Naming

I was looking back through some writings and found something I wrote not long before my grandson Peter was born. It said that Paul told me his name would be Maximilian Golden and I saw that as an improvement over some he had mentioned, like Piedmont. I could go with Golden, of course. It's a Schiess family name. But Piedmont.

None of my business, really, and I said as much back then, but I like Peter much better. Peter Golden.

I think it was just Paul's way of saying, "It's our son; we'll be naming him; you don't get to know yet."

Seems fair.

Stuck

That's a first. Stuck in my own driveway. Well, in the gutter just beyond it.

I backed out and turned, thought I'd check my mail. Should have walked to do it, because my car got stuck. Alyce about wore herself out pushing, but we got nowhere. She said the right wheel was spinning, but the left wheel was not moving--which meant it wasn't touching the ground. A clue.

I sent her across the street to Contas' for help. Jan said to try laying down branches from the neighbor's cedar tree, put them behind the wheel. The branches were in the street, having been blown off the tree by a recent big wind.

Good idea. If it worked, I could just back out of there and drive down the street. It didn't work.

Ron came over, brought his shovel and dug around the front wheels. Then he and Alyce pushed while I eased on the gas. No luck.

Ron went back and got blocks of wood. More digging, more pushing. Nope. Went back and got a burlap bag and a big rectangle piece of rubber. The bag behind one wheel, rubber behind the other. Same routine. No. Ron kept saying he didn't want to push very much on the front of the car because it's plastic. I think he said it three times.

Okay, okay, it's plastic. I still like it.

Alyce said they could push on the frame of the car because the windows were open. They tried. No way. That's when we knew for sure the car was high-centered, and Ron looked under the car and said, "It's up on two blocks of ice." Then Ron said he helped a guy last year who was high-centered, and it left the whole bottom of his plastic car on the ice.

Great. That worried me a little. I think I felt a little bit insulted, too. I mean how many times does he have to say my car is made of plastic? Get over it, Carol. He is working hard for you.

I thought maybe I'd have to lock up the car, leave it, and hope. Not sure for what. An ice melt seemed unlikely, especially under the car. It was cold. But it would look strange, my car sitting skeewampus in the street at end of my own driveway.

Jan, Ron's wife, appeared with a bucket. "I've got boiling water," she called. "She's got boiling water," Alyce shouted.

"Okay," said Ron, "but it might just freeze." It was cold--I said that--about 26 degrees. "We'll have to hurry."

Alyce picked her way over the ice and got the bucket. She poured half the water under the right wheel. "Now hurry," Ron said, and Alyce slid over to pour under the left wheel. More pushing, rocking, easing on the gas.

Guess what. It worked. The whole process only took about half an hour. That's all.

Ron gathered his wood blocks, his burlap bag, his strip of rubber and went home. Alyce cleaned up the cedar branches and picked up the mail. We left to run errands and decided when we got back we would give them the jello salad I had just made.

Good deal. Good Alyce. Good Ron. Good Jan.

Christmas Now

The best part of this Christmas so far has been singing with Lola. Her voice is beautiful. She is beautiful.

Confession

Okay, so here's the truth.
1. The Obama smokes blog was an experiment.
2. I don't care that Obama smokes, but I really didn't know he smoked, not having read the NY Times article Alex quoted from.
3. I thought and think he is gently handled by the media.
4. I know nothing about the voter registration. That part I kind of made up and threw in as "evidence." I thought of it after conversing with a friend who lost re-election to the state legislature and is contacting, one by one, the 2500 new voter registrants and has found a 15% discrepancy so far.
5. I do not repudiate the election of Obama. Certainly not because he smokes.
6. I do wonder how his "change" will translate into reality and how it will affect us.
7. I don't look to government to solve life's problems and take care of everything.
8. I have a theory, which I used to express to my students: people respond to the negative, they like conflict and controversy. That posting seemed to verify my theory. I also found out someone reads this blog. Sometimes.
9. Of course, and this has nothing to do with politics, the theory also includes the idea that the darker, more negative aspects of life are easier to write about. Finding words to express joy is a harder task. This is the theory, but in brief.

Where There's One . . .

I just saw a fox. He made his way along the east side of Mrs Lindell's house, then darted in under the old trees and shrubs near the front of her house. First time for a fox here on Greenwood Circle. Raccoons a-plenty, squirrels by the score, owls and crows and flickers and other such predatory creatures. Well, raccoons prey upon garbage cans and will attack dogs, I've been told.

But a fox.

I wonder if he has found the invalid squirrel who lived under the shrubs on the west side of Mrs Lindell's house. I saw that squirrel three times in the late summer but have not seen it for many weeks. And a fox makes one wonder about a den and babies. Oh dear. What will become of the neighborhood?

Christmas Past

Music. It has blessed my life. And I love the music of the Christmas season, love to hear it and to sing it. Always I loved to sing the carols. We did that every year at home. My mom would play, and we would all sing.

Of course, I wanted to go caroling. When I was old enough to go to Mutual, I got my wish. We would gather at the church, climb into cars, and meet at the houses of friends, get out and sing, load up again, and drive to the next place and ooh and ah at the Christmas lights as we went. No snow to worry about. This was southern California.

The best times were the hayrides because we were out in the cold air, together with friends, singing carols through the town. And sitting on hay bales. Not sure why, but that made it so much better.

I grew up in Santa Monica, a beach town, so a hayride seems unlikely, but we did it. Our ward got a big flat-bed truck, stacked hay bales on it, and we kids piled on of a Christmas Eve. Then we met at someone's house at the end for hot cider or hot chocolate and cookies.

Always in our family, with our children, I wanted to go caroling on Christmas Eve, and usually we did. We made a decent little choir. My kids can sing, you know. As they grew, we grew from mostly melody to parts, with altos and tenors and more basses than one. (We'd always include "Far, Far Away On Judea's Plain," because we liked to hear our boys sing those low moving parts on the Glory to God refrain.)

Often we had snow to fuss with--Idaho is no beach town--and always we had to bundle up, but that was just part of it. When we got home, Daddy would light a fire. We'd peel off our coats and mittens and mufflers and caps, and have our own hot chocolate and a bowl of chili.

I love that we did it, love the memory of those times.

I Digress

Barack Obama smokes.

That's not a rumor. And don't you find it interesting that we, the poor stupid public who need change and need him to tell us we need change and what kind of change we need, never saw a puff of smoke or heard a word about his filthy habit? I do. I find it interesting and troubling.

I mean what else about St. Barack did they--and I don't even know who they all are, but I know some of them--hide from us?

Truly, this calls the whole election into question. This and the whopping registration of voters--democrats--who may or may not actually live where they supposedly live or live at all. And I won't even mention Blagojevich.

Christmas

I think it’s that I’m like my mother. She always wanted everyone to have a present on Christmas, something to unwrap. Yes, I’m like that. So this year I have been feeling bad. It’s a hard year for money, and I was sliding down into the hole of “I don’t have enough money this year to give something to everyone,” and maybe worrying if people would be hurt or mad. I was saying this to Tasha, whining a bit over the phone.

Tasha said, “That’s not what it’s about.”

Duh, Carol. She didn’t say that part. I did, but not out loud.

Then she said, “It’s about being together.”

I like that she said it. I believed it and believe it, and I hope I can believe it every day from now till 2009.

What Do You Make of This?

I just drove by Zamzow's on my way home and saw their sign.

Vaccinations [for dogs] Saturday 1-4

Santa Paws 10-5

The Cereal Serial, I Have My Say

I don't know why my kids didn't eat the homemade granola. Maybe it was because it didn't pour out of a box. Maybe it looked too healthy. Maybe it was that once in a while I cut up dates and made them part of the granola--but not all the time.

It was healthy. But that is not to say it wasn't sweet. It had honey and sometimes pure maple syrup mixed in before the roasting. And so on and so forth. It was also delicious. Friends loved it, but they were grownups. And, I will add, my kids ate the cookies I made with the granola I made.

The big bags of puffed wheat were for Wayne G. He loved that stuff, that and puffed rice. Puffed wheat affected the odor of one's urine. Not in a good way.

If I have a rule, it is that I will not buy sugared cereals. I don't approve of them and furthermore I hate them, their phony taste. They can't be good for you. So, mostly, my kids didn't get to have them. Once in a great while--like every ten years--I would buy a box of Lucky Charms--I don't know why, probably for Richard--and I will buy an occasional box of Golden Grahams to this day.

