Sunday, May 30, 2004
My father-in-law bought several lots in a new, owner-run campground in a small area of West Virginia called Falling Waters many years ago. Although the original plan called for a pool, a miniature golf course and various other improvements, the campground remained largely the same for many years. At one point we had a camper on one of the lots for a few years which was only used once in a while, mainly in the winter by my son and husband when sledding weather came around. My husband and I often discussed what a foolish investment we thought his Dad had made buying these 4 lots, especially the ones on the Potomac river since it would cost a small fortune to even begin to develope the area. So, the land sat untouched and rarely visited until about 2 years after my father-in-law's death. Having received another statement of unpaid dues from the management of the campground, my husband decided to take one more trip up there before we made a decision as to what to do with this property. Well, imagine his surprise when he arrived at this previuosly sad, overgrown spot only to find that massive development had taken place. As if following the original sales pitch used to sell his Dad, the campground not only had the promised pool and mini golf course, the majority of the lots had campers, pavillions, landscaping and what looked more like houses than campers with people everywhere tending to their places and riding around this large community in golf carts. Venturing down to the river road, he found most, if not all, of the river lots had been cleared and built on, affording their owners a grand view of the Potomac River along with the waterfront privelleges any home on the water has. My husband was in love.
So, for the last several years, my husband has been transforming the river property into a quiet, comfortable get-away spot. Along with help from our son and sons-in-law, they have descended on this lot with bush hogs and chain saws. Of course the thought of four rednecks in the woods with chainsaws has been a great source of concern for the females in the family, the boys have all emerged from their weekends in West Virginia with all their fingers in tact and no more than minor cuts and scratches.
Being justifiably proud of all that's been accomplished, my husband is always encouraging me to join him on weekends in what he refers to as West ByGod Virginia. Although it's difficult for both of us to be gone at the same time with our own business to run, I have managed to get up there without incident several times. It's a beautiful, usually quiet spot, rather far removed from anything remotely resembling a mall or shopping center. I appreciate the view and the level of relaxation but, not being too adept at sitting still for long periods of time, I usually bring my laptop along with me. As I said, I had been there a few times and everything went well. However, last year something changed.
On an extremely hot July 4th weekend last year, I accompanied my husband to his retreat, naturally making sure my laptop was close by. The first evening went pleasantly in spite of the sweltering temperatures since we could always retire to our air-conditioned motorhome to cool down. The next day, we went in search of a local flea market and spent several hours wandering around looking at all manner of old glassware, used tools and toys and whatever else one could think to sell. By the middle of the day we agreed it was much too hot to continue this effort so we hightailed it back to our place for some air conditioning and a cool drink.
As my husband entertained thoughts of a long nap in our cool haven, I plugged in my laptop to while away the hot afternoon. As we each settled into our chosen pursuits, the unthinkable happened! The world stopped...What the heck ??!! No AC, no computer...oh no, the power had gone out. We checked all the breakers and turned off several appliances convinced that would solve the problem. My husband went out to check the main breaker and reappeared moments later looking dejected. According to all the neighbors, the power was out in the entire campground. Since there had been no freak thunderstorm or any other event that could have caused the problem, people were at a loss to explain this turn of events. A few even looked at me suspiciuosly knowing that it was a rare time that I came up to the area. Ok, maybe I do have a reputation because of my Cajun heritage, but only among family memebers. I mean just because a couple of times an offhand remark or a prediction came true....Ok, OK, maybe more than just a couple of times..... that doesn't mean I'm a voodoo princess, does it? It didn't take us long to realize that we were fortunate enough to have a motorhome equipped with a generator so we cranked the generator on and were instantly rewarded with lights and AC. We smiled and waved to our unlucky neighbors and smugly retreated inside. Again we settled into our chosen spots, but...you guessed it...the generator stopped with a loud THUD! Checking the breakers again and any other possible causes of this breakdown, with much cursing and coaxing, the generator coughed, sputtered and grudingly came back to life. We held our breath for what seemed an eternity and finally went back to our activities. Lulling us into a false sense of superiority, the generator kept going just long enough for my husband to doze off and me to get interested in an internet site. Once again, the world went still. No amount of effort would get this infernal machine started again and we reluctantly admitted we had become one with the rest of the hot and uncomfortable in the campground. We agreed it was unwise to venture too far outside knowing our neighbors were gleefully enjoying our situation and my husband decided it was best if he continued his nap. I, of course, had nothing left to do but stare at a blank computer screen as I had forgotten to recharge the battery.
