I had this terrifically funny idea in mind to write about the next time I logged in to Ancora Imparo. Emphasis on had. I knew that yesterday would probably not present with a time in which to write where my brain was anywhere near high-functioning, so I gave myself permission to skip a day.
Skipping a day of writing somehow seems like skipping flossing my teeth. Hardly anyone reads these postings anyway - which is fine because I still write to satisfy something deep inside of me. I write to maintain some strand of mental acuity that sharpens my mental response, reaction and readiness timing. I desperately fear losing my mind, one of the most precious and dear belongings God gave to me. Thusly, I had begun crafting a mental rough draft of a witty and timely repose, deciding to build the framework then file the idea, in my head, under SAVE AS.
Capt. SO and I had the privilege of traveling to visit with the Three Musketeers and their parents yesterday. This trip is always a big deal in our grandparent lives. It makes us all warm and fuzzy inside, makes our steps a little lighter, and gives us memories that make us smile for days afterward. Just remembering the children's and parents' voices and hugs is priceless. Shortly before leaving the Three Musketeers' home, I found an email on my phone that brought me up short, as they say, and I shared it with everyone.
The email was from a long-time friend who shared the information that her husband discovered a lump in his abdomen just four days earlier, tests confirmed it needed to be removed, surgery was performed two days later and the dreaded diagnosis of cancer was delivered. Capt. SO and I couldn't get our friends' crisis out of our minds and, times too numerous to mention, we brought them up through the trip home, the evening and this morning. I spoke with our friend last night and she gave us an update on her husband's post-op condition. The two of them are scared, knowing that even though he is getting excellent medical care, there is much uncertainty related to his post-surgical recovery, healing and then the dreaded chemical treatments that will follow.
Our friendship with these two individuals (and their three boys) goes long and deep, even though a job change added three hours of distance in our lives a number of years ago.. Not that this detail makes them any more "special" than people we've known for shorter amounts of time, but it does add a layer of shared experiences, both in the past and more recent years, that brings an element of closeness that distance cannot take away and time does not diminish.
I find our friends on my mind and me on my knees.
Ancora imparo
Monday, April 30, 2012
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Siri Doesn't Like The Heat In the Kitchen
My phone and I are not getting along with one another. Or, to put it another way, my phone has rung way too much today. I'm at ten phone calls and counting.
It is not that I mind that people call me and, subsequently, my phone rings, but today I've been in the kitchen for the greater part of six hours, most of that time spent either mixing, greasing, chopping, stirring, draining, straining, layering, measuring, or opening/draining cans. My hands have been messy for most of that time, making it not-so-good to touch my phone. At least Siri did not call me out on touching the phone with less than pristine fingers. One call was answered by me placing the tip of my nose on the phone's screen and dragging it across, as my finger would if it were sliding to unlock the screen. Other calls have had to go to voice mail and be answered, quickly, at a later time. I've used my nose to activate the phone's speaker so I could talk while cooking and I've held the phone with paper towels in both hands so as not to get food substances all over it.
In between cooking, I managed to squeeze in four loads of laundry by running back and forth, using my denim pants to wipe my hands on. Rice, both cooked and uncooked, has been spilled on the floor - thank goodness for paper towels - as have quite a few kernels of frozen corn. I've dirtied more mixing bowls, measuring devices, cutting boards, knives and stirring spoons in one day than I have in a long time. While rooting for pepper flakes (which I ultimately could not find among my spices), I discovered what Capt. SO has been complaining about for many moons: Our spice Lazy Susan needs re-organizing. Through it all, the phone has remained a constant - constantly being moved here and there on the countertops so as not to get spilled on or inadvertently dropped.
Siri as come in handy today as I have tried cooking and communicating simultaneously. She has kindly texted people while I was busy reading a recipe and fetching vegetables and she even helped me find a substitution for an ingredient I did have not have in the pantry.
Siri may not like the heat in the kitchen but she was a venerable companion today, regardless of what I threw at her. She is content on counters, pockets, wrapped in paper towels, or stuffed in a drawer.
I sort of feel as if I was stuffed into a drawer. Maybe Siri can find a vacation spot for me tonight?!
Ancora imparo
It is not that I mind that people call me and, subsequently, my phone rings, but today I've been in the kitchen for the greater part of six hours, most of that time spent either mixing, greasing, chopping, stirring, draining, straining, layering, measuring, or opening/draining cans. My hands have been messy for most of that time, making it not-so-good to touch my phone. At least Siri did not call me out on touching the phone with less than pristine fingers. One call was answered by me placing the tip of my nose on the phone's screen and dragging it across, as my finger would if it were sliding to unlock the screen. Other calls have had to go to voice mail and be answered, quickly, at a later time. I've used my nose to activate the phone's speaker so I could talk while cooking and I've held the phone with paper towels in both hands so as not to get food substances all over it.
In between cooking, I managed to squeeze in four loads of laundry by running back and forth, using my denim pants to wipe my hands on. Rice, both cooked and uncooked, has been spilled on the floor - thank goodness for paper towels - as have quite a few kernels of frozen corn. I've dirtied more mixing bowls, measuring devices, cutting boards, knives and stirring spoons in one day than I have in a long time. While rooting for pepper flakes (which I ultimately could not find among my spices), I discovered what Capt. SO has been complaining about for many moons: Our spice Lazy Susan needs re-organizing. Through it all, the phone has remained a constant - constantly being moved here and there on the countertops so as not to get spilled on or inadvertently dropped.
Siri as come in handy today as I have tried cooking and communicating simultaneously. She has kindly texted people while I was busy reading a recipe and fetching vegetables and she even helped me find a substitution for an ingredient I did have not have in the pantry.
Siri may not like the heat in the kitchen but she was a venerable companion today, regardless of what I threw at her. She is content on counters, pockets, wrapped in paper towels, or stuffed in a drawer.
I sort of feel as if I was stuffed into a drawer. Maybe Siri can find a vacation spot for me tonight?!
Ancora imparo
Friday, April 27, 2012
Earth To Businesses
Sometimes customer-business employee interaction can be of a positive nature.
Over the past twenty-four hours I have encountered extremely helpful and knowledgeable store employees. Employees like a manager at Marshalls who looked up my transaction from two days prior because I had torn off the bottom part of my receipt because I get soooooooo annoyed with the overly long customer-receipts that are printed off these days. I thought for sure that the receipt would still have the necessary information, in the event of a need-to-return, but, alas and alack, it did not. She probably did not have to go back into the electronic records to ascertain that I did, indeed, purchase the purse, but she did and I was able to return it.
This morning there was an extremely helpful employee at a bank where Capt. SO and I stopped to inquire about a program. She politely answered questions and conversed with us for almost thirty minutes, even though we did not have an account there at present. You can be sure that if we decide to do business with and a different financial institution, her bank will be the one we select.
We went to breakfast at our favorite breakfast haunt and the customer service and food quality was up to its normal excellent standards. It is easy to see why their parking lot is almost always full. The waitstaff is well-trained, efficient, and friendly. Their kitchen staff must be well-trained because the breakfast food is consistently well-prepared, hot, and quickly served.
I ran into my local library to check out a book on hold. As I handed my library card to the clerk, I noticed that the expiration date was about two months away. I inquired if I could renew it now, whilst I was thinking about it and the answer came back "yes". Smart move on the library's part.
Capt. SO and I shopped at a local, big-box-type store's grand opening. The store was crawling with employees, all identifiable by one of two colors of shirts, and the store was crammed with shoppers, most of whom were pushing shopping carts. It was a zoo but the employees were doing a great job of helping customers, MOST of the customers were friendly and patient with one another and the store had seen fit to open all of its check-out lanes. Cha-ching, cha-ching could be heard up and down the check-out lanes. Music to the managers' ears, I'm certain.
The one element I don't understand about this big, very big store, is that they have a woefully inadequate number of cart-return corrals in the parking lot. Not only are there very few but they are located only close to the store and not spread out over the large parking lot. Consequently, numerous shopping carts were left throughout the parking lot, many of them bumping up against vehicles, others left in the middle of a parking spot, taking up a coveted space that a vehicle could have parked in, or others were just plain blocking driving lanes. True, knuckleheaded customers were too lazy to return the carts to the designated areas but the store obviously didn't plan too well.
Earth-to-businesses: It's all about customer service. End of story.
Ancora imparo
Over the past twenty-four hours I have encountered extremely helpful and knowledgeable store employees. Employees like a manager at Marshalls who looked up my transaction from two days prior because I had torn off the bottom part of my receipt because I get soooooooo annoyed with the overly long customer-receipts that are printed off these days. I thought for sure that the receipt would still have the necessary information, in the event of a need-to-return, but, alas and alack, it did not. She probably did not have to go back into the electronic records to ascertain that I did, indeed, purchase the purse, but she did and I was able to return it.
This morning there was an extremely helpful employee at a bank where Capt. SO and I stopped to inquire about a program. She politely answered questions and conversed with us for almost thirty minutes, even though we did not have an account there at present. You can be sure that if we decide to do business with and a different financial institution, her bank will be the one we select.
We went to breakfast at our favorite breakfast haunt and the customer service and food quality was up to its normal excellent standards. It is easy to see why their parking lot is almost always full. The waitstaff is well-trained, efficient, and friendly. Their kitchen staff must be well-trained because the breakfast food is consistently well-prepared, hot, and quickly served.
I ran into my local library to check out a book on hold. As I handed my library card to the clerk, I noticed that the expiration date was about two months away. I inquired if I could renew it now, whilst I was thinking about it and the answer came back "yes". Smart move on the library's part.
Capt. SO and I shopped at a local, big-box-type store's grand opening. The store was crawling with employees, all identifiable by one of two colors of shirts, and the store was crammed with shoppers, most of whom were pushing shopping carts. It was a zoo but the employees were doing a great job of helping customers, MOST of the customers were friendly and patient with one another and the store had seen fit to open all of its check-out lanes. Cha-ching, cha-ching could be heard up and down the check-out lanes. Music to the managers' ears, I'm certain.
The one element I don't understand about this big, very big store, is that they have a woefully inadequate number of cart-return corrals in the parking lot. Not only are there very few but they are located only close to the store and not spread out over the large parking lot. Consequently, numerous shopping carts were left throughout the parking lot, many of them bumping up against vehicles, others left in the middle of a parking spot, taking up a coveted space that a vehicle could have parked in, or others were just plain blocking driving lanes. True, knuckleheaded customers were too lazy to return the carts to the designated areas but the store obviously didn't plan too well.
Earth-to-businesses: It's all about customer service. End of story.
Ancora imparo
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Erstwhile Early Travels
Mid-spring, early morning - a perfect combination of driving. You can be fairly confident that, other than torrential rain, driving conditions will be tolerable if not downright ideal - which is exactly what they were this morning at 6:00 a.m.
I had to drive twenty minutes to the larger city south of here, then about ten more minutes of city driving - city driving that is tame-to-sleepy compared to REALLY BIG-CITY driving, but all city driving is relative to what one is accustomed to.
The road I favor to travel southward from here is a state highway and traffic was light at 6:00 a.m. Turning onto the state highway was extremely easy and I fell in line behind a motorcyclist. I kept my distance so as not to give any impressions of crowding, but by keeping a respectable distance between him and me, a space was created that seemed to encourage cross-traffic drivers to continually dart in front of the motorcyclist, often at intervals that seemed uncomfortably close.
As I motored south, I mentally gave thanks as I safely cleared each intersection known for higher-than-average accident-incident rates. The hour was early enough that even the highway-expansion heavy equipment was unmanned and motionless. City streets were quiet and I was fortunate to catch mostly green traffic signals.
Yes, an easy, early morning drive. Too early for the masses and crazies. Except for the fact that my public radio station was still on news and information and not classical music, it was a beautiful and peaceful beginning to my day.
I was thankful.
Pax
Ancora imparo
I had to drive twenty minutes to the larger city south of here, then about ten more minutes of city driving - city driving that is tame-to-sleepy compared to REALLY BIG-CITY driving, but all city driving is relative to what one is accustomed to.
The road I favor to travel southward from here is a state highway and traffic was light at 6:00 a.m. Turning onto the state highway was extremely easy and I fell in line behind a motorcyclist. I kept my distance so as not to give any impressions of crowding, but by keeping a respectable distance between him and me, a space was created that seemed to encourage cross-traffic drivers to continually dart in front of the motorcyclist, often at intervals that seemed uncomfortably close.
