In the early books of the Bible, are all of the 'begat' passages, where the reader learns about so-and-so begetting (my word) so-and-so..... and so on and so on, etc. Or, as Yul Brenner said so eloquently in "The King and I", "et cetera, et cetera, et cetera". At best, it is dull reading, but it is purposeful in that it sets up a historical setting so that as one reads on, you have a sense of familial lines. As with many important, factual bits of information, although it is as interesting as watching paint dry, it sets up a vital, foundational framework from which to comprehend later history.
Yes, I will tie the first paragraph of this posting to subsequent paragraphs.
This has been a week of lists. As regular readers may recall, I am a lover of lists. They keep me functioning, somewhat organized and help me override any memory glitches I may experience. I simply would not operated very efficiently without creating lists from which to work.
However........what I have observed about lists is that one list begets another, which begets another and so on and so on and so forth. I can begin a list, for example, about daily tasks that I need to accomplish and while I am in the process of compiling that list, I will realize that a parallel list needs to be created for additional items needed to perform the tasks on List No. 1.....BUT as List No. 2 is being penned, I will realize another list may need to be created dealing with pre-tasks to be done before List No. 1 can be started. Making lists is akin to outlining one's family tree. All of the relatives must be identified before I can write down my own name.
Furthermore, list-life is not static, but, rather, a work in progress. I can arrange tasks in what I believe is an intelligent order of operation, then discover that I've left out one, which then requires a re-writing of the entire list. List-making is a curse, I'm certain.
Whew! I've just worn myself out just thinking about lists and I haven't even tackled my list for today. Does thinking about a list count? If I've thought about all I want to accomplish, but have not put pencil to paper, am I absolved from the actual 'action' of the list?
Please say 'yes'. In fact, I'll poll a number of people until I get the answer I am looking for. Isn't that what government statisticians do?
I'm on to my next list of people to poll.
Ancora imparo
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Choices, Co-existance and Cartoons
The letter 'C' loomed largely in my day, just like the songs from Sesame Street that feature each alphabet letter. When I sat back and looked over this day, I was struck with three words that each begin with "C".
The word 'choice' came early this morning as I was at a business, having a maintenance task performed that should take thirty minutes or less. I had gone prepared thinking my time at this business might take up to two hours so I had plenty with me to do, including writing notes, making lists, reading the newspaper and I also had a book with me. Upon arriving at this business, a subsequent conversation ensued and I learned that my time there would only be about thirty minutes, as I previously stated. I was thoroughly immersed in my tasks when I realized that the thirty minutes had elapsed into well over an hour. Becoming curious as to why this was taking so long, I gathered my things and went to the service department. I could see that my vehicle was parked outside so I knew that the technician was finished and that meant that my bill should be ready at the cashier's window. When I inquired about my bill, the cashier looked blankly at me, shook her head and said she had seen nothing about my car. The service department representative came flying out of a door and said, "I've been on the phone for forty minutes with a pre-approval interview." No real apology, just a statement.
My first reaction was to have a 'Rumplestiltskin' moment but I made a split-second choice to be polite and civilized, even though I was furious with her. She introduced me to the cashier as "the very patient Patty Anne". I didn't feel patient but I chose to look as if I was.
On the subject of co-existence, the mama bird (that built the nest up under our deck) and I have developed a peaceful co-existence. She no longer flies away when I work in the free weight-area that is directly in her view. Her little neck cranes, stiff as can be, as she stares at me but she does not leave her duty as the 'egg-warmer'. She is a good mom and has finally figured out that I pose no threat to her or her little egg.
Finally, there were two cartoons in the comics section that really caught my eye and attention.
"For Better Or For Worse" had the mother taking her supposedly very sick child to the doctor. The mother-character has obvious concern on her face.....until the nurse comes to the door and calls the child's name. The child promptly smiles, leaps up and yells, "Yah".
How many times has that same scenario repeated itself over the centuries as we parents figure that a child must be ill. Well, we're pretty sure. Not wanting to be labeled a 'bad' parent, we make the obligatory car ride and take the child to the doctor, breathing an audible sigh of relief when the doctor proclaims that there is, indeed, something wrong with the child.
The other cartoon was "Sally Forth" and the character "Ted Forth" sees his new, corporate photo ID for the first time and is appalled to see that "they've taken my youth away!" How I can identify with that response! Those years do sneak up on us, don't they? One day we really are young, the next thing we know, we feel young, and then the inevitable photo is taken that proves we are no longer young, but rather 'long-in-the-tooth'.
So what are my take-aways from today?
I'm out of patience, I feel guilty about all of the times I was relieved to hear that my children were actually ill, and my teeth are getting longer as I type.
Ancora imparo
The word 'choice' came early this morning as I was at a business, having a maintenance task performed that should take thirty minutes or less. I had gone prepared thinking my time at this business might take up to two hours so I had plenty with me to do, including writing notes, making lists, reading the newspaper and I also had a book with me. Upon arriving at this business, a subsequent conversation ensued and I learned that my time there would only be about thirty minutes, as I previously stated. I was thoroughly immersed in my tasks when I realized that the thirty minutes had elapsed into well over an hour. Becoming curious as to why this was taking so long, I gathered my things and went to the service department. I could see that my vehicle was parked outside so I knew that the technician was finished and that meant that my bill should be ready at the cashier's window. When I inquired about my bill, the cashier looked blankly at me, shook her head and said she had seen nothing about my car. The service department representative came flying out of a door and said, "I've been on the phone for forty minutes with a pre-approval interview." No real apology, just a statement.
My first reaction was to have a 'Rumplestiltskin' moment but I made a split-second choice to be polite and civilized, even though I was furious with her. She introduced me to the cashier as "the very patient Patty Anne". I didn't feel patient but I chose to look as if I was.
On the subject of co-existence, the mama bird (that built the nest up under our deck) and I have developed a peaceful co-existence. She no longer flies away when I work in the free weight-area that is directly in her view. Her little neck cranes, stiff as can be, as she stares at me but she does not leave her duty as the 'egg-warmer'. She is a good mom and has finally figured out that I pose no threat to her or her little egg.
Finally, there were two cartoons in the comics section that really caught my eye and attention.
"For Better Or For Worse" had the mother taking her supposedly very sick child to the doctor. The mother-character has obvious concern on her face.....until the nurse comes to the door and calls the child's name. The child promptly smiles, leaps up and yells, "Yah".
How many times has that same scenario repeated itself over the centuries as we parents figure that a child must be ill. Well, we're pretty sure. Not wanting to be labeled a 'bad' parent, we make the obligatory car ride and take the child to the doctor, breathing an audible sigh of relief when the doctor proclaims that there is, indeed, something wrong with the child.
The other cartoon was "Sally Forth" and the character "Ted Forth" sees his new, corporate photo ID for the first time and is appalled to see that "they've taken my youth away!" How I can identify with that response! Those years do sneak up on us, don't they? One day we really are young, the next thing we know, we feel young, and then the inevitable photo is taken that proves we are no longer young, but rather 'long-in-the-tooth'.
So what are my take-aways from today?
I'm out of patience, I feel guilty about all of the times I was relieved to hear that my children were actually ill, and my teeth are getting longer as I type.
Ancora imparo
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Standardization, Please!
I realize that living in America is an honor and a privilege accompanied by many perks. We Americans have come to expect much. It is said we are a land of peoples who are accustomed to and demand entitlements.
One of the seldom-talked about 'perks' of living in America is that we are surrounded by, and inundated with choices.....choices about everything. From the time we awaken, to the time our eyelids close, head on the pillow, we will have made a myriad of choices from what to wear, to what to eat, to how much milk to put on the cereal, turn on the television (or not), what route to drive, where to drive to, "Should I super-size that?", how much extra salt to sprinkle on lunch or dinner food, "Should I tell my co-worker?", "Do we want to accept this dinner invitation?", to polish the shoes (or not), how much soap to put into the dishwasher, etc.
Making choices doesn't bother me. It is an accepted part of my day. What I do find frustrating is having to think (another action verb for 'making a choice') about my motor movements - kinesthetically speaking - when using machines, gadgets, and gizmos I handle routinely. Here are a few examples: Gasoline pumps, ATM machines, debit/credit card scanning devices, doors (do I push in or pull out), shower/bath tub hardware in hotel rooms, bathroom sink faucets (do I push, pull or drag), and, lastly, wine-bottle cork pullers. How many different designs are really necessary to pull the cork from a wine bottle?
When I am shopping, running errands.....just 'doing' life, I would like to be on automatic. If machines, gadgets, and gizmos were standardized in design, there would be fewer headaches, less road rage, and, simply happier, more relaxed Americans. Come on, card-swiping industry. When I am paying for a purchase, I do not want a master's degree in gadgetry to be necessary before I swipe my card. I don't care if I swipe on the top or on the side.....if the 'yes' button is on the top, bottom or side.....does my stripe have to be on the top or bottom.....ALL I WANT TO DO IS BUY AN ITEM, PAY FOR IT, GET IN MY CAR AND GO HOME. JUST PUT EVERYTHING IN THE SAME PLACE, PLEASE. I won't start on automatic faucets in restrooms.
I think I feel better. Next I'll make some coffee. Let's see.....which bag of coffee beans should I select from and which of the three coffee makers, in the cupboard, should I use??????
Which puppy should I get?
Ancora imparo
One of the seldom-talked about 'perks' of living in America is that we are surrounded by, and inundated with choices.....choices about everything. From the time we awaken, to the time our eyelids close, head on the pillow, we will have made a myriad of choices from what to wear, to what to eat, to how much milk to put on the cereal, turn on the television (or not), what route to drive, where to drive to, "Should I super-size that?", how much extra salt to sprinkle on lunch or dinner food, "Should I tell my co-worker?", "Do we want to accept this dinner invitation?", to polish the shoes (or not), how much soap to put into the dishwasher, etc.
Making choices doesn't bother me. It is an accepted part of my day. What I do find frustrating is having to think (another action verb for 'making a choice') about my motor movements - kinesthetically speaking - when using machines, gadgets, and gizmos I handle routinely. Here are a few examples: Gasoline pumps, ATM machines, debit/credit card scanning devices, doors (do I push in or pull out), shower/bath tub hardware in hotel rooms, bathroom sink faucets (do I push, pull or drag), and, lastly, wine-bottle cork pullers. How many different designs are really necessary to pull the cork from a wine bottle?
When I am shopping, running errands.....just 'doing' life, I would like to be on automatic. If machines, gadgets, and gizmos were standardized in design, there would be fewer headaches, less road rage, and, simply happier, more relaxed Americans. Come on, card-swiping industry. When I am paying for a purchase, I do not want a master's degree in gadgetry to be necessary before I swipe my card. I don't care if I swipe on the top or on the side.....if the 'yes' button is on the top, bottom or side.....does my stripe have to be on the top or bottom.....ALL I WANT TO DO IS BUY AN ITEM, PAY FOR IT, GET IN MY CAR AND GO HOME. JUST PUT EVERYTHING IN THE SAME PLACE, PLEASE. I won't start on automatic faucets in restrooms.
I think I feel better. Next I'll make some coffee. Let's see.....which bag of coffee beans should I select from and which of the three coffee makers, in the cupboard, should I use??????
Which puppy should I get?
Ancora imparo
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Therapy To One.......
I was thinking about therapy this morning......more specifically, what would feel therapeutic to me. I'm in the process of retraining myself to not look to food as a first step in a therapeutic process.
As is often the case, I grew curious as to the 'official' definition of therapy from my friend, Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary - Eleventh Edition. After locating the word 'therapy', I was very disappointed and discouraged to read the too-short definition: Therapeutic treatment esp. of bodily, mental or behavioral disorder. Regressing to the childhood tendency to seek another answer when you don't like the first, I called upon my other good friend, my old, tattered 1962 edition of Roget's College Thesaurus, and was further miffed by the fact that it doesn't even contain the word therapy. Apparently, in 1962, the concept of therapy wasn't as widely accepted as it is today.