I read of Ann's 12 boxes and think of what's in my pantry.

• Shredded Wheat, yes the big biscuits, which, by the way, I would not eat as a kid.
• Corn Flakes, only Kellogg's please. I don't like Post Toasties, never did, and please, no off brands. My sister Lucile, who in her maturity has limited her cereal consumption to corn flakes, does like Post Toasties, and she told me about the bargain she found, a box of Kroger's Corn Flakes for 99 cents. She bought two. Big mistake. It's no bargain if you can't eat it.
  
• Cheerios. No fake brands, no honey-nut kind either. Just Cheerios.
• Raisin Bran, Kellogg's or Post, but I will buy no other, not even Total Raisin Bran.

That's it. That's what I have, and I will not be able to eat it all before it gets old and stale. Not to worry, though. A grandson will usually come over and have a bowl or three, stale or not.

I don't like Kashi. It does a number on me, the flax, you know.
I don't like store-bought granola.
Total and Wheaties are just okay.
If I've forgotten anything it doesn't matter.

Hot cereal now enters the discussion. Hot cereal, which, in the home where I grew up, we called mush, no matter what kind it was. It was always sort of brown. I didn't like it much.

In our Schiess home, we used to have hot cereal occasionally, oatmeal most often because Wayne, their dad, loved it, or Cream of Wheat or Wheat Hearts. By the way, General Mills stopped making Wheat Hearts about five years ago. Too bad. That was one kind of mush I always liked. Once in a while we had Malt O' Meal, another wheat-based hot cereal.

Or

I'd make our own cracked wheat cereal. How popular was that? you ask. Well, I liked it, but I may have heard some kid call it crapped wheat. Could that be?

My Granddaughter

Cory. Just last year she was Cori. But now she says she will spell her name as it was given to her. Why? Because that other spelling was a bit childish, and she is more grown up now. It's true. I mean she has views and opinions and understanding and some knowledge, all of which show her grownupness. So Sarah, you who are colored grown up, your little sister is approaching grownuphood, too.

Nice visit, good girl. She calls me Grandma, which I am, and sometimes Grandmother--just for fun--which I also am.

We sat up in my bed Friday night and talked until after 1 a.m. and Saturday night sat in the same spot to watch a movie together. I say you can't beat that.

What's On TV

I don't know quite how to put this, but it is an objection on my part to what I saw last night on television, and before you tell me, "Well, you can always turn it off," I will tell you that I did. But I have thought today about it, and so I write.

I sat down in the late evening, turned around the channels and stopped when I saw a gathering at what appeared to be a Thanksgiving dinner. It soon became clear that these people were not family, perhaps friends, perhaps professional colleagues and other guests at Candice Bergen's table. I don't know her character's name. The people were bickering and seemed to be far from thankful for anything, but--just as I was about to change the channel--someone said something about praying or offering thanks, so I stayed.

There was more bickering about who offered to pray because that person--I don't know his name either--supposedly doesn't believe in God. And what followed was a series of jokes, crude remarks, ridicule and ridiculous comments about God and Jesus Christ. And Allah.

Oh yes, I know that many programs on television have as their premise and focus matters that I find objectionable. Frankly, I am not easily shocked. But this, the things they said, the small-mindedness and flagrant disregard (of the writers? the actors? the producers?) of matters some hold a reverence for, this I found shocking.

Those who surrounded the table are, we are supposed to believe, highly intelligent people. Some in our society may think they--in person and in the person of the characters they portray--speak for us, because they are professional and bright and wealthy and ever in the public eye.

But they do not speak for me. And I do object to the level of entertainment to which network television has fallen. No, I think it is less a fall than a willful plunge down. Way down. And I wonder if the actors in this show are proud of the work they do.

Something Newish

It's that I've dressed my blogs in new colors.

And I could approach a new subject, like, I might talk about the economy or Sarah Palin.
Joking . . .

Actually, I'm thinking about what I used to tell my students: all writing is written to be read. It was a way of getting them out of their own heads; a way of helping them know that for my class, at least, they had to be aware of some reader and write so that the reader would know what they wanted him to know. You know, provide the specifics, and so on and on. Yes, I could say more here, but this is not a class.

And, beyond my class, I am aware that sometimes we write and hide it away, but does that mean the writing was not meant to be read? I don't think so. Even if you say, "I'm my audience."

This subject is not new, but I think of it now because when we write our blogs, we don't know if anyone will read them. Look at the statement under the title Your Maugham, for instance. But I believe we write as if someone will. Otherwise, we wouldn't write at all.

It's Not Brain Surgery, But It's Kind of Close

If the guy standing over your numb face with a knife in his hand says to you, "This is costing me money," that's a good thing.

It means no deep cuts, no stitches, no lying there while the pathology lab analyzes the tissue to see if they got the whole tumor, no paying the pathology bill, and no black eye, which would have resulted because the surgery was over my left eye.

"These tumors are both pretty shallow," says Dr Burr. "We'll do a destruction." And although that doesn't sound good, it's better than cut, dig, and stitch. It amounts to scraping--I couldn't feel it, but I heard it--and freezing. And so yes I have holes over my eye, but they're really more like indentations.

"If I had to do the surgery," he said, "you'd end up without an eyebrow here." Dr Burr finished up, took my hand in his two hands, held it against his mid-section, and rubbed and patted and apologized--again--for messing up my face. And, yes, he called me kid.

He telephoned at 9 p.m. last night to inquire about my face. At the end of our chat he said, "You take care, kid. Have a good night. These things will heal, and we'll see you in January." I thanked him very much. For the phone call and for the whole thing. I'll live with the "kid" and the "sweetie." He's a nice man.

Now I apply a white emulsion to the ugly little places three times daily and put on fresh bandages.

There. You likely didn't want the details, but you got them.

To Barack

"We must not focus our attention exclusively on the material, because, though important, it is not the main issue. . . . The economic success of the Western world is a product of its moral philosophy and practice. The economic results are better because the moral philosophy is superior. It is superior because it starts with the individual, with his uniqueness, his responsibility, and his capacity to choose. . . . Choice is the essence of ethics. . . . Good and evil have meaning only insofar as man is free to choose."
Margaret Thatcher

Happy Occasion

A picture of Alyce and Ben on their recent visit to my home in Idaho. And aren't they cute!
She's showing off her ring. He's helping.
You may have thought they both had blond hair. But no.

I Know It's the Day After the America-Makes-History Election, But . . .

I have Poetry Today on my home page, and today’s poem is “Responsibility,” by Robert Wrigley. I know him, such a handsome man, and he is a friend, but one whose connection I have allowed to slip away. He came to Boise one summer in 1989 or 1990 and did a poetry workshop/class. I got to be in it and was really glad. I never felt like a very good poet. My poems are too simple, say I. Too prosy, says my friend Neide. (As recently as two weeks ago Neide said of my most recent poem, “I like these first two stanzas, Carol, and the last stanza very much." Pause. “Why don’t you write about this in an essay, that you’re so good at?”) Hmmm.

Robert took my poetry writing seriously, what a gift, and was nothing but encouraging. He didn’t like that my poem “The Wall” was in second person, but he told me it was a good poem and I should send it off for publication. I’ve fussed with that poem over the years, putting it in third person, and just recently deciding to put it back in second person. My poem, after all.

A year or two after that workshop Robert Wrigley came back to Boise to speak. I had kept in touch with him, and he asked for some kind of help from me regarding Wallace Stegner’s, Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs, a book of essays on living and writing in the west, the last thing Stegner published. I remember that when Robert saw me the night of his presentation he said, “Wow, Carol, you look like a professional.” It was a compliment and, obviously, hard for me to just accept. I quipped, “A professional what?”

Neide and Robert are friends, too, and I suspect they keep in touch. Most people, it seems to me, are better at staying in touch than I am. Robert used to teach at Lewis-Clark State College in Lewiston, which is where Neide first knew him. Now he is director of the MFA program in Creative Writing at University of Idaho.

I always like his poetry, and so I recommend it.

I’d like to find the road kill poem I wrote for him, even if it's a bit gruesome—he assigned each of us to write a road kill poem in response to his poem, "The Skull of A Snowshoe Hare." I’ve made a preliminary search and will carry on with that when my back stops hurting.

