Well...Duh!

Some of you may recall that I bought a heated bird bath recently, then after resolving minor problems with a timer/extension cord was successful in having it work by providing my local birds with drinkable water in the dead of winter. Not only that...I was able to enjoy seeing them eat and drink just outside my dining room window. It was a win/win endeavor!

Then trouble.

Out of the blue it stopped working. Of course I had to check everything about it before I was willing to give up. I checked the plug under the tray and in so doing spilled the water from the tray all over my sneaker. Then I followed the extension cord back to the outdoor receptacle and then I tinkered with the receptacle. A vague memory of prior troubles with the receptacle danced through my brain (but not enough to provide the past solution)as I was formulating my attack plan. I plugged in my boom-box and turned it on, but nothing happened. Ah, Ha..the receptacle is fried.

I went on line and discovered how easy it is to replace it and got a new one from Lowes and followed the installation instructions to the letter. Electricity really scares me. I couldn't find the breaker for the porch outlet, so I cut the juice to the entire house. Anything to continue living! It didn't take long before I was replacing the faceplate and plugging in the boom-box again.

With a feeling of complete satisfaction, I turned it on. Nothing.

OK, I see I have reached my limit when it comes to electricity. I called in an electrician. Like every other tradesman that I have met here in Arkansas, he was patient, knowledgeable, polite relaxed and friendly. He rang the doorbell and before I could answer it, he was tightening the button so it wouldn't wiggle anymore (I have been trying to fix that since I moved here!)

OK the inspection didn't take long. The solution came in the form of a question: Where is your GFI. Hummnnn, gfi? I seem to remember something about those but where are they? The bathroom? He said yes, you probably do have one there, but there should be others. Now, my brain is hurting. I saw labels in the breaker box with GFI on them. He said no not that.

I went to the garage as if I knew what I was doing and scanned the walls. It all came back to me...yes, there is this one outlet with a reset button and now I see it has a little red light that is all aglow. I reset the button and like magic all was right with the world.

We stood on the porch happy to have the problem solved and discussed gardening. After several minutes I thanked him for his help and asked how much; you can't stay in business by solving these problems for people for free! He was hesitant and charged me very little.

As we were leaving I asked if he could install canned lighting in my living room ceiling. (This is something I have been trying to get done for a while, I got a price earlier this year but the guy never called me back). He looked and said sure. He calculated the total cost mentally while listing all the material that he would need. He said he could do it next week. I am so looking forward to this!

If I didn't have that little brain-fog about the GFI, I never would have gotten the lighting done in the living room.

Aaargh...

As we all get a little older, we occasionally think about what changes we will have to make to accommodate our ever increasing short-comings. Stuff happens and we just have to deal with it. Fortunately, I am very physically fit and I like to think mentally stable, so these thoughts are just vague hints of future concerns or at least that's what they have been. Until today.

Things were moving along quite normally, I went and did some volunteer work and stopped at an Aldi's on the way home. I was thinking about baking some cookies and wanted to get some butter. Aldi's is the kind of store that you have to enter without preconceived notions...you buy what they sell...at really good prices. They may or may not have what you actually need. So, I got dark chocolate bars, bags and bags of diced dates (needed for the cookies), evaporated milk (for the possible pumpkin pie I will make in November) cans and cans of crushed tomatoes (the big ones for spaghetti sauce) and on and on. Yes, I did get butter.

Once home I started putting the stuff away, when I got to the cans of tomatoes I noticed that the shelf space was very crowded and things needed to shift a little. Okay, with a swipe of my left hand I moved the peanut butter and other stuff and simultaneously placed the first can. The peanut butter fell to the floor (thankfully it was a plastic container) and as I was placing the second can I bent down to pick up the peanut butter. That's when the second can whacked me in the back of the head...almost hard enough to knock me out. The can fell about three feet and is twenty-eight ounces. Math was never my forte but let me tell you, A pound and a half of can falling three feet to the back of your head REALLY HURTS!

I was stunned for a few minutes (well, maybe a minute) just holding the back of my head. The lump was growing very quickly. Then I finally decided I should try to move; yes, I can do that, so since I am right next to the freezer, I opened it and grabbed a bag of Trader Joe's Roasted peppers and onions and gingerly dropped it (to loosen the contents) then placed it on the back of my head. It helped but not enough. It took several hours for the pain to stop, but it did. Now it only hurts when I prod it...so, yes, I don't do that!

So I am left thinking to myself...am I the only one who could knock themselves out and have no one know about it? This is really serious...(when you stop laughing!!) My bird was useless through the entire ordeal. Until I make better arrangements I guess I will have to rearrange my pantry...put all the light stuff up top and all the heavy stuff on the bottom shelf. Then...watch out feet!

Reminiscing

I really enjoy sitting outside on my back porch in the early evenings when the sun is on the other side of the house. I like to look at the clouds floating by, or watch the birds or just listen to the sounds in the area and let my mind wander where it will. I was doing just that the other day when I heard an unusual sound (for my neighborhood).

A siren.

Well it took me back a lot of years...back to when I was sixteen. I was not old enough to drive but I had friends who did. One day when we could think of nothing better to do, we drove to Hackensack, New Jersey. This city was about ten miles from where we lived and was the largest and most lively place near us without going all the way to New York City (which we would NEVER do). It had a main street called...Main Street and the busy part ran for about twenty blocks. Back when I thought I knew everything, the best way to spend a Saturday night was to ride up and down Main Street and have some fun. So that's what we did. Some of the side streets were one-way, so one had to be careful on making the loops. Otherwise, you would miss the best part of town and have to go further east to make a turn into a section that was not so nice. Anyway, we did this for a while and then tried a new street to make our loop.

Not a problem, or at least that's what we thought. We had made our left turn to begin the loop again and it wasn't long before one of Hackensack's Finest pulled us over. Oh, oh...is it against the law to cruise main street? What was the problem, we wondered as the officer approached the car. Typical first words: license and registration. This did not sound good.

My friend dug and dug but could not locate the registration. The officer was getting annoyed with us and made us follow him to the police station where we went through some more questioning. Actually, my friend went through the questioning, I just listened. After what seemed like forever the officer wrote a ticket for making a left turn where none was allowed and then did the unspeakable: impounded the car.

So there we were two teenagers one seventeen one sixteen in downtown Hackensack with no wheels and little money and at least ten miles from home. See if it were today it would not be a problem. We would whip out our cell phones, call a friend and be on our way in minutes. But it was then and it was a problem. My friend would not call her father because he was the tyrant type and probably would have beaten her pretty badly; no we had to solve this another way.

We started walking Main Street in the general direction of home but had no solution in mind. I thought maybe we could scrape enough money together for one of us to take the bus back home and maybe my mom could come and get us. My friend was underwhelmed with that idea. WE kept walking and ended up at a bus stop in front of the YMCA. We stood there talking about the problem for a while when a car came cruising up my friend waved and smiled and went over to them and started talking. It did not take long for us to be in the car and on the way home. It was getting late and I was really starting to get scared about how I was going to get home that night.

The guys seemed nice enough, my friend kept yakking and before we knew it we were at her street corner. The guys let us off and went on their way. She went in and I walked the half mile home and was grateful to be there; went to bed and was happy to be back in familiar surroundings.

I called my friend the next day to ask how things went with her dad and as expected they did not go well. But there were no beatings involved. He deliberately took the registration out of the car so if she ever got in trouble with the police he would find out about it. Well, I guess it worked, sort of. I sometimes wonder at parents logic. He drove her back to Hackensack and they got the car, she paid the ticket and there were some other punishments involved but I can't recall them now.