Afternoon gave way to evening with barely a noticiable breeze or drop in temperature and still no power. As night fell we joined the parade of golf carts to the open field where the fireworks display was due to start. The ring of parked golf carts was abuzz with talk of the power outage and how this had never happened in the entire history of the campground. I sat quietly knowing it was the best option and thought longingly of the nearest hotel. Late into the evening, we wandered back to our quiet, dark campsite trying to decide if we should pack up and leave (this idea had my vote) or try and wait it out. As we got closer to the decision, we began noticing lights coming on and, yes, the blessed sound of air conditioners coming on. As they say in West Virginia...YEEHAW!! The power was back on and the rest of the weekend went by without incident. This entire episode became another of the stories that gets repeated at family gatherings....Mom made the power go out, Ha Ha.
Being somewhat adventurous and having given enough time to pass by, I decided to give West ByGod another chance. So, this past Friday, we packed up and I again went to West Virginia knowing the power couldn't possibly go out again. In fact, my husband and I were joking about it on the trip up. We pulled into the campground, my husband presented his ID card, and the guard handed him a small piece of paper. I watched as he read the notice, looked over at me, looked at the guard and demanded to know exactly what this meant. "The water's out in the entire park, Sir" muttered the guard. I sarted laughing and admitted it was my fault. Of course the guard didn't understand why I would say that and just looked blankly at me. Knowing that management was working hard to restore water, we went to our site and got on with our weekend vacation. We spent Saturday at flea markets and outlets giving the powers that be plenty of time to get the water going. No such luck. By 4:00 on Saturday, little progress had been made so along with many others, we admitted defeat and packed up to head home.
By the time we arrived home, I thought I had the whole thing figured out. I decided that, barring natural disasters, since the one time I went up the power went out and the next time, the water went out, by the third visit both the water and power should go out and the curse that follows me to West Virginia should have worn off. Otherwise I may have to look into either disguises or exorcisms before I'm banned from the state.
So, for the last several years, my husband has been transforming the river property into a quiet, comfortable get-away spot. Along with help from our son and sons-in-law, they have descended on this lot with bush hogs and chain saws. Of course the thought of four rednecks in the woods with chainsaws has been a great source of concern for the females in the family, the boys have all emerged from their weekends in West Virginia with all their fingers in tact and no more than minor cuts and scratches.
Being justifiably proud of all that's been accomplished, my husband is always encouraging me to join him on weekends in what he refers to as West ByGod Virginia. Although it's difficult for both of us to be gone at the same time with our own business to run, I have managed to get up there without incident several times. It's a beautiful, usually quiet spot, rather far removed from anything remotely resembling a mall or shopping center. I appreciate the view and the level of relaxation but, not being too adept at sitting still for long periods of time, I usually bring my laptop along with me. As I said, I had been there a few times and everything went well. However, last year something changed.
On an extremely hot July 4th weekend last year, I accompanied my husband to his retreat, naturally making sure my laptop was close by. The first evening went pleasantly in spite of the sweltering temperatures since we could always retire to our air-conditioned motorhome to cool down. The next day, we went in search of a local flea market and spent several hours wandering around looking at all manner of old glassware, used tools and toys and whatever else one could think to sell. By the middle of the day we agreed it was much too hot to continue this effort so we hightailed it back to our place for some air conditioning and a cool drink.