Today's Birthdays

Lynne called him Grandpa Love-a-baby. He was that, I guess. Mostly he was my dad, Daddy. It’s his birthday today, and if he had lived beyond age 89 until now, he would be 117. But he died in April 1981, six months before his 90th birthday.

My baby daughter, Ann, is 29 years old today, born on my dad’s birthday. If you’re any good at math, you can figure out that she was born before he died, about a year and a half before. In January 1980, when she was really little, I packed her into Wayne’s white two-door Subaru—along with my friend Joyce and two of her small boys—to take her down so Daddy could see her. Ann, his little birthday gift.

We took Wayne’s car instead of my Datsun, both small cars, because the Subaru had front-wheel drive and a better chance of doing well on snowy roads, not that we expected any. But better to be safe, you know.

I dropped Joyce and her boys off in south Salt Lake, Murray, I think, and went out to East Millcreek where Daddy was living with my brother Bill and his wife Lynne. We had a nice visit. Grandpa Love-a-baby held Ann, bounced her a bit, talked his special uppaluppachupa talk, maybe called her his little bunson-a-bullison, and sang to her some of those old songs he always sang to us kids, “Comin’ Thru the Rye” maybe or “Hush-a-bye and don’t you cry and we shall go to grannies, over the hill, behind the mill, to see the little lambies,” perhaps a “Rock-a-bye Baby,” too. There was no doubt he loved her. I felt that visit was a blessing for her and for me. I like to think I have a picture of the two of them somewhere, but I can’t find it.

The trip home was eventful. Blizzard. Cars and trucks off the road, though I couldn’t see them very well. Were they waiting out the storm? Maybe so. But we couldn’t do that. We had babies in the car, so we pushed on, slowly. I couldn’t see three feet in front of me, and the roads were thick with snow. I was pretty much scared, holding onto the steering wheel very tight, well aware that we were all precious cargo and needed to get home safely.

At Burley we stopped to get gas. I had hoped the storm would diminish once we crossed into Idaho, but no. Still very bad. I opened the trunk and a baby quilt blew out and quickly disappeared into the white. I had never seen such a thing.

Also at Burley, I asked Joyce to drive for a while. I was tired, worn out, really. She drove almost to Twin Falls and pulled over. “It’s just too hard,” she said. That surprised me; she was always so tough. I drove the rest of the way home, a long drive.

Finally in Caldwell, I dropped her off and made my way up to North Georgia, so very glad to be home. Wayne was surprised to see us, said that the Salt Lake airport was closed—okay—and the pass out of Tremonton, the one where the going was so hard, where the cars were pulled over, was closed, too. Nobody had told me about it.

I called to tell Joyce about the road closure, to give thanks with her that we had made it, but I couldn’t talk to her. Her husband said she was lying down. The trip had exhausted her. Hmm. Maybe I’m the tough one.

I have thought many times of that trip. January was a dangerous time to travel, especially with my new baby. But I didn’t know how long my dad would be around, and when we left to go down, the weather was beautiful. Besides, Ann did just fine. The trip was nothing but good for her. She slept a lot. No crying, no fussing. Just as good and easy as she always was, and thank goodness for her. I mean you can’t be thankful enough for a good baby. And I have always been glad my dad got to know her before he left this earth.

Happy Birthday Daddy; Happy Birthday Ann.

The Squirrel

I don’t know if she had been injured or was born deformed. She had no tail, and she didn’t scamper across the road in front of my car. Squirrels scamper, you know, but this one limped and shuffled. Slowly. She may have had only three legs, or if she had four, they were not whole. She was not whole.

She saw me, and I thought I could see in her eyes a clear understanding of her own vulnerability in my presence. No defiant flick of her tail. No quick flight up a tree, the escape and refuge for all the squirrels around here. No. This one paused in the middle of the street and then again at the curb to look at me, perhaps to determine how much time she had before I might come and do her harm, and then she crawled under the ground cover at the side of Mrs. Lindell’s house.

I don’t like squirrels. I’ve said it more than once. And I’ve often wished for a BB gun so I could get rid of the squirrels, or at least one of them, and once I borrowed a sling shot but couldn’t use it, after all. I don’t kill things (except plants and that's not intentional).

I have called squirrels rats with bushy tails. Pretty apt. I have called them pests. Also apt. But this squirrel changed me, broke my heart, aroused in me that protective nature most humans have, and taught me something about the worth of a life, even a squirrel’s life. I’m not putting this into quite the right words, but I felt nothing but sympathy and good will towards this squirrel. I would like it if she could know that. I would like it if I could hang on to those feelings.

A Bit of Harping

Here's the thing.
I know I'm old. But old is not my essence. Know what I mean? And I have not lost my senses or my intelligence or my personality/personhood.

I am Carol, a person. And so when people see me and the first thing they say indicates that they don't see Carol, a person, that they see an old person, I don't like it. And that is what all the hon, dear, sweetie, young lady, kid labels do. They mark the person old, and old is a barrier. Trust me. I know.

I have nothing against the people who do this, who call me those little endearing names that mean nothing endearing but that serve a handy function--they deal with me, put me in the proper pigeon hole. Handy.

No, I have nothing against those people.

I Repent

Today the skin dr called me Lady, Kid, Sweetie, Carol (my actual name), and Sweetheart. He also zapped my left hand and my face eight times with liquid nitrogen and took three punches from my forehead. That procedure required numbing before the punches and stitches after. The numbing part hurt, but I wasn't thinking of writing about that. I was thinking of the blog I'd write about those funny little terms of endearment that seem to slip so easily out of his mouth. Clearly, he doesn't think about them; he just says them.

But as I left the office he stopped me in the hall and said he was sorry for messing up my face. Then he hugged me. I think he is just a nice guy. Can't help himself.

So, Dr Burr, I'm sorry for . . . whatever.

More My Politics, Sorry

People say, and I have heard them, that there is no real difference between our two presidential candidates--politically or governmentally, that is. But there is, or there should be. One represents the people who believe the government should take care of us, of everything, be in our lives, everpresent. That would be Obama.

The other represents the people who do not want the government in our lives everpresent, do not want to look to government for the fixes, would rather rely on the self, the person, the people. That would be McCain.

Now, those are certainly simplified explanations, and I am speaking of theory. But I'll stand by what I have said here. What I do not know, of course, is what might happen after the election. I want to believe that McCain really does represent Republican thinking.

And, of course, I have no idea what the Congress might do.

But I think we can see what happens when we look to government to fix everything. It can't be done, and however it turns out, it's costly for us, the people.

My politics

I am sick of it. Sick of the whole thing, the money fears, the greed, the utter lack of integrity (a word, by the way, I have not heard in any context lately), the endless stories/articles on "what really happened," the stupidity and shortsightedness of "our representatives" (Ha!), the meaningless words of promise, the proliferation of those words, the sense those folks have that whatever they say we believe. Or ought to. It's a joke, but not very funny.

And, especially, I am sick of Obama being shoved down my throat. Like, the debates are bad enough. But the post debate analyses--good heavens. They worship the guy. St. Barack. They may as well come right out and say it. And every newscast, every online story about the campaign, everywhere I turn, they tell me he is winning. Well, maybe. But come November--and it can't come soon enough for me--I will cast my vote anyway.

Yes, Snow

It is not my job to chronicle the weather, but yesterday's is of note.

Snow, three hours of it, 1.7 inches of it, big flakes, which did, after all, stick. My lawns and roof were covered and trees hung heavy with it, and all night its melt made noise on my decks and walkways. This morning the fence tops, roofs, and lawns are still white.

October 10, a record for early snow here in Boise. Leaves haven't dropped, haven't even turned color yet. These freezing nights should hurry that up, the coloring of leaves. We shall see. But the snow, not just a slight passing flurry. No. Big. A whole lot of snow and exciting to watch as it reminded us again of things we have no control over. I wonder what winter will be like this year.

Such a storm, in its remarkableness, is something of a misery to live through, especially if you're out in it. I was for a while--a fine time to go grocery shopping. Cold. Wet. Yes, it's remarkable, something we want to call people about and exclaim, "What is going on?!"

When it's over, we feel somehow proud to have been part of this new record, maybe want to be able to refer back to it some future day. "Remember that big early snow of 2008? October 10 it was. Remember?" That must be why I'm writing about it.

