My last posting, Abandon the Shovels, ended with the sentence, "This is getting us nowhere." Several readers agreed, which led my brain down another path. Quirky though it may be, here it is.
It was actually the word nowhere that stayed with me. Have you ever been in an Erewhon store? I don't know if it is just an upper-midwest business, but the stores are great outdoor equipment and clothing suppliers. The store name, Erewhon, is the word nowhere spelled backwards, a fact that has always fascinated me. Someone, or enoemos, in the Erewhon tradition, had either a great sense of humor or was highly creative or both.
Sometimes it seems that everything is backwards in our world. Ancora imparo readers know that I write, not infrequently, about Mother Nature and, lately, she even has her weather patterns a bit backwards. She cannot make up her mind between snow, sleet, rain, ice, thunder and then back to snow. It is as if she is out of ideas and is just throwing whatever is left on her weather palette at us, hoping that something sticks long enough for a meteorologist to talk about it on the evening news.
In music, there is a series of modernistic techniques called retrograde, inversion, and retrograde inversion. (My apolologies, in advance, to the 20th century composer, Arnold Schoenberg, whose twelve-tone row concept I am butchering for this posting.) Retrograde takes a thematic strand of notes and, using the same notes, writes all the notes backwards. Take for instance, "Mary Had A Little Lamb", in the key of C major. The first phrase's notes (or prime) would be: edcdeee, ddd, egg. Retrograde would look like: ggeddde, eed, cde. Same notes only backward. (Bored yet?) Inversion takes all of the original interval relationships and changes their direction; i.e. e f# g# f# e e e f# f# f# e c# c#. (Riveting, isn't it?) Retrograde inversion simply takes the inverted form and writes it backwards, or c# c# e f# f# f# e e e f# g# f# e.
My point here being that in music, at least, there is a logical reason for doing things backwards. Perhaps not in the rest of the world, but, at least musicians can justify their backwardness.
Continuing with my theme of backwards, I'll close with this thought:
Ste'l nodnaba gnihtemos ro onoemos rehtegotla. I etov rof retniw!
Orapmi arocna (retro-retrograde form)
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Abandon The Shovels!
Polar opposites.
Most people readily recognize what that descriptor means. In relationships, it might mean "the odd couple". Messy v.s. clinically neat; diurnal and nocturnal; introspective and outgoing; Dallas Cowboys v.s. Minnesota Vikings; liberal v.s. conservative.......you get the picture.
I've been following the brouhaha in a nearby state as conservatives and liberals have clashed daily for over two weeks now. This ideological melee has as much to do with finances as it does political viewpoints and the fervor with which each "side" is demonstrating its viewpoint is fascinating, to say the least. I don't know whether to admire the dedication of the demonstrators or worry about their seemingly blind devotion to a cause.....or both.
That which is at stake is expressed differently by conservatives and liberals and there is no shortage of willingness on either "side" to vocalize. This "mess" will eventually spread to other states, as it is currently doing, because there are simply not enough Benjamins to go around any more. Our nation is rapidly reaching an inevitable crossroads where a decision must be made to either divide up the remaining Benjamins or manufacture more. Neither choice will appease anyone and both choices will inflame just about everyone.
Two clear choices exist: Hurt now or hurt later and both of these are tough pills to swallow for all. The billionaire investor, Warren Buffet, Chairman of Berkshire Hathaway Inc., is credited with saying something to the effect (and I paraphrase), "When you find yourself in a hole, stop digging!"
I am but one voice in the wilderness......one voice with no solution only the instinctive notion that is is time to abandon the shovels. This is getting us nowhere.
Ancora imparo
Most people readily recognize what that descriptor means. In relationships, it might mean "the odd couple". Messy v.s. clinically neat; diurnal and nocturnal; introspective and outgoing; Dallas Cowboys v.s. Minnesota Vikings; liberal v.s. conservative.......you get the picture.
I've been following the brouhaha in a nearby state as conservatives and liberals have clashed daily for over two weeks now. This ideological melee has as much to do with finances as it does political viewpoints and the fervor with which each "side" is demonstrating its viewpoint is fascinating, to say the least. I don't know whether to admire the dedication of the demonstrators or worry about their seemingly blind devotion to a cause.....or both.
That which is at stake is expressed differently by conservatives and liberals and there is no shortage of willingness on either "side" to vocalize. This "mess" will eventually spread to other states, as it is currently doing, because there are simply not enough Benjamins to go around any more. Our nation is rapidly reaching an inevitable crossroads where a decision must be made to either divide up the remaining Benjamins or manufacture more. Neither choice will appease anyone and both choices will inflame just about everyone.
Two clear choices exist: Hurt now or hurt later and both of these are tough pills to swallow for all. The billionaire investor, Warren Buffet, Chairman of Berkshire Hathaway Inc., is credited with saying something to the effect (and I paraphrase), "When you find yourself in a hole, stop digging!"
I am but one voice in the wilderness......one voice with no solution only the instinctive notion that is is time to abandon the shovels. This is getting us nowhere.
Ancora imparo
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Winter Weary
Last night I had the treat of outdoor-grilled pork tenderloin. Capt. SO and I entertained guests and, once we determined the menu for the evening, we began to think about how the tenderloin would be prepared. During the summer months, Capt. SO grills many of our meals, being comfortable and adept at the process, knowing just how long to leave the tenderloin on each side to achieve tender perfection. After considering baking, a method neither one of us has used to prepare pork tenderloin, we decided, last minute, to grill.
Mother Nature and her sidekick, Old Man Winter, cooperated and gave Capt. SO a clear deck on which to wheel the grill about and reasonably moderate cold weather in which to stand out in. I know we could have broiled the tenderloin but that creates such a clean-up mess that I avoid broiling at all costs. In fact, I have, thus far, refused to let anyone broil in either oven since moving in almost five years ago. (But I digress from my blog-topic idea.) When we tasted the grilled meat, with its signature crusted parts from the grill slats, it was as if the idea of spring and summer might actually come to pass.
Mother Nature cooperated just long enough, holding off snow until after we had turned in for the night. That was all we asked for and, thankfully, received - a brief reprieve from Old Man Winter's icy and snowy grasp.
He is back today, although in a more weakened state than his last visit. Tomorrow Mother Nature will apparently be serving up rain - another harbinger of spring - and that is OK with me.
I am so very winter weary.
Ancora imparo
Mother Nature and her sidekick, Old Man Winter, cooperated and gave Capt. SO a clear deck on which to wheel the grill about and reasonably moderate cold weather in which to stand out in. I know we could have broiled the tenderloin but that creates such a clean-up mess that I avoid broiling at all costs. In fact, I have, thus far, refused to let anyone broil in either oven since moving in almost five years ago. (But I digress from my blog-topic idea.) When we tasted the grilled meat, with its signature crusted parts from the grill slats, it was as if the idea of spring and summer might actually come to pass.
Mother Nature cooperated just long enough, holding off snow until after we had turned in for the night. That was all we asked for and, thankfully, received - a brief reprieve from Old Man Winter's icy and snowy grasp.
He is back today, although in a more weakened state than his last visit. Tomorrow Mother Nature will apparently be serving up rain - another harbinger of spring - and that is OK with me.
I am so very winter weary.
Ancora imparo
Friday, February 25, 2011
Two-Inch Limit
I've been resisting the urge to "get into" a book for months now. I love to read and during the months of Aqua-RVing, I am a bibliophile. Somehow I associate the sun and water with reading. During the other months of the year at home, surrounded by tasks and projects, I purposefully ignore the "readers' itch" because I detest reading a few pages at a time, then having to put the book down to either go somewhere or accomplish something. During these months, my preference is towards the newspaper and magazines - reading materials where I can read thoughts and ideas in their entirety, put the publication down and later return to read more complete thoughts and ideas.
Capt. SO has chewed through about six books this "off-season". I am thrilled for him because he is not one to readily relax and mentally retreat. I've envied him but not succumbed to the "itch"......until four nights ago. A book by one of my favorite authors has been calling to me and, heretofore (my favorite word) I've been able to thwart its influence. No longer. Even though I've begun reading it, the longest stretch I've managed to keep it, or my eyes, open is about ten minutes. I find this totally frustrating and I'm tired of accomplishing this and that when my book is resting on the night stand, beckoning me to just "pick me up for a few minutes". The other issue with this particular book is its thickness......a good three inches......which means that, at this rate of read, it may be July Fourth before I finish the last sentence.
As with many aspects of my life, my book-readin' needs to have some limits and parameters set around it. The first parameter needs to be a two-inch-thickness rule. This rule would, at least, prevent me from reading one-inch Harlequin romances (which I detest) and choose-your-own-adventure books aimed at ten-to-thirteen-year-old boys, plus it would help me avoid the aggravation of reading a book so thick that it takes me multiple months to complete. A book-readin' friend suggested that I read any thickness of book I desired. To finish the book I'd just need to read until three or four a.m.several consecutive nights in a row.
Perhaps a deserted Pacific island and a dog would be a more pleasant solution?
Ancora imparo
Capt. SO has chewed through about six books this "off-season". I am thrilled for him because he is not one to readily relax and mentally retreat. I've envied him but not succumbed to the "itch"......until four nights ago. A book by one of my favorite authors has been calling to me and, heretofore (my favorite word) I've been able to thwart its influence. No longer. Even though I've begun reading it, the longest stretch I've managed to keep it, or my eyes, open is about ten minutes. I find this totally frustrating and I'm tired of accomplishing this and that when my book is resting on the night stand, beckoning me to just "pick me up for a few minutes". The other issue with this particular book is its thickness......a good three inches......which means that, at this rate of read, it may be July Fourth before I finish the last sentence.
As with many aspects of my life, my book-readin' needs to have some limits and parameters set around it. The first parameter needs to be a two-inch-thickness rule. This rule would, at least, prevent me from reading one-inch Harlequin romances (which I detest) and choose-your-own-adventure books aimed at ten-to-thirteen-year-old boys, plus it would help me avoid the aggravation of reading a book so thick that it takes me multiple months to complete. A book-readin' friend suggested that I read any thickness of book I desired. To finish the book I'd just need to read until three or four a.m.several consecutive nights in a row.
Perhaps a deserted Pacific island and a dog would be a more pleasant solution?
Ancora imparo
Thursday, February 24, 2011
A Face That Melted Hearts
His name is Oskar and he was irresistible from the moment I met him. Tiny and jet-black, with eyes that could make even the infamous Mata Hari seem innocent. Little did I know that from our first meeting would come a bond so strong that it would eventually, in all likelihood, save his life.
Oskar's home life seemed positive at first, although his owner often complained about his potty habits. During the initial weeks of our introductory period, he was inside and a part of the family. I loved having him climb onto my lap and be able to smell his little puppy breath. Without realizing it, a couple of weeks turned into two months and I became aware that I had not seen him in the house. An inquiry to one of the kids brought the information that he was banished to the basement because he wasn't house-trained. This seemed logical to me until, during the brutally cold weeks of winter, the garage door was up and I saw him sitting on a bale of straw with a couple of bowls on the garage floor near the straw. This did not set well with me, but I bit my tongue. Winter turned to spring and I next found him tied on a long chain in the backyard, barking up a storm, trying to get someone to pay attention to him. I inquired about him and was told he was a challenging dog who no one had time to train. I gently made the comment that if he turned out to be too much work I'd be happy to take him. This comment was met with a snappish reply for me to mind my own business. Realizing I'd over-stepped my bounds, I never mentioned the dog again but continued to see him confined to the backyard's chain and could always hear him barking. I ached for the beautiful dog who was clearly being ignored at best. I never mentioned him to Capt. SO because....well, because I knew he'd think I was nuts to ever offer to take in another dog.
One day, in early May, Oskar's owner said to me, "Were you serious about Oskar?" It never once occurred to me to check with Capt. SO before giving my answer of a resounding, "Yes!" I went home and confessed that we had just agreed to "adopt" a dog in need. After making arrangements to pick up Oskar, the day arrived for us to bring him to our house. We packed up all of his equipment and went to the backyard to make the final "rescue". Oskar, still on the chain, ran right up to Capt. SO through the muddy yard, and firmly planted his dirty front feet firmly on his chest. That was their introduction and it was love at first sight.
We adopted Oskar into our family, although it was more as if Oskar adopted us into his family. Our aging Springer, Max, was clearly confused and became quite depressed, at first, with Oskar's youth and vitality. They eventually forged a bond although I don't think Max ever recovered from the shock of feeling misplaced by the shiny, black youngster.
Oskar was with us for a little over five months, in which time we had him neutered and trained. Five months may seem short but it was enough time to thoroughly fall in love with Oskar. When he first came to live with us his bladder control was non-existent. He was highly skilled and adept at peeing while running down the hardwood-covered hallway on the way to the outdoors early in the morning. I lost count on how many mornings his first outing was following by the mopping of the hallway. All I can say is thank goodness we had gone to hardwood and given up the carpeting!
