Fool Proof

     I am not a fool. I have empirical evidence.  Many times I have tried a "fool proof" recipe, everything from "fool proof microwave peanut brittle" "to fool proof no-streak window cleaner", without success.  I can only conclude that it would have turned out if I had been an actual fool.  Either that or I have gone beyond regular fools to a kind of super fool status, which would also be some level of achievement.  I will not give up attempting "fool proof" recipes.  I like a good challenge and I may just be an expert.

Turning Blessings into Burdens

     With a little effort any blessing can be turned into a burden.  We all do this to some extent when the things we so much wanted to own  become possessions that have to be maintained, but some people are better at it than others and it's much more fun to discuss other people.  My first example of this principle is "Ethel".  Ethel was for the most part home bound but drew a lot of satisfaction from listening to Christian radio programming.  That was a blessing.  Ethel turned her blessing into a burden by deciding to take notes of the messages.  Because she had a stroke affected left hand, note taking was difficult since her paper kept moving around as she wrote.  Constantly repositioning the her paper caused her to fall behind.  The very messages that were meant to uplift her had become a source of frustration--of her own choosing. It would have been far better to stop writing and just listen.  Forgetting some points of the message would be better than missing the point of it altogether through frustration.
     For a time Ethel and I attended the same Bible study.  There were donation baskets on the way out where members could give an offering, if they chose, towards the expenses of that, and other, classes.  It was mentioned only a few times a year and strictly voluntary.  Ethel put in a dollar every week. Living on social security alone, sometimes she would be stressed for days about where she could come up with the dollar.  She had become so inflexible about the dollar that she felt the need to skip Bible study if she didn't have it.  Turning blessings into burdens; Ethel was an expert.
     My other example is "Doris".  Doris had never married and lived, after her mother's death, with her bachelor brother.  The family savings had gone to her older siblings' rest home expenses, but her brother generously left her their shared home when he died.  Out of her meager $400 monthly social security, Doris had to pay house taxes, insurance and upkeep as well as her regular living expenses.  Though she feared being alone in case of crime, accident or illness, Doris refused to consider moving to an apartment. There was no family around to do repairs or maintenance. Doris was no longer physically able even to water the lawn and couldn't afford to have it cut when the rain made it grow. The very thing her brother had left her to bring her security was causing her to live in stress and poverty.
     Both of these women were Olympic level worriers and I think that is an essential ingredient for turning blessings into burdens.  I believe this for two reasons: 1)worry is a sin I'm not very good at, so I don't have to feel guilty 2)worry has great corrupting power.  Worry, at its core, is a statement about God.  It is saying God is either not good enough or not powerful enough to take care of me. Worry is easy to start, hard to stop, and spreads like wildfire.  It can ruin the most joyous moment you are having now by convincing you it won't last or will never happen again.  The antidote for the poison of worry is recognizing the sovereignty of God.  I learned that through Bible study, I learned that because I wasn't thinking about the dollar for the offering plate.  I will leave worrying to the professionals like Ethel and Doris, I'm just not good at it anymore.
     I prefer to use my blessings for their intended purpose, to bring praise to God and pleasure to man.  Surprisingly, when we stop creating our own burdens, we discover God doesn't give us all that many and, even those few, are for giving right back to him. If I want to turn something good into something bad, I'll give it to the dog.
 

Quirky Sense of Humor

     Two of my children have, what I will  euphemistically call, a quirky sense of humor.  Fortunately, our third child is normal.  My husband ridiculously suggested that they got it from me but, I'm forced to admit, I may have played some small part in it.  When other parents were reading their children bedtime stories like Tom Sawyer or Harry Potter, I was reading mine articles from Dave Barry and Patrick McManus. If you haven't read works by authors like them, you will never understand a quirky sense of humor, and you may think the people who have it are merely dangerous or insane. If only it were that simple.
     I blame cell phones.  In the good old days when you encountered a person talking to himself, you knew he was crazy.  Now you have to listen in on the one sided conversation for precious seconds to determine if they are tracking invisible yetis or updating the grocery list.  I believe the Bluetooth device was invented specifically for this, but I'm not sure what category that puts me in.
     I also blame television, of course.  We limited what our children watched, carefully screening for sex, language and violence, but we let them watch "The Red Green Show".  It was on PBS, how harmful could it be?  But apparently watching red neck Canadians at the Possum Lodge building and destroying things with duct tape can scar developing psyches.  We meant well.
     Our other familial affliction is that we have a dry sense of humor, dusty actually, the kind that drives literal minded firstborns crazy.  So when my son, with a straight face, told a stranger at a party that he was financing his college education by selling drugs, my firstborn mother-in-law felt compelled to explain that he was joking.  There is usually some killjoy around to explain "He/she was joking.", which is probably a good thing, it saves us the need to explain that to a law or mental health official.  I should also probably explain dry sense of humor to children.  When my nephew asked if he should sniff the open Kool Aid package I, assuming that by age 10 he knew better than to try, said, "Sure, take a big whiff."  When he stopped coughing, I explained what is meant by dry sense of humor.  He might have been better off if I had explained that before the dry Kool Aid, but this way he will remember the lesson better.
     At this point there is probably no remedy for our humor dysfunction and we will be doomed to enjoy "Calvin", "Dilbert" and other cynical comics the rest of our lives.  Just remember not to take us seriously, don't sniff the Kool Aid and, certainly, don't drink it. 