Don't we have many methods of personal 'therapy'? What is therapeutic to one may not be therapeutic to another. Other than food, some of my personal favorites are loud music, petting a dog (I won't go there today.), reading, being with certain friends, hearing a chord from my choir that 'rings', relaxing on the back deck of our Aqua RV while she goes full-charge, or simply sitting in my dad's old chair and watching the woods behind our condo. For others, your idea of therapy would probably be completely different from mine......as it should be. We are all individuals and if every one of us marched to the same drummer(s), life would be dull and boring.
To a certain segment of the population, though, there might be one universal type of therapy: Grandchildren. I call mine The Three Musketeers: TLV, TLV'sLB, and Princess Leia. (As a reminder, that is The Little Voice and The Little Voice's Little Brother.) My SO and I get to see TTM on a semi-regular basis - in person - but we video chat on a somewhat regular basis. Often enough that, hopefully, we remain in their young memories. I also have lots of their pictures surrounding me, in my office, so that I can look about, in any direction, and a smile spreads across my face. That's my therapy. When we video conference and chat, 'real-time', just hearing the boys' chirpy voices or Princess Leia's chuckle-laugh along with her excited screech........that's therapy......the best kind of therapy. Well, maybe that puppy.........
I hope that everyone who reads this blog today will engage in some healthy, restorative kind of therapy before turning out the lights tonight. If your therapy includes any coffee, chocolate, puppies, grandchildren or prayer, better yet.
Ancora imparo
As is often the case, I grew curious as to the 'official' definition of therapy from my friend, Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary - Eleventh Edition. After locating the word 'therapy', I was very disappointed and discouraged to read the too-short definition: Therapeutic treatment esp. of bodily, mental or behavioral disorder. Regressing to the childhood tendency to seek another answer when you don't like the first, I called upon my other good friend, my old, tattered 1962 edition of Roget's College Thesaurus, and was further miffed by the fact that it doesn't even contain the word therapy. Apparently, in 1962, the concept of therapy wasn't as widely accepted as it is today.
Don't we have many methods of personal 'therapy'? What is therapeutic to one may not be therapeutic to another. Other than food, some of my personal favorites are loud music, petting a dog (I won't go there today.), reading, being with certain friends, hearing a chord from my choir that 'rings', relaxing on the back deck of our Aqua RV while she goes full-charge, or simply sitting in my dad's old chair and watching the woods behind our condo. For others, your idea of therapy would probably be completely different from mine......as it should be. We are all individuals and if every one of us marched to the same drummer(s), life would be dull and boring.
To a certain segment of the population, though, there might be one universal type of therapy: Grandchildren. I call mine The Three Musketeers: TLV, TLV'sLB, and Princess Leia. (As a reminder, that is The Little Voice and The Little Voice's Little Brother.) My SO and I get to see TTM on a semi-regular basis - in person - but we video chat on a somewhat regular basis. Often enough that, hopefully, we remain in their young memories. I also have lots of their pictures surrounding me, in my office, so that I can look about, in any direction, and a smile spreads across my face. That's my therapy. When we video conference and chat, 'real-time', just hearing the boys' chirpy voices or Princess Leia's chuckle-laugh along with her excited screech........that's therapy......the best kind of therapy. Well, maybe that puppy.........
I hope that everyone who reads this blog today will engage in some healthy, restorative kind of therapy before turning out the lights tonight. If your therapy includes any coffee, chocolate, puppies, grandchildren or prayer, better yet.
Ancora imparo
Monday, April 26, 2010
Life Through Filters
This morning's sunlight streaming through the trees combined to create one of my favorite sights.....an odd, but beautifully filtered light that seems to float into the windows of our sunroom. I'm certain it has been present in all of the past years we've lived here but, for some reason this spring, it is as if I'm noticing it for the first time. The phenomenon lasts for about an hour and a half, as the sun slowly rises in the horizon. During that time my mind seems more at peace and I am inspired to read, contemplate, cogitate and feel more relaxed. Dusk seems to have the same affect on me but, of course, the visual effect is much different then.
Today's filtered light made me think of other 'filters' in my life. We all have these 'filters' - some seen and others invisible to the naked eye. I thought of the essential, mechanical filters that keep my life running smoothly......the furnace filter, water filter, vacuum-sweeper filter, the filter on my refrigerator's water supply, important and vital filters under the hood of our vehicles, and the all-important filter in my coffee maker. Much of what I do or experience during the day and night is controlled, or greatly affected, by filters. Some of the filters can be cleaned when dirt causes them to become ineffective but others have to be replaced. Knowing when a filter needs cleaning or replacing is very important, as is knowing how to either clean or replace the filter. If the filter requires a complete replacement, I must know what brand to buy and where to obtain it.
And yet, I have invisible filters in my life that I sense I either ignore totally or randomly choose to pay attention to. Like the filtered light that floats in through my windows, my inner filters are more subtle in their placement and seem to require little thought......but it is these same filters that carry more influence for and to me than any mechanical filter will ever. My brain in my most powerful inner filter. It can and does - if I allow it - filter what I say, think and do. My heart filters what I feel and who I feel for. My 'gut' filter serves me well, guiding how I spend my time and who I spend it with.
Thus far, in my life, my filters - both inner and mechanical - have served me well, but for some reason, this morning's filtered light made me ultra-aware of the need to attend to all of my life-filters, to listen to them, to clean them, to monitor the feedback they give me and to honor my filters and not override them due to carelessness, disregard, or inattention.
There are a few filters that I have manually turned off over the past few years and I need to turn them on.......again. Some will crank into service easily and quickly, others will need persuasion and massaging. A few will require a stern, self-talking-to.
I'm ready.
Ancora imparo
Today's filtered light made me think of other 'filters' in my life. We all have these 'filters' - some seen and others invisible to the naked eye. I thought of the essential, mechanical filters that keep my life running smoothly......the furnace filter, water filter, vacuum-sweeper filter, the filter on my refrigerator's water supply, important and vital filters under the hood of our vehicles, and the all-important filter in my coffee maker. Much of what I do or experience during the day and night is controlled, or greatly affected, by filters. Some of the filters can be cleaned when dirt causes them to become ineffective but others have to be replaced. Knowing when a filter needs cleaning or replacing is very important, as is knowing how to either clean or replace the filter. If the filter requires a complete replacement, I must know what brand to buy and where to obtain it.
And yet, I have invisible filters in my life that I sense I either ignore totally or randomly choose to pay attention to. Like the filtered light that floats in through my windows, my inner filters are more subtle in their placement and seem to require little thought......but it is these same filters that carry more influence for and to me than any mechanical filter will ever. My brain in my most powerful inner filter. It can and does - if I allow it - filter what I say, think and do. My heart filters what I feel and who I feel for. My 'gut' filter serves me well, guiding how I spend my time and who I spend it with.
Thus far, in my life, my filters - both inner and mechanical - have served me well, but for some reason, this morning's filtered light made me ultra-aware of the need to attend to all of my life-filters, to listen to them, to clean them, to monitor the feedback they give me and to honor my filters and not override them due to carelessness, disregard, or inattention.
There are a few filters that I have manually turned off over the past few years and I need to turn them on.......again. Some will crank into service easily and quickly, others will need persuasion and massaging. A few will require a stern, self-talking-to.
I'm ready.
Ancora imparo
Sunday, April 25, 2010
I Forgoteth
A shorteth timeth agoeth, my newspaper didst announceth that it was Speaketh-Liketh-the-Bard-Wouldst-Day. My life becameth busy in yon dwelling and I forgoteth the charge.
Alas and alack, many nights have passeth and only now hath my inner voice sayeth to moi: Writeth liketh the Bard. Thusly, my blog posteth will calleth upon the faeries to recreate the Bard's style "by vocal acclamation of his words".
Methinks I t'would be amiss if I did not harken all lads and lasses to call upon thine elected clappertons and sayeth, "A pox on you, you miscreants! What hath thee wrought? I marvel much at thine idiocy!"
Verily I beseech thee, oh blog readers, what sayeth thou? Methinks 'tis great work to speaketh like the Bard.
God ye good den, Wenches, Knaves and the like.
Ancora imparo
Alas and alack, many nights have passeth and only now hath my inner voice sayeth to moi: Writeth liketh the Bard. Thusly, my blog posteth will calleth upon the faeries to recreate the Bard's style "by vocal acclamation of his words".
Methinks I t'would be amiss if I did not harken all lads and lasses to call upon thine elected clappertons and sayeth, "A pox on you, you miscreants! What hath thee wrought? I marvel much at thine idiocy!"
Verily I beseech thee, oh blog readers, what sayeth thou? Methinks 'tis great work to speaketh like the Bard.
God ye good den, Wenches, Knaves and the like.
Ancora imparo
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Tell A Teacher
Teachers are sort of like deodorant: They are taken for granted, they are a necessary tool for personal advancement, there are many different 'brands' of them and your future life would stink without them.
Does a former teacher ever 'pop' into your head....for one reason or another? Hopefully this memory retrieval is a positive one. I do understand that a teacher has the ability to powerfully influence students in either a positive or negative manner. I can remember every teacher I ever had - from kindergarten through high school - and, fortunately for me, not one of them left any scars. Quite the contrary, many of these dedicated educators left lasting, positive imprints and armed me with knowledge that has served me well for many years.
There are several former educators of mine whose careers impacted me in ways that influence me daily. One I've written about in this blog - an American Thought And Language professor at a Big Ten University. Another was my public school band director - a mentor to me and the man who inspired me to follow in his footsteps. Sadly, this man died soon after my high school graduation and I was never been able to tell him of his importance in my professional life. The third teacher is a woman who was my high school, college-prep English teacher during my sophomore and junior years. Miss 'Smith', not her real name, was a no-nonsense teacher who had a terrific dry sense of humor (right up my personality alley) and she inspired me to read, read more and then write about what I read. She grounded her students in the mechanics of the English language - i.e. grammar and she was a stickler for correct spelling and intelligent syntax. This woman singlehandedly gave me rock-solid skills that have been more influential in my life-successes than any other educator in my twenty-plus years of education. While I have miles to go before I master speaking the English language and writing with it, the skills this terrific teacher left me with have given me years of pleasure and professional advancement.
I urge all of us to locate former, influential educators and let them know of their impact on our lives. It is true - if you can read this blog posting, thank an English teacher. If you can balance your checkbook, thank a math teacher. If you know that the figurine perching on the fireplace mantle will fall off if the fulcrum point is not exactly known, thank a physics teacher. If you can read musical notes or play an instrument, thank a music teacher. If you can type with more than two fingers, thank God that someone taught you your keyboarding skills. And, if you are breathing in and out, just thank God. Period.
Ancora imparo
Does a former teacher ever 'pop' into your head....for one reason or another? Hopefully this memory retrieval is a positive one. I do understand that a teacher has the ability to powerfully influence students in either a positive or negative manner. I can remember every teacher I ever had - from kindergarten through high school - and, fortunately for me, not one of them left any scars. Quite the contrary, many of these dedicated educators left lasting, positive imprints and armed me with knowledge that has served me well for many years.
There are several former educators of mine whose careers impacted me in ways that influence me daily. One I've written about in this blog - an American Thought And Language professor at a Big Ten University. Another was my public school band director - a mentor to me and the man who inspired me to follow in his footsteps. Sadly, this man died soon after my high school graduation and I was never been able to tell him of his importance in my professional life. The third teacher is a woman who was my high school, college-prep English teacher during my sophomore and junior years. Miss 'Smith', not her real name, was a no-nonsense teacher who had a terrific dry sense of humor (right up my personality alley) and she inspired me to read, read more and then write about what I read. She grounded her students in the mechanics of the English language - i.e. grammar and she was a stickler for correct spelling and intelligent syntax. This woman singlehandedly gave me rock-solid skills that have been more influential in my life-successes than any other educator in my twenty-plus years of education. While I have miles to go before I master speaking the English language and writing with it, the skills this terrific teacher left me with have given me years of pleasure and professional advancement.
