This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it. (Psalm 118:24)
# # # #
It is pouring rain outside my window. Not drizzling, not showering, not lightly falling. No, it is pouring buckets, raining cats and dogs, pick your cliche'.
And I am loving it. Oh, here comes another cloud burst. The winds rattle the window panes, the pine needles peck the skylight as they plummet toward the plexiglass. And on and on it rains. And now, in addition to water and wind, we are also being treated to a thickening fog, delicate and mysterious among the tall pine trees that surround our house.
We are so thankful, here in Northern California, after more than four years of an historic drought to see the lakes and reservoirs filling up. We watch the local and state rainfall measurements with all the fascination with which a teenager watches You Tube or MTV. We are, in a word, delighted.
In my own case, I am further delighted when I reflect upon what a day like this would have meant for me just a few years ago.
How I hated waking up to a downpour. It meant that my commute would be more treacherous than usual. It meant that I would arrive at my office building to find all the usual parking places filled with vehicles that were not necessarily authorized to park there. People were willing to dare breaking the parking rules when being drenched.
Consequently, I would need to dash through the deluge, battling umbrella, briefcase, and electronic key card, hoping none of them got away from me before I made landfall at the great glass doors of the employee entrance.
By that time, my shoes were soaked, my hair was a mess, and my bones had already begun to ache. By evening I would be visibly limping, and by the time I arrived back home, I would be headed for the medicine cabinet in jig time to quickly down something to take the edge off my aching arthritic knees ... and back ... and hands.
A warm rain can be a wonderful thing. But winters in Nor. Calif. generally involve cold, wet, windy storms that can chill you right down to your very last proverbial bone. Such weather cries out for the electric heating pad to be set on the highest temperature. Cups of hot tea must be consumed in quantity.
And during those days of yesteryear, such weather also meant that twice each day - coming and going - I could expect to find myself chilled, damp, and thoroughly miserable.
# # #
Today, I sit here in my little rocker recliner pecking happily away on my laptop like a robin pecking for worms in springtime - while outside it pours. There is a baseball game on TV, a pot of tea on the counter, and peace in my heart.
I smile when I think of how worriedly my former boss asked about whether I had truly considered the implications of resigning from the well-paying position I held in order to retire. Was I sure we had enough saved? Did I really think we could maintain our standard of living? What about the stock market gyrations?
# # #
Tell you what. I happily traded that paycheck, that came with a crazy commute and crazier schedule, for a warm and cozy room with a great big window from which to watch it rain like crazy while I smile in quiet gratitude. I would do it again in a heartbeat.
I am also keenly aware that not everyone gets to make such a blessed choice. So today, I simply say a prayer for mercy and strength for those who must still brave the elements to earn their way. I am so everlastingly grateful to be where I am; as Jan Karon recently put it, to be Somewhere Safe with Somebody Good.
# # #
Hope you are in a good safe place today - warm and content. If you are not there yet, I hope you are headed in that direction. Until next time ~ Marsha
Monday, March 21, 2016
Friday, March 18, 2016
On Being Robbed At a Funeral
The other morning I was in a meeting with a group of good women who had gathered to do some of the Lord's work. But we got distracted.
Before we had been gathered ten minutes someone mentioned the distressing item from the previous evening's local news broadcast. Someone had slipped into our church offices (right next door to the very room in which we were meeting) and, while the office was briefly unattended, had stolen some one's purse.
The thief had been clearly caught on the church security cameras, and this video was broadcast the next evening on the local news. We were all fairly disgusted and decidedly perturbed, when one of our group said quietly, "Yes, it was my purse she stole, and it was during my mother's funeral services."
What!
The questions then flew fast and furiously. Has she been caught yet? Did you get your purse back? Did you have any money in it? What about your debit and credit cards? Are you pressing charges?
The gentle soul whose purse was taken, just smiled and said that she and her husband did not care too much about the money, although yes, some was taken. She was paying attention to her mother's home-going celebration at the time of the theft, and now they were letting the police handle the robbery. She said they did not plan to involve themselves any further than was necessary.
The clear message was that while unfortunate things happen - and sometimes at the most inopportune times - she was paying attention to more important matters. She made this clear without bitterness or self-righteousness. Her focus was simply elsewhere.
Her whole attitude blessed me. She was paying attention to what mattered.
# # #
Eugene Peterson, the author of The Message version of the Bible, wrote an excellent book entitled A Long Obedience in the Same Direction: Discipleship in an Instant Society. In it he says,
"Christian discipleship is a process of paying more and more attention to God's righteousness and less and less attention to our own; finding meaning of our lives not by probing our moods and motives and morals but by believing in God's will and purposes ...".
Well, hello and hallelujah!
When we focus on God's will and purposes we find ourselves relaxing in ways we never imagined. We have less need to demonstrate our own righteousness (as if we ever really had any) and more and more willingness to depend upon His.
That is my idea of both blessed assurance and blessed relief all at the same time. And it comes to us as we pay attention to the right things and to the Righteous One.
When we do this, we are less distracted and distraught by unforeseen circumstances, unanticipated griefs, and unplanned detours. It is not that we ignore such things in our lives, but rather it is that we are paying attention to something more important.
When we do that, we are not daunted not even by being robbed at our own mother's funeral. Yes, it is a hard world in which we live. But aren't we glad that there is One who is over it all, has it all under His watch care, and will never leave us nor forsake us?
# # #
I want to pay attention to the better things. Hope your attention is fixed on good things, too. Until next time ~ Marsha
Before we had been gathered ten minutes someone mentioned the distressing item from the previous evening's local news broadcast. Someone had slipped into our church offices (right next door to the very room in which we were meeting) and, while the office was briefly unattended, had stolen some one's purse.
The thief had been clearly caught on the church security cameras, and this video was broadcast the next evening on the local news. We were all fairly disgusted and decidedly perturbed, when one of our group said quietly, "Yes, it was my purse she stole, and it was during my mother's funeral services."
What!
The questions then flew fast and furiously. Has she been caught yet? Did you get your purse back? Did you have any money in it? What about your debit and credit cards? Are you pressing charges?
The gentle soul whose purse was taken, just smiled and said that she and her husband did not care too much about the money, although yes, some was taken. She was paying attention to her mother's home-going celebration at the time of the theft, and now they were letting the police handle the robbery. She said they did not plan to involve themselves any further than was necessary.
The clear message was that while unfortunate things happen - and sometimes at the most inopportune times - she was paying attention to more important matters. She made this clear without bitterness or self-righteousness. Her focus was simply elsewhere.
Her whole attitude blessed me. She was paying attention to what mattered.
# # #
Eugene Peterson, the author of The Message version of the Bible, wrote an excellent book entitled A Long Obedience in the Same Direction: Discipleship in an Instant Society. In it he says,
"Christian discipleship is a process of paying more and more attention to God's righteousness and less and less attention to our own; finding meaning of our lives not by probing our moods and motives and morals but by believing in God's will and purposes ...".
Well, hello and hallelujah!
When we focus on God's will and purposes we find ourselves relaxing in ways we never imagined. We have less need to demonstrate our own righteousness (as if we ever really had any) and more and more willingness to depend upon His.
That is my idea of both blessed assurance and blessed relief all at the same time. And it comes to us as we pay attention to the right things and to the Righteous One.
When we do this, we are less distracted and distraught by unforeseen circumstances, unanticipated griefs, and unplanned detours. It is not that we ignore such things in our lives, but rather it is that we are paying attention to something more important.
When we do that, we are not daunted not even by being robbed at our own mother's funeral. Yes, it is a hard world in which we live. But aren't we glad that there is One who is over it all, has it all under His watch care, and will never leave us nor forsake us?
# # #
I want to pay attention to the better things. Hope your attention is fixed on good things, too. Until next time ~ Marsha
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
A Necessary Father
This week, the famous and very talented writer, Pat Conroy died. He is best known for his books The Great Santini and The Prince of Tides, among others. In particular the novel The Great Santini, about an abusive military father and his relationship with his family, was largely autobiographical. Conroy's father, a decorated marine fighter pilot, was a great soldier and a bona fide war hero.
But he was also a terrible husband and an abusive father, who scarred Conroy for life. One of Conroy's later novels was entitled South of Broad. It was set in Charleston, S.C. and one of its main characters was a loving and lovable father.
This was uncharacteristic in his stories. In one of the articles I read after his passing, Conroy had commented in an interview about developing this story with a good father in it by saying, "I always needed one, so I created one."
How sad.
He always needed one so he created one in his fiction.
Some of us had loving and wonderful fathers. Some of us did not. But everyone needs such a father, whether they realize it or not.
Here is what Conroy apparently did not know; we each have a loving father and we do not have to "create him" because He first created us.
And as I John tells us, "We love because He first loved us."
# # #
Hope you are safely at home tonight, with the Father who loves you and created you. There is no need for any of us to create one for ourselves.
Blessings to you ~ Marsha
But he was also a terrible husband and an abusive father, who scarred Conroy for life. One of Conroy's later novels was entitled South of Broad. It was set in Charleston, S.C. and one of its main characters was a loving and lovable father.
This was uncharacteristic in his stories. In one of the articles I read after his passing, Conroy had commented in an interview about developing this story with a good father in it by saying, "I always needed one, so I created one."
How sad.
He always needed one so he created one in his fiction.
Some of us had loving and wonderful fathers. Some of us did not. But everyone needs such a father, whether they realize it or not.
Here is what Conroy apparently did not know; we each have a loving father and we do not have to "create him" because He first created us.
And as I John tells us, "We love because He first loved us."
# # #
Hope you are safely at home tonight, with the Father who loves you and created you. There is no need for any of us to create one for ourselves.
Blessings to you ~ Marsha
Monday, March 7, 2016
Of Atoms and Archangels
I was doing my morning devotional reading this morning when I ran across this phrase from The Message version of Psalm 89:11.
You own the cosmos - you made everything in it,
everything from atom to archangel.
Now that woke me up and got my juices flowing.
As busy, hopefully productive, people we like to spout phrases such as -
"full capacity"
" significant bandwidth"
"span of control"
All the "words" we use to try to indicate that we think - or at least hope - that we have some range of knowledge, influence or competency.
We often delude ourselves.
Sometimes about the only thing I can operate at full capacity is the vacuum cleaner. My bandwidth consists of the daily dietary challenges related to my waistline, and as for span of control; good heavens, I gave that up as a lost cause years ago.
Nevertheless, there are still times when I kid myself that I "have it all together", that I am in control ... of something. I am just not quite sure what it is.
Then suddenly I am confronted with the eternal reality that is Him who knows no beginning and no end. Who is self-existent, who needs nothing, lacks nothing, but who is eternally generous with all that He is and all that He chooses to bestow upon us.