The week before Thanksgiving of that year Oskar went to live with his new owner, someone we knew and were confident would treat Oskar with the love and respect he deserved. Pieces of our hearts went with Oskar that day and those heart-parts have never been recovered. We've not seen Oskar since that day we said "Goodbye". It was just too painful then. Even now I think it would hurt to put my finders through his soft coat. In my project of going through documents and photographs, I've looked at many pictures of Oskar from our brief time with him, including puppy pictures his first owner sent with us. His were eyes that could melt hearts. Our Max's eyes were always full of mischief. Oskar's eyes were always filled with love. I suspect they still are.
I miss you, Oskar. I hope you are well.
Ancora imparo
Oskar's home life seemed positive at first, although his owner often complained about his potty habits. During the initial weeks of our introductory period, he was inside and a part of the family. I loved having him climb onto my lap and be able to smell his little puppy breath. Without realizing it, a couple of weeks turned into two months and I became aware that I had not seen him in the house. An inquiry to one of the kids brought the information that he was banished to the basement because he wasn't house-trained. This seemed logical to me until, during the brutally cold weeks of winter, the garage door was up and I saw him sitting on a bale of straw with a couple of bowls on the garage floor near the straw. This did not set well with me, but I bit my tongue. Winter turned to spring and I next found him tied on a long chain in the backyard, barking up a storm, trying to get someone to pay attention to him. I inquired about him and was told he was a challenging dog who no one had time to train. I gently made the comment that if he turned out to be too much work I'd be happy to take him. This comment was met with a snappish reply for me to mind my own business. Realizing I'd over-stepped my bounds, I never mentioned the dog again but continued to see him confined to the backyard's chain and could always hear him barking. I ached for the beautiful dog who was clearly being ignored at best. I never mentioned him to Capt. SO because....well, because I knew he'd think I was nuts to ever offer to take in another dog.
One day, in early May, Oskar's owner said to me, "Were you serious about Oskar?" It never once occurred to me to check with Capt. SO before giving my answer of a resounding, "Yes!" I went home and confessed that we had just agreed to "adopt" a dog in need. After making arrangements to pick up Oskar, the day arrived for us to bring him to our house. We packed up all of his equipment and went to the backyard to make the final "rescue". Oskar, still on the chain, ran right up to Capt. SO through the muddy yard, and firmly planted his dirty front feet firmly on his chest. That was their introduction and it was love at first sight.
We adopted Oskar into our family, although it was more as if Oskar adopted us into his family. Our aging Springer, Max, was clearly confused and became quite depressed, at first, with Oskar's youth and vitality. They eventually forged a bond although I don't think Max ever recovered from the shock of feeling misplaced by the shiny, black youngster.
Oskar was with us for a little over five months, in which time we had him neutered and trained. Five months may seem short but it was enough time to thoroughly fall in love with Oskar. When he first came to live with us his bladder control was non-existent. He was highly skilled and adept at peeing while running down the hardwood-covered hallway on the way to the outdoors early in the morning. I lost count on how many mornings his first outing was following by the mopping of the hallway. All I can say is thank goodness we had gone to hardwood and given up the carpeting!
The week before Thanksgiving of that year Oskar went to live with his new owner, someone we knew and were confident would treat Oskar with the love and respect he deserved. Pieces of our hearts went with Oskar that day and those heart-parts have never been recovered. We've not seen Oskar since that day we said "Goodbye". It was just too painful then. Even now I think it would hurt to put my finders through his soft coat. In my project of going through documents and photographs, I've looked at many pictures of Oskar from our brief time with him, including puppy pictures his first owner sent with us. His were eyes that could melt hearts. Our Max's eyes were always full of mischief. Oskar's eyes were always filled with love. I suspect they still are.
I miss you, Oskar. I hope you are well.
Ancora imparo
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Possibly Possessed
I think I am possessed. Either that or I have a penchant for persecution. One way or another, I find myself deep into yet another project.....one that seems to be a bottomless pit. Perhaps I have a possible penchant for personal-project persecution?
Some life lessons have left me with an awareness that I have too much stuff in my possession. (That word keeps cropping up, doesn't it?) Over the years, I've seen the results of holding on to "stuff" and the effects it has - both on the keeper of the stuff and those who must deal with it at a later date. I have arrived at the conclusion that it is both time and OK to let go of said "stuff", "stuff" being papers and pictures, mostly.
For years, I thought that being a "good" mother meant keeping the papers of childhood, probably because my mother kept just about every scrap of paper that I ever wrote, touched, or had my name on. After my parents sold their homes, I inherited all of the stuff my mother kept. She kept each letter I wrote home, beginning in college and through my married years until her death. Going through the scrapbooks, file folders, and boxes was like a cinema of my life with report cards, art work, newspaper clippings, concert programs, etc. She also left me with a life-time of photographs and a life-time supply of greeting cards, post cards, and note cards. I think the only time I ever visited this "stuff" is each time Capt. SO and I moved. I would open boxes, stir up the stuff, put the lid back on the box and ready it for the moving truck.
Well, the truck has stopped here. I've finally grown up enough to understand that keeping said "stuff" does not perpetuate memories, nor invite them. My mind holds the memories, sometimes more distinctly and vividly than by looking at or holding papers and photos. I've also finally arrived at the conclusion that, in the future, my children do not need to sort through or handle all of the "stuff" that I deemed "must save".
Before all of the weeping and wailing of the saints that have gone before me rise up and label me awful because I am sorting, throwing and shredding, please know that while I am, indeed, getting rid of grocery sack after grocery sack of paper and redundant photos, I am not throwing the baby out with the bath water. While I am greatly reducing the volume of my childrens' documents, school papers, certificates of achievement from pre-school through college, I am also saving that which might be entertaining or useful to future generations. I will be scanning everything, plus keeping a minimum number of "hard copies". The scanned items will go on to discs and each offspring will receive a disc plus I'll put disc copies in our safe deposit box. I am not wiping out evidence of existence, just reducing the results of that existence. I have finally realized that it is OK to let go of the greeting cards Capt. SO and I received from the birth of each child and I have now become comfortable with the notion that by throwing away the sympathy cards I received at the death of each of my parents, I have not diminished my love or respect for them.
By the truck stopping here, future generations will not have to load my boxes into the moving van. I will have accomplished that task for them.
Possessed? Possibly.
Ancora imparo
Some life lessons have left me with an awareness that I have too much stuff in my possession. (That word keeps cropping up, doesn't it?) Over the years, I've seen the results of holding on to "stuff" and the effects it has - both on the keeper of the stuff and those who must deal with it at a later date. I have arrived at the conclusion that it is both time and OK to let go of said "stuff", "stuff" being papers and pictures, mostly.
For years, I thought that being a "good" mother meant keeping the papers of childhood, probably because my mother kept just about every scrap of paper that I ever wrote, touched, or had my name on. After my parents sold their homes, I inherited all of the stuff my mother kept. She kept each letter I wrote home, beginning in college and through my married years until her death. Going through the scrapbooks, file folders, and boxes was like a cinema of my life with report cards, art work, newspaper clippings, concert programs, etc. She also left me with a life-time of photographs and a life-time supply of greeting cards, post cards, and note cards. I think the only time I ever visited this "stuff" is each time Capt. SO and I moved. I would open boxes, stir up the stuff, put the lid back on the box and ready it for the moving truck.
Well, the truck has stopped here. I've finally grown up enough to understand that keeping said "stuff" does not perpetuate memories, nor invite them. My mind holds the memories, sometimes more distinctly and vividly than by looking at or holding papers and photos. I've also finally arrived at the conclusion that, in the future, my children do not need to sort through or handle all of the "stuff" that I deemed "must save".
Before all of the weeping and wailing of the saints that have gone before me rise up and label me awful because I am sorting, throwing and shredding, please know that while I am, indeed, getting rid of grocery sack after grocery sack of paper and redundant photos, I am not throwing the baby out with the bath water. While I am greatly reducing the volume of my childrens' documents, school papers, certificates of achievement from pre-school through college, I am also saving that which might be entertaining or useful to future generations. I will be scanning everything, plus keeping a minimum number of "hard copies". The scanned items will go on to discs and each offspring will receive a disc plus I'll put disc copies in our safe deposit box. I am not wiping out evidence of existence, just reducing the results of that existence. I have finally realized that it is OK to let go of the greeting cards Capt. SO and I received from the birth of each child and I have now become comfortable with the notion that by throwing away the sympathy cards I received at the death of each of my parents, I have not diminished my love or respect for them.
By the truck stopping here, future generations will not have to load my boxes into the moving van. I will have accomplished that task for them.
Possessed? Possibly.
Ancora imparo
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
I Heard It Again
Once again, a health-care provider - a dental hygienist, to be precise - used the phrase, "It's your age." I would like to go on record as being truly tired of hearing this. I do not need reminding of how the calendar keeps changing, page after page, year after year. My body tells me in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that I am no longer a thirty-something. Fortunately, my mind does not realize my body's chronological age or stage. My mind still takes me places and encourages me to do and try activities that make Capt. SO's eyebrows rise and, on occasion, cause him to tell me to act my age........the ultimate compliment!
I would love to water ski at least one more time. I'm pretty sure if the driver of the boat were skilled, I could get up without dislocating any joint and enjoy a ride around the circle at least once. Granted, the water would have to be relatively calm - maybe just a slight chop - and I would want the ski area to myself so I did not have to content with other boats' wakes. I don't want much......just one more perfect ride.
I'd like to go horseback riding at least one more time. I'd like to get into an aerobic dance class again. There is just nothing more energizing than "exer-dancing" to music that has a great beat. I suppose, "at my age", that I'd do more "sweatin' to the oldies" than anything else.
I'd like to play in an orchestra once again before my hands and fingers become stiff and can no longer negotiate fast, complicated passages. I listen to the classical music station and am transported back in time whenever I hear a piece that I played, which is frequently.
I'd like to sing in a top-flight community chorus again. Aside from playing in a band or orchestra, there is no other experience like singing with a large choir.......especially when the director is skilled.
I'd like to direct a band again..........
All these desires and dreams to do just one more time before my mind realizes that my body is getting older. If all of these well-meaning health-care professionals would just stop telling me, "It's your age." I do not want to hear those words again.
It may be my age but can't I just pretend?
Ancora imparo
I would love to water ski at least one more time. I'm pretty sure if the driver of the boat were skilled, I could get up without dislocating any joint and enjoy a ride around the circle at least once. Granted, the water would have to be relatively calm - maybe just a slight chop - and I would want the ski area to myself so I did not have to content with other boats' wakes. I don't want much......just one more perfect ride.
I'd like to go horseback riding at least one more time. I'd like to get into an aerobic dance class again. There is just nothing more energizing than "exer-dancing" to music that has a great beat. I suppose, "at my age", that I'd do more "sweatin' to the oldies" than anything else.
I'd like to play in an orchestra once again before my hands and fingers become stiff and can no longer negotiate fast, complicated passages. I listen to the classical music station and am transported back in time whenever I hear a piece that I played, which is frequently.
I'd like to sing in a top-flight community chorus again. Aside from playing in a band or orchestra, there is no other experience like singing with a large choir.......especially when the director is skilled.
I'd like to direct a band again..........
All these desires and dreams to do just one more time before my mind realizes that my body is getting older. If all of these well-meaning health-care professionals would just stop telling me, "It's your age." I do not want to hear those words again.
It may be my age but can't I just pretend?
Ancora imparo
Sunday, February 20, 2011
My Shopping Cart
One of my pastors made a comment during his sermon this morning about how the contents of one's shopping cart tell so much about a person. Well, that is very true. When I am grocery shopping, I actually do study other people's shopping-cart contents because it is a good way to entertain myself when I'm shopping. I agree with my pastor that the contents do reveal something about someone - either the person pushing the cart or the person being shopped for. If someone else was studying what I put into my cart they would find lots of fresh fruits and vegetables, no bread, little - if any - dairy, seafood, the occasional chicken, lots of beans and rice, frequent cans of chicken broth with which to make homemade soups, eggs, not much candy, and snack foods limited to pretzels and corn tostada chips. Not a very exciting list of contents.
But is there not another way to think of shopping-cart contents?
What would others discover in my life shopping cart? What would my life shopping-cart's contents tell others about me, what I did, what I stood for, what I accomplished, what I enjoyed, what I valued, who I loved and cherished? Just what message would my symbolic shopping cart carry to those who did not know me?
This has given me great pause for thought.