As I motored south, I mentally gave thanks as I safely cleared each intersection known for higher-than-average accident-incident rates. The hour was early enough that even the highway-expansion heavy equipment was unmanned and motionless. City streets were quiet and I was fortunate to catch mostly green traffic signals.
Yes, an easy, early morning drive. Too early for the masses and crazies. Except for the fact that my public radio station was still on news and information and not classical music, it was a beautiful and peaceful beginning to my day.
I was thankful.
Pax
Ancora imparo
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Is It Bedtime Yet?
God has been carrying me around of the winds of chance today. That is, I've nodded off every chance I could when my body has sat stationery for more than thirty seconds. I'm not quite certain where my bone-numbing weariness has come from, although several consecutive nights of too-little sleep are the most likely culprits. "Late to bed and early to rise." is not quite what Benjamin Franklin had in mind. People who get too-little sleep know they are sleep deprived when they arise in the morning and are thinking about their bathrobes before mid-day.
Some individuals do just fine with four-to-five hours of shut-eye a night. I am not one of them. Oh, I can muster the energy to plow through several days in a row with limited sleep but the sleepy faeries always catch up with me. I've become adept at looking cognizant when I'm really unconscious beneath my skin.
My solution to fighting fatigue is to simply not remain in one position for more than sixty seconds. Consequently I must appear to have the worst case of Hyperactive Disorder ever. You know your sleep deprivation is bad when you are left alone in a doctor's examination room, the nurse hands you one of those ridiculous gowns that tie in the back and barely cover your back, says, "The doctor will be right with you." and you nod off the minute she leaves the room. I'm convinced those examination room as kept as cold as humanely (oops, I meant humanly) possible in order to keep patients awake and alert.
Even typing holds a challenge for the tired. If the thoughts do not come rapid-fire from my brain and translate into ferocious typing speeds, I find my eyes closing and my thoughts trailing off somewhere into those puffy clouds depicted in children's books that describe heaven. It is fortunate that my meeting originally scheduled for tonight was held this afternoon, although the meeting venue was overly warm and you know what happens to most everyone in a room where the thermostat needs to be lowered about ten degrees.
Fortunately, I have become adept at looking cognizant when I'm really unconscious beneath the skin.
And now, I'm realizing it is time to close this posting because the thoughts from my brain are no longer translating into rapidly moving typing patterns.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Ancoma imparo
Some individuals do just fine with four-to-five hours of shut-eye a night. I am not one of them. Oh, I can muster the energy to plow through several days in a row with limited sleep but the sleepy faeries always catch up with me. I've become adept at looking cognizant when I'm really unconscious beneath my skin.
My solution to fighting fatigue is to simply not remain in one position for more than sixty seconds. Consequently I must appear to have the worst case of Hyperactive Disorder ever. You know your sleep deprivation is bad when you are left alone in a doctor's examination room, the nurse hands you one of those ridiculous gowns that tie in the back and barely cover your back, says, "The doctor will be right with you." and you nod off the minute she leaves the room. I'm convinced those examination room as kept as cold as humanely (oops, I meant humanly) possible in order to keep patients awake and alert.
Even typing holds a challenge for the tired. If the thoughts do not come rapid-fire from my brain and translate into ferocious typing speeds, I find my eyes closing and my thoughts trailing off somewhere into those puffy clouds depicted in children's books that describe heaven. It is fortunate that my meeting originally scheduled for tonight was held this afternoon, although the meeting venue was overly warm and you know what happens to most everyone in a room where the thermostat needs to be lowered about ten degrees.
Fortunately, I have become adept at looking cognizant when I'm really unconscious beneath the skin.
And now, I'm realizing it is time to close this posting because the thoughts from my brain are no longer translating into rapidly moving typing patterns.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Ancoma imparo
Monday, April 23, 2012
The Three Stages of Life
I've been reflecting about life a lot lately. Thinking back to my childhood, my youth, and college-age. As I do this review in my head, I see friends from years ago, even remember names that pop up out of nowhere. Names of friends that only were in my life for a year or two and then their families moved out of town. Never-the-less, their names are etched somewhere deep in my brain. I may not be able to remember from one moment to the next why I entered a room, but I can remember Suzy Q's name from third grade.
Facebook has been a fun and entertaining way to "reunite" with people from days of yore - either high school classmates, college classmates, or former students. Especially with my high school classmates, it is fun to see how each of our "looks" has changed. I have not attended a high school reunion in about ten years now and I suspect many of us would not recognize the others. Are our Facebook photos current? Perhaps?
Capt. SO recently attended the funeral of a Fortune-Five-Hundred former CO and President. I did not travel with him to the funeral, wanting to but unable to squeeze it into my schedule. He said the attendees were like a "Who's Who" of his former workplace. They - mostly men - took the opportunity to catch up with one another, checking in on health-related issues and family members. One of them joked that, at their ages, conversation inevitably turns to health. Capt. SO remarked that they each took time telling one another how "good" they looked, until one elderly gentlemen put the whole charade to rest.
He said, "Gents, there are just three stages of life. Young, middle-aged and 'You look great!' We all know which stage we are in so let's stop kidding ourselves!"
Yes, I suspect it's true. Tonight, as I did a quick foray onto my Facebook page, I saw a post from one former high school classmate to another. It read, "You look great!"
The old guy was right.
Ancora imparo
Facebook has been a fun and entertaining way to "reunite" with people from days of yore - either high school classmates, college classmates, or former students. Especially with my high school classmates, it is fun to see how each of our "looks" has changed. I have not attended a high school reunion in about ten years now and I suspect many of us would not recognize the others. Are our Facebook photos current? Perhaps?
Capt. SO recently attended the funeral of a Fortune-Five-Hundred former CO and President. I did not travel with him to the funeral, wanting to but unable to squeeze it into my schedule. He said the attendees were like a "Who's Who" of his former workplace. They - mostly men - took the opportunity to catch up with one another, checking in on health-related issues and family members. One of them joked that, at their ages, conversation inevitably turns to health. Capt. SO remarked that they each took time telling one another how "good" they looked, until one elderly gentlemen put the whole charade to rest.
He said, "Gents, there are just three stages of life. Young, middle-aged and 'You look great!' We all know which stage we are in so let's stop kidding ourselves!"
Yes, I suspect it's true. Tonight, as I did a quick foray onto my Facebook page, I saw a post from one former high school classmate to another. It read, "You look great!"
The old guy was right.
Ancora imparo
And Yet We Did Survive
I recently received an email forward from friend that enumerated all of the anomalies people of my generation experienced and yet we survived. Things like no seat belts during the first years of our lives, no baby/children car seats, thermometers with mercury, and a host of other things either truly forgotten or best forgotten.
Tonight, while removing my contacts, my eyes flashed over the instructions on my contact solution bottle. One of the caveats on every bottle of contact solution is to observe the proper hygiene always and forever. I can understand this because eye health is of prime importance, especially as I get older. But, my mind traveled back to about 1962 when I was fitted with my first pair of contacts. They were the old, huge hard lens, dyed blue so if I dropped one - and I did - they could be more easily seen. I wore hard lens successfully for over twenty years until my eyes developed a condition where my corneas molded into the shape of the contact lens and I had twenty-twenty vision for about one month without any corrective lens. My corneas gradually regained their natural shape and I had to go contact-lens"less" for about two years.
While wearing hard lens all those years, I developed the phrase "contact attack", which was not an unfamiliar cry of all hard-contact users. For some reason, hard contacts invited dust particles into the eyes and when a dust particle came between the lens and the eye's surface, the pain could be unbearable, bringing you literally to your knees. The beauty, which would have made my optometrist gasp, of a hard lens was that you could extract it from your eye, put it in your mouth for a bit and reinsert it into your eye. Nine times out of ten, this lens-cleansing method was successful and you could continue wearing your contacts for as long as the day/night demanded.
Make no mistake, vanity is a powerful incentive to do foolish things and the mouth-wash method of contact cleaning was, indeed, foolish........but we all did it back then and we survived, as did our eyes.
So many things I survived then that today others would shudder at. Like taking sandwiches to school every day filled with cooked (Well, mostly cooked. My family did, and I still do, like my beef or venison barely cooked.) meat or fish. Leftover meat made tasty lunches and there was no way to refrigerate lunches then. We didn't think to put ice cubes in some container and place it next to the sandwich in the brown paper bag. Nah. We just shoved the sandwich in a waxed paper sleeve, threw it in a paper bag, and stuffed it into our school bags.
No backpacks, either, back then........and yet we survived that, too.
Shoot, we even had to walk uphill to and from school, even in the winter.
And still we survived.
Ancora imparo
Tonight, while removing my contacts, my eyes flashed over the instructions on my contact solution bottle. One of the caveats on every bottle of contact solution is to observe the proper hygiene always and forever. I can understand this because eye health is of prime importance, especially as I get older. But, my mind traveled back to about 1962 when I was fitted with my first pair of contacts. They were the old, huge hard lens, dyed blue so if I dropped one - and I did - they could be more easily seen. I wore hard lens successfully for over twenty years until my eyes developed a condition where my corneas molded into the shape of the contact lens and I had twenty-twenty vision for about one month without any corrective lens. My corneas gradually regained their natural shape and I had to go contact-lens"less" for about two years.
While wearing hard lens all those years, I developed the phrase "contact attack", which was not an unfamiliar cry of all hard-contact users. For some reason, hard contacts invited dust particles into the eyes and when a dust particle came between the lens and the eye's surface, the pain could be unbearable, bringing you literally to your knees. The beauty, which would have made my optometrist gasp, of a hard lens was that you could extract it from your eye, put it in your mouth for a bit and reinsert it into your eye. Nine times out of ten, this lens-cleansing method was successful and you could continue wearing your contacts for as long as the day/night demanded.
Make no mistake, vanity is a powerful incentive to do foolish things and the mouth-wash method of contact cleaning was, indeed, foolish........but we all did it back then and we survived, as did our eyes.
So many things I survived then that today others would shudder at. Like taking sandwiches to school every day filled with cooked (Well, mostly cooked. My family did, and I still do, like my beef or venison barely cooked.) meat or fish. Leftover meat made tasty lunches and there was no way to refrigerate lunches then. We didn't think to put ice cubes in some container and place it next to the sandwich in the brown paper bag. Nah. We just shoved the sandwich in a waxed paper sleeve, threw it in a paper bag, and stuffed it into our school bags.
No backpacks, either, back then........and yet we survived that, too.
Shoot, we even had to walk uphill to and from school, even in the winter.
And still we survived.
Ancora imparo
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Luck of the Pot
A covered-dish meal. Anyone know what that old-fashioned word means?
Potluck, as in potluck dinner.
Potlucks have been around for centuries. A quick etymological search of the word potluck confirmed most of what I remembered from who-knows-where-or-when. Potluck is a word that comes, albeit arguably, from two sources. A sixteenth-century concept of eating whatever had been prepared in the cooking pot, or "luck of the pot", which evolved into the concept of a shared meal in later centuries or evolving from a native North American word potlatch which revolves around a ceremonial shared meal and ceremonial customs.
There is nothing like a good, old American potluck. Sharing of food and fellowship seems to bring people together like nothing else can. The beauty of a potluck meal is that there is little, if any, pretense involved in potlucks. You find tableware ranging from the cheapest of paper plates to fancy cardboard partitioned plates to rectangular-shaped plastic "plates" designed to hold a multitude of different foods apart from each other. These plastic "plates" have spaces labeled "cold beverage", "hot foods" and a specific oblong section in which to place your "silverware". The "silverware" ranges from plastic cutlery to personal cutlery from home to special brightly colored knives, forks and spoons designed especially for picnics. That's just what one eats with.
Then there is the food. Ah, the food.
Potluck food comes in every flavor, shape, texture and temperature, as the does the type of container it is served in. Plastic or metal seem to be the favored types of containers in which to bring potluck food, probably so if it is dropped the crisis is not nearly as extreme as if one dropped a Wedgewood bowl or plate. Of course, most potluck serving dishes or pans have the obligatory piece of tape afixed to the bottom with the owner's name scrawled on it.