It is He who runs the universe from "atom to archangel". Isn't that just mind-boggling?
As Colossians 1:17 states
" ... [He] is holding it all together, right up to this
very moment." (MSG)
# # #
So, news flash for allyou us control freaks, and get-it-together-junkies out there. We can all relax a little, because the One who owns the cosmos, all of it, from atoms to archangels, is holding it all together.
# # #
So let's unclench our jaws, our minds and our hearts, and try to relax a little. Maybe just trust Him with today. Just a thought.
~ Marsha
You own the cosmos - you made everything in it,
everything from atom to archangel.
Now that woke me up and got my juices flowing.
As busy, hopefully productive, people we like to spout phrases such as -
"full capacity"
" significant bandwidth"
"span of control"
All the "words" we use to try to indicate that we think - or at least hope - that we have some range of knowledge, influence or competency.
We often delude ourselves.
Sometimes about the only thing I can operate at full capacity is the vacuum cleaner. My bandwidth consists of the daily dietary challenges related to my waistline, and as for span of control; good heavens, I gave that up as a lost cause years ago.
Nevertheless, there are still times when I kid myself that I "have it all together", that I am in control ... of something. I am just not quite sure what it is.
Then suddenly I am confronted with the eternal reality that is Him who knows no beginning and no end. Who is self-existent, who needs nothing, lacks nothing, but who is eternally generous with all that He is and all that He chooses to bestow upon us.
It is He who runs the universe from "atom to archangel". Isn't that just mind-boggling?
As Colossians 1:17 states
" ... [He] is holding it all together, right up to this
very moment." (MSG)
# # #
So, news flash for all
# # #
So let's unclench our jaws, our minds and our hearts, and try to relax a little. Maybe just trust Him with today. Just a thought.
~ Marsha
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
The Dangers of the Woodpile
Some people just will not learn, cannot be bothered - they are not sure about what they know but are surely determined to do something anyway. ~
The above is called "blithering". The blitherer would be me. The untoward provocation that resulted in said blithering would be the *LOC falling over the woodpile. I suppose it would not be so upsetting if I did not care about the old coot but ....... here is what happened.
# # #
The other afternoon I heard faint cries for assistance from down the hall, so I went to investigate. Given that there are only two inhabitants in our little domicile, it seemed fairly certain that the whimper was likely emanating from the LOC.
He was sitting atop our California king-sized bed with his left foot stuck out over the edge of the bed, apparently so as to avoid getting blood from his makeshift bandage on the bedspread. Upon closer examination, it was not actually a bandage at all, but rather a sizable swirl of TP wrapped around his toes with concerning blood stains seeping through.
"For the love of Pete, what have you done?" I asked in what could only be described as a "tone".
"I was out stacking firewood."
"And?"
"Well, I guess I sort of tore off a toe nail or something. I 'm not exactly sure as I can't bend over that far to see it very well. I thought maybe you could take a look at it."
Long story short, he had partially torn his little toe nail off while stacking firewood.
"How could that happen? I don't understand. How could it tear through your shoe?"
"Uh, well, uh, I didn't exactly have my shoes on."
"What? Have you lost your mind? Never mind - rhetorical question. You were stacking firewood barefoot?"
"No, of course not. I had my slides on." (His open-toed, rubber slip ons.)
"But I caught my foot with a piece that was stuck between some other pieces and when it came loose it swiped my foot and ...well..."
Hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, bandages, moving on.
# # #
A few days later the LOC rose gingerly from his recliner and limped toward the kitchen. I happened to glance up from my reading and saw him moving haltingly across the carpet, placing each foot carefully as he went. I didn't even want to ask but decided to just get it over with.
"What's the matter? You look like you can barely walk? Did you hurt yourself?" (Please note: I charitably did not add "again.")
"Oh, nothing for you to worry about. Just a little sore, that's all."
"But you weren't limping yesterday. What happened?"
"I had a little fall. No big deal. I'm fine."
Sure. Fine and dandy. Just a few bruised ribs, a barked shin, a nearly dislocated shoulder, and a wrenched back. Those are the injuries we could identify. Who knows what else was tweaked, bruised or micro-fractured?
The culprit? Once again it seems the woodpile had jumped up and attacked him, out of the blue, with no provocation whatsoever. He was just stacking wood, a few pieces shifted near where he was standing, he attempted to jump out of the way, and in so doing he fell over the woodpile.
I bit my lip. I counted to ten. I took several deep calming breaths and then quietly asked what had to be asked.
"Were you wearing your shoes, at least?"
The LOC was clearly irritated that I should ask such a silly question.
"Of course I was."
# # #
So we had a talk. I thought I was finished having "talks" about inappropriate behavior when my youngest child became an adult. I had not counted on the LOC's penchant for risk-taking at this time of life.
We talked about the fact that we do have central heating, and thus, it is not necessary that we have a fire in the wood burning stove every single day. We discussed economy - the cost of a few dollars saved on the gas bill, versus potentially tens of thousands for a broken leg, or even worse, back surgery. We reviewed the fact that neither of us is exactly a spring chicken and the fact that some adjustments in our expectations of ourselves and our own bodies must be accepted.
We talked. Or as the Lord himself once said to someone in need of a talking-to, "Come now, let us reason together."
Finally, I thought we had reached, if not an agreement, something of an understanding. I must have been living on another planet where older fellows stack firewood made of marshmallows.
For as I left the living room to go to the kitchen, the LOC looked up at me smiling and cheerfully stated, "But honey, I really enjoy stacking firewood."
# # #
Here is the lesson I have decided to learn from all of this. (I do not know what the LOC has learned and I am not inclined to inquire at the moment.)
Perhaps it is better to keep doing a little more than is strictly indicated than it is to just sit down and bemoan the fact that we can no longer do "this, that, and the other thing." Maybe one's "ailings" do not have to become one's permanent "failings" - failing to try, failing to enjoy, failing to make an effort.
The fact that he admittedly could not bend over far enough to see his torn toenail, did not prevent him from working his self-appointed chore the next time. And the further fact that he limped a little as he started out the back door today, did not keep him from smiling as he approached the woodpile.
Maybe there are greater dangers lurking than the woodpile. Maybe a "sit and sulk" is a great deal more dangerous than a possible stumble now and then, while doing something you really enjoy.
# # #
Dear, Lord, help me to get moving and keep moving. Just saying ..... :)
Hope your toes are intact, your ailments are few, and your smiles are many. Until next time ~ Marsha
(*Lovable Old Coot)
The above is called "blithering". The blitherer would be me. The untoward provocation that resulted in said blithering would be the *LOC falling over the woodpile. I suppose it would not be so upsetting if I did not care about the old coot but ....... here is what happened.
# # #
The other afternoon I heard faint cries for assistance from down the hall, so I went to investigate. Given that there are only two inhabitants in our little domicile, it seemed fairly certain that the whimper was likely emanating from the LOC.
He was sitting atop our California king-sized bed with his left foot stuck out over the edge of the bed, apparently so as to avoid getting blood from his makeshift bandage on the bedspread. Upon closer examination, it was not actually a bandage at all, but rather a sizable swirl of TP wrapped around his toes with concerning blood stains seeping through.
"For the love of Pete, what have you done?" I asked in what could only be described as a "tone".
"I was out stacking firewood."
"And?"
"Well, I guess I sort of tore off a toe nail or something. I 'm not exactly sure as I can't bend over that far to see it very well. I thought maybe you could take a look at it."
Long story short, he had partially torn his little toe nail off while stacking firewood.
"How could that happen? I don't understand. How could it tear through your shoe?"
"Uh, well, uh, I didn't exactly have my shoes on."
"What? Have you lost your mind? Never mind - rhetorical question. You were stacking firewood barefoot?"
"No, of course not. I had my slides on." (His open-toed, rubber slip ons.)
"But I caught my foot with a piece that was stuck between some other pieces and when it came loose it swiped my foot and ...well..."
Hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, bandages, moving on.
# # #
A few days later the LOC rose gingerly from his recliner and limped toward the kitchen. I happened to glance up from my reading and saw him moving haltingly across the carpet, placing each foot carefully as he went. I didn't even want to ask but decided to just get it over with.
"What's the matter? You look like you can barely walk? Did you hurt yourself?" (Please note: I charitably did not add "again.")
"Oh, nothing for you to worry about. Just a little sore, that's all."
"But you weren't limping yesterday. What happened?"
"I had a little fall. No big deal. I'm fine."
Sure. Fine and dandy. Just a few bruised ribs, a barked shin, a nearly dislocated shoulder, and a wrenched back. Those are the injuries we could identify. Who knows what else was tweaked, bruised or micro-fractured?
The culprit? Once again it seems the woodpile had jumped up and attacked him, out of the blue, with no provocation whatsoever. He was just stacking wood, a few pieces shifted near where he was standing, he attempted to jump out of the way, and in so doing he fell over the woodpile.
I bit my lip. I counted to ten. I took several deep calming breaths and then quietly asked what had to be asked.
"Were you wearing your shoes, at least?"
The LOC was clearly irritated that I should ask such a silly question.
"Of course I was."
# # #
So we had a talk. I thought I was finished having "talks" about inappropriate behavior when my youngest child became an adult. I had not counted on the LOC's penchant for risk-taking at this time of life.
We talked about the fact that we do have central heating, and thus, it is not necessary that we have a fire in the wood burning stove every single day. We discussed economy - the cost of a few dollars saved on the gas bill, versus potentially tens of thousands for a broken leg, or even worse, back surgery. We reviewed the fact that neither of us is exactly a spring chicken and the fact that some adjustments in our expectations of ourselves and our own bodies must be accepted.
We talked. Or as the Lord himself once said to someone in need of a talking-to, "Come now, let us reason together."
Finally, I thought we had reached, if not an agreement, something of an understanding. I must have been living on another planet where older fellows stack firewood made of marshmallows.
For as I left the living room to go to the kitchen, the LOC looked up at me smiling and cheerfully stated, "But honey, I really enjoy stacking firewood."
# # #
Here is the lesson I have decided to learn from all of this. (I do not know what the LOC has learned and I am not inclined to inquire at the moment.)
Perhaps it is better to keep doing a little more than is strictly indicated than it is to just sit down and bemoan the fact that we can no longer do "this, that, and the other thing." Maybe one's "ailings" do not have to become one's permanent "failings" - failing to try, failing to enjoy, failing to make an effort.
The fact that he admittedly could not bend over far enough to see his torn toenail, did not prevent him from working his self-appointed chore the next time. And the further fact that he limped a little as he started out the back door today, did not keep him from smiling as he approached the woodpile.