My cart would tell others that I was a life-long educator - educating adults as the women's fitness director at the YWCA, educating young people either in the classroom or at summer music camps at a Wisconsin state university, or educating adults in multiple church choirs. Evidence of music would be in every nook and cranny of the cart - beginning with student directing responsibilities in junior and senior high school, majoring in music at the university level, teaching music, playing as a member of a regional symphony, working as the personnel director and youth director of the same symphony, doing the announcing for the same symphony's outdoor summer concert series, and playing as a member of a classical trio. Volunteering would be evident, beginning with a three-year stint as the secretary for a public-television friends group and would also involve church activities. Voyeurs would see my two greatest accomplishments - my children; my great loves of Capt. SO, The Three Musketeers, Max and some very good friends. My love and respect for animals would be present, as would my support of public broadcasting. Hopefully someone would find my sense of humor and my wild and crazy side - known mostly only to my family. There would be a significant amount of space devoted to water and boats and this, my outlet of writing. Someone would undoubtedly uncover a propensity to lead and organize people....perhaps to a slightly obsessive level I admit, plus a love of God would be present.
That would be me, currently, in a nutshell. I will spend some time reflecting about whether I should change, modify or adjust the contents of my life shopping cart. I guess this is what would be called a legacy. I'd better get crackin' on this. You just never know what hand tomorrow will deal you.
Ancora imparo
But is there not another way to think of shopping-cart contents?
What would others discover in my life shopping cart? What would my life shopping-cart's contents tell others about me, what I did, what I stood for, what I accomplished, what I enjoyed, what I valued, who I loved and cherished? Just what message would my symbolic shopping cart carry to those who did not know me?
This has given me great pause for thought.
My cart would tell others that I was a life-long educator - educating adults as the women's fitness director at the YWCA, educating young people either in the classroom or at summer music camps at a Wisconsin state university, or educating adults in multiple church choirs. Evidence of music would be in every nook and cranny of the cart - beginning with student directing responsibilities in junior and senior high school, majoring in music at the university level, teaching music, playing as a member of a regional symphony, working as the personnel director and youth director of the same symphony, doing the announcing for the same symphony's outdoor summer concert series, and playing as a member of a classical trio. Volunteering would be evident, beginning with a three-year stint as the secretary for a public-television friends group and would also involve church activities. Voyeurs would see my two greatest accomplishments - my children; my great loves of Capt. SO, The Three Musketeers, Max and some very good friends. My love and respect for animals would be present, as would my support of public broadcasting. Hopefully someone would find my sense of humor and my wild and crazy side - known mostly only to my family. There would be a significant amount of space devoted to water and boats and this, my outlet of writing. Someone would undoubtedly uncover a propensity to lead and organize people....perhaps to a slightly obsessive level I admit, plus a love of God would be present.
That would be me, currently, in a nutshell. I will spend some time reflecting about whether I should change, modify or adjust the contents of my life shopping cart. I guess this is what would be called a legacy. I'd better get crackin' on this. You just never know what hand tomorrow will deal you.
Ancora imparo
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Too Many Or Not Enough?
Today's American shoppers have choices, galore, for just about every product known to mankind. Oh, there are some exceptions that I can think of, such as my favorite twelve-year old slippers, or petite clothes for short people that do not look like my grandmother's styles; otherwise, there are so many selections from which to chose that it can be challenging to simply make a decision.
This morning I met a friend for breakfast. Even the breakfast menu had so many items to choose from that my friend, who had never been to this restaurant, had to take several minutes to sift through the descriptions and make her choice. Later, I went to a moderately priced department store to buy a pair of jeans for Capt. SO. It was a good thing I had checked out the tag on his present jeans and had taken the information with me regarding type, style number, size and color. Jean choices are almost overwhelming and, had I not been prepared with his preferences, I would have spent beaucoup minutes trying to figure out what he would want. Regular fit, straight legged, flared legs, carpenter-style, boot-cut, etc., etc., etc. Then there are all the color choices. I can remember when denim came in just one color. Then denim branched out to include white and black we thought we had died and gone to heaven. Now you hardly see black or white, just a hundred shades (or so it seems) of blues.
Here is a good question: Why do we refer to one 'set' of jeans as a pair? Is it because the jeans have two legs and that, therefore, constitutes a pair? Why isn't a "pair" of jeans two jeans? Why wouldn't I refer to my jeans as, "I am wearing my jean today."? If I were wearing more than one "jean", then I could say that I am wearing my "jeans" today. This puzzles me.
Before I close, I would like to talk about my favorite slippers, purchased somewhere between twelve and fifteen years ago. I've been trying to find a replacement pair (This makes sense to use the word "pair" because there are, indeed, two slippers.) for several years now, but have had no success. These slippers are an easy-slip, shoe-style moccasin with a leather sole and fabric upper. They are comfortable on the feet and I wear them a lot.....so much so that recently I kicked them off under my desk and this terrible, awful stench emanated from beneath my chair. At first I could not figure out what the odor was but my nose quickly led me to the two-source culprits: My socks and my slippers. I've never suffered from foot odor so I was blown away by the odious smell. Then I was dismayed to think that my beloved slippers might have seen their better day. They had most certainly seen their better smell. Realizing that replacing my slippers was not a choice, I decided that, since they were most certainly ruined, I had nothing to lose but to toss them into the washing machine, hand-wash cycle/cold water, and hope for the best. I am happy to report that my laundry gamble seems to have paid off. After 48 hours of dripping and drying, the slippers are almost moisture-free and appear to have suffered little, if any, damage. They definitely smell better....in fact, they smell fresh. Of course, I haven't stuck my stocking-footed feet back into them. That will be the ultimate test.
What was the purpose of my rambling, slipper anecdote? To whine about there not being enough choices on slipper selection just like my old, once-smelly slippers.
I am just not to be pleased today. Too many choices of jeans and too few choices of my favorite slipper style. I did buy a new purse today. I won't even begin to "go there" about purse selection. Jeans pale in comparison to purse styles.
Ancora imparo
This morning I met a friend for breakfast. Even the breakfast menu had so many items to choose from that my friend, who had never been to this restaurant, had to take several minutes to sift through the descriptions and make her choice. Later, I went to a moderately priced department store to buy a pair of jeans for Capt. SO. It was a good thing I had checked out the tag on his present jeans and had taken the information with me regarding type, style number, size and color. Jean choices are almost overwhelming and, had I not been prepared with his preferences, I would have spent beaucoup minutes trying to figure out what he would want. Regular fit, straight legged, flared legs, carpenter-style, boot-cut, etc., etc., etc. Then there are all the color choices. I can remember when denim came in just one color. Then denim branched out to include white and black we thought we had died and gone to heaven. Now you hardly see black or white, just a hundred shades (or so it seems) of blues.
Here is a good question: Why do we refer to one 'set' of jeans as a pair? Is it because the jeans have two legs and that, therefore, constitutes a pair? Why isn't a "pair" of jeans two jeans? Why wouldn't I refer to my jeans as, "I am wearing my jean today."? If I were wearing more than one "jean", then I could say that I am wearing my "jeans" today. This puzzles me.
Before I close, I would like to talk about my favorite slippers, purchased somewhere between twelve and fifteen years ago. I've been trying to find a replacement pair (This makes sense to use the word "pair" because there are, indeed, two slippers.) for several years now, but have had no success. These slippers are an easy-slip, shoe-style moccasin with a leather sole and fabric upper. They are comfortable on the feet and I wear them a lot.....so much so that recently I kicked them off under my desk and this terrible, awful stench emanated from beneath my chair. At first I could not figure out what the odor was but my nose quickly led me to the two-source culprits: My socks and my slippers. I've never suffered from foot odor so I was blown away by the odious smell. Then I was dismayed to think that my beloved slippers might have seen their better day. They had most certainly seen their better smell. Realizing that replacing my slippers was not a choice, I decided that, since they were most certainly ruined, I had nothing to lose but to toss them into the washing machine, hand-wash cycle/cold water, and hope for the best. I am happy to report that my laundry gamble seems to have paid off. After 48 hours of dripping and drying, the slippers are almost moisture-free and appear to have suffered little, if any, damage. They definitely smell better....in fact, they smell fresh. Of course, I haven't stuck my stocking-footed feet back into them. That will be the ultimate test.
What was the purpose of my rambling, slipper anecdote? To whine about there not being enough choices on slipper selection just like my old, once-smelly slippers.
I am just not to be pleased today. Too many choices of jeans and too few choices of my favorite slipper style. I did buy a new purse today. I won't even begin to "go there" about purse selection. Jeans pale in comparison to purse styles.
Ancora imparo
Friday, February 18, 2011
"Walkin' On Sunshine"
Let's go back to the '80's, 1983 to be exact. A group called Katrina and the Waves had a smash hit called "Walkin' On Sunshine". I don't know if this group is what is known as a "one hit wonder", but this was a catchy, upbeat single that got a lot of air time then and still does when radio stations focus on the '80's.
Today Mother Nature graced our geographic area with an unusual phenomenon........sunshine....the same sunshine that Katrina et al sang about. We've had a string of totally cloudy or most cloudy days for so long that this string of hours with non-obliterated sunlight seems to be the exception rather than the norm. Whatever the reason, it is a welcome occurrence, both for the eye and for the psyche. My SO even came home from an early morning, red-eye meeting and said, "It's beautiful outside. Let's go out for breakfast!"
You only have to ask me once.
We did and both of us were possessed with extra energy that inspired us to run the ubiquitous post-breakfast errands that we each despise but know are necessary. I am excited because I have updated snapshots from The Three Musketeers' stay with us that I can trade out and now have new images of them in all of my picture frames! The sun continues to pour into the condo windows and is inspiring extra indoor energy to tackle the list of tasks that I really do not want to accomplish but understand I must.
(Rhetorical Question: Why do task lists never......I mean NEVER.....go away? The minute I complete one task, at least one more, if not two or three, get added to the list.)
The sun is such an invigorating influence that, if the wind-chill wasn't so low, I'd go out and wash the car in the driveway. That was one of the tasks Capt. SO and I were going to cross off our list, but the line was so long at the car wash with other drivers who had the same thought that we nixed the idea. I suggested to Capt. SO that he grills the salmon for dinner tonight but, again, he brought up the wind and the wind chill index. I'm thinking that he's waiting for warmer weather??????
To quote from the song: "I'm walkin' on sunshine, woo-oo, and don't it feel good!"
Yes, it does.
Ancora imparo
Today Mother Nature graced our geographic area with an unusual phenomenon........sunshine....the same sunshine that Katrina et al sang about. We've had a string of totally cloudy or most cloudy days for so long that this string of hours with non-obliterated sunlight seems to be the exception rather than the norm. Whatever the reason, it is a welcome occurrence, both for the eye and for the psyche. My SO even came home from an early morning, red-eye meeting and said, "It's beautiful outside. Let's go out for breakfast!"
You only have to ask me once.
We did and both of us were possessed with extra energy that inspired us to run the ubiquitous post-breakfast errands that we each despise but know are necessary. I am excited because I have updated snapshots from The Three Musketeers' stay with us that I can trade out and now have new images of them in all of my picture frames! The sun continues to pour into the condo windows and is inspiring extra indoor energy to tackle the list of tasks that I really do not want to accomplish but understand I must.
(Rhetorical Question: Why do task lists never......I mean NEVER.....go away? The minute I complete one task, at least one more, if not two or three, get added to the list.)
The sun is such an invigorating influence that, if the wind-chill wasn't so low, I'd go out and wash the car in the driveway. That was one of the tasks Capt. SO and I were going to cross off our list, but the line was so long at the car wash with other drivers who had the same thought that we nixed the idea. I suggested to Capt. SO that he grills the salmon for dinner tonight but, again, he brought up the wind and the wind chill index. I'm thinking that he's waiting for warmer weather??????
To quote from the song: "I'm walkin' on sunshine, woo-oo, and don't it feel good!"
Yes, it does.
Ancora imparo
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Two Hours Of My Own
Yesterday I was given the gift of two hours. Two hours in which I had no plans, no agenda, and nowhere I had to stop. After much thought and deliberation, I had devised a plan for my two hours. I would do nothing!
It was a relaxing departure from my normal pattern of racing around, running this and that errand, cramming in as many stops as I possibly can until the very last minute. Instead of that frenetic, rat-like behavior, I instead chose to go to a national bookseller's store, purchase a bottle of sparkling water, find a comfy chair in an out-of-the-way corner and park myself. I had come prepared with my brain full of tasks to add to lists and my planner, in which I would write down all of the emptied tasks from my head. The chair was just right for my short legs and the location of the chair was hidden enough that people were not constantly traipsing in front of me. Four chairs down, a man sat reading a book, and he never moved a muscle. I marveled at his ability to sit perfectly still. I savored my sparkling water....another departure from my normal purchase of coffee. The water was refreshing and the sparkle tingled in my mouth and down my throat.