Food choices are aplenty. You'll usually find the basics: baked beans, some type of BBQ'd meat and accompanying buns, several hot casseroles - usually containing cheese, rice and often broccoli. Noodles are somewhere in the mix as is ground beef and potato salad. Most potluck desserts are still homemade, although you will probably find a store-bought pie somewhere on the table, depending on the geographic location of the potluck. In some areas of the country women wouldn't be caught dead bringing a dessert not "scratch"-baked from home.
Jello. Always a potluck mainstay, usually with two or three flavors represented and almost always it is the strawberry flavor that contains sliced bananas with Cool Whip on top. In years past this would have only been real whipped cream but few potluck preparers take time with real whipping cream any more. Such a shame.
Today's potluck was missing one dish that I almost always see - Kraft macaroni and cheese. In fact, there was no noodle and cheese dish there today. Such a shame. I guess we'll just have to organize another potluck and put out the call for more attention to tradition.
Sounds like a plan.
Ancora imparo
Potluck, as in potluck dinner.
Potlucks have been around for centuries. A quick etymological search of the word potluck confirmed most of what I remembered from who-knows-where-or-when. Potluck is a word that comes, albeit arguably, from two sources. A sixteenth-century concept of eating whatever had been prepared in the cooking pot, or "luck of the pot", which evolved into the concept of a shared meal in later centuries or evolving from a native North American word potlatch which revolves around a ceremonial shared meal and ceremonial customs.
There is nothing like a good, old American potluck. Sharing of food and fellowship seems to bring people together like nothing else can. The beauty of a potluck meal is that there is little, if any, pretense involved in potlucks. You find tableware ranging from the cheapest of paper plates to fancy cardboard partitioned plates to rectangular-shaped plastic "plates" designed to hold a multitude of different foods apart from each other. These plastic "plates" have spaces labeled "cold beverage", "hot foods" and a specific oblong section in which to place your "silverware". The "silverware" ranges from plastic cutlery to personal cutlery from home to special brightly colored knives, forks and spoons designed especially for picnics. That's just what one eats with.
Then there is the food. Ah, the food.
Potluck food comes in every flavor, shape, texture and temperature, as the does the type of container it is served in. Plastic or metal seem to be the favored types of containers in which to bring potluck food, probably so if it is dropped the crisis is not nearly as extreme as if one dropped a Wedgewood bowl or plate. Of course, most potluck serving dishes or pans have the obligatory piece of tape afixed to the bottom with the owner's name scrawled on it.
Food choices are aplenty. You'll usually find the basics: baked beans, some type of BBQ'd meat and accompanying buns, several hot casseroles - usually containing cheese, rice and often broccoli. Noodles are somewhere in the mix as is ground beef and potato salad. Most potluck desserts are still homemade, although you will probably find a store-bought pie somewhere on the table, depending on the geographic location of the potluck. In some areas of the country women wouldn't be caught dead bringing a dessert not "scratch"-baked from home.
Jello. Always a potluck mainstay, usually with two or three flavors represented and almost always it is the strawberry flavor that contains sliced bananas with Cool Whip on top. In years past this would have only been real whipped cream but few potluck preparers take time with real whipping cream any more. Such a shame.
Today's potluck was missing one dish that I almost always see - Kraft macaroni and cheese. In fact, there was no noodle and cheese dish there today. Such a shame. I guess we'll just have to organize another potluck and put out the call for more attention to tradition.
Sounds like a plan.
Ancora imparo
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Now This Is Serious
We all wear more than one hat. I alluded to this in yesterday's blog when I wrote that all of us move from one reality to another, ideally with fluidity, but sometimes there are bumps along the way. Most of us also wear more than one hat, which could be just another indicator of multiple realities, but the hat "thing" is, I believe, different.
I try to keep my chapeau changes to a minimum because I note that the more inventory I have in my haberdashery, more possibilities arise for screw-ups. Most of the time, I have been fortunate in that my hat changes have been at measured and controlled times, not coinciding with one another. Lately the hat changes have been so frequent and uncontrolled there are long segments where I find myself wearing all of my hats at once. This is usually not an issue for me, although it does lead to frequent sighs, deep breaths, late nights/early mornings, muttering, and the occasional "blue" language. I've always prided myself in my ability to multi-task and I thought I was handling everything with relative success and outward ease until.............I left the carrots out of the soup.
Last night I came to the realization that today I had scheduled myself for three cooking tasks. 1) We need more homemade soup because a) We've used up all of the frozen soup. b) We eat soup every Tuesday night (long church night) because it is quick and mindless to serve up. c) The summer season is fast approaching and we try to keep our freezer contents to a minimum during the summer AND there were some frozen soup ingredients that needed to be utilized. Hence, today was to be the last soup-making day of the winter season. 2) We eat only homemade granola and the container is nearly empty. Making granola takes about a four-hour chunk of time so I have to plan when to make it. 3) We are going to a potluck tomorrow and I have decided to take carrot cake as my culinary contribution. Why? Because I can eat one piece and let everyone else help me eat it up. It is extremely tasty but very fattening, which makes it a great potluck dish.
To make a long story shorter, I decided last night to make the soup and let it cook through the night in the crockpot. Seemed like a good use of the night hours. Capt. SO and I had decided to try to polish off two of the three remaining discs on our trip book-on-CD and I knew I could prepare soup ingredients while listening to the book. However, I was in a hurry because I also knew that while we were listening to the book, I could sit at the dining table and continue hymn selection for my church. I was finished with May and June and needed to complete July, August, and September. ( As I write this I can see how I was piling the hats on my head.) I power-chopped through the potatoes and onion, threw in all of the frozen veggies, turkey meat and broth, added the barley and spices, put the lid on, added my smirk of self-satisfaction and settled into hymn selection. This morning Capt. SO and I awoke to the mouth-watering aroma of simmering soup. I lifted the lid, stirred the pot and then noticed my oversight of NO CARROTS. Normally, this type of oversight would not phase me but in my heightened state of too-many-hats-on-at-once, the absence of carrots in my soup became a crisis of global proportions. One would have thought I'd lost my cell phone or been informed that UPS would no longer deliver to my door.
It was then I realized that my distress over NO CARROTS IN MY SOUP was a symptom of too many hats and that the situation is serious. I'll know the situation has reached further crisis proportions when I make coffee and forget the beans.
Until then I'll just have to live with no carrots in my soup.
Ancora imparo
I try to keep my chapeau changes to a minimum because I note that the more inventory I have in my haberdashery, more possibilities arise for screw-ups. Most of the time, I have been fortunate in that my hat changes have been at measured and controlled times, not coinciding with one another. Lately the hat changes have been so frequent and uncontrolled there are long segments where I find myself wearing all of my hats at once. This is usually not an issue for me, although it does lead to frequent sighs, deep breaths, late nights/early mornings, muttering, and the occasional "blue" language. I've always prided myself in my ability to multi-task and I thought I was handling everything with relative success and outward ease until.............I left the carrots out of the soup.
Last night I came to the realization that today I had scheduled myself for three cooking tasks. 1) We need more homemade soup because a) We've used up all of the frozen soup. b) We eat soup every Tuesday night (long church night) because it is quick and mindless to serve up. c) The summer season is fast approaching and we try to keep our freezer contents to a minimum during the summer AND there were some frozen soup ingredients that needed to be utilized. Hence, today was to be the last soup-making day of the winter season. 2) We eat only homemade granola and the container is nearly empty. Making granola takes about a four-hour chunk of time so I have to plan when to make it. 3) We are going to a potluck tomorrow and I have decided to take carrot cake as my culinary contribution. Why? Because I can eat one piece and let everyone else help me eat it up. It is extremely tasty but very fattening, which makes it a great potluck dish.
To make a long story shorter, I decided last night to make the soup and let it cook through the night in the crockpot. Seemed like a good use of the night hours. Capt. SO and I had decided to try to polish off two of the three remaining discs on our trip book-on-CD and I knew I could prepare soup ingredients while listening to the book. However, I was in a hurry because I also knew that while we were listening to the book, I could sit at the dining table and continue hymn selection for my church. I was finished with May and June and needed to complete July, August, and September. ( As I write this I can see how I was piling the hats on my head.) I power-chopped through the potatoes and onion, threw in all of the frozen veggies, turkey meat and broth, added the barley and spices, put the lid on, added my smirk of self-satisfaction and settled into hymn selection. This morning Capt. SO and I awoke to the mouth-watering aroma of simmering soup. I lifted the lid, stirred the pot and then noticed my oversight of NO CARROTS. Normally, this type of oversight would not phase me but in my heightened state of too-many-hats-on-at-once, the absence of carrots in my soup became a crisis of global proportions. One would have thought I'd lost my cell phone or been informed that UPS would no longer deliver to my door.
It was then I realized that my distress over NO CARROTS IN MY SOUP was a symptom of too many hats and that the situation is serious. I'll know the situation has reached further crisis proportions when I make coffee and forget the beans.
Until then I'll just have to live with no carrots in my soup.
Ancora imparo
Friday, April 20, 2012
Moving Twixt Realities
Do you live in differing realities? I do and I think, perhaps, many of us do.
If you are employed outside the home, female or male, then you live in and move between different realities. At "work", you wear one hat, you think in work-related terms and you most probably speak a slightly different vocabulary than you do when you move to your home reality........unless, that is, you and your housemate(s) are employed in the same or a similar field. Then your vocabularies will be consistent with work-speak......unless, that is, your household includes children and, depending on the age of the children, you may adopt a totally different language at home than at work. There are some exceptions to my observation, of course. One exception that comes to mind is a former colleague's spouse, a registered nurse, who insisted that from birth, he and my friend only refer to any body part (including the child's) with anatomically correct terms. Dad and Mom did not ask the typical question of "Where's your knee?" Instead they would ask (of course accompanied by the big, goofy smile adults wear when asking young children these types of questions), "Where's your patella?" These two adults now have two children and, I'm telling you, their little boys need to go into a health-related field some day because they will have the dreaded anatomy terminology down pat.
For others, differing realities may between volunteering and home, entertaining and home, traveling and home.......the contrasts may be disparate or minimal, but they will be there.
Capt. SO and I just returned from a brief jaunt to Das Boot. She has been minus her trim this winter as Capt. SO stripped, sanded and mega-varnished the wood so we journeyed north to her winter storage stowage and trimmed her back up. Her hull was washed and waxed over the winter so that part of her is gleaming. The rest of her (excepting her mahogany trim) looks like most of the other Aqua RVs that are in winter storage - very dusty. Even the smallest of Aqua RVs looks huge when it is out of the water on blocks, chocks, and stands.
All of these "boats out of water" (pun intended) look like beached whales waiting for the tide to come back in. They are stored literally two or three inches apart (four, if you are lucky) - so close you could easily hop from one boat to another - as do the spiders. Our Das Boot is spider-free as is the other boat whose bow pulpit is hanging inches over our dinghy. It is spider-free because Capt. SO sprayed it before he left Das Boot for the winter. No spiders on his boat - uh-uh!
It was a fun get-a-way but our trek northward was also a reminder of living between two different realities. They both feel natural but the difference is so remarkable I feel as if I should have a passport for one or both locations. Reality here sprang back to life instantly, though, as I had to come home to the immediately obvious need to clean Cranky Kitty's litter box. Nothing like a cat's litter box to remind one of the station held in life for a feline owner......kitty slave.
I need a passport out.
Ancora imparo
If you are employed outside the home, female or male, then you live in and move between different realities. At "work", you wear one hat, you think in work-related terms and you most probably speak a slightly different vocabulary than you do when you move to your home reality........unless, that is, you and your housemate(s) are employed in the same or a similar field. Then your vocabularies will be consistent with work-speak......unless, that is, your household includes children and, depending on the age of the children, you may adopt a totally different language at home than at work. There are some exceptions to my observation, of course. One exception that comes to mind is a former colleague's spouse, a registered nurse, who insisted that from birth, he and my friend only refer to any body part (including the child's) with anatomically correct terms. Dad and Mom did not ask the typical question of "Where's your knee?" Instead they would ask (of course accompanied by the big, goofy smile adults wear when asking young children these types of questions), "Where's your patella?" These two adults now have two children and, I'm telling you, their little boys need to go into a health-related field some day because they will have the dreaded anatomy terminology down pat.
For others, differing realities may between volunteering and home, entertaining and home, traveling and home.......the contrasts may be disparate or minimal, but they will be there.