Maybe there are greater dangers lurking than the woodpile. Maybe a "sit and sulk" is a great deal more dangerous than a possible stumble now and then, while doing something you really enjoy.
# # #
Dear, Lord, help me to get moving and keep moving. Just saying ..... :)
Hope your toes are intact, your ailments are few, and your smiles are many. Until next time ~ Marsha
(*Lovable Old Coot)
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Funerals, Weddings, and Moving Forward
My grandmother, one day long ago, expressed to my mother that she was feeling a bit lonely and downhearted. My mother asked Grandma Hazel (her mother), "Why don't you go visit a friend, Mom? That would make you feel better."
To which my ever acerbic grandmother tartly replied, "All my friends are dead!"
# # # # #
There really is no snappy come-back for that one, is there?
We are at the stage in our lives where we attend more funerals and memorial services than we do weddings. It is the reality as you move through the third act of your life.
Of course, we could simply not go; but somehow that seems disrespectful of those who enriched our lives while they were here, and whose remaining family members seem to appreciate those who come to honor the life of their loved ones.
However, in contrast, one of the nicest upsides to having dawdled about on the planet this long, is that we do get invited to quite a number "Golden Anniversary" parties. We attended another just last Friday evening. What a wonderful inspiration the happy couple have been to all who know them.
To which my ever acerbic grandmother tartly replied, "All my friends are dead!"
# # # # #
There really is no snappy come-back for that one, is there?
We are at the stage in our lives where we attend more funerals and memorial services than we do weddings. It is the reality as you move through the third act of your life.
Of course, we could simply not go; but somehow that seems disrespectful of those who enriched our lives while they were here, and whose remaining family members seem to appreciate those who come to honor the life of their loved ones.
However, in contrast, one of the nicest upsides to having dawdled about on the planet this long, is that we do get invited to quite a number "Golden Anniversary" parties. We attended another just last Friday evening. What a wonderful inspiration the happy couple have been to all who know them.
It was fun to watch the slide show of them in their younger years, when he still had hair and she still had a slim waistline. Fifty years, five children, and many trials and triumphs later, there they were - gladly smiling down on the rest of us from their own personal Olympus of fidelity and loyalty. I say good for them!
# # # # #
Matthew admonishes us to "let your light shine before men so that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven."
(Matt. 5:16)
Excellent advice.
However, I don't know about you, but my light has been doing a little flickering lately - putting out a fairly steady beam at times, and then dimming abruptly when confronted with the daunting darkness of our times.
Horrible public discourse, of a type and stripe designed to make all but the most insensitive cringe with shame at the depths to which we, as a country, have fallen in our coarsened diatribes.
The papers (yes, we still subscribe to those antiquated missives) filled with tales of crimes so cruel and degrading that we sincerely wish they would spare us the details. The Bible tells us that some things ought not to be spoken of in public. Too true.
And then will come some call to action, some invitation to carry on that is so strong and good that we can only ask God to give us strength and then begin to put one foot in front of the other.
In that vein I think of the young mother of three, the youngest just barely a month old, who I recently heard speak. She was on her way back to Africa, with her husband and two slightly older children. To live among those whose customs and values are so very different. And yet she spoke with love and joy, looking forward to returning to that blighted and dangerous place. The love of God compels her.
# # # # #
May His love compel us to carry on, to move forward, despite frailty and fear, despite heartache and disappointment. For we do, indeed, have a "city which has foundations, whose builder and maker is God." All we have to do is to allow His love to compel us to keep going. # # #
May you find the strength and joy to keep going today. Blessings to you ~ your fellow traveler, Marsha
Friday, January 1, 2016
Changes and Challenges for a New Year
Happy New Year ! Welcome to 2016 !
We just finished watching the Rose Parade, a New Year's Day tradition in our house. The Rose Bowl is coming right up.
Some things do not change. However, some things do change, especially if we will allow them to, and even more so if we will help bring about the change.
Yesterday I visited my favorite used book store, rented two new best sellers (which I think is a wonderful innovation that allows me to read all the new books for a fraction of the cost of buying them) and wished the owner a happy new year.
The LOC* is presently preoccupied with watching as many of the forty football "bowl games" as he can possibly manage. I can remember when there were really only about three or four bowl games.
The Cotton Bowl, the Sugar Bowl, the Orange Bowl, and of course, the Rose Bowl. Now we have every thing from the Dingy Bowl to the Pot-Sticker Bowl. In my opinion, the whole thing has been bowled blown out of all proportion.
Hence, my need for at least two books to read over the weekend, as there will be nothing on our TV that does not involve tackling, passing, running, kicking and scoring. I like football, but let us remember "all things in moderation" - hmmm?
David (aka the LOC) believes in moderation in all things other than football.
So I am reading pleasantly along, cup of tea at the ready, looking up to watch a few dozen robins hop in and out of the bird bath in the frosty backyard, when I turn the page to discover a piece of paper tucked into my current book that I did not put there. It is a piece of mail, apparently accidentally left there by the prior reader.
Well, my goodness, look at that. She only lives about six blocks from us. I do not know her and I quickly tore up the paper to respect her privacy.
However, what really caught my attention was the name of the street in the address. Rosebud. It is a pretty street with lovely houses lining it. I have often driven down it. Rosebud.
Then I immediately thought of the association with the word "rosebud" that anyone familiar with the movie classic Citizen Kane would recall. It is the last word whispered by the rich, powerful, and utterly alone antagonist played by Orson Wells. It is the name of a beloved family member from whom he has long been
estranged; and as he dies, lonely and very alone in his vast mansion, it is the name on his lips as he draws his last breath. Rosebud.
The scene is iconic in American movie-lore, and despite the fact that the move is over sixty or seventy years old, it still represents much of what is wrong with American society. Kane chose wealth, fame, and power, over love and loyalty.
To say his priorities were backwards is an understatement indeed. They were so wrong as to be cruel and even evil. A cautionary tale for sure.
Throughout his life he had many opportunities to make different choices than the ones which led to his wretched circumstances at his death. Each time he chose selfishly, in favor of greed, power, self-aggrandizement. The results of those life-long choices, however, were not what he wanted them to be. His end was simply the logical consequence of his day-to-day choices. He could have chosen to change at any point in his journey, but he did not.
# # #
Today we begin a new year. And as is the case each day, today is also the first day of the rest of my life, and of yours, however long or short that may be.
This year will present each of us with changes and challenges. Some of which we will eagerly embrace, and others which we would not have willingly taken on. As writer Margaret Feinberg says, "Sometimes you choose the fight, sometimes the fight chooses you."
Whatever the struggles, challenges, changes, and yes, even fights, may come my way this year, I hope I can make choices that will lead to good things. Good outcomes. Good relationships. Good living.
Certainly some changes are welcome and some are not. But for each one, we have a choice as to how we respond. Our challenges may help shape us, but it is our choices that define us.
Hope your 2016 is a good year. May you have happy days, healthy and strong relationships, and may you make good choices throughout the coming year. And as Tiny Tim famously said, "God bless us one and all."
Happy New Year ~ Marsha
(*Lovable Old Coot)
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Fashing, fretting and baking !
It is a well known truism that everyone else seems to have a normal family, except for the person considering his or her own. You know who you are.
I always say that every family has a crazy Aunt Sally or a nutty Uncle Harry. And if you read many biographies, as I sometimes do, you soon realize that many families have a whole slew of oddballs.
As I heard someone say recently, "This is just getting to be crazy."
To which her companion archly replied, "Oh, we passed crazy quite a while ago."
Maybe you did, too. Maybe your whole familial construct was a little off-kilter. If so, fret not. Or as the Scottish poet Robert Burns said, "Don't fash yourself." Meaning don't fret about it. It is actually fairly normal ... whatever that is.
Humor writer Patsy Clairmont wrote, "Normal is just a setting on your clothes dryer."
Well, don't I just wish someone had mentioned this to me about fifty years ago, before I spent so much energy "fashing myself" about how abnormal my own family was.
For example, my grandfather never cooked breakfast for my grandmother once in his entire life. But he had a trio of pure bred hunting dogs, for which he would step lively on most mornings to cook them their favorite mash, and then humbly serve it to them out back in their kennel.
I mean, who does that? Perhaps my arms-length attitude toward cooking is rooted in this memory. I have long had a love/hate relationship with food and cooking. Love to eat, hate to cook. It is a dilemma.
Recently I read a book by John Ortberg entitled, Everybody's Normal, Till You Get to Know Them.
Well, hallelujah!
We can all relax - except for one thing. The holidays are almost upon us. Oh, rats. And here I thought that I just about had this "it is okay that our situation isn't typical" thing handled.
The holidays, however, often bring out the worst in all of us, don't they? Some of us are wont to go into fashing, fretting, baking overload. You know who you are.
# # #
Sis likes pepper in her mashed potatoes. Okay, so she can just pepper her portion after it is on her plate. Right? Oh no. She stoutly maintains that the flavors do not blend enough, unless the pepper has been added at the same time you put in the butter, salt, and milk.
So then later Uncle Joe asks with indignation, "Who was the idiot that put pepper in these mashed potatoes?"
And so it goes. One year I experimented with white pepper, foolishly thinking Sis would get her pepper-fix and Judgmental Joe would never know the difference.
Clearly, I live in fantasy land. Sis claimed there was no pepper in the potatoes, because she could not see it. And Joe complained that a mysterious something in the potatoes had given him heartburn.
Sometimes you just cannot win for losing.
My mother-in-law loved giblets in her turkey stuffing. Such "giblets" - for those who may not be so informed - included the chopped up liver of the turkey. Yuuuccckk!
All I am going to say on that aberration is, thank goodness for Stove Top Stuffing.
Still, I naively thought that everyone liked chopped celery in the stuffing (or "dressing" if you prefer). I was quickly made aware of the error of my thinking, when someone, could that have been my own son, asked what was the green, stringy stuff in the stuffing?
There is just no pleasing some folks.
And don't get me started on those who put cloves in their pumpkin pie recipe. Cloves? Really? Yes, yes, I know many recipes do call for this. I, however, would just as soon put mustard in the cranberry sauce.
# # #
So 'tis the season of unlimited opportunities for comparisons. Uhhh, nope. I refuse to play that game anymore.
The few people who know me well, and still like me, are some of the sanest people I know. Either that, or they must be as crazy as I am.
Well, at least we are comfortable with our own company. The normal folks will just have to fend for themselves.
* * *
Hope your Thanksgiving is filled with good people enjoying good food and one another's company.
I try to be thankful every day of the year; but I am truly grateful that I do not have to cook to demonstrate gratitude too often. :) Happy Thanksgiving! ~ Marsha
I always say that every family has a crazy Aunt Sally or a nutty Uncle Harry. And if you read many biographies, as I sometimes do, you soon realize that many families have a whole slew of oddballs.