After I'd completed composing my to-do lists, I turned to the major task at hand...........compiling the grocery shopping list. Even that mundane job was more fun while I was poised in my over-stuffed chair, sipping sparkling water and taking the occasional gander at the people around me. With that completed, I spied a women's magazine on a rack directly in front of me and took advantage of my "free" time to read it cover-to-cover. Checking my watch I discovered more minutes remaining in my freedom and I chose another magazine to peruse.
My final treat to myself was to browse through the cooking section. Cookbook covers always look so inviting. People who specialize in food photography seem to mange to coax and tease the ultimate pixels from the pictures of the objects they photograph. Have you ever seen a dull-looking photo involving food? The area immediately in front of the cookbooks has a long table that serves as a meeting place for small groups. Yesterday's group was involved in either knitting or crocheting. It was fascinating to be looking at book spines and hearing the constant click-click of yarn needles.
All too soon, my two hours of ultimate freedom came to a close and I had to head out to meet up with Capt. SO. I left the bookseller feeling rested and refreshed, an infrequent air for me to be experiencing. Only two hours.......just think about what four or five or even eight would be like!
Ancora imparo
It was a relaxing departure from my normal pattern of racing around, running this and that errand, cramming in as many stops as I possibly can until the very last minute. Instead of that frenetic, rat-like behavior, I instead chose to go to a national bookseller's store, purchase a bottle of sparkling water, find a comfy chair in an out-of-the-way corner and park myself. I had come prepared with my brain full of tasks to add to lists and my planner, in which I would write down all of the emptied tasks from my head. The chair was just right for my short legs and the location of the chair was hidden enough that people were not constantly traipsing in front of me. Four chairs down, a man sat reading a book, and he never moved a muscle. I marveled at his ability to sit perfectly still. I savored my sparkling water....another departure from my normal purchase of coffee. The water was refreshing and the sparkle tingled in my mouth and down my throat.
After I'd completed composing my to-do lists, I turned to the major task at hand...........compiling the grocery shopping list. Even that mundane job was more fun while I was poised in my over-stuffed chair, sipping sparkling water and taking the occasional gander at the people around me. With that completed, I spied a women's magazine on a rack directly in front of me and took advantage of my "free" time to read it cover-to-cover. Checking my watch I discovered more minutes remaining in my freedom and I chose another magazine to peruse.
My final treat to myself was to browse through the cooking section. Cookbook covers always look so inviting. People who specialize in food photography seem to mange to coax and tease the ultimate pixels from the pictures of the objects they photograph. Have you ever seen a dull-looking photo involving food? The area immediately in front of the cookbooks has a long table that serves as a meeting place for small groups. Yesterday's group was involved in either knitting or crocheting. It was fascinating to be looking at book spines and hearing the constant click-click of yarn needles.
All too soon, my two hours of ultimate freedom came to a close and I had to head out to meet up with Capt. SO. I left the bookseller feeling rested and refreshed, an infrequent air for me to be experiencing. Only two hours.......just think about what four or five or even eight would be like!
Ancora imparo
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Does The Rear View Mirror Serve A Purpose?
Hindsight is great foresight. We learn from our mistakes. You can't look back. If only I'd..... The past is a great foreteller of the future. All these phrases and sayings have been with humanity for a long time. If you are "long in the tooth", it means you are old or older and you have probably heard some or all of these "old saws" before.
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So my question to myself, or anyone else for that matter, is, "Does looking in the rear view mirror serve any real purpose?"
The recent past has given me pause to look backward more than I'd care to and I have found that all of this rear-view mirror looking has made me more than a little frustrated, angry, and discouraged. Obviously, no one has forced me to reflect backwards, so I only have myself to blame, but I wonder what I have accomplished besides vexing myself? Did I learn anything? Can anything be changed? Of course, nothing from the past can be changed, other than my feelings towards it. The greater question is, "Can anything be improved in the future by looking backwards?"
Absolutely. But....and yes, there is a but....what can I do as one person? This is the question I have now put before myself and I'm hoping that I will find at least one answer, if not more. The more I learn from the past, the more work I realize I have to do in the future to keep my perspective and purpose clear. All of this reflection and review searching somehow doesn't seem to make the future easier, only more work-filled.
Which brings me back to my favorite point, about which I write frequently: I miss having a dog. Having a dog enables one to think more clearly and love more dearly. Something about stroking that fur just brings everything into focus, including the past.
Ancora imparo
.
So my question to myself, or anyone else for that matter, is, "Does looking in the rear view mirror serve any real purpose?"
The recent past has given me pause to look backward more than I'd care to and I have found that all of this rear-view mirror looking has made me more than a little frustrated, angry, and discouraged. Obviously, no one has forced me to reflect backwards, so I only have myself to blame, but I wonder what I have accomplished besides vexing myself? Did I learn anything? Can anything be changed? Of course, nothing from the past can be changed, other than my feelings towards it. The greater question is, "Can anything be improved in the future by looking backwards?"
Absolutely. But....and yes, there is a but....what can I do as one person? This is the question I have now put before myself and I'm hoping that I will find at least one answer, if not more. The more I learn from the past, the more work I realize I have to do in the future to keep my perspective and purpose clear. All of this reflection and review searching somehow doesn't seem to make the future easier, only more work-filled.
Which brings me back to my favorite point, about which I write frequently: I miss having a dog. Having a dog enables one to think more clearly and love more dearly. Something about stroking that fur just brings everything into focus, including the past.
Ancora imparo
Sometimes I Feel Like A Nut
Remember the jingle that is associated with Almond Joy candy bars? "Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't?" Besides describing the Hershey Corporation's Almond Joy candy bars, available with or without almonds, that little jingle aptly describes how I feel sometimes. Sometimes like a nut, other times not so nutty.
I feel nutty when I go into a room and cannot remember why. I feel nutty when I open up the refrigerator and have to ask myself, "Now what was I looking for?" I feel nutty when I had an important object in my hands two minutes ago and now cannot locate it. I felt nutty at last night's choir rehearsal when I kept becoming confused in the same passage, until, thankfully, I discovered that there was an entire measure of music missing in the piccolo part. I was so very relieved to learn it was not my brain malfunctioning.
Today is National Almond Day, which seems a mildly appropriate way to acknowledge the importance of the almond industry. After all, the almond is almost a super food, ranking right up there with bananas, chocolate, spinach, potatoes, tomatoes, caffeine, apples, milk, carrots, carrot cake, chocolate chip cookies, salmon, tuna, morel mushrooms, bacon, peanut butter, eggs (Remember the incredible, edible egg?), pineapple, Fritos, humus, legumes, Ritz crackers, Twizzlers, and Baby Ruth candy bars - just to name a few of the foods that many of us humans cannot live without.
Seriously, almonds have been proven to be highly beneficial to the human body. It has taken a while, but I have learned to like plain almonds, toasted in the oven for twelve minutes at four hundred and ten degrees, better than the roasted and salted variety that I used to prefer. Now if I could just learn to like chocolate in its purest form instead of being a part of a recipe that uses butter, eggs, and sugar.
I guess I have to take baby steps in my dietary preference improvements. In the meantime, I do really feel like a nut.......and sometimes I don't. How about you?
Ancora imparo
I feel nutty when I go into a room and cannot remember why. I feel nutty when I open up the refrigerator and have to ask myself, "Now what was I looking for?" I feel nutty when I had an important object in my hands two minutes ago and now cannot locate it. I felt nutty at last night's choir rehearsal when I kept becoming confused in the same passage, until, thankfully, I discovered that there was an entire measure of music missing in the piccolo part. I was so very relieved to learn it was not my brain malfunctioning.
Today is National Almond Day, which seems a mildly appropriate way to acknowledge the importance of the almond industry. After all, the almond is almost a super food, ranking right up there with bananas, chocolate, spinach, potatoes, tomatoes, caffeine, apples, milk, carrots, carrot cake, chocolate chip cookies, salmon, tuna, morel mushrooms, bacon, peanut butter, eggs (Remember the incredible, edible egg?), pineapple, Fritos, humus, legumes, Ritz crackers, Twizzlers, and Baby Ruth candy bars - just to name a few of the foods that many of us humans cannot live without.
Seriously, almonds have been proven to be highly beneficial to the human body. It has taken a while, but I have learned to like plain almonds, toasted in the oven for twelve minutes at four hundred and ten degrees, better than the roasted and salted variety that I used to prefer. Now if I could just learn to like chocolate in its purest form instead of being a part of a recipe that uses butter, eggs, and sugar.
I guess I have to take baby steps in my dietary preference improvements. In the meantime, I do really feel like a nut.......and sometimes I don't. How about you?
Ancora imparo
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
How America Moves
Semi-trucks have always fascinated me. Their array of styles, colors, makes and models seems endless. Some are plain, no-nonsense-get-the-job-done rigs. Others are personalized, spiffed-up, tricked-out, and head-turning. While my favorite time to view the trucks is during the day when I can study them carefully, there is nothing more eye-catching than seeing an uber-lit rig going down the road at night. It makes me want to salute!
It further fascinates me to see whose corporate moniker is on the trailer. Occasionally the tractor and trailer carry the same brand name so I know it is most likely from a corporate fleet. More customary is the tractor having one business name on the doors and a different logo on the trailer. One of my favorite corporate-rig looks is from the Steelcase Company. Their signature black tractor/trailer combos with primary color-splashes makes a distinctive statement, one which really appeals to my eye. The U.S. Marine Corps also has bold and beautiful murals on some trailers.
Most tractors come in primary colors with white, blue, red leading the color-choice charts. Yellow isn't far behind, followed by green, the entire family of red-related shades, gray, beige, brown (We all know Brown.) and tan. The custom-paint jobs are fun to look at as are the paints that shimmer in the sunlight, posing as a different color depending on which direction you are looking at it from. Pink or pinkish colors would seem to indicate a female driver but I should not stereotype owner/operator color choices. I know this because on long trips I have been known to take statistical samples of tractor colors just to keep myself occupied.
Today I saw a beautiful rig on the interstate. I would have given the driver, whom I was not able to see clearly, the thumbs up, if I could have made eye-contact. What I did see, that was so impressive, was the black lab seated proudly in the passenger seat. Driver and his best friend. Now that warms the heart on a cold winter's day! How fortunate that driver is to be able to have man's best friend with him or her on those long-haul trips.
Semis do move America, both literally and figuratively. I still get the urge to relocate whenever I see a moving van. We Americans probably do not appreciate the significant role the trucking industry plays in our every-day lives. From our appliances, to our automobiles, to our staple guns, to the garments we wear, all probably spent some amount of time being transported via a truck. Today I saw a load of pontoon boats going down the road. Smartly, that load was headed in a southerly direction! Occasionally you will see a very large boat being hauled. Those types of loads require special equipment and very special drivers who are entrusted with someone's nautical baby.
Getting to visit and ride in one of those gorgeous rigs is on my bucket list. Truckers work hard, probably play hard, and seldom get the recognition they deserve. I cannot imagine being away from home for the long amounts of time that many of them are. Presumably that is why some of the tractors are as large and spacious-looking as they appear. Those truckers are like the turtle who carries his house on his back.
Keep on truckin', America!
Ancora imparo
It further fascinates me to see whose corporate moniker is on the trailer. Occasionally the tractor and trailer carry the same brand name so I know it is most likely from a corporate fleet. More customary is the tractor having one business name on the doors and a different logo on the trailer. One of my favorite corporate-rig looks is from the Steelcase Company. Their signature black tractor/trailer combos with primary color-splashes makes a distinctive statement, one which really appeals to my eye. The U.S. Marine Corps also has bold and beautiful murals on some trailers.
Most tractors come in primary colors with white, blue, red leading the color-choice charts. Yellow isn't far behind, followed by green, the entire family of red-related shades, gray, beige, brown (We all know Brown.) and tan. The custom-paint jobs are fun to look at as are the paints that shimmer in the sunlight, posing as a different color depending on which direction you are looking at it from. Pink or pinkish colors would seem to indicate a female driver but I should not stereotype owner/operator color choices. I know this because on long trips I have been known to take statistical samples of tractor colors just to keep myself occupied.
Today I saw a beautiful rig on the interstate. I would have given the driver, whom I was not able to see clearly, the thumbs up, if I could have made eye-contact. What I did see, that was so impressive, was the black lab seated proudly in the passenger seat. Driver and his best friend. Now that warms the heart on a cold winter's day! How fortunate that driver is to be able to have man's best friend with him or her on those long-haul trips.
Semis do move America, both literally and figuratively. I still get the urge to relocate whenever I see a moving van. We Americans probably do not appreciate the significant role the trucking industry plays in our every-day lives. From our appliances, to our automobiles, to our staple guns, to the garments we wear, all probably spent some amount of time being transported via a truck. Today I saw a load of pontoon boats going down the road. Smartly, that load was headed in a southerly direction! Occasionally you will see a very large boat being hauled. Those types of loads require special equipment and very special drivers who are entrusted with someone's nautical baby.