Capt. SO and I just returned from a brief jaunt to Das Boot. She has been minus her trim this winter as Capt. SO stripped, sanded and mega-varnished the wood so we journeyed north to her winter storage stowage and trimmed her back up. Her hull was washed and waxed over the winter so that part of her is gleaming. The rest of her (excepting her mahogany trim) looks like most of the other Aqua RVs that are in winter storage - very dusty. Even the smallest of Aqua RVs looks huge when it is out of the water on blocks, chocks, and stands.
All of these "boats out of water" (pun intended) look like beached whales waiting for the tide to come back in. They are stored literally two or three inches apart (four, if you are lucky) - so close you could easily hop from one boat to another - as do the spiders. Our Das Boot is spider-free as is the other boat whose bow pulpit is hanging inches over our dinghy. It is spider-free because Capt. SO sprayed it before he left Das Boot for the winter. No spiders on his boat - uh-uh!
It was a fun get-a-way but our trek northward was also a reminder of living between two different realities. They both feel natural but the difference is so remarkable I feel as if I should have a passport for one or both locations. Reality here sprang back to life instantly, though, as I had to come home to the immediately obvious need to clean Cranky Kitty's litter box. Nothing like a cat's litter box to remind one of the station held in life for a feline owner......kitty slave.
I need a passport out.
Ancora imparo
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Dissertation Declaration
Over the past month, I've been reading a doctoral dissertation on music in worship and the use of music in preaching. As one might expect, the dissertation is lengthy, filled with fancy words, polysyllabic words, technical terms, and lots and lots of quotes and footnotes. It is difficult to skim because there is so much "meat" packed into each paragraph.
A great deal of the musical/psychological information presented is material I learned long ago in college or have been able to experience first-hand in my teaching of both students and adults. Other tenets of the dissertation have been proven through first-person (moi) anecdotes and teaching situations.
Yes, music is powerful - whether in church, in life, in school, in personal relationships or in interpersonal interactions. The dissertator talks, in one chapter, about how music enables "brain- damaged" people to function in certain arenas. I've read that chapter twice and both times have laughed aloud at the thought of "brain-damaged" people because we are all brain-damaged in one way or another or at one time or another. I know that, at the end of my life, if I have any cognizance at all, I'll be one of those people who recognizes few, if any visitors, but will be able to sing the lyrics to dozens, perhaps hundreds, of songs.
The author speaks of "neuropathways" and how we can get "loops" of music stuck in our heads. That this concept is part of a doctoral dissertation is somewhat amusing because I and my fellow musicians have long talked and laughed about this phenomenon. It is irritating and irksome and can drive one nuts - day and night - with the same "loop". Some days - and nights - can find multiple "loops" playing, thankfully though not simultaneously.
I guess this makes me loopy.
Ancora imparo
A great deal of the musical/psychological information presented is material I learned long ago in college or have been able to experience first-hand in my teaching of both students and adults. Other tenets of the dissertation have been proven through first-person (moi) anecdotes and teaching situations.
Yes, music is powerful - whether in church, in life, in school, in personal relationships or in interpersonal interactions. The dissertator talks, in one chapter, about how music enables "brain- damaged" people to function in certain arenas. I've read that chapter twice and both times have laughed aloud at the thought of "brain-damaged" people because we are all brain-damaged in one way or another or at one time or another. I know that, at the end of my life, if I have any cognizance at all, I'll be one of those people who recognizes few, if any visitors, but will be able to sing the lyrics to dozens, perhaps hundreds, of songs.
The author speaks of "neuropathways" and how we can get "loops" of music stuck in our heads. That this concept is part of a doctoral dissertation is somewhat amusing because I and my fellow musicians have long talked and laughed about this phenomenon. It is irritating and irksome and can drive one nuts - day and night - with the same "loop". Some days - and nights - can find multiple "loops" playing, thankfully though not simultaneously.
I guess this makes me loopy.
Ancora imparo
TMI
I took myself to breakfast this morning. I'd left home early in the morning without eating and decided to treat myself to a quiet meal at a favorite eating spot in the midst of my errands. I arrived at a quieter time of day for this place which becomes a bustling eatery around all meal times. I fetched my coffee and took a seat near a window in an area that looked as if it might afford some solitude. I was wrong! Armed with a crossword puzzle, I relaxed with coffee in hand and waited for my order.
My reverie was to be somewhat denied this morning because I was within close proximity to two tables of four that had a lot to say.....and very loudly. Try as I might to work on my crossword puzzle, it was easier to succumb to the loud conversations and just listen. If the truth be known, my half of the restaurant couldn't help but hear the two conversations.
One of the foursomes was comprised of four older adults, probably seventy years of age or a little older. Maybe their vocal volume was louder because their hearing was failing. I have no idea about their hearing but I can tell you that they really like the World Wrestling Federation - or whatever it is called. They spoke with great authority about the wrestlers, both male and female, what they wore, what their bodies looked like and how much they appeared to sweat while wrestling. After the wrestling theme, they switched to Dancing With the Stars, their bodies, how the men "throw" (their word - not mine) their partners about, the costumes and the cleavage. (Hey, I don't make this up. I just report the news.)
The other table foursome was just behind me and to my left and was made up of four younger-looking women. Their loud topic of conversation was a local private school, it's mean girls, its top-heavy staff, the idea that they thought tuition was way too high (I wondered to myself if the tuition is so high, why are your children attending this school?), and the idea that the school did not mete our discipline fairly and that the children of prominent people received preferential treatment. These women were so negative about the school I could not imagine any circumstance under which they should have chosen to send their children to the school.
I can only imagine what others seated around both of these tables might have thought of the conversations. Yes, I'm certain you'll think that I should have just been able to tune out the discussions but the volume was so high it was virtually impossible not to feel that you were seated right at each of the tables.
TMI. TMI. TMI.
I just wanted to sit in a relatively quiet place.
Ancora imparo
My reverie was to be somewhat denied this morning because I was within close proximity to two tables of four that had a lot to say.....and very loudly. Try as I might to work on my crossword puzzle, it was easier to succumb to the loud conversations and just listen. If the truth be known, my half of the restaurant couldn't help but hear the two conversations.
One of the foursomes was comprised of four older adults, probably seventy years of age or a little older. Maybe their vocal volume was louder because their hearing was failing. I have no idea about their hearing but I can tell you that they really like the World Wrestling Federation - or whatever it is called. They spoke with great authority about the wrestlers, both male and female, what they wore, what their bodies looked like and how much they appeared to sweat while wrestling. After the wrestling theme, they switched to Dancing With the Stars, their bodies, how the men "throw" (their word - not mine) their partners about, the costumes and the cleavage. (Hey, I don't make this up. I just report the news.)
The other table foursome was just behind me and to my left and was made up of four younger-looking women. Their loud topic of conversation was a local private school, it's mean girls, its top-heavy staff, the idea that they thought tuition was way too high (I wondered to myself if the tuition is so high, why are your children attending this school?), and the idea that the school did not mete our discipline fairly and that the children of prominent people received preferential treatment. These women were so negative about the school I could not imagine any circumstance under which they should have chosen to send their children to the school.
I can only imagine what others seated around both of these tables might have thought of the conversations. Yes, I'm certain you'll think that I should have just been able to tune out the discussions but the volume was so high it was virtually impossible not to feel that you were seated right at each of the tables.
TMI. TMI. TMI.
I just wanted to sit in a relatively quiet place.
Ancora imparo
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Of Titanic Proportions
Media is awash now in stories about the storied maiden voyage of the ill-fated luxury White Star Liner, Titanic, that sank in April of 1912, after hitting an iceberg off the coast of Newfoundland, in the North Atlantic Ocean. A shockingly large number of souls lost their lives as the unthinkable happened: The Titanic was not unsinkable and did, in fact, sink.
As a child, my parents had a Reader's Digest Condensed-Version book that detailed a ship disaster between the Andrea Doria and the Stockholm, off the coast of Nantucket, Massachusetts. The books text and pictures were fascinating to me and I would read the story over and over about how the Andrea Doria sank.
Is the human race genetically driven to be drawn to disasters?
A recent article by a leading sociologist suggests that mankind has been drawn to tragedies and disasters since recorded history and probably well before then, too. The question of "why" pops into my head instantly and this particular article did address that human quirk. Perhaps we are programmed toward fascination in order to learn from others' mistakes that end in tragedy. Is our fascination a method of survival?
The sinking of Titanic has resulted in Titanic becoming an adjective in and of itself. It is not uncommon to hear someone refer to a debacle of titanic proportions. You know when you hear the phrase titanic proportions that you are going to hear about a massive screw-up or distaster. I even referred to the mounting mess in my office as a titanic and colossal paper pile-up. (No disrespect intended for the victims of Titanic's sinking or their families and loved ones,)
If I cannot get a rapid handle on the titanic mess in my tiny office, I shall have a meltdown of titanic proportions. I hope and pray I am not genetically driven toward creating a self-disaster.
Not pretty.
RIP, Titanic souls
As a child, my parents had a Reader's Digest Condensed-Version book that detailed a ship disaster between the Andrea Doria and the Stockholm, off the coast of Nantucket, Massachusetts. The books text and pictures were fascinating to me and I would read the story over and over about how the Andrea Doria sank.
Is the human race genetically driven to be drawn to disasters?
A recent article by a leading sociologist suggests that mankind has been drawn to tragedies and disasters since recorded history and probably well before then, too. The question of "why" pops into my head instantly and this particular article did address that human quirk. Perhaps we are programmed toward fascination in order to learn from others' mistakes that end in tragedy. Is our fascination a method of survival?
The sinking of Titanic has resulted in Titanic becoming an adjective in and of itself. It is not uncommon to hear someone refer to a debacle of titanic proportions. You know when you hear the phrase titanic proportions that you are going to hear about a massive screw-up or distaster. I even referred to the mounting mess in my office as a titanic and colossal paper pile-up. (No disrespect intended for the victims of Titanic's sinking or their families and loved ones,)
If I cannot get a rapid handle on the titanic mess in my tiny office, I shall have a meltdown of titanic proportions. I hope and pray I am not genetically driven toward creating a self-disaster.
Not pretty.
RIP, Titanic souls
Sunday, April 15, 2012
No Kite Fying Today, Ben
Storm. Storms. Stormy. Storming. Stormed.
I suspect the above words will be the meteorological progression today if the National Weather Service's forecast for many areas holds true. After I read the forecast and the special weather statement it made me want to go back to bed, pull the covers over my head and stay there...........of course accompanied by my newspaper and fresh coffee, which could be challenging all under the bedsheets.
As I laid in bed last night, listened to the rain pelt the condo, heard the booms of thunder and watched the lightning illuminate the sky, I couldn't help but think of the two types of personalities that come to mind during storms: Those that love storms and those that quiver and quake during them.
My eldest offspring loves storms. Perhaps you could even say she thrives during the course of them. She would make the perfect storm chaser - fearless and determined. I fall into the category of storm-appreciator when I am on the Aqua RV......docked, of course. I've mentioned the curiosity before of how many of us Aqua RV'ers can be seen up on decks during storms. Groups of people even gather on boats to experience storms up close and personal - accompanied by cocktails and munchies. Maybe these people are really afraid during storms and alcohol takes the edge off????????
Then there are the mammals that fear storms. Some mammals are able to sleep straight through them but others run to their parents for comfort, claw at doors and furniture, howl, or bury their heads anywhere they can, under anything they can. Our beloved dog, Max, always became highly stressed during storms and it took me years to discover it was not the thunder that freaked him out but, rather, the lightning. If I wanted to get any sleep during a storm with Max, I'd have to move with him to a closet/dressing area where there were no windows, and sleep on the floor next to him in order to calm him.
Last night's storms seemed to be relatively benign in nature, although we must have experienced an electrical surge at some point because our electrical box had two blown circuit breakers. Thank goodness for modern electrical practices. We've come a long way since Benjamin Franklin ran around during electrical storms with a kite.
I will refrain from kite-flying today. I had better brew the coffee before another circuit breaker blows.
Ancora imparo
I suspect the above words will be the meteorological progression today if the National Weather Service's forecast for many areas holds true. After I read the forecast and the special weather statement it made me want to go back to bed, pull the covers over my head and stay there...........of course accompanied by my newspaper and fresh coffee, which could be challenging all under the bedsheets.
