What Does he know?

Today was a beautiful spring day. Finally, finally, icicles dripped and water ran and snow melted. Oh, at long last. Could it be the last of winter?

But then, late this evening I went out for a stroll and there was a frigid wind blowing. The temp was around freezing which is to be expected at nightfall, but with the wind chill it felt like more miserable winter weather.

So I said to Hub, “What are we in for tomorrow? Did you listen to the weather?”

“Yes,” he said, “and the guy on the news said cold and blowing snow for the next three days.”

I pulled my longest fed-up-with-winter face.

“Don’t look so down,” Hub said. “What does he know? The guy is just a meteorologist. He’s not a weather man.”

Oh what good news.

P.S. I can only surmise from that discussion that a meteorologist studies weather patterns, but a weather man can construe weather more to Hub’s liking without any patterns.

Boogeymen in the Closet, Poltergeists Under the Bed

Today I must review my Halloween candy situation and get bags ready for the tricksters and treaters that will be arriving at my door tomorrow night.

Naïve, I am. Long ago I dismissed the fanciful thoughts of boogeymen in the closet and poltergeists under the bed, but wait, not so fast. They were real and they were there when I was a child and they still are.

I know that for a fact because the boogeymen in the closet are stealthily opening boxes of chocolate bars, and mini bags of chips and cheezies, like children do with Christmas gifts. Small discrete tears and carefully cracked seams that make the damage as close to invisible as possible. But big enough that stealthy hands have extracted a large number of treats.

With the closet door tightly shut, who, what else could it be — except boogeymen in the closet.

But that’s not the all of it. While the boogeymen are busily depleting my stash of Halloween treats in the closet, the poltergeists under the bed are chanting whispered spells that have Hub in a restless and wakeful state of terror interrupted by four a.m. screamer nightmares (and sometimes stomach pains) for the past week.

Oh God, I hate this. It’s not enough that Hub is being tormented at night in such a merciless way, but now I’m stuck with having to make the dreaded trip to town for more treats!

Ways of the Elderly [Way 1.]

WAY I

In ‘Way I’ of this series, I first want to reflect on my own peculiar attainment of an understanding of life realizations.

Suffice to say that at a young age, through diplomatic conversations with my mother, and less diplomatic conversations with older sisters, I found out that within my lifetime, I could expect several stages of change.

There would be a stage of adolescent change, and soon after stages of love, marriage, childbirth…and then…little else. Nothing actually. Because after that, life-stage-instruction fell off, as it were, into a deep chasm. There was no discussion from Mother or siblings of what I might expect in that latter period of my life.

And so the learning was hampered right from the get-go with a kind of ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ kind of thinking, not only from my Mother who maybe as yet didn’t know, but also from Elders in the neighborhood. And so that silence made old age seem so irrelevant. So unrelated to me—my life and my own physical and mental development.

Sure I encountered a few old people, some very old indeed, but ‘twas said about the town that ‘they are totally senile’, and indeed, they appeared to be. It was obvious even to me in my tender years that they all were so-of-another-mind, and another time, and another reasoning, and a square-and-unyielding-lack-of-acceptance of the magic of modern-day thinking. So much so, I concluded they must be no more a part of my phylum or sub-species than a rock or a tree.

Appearances alone supported this conviction. So many of them had hunched backs, a shuffling gait, bulbous noses, over-large earlobes, and folded sagging necks shaped in all respects like that of turtles. None of which physio-features I possessed.

And furthermore, when I engaged in conversations with them, like turtles they withdrew from present time and only discussed with me times of their-now-distanced youth.

They were mum, in fact, secretive of their own particular thoughts and feelings in present time. Even my own parents became secretive in that respect in their elder years. Pretending, as it were, that they were still in a youthful space. Dipping only into circumstances of the past. A kind of pantomime acting out without the modern-day stage costumes of jogging outfits, face-lifts, tanning agents, hair coloring, and only God knows, what else.

So, despite even one-on-one discussions, the ‘stage of elderly’ remained a complete blank slate—and my understanding as limited as that of a something as inanimate as a rock or a tree.

And so, with no knowledge of what to expect in my elder years, I likewise gave no contemplation to that stage of life. But eventually realizations came. Not gently, but explosively.

Next Post – you guessed it – WAY 2.

Three Ha's

It is a silly little thing, hardly worth discussing, but still I want to discuss it.

So this is the theory and it has to do with the meanings of ha, or ha-ha, or ha-ha-ha.

A one-syllable ‘ha’. What does it mean? I hear Hub say it a lot. He says it when he is working on a problem and in the process something positive is accomplished or discovered. ‘Ha’ is a good thing.

Now think about ha-ha. Another positive meaning—something amusing.

But ha-ha-ha. Do you remember hearing that in conversation? If you do, did you notice the negative meaning? That three ha’s usually signify a kind of sneering contempt?

And of course, remember when you heard ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. Magically that lengthier repetition gives ‘ha’ a positive meaning of total hilarity.

So now that is the theory. The negativity of three ha’s is something I came upon recently in a book. I believe it was in “The Curiosity Shop” by Charles Dickens. (Don’t quote me on that though, because I finished the book a couple of weeks ago and was unable to relocate the page for reference.)

But going back to our original conversation, I have to say that when I think about my own experiences, I recall many times in conversations with friends, if a joke fell flat, the response from the audience to the joke-teller was invariably three evenly spaced ha’s. And other times, when a joke was very funny, the audience complemented the teller with four or more ha’s. So as silly as the theory is, I think it is true.
____

And so now, if the theory is true, why does the exact same syllable render such conflicting meaning dependent on the number of repetitions? Those three ha’s seed and expand an aggravation within similar to the aggravation of listening to a musical performance punctuated by errors.