I urge all of us to locate former, influential educators and let them know of their impact on our lives. It is true - if you can read this blog posting, thank an English teacher. If you can balance your checkbook, thank a math teacher. If you know that the figurine perching on the fireplace mantle will fall off if the fulcrum point is not exactly known, thank a physics teacher. If you can read musical notes or play an instrument, thank a music teacher. If you can type with more than two fingers, thank God that someone taught you your keyboarding skills. And, if you are breathing in and out, just thank God. Period.
Ancora imparo
Friday, April 23, 2010
Discombobulated Dialect
Our English language is impossible, making spelling a difficult, if not frustrating, experience. I think of the immigrant who comes to this country, willing and eager to learn our language so that assimilation is easier and citizenship is more rewarding. Then I am reminded of our enigmatic English language that many native-born Americans struggle with.
For instance, consider the following words and their phonetic pronunciation:
agree (ah-greeeee)
debris (de-breeee)
hubris (hue-briss)
pedigree (peh-dih-greee)
melee (may-lay)
Need I list more?
I understand agree and pedigree. These words end in 'ee', which we are accustomed to pronouncing with the 'eeeee' sound. In our phonetic method of teaching reading, we learn that 'ee' equates to 'eeeeeee'. But then we add in the component of French-origin words; i.e. debris, pronounced deh-breeeee and, I, too understand that after taking four years of French in high school. Why, oh why, then, must hubris break the pattern? Why do we not pronounce 'hubris' like 'hue-breeeee', instead of the illogical 'hue-briss'?
I believe that, somewhere in the past scholarly halls of learning in early centuries, there must have been a bit too much imbibing of wine whilst early dictionaries, complete with pronunciation tools, were compiled and written.
After doing all of this worldly word wondering, I think it is I who needs the wine. Only then will comprehension come to me.......or I won't care.
Ancora imparo
For instance, consider the following words and their phonetic pronunciation:
agree (ah-greeeee)
debris (de-breeee)
hubris (hue-briss)
pedigree (peh-dih-greee)
melee (may-lay)
Need I list more?
I understand agree and pedigree. These words end in 'ee', which we are accustomed to pronouncing with the 'eeeee' sound. In our phonetic method of teaching reading, we learn that 'ee' equates to 'eeeeeee'. But then we add in the component of French-origin words; i.e. debris, pronounced deh-breeeee and, I, too understand that after taking four years of French in high school. Why, oh why, then, must hubris break the pattern? Why do we not pronounce 'hubris' like 'hue-breeeee', instead of the illogical 'hue-briss'?
I believe that, somewhere in the past scholarly halls of learning in early centuries, there must have been a bit too much imbibing of wine whilst early dictionaries, complete with pronunciation tools, were compiled and written.
After doing all of this worldly word wondering, I think it is I who needs the wine. Only then will comprehension come to me.......or I won't care.
Ancora imparo
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Grounded on Earth Day
There are different definitions for the word 'grounded'. As a parent, the definition that comes first to mind is the one where the parent utters, usually in frustration, "You're grounded!" Now I realize that grounding children only cramps the parents' style, not the kids'. To send a kid to their room these days only means doing what they would prefer anyway.....spending time alone in the room where most of the 'toys' are. As an adult, I eagerly await the day now when someone will yell at me, "Go to your room and don't come out until I say so!" I will know then, for certain, that I have died and gone to heaven.
If an airline pilot is 'grounded', it means that he or she has been temporarily forbidden to fly - usually for medical reasons.
The other definition of 'grounded' is when, you might say, an individual has his or her head 'screwed on straight'. "She is a very grounded person."
Tonight I spent a truly enjoyable evening with a group of people (as it happened, all women) who represent a period of time in my life where I was very grounded. It was a reunion of parents and teachers, past and present, who were associated with the small school district where I taught the longest string of years in my education career. Having worked for many school districts, I can say, with all authority, that this little district is a one-of-a-kind. Viewing it retrospectively, I know now what I thought I knew then, that this was a very special school climate in which to work. I used to joke that it was the water, but, in reality, it was the parents and tonight's reunion dinner drove that home to me.....again. I cannot put a name to it but the forty-plus mothers and teachers that came together to check up on one anothers' lives, to hear what former students are doing, where they are attending college and what they are majoring in simply reaffirmed what I have always known.
It was a special time and place in my life.....an experience that enriched my life as much or more than I may have influenced the lives of others. For that I am grateful.
I was 'grounded' on Earth Day. How appropriate.
Ancora imparo
If an airline pilot is 'grounded', it means that he or she has been temporarily forbidden to fly - usually for medical reasons.
The other definition of 'grounded' is when, you might say, an individual has his or her head 'screwed on straight'. "She is a very grounded person."
Tonight I spent a truly enjoyable evening with a group of people (as it happened, all women) who represent a period of time in my life where I was very grounded. It was a reunion of parents and teachers, past and present, who were associated with the small school district where I taught the longest string of years in my education career. Having worked for many school districts, I can say, with all authority, that this little district is a one-of-a-kind. Viewing it retrospectively, I know now what I thought I knew then, that this was a very special school climate in which to work. I used to joke that it was the water, but, in reality, it was the parents and tonight's reunion dinner drove that home to me.....again. I cannot put a name to it but the forty-plus mothers and teachers that came together to check up on one anothers' lives, to hear what former students are doing, where they are attending college and what they are majoring in simply reaffirmed what I have always known.
It was a special time and place in my life.....an experience that enriched my life as much or more than I may have influenced the lives of others. For that I am grateful.
I was 'grounded' on Earth Day. How appropriate.
Ancora imparo
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Echo Chamber
Somewhere in the last four or five hours, one of my ears has become plugged and the resulting effect is that everything from my right ear sounds as if I am in an echo chamber or a very large assembly hall that is empty. It is an odd sensation, rather like having a dozen or so cotton balls stuffed inside my hearing canal.
I remember a night in 1972, in California, when I had my last severe ear ache and my ear drum broke....somewhere during the wee hours of the morning. Up to that point, the pain, as Bill Cosby would say, "was tremendous". I had been trying to read the book, Dr. Zhivago, but after that experience, I could never bring myself to finish the novel. The association with pain was just too great. Too bad, too. I know I've missed a good read!
Back to topic.......after my ear drum broke, I couldn't hear out of that ear for nearly a month and, as my hearing returned, the echo chamber effect was very much in place, much like it is now. Imagine a recording being played very slowly and how exaggerated the words and sounds would be. This is what I am experiencing.
So I will leave you with a sample to read of how I am hearing at the moment:
D o h a v e a w o n d e r f u l e v e n i n g.
A n c o r a i m p a r o
I remember a night in 1972, in California, when I had my last severe ear ache and my ear drum broke....somewhere during the wee hours of the morning. Up to that point, the pain, as Bill Cosby would say, "was tremendous". I had been trying to read the book, Dr. Zhivago, but after that experience, I could never bring myself to finish the novel. The association with pain was just too great. Too bad, too. I know I've missed a good read!
Back to topic.......after my ear drum broke, I couldn't hear out of that ear for nearly a month and, as my hearing returned, the echo chamber effect was very much in place, much like it is now. Imagine a recording being played very slowly and how exaggerated the words and sounds would be. This is what I am experiencing.
So I will leave you with a sample to read of how I am hearing at the moment:
D o h a v e a w o n d e r f u l e v e n i n g.
A n c o r a i m p a r o
Monday, April 19, 2010
Misdirected Attention
Allow me to verbalize an annoyance. I know, I know......I have many but this just might be one that others can identify with.
I am all for the recognition of students. Especially when the recognition is well-deserved. As you may remember, I have voiced my concern regarding grade inflation because, in the end, it does no favors for a student. Grade inflation is like insincere praise and I do believe that today's students are aware that grade inflation is prevalent. Even fawning parents comprehend the phenomenon, although they may outwardly celebrate, inwardly they are aware that Joey or Suzy did not really make the grade.......literally as well as figuratively.
I particularly applaud the recognition of non-sporting achievements. Our society and schools do a spectacular job of recognizing athletes - both male and female - no lack of acknowledgement can ever be a point of criticism on this issue. But, and there is a but......our society and schools, in general, are not as quick to recognize students who excel scholastically or fine-artfully. (My word.) Today's newspaper had a featured article that speaks to this matter.
A sports writer's column detailed where outstanding area athletes, both male and female, had signed letters of intent to attend. The article set up the subject as if these excelling young people were headed to college and pro careers afterward......only to detail that, for the majority of the students reported upon, they would be attending junior colleges and other, similarly ranked institutions of higher education.
I am not here to diminish, in any way, the importance of junior colleges. They are vital stepping stones, in the higher education system, that offer high quality and affordable college experiences. What did amaze me was the writer proclaiming how great it is that outstanding area athletes have signed with.......junior colleges.
What does it take and why is no newspaper writer heralding where the stellar academic students have signed letters of intent to attend? Or the gifted thespian, musician, or artist? Many, many of these students receive full, four-year scholarships to attend MAJOR universities and where is the banner headline for them?
It would seem that our collective attentions have been misdirected by the venue that simply brings in the most revenue.......sports. I do not portend to take away any achievement by the high school athlete - I am just advocating for similar trumpet voluntaries to be sounded for those students who excel in non-sporting areas.
Hmmm, let's count:
Sports: 1
Music, art, theatre, math, sciences, English, etc.: 6, at least
Where is the balance?
Ancora imparo
I am all for the recognition of students. Especially when the recognition is well-deserved. As you may remember, I have voiced my concern regarding grade inflation because, in the end, it does no favors for a student. Grade inflation is like insincere praise and I do believe that today's students are aware that grade inflation is prevalent. Even fawning parents comprehend the phenomenon, although they may outwardly celebrate, inwardly they are aware that Joey or Suzy did not really make the grade.......literally as well as figuratively.
I particularly applaud the recognition of non-sporting achievements. Our society and schools do a spectacular job of recognizing athletes - both male and female - no lack of acknowledgement can ever be a point of criticism on this issue. But, and there is a but......our society and schools, in general, are not as quick to recognize students who excel scholastically or fine-artfully. (My word.) Today's newspaper had a featured article that speaks to this matter.
A sports writer's column detailed where outstanding area athletes, both male and female, had signed letters of intent to attend. The article set up the subject as if these excelling young people were headed to college and pro careers afterward......only to detail that, for the majority of the students reported upon, they would be attending junior colleges and other, similarly ranked institutions of higher education.
I am not here to diminish, in any way, the importance of junior colleges. They are vital stepping stones, in the higher education system, that offer high quality and affordable college experiences. What did amaze me was the writer proclaiming how great it is that outstanding area athletes have signed with.......junior colleges.
What does it take and why is no newspaper writer heralding where the stellar academic students have signed letters of intent to attend? Or the gifted thespian, musician, or artist? Many, many of these students receive full, four-year scholarships to attend MAJOR universities and where is the banner headline for them?
It would seem that our collective attentions have been misdirected by the venue that simply brings in the most revenue.......sports. I do not portend to take away any achievement by the high school athlete - I am just advocating for similar trumpet voluntaries to be sounded for those students who excel in non-sporting areas.
Hmmm, let's count:
Sports: 1
Music, art, theatre, math, sciences, English, etc.: 6, at least
Where is the balance?
Ancora imparo
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Scattered Thoughts
I've just been to another state.....another world.....to be a part of a ninetieth birthday celebration. To accomplish this trip requires a six-hour 'commute', as it were, and I am always a bit road-worn when I return home. With all that I have seen, heard, felt, and experienced over the past five days, I feel as if I am truly in a daze....a gauze-filled haze where I find myself with arms outstretched, stumbling through to the light at the end of a very long tunnel.
The birthday celebration was a rousing success, with the birthday 'boy - albeit a ninety-year old 'boy' - being royally, deservedly, and properly feted by well over two hundred people. Oh, to be so beloved!