As I laid in bed last night, listened to the rain pelt the condo, heard the booms of thunder and watched the lightning illuminate the sky, I couldn't help but think of the two types of personalities that come to mind during storms: Those that love storms and those that quiver and quake during them.
My eldest offspring loves storms. Perhaps you could even say she thrives during the course of them. She would make the perfect storm chaser - fearless and determined. I fall into the category of storm-appreciator when I am on the Aqua RV......docked, of course. I've mentioned the curiosity before of how many of us Aqua RV'ers can be seen up on decks during storms. Groups of people even gather on boats to experience storms up close and personal - accompanied by cocktails and munchies. Maybe these people are really afraid during storms and alcohol takes the edge off????????
Then there are the mammals that fear storms. Some mammals are able to sleep straight through them but others run to their parents for comfort, claw at doors and furniture, howl, or bury their heads anywhere they can, under anything they can. Our beloved dog, Max, always became highly stressed during storms and it took me years to discover it was not the thunder that freaked him out but, rather, the lightning. If I wanted to get any sleep during a storm with Max, I'd have to move with him to a closet/dressing area where there were no windows, and sleep on the floor next to him in order to calm him.
Last night's storms seemed to be relatively benign in nature, although we must have experienced an electrical surge at some point because our electrical box had two blown circuit breakers. Thank goodness for modern electrical practices. We've come a long way since Benjamin Franklin ran around during electrical storms with a kite.
I will refrain from kite-flying today. I had better brew the coffee before another circuit breaker blows.
Ancora imparo
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Attention Grabbers
Two attention-grabbers in two weeks.
First I was riveted by the story of the eighty-year old woman from Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin, with limited flying experience, who landed the plane with her deceased husband in the pilot's seat. The more I learn about that story, the more I become convinced that either God, Jesus, or the spirit of her husband or ALL three were flying with her at the time of her flight and subsequent landing.
Then, today, there is a story in my NPR news feed about rotting and wasted food, world-wide.
For some reason, the title caught my attention, my inner-child's curiosity got the best of me and I clicked. That was all it took. Several pictures in the article led me to know that I would make another series of mouse-clicks to take me to the photographer's web site, which I have included below.
http://www.kpic.at/index.php?option=com_content&view=category&layout=blog&id=45&Itemid=88
I would encourage everyone to visit the website of United Nations photographer Klaus Pichler and see for themselves the strange beauty he eked out of rotting and decaying food for his project One Third, inspired by the fact that, according to a 2011 United Nations estimate, one-third of the world's food goes to waste. Each photo (fifty-seven, I believe) is accompanied by information on where, when and how the food was produced, the distance it traveled to his Vienna, Austria home, and its carbon and water footprint.
Pichler conducted the entire project from 'putrefaction to photograph' in his Vienna home. And, he says, 'It wasn't always pretty.', the worst being when he had raw chicken and octopus decomposing at the same time. According to Pichler, "These two smells united and it was horrible." but he felt it was important that he "coexist" with the rotting food in order to adequately capture the essence of the project.
If you can take the time to view his brilliant but odd photography series, you will note that the foods are, for the most part, everyday items that most of us might have in our refrigerators and pantries at one time or another, if not on a regular basis. You'll see those ugly larvae that grow in too-old flour and you'll see maggots that are feasting on a piece of beef steak, plus lots and lots of mold in various shapes and forms. Gross, very gross but I couldn't stop looking. Pichler photographed the decaying (or definitely decayed) foods with finesse and, yes, beauty.
I couldn't stop looking and I am glad I took the time to view the entire series of pictures.
See for yourself. I'd love to hear your reactions.
Ancora imparo
First I was riveted by the story of the eighty-year old woman from Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin, with limited flying experience, who landed the plane with her deceased husband in the pilot's seat. The more I learn about that story, the more I become convinced that either God, Jesus, or the spirit of her husband or ALL three were flying with her at the time of her flight and subsequent landing.
Then, today, there is a story in my NPR news feed about rotting and wasted food, world-wide.
For some reason, the title caught my attention, my inner-child's curiosity got the best of me and I clicked. That was all it took. Several pictures in the article led me to know that I would make another series of mouse-clicks to take me to the photographer's web site, which I have included below.
http://www.kpic.at/index.php?option=com_content&view=category&layout=blog&id=45&Itemid=88
I would encourage everyone to visit the website of United Nations photographer Klaus Pichler and see for themselves the strange beauty he eked out of rotting and decaying food for his project One Third, inspired by the fact that, according to a 2011 United Nations estimate, one-third of the world's food goes to waste. Each photo (fifty-seven, I believe) is accompanied by information on where, when and how the food was produced, the distance it traveled to his Vienna, Austria home, and its carbon and water footprint.
Pichler conducted the entire project from 'putrefaction to photograph' in his Vienna home. And, he says, 'It wasn't always pretty.', the worst being when he had raw chicken and octopus decomposing at the same time. According to Pichler, "These two smells united and it was horrible." but he felt it was important that he "coexist" with the rotting food in order to adequately capture the essence of the project.
If you can take the time to view his brilliant but odd photography series, you will note that the foods are, for the most part, everyday items that most of us might have in our refrigerators and pantries at one time or another, if not on a regular basis. You'll see those ugly larvae that grow in too-old flour and you'll see maggots that are feasting on a piece of beef steak, plus lots and lots of mold in various shapes and forms. Gross, very gross but I couldn't stop looking. Pichler photographed the decaying (or definitely decayed) foods with finesse and, yes, beauty.
I couldn't stop looking and I am glad I took the time to view the entire series of pictures.
See for yourself. I'd love to hear your reactions.
Ancora imparo
Friday, April 13, 2012
Question of the Day: Increase or Decrease?
Volume. What comes to your mind when you think of volume?
Probably because I am a musician, I think of volume in terms of louds and softs. There are musical markings that indicate what volume the musician (or director) should consider applying to the music, although even some of these markings are subjective, having been added not by the composer but by the publisher. The technical term for musical volume levels is dynamics, i.e. the louds and softs and all manner of levels in between and beyond.
There is volume in relation to sales levels for marketing managers. A corporate sales department's volume of sales often, if not usually, determines employee salaries and bonus packages.
The makers of hair-care products often use the term volume in touting their products, frequently using models who have long and luxurious tresses being swung about, caught in mid-fling by a camera, to demonstrate just how much volume (i.e. "bigness") a head of hair can get just by using a particular company's product.
Volume is a geometric term that never liked me. I can only remember that volume is measured in cubits and that volume is related somehow to pi which has something to do with 3.141592....... Of course, the only pi I ever really understood has the letter "e" at its end and tastes best a la mode.
However, I digress.
If you spend any time with senior citizens, volume is a constant source of either concern, frustration or both and should be, if not, regulated by hearing aids. The hearing aids of today are really tiny miracles to both those who need them and to those knew the seniors needed them. A friend who attended a concert with Capt. SO and I last night was sporting hearing aids for the first time and the friend remarked how comfortable and small the aids were and his wife commented on "what a lifesaver" they were.
Volume is usually measured numerically in some way. Like the volume of coffee I enjoy each day or the volume of chocolate some people eat or the volume of pan fish some anglers are lucky enough to catch, or the volume of cookies a recipe will produce.
Currently, the volume of paper on my desk needs attending to so I will cease to increase the volume of words in this posting.
Ancora imparo, making a quiet exit
Probably because I am a musician, I think of volume in terms of louds and softs. There are musical markings that indicate what volume the musician (or director) should consider applying to the music, although even some of these markings are subjective, having been added not by the composer but by the publisher. The technical term for musical volume levels is dynamics, i.e. the louds and softs and all manner of levels in between and beyond.
There is volume in relation to sales levels for marketing managers. A corporate sales department's volume of sales often, if not usually, determines employee salaries and bonus packages.
The makers of hair-care products often use the term volume in touting their products, frequently using models who have long and luxurious tresses being swung about, caught in mid-fling by a camera, to demonstrate just how much volume (i.e. "bigness") a head of hair can get just by using a particular company's product.
Volume is a geometric term that never liked me. I can only remember that volume is measured in cubits and that volume is related somehow to pi which has something to do with 3.141592....... Of course, the only pi I ever really understood has the letter "e" at its end and tastes best a la mode.
However, I digress.
If you spend any time with senior citizens, volume is a constant source of either concern, frustration or both and should be, if not, regulated by hearing aids. The hearing aids of today are really tiny miracles to both those who need them and to those knew the seniors needed them. A friend who attended a concert with Capt. SO and I last night was sporting hearing aids for the first time and the friend remarked how comfortable and small the aids were and his wife commented on "what a lifesaver" they were.
Volume is usually measured numerically in some way. Like the volume of coffee I enjoy each day or the volume of chocolate some people eat or the volume of pan fish some anglers are lucky enough to catch, or the volume of cookies a recipe will produce.
Currently, the volume of paper on my desk needs attending to so I will cease to increase the volume of words in this posting.
Ancora imparo, making a quiet exit
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Perfect Life-Cocktail
The term "cocktail" in used in many connotations: The LBD (little black cocktail dress); to have a cocktail before dinner, i.e. a combination of alcoholic beverages, often served with olives; a combination of miracle drugs that relieve conditions or cure diseases, as in a "cocktail" of medications; an incendiary device presumably named after Mr. Molotov; an appetizer consisting of fresh shrimp and a catsup-based sauce with horseradish called "shrimp cocktail".
An online etymology search of the word "cocktail" finds conflicting reports as to its origins although all seem to point to an alcoholic basis.
As I was driving home today on my least-favorite but most frequently travel road, I realized that I was experiencing a perfect "cocktail" resulting from converging stimuli. I'd just enjoyed always-lively conversation over lunch with a friend, the weather - while coolish - was strikingly sunny and seemed to make every surface glisten, even the garish disruption of farmland and once-personal property now seized by the state for road construction looked fresher from the sunlight, and my radio-station-of-choice soothed my soul with selections from Felix Mendelssohn and Maurice Ravel. "It doesn't get much better than this!", I thought to myself.
My "cocktail" even softened my usual impatience with slow-poke drivers as I was behind a string of people choosing to drive well under the posted speed limit but the sun and music gave me reason to feel comfortable with pausing a bit and slowing my normal charge-through-to-the-next-thing attitude. Listening to wordless music enabled me to remember threads of the conversation with my friend and I smiled thinking about humorous phrases and thoughts we had shared.
Yes, it was a cocktail with zero calories and no negative alcoholic effects, although this was a cocktail that would have resulted in the most pleasant of hangovers. The hangover effect of warm memories, soothing music, slowed pulse and lowered blood pressure.
Priceless.
Ancora imparo
An online etymology search of the word "cocktail" finds conflicting reports as to its origins although all seem to point to an alcoholic basis.
As I was driving home today on my least-favorite but most frequently travel road, I realized that I was experiencing a perfect "cocktail" resulting from converging stimuli. I'd just enjoyed always-lively conversation over lunch with a friend, the weather - while coolish - was strikingly sunny and seemed to make every surface glisten, even the garish disruption of farmland and once-personal property now seized by the state for road construction looked fresher from the sunlight, and my radio-station-of-choice soothed my soul with selections from Felix Mendelssohn and Maurice Ravel. "It doesn't get much better than this!", I thought to myself.
My "cocktail" even softened my usual impatience with slow-poke drivers as I was behind a string of people choosing to drive well under the posted speed limit but the sun and music gave me reason to feel comfortable with pausing a bit and slowing my normal charge-through-to-the-next-thing attitude. Listening to wordless music enabled me to remember threads of the conversation with my friend and I smiled thinking about humorous phrases and thoughts we had shared.
Yes, it was a cocktail with zero calories and no negative alcoholic effects, although this was a cocktail that would have resulted in the most pleasant of hangovers. The hangover effect of warm memories, soothing music, slowed pulse and lowered blood pressure.
Priceless.
Ancora imparo
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
On Being 61
Age is a curious thing. When I was in junior high and high school I didn't think too much about age except to know that my parents, who were slightly older to begin with because I was a later-age "oops" child, and their friends were a little older. My sisters were quite a bit older than I but I lived in that tween and teenage "bubble" where I didn't think very much about age. I and my peers just thought about the next homework assignment and did that cute boy really just drive past my house?