As my husband entertained thoughts of a long nap in our cool haven, I plugged in my laptop to while away the hot afternoon. As we each settled into our chosen pursuits, the unthinkable happened! The world stopped...What the heck ??!! No AC, no computer...oh no, the power had gone out. We checked all the breakers and turned off several appliances convinced that would solve the problem. My husband went out to check the main breaker and reappeared moments later looking dejected. According to all the neighbors, the power was out in the entire campground. Since there had been no freak thunderstorm or any other event that could have caused the problem, people were at a loss to explain this turn of events. A few even looked at me suspiciuosly knowing that it was a rare time that I came up to the area. Ok, maybe I do have a reputation because of my Cajun heritage, but only among family memebers. I mean just because a couple of times an offhand remark or a prediction came true....Ok, OK, maybe more than just a couple of times..... that doesn't mean I'm a voodoo princess, does it? It didn't take us long to realize that we were fortunate enough to have a motorhome equipped with a generator so we cranked the generator on and were instantly rewarded with lights and AC. We smiled and waved to our unlucky neighbors and smugly retreated inside. Again we settled into our chosen spots, but...you guessed it...the generator stopped with a loud THUD! Checking the breakers again and any other possible causes of this breakdown, with much cursing and coaxing, the generator coughed, sputtered and grudingly came back to life. We held our breath for what seemed an eternity and finally went back to our activities. Lulling us into a false sense of superiority, the generator kept going just long enough for my husband to doze off and me to get interested in an internet site. Once again, the world went still. No amount of effort would get this infernal machine started again and we reluctantly admitted we had become one with the rest of the hot and uncomfortable in the campground. We agreed it was unwise to venture too far outside knowing our neighbors were gleefully enjoying our situation and my husband decided it was best if he continued his nap. I, of course, had nothing left to do but stare at a blank computer screen as I had forgotten to recharge the battery.
Afternoon gave way to evening with barely a noticiable breeze or drop in temperature and still no power. As night fell we joined the parade of golf carts to the open field where the fireworks display was due to start. The ring of parked golf carts was abuzz with talk of the power outage and how this had never happened in the entire history of the campground. I sat quietly knowing it was the best option and thought longingly of the nearest hotel. Late into the evening, we wandered back to our quiet, dark campsite trying to decide if we should pack up and leave (this idea had my vote) or try and wait it out. As we got closer to the decision, we began noticing lights coming on and, yes, the blessed sound of air conditioners coming on. As they say in West Virginia...YEEHAW!! The power was back on and the rest of the weekend went by without incident. This entire episode became another of the stories that gets repeated at family gatherings....Mom made the power go out, Ha Ha.
Being somewhat adventurous and having given enough time to pass by, I decided to give West ByGod another chance. So, this past Friday, we packed up and I again went to West Virginia knowing the power couldn't possibly go out again. In fact, my husband and I were joking about it on the trip up. We pulled into the campground, my husband presented his ID card, and the guard handed him a small piece of paper. I watched as he read the notice, looked over at me, looked at the guard and demanded to know exactly what this meant. "The water's out in the entire park, Sir" muttered the guard. I sarted laughing and admitted it was my fault. Of course the guard didn't understand why I would say that and just looked blankly at me. Knowing that management was working hard to restore water, we went to our site and got on with our weekend vacation. We spent Saturday at flea markets and outlets giving the powers that be plenty of time to get the water going. No such luck. By 4:00 on Saturday, little progress had been made so along with many others, we admitted defeat and packed up to head home.
By the time we arrived home, I thought I had the whole thing figured out. I decided that, barring natural disasters, since the one time I went up the power went out and the next time, the water went out, by the third visit both the water and power should go out and the curse that follows me to West Virginia should have worn off. Otherwise I may have to look into either disguises or exorcisms before I'm banned from the state.
Monday, May 24, 2004
Well, the big birthday party was a rousing success. Needless to say, my husband received the usual old age gag gifts of Preparation H, Fixodent and Grecian formula. My favorite was a little bottle of senior moment memory pills. The label reads: Ginko Thinko cause your memory stinkos. Dosage is based on what particular senior moment you're having ranging from forgetting a family member's name (2 pills) to driving with your blinker on (5 pills). Looks like the blinker thing is more serious than I thought. Although the term "senior moment" may be a more graphic explanation of this condition that afflicts us all at some point in time, my personal favorite is "brain vacumn". This at least gives you a small edge on the age thing and just indicates a momentary lapse in your cerebral functioning.
