Backwards It Is

My last posting, Abandon the Shovels, ended with the sentence, "This is getting us nowhere."  Several readers agreed, which led my brain down another path.  Quirky though it may be, here it is.

It was actually the word nowhere that stayed with me.  Have you ever been in an Erewhon store?  I don't know if it is just an upper-midwest business, but the stores are great outdoor equipment and clothing suppliers.  The store name, Erewhon, is the word nowhere spelled backwards, a fact that has always fascinated me.  Someone, or enoemos, in the Erewhon tradition, had either a great sense of humor or was highly creative or both.

Sometimes it seems that everything is backwards in our world.  Ancora imparo readers know that I write, not infrequently, about Mother Nature and, lately, she even has her weather patterns a bit backwards.  She cannot make up her mind between snow, sleet, rain, ice, thunder and then back to snow.  It is as if she is out of ideas and is just throwing whatever is left on her weather palette at us, hoping that something sticks long enough for a meteorologist to talk about it on the evening news.

In music, there is a series of modernistic techniques called retrograde, inversion, and retrograde inversion. (My apolologies, in advance, to the 20th century composer, Arnold Schoenberg, whose twelve-tone row concept I am butchering for this posting.)  Retrograde takes a thematic strand of notes and, using the same notes, writes all the notes backwards.  Take for instance, "Mary Had A Little Lamb", in the key of C major.  The first phrase's notes (or prime) would be:  edcdeee, ddd, egg.  Retrograde would look like:  ggeddde, eed, cde.  Same notes only backward.  (Bored yet?)  Inversion takes all of the original interval relationships and changes their direction; i.e. e f# g# f# e e e f# f# f# e c# c#.  (Riveting, isn't it?)  Retrograde inversion simply takes the inverted form and writes it backwards, or c# c# e f# f# f# e e e f# g# f# e.

My point here being that in music, at least, there is a logical reason for doing things backwards. Perhaps not in the rest of the world, but, at least musicians can justify their backwardness.

Continuing with my theme of backwards, I'll close with this thought:

Ste'l nodnaba gnihtemos ro onoemos rehtegotla.  I etov rof retniw!

Orapmi arocna  (retro-retrograde form)

Abandon The Shovels!

Polar opposites. 

Most people readily recognize what that descriptor means.  In relationships, it might mean "the odd couple".  Messy v.s. clinically neat; diurnal and nocturnal; introspective and outgoing;  Dallas Cowboys v.s. Minnesota Vikings; liberal v.s. conservative.......you get the picture.   

I've been following the brouhaha in a nearby state as conservatives and liberals have clashed daily for over two weeks now.  This ideological melee has as much to do with finances as it does political viewpoints and the fervor with which each "side" is demonstrating its viewpoint is fascinating, to say the least.  I don't know whether to admire the dedication of the demonstrators or worry about their seemingly blind devotion to a cause.....or both. 

That which is at stake is expressed differently by conservatives and liberals and there is no shortage of willingness on either "side" to vocalize.  This "mess" will eventually spread to other states, as it is currently doing, because there are simply not enough Benjamins to go around any more.  Our nation is rapidly reaching an inevitable crossroads where a decision must be made to either divide up the remaining Benjamins or manufacture more.  Neither choice will appease anyone and both choices will inflame just about everyone.

Two clear choices exist:  Hurt now or hurt later and both of these are tough pills to swallow for all.  The billionaire investor, Warren Buffet, Chairman of Berkshire Hathaway Inc., is credited with saying something to the effect (and I paraphrase), "When you find yourself in a hole, stop digging!" 

I am but one voice in the wilderness......one voice with no solution only the instinctive notion that is is time to abandon the shovels.  This is getting us nowhere.

Ancora imparo

Winter Weary

Last night I had the treat of outdoor-grilled pork tenderloin.  Capt. SO and I entertained guests and, once we determined the menu for the evening, we began to think about how the tenderloin would be prepared.  During the summer months, Capt. SO grills many of our meals, being comfortable and adept at the process, knowing just how long to leave the tenderloin on each side to achieve tender perfection.  After considering baking, a method neither one of us has used to prepare pork tenderloin, we decided, last minute, to grill.

Mother Nature and her sidekick, Old Man Winter, cooperated and gave Capt. SO a clear deck on which to wheel the grill about and reasonably moderate cold weather in which to stand out in.  I know we could have broiled the tenderloin but that creates such a clean-up mess that I avoid broiling at all costs.  In fact, I have, thus far, refused to let anyone broil in either oven since moving in almost five years ago.  (But I digress from my blog-topic idea.) When we tasted the grilled meat, with its signature crusted parts from the grill slats, it was as if the idea of spring and summer might actually come to pass.

Mother Nature cooperated just long enough, holding off snow until after we had turned in for the night.   That was all we asked for and, thankfully, received - a brief reprieve from Old Man Winter's icy and snowy grasp. 
He is back today, although in a more weakened state than his last visit.  Tomorrow Mother Nature will apparently be serving up rain - another harbinger of spring - and that is OK with me. 