 


 

Loose Women

     Middle aged women are loose.  We can't help it.  That is what happens when your muscles shrink and your skin succumbs to gravity.  Your body becomes lazy.  Your breasts head south to rest on your belly, your belly scoots down to rest on your lap, and your backside lowers to counterbalance the front side.  Even your face, which has nothing to rest on, can't escape the cascading effect.  The only solution is to fill the loose areas with fat, and with decreased muscle mass this is easy to do.  My body is into easy.  So is my brain.
     As a young mom I would hop out of my car and, without thinking, gather up my children, diaper bag, an assortment of stuffed animals, a handful of toy cars and my groceries.  Now I have to think before I can even get myself out of the car, not to mention the effort of remembering my purse, water bottle and mail.  My biggest fear is not that I'll get Alzheimer's, but that no one will be able to tell.
     So, as long as everything else on my body is declining, there is one more thing that needs to lower--my expectations.  When I was young I worried that my knees were too knobby, now I'm just happy they bend in the right direction.  As a girl I didn't like my freckles, now I think how small they look compared to my age spots.  Yes my hair is gray, but I have lots of hair and with that and $10 it can be whatever color I choose.  I am middle aged, happy and healthy and I choose to be comfortable in my own skin.  I just wish there wasn't  so much of it.

Restful Rain

    Besides being a season of undecided deciduous, today is a day of restful rain. In this north country, even on August nights, there is a whisper of fall that speaks in a voice, beyond hearing, but somehow still felt, "Soon there will be rest. Soon there will be rest."  The land has nearly finished its summer labor of growing, the harvest will soon be gathered, rest will come. When the rain falls I can stay in the house with no guilt over neglected chores outside. God is watering my flowers and washing my unpicked apples. I can read the books I neglect during my perpetual running of errands. I can indulge this infernal drive to write.  In the diminished light my house looks clean. The hum of the dryer in the laundry room comforts like a lullaby. Peace lies like a blanket over the animals and me; I unashamedly take a nap. It is excuse enough to be able to say, "It was raining."

Dog Proverbs

   On Facebook I have recently written two proverbs inspired by our dog.  The first is: Don't walk deaf dogs at dusk.  I experienced this first hand having been thoughtful enough to invite my dog for a brief walk at sunset.  When the dog can't hear you and neither of you can really see each other, you aren't necessarily on the same walk.  It all turned out okay, we both wound up at home, but why put yourself through needless frustration?  The second proverb is : Dogs who have dined on departed deer are constant companions.  I knew something was wrong when I emptied my doggy bag from the restaurant into Garth's dish and he didn't immediately gobble it down.  (He waited five minutes.)  Then I noticed his belly was as round as a Shetland pony's and gurgling.  Obviously he had sniffed out a decaying deer on the island near us and had eaten his fill and then some.  Garth sleeps on the floor at the foot of our bed so I had all night to listen to the melodious gurgling, panting and farting noises coming from our dog.  The time awake was useful for planning how I could remove deer gut stains from our new carpet if the need arose. 
    As miserable as the deer meat made him, I knew Garth would happily go right back and eat some more, so all day I yelled at him when he tried to escape out the front door.  And all day Garth followed me from room to room as I moved around the house flatulating magnificently--a mobile fart machine.  Now that his belly is no longer distended and "Venison Vengeance" isn't wafting from his behind, Garth is happily spend his time in unoccupied rooms. There is no dog as faithful as an unwanted one--maybe that will be my next proverb.

Autumn Leaves

    I remember from a long ago botany class that trees which shed their leaves are called deciduous.  This is our time of undecided deciduous trees.  Leaves are just beginning to turn  so many trees are bicolor, red/green  or orange/green, while some stand out as bright red exceptions.  Many haven't yet succumbed to peer pressure and are completely green.  In anticipation of the cool winds and the leaves carried on them I have written this poem.

                  Autumn Leaves

Autumn leaves
bare branch bones,
bright colored foliage,
suddenly blown,
neither needing or needed by the tree--
free.

Autumn leaves
turning pages
books opened by
junior sages,
needing to learn but desiring to be
free.

Autumn leaves
empty homes
college bound children,
suddenly grown,
leaving their parents, each learning to be
free.

Autumn leaves
fields at rest
harvest is gathered
pantries blessed,
quiet beneath nature's cold canopy
free.

Blowing freely through my mind
memories autumn leaves behind.

