discovering. Which I guess is OK. |
| After buying the milk from my heart-throb, I would sit down at the communal class table and repeat the same lunch-time routine that had been going on for six years. Basically the routine went like this: sit on the hard bench of the table – in the sun because the lunch tables were not under any overhang. Pull a sandwich out of the paper bag (or lunch box, depending on the year). This sandwich had been made by me that morning. I’m sure at some time, when I was very small, my mother made my lunches but I have only the vaguest memories of being handed my brown lunch bag as I walked out the door. All I remember is making lunches myself, while Mother was still in bed. I left for school before she got up to get ready for work. Anyway, this sandwich was made from two pieces of Wonder bread, which had been purchased in bulk at the day-old store and kept in the laundry room freezer. Between the bread usually went bologna and mayonnaise, no tomato or lettuce. Those sophisticated touches didn’t show up until Junior High School. Sometimes though, it would be peanut butter and strawberry jam, or sandwich spread. This was a disgusting mix of bologna, American cheese, and sweet pickles, which had been put through the hand cranked meat grinder. I really didn’t like it much, but once a year I was given the task of making tons of it – it froze really well. Over the years it sort of grew on me. In fact, I discovered it could taste quite good between two pieces of buttered bread and grilled so the cheese got all hot and melted. But for school it was cold and raw. The sandwich may or may not have been cut in half, depending on my mood, and it was placed in a baggie with a fold over top. The sandwich always got eaten first. Then the chips. We never had full sized bags of chips in the house so I couldn’t bring a baggie full of chips. Instead, I took a miniature bag of Lays – plain or bar b-que, or if I was really lucky, Cheetos. Now, if the sandwich happened to be bologna it was permissible to layer chips in the sandwich to get a good crunch, especially if I had been off my rocker in the morning and included a piece of American cheese, which I hated. In that case, chips were definitely required to get the sandwich down. Every once in a while, I’d think, “maybe today I’ll like American cheese,” so I’d try it out. I still don’t like it. The entire ritual of eating the cold sandwich and the chips was set in place for the purpose of leading up to the “Dessert”. This was the only important part of the bag lunch, but not to be eaten first lest the lovely, lingering taste be covered up by Sandwich and Chips. And no one was ever so un-kosher as to toss the first and second courses altogether – we were at least that civilized. In a mysterious, deep subconscious way we knew that some measure of nutritional responsibility had to be kept or we’d all end up fishing for toss-outs in the garbage cans, like feral dogs. The sandwich and chips simply had to be eaten, even if they were lousy. Dessert was a twinkie, or ding-dong, or one of those cookies topped with an igloo of marshmallow and pink coconut. These, like the bread, were purchased in bulk once a month at the Wonder Bread day-old store and kept in the freezer. I never noticed that the quality was in any way compromised by this treatment. Despite the cliché of trading lunches, that was something that rarely happened in my school experience. We kids ate what we brought, good or bad. Sometimes, there was some sharing of chips, and the occasional “I’ll give you half of my sandwich if you give me half of yours.” But there was never any sharing of carrot sticks or boiled eggs. This wasn’t because the kids who found these in their lunch bags considered them too valuable to share, but because there were no takers! Once in a while, I’d receive money from my mother for a hot lunch. Standing in line and moving slowly to the open doors of the cafeteria, then passing through into that mysterious room always sent my heart pacing. But I guess that tale will wait for the final installment. To Be Continued |
| School lunches were not required until first grade. In kindergarten I only went half a day so I ate lunch at home. But even in that earliest year of public school, patterns were being set for me. During the recess period there was always milk available to be purchased. Small paper cartons and no straws. It cost a nickel for a carton of school milk, and my mother would send me off each morning with a nickel in my pocket. The school was two blocks away and I walked there by myself – a horror no self respecting mother would ever subject her kindergartener to today. But I walked to school completely unaware that there may be dangers lurking around any corner, and somehow managed to get there and back home safely every day. Sometimes I sauntered, sometimes I skipped. The one thing I began doing very shortly after this independence was thrust upon me was drop my nickel each morning in the front yard of a neighbor down the street. It was especially easy to do this secretly when I was skipping. Here was my reasoning: buying milk took time – standing in line, then drinking the milk. While thusly occupied I could not be playing on the monkey bars. By the time I finished with my milk