As I heard someone say recently, "This is just getting to be crazy."
To which her companion archly replied, "Oh, we passed crazy quite a while ago."
Maybe you did, too. Maybe your whole familial construct was a little off-kilter. If so, fret not. Or as the Scottish poet Robert Burns said, "Don't fash yourself." Meaning don't fret about it. It is actually fairly normal ... whatever that is.
Humor writer Patsy Clairmont wrote, "Normal is just a setting on your clothes dryer."
Well, don't I just wish someone had mentioned this to me about fifty years ago, before I spent so much energy "fashing myself" about how abnormal my own family was.
For example, my grandfather never cooked breakfast for my grandmother once in his entire life. But he had a trio of pure bred hunting dogs, for which he would step lively on most mornings to cook them their favorite mash, and then humbly serve it to them out back in their kennel.
I mean, who does that? Perhaps my arms-length attitude toward cooking is rooted in this memory. I have long had a love/hate relationship with food and cooking. Love to eat, hate to cook. It is a dilemma.
Recently I read a book by John Ortberg entitled, Everybody's Normal, Till You Get to Know Them.
Well, hallelujah!
We can all relax - except for one thing. The holidays are almost upon us. Oh, rats. And here I thought that I just about had this "it is okay that our situation isn't typical" thing handled.
The holidays, however, often bring out the worst in all of us, don't they? Some of us are wont to go into fashing, fretting, baking overload. You know who you are.
# # #
Sis likes pepper in her mashed potatoes. Okay, so she can just pepper her portion after it is on her plate. Right? Oh no. She stoutly maintains that the flavors do not blend enough, unless the pepper has been added at the same time you put in the butter, salt, and milk.
So then later Uncle Joe asks with indignation, "Who was the idiot that put pepper in these mashed potatoes?"
And so it goes. One year I experimented with white pepper, foolishly thinking Sis would get her pepper-fix and Judgmental Joe would never know the difference.
Clearly, I live in fantasy land. Sis claimed there was no pepper in the potatoes, because she could not see it. And Joe complained that a mysterious something in the potatoes had given him heartburn.
Sometimes you just cannot win for losing.
My mother-in-law loved giblets in her turkey stuffing. Such "giblets" - for those who may not be so informed - included the chopped up liver of the turkey. Yuuuccckk!
All I am going to say on that aberration is, thank goodness for Stove Top Stuffing.
Still, I naively thought that everyone liked chopped celery in the stuffing (or "dressing" if you prefer). I was quickly made aware of the error of my thinking, when someone, could that have been my own son, asked what was the green, stringy stuff in the stuffing?
There is just no pleasing some folks.
And don't get me started on those who put cloves in their pumpkin pie recipe. Cloves? Really? Yes, yes, I know many recipes do call for this. I, however, would just as soon put mustard in the cranberry sauce.
# # #
So 'tis the season of unlimited opportunities for comparisons. Uhhh, nope. I refuse to play that game anymore.
The few people who know me well, and still like me, are some of the sanest people I know. Either that, or they must be as crazy as I am.
Well, at least we are comfortable with our own company. The normal folks will just have to fend for themselves.
* * *
Hope your Thanksgiving is filled with good people enjoying good food and one another's company.
I try to be thankful every day of the year; but I am truly grateful that I do not have to cook to demonstrate gratitude too often. :) Happy Thanksgiving! ~ Marsha
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
On Mending and Musing
Sitting here doing a little mending, while listening to James Taylor on the old Bose. Carolina is still on his mind. And he is still advising that we "shower the people [we] love with love".
I am not much of a sewer as my mother did not sew and what little I ever knew of the skill, I learned the hard way. There are few domestic activities wherein self-stabbing is fairly routine; but mending is one of them, at least in my experience. And yes, I do own a thimble, but have generally found it more useful for illustrative purposes than for actual sewing.
Nevertheless, hems do fray and buttons pop off. These two tasks represent nearly the entire range of my mending skills. Actually "skill" is too fine a word for what I do with needle and thread. A more accurate description would be that I make rough repairs.
I do not really sew, I just take a stab at it now and then, and usually end up stabbing myself.
# # #
As I was performing my basic mending tasks I thought about the word itself - mending. It is only found twice in the New Testament: Matthew 4:21 and Mark 1:19. (And then only in the King James Version. The NIV uses the word "preparing".) These verses are two different authors' accounts of the same event. Jesus, when he was first calling his disciples, came upon James and John who were mending their fishing nets at the time.
They were fishermen repairing the tools of their trade since it is pretty hard to catch many fish using nets full of holes. Their nets were valuable, useful and costly to replace. So they mended.
Mending involves taking something that has already been used extensively, so much so that it is now ripped, torn, worn through, or missing something. It no longer "works" if you will.
Wearing socks with holes in them can give you a blister. Wearing a shirt or a blouse with missing buttons will be uncomfortable. Cuffs flap open, plackets gap. Other things may show which were meant to remain covered. Mending is in order.
# # #
I have not always been skillful in mending other things in my life either. Relationships have sometimes been frayed or even torn. Some have been used so extensively that they have worn thin. Others definitely have something missing - and things flap around, or things which should have remained covered are suddenly on display.
However, as clumsy as my mending efforts are with needle and thread, I do, nevertheless, make the attempt to mend. But I only mend things which are still too valuable, too useful, too needful to discard or give away.
So it is with relationships. One may need a new button of understanding, while another requires some darning, perhaps notes of appreciation or a gesture of kindness, where holes of over use have left the connection threadbare.
Mending is not my favorite thing. I am not very good at it. But I do it because to not do so means that items which would otherwise be lost to me are regained for use and enjoyment.
Taking the time, and making the effort, to mend a relationship can mean that something which may otherwise be lost to you, can be regained for mutual comfort and enjoyment.
# # #
If you need to do a little mending, there is no time like the present. Some things are too important to leave frayed and torn. Does mending work every time? No, but it is still worth a try.
Hope your mending efforts are rewarded with good results. Until next time ~ Marsha
I am not much of a sewer as my mother did not sew and what little I ever knew of the skill, I learned the hard way. There are few domestic activities wherein self-stabbing is fairly routine; but mending is one of them, at least in my experience. And yes, I do own a thimble, but have generally found it more useful for illustrative purposes than for actual sewing.
Nevertheless, hems do fray and buttons pop off. These two tasks represent nearly the entire range of my mending skills. Actually "skill" is too fine a word for what I do with needle and thread. A more accurate description would be that I make rough repairs.
I do not really sew, I just take a stab at it now and then, and usually end up stabbing myself.
# # #
As I was performing my basic mending tasks I thought about the word itself - mending. It is only found twice in the New Testament: Matthew 4:21 and Mark 1:19. (And then only in the King James Version. The NIV uses the word "preparing".) These verses are two different authors' accounts of the same event. Jesus, when he was first calling his disciples, came upon James and John who were mending their fishing nets at the time.
They were fishermen repairing the tools of their trade since it is pretty hard to catch many fish using nets full of holes. Their nets were valuable, useful and costly to replace. So they mended.
Mending involves taking something that has already been used extensively, so much so that it is now ripped, torn, worn through, or missing something. It no longer "works" if you will.
Wearing socks with holes in them can give you a blister. Wearing a shirt or a blouse with missing buttons will be uncomfortable. Cuffs flap open, plackets gap. Other things may show which were meant to remain covered. Mending is in order.
# # #
I have not always been skillful in mending other things in my life either. Relationships have sometimes been frayed or even torn. Some have been used so extensively that they have worn thin. Others definitely have something missing - and things flap around, or things which should have remained covered are suddenly on display.
However, as clumsy as my mending efforts are with needle and thread, I do, nevertheless, make the attempt to mend. But I only mend things which are still too valuable, too useful, too needful to discard or give away.
So it is with relationships. One may need a new button of understanding, while another requires some darning, perhaps notes of appreciation or a gesture of kindness, where holes of over use have left the connection threadbare.
Mending is not my favorite thing. I am not very good at it. But I do it because to not do so means that items which would otherwise be lost to me are regained for use and enjoyment.
Taking the time, and making the effort, to mend a relationship can mean that something which may otherwise be lost to you, can be regained for mutual comfort and enjoyment.
# # #
If you need to do a little mending, there is no time like the present. Some things are too important to leave frayed and torn. Does mending work every time? No, but it is still worth a try.
Hope your mending efforts are rewarded with good results. Until next time ~ Marsha
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
No One Teaches Us How To ...
So there we were, two ladies of a certain age, sitting on a nice patio having a delectable brunch. I had the eggs Benedict and she had some kind of fruit compote thingy with fresh crusty bread.
We chatted about this and that, in a desultory sort of way; most of our energy was being directed at the food which was being consumed with a good bit of energy.
After covering the weather, recent political events, mutual acquaintances, kids, grand kids, and the like, she mentioned a recent discovery she had made about her person.
"Marsha", she said a bit plaintively, "I am getting bumps on my fingers." And with this declaration she held up both hands for my inspection.
I just smiled at her sympathetically and held up both of my own hands for her to see.
"Hon, we all get bumps on our fingers if we live long enough."
# # #
Here is a thought that struck me recently. I recall it distinctly only because I don't get a new thought all that often and it almost made me twinge.
We teach babies to walk and toddlers to how to hold a spoon. We teach youngsters how to become adolescents and then, a few short years later, try to teach those same teens how to become responsible young adults.
There is a veritable publishing bonanza of material on becoming parents, early career choices, and then dealing with a middle-aged crisis.
And yet, no one teaches us how to grow old. (Oh, yes, there is the redoubtable AARP, but I don't really find their literature all that helpful. It is more like pablum for the geriatric set.)
Art Linkletter, of "Kids Say the Darnedest Things" fame, once observed that "Growing older isn't for sissies."
In my opinion, old Art knew whereof he spoke.
I am not just referring to well-known challenges like the fact that you cannot see to apply your makeup without your glasses, but you cannot apply your makeup while wearing them either. That old cabbage has been cooked before.
Therefore, in case no one has mentioned the following to you, and you happen to be interested in the topic, here are a few things to watch out for:
No matter how dexterous, ambi or otherwise, you may have been, there will come a time when your fingers no longer do just what you want them to do. They may point in directions you had no desire to point toward; and they may, indeed, develop certain anomalies (like my friend's bumps for example) which catch you unawares.
It can be disconcerting.
Upon close examination of your other set of extremities, you may discover that all ten of them are no longer marching in quite the same direction.
That can be confusing.
And do not get me started on finding a comfortable set of shoes that do not look like you need corrective orthopedic surgery.