I have had to make some concessions to age like wearing glasses to read. This wouldn't be so bad except when I'm using the computer, I have one pair of glasses that I wear, and when I read I have a totally different pair. Most of the time this doesn't create a problem, unless I'm doing something on the computer that also requires reading an instruction book or some other annoying page with ridiculoussly small print. Anyone who's ever juggled 2 pairs of glasses to accomplish one task knows just how frustrating it can be. And it never seems to fail that you forget which glasses you have on and wind up not being able to see much of anything at all, which can be the best solution to the whole ordeal.
In my continuous quest to stay abreast of all the latest age delaying techniques, I recently ran across something known as "Frownies". These are small patches that one applies to the offending wrinkled area, such as the forehead or the corners of the mouth, that supposedly retrain the facial muscles to assume a more youthful relaxed appearance. Now, just picture how these things are supposed to work. First you cleanse the skin, then massage the area to help circulation. Then you moisten the patch with water or their special rose hydrating spray, and using 2 fingers, you spread the offending wrinkle and stick the patch on. The patch stays in place for at least 3 to 4 hours, preferably overnight, and this sequence is repeated nightly for 30 days. We've all seen the comedies with the wife going to bed with a head full of rollers and a face full of moisturizing cream. Just imagine the reaction your spouse would have to patches stuck on various parts of your face every night for a month! And how in the heck would you kiss your husband goodnight if your mouth can't pucker? I just may have to try these Frownies, in the scientific exploration of aging of course, but I can't help but wonder if maybe duct tape would accomplish the same result.
I have had to make some concessions to age like wearing glasses to read. This wouldn't be so bad except when I'm using the computer, I have one pair of glasses that I wear, and when I read I have a totally different pair. Most of the time this doesn't create a problem, unless I'm doing something on the computer that also requires reading an instruction book or some other annoying page with ridiculoussly small print. Anyone who's ever juggled 2 pairs of glasses to accomplish one task knows just how frustrating it can be. And it never seems to fail that you forget which glasses you have on and wind up not being able to see much of anything at all, which can be the best solution to the whole ordeal.
In my continuous quest to stay abreast of all the latest age delaying techniques, I recently ran across something known as "Frownies". These are small patches that one applies to the offending wrinkled area, such as the forehead or the corners of the mouth, that supposedly retrain the facial muscles to assume a more youthful relaxed appearance. Now, just picture how these things are supposed to work. First you cleanse the skin, then massage the area to help circulation. Then you moisten the patch with water or their special rose hydrating spray, and using 2 fingers, you spread the offending wrinkle and stick the patch on. The patch stays in place for at least 3 to 4 hours, preferably overnight, and this sequence is repeated nightly for 30 days. We've all seen the comedies with the wife going to bed with a head full of rollers and a face full of moisturizing cream. Just imagine the reaction your spouse would have to patches stuck on various parts of your face every night for a month! And how in the heck would you kiss your husband goodnight if your mouth can't pucker? I just may have to try these Frownies, in the scientific exploration of aging of course, but I can't help but wonder if maybe duct tape would accomplish the same result.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Being in the midst of planning a birthday party for my beloved husband, thoughts of aging are dominating my mind this week. The love of my life is turning 60 this Saturday...SIXTY!!!...when did that happen? It's a really hard concept to wrap your mind around when it seems like only yesterday we were struggling newlyweds with 2 children between us and a mortgage that scared us to death. I've always believed that age is a state of mind and the state I'm in is about 30-35 and I have no plans to move to an older state any time in the near future. So shouldn't we have the ability to look like the state we're in? I mean take a look at old age and tell me you want to go there. What's with the flap under your upper arm that continues to wave long after you've stopped? Not to mention the gray hair, the joints that stiffen up like the tin man on a rainy day and, worst of all.....WRINKLES. Now wrinkles may look cute on a Sharpai dog but on humans it's anything but cute. It's amazing the body parts that can develop these folds and creases. Who would have thought that knees had enough skin to fold. I remember several years ago seeing a young, well-built girl in our neighborhood that had an elaborate tattoo all across her abodomen and midrift. Although she was very proud of both her tattoo and her firm body, being older and wiser, I knew that eventually this whole area would deteriorate into a mass of confusing creases and colors, winding up looking much like some of the modern art I've seen.
