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 |  Just play: don't look at your hands! |
What a dumb title for a person who never got a single star  on her piano lessons!Daily practice is the thing though: the practice of noticing as well as of writing.  However, I'd much rather play duets than solos, so hop right in! You can do the melody or the base part, I don't care.  Just play along--we'll make up the tune as we go. I'll try to write regularly and deliberately. Sometimes I will do it poorly, tritely, stiltedly, obscurely. I will try to persevere regardless. It seems to be where my heart wants to go, and that means to me that God wants me there too. See you tomorrow. ![Merit Badge in Journaling
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| The Independent Thinker by Ann Wren Howard 5/16/13 Seeing who the call was coming from, Margot answered on the second ring. “Whatcha want, dahling?” she said to her friend Wren. “You’re in a good mood. Do you think you could stop over for coffee this morning? I need another perspective.” “Sure, I’ll drop my dust mop and be right over.” Margot’s house was the little vine- covered cottage across the street. “It isn’t, uh, urgent or anything.” “That’s okay. You know me. I’ll drop my dust mop for any good excuse.” Five minutes later, Margot knocked as she let herself in. “Where are you? Do you want me in the living room or the kitchen? I brought my own coffee.” Wren came in from the back porch with a freshly potted plant in her hands and set it on the counter. “This is that cutting I’ve been rooting in the kitchen window, more like pinching I guess since I “pinched” it without asking. It was growing all over the place at the resort in Oxnard. It’s looking pretty good, isn’t it?” She washed her hands and poured herself a mug of coffee. “Look, I even have cookies today. I baked for the ‘Loaves and Fishes’ meal at the church and saved some for us.” She handed the blue china plate to Margot and sat down. “Good planning. Something to shut me up while you talk.” Margot grinned at her. “So, what’s on your mind?” “All sorts of things. For one, I never got an introduction written for my writing class, at least not one I liked, but that’s nothing you can fix. Then there’s all this stuff in the news about Benghazi and the IRS and the AP. You know I can’t talk to Bernie about it. And something else too.” Margot looked puzzled. “But I thought Bernie loved politics…oh, yeah, I get it. He’ll do all the talking and try to tell you what to think. Yeah, gotta love him. He’s completely loyal. Do you ever wonder where he gets his talking points?” “I think he secretly listens to Rush when I’m not around. Whoever it is he’s spouting, I really do get tired of hearing it. Doesn’t he question anything? I’ve spent the last year looking up facts and setting him straight. I never used to like politics, but this has really got me going.” “So I’m going to sit here quietly now and munch cookies while you tell me how things really are? Is that what you want me to do?” Wren studied her friend’s face. Was she hearing sarcasm? Usually she could tell. Margot was not subtle, but this time her voice had its normal playful tone she thought. “No. I want conversation. That’s the point. I can get monologues at home, first me, then Bernie. I want someone to hear what I’m thinking and we can talk about it.” “Okay then. Start.” She picked out a cookie that promised to have more than its share of chocolate chips and had a bite. “I never worked on a newspaper or anything, but when I was a freshman in journalism school I had an interesting assignment. It was during the Nixon-Kennedy election, and my class had to monitor the news in two big Chicago papers and three television networks. We each had a different day and different programs assigned, and we had to keep a record of how many column inches and minutes of air time were devoted to each candidate, and what bias they showed.” “Just out of curiosity, which one did you vote for?” “I wasn’t old enough to vote, but it would have been Nixon. Not for any good reason. Just because my family was Republican.” “What did you find out? Was there a lot of difference among the media in their treatment of the candidates?” “Enough to know which paper supported which man. It wasn’t as easy to see it on TV—at least for me--no editorials or letters to the editor.” “So you felt like they were all mostly fair?” “More or less. I thought they were basically objective, and that journalism was supposed to be that way. And, stupid me, I was sure that it probably still was, that it was still believable to this day.” “Even though Bernie must have pointed out many times that only Fox News gets it right.” She laughed, and the laugh sounded real. “Exactly. I thought he was just playing the same old party line, ‘the media are all against me….’ So I started watching and comparing, and it’s pretty interesting. Things that might reflect poorly on the administration or its agenda were often left out entirely by the ‘liberal’ press.” Margot was quiet a minute and then asked, “What were you wanting to find? Did you want to prove Bernie right or wrong?” “I didn't want to prove anything," Wren said. "I wanted to find out...well, maybe you're right. Maybe I did want to prove him wrong at first. And then it felt good when I’d read an occasional article in the Washington Post giving Obama 4 pinochios for misrepresenting the effects of the up-coming sequester, or in the New York Times about the lack of effect gun control has had in the past. Or the deficit, or unions against Obamamcare, ideas that weren’t lock-step with the president. Not that that happened very often.” “I didn’t know you were against gun control.” “I’m not. That’s not my issue. Neither is abortion, or gay marriage. I can see both sides. But the point is, the media is mostly pushing its own agenda, or somebody’s, and that’s not objective reporting.” “So, we’ve got three or four major networks basically on the President’s side, reporting on stories that make him look good, or make somebody else look bad. Or editing the stories in ways that lead the reader that direction. Have I got what you’re saying? ” Wren nodded, and Margot continued. “Then here comes Benghazi again, followed by these other nifty scandals that the networks can’t avoid reporting on. Has anything changed?” “Yeah, actually there has. The administration is taking some heat from several networks now, not just Fox. Reporters are not buying some of Obama’s answers, no matter if he’s acting angry or dismissive or condescending. It’s good to see them press ahead. That’s their job.” Wren smiled and took a cookie. “What do you think?” “He’s so easy with his answers though. He smiles and looks relaxed, points out to his audience that it’s just those stupid Republicans trying to make something out of nothing. He looks so honest. Like a lot of people, I guess I just want to believe him. And I don’t want to be bullied about it.” Wren looked at her carefully and saw she meant what she said, but not angrily. “Do you think people who don’t believe him are racists?” “That word has been used really weirdly recently, hasn’t it? No, I don’t think you’re a racist, if that’s what you mean. Maybe I am though. My main reason for voting for him was because he’s black and I wanted to see a black man succeed.” Wren nodded. “Me too.” “You voted for him? You aren’t still a Republican?” “Bernie thinks I am, but I prefer to call myself as an independent thinker. My first husband said I was a fuzzy headed liberal.” She laughed. “Bernie doesn’t know how I voted though, so please don’t tell him.” “Anyway,” she went on, “so now comes all this stuff about the IRS and the AP, and I’m beginning to wonder if maybe their conspiracy theory isn’t so farfetched after all. Have you thought about that?” “Wren, I don’t think… I can’t even begin to think about that right now. I don’t even know if we’re a red state or a blue state. I’m sorry, but I’m no help to you. It’s all too much for me.” She picked up her coffee cup and started to stand up. “Oh, what was the third thing you said you wanted to talk about?” “Third thing?” Wren had to stop and switch gears. What was it she’d had on her mind? “Life coaches, that was it. Do you know any, and what do they do?” “Actually, I have met a couple of them, no, three!” Margot squinted her eyes as if picturing them in her mind. “They are all about the same age, 50-60 I’d say. All seem to be religious, or more likely “spiritual”. There’s kind of a distracted quality about all of them, now that I think about it, as if they’re still half stuck in their own mid-life crises. As to what they do, one told me she helps people figure out what story they’ve been living and come up with a new chapter. Whatever that means.” Wren reached out and touched her friend’s arm. Her hand was shaking slightly. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life being a fact checker. People want to believe what they believe. No one wants to know the facts. So I need to figure out what to do next. Would you get her name and number for me?” |
