Silk Reflections

I wonder if the spider, with the new awesome web I saw in the garden this morning, is like me when I am sewing. I’m wondering if he’s back in his special hiding place under that curled leaf, examining his web and thinking “Oh drat, look at that. I have a hitch, a bloody mistake, on that far corner. And what’s more it’s too late, I’ve gone too far. I can’t fix it now.”

And so he continues on, but he’s so painfully aware of the flaw in his existence, the misappropriated thread—an irksome thing that digs deep into his mind.

But still, what’s done is done and he must go on living with the realization he could have done better. It can’t be remedied now cause he knows full well that the much-depleted bolt of silk remaining in his pocket-pouch is only enough to shrink-wrap the sustenance he will need to survive. And that one ligature involves a thread that is too essential to structural integrity to remedy with a patch or a bit of darning. And furthermore, if he could patch it, would it then become a web of deceit?

And so he doesn’t have the luxury of starting over with lessons learned and expert application of that learning.

And Toothpaste Matters?

Oh, aren’t we in such a state over countries that would copy the packaging of our toothpaste and then import it here with unsafe ingredients? And so distressed about designer purses, gizmos, and food stuffs from outside sources that look like, but are not, authentically what they claim to be. This kind of wicked mimicry is such a mortal sin that we scream for politicians to do something and now we’re reading labels judiciously and looking real hard for spelling mistakes or manufacturing sources to see if we have the real thing? What’s with that? Why are we surprised? Seems like, we’re all in this together?

Let’s start with the small stuff. Dry chicken soup or bouillon cubes. Did that stuff ever see a chicken? My mother used to say, “They grind up chemicals into a powder, then wave a chicken over it, chanting ‘chicken, chicken, who’s got the chicken?’ and with that magic act, it becomes authentically something derived from chicken. Can that be denied, when Marcel who works at the manufacturing plant is asked “what do you do?”

And she readily replies, “Each and every day, I bring in THE chicken –through the front door and out the back.”

And beans and bacon in the can? What is that speck of white on top? That’s not bacon. That is simply a scrap of some gluttonous discarded thing. And some sludge bottom-feeder fish is dressed out prettily in firm white strips with pink highlights and sold as crab meat. And does a fast-food hamburger taste like a real hamburger? Not.

But no one can deny that this is what we want. Don’t we clamor for faux fur, faux leather, and faux meat? And fake breasts, fake eyelashes, and fake lips.

Returning to the food fakery, I think the whole mimicry thing is exploding beyond reason when even vegetable protein is fraudulently disguised, and this disguise so welcomed. Manipulated in sacrilegious ways to mimic hot dogs, hamburgers, sausages, etc? What’s with that? If you don’t like it, don’t want to eat it, shun it, then why yell with delight over this kind of mimicry?

But it goes deeper than that? Our leaders make speeches all the time that pose as their own heartfelt passions and convictions, but who wrote them? Not them. So no wonder when their words come back to haunt them, they insist, “I didn’t say that.”

Which in truth, they didn’t. It was just a mimicked utterance from the lips of another with an understanding so diverse from their own, that they don’t even get it.

And certainly, when it comes to one of the best and most basic gratuities of our existence -- I’m talking sex now, since it’s also part of the fraud – sure, the righteous-minded rant against paper, film, and video displays of sexual matters. But I don’t hear anyone yelling, “Fraud!” because the mimicry is such a bad copy that manifests brutality and cruelty rather than what should rightfully manifest the delicacy of lace and the sweetest of heart-felt emotions.

A few are calling out “exploitation of women” but even that is not the case. Whether “exploit” is used as a noun, meaning “a masterpiece or work of genius” or a verb meaning ‘to take clever advantage of a situation’, this kind of stuff is far more fraudulent mimicry than exploitation could ever be.

Shakespeare and Chaucer were close, in the hot zone, when it comes to the authenticity of sex and the integral connection with true romance. I guess the biggest reason I shudder at sex-education of children is because I assume, and quite safely I expect, there is no real attempt to convey the real essence and meaning of the act. No Shakespeare or Chaucer element. Which means the instruction is similar to explaining the workings of a windmill without taking into account the force and necessity of the wind.

But in my heart, hope springs eternal. And with that hope, if, and when, sexually-explicit materials find the path to genuine authenticity, I am positive-certain that with that new cultural mindset, “Gone With The Wind” will have another round of even greater popularity than previously. We might even end up re-examining remakes of the romantic liaisons of Captain Kirk of "Star Trek". And children in Sex-Ed classes will weep with wonder at a story not yet told, rather than react with hysterical laughter at details fraudulently disguised as nothing more than fascinating physical maneuverings.

Makes me wonder why toothpaste even matters.

LIVING THE SIMPLE LIFE

Since I retired it seems like everyone who visits me leaves emotional problems at my door. I don’t want them but I still get them. It’s true that with less physical participation in the world around me, reflection is my prime occupation. So with this being my current thought agenda, of course that is what visitors, in all graciousness, are going to discuss with me.

Certainly, we could discuss more practical things, but as a retiree, no longer propelled by the forces associated with rung-climbing, financial gains, or glowing acknowledgments of progress made, I’m not exactly in the loop. And furthermore, it seems to me, that I am suddenly finding that an age gap of a meager 10 years readily explodes into a gap of gigantic proportion when I engage with my juniors in conversations that focus on the dynamics of competing in the work-a-day world. I guess the forces that used to push me to play at politics by subduing my real spirit, or applying the right spin, or speaking with wary reservation, have fallen into disuse, and thus pretty much caved to my failing memory.

But in discussing emotional problems with others, I have discovered something surprising. There was, and never will be, a generational gap in the basic needs of the human soul for love, hope, happiness, and courage no matter how successful or famous we may become. These needs remain for all time, and for all people, as fundamental as our physical need for food, shelter, and clothing.

Ultimately the basic essentials of life, whether physical or emotional, never change even in a world strained by shifting tides, seasonal changes, and weather that coddles one area while badgering another. A world, where almost daily, our surroundings are altered in unexpected and spectacular ways. Where issues of tolerance stagger far past or fall well short of the equity mark. Where environmental concerns raise us to a panic level. Where moral conflicts drive us to utter distraction. Makes one long for a simpler life, doesn’t it?