Then I said how fortunate it was that we met people that she knew when we needed that ride home so badly. She said: "I didn't know them. I took a chance."

I think I will just end this here.

Walmart

Well, what can I say. After living here in Arkansas for better than four years; I have to admit I'm a convert. That is not really the right word. I was never "against" Walmart. You may find this hard to believe...I had never been in one. That, my dear friends, was because where I used to live...there weren't any! Yep. NONE!

Why was that? I can only surmise (since I am reading Sam Walton's book: "Sam Walton Made in America" and (I am only about 60% through it) his big gamble was establishing discount stores in very small rural towns in the Midwest...actually Arkansas and Missouri then on to neighboring states and then on and on...

Since I spent most of my time in the very populated Northeast it should be no surprise that I had never been inside a Walmart. I don't think they have any in my old stomping grounds yet, but that may all change in the near future. Anyway, it did not take me long to discover Walmart and all its wonders. I went there immediately after getting most of my stuff out of the car and into the house when I first moved here. Food was the main reason for the trip, but even I could see that inside these super-centers one could pretty much satisfy any material need.

Well, for example, I was there just getting the basics so I wouldn't starve to death during the first week of my move. You know, milk, eggs, bread, some meat and veggies etc. and I found myself wandering a bit away from the food aisles and into the kitchen gadget and cooing utensils. Wow...pretty cool! I had never been in a store where one could buy food and the tools to cook it with, and the garbage cans to store the trash and the exercise equipment to work off all those extra calories, and the clothes you would need if you overdid the food thing, and garden stuff so your house looks nice, and jewelery for rewarding yourself for being good. Well the list goes on and on!

I found myself making excuses for why I had to make a trip to Walmart. I needed...shelf paper. Yep, they got that. I needed brushes and cleaning equipment..Yep they got that. I didn't know I needed new jeans, but when I passed a display of jeans for $17 (YES that's right $17.00..not the $45 I was used to paying back in the east) I knew I needed jeans and plenty of them! I was beginning to sing the praises of Walmart.

I know there are some people who don't feel a nice warm and fuzzy feeling about Walmart because they seem to drive the mom and pop stores out of business; that may very well be true. But I believe, if Walmart didn't do it, another company would have. It is just the trend and process of doing business more efficiently. In his book, Sam seems to be a pretty fair and caring person (a little cheap maybe, but fair) So all in all, I think it was a good thing that he went to bat for the consumer. We really are the one to benefit from his cunning business approach.

Did you know that there are banking branches inside most Super Walmarts? Eye centers where you can get an exam and glasses while your spouse does the shopping? Income taxes, yes, they have temporary offices during tax season and you can get your taxes done there too! Did you say you needed a haricut...Well, there's hardly anything that you can't get at Walmart. I found myself using the phrase "If you can't get it at Walmart; then you don't need it!" I don't know if I read that somewhere or if I actually invented it, but I sure became a believer pretty quickly.

Today they put the icing on the cake for me! I found myself suffering from a medical flareup that required a visit to the doctor. Me, sick on Memorial Day! I panicked for just a minute or two and then I remembered that back in the fall they were advertising flu shots at the CareExpress at the Super Walmart at the mall. I went on line and found the phone number; yes they ARE open today. I went down signed in and 30 minutes later I had finished my exam and had my prescription in hand. I just walked over to the prescription section and had it filled for $4. Now, here it is only seven hours later and I am already feeling better. I think it is true, if you can't get it at Walmart, seriously, you don't need it!

Youth Group Looking for Nonwhite Mentors

That was the title of a news article in today's paper. I thought, wow, that sounds an awful lot like a group that I was working with several years ago when I was on the "light side" of my fifties. I had recently become widowed and thought I might do myself and some younger folks some good if I signed up for becoming a mentor. The plan was to go through a six week training course with a bunch of like-minded people...men (young and old) women (young and old) and both of all colors and backgrounds.

See we all just wanted to really help some young people by being there and caring when no one else would. So how hard could that be? Harder than you might think, I came to find out.

Anyway, I took the course and finished it; then waited patiently for my mentor assignment.

Then, we were all discovering that what the organization really wanted was black males to mentor for very long list of fatherless black boys. They weren't so much interested in females (old or young) black was okay though. I thought to myself, well, okay. Whatever they think they need they can wait for it; if it doesn't come, I'll be here to provide some mentoring if called upon.

After a while, they called me to mentor a 15 year old Caucasian girl. It seems her mother had severe personal problems and the child was living with her grandparents. The story was she needed someone to talk to and help her stay on the "high road". I thought, this should be duck soup for me. I had a lot of similarities when I was her age and really could relate to her situation. It was never my plan to share my history with her, but knowing that I had a personal history to draw from made it easy for me to willingly accept the challenge.

We met and had lunch. We talked and went for a ride. She shared some of her dreams and current wants (there seems no end to what a 15 year old can dream about!) Anyway, I thought we were making great progress. She was more relaxed each time we met; she shared more and more. She even told me some pretty scary stuff and she swore me to secrecy...of course, that's all part of the gig. It was getting to where some of the stuff had me scratching my head though...

Then about two months into the program, I got a call from the program director. I was not to see the child anymore. No there is no problem, no I did nothing wrong. No, the grandparents think I am a wonderful person. It's just that I was too old. Get it? I was too old!

I guess I WAS too old. I thought we were talking about a living caring human being extending themselves to someone who had NO ONE!!!! That was not the case...she had two someones...and what she was looking for was someone to encourage her belligerent behaviour...someone younger who knows how to live on the wild side and not be responsible for their own behaviour. Someone who perhaps could come with a couple of new ways to live on the edge.

Well, she was right that wasn't me.

As for the news article, I guess they want to stay in their own little world too. It is a shame. I thought love was blind to color and age but apparently not.

FBI's 10 Most Wanted

For most of my life I can remember seeing the list of the Federal Bureau of Investigation's 10 most wanted list in the post office. Every time I would go for stamps or to send off a package, I'd while away the waiting time by looking at the grungy pictures and imagine the gross crimes that these people had committed. I'd also secretly shake a little at just the thought of running into any of these creeps. Maybe this added to my aversion of visiting the post office, I don't know. I do know that going to the post office was always up there on my own list of things I really hated to do. Yup, right there along with cleaning the bathroom bowl, defrosting the fridge, cleaning the oven and root canals.

Lately when I go to the post office I don't seem to have that downer depressed feeling that I used to get. I think the reason for that has been answered in this news article that I saw today. Post offices no longer want the Most Wanted. According to Richard Watkins, postal spokesman for the Mid-America district, "most of the nation's 34,000 post offices took the posters off the walls several years ago. We decided to take them down and keep them in binders behind the counter. People have to ask to see them."

Well, thank goodness for that. Now we can all breathe a little easier; we don't have to look at the worst criminals of present time when we buy our stamps. How very thoughtful of those folks at the post office. But wait...what's this?

Mr. Watkins goes on to say "the walls are prime product display space now. A retail standardization policy issued in 1999 and updated in 2005, has prettied up post offices, making them more uniform and attractive -- the better to move merchandise."

It is "the Wal-Marting of post offices across America" according to Ron Pry. The post office now-a-days is filled with vivid red signs and wildly colored envelopes, track lights beaming on posters of Frank Sinatra, Walt Disney and Mickey Mouse...Where will it end?

I guess if we want to see America's 10 Most Wanted we will have to go to the FBI website, ask to see the book at the post office or perhaps just search for them on the Internet. But if we want hard sell designer stamps....well, I can tell you where to go!