I am so very winter weary.

Ancora imparo

Two-Inch Limit

I've been resisting the urge to "get into" a book for months now.  I love to read and during the months of Aqua-RVing, I am a bibliophile.  Somehow I associate the sun and water with reading.  During the other months of the year at home, surrounded by tasks and projects, I purposefully ignore the "readers' itch" because I detest reading a few pages at a time, then having to put the book down to either go somewhere or accomplish something.  During these months, my preference is towards the newspaper and magazines - reading materials where I can read thoughts and ideas in their entirety, put the publication down and later return to read more complete thoughts and ideas.

Capt. SO has chewed through about six books this "off-season".  I am thrilled for him because he is not one to readily relax and mentally retreat.  I've envied him but not succumbed to the "itch"......until four nights ago.  A book by one of my favorite authors has been calling to me and, heretofore (my favorite word) I've been able to thwart its influence.  No longer.  Even though I've begun reading it, the longest stretch I've managed to keep it, or my eyes, open is about ten minutes.  I find this totally frustrating and I'm tired of accomplishing this and that when my book is resting on the night stand, beckoning me to just "pick me up for a few minutes".  The other issue with this particular book is its thickness......a good three inches......which means that, at this rate of read, it may be July Fourth before I finish the last sentence.

As with many aspects of my life, my book-readin' needs to have some limits and parameters set around it.  The first parameter needs to be a two-inch-thickness rule. This rule would, at least, prevent me from reading one-inch Harlequin romances (which I detest) and choose-your-own-adventure books aimed at ten-to-thirteen-year-old boys, plus it would help me avoid the aggravation of reading a book so thick that it takes me multiple months to complete.  A book-readin' friend suggested that I read any thickness of book I desired.  To finish the book I'd just need to read until three or four a.m.several consecutive nights in a row. 

Perhaps a deserted Pacific island and a dog would be a more pleasant solution?

Ancora imparo

A Face That Melted Hearts

 His name is Oskar and he was irresistible from the moment I met him.  Tiny and jet-black, with eyes that could make even the infamous Mata Hari seem innocent.  Little did I know that from our first meeting would come a bond so strong that it would eventually, in all likelihood, save his life.

Oskar's home life seemed positive at first, although his owner often complained about his potty habits.  During the initial weeks of our introductory period, he was inside and a part of the family.  I loved having him climb onto my lap and be able to smell his little puppy breath.  Without realizing it, a couple of weeks turned into two months and I became aware that I had not seen him in the house.  An inquiry to one of the kids brought the information that he was banished to the basement because he wasn't house-trained.  This seemed logical to me until, during the brutally cold weeks of winter, the garage door was up and I saw him sitting on a bale of straw with a couple of bowls on the garage floor near the straw.  This did not set well with me, but I bit my tongue.  Winter turned to spring and I next found him tied on a long chain in the backyard, barking up a storm, trying to get someone to pay attention to him.  I inquired about him and was told he was a challenging dog who no one had time to train.  I gently made the comment that if he turned out to be too much work I'd be happy to take him.  This comment was met with a snappish reply for me to mind my own business. Realizing I'd over-stepped my bounds, I never mentioned the dog again but continued to see him confined to the backyard's chain and could always hear him barking.  I ached for the beautiful dog who was clearly being ignored at best. I never mentioned him to Capt. SO because....well, because I knew he'd think I was nuts to ever offer to take in another dog.

One day, in early May, Oskar's owner said to me, "Were you serious about Oskar?"  It never once occurred to me to check with Capt. SO before giving my answer of a resounding, "Yes!"  I went home and confessed that we had just agreed to "adopt" a dog in need.  After making arrangements to pick up Oskar, the day arrived for us to bring him to our house.  We packed up all of his equipment and went to the backyard to make the final "rescue".  Oskar, still on the chain, ran right up to Capt. SO through the muddy yard, and firmly planted his dirty front feet firmly on his chest.  That was their introduction and it was love at first sight.

We adopted Oskar into our family, although it was more as if Oskar adopted us into his family.  Our aging Springer, Max, was clearly confused and became quite depressed, at first, with Oskar's youth and vitality.  They eventually forged a bond although I don't think Max ever recovered from the shock of feeling misplaced by the shiny, black youngster.

Oskar was with us for a little over five months, in which time we had him neutered and trained.  Five months may seem short but it was enough time to thoroughly fall in love with Oskar. When he first came to live with us his bladder control was non-existent.  He was highly skilled and adept at peeing while running down the hardwood-covered hallway on the way to the outdoors early in the morning.  I lost count on how many mornings his first outing was following by the mopping of the hallway.  All I can say is thank goodness we had gone to hardwood and given up the carpeting!