And so, it seems to me, if we can return to a simple emotional life in the way so many people long to return to ‘the simple (physical) life’, everything will become mighty fine. Simplifying might allow us to find soul space outside of the rushing tide of greed, competitiveness, and pack-thinking about money, success, notoriety, self-fulfillment, and self-enhancement. And in that new freed-up space something else can take root and thrive – something soft and gentle and comforting.

I’m thinking maybe peace and solid appreciation for each new day. Like the consequences of industrial effluent on the climate, too much emotional effluent creates a sea of toxins in the soul. A massive thing called corruption.

Yes, our physical environment needs protection, but so does our emotional environment.

Where is the Aspic?

Today’s blistering heat has me thinking about salads. But unfortunately, the lettuce in the garden is dismal. Most of it didn’t even come up. And so, without lettuce, and my determination not to make the dreaded trip to town, I’m going to have to be creative.

Still, even without lettuce, I’m thinking salad. Maybe carrot salad. Haven’t made that for a long time. The kids loved it when they were young. Grated fresh carrots with a few raisins, some salt and pepper, and mayonnaise dressing. Yum. I could make that.

And then jelly salads come to mind. It’s been even longer since I made a vegetable jelly salad. Jelly fruit salads, I make often, but I have almost completely forgotten about the other – vegetable jelly salads.

Oh, at one time they were all the rage. Every community potluck supper had scores of vegetable jelly salads. They were cool, colorful, and as delightful on a hot day as a big juicy slice of watermelon. I still remember though, how the men complained at community picnics that there should be more meat and gravy and less jelly salads. But, to women, they were art. Creations and blends of color and texture cool to the taste and wondrous to the eye.

Meanwhile the men mocked those who ate them. And looked with utter disdain at the long line up of jelly salads winking at them with knowing eyes from their sparkling beds of cool smooth flesh with the semi-solid resilience of firm breasts. I swear when the men walked by those jellies even quivered a bit just to tease.

As I reminisce about those days, I remember one jelly salad that was ever popular. It resembled solidified regurgitation. Tasty, but visually an unattractive concoction of lime jello, cottage cheese, mini-marshmallows and walnuts and maybe some other things. Can’t know cause I never made one but if you shut your eyes and didn’t think about how it looked, it was exquisite.

As for Hub, he wanted none of it, with one exception. He couldn’t get enough of the tomato aspic laced or mounded with cooked shrimp and kicked up a notch with fresh green pepper. The rest of the men refused to touch the aspic. They scoffed and said they didn’t want anything that probably should be eaten with ‘an ass pick’ instead of a fork.

But ass-picks or not, I made shrimp-tomato-aspic frequently and a host of other vegetable jelly salads starting with a base of lemon, orange, or lime jello with a tablespoon of vinegar and some salt stirred in. Then the combinations one could add were only limited by one’s imagination. Grated cabbage and carrot, diced apple or green pepper, salmon flakes, chicken bits, tiny onions, finely cut radishes, cucumber, peas, beans, even corn, shrimp or olives. And crowning complementary fruit bits such as fresh apple, orange segments, or tart cranberries.

Today I’m thinking that it is hot enough I wouldn’t mind a taster’s choice of jelly salads to choose from. And also I can’t help wondering what happened that made vegetable jelly salads fall into such disfavor. Maybe it was because the kitchen was becoming too cluttered with cupboards overflowing with Tupperware and jelly molds of every size, shape, and description. I can’t believe it was solely because of the ambiguous connotation of ‘aspic’.

So shall we have a vegetable jelly salad today? Grated carrot and apple or would you prefer an aspic?

As If

Yesterday was an incredibly hot day. And because we had so much company, there was no opportunity to take the puppies for their daily walk. It seemed unfair to ask any of our guests to leave the coolness of the house to join us in a blistering dog walk so it didn’t happen.

Old Dog and other dog were satisfied that no one should be wandering around in that kind of heat. But not Dough-Gee. Dough-Gee knew we had missed the important routine of a dog-walk. So it was after dark when he nudged my leg and then sat there staring, staring, staring, and shifting his weight from one front leg to the other. He would not let it be so eventually I took the flashlight and away we went at eleven o’clock for a dog walk.

Thunder was rumbling and there was lightning in the distance, but bravely I started into the woods on our usual dog-walking trails. And that’s when it happened. An invisible swarm of aggressive and widely varied insects attacked me from every side. I could feel fluttering wing membranes, brittle spindle-legs, sharp toe-nails and stingers threatening to puncture exposed flesh. I could also feel the anger. The source of that anger…puzzling?

Scientifically, maybe because of the electricity in the air it was a quark thing brought about by the attraction of opposite charges or repulsion of similar convections. More practically, maybe it was annoyance by the aerial dwellers of the forest of my midnight-invasion into their privacy. Or for them, maybe visually, it was fear sparked by the UFO-beam of my flashlight. Whatever it was, in two minutes flat, I was strongly buffeted on all sides and in two minutes flat solidly convinced that we were being ‘bounced’ off the premises. I found it unbelievable and astonishing how adeptly the message was conveyed.

It was an aggressive attack of winged creatures with barbs, arrows, claws, and all their grand cache of hidden weapons of mass obstruction. In the darkness, those aerial creatures, so engaged in thumping me from every side, though invisible, seemed as big as pterodactyls. But I guess that is how it is. If you investigate a tiny tooth cavity with your tongue, rather than in a mirror, it will feel as big as a saucer. Likewise, when we feel a thing with touch rather than examine it with the eye, it becomes 7x its original size. (I am tempted to make another general observation here, but I don’t want to be crass.)

But I deviate from the topic…

And so, Dough-Gee and I hurriedly turned from the path, crossed the garden, and walked down the gravel road. We were thankful and relieved that the attackers promptly retreated.

But there was a lesson learned. The lesson learned is how wrong we are if we think only the wretchedness of the human spirit can transfer tangible feelings of discrimination and hate. Insects are just as capable without physically stinging or biting. Dough-Gee and I were not harmed physically but we still feel in our souls the sting of ostracism. Of unwarranted hate and rejection.

But I’m not a child anymore. I’m a “senior” by generous definition. And although with age, I’m weaker physically, I’m a whole lot tougher emotionally. Tough like the Rotweiler blood providing emotional courage for Dough-Gee while physically he caves to the inherent weakness of short crooked legs and his Basset Hound blood. Physically, I am weak like him, but emotionally, I am brave like him. So, with time and maturity, now I stand up for myself regardless of what others think.