I admit to having more than a healthy dose of vanity. In fact, my bathroom looks like the alchemy shops you read about in stories of witches and voodoo queens. I have an assortment of gels, creams, lotions and patches that would rival any drugstore or cosmetic counter. I think I've tried everything short of Crazy glue to keep things where they're supposed to be with only marginal results. It seems that gravity and time tend to be stronger than the latest wrinkle earsing cream. The phrase "growing old gracefully" must be another of those old wives tales ( by the way, who ARE these old wives?). If growing old were graceful, there wouldn't be much of a market for geriatric aids and elastic waistbands. Personally, I intend to fight it every step of the way! After all, in this modern age of technology and the latest in laser surgeries, who needs to just give in to Father Time.
Whoever came up with the timetable for aging should rethink the concepts. When you're young and bright and agile, you spend most of your time having fun and assuming life will always be the way it is then. Imagine the horror of looking into a mirror one morning and being absolutely certain that someone has switched your mirror for one of those funhouse ones that totally distort your image. It's got to be the mirror or the lighting or maybe your eyes just aren't focused yet.
The most ironic part of getting older is that you spend your life learning how to live it, and once you finally get the hang of it, the eyes start to go, you get aches in places you didn't even know you had, and your mind develops these black holes that swallow up things you used to know. Oh sure, there are warning signs,like forgetting what you went all the way upstairs for or stooping down to get something out of the bottom cabinet and practically needing a crane or at least six boyscouts to get up again, but nobody pays attention to those things. I mean, we're not getting older, it's those other people that are. You know, the blue-haired ladies with their carts in the middle of the isle at the grocery store, or the stooped over little old man that takes a day and a half to cross the street. That surely isn't where any of us are going to wind up.
Even as we gather around my husband this Saturday, cracking jokes about his age and all the afflictions besetting him, I'll be planning my next visit to the plastic surgeon, popping vitamins and plotting my escape from this trail to old age. After all, Father Time isn't exactly the fastest old codger so maybe I can outrun him for a while yet. Wish me luck.
I admit to having more than a healthy dose of vanity. In fact, my bathroom looks like the alchemy shops you read about in stories of witches and voodoo queens. I have an assortment of gels, creams, lotions and patches that would rival any drugstore or cosmetic counter. I think I've tried everything short of Crazy glue to keep things where they're supposed to be with only marginal results. It seems that gravity and time tend to be stronger than the latest wrinkle earsing cream. The phrase "growing old gracefully" must be another of those old wives tales ( by the way, who ARE these old wives?). If growing old were graceful, there wouldn't be much of a market for geriatric aids and elastic waistbands. Personally, I intend to fight it every step of the way! After all, in this modern age of technology and the latest in laser surgeries, who needs to just give in to Father Time.
Whoever came up with the timetable for aging should rethink the concepts. When you're young and bright and agile, you spend most of your time having fun and assuming life will always be the way it is then. Imagine the horror of looking into a mirror one morning and being absolutely certain that someone has switched your mirror for one of those funhouse ones that totally distort your image. It's got to be the mirror or the lighting or maybe your eyes just aren't focused yet.
The most ironic part of getting older is that you spend your life learning how to live it, and once you finally get the hang of it, the eyes start to go, you get aches in places you didn't even know you had, and your mind develops these black holes that swallow up things you used to know. Oh sure, there are warning signs,like forgetting what you went all the way upstairs for or stooping down to get something out of the bottom cabinet and practically needing a crane or at least six boyscouts to get up again, but nobody pays attention to those things. I mean, we're not getting older, it's those other people that are. You know, the blue-haired ladies with their carts in the middle of the isle at the grocery store, or the stooped over little old man that takes a day and a half to cross the street. That surely isn't where any of us are going to wind up.
Even as we gather around my husband this Saturday, cracking jokes about his age and all the afflictions besetting him, I'll be planning my next visit to the plastic surgeon, popping vitamins and plotting my escape from this trail to old age. After all, Father Time isn't exactly the fastest old codger so maybe I can outrun him for a while yet. Wish me luck.