Mixed in with all of the merriment have been thoughts whirling in my head regarding various topics, concerns, issues and the like. My thoughts have ranged from those of frustration, bewilderment, concern, outright flabbergastion (I know there is no such word.), sadness, and a little anger mixed in here and there. The subject of education has also been looming in my head, with related questions of, but not restricted to: What is important? Flexibility and inflexibility. Is inflexible the same thing as rigidity? When and how do educators choose their battles? Is inflexibility related to age? Do 'younger' ideas carry more relevance than 'older' ideas? Should rules ever be 'bent'? Is there such a thing as situational ethics? Should there be such a concept as 'situational' discipline?
There you have the potpourri of pondering that I am experiencing. In fact, I would have to say that I have experienced a plethora of pondering potpourri that is both perplexing and puzzling.
To that I say, piffle and poppycock.
Ancora imparo
The birthday celebration was a rousing success, with the birthday 'boy - albeit a ninety-year old 'boy' - being royally, deservedly, and properly feted by well over two hundred people. Oh, to be so beloved!
Mixed in with all of the merriment have been thoughts whirling in my head regarding various topics, concerns, issues and the like. My thoughts have ranged from those of frustration, bewilderment, concern, outright flabbergastion (I know there is no such word.), sadness, and a little anger mixed in here and there. The subject of education has also been looming in my head, with related questions of, but not restricted to: What is important? Flexibility and inflexibility. Is inflexible the same thing as rigidity? When and how do educators choose their battles? Is inflexibility related to age? Do 'younger' ideas carry more relevance than 'older' ideas? Should rules ever be 'bent'? Is there such a thing as situational ethics? Should there be such a concept as 'situational' discipline?
There you have the potpourri of pondering that I am experiencing. In fact, I would have to say that I have experienced a plethora of pondering potpourri that is both perplexing and puzzling.
To that I say, piffle and poppycock.
Ancora imparo
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
One Sock Short....
Have you ever heard the saying, "One french fry short of a Happy Meal"?
It has been around for a long time.....at least I've heard it for many years. Its connotation has meant many things - some of which would be considered humorous, others derogatory. There are definitely times when I am "one french fry short of a Happy Meal", when I just cannot get my head together. But, as of late, I've been 'one sock short of a pair'. Let me explain.
I do not like to lose track of objects or belongings, especially those that I either cherish, use all the time, or think I cannot live without. When I misplace an item and I am aware that I have misplaced it, I can usually retrace my steps and lay my hands on the missing 'thing' relatively quickly. This ability to locate an item without any serious delay gives me hope that my brain's functioning power may still be working at close to its optimum capacity. What drives me nuts is when I have gone into a room, closet, or area and I get there and think, "Now why did I come here?" This phenomenon occurs more often than I'd care to admit. At least, i can usually answer my own question!
Where I get frustrated with myself is when I have misplaced an item but I do not know - and have no clue - that it is even missing. Invariably, this realization always comes at the worst possible moment and, almost always, when I need the object right now. When this scenario occurs, I am always pleasant, patient, subdued and contrite in my demeanor, for to do otherwise is not in my laid-back nature.
Twice now, recently, one of my favorite Smart Wool (SM) socks has gone missing. This would not be a problem except for the cost of those stockings, which to me, is like one million dollars per sock. Let's just say that the socks are special and I treat them with care. The first time a SM sock came up missing, I calmly searched for the sock, located where it was (in another city) and requested that the sock be returned pronto. Bottom line, I got my sock back.
However, the same sock went AWOL a few days ago and I did my usual condo search but could not locate the errant footwear. I kept looking with dogged determination and looked upon anyone who had recently set foot in the condo as a possible sock stealer......but to no avail. Undaunted, I would investigate previously unnoticed areas where a single sock might hide.....but to no avail.
Eureka! Today my sock materialized and the lost sock has come 'home' to its mate and now my sock drawer is complete once again. The sock was stuck on the inside of one my SO's special wicking shirts. Neither of us had thought to look there, but there it was, just waiting to be discovered.
And to think of all the accusatory things that had gone through my mind......
There is no sock thief in my fiefdom. I will sleep soundly tonight. I may be short of something but it is not socks!
Ancora imparo
It has been around for a long time.....at least I've heard it for many years. Its connotation has meant many things - some of which would be considered humorous, others derogatory. There are definitely times when I am "one french fry short of a Happy Meal", when I just cannot get my head together. But, as of late, I've been 'one sock short of a pair'. Let me explain.
I do not like to lose track of objects or belongings, especially those that I either cherish, use all the time, or think I cannot live without. When I misplace an item and I am aware that I have misplaced it, I can usually retrace my steps and lay my hands on the missing 'thing' relatively quickly. This ability to locate an item without any serious delay gives me hope that my brain's functioning power may still be working at close to its optimum capacity. What drives me nuts is when I have gone into a room, closet, or area and I get there and think, "Now why did I come here?" This phenomenon occurs more often than I'd care to admit. At least, i can usually answer my own question!
Where I get frustrated with myself is when I have misplaced an item but I do not know - and have no clue - that it is even missing. Invariably, this realization always comes at the worst possible moment and, almost always, when I need the object right now. When this scenario occurs, I am always pleasant, patient, subdued and contrite in my demeanor, for to do otherwise is not in my laid-back nature.
Twice now, recently, one of my favorite Smart Wool (SM) socks has gone missing. This would not be a problem except for the cost of those stockings, which to me, is like one million dollars per sock. Let's just say that the socks are special and I treat them with care. The first time a SM sock came up missing, I calmly searched for the sock, located where it was (in another city) and requested that the sock be returned pronto. Bottom line, I got my sock back.
However, the same sock went AWOL a few days ago and I did my usual condo search but could not locate the errant footwear. I kept looking with dogged determination and looked upon anyone who had recently set foot in the condo as a possible sock stealer......but to no avail. Undaunted, I would investigate previously unnoticed areas where a single sock might hide.....but to no avail.
Eureka! Today my sock materialized and the lost sock has come 'home' to its mate and now my sock drawer is complete once again. The sock was stuck on the inside of one my SO's special wicking shirts. Neither of us had thought to look there, but there it was, just waiting to be discovered.
And to think of all the accusatory things that had gone through my mind......
There is no sock thief in my fiefdom. I will sleep soundly tonight. I may be short of something but it is not socks!
Ancora imparo
S.O.S.
This morning's paper had a photograph prominently positioned on the front page, featuring a group of individuals wearing t-shirts that had S.O.S. printed on them. (I'm not certain about the period after each letter. That is my editing choice.) At first glance, I assumed I knew what the letters stood for, only to be very disappointed -later reading the accompanying article - with what the letters actually represented.
Because it was an article about teachers, the unfortunate many who have been RIFfed (Reduction In Force) due to the critical condition of our state's economy, I made the erroneous guess that S.O.S. meant save our schools. I was disillusioned, to say the least, to learn that the letters actually represented Save Our Staff. If I lived in the school district that was the focus of the article, I would write a letter to the editor, expressing my dismay. While I understand that saving staff jobs is the ultimate priority of the union, saving our schools should always be the underlying reason to save anything education-related. I won't spend much time here, on my soap box, but I feel the need to express my opinion about what I believe the order of 'saving' should be: By saving our Students, we save our Schools, and the result of those two saves are that we would save our Staff(s). Come on, people. Let's get our priorities straight.
Then again, we could interpret S.O.S. to be Save Our Souls, which, heaven knows (pun intended), we all could use. Perhaps, if we saved our souls, we'd save our schools, our students, and our staffs.
I'll ponder this awhile. In the meantime, I'll S.O.S. - save my stomach - by eating breakfast.
Ancora imparo
Because it was an article about teachers, the unfortunate many who have been RIFfed (Reduction In Force) due to the critical condition of our state's economy, I made the erroneous guess that S.O.S. meant save our schools. I was disillusioned, to say the least, to learn that the letters actually represented Save Our Staff. If I lived in the school district that was the focus of the article, I would write a letter to the editor, expressing my dismay. While I understand that saving staff jobs is the ultimate priority of the union, saving our schools should always be the underlying reason to save anything education-related. I won't spend much time here, on my soap box, but I feel the need to express my opinion about what I believe the order of 'saving' should be: By saving our Students, we save our Schools, and the result of those two saves are that we would save our Staff(s). Come on, people. Let's get our priorities straight.
Then again, we could interpret S.O.S. to be Save Our Souls, which, heaven knows (pun intended), we all could use. Perhaps, if we saved our souls, we'd save our schools, our students, and our staffs.
I'll ponder this awhile. In the meantime, I'll S.O.S. - save my stomach - by eating breakfast.
Ancora imparo
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Peaceful Coexistence?
My little 'friends' are back.....the bumblebee-type, flying insects that I just learned are carpenter bees. I'm not particularly pleased by their re-appearance. They discovered a homey place in our front shrubbery landscaping last summer and I was hoping against hope they would not return.....but return they have.
I just read about them in a series of articles from the University of Kansas. Mostly passive, they tend to come and go from their ground hole in our mulch with little fanfare or warfare......thus far. I do weed out there and I am not thrilled about sharing tight quarters with creatures that have stingers. I keep thinking, what if I find a weed too close to their hole? Are they going to appreciate my lurking and loitering about as I muss up the ground around their entrance by probing and plucking out a weed? And, no, leaving the weed is not an option. Plus, their landing approach and flight path are right over the main walkway to our front door. I would re-locate their little colony but that is not possible. I don't believe there are carpenter-bee hutches that can be purchased like bird feeders can be, so I am at a loss as to how to proceed.
Furthermore, I'm not wild about eradicating them, either. I know they do good works with pollination and, perhaps, even contribute to the over-all health of the shrubs. They make a positive contribution to the landscaping 'society' around my neighborhood but - gosh, golly, gee - do they have to take up housekeeping at my front door?
I'm reminded of the NIMBY (Not-in-my-backyard) attitude that pervades our nation, even world. We all recognize the need for waste-treatment plants, landfills, alternative energy solutions - i.e. nuclear power plants/atomic power plants, missile defense systems and the like. Similarly, we Americans love our beef, poultry and pork but not mega-farming operations. Do we want any of the aforementioned in our backyards? Most certainly not! We want the benefits but not the smells or possible dangers that could result from close proximity.......to us.
Likewise, I am conflicted about the possibility of my peaceful coexistence with the carpenter bees. I know this 'issue' is a long way from the weighty issues of large livestock and poultry farms and national security, but this is, after all, my front yard and I'll be the one who gets stung......if anyone gets stung.
I know! I'll create a sign that says, "Give peace a chance." I wonder if the bees are literate or illiterate?
Ancora imparo
I just read about them in a series of articles from the University of Kansas. Mostly passive, they tend to come and go from their ground hole in our mulch with little fanfare or warfare......thus far. I do weed out there and I am not thrilled about sharing tight quarters with creatures that have stingers. I keep thinking, what if I find a weed too close to their hole? Are they going to appreciate my lurking and loitering about as I muss up the ground around their entrance by probing and plucking out a weed? And, no, leaving the weed is not an option. Plus, their landing approach and flight path are right over the main walkway to our front door. I would re-locate their little colony but that is not possible. I don't believe there are carpenter-bee hutches that can be purchased like bird feeders can be, so I am at a loss as to how to proceed.
Furthermore, I'm not wild about eradicating them, either. I know they do good works with pollination and, perhaps, even contribute to the over-all health of the shrubs. They make a positive contribution to the landscaping 'society' around my neighborhood but - gosh, golly, gee - do they have to take up housekeeping at my front door?
I'm reminded of the NIMBY (Not-in-my-backyard) attitude that pervades our nation, even world. We all recognize the need for waste-treatment plants, landfills, alternative energy solutions - i.e. nuclear power plants/atomic power plants, missile defense systems and the like. Similarly, we Americans love our beef, poultry and pork but not mega-farming operations. Do we want any of the aforementioned in our backyards? Most certainly not! We want the benefits but not the smells or possible dangers that could result from close proximity.......to us.
Likewise, I am conflicted about the possibility of my peaceful coexistence with the carpenter bees. I know this 'issue' is a long way from the weighty issues of large livestock and poultry farms and national security, but this is, after all, my front yard and I'll be the one who gets stung......if anyone gets stung.