each day, the monkey bars were filled and I had to wait until the kids who had beaten me there were done, and maybe I’d have to go back into class to learn how to write an 8 and take a nap without ever getting to play. Of course, I could have played on something else, but that hardly counted as fun when what I really wanted was to hang upside down on the monkey bars. There was simply nothing better than that. The solution was simple – ditch the nickel and be done with it. Mrs. Henderson, the neighbor whose front lawn had become my accomplice, happened to be looking out her kitchen window one morning and saw me drop something in her yard. She went out to see what kind of littering I’d done and of course, discovered the silver. This puzzled her and she made a point of being at her kitchen window every school morning to investigate further. I don’t know how many mornings she watched me and collected nickels before she visited my mother. I didn’t exactly get into trouble. My mother asked me about tossing the money and I explained about the conflict of interest with the monkey bars. She just decided not to send me with milk money any more. And she never did. For all the years of elementary school I never stood in line to buy milk for myself. In sixth grade I stood in line for Susan, who gave her milk money over to me. This was not because I bullied her out of her 15 cents (inflation ) but because I was in love with Craig, who sold milk during our lunch hour. Susan let me buy her milk so I could exchange innocent intimacies with the object of my adoration, and one day get close enough to whisper, “I love you” in Craig’s ear as I walked by him, milk carton in hand. On the valentine he gave me that year he wrote: “I heard you at milk and I love you too.” So was birthed in the milk line a romance that lasted clear through the summer. To Be Continued |
| A nine-year old girl raves about the pumpkin soup she gets for lunch at school, and her classmate speaks fondly of the baked sweet potatoes served. The two of them, along with the other children in the elementary school are scarfing today’s lunch: stir-fried Brussels sprouts and seaweed wrapped rice and vegetables. A few weeks ago, it was cactus burritos the kids were chowing down. Amazing. When my kids were in school, the were offered pepperoni pizza, sloppy joes or chili covered corn chips, followed by chocolate chip cookies or a slice of chocolate cake. Nutrition was not among the subjects taught them. By the time I got my own act together and started cleaning up our diet, I was fighting a losing battle. The cooks for this school create lunch items from an international menu, and before the children are introduced to new foods, they receive a lesson about where it comes from, what it is, and why it’s good for them. The kids are listening. “This [food] is way healthier for you.” “If you eat junk food all the time you’ll get weak and you’ll get lazy.” I imagine the participation the children have in growing and harvesting many of the fruits and vegetables in the school’s organic garden helps set up an expectation of enjoyment of the food. Clearly, someone is doing something right here. The healthy, nutritious food is getting eaten, not tossed in the garbage at the end of lunch hour. Childhood obesity is becoming an epidemic and research has shown over and over again that students are more focused and have more energy when they eat nutrient packed meals at school. I think the trick is to get started educating the palates of our children while they are still elementary age, and combine that with creative teaching and involvement in the process of making the meals – or as at this school, growing the food and harvesting it for the kitchen. Middle and high schools that have tried to introduce healthy foods have had little luck – by the time the kids are teens they cling stubbornly to their junk food options and gripe loudly when offered only healthy foods. But those schools that stick with it find the students’ grades rising and disciplinary problems vanishing. What our children eat does matter. The same goes for us. I envy these children who are getting a head start, and hope such lessons are reinforced in their homes. And I hope by the time they reach middle school, such healthy offerings will be common place so they can continue on the good path set before them. This whole topic reminds me of my own school lunch days. I think I’ll talk about that tomorrow. |
| After yesterday’s heavy topic, I thought I’d lighten up some. So, just for the fun of it, here are some pictures. IF (ONLY) WOMEN RULED THE WORLD ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| In Australia, a woman killed herself. She was a healthy 79 year old French woman who admitted to being in perfect health, never having any pain in her life, not feeling alone and not being depressed. She had decided not to live to the age of eighty out of fear of eventually becoming ill and frail, and unable at that time to carry through on her wish not to finish her life suffering. She was a darling woman with bright eyes, a cheerful smile, and who knows what to contribute to her world in the remaining years ahead of her, now forfeit. Her wish to exercise full control over deciding when and how to leave this life was