A bedtlime story for a child

An Evening Adventure

It was bedtime but Baby Mouse wasn't sleepy. He wanted to stay up late and have an adventure. Mamma Mouse thought hard. What could they do?

"I know," she said. "Let's go down by the path and watch the stars. There will be falling stars tonight. We can hide in the bushes and watch."

Baby Mouse thought that was a great idea. "Let's go now," he said. And he put on his jacket and little shoes and took Mamma Mouse by the hand, and so off they went.

Down by the path they found a clump of tall dry grass and snuggled in side by side, and peeked out into the night. It was very dark but up in the sky the stars twinkled and once in a while a falling star sent a great trail of sparks across the sky. The tree frogs were singing in the treefrog tree and it was warm and still.

While they watched they heard something coming down the path. It was a slow plop, plop, plop. What could it be? Pretty soon they saw Mr. Turtle coming along, slowly and steadily, and when he saw them he stopped.

"How do you do, Mrs. Mouse?" he asked. "How are you tonight?" Mr. Turtle is slow, but he is always very polite.

"I am fine, Mr. Turtle," said Mamma Mouse. "We are watching the stars."

"Have a nice evening," said Mr. Turtle, and he went on his way down the path.

And then they heard something else, and it was coming very fast. Thumpety, thumpety, thump. It was Mr. Rabbit and he didn't stop. "Mrs. Fox is coming," he cried as he dashed past. He whisked around the bend and then he was gone.

Momma Mouse put her arms around Baby Mouse and hugged him close. "Be very quiet" she whispered. "Don't make a sound."

Mamma Mouse was so frightened that she trembled all over, and her tail stuck out straight behind her. She heard the pitter-patter of feet, and saw Mrs. Fox coming fast down the path, but Mrs. Fox didn't stop. She wanted Mr. Rabbit and she kept right on going.

Then it was quiet for a long time. Mr. Garden Snake came swishing along, but he doesn't eat mice, so Mamma Mouse wasn't afraid. She even said hello to him, but he didn't stop. He was on his way to the treefrog tree and wanted his dinner. And then they heard another sound, and Mamma Mouse was frightened all over again. She knew what the sound meant. It was Mr. Hoot Owl and she knew he ate mice.He was slowly flapping along, making soft swooshing sounds in the quiet night. Mamma Mouse and Baby Mouse were so quiet they could hear the little brook that ran along beside the path and the beetle tapping away inside an old log. Then it was quiet again and they knew that Mr. Owl was gone.

"Thank goodness," said Mamma Mouse. "Let's go home before we get eaten. Mrs. Fox will be back and she will still be hungry. Take my hand and run as fast as you can."

They scurried back to their little home under the old oak tree. Mamma Mouse took off Baby Mouse's shoes and jacket and tucked him into bed. They were safe. Mamma Mouse cuddled up in her own bed and in a few minutes she was asleep too. Outside it was still dark and the stars still twinkled in the sky. And the night creatures still searched for something to eat. But they wouldn't find Baby Mouse or Mamma Mouse. They were safe for the night.

On Being an Agnostic

I spent most of last night in a sleepless state, having gotten myself into a tizzy over the election and the war in Iraq. But the thoughts led to my contemplation of my own demise and where i will be afterward. If there is an afterlife, which I doubt, I hope it doesn't entail my soul going to heaven. God forbid! I have no wish to reunite with my ancestors, uncles, cousins or anyone but my beloved grandmother. I was raised Catholic, which means that every day I recited the Apostle's Creed, which intones that the body will be resurrected and life will be everlasting. Don't do it, God! I didn't like my hunched back and spindly legs here on earth, why would I want them everlasting? Forever? No, a thoudands times no. If I have a choice, I would prefer to reincarnate, and take my chances on coming back as my granddaughter's pet dog, petted and loved until nature took its toll, and then coming back as something or someone else. It would be a gamble, of course. But better than floating around on a cloud plucking at a harp. Forever.
When we are children, we have no choice but to believe what we are taught. The members of other religious sects believe fervently in what they are taught. The Latter Day Saints are imbued with beliefs that are incredible to us. The same is true of Muslims and Hindus. And yet those beliefs are held to just as firmly as all of the others. There must be something in the human psyche that allows this to happen.
But back to my sleepless night. I finally settled myself down on the sofa beside the little dog's bed on the floor and listened to the radio. I had Coast to Coast radio on, and they were going on about extra-terrestrial beings roaming around here on earth, and encounters with the little things, which quite effectively took my mind off the hereafter. Some people believe in them, too! Just as many people swear there is a Bigfoot.
I guess I am an agnostic, if a name must be given to my beliefs. It makes it more interesting that way anyway.