And that is just how it is. And so, backed my Dough-Gee’s courage and my own, I turned. And with arms akimbo, and hands on my hips, I yelled with unabashed courage into the blackness of the woods.

"F--- you! It’s our world too, you know!"

(smug now. Hurt gone)

Good-Humor Hints & Funk Remedies

I’ve told you before, that I, and only I, am solely responsible for the pleasantness or unpleasantness of each new day.

Now I haven’t always thought that way. When I was a young thing I thought I was on this earth for others to acknowledge, entertain, and amuse, but I’m wiser than that now. I know better than to put that kind of heavy unreasonable burden on my mate or offspring. So, in realizing this, I also realize that most days I simply make my own choice. But sometimes, I can’t. And on those days amusement has to come from somewhere. Without a small tickle or brief amusement, I can’t raise myself out of the pit.

This morning I was in the pit. Talking positively to myself while I washed and dressed didn’t help. Writing a list of things to be grateful for didn’t help. So I remained in a funk while I drank my morning java and then doggedly loaded laundry. While I was downstairs I grabbed a loaf of bread and meat for supper from the freezer. Still in a funk.

And then I laugh.

The bread I pull from the freezer has a small sticker that says:
“Apr 30/07
Heavy Rye.
Yeast?
Maybe not?”

I chuckle as I remember the day I mixed that bread and baked it and then didn’t know if I put in any yeast. And when Hub asks me what the sticker on that bread loaf says and I tell him, he laughs too.

And the label on the package of beef says, “Pound fast, cook slow.” This was a cheap cut of meat with very little marbling so though sliced into lovely steaks, I wanted to be reminded when I went to cook it that it was not meat for quick grilling.

Maybe these little chits don’t have the same impact as a good laugh over a comical situation with friends that come for coffee and maybe it isn’t rolling-on-the-floor humor. Maybe only someone like Mr. Bean (or his teddy-bear) could appreciate this kind of warp. But still some days it is enough to make me a lot more cheery than I might otherwise be.

I guess what you need to understand is with my memory fading, the notes in my deepfreeze are as surprising to find and pleasing to read as letters from an outside source. On a bad day, like today, it is particularly nice to know someone is/was thinking of me.

What funk? Who? Me?

Nah…It’s going to be another fun day.

Getting What He Deserves

Today (June 22nd) is our anniversary. Thirty plus.

So over coffee, Hub says to me, “I can’t believe with all the divorce and separation going on that you and I are still together. But then, when I was a young man, I knew what I was doing. I’m nobody’s fool.

They say ‘love is blind’ but it doesn’t have to be if love-struck couples would just pause to consider how the other would react if things suddenly turned bad. To keenly observe before marriage how vindictive and revengeful the other could become.”

So I had to ask, “When one is courting and madly in love, believing they could not live or breath without that love, how can these things be discovered?”

“In small ways,” he said. “Through paying attention to how a person reacts to being squeezed in traffic, manipulated by others, or being told by a clerk that the item that is too large or too small is neither exchangeable or refundable. How they react to close friends when they discover those they trust can suddenly no longer be trusted?”

He went on to remind me of situations of my youth. Among other things, the day I discovered that a dear friendship had gone bad and the time I was refused the promotion at work that should have happened. And how I railed with tears and disappointment, but how quickly I pulled myself back together, once I got past the initial upheaval.

These were the tests of my underlying nature, painful to remember but Hub says I passed them all. The failed promotion interfered with my good nature longer than the other things, but Hub said he couldn’t judge me to harshly for that cause he would have been mad too. In the interview I was asked if I would do a task outside of my job description and I responded that if I had the time and it would not interfere with specified responsibilities, “I wouldn’t not do it.” And so later, the reason I was given for having failed the interview was because I used a ‘double-negative in a sentence!’

So now Hub told me, “I was sorry the failed promotion thing happened but at the same time glad it happened. That was the situation that clearly told me you had a sense of honor that made it possible for you to either swallow disappointment or separate yourself from it. To forgive or at the least forget, rather than taking on a streak of mutterings of vindication and vicious intent such as… ‘I’ll make them pay, and they’ll pay and pay. I’ll make their lives utter misery until the end of time.’ ”

And so, Hub explained, that before a marriage commitment, he carefully observed my reactions. And from that he knew that if we ever split I would never take more than my share. (And although I was not as astute as Hub, in his observations, I had the same confidence of fairness in him.) So for us there was never any concern about one common bank account or whose name was on what.

And so, today Hub revealed to me, that these were the assessments he made about me. He admitted he didn’t know if we would always be together but he did know that if it came to separation, whether I was crushed or even happily relieved, I could empathize with others and would never turn on him with evil vindictiveness and eternal life-long schemes of revenge.

Now I’m the omnipotent narrator of this story, so I’m going to tell you something here. Like any other couples, we regularly get really ‘steamed’ at each other. Seriously steamed.

And so my comeback was, “I hate to tell you this but you’re not so smart as you may think. You think that because we have been together thirty odd years that it is because you initially knew what you were doing. And that you knew me well enough to know what I was doing or planning to do. That you crawled inside my soul and rooted around there until you were satisfied you understood all the deepest convictions in my heart. But that is not the case.

You know bloody well how steamed I get with you. I have news for you, Hub. I am still here because my vindication and life-long revenge is to stay with you, to write it down, to remind you of it, to make you relive every mistake, to badger you, needle you, annoy you, frustrate you. To get full restitution and complete revenge for anything you have ever done that disappointed me—and to never, ever, let it rest. That is why we remain together. I have you in lock-down and I fully intend to hold you in this painful prison until death do us part.

So now,” I said, while holding my mouth in a grim line, “how do you like those bananas? How do you feel about another Anniversary now?”

Hub laughed and kissed my cheek. “That’s fair,” he said. I’m willing to continue to accept all the pain and torment of your harsh discipline as long as the bed is warm and the food is good.”

Then immediate panic on Hub’s part. “Oh please, Roberta. Don’t write that down.”

Banned by the Heavens

Last Thursday evening we had a thunderstorm. The kind of mighty storm that oft happens here because west of us the river flows and east of us the river flows. According to Hub, and the neighbors say it is so, where we live, we get incredible storms because lightning plays a rousing game of touch-tag between the two bodies of water.

