Have a date

Dates. The kind you eat. Or at least I eat them. I like dates and bought a container of Medjool dates at Costco this week. They were grown in the Coachella Valley of California. I liked that. I've been to Coachella. It's desert, which seems right. Folks have been growing dates there for more than 100 years.

Medjool dates are large, larger than the kind I grew up eating. I just went online to find out about kinds of dates and found 22 varieties. I think--but how can I ever know for sure?--the dates we ate were Sari dates.  Dates are good for you. Full of potassium and naturally sweet, they have been designated by the USDA as a Super Food.

My mother and father loved dates. I believe I can say that. Or else my mother knew my dad loved them and so we had dates in the house.

At Christmastime, my mother would make fondant, pit dates, and stuff them with her fondant. She would put a pecan half on some and leave it off of some. This is a fond memory for me, my mother's stuffed dates. I certainly ate them, but I liked dates just as much without fondant. I love that I can remember that time and what my mother would make at Christmastime. Stuffed dates, divinity, fudge, spiced cider, carrot pudding boiled in a Crisco can. And so on.

By the way, I took about half of the Medjool dates over to my daughter's house. The two boys who were there only hesitated a moment before trying one. The older boy--he's 18--asked if they were plums or prunes. No, I said. Were they some kind of raisin? No. They are dates. They grow on palm trees.

So it is clear I have given him his first date. Don't know if my daughter has tried one yet. No matter.

Dates. The kind you eat. Or at least I eat them. I like dates and bought a container of Medjool dates

And so

As I recall, Matthew Arnold advocated the examined life. So do I . . . truly, I do. I have always been one to look beneath the surface to find meaning. I do not recall what he said about examining it in public or in a journal others might one day read. The idea of an audience is always in my mind as I write. That's as I write anything. Because, as I taught my students, all writing is written to be read. The idea of audience helps and sometimes hinders, as the preceding remarks indicate.

But this morning I have thought about examining certain of my beliefs. That's because I have been reading Steven C Harper's book on Joseph Smith's first vision, his various reports of it, how they differ, and why. 

Some believers are afraid to look deeply into their beliefs for fear of losing their footing, for fear that all they hold sacred or valuable will come crashing down and they will be left floating, turning this way and that for someone to tell them what to think.

I do not like to be told what to think. I don't even like to be told what I ought to think. (Is that the same thing? Maybe.) Anyway, I like to believe I am independent and able to think on my own. This may or may not be true. Just filling space here.

Makes me think of the phone call the other day from Mike, the car salesman who believes that if he keeps calling me and sending me cards in the mail I will buy my next car from him. He is absolutely wrong. In fact, he could not be more wrong. His salesman-like behavior is certain to keep me from calling upon him as my sales guy. If and when I buy a new car.

Yes, it's true. I have come far afield from what I started to write about. So be it. I will get back to it one day because it all involves memory and experience and interpretation, and that, of course, makes me think of my friend with Alzheimer's. I visited her last week. 

See. I have much to write about.

Just one thought to ponder: Some people behave/proceed as if we have all that Joseph Smith ever said or wrote. We don't. On the first vision or any other subject.

 

Blood and stuff

Yesterday I met Cameron. He took my blood at the hospital because two nurses at the dr's office couldn't in four tries. This means a) I'll now be getting a bill from the hospital, about which I'm not happy; and b) I have several little red holes where they tried. You know, they stick the needle in and move it around hunting for a vein. That hurts. But it doesn't hurt them, so they keep it up until they finally give up and say something mildly insulting about the size of my veins.

 One nurse told me, "I think the needle is at the vein but can't go in." I told Cameron about that and said I thought she needed a sharper needle. He said the needle he was holding was the sharpest there is.
 
I had hopes.

Cameron had to search a little, but only stuck one needle in one time. And, behold, there came blood, and he filled three tubes with it. I told him I had great love and admiration for him. I meant it. You try getting stuck with a needle in the crook of your elbow over and over.

Cameron is young, obviously good at his job, and his right arm above the elbow is covered with tattoos. Colorful. And maybe the pride of his young life. I asked him what it was. He lifted his sleeve and showed me the flowers and the words spiraling around his arm. "Live in the moment."

"So you're a carpe diem guy."

"Yeah," he said.

"It's quite beautiful," I said.

"Ya, but it sure did hurt."

"Are you going to keep going? I mean, up your neck and other arm?"

"No. I think I'm done." He pointed to one of the large flowers, chrysanthemum, I believe. Then he said, "I might go back and get this flower colored a little more, to match the rest."

I asked him who did it, because my friend Nancy's son is a tattoo artist. He told me, but it wasn't the Payne kid--who's not a kid anymore.

He said, "A good artist, tattoo artist, can make a lot of money. A lot."

"Well, how much did your tattoo cost?"

"It was $110 . . ." I thought that sounded like a lot of money. Then he said,  "An hour." I was dealing with that when 
he said, "And this took about eight hours."

"Cameron!"

Now. Do I need to say that I don't like tattoos? Well, I don't like them. But I liked Cameron.


Addendum: I've just been told by members of my family that the Payne kid, whose name they remembered but which I'll leave out here, is a VERY popular tattoo artist and has a long waiting list. So he must be getting rich.

Today's WikiHow

How to Look Older

Do I need to say anything?

This and that

• We had our regular Thursday night storm last night. This one less severe. I opened the bedroom window and fell asleep to the song of crickets and of rain hitting the concrete path. Can't top that.

• No raccoons this morning. Two women with their big dogs met me at that corner. One dog wanted to greet me personally, if you know what I mean. But I actually was glad to see the dogs. I believe raccoons are afraid of them.

• Yesterday I heard Willamina laugh and laugh and laugh out loud. Over the phone, of course. But it was a bunch of fun, I say. Edmund would laugh and then Mina would laugh and sometimes could hardly control herself. Then Ann would laugh and I would laugh. Can't top that either.

Why are they here?

Four of them. And they were big. Yes, I'm talking about raccoons again, the ones I saw this morning as I walked.  They were on the lawn beyond the "wild" area, having a casual breakfast in the early morning dark. They scare me, by the way.

These were big. Did I say that? Four big raccoons.

Okay. They were not in my yard, but too close for my comfort. The wild area is across the street from the back of Albertson's, behind MacDonald's. That is close to my house, in case you didn't know. 

I suppose it is not right to hate raccoons. I suppose.