I know! I'll create a sign that says, "Give peace a chance." I wonder if the bees are literate or illiterate?
Ancora imparo
Return to Subject
I'll just apologize right up front for returning to the subject of health-care insurance. It is, however, the subject that is at the forefront of my mind this morning.
Do we think much about it? I never gave health-care insurance much thought for years because I was covered, and covered well, as a dependent of another person. It was a given, much like breathing in and breathing out. Aside from following or chasing paperwork, keeping track of deductibles for multiple individuals, and attempting to decipher the ubiquitous EOBs (explanation of benefits......now there is an oxymoron.), health insurance was, well, just there. I never fully understood the plight of the un-insured, the under-insured or the self-insured until the fairly recent past. Did I feel that health insurance was an entitlement? I don't think so but I certainly did look at it as a 'given'. Later, as I was the lead negotiator in labor-contract talks, I came to understand the huge benefit that employer-paid health insurance was. It is a largely hidden benefit that relatively few employees, at the time, were cognizant of the monetary value of. It is really only in the recent historical past that employers have had to pass along costs associated with the coverage and employees have become more educated in what the cost-associated benefits amount to.
Then insurance-life changed dramatically when I left my professional field and had to seek out self-insurance.
Where am I going with this? Client-provider confidentiality.
In the legal field, client-lawyer confidentiality is sacred. You tell your lawyer and 'it' stays there, period. In the medical field there is the nebulous third party....the insurance company. A patient confides in a physician, the physician records the confidence in the patient's record, but the confidence doesn't stay there, does it? The insurance company knows all and sees all. Confidentiality between doctor and patient is non-existent....a pipe dream......and it is this breach of confidentiality that remains a virus in the health-care insurance industry. A visit to the doctor for a simple earache can result in denial of coverage for any ear-related issues for the rest of your life. The pre-existing condition purgatory is alive and well, as any self-insured person can attest to. As long as the doctor-patient confidentiality is breached each time a patient confides in a doctor, patients will need to continue to be less than open with physicians.
This is progressive health care?
Ancora imparo
Do we think much about it? I never gave health-care insurance much thought for years because I was covered, and covered well, as a dependent of another person. It was a given, much like breathing in and breathing out. Aside from following or chasing paperwork, keeping track of deductibles for multiple individuals, and attempting to decipher the ubiquitous EOBs (explanation of benefits......now there is an oxymoron.), health insurance was, well, just there. I never fully understood the plight of the un-insured, the under-insured or the self-insured until the fairly recent past. Did I feel that health insurance was an entitlement? I don't think so but I certainly did look at it as a 'given'. Later, as I was the lead negotiator in labor-contract talks, I came to understand the huge benefit that employer-paid health insurance was. It is a largely hidden benefit that relatively few employees, at the time, were cognizant of the monetary value of. It is really only in the recent historical past that employers have had to pass along costs associated with the coverage and employees have become more educated in what the cost-associated benefits amount to.
Then insurance-life changed dramatically when I left my professional field and had to seek out self-insurance.
Where am I going with this? Client-provider confidentiality.
In the legal field, client-lawyer confidentiality is sacred. You tell your lawyer and 'it' stays there, period. In the medical field there is the nebulous third party....the insurance company. A patient confides in a physician, the physician records the confidence in the patient's record, but the confidence doesn't stay there, does it? The insurance company knows all and sees all. Confidentiality between doctor and patient is non-existent....a pipe dream......and it is this breach of confidentiality that remains a virus in the health-care insurance industry. A visit to the doctor for a simple earache can result in denial of coverage for any ear-related issues for the rest of your life. The pre-existing condition purgatory is alive and well, as any self-insured person can attest to. As long as the doctor-patient confidentiality is breached each time a patient confides in a doctor, patients will need to continue to be less than open with physicians.
This is progressive health care?
Ancora imparo
Monday, April 12, 2010
Random Thoughts On Being Ninety
My father-in-law turns ninety years of age this week. He is in good health, for his age, remains very physically active (except for a bum knee), his mind is sharper than most peoples', and he still drives everywhere - except people nuts.
My parents had me at an later-in-life age so I was relatively young when my parents died. Having a living parent at my age is a mystery to me - a precious thing - especially a parent that is fully cognizant, ready to go at a moment's notice and just may beat you to the finish line.......followed by a nap right afterward. After all, there are some perks to being ninety.
This ninety-year old occasionally forgets his age and has to be reminded that he should not paint the sides of the barn by standing atop a ladder that is perched in the bucket of a front-end loader - that he should not trim trees that are wider than the chainsaw he's using while standing atop a ladder that is perched in the bucket of a front-end loader. No one tells him he should stop driving his tractor back to the woods, chain saw in hand and 'chopping' wood, which he either sells or hauls back to the homestead and drops down his wood chute, ready to be used as fuel for the wood-burning stove that puts out more heat from the basement than the afterburners on a skyward-bound rocket. Certainly no one is telling him to stop making, perhaps, fifty or more batches of peanut brittle at Christmas time. The peanut brittle is a neighborhood favorite of caroling Mennonites who will travel some distance to sing to Ed and get handsomely rewarded with a container of peanut brittle. Grandchildren who live afar and cannot make the trek back to Grandpa's at Christmas remind their parents to bring back Grandpa's peanut brittle and homemade raspberry jam. No one has yet suggested that he stop planting his very large garden....the produce from which is generously shared with family and friends close by and far away. His children even have a traveling, shared cooler that transports frozen foods to and from Grandpa's and then is traded to the next traveling kin who come to visit during harvest season. No one is telling him to stop making his fabulous raspberry or strawberry pies, either.
Yes, he makes reaching ninety look easy, yet I know it is not. He has loved and buried two lovely women during the course of his life so he is well-acquainted with grief, yet his outward countenance is that of a happy man who has lived life well. He reminds me of the logo that is printed on the side of every issue of the Reader's Digest:
"Life, well-lived". That's Ed. I should start taking lessons. We all should.
Happy Birthday, Ed.
Ancora imparo
My parents had me at an later-in-life age so I was relatively young when my parents died. Having a living parent at my age is a mystery to me - a precious thing - especially a parent that is fully cognizant, ready to go at a moment's notice and just may beat you to the finish line.......followed by a nap right afterward. After all, there are some perks to being ninety.
This ninety-year old occasionally forgets his age and has to be reminded that he should not paint the sides of the barn by standing atop a ladder that is perched in the bucket of a front-end loader - that he should not trim trees that are wider than the chainsaw he's using while standing atop a ladder that is perched in the bucket of a front-end loader. No one tells him he should stop driving his tractor back to the woods, chain saw in hand and 'chopping' wood, which he either sells or hauls back to the homestead and drops down his wood chute, ready to be used as fuel for the wood-burning stove that puts out more heat from the basement than the afterburners on a skyward-bound rocket. Certainly no one is telling him to stop making, perhaps, fifty or more batches of peanut brittle at Christmas time. The peanut brittle is a neighborhood favorite of caroling Mennonites who will travel some distance to sing to Ed and get handsomely rewarded with a container of peanut brittle. Grandchildren who live afar and cannot make the trek back to Grandpa's at Christmas remind their parents to bring back Grandpa's peanut brittle and homemade raspberry jam. No one has yet suggested that he stop planting his very large garden....the produce from which is generously shared with family and friends close by and far away. His children even have a traveling, shared cooler that transports frozen foods to and from Grandpa's and then is traded to the next traveling kin who come to visit during harvest season. No one is telling him to stop making his fabulous raspberry or strawberry pies, either.
Yes, he makes reaching ninety look easy, yet I know it is not. He has loved and buried two lovely women during the course of his life so he is well-acquainted with grief, yet his outward countenance is that of a happy man who has lived life well. He reminds me of the logo that is printed on the side of every issue of the Reader's Digest:
"Life, well-lived". That's Ed. I should start taking lessons. We all should.
Happy Birthday, Ed.
Ancora imparo
Less Than or More Than
Less than or more than.....expected.
Which of the above do you chose when you perform a duty, task, or job? Maybe you are the type that does exactly what is expected......no more and no less. "I'll do what the job description requires and that is it!"
My intuition tells me that every human fall into one of these three categories. For clarity sake, I'll call 'us' either the Lesses, the Mores, or the Expecteds. We try to fudge our way into other categories with our excuses......books about those have been written and written ad nauseum. As a teacher, I heard them all....sadly many from a parent in defense of a child. Humorous books have been written along the lines of The Dog Ate My Homework or The Grizzly Bear Swooped Down and Ate My Paper Off My Desk.
You might think that the Expecteds are the most reliable of the three categories but I will argue that these people are actually the weakest of the three. The Expecteds' come with the attitude every day of mentally crossed arms and exude the 'just try me' mentality. These folk are the type that workplaces try to avoid because their position will never change. Worst of all, they lack loyalty.
The Lesses, bless their hearts, are Lesses for differing reasons. Some due to their own lack of self-confidence, some due to extenuating circumstances, some due to outside influences beyond their control, some due to low skill and talent levels, and some due to zero self-motivation. They don't deliver and that can probably be counted on each and every time, but you know what is coming. As a former professor used to say, to anyone who made a mistake, "You are very consistent in your inconsistency." There is a lot of truth in that.
The Mores are the salt of the earth. These may not be the people who are members of Mensa, or who will win award after award, but they deliver - daily, constantly,skillfully, accurately, dependably, without complaint, and their loyalty never wanes.
Less is not more. More is more, pure and simple. If we want to personally succeed, we give more, not less, and not only what is expected. I've been asking myself which category I am in.....in all aspects of my life. This is one mathematical equation - less than/more than - that I can understand and that I know the answer to.
Ancora imparo
Which of the above do you chose when you perform a duty, task, or job? Maybe you are the type that does exactly what is expected......no more and no less. "I'll do what the job description requires and that is it!"
My intuition tells me that every human fall into one of these three categories. For clarity sake, I'll call 'us' either the Lesses, the Mores, or the Expecteds. We try to fudge our way into other categories with our excuses......books about those have been written and written ad nauseum. As a teacher, I heard them all....sadly many from a parent in defense of a child. Humorous books have been written along the lines of The Dog Ate My Homework or The Grizzly Bear Swooped Down and Ate My Paper Off My Desk.
You might think that the Expecteds are the most reliable of the three categories but I will argue that these people are actually the weakest of the three. The Expecteds' come with the attitude every day of mentally crossed arms and exude the 'just try me' mentality. These folk are the type that workplaces try to avoid because their position will never change. Worst of all, they lack loyalty.
The Lesses, bless their hearts, are Lesses for differing reasons. Some due to their own lack of self-confidence, some due to extenuating circumstances, some due to outside influences beyond their control, some due to low skill and talent levels, and some due to zero self-motivation. They don't deliver and that can probably be counted on each and every time, but you know what is coming. As a former professor used to say, to anyone who made a mistake, "You are very consistent in your inconsistency." There is a lot of truth in that.
The Mores are the salt of the earth. These may not be the people who are members of Mensa, or who will win award after award, but they deliver - daily, constantly,skillfully, accurately, dependably, without complaint, and their loyalty never wanes.
Less is not more. More is more, pure and simple. If we want to personally succeed, we give more, not less, and not only what is expected. I've been asking myself which category I am in.....in all aspects of my life. This is one mathematical equation - less than/more than - that I can understand and that I know the answer to.
Ancora imparo
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Feline Feng Shui
I am having a moral dilemma. Well, more like a feline dilemma.
My cross, cantankerous, feisty, ill-tempered, crabby kitty is very difficult to properly care for. I don't mean to anthropomorphize her, but as most pet-owners understand, a pet becomes a member of the family. It is as if I am caring for a geriatric old aunt who epitomizes the descriptors curmudgeon, battle-axe, old biddy, etc.
Frances was named - not by me - after my mother, who was a kind, generous and loving woman. My mother loved cats and she would have been pleased to know that Frances was given her name. But Frances' personality bears zero resemblance to to her human namesake's. Perhaps it is because Frances was from barn-cat stock, a kitten whose DNA was comprised of that of too many feral cats'. Whatever the cause, she has been a she-cat almost from day one. As she has aged, her nasty qualities have become even more pronounced.