This last rousing lightning game started long before the rain came. And it went on and on blasting the sky with sheet lightning, bolt lightning, chain lightning, ball lightning, blue lightning, and forked lightning. Then came one of those earth-rumbling claps that tell you one of the players struck a home run. Hub saw it. A mighty wide jagged streak that struck in the ditch across the road and exploded like giant fireworks.

A minute or so later, Hub again looked out the window and commented that the hot spot was still sparking. That didn’t really surprise me. After all lightning has enough voltage and magnitude to spark a bit after a strike. So I paid little attention. I was busy cooking and didn’t take a peek until three or four minutes later. And when I finally looked, I was so amazed.

Across the road was a roaring grassfire in grass as green and lush as a lowland swamp. How could such a thing be? But there it was, a grass fire blazing as if it were in a pile of dry straw. It was obvious that, with the wind gusting and a large bluff of spruce trees nearby, and a few yards from that, our neighbor’s home, something must be done immediately.

Hub grabbed a plastic pail with a plastic handle (plastic handle important) and dashed across the road. He has had experience fire fighting and it always amazes me how much fire he can extinguish with a small amount of water by splashing it across the fire with as much force as he can muster. And so that is what he did. And with that one measly pail of water he put the fire out. And that’s when he discovered that two metal rods next to a telephone transformer-box were now melted and bent. And of course our telephone line was dead.

So after the storm, he called the phone company and managed to eventually speak to a live person. You probably know her. It was Ms. Unfortunately. And so now he might as well be listening to a recording as this verbal essay on the terms and usage of the word ‘unfortunately’.

“Unfortunately we need some turnaround time. Unfortunately we have no repair-men available until Monday. Unfortunately, we cannot temporarily put your phone on call-forward to your cell since you haven’t purchased that option. Unfortunately, we have no control over lightning.” I’ll spare you the rest of this conversation that was little more than a long laundry list of unfortunate circumstance.

And now there’s me. Working at some stupid crocheting that I don’t want to do. Trying desperately to avoid thinking about my dry throat, itchy skin, crawling scalp, leg jerking, hands twitching, and anxiety of mind. I am in rapid interchanges of sweating and shivering. My fingernails are bit to the quick and I am contemplating if I am still flexible enough in body to get my left foot with that long toenail to my lips. Even checked the cosmetic bag for artificial nails. There were none. And as if that isn’t enough I am isolated. The power of the heavens has separated me from my support group that I feel love me and believe in me.

It’s Gawd-awful, and most unfortunate, this compulsory ban for three solid days of Roberta from her blogging passion. And because I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, I grab my laptop and pound out a poem about the ‘Cry of a Loon’(posted below). About sobbing and laughing kneaded together into one unnatural lump.

But fortunately, or unfortunately, I am now back. Life returns to normal but I was in rough shape there for a while.

The Loon's Cry

In the forest, massive trees fall
In crashes of utter silence
While a warbling vibrato
Echoes across the lake.

Releasing rapid transitions
That demand all that is something,
And all that is nothing
To ken to the sound.

Forego auditory interpretation.
This resonance seeks
With greater intensity
Innermost faculties of the soul.

When there is nothing to hear it
That absence of life
That absence of being
Stops in its tracks.

Steeped in the magical impact of
Singular sounds kneaded together...

The jolly laughing
And the friendless sobbing
Of a loon.

________

A particular circumstance in my life inspired this poem. I will tell you about it in my next post.

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.

Skeletons of Thought

I promise not to give you a dull play-by-play of my holidays but I will tell you those things that occurred that I deem to have some kind of weird philosophical spin-off.

Yeh, I’m a white-knuckled flyer. Frightened of flight. So prior to leaving on holidays I gathered up all I could gather to fluff up a comforting quilt for a chilled mind. A whole parcel of poetic lines that put flying into the context of freedom, buoyancy, lightness, floating, soaring.

My hope was that I could turn my dread of flying into something lovely. And maybe it would have worked, but when we headed for the airport, there were huge black clouds rumbling and tumbling in from the west. And ‘west’ was the direction we were heading. Right into the fray.

And then, at the airport, as we proceeded through the luggage check, something else started gnawing at me. Here we are at a counter with a long line of booths representing different flight agencies. And above the singular booth, responsible for our trip, our safety, our welfare, is an added display. A 3” black streamer about four feet long attached horizontally across the bottom of the airline-logo sign-plate. A black streamer with a repeated pattern of white skeleton faces and crossbones. I was appalled.

Now I’m not superstitious in my conscious mind, but in the subconscious, there is a layer that slumbers but occasionally stirs to harken to subtle warnings. Sights, sounds, or signals that others quickly dismiss are for me, portends of impending disaster. That streamer roused that sleeping thing. Causing even more fright. And fright, when backed into a corner, kick-starts angry defense. So immediately I’m thinking, “Grab a brain, Freak. There are some of us in this line-up that already feel our lives are on the line.”

What kind of perverted airline-checker would decorate his booth with such a gruesome display? Sure there was a green net hammock as well strung up there with colorful plastic miniatures of a starfish, a pirate ship, a sword, and a telescope that I guess were supposed to represent the light-hearted side of some kind of pirate theme. If it was October, I could readily dismiss it as a Halloween theme. I could even set it aside if we were traveling by ship to the Caribbean. But that isn’t the case. I looked around. The other agents have no special decorations on their booths. But still, the décor is deliberate so it must have practical significance but for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is. With nothing relative I can only conclude it has a less practical significance – the foreshadowing of disaster. And so, the underlay of superstition in my subconscious mind interprets it as a death knell.

With that interpretation I find myself becoming angrier with that agent by the moment. For heaven’s sake, he, of all people, must know how cautious one has to be about word-speak in an airport. Mention hi-jacking, ammunition, or explosives, and you will be arrested, and here we have a contrived blazon hi-jacking theme pasted at eye level for all travelers to look at. It may be about boats and pirates, rather than planes specifically, but what do pirates do when they come aboard a vessel? They hi-jack it, don’t they? And inevitably, death is likely to follow. (And like others say, ‘It’s not that I fear death itself, it’s just that I don’t want to foolishly rush the transition and I don’t want that transition to hurt.’)

I turned to Hub. “When we get to the counter,” I said, “I’m going to tell that air-rep how much I DO NOT appreciate his display – particularly all the skeletons and cross-bones.” Hub, of course, the ever-practical thinker, told me to leave it alone. “Don’t be so silly and sensitive,” he said. “I’m sure it isn’t bothering anyone but you.”