And so, with this new enlightenment, I begin to wonder if one shouldn’t be mindful of syllabic rhythm when composing a love sonnet, or a poem honoring the beauty of nature? They say the magic in poetry is the coupling of the words with a hypnotizing rhythm and that might be more important than even the content of the text. So in light of the theory expressed in the foregoing paragraphs, it might be well to stay away from three-gaited syllabic lines or meters.

I mean, truthfully, wouldn’t we all be a little chagrined, if door bells went ding-dong-ding, and clocks went tick, tock, tick? My beeper alarm clock goes beep-beep-beep, beep-beep-beep and God help me, let’s not even go there.

I don’t know enough about musical bars, beats, and measures to analyze the syllabic beats, but I wonder if pleasant or disagreeable melodies are tied to this same theory? If the theory is correct, then perhaps the triple lilt is the flaw that splays emotions all over the back fence when seduction is what we had in mind.

So maybe it would be well for us to pay attention to the beat cause it might be sounds in our environment that layer distress in our minds. Maybe it’s not situations in our day-to-day lives. Maybe the real cause of our distress is syllabic triplets in the beat. I’m just saying.
___

And so, now in conclusion, I have given this a lot of thought in the past few days. And then just when I decided to dismiss it all, an eight-year-old from next door asked me if I wanted to play “knock, knock, knock”.

I immediately felt that flash of edginess that three ha’s engender and without thinking snapped, “I know whose there. Someone who can’t count!”
___

The thing I still remain unsure of is whether the aggravation is an uneven lilt or a three-legged lilt.

It Takes a Village

In a special little spot on Planet Earth, a small village has been established. I took this picture of it so you could see what I am talking about. It is quite amazing, and although I have lived in this country all my life, I have never seen such a colony. It is a village of wee towers, (there are many more than this picture shows), and in these towers live a vast number of jolly, dwarf-size bumblebees. One of which is peeking in the doorway of the farthest tower in this picture. And although it doesn’t seem so, the little towers look smooth and elegantly constructed to the naked eye, although in this magnification they seem so crude.





I frequently inspect the area. The inhabitants know when they are being watched. They sing loudly and dart about as if agitated, but they never attack so Hub and I assume they are non-aggressive. Either that, or they are too busy, far too busy, for a fight.

And so, I watch them work and wonder if each of them has, and knows, their own particular abode. I think they do, but they freely visit the homes of others. I saw one bee pop into several little towers before eventually descending into one where he stayed for a time. That final stop must have been his own wee hut, but the protocol of his cluster environment compelled him to stop to say a quick and cheery good morning to his neighbors.

Yesterday there were probably ten or more elegant towers in the village, but after a rain, although the construction is in a protected spot under a narrow eave, it looked as if the colony had endured an earthquake. Little towers tumbled over every which way and many broken. I felt so bad when I saw the destruction and quite puzzled at how such damage occurred.

I stayed awake most of the night feeling dismal about the carnage in the little village. Too early I was up to see if repairs were being done and how the work was going. I was surprised. There was the little village of towers looking as clean and neat as a pin. No towers toppled. None broken. All in excellent repair. I planned to take a picture but decided it could wait until after breakfast.

After breakfast I went out and to my dismay, again many of the towers were toppled or damaged. Still repairs were underway. One had a good quarter inch of new construction that was still wet. And then I had to wonder, ‘Could these little bees do that much repair in so short a time when the work they do is comparable to working with atom-sized stones fashioned from one microscopic drop of spittal and one grain of sand?’ Comparative, it would seem, to our efforts to build a full-size basement with a truck load of concrete and nothing to mix and move it except a two cup measure and a soup ladle.
____

Now I have torn down or burned more than my share of bee’s nests in my time, either for amusement, or for fear of being stung. I have never felt guilt or remorse about doing that. I have never let any thought occupy my mind about how much patience and diligent work it took to construct those nests. But when you see bee’s building homes out of mud, so representative of our own houses, their efforts become a lot more relevant. And also, there is another pattern of life similar to our own, when I see them forming small communities. And a pattern of life similar to my own represented by their tiny huts and narrow streets.

And so, when I see such a village, with goings on so closely patterned after my own environment, I begin to feel truly distressed about the work involved in the building, and the sorrow and heartbreak of the destruction of that long, patient, and diligent effort – by a few tiny little bees.

And so, now in summation, what I need to tell you is that as one ages, we toughen up quite a bit. Tears come less often. Discouragements, though sad, are dismissed with a shrug. But at the same time, deep within there is a new softness forming. And harbored within that softness, is more pathos – pity for the helpless; and more ethos – greater attempts to be a better person. It is the way of an aging heart and aging flesh.

And so, I appease my guilt in this particular matter, by vowing to never rip down another bee’s nest if there is any kind of slight possibility that we can get along. And to vow I will not harm those little mud towers (I screamed at Hub to get out of there with his shovel). And while I’m forming these new resolutions, I might as well include a vow to nevermore scramble ant piles.

Surely, for my own peace of mind, it is better to change the things I can, than simply assume that mistakes of my past cannot be altered.

What a Wonderful World!

My greatest wonder in life has nothing to do with the mechanics of anything. That is Hub’s department.