paramount. Though by her own admission, her life was not painful, it can sometimes be so for others. Death can be painful, too – for those making their exit as well as for their loved ones. My father’s death from Alzheimer’s and lung cancer was long and drawn out. My mother’s death from diabetes (yes, it kills) was painful, frightening and horrific. My grandfather’s death from stomach cancer was painful, too. In those final days, if any of them had opted to end their lives a little early, I would have found no fault in the decision. Such thoughts never crossed any of our minds though, mostly because the medical professionals were eventually amenable to increasing dosages of morphine, enabling them to sleep painlessly through their final days. I don’t understand why God kept my father alive the last year of his life, rolling purposelessly around the nursing home, entrapped by a suffering none of us could see. I don’t understand why my mother was allowed to suffer those days before her death, or why my grandfather was required to cry out in pain day after day before he finally got relief. I don’t understand any of it, but I accept it. I have no idea what impact my mother’s presence had, that week she spent in the hospital, or the impact her family gathering around her might have had on those coming and going. It’s impossible to know that in those last days she, or my father or my grandfather suffered in vain. The ripples of their suffering may have in the end, had far reaching effects. I know I am different for having experienced the deaths of my parents, as well as their suffering. And I think it’s different in a good way. Still, if any of them had swallowed a bottle-full of barbiturates to end it all early, I would not have judged them for it. I would have felt differently though, if my mother had been healthy and happy and decided to kill herself out of fear of one day suffering. This I believe: our presence in this life is not for our benefit alone. We are part of the large play of life and have an important role. You or I may pass someone on the street and cast a smile in their direction; it could turn out to be a smile that changes the course of their day. It’s easy to imagine how that smile could eventually affect someone in another country, whom we will never know. I am sorry the little French woman chose to take herself out of the play when she still had much to offer those participating with her. She has now entered an eternity she can not change, and the rest of us are the losers. |
| Now that we’ve struck the match and our bridge is smoldering, our move to Colorado is no longer a probability, but a certainty. The contract has been signed; there’s no turning back. Five months from now, we’ll be uprooting ourselves and leaving the community and home we’ve lived in for twenty-eight years. So these days I’m keenly aware of events in my life that for the first time, take on the qualification of “Last.” The other morning when I dressed to go to Nada’s house for a visit, I put on a pair of white pants, knowing it would be my last opportunity to wear summer white in October. Last week I rode my bike to the dentist’s office for the last time. Ron and I have happily cleared the lawn of fallen peaches for the last time That night on a grassy patch of parkway watching Fourth of July fireworks was another last. I’ve also taken my last hike with Rowdy. After a great day mountain biking, Ron and I found ourselves too tired for any mental endeavors last night, but were bored with what was on TV. So we went for a walk around the block, on the fifth of November, under the full moon, in our shorts, with a warm Santa Ana breeze blowing. This is a confluence of events that happens rarely, and now we’ve had our last experience of it.I know there will be numerous “Firsts” after we make our move, and I’m excited to experience them. But right now, those are merely a distant possibility. What I’m in the midst of experiencing right now are my “Lasts.” I want to be aware of them; they are an integral part of the life I’ve lived here in this house for the past 28 years, and I’m not eager to put it all behind me. The sensation of awareness in experiencing something for the last time will, I hope, hook it more deeply in my memory so it won’t be lost. From time to time, I’ll most likely be mentioning my last experiences here in this blog. A permanent record of my journey from one life into another. |
| Got any gift cards stashed in your wallet? Are you among the 23.3 million Americans who have unused gift cards from last year? Gift cards are the favored purchase of shoppers and have become big business. Can you believe that there’s at least $972 million in unredeemed cards? That’s money given in exchange for……nothing! I worked for a while as a massage therapist for a friend of mine. For various holidays, we’d sell gift certificates, knowing that many of them would never be redeemed. BUT, we made regular calls to the recipients of those certificates, begging them to come in and redeem their gifts. None of us could stand the thought of having accepted payment for a service that would never be rendered. I think I can say with confidence that Target and Sears have no such compulsions. And by the way, when you’re buying electronics or home appliances that include the offer of an extended warrantee, you’re better off declining. The coverage is expensive and, according to Consumer Reports, extended warrantees actually cost more than a repair bill. But stores make good money off them, so the consumer is pushed to purchase this “insurance.” Perhaps a bit of timely advice, with only 51 shopping days before Christmas! |