College brought about different thoughts regarding chronological measurements but again, being in your early twenties is just too exciting to think much about aging, pensions, trusts and savings. Oddly enough though, I now understand that the twenties is EXACTLY when a person should be thinking about pensions, savings, trusts, and the big question, "Will I have enough to retire on?"
For Capt. SO and, I our late twenties and early thirties brought about parenthood and when your children are young, fortunately for most people, so are our bodies so you can keep up with your kids, have enough energy preserved somewhere within your body to withstand sleepless nights and very long days. We could even run faster and jump farther than our children........then.
The forties seemed to be an extension of the thirties, age-wise, and I don't remember much about my forties except that it was a very good decade on one hand and a very difficult decade on the other because we moved to another state in my early forties and that was a traumatic change for me.
In fact, I don't think I thought much about aging until I became a grandparent and some aspects of parenting reappeared in my life. Small actions like sitting cross-legged on the floor for long periods of time - used to be easy in my thirties but became slightly more challenging in my fifties. Crawling around on all fours was once comfortable but as time passes, so does the padding underneath the kneecaps and crawling around on all fours becomes an activity that needs those ugly rubber knee-pads used for floor cleaning and scrubbing.
Then I got to my sixties. Sixty-one, at present, to be exact. I find that this age, for me, is rather like what being bi-polar might be like. For periods of time, my brain can fool my body into thinking it is twenty to thirty years ago. Then, wham! My brain convinces my body that my eighties must be fast approaching. Sometimes this seismic shift takes place from one day to the next. One minute I can keep up with my sidewalk, crack-jumping granddaughter and jump for repeated unlimited amounts of time and before I know it, a week or two later, I'm achy and cranky. The crankiness may certainly be age-related, as may be the achiness, but I find it fascinating that they both can disappear as quickly as they came.
Being sixty-one seems like a gateway age. I can still climb around (however carefully) on playground equipment and I'd still like to water ski one more time, but I can also see a time, down the line, when the only water skiing I may do is in my memory.
Maybe I should make this my water-skiing summer?
Ancora imparo
College brought about different thoughts regarding chronological measurements but again, being in your early twenties is just too exciting to think much about aging, pensions, trusts and savings. Oddly enough though, I now understand that the twenties is EXACTLY when a person should be thinking about pensions, savings, trusts, and the big question, "Will I have enough to retire on?"
For Capt. SO and, I our late twenties and early thirties brought about parenthood and when your children are young, fortunately for most people, so are our bodies so you can keep up with your kids, have enough energy preserved somewhere within your body to withstand sleepless nights and very long days. We could even run faster and jump farther than our children........then.
The forties seemed to be an extension of the thirties, age-wise, and I don't remember much about my forties except that it was a very good decade on one hand and a very difficult decade on the other because we moved to another state in my early forties and that was a traumatic change for me.
In fact, I don't think I thought much about aging until I became a grandparent and some aspects of parenting reappeared in my life. Small actions like sitting cross-legged on the floor for long periods of time - used to be easy in my thirties but became slightly more challenging in my fifties. Crawling around on all fours was once comfortable but as time passes, so does the padding underneath the kneecaps and crawling around on all fours becomes an activity that needs those ugly rubber knee-pads used for floor cleaning and scrubbing.
Then I got to my sixties. Sixty-one, at present, to be exact. I find that this age, for me, is rather like what being bi-polar might be like. For periods of time, my brain can fool my body into thinking it is twenty to thirty years ago. Then, wham! My brain convinces my body that my eighties must be fast approaching. Sometimes this seismic shift takes place from one day to the next. One minute I can keep up with my sidewalk, crack-jumping granddaughter and jump for repeated unlimited amounts of time and before I know it, a week or two later, I'm achy and cranky. The crankiness may certainly be age-related, as may be the achiness, but I find it fascinating that they both can disappear as quickly as they came.
Being sixty-one seems like a gateway age. I can still climb around (however carefully) on playground equipment and I'd still like to water ski one more time, but I can also see a time, down the line, when the only water skiing I may do is in my memory.
Maybe I should make this my water-skiing summer?
Ancora imparo
Monday, April 9, 2012
Silly, Simply Silly
I awoke today with fried brains sloshing about in my skull. Yes, I have had to utter coherent thoughts already and I have had to compose seemingly intelligent responses to received emails but underneath the facade of "with-it-ness" is a smoldering mass of gray matter that might as well have posted a sign that says, "On Vacation."
In an effort to reassemble my brains into some shape resembling basic cognizance, I realized how important it would be to draft a blog posting - that just the exercise of forming complete sentences, typing accurately spelled words strung together in some cogent line resembling a thought - would be vital if I was to achieve any sense of accomplishment during the next twelve to fourteen hours.
I mechanically turned on my laptop, pressed all of the correct keys to get to blogger.com, pulled up the "compose" page and then sat and stared at the screen, desperately willing a topic to come to mind - actually willing any thought to come to mind other than the blank screen. What popped into my head was a kernel from a Facebook friend's post on Saturday. She posed the question: "What is the oldest question in the universe?" I shall now attempt to answer her query. My apologies to anyone with working intelligence reading this today.
"Would you like that super-sized?" (This is the one I posted earlier on her website.)
"Hey, Eve, did you see that apple tree over there?"
"Do these jeans make my butt look big?"
"How do you like my new haircut?"
"Why did John McCain ask Sarah Palin to be his running mate?"
Henry the VIII: "Will you marry me?"
Captain John Smythe to friends: "Would you like to take a boat ride?"
"Where's the beef?"
Sir Isaac Newton: "What will happen if I throw this apple into the air?"
"What could possibly happen if I go swimming with my white t-shirt on?"
"Hey, Dad, can I borrow the keys to the car?"
"Hey buddy, can you spare a dime?"
"Can you hear me now?"
"Is anyone out there listening?"
Ancora imparo
In an effort to reassemble my brains into some shape resembling basic cognizance, I realized how important it would be to draft a blog posting - that just the exercise of forming complete sentences, typing accurately spelled words strung together in some cogent line resembling a thought - would be vital if I was to achieve any sense of accomplishment during the next twelve to fourteen hours.
I mechanically turned on my laptop, pressed all of the correct keys to get to blogger.com, pulled up the "compose" page and then sat and stared at the screen, desperately willing a topic to come to mind - actually willing any thought to come to mind other than the blank screen. What popped into my head was a kernel from a Facebook friend's post on Saturday. She posed the question: "What is the oldest question in the universe?" I shall now attempt to answer her query. My apologies to anyone with working intelligence reading this today.
"Would you like that super-sized?" (This is the one I posted earlier on her website.)
"Hey, Eve, did you see that apple tree over there?"
"Do these jeans make my butt look big?"
"How do you like my new haircut?"
"Why did John McCain ask Sarah Palin to be his running mate?"
Henry the VIII: "Will you marry me?"
Captain John Smythe to friends: "Would you like to take a boat ride?"
"Where's the beef?"
Sir Isaac Newton: "What will happen if I throw this apple into the air?"
"What could possibly happen if I go swimming with my white t-shirt on?"
"Hey, Dad, can I borrow the keys to the car?"
"Hey buddy, can you spare a dime?"
"Can you hear me now?"
"Is anyone out there listening?"
Ancora imparo
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Curious Weather, Curious Day
I do believe that God and Mother Nature teamed up today -Easter Sunday - a day when Christendom celebrates the resurrection of Christ Jesus. Yesterday's newspaper was filled with ads from area churches touting their service times and themes. How though, I must ask myself, can the theme of today really differ? I suppose these churches might mean that they have different service styes, rather than themes but how can the theme of rolling the stone away and seeing an empty tomb be served up in varying themes?
OK, so a topic for a theological seminary class. But, I maintain that Easter Day is a curious mix of religion, faith, Hallmark, Hershey chocolates, Peeps, theology, honey-glazed hams, hot-cross buns, jelly beans, bunnies, and candy-filled Easter eggs. Even Christmas is not as schizophrenia-filled as Easter. At least with Christmas you mostly have baby Jesus and Santa Claus competing with each other. Sure, Hallmark gets its fair share of the Christmas market as does the retail industry but it just seems that Easter is so fractured with icons that it is difficult to focus on whichever meaning your faith (or lack thereof) deems important and worthy.
Is it not oxymoronic that so many churches sponsored and held Easter Egg hunts? Bunny ears in church on Easter Sunday? Really? I'm no Easter Scrooge, or at least I didn't think I was but do I not detect inconsistency here?
Even Mother Nature got into the dissociative-identity-disorder contest today. The day began just like Christians pray for.......a beautiful sunrise and abundant sunshine for hours afterward...........at least in my corner of the world. Midway through the afternoon, the skies clouded over and the wind began to blow, blowing hard enough that the woods behind our condo became noisy and the trees nodded to one another with vigorous movements. It looked as if it might rain, even though rain was not predicted. This cloudy and windy combination lasted for several hours until just a few minutes ago when the sun has reappeared and the sun is once again visible in the distance.
I must close. A good friend gave me an Easter Basket at church today. Those Dove Easter eggs are calling to me.
I might as well join in the schizophrenic celebration. After the eggs, I'll eat a slice of Smithfield ham followed by some tasty, yellow Peeps.
I hope Jesus understands.
Ancora imparo
OK, so a topic for a theological seminary class. But, I maintain that Easter Day is a curious mix of religion, faith, Hallmark, Hershey chocolates, Peeps, theology, honey-glazed hams, hot-cross buns, jelly beans, bunnies, and candy-filled Easter eggs. Even Christmas is not as schizophrenia-filled as Easter. At least with Christmas you mostly have baby Jesus and Santa Claus competing with each other. Sure, Hallmark gets its fair share of the Christmas market as does the retail industry but it just seems that Easter is so fractured with icons that it is difficult to focus on whichever meaning your faith (or lack thereof) deems important and worthy.
Is it not oxymoronic that so many churches sponsored and held Easter Egg hunts? Bunny ears in church on Easter Sunday? Really? I'm no Easter Scrooge, or at least I didn't think I was but do I not detect inconsistency here?
Even Mother Nature got into the dissociative-identity-disorder contest today. The day began just like Christians pray for.......a beautiful sunrise and abundant sunshine for hours afterward...........at least in my corner of the world. Midway through the afternoon, the skies clouded over and the wind began to blow, blowing hard enough that the woods behind our condo became noisy and the trees nodded to one another with vigorous movements. It looked as if it might rain, even though rain was not predicted. This cloudy and windy combination lasted for several hours until just a few minutes ago when the sun has reappeared and the sun is once again visible in the distance.
I must close. A good friend gave me an Easter Basket at church today. Those Dove Easter eggs are calling to me.
I might as well join in the schizophrenic celebration. After the eggs, I'll eat a slice of Smithfield ham followed by some tasty, yellow Peeps.
I hope Jesus understands.
Ancora imparo
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Everyday Rhythms
Shutting off the stereo, I walked to the coffee pot to pour a warm-up and headed to my office. I suddenly became aware of the familiar rhythm to the scuffing of my feet on the wooden floor and the identifiable beat of the washing machine as its agitation cycle attempted to extract all things dirty from the clothes floating around in the cylinder.
Rhythm. It is everywhere. When I stop to carefully examine everyday rhythms, I realize they can be found around every corner and in every nook and cranny. Think about it. I'll wager a bet that you have established a certain rhythm to your tooth-brushing. The shower head emits a regular pulse that resembles a rhythm. The consistent beeping of the microwave signaling completion of a warming cycle. The two-beep reminder that the oven's pre-warming time is over. The rotation of the tires on highways, rolling over every seam positioned at regular intervals can create a mesmerizing sound that has been known to lull people into states of semi-alertness.
Certain birds have an identifiable rhythm to their calls. Capt. SO's phone wake-up alarm is a quacking duck that has a rhythmic and unique alert that gets one's attention. When my sister kneads bread dough by hand, there is a rhythm she gets into. I have a stirring rhythm (as opposed to an inspirational rhythm) that I use when I beat ingredients by hand.
Have you ever paid attention to the rhythm you create when you type? Well, I should say, when you type with the old-school method taught in keyboarding classes. If you watch many youth and oldsters alike, they type with one finger, two fingers, thumbs, anything that can press the keys accurately. But, if you type via proper keyboarding technique, it is possible to create quite the rhythm. In fact, as I have written in the past, if I am listening to my I-tunes play list and typing, it is hard not to try to type in rhythm with the beat of the music.