Sunday, May 16, 2004
As I have mentioned before, I have a wonderful younger sister (along with her great husband) living in Florida. My sister Nancy has a marvellous blog called The Garden's Gift (see links at right) that I read on a regular basis. I was especially intrigued by the one titled "The Zen of Gardening". Although I've spent many an hour in gardens, I haven't managed to find the kind of Nirvana she has, so this past weekend I gave it the old college try again. My husband and I started Saturday morning, went well into the afternoon, and picked up again on Sunday, just to get our gardens to where we could actually see the plants. I went at this task with zeal, waiting for the calm, insightful pleasure it gives my sister. By the end of the Saturday gardening event, all I had manged to do was become sore, tired and extremely sweaty ( forget glow, women actually sweat). As Sunday dawned I thought that maybe I wasn't approaching the task with the right attitude or possibly I just hadn't inherited the "zen" gene. Now, I love a beautiful garden as much as anyone, but it's the getting there I have trouble enjoying. I tried letting my husband be the gardener in the family, but after several years of pansies and geraniums, I felt compelled to add a little more life to our gardens. I love pampas grass and tall, unusual plants that flower and have spent much time at our favorite nursery perusing the latest selections. I enjoy planting the flowers and watching them grow. It's the first weeding of Spring that truly makes me wonder if maybe rocks and concrete would be easier. It seems that no matter how bad the winter is in Maryland, the weeds are the first thing to pop up and they grow as if someone actually encouraged them. Despite weed-whackers and weed killers, we have this "thing" that reappears every year in our waterfall garden and it multiplies over and over again. We've cut it, pulled it, sprayed it and done everything short of dynamiting it and it continues to reappear every spring, getting larger and larger each year. So today was spent again pulling dozens of offshoots of this weed or plant or whatever the heck it is, wishing the Zen would kick in. I tried meditating and cursing but the only thing that worked was sheer brute force. At the end of the day, there were still several shoots that resisted all efforts to dislodge them so being rather practical I finally decided that a cool drink and a hasty retreat from the area was probably my best option. I'm still looking for the "zen" gene my sister inherited but I'm beginning to think it was a one time shot destined to become part of the youngest child. So, as my sister communes with her gardens, you'll find me on the pool deck with my feet up...by the way, could I have some more ice please? Cheers!
Thursday, May 13, 2004
In the middle of my shower this morning, an odd expression I heard in childhood came rushing back into my mind. I grew up in Dundalk, a blue-collar suburb of Baltimore. Warm summer evenings were spent outside, the kids chasing fireflies to put in a jar, and the adults talking over the fence, although as close as the houses were you didn't even need to go outside to talk over the fence. The men seemed to perpetually discuss cars which didn't interest me at the time so I tended to pay more attention to the ladies' conversations. They would cover the usual husband and kids topics and eventually get around to various unfinished projects in and around the house. Everyone seemed to have a room that sorely needed painting, a bedroom in the midst of remodeling for more time than anyone could remember or maybe a plumbing issue that threatened to end the marriage in the near future. Somewhere in the middle of these complaints someone would utter "The cobbler's children have no shoes". Having read all the latest children's books of the day I knew a cobbler was a shoemaker. It seemed that most, if not all, of our various small shopping centers had a shoe shop with a large window so you could watch the shoemaker replace soles and heels on shoes. Having heard this expression on a regular basis, every time I saw a kid in the neighborhood playing barefoot in the grass, I just knew it was one of the cobbler's kids although I hoped he got around to making them some shoes before the first snows came. Now that I'm considerably more worldly I realize that this expression just means that if someone works at a particular occupation every day, chances are they won't perform the same tasks at home. Since both my daughters are married to carpenters and I married a plumber, I've developed a more modern theory to explain this phenomenon to my daughters. After all, when was the last time you met a cobbler? I think what happens at the end of a long work day for these tradesmen is that the moment their feet hit the driveway at home they suffer an attack of spontaneous amnesia. This particular state manifests itself by blank looks when asked if they plan on working on a particular project that evening or weekend, followed closely by pushing random numbers on the tv remote while staring at the screen with a contented smile. I've found that even if you hand a carpenter a hammer or a plumber a wrench, they gaze at it as if some mutant animal has suddenly