Bad Hair Day

I've been using a national chain to get my hair cut for the last year or so. It's because I travel so much, I am usually not in my familiar home territory when the need arises. Most times it is an at least acceptable job but once in a while...well, it leaves something to be desired.

So I discovered a location even closer to me here in Wauconda than the one I had been using in Lake Zurich so I went there. The sign outside said "No Wait".

It was true, she took me instantly. I like that. I told her to just clean it up a little, shape it but make it about a half inch shorter. Ok, she said. I was a little concerned when she started at the very front on my head; usually they start somewhere at the crown, but hey, I am not in that business. It looked like she took a little too much on the first SNNNIIPPP, but maybe I was mistaken. (Mental note to self: If you are ever worried at the first snip; get up and leave.)

She continued to cut getting a swatch of already cut hair mixed with some that needed cutting and worked her way around. Just the way they all do. I could see it was too short, but that happens sometimes, nothing to get all worked up about. Then she took the electric clipper to get the straggly hairs on the back of my neck (you know, the ones that are practically invisible...yeah, those.) So, I thought she would remove the cape and we would be done, BUT NO.

Then she took the clipper and a comb and randomly combed what little was left of my hair away from my head and zapped it with the clipper. I am mentally wondering now why she wanted everything to be cut evenly, when she is making it look chopped now. This goes on for a bit and I am thinking to myself...maybe I should just go home and buzz cut the whole thing; at least it will all grow out together. FINALLY, it looks like she is done. Yes, she is; she puts the clipper down and steps back from the chair. My heart is sinking.

The manager, who is working at the next chair comes over to look at my cut. She makes a face, grabs the scissors and starts to make it even, working over the entire haircut...it is really short now. She is making faces and clipping away. There is only about 3/4 of an inch left; when will this end. Just a little more and she too, is finished.

I pay and leave. In the car a take a glance at it and I am horrified to see everything is just standing straight up. Why? Because it is too short to fall gently and create a nice layered look. No, it looks like I have just seen a ghost! Well, this is one place I won't go back to, ever.

Oh, you want a picture? Uh..uh. here it is.



I may never remove my biking helmet.

Goodbye Dear Friends...

No, not you my faithful readers, this is goodbye to some of my favorite radio folks...Kathy and Judy from WGN talk radio.

It was decided last Friday, by the powers that be, not to renew their contracts. Bingo, just like that...they are gone; no warning...no getting ready to live without them. The management of the station are "making a business decision and going in a different direction". Fine.

They have kept me laughing and thinking for the last 2.5 years and Lord knows how many podcasts from before that. They would talk about the most inane things...just when I was ready to shut them off, they would change the topic, have listeners call in with their opinions or experiences and it would be like a whole new day. The subjects varied from wedding invitations, to death of a family member, workmate etiquette and grade school bullying. Then there was always "sex-Thursday"...where listeners could call in anonymously and discuss some of their early (or late) sexual experiences...these were the best and would often have me close to tears from laughing so hard.

I don't know what is easier, to have this unexpected break or to have known about in advance. It seems like eons ago now, but when I lived in the New York area I would start my day, everyday, with WNEW radio. NOT what you get now which is rock and totally unlistenable stuff, but great jazz from the forties peppered with lots of music that you wouldn't hear anywhere else, new jazz, great artists introduced by "the" Ted Brown and his sidekick Nola Roper. AHHHHH.... Now those were the days. They did comedy skits in the mornings, in-between traffic reports and weather forecasts. No matter how bad things were, these two always made it better. It was a true addiction for me.

When the announcement was made that Ted Brown was retiring, I was devastated. Co-workers were asking me if I was going to handle it. I laughed and said sure, I don't have it as bad as you think. But I was wrong. It was like losing a family member. It took a very long time for me not to miss them in the morning. I would search the Internet hoping that they might appear somewhere else, but no. They were not to be found. Worse, I found out that Ted Brown had moved to Florida and passed away some years later. There is still a dark hole somewhere in my heart for him.

So goodbye dear friends, you are missed and loved very much.

My Neighbor Mrs. Haight

In 1943 it seems everything was being rationed from butter, coffee, sugar, clothing, gas even tires. There was a war going on; anything that existed that could be used in the war effort was rationed if not eliminated from general availability altogether. Americans were also asked to save and recycle all metal items which might also be used in the war effort. It was the first year that the penny was made of zinc-coated steel. Copper was a much needed commodity.

All of this was before my time. I only know about it because they taught it in American history class and I’ve heard some stories from my parents and other older folks about how difficult things were here in the States during the war. Rationing stamps, bread delivery cards, war bonds and victory gardens all seem like a romanticized story about a very black time in our history for me.

In 1954 I was going on six years old and lived in Missouri on a very small farm with my grandparents. The town was maybe 200 people total; all god-fearing people struggling to make ends meet. It was a time of wonderment for me; I was too young to know about poverty or a lot of the other real problems that grown-ups had to deal with. My grandparents made sure they did not burst that bubble for me either. I did know that money was a hard thing to come by and if you earned any, you would spend it very wisely.

It didn’t take very long for me to get to know everybody in my immediate neighborhood. My grandmother would take me on walks to the corner store about a half-mile away and everyone who lived along the way became another friend for me. Of course I would help carry the stuff back from the store and that endeared me to a lot of folks. The lady who lived right next door, Mrs. Haight, was one of those people. She thought it was just soooo wonderful that I helped my grandmother as much as I did. I thought it was the least I could do.

One day Mrs. Haight called me over and asked me if I would walk to the spring which was near to the corner store and bring her back two gallons of spring water. She really preferred the spring water to the well water from the pump in the back yard. She said she would pay me a dime if I would do that for her. She was quite old and I thought it would be a neighborly thing to do. The dime…well, my mind danced with anticipation of the stuff I could buy with all that money.

Yes, I’ll be happy to do that for you I said beaming as I grabbed the two empty glass gallon jugs. Off I went, in my own reverie on my half mile hike to the spring one jug in each hand. Going was pretty easy, filling the jugs was a snap, but carrying them back was another story. I started walking and got about a block away and realized that these jugs were pretty heavy when they were full.

I stopped several times before I made it back to Mrs. Haigts’ place. I realized that the trip was worth the dime; this is really hard work. But I promised and I was going to deliver the goods no matter what. I rested in the last bit of shade just before her house so I wouldn't look so tired when I got to her door. I guess it worked. She looked delighted to see me and took one jug at a time and brought it into the house and came back for the other one. I waited by the door for the dime.

She came to the door with a little black change purse that snapped open and closed. She stood there fingering the change; looking for the dime. Finally, she found it and held it out for me with a big smile on her face; thank you she said. I really appreciate it, dropping the steel penny in my hand.

I looked at it and immediately knew it was not a dime. I instinctively knew she was as poor as us. I hoped she didn’t know it was a penny. Thanks, I said let me know whenever you need me to get you any more water.

Writing Technique - - Letters

According to the book "Writing for Self-Discovery" by Schneider and Killick, another way to ones' inner feelings is to write a letter to an individual, a company, a school or where ever it is that the venting needs to be directed. Generally, this letter approach is for the writer; the letter is not sent or given to the 'intended' recipient. It is a way to say all those things that must be said...a clearing of the air if you will, so life can go on a little better than before. It's a damned good technique for some really difficult issues.

This is actually something I have written a while ago, but fits the technique rather well (all this before I actually read a book on better writing; I guess when it has to come out, it comes out!)

Letter to my Foster Parents

You were there for my brother and I at a time when no one else could, or would, take care of us. On my first day with you I remember how grateful I was that there was someone who could fill that need. You were a stranger taking us in…well God said he would provide for our every need. Perhaps I took it for granted in my childish little eight-year old mind...poof! Then you were there.

