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.