| partyof5dj got it started with the picture of his coffee mug. Then Voxxylady showed us hers. I don’t have a coffee mug to take a picture of because I don’t drink coffee. I drink a cup of tea in the evenings sometimes, though the mug I use can’t be called a favorite. I started looking for a favorite tea mug this past summer, but haven’t found one yet. If one is going to be a favorite, it’s got to be colorful and interesting – not something I’d get bored looking at after a few days. But it was actually the comments a few people made about the neatness of Party’s workspace that got me thinking. I have two work spaces. One is in our den, the other is out in the living room. I set up the latter because I couldn’t stand to work in the former. There was a period when I spent a lot of time in the den. I had my painting table set up in there and had lots of space to spread out, and even a tiny TV to look up at from time to time, when I needed to rest my eyes. My painting mess was isolated in that room and didn’t interfere with the mess in the rest of the house For colored pencil work, the light in the den wasn’t all that great, so I brought my stuff out front. That was when the den became a serious dumping ground. To be honest, it had always served as the room where items were stowed when we didn’t know what else to do with them, or when we ran out of space on the bookshelves or in the closets. But after a number of years it got really out of control. Then, I rented a dumpster and cleared away tons and tons of stuff (that is not an exaggeration). We remodeled, the kids moved out and I fell in love with my new, clutter free living space. Every room in my house is neat, clutter free and kept that way. Except the den. I don’t know why it is, but no matter how many times I go through that room and organize or toss out stuff, it resurrects itself within a few days and settles back into that horrible cluttered mess, which has been its identity for twenty-eight years. Ron’s desk is back there, and he doesn’t mind working amid clutter. Heavens, his desk is often the worst place in the room! I have a desk back there too, where my desktop computer is. I do have to work from that computer – sifting through emails and doing business I don’t want to shuttle through my laptop. But I hate being back there. Here’s why: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** I just went through this room a couple of weeks ago. You’d never know it now. I have Jekyll and Hyde emotions about this space. I can’t stand working in here – the clutter is claustrophobic. But I also love having a room that feels so comfortable filling the role as repository for all things unanchored. I like having a desk that I can pile stuff on, without having to look at the mess as I go about my day. Keeping on top of clutter is a moment-by-moment job and let’s face it, there are plenty of moments when the urge to box that book and mail it, or to answer that letter, or to make room in the closet for that new pair of hiking shoes, or to tear out the magazine article and file it away, is simply absent. And so the den serves a purpose, I guess. But you won’t catch me working in there longer than is absolutely necessary. I also have a second desk, which is set up in the living room, and this is where I love to work: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** You’ll notice an absence of coffee mugs. Instead of sipping coffee, I sniff essential oils. From here I can watch out the front window, enjoy the breeze from the open front door behind me, and turn to daydream with the fish (which, by the way, are now fish-es. I added some guppies). I can also watch TV from this desk, or enjoy a crackling fire in the fireplace. When I work here, I feel a part of the house and family. Strangely, I work more easily in this place that seems to be full of distractions, than I do in the quiet isolation of the den. This space holds the energy of my writing and creative thoughts, and I am quite fond of it. This is one corner of my house that I’m going to miss when we move to Colorado. |
| There is a twelve year old girl in China who is preparing herself for the 2008 Olympic games. From the time she was four years old, she has lived at the gym and worked there six hours a day, six days a week perfecting her gymnastic skills. Her father visits her on Saturdays and takes her out for a few hours around town, but part of their time away from the school includes laps run around the lake – for her. She speaks of those really hard years, “when I was young,” when she wished she never had to return to the school after her weekly day away. She’s become more stoical now, and with the Olympics in her sights, has a clear goal to work toward. She repeats what her father has taught her, that without pain and suffering in life, she’ll have no complete memories to look back on, and that the dark times are needed to make the good times