I noticed early on that your family was different than mine. Mine, being the time I spent with my grandparents. How loving and nurturing they were. They did not have much, but they gave what they had so willingly, It was mostly just love and togetherness. Sure we had to do without, and farm life can really be demanding on a child who has real chores to do, but then everyday there were those family times...that melted the harshness away. The memory of church every Sunday and chicken and dumplings afterwards, the thank you God prayers and goodnight kisses and the early morning rituals of who gets the outhouse first, yes this was a very different lifestyle than yours.

I noticed that you didn’t have thank you God prayers. So I guess goodnight kisses for strangers would have been out of the question, but your own children didn’t get them either. I thought that strange.

I noticed that you always seemed angry, I couldn’t figure out why. I was still just grateful that you were there to fill that need. You gave us shelter and food and a pretend family, how fortunate we were. After all, there was no one else who could care for us, but you. Yes, I was learning that life was very different.

Then your own children broke all your rules and pointed the finger of guilt at me.
You were really angry that day!I explained that is wasn’t me. I pleaded that it wasn’t me.

I cried to tell you the truth. NO! Insolent Child! Full of evil, I will teach you not to lie!

The tumbler glass full of sudsy Tide detergent solution looked like a mountain that I would never get past. Drink it? Me? No, I can’t. You can’t make me. Your threats and bullying overwhelmed me…and I did drink it…all of it. How horrible your actions were.

God must have sent me to you so I could learn that not everyone was like my “grandma”. You certainly were not. I was so afraid of people after staying with you. I couldn’t trust adults and I couldn’t trust people my own age. Who could I trust…only me and God, those are two who will take care of me…always. Everyone else was suspect until proven otherwise.

It wasn’t until many years later I realized you were probably more needy than me.

The method the state uses to assign children to foster parents should have better screening methods so those who are already down and out are not further abused.I can only conclude you did it for the money…hope you did it for the money, for if you did it for the pure pleasure of seeing innocent children suffer…then you are truly sick individuals.

PostScript
Now, I can add a happier ending to this letter. While I carried many years of hatred toward you; the distance that time has created makes it a very less painful memory. I did learn that in the world there are good people and causes to care for children in need of it. I can direct my efforts toward funding such organizations so your kind of treatment of needy children doesn't happen any more. Each time I help such organizations I inwardly feel I have delivered yet another blow to injustice

A Mental Health Day

It was a day trip. Destination: Atlantic City. Purpose: A little harmless fun, perhaps a special lunch and pick up a “mystery gift” offered by one of the casinos I visit occasionally. I like these little getaways because door to door it is roughly twelve hours. I don’t have to drive, it is safe and if all else fails I can enjoy a stroll on the boardwalk and savor the ocean views.

I never travel if the weather isn’t perfect. When things go well I come back with more than I started with. Not so well means: it’s the cost of having fun.

By now, my umpteenth trip, it was pretty routine. Arrive ten minutes before the bus comes, park the car, get the ticket and put the parking pass on the dashboard, then join the others waiting in a disorganized line. It is disorganized because no matter if I am there first or last, I always end up at the end of the line. It must show. I don’t go often enough to know the process.

At this early point of the route there are always plenty of empty seats and I, as a matter of course, grab a window seat on the drivers side three or four rows in. I do this so later if the bus is crowded I will not have to get up to let someone sit next to me. It is an old trick I learned from my commuting days. For the moment I use the empty seat for my backpack of stuff.

I use the three hours or so to daydream, sometimes it is about my job, but mostly it is about retirement, vacation fantasies or if I could do anything, I’d… Sometimes I have a seatmate. It’s only happened three times before. Always women. Twice they were pleasant companions, once stony silence. You never know what you’ll get. Today was such a day.

At the last stop before the express part of the trip, 23 people boarded. I knew I would not be traveling alone. Several people pass my mid-bus location looking for a single seat, some are successful, but only for a short while. I was surprised when a heavy-set man indicated he would take the seat next to me. There were plenty of seats available (with men in the adjacent seat) that would have been more appropriate. (Haven’t you read the unwritten bus riders etiquette book?) Men sit next to men; women sit next to women, whenever possible. Then, and only then, do you sit with the opposite sex.

He is apparently a regular on this run…already greeted three people before he got to me and started a conversation with the lady across the aisle and back one row. His friend, a guy, takes a seat a few rows up, closer to the exit.

I now have my backpack on my lap, since the seat next to me is no longer ”mine”. He is telling me that he will not scrunch me, while he lifts the armrest on the aisle-side. I guess he needs lots of space, he is quite heavy. Not scrunching me is a good thing though and I am happy for this courtesy.

He’s telling the lady behind me and across the aisle that he is divorced and his girlfriend has passed away. Phew! I thought I had troubles.
It didn’t take long for him to start talking to me. He complained that his sister had kept him on the phone for almost two hours the night before. I mentally noted to keep any comments short as I nodded at him.

The rest of the trip was spent listening to his work history, his divorce, his girlfriends and what casinos are his favorites and why. He also went on at length about the “procedure” he had to have on Thursday. The fear of a cancer diagnosis was apparent. He interspersed the conversation with tidbits about his other illnesses: diabetes, high blood pressure and circulatory problems. He made it a point to tell me his age. Sixty-two. He wanted to know if I was somewhere near that number. Close I said, but several years younger. He nestled into the seat a little as if all was right with the world and rambled on. I shouldn’t have concerned myself about taking the floor in the conversation, there was little space for me there either.

After an hour or so he opened a bag containing a long Italian roll, sliced but not buttered. He offered me some. Thanking him, I said the omelet I had for breakfast was very satisfying. He seemed surprised that a single person would cook a meal. It was about this time that I noticed how really heavy this fellow was. Cheeks, neck and body became one. There was no defining line between one and the other. I could not tell how much of him was in the aisle, but some was for sure.

He said, as a matter of fact, you learn something from everyone you talk to. In a sense I suppose this is true, if you pay attention. Sensing I was gong to have no peace for my daydreaming, I decided a nap was the best escape. Closed my eyes, took a deep breath and hoped for quiet. The conversation continued without eye contact. He talked all the way. It was incredible, yet as we got off the bus he gave me his tickets for a drawing at one of the casinos and made sure as he got up to let me out in front of him. Courtesy unbounded.

He went his way. I was glad to wander off alone into the caverns of slot machines, tables and craps. Most people have a kind of ritual that they perform when the take a day trip to Atlantic City. Mine varies very little, the timing of my constitutional walk on the boardwalk depends on my success in the first hour. All else remains pretty much the same. Some playing, then a walk, lunch at Bill’s (the best gyros on the boardwalk, possibly in New Jersey) then a return walk, some more play, maybe some shopping or picking up a mystery gift and home again.

Patterning . . A Writing Technique

According to a book entitled "Writing for Self-Discovery" by Schneidler and Killick, patterning is making a list in which you repeat the same form of words to introduce each item. The repetition helps release ideas and feelings and it is a chance to play with words. One is supposed to write quickly without thinking too much and enjoy experimenting. So here's my first patterning exercise:

Today I am trying a new recipe
Today I am enjoying a barbershop quartet concert
Today I am trying a new writing technique
Today I am actually writing with pen and paper
Today I am excited about the future
Today I am fearful of the future
Today I am working toward positive things
Today I am happy with my pet bird
Today I am not able to ride my bike because of SNOW
Today I am taking care of me
Today I am taking care of you
Today I am worried about my aunt
Today I am happy in the moment
Today I am here
Today I am

So, what do you think?