taken root at the end of their arm and there is absolutely no comprehension of what this thing is or why it's even there. Miraculously though, by the time they arrive at the job the next time, the amnesia has left, the fog has lifted and the tools become an extension of who they are!! All of these thoughts passed thru my barely awake mind this morning as I stood in my combination tub and shower trying to revive myself. Now you may think that most everyone has a combination tub and shower, and they might....but not like mine. In mine, you get to take both a bath and a shower at the same time.....probaly due to the fact that it takes the better part of the week to get the tub to drain! Having been married to a plumber for almost 26 years, I've gotten very friendly with my wrench and plunger. I'm thinking that tub drain may be my next victim, I mean, project. By the way, I wonder if the long hair craze of the 60's was started by the barber's kids......hmmmmm
Monday, May 10, 2004
And the answer is....Buddy Hackett!!! I knew the answer would come to me. He's the comedian I mentioned last time. It's funny how names and ordinary, every day words can elude all conscious effort to retrieve them from the recesses of your mind but then pop up in an unguarded moment,interupting all rational thought and making you wonder "Where did that come from?" By the time this "Eureka! I've found it" moment occurs you've completely forgotten why you needed the answer in the first place. However, there are times when, days later, an answer comes to you, you blurt it out to anyone close by, and someone knows exactly what you're talking about.
I recently visited my sister Nancy, editor of the gardens gift , and her husband Harlan, editor of the green cutting board, in Palm Harbor Florida. As is our usual custom, we chatted late into the evening, jumping from topic to topic and back again with no discernable pattern. Conversation and laughter flowed easily and we eventually reached the topic of famous actors or actresses. Many names were mentioned along with our favorite movies starring these people. Late into the night my sister Nancy pointed out that when I tilted my head a certain way, I resembled the famous actress....what the heck is her name....you know, the one from way back with the long hair that waved over one eye. Guesses ranged from Marilyn Monroe to Jane Russell and on and on but the right answer kept dancing just out of reach of any of our usually sharp minds. We decided to drop that particular subject and move on to other thoughts. I enjoyed five wonderful, relaxing days with Nancy and Harlan, constantly talking about a miriade of subjects. On the morning of my departure, we were stting around drinking coffee and spending the last moments of a great vacation together talking as usual. Suddenly...Eureka!!! I blurted out "Veronica Lake"! My brother-in-law stopped in mid-sentence giving me a totally bewildered look. Granted my announcement had absolutely nothing to do with the conversation at hand, but Nancy immediately understood what I was talking about. We finally had the answer to the question from the first night of my visit so we could put the matter to rest. Although we had to remind Harlan of the initial conversation, he finally just smiled knowingly and gently shook his....yep, we're sisters and we do tend to think alike (scarey huh). At least I was able to return home free of the burden of searching for an answer.
I recently visited my sister Nancy, editor of the gardens gift , and her husband Harlan, editor of the green cutting board, in Palm Harbor Florida. As is our usual custom, we chatted late into the evening, jumping from topic to topic and back again with no discernable pattern. Conversation and laughter flowed easily and we eventually reached the topic of famous actors or actresses. Many names were mentioned along with our favorite movies starring these people. Late into the night my sister Nancy pointed out that when I tilted my head a certain way, I resembled the famous actress....what the heck is her name....you know, the one from way back with the long hair that waved over one eye. Guesses ranged from Marilyn Monroe to Jane Russell and on and on but the right answer kept dancing just out of reach of any of our usually sharp minds. We decided to drop that particular subject and move on to other thoughts. I enjoyed five wonderful, relaxing days with Nancy and Harlan, constantly talking about a miriade of subjects. On the morning of my departure, we were stting around drinking coffee and spending the last moments of a great vacation together talking as usual. Suddenly...Eureka!!! I blurted out "Veronica Lake"! My brother-in-law stopped in mid-sentence giving me a totally bewildered look. Granted my announcement had absolutely nothing to do with the conversation at hand, but Nancy immediately understood what I was talking about. We finally had the answer to the question from the first night of my visit so we could put the matter to rest. Although we had to remind Harlan of the initial conversation, he finally just smiled knowingly and gently shook his....yep, we're sisters and we do tend to think alike (scarey huh). At least I was able to return home free of the burden of searching for an answer.