Getting to visit and ride in one of those gorgeous rigs is on my bucket list. Truckers work hard, probably play hard, and seldom get the recognition they deserve. I cannot imagine being away from home for the long amounts of time that many of them are. Presumably that is why some of the tractors are as large and spacious-looking as they appear. Those truckers are like the turtle who carries his house on his back.
Keep on truckin', America!
Ancora imparo
Monday, February 14, 2011
I'd Have It No Other Way
Today my SO and I had to give them back......The Three Musketeers, that's who. We knew the four days would come to and end, and so they did, but what fun we had. Driving two hours with them this morning passed so quickly it was hard to believe that the exit was less than five minutes away when Capt. SO announced, "We're almost here."
We spent the time in the car with Grandma reading books from the front seat to the literally captive audience in the back seat, TLV talking non-stop, TLV reading a book to the rest of us, TLV'sLB eating more grapes than I thought one small person could ever hold, TLV helping Princess Leia with her chopped-up string cheese, the boys finding truck cab colors, the discussion about the speeding car and the police officer that chased the car, and the enticing promise of the boxes of animal crackers to be consumed later. Princess Leia negotiated her Cheerios and cut-up grapes just fine from inside the sippy cup sans top and the boys managed, for the most part, to keep their zippered baggies upright while eating their Cheerios and grapes. It was a fun car ride.
Then came the car ride home with just two occupants instead of five - when the silence from the back seat was deafening. Walking back into the condo and seeing all of the toys strewn about, going to their bedrooms and seeing where they laid their little heads, seeing the chairs and sofas where so many books were read while small, warm bodies sat on older laps, seeing the booster chairs still attached to the dining room chairs, the three wash cloths hanging up from bath times.......all memories.
Their essence is still here even though The Three Musketeers will sleep in their own beds tonight and their parents will be the ones to say "Good night." and tuck them in. We have our own memories of little heads tucked in under our chins, of baby-signing at meal times, voices squealing with delight, and questions. Hundreds of questions. All in a day's work being a grandparent. I wouldn't have it any other way.
I have to stop typing now. Something is clouding my vision.
Ancora imparo
We spent the time in the car with Grandma reading books from the front seat to the literally captive audience in the back seat, TLV talking non-stop, TLV reading a book to the rest of us, TLV'sLB eating more grapes than I thought one small person could ever hold, TLV helping Princess Leia with her chopped-up string cheese, the boys finding truck cab colors, the discussion about the speeding car and the police officer that chased the car, and the enticing promise of the boxes of animal crackers to be consumed later. Princess Leia negotiated her Cheerios and cut-up grapes just fine from inside the sippy cup sans top and the boys managed, for the most part, to keep their zippered baggies upright while eating their Cheerios and grapes. It was a fun car ride.
Then came the car ride home with just two occupants instead of five - when the silence from the back seat was deafening. Walking back into the condo and seeing all of the toys strewn about, going to their bedrooms and seeing where they laid their little heads, seeing the chairs and sofas where so many books were read while small, warm bodies sat on older laps, seeing the booster chairs still attached to the dining room chairs, the three wash cloths hanging up from bath times.......all memories.
Their essence is still here even though The Three Musketeers will sleep in their own beds tonight and their parents will be the ones to say "Good night." and tuck them in. We have our own memories of little heads tucked in under our chins, of baby-signing at meal times, voices squealing with delight, and questions. Hundreds of questions. All in a day's work being a grandparent. I wouldn't have it any other way.
I have to stop typing now. Something is clouding my vision.
Ancora imparo
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Partial To Short People
I have a bias. I'll state that right up front. I am partial to short people and not just because I am one. We short people have special challenges, mostly in stores, on the top shelves. My favorite annoyance for SP (short people) is in a department store when the merchandising majors work their clever magic with displays at the top of the wall and the only garment left in my size is the one way up high....just out of my reach! Another challenge comes in cleaning bathroom mirrors. I can reach about ninety percent of the mirror but it that top ten percent that I cannot clean without hauling out a stool. Just annoying.
Ever try washing your car when you are short? You can reach everything but one strip that starts in the center of the hood, runs up the center of the windshield, and all over the top of the car. One long dirty or water-spotted stripe. Further annoying. Short legs have to work almost twice as hard on a walk as do the legs of a taller person. And, if you are not a short person, you will probably never have to pay for alterations at a department store or shorten the sleeves and legs on almost every article of clothing you buy. I wish I had a dime for every strip of cloth that I've had to cut off in order to hem the sleeve, leg, or skirt to the right length.
I'm just tired of being short. To make matters worse, as you age, your spine compacts as the padding between the vertebrae shrinks, thusly shrinking a short person to an even shorter stature. If I live too long I'll be about three feet tall.
While I'm whining about being short, the kitchen (or any closet) is another frustrating space in a home. I have four stools upstairs and one stool in the lower level. My one-and-two-thirds-year old granddaughter carries a stool with her wherever she goes and I can most certainly understand. While she and the other two Musketeers have been here for a few days she has discovered one of my smaller stools which is just the perfect weight for her to haul everywhere but high enough to get her prized possessions to the countertops in the kitchen where she can occupy herself for a long time. She also carries her stool to climb onto most anything she deems necessary to investigate. While, with her gene pool, I do not think being short is in her future, I do understand her desire to simply "have stool, will carry".
But, the foremost reason I am partial to short people is because of The Three Musketeers. I know that someday, perhaps in the not-too-distant future, they will be taller than their short grandmother, but for right now they are the perfect size.....and always will be. Someday they can reach up to the top shelf for little ol' Granny.
Ancora imparo
Ever try washing your car when you are short? You can reach everything but one strip that starts in the center of the hood, runs up the center of the windshield, and all over the top of the car. One long dirty or water-spotted stripe. Further annoying. Short legs have to work almost twice as hard on a walk as do the legs of a taller person. And, if you are not a short person, you will probably never have to pay for alterations at a department store or shorten the sleeves and legs on almost every article of clothing you buy. I wish I had a dime for every strip of cloth that I've had to cut off in order to hem the sleeve, leg, or skirt to the right length.
I'm just tired of being short. To make matters worse, as you age, your spine compacts as the padding between the vertebrae shrinks, thusly shrinking a short person to an even shorter stature. If I live too long I'll be about three feet tall.
While I'm whining about being short, the kitchen (or any closet) is another frustrating space in a home. I have four stools upstairs and one stool in the lower level. My one-and-two-thirds-year old granddaughter carries a stool with her wherever she goes and I can most certainly understand. While she and the other two Musketeers have been here for a few days she has discovered one of my smaller stools which is just the perfect weight for her to haul everywhere but high enough to get her prized possessions to the countertops in the kitchen where she can occupy herself for a long time. She also carries her stool to climb onto most anything she deems necessary to investigate. While, with her gene pool, I do not think being short is in her future, I do understand her desire to simply "have stool, will carry".
But, the foremost reason I am partial to short people is because of The Three Musketeers. I know that someday, perhaps in the not-too-distant future, they will be taller than their short grandmother, but for right now they are the perfect size.....and always will be. Someday they can reach up to the top shelf for little ol' Granny.
Ancora imparo
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Musings On A Saturday Afternoon
"Now I've had the time of my life...."
Remember that song from the movie, "Dirty Dancing", where "Baby" and the oh-so-suave Patrick Swayze swing, sway and rock out to the music that causes the blue-bloods to blush on the surface but secretly love it internally?
Well, I am having the time of my life with the Three Musketeers this weekend. As I described the experience to the other set of grandparents, my SO and I are having unsupervised time with our grandchildren, a luxury that does not occur very often. Perhaps the grandchildren's parents plan it that way, so when we are able to have "unsupervised" visits with The Three Musketeers, we have to make the minutes count. So far, we've eaten lots of green and yellow cookies....only after eating a good meal and drinking all of our milk up, we've played Candyland together - with even the one-point-six-year-old playing and knowing when it was her turn!, we've exercised together to get the bugs out, we've tried playing the spoons, we've had excellent help doing laundry, we've carried our stool EVERYWHERE, we've started making a book together, we've read countless books with three precious cargoes on the lap, we've learned that Princess Leia is not particularly fond of baths, we've melted when Princess Leia smiles, waves to you and says "Bye" when you lay her down for a nap, and we've wished the clock wasn't ticking so quickly on these four priceless days.
Now that they are all asleep for a bit, I'll catch up on those tasks that were deemed less-than-important when The Three Musketeers were awake and, who knows, I might even catch up on a few ZZZZZ's myself. Later it is on to helping TLV finish his book, watching a movie and eating popcorn, and making brownies, or, if I'm feeling brave, Valentine cookies with frosting.
Yes, I am having the time of my life!
Ancora imparo
Remember that song from the movie, "Dirty Dancing", where "Baby" and the oh-so-suave Patrick Swayze swing, sway and rock out to the music that causes the blue-bloods to blush on the surface but secretly love it internally?
Well, I am having the time of my life with the Three Musketeers this weekend. As I described the experience to the other set of grandparents, my SO and I are having unsupervised time with our grandchildren, a luxury that does not occur very often. Perhaps the grandchildren's parents plan it that way, so when we are able to have "unsupervised" visits with The Three Musketeers, we have to make the minutes count. So far, we've eaten lots of green and yellow cookies....only after eating a good meal and drinking all of our milk up, we've played Candyland together - with even the one-point-six-year-old playing and knowing when it was her turn!, we've exercised together to get the bugs out, we've tried playing the spoons, we've had excellent help doing laundry, we've carried our stool EVERYWHERE, we've started making a book together, we've read countless books with three precious cargoes on the lap, we've learned that Princess Leia is not particularly fond of baths, we've melted when Princess Leia smiles, waves to you and says "Bye" when you lay her down for a nap, and we've wished the clock wasn't ticking so quickly on these four priceless days.
Now that they are all asleep for a bit, I'll catch up on those tasks that were deemed less-than-important when The Three Musketeers were awake and, who knows, I might even catch up on a few ZZZZZ's myself. Later it is on to helping TLV finish his book, watching a movie and eating popcorn, and making brownies, or, if I'm feeling brave, Valentine cookies with frosting.
Yes, I am having the time of my life!
Ancora imparo
Friday, February 11, 2011
Pardon the Pontification
I cannot help myself tonight. An article in today's newspaper has brought me to the point when I cannot bite my tongue any longer regarding public school budget crises. In my geographic area, no school district can escape the looming shadow of our state's financial woes. The state is so far behind in school funding that every elected state official should be mortally ashamed. School districts are searching right and left, high and low, near and far to find solutions to the financial emergencies they find themselves in. District administrators are sabre-rattling each day, seeking to bring teachers' unions to their knees and put the fear of God into district residents. This is an appalling and inexcusable situation with the students as the only losers.
Local news has been rife with rumors about threats regarding curriculum cuts and extra-curricular slashes. It seems that most everything and everyone is being considered for elimination except............high level administrative positions. It seems so obvious to me (Am I the only one?) that superintendents are quick to eliminate principals, guidance and tenured staff but they loathe to eliminate the level of padding just below them.
To help illustrate my point, one local district has made a recent series of domino moves involving only administrators. The newspaper article listed all of the involved positions and they were typical; assistant superintendents in charge of this and that and assistant principals that were moved about like chess pieces. What caught my eye was the ludicricity (my word) of a new position (more top-heavy padding): Director of Stakeholder Engagement.
Can districts not stop the madness? Are school boards so weak that they simply roll over and play dead, able only to nod their heads in assent, fearing to say "no" to their superintendents? I realize my bias is showing but when a position is created with a title that NO ONE can ascertain just what it means the holder of that position does, then, "Houston, we have a problem." Cut the padding, let the principals and teachers do their jobs, give spinal surgery to school boards, and encourage parents to once again grow backbones and take responsibility.
As I indicated in my posting title, please pardon my pontification.
Ancora imparo
Local news has been rife with rumors about threats regarding curriculum cuts and extra-curricular slashes. It seems that most everything and everyone is being considered for elimination except............high level administrative positions. It seems so obvious to me (Am I the only one?) that superintendents are quick to eliminate principals, guidance and tenured staff but they loathe to eliminate the level of padding just below them.
To help illustrate my point, one local district has made a recent series of domino moves involving only administrators. The newspaper article listed all of the involved positions and they were typical; assistant superintendents in charge of this and that and assistant principals that were moved about like chess pieces. What caught my eye was the ludicricity (my word) of a new position (more top-heavy padding): Director of Stakeholder Engagement.