What I find wondrous is nature, and life, hopes and dreams. But having lived in the same house with the same man for more than thirty years, beyond a new bend in Hub’s sense of humor, what new could I possibly find to wonder at in my home environment? The mechanics of material things change, which doesn’t impress me, but little else. Still, even at that, unexpected situations arise that tap into my emotions and leave me quite awe-stuck.

Take this morning, for instance.

Hub is in a funk and I am beginning to worry about it. He’s bored. He eats too much and sleeps too much. Seems restless and unable to focus on anything.

Added to that, the weather remains nasty, which doesn’t help. And so I am beginning to fear if the weather doesn’t turn, Hub may not turn either. Back to his normal happy and carefree self.

Still I do my best to try and cheer him, but all to no avail. So there remains little left for me to do except to remain quietly supportive and at the same time more attentive to Hub’s conversations in hopes of finding an opportunity to assist him, in some unexpected way, back to his normal good humor.

And so, for these reasons, I am immediately alert, when Hub says to me at the breakfast table this morning, “Do you know the words to this song?”

I perk up my ears and wait for him to hum a bit of the melody, but all I hear coming from his side of the table is a deep muffled rumble like a slipper tumbling in a clothes dryer. His lips are ever so slightly parted in a duplication of Mona-Lisa’s famous smile, and I can tell he is deeply concentrating while exhaling a soft sound, so I go to his side of the table and bend over and listen. An uncommon thing for me to do, because normally Hub talks and sings, so very loud.

As I bend near his face, I hear a rumbling hum that seems to be coming from inside one of the table legs rather than from him. I bend closer and peer into his eyes and see a look of such intense concentration. A look that leads me to think Hub may have quietly slipped out-of-body. It is a glazed look that tells me he has moved somewhere else—leaving me feeling quite alone. He is not immediately behind his eyes, as he should be. Normally I feel an intimate adjacency to the person behind the eyes, but when I look at him, it is like looking through 140X Binoculars across a great expanse. He seems so very far away.

But, despite that, if I am to render normality here, I must pay attention. I must listen and try to identify the song. And so I listen very carefully to muffled modulations of oblique sound that have spacing and rhythm that is vaguely familiar.

But the tune? There isn’t any. And that sets me wondering what is going on, because Hub, like most people, always attempts to jar my memory with bits of the melody when he wants to remember an old song.

This morning there is no tune. The sound is more like a liturgical chant. There is no melody. But that is not the full extent of the weirdness of the situation. What is even weirder is the sound I hear is, in no way, representative of Hub’s voice. Not his sad voice, his happy voice, his normal voice, or even his silly voice.

It is not Hub’s familiar voice I am hearing. It is another tone, another pitch, another pronunciation, another shade, another frequency. It is simply not Hub’s voice. But yet, there is something strangely familiar in this never-before-seen-or-heard rendition. The pulses of the sound are scattered but not random.

And now I begin to verge on a kind of panic with the dragging and quickening of bass-toned exhales and inhales, and again, I say, without melody. And furthermore, the sound is incredibly soft, because it is as if Hub is forcing from somewhere deep inside a sound outside of his own voice range.

I don’t know what is happening here but my inner gut tells me it must be way more serious than a high fever, a blood clot, or an aneurysm. And the eyes though still and unblinking, remain fixed on me in an imploring stare. Across the huge expanse I referred to earlier.

And then, by God, it suddenly hits me. I know the song! I know the song!

Not from the nature of it, but the mechanics of it. Hub was amazed I did it. But I was far more amazed at how ‘The Lord of the Mechanics of Everything’ (that would be Hub) packaged the clues to a musical piece into nothing more than the mechanics of the piece.

Now that I understand the virtual impossibility of what he was doing, of course his eyes veiled over with such intense concentration. It’s pretty close to miraculous when someone can deliver a memory of a song with little more than vibrations of E.S.P. accompanied by a rhythmic percussion of nothing more than the sound of a slipper tumbling about in a clothes dryer.

Now Hub can carry a tune. He knows if it is right or wrong. But as he told me later, he had completely forgotten the tune. He had forgotten the words as well. He had forgotten the name of the song, and he had forgotten the artist. But what he hadn’t forgotten was that the song was a happy song. That is the memory that led to the twisted Mona-Lisa-smile. And he hadn’t forgotten the timber of the singer’s voice or the rhythm of the song.

Now Hub is not an impersonator in any way, shape, or form. But the voice I heard, that was not Hub’s, but yet was vaguely familiar, was the deep voice, magical and dream-shaped, of Louis Armstrong.

And the song Hub needed to remember was “What a Wonderful World.”
____

Isn’t that totally delightful? When Hub wants that desperately, and needs that desperately to recall a song to sing this early in the morning, and that particularly happy song is the song he wants to sing, my heart is lifted and I know all is well. The weather has cleared despite the dreary skies outside the window, and I know Hub’s funk has flown.

Hub is out in his shop right now singing at the top of his lungs, in tune, and in his own voice with impeccable phrasing…

“I see fields of green, red roses too…”

Discovery No. 2

So now we come to Discovery No. 2.

Now I have two lovely easels and paints in every corner of this house – watercolors, acrylics, water soluble crayons, oils, and I am so ashamed to say, I haven’t touched them for eons. I used to paint with acrylics when the kids were babes but since then I’ve painted nothing except walls and ceilings and window-frames.

It’s been so long but nevertheless I want to paint something really nice without wasting my lovely acrylics and oils. So I guess watercolors are the best thing to use for my halting re-entry into artistic endeavors even though acrylics are the medium I am most comfortable with.