Furthermore, no one informed me that your feet keep growing, as long as you live. For several decades I wore a size 6 1/2 but in recent years realized that, while I might choose to continue to wear that size, I would do so at my own peril. I relented and went to a size 7.
Few people have anyone in their life brave enough to tell them when it is time to turn in their driver's license. Certainly no one told my stepfather, until after he rear-ended a stopped vehicle at a rail road crossing; and oh, by the way, it happened to be a local police officer's patrol car. He was about eighty-six at the time, and had just recently purchased a brand new pickup. What was he thinking?
Of course, toward the end, he also spent considerable time petting a dog that had died forty years earlier. That is to say, he spent a lot of time stroking thin air, thinking old Fido was still there.
Talk about unnerving!
# # #
So what am I saying?
Just that it comes to all of us, one day at a time, this business of growing older. For some it sneaks up on them and catches them completely unaware.
Some of us need lessons on how to age with some dignity. And hopefully with a shred or two of sanity in tact.
Still, for those who are paying attention, they may learn that despite the bumps and lumps and the odd hair here and there, or no longer any hair at all, there is still joy to be had in a sunrise, or a bird song, or the smile on an old friend's face.
For rest of it, here are two pieces of advice that shouldn't go amiss;
a) use plenty of lotion on anything and nearly everything, and
b) for Pete's sake, eat your fruits and vegetables. (But don't put lotion on them.)
# # #
Hope you have not been surprised this week by the face looking at you in the mirror. Herein ends this lesson - until next time, your older, but still learning, fellow traveler ~ Marsha
We chatted about this and that, in a desultory sort of way; most of our energy was being directed at the food which was being consumed with a good bit of energy.
After covering the weather, recent political events, mutual acquaintances, kids, grand kids, and the like, she mentioned a recent discovery she had made about her person.
"Marsha", she said a bit plaintively, "I am getting bumps on my fingers." And with this declaration she held up both hands for my inspection.
I just smiled at her sympathetically and held up both of my own hands for her to see.
"Hon, we all get bumps on our fingers if we live long enough."
# # #
Here is a thought that struck me recently. I recall it distinctly only because I don't get a new thought all that often and it almost made me twinge.
We teach babies to walk and toddlers to how to hold a spoon. We teach youngsters how to become adolescents and then, a few short years later, try to teach those same teens how to become responsible young adults.
There is a veritable publishing bonanza of material on becoming parents, early career choices, and then dealing with a middle-aged crisis.
And yet, no one teaches us how to grow old. (Oh, yes, there is the redoubtable AARP, but I don't really find their literature all that helpful. It is more like pablum for the geriatric set.)
Art Linkletter, of "Kids Say the Darnedest Things" fame, once observed that "Growing older isn't for sissies."
In my opinion, old Art knew whereof he spoke.
I am not just referring to well-known challenges like the fact that you cannot see to apply your makeup without your glasses, but you cannot apply your makeup while wearing them either. That old cabbage has been cooked before.
Therefore, in case no one has mentioned the following to you, and you happen to be interested in the topic, here are a few things to watch out for:
No matter how dexterous, ambi or otherwise, you may have been, there will come a time when your fingers no longer do just what you want them to do. They may point in directions you had no desire to point toward; and they may, indeed, develop certain anomalies (like my friend's bumps for example) which catch you unawares.
It can be disconcerting.
Upon close examination of your other set of extremities, you may discover that all ten of them are no longer marching in quite the same direction.
That can be confusing.
And do not get me started on finding a comfortable set of shoes that do not look like you need corrective orthopedic surgery.
Furthermore, no one informed me that your feet keep growing, as long as you live. For several decades I wore a size 6 1/2 but in recent years realized that, while I might choose to continue to wear that size, I would do so at my own peril. I relented and went to a size 7.
Few people have anyone in their life brave enough to tell them when it is time to turn in their driver's license. Certainly no one told my stepfather, until after he rear-ended a stopped vehicle at a rail road crossing; and oh, by the way, it happened to be a local police officer's patrol car. He was about eighty-six at the time, and had just recently purchased a brand new pickup. What was he thinking?
Of course, toward the end, he also spent considerable time petting a dog that had died forty years earlier. That is to say, he spent a lot of time stroking thin air, thinking old Fido was still there.
Talk about unnerving!
# # #
So what am I saying?
Just that it comes to all of us, one day at a time, this business of growing older. For some it sneaks up on them and catches them completely unaware.
Some of us need lessons on how to age with some dignity. And hopefully with a shred or two of sanity in tact.
Still, for those who are paying attention, they may learn that despite the bumps and lumps and the odd hair here and there, or no longer any hair at all, there is still joy to be had in a sunrise, or a bird song, or the smile on an old friend's face.
For rest of it, here are two pieces of advice that shouldn't go amiss;
a) use plenty of lotion on anything and nearly everything, and
b) for Pete's sake, eat your fruits and vegetables. (But don't put lotion on them.)
# # #
Hope you have not been surprised this week by the face looking at you in the mirror. Herein ends this lesson - until next time, your older, but still learning, fellow traveler ~ Marsha
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
Grumpier Old Ladies
Folks, I am just going to have to admit, up front, that the *LOC has had a rough couple of mornings already this week, and it is only Wednesday. (He could use some prayer, if you're a mind to ...)
Yesterday, we each had to go to the lab for routine blood draws. It has never happened before, that we each needed to go on the same day, but yesterday we did.
To be clear, we are not sick, just old enough that, much like older vehicles that need a little more maintenance after a 100K on the old engine, we need a little more maintenance /upkeep.
So here was the rough part. These were those dratted "fasting" blood tests; no food, no water for twelve hours before the test. This meant that we got up yesterday and had to actually figure out how to get ourselves washed, teeth brushed, and dressed - find the garage, where we hoped the car was still parked- and all manner of incredibly complex efforts had to be undertaken without the aid of either hot tea or hot coffee.
I don't mind going twelve hours without food, but tea or coffee? Come on.
Well, let me tell you, it was a madhouse around here yesterday morning. It is a blinking miracle that one of us didn't wind up in the hospital. Just saying ...
"Where's the toothpaste?"
"How would I know?" (I frankly don't know my own middle name when I have not yet had a cup of tea to get the old synapse firing.)
"Is the back door locked?" (I am not even sure where the back door is - remember - I have had no tea!)
To make matters worse, the faucet on my sink - we have a dual sink vanity in the master bathroom - is not working, the plumber is not due for another day or two, so the LOC had turned off the water under that sink. I am schlepping stuff back and forth between the master bathroom and the hall bath where the faucet is working.
I may be only half-awake; but even in that pitiable state I have better sense than to try to share one little sink with a guy over six feet tall, with shoulders the size of small boulders.
In the midst of my somnambulant schlepping, the LOC asks kindly, "Would it help if I turned the water back on at your sink?"
"No, thanks. More trouble than its worth", I mumble.
Two more trips back and forth, got the moisturizer, but forgot the Revitalift - and believe me, today I need all the "lift" that face cream can give me.
"Are you sure it wouldn't be better if I just turned that faucet back on for a few minutes? It's not leaking that badly."
"No, thank you." Somehow "thank you" didn't sound very grateful.
Two more trips, got the brush, forgot the hand-mirror.
"I'd be glad to turn that faucet .."
"For crying out loud, would you just forget about that faucet and let's get going." No gratitude at all, this time.
He made some sotto voce comment about "grumpy old women" - I offered a rejoinder about people who "can't take no for an answer" and so it went.
Well, we got to the lab, they drained our veins, and we repaired to the Kalico Kitchen - and none too soon. I grabbed a stray coffee carafe on our way to our table and just chugged it straight down without a cup. (Well, I thought about doing that.)
# # #
Then came this morning. After yesterday's bumpy - not to say grumpy - start, I was determined to be well organized, on-task and on time. Places to go, people to see, etc.
I was in the shower (more or less on time after two really good cups of tea) and humming with satisfaction at how smoothly the day had begun.
"Not so fast", says the imp assigned to our address.
Is that the phone I hear ringing?
"Marsha, you're wanted on the phone."
I thought to myself, "What, exactly, am I supposed to do about it right this second?" But the LOC only hears me half the time when I am standing right next to him, so there is no point in shouting this through the bathroom door.
I jumped out of the shower, dried off and robed quickly, and asked "What?" As if the phone call were his planned interruption to my little humming episode. He is "0h-for-two" these two mornings.
He said M. called and would I call her back right away.
Made the call and learned she has the flu-bug and could I fill-in for her today. I was glad to help, but so much for a smooth start.
A few minutes later, as I went flying out the door, and peeling down the driveway, there stood the LOC, smiling and waving me off.
# # #
They talk about grumpy and grumpier old men, and they even made a couple of movies about them, as I recall. But not many people have the strength of character to deal with a truly grumpy little old lady. Fortunately, I happen to be married to one - the Lovable Old Coot.
# # #
Hope you haven't had your caffeine supply cut off, or been called out of the shower, or just felt irritated at the stray hang nail or pinched toes - or whatever. But if you have, I hope someone showed you some patience today.
Until next time - your recently grumpy, but now recovered - little old lady blogger ~ Marsha
(*Lovable Old Coot)
Yesterday, we each had to go to the lab for routine blood draws. It has never happened before, that we each needed to go on the same day, but yesterday we did.
To be clear, we are not sick, just old enough that, much like older vehicles that need a little more maintenance after a 100K on the old engine, we need a little more maintenance /upkeep.
So here was the rough part. These were those dratted "fasting" blood tests; no food, no water for twelve hours before the test. This meant that we got up yesterday and had to actually figure out how to get ourselves washed, teeth brushed, and dressed - find the garage, where we hoped the car was still parked- and all manner of incredibly complex efforts had to be undertaken without the aid of either hot tea or hot coffee.
I don't mind going twelve hours without food, but tea or coffee? Come on.
Well, let me tell you, it was a madhouse around here yesterday morning. It is a blinking miracle that one of us didn't wind up in the hospital. Just saying ...
"Where's the toothpaste?"
"How would I know?" (I frankly don't know my own middle name when I have not yet had a cup of tea to get the old synapse firing.)
"Is the back door locked?" (I am not even sure where the back door is - remember - I have had no tea!)
To make matters worse, the faucet on my sink - we have a dual sink vanity in the master bathroom - is not working, the plumber is not due for another day or two, so the LOC had turned off the water under that sink. I am schlepping stuff back and forth between the master bathroom and the hall bath where the faucet is working.
I may be only half-awake; but even in that pitiable state I have better sense than to try to share one little sink with a guy over six feet tall, with shoulders the size of small boulders.
In the midst of my somnambulant schlepping, the LOC asks kindly, "Would it help if I turned the water back on at your sink?"
"No, thanks. More trouble than its worth", I mumble.