| I filled my car with gas yesterday, and today noticed that it says I have 365 miles to go before empty. Doesn't that give you ideas? I could drive one mile a day for a whole year! Of course, the only place I know of that's just a mile's drive is the shoe store, and even I couldn't use that many shoes. Watched the news of the Boston marathon bombing unfolding before I went to poetry group. Awful. A couple of years ago a backpack bomb was found before it was detonated along the parade route on Martin Luther King day in Spokane. My daughter and her children were walking there. It's so frightening. Bill told me when I got home that some are speculating that the right wing is behind it, because it's Patriot's Day. I certainly hope not. Hope no one is pointing the finger of blame in any direction, but I'm sure the less responsible political bloggers and their minions will be tempted to look that direction. My friend L from the poetry group called and told me she needed to tell me something. I had hurt her feelings by correcting her a couple of times during the meeting. I am dumbfounded. I know I have done that to her before, and even without her telling me, I knew she was offended. I've tried hard not to ever do it again, and I couldn't think what she could mean. She didn't want to tell me, but I pressed her. She said I'd corrected her pronunciation of chimera and aeolian. I didn't. I've never said chimera and said I didn't remember what it meant, repeating it as she had said it. Someone else looked it up and gave her another pronunciation. Later I asked her what an aeolian harp was, and she talked about it. I tried to Google it on my phone to see a picture but only came up with a poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge call the Eolian Harp. I may have mentioned he spelled it differently, but hers seemed the right spelling to me. Needless to say, except to myself evidently and not soon enough for that to have been helpful, I was once more arguing with her, telling her in essence she was wrong. Great. Also, although she did not mention this, the poem I had written and brought in was about depression. She has been depressed. It would be like her to take offense at that as well. Sometimes I wonder why I'm even friends with her. We seldom ever think or feel the same way about anything. I don't think I'm just being oppositional, although it is my nature. Unfortunately we see each other several times each week, at poetry and the Y, and she always acts so happy to see me. |
| Here it is halfway into April, well not quite. But a long time since I got a haiku recorded here or anything else for that matter. Right now it's still the break between quarters, so I should have loads of time, and I guess I do. Most of it has gone to the IRS, first with finishing taxes and then working on all the documents they want while they audit my 2010 taxes. Not very fun. I also haven't gotten out to the garden since the day I divided up one bunch of garlic cloves and seeded some mesclun. Bill, being very helpful, put garden cloth all over the area (about 20x30) with a cute little orange fence whose posts hold the cloth down. He cut holes for the garlic I'd replanted but didn't realize I had seeds that had just sprouted, so they got covered too and they died. Boo hoo. Time to get out and plant some more, although that warm stretch of weather has disappeared. Why do weeds grow so well even in cold weather? I made some good butternut squash soup today, and intend to plant several of those vines this year. That's not a soup I'd do 80 servings of for the soup kitchen, just one for us. I need some more recipes for 80-100 servings though, if you know of any. Tonight I'd better get some ironing done. I thought Bill was coming back to take me to a neighborhood watch meeting, but evidently not. He wants the shirts for this weekend. Maybe I'll get some writing done while he's gone. I'm looking forward to it. |
Sorry I have fallen away from haiku-ing this past week. Guess I just haven't felt like it, at least not at the right times to get something down. I've been working on a story about three adult children summoned to their mother's bedside when she is dying. I was just about to write about her giving the family memorabilia, the letters and assorted things passed down, to the older son, when I discovered a box of postcards and newspaper clippings my grandmother had saved. I don't know what my character will do with them, any more than I know what to do with them myself. Any suggestions? I just read an article in the newspaper about seven things that we won't have in the future. Can't remember them all, but some of them include books, newspapers, post offices, music, personal items, tv, and privacy. If anybody even cares now about family mementoes, will they in the future? I know my kids are not interested in my china or silver, so what am I to do with it? I know I was puzzled when my grandmother gave me a scarf, called a 'fascinator', that had belonged to her mother. I was about 20. What was I supposed to do with it? I still have it, but no one would know it's special. It doesn't have any real connection for me. I suppose I feel no more connection for the art and cards I made for my mother when I was a little girl. I guess if I had ones she made for her