When we had our beloved dog, Max and the other highly missed pooch, Oskar, the rhythm of their toe-nails on the vinyl, tile or wooden floors would immediately indicate what they were up to and whether or not an owner should go flying to investigate. The same with the predictable jingling of their dog tags. What the tags' sounds told you could be the precursor of eventual mayhem or mischief!
Rhythm is everywhere - not just in music - although you could make the argument that there is music in everyday rhythms. Take the time to listen - and enjoy- your everyday rhythms. You can make beautiful music all by yourself!
Ancora imparo
Rhythm. It is everywhere. When I stop to carefully examine everyday rhythms, I realize they can be found around every corner and in every nook and cranny. Think about it. I'll wager a bet that you have established a certain rhythm to your tooth-brushing. The shower head emits a regular pulse that resembles a rhythm. The consistent beeping of the microwave signaling completion of a warming cycle. The two-beep reminder that the oven's pre-warming time is over. The rotation of the tires on highways, rolling over every seam positioned at regular intervals can create a mesmerizing sound that has been known to lull people into states of semi-alertness.
Certain birds have an identifiable rhythm to their calls. Capt. SO's phone wake-up alarm is a quacking duck that has a rhythmic and unique alert that gets one's attention. When my sister kneads bread dough by hand, there is a rhythm she gets into. I have a stirring rhythm (as opposed to an inspirational rhythm) that I use when I beat ingredients by hand.
Have you ever paid attention to the rhythm you create when you type? Well, I should say, when you type with the old-school method taught in keyboarding classes. If you watch many youth and oldsters alike, they type with one finger, two fingers, thumbs, anything that can press the keys accurately. But, if you type via proper keyboarding technique, it is possible to create quite the rhythm. In fact, as I have written in the past, if I am listening to my I-tunes play list and typing, it is hard not to try to type in rhythm with the beat of the music.
When we had our beloved dog, Max and the other highly missed pooch, Oskar, the rhythm of their toe-nails on the vinyl, tile or wooden floors would immediately indicate what they were up to and whether or not an owner should go flying to investigate. The same with the predictable jingling of their dog tags. What the tags' sounds told you could be the precursor of eventual mayhem or mischief!
Rhythm is everywhere - not just in music - although you could make the argument that there is music in everyday rhythms. Take the time to listen - and enjoy- your everyday rhythms. You can make beautiful music all by yourself!
Ancora imparo
Friday, April 6, 2012
Our Zebras Cannot Be Identical Twins
A greeting card sits on my desk. It is a picture of three zebras, all of whom appear to be laughing heartily - or, at least, that is what the greeting-card-message writer decided to think and capitalize on for the Hallmark Corporation. For all I - or anyone else for that matter - know, the image was Photo-Shopped and isn't "real" at all.
Zebras are a curious branch of the four-legged mammal family. You might say they are the convicted cousins of the equine clan. The stripes on each zebra is akin to a human's DNA. No zebra is striped exactly like any other zebra.
No zebra is striped exactly like any other zebra.
This statement rather reminds me of how differently each person "sees" things, experiences, events, etc. Each individual's "real" time is unique and if one hundred people attended a concert, for example, how each person would describe what he or she experienced would be like a verbal DNA. No two descriptions would be the same.
No zebra is striped exactly like any other zebra.
Taking this a step further, I would propose (I was going to use the word "argue" but it seemed a bit too provocative.) that making a "real-time" event as smooth as a professionally produced video is a good goal for anyone involved in live events or performances. When we sit through a live concert, for instance, it may as well be a produced video to those in the audience because our memories will scroll through the images - both aural and visual - for days, perhaps years.
We who are involved in live events, or those who may become involved in live events, would do well to remember that every movement, every word uttered, every sound produced, every sensory image displayed morphs together to produced an impression - a live impression that can never be erased or Photo-Shopped. Every attendee's memory will be personally imprinted slightly differently, just like those stripes on a zebra.
I'd prefer to have my zebra look like it was wearing a striped tuxedo rather than looking like a mammal convicted of the crime of inattentiveness to detail.
Ancora imparo
Zebras are a curious branch of the four-legged mammal family. You might say they are the convicted cousins of the equine clan. The stripes on each zebra is akin to a human's DNA. No zebra is striped exactly like any other zebra.
No zebra is striped exactly like any other zebra.
This statement rather reminds me of how differently each person "sees" things, experiences, events, etc. Each individual's "real" time is unique and if one hundred people attended a concert, for example, how each person would describe what he or she experienced would be like a verbal DNA. No two descriptions would be the same.
No zebra is striped exactly like any other zebra.
Taking this a step further, I would propose (I was going to use the word "argue" but it seemed a bit too provocative.) that making a "real-time" event as smooth as a professionally produced video is a good goal for anyone involved in live events or performances. When we sit through a live concert, for instance, it may as well be a produced video to those in the audience because our memories will scroll through the images - both aural and visual - for days, perhaps years.
We who are involved in live events, or those who may become involved in live events, would do well to remember that every movement, every word uttered, every sound produced, every sensory image displayed morphs together to produced an impression - a live impression that can never be erased or Photo-Shopped. Every attendee's memory will be personally imprinted slightly differently, just like those stripes on a zebra.
I'd prefer to have my zebra look like it was wearing a striped tuxedo rather than looking like a mammal convicted of the crime of inattentiveness to detail.
Ancora imparo
What A Story
Part of my daily news diet is from Door County Daily News.com, an electronic newspaper feed that keeps me posted on what is happening in the area where Capt. SO and I hang out a lot in during Aqua RV season. While I usually do not recognize area names, I do recognize places, streets, businesses and topics of local discussion that will affect us when we head back in the not-too-distant future.
An event took place on Monday, April 2 that garnered national attention - and for good reason. An eighty-year old woman had to land the plane she and her husband were traveling in after he suffered "a fatal medical emergency". Tuesday's feed gave the predictable details that, even in their brevity, made me think, "Wow!". Today, Door County Daily News.com published the newly released audio tapes of the incident. For some reason, a small voice said, "Listen to the full transcript.", and I did just that. For over forty minutes, I sat riveted to the microphone on my laptop, listening with rapt attention to the woman's voice and the dialogue between her and those helping her get the plane down safely to the runway.
Her name is Helen Collins and she is listed as eighty years old. Sadly, her husband did not survive the medical emergency so I can only imagine the stress and angst she might have been experiencing as she dealt with her own life-and-death situation. Her voice is strong as she responds to the questions her "rescuers" ply her with as they discuss air speed, the throttle, RPM's, flaps, landing gear and a dwindling fuel supply that eventually causes one of her engines to power down automatically. A first-attempt landing ends with an abort that has the coaching pilot flying next to her insistently repeating,"Power up! Power up! Power up, Helen!" She did and on the next attempt, the coaching pilot flies directly behind her, guiding her down to a safe landing.
Through the entire online transcript, I sat listening raptly, as if I was present during the 1938 Columbia Broadcast System's presentation of H.G. Wells' "War of the Worlds", delivered so brilliantly by actor Orson Welles that people became hysterical, believing that it was real. In this moment in her life, Helen Collins displayed the coolness of the proverbial cucumber. In bringing herself, her husband and their plane safely to the ground she displayed a steely steadiness that few, of any age, could muster.
Helen Collins of Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin. What a woman. God was flying with her that day.
Ancora imparo
An event took place on Monday, April 2 that garnered national attention - and for good reason. An eighty-year old woman had to land the plane she and her husband were traveling in after he suffered "a fatal medical emergency". Tuesday's feed gave the predictable details that, even in their brevity, made me think, "Wow!". Today, Door County Daily News.com published the newly released audio tapes of the incident. For some reason, a small voice said, "Listen to the full transcript.", and I did just that. For over forty minutes, I sat riveted to the microphone on my laptop, listening with rapt attention to the woman's voice and the dialogue between her and those helping her get the plane down safely to the runway.
Her name is Helen Collins and she is listed as eighty years old. Sadly, her husband did not survive the medical emergency so I can only imagine the stress and angst she might have been experiencing as she dealt with her own life-and-death situation. Her voice is strong as she responds to the questions her "rescuers" ply her with as they discuss air speed, the throttle, RPM's, flaps, landing gear and a dwindling fuel supply that eventually causes one of her engines to power down automatically. A first-attempt landing ends with an abort that has the coaching pilot flying next to her insistently repeating,"Power up! Power up! Power up, Helen!" She did and on the next attempt, the coaching pilot flies directly behind her, guiding her down to a safe landing.
Through the entire online transcript, I sat listening raptly, as if I was present during the 1938 Columbia Broadcast System's presentation of H.G. Wells' "War of the Worlds", delivered so brilliantly by actor Orson Welles that people became hysterical, believing that it was real. In this moment in her life, Helen Collins displayed the coolness of the proverbial cucumber. In bringing herself, her husband and their plane safely to the ground she displayed a steely steadiness that few, of any age, could muster.
Helen Collins of Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin. What a woman. God was flying with her that day.
Ancora imparo
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Triaging "I Cares"
Triaging is a fascinating concept, is it not? It first came to my attention as a medically-oriented term. My first introduction to "triage" was in reference to a domestic natural disaster years ago and a Red Cross worker described "triaging" the survivors. Loosely, I think of it as dividing the injured into three categories: The walking wounded with minor injuries, serious but non-life-threatening injuries and life-threatening injuries.
It occurs to me that the same categorization has application to many life-situations. Do we not triage (Franklin-Covey calls this prioritization) our actions, activities, tasks - even human interactions - on a daily basis?
The past twenty-four hours have seen me seemingly bombarded with issues that I should - and do - care deeply about but there is only so much I can comprehend, absorb, or even do. Being called to action must be well-planned and thought out. Being called to action requires at least some forethought as what one would do, how one would do it and for how long. Just because I feel a passion and concern for a person, group or unfortunate situation does not mean that the skills, gifts, talents, and resources I have at my disposal are appropriate or even welcomed. Countless stories have been written about the caring responses to disasters where disaster sites are overwhelmed with supplies and clothing. Overwhelmed to the point that the feeling and actuality of being overwhelmed deters and derails the over-arching task of helping those who are affected by the disaster.
I also came to the realization that, sometimes, we humans need to triage our stresses. I can only carry X-number of stresses in my brain and heart until the burden becomes too heavy and I begin to sink so low to the ground (euphemistically speaking) that I become almost paralyzed with stress and worry.
Today just might be one of those days. I will now triage my thoughts. My first order of business will be to read the newspaper and drink my coffee. The world can wait.
Ancora imparo
It occurs to me that the same categorization has application to many life-situations. Do we not triage (Franklin-Covey calls this prioritization) our actions, activities, tasks - even human interactions - on a daily basis?
The past twenty-four hours have seen me seemingly bombarded with issues that I should - and do - care deeply about but there is only so much I can comprehend, absorb, or even do. Being called to action must be well-planned and thought out. Being called to action requires at least some forethought as what one would do, how one would do it and for how long. Just because I feel a passion and concern for a person, group or unfortunate situation does not mean that the skills, gifts, talents, and resources I have at my disposal are appropriate or even welcomed. Countless stories have been written about the caring responses to disasters where disaster sites are overwhelmed with supplies and clothing. Overwhelmed to the point that the feeling and actuality of being overwhelmed deters and derails the over-arching task of helping those who are affected by the disaster.
I also came to the realization that, sometimes, we humans need to triage our stresses. I can only carry X-number of stresses in my brain and heart until the burden becomes too heavy and I begin to sink so low to the ground (euphemistically speaking) that I become almost paralyzed with stress and worry.
Today just might be one of those days. I will now triage my thoughts. My first order of business will be to read the newspaper and drink my coffee. The world can wait.
Ancora imparo
Monday, April 2, 2012
Maybe Not My Cup Of Tea
Chicago Tribune, Sunday, March 25, 2012 - Travel Section
The title of the article caught my eye - "A better place" (written by Josh Noel) - as did the picture of the yurts. "What's a yurt?", you may ask.