Autumn 2010

   For some reason I never published the following blog so, even though it is not yet autumn, I'm publishing it now both because I like this one and because I am forgetful.

    Unfortunately for anyone who stumbles across this blog, I am saving the best of my writings to send to publishers, including the story for which this blog is named, so this gets the leftovers, kind of a "bloggy bag", things I would be more likely to write in my journal.  Now that I have a blog, I don't have to waste money on spiral notebooks. This is my journal from Sept. 2nd.
    It is my favorite season--autumn.  A time of cool nights and mornings but warm afternoons, tingling with promise.  It is a time of beginnings, my beginning at least. Though I love to see green, growing things, by this point of the year I am tired of maintaining them; though I do little enough yard work, I am tired of watering plants and feeling guilty about not watering plants.  Fall speaks to me of a time of rest, rest from growing, rest from the long summer days.  Soon the insects will die and the leaves will fall, I will see the Swan peaks from my front windows, I will see into the Stillwater River, clear at last, when I cross the bridge.  I feel the echo of excitement of the start of school years long ago, the smell of new crayons, even the smell of the pulp mill that permeated Missoula in the fall.
     It is the perfect time of day to be outside and yet I prefer today to stay in the house, by the open door, in the sunlight.  I made a pie this afternoon and I felt the satisfaction that came from such simple acts when my children were small and my days were spent at home with them.  September brings dozens of memories to my mind, crisp as the apples on the backyard tree.  If my chronic migraines have been a curse, the time spent at home has been a blessing. I am no so busy rushing around that I miss the comfort of my home, the beauty of my neighborhood and the goodness of the God who is my constant, but overlooked, companion.  Surely He who gives the plants rest, will give me rest also, if only I take the time to realize it.

Coots in the Forum

     In Ancient Greece old philosophers hung around the marketplace philosophizing until young Greeks stole their togas to wear to parties.  In America past old coots sat around the wood stove at the general store spouting opinions until the owner gave them free crackers just to shut them up.  In my hometown old coots go to Sykes, famous for its 10 cent coffee, to discuss life in the subtle tones of farmers who have spent most of their lives around loud machinery.
     But now we have a new forum, the internet, a world wide soapbox where you can shout your lungs out and people can ignore you, but not throw vegetables.  I am a writer, no one in the publishing world knows it, but I am a writer, or possibly just a coot hanging around the forum, eating crackers.  Somehow it just feel more writer-like to type my ramblings neatly onto the computer screen than scribble them in notebooks which nobody sees.  I have just entered kicking and screaming into Facebook where, after all the years of being as frugal with words as I am with money, (never use two words if you can get by with one) I am frustrated by the 427 allowable spaces.  I am hard enough to understand in context, much less in little bytes.  After this rant about people crass enough to broadcast what they ate for breakfast, I promise to write something beautiful or helpful.  I have a lots of wisdom to share.  Where did all these cracker crumbs come from? 

Why I Started Writing

  Graves disease.  Seriously.  Two years ago I developed Graves disease in which the thyroid goes into hyper drive.  If our bodies were the Mafia, the thyroid is the Godfather, it controls about everything.  I wasn't enjoying body aches, insomnia, weakness, being hot, weight loss (well, I was enjoying that) but not being hungry all the time (I even had to get up at night to eat), so I had it nuked. I should explain that I sometimes have reactions to medications so rare they don't appear in the side effects list, but to my knowledge no one has reacted to having their thyroid irradiated by writing poetry.  Rhyming poetry.  I hadn't written poetry for a decade and rhyming poetry for a decade before that, but there I was during the busy Christmas season wasting time trying  to find rhyming words for poems I did not want to write.  I wrote 22 poems in 20 days, one of them was about not wanting to write a poem.  Not only did that sentiment turn out to be a poem, but it had that horrible "Purple Cow" cadence.  "I did not want to write a poem, but verse and rhyme possessed me..."
     My specialist had never heard of a reaction like mine and I didn't want to get in a chat room about it because I didn't want to associate with people that strange, so as far as I know, I'm the only one.  Fortunately the poetry waned as the radiation subsided and it is now controllable.  It even became a gift, a way to vent emotions for a sorrow I didn't know was coming.  I knew writing could be a pain in the neck, I just didn't know it could spring from a pain in the neck.

Posing Naked for Strangers

    In the Louis L'Amour story "Conagher" the lonely widow has no one to talk to so she ties poems to the tumbleweeds and the wind takes them away.  These days we use the Web.  We share private, personal details on Facebook, blogs etc. having no idea who will read them.  It is like posing naked for strangers when we would never consider stripping in front of friends and family.  So why am I publishing writings I would never burden friends with--my homely brain children? 
     For me, writing is a coping mechanism. So is my sense of humor, unfortunately. I thought writers were people compelled to write.  Now I am compelled but who on earth would want to read it?  Maybe nobody, but this way I don't have to know.  I can get writing out of my system without rejection slips.