Just A Part of Life As I Know It

When you live alone you talk to yourself. Of course. It only makes sense. And I have almost reached the point where I can accept that I do that.

But yesterday I spoke to the yellow jacket/hornet who was frantically circling my yellow jacket trap. I encouraged him, told him I knew he could find his way in. "Go on in," I said. "You're welcome there. Look, your friends are in there. Does it matter that they're all dead?"

Then I chuckled. To myself, of course.

Things I Could Have Said At the Reunion

To Mel Korobkin, who had just told me I was his token Mormon those many years ago: You were not my token Jew.

To Neal Treadwell, perennial tough guy: Good grief, Neal, you are your dad, right down to the false teeth.

To Vince Guercio, perennial toughest guy ever: You really don't look good.

To Bob Goon: You were never nearly the father of my children.

Aging, Part 2

Maybe I didn't look quite old enough, and now I do. There's no mistaking white hair and what it says.

Maybe there was some look on my face that irritated or a challenge in my eyes. Maybe I looked like I thought I was smart; that's always a challenge. Maybe I was always looking for resistance, looking for a fight.

Maybe that's all gone now.

I say it because people seem nicer, more cordial, more accommodating. Even those young service people behind counters. Maybe I look less threatening, a smile on my face, something more welcoming in my eyes.

I'm not sure if it's me or if it's them, but it's real.

Aging, Part 1

My doctor--a phrase I never thought I'd use--calls me "young lady" as he enters the exam room, hand extended toward me. I shake his hand and ponder his words. It's not the first time he has addressed me thus, and, by the way, he repeats the label as he exits the room. I don't like it, of course, and so, since I now know him better than I ever wanted to, I ask him, "Why do you call me young lady when it's obvious I am not young?" Unflapped, he says, "Because you are young."

Hmph. I must admit I like his answer. At least it sends my thoughts in a better direction.

And at least he doesn't call me "Sweetie," as my dermatologist does. Yes, I don't like saying "my dermatologist" either, but I see him, Dr Burr, annually so he can freeze away my pre-cancer spots. This because I grew up on the beach, so to speak, and still haven't accustomed myself to the feel and smell of sun block on my face.

I once asked him not to call me Sweetie. He was visibly shaken, having mistakenly thought that I, and every woman in her 60s, would love to be called Sweetie and that he was doing me a favor. Or something like that.

I don't remember his reply. He did his best to recover, but it was clear he did not know how to address me for the remainder of that appointment. "Mrs Schiess" or even Carol would have been fine, but apparently that would have required too much thought. Of course, he had my chart in his hands . . . with my name on it. In his defense I will say that he did not then treat me rudely, even though I had made him feel uncomfortable. But, hey, as soon him as me. The feeling uncomfortable part, I mean.

The next year it was like this: His nurse led me to an exam room and asked, "How's your day going, Hon?" I may have muttered something about the "Hon." And when Dr Burr came into the room, hand extended, he was back to calling me Sweetie. Oh well.

Try To Remember

I've been reading the dictionary this morning, its definitions of remember, among which are: 2 to bring back to mind by an effort; recollect, recall and 3 to bear in mind; keep in the memory, be careful not to forget.

When I was teaching I would tell my students that if they would start writing, if they would simply do the physical thing of putting pencil to paper or fingers to keyboard, then ideas and memories would come to their minds. I still believe that.

I might also have told them, certainly I thought it, that there was value in writing their memories so as to preserve them. Now I wonder, because in writing we condense; we simply have to, whether we have an audience in mind or whether we are our only audience (and I always hope someone besides me will read what I write).

"All writing is written to be read," I also told them. So if I'm writing my memories for someone to read, I may want them to have all the details, but I can't expect them to want to read them all, and so I condense, trying to put on paper the most important or the most captivating. And I may be as true to the truth as I can be, but certain parts I might leave out and others just tweek a bit. Even if I don't, something about the actual memory is changed when I put it in writing.

Isn't that right?

Mary Blew and Annie Dillard say it's right. They say that what you have written becomes the memory, just as a photograph of a place becomes your memory of that place.

For me, I would like to deny that it's right. I would like to believe I can keep it all straight in my head--what I know/remember and what I choose to write about it. Obviously, this is an important notion for me, and it may be what has stopped me from writing a memoir about Wayne and me because a) I don't want to lose any of the memories for myself, and b) I want the reader to get a true picture.

Words are shifty, anyway. I can't know how any reader will interpret what I write. That seems daunting, but a writer can't let it be.

Here's the truth. If I write it, no guarantee it will be read. If I don't, that is the guarantee it won't be.

Mary Ellen Ryder

Yes, I knew Mary Ellen Ryder, both of us having taught for the BSU English Department. Actually, she taught Linguistics, somehow separate from English, and I taught writing. She may have known all there is to know about linguistics; I'll never know all there is to know about writing. She was tenure track; I wasn't. But I like to think she considered me a colleague.

We were not close friends but close enough to call each other by first names, to chat now and then about words, close enough that when she saw my son Andrew's name on her linguistics class roster she asked, "How's Carol?" I knew her well enough to know her energy and excitement about her subject, about teaching it, to be aware of her cancer crises and triumphs, to have met her husband Peter several times. Well enough to know she liked to play the guitar and sing at those sometime English Department get togethers. Nothing spectacular, but she liked to do it.

I knew her well enough to sense her students' affection for her. And their respect. As my son Richard says, "Good luck to BSU finding someone as good as she was."

She was outspoken, a good quality when you have plenty of knowledge so that what you say rings true. Good for Mary Ellen. She did, and what she said was usually worth listening to.

English teachers are not your typical rank and file types. Double that for Mary Ellen. Only one like her to come along. That was true while she lived, true now that she has gone.

What My Student Wrote

“I wish that I had a penny for every time that I have ever stuck my foot in my mouth because I would be a milliner by the time that I am 21.”

Hmmm

Is it lying?

Jan came again today. This zucchini was slightly smaller than the first one, only 22 inches long and not quite as big around as my thigh. She asked again if it was too big.
I thought, "Yes."
I thought, "Obviously it's too big for you."
I thought, "I hate being in this predicament."
I thought, "You look very tired. I cannot refuse this squash."
So I said, "Oh no, I know what to do with it."

"What?" she asked.

I told her about freezing the pulp for zucchini bread. She had never heard of this process.

Here's the thing. It's true. I do know to do that with gigantic zucchinis, and I didn't really say I was going to do it. So is that lying?

Two other things I know to do:

One is what I just did. Put them both in an Albertsons bag, tie it up, and drop it in the garbage can. Tomorrow is trash day.

Two is say no to the next one. I just have to.

Summer Squash

My neighbor, Jan, came over the other day with a big zucchini. No need to say how big. We've all seen one. Heck, most of us have grown at least one in our own gardens. It's the squash that somehow stays hidden until that moment when, stunned and frightened, we see it. Yikes! We pick it in a hurry before it takes over the world and dash over to our neighbor's house in a gesture of generosity and good will. Sort of.

Well, she did ask if I could use it. I lied and said yes. So now its permanent home is on my kitchen counter. Apparently. Until I do something with it or throw it out. And I hate to throw it out. Thus Jan's burden has become mine.

I used to de-seed the big ones, then grate them up and freeze the pulp (unattractive word) to use in zucchini bread or zucchini chocolate cake, which were always very good, and my children liked them . . . unless they saw the green things and were grossed out.

Anyway, I don't make that stuff anymore. Anybody need a big zucchini?

Mama Mia . . . not

Meryl Streep, a genuine movie star and a fine actress. Not perfect, of course, or she wouldn’t have knuckled under to pressure and starred in “The Bridges of Madison County.” It must have been pressure. Certainly she could tell the book was poor (crap is the word that comes to mind), and that very bad movie came to mind when I heard her say she never watches her own movies. But she was talking about the most recent one, “Mama Mia,” and she said that she has seen that one three times and can’t wait to see it the fourth. “Wow!” I thought. “You wouldn’t see Sophie’s Choice or The French Lieutenant’s Woman, but you would go four times to this one? It must be good, must be fun. Maybe I should go see it.”