Well, I am in a little better mood tonight. In fact, i am quite elated. The sight of that chubby little press representative standing there dissing President Bush has sent me into a much better frame of mind. We have all been thinking just what he is saying and then some. I must say, he doesn't present himself in a very good light either, having held the job and taken the money all that time. They are very well paid, I am sure. It should help the election go Democratic, anyway. I am going to vote for Obama, let's see what he can do.
I heard Dick Gregory talk on the radio yesterday, and was amazed at how sharp and well versed he is. Everything he says, humorous or not, makes sense. He was on the Imus in the Morning show, which we usually don't listen to. I guess we are changing our habits in our old age. My husband would say "about time." One thing we have to do is realize that we don't have to do anything. Having been raised to believe that work is a virtue, and idleness is a sin, we simply cannot just relax and do nothing. That is, my husband cannot. I have no problem whatever, ha, ha.
We will have the little boxer dog until Sunday, and then she will go back home for a week or two. It's a form of shared custody, only with a dog. She has fallen in love with my husband, and follows him wherever he goes. She is also a chow hound and eats everything she can find, in the house or out.
I am munching on chocolate chips and walnuts, and feeling better and better. We are listening to a book tape and will probably finish it tonight. Ah, peace and quiet! Take care.

In a Crabby Mood

Every week, usually on Sunday, my husband and I settle down at our dining room table and make out our shopping list for the week. This sounds so easy, but it entails endless discussions and ruminations about menus and preferences, and budget considerations and usually takes about a half hour. Then we usually forget something or try to order some item that isn't in the store or can't be found by my husband. Since I am diabetic and he cannot eat tomatoes or foods with acid, we are restricted in our choices. This is compounded by the fact that I have been cooking for over 75 years and am pretty bored by the whole thing. Luckily my husband likes to cook and eat, so he keeps us nourished, one way or another.
The news about the tornadoes has me plunged into gloom, thankful that we live in an area that has not much chance of damage by that means. A good many years ago a freak wind came up at our little farmhouse out in the country, and blew down an old chicken barn which had been sagging almost to the ground for years. I had been trying to find someone who would tear it down, but fortunately nature took care of it, and the insurance company paid more than adequately to compensate. I don't remember how we spent the money but I am sure we put it to good use.
What is our government thinking of? The economic stimulus money is coming and lo and behold, those people who paid less that $1200 in taxes, only get $600. What good is that? The ones who really need that money are getting the least. Not that $1200 means all that much, but really! I am almost ready to give up.
Well, have I complained enough? I feel pretty crabby. Take care.

The Benefits of TV

I watched the Indy 500 today on high-definition television, and marveled again at modern technology. Sitting in my comfortable chair, snacks at hand, i got a first-hand look at the thundering speed of the cars and heard the roar of the crowd. From time to time i left my observation post and strolled into the kitchen to stir the lentil soup I had simmering on the stove. I wouldn't have traded my place with anyone there at the race itself. I went to an Infinion race once, sat on the hard seats, made the interminable trip to the restroom, and heard the roar of the crowd in person. The earth shook with the impact of the powerful cars roaring down the track. I don't think I would go again if I was paid to do so. We went home exhausted, after a long wait to exit the parking area. The same opinion holds true for baseball games. I can watch and understand better on my television. I can even lie down and watch from my bed if I so desire. I enjoyed the race today and will watch the horses run at the Pimlico.
We have the little boxer this weekend. She is used to staying with us and is no trouble whatsoever. We would keep her permanently if we could. She just loves my husband and tries to climb into his lapl.
We had a very pleasant day today. My granddaughter brought her little daughter when she came with the dog, and we had the fun of playing with her and marvelling at how fast she is growing. She is more than twice her birth weight and is trying to learn to crawl. We can't believe how fast time has gone. Looking back over the past year, it seems as though only a week or two has gone by. In a couple of weeks my great-granddaughter will be six month old.