Still, after such a long hiatus, I know there is going to be too much paint wasted in the process so I will reserve my acrylics and oils for the works of perfection that will eventually follow. That does make sense, doesn’t it?

Now my watercolor Guide Book tells me the paper needs to be wet and then stuck taut to a surface so that when it dries it will not wrinkle. That’s very cute, isn’t it? Just how does one stick a sloppy wet piece of paper to anything?

It ain’t gonna’ happen. And in the past, when I’ve tried it, the paper still dried as wrinkled as a fried overshoe. In fact, even in art shows, the experts must be having problems because too often beyond the frame and the glass is a wavy piece of warped paper. The process obviously isn’t working that well for others either.

So we will have to find a new approach.
_____
And in pondering that new approach, I find myself thinking about the container of bum wipes Eldest Daughter left here last time her and wee Grandson came a callin’.

They are wet. Wet enough for water colors to blend and flow and smudge and make wonderful magical nuances of color that are so unexpected. And I have a strong suspicion that when those bum wipes dry, they will dry flat without taping or pressing or anything else for that matter. So in 2 seconds flat, I paint a test piece.

And Voila! How amazing is that? We have another new discovery!



The painting is no Vincent van Gogh, but still it’s a start.

All I need now is some bigger bum wipes – something like 16 x 34 inches. So I can do a big painting—a painting with undeniable presence.
______


Oh how long it takes me to discover these things? And the reason it took me so long is because I was trained to do things the ‘proper way’. In my youth I tried way too hard to do things according to the rules. So many times I could have moved on but I stopped because I felt compelled to do everything the way others did it. You know – the way it is supposed to be done.

But no more! And I love, love, love, this unexpected freedom to do things without the slightest concern about how others do them or if I am doing them right.

And to You, I Bequeath....

Today all I want to do is resurrect an unexpected comment that appeared only recently on an older post about the special joys of spending time in Hub's rustic cabin. The comment was by Middle Daughter and was truly surprising to me but in a pleasant way. This is what she said:

“Mom, do you think you could tuck the cabin in my keepsake box with your bread recipes, and short stories?
Would enjoy this so much more, than your silver serving set, and fine china.”

Those words warmed my heart like a wood fire and a singing kettle.

One Easy Cure

The blogger flu we were discussing last post?

I found a cure. Maybe not a complete cure but something that will readily cheer your mind, warm your soul, and cause your heart to soar with delight. I found it in Anne’s list of goodies (recipes). She picked it up here. And I don’t care if you don’t like pancakes. You’re going to love this one.

Made it. It was so simple. Ate it plain with butter and a bit of icing sugar. It was so goo-oo-d.

It made me happy. Made Hub happy too. It made us blind to dreariness. And if we get more snow, more minus temps, more rain, more mud, I will simply make some more and remain obliviously happy.

Good Times

We haven’t done morning conversations for a very long time. So that is what is on today’s agenda. Maybe you had to ‘be there’ – maybe not. But regardless this is what took place at today’s regular Mind Expansion Seminar.

[The kitchen television is on while Hub and I are having morning coffee. Neither is paying any attention to the kitchen TV. But when an ad comes on for a concert by ‘RealBigSea’ 'GreatBigSea', we both look and listen. Then we look at each other, smile, even chuckle a bit, and suddenly realize it is a Good Day.]

Not-so-silly Roberta: You know, Hub, that is one Band that will always be popular and well loved. And I don’t think it has as much to do with the music as how they look. Look at them – smiling, hopping happily while they sing—having a really Good Time.

Silly Hub: That is certainly true, Roberta. I know all about it. People are truly drawn to anyone having a good time. And I guess it’s time I let you know. That is why so many women are drawn to me.

Not-so-silly Roberta: How silly is that? You’re not having a good time. They should be able to see that. You are silly. Yes. But having a good time?? Not so much.

Silly Hub: I know I’m not having a good time. You know I’m not having a good time. But I am completely unable to convince others I’m not having a good time. No matter what I do, they all think and completely believe I’m having a Good Time. So you see, it isn’t my fault, the women mob me. They’re just drawn like everyone else to someone having a Good Time.

(And so, Roberta is left, as she often is after a Mind-Expansion Seminar, to ponder this new unexpected manifestation of meaning).

Poached Eggs

Okay. I have to admit it. You had me there. When you pointed out those remarkable new men of the current generation that vacuum, dust, make beds and do laundry. You described them to me in glowing terms and I gazed from afar at these new men that displayed such dedicated servitude. And yes, I wanted one of them. Indeed I did.

Unfortunately, I have the older model. The one, that does men’s work, while I do women’s work. Oh yes, there’s been a bit of progress. Amazing, as it might sound, we did get to the point where he could make a meal, vacuum a room and turn on the dishwasher. It was a slow progression that had such promise, but that’s where it stalled, and I soon became bitter that he couldn’t do better.

If I contemplate what other men-of-the-new-wave have added to their agenda, it looks mighty attractive. Because obviously when a man takes on so many women’s tasks, that means less of those for the little woman. The math is simple. Subtraction from any given amount equals a lesser amount. Right?

No, not necessarily. There is a devious thing going on here that flaws the math. A tricky bit of undulation, like a rogue wave, that skews what appears to be simple addition and subtraction.

It’s hard to see how the math works. But what I do see in the outcome is while the subtraction of mundane tasks is going on, on one side of the equation, on the same side of the equation; there is a massive increase in the tasks of administration and management. If you will be patient, I will explain.