Two more trips back and forth, got the moisturizer, but forgot the Revitalift - and believe me, today I need all the "lift" that face cream can give me.
"Are you sure it wouldn't be better if I just turned that faucet back on for a few minutes? It's not leaking that badly."
"No, thank you." Somehow "thank you" didn't sound very grateful.
Two more trips, got the brush, forgot the hand-mirror.
"I'd be glad to turn that faucet .."
"For crying out loud, would you just forget about that faucet and let's get going." No gratitude at all, this time.
He made some sotto voce comment about "grumpy old women" - I offered a rejoinder about people who "can't take no for an answer" and so it went.
Well, we got to the lab, they drained our veins, and we repaired to the Kalico Kitchen - and none too soon. I grabbed a stray coffee carafe on our way to our table and just chugged it straight down without a cup. (Well, I thought about doing that.)
# # #
Then came this morning. After yesterday's bumpy - not to say grumpy - start, I was determined to be well organized, on-task and on time. Places to go, people to see, etc.
I was in the shower (more or less on time after two really good cups of tea) and humming with satisfaction at how smoothly the day had begun.
"Not so fast", says the imp assigned to our address.
Is that the phone I hear ringing?
"Marsha, you're wanted on the phone."
I thought to myself, "What, exactly, am I supposed to do about it right this second?" But the LOC only hears me half the time when I am standing right next to him, so there is no point in shouting this through the bathroom door.
I jumped out of the shower, dried off and robed quickly, and asked "What?" As if the phone call were his planned interruption to my little humming episode. He is "0h-for-two" these two mornings.
He said M. called and would I call her back right away.
Made the call and learned she has the flu-bug and could I fill-in for her today. I was glad to help, but so much for a smooth start.
A few minutes later, as I went flying out the door, and peeling down the driveway, there stood the LOC, smiling and waving me off.
# # #
They talk about grumpy and grumpier old men, and they even made a couple of movies about them, as I recall. But not many people have the strength of character to deal with a truly grumpy little old lady. Fortunately, I happen to be married to one - the Lovable Old Coot.
# # #
Hope you haven't had your caffeine supply cut off, or been called out of the shower, or just felt irritated at the stray hang nail or pinched toes - or whatever. But if you have, I hope someone showed you some patience today.
Until next time - your recently grumpy, but now recovered - little old lady blogger ~ Marsha
(*Lovable Old Coot)
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Walking Away with Good Reason
Progress is impossible without change, and those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.
~ George Bernard Shaw
A friend, and former colleague of mine, sent me an email the other day. He was requesting a professional reference from me, as his former boss.
I was surprised, not because such a request is unusual, but because I recalled that I had received a similar request from the same person a little over a year ago. And, as I recalled, he had gotten the job he was seeking, which was that of a mid-level manager in a sizable biotech company.
So my surprise was that he had only "lasted" a year in the new position. I was assuming, incorrectly, that he had been let go, perhaps the victim of another downsizing.
It turned out, however, that he left. Quit. Walked away.
And I am proud of him for doing so.
He ran into a corporate "drama", complete with all the usual intrigue, conflicts, and ultimately the strong suggestion that he "go along to get along." But what they were pressuring him to do was wrong, and he knew it. He decided instead to just go. Period.
He said to me recently, "I am glad I was in a position to be able to walk away, rather than compromise my integrity." He was willing to deal with unemployment and the challenges that entails in order to walk away for the right reasons.
# # #
An old Kenny Rogers song advises that we should "know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em"; but few of us seem to know when to do either.
Sometimes in life, we seem almost equally torn between "hanging on" in situations where it would be healthier to simply walk away, and walking away from challenges, when it would have been wise, and ultimately more beneficial, had we been able to hold on a little longer.
What to do?
How to know whether to let go or hold on in any given situation?
Do I quit the job and walk away, or ignore the office politics and hold on awhile longer?
Do I sell the house now or settle down and deal with my dissatisfaction about it?
Do I invest more time and effort in a relationship or do I admit that I have done all I know to do and it is time to let it go?
The right answer for me may be the wrong answer for you. Sometimes we make unhealthy promises - to ourselves. For example, my mother was determined to work until she was sixty-five and then retire. In the two years before her sixty-fifth birthday, her work responsibilities increased dramatically, and not in a good way.
Additionally, during those two years, she had recurring bouts of dizziness, weakness in her right arm, and bronchitis. Finally, she was hospitalized with a serious bout of bronchial pneumonia.
I talked with her, more than once, during that time urging her to retire rather than wait. After the pneumonia episode, her own doctor spoke with her about the fact that she was pushing herself too hard, and perhaps should consider retiring. She refused.
She had saved and planned well, so it was not really about finances. It was that she could not or would not change her mind. She had made herself a promise that she was going to work until she was sixty-five and then retire.
It didn't work out that way. One month before her sixty-fifth birthday she suffered a major stroke and was left with a paralyzed right arm and right leg. The last seventeen years of her life, instead of playing piano, working in her rose garden, and doing things she loved, she spent dealing with life as a hemiplegic.
There is a difference between honoring a promise - even to oneself - and clinging stubbornly to an idea or stance we have taken that no longer makes any sense.
We all make promises and commitments which we plan to keep. And in most cases we should do everything within our power to honor those promises. But sometimes ... yes, sometimes, we need to admit that we must walk away. Not out of negligence, or indifference, but because it is the right thing, the wiser thing to do.
# # #
Hope you are in a healthy place today, with good choices all around you. But if you need to walk away - I encourage you to do it with your head high and your heart full of hope. Until next time - your fellow traveler ~ Marsha
~ George Bernard Shaw
A friend, and former colleague of mine, sent me an email the other day. He was requesting a professional reference from me, as his former boss.
I was surprised, not because such a request is unusual, but because I recalled that I had received a similar request from the same person a little over a year ago. And, as I recalled, he had gotten the job he was seeking, which was that of a mid-level manager in a sizable biotech company.
So my surprise was that he had only "lasted" a year in the new position. I was assuming, incorrectly, that he had been let go, perhaps the victim of another downsizing.
It turned out, however, that he left. Quit. Walked away.
And I am proud of him for doing so.
He ran into a corporate "drama", complete with all the usual intrigue, conflicts, and ultimately the strong suggestion that he "go along to get along." But what they were pressuring him to do was wrong, and he knew it. He decided instead to just go. Period.
He said to me recently, "I am glad I was in a position to be able to walk away, rather than compromise my integrity." He was willing to deal with unemployment and the challenges that entails in order to walk away for the right reasons.
# # #
An old Kenny Rogers song advises that we should "know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em"; but few of us seem to know when to do either.
Sometimes in life, we seem almost equally torn between "hanging on" in situations where it would be healthier to simply walk away, and walking away from challenges, when it would have been wise, and ultimately more beneficial, had we been able to hold on a little longer.
What to do?
How to know whether to let go or hold on in any given situation?
Do I quit the job and walk away, or ignore the office politics and hold on awhile longer?
Do I sell the house now or settle down and deal with my dissatisfaction about it?
Do I invest more time and effort in a relationship or do I admit that I have done all I know to do and it is time to let it go?
The right answer for me may be the wrong answer for you. Sometimes we make unhealthy promises - to ourselves. For example, my mother was determined to work until she was sixty-five and then retire. In the two years before her sixty-fifth birthday, her work responsibilities increased dramatically, and not in a good way.
Additionally, during those two years, she had recurring bouts of dizziness, weakness in her right arm, and bronchitis. Finally, she was hospitalized with a serious bout of bronchial pneumonia.
I talked with her, more than once, during that time urging her to retire rather than wait. After the pneumonia episode, her own doctor spoke with her about the fact that she was pushing herself too hard, and perhaps should consider retiring. She refused.
She had saved and planned well, so it was not really about finances. It was that she could not or would not change her mind. She had made herself a promise that she was going to work until she was sixty-five and then retire.
It didn't work out that way. One month before her sixty-fifth birthday she suffered a major stroke and was left with a paralyzed right arm and right leg. The last seventeen years of her life, instead of playing piano, working in her rose garden, and doing things she loved, she spent dealing with life as a hemiplegic.
There is a difference between honoring a promise - even to oneself - and clinging stubbornly to an idea or stance we have taken that no longer makes any sense.
We all make promises and commitments which we plan to keep. And in most cases we should do everything within our power to honor those promises. But sometimes ... yes, sometimes, we need to admit that we must walk away. Not out of negligence, or indifference, but because it is the right thing, the wiser thing to do.
# # #
Hope you are in a healthy place today, with good choices all around you. But if you need to walk away - I encourage you to do it with your head high and your heart full of hope. Until next time - your fellow traveler ~ Marsha
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
The Mugo Bit the Dust
The drought continues to plague Northern California. Our lakes are down to one-third of normal, our lawns are dead, and in a clear example of "the law of unintended consequences", many of our trees are dying, too. I recently read an article stating that as many as five thousand mature trees in a nearby town are dead or dying.
Five thousand! And some of them are over two hundred years old.
The governor said "cut water use by 25%" and many of us did, that and more. Some people went nuts, though, and just turned off all their outside water and said, "Phooey with it. I'll just wait until the drought is over and then I'll water things again."
Allowing a lawn to dry up and die is one thing. It can be brought back in a matter of months. But allowing trees that are hundreds of years old to die, when the drought is "only" four years old is pretty short-sighted. Now they are urging us to "water your trees."
You don't say.
The weather gurus are predicting an El Nino winter, often meaning pouring rain for months on end. By next spring, my dead lawn may look like a putting green for all I know. (Well, I can hope, can't I?)
But those dead trees ... well, I won't see their replacements grow up, and neither will my children or their great - great - great grandchildren. Stupid. And sad.
# # #
How often in life do we set something in motion that creates results or develops consequences which we simply did not foresee? The "law of unintended consequences" is alive and operational on many levels.
Proverbs tells us that a "word fitly spoken is like apples of silver or pictures of gold". But what about the words hastily spoken in anger or cruelty that create bitterness and harbor rancor for years to come, lasting sometimes even from generation to generation? (Think Hatfields and McCoys.)
# # #
We planted a small mugo (pronounced mew-go) pine almost four years ago. It was a little decorative tree, only three feet tall, but completely symmetrically round, and which generally grows only one or two inches each year. It is a prized plant for specific spots where you want a visual impact, but limited growth.
I watered it faithfully, and then when we were placed on water-rationing, I watered it as often as I was allowed to do. Three times per week for fifteen minutes each time. We have very hot summers here in the Sierra Nevada foothills, and around August it began to look pretty pitiful. I hand carried extra water in a watering can to it.