Saturday, May 08, 2004
There was a comedian years ago ( unfortunately his name eludes me at this point......fodder for a late night mind worm I'm sure) who said he got his best material dressing up as a waiter and working in a restaurant. He would sit with his customers and engage them in conversation all the while storing their humorous tales in his mind for use in a later appearance on the Tonight Show or any other platform he performed on. Although I'm not a professional performer, I love hearing other people's take on everyday situations especially when it comes to adolesents. Anyone who has raised a teenager knows how easily they can strike panic in the heart of even the most wordly parent. Sitting in our favorite little neighborhood watering hole last night relaxing away the strains of a busy week, I began a conversation with the wife of a friend. Both being mothers we naturally fell into the topic of our children. I admit to now being in the perfect part of parenthood......three grown children, none of whom live at home. Oh, the freedom that brings! I was immediately sympathetic as she discussed her 16 year old son and his apparent belief that she and her husband were the absolute dumbest people on the face of the earth. I assured her this would all change in time, especially when he became a parent, and she & her husband would become the bright, insightful people they've always known they were. She then mentioned the 16 year old's sister...his 16 year old twin, soliciting from me an immediate "Do you need a hug?" moment. Teenagers tend to believe the world revolves around them and our only duty as parents is to ensure their complete happiness at all times. They also believe our only joy in life comes from thwarting their dreams and denying them what "everyone else" has or gets to do. To this day I still don't know who this "everyone else" is and how they came to be a part of every family. Well, this darling little 16 year old girl expressed her desire to dye her hair red like other girls she knows. Being a first time mother of a teenager, this naive soul naturally thought she meant a pleasant auburn. Having a little more experience in this arena I knew she really meant Crayola fire engine red. Which was exactly what the child had in mind. I listened as this mother lamented the woes of parenting using the well-known arguments of mothers the world over...Are you out of your mind?...What would people think?....Have your friends looked in the mirror recently?.....All of these attempts to make her see the errors of her thinking were useless because, after all, "everyone else" does it. As our coversation continued, the mother admitted that her daughter was a good kid who wasn't doing drugs or having sex and got reasonably good grades. She finally asked me if I had ever faced this dilema and how I handled it. As I said, I have 3 grown children, 2 of whom are girls, and yes, this subject had come up at least once or twice in both their teenage lives. Eager to have another mother agree that dying hair red was ridiculous and would never happen while living in "her" home, she waited for my agreement to her stance. Unfortunately, much to her immediate dismay, I presented a totally opposite side of the disagreement. I pointed out her assurance of the good points her daughter exhibits and the fact that there are worse things the child could be doing. After all, aren't tatoos and piercings still in vogue among young people? As the light dawned in this mother's eyes, she finally realized that red hair wasn't so terrible after all. It's easily dyed again and would have no permanent effect on the child's life. As she said goodnight, I knew that come tomorrow there would be another 16 year old girl with fire engine red hair walking around the mall with her rainbow-haired friends. Oh, it's wonderful to have grown children.
Thursday, May 06, 2004
Have you ever woken from a sound sleep with a song playing over and over in your head? Having had this afflication for years I only recently found out that it actually has a name....it's called an ear worm. This caused me to wonder what those errant thoughts that crop up in your mind from time to time, and at the most inopportune moments, might be called. I spent the better part of last evening with this question playing in my mind and lo and behold the answer came to me...it must be a mind worm! This classification is certainly broad enough to cover all those lists, problems, conversations etc that take over concious thought and refuse to let you think of anything remotely relevant to where you may be or what you may be doing at that moment. The great thing about mind worms is you never know when they may pop up or what the subject matter may be. They can be anything from a funny story to a search for answers to a problem or anything in between. Thus begins my journey into the chronicling of my mind worms and of those any of you may wish to share.