When my children were young, I concerned myself with grocery and clothing purchases, three squares a day, transport to extra-curriculum activities, laundry, an outside job, and housekeeping within reason. It seemed like a heavy load at the time. But was it?

At no time did I ever have to concern myself with vehicle maintenance, insurance, taxes, appliances, or yard maintenance. Or with broken windows, a leaky roof, septic tanks, or iced-up eaves troughs. Or with communication devices, computers, license plate renewals, sagging decks, or home equity. These things I’ve never given a thought to in all my years.

But now, when I see how stressed women are, despite partners that are ideals of the new-wave-man, I realize something is up. And I’ve finally figured out what it is. Though few realize it, in this new job-sharing plan, it is true that women end up doing a whole lot less of the mundane tasks, but at the same time they end up with a mammoth dump of a whole syndicate of new tasks that stretch into an endless continuum of stressful and judgmental decisions.

Now the first thing I need to realize if I want my man to take on some of my work, is how bloody taxing the training will be. And I have to recognize how long and drawn out the supervisory attention will need to be that follows. These may not be formidable tasks but I want them done right.

And then, when that is reasonably accomplished, what the hell? Soon after, I realize that I am CEO of a whole lot of stuff I hadn’t planned on. Because somehow like the magic porridge pot that boiled over until it was running in the streets, this is what happens.

With Hub and I on the same work committee, and with me in this supervisory role, I am forced to look at the bigger picture. Now I start to see inefficiencies in the global picture that (in my estimation) need upgrading or a better fix. Soon I’m thinking if tires are going to be rotated, the car should also have new brake shoes and bearings. And now I’m thinking that we should change insurance companies and transfer investments to another bank that pays more interest. And we should also probably check out other communication options and maybe think about moving from monthly utility payments to a locked in contract.

Meanwhile Hub is too buried in job-training to take the bull by the horns as he used to do. In fact, is it just my own warped mind, or is he more and more only responding like a robot to my commands? It seems so, when he gets up every morning and says to me, “What do you want me to do today, and how do you want me to do it?”

Still, I smile with delight at this power I now have over him. My character has blossomed. My ego is as inflated and shiny as a monster Zeppelin that is flying high. Me?—more important than I ever thought I’d be.

It’s pretty darned nice, this promotion to the role of overseer and planner for every solitary thing around here. And I can’t help but feel pretty darn smug because there’ll be no languishing in the big chair, no Lone Star Channel viewing for Hub, until this house is looking like a show home with all the rugs vacuumed, the hall-ceiling repainted, and the car washed as well.

But that’s where the change becomes insidious in ways I hadn’t expected. That’s when, suddenly there I am, in charge of everything, included a host of monstrous complexities I never encountered or considered before, rather than the simple organization and completion of the jobs I once did.

No longer is my life as easy as cleaning up a few dirty dishes in the sink. Now I am running in circles, stressed to the hilt about taxes, savings, interest, investments, the roof, the driveway, the shingles, the oil change in one car, the trade-in of another.

Hub used to take full responsibility for all the foregoing things listed and he accomplished them as invisibly as shoe-making elves in the middle of the night. Now they don’t get done until I list them, define them, and detail them. Because his agenda is suddenly totally dependent on my agenda.

And that is not so great cause now Hub is chronically underfoot. He’s in my way, always in my way—not tasking but instead waiting for me to assign his next move while my brain races in circles in a vain attempt to encompass all that is critical for the day, the month, the year.

I’m suddenly in a constant flux of frightful contemplation of what should be done next and how best to do it. It means making decisions every day with unknown outcomes that in the end I will be totally responsible for. He’s doing the work. Oh yes, he is. He’s not wearing that apron and head scarf without good reason. But I’m the one now holding the authority, setting the schedule, and owning responsibility for the ultimate outcome.

And so now, rather than that needed time to do my own thing (writing, blogging, knitting, self-reflection, and sewing), I have no time for anything. And when I do get a notion to cook a Sunday breakfast, I now have a critic peeking over my shoulder in MY kitchen telling me that is not how to prepare poached eggs!

It makes me remember with sad regret the days before that stupid conversion to the new man. When Hub sat like a sentinel at the table waiting for breakfast. And when it was served, he winked and smiled and said, “Roberta. There’s not a woman on the face of the earth that can poach an egg the way you can!”

Global Warming vs Societal Decay

As a follow-up to my last post, in truth, I really don't know all the merits of the fix-it theories for Global Warming --- assuming it is a fact.

I haven’t read the Al Gore fact sheets or watched the movie. As a rant-writer, I make the assumption, and perhaps unfairly, that everything Al Gore may say, is a plagiarized work, with all of it extracted from other’s work and investigations.

Seems to me he too graciously accepted the Peace Prize for “his” work, when the work was no doubt far-removed from any personal research or documentation on his part. Maybe I’m misunderstanding something here but isn’t it odd that through a direct factory-buy, one can suddenly become the ‘originator’ of another’s writ?

Still I often ponder, going off topic a bit here, why no one is working on a theory to explain, in a similar manner, the chaotic thinking of modern society.

Seems if we could get to the cause of that, straighten it out a bit, get some wisdom and common sense in the air, society, as a whole, could develop the kind of sensitivity that we have towards preservation of our environment. A sensitivity that would make so much of society better at parenting, sustaining relationships, being responsible, practicing wisdom, conciliating rather than warring with other nations, and ultimately as an extension of clear and responsible thinking, tidying up our trash.