I don’t go to many movies. Not many recommend themselves to me. This one, I thought about before hearing Meryl Streep’s comments. The trailers—shown at least a hundred times on TV—looked fun. It’s a musical. That sounded fun, too, and it features a lot of the music of Abba, not my favorite music but, again, “fun.” And usually I’m less likely to go to a movie that is hyped as much as this one has been, but Meryl Streep. She sings; she dances. She’s seen it three/four times.

Pierce Brosnan is the male lead. I mean, he wins the girl (the older woman, Streep) in the end, so that must make him the male lead. But his part, as I found out, is minimal and nothing remarkable. Remarkable it is, though, that he and Meryl Streep have absolutely no chemistry between them and never will as long as the this world lasts, and their kiss scenes are unconvincing and borderline repulsive. But I’ve never seen Pierce Brosnan have any chemistry with any one.

He is probably a nice man and is without doubt a proper Britisher who cannot say Mama the way 95% of human beings say it, as in Mama, but pronounced it in an interview as if he had never heard the word and was reading it for the first time, as if he didn’t just star in the movie with that word in its title and repeated many times in the title song. He actually said Mama, with the first “a” pronounced as in pablum, which made me think he certainly hasn’t seen the film three times and must have spent any down time he had—which was no doubt plenty—in his dressing room trailer. Mama—think pablum—Mia. It has no ring to it. But, again, he’s British.

So silly me, I went anyway. Mistake.

No doubt Meryl Streep keeps going back to watch it so she can see herself jump and run and climb on things and hear herself sing, which she does well enough, the singing, I mean. Clearly she can’t be going to hear herself be called Donna, a name that doesn’t look or sound like her.

Take a guess, now, is the movie very short on story and very long on exaggerated gestures and overacting, if that’s what they were doing? Oh yes.

And is the pace frenetic and tiresome? Oh yes. Besides, the movie is crude. Christine Baranski—she can actually dance, and she can sing—is, as usual, the highlighted crude person. Is that typecasting? But most of the stars get to be crude, too. Lucky for them.

And because this is a Hollywood production, even if it's set in Greece, one of the men who might be Meryl Streep’s daughter’s father (you with me?), played by Colin Firth, turns out to be gay. A bit too predictable for me. And the young actress, Amanda something, who plays Streep’s daughter, whose wedding all are about to celebrate but don't, and who is supposed to be a rising star that everyone has eyes upon, is nothing to write home about either.

I guess the bottom line is money. They’ll all make some. They got mine, after all.

Oh Yes and Hallelujah

Okay, I know stuff. I know that a few years ago every car company had to come out with its own SUV. Even Volvo, for crying out loud. It was like a race, a competition. Duh. Car companies compete with each other. Now they’re all trying to give SUVs away. Oh well.

And I know that if one TV show is a hit, the other networks will do a copycat show, or try. Like Survivor, for instance. Look what it has spawned (do I have to name them all?), the latest being a reality dog competition where people go to a house and live there together—with their dogs—and the dogs have to do hard things, and a panel of judges makes nice or harsh with the owners, and the owners who have been criticized cry or talk back or both. And there’s a golden bone for whoever does well—not for the dog—and a bottom three, an elimination, and hugging when someone is sent home. Yes, I watched once, but that won't happen again.

But today I saw something I never expected to see, and I call it strange. Yes, tattooing is big these days. People have flowers and snakes on their necks and gnomes and monsters on their backs or they have arms covered with serpentine whatevers. Personally, I don’t like tattoos, and I always wonder if when the person grows up, if that happens, he or she might want to be uninked.

I don’t much care for piercings, either. I had a student with ten studs in one ear. No biggie, I guess. And I had students with pierced tongues, eyebrows, nostrils, and other body parts, I’m sure, which were unseen by me, thank goodness. One guy would sit in my class and play with his piercing constantly . . . using his tongue. The stud was in his lower lip, and he would manipulate the thing, or lengulate it (a word I just made up). Anyway, he got so he could take the stud out and put it back into his lip using only his tongue. Look, Mom, no hands.

But I digress.

What I saw today was evidence of some quarter of society trying to—what?—compete? join? and I just didn't expect it, although I guess I should have. The sign on the place said, Devotional Tattooing and Piercing. I don't think it's that they sing hymns during the process, but I could be wrong.

Sweetiepie. Warning: Dog Blog

She was Bill’s dog, a fine looking Fox Terrier. He got her from someone—there was a story, but I don’t know it. She could do tricks, we were told. She would even get cigarettes from a pack for her former owner. This I never confirmed. It was supposed to be a big deal because, so someone said, dogs hate the smell and taste of tobacco, though how anyone would know that I can't imagine.

Anyway, she came knowing how to lie down, roll over, sit up, shake hands, fetch the newspaper, fetch the mail. Daddy taught her to run upstairs and fetch his slippers, too. I laugh now to think of it, my dad and that dog, how he'd talk to her with no doubt of her understanding. “Bring me my slippers, Sweetiepie,” he’d say. Or anyone could tell her to go get Daddy's slippers and she would do it and drag along his robe, too, if you asked her to.

Daddy also taught her to dance, but her most complicated trick was catching a raisin off the end of her nose. Daddy would place a raisin right on the tip of Sweetiepie’s nose. “Hold it, hold it, now. Don’t move,” he’d tell her. She would hold herself still as a stone. “All right,” he would say at last. “Catch it!” She’d toss the raisin up, catch it, and then chew it up, which always looked like the hardest part of the trick. By the way, dogs don't like raisins either.

Sweetiepie would crawl up on your lap, put her front paws around your neck and give you a love, if you asked her. She would play dead or just play with you. She would run to meet you when you came home from school and jump up to your arms before you turned the last corner for home. She could feel you coming, I guess. Bill’s dog? Yes, but I knew she was mine, and we all felt the same way.

Mama never wanted a dog in the house. With Sweetiepie it was different. She stayed in the house with the rest of us, like one of the family. And Grandma hated dogs. Couldn’t believe Lola would have one in the house. But when Grandma came to visit, who do you think followed her everywhere? Who sat at her feet or on her very lap? Who loved her like none of us kids ever did? The dog, of course.

Sweetiepie loved to ride in the car. A curious passenger, she never sat down, left nose marks on the inside of the windshield because she had to see where we were going. Or, if the window was down, she would stick her head out the window, ears blown back by the wind.

I have not forgotten the look of the man driving the car that hit Sweetiepie in the street by our house. I was in the back yard when it happened. The man didn’t stop, just drove on. It took Sweetiepie a while to die. Sterling and I watched, helpless and heartbroken. When she was dead, I went in the house crying and drew a picture of the man’s face.

Sterling buried our dog out under the apricot tree in the back yard. The tree and yard and even the house are gone long ago, replaced by some unsightly apartment building. One that none of us, including our dog, would ever live in. Are you under there, Sweetiepie? I hope you remember me. I’m counting on seeing you again.

While We're On the Subject of Things Medical

5/8/96 Wednesday, the day I didn't die.
I went for my allergy shots, one in each arm, as usual. I used to go every week, and for the last four or five weeks I had been on the same level dose: .4 cm of 1/100 serum. When I asked why, the nurse told me it was the dr's decision, get me through the spring and summer before moving up. Hmph, I thought, at this rate it will years before I get to maintenance level.

My reactions to the shots had been minimal, a hive, some swelling around the injection site. So I thought I might not stay the required 15 minutes in the office, for my safety, awaiting a reaction or no reaction. But I decided I would stay. Good thing. It wasn't even one minute after the shots that I began feeling strange in my head, flushed, ears throbbing, something moving through me very fast. I went back in to the nurse immediately and said, "Hey, I think something's. . ." but didn't finish.

She got her Adrenalin out and prepared to inject me. I asked her to wait a minute--I don't know why. Then I began feeling faint and dizzy, my heart beating fast--I thought--short of breath. She took me across the hall into the drs' office and had me get up on an examining table. I was frightened and told her so.

Another nurse came in. They laid me back on the table and bent my knees. Someone ran and got the dr. He asked if they had given me the Adrenalin. No. Give it to her, he shouted, .3. I said, "Will it make my heart beat faster? It feels like my heart is beating very fast now." I don't know all that he answered, but they gave me the shot. I couldn't breathe lying down and asked if I could sit up. No, they told me, my blood pressure was too low and they needed it to come up before I could sit.