I can tell, if I did this exercise when I was even slightly depressed or sad it would have a lot more emotion in it; but it would have been very cleansing to write under those circumstances.

Knitting a Gift

Someone has performed a favor that warranted a really big thank-you but I was not sure how to show my appreciation. I thought about buying a gift, but somehow that just was not a 'personal from the heart' thank you. Finally, it came to me; knit a nice item. After a few moments I knew that was the right decision. I went to a local knitting store (after finding just the right pattern on the Internet) and purchased all the items needed to make this gift.

I have knitted exactly three items prior to this and though my experience is limited, I feel capable of doing this intermediate pattern. The lady in the store looked at the pattern and she showed me several stitches that were needed in this pattern and a special one for casting-on. I was pumped.

I came home and started the tester swatch; after about eight rows I figured I was ready for the real thing. I dove in with gusto; counting, checking looking for even tension in the stitches, so far so good. It got tricky after the third row and I noticed that I had made a couple of mistakes, but nothing that was visible to the naked eye so I continued.

It got much worse by the time I got to row 15 or so. I put the thing aside and just thought about it for a while. After a day or so, I decided that in spite of my exuberance, maybe I should start over. I had the wrong number of stitches on the needle and furthermore, I wasn't sure exactly how many rows I had completed. How in the world was the second half of this item EVER going to match this first half...I bit the bullet.

I took the whole thing off the needles and decided to start over. There was a thought that kept haunting me from the last time I knitted something. I had gone to the store for some help on putting it together and the lady asked how I did my knit and purl stitches. I showed her. They were not right...but they were consistent and the item looked ok, so I used it.

Maybe I need to review those stitches also before I start over. Good thing too, my stitches were so original they were nowhere to be found in any of the online instruction videos that I found. Now all is better, I know the two basic stitches, I promised my self to count EACH row and each group of stitches. I vowed no mistakes this time.

Yesterday, after we walked in Deer Grove, I began again with as much, if not more, enthusiasm. I could see by the third row that this decision was the right one. Everything was looking so much better. I just kept knitting. Occasionally, M&M (the pussycat) would come by and play with the yarn. She is just so curious. What a sweet little cat.

During the afternoon, while Chuck napped on the couch, M&M would keep me company on the end of the La-Z-Boy chair. every so often she would swat at the yarn and then go back to sleep. I stopped long enough to make and eat dinner and take in the evening news. Shortly after that Chuck went to his choir rehearsal and I kept knitting away. Wow this thing is really starting to look good.

I moved from the recliner to the sofa for some better light. I put the little handled bag with the yarn and all the other goodies on the floor, and kept knitting. I was making very good progress and quite proud of the results on this second go 'round. Even though it is a lot more work; it is so worth it because it really looks good. Then M&M came by and saw the bag on the floor.

She couldn't help herself really. I mean it is what cats do. Be curious. She saw the bag, walked up to it, sniffed the edge, picked up her head a little moved it though one handle and put her head inside the opening. I was just ready to help her get her head out of the bag when she realized that the handle was around her neck.

PANIC!!

She took off for the basement with the bag, all the knitting goodies, my yarn and of course...my knitting! I ran after her, trying to calm her down and stopped her just at the foot of the stairs. I managed to get the bag off her head and I thought all was taken care of, but no. There was still some of the yarn attached somewhere on her. I was watching a panicked cat head for the innards of a sofa, my project was obviously totally destroyed and the basement was strewn with knitting yarn. I grabbed a long strand of yarn that seemed to be attached to the cat and fortunately, Chuck arrived in time to hold her. I removed the yard that was entangled in her collar then we all calmed down and reviewed the damage.

The cat was fine. I was fine. Chuck was fine. I found all the stuff that was in the bag: yarn, darning needles in the original package, stitch holding gizmo still in the package, lengths and lengths of yarn strewn all over the basement and my round knitting needle with my project 'sort of' on it.

I brought it all upstairs to review the damage. Somehow about twenty-five stitches had come off the needles (which would have been fine if that were all that happened) but they were unraveled for about seven or so rows. So like twenty five dropped stitches unraveled for seven rows. I am not that good to rebuild that!

I have to undo the whole piece, temporarily rewind the loose yarn around a pillow and start over again! I managed to cast-on the 145 stitches that the pattern calls for and then decided to go to bed. If one more catastrophe happens to this project before I finish it, I think I will just go buy a gift and forget the whole thing.

Ugh...Please Don't Make Me Eat That

When my brother and I were small (10 and 7 respectively) the court had decided that we would be living with my mother and (brand-new) step-father going forward. There was so much to get used to; it seemed everyday brought new challenges for us to overcome. Until that point we had spent most of our lives on a farm in a remote town in southeastern Missouri. There was little there that was out of the ordinary; everyday was pretty much like the last.

But here in this very populous city in northern New Jersey everything was new. Most of it was good, of course, but there were some things that no matter how you approached them...well, just could not be handled. We knew early on that this step father thing would be trouble and we each had our own plan for dealing with him. I figured I would pretty much obey as much as possible and keep a low profile. My brother was more of the confrontational type...that could be because he was older.

Anyway, some of the new things that we were discovering was food; many different types of food. It didn't take very long for us to discover that even though this stuff was new, it wasn't necessarily tasty. After a couple of months we had made it known certain foods were just horrible. Mine was cottage cheese and my brothers was Lima beans.

Now, truth be told, I really loved cottage cheese but not the stuff you buy in the store...na uh uh that stuff could gag a maggot. My grandmothers cottage cheese that she made herself from the milk from our own cow; now THAT was cottage cheese. How my brother had developed this strong dislike for Lima beans was a mystery to me. I actually thought we had them once or twice at grandma's and I didn't recall anything unusual about them. Anyway, we voiced those opinions about the food and at the time I figured that was the end of it. We did the obligatory, eat a little bit but neither of us ever took seconds.

After some time went by this information was used as punishment for some infraction of the rules set up by our step father. We both found ourselves subject to it at one time or another. The punishment you ask; eat a large serving of whatever it is that you don't like. My brother had a nice big bowl of Lima beans. All he had to do was eat it and then he could get on with his life. I watched in horror, but it seemed he only sat there for 30 minutes or so before he just ate them all. I was really proud of him and secretly hoped I would never have to go through anything like that. But of course, my turn came too and I had that miserable cottage cheese. Oh, it seemed to take hours before I could get it all down, but I did eventually. Neither of us ever did whatever it was that brought on that punishment again.

Some years went by and I noticed that my brother was eating Lima beans at dinner one night and seemingly enjoyed them. I had to ask. How is it that he developed a taste for them when they were so repulsive a couple of years ago? He said he never REALLY disliked Lima beans but figured that one day he would be punished with nasty food so he 'made up' his dislike for Lima beans...man, I have to tell you, there is no body more crafty than my brother! So that was very cool. I still don't know how he knew there would be a food punishment down the road for him, but Lordy to put that in place ahead of time was pure genius! I, of course, was never that astute.

But just in case there is a nasty food punishment waiting for me somewhere down the road I want to let it be know right here and right now I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY HATE...NO DETEST...ROCKY ROAD ICE CREAM!!!

Writer's Group Meeting

We had our 'occasional' writer's group meeting today and it was sure nice to get back together with everyone again. Each of us writes a personal memoir; it can be recent or not so recent and we read our contribution aloud to the group. After each of us has read we usually have some discussion about the piece and offer positive suggestions for consideration.

What I like about this approach is the sharing of the personal experience through the written word. Once it is committed to paper, the event usually becomes a 'deeper' experience for the writer and of course, the sharing among the group is a way of becoming a bit closer to each writer.