Though I can’t fault Mr. Gore for the best of intentions, if he doesn’t get this connect, I’m not certain his connect is truly authentic. Unless, of course, our societal break-down is solely due to melting ice and the ever expanding hole in the ozone layer.

Another possibility may be that our present condition is the outcome of some other atmospheric, climatic, or circumstantial phenomena, not yet countered or realized.

In truth, I have to wonder when there is so much child and animal abuse and violence in the news, where are the tabulations and schematics for explanatory theories for the causes and cures for all that? Where is the campaign leader to sensitize us to those realizations? Is it not an equal, if not greater concern – the concern of who we are and what we will become if action is not taken now?

But, of course, that's me coming out of left field again. And I’ll be the first to concede I am no authority on anything much.

Perhaps if I felt comfortable with snagging others thoughts, and passing them off as my own, I’d have some enviable solutions and an even more enviable theory. But there is a part of me that will not allow me to do that. Recycling is good, but not so good in that context.

And so now I give you my final admission. I’m too much of a dreamer of an earth-based Utopia, where children are cherished, animals are loved, nature reverenced, and relationships stabilized by selfless-commitment to embed myself in the symptoms of Global-Warming that are not necessarily the crux of the matter.

_________

P.S. Feel free to debate these notions. The originality of your thoughts are safe with me.

A Refurbished Relationship (Part I)

THE OMEN

Thirty years of ever increasing familiarity, implicit trust, comfortable ease, and oft times, duplicity of thought. That’s what life has become. There is little reason, anymore, to mind the relationship. No practical reason to take it out, examine it, polish it, or disassemble it.

As usual, we sit in silence lingering over coffee. Hub reads the paper. I rattle the keys on my laptop. I should perhaps ask, “Did you sleep well?” but the answer will be nothing striking. Maybe ‘yes’, maybe ‘no’, but it is all of too little consequence to pursue. So there is little verbal exchange.

After breakfast, Hub readies himself to take a quick trip into town. Two puppies hastily run to the car but Old Dog is not among them. I find her napping in the livingroom.

Old Dog is a bit deaf so I bend close and speak loudly words she readily understands. “Go”, “town”, “ride”, and “car”. Old Dog raises her furry little head, looks at me with disinterest, and returns to a sprawled position with her head resting on her paws. I urge her to ‘go’ with repeated appeals but it is obvious that Old Dog chooses to remain at home today. I feel her nose. I am puzzled when I find her nose is cold and wet and she shows no visible signs of distress.

In fact, I am more disturbed by Old Dog’s decision to stay home than I care to admit. She has never made this choice before. Even on occasional days when she looked ill and I found her nose papery-dry and warm to the touch. And so, for the first time in my life, I stand on the front step and announce to Hub, who is waiting in the car, that Old Dog is not coming. Hub blinks in astonishment. As shocked by this communication as I am.

And so Hub leaves and Old Dog stays. I watch from the door already knowing the routine. With the fresh snow, the temptation is too great. Hub spins the car in circles in the driveway. He ‘drifts’ (as the twin’s call it) burning circles of flying snow, and skidding out of the driveway on two wheels. It is disturbing but it can’t be helped. You can take the old man out of the kid but you can’t take the kid out of the old man.

Hub’s car rumbles by the window and I now expect Old Dog to come to the kitchen to let me know that it was all a dreadful mistake. That she was just joking and I should have known, and Hub should have known, that she really didn’t expect to be left. When she remains unmoving, I begin to think this unprecedented choice too far out of character to be dismissed. It is not something I can calmly dismiss as circumstance. It must be something more. Maybe an omen, handed down by the gods of fate and destiny, with critical and ominous meaning, that I need to take note of.

The thought is there but I push it aside so I can concentrate on other things. I already know that without other errands, Hub will be back within the hour.

But he isn’t. Time drags on. Two o’clock. Three o’clock. I pace the floor and finally start looking for his cell phone. I can’t find it. Good, he’s taken it. I’ll just call him to see why he is delayed.

(...to be continued)

NEXT POST: 2. Disturbing Thoughts

Rushing to Paradise

On Thursday I did something I haven’t done for years and years. Hub and I, and ED (eldest daughter) spent the afternoon on a large secluded property where we picnicked and walked the dogs. And after lunch on a quick hike ED and I picked what we could of blueberries calling out to us as we threaded our way down crude horse trails.

Hub, of course, picked no berries for the pail. He has a problem, always has, always will, that when he gets a handful of berries, his elbow bends and his mouth flies open. ED tried to trick him by slipping our pail as close as possible to him and saying, “you’re going to drop those soon if you don’t empty your hand,” but all to no avail. Again the elbow would bend as if to drop them in the pail and then of course the mouth would fly open and that would be the end of that.

But I digress. What I wanted to tell you is that when I got home and cleaned my meager three cups of wild berries Hub wanted them fresh with ice cream. But I couldn’t do it. Something was pushing me to do jam. Silly thought with so few berries. But I had four apples in the fridge so I peeled and diced them to make more fruit. And a while later I had two small jars and a desert dish of fresh jam. When it cooled I buttered some fresh home-made bread, made a cup of tea, and slathered my jam on that bread.

Now this is where words fail me. How can I begin to describe the pleasure of sinking teeth and lips into that jam? I fought brutally against that first overwhelming desire to cram it all in one great gigantic wad into my mouth. I must savor it all – take it little by little.