Oh yeh? Here I disagree. There are at least 25% of us in this world who are white-knuckled flyers, and another 50% of us ruled by emotion rather than practicality, so I’m certainly not alone. I have my backers.

A Slack Tale

(I’m back but I’m exhausted. So while I rest up, here for your amusement is the last post I wrote before I left. I didn’t post it because I was a bit under the weather with a grand mal of arthritis in one hip).

It’s right down to the wire – the plane leaves tomorrow – and I am still dealing with wardrobe issues. Particularly since YD has made very special reservations for an outing that she keeps reminding me to deck out in full grandeur for.

First thought was about my ankle-length gown with the velvet jacket. But the jacket is rather heavy for mid-summer wear. And without the jacket I feel a little over-exposed. So I started kicking around the idea of taking something cooler, and more versatile.

And so then I remembered the pant-suit that I bought while housed in the executive suite on Radison Avenue several years ago. The one I bought for way too much money at one of those small specialty boutiques with rugs so soft and deep that I found myself flailing a bit while walking on them in an automated reflex action to stay afloat. One of those small, but ever so fashionable, shops tucked away in the center of downtown. With French doors and mirrors swinging both ways, Greek columns, and silk plants accenting a front-end vestibule with Louis the 5th brocade chairs. A greeter-hostess who sat with me at a small table and provided coffee (in china cups) and a pre-shopping consultation surrounding color charts and fabric swatches. A consultation about winter colors, summer colors, and camouflage styles to correct body flaws. It was one of those places where I had that sickening need to pretend I was something I wasn’t just to manage the stilted conversational exchanges without sneering and saying, “Why don’t we just get real here?”

When I began to try on clothes, ladies-in-waiting appeared in small swarms to tuck and tussle and contemplate with one hand pressed to their faces like “the Thinker” before expressing a mindless cliché. “For you, my dear, excellent! For you, my dear, positively stunning!”

With a safety pin in one bra strap to prevent sag and slippage, I feared my façade of self-confidence would be destroyed by one of them offering to adjust that as well. With gracious countenance, some cutting sarcasm like "My dear, let me assist you. It appears that pin is digging into your flesh.”

So I became panicky about keeping it hidden. A difficult thing to do with the many matte noses and raccoon eyes peeking into the dressing room unannounced, to ask if I would like to try an accent scarf or some exotic jewelry with each ensemble.

It was a bit of a trial, but somehow I got through it, and eventually I was out on the street with a box containing a pant suit and a slip of minute size paper that validated a sudden crash in my bank balance. Truly, the best kind of suit I ever had if value can be rightly calculated from price and the sophistication of the place it was purchased at.

I wore my lovely jade and black pantsuit a couple of times and indeed I was not disappointed. Always comments about how lovely it was. But then, after that, the time came to refresh, dry-clean, before a next wearing. And this is what I hate. The garment that requires ‘specialized’ attention, rather than the freedom to fling it on the basement floor until the next tub of like-minded colors are being agitated at full speed with hot water and some good dependable mix of soap and concentrated stain remover.

So I procrastinated. The darn thing cost me enough already without the price of dry-cleaning which doesn’t always bring about the desired result. So eventually I did what I generally do in such circumstances – I clenched my teeth, set the washer to cold water, gentle cycle, poured in a bit of gentle soap, shut my eyes, and quickly closed the lid on the washer.

Yeh, you know it. The jacket did okay, but the pants, that were a kind of crinkled stuff, went from size 14 to size 7. From a 32” leg to a 24” leg. How do you like those bananas? So while they were still wet I started pulling. I pulled up and down and crosswise until they returned to a size 10. Still not good enough. So out came the ironing board and I ironed all the crinkles out of those suckers. Guess what—with that effort, the slacks went from size 10 to size 28.

That’s when I returned the slacks to a hanger in the back of the closet and said, ‘Enough is enough.’ And procrastination again set in. So now yesterday, I pulled that suit out and found myself wandering through the wondrous nostalgia, of how that pantsuit came to be, and the unequaled beauty it once offered. I put the outfit on and stood in front of the mirror. The slacks were so big in the hips there was room for Hub and me and two friends in those pants. Still the magical appeal they once had came to mind and I decided to haul out my sewing machine and sew them down to size.

Maybe not. Maybe that will just be the complete ruination of them. Maybe the Dry Cleaners can resurrect them? Nah. Dismiss that thought, they’ll probably lose the pants. And I don’t have the stamina to go through what I would need to go through to get them replaced.


So let’s wash them again and try something different. So I did. I washed them again. Again they came out size 7. I stretched them again – back to size 10. Now here is where we have to find a convergence in the treatment. I thought how nice it would be if I had a pant frame in my size, but I don’t. Oh yes, I do. My own frame.

So, although the pants were sopping wet, I put them on. I went out on the deck where a brisk breeze was playing. I walked about in the yard, careful, ever so careful not to bend my legs. I knew if I did, the pants would immediately begin to bag at the knees.

With the semblance of a nutcracker doll, I walked about, erect and stiff-legged until the pants had almost dried. Came to the house, removed them and checked them out. Perfect. Clean, fresh, and a perfect size 14.

But would I recommend this treatment? Not really. My pant-suit is back to its original beauty but now I’m off on holidays with a discomforting bit of arthritis in one hip. I think that is what happens if you use a body frame to mold a wet pair of crinkled slacks. Still, I think it beats the distress that could come with sending them to the dry-cleaners.

A New Ballroom Balcony Gown

Vacation days are fast approaching. Remember when I asked for help on how to capture the essence of being a good tourist (blog - May 26th) ? The only help I got was from my friend, matty.

She told me that among other things, I should be “loud and demanding” and do some “wild n crazy stuff”. I’m not sure if I’ll be loud and demanding, but already I’ve started with the ‘wild n crazy stuff’.

Now YD has reserved Hub and I a room in a fine hotel with a balcony. And since I don’t intend to go dining and dancing, I decided the best kind of outfit I needed was a ballroom balcony gown. So I want to show you what came out of that effort.

Now this is my original balcony gown that is now more years old than I care to confess.
It always went on holidays with me. I’ve walked beaches in this gown and lazed in campsites in cool comfort on hot, hot days. But it’s pretty much ready to cast aside. It has been mended and mended. I even borrowed fabric from the neck facing to stitch up lacerations in the cloth. But still as long as it hangs together I don’t intend to part with it.