Topics covered today included a father and sons' continuing growth through high school and college, a grandmothers' delight in the daughters' birth of twins, several poems on topics as diverse as nature and rebirth after a forest fire, the process of perfection and what if animals stalked us instead of the other way around, the rite of passage into the professional world and a young boys admiration for his uncle.

None of it appears earth shattering, but each of the stories was quite moving and revealing of the personal capacities of each writer. Each story held a deep meaning for each writer and was a gentle opening into each others' lives.

Our next meeting will be in December so I will need to be thinking about a new topic to present at that time. I suppose that is the hardest part of this whole process; coming up with a topic that I think is interesting enough to share with the rest of the group.

Here we are grabbing a quick bite and settling in for our memoirs readings...

My "Rite of Passage"

I started hearing about how difficult the CPA (Certified Public Accountant) Examination was in my junior year of college. While I was pretty sure I would end up being a CPA, I started my University education with the idea that I would be an accountant, just an accountant. At that time I thought a CPA was an accountant with a label; I did not understand the significance of the letters. As I worked harder and harder to get through the four years of education that earned me the right to sit for the examination, I began to realize that it really is a significant professional defining factor; one worth the effort.

That effort is no small change either -- four years of specialized education -- each year built on the previous one and becoming successively more difficult. I selected a university that was known for its ability to train students to successfully complete the two and a half day, four part examination…on the first attempt. You may not understand the power of that statement. The statistics that had been maintained on first time successes indicated that only 10 to 15 percent who take all four parts pass it the first time. That is the sentence that made me realize how difficult my choice was becoming. This University actually used the current national Certified Public Accountant Examination as their final examination of those underlying classes in the senior year. That was and remains incredibly intimidating.

The national examination is offered twice a year: May and October; good for the January or May graduates. Things got so bad, that at the beginning of the second and last semester of my senior year, I seriously thought about dropping out. The work load was just breaking my spirit. Somehow, I managed to tough it out and completed all the requirements. My confidence was building when I passed three of the four parts of the final exam that year. I knew if I just kept studying through the summer, I had a good chance of passing all four parts in October. That’s how I spent every free waking moment until just weeks before the exam date.

The folks I worked with didn’t make it any easier either. The CPA certificate is issued to a person who has passed all four parts of the exam with a grade of 75% or better and has two years of experience working for a public accounting firm in selected activities. It was made very clear that if you were unable to pass the exam within the work experience period, chances were good that you would be let go. So I was working hard to get the written part out of the way as soon as possible.

It was the middle of September when I got the Jury summons; it required me to report to the county seat for two weeks. If during the two weeks, I was selected for a trial I would be free to go back to work, after completing that service. I looked at it like a gift. Two weeks that I could have uninterrupted review work to refresh my knowledge just before the exam which would take place the second week of October. So I notified my employer and got ready for final review.


The first couple of days were uneventful; I just sat in the huge room and studied. Some people had been called but not much. Then I noticed something big was going on. The juror pool was 300 strong and I noticed that groups of 50 people were being called methodically, every 30 to 45 minutes. I was not yet selected but the scuttlebutt indicated that there was a really big case about to start and the jurors would come from the pool I was in. I thought it would be really cool to be on an important case. I packed up my study materials and started to watch what was happening. Within the next hour another group was called. I was in it.

It was big all right, an organized crime guy that was finally up on charges that very well could stick. The importance of it didn’t register right away. Actually it registered when I found myself sitting in jury seat number 9 and all the attorney challenges had been made. It wasn’t final yet, but I was beginning to realize that I was sitting on the jury for the biggest trial in recent history. An organized crime trial; my mind was racing with incidents from the Godfather. I started to understand; I was sure I didn’t want to do this and my mind scrambled for an acceptable way out. The judge was talking to the attorneys, everything was in place it seemed only one more question before everyone on this jury was on and ready to be sequestered until the trial was done. Oh, Lord, I need a good excuse but what?

The question to the jury: Is there any reason why anyone on the jury cannot sit for this trial that is expected to run for ten to twelve weeks?

I almost jumped out of my seat; waving my hand I asked to be excused. I approached the bench to ask to be excused since the trial would still be going on when I had to take the CPA exam. The judge asked a little about it so I explained how the whole thing worked and how hard I had been studying. He responded almost instantly that I could be excused and I was greatly relieved; then the defending attorney commented that they offer it twice a year don’t they? You could sit for it in May next year isn’t that so? My mind was going crazy..oh, no….I’m ready now. Don’t make me sit through this and study for another year.

Yes, they offer it twice a year. What else could I say? The judge nodded and said very well, you are juror number 9. I could swear my life passed before my eyes but I accepted my fate. Juror number 9 it is. Just as I was ready to turn and return to my seat the prosecuting attorney asked that I be excused and the judge agreed. I guess he thought I was not able to give the case the attention it deserved. The emotional roller coaster was over. I was never so thankful in my life.

So on October 7 I began the three day exam; 21 hours of testing. The only thing allowed in the testing room is a pencil and eraser, no calculator, no phone, no book, nothing. It was grueling and while I thought I gave it a good shot, I was not entirely sure that I passed all parts. I wouldn’t know until late December or early January. There was nothing to do then but wait and see.

December started with a lot of activity since it is year end for a lot of companies and that means lots of work for auditors. I was quite busy and thankful that I didn’t have a lot of time to worry about the results of the exam. Two weeks before Christmas I went shopping with my mother. It was a good way to take my mind off the job pressures and ready myself for the upcoming holiday. We were happy that we took care of most of our gift list and wouldn’t have to fight the crowds again this year. I dropped her off at the house and watched her walk up the front steps to the door, backed out of the driveway and went home. I wouldn’t know until several hours later that an electrical fire in the house destroyed everything in the house, killed her pets and even the gifts we just bought were gone.

She stayed at our place until the house was rebuilt. It took a long time for her to feel comfortable there again. It was probably good that I was sent on several out of town assignments and not there to add any more pressure to the situation. During the third week of January I was in a suburb of Boston on assignment; that’s when I got the news.
I had called home to see if everything was alright and I could hear my mother in the background saying: did you tell her? I thought she was talking about her house problems but no...it was just one piece of paper with four lines on it; theory, practice, law and auditing and four numbers…all higher than 75 printed by a computer and hand-written on the diagonal across the face of the document, was the word SUCCESSFUL. Could anything be sweeter?
All rights reserved
Ellen Thompson
08/29/2008

Forgive and Forget

Here's another essay I wrote while trying to make sense out of stuff that made no sense at the time. I am posting this particular topic because I have a dear friend who is struggling with some very serious hurt issues and while she may not be ready for forgiveness, maybe someone who reads this, needs to see it now and can benefit from it. I just feel the need to put it out there now.



When someone or something has hurt you or caused you embarrassment or financial loss many people say it is best forgive and forget. This is a very simple expression that deserves some looking into. So many questions come to mind while evaluating the course of action. One could ask, what about my loss or they have to pay for this or this is totally wrong and justice must be done. The process of forgiving is releasing claim to repayment and to resentment or vengeful feelings. When you have just experienced pain, forgive and forget is generally not the first response that comes to mind. Usually, it is something like…you’ll get yours!

Someone once remarked to me that they could forgive, but they couldn’t forget.
The hurt apparently went too deep.

They were really saying they were willing to let the person who caused the pain “go free”. No retribution was expected any longer. They are willing to free the “wrongdoer” who caused the pain, from the guilt and provide an opportunity for their progress. That was the forgive part. Then there was the forget part. They were also saying they wanted to hang on to that pain forever. They wanted to personalize it. They wanted to keep the loss alive by harboring resentment and ill feelings about the loss (not necessarily the person) and how painful it was to them. In the end, they were saying they wanted to suffer forever over this thing.