I first heard of yurts when Capt. SO and I toured a campground in Door County, Wisconsin that we thought might be of interest to The Three Musketeers' parents in lieu of tenting. A yurt is usually an eight-sided wooden structure, although some cheaper wannabes come in canvas. (You do not want a canvas yurt.) They are commonly one-roomed with a kitchen area and a bathroom.
The Chicago Tribune article was about a Bloomington, Indiana Buddhist retreat center called The Tibetan Mongolian Buddhist Cultural Center. At only $65.00 per night, the concept of deliberate, thoughtful reflection among the trees sounded peaceful and tranquil, two environmental qualities that really appeal to me. This, I thought, could restore centered thoughts to my otherwise scattered brain. As I read on, my excitement began to dim exponentially as I began each new paragraph. The article's author detailed a simply furnished yurt interior, complete with twin futons raised just a few inches off the floor, a skylight and a kitchenette. He states that "after a semi-restless night on one of those futons" he checked the cupboards for signs of food and found quick oatmeal in a cupboard.
For starters, I don't think I'd be able to walk after a night on a probably lumpy futon and I absolutely know I couldn't eat oatmeal that I found in a yurt kitchenette. After breakfast, the customary meditation time was scratched because the monks were away for the Mongolian New Year and a Bloomington rabbi was the guest speaker. After the hour-long presentation came the weekly vegetarian lunch, described by Noel thusly: "As we helped ourselves to spinach pie, a rice casserole and fruit, I noticed ants scurrying around THE TABLE (my caps to emphasize where the ants were) and across a sign that said, 'We have ants. Many, many ants. We don't kill ants, but let's not feed them. Please leave food covered and sealed.'
After reading about the "many, many ants", I decided that a weekend at this Buddhist retreat center might have, indeed, been peaceful......up to a point and that point, for me, would have been sharing my dinner table with "many, many ants" which I can report I would not find peaceful.
Simply not my cup of tea.
Ancora imparo
The title of the article caught my eye - "A better place" (written by Josh Noel) - as did the picture of the yurts. "What's a yurt?", you may ask.
I first heard of yurts when Capt. SO and I toured a campground in Door County, Wisconsin that we thought might be of interest to The Three Musketeers' parents in lieu of tenting. A yurt is usually an eight-sided wooden structure, although some cheaper wannabes come in canvas. (You do not want a canvas yurt.) They are commonly one-roomed with a kitchen area and a bathroom.
The Chicago Tribune article was about a Bloomington, Indiana Buddhist retreat center called The Tibetan Mongolian Buddhist Cultural Center. At only $65.00 per night, the concept of deliberate, thoughtful reflection among the trees sounded peaceful and tranquil, two environmental qualities that really appeal to me. This, I thought, could restore centered thoughts to my otherwise scattered brain. As I read on, my excitement began to dim exponentially as I began each new paragraph. The article's author detailed a simply furnished yurt interior, complete with twin futons raised just a few inches off the floor, a skylight and a kitchenette. He states that "after a semi-restless night on one of those futons" he checked the cupboards for signs of food and found quick oatmeal in a cupboard.
For starters, I don't think I'd be able to walk after a night on a probably lumpy futon and I absolutely know I couldn't eat oatmeal that I found in a yurt kitchenette. After breakfast, the customary meditation time was scratched because the monks were away for the Mongolian New Year and a Bloomington rabbi was the guest speaker. After the hour-long presentation came the weekly vegetarian lunch, described by Noel thusly: "As we helped ourselves to spinach pie, a rice casserole and fruit, I noticed ants scurrying around THE TABLE (my caps to emphasize where the ants were) and across a sign that said, 'We have ants. Many, many ants. We don't kill ants, but let's not feed them. Please leave food covered and sealed.'
After reading about the "many, many ants", I decided that a weekend at this Buddhist retreat center might have, indeed, been peaceful......up to a point and that point, for me, would have been sharing my dinner table with "many, many ants" which I can report I would not find peaceful.
Simply not my cup of tea.
Ancora imparo
National Reconcilation Day
Today, April 2, 2012 has been deemed "National Reconciliation Day", a day in which "we" are all being encouraged to embrace forgiveness and try to restore harmony to an injured relationship. Interestingly, when I researched synonyms for "reconciliation", forgiveness did not appear in the list. Rather, words such as settlement and agreement were among the synonyms listed. The dictionary aligns "reconcile" more with one's checkbook than one's relationships.
Someone, somewhere at church yesterday made mention of today being National Reconciliation Day and then, this morning, I read a tiny article about "it" and its significance, which set my head on a thought path about me, my relationships and whether or not reconciliation needed to be on my agenda for the day. There is a "someone" in my past that hurt me deeply and I must admit that my relationship with this person has never been the same but many years have passed and I am certain she is clueless as to the hurt her words caused all those moons ago. After all this time, I feel that it is pointless to broach the subject to her. She wouldn't have any idea about that which I spoke of and telling her would serve no purpose in our present relationship dynamic. This is my deal and maybe I'll be able to forget it in twenty years or so.
After my less-than-positive brushing session with Cranky Kitty this morning, she may feel as if I should have something to say to her on this national day of reconciliation. CK would definitely feel, if she could talk beyond the horrible howling and growling she produced whilst I was brushing her about an hour ago, that a settlement and agreement should be reached between her and I that no further brushing should be allowed.......a settlement and agreement I will never be able to agree with.
For some reason, CK's old coat and skin are working in tandem to produce fur that mats together way too easily and quickly. Last night, I discovered terrible matted areas around her haunches and this was just four days after her last poorly received brushing. I worked as gently as I could on her right haunch this morning and made good progress but my progress was repeatedly interrupted by strong attempts on her part to nail me with her sharp, pointy teeth that are in very good condition for any-age cat. As I type, she is sitting somewhere near me and expressing her still-recent indignation.
To my old, Cranky Kitty: I am deeply sorry that the brushing your coat so desperately needs is so distressing to you but there is little choice here. I am your last great hope. No one else on the face of this earth dares to annoy you without the aid of anesthesia (which, I am told, you are too old for), or thick leather gloves, or a muzzle, or works in either tandem or groups of three to restrain you. I can only annoy you if I have your neck and head firmly in place so you cannot turn with lightning speed that belies your age and leave nasty bite marks in my tender skin.
You can forgive me but we shall not reach a settlement on this matter, hence perhaps, no reconciliation between you and me.
Ancora imparo
Someone, somewhere at church yesterday made mention of today being National Reconciliation Day and then, this morning, I read a tiny article about "it" and its significance, which set my head on a thought path about me, my relationships and whether or not reconciliation needed to be on my agenda for the day. There is a "someone" in my past that hurt me deeply and I must admit that my relationship with this person has never been the same but many years have passed and I am certain she is clueless as to the hurt her words caused all those moons ago. After all this time, I feel that it is pointless to broach the subject to her. She wouldn't have any idea about that which I spoke of and telling her would serve no purpose in our present relationship dynamic. This is my deal and maybe I'll be able to forget it in twenty years or so.
After my less-than-positive brushing session with Cranky Kitty this morning, she may feel as if I should have something to say to her on this national day of reconciliation. CK would definitely feel, if she could talk beyond the horrible howling and growling she produced whilst I was brushing her about an hour ago, that a settlement and agreement should be reached between her and I that no further brushing should be allowed.......a settlement and agreement I will never be able to agree with.
For some reason, CK's old coat and skin are working in tandem to produce fur that mats together way too easily and quickly. Last night, I discovered terrible matted areas around her haunches and this was just four days after her last poorly received brushing. I worked as gently as I could on her right haunch this morning and made good progress but my progress was repeatedly interrupted by strong attempts on her part to nail me with her sharp, pointy teeth that are in very good condition for any-age cat. As I type, she is sitting somewhere near me and expressing her still-recent indignation.
To my old, Cranky Kitty: I am deeply sorry that the brushing your coat so desperately needs is so distressing to you but there is little choice here. I am your last great hope. No one else on the face of this earth dares to annoy you without the aid of anesthesia (which, I am told, you are too old for), or thick leather gloves, or a muzzle, or works in either tandem or groups of three to restrain you. I can only annoy you if I have your neck and head firmly in place so you cannot turn with lightning speed that belies your age and leave nasty bite marks in my tender skin.
You can forgive me but we shall not reach a settlement on this matter, hence perhaps, no reconciliation between you and me.
Ancora imparo
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Are There Headless Chocolate Bunnies In Easter Eggs?
Occasionally the obvious is obfuscated by overt and covert nuances that leave you saying, "Duh!" Re-writing the former sentence in every-day speak: "I could have told you that!"
My weekly NPR feed titled, "NPR's Most Emailed Stories", always fascinates me on many levels. First, I am intrigued about what others find interesting enough to email to others and second, after I read through the stories, I am usually left with some sort of feeling like, "Did I hear (in these cases, read) that correctly?"
One of this week's stories dealt with chocolate - a timely topic considering that Easter is quickly approaching and chocolate bunnies are for sale everywhere, all waiting to have their heads eaten off first. (Well, that is what I did as a kid, didn't you?) The basic gist of the story was theorizing whether or not a steady diet of chocolate can help control weight. All I can say is that if there is a federally funded study about this, I'll complain about my tax dollars being wasted only after signing up to be a part of the study.
Another story was about a Colorado community that has cancelled its annual Easter Egg hunt for children because parents were so poorly behaved. It seems that last year, parents decided to jump ropes to gain access to the egg area in order to ensure their children had eggs; i.e. candy or the coupons contained in the eggs. I've read about this kind of parent, media-dubbed "helicopter parents" because they hover in every corner of their children's lives, deeming themselves protectors of all things children-related........as long as the child is theirs. I can tell you from experience that this is the same type of parent who believes that his or her child can do no wrong or really deserved a better grade.......if only the teacher could see it!
The other story that left me speechless was a story about nannies. Not the grandmotherly types that are affectionately called "Nana" by their grandchildren, but the kind that are glorified babysitters. An employment agency in New York City (no surprise there) specializes in placing nannies with very wealthy families. So wealthy, in fact, that some of the G.B.S. (Glorified Baby Sitters) can earn well over $100,000.00 a year and even closer to $200,000.00 a year. There does seem to be something wrong with this picture but I am unable to put it into words. Maybe I am just envious?
I wonder how much I could earn in that Colorado community if I was a nanny willing to elbow aside others' children in order for the children that I was responsible for to "get" as many Easter eggs as possible? To get the answer to that question, buy a chocolate bunny and start with the head.
Ancora imparo
My weekly NPR feed titled, "NPR's Most Emailed Stories", always fascinates me on many levels. First, I am intrigued about what others find interesting enough to email to others and second, after I read through the stories, I am usually left with some sort of feeling like, "Did I hear (in these cases, read) that correctly?"
One of this week's stories dealt with chocolate - a timely topic considering that Easter is quickly approaching and chocolate bunnies are for sale everywhere, all waiting to have their heads eaten off first. (Well, that is what I did as a kid, didn't you?) The basic gist of the story was theorizing whether or not a steady diet of chocolate can help control weight. All I can say is that if there is a federally funded study about this, I'll complain about my tax dollars being wasted only after signing up to be a part of the study.
Another story was about a Colorado community that has cancelled its annual Easter Egg hunt for children because parents were so poorly behaved. It seems that last year, parents decided to jump ropes to gain access to the egg area in order to ensure their children had eggs; i.e. candy or the coupons contained in the eggs. I've read about this kind of parent, media-dubbed "helicopter parents" because they hover in every corner of their children's lives, deeming themselves protectors of all things children-related........as long as the child is theirs. I can tell you from experience that this is the same type of parent who believes that his or her child can do no wrong or really deserved a better grade.......if only the teacher could see it!
The other story that left me speechless was a story about nannies. Not the grandmotherly types that are affectionately called "Nana" by their grandchildren, but the kind that are glorified babysitters. An employment agency in New York City (no surprise there) specializes in placing nannies with very wealthy families. So wealthy, in fact, that some of the G.B.S. (Glorified Baby Sitters) can earn well over $100,000.00 a year and even closer to $200,000.00 a year. There does seem to be something wrong with this picture but I am unable to put it into words. Maybe I am just envious?
I wonder how much I could earn in that Colorado community if I was a nanny willing to elbow aside others' children in order for the children that I was responsible for to "get" as many Easter eggs as possible? To get the answer to that question, buy a chocolate bunny and start with the head.
Ancora imparo
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