Now about four years ago, ED (eldest daughter) gave me some wild and crazy cotton. It was a beautiful blend of mauve and brown and gold that was more defiant in challenging me to a suitable sewing project than any cloth I’ve ever had. And I knew, before I started, that matching colors and working out a flattering method for that cloth was likely to prove more than my small brain could handle. Still, I maintain that 'a chunk of cloth in the drawer does no one any good. Even a bad effort is better than no effort at all.'

So that’s when I thought, “Why not a new ballroom balcony gown?" And so, here it is.

The wild and crazy part of it is because the fabric was wide blends and bands of opposing colors, the back of my gown is gold, the front is mauve and blue. But that might be my salvation. I should be able to be arrogant and demanding in that kind of cutting-edge style.

Do you think?

Sure Things Go "Bump" in the Night

I think I know why traditionally monsters exist in the night. But what I don’t know is why I am so much braver at night than during the day.

After dark, if something disturbs me, I will take brave, quick action without contemplation. There will be no pause to wonder if my actions will be well received, if they are politically correct, or if those actions will be viewed with disdain by others. And when I decide to write something at two in the morning, no matter how unorthodox that writing, (like this rant I'm writing right now), I bravely conclude, without question, that it makes good rational sense and has the utmost cohesiveness and clarity. Even though, when morning comes, I will look this over again and find it is nothing more than a grand mess of disconnected phrases, nonsensical thoughts, and jumbled words.

Maybe my nighttime bravery makes sense. I mean if I were to see Dracula or the Boogie Man standing in a sunlit room, I don’t know about you, but I would certainly run for cover. But if I saw these same creatures in a thin insipid stream of moonlight at night, I would just laugh and tell them point blank, “You don’t scare me.” (The reason being that in darkness, nothing is clearly visible, so I immediately chalk everything up to imagination).

So I don't fear what I can't clearly see. If I hear unusual noises at night, I bravely leap from my bed to go and investigate. I will let Hub sleep while I go to check out the back yard and wander through pervading darkness without alarm. Not so in daylight. That's entirely another matter.

If I hear uncommon noises in the garage or basement during the day, I am not wanting to investigate. There will be no investigation by me. Hub will have to check it out. Maybe it all boils down to the silly notion that “if I can see IT, then IT can see me.’

But at night I can easily rationalize anything. The creak in the floor and the noise in the wall is the house settling, the whining noise in the yard is simply the wind, the noise in the attic a wayward bird or small wood-boring insect. But these same sounds during the day are disturbing – too disturbing for me to even want to investigate.

Guess I was raised to believe and expect things go bump in the night.

You can turn off the flashlight now and go to your tent. Cause that's my scary campfire tale for tonight.

A Dastardly Day

I have no patience with anyone who thinks they can cook in the kitchen while relaxing in the livingroom. I have even less patience with husbands who thinks they can cook a perfect steak on the deck barbecue while tracking a hockey game on TV in another room as Hub sometimes does. When stuff burns, or boils dry, there is no excuse now, and has never been an excuse, except the straight-forward confession of irresponsibility. Really, people should know better.

Now having articulated those thoughts, I will tell you a story.

Yesterday I was baking my weekly batch of eight loaves of bread. And so I mixed the dough, kneaded it, and extracted a small amount to make a pizza for lunch. I put the remaining dough in my big bread bowl and put that bowl in the oven to rise in the heat of the oven light, as I always do and have been doing for years.

My pizza dough meanwhile rose on the counter for a brief time and was soon ready for topping. That’s when Hub came in and asked when lunch would be ready. By then it was late, after two. He was very hungry and so was I so I quickly began assembling the ingredients for the pizza. And while rushing to do that I turned on the oven to high, cause you know, pizzas need high heat, right?

About ten minutes later my now delayed, rather than immediate, state of recall kicked in. In a state of panic, I jerked open the oven door. Big puffy bread, quick rise, oh yes, but at the same time, the heat liquefied the bottom of my plastic bread-bowl. That part of it was now draped in long streamers around the oven racks and the bottom heat element. What a bloody mess?

Hub immediately took action. Bread bowl out on the deck, oven racks out on the deck, ice cubes to harden the streamers, and then removal of the rest of the mess. Meanwhile yelling, “Clear out of here, woman, or you’ll burn yourself!”

_______

I’ve told you before that when my feet hit the floor in the morning, it’s entirely up to me if I make or break my new day. I broke this one good.

Why am I telling you this? So if you are having a bad day, you will know with solid conviction, that you are not alone. And if you have done some stupid irresponsible thing that has you beating yourself up, you should see me.

Hub is from the old school and he does not normally help with kitchen clean-up, but in the midst of disaster he is the Protector of the Vulnerable. As dependable as a rock and ALWAYS comes a-running. I’m grateful for that fixed protector-part of the old-school philosophy that made gender differences, as they used to be…rather nice.

So Thanks to Hub, right now my oven looks like nothing happened and so does my kitchen. I wonder how this what have panned out if Hub and I were entrenched in gender equality and the spin-offs that come with that kind of thinking. I think I might still be picking plastic off the heating element as penance for my own irresponsibility.

Maybe it is unfair, and even untrue, this thought I harbor in my head, that amidst gender balance and total equality, he would stand by silently thinking… “When I make a mess, I clean it up, so when you make a mess, you can clean it up as well.”

Once Friend, Now Foe

I peek around the window casing. I must not let them see,
They will tuck their brilliant color when they see—it is me.
I still have tattered remnants locked in a childhood vault
Of a friendship that was broken, it was nobody’s fault.

But if I try to resurrect how it once was with us
I’m not sure if I should smile, or if I want to cuss.
When I glimpse their little faces and see them nod their heads.
Back come all the gentle thoughts combined with what I dread.
____

Thoughts of patient-plaited blossoms, I wear as a golden crown
And a feverishly-plucked bouquet, of soft and yellow down.

I remember all I longed to know as I lounged in a golden field,
Secrets only a dandelion knew and only a dandelion could reveal.

There were things told to me through spectral fluff
That I breathed upon with a gentle puff
Perilously one parachute clings to the vine.
Giving sacred promise – that he will be mine.
So loved by one, though no longer by three…
I’m not disappointed, if that’s how it must be.
___

Oh I know they’re so jolly in hot sunny weather,
And with all of the grand times we’ve had together
When did that fast bond get so twisted with pain?
To a malignant affinity of disgust and disdain?