mother, that would be interesting, so maybe I should keep them to pass on. It's a predicament, isn't it? My character, Eleanor, who is giving these things to her son, trusts him to be able to throw them away if he wants to, not to set up a monument for her made of all her things. ***Out of nowhere, Bill, who has the 'manflu' and is coughing and watching tv beside me, saw a commercial that caused him to say, "That's what men need: for their women to believe in them." I asked him what that meant to him, but he couldn't say, only said he hopes I know. What I know is that it doesn't necessarily mean I believe he's always right. And it's hard to be supportive the way he'd like me to be when he is being so negative, so sure the POTUS is an evil man who is luring us into socialism. On the other hand, I've listened enough that I understand the validity of his fears, even though I don't think they're likely. What I do believe is that he has strong ideas of right and wrong, but I count on the love in his heart to win out. |
I haven't gotten my daily haiku (Haikus?) in with much regularity recently. Accidentally got one in twice, and when I tried to delete it, almost deleted the whole book. Had a hard time getting it back out of the trash, in fact. When I was thrashing around with that, I must have somehow changed the audience to private. Sorry about that, and thank you to Alfred for pointing it out. Had to have a story written for last Friday's class, then we didn't have time for me to read mine. I'd already handed it out, so at least I haven't spent the week editing and rewriting. Too bad too, it needed it. Finished the giraffe I was painting, and got the shadows in pretty well. It takes nerve to paint blue down half the picture! Would have skipped my poetry group on Monday, but the church secretary had the day off for president's day, and I'm the only one in the group with a key to the church. Then needed to help someone with a poetry circle yesterday, and help get out a newsletter today before watercolors. Then a Lenten service and soup dinner tonight. Great music. Anyway, we're way behind on tv watching LOL (I don't know how to punctuate for that lol thing!), and way behind on housework too. Ah me, the retired life! |
| Before I start working on a story for the week, I should at least stop here and say hello. I also want to tell you that I know my haikus are lame, not the classic nature lines, etc, but that if I had to try to do it 'right' I wouldn't be doing it. Frightful attitude, isn't it? Bill is gone to a conference from Thursday to tomorrow evening. We've had some break-ins in this part of the county, which is not well patrolled by State Patrol or sheriffs. The most recent one involved an elderly lady being tied to a chair with duct tape and severely beaten with a rolling pin. There have been a few vigilantes out, driving around keeping an eye out, probably armed, sort of an outreach of the neighborhood watch perhaps. Anyway, there was a big community meeting last evening about safety, and Bill responded to the on-line invitation saying we'd be there. I didn't particularly want to go by myself, and was glad I stayed home. About half way thru the meeting time, Lola began to bark furiously by the front door. I was in the back of the house, with only the kitchen light on in front, one that gets left on a lot. When I went to the window to see what she was barking at, there was a big SUV parked behind my car (which was in the carport) and a sedan parked nearby. Both were occupied, running, unfamiliar to me. After I turned on the porch light, they both left. I couldn't see to get a license plate, so didn't call the police, but I did worry a bit. I looked up a utube video on how to fire a Beretta, having not done so for several years. (Can't say that would have been much help if I didn't already know how. It was a much newer gun than I have and even has a light that comes on to show when the safety is off!) Anyway, I slept fine and haven't seen anything suspicious all day. (As I speak, Lola has gone out the back door barking, but then that's not unusual. Standing by the front door barking means something. When there really is something outside in back, like when a pine cone hits the roof and makes a much louder noise than you'd expect, she won't go outside to check it out. Not much protection from her.) I did decide to stay home all day though, and had a nice time painting. The subject was Mt. Ranier, and even though I've darkened the trees a zillion times and keep making them just an eensy taller, I'm not sure if I'm done with it. We were supposed to put a field of wild flowers in the foreground, and mine look like magical candies from UmpaLoopa land. I'll cover them up with a matte! |