I sniffed the delicate aroma. So soft and sweet and barely discernible. The color – as beautiful as sapphires blended with navy skies. A sparkling blue that has yet to be duplicated in a world with 11,070,014 colors and 854 shades of blue and 4 falsely labeled ‘blueberry’ blue.

I took a bite and pressed it against the top of my mouth allowing it to fornicate with my tastebuds in that small dark space. I moved it to the back of my throat and succumbed to its caress. With no will of mind involved, it stroked my mind, my throat, my tongue, my heart, and pressed delicately through every vein. My life flashed before me. Childhood, games, hikes, special moments, a dear Mother, and all blessings that followed me, descended on me, visited me, and harbored me.

But then when I swallowed it, something quite unexpected happened. I felt it working, resolving that business of the food anxiety I’ve had for far too long. That rotating and disturbing thought of need and want. Of standing confused and undecided in front of a fridge door that offers nothing that appeals to me. Chronic hunger without knowing what I crave. Eternal longing for something nameless. But with that first swallow of wild blueberry jam, I knew immediately this is what I longed for, this is what I craved. This was the emptiness within.

It felt so good, feeling it doing its work of tenderness and benevolence. Blowing new life into healthy cells and crushing malicious ones. Rushing at a mad frictionless-pace through every physical and emotional atom of my body and renewing it. Redemptive deliverance.

Oh God – give me more!

Castle Dreams and Realities

Of all our holiday diversions, next to flipping rocks and walking wooded paths, the best was a castle tour. Now we have toured castles before but this one was truly exceptional with so many rooms and an overly large garden. The history of it was intriguing as well. Truly fascinating tales about the ‘reality’ of the people who initially lived there and how that castle was built through more sweat and brawn than you would ever find in today’s world even if you arranged an international ‘muscle-man convention’ with steroids allowed.

It was a towering structure built in amazing quick-smart time from heavy rocks that were obviously split without the convenience of a rock-splitter and lifted into place with an oh-so-crude pulley mechanism.

Hub and I were spellbound by the imposing structure and amazing architecture. By the sturdiness of the wood within and the veneer of the ornate floors and fireplaces. We just looked and looked and looked some more. The eye so delighted, the mind so intrigued, that that night we dreamed dreams of that castle.

The next morning, it was easy to see Hub was tired and he was able to see I was tired as well. It wasn’t for lack of sleep. It was the hard labor of the work we engaged in during similar dreams. Hub spent the night running his castle and I spent the night running mine. As Lords and Ladies we were very busy.

Hub could barely manage to keep up to the steady flow of coal and wood needed to heat the place. There were livestock concerns. And at the same time, he was trying to select appropriate helpers from staff that knew everything about rocks and wood and mortar, but nothing about electricity or water transport (except by rope and pail), to maintain power sources and water lines. He was organizing gardening crews, dealing with maintenance issues, and wondering in this harried state, how best to find enjoyment in his castle. And that enjoyment part was the part that evaded him most.

I was having similar problems. The deepest cut was the guilt I was feeling about having 22 vacant guest-rooms while so many in the work-a-day world were working too hard, too long, and sleeping in cold dank conditions on straw mats. It seemed to me that if I had occupants in those rooms, that might ease my guilt.

So I planned suppers and over-night weekends for the upper crust and then shuddered with fear that the kitchen staff would fail me. That the pate would not have sufficient seasonings and the aspic would not gel properly or the roast duck would be too cold by the time we managed to get to the main course.

I already knew that the smallest disaster would spread like wildfire through the ranks of the famous and then I would have to entertain that same group ten times more in quick succession to show that it was a coincidence, not a failure on my part.

I found these people outwardly gracious but severely critical, so soon after I formed an alternate plan. I would convert my group of paid staff into one big happy family. And so I moved the castle staff to those beautiful rooms and invited them to come eat with me. That was a grand idea. They were such fun. Such good company. But by treating them that good they became contemptuous. In short order, my gentle ways had them acting like irresponsible teenagers.

They engaged in games of backgammon and lawn polo and told me they would do the laundry and scrub the kitchen floor ‘later’. They became disrepectful and I became angry and hurt by their disrespect. But then being angry is no more enjoyable than isolation or constant criticism. And so I found that life in the finest surroundings was sad and perturbing because I could not manage to maintain the kind of serving and friendly alliance I had hoped to.

Truly, how does one define and specify in accurate terms that thing that is more necessary than completion of daily tasks? Loyalty and respect, even if it can be articulated, cannot be demanded like a demand for starched and ironed sheets. And so, in my frustration, I began construction of a labor camp next door for disciplinary time-out and to renew their appreciation for my kindness. That’s when I awoke from my dream.

And so on our tour day, Hub and I were so envious of the early inhabitants of that castle that had lived in such finery. But the next day, we were grateful that we just have a bit of land, a simple home, and occasional ‘socializing’ with friends who find more joy in our faults than they do in our perfections.

And we were doubly glad we were not a Lord or Lady of that castle when we went for breakfast the next morning. There was an overly large breakfast-crowd and only two waitresses moving at break-neck speed to try and keep up. While we waited for our order to be taken, we overheard the wife at the next table ordering what-should-have-been a very simple meal for her and her husband.

“I want two eggs, sunny-side up. Firm, but not hard. No runny eggs and no hard eggs laced with brown or charcoal edgings. As for him, he’ll have one smallish egg, poached, with lean bacon and light toast. And could you trim the crusts—a quarter inch—from his toast? He’ll also want his raspberry jam in a side dish. He can’t open those fiddly jam envelopes and that is the only way to ensure he only has the one level teaspoon of jam his dietary condition allows.”