I’ve never expressed it, but they certainly know
Cause they duck and fold wherever I go
They bend and cower and play hide-and-seek
And when they think I’m not looking…
They have a quick peek.

So unfold for children, when they come to play
But stay distant from me, it’s better that way
Though skittish you are and though you may hide
I know that you’re there and you’ll always abide!

A blessing in one form, a curse in another
Still a most precious gift from a child to her mother.

Through the Looking Glass

I realized while drafting a couple of recent posts something I thought we should discuss. I realized that writing via a blog-medium invites reckless exposure. Even though all I pin up here, in this cyper-place is an image rather than a real person. So is there a threat? There shouldn’t be. But I think I see one although I never did in the past.

It strikes me as odd, coincidental, that as an overly-shy child, with nothing in my physical shell except a quivering emulsion of insecurities and ‘fraidy-cat jelly, I was so brave when confronted with my own reflection. I looked in mirrors and pouted and posed and contorted in reckless ways. Straining and twisting in poses of face that would have prompted pant-wetting laughter, or overt disgust, if viewed by others.

The Internet is similar to a mirror. Here we define a space and create within that space a self-image. It is a reflection as simple as a pond or mirror reflection that seems to pose no threat and thus encourages us to be brave. But is it that simple? To answer that I want to move to another discussion about mirrors and reflections.

This other thought arises from vague memories of a child’s book of fantasy – “Through the Looking Glass.” Though written well before the invention of computers, the author of this book clearly perceived the magnetic pull and fascination of reflective images. And though I only vaguely remember the story, this much I do recall. This book offers a spellbinding analogy of how mirrors offer a place so much more enticing than our real world.

And so if the story were analyzed with the same intensity as works of Nostradamus, we would certainly see the book as a foretelling of human nature and the draw of Internet communication. Here is the prophet of how an exact, but not-so-real-world copy, has the same compulsive draw because it features a perfect counterpart scenario without censure.

Some time ago I read a note about the communication and exchange of one’s unconscious needs within computer mediation. What researchers discovered is that stone-sober bloggers are impulsive and reckless. In fact, they have fewer inhibitions than a slobbering drunk at a private house party. But why? I guess because we are compelled, in ways we fail to understand, to step through the glass, as Alice did. And here in this not-so-real-world of cyberspace, we tend to dissociate with ease from the disciplines that hold us true to who we really are.

I expect you think it quite silly that we are discussing scenarios that seem as much pretend as a story about walking through a looking-glass. And I would agree except I remember so clearly how, as a child, I longed to do just that. I recall the tension and tangible waves of will and spirit that invited me to step into and explore a reversed world that held so much more appeal than my own.

So now, just for kicks I want you to go to a mirror and look in it. Take a particularly close look at the background of that reflection.

(When you’ve done that, come back and finish reading).

So now, tell me truthfully. When you looked in the mirror, didn’t the reflective backdrop of your home looked cozier, the kitchen tidier, the chesterfield more inviting? That’s part of the force and pressure, strain and draw of reflective images that can’t be denied.

As for me, so much time as passed since I was a child, but still I feel the draw. And it is not just dream-stance but even practical considerations that draw me. The twining of reality with a mirror-reflection stimulates my sorting and organizing skills as well. It makes me want to get in there and grab the twin object, so I can overlap it with the original and stash the two together in the same space.

So, it is true. I have felt the pull in a tangible way that radiates from a looking-glass inviting me to come to that world. As strong, but even more insidious is the invitation to go unfettered into the reflective image of myself on the net. But having recognized the parallels of that magnetism with a common household mirror, I remain cautious. I am keenly aware that everything in the mirror, though seemingly exact in detail — is not.

There is a contortion and skewing that changes values, expectations, and intent. It is called the ‘reverse factor – left is right, and “tfel si thgir”. That’s pretty scary.

__________


P.S. We are all aware of so many parents with responsible, modest, obedient, mature-thinking teens, that are aghast to find that they have stripped in front of viewer-cams or engaged in conversational exchanges that are so far removed from their real life persona. Perhaps this looking-glass invitational ease is the thing that parents should discuss with young people as much as other risks of the Internet. It is a seduction for a child equal to that tug you and I feel for an early morning cup of coffee…or the tug to write another Blog.

A Pic for Pauline

This little pic is for Pauline and others who wonder why I don't cut grass. I live on an acreage with about two or more acres of lawn. See the trees and other obstacles and this is only one small back corner of the yard. The bit of dirt by the gardening wagon is the flower bed I have been weeding. And yes, that is Hub out there, no doubt mulching away with fresh, anxious-to-germinate, dandelion, quackgrass, and a variety of other noxious weed cuttings...

Maturity and Minor Set-Backs

When I was a teen, I was immature. And because I was immature I thought the world rotated around me. And I thought nice clothes would make me popular and if I were ‘really’ popular, everyone would love and adore me. Immaturity made me think others adore us for how we look rather than who we are.

And when I was a young wife, I was immature as well. I thought Hub’s role was to amuse me and cater to me. I thought it was a simple equation. I cater to you with my heart and you cater to me in every sensitive and material way. Immaturity made me think this way rather than understanding, that when my feet hit the floor every morning, I am solely responsible for the quality of each and every day.

And then during mid-life, I was still immature. Now plagued by an immaturity that spawned perfectionism and dilly-dallying. Immature enough to think I had to do all tasks in the recommended way. I was seriously hampered by a belief that there is only one right way to do anything. And so, with this kind of immaturity, I ended up fussing and fuming and fiddling away hours to make sure I did things the right way. If I had never done a thing, and if I couldn’t find someone who did, I didn’t attempt it. Never occurred to me that in my soul I had enough creativity and wit to do it.

But Hah! I am now mature and my maturity brings such freedom. I don’t care anymore how other people do anything. With maturity comes the wonderful new freedom that I can, as Frank Sinatra said, “do it my way”. I have only now come to realize that is what creativity is for.

And so, now I sometimes wear socks that don’t match. I use what I have and for what I don’t have, I make do. I substitute rags for brushes, emery boards for sandpaper, and in my garden – horse shit for bulb food, hollowed out stumps for brown pots. I often don’t follow recipes. Instead I use them for a rough guideline. I convert flat sheets to fitted (without pattern instructions) and I put buttonholes in the oddest places. And here we pause. I want to tell you about the buttonholes but it is a secret you must promise not to tell.