Four or five people were in the room with me. He ordered a shot of Tagamet and the sensor put on my finger. Then he dropped the machine the sensor was hooked to and swore. I think that's when I told him I was trying to be calm. I think I had a fear that they could not save me and they knew it. But I was lying there, with a very clouded mind, not sure but wondering if this was the last thing I would know on this earth, here in a room full of strangers, not loved ones. Maybe this was my time, but how could it be? It couldn't, too much to do, too many people. But I realized I was helpless and not in charge of anything and it was happening.

Someone brought in a machine that had a respirator with some kind of vapor coming out. I was to sit up now and inhale that. As they raised me everything got worse. My ears were pounding, my mind was numb. I was going to die and I was terribly frightened of it. Nothing I could do. It's like, I think now, when I watched Alyce slipping away in the hospital. But we took care of that and saved her. Maybe these people couldn't save me.

They put the respirator in my hand. I couldn't see. Everything was moving, blurring. I said I was afraid I was going to die, took one breath, tried to take another, and dropped the thing.

Next I knew I opened my eyes and was on my back again with my lower body propped up. I could breathe better, I was sweating now a little, whereas before I had been cold. A nurse was giving me another shot of Adrenalin, .2 this time. Something had happened to save me, and I knew I would not die.

In that time between when I dropped the respirator and when I awoke, something or someone happened. It was like I went somewhere, not for long, and there was someone. I could almost see the person, but I cannot be sure what really happened or who it was, maybe my mother or Lola or Ann. It isn't clear. I didn't look down on myself from above, like people talk about, but when I passed out--that's what they said I did--something was suddenly okay. I was okay. And someone was in my mind. Whoever it was had blond hair.

Before very long I began to feel pretty good. I don't know when they called Wayne, but soon he came to drive me home. We left my car in the parking lot.

I went home. If I thought about the whole thing, I cried, and I'm not sure why. Richard called and I cried. Lola came and I cried.

Dr Ganier called not long after I got home. His nurse called an hour later. I thanked them. I know they were scared. I could feel that throughout the whole incident.

The questions I had clinically concerned the fact that both times I experienced a systemic reaction, I had been taking an antibiotic, Trimox. Of course, Dr Ganier said, "Theoretically there's no indication that blah, blah, blah," whatever all that was. But you'll never convince me. So I quit The Trimox, and thought I should quit the allergy shots, too.

For a long while afterward I felt closely connected to something way beyond my self. I thanked my Heavenly Father for my life that day. Still do.

Warning: Patriotic Post

July 4th, Independence Day. We celebrate America, our independence from any other nation, our greatness, and our precious freedom. I wish our celebration would bring to our minds all those blessings we have enjoyed all our lives.

I am an American. I love this country, and I humbly proclaim I belong to America. My ancestors—on both my father’s and mother’s side of the family—gave up their homes, all they had, all they knew in their native England and Denmark to come to here. They had joined a new church and were gathering in America, where they knew they could worship freely.

My mother’s people sailed from Denmark on a ship called The Westmoreland, and once in this country they walked most of the way to the Salt Lake valley. My father’s people sailed from Liverpool, England, in an old vessel and had to bail water all the way across the Atlantic, the voyage lasting six long weeks. They passed through Ellis Island and eventually took a train from New York to Omaha and walked the rest of the way to “Zion” to begin to build their lives anew. Their first home was made of mud. They never regretted the sacrifice.

Today I live in freedom, comfortable and safe in my own home, not made of mud, blessed by the gospel of Jesus Christ and by His church, blessed by the strength of my own ancestors and by the sacrifice of patriots who truly loved liberty more than their lives. I owe everything to my fathers and mothers and to the fathers and mothers of this country.

I say this week is a good time to look back to my own history, to remember, and then look forward and renew my commitment to live truly, faithfully, and to honor the heritage I so fortunately possess.

The Unwelcome New Neighbor

My neighbors across the street just called to me, "Carol, watch your lawn because we have a gopher," pointing to the patch of dirt which has newly appeared in their front lawn. They said they'd gladly send him over. I don't want him, of course, but I'm pretty sure if he wants to come he will dig right through under the street.

Stuff like this is a bit distressing for me. I mean, Ron--that's the male half of the Contas (across-the-street neighbors)--should just kill the thing. Hose down the hole, pitch fork, trap, something. Maybe a tiny bit of dynamite? (Joking.) Or a good cat who likes gophers. Whatever. My point of view is this: it would be a lot easier for him to take care of it than for me to have to take care of it. Could I be wrong? I just hope Jan Conta is not environmentally opposed to killing gophers. She might be, you know.

This whole gopher thing could turn out to be much worse than the raccoons who used to traipse across my yard on their way to their nest under Phil Jones' front porch. And he did set traps for them, using peanut butter sandwiches for bait. Caught a few cats and finally the baby raccoon but never the big guys. They would slip in, grab the sandwich, and slip out again.

The Joneses moved a few years ago, and I haven't talked to the Bakers, who bought Phil Jones' house, about raccoons, which may mean they moved, too--the raccoons. At least, I don't see them any more, and I haven't seen evidence of them since I found such evidence (and mighty nasty evidence at that) on my upstairs deck. Rubber gloves, plastic bag, water, bleach, scrubbing sponge later I got rid of the evidence, and in time the smell was gone, too .

But a gopher. I think my sons would have to come over and help me. I know they watched their dad, probably helped him, when he went after the gophers at 722. It seemed quite a little adventure, one I was always glad to see the end of. I liked knowing the place was ours. You know, ours.

At this house, besides the raccoons, we've had squirrels in the crawl space, red-shafted flickers pecking holes in the siding, carpenter ants wherever (but when they began congregating in the pantry, I took drastic and very expensive action), marauding visits from neighborhood cats--they dug up my flowers and one year ate my baby finches--and this year a nest of crows. But I've written enough about them, except, I wonder if crows eat gophers.

Oh well. I guess it's all part of home ownership and lawn care. And no one ever said such things would always be pleasant. For now, I'll just hope Ron takes care of the problem. Maybe I should encourage him.

Just a House

If such a thing is possible, I knew every corner and cranny in that house. Big rooms, and small rooms stuck on off of bigger rooms; an upstairs deck—of all things (the 1940s)—which was a sometime retreat for me, where I could look out to the ocean or across all the rooftops of the neighborhood; floors that sloped, and hiding places for stuff I didn’t want my mother to know I had, like a pack of cigarettes, among other things, Parliaments. I don’t think they make those any more. I didn’t smoke them, don’t even remember how I got them. One day I flushed them all down the toilet.

But the house, 609 Ashland Avenue: set up on a hill, palm tree in the front yard, noticeable. It’s the house where I grew up, and it is dear in my memory. My parents often talked about moving while we lived there—the house was big and old with nothing modern and work-saving about it. But we kids wouldn’t hear of moving. We had our friends, you know, and our schools, and we were—or I was—probably afraid of change. Besides, we loved the old house. So they waited until we were all gone, sold it, and moved away.

My heart broke a little then and as I watched its decline. I guess I was the only one who lived nearby. The roof deteriorated and never saw repair. The yard wasn’t kept up. The flower garden my mother took great pride in with her gladiolus and roses, the fruit trees and strawberry plants my dad saw to—all were neglected and fell to ruin. Eventually the owner tore the place down and built an apartment house, ugly faux Spanish, quite out of place in that somewhat Victorian neighborhood.

I thought about that house yesterday as I drove by 722 No Georgia, the house my children grew up in and loved. They still write emails about it to one another, describing its corners and crannies, reaffirming their sense of it as the “best house possible” for growing up.

Yesterday I could see that it is not looking good. A huge travel trailer sits in the front yard, on the property line next to Nickels’ place, and in front of the trailer a wreck of a car, 1956 Pontiac, with a hand-written for sale sign taped to the windshield. On the other side of the house, just beyond the garage wall, where the iris used to grow, there is nothing but junk and at least four garbage cans, not all upright. The pasture was sold off a few years ago, and now a wood fence separates the two properties that had been one. Now, what was pasture bears a tall house and a barn-like building which no doubt block the view from the big picture windows in the living room at 722. I drove around the back and couldn’t see our house through the new house and barn.

But that’s the thing. It is no longer our house, and so what has become of it is no longer our business and should not concern me. It’s not as if we can, any of us, go back. That is not how this life works. Besides, I don’t know but what the present occupants are building memories in 722 No Georgia as dear as ours, though I doubt it.