Can districts not stop the madness? Are school boards so weak that they simply roll over and play dead, able only to nod their heads in assent, fearing to say "no" to their superintendents? I realize my bias is showing but when a position is created with a title that NO ONE can ascertain just what it means the holder of that position does, then, "Houston, we have a problem." Cut the padding, let the principals and teachers do their jobs, give spinal surgery to school boards, and encourage parents to once again grow backbones and take responsibility.
As I indicated in my posting title, please pardon my pontification.
Ancora imparo
Tired But Very Proud
My SO and I went outside our usual evening's comfort zone tonight. By that, I mean that we stayed up past 9:00 p.m.
But the effort was so worth it. We attended a live musical performance an hour or so away, featuring an evening of jazz and blues music. The faltering economy has made it more difficult for live performances to take place because many venues are canceling flesh and blood groups in order to make the bottom line look a bit more black than red. What a shame.
Tonight's concert had a cover charge of $7.00 per person, which, after hearing the concert, was almost a slap in the face. The performance we heard was on a $100.00 per person level, not seven dollars a head. Everything about the individual performers, plus the ensemble performance was professional perfection........and I am a tough customer to please. I do not easily or readily proclaim that a concert or a musician has achieved professional perfection but that is what we, the audience, heard tonight and my other concert compadres obviously felt the same way. We shared a common musical experience that comes along once in the proverbial blue moon.
It was our good fortune to be present at a "blue-moon" performance, which certainly overshadows the lateness of the hour and makes the evening all the more worth the effort. It isn't often that I become totally absorbed in the music and, after almost two hours of music, think, "Why are they ending? It has only been thirty minutes or so!", only to discover that the concert has come to an end. We, the audience, were left wanting more, which is the sign of a magical, musical evening.
Yes, I am very tired but very proud. You see, it was my daughter on stage tonight.
Ancora imparo
But the effort was so worth it. We attended a live musical performance an hour or so away, featuring an evening of jazz and blues music. The faltering economy has made it more difficult for live performances to take place because many venues are canceling flesh and blood groups in order to make the bottom line look a bit more black than red. What a shame.
Tonight's concert had a cover charge of $7.00 per person, which, after hearing the concert, was almost a slap in the face. The performance we heard was on a $100.00 per person level, not seven dollars a head. Everything about the individual performers, plus the ensemble performance was professional perfection........and I am a tough customer to please. I do not easily or readily proclaim that a concert or a musician has achieved professional perfection but that is what we, the audience, heard tonight and my other concert compadres obviously felt the same way. We shared a common musical experience that comes along once in the proverbial blue moon.
It was our good fortune to be present at a "blue-moon" performance, which certainly overshadows the lateness of the hour and makes the evening all the more worth the effort. It isn't often that I become totally absorbed in the music and, after almost two hours of music, think, "Why are they ending? It has only been thirty minutes or so!", only to discover that the concert has come to an end. We, the audience, were left wanting more, which is the sign of a magical, musical evening.
Yes, I am very tired but very proud. You see, it was my daughter on stage tonight.
Ancora imparo
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Baked, Fried or Boiled
I just listened to a dietary discussion about potatoes and their pros and cons for health-related purposes. The consensus was predictable - baked and boiled are the healthiest for us but fried tastes the best and that is a tough characteristic to resist. Baked and boiled, while maybe the best dietary choices, only taste good to many people when topped with decidedly unhealthy ingredients such as sour cream, bacon, cheese of all types, butter.....just to name a few. Who doesn't love a baked potato smothered in butter, blue cheese and bacon?
I can identify with the humble potato. Don't the terms baked, fried and boiled describe how you feel from time to time? A term that I still hear, today, is half-baked, as in a 'half-baked' idea. I guess that would equate to an idea that was taken out of the oven before it had time to properly 'cook'; i.e. get processed and finished. Referring to someone as 'baked' is usually a derogatory term, perhaps alluding to having done too much imbibing. Which then makes me muse, "If someone is referred to as 'half-baked', does that then mean that he or she is only half drunk?
Whilst you ponder that pressing life question, let us consider the term fried. Most often, I hear fried referring to someone who is exceptionally tired, as in "I'm fried." When I feel fried I usually head straight to my closet where I strip off my work-day clothes and go for either the robe and slippers or the comfy, fuzzy workout suit. There is just nothing like a change of clothing to help ease the feeling of fried. Of course, wine doesn't hurt, either.
Then there is boiled. I dislike feeling boiled because it usually is associated with a situation that has made me hopping mad........or madder than a wet hen........or leaving me feeling like I want to do a Rumplestiltskin. If you are not familiar with the story of Rumplestiltskin, I would encourage you to look it up online. The mental image take-a-way from that story is priceless and a perfect example of rage. When I am boiling mad I can ultimately escape those feelings with conversation, television, a book, a boat ride, a walk with my I-pod......or wine.
In conclusion, I am boiled that it is so cold I cannot bake or fry my body in the sun. It is so cold we cannot even use our gas grill. It is so cold that the icicles hanging from my deck's overhang are close to becoming permanent fixtures. At least I sleep really well under all my warm covers so I do not feel fried at the end of the day. The reality is that to become oblivious to the cold I need to become half-baked. Hmmm.
This could be fun.
Ancora imparo
I can identify with the humble potato. Don't the terms baked, fried and boiled describe how you feel from time to time? A term that I still hear, today, is half-baked, as in a 'half-baked' idea. I guess that would equate to an idea that was taken out of the oven before it had time to properly 'cook'; i.e. get processed and finished. Referring to someone as 'baked' is usually a derogatory term, perhaps alluding to having done too much imbibing. Which then makes me muse, "If someone is referred to as 'half-baked', does that then mean that he or she is only half drunk?
Whilst you ponder that pressing life question, let us consider the term fried. Most often, I hear fried referring to someone who is exceptionally tired, as in "I'm fried." When I feel fried I usually head straight to my closet where I strip off my work-day clothes and go for either the robe and slippers or the comfy, fuzzy workout suit. There is just nothing like a change of clothing to help ease the feeling of fried. Of course, wine doesn't hurt, either.
Then there is boiled. I dislike feeling boiled because it usually is associated with a situation that has made me hopping mad........or madder than a wet hen........or leaving me feeling like I want to do a Rumplestiltskin. If you are not familiar with the story of Rumplestiltskin, I would encourage you to look it up online. The mental image take-a-way from that story is priceless and a perfect example of rage. When I am boiling mad I can ultimately escape those feelings with conversation, television, a book, a boat ride, a walk with my I-pod......or wine.
In conclusion, I am boiled that it is so cold I cannot bake or fry my body in the sun. It is so cold we cannot even use our gas grill. It is so cold that the icicles hanging from my deck's overhang are close to becoming permanent fixtures. At least I sleep really well under all my warm covers so I do not feel fried at the end of the day. The reality is that to become oblivious to the cold I need to become half-baked. Hmmm.
This could be fun.
Ancora imparo
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Hits and Misses
Commercials have taken center stage, as of late, due to the recent Super Bowl game and all the hype and hoopla that surrounds ads shown during the game. For some Super-Bowl watchers, the football score is less important than the half-time show and commercials. During normal cable and network broadcasts, commercials are the time when bathrooms are visited, dogs are let out for potty breaks, wet laundry is tossed into dryers, and dirty dishes are thrown into dishwashers. Yes, we love to hate commercials. They can elicit laughter or boredom, bordering on disdain. During political campaigns commercials even make us angry, especially when the 'spots' begin long before the actual election.
What makes a good commercial? Well, that depends on your point of view of just about everything. What is humorous to one will make another person upset and vice versa. From the Madison Avenue perspective, an effective commercial is one that results in the viewer remembering the name of the product, although some commercials remain memorable long after the brand name slips from the memory. Some of the Super Bowl commercials that have currently have tongues a-twitter involve chimpanzees, Detroit, Doritos, Pugs, race car drivers, beer and mountainous foreign countries. This is the fodder of water-cooler conversations, coffee break tete-a-tetes and lunchroom dialogues.
One current ad for a tax-preparation company involves a giant, pink stuffed bunny being bumped repeatedly against a building set to be razed. Of course, it is difficult to tell what is real in any visual media because special effects have far out-paced the eye's ability to discern reality from digitizing. I doubt that any company actually went to the effort and subsequent cost to buy a giant, pink stuffed bunny but, nevertheless, I find the commercial highly annoying and always make it a point to ignore the commercial. However, what am I doing? Writing about the commercial. In some part of my sub-conscious, it has me hooked and, therefore, Madison Avenue has been partially successful. While I am not certain I remember the name of the tax-preparation company, I do remember the stupid commercial.
Oops, I just revealed my bias by using the word stupid. I could say I find the commercial stupidly irritating or irritatingly stupid. Either way, you get my drift. I much prefer seeing chimpanzees imitate irritatingly stupid drivers or those magnificent draft horses strutting their stuff. My hit is your miss but we talk about them both.
Once again, Madison Avenue "got us at hello".
Ancora imparo
What makes a good commercial? Well, that depends on your point of view of just about everything. What is humorous to one will make another person upset and vice versa. From the Madison Avenue perspective, an effective commercial is one that results in the viewer remembering the name of the product, although some commercials remain memorable long after the brand name slips from the memory. Some of the Super Bowl commercials that have currently have tongues a-twitter involve chimpanzees, Detroit, Doritos, Pugs, race car drivers, beer and mountainous foreign countries. This is the fodder of water-cooler conversations, coffee break tete-a-tetes and lunchroom dialogues.
One current ad for a tax-preparation company involves a giant, pink stuffed bunny being bumped repeatedly against a building set to be razed. Of course, it is difficult to tell what is real in any visual media because special effects have far out-paced the eye's ability to discern reality from digitizing. I doubt that any company actually went to the effort and subsequent cost to buy a giant, pink stuffed bunny but, nevertheless, I find the commercial highly annoying and always make it a point to ignore the commercial. However, what am I doing? Writing about the commercial. In some part of my sub-conscious, it has me hooked and, therefore, Madison Avenue has been partially successful. While I am not certain I remember the name of the tax-preparation company, I do remember the stupid commercial.
Oops, I just revealed my bias by using the word stupid. I could say I find the commercial stupidly irritating or irritatingly stupid. Either way, you get my drift. I much prefer seeing chimpanzees imitate irritatingly stupid drivers or those magnificent draft horses strutting their stuff. My hit is your miss but we talk about them both.
Once again, Madison Avenue "got us at hello".
Ancora imparo
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Ah, Renoir, Wish You Were Here
I'm experiencing a humbling learning curve.......drawing. Not drawing numbers as in The Foremost Order of the Gnu Bingo but, rather, drawing as in, well, drawing. In my most recent Book-Number-Three for children, that only grandchildren will love, I've at least moved from the stick figures with a grandchild's photo (face) glued onto the stick neck in Book-Number-One to a prehistoric attempt to draw sharks in this book.
This book idea has been in my brain since last July and I am now just birthing the project. In fact, I had to proclaim a self-deadline of 10:30 tomorrow morning when I have an appointment to deliver the book to my favorite printer/publisher. The story line was easy to write and has been completed since before the Holly Daze. I had hopes of finding a real artist to illustrate my story but God had other ideas and left it for moi to do my own illustrating. What I discovered is that illustrating by hand is a heck of a lot of work......especially when you do not know what the fritz you are doing. I'm positive that a real illustrator could have pumped out the necessary pictures for eighteen pages of story in a short amount of time but with the DYI method of illustrating that I have done, let's just say that a second career for Walt Disney Productions is not in the cards.
Unexpectedly (just about everything associated with illustrating this book was unexpected), it took a great amount of time just deciding on what colors to use. I knew that each character needed to have a consistent appearance and I knew that certain colors do not reproduce well even on a commercial-quality, digital color printer like my friend has at his business. It has taken several trips to art supply and office supply stores to find just the colors that I wanted and even now I am second-guessing some of my choices but since Renoir was not here to advise me I've had to rely on everything I learned about coloring from my Kindergarten teacher.
My shark characters will never win the Illustrator of the Year Award for me....or anyone else for that matter....but as I've created and colored them I have become fond of my little friends. I'm happy with the story line even though Renoir must be turning in his grave.
Yes, Kindergarten has come in handy. I was able to stay in the lines.
Ancora imparo
This book idea has been in my brain since last July and I am now just birthing the project. In fact, I had to proclaim a self-deadline of 10:30 tomorrow morning when I have an appointment to deliver the book to my favorite printer/publisher. The story line was easy to write and has been completed since before the Holly Daze. I had hopes of finding a real artist to illustrate my story but God had other ideas and left it for moi to do my own illustrating. What I discovered is that illustrating by hand is a heck of a lot of work......especially when you do not know what the fritz you are doing. I'm positive that a real illustrator could have pumped out the necessary pictures for eighteen pages of story in a short amount of time but with the DYI method of illustrating that I have done, let's just say that a second career for Walt Disney Productions is not in the cards.