The week before Thanksgiving of that year Oskar went to live with his new owner, someone we knew and were confident would treat Oskar with the love and respect he deserved.  Pieces of our hearts went with Oskar that day and those heart-parts have never been recovered.  We've not seen Oskar since that day we said "Goodbye".  It was just too painful then.  Even now I think it would hurt to put my finders through his soft coat.  In my project of going through documents and photographs, I've looked at many pictures of Oskar from our brief time with him, including puppy pictures his first owner sent with us.  His were eyes that could melt hearts.  Our Max's eyes were always full of mischief.  Oskar's eyes were always filled with love.  I suspect they still are. 

I miss you, Oskar.  I hope you are well.  

Ancora imparo

Possibly Possessed

I think I am possessed.  Either that or I have a penchant for persecution.  One way or another, I find myself deep into yet another project.....one that seems to be a bottomless pit.  Perhaps I have a possible penchant for personal-project persecution?

Some life lessons have left me with an awareness that I have too much stuff in my possession.  (That word keeps cropping up, doesn't it?)  Over the years, I've seen the results of holding on to "stuff" and the effects it has - both on the keeper of the stuff and those who must deal with it at a later date.  I have arrived at the conclusion that it is both time and OK to let go of said "stuff", "stuff" being papers and pictures, mostly.

For years, I thought that being a "good" mother meant keeping the papers of childhood, probably because my mother kept just about every scrap of paper that I ever wrote, touched, or had my name on.  After my parents sold their homes, I inherited all of the stuff my mother kept.  She kept each letter I wrote home, beginning in college and through my married years until her death.  Going through the scrapbooks, file folders, and boxes was like a cinema of my life with report cards, art work, newspaper clippings, concert programs, etc.  She also left me with a life-time of photographs and a life-time supply of greeting cards, post cards, and note cards.  I think the only time I ever visited this "stuff" is each time Capt. SO and I moved.  I would open boxes, stir up the stuff, put the lid back on the box and ready it for the moving truck.

Well, the truck has stopped here.  I've finally grown up enough to understand that keeping said "stuff" does not perpetuate memories, nor invite them.  My mind holds the memories, sometimes more distinctly and vividly than by looking at or holding papers and photos.  I've also finally arrived at the conclusion that, in the future, my children do not need to sort through or handle all of the "stuff" that I deemed "must save".

Before all of the weeping and wailing of the saints that have gone before me rise up and label me awful because I am sorting, throwing and shredding, please know that while I am, indeed, getting rid of grocery sack after grocery sack of paper and redundant photos, I am not throwing the baby out with the bath water.  While I am greatly reducing the volume of my childrens' documents, school papers, certificates of achievement from pre-school through college, I am also saving that which might be entertaining or useful to future generations.  I will be scanning everything, plus keeping a minimum number of "hard copies".  The scanned items will go on to discs and each offspring will receive a disc plus I'll put disc copies in our safe deposit box.  I am not wiping out evidence of existence, just reducing the results of that existence.  I have finally realized that it is OK to let go of the greeting cards Capt. SO and I received from the birth of each child and I have now become comfortable with the notion that by throwing away the sympathy cards I received at the death of each of my parents, I have not diminished my love or respect for them.

By the truck stopping here, future generations will not have to load my boxes into the moving van.  I will have accomplished that task for them.

Possessed?  Possibly.

Ancora imparo

I Heard It Again

Once again, a health-care provider - a dental hygienist, to be precise - used the phrase, "It's your age."  I would like to go on record as being truly tired of hearing this.  I do not need reminding of how the calendar keeps changing, page after page, year after year.  My body tells me in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that I am no longer a thirty-something.  Fortunately, my mind does not realize my body's chronological age or stage.  My mind still takes me places and encourages me to do and try activities that make Capt. SO's eyebrows rise and, on occasion, cause him to tell me to act my age........the ultimate compliment!

I would love to water ski at least one more time.  I'm pretty sure if the driver of the boat were skilled, I could get up without dislocating any joint and enjoy a ride around the circle at least once.  Granted, the water would have to be relatively calm - maybe just a slight chop - and I would want the ski area to myself so I did not have to content with other boats' wakes.  I don't want much......just one more perfect ride.

I'd like to go horseback riding at least one more time.  I'd like to get into an aerobic dance class again.  There is just nothing more energizing than "exer-dancing" to music that has a great beat.  I suppose, "at my age", that I'd do more "sweatin' to the oldies" than anything else. 

I'd like to play in an orchestra once again before my hands and fingers become stiff and can no longer negotiate fast, complicated passages.  I listen to the classical music station and am transported back in time whenever I hear a piece that I played, which is frequently.   

I'd like to sing in a top-flight community chorus again.  Aside from playing in a band or orchestra, there is no other experience like singing with a large choir.......especially when the director is skilled.

I'd like to direct a band again..........

All these desires and dreams to do just one more time before my mind realizes that my body is getting older.  If all of these well-meaning health-care professionals would just stop telling me, "It's your age."   I do not want to hear those words again.

It may be my age but can't I just pretend?

Ancora imparo