I think there is such a thing as ownership that goes beyond actual ownership. The place will always be ours in that sense, and that is why I feel such disappointment about it, as I did about 609. It ought to be dear to anyone living there. It ought to be cared for. How dare they let it go? But, you say, it’s just a house, a place. Okay, I say, and thank goodness we had it, but clearly it is more than just a place to our family. Thank goodness, again, that what we did there and what we learned there we can always keep, wherever we are.

How About a Burger?

Have you eaten at Wendy’s lately? And how was it?

I only ask because I cannot eat there. Not that I popped in weekly, but that once in a while I could go there for a decent burger or some chili. Now, it's clear to me: I can’t pop in at all.

It’s the food, of course. It’s just not good anymore, and the level of concern on the part of employees—those people who slap together the burgers and such—seems to have slid downward also. Like your lettuce leaf might actually be on the bun, or it might not, and if you ask for no ketchup on your hamburger you might get no ketchup, and, then again, you might not. I know these things because I did eat at Wendy’s, once last year and once this year. But no more. I'm done.

I blame death. No, this isn’t The Widow’s Chronicle. It’s just me, Carol, griping, grieving, maybe, for Dave Thomas, at whose death Wendy’s began its decline and its cutbacks on quality and quantity. I mean, can those square hamburger patties get any thinner? The last time I ordered a single, the beef patty had a hole in it, you know, an area right about in the center where there was no meat, as in "Where's the beef?"

More's the pity, I say, because Wendy's used to be kind of good, but what you get now is just plain old shoddy fare and a lousy eating out experience. Too bad.

My point? I don’t know. Maybe it is about death. Sorry.

A Small Matter

Have you had the experience of feeling someone's eyes on you? You know, you're sitting in church or where ever and you become aware that someone is looking at you, even though you cannot see that person. So you turn, and usually to the very person, and see, unless the person can look away quickly enough, that yes indeed someone has been looking at you.

How does this happen? Is there something sent through the air, some kind of electrical charge from the eyes? And how does it find its way to exactly you?

I cannot think I am the only person who has had this experience. I saw it happen today, in reverse. Someone came into the chapel where I sat. He was clear across the room and could not see me. I watched him enter and, after he sat down, still kept my eyes on him. In a few seconds he turned and looked at me. He did not look around the room but directly at me, although we do not know each other. I quickly turned away, hoping he did not catch me looking at him. Has such a thing happened to you?

I believe this may be some kind of physical phenomenon (physical, as in physics) and wonder if it has a name.

Flights

In about thirty minutes Lola will be here to take me to the airport. I'm flying Southwest and do not anticipate paying $15 to check my one bag. American Airlines, as you may know, is now charging $15 for your first bag, $25 for your second bag, and these charges carry with them no promise of greater care in the handling of your bag(s). In fact, they carry no promises at all.

Gas prices, that's the reason. A congressional panel is now meeting to question the CEOs of the five biggest oil companies, and their questions are quite accusatory in nature. One questioner asked one CEO how much he makes per year, and the CEO answered, "I don't know." I leave that for you to ponder.

I don't like it. But I also don't like the idea that anyone who makes a lot of money is evil. Another ponderable.

But I'm writing to mention another kind of flight, the flight of all birds from my yard except crows. I mentioned it before, but it wasn't quite official back then. It is now, and I have taken down the wreath and thrown it away. A sad day. Maybe next year my finches will come back. We'll see.

No doubt I'm writing this blog to help the time pass quickly. I'm anxious, don't usually take evening flights, the day has seemed long. I've never "cruised" before, nor has Alyce. It's hard to wait, and yet this seems a courageous thing for me to do--take a cruise. You can ponder that one, too, if you want.

North to Alaska

On a Holland America cruise ship, the Amsterdam, to be specific. Leaving tomorrow night on an airplane for Seattle. Alyce and I will meet up there, stay the night, board next day, or, I should say, embark next day. Wanting all my family to take good care of themselves while I'm gone. Hoping all will be well at my house. Hoping some of you Boise Schiesses will drive by and check on it now and then. Knowing that when I get home, I won't lock myself in the garage the next day. (Besides, I have a hidden key.) Hoping this cruise will be a good rest for Alyce. And fun for us both.

And Yet Again

I told Tommy that rug does not belong on the back lawn and to take it back into the garage. Now! He just looked at me, and I had seen looks like that before.

“Don’t give me that look,” I said. “Get that rug and take it back to the garage.” He turned and slunk away.

Tommy was, at that time, Richard’s new friend, Border Collie/Chesapeake Bay Retriever mix. A beautiful chocolate brown dog of some nine months who spent each day alone in my garage and back yard while he waited for Richard to come home and who had not yet outgrown his need to chew up things, regardless of how many chew toys and rawhide strips Richard provided. My rugs—yes, they’re old and in the garage, except for the one on the deck which had to be thrown away, but they are still mine and not his—pillow parts (Richard’s but still mine), whatever he could get at and apparently nothing poisonous or volatile because he survived. These were his chew things of choice.

Actually, I liked the dog and thought he was a good one. He had some beauty, barked only rarely, did not whine, knew what it meant when he was told to go to bed and did it, only dug a few, maybe twelve, holes in my back yard, and loved Richard. Richard, who was here and lonely for his wife. No. A dog cannot take the place of wife and family, but this dog was a friend and loyally so even after only two weeks. It felt like love, I’m pretty sure.

Something Else About Love

So, the woman who just came into this waiting lounge and yelled at her husband, would we say that her love tank is empty? She embarrassed him and the rest of us, too. Not sure if she embarrassed herself. She accused him of not caring because he was sitting in the lounge instead of being out looking for her.

“Sitting there reading a contract,” she said, as if that were a crime. “There are millions of people here,” she said. “I could get lost.” Then, after a short pause, “What’s our first rule?” I could not hear his answer, but she said, “No,” quite disgusted. And then she explained, as if he were a five-year-old, that their first rule was to not get separated.

Why hadn’t he been looking for her? That’s what she wanted to know, and yet I suspect she knew all along he would not look for her, and I suspect they both knew all along she wouldn’t get lost. It’s only the downstairs waiting area of the Salt Lake airport, after all. I suppose what she wanted was just something from him, some small effort, to show he loves her. That’s not so much to ask. I wonder what he felt, what he hoped for. Perhaps a quiet moment there without her. Or he might hope he could have a quiet moment with her there beside him. They are a sad pair, neither knowing what to do.

I am no marriage counselor, but I can say some things with surety now that I have so much to look back at. So I ask, What makes better sense than to love your husband? your wife? Give without worry over what you get. It requires some maturity, and it requires unselfishness, qualities most of us can find within ourselves. Yes, we can.

Mid-Night Adventure

I locked myself out of my own house last night, actually 1:30 a.m., a first for me. I had brought a pair of slacks down to wash and opened the back door to see that all was as it should be in the garage. Everything looked fine, so I turned the lock as I stood there. But there was a smell I couldn’t identify, so I stepped into the garage and let the door close behind me. Great.

The house key in my car did me no good—that’s right, the car was locked, car keys just inside the back door. No cell phone; it was in the house. No spare key hidden in the garage (there is now, you’d better believe). No lights on in any neighbor’s house. I was stuck.

Yes, I could call Lola, but I'd have to wake a neighbor to use a phone. At 2 a.m.? I didn’t want to. Didn’t want to bother anyone. Didn’t want anyone to know what a stupid thing I had done.

Five hours before I could hope for anyone in the neighborhood to be up, and I was already cold. I had to get resourceful. I put the slacks on over my pj bottoms and tried the door again. Still locked. Funny.

Maybe something in the garage could unlock the thing. After trying a tiny screw driver, tiny saw blade, paper clip, nail, and what I will call brute force, and having no success at getting in my house, I began to look for anything I could use to keep warm through the night. Found a pillow that smelled of petroleum, but hey, an old Mexican blanket with the same smell, and a tarp, and planned for a hard night by the back door—between the fridge and the garbage can. I spread the tarp on the mat and then thought there must be a sleeping bag on one of those garage shelves Wayne had built, so I climbed on the old wooden stool that had belonged to Grandpa Schiess, pulled down a black plastic bag, and found my own sleeping bag in it. I lay down—note the correct use of the verb.