While the waitress clamped her teeth and maintained a frozen smile, Hub and I looked at each other and grinned. Obviously these people could run a castle without guilt about empty rooms or exhausted staff. Efficiently, without worry or concern and with every detail adeptly attended to.

What is a Tourist?

All of us think of ourselves as ‘tourists’ at some time or other in our vacation travels. And being unsure, as we are, what tourists do to segregate themselves from the natives of a particular locale, we re-color ourselves, in bright tourist clothes. And we do the obvious. Group around guides in the town square with cameras at the ready. Or ask a total stranger to take a picture for us. And of course we all wear sunglasses. But the rest of the time we just end up staring in a puzzled way at other tourists with the hope that we might pick up something more, some other subtle nuances on how tourists are supposed to act.

So, although vacation is a pleasant escape from our normal work-a-day world, don’t be kidding yourself. There is a job to be done while on vacation and we are all mindful of it though, for some strange reason, we never speak of it – the tourist thing. We know that being a tourist is far more than just being a traveler. In reality, the tough part of the job is to be a good enough ‘tourist’ to deserve the label while not in motion.

But because ‘being a tourist’ is a sporadic and temporary identity, we don’t know really what it is that segregates tourists (beside colorful loose-fitting clothes). We can find manuals on how to be a good camper, a good golfer, even on how to behave when visiting the queen, but there are no manuals with rules on how to be a ‘tourist’ (aside from marketing information about guides, routes, sights, restaurants, and hotels). But we don’t need so much to know what to see and where to go – we need to know how to do the job.

Cause when we are tourists we prefer to be seen as tourists. It’s an integral part of vacationing. I think in the back of our minds, it is even part of what we are paying for. It’s important that we understand it more fully. It is our identity in a foreign place where we have none.

And so I have to wonder, ‘Can being a tourist be so hard?’ Seems like it is, because despite my best efforts, I still feel a deficiency that is bothersome.

For me, this is an immediate concern because in a few weeks I am going on vacation. So if you know any specific tourist mannerisms, movements, looks, that will help me with this specific identity, tell me quick, before the plane leaves the tarmac. I will enjoy my vacation so much more if I know I’ve got this tourist thing down pat.

And when I do get it down pat, and I get home from vacation, what the heck—that’s one book-publication niche that isn’t over-saturated—so then I’ll write the manual. And you just watch that baby fly off the shelves.

Returning the Brain to its Rightful Owner

Now we’re finally getting somewhere. And all I can say is, “Its bloody about time.”

First a question that is so elementary, it borders on foolishness. “Would you drive a vehicle without any brakes?” Of course you wouldn’t. None of us would.

Now the reason I am contemplating that simple thought is because researchers have found a new mechanism in the brain (scroll down the page to this headline "Public Release: 3-Apr-2007 Journal of Neuroscience") that should have been discovered long ago with the common sense realization that brakes are more important than speed. But that elementary thought was completely overlooked by experts whose plan, from the get-go, was to promote mind control rather than the braking action of self-control. So unfortunately, because of this, brain researchers were all locked in one concentration. And that concentration was to speed our understanding and acceptance of outside advice. So for the past two decades, even longer than that, we have been prodded to keep moving down blind-cornered paths that experts defined and that too often turned out to be worse than where we were when we started. i.e. dieting evolving into serious anorexia, smoking cessation evolving into bigoted intolerance of smokers, cessation of street drugs evolving into addictions to pharmaceutical drugs, etc. etc.

So it is surprising to me, that after years of research on brain manipulation (driving control), academics have never thought that a better alternative might be to find a way to allow us to choose to ‘put on the brakes’ rather than accelerate along paths outside of our own choosing. It is so not right for our thinking to be mapped out for us by others through brainwashing, self-righteous preaching, and government involvement in individual choice.

But finally, a new discovery, probably more by accident than intent gives hope that we can sidestep our dismal past. The new discovery that has scientists buzzing is the part of our brains that ‘puts on the brakes’. And hear this...the biggest promise of this new discovery is ‘self-control’.

I’m so pleased. I can’t wait until researchers get a good handle on the ‘stopping’ part of the brain. Cause then I will be able to stop procrastinating over critical stuff, stop blogging when I should be baking, stop crocheting when I should be vacuuming, and stop writing if I can’t write anything more than bloody drivel.

When Old Friends Meet

Normally, it is a treat to be an observer when old friends meet. That is generally the case, but I saw two old friends who seldom rendezvous meet and greet this morning when I got up and it did nothing for me but send cold chills down my spine.

Forty below Fahrenheit and minus forty degrees Celsius met at the exact same point on the thermometer this morning. And there they were kissing and embracing, and for me, watching it happen was worse than a crime.

Brrr.

Narrative About Creation

An amazing new discovery. A new source for a generous supply of stem cells for medical purposes without death to embryos. The article is here.

Stem cells extracted from amniotic specimens that are normally discarded. Such good news, but what was more fascinating to me is that researchers put the cells into a print cartridge, installed that cartridge in a printer, and than the cells were “literally printed out onto sheets and grown into functioning tissue.” (CTB.ca. News Staff). Seeded onto sheets with the spray of an ink-jet printer.

A page with an encrypted message of the true story of creation, that when translated, developed, and fleshed out, forms sheets of new liver tissue, bone tissue, and skin tissue.

For those of us who love to write, and know the awesome power of the printed page, were we surprised?

A little, but (as Glenn Beck of CNN would say)...'Not so much.'