It is as if her internal feng shui is out of balance. A Jekyll and Hyde, bi-polar, multi-personalitied feline in the body of a beautiful, long-haired animal with obvious Maine Coon heritage. One minute she'll be obnoxiously begging to be picked up and within seconds, may decide to hiss, go for a nip and jump down. You just never know which personality she will be displaying when you interact with her.
Ah, the long hair. She needs regular hair-care. Her long hair has a dense undercoat that easily and quickly gets out of control, forming mats like teenagers' faces sprout skin eruptions. Grooming her is always a gamble in which the groomer (me) takes his or her life in his/her own hands. Frances' neck has to be held, with one hand, in a forward position so she cannot turn her head with zeitgeist speed and bite you. Her instinct to bite usually kicks in within the first one-to-two minutes of grooming, when her tail begins to twitch violently and the growling begins.
Taking her to the vet.......fageddaboudit. I do take her for regular exams and her rabies shot, which, fortunately can be given in a two-year dosage form. Unfortunately, for me, this is a rabies- shot year.
I think someone should open a feline, geriatric nursing home. Someone with artificial, bionic limbs that are impervious to cat bites and scratches. Or, if any reader knows of a feline feng shui rehab clinic, please contact me immediately.
One of us is going into therapy. Her or me. It will be a race for the door.
Ancora imparo
My cross, cantankerous, feisty, ill-tempered, crabby kitty is very difficult to properly care for. I don't mean to anthropomorphize her, but as most pet-owners understand, a pet becomes a member of the family. It is as if I am caring for a geriatric old aunt who epitomizes the descriptors curmudgeon, battle-axe, old biddy, etc.
Frances was named - not by me - after my mother, who was a kind, generous and loving woman. My mother loved cats and she would have been pleased to know that Frances was given her name. But Frances' personality bears zero resemblance to to her human namesake's. Perhaps it is because Frances was from barn-cat stock, a kitten whose DNA was comprised of that of too many feral cats'. Whatever the cause, she has been a she-cat almost from day one. As she has aged, her nasty qualities have become even more pronounced.
It is as if her internal feng shui is out of balance. A Jekyll and Hyde, bi-polar, multi-personalitied feline in the body of a beautiful, long-haired animal with obvious Maine Coon heritage. One minute she'll be obnoxiously begging to be picked up and within seconds, may decide to hiss, go for a nip and jump down. You just never know which personality she will be displaying when you interact with her.
Ah, the long hair. She needs regular hair-care. Her long hair has a dense undercoat that easily and quickly gets out of control, forming mats like teenagers' faces sprout skin eruptions. Grooming her is always a gamble in which the groomer (me) takes his or her life in his/her own hands. Frances' neck has to be held, with one hand, in a forward position so she cannot turn her head with zeitgeist speed and bite you. Her instinct to bite usually kicks in within the first one-to-two minutes of grooming, when her tail begins to twitch violently and the growling begins.
Taking her to the vet.......fageddaboudit. I do take her for regular exams and her rabies shot, which, fortunately can be given in a two-year dosage form. Unfortunately, for me, this is a rabies- shot year.
I think someone should open a feline, geriatric nursing home. Someone with artificial, bionic limbs that are impervious to cat bites and scratches. Or, if any reader knows of a feline feng shui rehab clinic, please contact me immediately.
One of us is going into therapy. Her or me. It will be a race for the door.
Ancora imparo
Friday, April 9, 2010
Little Girls Do Rule.....
Little girls do rule......at least at the department store. Princess Leia's mother and I were in separate department stores - in different cities - on the same day and we both came to the same conclusion: Little girls' dresses - clothing, for that matter - is so much more colorful and stylish than boys' clothing.
My friend and I went to Macy's after lunch yesterday just to 'check out' what was on sale. She loves the children's clothing department because she is always looking for clothes for her ten-month old god-daughter. (Did I mention that I am a sucker for any children's department?)
Wanting to be a good friend, I could not refuse her request and so I let myself be led to the grandmother-bait section of Macy's.
We had a great time browsing and then browsing some more before buying. To be sure, the boys' section had fine-looking things but, oh, the girl's section was like eye-candy. The garment industry goes ga-ga over girl's clothes, doesn't it? The colors tend to be more vibrant and there are so many varying styles that you cannot possibly digest them all at one glance, which is why grandmothers need to spend so much time looking. Girl's styles range from frilly to sassy to mod/hip to athletic/active. I've always been a pragmatist when it comes to purchasing clothing, whether it was for my own kids, myself, or now grandchildren and I prefer to buy clothes that launder well (i.e. don't need ironing or don't look as if they should have been ironed) and that don't show dirt, grime and smudges. The whites, light pinks, pale yellows and soft-blue hues are delightful to look at but any active baby or toddler can soil them in an instant - often with foods that leave stains that are hard if not impossible to remove. I continually resist the urge to buy only black, dark gray, or navy for my grandchildren. No need for Grandmother to encourage the Goth look at any age.
I had my time sorting through smocking, ribbons and bows, pleats, velvet, Little Kitty insignias, and matching tights. And a grand time, it was.
Ancora imparo
My friend and I went to Macy's after lunch yesterday just to 'check out' what was on sale. She loves the children's clothing department because she is always looking for clothes for her ten-month old god-daughter. (Did I mention that I am a sucker for any children's department?)
Wanting to be a good friend, I could not refuse her request and so I let myself be led to the grandmother-bait section of Macy's.
We had a great time browsing and then browsing some more before buying. To be sure, the boys' section had fine-looking things but, oh, the girl's section was like eye-candy. The garment industry goes ga-ga over girl's clothes, doesn't it? The colors tend to be more vibrant and there are so many varying styles that you cannot possibly digest them all at one glance, which is why grandmothers need to spend so much time looking. Girl's styles range from frilly to sassy to mod/hip to athletic/active. I've always been a pragmatist when it comes to purchasing clothing, whether it was for my own kids, myself, or now grandchildren and I prefer to buy clothes that launder well (i.e. don't need ironing or don't look as if they should have been ironed) and that don't show dirt, grime and smudges. The whites, light pinks, pale yellows and soft-blue hues are delightful to look at but any active baby or toddler can soil them in an instant - often with foods that leave stains that are hard if not impossible to remove. I continually resist the urge to buy only black, dark gray, or navy for my grandchildren. No need for Grandmother to encourage the Goth look at any age.
I had my time sorting through smocking, ribbons and bows, pleats, velvet, Little Kitty insignias, and matching tights. And a grand time, it was.
Ancora imparo
Are You A Medium?
This blog title has nothing to do with clothing size, nor am I inquiring if you communicate with the afterworld. Today's posting topic is about how you like your steak cooked.
I don't want to insult any reader or hurt anyone's feelings, but I just do not understand those people in this world who would ruin a perfectly good cut of beef by asking to have it well-done. For me, too-done is any piece of beef, lamb, venison, moose, caribou, or elk that that is warmer than barely-cooked. I was raised with parents who believed that basically any type of meat - that wasn't pork or poultry - should never be grilled, broiled, or pan-fried past medium-rare and that might even have been considered over-done by my father. As we all know, life-long eating habits are formed in our childhoods - good, bad or both - and my preference for rare or medium- rare has remained.
I remember there were people's homes that Dad wouldn't eat steak at, declaring that they cooked the @#^& out of everything. (My dad's words, not mine.) I have dearly-beloved relatives that, even though I can't eat beef any longer, I still would not want to let within a country mile of any respectable cut of beef. If you come to eat steak at my home, I'll prepare it as you request, even if you mistakenly think that medium-to-well-done is the best.....although I'll be shaking my head all the while I over-cook your meat. Just think.....you are missing all of that wonderful meat juice, left on the serving platter, that could be drizzled over your potato, rice, noodles, bread, etc.
Finally, if your stomach can stand for you to read any further, I'll leave you with a few more tasty ideas, some of which might take you to meet (homophone intended) your Maker sooner than later but what a way to go!
Bon appetit and Ancora imparo
I don't want to insult any reader or hurt anyone's feelings, but I just do not understand those people in this world who would ruin a perfectly good cut of beef by asking to have it well-done. For me, too-done is any piece of beef, lamb, venison, moose, caribou, or elk that that is warmer than barely-cooked. I was raised with parents who believed that basically any type of meat - that wasn't pork or poultry - should never be grilled, broiled, or pan-fried past medium-rare and that might even have been considered over-done by my father. As we all know, life-long eating habits are formed in our childhoods - good, bad or both - and my preference for rare or medium- rare has remained.
I remember there were people's homes that Dad wouldn't eat steak at, declaring that they cooked the @#^& out of everything. (My dad's words, not mine.) I have dearly-beloved relatives that, even though I can't eat beef any longer, I still would not want to let within a country mile of any respectable cut of beef. If you come to eat steak at my home, I'll prepare it as you request, even if you mistakenly think that medium-to-well-done is the best.....although I'll be shaking my head all the while I over-cook your meat. Just think.....you are missing all of that wonderful meat juice, left on the serving platter, that could be drizzled over your potato, rice, noodles, bread, etc.
Finally, if your stomach can stand for you to read any further, I'll leave you with a few more tasty ideas, some of which might take you to meet (homophone intended) your Maker sooner than later but what a way to go!
- Steak tartar. In Green Bay, Wisconsin they call this cannibal sandwiches. I can't imagine why!
- Cubed up tenderloin steak for fondue that never makes it into the fondue pot.
- Ground round or ground sirloin that is only in the frying pan for a few minutes. A little salt and pepper and my kids and I thought we were eating caviar.
- Lastly, and this is tasty but unrelated to eating meat: raw cookie dough and soft egg yolks.
Bon appetit and Ancora imparo
Thursday, April 8, 2010
What Shall I Call You?
What's in a name, moniker, title........whatever.
A recent discussion between women that centered around what they, as grandmothers, wanted to be called by their grandchildren AND what they wanted their own children to address them as has stayed with me, generating some thought of my own.
Do I really care how I am addressed as a grandmother or mother? Probably not. Having said that, I would take great umbrage to any loving name if it was delivered in an unloving tone. To me, tone and intent is everything when speaking to another human being. I can smell patronage, condescension and disrespect quicker than scat. But most respectful words would not phase me.
Long ago, in another lifetime, I taught in a public school where all of the traditional rules of decorum were, for the most part, set aside. I'm certain I've written about this experience before. Staff dress rules were 'relaxed', meaning that jeans were de-rigueur for all and ties were definitely optional for the men. Students were allowed to address all staff members by their first names. Because I also traveled to teach in three other schools that were traditional by nature, it gave me the perfect opportunity for school-culture comparison. I felt no less respect in the non-traditional school setting. No, let me rephrase that. I felt very respected in the non-traditional setting. The fact that I was addressed by my first name was a non-event every single hour of every single day. What I did learn that respect is internally measured and defined. It is a much of a reaction from me as it is an action (or spoken word) from another.
If it quacks, it is a duck.....if it moos, it is a cow.....if it oinks, it is a pig.....if it meows, it is a cat......if it woofs, it is a puppy and we all know how I feel about puppies. If it cries and lifts its arms, it is a grandchild and I am its grandmother.....granny.....nana.....grandma.....grandmere. Just love me back.....that is all I ask.
Ancora imparo
A recent discussion between women that centered around what they, as grandmothers, wanted to be called by their grandchildren AND what they wanted their own children to address them as has stayed with me, generating some thought of my own.
Do I really care how I am addressed as a grandmother or mother? Probably not. Having said that, I would take great umbrage to any loving name if it was delivered in an unloving tone. To me, tone and intent is everything when speaking to another human being. I can smell patronage, condescension and disrespect quicker than scat. But most respectful words would not phase me.