There is more than just forgiving in the thrust of the old adage. The idea of not harboring bad feelings toward our fellow man is good as far as it goes but there is much more to this simple statement. The forgetting part is probably more important than the forgiving part. If life truly is a microcosm of the feelings that we allow to surface, then our focus toward keeping those feelings as positive as possible is key for our emotional survival. Here is where the second half comes into play.

The quality of the life that we live is directly related to the feelings that we experience. Simply said: The more positive feelings we have, the better our quality of life. Our efforts can be focused in one of two areas to make this happen. The first is the elimination of negative feelings and the second is the creation of positive ones. My friend who could forgive but not forget had some serious work to do in the elimination of some very negative feelings. The forgetting part is even more difficult because many times we take possession of the thing. We make it our own. It becomes a part of us. If that has happened it is very difficult to “forget”. It is like “forgetting” that you have a left arm…not very likely.

The act of forgetting frees the wounded person to get on with life. The process of forgetting can take many turns. First, we must accept. One thing is certain, what is done is most certainly done. Look and see if there is some positive thing that can be associated with the incident. Find a way to grow as a result of it. When we become more as a result of life’s experiences, the mission is accomplished. We will be able to let go of the negative part of it. That is the forgetting part. The incident or event will never be forgotten but the negative impact that it has will be obliterated. The ability to go on and have a full life will be restored without the burden of negative feelings. After all, isn’t that what life is all about, feelings…positive feelings.

What Goes Around...Comes Around

I have found that writing about incidents helps me accept things that life throws at me. The following is one of many I have written in the past. Hope you enjoy it.

When we first bought our house 23 years ago, we had no idea of the experiences we were about to have. True of all new homeowners, I suppose. The house was 80 years old at the time, so you can imagine how many interesting episodes we had in store for us. Sometime in the early weeks of blissful home-ownership, we were spending a nice quiet evening watching M.A.S.H. in the Florida room. It is located right off the living room and is connected to it by French-doors. I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye in the living room, but wasn’t sure. I thought I was hearing things too, so got up and stood in the doorway and really looked. Oh, yeah...I heard things all right!

Bats...two of them, swooping down crisscross through the living room. I almost jumped out of my skin. My husband (born in Greece and never one to be accused of being a hand-i-man) saw my startled face and knew he had to do something (he had no clue either!) All I could say was...bats...and pointed. Bats, and pointing. He had no inkling what a bat was. So he was frozen there but ready to do what needed to be done…whatever that was. Then I did what any red-blooded American wife would do. I shoved him into the living room and I stayed in the Florida room (where I was safe from harm) and closed the doors.

Poor man!

He flailed around with his arms; then he swatted at them with his jacket. Of course, nothing happened. They just kept crisscrossing. I think one of them was laughing at us, but I can’t be sure. So realizing that this needed a united front, I grudgingly came out of the safety of my self-imposed prison and tried to help. It was clear we needed a plan, but what?

Let’s see if we can shoo them outside. With the door open, we both tried waving them towards the open air of freedom. No luck. It was getting late and I was getting scared. We managed to close one off in the vestibule area at the front door. It is a small section that is large enough for the door to open and can be closed off from the living room by a second door. Good. One down, one to go. He managed to throw his coat over the second one and it was on the landing of the stairway, safely covered with his jacket. The enemy was sequestered and we felt safe enough to go to bed. We stuffed towels around the opening under the bedroom door…just in case.

First thing in the morning, we called the city humane society and they came, much quicker than I expected. That aroused a new level of fear in me. The humane officer found one, (rooms away from where we left it) and disposed of it. The other was never found, he said it probably got out through the mail slot or chimney or some such thing. He did elaborate about not scaring them to the point of attack because they carry rabies and one should be very careful around them. We took his advice seriously and realizing that the danger was gone, life began to return to normal. After that, it only took three weeks or so to feel comfortable going to bed again. So another episode in home ownership came to a close.

Now, I am one. I still have home ownership events, but they take on new dimensions because I must face them alone.

Last night, my first Valentines Day as an “involuntarily widowed person” I was sitting in the same room (it is now my office) surfing the internet, and I heard something around the venetian blinds in the living room, right after the automatic timer clicked off.

Yup, you got it, bat. Except now, I am on my own.

I tried to shoo it out the front door, but it just circled and then landed behind the TV.
I secured my bird, (in the office) closed the doors so he was safe and then did the same for me when I went to bed.

When morning came, I knew the thing could be ANYWHERE, maybe even gone.
It was a three-day weekend and I figured the thing could die before I get the City to find it or do anything. I decided that I would have faith for a peaceful and humane solution to this problem. I remembered that the last one was killed to prevent the possibility of rabies. That saddened me a great deal; the poor thing was just doing what bats do, living. No need to kill it, just get it back to its own environment. That was my prayer and hope. I had no idea how that would happen.

The day was spent cooking with a friend. A few more guests came to share the dinner. This was indeed a great test of my hope to peacefully solve this problem. No sign of the bat. I knew it was here, I just didn’t know where. As the day wore on, and night came I feared it would fly out from some nook or cranny and scare us all half to death. It didn’t happen.

Instead we all decided to go to an Improv Show. This is a great way to empty the house and put one’s fears to rest for a while. I left all the lights on as a deterrent and left. When I got back at eleven I knew I would probably do battle again and entered very cautiously. I stood in the vestibule and looked cautiously into the living room to see if I could spot the little guy.

Yes. He was there, hanging on the window panel of the French door into my office. I am sure he saw me, but it had no effect on him. I could feel the blood pumping in my chest but knew I had to find a solution to this problem. I looked around and found a fluffy Polartec vest hanging on the coat rack nearby. After two folds and one deep breath I felt ready to try to grab the bat carefully but firmly so I could let it outside.

In one precise motion, kind of like grabbing an egg, I captured the bat and had it outside and flying to freedom. A feeling of great accomplishment swept over me and I was elated for about three seconds, before I started to shake in fear from what I had just done. I realized it could have gone very differently, but somehow I felt I too had experienced what my husband did when he was trying to understand what a bat was; then living with the fear of it for a day and this very happy ending. It was a kind of miracle ending, since the living room was fully lighted, I expected the bat to stay in the darker crannies where it would be safe, but it was right there in the open waiting for me.

It was as if all the living energies were in complete agreement for the solution and the spirit of my husband was there too, laughing and guiding at the same time. Fly baby, Happy Valentines Day.

Ellen Rossopoulos, February 14, 2003

Daily Routine

I know, I know…daily routines are pretty boring and frankly, should be kept to ourselves. But today I met with a few challenges that could truly disrupt the entire day. It is amazing how in a rut we get without even thinking about it; when things don’t go the way they always do, nerves get on edge and attitudes need to be readjusted.

It all probably started yesterday - I changed my little fold up cell phone for a first edition Iphone. I got the thing activated easy enough. (This should be read as I can no longer go back to the old one. That plan has expired) Now all I need to do is upload the contacts to the phone, do the voicemail thingy and the phone part will be ready to go. Actually it is ready to go right now, if you don’t mind dialing the number for who you are calling.
Did I just say that? Am I so far gone that I can’t dial the number? It has to be in memory so all I do is click, click call this person? Sadly, yes, I am that far gone.

I spent several hours yesterday trying to get my contacts from my Yahoo account into my cell phone. I needed this because my phone is more than just a phone. It is my mobile pocket sized connection to the internet. So I need email, website bookmarks and I may as well have photos and music for those times when I am stuck waiting. This is starting to become a mountain.