better. I’ll not argue the truth of either of those ideas, but a girl of twelve seems a bit young to be required not just to live them, but to be immersed in such adult survival philosophy. She may or may not make it onto the Chinese Olympic gymnastics team. She may or may not win a medal for her country. Either way, she has a lot of years of hard work ahead of her. And her memories will not include play. She’ll be an astounding athlete, but perhaps not a complete person. Children need unstructured play time. They really do. Here in the US more and more kids are losing out on this, too. Parents fill every hour of their children’s’ lives with organized activities. From sports to educational toys to V Tech for infants. Have you seen the commercials where the parents call out, “Stop doing the dishes, and play your video games!” Now, I have nothing against educational games and toys, but it’s just as important for our children to spend time playing with blocks and dress up clothes and dolls or trucks or roller skating or jump roping or doodling with crayons. But parents are not called upon to divert their children from the dishes for those activities. Honestly. I just read an article that said pediatricians are treating children for stress because their schedules are so cram packed with organized sports and learning activities. Parents are forgetting that unstructured play time helps kids develop creativity and problem solving skills, teaches them to relate to others and provides opportunities for them to discover their passions. And it’s stress free. The little Chinese gymnast is missing out on all this, and so are all the other girls she trains with. I love watching them compete. The grace of movement and balance is always awe inspiring. I’m just sorry it has to come with the price of lost childhood. Oh, and by the way, guess what? We grown ups need play time, too! |
| Ask any of my sisters and they’ll tell you I’m not so great about remembering birthdays. I can even forget the birthdays of my own daughters, until a week before the day of celebration. Last month (it’s November, already!) I forgot another birthday. It was my WDC one year anniversary. In honor of the event, passed in obscurity, I offer you this gift: http://www.break.com/movies/cool_optical_illusion.html The most amazing part of this cool 100-second video is not its intended effect but how, as you view the illusion, the image continues to constantly change into an amazing variety of nearly endless patterns. And, after watching the video, look at a wall and watch how your eyes may see something quite different ... (When the landing page opens, choose which media player you want to use: Windows media or Macromedia. Then click on the Save button and the video will play) As a bonus, here are some pictures of my granddaughter, the Heffalump: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** And here she is with her granddaddy ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| The naming of children can sometimes be a difficult affair, but I think it’s always interesting. We gave our first daughter names derived from the Greek. Together they mean Consecrated to God’s Grace and were chosen because, since I’m infertile, we considered her a miracle. After two years of trying again, we finally had our second daughter. We named her after an Old Testament woman who had a listening spirit and was courageous enough to step out on faith. Our hope was that our daughter might follow the positive examples of her namesake. Sometimes children are named after family members, sometimes all the children are given names beginning with the same letter. My own parents gave their four children, all daughters, names with the same ending sound: -en. My older sisters got common names: Dianne and Karen. My little sister got a curse for a name: Lee Ellyn. I got something in between: Lauren. There were times when I hated my name because it was uncommon in those days, so I could never find souvenirs – you know, pens, little license plates, stickers – with my name on them. For the most part though, I kind of liked being different. Teachers never had to give me a nickname to differentiate me from another Lauren in the class. If ever I heard my name called in a public place, I knew I was the person being summoned. But, there was a frustrating hitch to my personal moniker. My parents, originating in the Midwest, gave it an unusual pronunciation. I remember the day I came home from school and asked, “Mother, why does everyone in this family say my name wrong?” That was the day I learned who I really was. I had not been named Lor-en, but Lar-en. It’s been amusing to notice over the years, those who will or will not say my name correctly. Even among the friends I’ve had for many years, only a couple of them pronounce my name the way it was intended. I don’t know, there’s something about westerners getting their tongues around that first –ar syllable. They just can’t do it with ease. For some reason, those born in the east or south automatically mouth the correct pronunciation, but Californians have trouble with it – and they’ll even tell me how hard it is to say my name. I’ve always suspected a large part of the problem lay with the California mindset that makes us such independent suckers. We