Unexpectedly (just about everything associated with illustrating this book was unexpected), it took a great amount of time just deciding on what colors to use. I knew that each character needed to have a consistent appearance and I knew that certain colors do not reproduce well even on a commercial-quality, digital color printer like my friend has at his business. It has taken several trips to art supply and office supply stores to find just the colors that I wanted and even now I am second-guessing some of my choices but since Renoir was not here to advise me I've had to rely on everything I learned about coloring from my Kindergarten teacher.
My shark characters will never win the Illustrator of the Year Award for me....or anyone else for that matter....but as I've created and colored them I have become fond of my little friends. I'm happy with the story line even though Renoir must be turning in his grave.
Yes, Kindergarten has come in handy. I was able to stay in the lines.
Ancora imparo
Monday, February 7, 2011
Just What Would We "Indicate"?
I watched a fascinating show, today, on the North American Marten, a smallish omnivore that is related to wolverines, skunks, minks, badgers, ferrets, and weasels. The narrator mentioned that the Marten is known as an "indicator species", an animal whose species-health mirrors the health of its ecosystem. The more I thought about this concept, the more intrigued I became about the idea of humans being an indicator species. If beings from another planet came to visit Earth, what would our existence reflect? Just what would other-worldly beings deduce from watching and observing us?
Well, if we were observed this past weekend as an indicator species, the observers would devine that we liked green and yellow, we wore large blocks of cheese on our heads, we screamed while large males slammed against each other.....this after chasing one another, and we regularly waved yellow towels over our heads.
The observers would also see that the section of our country called Hollywood contains humans who preen over themselves in mirrors, embellish themselves in unnatural ways in natural places, collect baubles and bangles that they flaunt shamelessly, make rabbit procreation look like child's play, forget words to important patriotic songs and dance about like puppets on strings. It would be noted that large parts of the earth are covered by either water or snow, that Polar Bears are struggling in their native habitats but the American Bald Eagle is thriving.
They would see that pomp and circumstance is alive and well in Great Britain, that speculation runs rampant regarding ceremonial white dresses, and that commemorative tea cups are in large supply. They would observe large, ocean-going vessels traveling rapidly between Wal-Mart headquarters and China with America imports from Beijing flooding westward but minimal exports traveling east-bound.
As an indicator species, we might communicate to outsiders that while our ecosystem is in jeopardy, we remain blissfully ignorant and disinterested. Perhaps we should take a page out of the Marten's playbook and begin eating squirrels, mice, rabbits, birds, fish, insects, eggs......with the occasional addition of fruit and nuts.
I'm OK with this but I draw the line with ants and cockroaches. No sir.
Ancora imparo
Well, if we were observed this past weekend as an indicator species, the observers would devine that we liked green and yellow, we wore large blocks of cheese on our heads, we screamed while large males slammed against each other.....this after chasing one another, and we regularly waved yellow towels over our heads.
The observers would also see that the section of our country called Hollywood contains humans who preen over themselves in mirrors, embellish themselves in unnatural ways in natural places, collect baubles and bangles that they flaunt shamelessly, make rabbit procreation look like child's play, forget words to important patriotic songs and dance about like puppets on strings. It would be noted that large parts of the earth are covered by either water or snow, that Polar Bears are struggling in their native habitats but the American Bald Eagle is thriving.
They would see that pomp and circumstance is alive and well in Great Britain, that speculation runs rampant regarding ceremonial white dresses, and that commemorative tea cups are in large supply. They would observe large, ocean-going vessels traveling rapidly between Wal-Mart headquarters and China with America imports from Beijing flooding westward but minimal exports traveling east-bound.
As an indicator species, we might communicate to outsiders that while our ecosystem is in jeopardy, we remain blissfully ignorant and disinterested. Perhaps we should take a page out of the Marten's playbook and begin eating squirrels, mice, rabbits, birds, fish, insects, eggs......with the occasional addition of fruit and nuts.
I'm OK with this but I draw the line with ants and cockroaches. No sir.
Ancora imparo
Saturday, February 5, 2011
First I Chopped, Then I Stirred
I'm in the throes of a culinary classic day. Hopefully not a chaotic culinary day, but the phone does keep ringing and I keep talking while cooking. I've already made one gaffe, leaving out soy flour in the first batch of granola, but this is an exclusion that should not affect the flavor nor ultimate texture. Dodged the cook's bullet on that one.
Early morning efforts resulted in a turkey-vegetable soup simmering in the crockpot, a first batch of granola in the oven, the second granola batch waiting on the counter for the granola-making pan to become available, one cup of butter softening in the sunlight soon to become green and yellow sugar cookies later in the afternoon (Go Pack!), and three bags of Grandpa's frozen asparagus thawing in the dutch oven, ready to become cream of asparagus soup.
A small crisis was averted earlier today when I discovered that Great-Granny's sugar-cookie recipe was missing from my shoe-box-converted-to-a-recipe box. I had to move to Cookie-Plan B, after spending nearly an hour searching for the old recipe. Sugar cookie recipes are not difficult to come by but Great Granny's formula used oil, creating a unique texture not often found in sugar cookies. I'm hoping that some other relative of Great Granny's will have the recipe so that I can return it to my cadre of family favorites.
I'll be anxious to taste the turkey-vegetable soup. I'm becoming more adventuresome with spices and this pot of soup includes three new spice additions to the broth: Tequila-lime seasoning, horseradish powder, and oregano. Hopefully these three will be complementary flavors to my standard choices of dried celery, ground orange peel, and dried basil. I'd love to cook more with garlic but no one wants to get more than ten feet away from someone who has ingested garlic. It is no wonder that garlic is supposed to help keep a person healthy. No one ever wants to get close enough to share their germs.
Lastly, I'm hoping that my Green-Bay-Packer-tribute cookies turn out. I know they will taste good but I've not used yellow food coloring before in a cookie batter. Red and green, yes - yellow - no. Here's hoping for success, both in the kitchen and on the playing field.
Did I mention, "Go Packers"?
Ancora imPackero
Early morning efforts resulted in a turkey-vegetable soup simmering in the crockpot, a first batch of granola in the oven, the second granola batch waiting on the counter for the granola-making pan to become available, one cup of butter softening in the sunlight soon to become green and yellow sugar cookies later in the afternoon (Go Pack!), and three bags of Grandpa's frozen asparagus thawing in the dutch oven, ready to become cream of asparagus soup.
A small crisis was averted earlier today when I discovered that Great-Granny's sugar-cookie recipe was missing from my shoe-box-converted-to-a-recipe box. I had to move to Cookie-Plan B, after spending nearly an hour searching for the old recipe. Sugar cookie recipes are not difficult to come by but Great Granny's formula used oil, creating a unique texture not often found in sugar cookies. I'm hoping that some other relative of Great Granny's will have the recipe so that I can return it to my cadre of family favorites.
I'll be anxious to taste the turkey-vegetable soup. I'm becoming more adventuresome with spices and this pot of soup includes three new spice additions to the broth: Tequila-lime seasoning, horseradish powder, and oregano. Hopefully these three will be complementary flavors to my standard choices of dried celery, ground orange peel, and dried basil. I'd love to cook more with garlic but no one wants to get more than ten feet away from someone who has ingested garlic. It is no wonder that garlic is supposed to help keep a person healthy. No one ever wants to get close enough to share their germs.
Lastly, I'm hoping that my Green-Bay-Packer-tribute cookies turn out. I know they will taste good but I've not used yellow food coloring before in a cookie batter. Red and green, yes - yellow - no. Here's hoping for success, both in the kitchen and on the playing field.
Did I mention, "Go Packers"?
Ancora imPackero
Friday, February 4, 2011
Move Those Gear Shifters!
Our English language has many differing phrases for the concept of change. We alternately hear words such as changing of the guard, new kid on the block, new sheriff in town, changing of hands.....all of which usually refer to an alteration or variance in leadership. As an attendant change in leadership, we often hear phrases which indicate a shifting of atmosphere such as breath of fresh air, change of pace, or change of scenery.
Throughout time and on a broad scale, change has been seen both positively and negatively, has not always occurred willingly but usually has significantly altered the course of history. On smaller and local scales, change has suffered the same fate as its broadly based cousin, often colliding with opposing viewpoints from the moment of inception of the proposed change.
Those who bravely and boldly promote and propose change are not always welcomed within their societal circles and may be viewed with suspicion, disregard, disrespect, or if they are lucky, simple skepticism and resistance. Being a proponent of change can be a lonely road to travel, especially if one is swimming against the established 'rules of the road' or those who have been accustomed to leading without challenge.
What is it within our human psyche that prevents most of us from welcoming change or giving ear to those who would propose change? Are we simply guarding our sandboxes, preventing others from playing the game, or reacting protectively in order to defend 'the way we've always done it'? If we, the followers, never challenge our leader (or leaders) to look at a problem or issue in a different light, then are we not also to blame for hindering real progress? Are ineffectual leaders opposed to change simply because they are stubborn, blind to its possible efficacy or too immersed in their own hubris to be able to consider possible alternatives?
When did considering new options, new opinions and those who deliver them become passe and unacceptable? Can we not hope for objectivity, innovation and inspiration from our leaders? I am not proposing throwing out the proverbial baby with the bath water but I am all for looking at babies of differing skin color, considering differently shaped bath tubs and trying alternative temperatures of water. Who knows, maybe we could become so progressive that we could even evaluate the temperature with a different thermometer?
Let's all move our standard transmissions out of reverse and into forward. Automatic does not get the job done.
Ancora imparo
Throughout time and on a broad scale, change has been seen both positively and negatively, has not always occurred willingly but usually has significantly altered the course of history. On smaller and local scales, change has suffered the same fate as its broadly based cousin, often colliding with opposing viewpoints from the moment of inception of the proposed change.
Those who bravely and boldly promote and propose change are not always welcomed within their societal circles and may be viewed with suspicion, disregard, disrespect, or if they are lucky, simple skepticism and resistance. Being a proponent of change can be a lonely road to travel, especially if one is swimming against the established 'rules of the road' or those who have been accustomed to leading without challenge.
What is it within our human psyche that prevents most of us from welcoming change or giving ear to those who would propose change? Are we simply guarding our sandboxes, preventing others from playing the game, or reacting protectively in order to defend 'the way we've always done it'? If we, the followers, never challenge our leader (or leaders) to look at a problem or issue in a different light, then are we not also to blame for hindering real progress? Are ineffectual leaders opposed to change simply because they are stubborn, blind to its possible efficacy or too immersed in their own hubris to be able to consider possible alternatives?
When did considering new options, new opinions and those who deliver them become passe and unacceptable? Can we not hope for objectivity, innovation and inspiration from our leaders? I am not proposing throwing out the proverbial baby with the bath water but I am all for looking at babies of differing skin color, considering differently shaped bath tubs and trying alternative temperatures of water. Who knows, maybe we could become so progressive that we could even evaluate the temperature with a different thermometer?
Let's all move our standard transmissions out of reverse and into forward. Automatic does not get the job done.
Ancora imparo
Man and Beast - Compadres
Forgive me for spending so much time writing about snow but that has been the big story-maker as of late. I am thankful that we did not receive ice because heavy snow does not, as a rule, create power outages.....unless a power line becomes downed for some un-snow (my word) related reason.
I ventured outside today, the second time since the BLIZZARD. It was a quick scamper to put a letter in the mailbox and to retrieve the newspaper. After my posting about nocturnal plasterers, it was a different landscape than I witnessed before. My neighborhood looks just like the post-snow pictures being shown, both in print and on the small screen, of houses dwarfed by mammoth piles of snow. My favorite pictures are those that have a human or a vehicle next to the drift or piled snow in order to demonstrate scale. There are some impressively tall snow mountains!
The day of our blizzard, when I could see outdoors for any distance from my comfortable and warm indoor space, I was fascinated by the birds. The occasional pair of Northern Cardinals would brave their way to my neighbor's feeders and, as I observed them being shaken about by the strong winds, I wondered how their tiny claws could hold on to anything long enough to grab seed with their beaks. Two doves, or something resembling doves from a distance, huddled together on a tree branch, their feathers all puffed out, undoubtedly attempting to maintain any body warmth they could muster. Earlier that morning when I went downstairs to check out how high the drifts were against the condo, I came, literally, face-to-face with one dove-like bird perched on the brick ledge outside a bedroom window. The bird barely moved, resembling a giant puffball and, at first, I thought it might be either dead or in peril. I squatted down, getting eye level with the bird, who seemed to be oblivious to my presence on the other side of the glass. After thirty seconds, or so, the bird did move its head in a shaking motion, as if to throw off the snowflakes that were trying to make the bird and the snowy ledge one. I stayed with the bird for about three minutes, careful to remain motionless so as to not scare the bird away from its snowy sanctuary, where a giant drift behind it was acting as a wind-buffer. Wanting my SO to see the bird, I left the room but when I returned, the tiny creature was gone. I was able to peer out beneath the ledge and could ascertain that the bird was not lying motionless on the snow below the window.