Long ago, in another lifetime, I taught in a public school where all of the traditional rules of decorum were, for the most part, set aside. I'm certain I've written about this experience before. Staff dress rules were 'relaxed', meaning that jeans were de-rigueur for all and ties were definitely optional for the men. Students were allowed to address all staff members by their first names. Because I also traveled to teach in three other schools that were traditional by nature, it gave me the perfect opportunity for school-culture comparison. I felt no less respect in the non-traditional school setting. No, let me rephrase that. I felt very respected in the non-traditional setting. The fact that I was addressed by my first name was a non-event every single hour of every single day. What I did learn that respect is internally measured and defined. It is a much of a reaction from me as it is an action (or spoken word) from another.
If it quacks, it is a duck.....if it moos, it is a cow.....if it oinks, it is a pig.....if it meows, it is a cat......if it woofs, it is a puppy and we all know how I feel about puppies. If it cries and lifts its arms, it is a grandchild and I am its grandmother.....granny.....nana.....grandma.....grandmere. Just love me back.....that is all I ask.
Ancora imparo
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Takin' Care of Business
I've done a lot of schlepping, as of late. Up and down stairs, in and out of the car, running errands, dashing into stores trying to locate the 'thing' I simply MUST have, attempting to gather information for this and that meeting, dealing with uncooperative individuals........I'm schlepped out.
After my 'aha' moment when I realized this, I immediately began searching for the remedy to my self-induced, temporary burnout. One woman I'm acquainted with, who is well-known for her in-your-face bluntness and forthrightness, blurted out, "How can anyone who is retired be burned out? You just need more to do." I began asking myself if this could be true?
Desiring to be proactive, I took a mental inventory of my skill set(s?), hoping against hope to find at least one that might transport me away to another place and time and I think I found a possibility: Organic morel mushroom farming. I know there is a need for more of these fungi because their whereabouts is always a highly guarded secret among morel aficionados. That, plus the fact that dried morels sell for ten dollars an ounce at the supermarket and I can see a true incentive to explore this idea.
I grew up close to a geographic area where morels were abundant. My parents and I would traipse through woods in the spring, around Mothers' Day, gathering large shopping bags full of the tasty treats. They were so plentiful that we could gorge ourselves on the morels, along with heaping bowls of scrambled eggs, still having enough to freeze multiple quart containers to enjoy throughout the winter months.
I'm very excited about the possibility of this new venture. My deck can accommodate one large, raised-bed mushroom 'field'. I'll begin research on organic morel mushroom farming tomorrow. I can see the marketing strategy already. Today - my deck.....tomorrow - the world! Ooh, I'll need designer bib overalls and.........
Do you suppose I should mention this to my SO first?
Ancora imparo
After my 'aha' moment when I realized this, I immediately began searching for the remedy to my self-induced, temporary burnout. One woman I'm acquainted with, who is well-known for her in-your-face bluntness and forthrightness, blurted out, "How can anyone who is retired be burned out? You just need more to do." I began asking myself if this could be true?
Desiring to be proactive, I took a mental inventory of my skill set(s?), hoping against hope to find at least one that might transport me away to another place and time and I think I found a possibility: Organic morel mushroom farming. I know there is a need for more of these fungi because their whereabouts is always a highly guarded secret among morel aficionados. That, plus the fact that dried morels sell for ten dollars an ounce at the supermarket and I can see a true incentive to explore this idea.
I grew up close to a geographic area where morels were abundant. My parents and I would traipse through woods in the spring, around Mothers' Day, gathering large shopping bags full of the tasty treats. They were so plentiful that we could gorge ourselves on the morels, along with heaping bowls of scrambled eggs, still having enough to freeze multiple quart containers to enjoy throughout the winter months.
I'm very excited about the possibility of this new venture. My deck can accommodate one large, raised-bed mushroom 'field'. I'll begin research on organic morel mushroom farming tomorrow. I can see the marketing strategy already. Today - my deck.....tomorrow - the world! Ooh, I'll need designer bib overalls and.........
Do you suppose I should mention this to my SO first?
Ancora imparo
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Stormy Weather
For some odd reason, the recent storms that have rumbled through our geographic area have reminded me of other storms throughout my life. As I laid in bed last night, sleep frequently - or constantly - interrupted by lightning flashes and banging thunder, my mind took a u-turn as I replayed vignettes from yesteryear.
My first memories of storms were from my early years, beginning at age five, when my family moved from 'the farm' into 'town'. 'Town' was a very small community of approximately two thousand, at that time. (Now it is a huge metropolis of just under three thousand.) My parents bought a roomy two-story home that needed lots of TLC, which my dad was ready to give. When tornado warnings were issued, the town's siren would blare and we'd head for one of two places. The usual 'safe place' was one of those old, musty, cobwebby Michigan cellars, as they were called. The spiders most certainly outnumbered the humans and the old furnace was a behemoth. I can still see the size of that heating monster, which took up most of the floor in the foundation space that had been created simply to hold the furnace. My mom kept old Army cots down there, along with a kerosene lantern. If it was during the night when the tornado warning siren sounded, we'd schlep down those crooked, unstable stairs in our nightwear and lay down on the damp canvas of the cots, waiting until either the storm waned or the first light of day came and we all had to get going to school or work.
Why we would retreat to the other 'safe place' still remains a mystery to me. It was a 'crawl space', in the most literal of senses, under half of the home, simply the dirt over which the house was built. Access to this crawl space was through a small, street-side, foundation window, through which we would actually have to crawl on our hands and knees. There we would huddle, knees to chest, arms clasped around our knees, until the storm subsided, when we would crawl back out and brush off the dirt from our skin and clothing. I don't even want to think about what else accompanied our bodies out of that crawl space.
My parents always respected and responded to the tornado warning sirens, unlike me. Over the years, I have become very lackadaisical in my reaction to either hearing the warning sirens (when they work) or seeing the tornado-warning icon flashing on the bottom corner of my television screen. The presence of my own children in my home used to be inspiration enough to take the appropriate safe shelter. Now I am more likely to continue in whatever task in which I am engaged or continue my respite in bed, willing to take the risk of bodily injury over interrupting my body's need for sleep. There are more storms predicted for tonight. Once again I'll take my chances....comfort over safety.
And I thought wisdom was supposed to come with age........
Ancora imparo
My first memories of storms were from my early years, beginning at age five, when my family moved from 'the farm' into 'town'. 'Town' was a very small community of approximately two thousand, at that time. (Now it is a huge metropolis of just under three thousand.) My parents bought a roomy two-story home that needed lots of TLC, which my dad was ready to give. When tornado warnings were issued, the town's siren would blare and we'd head for one of two places. The usual 'safe place' was one of those old, musty, cobwebby Michigan cellars, as they were called. The spiders most certainly outnumbered the humans and the old furnace was a behemoth. I can still see the size of that heating monster, which took up most of the floor in the foundation space that had been created simply to hold the furnace. My mom kept old Army cots down there, along with a kerosene lantern. If it was during the night when the tornado warning siren sounded, we'd schlep down those crooked, unstable stairs in our nightwear and lay down on the damp canvas of the cots, waiting until either the storm waned or the first light of day came and we all had to get going to school or work.
Why we would retreat to the other 'safe place' still remains a mystery to me. It was a 'crawl space', in the most literal of senses, under half of the home, simply the dirt over which the house was built. Access to this crawl space was through a small, street-side, foundation window, through which we would actually have to crawl on our hands and knees. There we would huddle, knees to chest, arms clasped around our knees, until the storm subsided, when we would crawl back out and brush off the dirt from our skin and clothing. I don't even want to think about what else accompanied our bodies out of that crawl space.
My parents always respected and responded to the tornado warning sirens, unlike me. Over the years, I have become very lackadaisical in my reaction to either hearing the warning sirens (when they work) or seeing the tornado-warning icon flashing on the bottom corner of my television screen. The presence of my own children in my home used to be inspiration enough to take the appropriate safe shelter. Now I am more likely to continue in whatever task in which I am engaged or continue my respite in bed, willing to take the risk of bodily injury over interrupting my body's need for sleep. There are more storms predicted for tonight. Once again I'll take my chances....comfort over safety.
And I thought wisdom was supposed to come with age........
Ancora imparo
Monday, April 5, 2010
The Nesting Instinct
I'm thinking of the old wives' tale about how pregnant women get the 'nesting instinct' just before giving birth. Speaking personally, I can attest to the instinct to make a nest for the little one. Whether or not this is a definable urge that should be written about in psychology books is another matter. My take is that it has nothing to do with inborn, chromosomal instinct, but rather, stems from the simple need to get organized before the baby is born. The female intuitively understands that her days to accomplish anything are numbered and, once the infant arrives, she can kiss accomplishments goodbye for awhile.
Why am I writing about this?
Once again, there is this little bird that has taken up housebuilding underneath our deck. I do not know if it is the same bird, from year to year, but I suspect it may be. This bird - I think it is a sparrow - returns to the same board every spring. I've always chuckled at how easily she is distracted from her task by human movement from the inside. The weight bench and free weights are right in front of the window that looks directly up at the area where she is building her nest and every movement of my body renews her paranoia about imminent danger. Today I sat perfectly still and watched her movements for almost fifteen minutes, fascinated by her energy, determination, and doggedness. (Can a bird be dogged?) During my fifteen minute observation, she must have flitted and fluttered through thirty-plus trips to and from somewhere, each time returning with a four to five inch blade of grass in her beak. After she would fly up to the rafter, I could see the movement of her head as she repeatedly thrust her beak into the nest-in-progress. Upon completion, she would fly off, only to return with yet another nest component and repeat the motions. Soon, I know she will sit still for as long as she can, keeping her body heat on that (or those) precious egg, only to fly away to capture a worm for her breakfast or fly away because she saw movement in the window below her perch.
I am in awe of her dedication to the task of building her nest. She understands that her body clock is ticking and that the egg, with her offspring within, will soon appear, requiring her almost constant presence.
I'm going out to ask her if this is instinct or simply the need for pre-birth organization. Surely she understands that once that egg is here she can kiss shopping good-bye. Doing her nails? Forgeddaboutit.
Ah, spring.
Ancora imparo
Why am I writing about this?
Once again, there is this little bird that has taken up housebuilding underneath our deck. I do not know if it is the same bird, from year to year, but I suspect it may be. This bird - I think it is a sparrow - returns to the same board every spring. I've always chuckled at how easily she is distracted from her task by human movement from the inside. The weight bench and free weights are right in front of the window that looks directly up at the area where she is building her nest and every movement of my body renews her paranoia about imminent danger. Today I sat perfectly still and watched her movements for almost fifteen minutes, fascinated by her energy, determination, and doggedness. (Can a bird be dogged?) During my fifteen minute observation, she must have flitted and fluttered through thirty-plus trips to and from somewhere, each time returning with a four to five inch blade of grass in her beak. After she would fly up to the rafter, I could see the movement of her head as she repeatedly thrust her beak into the nest-in-progress. Upon completion, she would fly off, only to return with yet another nest component and repeat the motions. Soon, I know she will sit still for as long as she can, keeping her body heat on that (or those) precious egg, only to fly away to capture a worm for her breakfast or fly away because she saw movement in the window below her perch.
I am in awe of her dedication to the task of building her nest. She understands that her body clock is ticking and that the egg, with her offspring within, will soon appear, requiring her almost constant presence.
I'm going out to ask her if this is instinct or simply the need for pre-birth organization. Surely she understands that once that egg is here she can kiss shopping good-bye. Doing her nails? Forgeddaboutit.
Ah, spring.
Ancora imparo
Sunday, April 4, 2010
The Egg As Icon
I do not know when or how the egg became an icon for Easter but it is. So are bunnies/rabbits, baby chicks and chocolate. Even the confectioners dream (or, perhaps nightmare), "Peeps", are iconic for this time of year. When I was a child, Peeps were only yellow. Now they can be found in a rainbow of colors. Peeps are not for the diabetic or glucose-sensitive. Along with Spam and Twinkies, these much-maligned, marshmallow, chick-shaped, sugar blobs are probably among the most highly criticized and tortured edible 'things' ever known. (Note: I refrained from calling Peeps food.) Even though most or all chefs, cooks, and epicureans would publicly despise, denigrate and denounce Peeps, (I suspect a few may even eat them although they would never be caught dead purchasing Peeps.) the company still sees healthy sales figures for the spring of each year. They wouldn't keep producing them if people didn't keep eating them.