| Isn't that a frightening thought, to be a teenager with no place to live, just here and there, in a car, with friends, etc.? We had 56 for soup today, about a dozen youth, and we're very glad they came, hope they'll be back. They ate lots of the lentil soup, which was a little spicy, lots of Texas toast, brownies, cookies and 30lbs of oranges. So if you've ever wondered if kids will really eat fruit when they're hungry, these did, and tucked them in their backpacks for later. That's all from me tonight. |
| For the past 3 or 4 hours Bill has sat near me while I worked on something, reading to me from FB, the posts he's responded to, his response, and those he has reposted. He talked about a video of the a general, can't remember which, who was testifying about a Presidential order. I watched it with him, and I too was alarmed. I asked him to check the source, the network, the reporter, the court, all the other things, and it turned out to be true, but not very recently. Nevertheless, it was a striking example of a president over-extending his power, and a well known judge wrote at length about it along with other examples of the federal government ignoring the Constitution. By now, however, I'm really tired of Bill's voice, and even though dinner is over, he's still talking to me about everything he sees on the screen, And some of them are planes, with lots of jet noise, or a Michael Jackson spoof, also annoying.So I'm retreating to the living room for a recipe for deviled eggs. Not that I won't make them the same way as always.  Now he's in here. I'll be heading back to the kitchen...bye. |
| Yesterday started out as a beautiful day, the first blue sky I've seen in weeks. It only lasted a couple of hours, but I was relieved to see the sun was still out there. Bill and I went to the Y for water aerobics. The leader of this group is the aquatics director. She has much more pep and personality than any of the others and really keeps us moving. She arranges the exercises like dance movements in a series of two or three or four which we go over a couple of times. Good stretching, good core stabilization and good cardio fitness too. I hope we'll keep it up at least twice a week. My writing class conflicts with the Friday session. Afterwards I went to have the physical therapist-- no, I think it was occupational therapist-- re-wrap my leg to minimize swelling so I can be measured for a new custom compression stocking. Yes, I went through this in November, but they lost the pattern! It was quite a rigamarole of screwing up . "We didn't order it because we knew Medicare wouldn't pay for it. We couldn't call you to see if you intend to pay for it yourself because Medicare would consider that soliciting your business and fine us." B.S. Then when they did order it, they used measurements from two years ago, not the brand new ones I'd been to 4 sessions of OT to come up with.So, when it arrived it was too big, and we discovered their mistake. Starting over. Last time the wrap (From toe to groin with coban, also called vet tape) was endurable for three days and did really well. This time it was slipping down and doubling up over my knee, making things worse instead of better, the next day. I cut myself out of in in increments all night long. But I did get a story written for my writing class! It's about 1700 words, so I probably shouldn't post it here. I have a real build-up of housework to do tomorrow! |
| Last night we went to a retirement party for the sheriff of Umatilla County, Oregon. There were probably about 400 people there, at least 60 in cowboy hats, and most certainly a lot of firepower in the group. The band was great, including two good female singers, one who could out-yodel the best, and guitars and fiddles. Lively, but hard to hear over all the voices of people talking. This is the sheriff that some years back sent a bill to the President of Mexico requesting money for room and board for a jail-ful of undocumented folks who were up here causing trouble and had gotten thrown in the hoozegow. I need to get on to my next chore, starting supper, since we didn't really ever have lunch after church. I worked at the early service, and Bill sang at the later one. Then he stopped by an older couple's house to help them with their computer, while I played with my watercolors and then went to take communion to a housebound woman. Now he has to catch up on all the anti-Democratic memes flying by on facebook. He acts like it's a paying job--such dedication! And he has to tell me about them all. Drives me nuts. Anyway, I've started the haiku book, though I can't remember how to post the link. Just look in my port. It's at the top, called Hi-Cu-Ties. ID #1914161 Maybe I'll get back to this later while I work on a poem for tomorrow's group. |
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