I mulched around the base of that little mugo. I pinched off the dead bits, in the hopes that it wouldn't waste it's water trying to feed dead stuff. All in vain. It died. Four years of pampering down the old drought-drain.
But only four years.
What of a lifetime wasted in dry barren regret? What have we done to address the consequences we may have caused however unintentionally?
I hope El Nino comes. Oh, how I how and pray that it does.
But more importantly, I hope I am learning to carefully address those barren places in my life, where bitterness and resentment stifle growth. There are many healthy mugo pines - somewhere. It can be replaced, replanted.
But we only have one life to live. Let's work on watering hope, irrigating dreams and splashing a little happiness around whenever we can. What do you say?
# # #
Hope you are wading in creeks of cheer, and lakes of laughter in your life this evening. But if you have "hit a dry patch" - try to do something about it, sooner rather than later. You have seldom seen anything sadder than a dead mugo. But dry regrets over unintended consequences are pretty sad, too.
Until next time, your drought-stricken, but still watering where allowed, neighborhood gardener ~ Marsha
Five thousand! And some of them are over two hundred years old.
The governor said "cut water use by 25%" and many of us did, that and more. Some people went nuts, though, and just turned off all their outside water and said, "Phooey with it. I'll just wait until the drought is over and then I'll water things again."
Allowing a lawn to dry up and die is one thing. It can be brought back in a matter of months. But allowing trees that are hundreds of years old to die, when the drought is "only" four years old is pretty short-sighted. Now they are urging us to "water your trees."
You don't say.
The weather gurus are predicting an El Nino winter, often meaning pouring rain for months on end. By next spring, my dead lawn may look like a putting green for all I know. (Well, I can hope, can't I?)
But those dead trees ... well, I won't see their replacements grow up, and neither will my children or their great - great - great grandchildren. Stupid. And sad.
# # #
How often in life do we set something in motion that creates results or develops consequences which we simply did not foresee? The "law of unintended consequences" is alive and operational on many levels.
Proverbs tells us that a "word fitly spoken is like apples of silver or pictures of gold". But what about the words hastily spoken in anger or cruelty that create bitterness and harbor rancor for years to come, lasting sometimes even from generation to generation? (Think Hatfields and McCoys.)
# # #
We planted a small mugo (pronounced mew-go) pine almost four years ago. It was a little decorative tree, only three feet tall, but completely symmetrically round, and which generally grows only one or two inches each year. It is a prized plant for specific spots where you want a visual impact, but limited growth.
I watered it faithfully, and then when we were placed on water-rationing, I watered it as often as I was allowed to do. Three times per week for fifteen minutes each time. We have very hot summers here in the Sierra Nevada foothills, and around August it began to look pretty pitiful. I hand carried extra water in a watering can to it.
I mulched around the base of that little mugo. I pinched off the dead bits, in the hopes that it wouldn't waste it's water trying to feed dead stuff. All in vain. It died. Four years of pampering down the old drought-drain.
But only four years.
What of a lifetime wasted in dry barren regret? What have we done to address the consequences we may have caused however unintentionally?
I hope El Nino comes. Oh, how I how and pray that it does.
But more importantly, I hope I am learning to carefully address those barren places in my life, where bitterness and resentment stifle growth. There are many healthy mugo pines - somewhere. It can be replaced, replanted.
But we only have one life to live. Let's work on watering hope, irrigating dreams and splashing a little happiness around whenever we can. What do you say?
# # #
Hope you are wading in creeks of cheer, and lakes of laughter in your life this evening. But if you have "hit a dry patch" - try to do something about it, sooner rather than later. You have seldom seen anything sadder than a dead mugo. But dry regrets over unintended consequences are pretty sad, too.
Until next time, your drought-stricken, but still watering where allowed, neighborhood gardener ~ Marsha
Monday, October 5, 2015
Waiting for the Rat to Die
Now before you go all aghast on me, I am not referring to a person, or at least not any one specific person. The title of this post refers to a quote from a book I am currently reading by John Ortberg.
The book is entitled Everybody's Normal Till You Get to Know Them. And isn't that just the truth? I have said for years that every family has a nutty Aunt Sally or a Crazy Uncle Harry. Some of us have - or have had - several, not just one or two.
When speaking to an audience about family dynamics, I have often used the saying (I do not recall the source): Four out of five families are dysfunctional ... and the other one doesn't work very well.
And isn't that just the truth? ( It also sounds a little like a Yogi Berra saying, doesn't it?)
So, while reading the aforementioned book, I ran across an older quote from Anne Lamott in her signature book Traveling Mercies. I had read Lamott's book many years ago, but had forgotten this pointed statement. She wrote: "In fact, not forgiving is like drinking rat poison and waiting for the rat to die."
# # #
For many of us, forgiveness is something we crave for ourselves, but are reluctant to give to others. But God says it works just the opposite of this. It is only as we forgive others, that we ourselves are eligible for divine forgiveness.
"Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us" - that is a non-negotiable truth. Straight from the mouth of the One who had the most to forgive, and nothing to be forgiven for, and yet offered each of us forgiveness freely.
Some people refuse to even contemplate forgiving someone who has hurt them deeply, taking the position that:
a) they aren't sorry for what they did to me,
b) they haven't apologized,
c) they haven't asked for my forgiveness.
While a, b, and c may be true, this is still not grounds for refusing to forgive. How many of us are drinking rat poison and waiting for the rat to die?
Remember the old Rolling Stones song, "sometimes you're the bug, sometimes you're windshield'? Yes, well, sometimes I'm the rat, and sometimes I'm just waiting for the other rat to die. You know what I mean?
Waiting for the rat to die can be dangerous. Sometimes the rat outlives us. C.S. Lewis said once that he had only recently forgiven someone who had been dead for thirty years! Yikes.
# # #
Hope there is no stray bottle of rat poison (unforgiveness) in your life-cupboard today; but if you spot one, throw it out! I beseech you, as one who has, upon occasion, partaken of the poison and lived (and been forgiven) to tell the tale. You will be glad you did. Until next time, your fellow traveler ~ Marsha
The book is entitled Everybody's Normal Till You Get to Know Them. And isn't that just the truth? I have said for years that every family has a nutty Aunt Sally or a Crazy Uncle Harry. Some of us have - or have had - several, not just one or two.
When speaking to an audience about family dynamics, I have often used the saying (I do not recall the source): Four out of five families are dysfunctional ... and the other one doesn't work very well.
And isn't that just the truth? ( It also sounds a little like a Yogi Berra saying, doesn't it?)
So, while reading the aforementioned book, I ran across an older quote from Anne Lamott in her signature book Traveling Mercies. I had read Lamott's book many years ago, but had forgotten this pointed statement. She wrote: "In fact, not forgiving is like drinking rat poison and waiting for the rat to die."
# # #
For many of us, forgiveness is something we crave for ourselves, but are reluctant to give to others. But God says it works just the opposite of this. It is only as we forgive others, that we ourselves are eligible for divine forgiveness.
"Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us" - that is a non-negotiable truth. Straight from the mouth of the One who had the most to forgive, and nothing to be forgiven for, and yet offered each of us forgiveness freely.
Some people refuse to even contemplate forgiving someone who has hurt them deeply, taking the position that:
a) they aren't sorry for what they did to me,
b) they haven't apologized,
c) they haven't asked for my forgiveness.
While a, b, and c may be true, this is still not grounds for refusing to forgive. How many of us are drinking rat poison and waiting for the rat to die?
Remember the old Rolling Stones song, "sometimes you're the bug, sometimes you're windshield'? Yes, well, sometimes I'm the rat, and sometimes I'm just waiting for the other rat to die. You know what I mean?
Waiting for the rat to die can be dangerous. Sometimes the rat outlives us. C.S. Lewis said once that he had only recently forgiven someone who had been dead for thirty years! Yikes.
# # #
Hope there is no stray bottle of rat poison (unforgiveness) in your life-cupboard today; but if you spot one, throw it out! I beseech you, as one who has, upon occasion, partaken of the poison and lived (and been forgiven) to tell the tale. You will be glad you did. Until next time, your fellow traveler ~ Marsha
Saturday, September 19, 2015
Cruising Toward Contentment
I have been absent for a bit, not because I did not think of you, but because I have been "out of touch". Such a quaint phrase. It used to simply mean that one did not have the thread of the current situation.
Now, in this day of 24/7 connectivity, it generally implies that one has been disconnected from social media and ordinary contact. It is difficult to find a place on the planet that is cut-off from such communication, but we managed.
We spent the past eight days aboard a cruise ship, and while Wi-Fi was available, the cost was so ridiculous that we stoutly abstained from using it for the duration of the trip. You could send a student to university for an entire year for what one week's worth of connectivity would set you back on that overgrown dinghy. Okay, so that is hyperbole, but not by a whole lot.
I somewhat enjoyed the "unplugged" experience. But the *LOC was pretty twitchy, and it took him the first three days to realize that he could not reprogram the remote for the TV. Then, to add insult to injury, he discovered that four of the ten measly, pre-set, channels were sales pitches from the cruise line, run on a continuous loop, and, well, I had to exit the cabin while he regained control of his attitude.
Frankly, we have been wined and dined - ad infinitum ad nauseum - such that I have sworn off of all sauces, gravy, drizzles, and toppings for the rest of my natural life. I kid you not. I am now permanently topped off.
Furthermore, I have made the intimate acquaintance of people I had no wish to know. You cannot remain strangers when twenty plus members of humanity are crammed into one glass-encased elevator.
The invasion of my personal space was annoying enough; but inevitably one of my fellow "crammees" thought they should attempt to tell me their life story in the three point two seconds it took to rise from Deck X to Deck Y.
These mini-bios were generally routine, but occasionally turned terrifyingly bizarre. In such moments I was faced with the stark reality that there was no place to run. Land was a distant memory and the experience at sea was not proving to be particularly rewarding.
# # #
We do have perfectly sane friends who have taken quite a number of cruises and generally report their experience was wonderful.
Good for them.
We were asked, not infrequently, if this was our first cruise. (I do not know if we were giving off some oddly confused vibe or not, but it is entirely possible, as I was admittedly disoriented much of the time.)
Whenever we admitted that it was, indeed, our first cruise, we were treated to titters and smirks as though the group had just unwittingly stumbled across the proverbial "40-year old virgin."
# # #
We have concluded that we are just not cruise people. We do not cruise. It just isn't for us.
For us, the whole "a sailing we shall go" thing was a "one and done."
So last evening we heaved two, simultaneous, huge sighs of blessed relief. We were home. The floor was firm beneath our tread. The windows could all be flung wide open. And our respective recliners were right where we had left them. Hooray!
We do not begrudge those who love to cruise their fun. We, however, have cruised right into our very own little safe harbor. And we are content.