Even "Peeps" brings me back to the egg idea. You know, chicks/chickens/eggs. This is not a question of which came first: Easter or the egg. Easter is a Christian celebration and holy day that has been in existence for, well, a couple of thousand. plus ten, years. The concept of "the incredible, edible egg" is a more recent marketing jingle that is iconic to millions. The poultry industry must be 'egg-static' (sorry) about the public's fascination and devotion to poultry-related Easter icons. Why, I even put eggs in my potato salad today, all because it is Easter Sunday.
I don't mean to make light of the reason Christians globally celebrate Easter - our Risen Lord - but I do intend to poke fun at myself and the rest of the world for how we humans have taken religious holidays and observances, over the course of centuries, and have added secular inclusions. I'm right there with the millions, world-wide, who will celebrate Holy Week and Easter Sunday as a sacred observance and then find my Easter eggs and Easter basket as quickly as I can.
I just have one question for you: What part of the chocolate bunny do you eat first?
Ancora imparo wishes you and yours an egg-ceptional and egg-stravagant day.
Even "Peeps" brings me back to the egg idea. You know, chicks/chickens/eggs. This is not a question of which came first: Easter or the egg. Easter is a Christian celebration and holy day that has been in existence for, well, a couple of thousand. plus ten, years. The concept of "the incredible, edible egg" is a more recent marketing jingle that is iconic to millions. The poultry industry must be 'egg-static' (sorry) about the public's fascination and devotion to poultry-related Easter icons. Why, I even put eggs in my potato salad today, all because it is Easter Sunday.
I don't mean to make light of the reason Christians globally celebrate Easter - our Risen Lord - but I do intend to poke fun at myself and the rest of the world for how we humans have taken religious holidays and observances, over the course of centuries, and have added secular inclusions. I'm right there with the millions, world-wide, who will celebrate Holy Week and Easter Sunday as a sacred observance and then find my Easter eggs and Easter basket as quickly as I can.
I just have one question for you: What part of the chocolate bunny do you eat first?
Ancora imparo wishes you and yours an egg-ceptional and egg-stravagant day.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Whole Lotta Nuthin' Goin' On Up There
It could be the weather and, then again, it could just be that there is naturally nothing in my head today. Oh, there are bytes that are flitting here and there but thus far I have so many irons in multiple fires that I am like the cat on the hot tin roof. Anything of substance has come from either the newspaper or my favorite irreverent radio show, NPR's "Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me". Needing something to show for at least being awake and alive, I'll share with the readers of this blog what knowledge I've absorbed in the last six hours. Who knows, maybe a byte of this information will be of use or importance to someone, somewhere.
Ancora imparo
- When economic times are hard, restaurant wait-staffers are better looking.
- When economic times are really hard, the music we hear has a more defined, steady beat.
- ZZ Top is a three-person band, not a lone performer. Two of the three look alike.
- The emergence of more dollar-type stores replacing traditional retail stores is a sign of poor economic times.
- My car has sawdust in her hoses.
- The Easter Bunny is not real. (Bummer)
- Harvey, the rabbit, wasn't real, either.
- My alma mater, Michigan State, is not highly favored to win the NCAA basketball tourney.
- There is a web site for only the privileged. Members become annoyed and outright angered when regular 'folk' worm their way in as members.
- Broken veins in fingers take a long time to fully heal.
- Bananas taste best with vanilla ice cream, pecans, and hot fudge sauce.
- Egg whites taste better with chopped-up ham.
- Parting with old clothes is not as easy as I thought.
- Lastly, I have no closet, drawer, or shelf space left on which or in which to store any more stuff.
Ancora imparo
Friday, April 2, 2010
Is There A Doctor In The House?
Disclaimer:
A few days ago my posting topic was about my car and her new health-care provider. I have been advised that it was too cynical and vitriolic, but hey, I'm not backing down from my position or point of view. If I offended any readers, I apologize, but I will not be editing the content of that posting at this time.
Today, however, is about another kind of doctor that I needed just yesterday, as a matter of fact. There is no vitriol or cynicism here, just relief, praise, and thanks.
Despite my vigilant efforts at practicing safe internet activity, my laptop acquired a very nasty, malignant and malicious virus yesterday morning. From nearly the moment that I powered it up for the day, I knew something was amiss, but I wasn't quite sure what. Microsoft is famous for sending through updates that slow down computers so it is not unusual for my laptop to run sluggishly while something mysterious runs in the 'background'. After being online, for about an hour, I began receiving error/ warning messages that popped up continuously in my lower right-hand corner. Along with messages that told me I had been infected with a virus, an ad kept appearing for anti-spyware software that I needed to purchase to combat my virus. The error messages also said that my firewall and threat software had been breached......overrun by the virus.......which was true. Once I realized that my laptop's security had been breached - big time - I shut it down and called my computer doctor.
He had some flexibility in his schedule and he came within the hour. I love to watch him work because his fingers fly.......and accurately, too! He knows how to get into the guts of a computer and do diagnostic work. It is like watching my blood work, surgery and recovery all at once. This virus, which is called the XP Virus, is a very virulent one and had wormed its way into so many hidden files that even Dr. Computer had his work cut out for him. Concerned about how I 'got' this virus, I asked him the quintessential question, "How did this happen? I practice safe internet activity!" He told me that it can come in through pop-up ads, even though I may not open the ad. Very concerning. Internet hackers are sneaky and malevolent.
Which is why we all need a computer doctor on speed-dial. The internet is an amazing 'place' but it can also be filled with potholes, black holes, quagmires and snake pits.
I know. I was there, but for a brief time yesterday.
On this Easter weekend, I hope the only hole you discover is a rabbit hole.
Ancora imparo
A few days ago my posting topic was about my car and her new health-care provider. I have been advised that it was too cynical and vitriolic, but hey, I'm not backing down from my position or point of view. If I offended any readers, I apologize, but I will not be editing the content of that posting at this time.
Today, however, is about another kind of doctor that I needed just yesterday, as a matter of fact. There is no vitriol or cynicism here, just relief, praise, and thanks.
Despite my vigilant efforts at practicing safe internet activity, my laptop acquired a very nasty, malignant and malicious virus yesterday morning. From nearly the moment that I powered it up for the day, I knew something was amiss, but I wasn't quite sure what. Microsoft is famous for sending through updates that slow down computers so it is not unusual for my laptop to run sluggishly while something mysterious runs in the 'background'. After being online, for about an hour, I began receiving error/ warning messages that popped up continuously in my lower right-hand corner. Along with messages that told me I had been infected with a virus, an ad kept appearing for anti-spyware software that I needed to purchase to combat my virus. The error messages also said that my firewall and threat software had been breached......overrun by the virus.......which was true. Once I realized that my laptop's security had been breached - big time - I shut it down and called my computer doctor.
He had some flexibility in his schedule and he came within the hour. I love to watch him work because his fingers fly.......and accurately, too! He knows how to get into the guts of a computer and do diagnostic work. It is like watching my blood work, surgery and recovery all at once. This virus, which is called the XP Virus, is a very virulent one and had wormed its way into so many hidden files that even Dr. Computer had his work cut out for him. Concerned about how I 'got' this virus, I asked him the quintessential question, "How did this happen? I practice safe internet activity!" He told me that it can come in through pop-up ads, even though I may not open the ad. Very concerning. Internet hackers are sneaky and malevolent.
Which is why we all need a computer doctor on speed-dial. The internet is an amazing 'place' but it can also be filled with potholes, black holes, quagmires and snake pits.
I know. I was there, but for a brief time yesterday.
On this Easter weekend, I hope the only hole you discover is a rabbit hole.
Ancora imparo
Thursday, April 1, 2010
April Fool
Ah, yes. I qualify as an April fool. I went to bed last night thinking that I would most certainly wake up this morning and the world would look different......and so would I. Before falling asleep, I even gave my SO some insight on how I thought the world would be different today.
Alas and alack, when I awakened everything (including me) looked the same. I even have the same song loop from my I-pod running through my head that has been plaguing me for about forty-eight hours. Since I am locked in a "Groundhog's Day" sequence, I'll have to conjure up my own life's screen play, if only for one day.
In my screen play, I am in my mid-thirties. My children can verbalize thoughts, desires and dislikes, as well as dress themselves. My SO owns this nice little fishing boat and our family takes it out on the Fox River or on day trips/vacations where we eat bologna sandwiches with potato chips while we dink our night crawlers in lake waters, hoping to catch the day's evening meal. An ice cream cone wraps up the outing very nicely before we fall, exhausted but happy, into our beds for the night. My mom is still alive. I can talk to her on the phone or enjoy visits by her at our home or take the family to see my parents, where I can touch and hug them.
We have built our final home in the northeastern Wisconsin area and we are so proud of it. The school system is great and the children are doing well in school. We love our neighborhood and we have sidewalks everywhere. Such a luxury! I decide to return to school - at first thinking I'll get a second bachelors degree in Electronic Media but state educational requirement changes are in the wind and I see possibilities for music openings occurring again so I return to school to acquire a vocal music certification. God is good and a part-time position opens up that parlays into a full-time teaching job.
My body is in its prime and I can jog. No gray hair and not very many wrinkles. My vision is still excellent with contact eye lenses. My local YWCA has great aerobic dance classes and my closet is filled with cutsie leotards and matching leg warmers. I have the world by its tail.
But I did wake up this morning and remember that it is April first, the day when we expect practical jokes to be played on us. I looked in the mirror and scared myself. Next I bent over and had trouble straightening back up. Then I started to make a list but couldn't remember what I wanted to include on the list. I got up from my desk, thinking I'd read the newspaper to clear my head but walked past Cranky Kitty who swatted at my leg as I passed by. Then I realized that I wasn't in Kansas any more.
I think I'll switch to tomfoolery for today. Maybe it will be more rewarding.....certainly less predictable!
Happy April First.
Ancora imparo
Alas and alack, when I awakened everything (including me) looked the same. I even have the same song loop from my I-pod running through my head that has been plaguing me for about forty-eight hours. Since I am locked in a "Groundhog's Day" sequence, I'll have to conjure up my own life's screen play, if only for one day.
In my screen play, I am in my mid-thirties. My children can verbalize thoughts, desires and dislikes, as well as dress themselves. My SO owns this nice little fishing boat and our family takes it out on the Fox River or on day trips/vacations where we eat bologna sandwiches with potato chips while we dink our night crawlers in lake waters, hoping to catch the day's evening meal. An ice cream cone wraps up the outing very nicely before we fall, exhausted but happy, into our beds for the night. My mom is still alive. I can talk to her on the phone or enjoy visits by her at our home or take the family to see my parents, where I can touch and hug them.
We have built our final home in the northeastern Wisconsin area and we are so proud of it. The school system is great and the children are doing well in school. We love our neighborhood and we have sidewalks everywhere. Such a luxury! I decide to return to school - at first thinking I'll get a second bachelors degree in Electronic Media but state educational requirement changes are in the wind and I see possibilities for music openings occurring again so I return to school to acquire a vocal music certification. God is good and a part-time position opens up that parlays into a full-time teaching job.
My body is in its prime and I can jog. No gray hair and not very many wrinkles. My vision is still excellent with contact eye lenses. My local YWCA has great aerobic dance classes and my closet is filled with cutsie leotards and matching leg warmers. I have the world by its tail.
But I did wake up this morning and remember that it is April first, the day when we expect practical jokes to be played on us. I looked in the mirror and scared myself. Next I bent over and had trouble straightening back up. Then I started to make a list but couldn't remember what I wanted to include on the list. I got up from my desk, thinking I'd read the newspaper to clear my head but walked past Cranky Kitty who swatted at my leg as I passed by. Then I realized that I wasn't in Kansas any more.
I think I'll switch to tomfoolery for today. Maybe it will be more rewarding.....certainly less predictable!
Happy April First.
Ancora imparo
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)