As I struggled to find some comfort, I thought of things. 1. Have a key in the garage for such emergencies. Okay, I would take care of that in the morning. 2. Maybe the ladder would be tall enough to reach my upstairs deck and I could climb up and go through my bedroom door. I got up, carried the ladder to the deck (and it's dark and cold outside, you know). Ladder way too short. Back to the garage, and thank goodness I didn't lock that door, too. 3. Try to sleep. 4. What about when I need to use the “facilities” of which I have none in the garage? 5. Try harder to sleep.

I can’t say I was entirely comfortable, but eventually I was tired enough that I did sleep a little.

When I woke I checked the sprinkler control clock, 5:47. I checked the neighborhood, no lights on. At 6:20 I saw Clarks had their lights on. I walked down, knocked on their door, rang their bell. No one came. I turned to go back home and saw the kitchen light in Shuells’s house. I headed there, scaring Pam Shuell only slightly. I used their phone to call Lola. She might still have a key to my house. She made a search but found no key. (6. Make sure my kids have a key.) I told her about my ladder idea and thought maybe Bryan could negotiate the climb up and onto the upper deck. But Mr Shuell heard me, said he had a tall ladder, came over, did the job, let me in, and here I am to write the happy ending.

For a while this whole thing made me feel very old and very stupid. But when my neighbor told me he had locked himself out many times and what he does now because of it—always leaves a certain door unlocked because his kids have lost all the spare and hidden keys—and when I remember everything I tried to do and then look at the little bed I made for myself, I realize I may be old but not too old to think, and I’m not stupid. This was an accident. We all have them.

A New Family in the Neighborhood

Crows are nesting in the Hessings’s cedar tree, which hangs way over into my front yard. I did not invite them and, frankly, do not want them here. They are predators. Okay, fine. They can’t help what they are. But because they are here, my finches are not. My finches, my house finches, who have nested in my Christmas wreath every spring since 1992, are not coming this year.

I love those little birds, the male with his orange head and throat. They build their nest together and take turns sitting on the eggs. I could stand in my laundry room and watch the whole thing, from selecting the nest site to the flying exit of the last baby. Last year all four eggs hatched, and how those babies squawked for food. I watched them learn to fly, even the runt. Then off they went, and I took down the wreath and washed the wall again. Some years I had two finch families. Too bad. That’s history.

And that’s not all. I have no robins in my yard, no quail, no sparrows, red-winged blackbirds, doves, junkoes, not even a magpie. And the goldfinches have deserted their feeder. It's the crows. I should be happy about this? I can’t. Also, I can’t do anything to change it. It’s against the law to kill the crows. I couldn’t kill them anyway, but I like to tell them I could. And I did think of calling my tree guy to come over and remove their nest. That’s against the law, too.

“Corvus brachyrhynchos
“The loud and frequent 'caw-caw' of this good-sized bird with shiny black plumage is quite familiar in southern Canada. Their return in late winter means, to many people, the advent of spring. [Southern Canada. Sounds like a good place for them.]
“The American Crow, in spite of its reputation as a predator, is useful to humans because it consumes large quantities of pestful insects. [We shall see. Is pestful a word?]
“The crow nests in trees where four to six eggs are laid after the breeding season. Immatures and adults often assemble in large flocks on their way to the southern wintering grounds. Many birds remain year-round in several parts of the country.” [Great.]

Charles Atlas, Vic Tanny, and Muscle Beach

In the late 1940s you could see an ad strip in comic books and newspapers about a 97-pound weakling at the beach with his girlfriend who was humiliated by some muscly bully kicking sand in his face. But the weakling was no dummy. He sent for the Charles Atlas body building plan and soon went back to the beach a muscled guy himself and beat up the sand-kicking bully, who for some reason was still there in the same place. Then, because of his muscles, the former weakling could get his girlfriend back—and any other girl he wanted.

I'm not sure I ever believed the ads, but I loved the look of the muscled body, and I liked the justice of the whole thing.

Charles Atlas was a real person, and I remember those advertisement pictures of him holding the world on his shoulder. He was a body builder who didn’t use weights but his own system, Dynamic Tension. In 1921 and 1922 he won the title of the World’s Most Perfectly Developed Man, which is what he called himself ever after. The contest that gave him the title wasn’t held after 1922 because its promoters knew there was no one else in America who could ever win the title away from Charles Atlas.

Charles Atlas had no gym. His was a mail-order business. But Vic Tanny had a gym on 4th Street just down from the Hitching Post theater in the town where I grew up, Santa Monica. In those days Santa Monica was small, and I don’t remember it being populated by the kind of ignorant stupid people Jay Leno finds there and then displays on his Jaywalking episodes. These folks know nothing and are proud of it. But that is another story.

I went to the Hitching Post theater—Saturday matinee for a dime—but I never went inside the Vic Tanny gym. (My brothers may have, I’m not sure.) What went on there remained a mystery to me. I think it was one of those upstairs places—step in from 4th Street and take the stairs to the second floor. My parents would never have allowed me to go. I may have asked. Besides, in the late 1940s women were pretty much excluded from body building gyms except as spectators, and few at that. And in the late 1940s I was no woman, only a small girl who clearly did not belong in a men’s gym.

But I have learned that it was Vic Tanny who changed the workout gym from a dark and smelly place to one of light, color, and even carpet, and he hoped his gyms would attract not men only but everyone. Eventually, they did, and he had 80 some Vic Tanny gyms throughout the country. Joe Gold was a frequenter of Vic Tanny’s Santa Monica, and we know what he learned there.

Muscle Beach? Yes, in those days it was in Santa Monica, not Venice, just south of the Santa Monica Pier. It was a place of interest for me, and when I could get someone to take me there I loved to watch the gymnastics and body building that went on. Those muscly, oiled bodies looked good, if a bit unreal. Nothing like any boy I ever knew. But Muscle Beach was not a place where I could hang out, even in my teen years.

Today a Gold’s Gym is within walking distance of my home in Boise, Idaho. It has lots of light and lots of women working out, as well as men. But I don’t go to Gold's. I drive on down the road to Curves to do my work outs. There’s not much atmosphere, not much excitement, nothing very fun going on at Curves. But I go, for the health of it.

lay/lie, come on people

Here is a direct quote from the small recipe tag that accompanied the asparagus I bought. "Cover grill pan with aluminum foil, lie Asparagus stalks on foil . . ."

I am fully aware that lay has replaced lie for many folks. They don't lie down, they lay down. Oh well.

But is lie now going to replace lay? Lie the book on the table? Lie the asparagus on the foil? Oh, I hope not.

Toothsome

Mama said, “Whatever you do, Janeen, hold on to your teeth,” hold on meaning keep them, avoid their extraction by some dentist who wants to sell you dentures, those fake teeth that never look quite as real as you hope they might and have been known to slip or become dislodged when the poli-grip wears off, and which, in Mama’s case, came partially out on purpose as she chased us around the living room or den when she wanted to scare us and make us laugh at the same time.

Two Sentences, Not About HonK's

He’s handsome and blind and Italian and a tenor and quite the rage among opera lovers who never go to the opera, the ones who know Luciano Pavarotti because of the three tenors and all the hype that went with them and Cecilia Bartolli because she’s been interviewed on television—that great equalizer and spreader of culture to anyone who’ll watch PBS—or who know of Enrico Caruso because he was the answer to a question on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.

Still, he has a glorious voice, rich and true of pitch and clearly Italian in its tenor timbre, and I wonder if his blindness makes him a better singer than if he had sight, better because he isn’t distracted by lights or the movements of the orchestra conductor or fidgety audience members who may figure because he can’t see them they can slouch or stretch or yawn, as if opera goers would ever slouch or stretch or yawn, and who may have forgotten that he can hear and probably better than most of us who have seeing eyes and are easily pulled off course by whatever is going on around us.

Honk's

I went to Radio Shack today, bought a new phone battery, came out and saw that Honk's $1.05 is back to Honk's $1.00. I guess Mr or Ms Honk found out that folks here in Boise don't want to go to a dollar store that charges a dollar, five. After all, Dollar Tree is half a mile away, and it really is a dollar. Anyway, as I recall, Honk's started out at 99 cents. If he'd go back to that . . . oh well, who cares. I won't be shopping there. Regardless of what you may be thinking because it's twice this week I've mentioned it, I have only been inside the place four times. In my life. Period.
Could Honk be a real person?