Back to the contacts problem. I discovered that the mail I have from Yahoo is not transferable to the Iphone. Ok, I was really not surprised. I ran into this similar problem some years ago and decided that since I only have 20 or so contacts, I can type them in myself and just get on with it. Yes it is a lot of work, but it is easier than really frustrating yourself for days. I mean people could die if I let it go too far! So, I spent another hour figuring out how to enter new contacts to a blank file in Iphone, entered one and am happy enough with it that I can now get a good nights sleep. I printed out the Yahoo email list, looked up the phone numbers for those I want to enter, got the snail mail addresses and am ready to start fresh, first thing in the morning.

First thing in the morning I decided to make some coffee, using my brand new coffee grinder. I used it for the first time yesterday and it was great. I was almost glad that the old one died and I was forced to get this new one because the coffee seems better using this one. I measured the beans dumped them in and hit the button. Nothing. Hit the button again…nothing. Now here is where the frustration from yesterday seems to have raised its ugly head and I am feeling that my fuse is incredibly short this morning. A little voice inside my head is saying: breathe, breathe…it will work. Ok, I unplug the grinder, dump the beans back in the bag, wiggle the do-flickey, turn the grind button back and forth and start over. Ah, it works! The coffee is delicious and my nerves are getting back to normal. I think I will go take my shower.

My routine is to get my pet cockatiel bird and bring the cage through the bedroom and into the master bathroom, remove him from the cage and let him sit on top of the open bathroom door while I shower. Of course, I close the bedroom door to keep him safe from the cat who just loves birds! He really likes the freedom and he sings to me the whole time I am in the shower. Lord knows I could use a little levity after the trials I have been through the last 10 hours. I put the cage on the closed seat of the toilet as always, opened the door let him step onto my finger and turned and put him up on the door. I got the shower going and started to get ready to step in and that’s when I saw the cat sitting on the picture window ledge looking out the window by the tub. So there I was almost naked, a free bird sitting on top of the door and a cat facing me looking like she owns the world. I was the only one who realized that there could be a dead bird in about 3 seconds. What to do? I was going to chase the cat, but then realized the bird would start flying if I made too much commotion. If I try to get the bird too quickly, then he will take off and the cat will surely get him. Now I am really getting nervous; the little voice is back: breathe, breathe. Yes, breathe, just calmly reach up with both hands, gently. Very gently and have him step up and calmly put him in the cage. Just pretend it is only you and birdie. It worked.

Then I tried to chase the cat out and she absolutely refused to go. I put the bird in the back bedroom and closed the door. The cat remained on the window for the entire shower (this is a first because she hates the noise the shower makes) when I finished and got ready to blow dry my hair she left. When I was done, she was just outside the bedroom door waiting for me. She had that look in her eye that said it all: I know you are frustrated what with the Iphone and the coffee grinder...I just wanted you to know that I’m here to support you. Here I thought she was after the bird…silly me.

Brotherly Love

I like to think that my relationship with my brother was stronger and deeper than most sisters could claim and it is true. It isn’t that we naturally loved each other more or got along better; it is because during those formative years, we leaned on each other exclusively. Mutual need can create an unbelievable bond.

He is three and a half years older than me and that created the groundwork for my dependence on him through many of life’s detours, potholes and adventures. It is natural for a younger sibling to look to the older one for guidance, since it is likely that they have already gone through the scary experience before. He assured me that my first day of school was nothing to get all worked up about. It was the most fearful experience that I could imagine and his wizened advice was calming for me. Of course, since we were both going to the same one-roomed school and sharing the same classroom (albeit different grade levels) I was greatly relieved to see him just a few rows away from mine. He was very involved in some complicated math problems and I was diddling with the alphabet. It was challenge enough for me.

We were living with my father’s parents in Lithium, Missouri, a remote town not far from the Mississippi River. Lithium was so small that in 2001, the US Post Office declared its zipcode as invalid. We were there because neither of our parents could handle the responsibilities of youngsters at the time. So it was a safe haven for us. For me, anyplace my brother was, was a safe haven. I didn’t remember either of my parents and for now was getting to know my grandparents…my brother-- he was there for as long as I could remember. We spent lots of time together, romping through the countryside, doing farm chores, walking to school and teasing each other as only sister and brother could do.

After some years our father took us away to live with him in Elizabeth, New Jersey. It was a really big city so we stuck together a lot there because it would have been easy for either of us to get lost. The kinds of play changed dramatically; the only outside fun I remember is when the fire hydrants were turned on in the summer and we enjoyed the spray for as long as it lasted. I was in second grade.

Later we moved to Forked River, New Jersey and for the first time we went to different schools. I went to a two room school-house; he went to some regional school that required getting on a bus and a long trip. I sat in awe of his stories. I didn’t know that my brother was turning into a showman; I just ate up everything he had to say. He was my hero.

There was lots of stuff going on in the family that I didn’t really understand. He did. So when the custody battle was really underway for us, I looked to him for support and comfort. We didn’t agree on whom we should stay with. I thought dad was best. Not for his parenting ability or his ability to provide for us, for neither was very good. It was just that I was getting to know him, and that was enough for me. My brother was getting to know him too. They did not see eye-to-eye on many things; so he hoped life with mom would be better. She won and we went to live with her and her new husband.

To say that life was different is an understatement. We lived in an apartment in a two family house in Paterson, New Jersey. Mom didn’t seem to want to spend any time with us now that she won and our step-father played the role of a drill sergeant rather than that of father; life became very different very quickly. We lived in constant fear of retribution for not doing something we were told or doing it wrong. The punishments included being grounded for weeks, no television, eating foods that were totally disagreeable, doing really repulsive chores and for really bad things: beatings with the razor strop.

This was, by far, the biggest city I had ever lived in and the culture was different from anything I had seen so far. People here were more educated and distant, something that I would spend a good deal of time getting used to. I found myself clinging more than ever to my brother.

We continued to go to different schools and soon enough he had his own friends and I had one or two of my own. We were finding our way in the world. The good times we used to know were becoming a thing of the past very quickly. I often found myself remembering the fun we had and how things were just never the same now. It comes with growing up, but it was still hard to accept. I knew we would never have the kind of fun that we used to and yet I hoped for one more chance.

It came when I least expected it. We were still sharing a bedroom and we had gone to bed on a Sunday night at 9PM sharp. We had bunk beds; he was on the top one. At some point well into the night, he leaned over from above and whispered my name ‘till I woke up. He said we could go sledding in the new deep snow that had fallen. I knew for sure he had gone nuts. Was he suggesting that we leave the house at 1:00AM, walk seven blocks to Eastside Park (in the very deep snow), sled and somehow get back home and not have the ‘Drill Sergeant’ find out about it!? He was indeed! This could very well be our last adventure or the death of both of us.

OK. I’m in.

We got to the park and it was empty. What makes this place so special is the lay of the land. The center of the park is a hilltop that is crisscrossed with roads. So once you are to the top of the hill with your sled, you could actually sled the downhill tiers over three different roadbeds and then the final downhill which ends with a baseball field and is bordered on the far side with a highway.


The distance one could travel on the sled probably approximated a half mile! We were sledding for hours, all alone in the middle of the night. It was heaven. Once I actually made it to the highway.

After what seemed like forever we decided it was time to get back home and trudged the seven long blocks back put the sleds away, crept up the stairs and back into our beds. How relieved we were that we were able to get back without being found out. We were both asleep as soon as we hit the pillows.
Sadly, we got back at 5:30 and the alarm went off at 6 for us to get up and get ready for school. I regretted our all night sled-fest for the entire next day and carried the adventure in my soul for the rest of my life.