do things our own way, and the easier we can make it for ourselves, the better. It does take some effort for a Californian to combine the lar- with the –en. The tongue has to slide down the back of our throats to form the first syllable, then it has to relax and open so the second syllable can emerge. A lot of work, that It sort of feels like marbles in the mouth, at first. For all of my elementary and most of my jr. high years, I didn’t care how my name was said so I never correct people. But after a while, I came to appreciate the feminine sound of my name and began pointing out to people its unique pronunciation. What’s fascinating is that even when I make a point of coaching, “the first syllable rhymes with car,” almost everyone will still rhyme it with Tor When I hear my name pronounced correctly, I’m startled and pleased. Living with my own name has made me sensitive to others’ names. When Rebecca told us they intended naming their daughter after both grandmothers, combining their names to create “Theren,” I was a tad bit less than enthusiastic, knowing the name would give her problems her whole life. That silent “H” would be the difficulty. And sure enough, it’s proved to be so. Why people who wouldn’t dream of pronouncing the “H” in Thomas or Theresa insist on laying it on Theren is probably due to its uniqueness. She’ll have to go through life coaching others how to say her name correctly, but I expect she’ll get better results than I’ve ever had. Now days, Lauren (pronounced Loren) is a much more common name for little girls, and I find myself responding to strangers in the store who are calling their children. Old habits die hard. |
| More fires burn in Southern California. Our strong Santa Ana winds drove one of the fires to a frenzy, so that it burned as fiercely after dark as it did during the heat of the day. Its smoke was blown as far away as San Diego, eighty miles south. This fire took on an evil life and turned fatal. While working to protect a home, five firefighters were overtaken by flames that moved so fast the men had no chance to retreat to the fire engine or emergency shelters. Three died on the scene, one died at the hospital, and the fifth, a twenty-three year old, is in critical condition, with damaged lungs and third degree burns over ninety-five percent of his body. One of those who died left behind a wife and five small children. This fire was started by a couple of arsonists. As of now, this is the deadliest fire in the United States since July, 2001. A fire burning at that time in Washington’s Okanogon National forest overtook and killed four firefighters. In California over the past year, nineteen firefighters have died in the line of duty. That surprised and sobered me. I’ve had the privilege of watching these heroes working and am in awe of the work they do. I’m infuriated that someone with a match killed four men who were striving to save someone’s home. Equally angering is that an entire neighborhood was burned to the ground. One family sifted through the rubble to find a blackened fork and remnants of china, others have nothing left but a concrete foundation buried in ash. This is certainly not the first arson-set fire we’ve battled here. The young men who set this fire were seen leaving the scene, but have not been identified. I imagine though, with a $500,000 reward posted, they will eventually be tracked down. It’s possible they set the fire as a lark, never intending homes to burn or lives to be lost (after all, in the past several years, heroic fire fighters have managed to contain wildfires with no loss of property or life). But that matters little now, and it shouldn’t. Anyone living in this area and possessing half a brain knows the risk of fire during the winds. Intention, or lack of it, is of little consequence once the match has been lit. In the end, the loss will be immeasurable. |
| This is the weekend I half hate and half love. I’m always sorry to see daylight dissolve an hour earlier, but I’m glad to get morning light back. We sleep too late during these days of morning darkness. I dislike having to reset all the clocks though. But my job is nothing compared to the one of Roman and Maz Piekarski, who have the Cukooland Museum in Chesire, England. They have 500 clocks to set back, and it’ll take them all weekend. Setting antique clocks back is no simple task, as I can attest, having owned one in the past. Those two men go dizzy spinning dials on 500 clocks. And the fact that the chore – large or small – ushers in the onset of winter darkness is not a cheering thought. I fight depression much more during the winter, like lots of others. But for those on Scarlett ’s side of the pond, there is help for the winter blues. Those who feel depressed as the number of daylight hours dwindle can dial a helpline of inspiring sounds from the Lake District in northwest England.Here’s what you get for your dime: A reading of William Wadsworth’s poem, “Daffodils” The sound of Lake Windermere lapping against a jetty The crunch of fall leaves The sound of Cumberland sausage sizzling in a pan The lap of the lake and the crunching of leaves might be nice, but I can think of other more soothing sounds. To each his own, I guess |
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