I thought about that bird all day, feeling guilty for being toasty and safe within the confines of my condo, knowing that wildlife of all kinds were struggling with the winds and snow. Yesterday and this morning, the bird and squirrel activity is back to it normal level and I am preparing to leave to run errands. Man and beast are compadres yet again.
Ancora imparo
I ventured outside today, the second time since the BLIZZARD. It was a quick scamper to put a letter in the mailbox and to retrieve the newspaper. After my posting about nocturnal plasterers, it was a different landscape than I witnessed before. My neighborhood looks just like the post-snow pictures being shown, both in print and on the small screen, of houses dwarfed by mammoth piles of snow. My favorite pictures are those that have a human or a vehicle next to the drift or piled snow in order to demonstrate scale. There are some impressively tall snow mountains!
The day of our blizzard, when I could see outdoors for any distance from my comfortable and warm indoor space, I was fascinated by the birds. The occasional pair of Northern Cardinals would brave their way to my neighbor's feeders and, as I observed them being shaken about by the strong winds, I wondered how their tiny claws could hold on to anything long enough to grab seed with their beaks. Two doves, or something resembling doves from a distance, huddled together on a tree branch, their feathers all puffed out, undoubtedly attempting to maintain any body warmth they could muster. Earlier that morning when I went downstairs to check out how high the drifts were against the condo, I came, literally, face-to-face with one dove-like bird perched on the brick ledge outside a bedroom window. The bird barely moved, resembling a giant puffball and, at first, I thought it might be either dead or in peril. I squatted down, getting eye level with the bird, who seemed to be oblivious to my presence on the other side of the glass. After thirty seconds, or so, the bird did move its head in a shaking motion, as if to throw off the snowflakes that were trying to make the bird and the snowy ledge one. I stayed with the bird for about three minutes, careful to remain motionless so as to not scare the bird away from its snowy sanctuary, where a giant drift behind it was acting as a wind-buffer. Wanting my SO to see the bird, I left the room but when I returned, the tiny creature was gone. I was able to peer out beneath the ledge and could ascertain that the bird was not lying motionless on the snow below the window.
I thought about that bird all day, feeling guilty for being toasty and safe within the confines of my condo, knowing that wildlife of all kinds were struggling with the winds and snow. Yesterday and this morning, the bird and squirrel activity is back to it normal level and I am preparing to leave to run errands. Man and beast are compadres yet again.
Ancora imparo
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Snow Daze
How well I remember 'snow days' when the children were younger. I was always fortunate enough to teach in districts whose snow days coincided with the snow days of the kids. Capt. SO worked in corporate America and I honestly do not remember him ever having work cancelled due to snow or any other of Mother Nature's bag-of-tricks. (One of my spelling asides.....sorry. Did you know that it is acceptable to spell cancelled with one or two l's? One 'l' is considered American spelling, two l's is the British preferred spelling. Oh, the things I learn every day!) Because he traveled a great deal he was probably out of town on most occasions when the deepest snowfalls occurred and it would have been the kids shoveling and me operating my dad's trusty old behemoth of a snow blower.
Our old Sears snowblower was a heavy thing and it had more than a few quirks.....like flooding easily, a broken throttle lever and a Quixotic pull chord (no automatic start) that liked to recoil unexpectedly. That, plus the fact that my arm wasn't quite long enough to pull the chord all the way out, made for many an interesting interaction between it and me. Not to mention the choice words that usually flew out of my mouth when the chord would suddenly retract, trying to take my shoulder socket with it.
Because Dad's snowblower was heavy and had chains on the wheels, it would rumble through most snows easily. It's weight could be problematic, though, especially when blowing a driveway that had a slight lateral pitch to it, which describes our last home's driveway. That driveway presented a continual challenge to me when using the blower because I would have to 'man'handle the behemoth......preventing it from sliding off the driveway, down a slight embankment with me still attached to it. The old machine and I always stayed upright and united - thankfully.
As I type, I can see two roads from my laptop. One, our neighborhood street, has movement on it today, whereas yesterday no one could move because the plows had not been through. The other road is a state highway which, yesterday, had little to no traffic. People heeded the warning of public safety officials and stayed off the roads, perhaps because they could not get out of their front doors, let alone their garages. With the second 'snow day' in a row having been declared, I'm sensing that the thrill is gone and students and adults alike are getting a bit stir crazy. The snow days are quickly morphing into snow daze. Perhaps the students will actually welcome the return of classes....whenever that occurs, which will not be soon enough for the adults of the households, I'm certain.
Stay safe and stay warm. The groundhog did not see his shadow. Spring is a-comin'!
Ancora imparo
Our old Sears snowblower was a heavy thing and it had more than a few quirks.....like flooding easily, a broken throttle lever and a Quixotic pull chord (no automatic start) that liked to recoil unexpectedly. That, plus the fact that my arm wasn't quite long enough to pull the chord all the way out, made for many an interesting interaction between it and me. Not to mention the choice words that usually flew out of my mouth when the chord would suddenly retract, trying to take my shoulder socket with it.
Because Dad's snowblower was heavy and had chains on the wheels, it would rumble through most snows easily. It's weight could be problematic, though, especially when blowing a driveway that had a slight lateral pitch to it, which describes our last home's driveway. That driveway presented a continual challenge to me when using the blower because I would have to 'man'handle the behemoth......preventing it from sliding off the driveway, down a slight embankment with me still attached to it. The old machine and I always stayed upright and united - thankfully.
As I type, I can see two roads from my laptop. One, our neighborhood street, has movement on it today, whereas yesterday no one could move because the plows had not been through. The other road is a state highway which, yesterday, had little to no traffic. People heeded the warning of public safety officials and stayed off the roads, perhaps because they could not get out of their front doors, let alone their garages. With the second 'snow day' in a row having been declared, I'm sensing that the thrill is gone and students and adults alike are getting a bit stir crazy. The snow days are quickly morphing into snow daze. Perhaps the students will actually welcome the return of classes....whenever that occurs, which will not be soon enough for the adults of the households, I'm certain.
Stay safe and stay warm. The groundhog did not see his shadow. Spring is a-comin'!
Ancora imparo
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Nocturnal Plasterers
Today I will write about being plastered. As we all know, becoming plastered, in one regard, could be a lot of fun, although there would be subsequent ramifications such as too many calories, feeling retched - even retching, hung over, and worse yet, the unintended consequences of driving under the influence. So, no, today's posting does not refer to that definition of plastered.
I am, however, referring to the plastering that has occurred to the landscape and our condo over the last eighteen hours. We are covered in white. In fact, I could say that we are 'white as snow', because that is exactly what has blanketed everything. Looking outside I see either flat, deep snow or deep snow and tall snow drifts. The combination of snow and wind blasted against windows has left the windows half-covered in a snowy concoction that resembles a white flour and water paste. As a child, during the holiday seasons, my mother always bought spray cans of this white, gooey stuff that, when sprayed on our doors and windows, gave the illusion of snow. I always got the job of 'spraymaster' and would look forward, each year, to my opportunity to make a condoned mess.
Last night, Mother Nature took over as spraymaster. Not only did she coat the condo windows in my neighborhood, but she brought her plasterers with her and sprayed the sides of our brick condos with plaster....or so it appears. After her plasterers finished their work, she brought in her dump trucks and dumped massive amounts of snow on decks, walkways, and portions of roofs. She even instructed her crews to pile up so much snow at some front doors so as to make opening up these doors impossible from the inside.
Yes, Mother Nature was busy during the night. I can see (and hear) that she is still busy huffing and puffing but her fury with our part of the nation is diminishing. Now if she would just call in her clean-up crews, we could all get to the stores to re-stock our homes with milk and toilet paper. That is, if the stores still have any!
May you all be warm and safe this day.
Ancora imparo
I am, however, referring to the plastering that has occurred to the landscape and our condo over the last eighteen hours. We are covered in white. In fact, I could say that we are 'white as snow', because that is exactly what has blanketed everything. Looking outside I see either flat, deep snow or deep snow and tall snow drifts. The combination of snow and wind blasted against windows has left the windows half-covered in a snowy concoction that resembles a white flour and water paste. As a child, during the holiday seasons, my mother always bought spray cans of this white, gooey stuff that, when sprayed on our doors and windows, gave the illusion of snow. I always got the job of 'spraymaster' and would look forward, each year, to my opportunity to make a condoned mess.
Last night, Mother Nature took over as spraymaster. Not only did she coat the condo windows in my neighborhood, but she brought her plasterers with her and sprayed the sides of our brick condos with plaster....or so it appears. After her plasterers finished their work, she brought in her dump trucks and dumped massive amounts of snow on decks, walkways, and portions of roofs. She even instructed her crews to pile up so much snow at some front doors so as to make opening up these doors impossible from the inside.
Yes, Mother Nature was busy during the night. I can see (and hear) that she is still busy huffing and puffing but her fury with our part of the nation is diminishing. Now if she would just call in her clean-up crews, we could all get to the stores to re-stock our homes with milk and toilet paper. That is, if the stores still have any!
May you all be warm and safe this day.
Ancora imparo
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
"Something To Talk About"
It's something to talk about and something to shop about if you are an adult. If you are a school-age kid, it is something to dream about. What am I talking about? Why, the BLIZZARD, of course. Bonnie Raitt's song, "Something To Talk About" has two lines in its refrain that reminds me of all of this blizzard hype and speculation: "Let's give them something to talk about, a little mystery to figure out." and that is exactly what the BLIZZARD has given our nation. A respite from all of the other pressing national and world issues. Just for a couple of days we can ignore the current Mid-east crisis, we can forget about the "Tiger Mom" or the controversial mother who gave her child hot sauce, the threat of uber gasoline prices, or the market manipulation that causes the stock market to rise and fall so dramatically on an almost daily basis.
Yes, Mother Nature is providing the backdrop for a welcome distraction and the weather forecasters are providing constant commentary on what might happen......emphasis on the word might. Lines are long at grocery stores, filled with bleary-looking shoppers stocking up on anything they think they might be needing in the next two days. Today one Facebook friend posted a comment about going to the grocery store to buy milk and noting that the toilet paper section was empty. Running out of toilet paper in a blizzard could even be more problematic than running out of milk, don't you think? Imagine all of the plumbing and sewer lines that would become hopelessly clogged with facial tissue, paper towels, or industrial-strength work towels. People with infants would be eye-balling their babies' wipes with malevolent thoughts of absconding with the wipes' box. I can imagine arm-wrestling contests between family members over the last bits of toilet paper on a roll. Families could be in chaos throughout all the regions of our nation affected by the BLIZZARD that might happen.
Personally, I think all of this BLIZZARD talk has been leaked and subsequently promoted by the paper mills in the Fox Valley region of Wisconsin. Their sales reps should be absolutely gleeful about now, envisioning empty warehouses that must be re-filled ASAP with toilet tissue.
No doubt about it......this BLIZZARD has been brought to you by the Paper-Products Producers of America. More news at six and ten! Stay home and stay safe......provided you have enough toilet tissue. Otherwise venture out with trepidation and four-wheel drive.
Ancora imparo
Yes, Mother Nature is providing the backdrop for a welcome distraction and the weather forecasters are providing constant commentary on what might happen......emphasis on the word might. Lines are long at grocery stores, filled with bleary-looking shoppers stocking up on anything they think they might be needing in the next two days. Today one Facebook friend posted a comment about going to the grocery store to buy milk and noting that the toilet paper section was empty. Running out of toilet paper in a blizzard could even be more problematic than running out of milk, don't you think? Imagine all of the plumbing and sewer lines that would become hopelessly clogged with facial tissue, paper towels, or industrial-strength work towels. People with infants would be eye-balling their babies' wipes with malevolent thoughts of absconding with the wipes' box. I can imagine arm-wrestling contests between family members over the last bits of toilet paper on a roll. Families could be in chaos throughout all the regions of our nation affected by the BLIZZARD that might happen.
Personally, I think all of this BLIZZARD talk has been leaked and subsequently promoted by the paper mills in the Fox Valley region of Wisconsin. Their sales reps should be absolutely gleeful about now, envisioning empty warehouses that must be re-filled ASAP with toilet tissue.
No doubt about it......this BLIZZARD has been brought to you by the Paper-Products Producers of America. More news at six and ten! Stay home and stay safe......provided you have enough toilet tissue. Otherwise venture out with trepidation and four-wheel drive.
Ancora imparo
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