# # #
Hope your harbor is peaceful this evening. Until next time, your fellow traveler (but not your fellow sailor) ~ Marsha
(*Lovable Old Coot)
Now, in this day of 24/7 connectivity, it generally implies that one has been disconnected from social media and ordinary contact. It is difficult to find a place on the planet that is cut-off from such communication, but we managed.
We spent the past eight days aboard a cruise ship, and while Wi-Fi was available, the cost was so ridiculous that we stoutly abstained from using it for the duration of the trip. You could send a student to university for an entire year for what one week's worth of connectivity would set you back on that overgrown dinghy. Okay, so that is hyperbole, but not by a whole lot.
I somewhat enjoyed the "unplugged" experience. But the *LOC was pretty twitchy, and it took him the first three days to realize that he could not reprogram the remote for the TV. Then, to add insult to injury, he discovered that four of the ten measly, pre-set, channels were sales pitches from the cruise line, run on a continuous loop, and, well, I had to exit the cabin while he regained control of his attitude.
Frankly, we have been wined and dined - ad infinitum ad nauseum - such that I have sworn off of all sauces, gravy, drizzles, and toppings for the rest of my natural life. I kid you not. I am now permanently topped off.
Furthermore, I have made the intimate acquaintance of people I had no wish to know. You cannot remain strangers when twenty plus members of humanity are crammed into one glass-encased elevator.
The invasion of my personal space was annoying enough; but inevitably one of my fellow "crammees" thought they should attempt to tell me their life story in the three point two seconds it took to rise from Deck X to Deck Y.
These mini-bios were generally routine, but occasionally turned terrifyingly bizarre. In such moments I was faced with the stark reality that there was no place to run. Land was a distant memory and the experience at sea was not proving to be particularly rewarding.
# # #
We do have perfectly sane friends who have taken quite a number of cruises and generally report their experience was wonderful.
Good for them.
We were asked, not infrequently, if this was our first cruise. (I do not know if we were giving off some oddly confused vibe or not, but it is entirely possible, as I was admittedly disoriented much of the time.)
Whenever we admitted that it was, indeed, our first cruise, we were treated to titters and smirks as though the group had just unwittingly stumbled across the proverbial "40-year old virgin."
# # #
We have concluded that we are just not cruise people. We do not cruise. It just isn't for us.
For us, the whole "a sailing we shall go" thing was a "one and done."
So last evening we heaved two, simultaneous, huge sighs of blessed relief. We were home. The floor was firm beneath our tread. The windows could all be flung wide open. And our respective recliners were right where we had left them. Hooray!
We do not begrudge those who love to cruise their fun. We, however, have cruised right into our very own little safe harbor. And we are content.
# # #
Hope your harbor is peaceful this evening. Until next time, your fellow traveler (but not your fellow sailor) ~ Marsha
(*Lovable Old Coot)
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Healthy - Happy - and only mildly irrirated
The phone rang - shrilly, as it always seems to do. I do not know why, with all our advanced technology, we cannot seem to invent a less annoying ring. After all, my mobile phone allows me to choose from among numerous jaunty little ditties, but the landline still sounds too much like a dental drill.
It was the local pharmacy, the one closest to our house, calling to let my husband know that his flu shot was available. He should "please come in as soon as possible" and they would be waiting for him with a smile ... and a needle, obviously.
Further, in recognition of hisadvanced ... er, eh, that is, at this season of his life, they would graciously set aside for him a "high dose" flu shot. Well, bless their little pointy heads.
Not my idea of an appealing invitation; but still I was bemused. Only a few years ago ,we used to call ahead to schedule flu shots with the doctor. That call - from us to them - was treated with a patience that seemed a little strained; but I always tried to bear in mind that at this season of the year they were probably getting about a kajillion such calls every hour.
# # #
When flu shots first became readily available, I bravely stuck my arm out to be jabbed and felt pretty virtuous being so proactive.(Sure it is routine - but for someone who is needle-phobic it is the equivalent of putting my arm into a steel trap.... well, almost.)
There was a bit of a problem, though, back in the day. They were using live viruses and for the hyper-sensitive types it could produce mild, "flu-like", symptoms. Maybe ... perhaps.
Baloney! About twenty-four hours after taking that first flu injection, I began to ache all over, ran a fever for two days, and generally felt miserable for about three or four days. So I prudently avoided flu-shots for years. Fool me once, shame on you - fool me twice, shame on me. Uh, huh.
# # #
That was, of course, a few decades ago and they haven't used live viruses in flu vaccines since the first Bush was in the White House.
Then came the era, wherein I was working for a health care company and they stronnnnggly encouraged (read: put the pressure on you and your supervisor, if you dawdled on this) every one who worked there to get their flu shot! Sooner rather than later - as in now - today. And no appointment was necessary. Alright, already.
At the time, the *LOC and I were members of the largest HMO in California, and no, they were not the evil spawn of Satan. We got excellent care there for over twenty years. No complaints at all.
Well, except for the teeny-tiny little thing about getting a flu shot. First, it was true that there were no appointments - you simply lined up around a building the size of an ocean liner, and slowly shuffled forward until you reached an interior hallway. There, it turned out, was also a line, which extended up one hallway and down another, until you had circumnavigated the entire building from the inside.
While lapping the perimeter, they had cunningly set up various "stations" where you could a) fill out questionnaires about your health status, b) disclose whether you had ever experienced a "negative reaction to a flu shot" - oh, just wait until I reached a live human being - and c) peruse cheery little reminders that unless you had both a photo ID and your insurance card, you would not, they deeply regretted to have to inform you, be eligible to receive your very own jab.
Well, darn.
I could not help but wonder whether some people were so thrilled to obtain their very own pin prick, that they were dressing up, disguised as someone else, and going through the line more than once? Really? Photo ID?
# # #
One year the nurse said to me, "You sure look different in person than in that photo."
I didn't know whether to thank her or smack her.
Another year, after a quick and nearly painless poke, the nurse commented, "Oh, so you're a bleeder. Guess we'd better use a little bigger band aid." (Thank you?)
On another occasion a male nurse asked if I was ok, as I limped forward to take my turn.
I nearly responded, "Well, not too bad considering I just spent the last hour and fifteen minutes standing around on a concrete sidewalk, waiting for the privilege of making your acquaintance. No, you dolt, my feet hurt!"
But I refrained.
# # #
Thus, you can only imagine my surprise, nay, my utter astonishment that no longer must one line up, fill out forms, and take a number. One does not even have to bother to call ahead. Au contraire, they will initiate said call and charmingly induce you to come on down to where they will be waiting for you.
There was only one small glitch - the *LOC had already gotten his shot two days earlier. At that very same place!
Guess their left-hand doesn't know what their right-hand is doing. So believe you me, when I go down there this week to get my flu shot, I am going to be watching them. They might try to give me a shot in both arms - just to be on the safe side.
# # #
Hope no one jabs you in the wrong spot this week. Until next time, I'll be the one in line right behind you~ Marsha
(*Lovable Old Coot)
It was the local pharmacy, the one closest to our house, calling to let my husband know that his flu shot was available. He should "please come in as soon as possible" and they would be waiting for him with a smile ... and a needle, obviously.
Further, in recognition of his
Not my idea of an appealing invitation; but still I was bemused. Only a few years ago ,we used to call ahead to schedule flu shots with the doctor. That call - from us to them - was treated with a patience that seemed a little strained; but I always tried to bear in mind that at this season of the year they were probably getting about a kajillion such calls every hour.
# # #
When flu shots first became readily available, I bravely stuck my arm out to be jabbed and felt pretty virtuous being so proactive.(Sure it is routine - but for someone who is needle-phobic it is the equivalent of putting my arm into a steel trap.... well, almost.)
There was a bit of a problem, though, back in the day. They were using live viruses and for the hyper-sensitive types it could produce mild, "flu-like", symptoms. Maybe ... perhaps.
Baloney! About twenty-four hours after taking that first flu injection, I began to ache all over, ran a fever for two days, and generally felt miserable for about three or four days. So I prudently avoided flu-shots for years. Fool me once, shame on you - fool me twice, shame on me. Uh, huh.
# # #
That was, of course, a few decades ago and they haven't used live viruses in flu vaccines since the first Bush was in the White House.
Then came the era, wherein I was working for a health care company and they stronnnnggly encouraged (read: put the pressure on you and your supervisor, if you dawdled on this) every one who worked there to get their flu shot! Sooner rather than later - as in now - today. And no appointment was necessary. Alright, already.
At the time, the *LOC and I were members of the largest HMO in California, and no, they were not the evil spawn of Satan. We got excellent care there for over twenty years. No complaints at all.
Well, except for the teeny-tiny little thing about getting a flu shot. First, it was true that there were no appointments - you simply lined up around a building the size of an ocean liner, and slowly shuffled forward until you reached an interior hallway. There, it turned out, was also a line, which extended up one hallway and down another, until you had circumnavigated the entire building from the inside.
While lapping the perimeter, they had cunningly set up various "stations" where you could a) fill out questionnaires about your health status, b) disclose whether you had ever experienced a "negative reaction to a flu shot" - oh, just wait until I reached a live human being - and c) peruse cheery little reminders that unless you had both a photo ID and your insurance card, you would not, they deeply regretted to have to inform you, be eligible to receive your very own jab.
Well, darn.
I could not help but wonder whether some people were so thrilled to obtain their very own pin prick, that they were dressing up, disguised as someone else, and going through the line more than once? Really? Photo ID?
# # #
One year the nurse said to me, "You sure look different in person than in that photo."
I didn't know whether to thank her or smack her.
Another year, after a quick and nearly painless poke, the nurse commented, "Oh, so you're a bleeder. Guess we'd better use a little bigger band aid." (Thank you?)
On another occasion a male nurse asked if I was ok, as I limped forward to take my turn.
I nearly responded, "Well, not too bad considering I just spent the last hour and fifteen minutes standing around on a concrete sidewalk, waiting for the privilege of making your acquaintance. No, you dolt, my feet hurt!"
But I refrained.
# # #
Thus, you can only imagine my surprise, nay, my utter astonishment that no longer must one line up, fill out forms, and take a number. One does not even have to bother to call ahead. Au contraire, they will initiate said call and charmingly induce you to come on down to where they will be waiting for you.
There was only one small glitch - the *LOC had already gotten his shot two days earlier. At that very same place!
Guess their left-hand doesn't know what their right-hand is doing. So believe you me, when I go down there this week to get my flu shot, I am going to be watching them. They might try to give me a shot in both arms - just to be on the safe side.
# # #
Hope no one jabs you in the wrong spot this week. Until next time, I'll be the one in line right behind you~ Marsha
(*Lovable Old Coot)
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