I have a lovely navy outfit I received as a gift a couple years ago. A perfect color for me with my pale face and mature graying hair. Nice fit as well. I would have loved, loved, loved it, if it were cotton, but instead the outfit was a polyester blend. So that meant it was one outfit I never intended to wear.

The problem is I can’t stand to be sealed in plastic blends that don’t breath. But the clothes were so nice and eventually the yen to wear them was greater than I could bear. So I did the mature thing. And the mature thing is not what other people do, or the recommended thing, it is just what might possibly work.

So I made four small virtually invisible buttonholes in the crotch of those pants and two in each armpit of the shirt. And guess what? With that bit of air circulation, I can wear either, or both, in complete comfort. No sweaty armpits and no sweaty…well you know. Maybe if Brittany Spears knew how to make buttonholes?…right now there would be no photo record of her without under-pants. I’m thinking her drawers must be full of lacy, nylon-blend, polyeste-weave, transparent but yet hermetically sealed underthings rather than good ‘ol simple, peon-style, cool breathable cotton knit or sacking.

Now you may think it sounds like I have reverted to a devil-may-care attitude, but I haven’t. I still want everything I do to reside within the boundaries of dignity, decorum, and reasonability. I mean, obviously, if that were not the case, I would have simply made my shirt topless, and my slacks crotchless.

But now, to get back to the topic here, if we even had one. Unfortunately, for every upside there is a downside. Yes, with maturity comes freedom but sometimes it is a freedom I don’t know what to do with.

Yesterday I dug for hours in my flower garden. I dug up dandelions and quack grass. It was backbreaking work. Now I try not to be a nag about it but I keep saying to Hub, “Please don’t blow the grass clippings toward the flower garden when you cut the grass.” (You know it and I know it but Hub isn’t convinced that grass and dandelion clippings are guaranteed to grow volumes more of the same). So I say, not often, but occasionally, “Just go around the flower bed in the other direction so the clippings are tossed unto the lawn.”

So while I cooked supper last night, Hub cut the grass – and yes, you guessed it. He cut it so all the clippings went on my freshly-turned sod. So now what?

If I was still immature I could kick him in the shins and pour Round-Up on ‘his’ lawn. If I was still immature I could throw things, smash things, or cut the belt on his lawnmower. If I was still immature, I could cuss like a trooper and stomp my feet. Even throw his supper in the garbage can. And if all else failed, if I was immature, I could cry.

But unfortunately all the foregoing possibilities are too immature for a mature lady. And crying won’t do because that act has to have a proper qualifier. Sure mature individuals cry, but only for the serious heartbreak that comes with loss – loss of people, pets, affection, love. Flower beds don’t qualify. Immature tears that once flowed freely for every frustration are now mature tears and mature tears are sparsely shed. They are for heartbreak, not minor setbacks or minor discouragement.

And so, with maturity comes freedom, but the flip side of that is with maturity there also comes a mature level of responsibility that supersedes the cleansing of mind and soul with cursing, screaming, tears, and a temper tantrum of notable proportion.

But…since…because…now…that I’m totally mature…dear oh dear, what can I do?

P.S. You’re wrong, oh so wrong. That was not a sniffle you heard. If anything I must have just caught a cold.

A Call to Worship

I fall to my knees.

Drawn not by fear, or need, or any force of conviction – simply drawn by an intangible magnetism. A slight tug on all my limbs like a minute increase in gravity that urges me to kneel and prostrate myself and bow my head.

And when I do, a brilliant light peeks through clouds of darkness and spreads a burnished and visionary carpet around me of green gilded with gold. I remain with head bowed, sensing that the light is too blinding, too bright to look in the face of.

I grope at the earth, the soil of time – as old as creation, itself. I dig my bare hands into the ground. I seek deliverance like a frantic soul rocked by an earthquake. Hoping I will find reprieve—through penance. Repentance through covering myself with dirt, clay, and the rotting fecal material of cattle rather than sackcloth and ashes.

I do the thing I am only gently compelled to do, yet too weak to turn from. Despite the manure embedding itself under my fingernails, and sharp blades of grass cutting my hands, and slow-bruising stones pressing into my legs, I remain kneeling and frantically groping at the gritty soil.

And then from nowhere a breeze comes rippling, rippling, and suddenly and unexpectedly tosses my hair into an upward sweep. It strokes me with a warm gentle softness around my ears, forehead, and brows giving me the same ease and shivering-delight of a child when a soft brush is swept against his downy head.

Another, almost imperceptible, waft of magical air presses and holds me firm in sacred-worship-form. Worship of earth and day and light and life. And that same current of air makes indiscernible my physical discomfort.

I slip into another dimension. I am now only aware that I am among the resurrected. In awe and wonder I examine the tender and refreshing aspect of those recalled from their tombs.

I expected it. After all, this is my faith. So that being the case, why am I so filled with wonder at this trans-reversal? I guess because I had lost so much confidence in the faith. I was so filled with doubt. Doubt that resurrection can not come when death had been too long a sleep. That is part of my doubt but the other part of my doubt-blame falls on those who insist God’s voice is audible. What nonsense? Spirits have no physical voice-box. They are soundless. All that is spoken by God is spoken through forces and processes of nature.

But despite that analysis, my doubt is forceful. After all, these were cadavers trapped in the grasp of the terminator’s bitter cold and ice, and mold and decay for what had seemed to me, a never-ending season.

But here, in the garden, doubt flies like a helium balloon unanchored. Here I find the truth of the message of resurrection. And the marvel of it renews me, the light renews me, new life renews me, the breeze renews me. And so, deep within my soul, I too, am resurrected and reborn. Faith in resurrection is reaffirmed.

And so the unscheduled call to worship concludes. More than two hours have zipped by. Prayers are finished and I arise. An erect stance comes slowly as the separate vertebrae in my back slowly unlock one link at a time.

But that cursed perennial garden is cleansed, the dirt is fluffed, the weeds discarded. And as I make a pilgrimage back to house and home, with legs bruised, fingernails torn and hands chapped and dry, I wipe stomata from my brow. Bleeds of purged disillusionment and doubt.

As I withdraw, I smell the soot and charcoal stench of the damned. The stove is still on and supper is burning.