The Book Tapes

Becaause my husband is visually impaired, he gets book tapes from the services for the blind, and so we often can be found listening to them by the hour. He concentrates, remembering every scene and turn of events. They range from the historical to the romantic, and sometimes we only listen for a chapter or two and then turn it off. We had one that chronicled the Civil War and fascinated us with the detail with which the battles and maneuvers were reported. My great-great-great grandfather, ( how many greats I would have to add up ) Levi Pettis, supposedly served in the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812. Two of my Pettis uncles served in the Civil War and never came home again.
History has always been of great interest to me, but my knowledge of some areas of history is sadly lacking. We never studied the Indian wars, though the area where I grew up was famous for the battles that raged in the area. No mention was ever made in the history books. A casual walk would yield indian arrows and spear heads made of flint, and the fields often were littered with them after being newly plowed.
We had an interesting experience when we excavated under a little house we were renovating in California. First we found bones, then a couple of spear heads and then some clay marbles. There were numerous clam shells and pieces of obsidian. We kept the spear heads, but carefully and secretly buried the bones in another spot. Later I researched and found that the house was built on a shell mound, piled up there by Miwok indians. At one time thousands of Miwoks lived up and down the coast, but now not one full-blooded Miwok is alive today. I was fortunate enough to be able to study Indian History when I attended college and found the knowledge fascinating. It was a fun course. We took day trips and cooked acorn mush and fried fish over fires. Our teacher was a Pomo and Miwok, but had declared himself independent of the Bureau of Indian Affairs and had carved out a comfortable niche for himself.
Try as I do, I still haven't grasped how the BIA keeps such a hold on the members of the tribes. There they are, confined to reservations, poorly housed and clothed, mostly unemployed. Why don't they leave? What powerful force holds them there?
There! I did it again! I dredged up another unsolveable problem. It will be a good subject for a dream.

My dreams are getting better all the time

There is an old song (written in 1945) which goes:

Well, what do you know, he smiled at me last night,
My dreams are getting better all the time
Well, what do you know, he looked at me in a different light
My dreams are getting better all the time.
Maybe tonight he'll hold me tight in the moonbeam's glow
My dreams are getting better all the time.

This seems to be holding true for me lately. Last night's "lost" dream was quite enjoyable. Actually, I wasn't lost exactly but I couldn't find my car. But this time, an elderly professor came to my aid and the car was found. In my dreams I am always young, about twenty or so, and usually it is a dark and scary scene, but last night's dream took place in the daytime and involved a university and taking exams and so on. Composing myself for sleep, I tried to direct my thoughts toward a pastoral scene of some kind, but the university was fine too. I'll try for the pastoral scene tonight.
But to the events of the day. This morning my stoic husband drank, without flinching, the very unpleasant contents of a medicine flask, and went off with our daughter to have a full CAT scan. I am a total wimp when it comes to pain or unpleasant medical procedures, but he has endured eye surgery and major surgery for cancer without complaint. When they get him up after surgery, he bravely follows directions, no matter how much it hurts. I call him my old dude, but I must say I do admire his bravery. The results of the scan will be revealed next week.
I have not escaped surgery myself, having had two major surgeries and a broken hip. But I confess to moaning and groaning and needing encouragement and help to get myself going again. I spent six months in the hospital after breaking my hip, and I am sure they all sighed in relief when I was finally discharged. I must have been a royal pain.
But we are both doing well now, and the CAT scan was just a precaution. It only took about an hour. He said it didn't hurt a bit.

Revenge is sweet

My ruminations on the garbage bins reminded me of a vitriolic feud we inadvertently entered into with a neighbor years ago. We owned a house down the street from our current home, where our daughter lived, and she and her husband attempted to erect a deer fence. The next door neighbors raised strong objections, on the ground that there was an easement down the hill for walking down to the summer dam below. In a memorable confrontation, the male member of the pair who lived there stood out in his driveway and subjected my husband to a torrent of four letter words, The female member of the pair accosted me at the school house where I was picking up my grandson, and hysterically accused me of all manner of evil intentions.
We are a peaceful pair. We were even then an elderly pair. We were of course accustomed to cussing, as my husband had served for 25 years in the military and could easily have out-cussed him. The poor fellow only knew about four words, which he repeated over and over again. My husband remained calm. I couldn't resist spouting forth several words I had learned when we served overseas, such as Merde and swine-hund and whanging ( yikes, forgive me) and the ultimate Arab curse, son of a camel. The upshot of the whole matter was our decision to have the place surveyed, which was soon done.
Revenge is sweet. The result of the survey showed that we owned about ten or fifteen more feet than we thought we owned, and there was no easement whatsoever and had never been. We erected a handsome wood fence which screened our view of their house, and gave privacy from the neighbors. They were required to move a shed and propane tank which had been placed on our side of the line and had been there for about thirty years.
Like any feud, the negative feelings remain for a long time after. We are cordial when we meet, but there lingers the memory of that tongue-lashing and the memos and phone calls that went about the neighborhood during the disagreement. It wasn't exactly like the Hatfield-McCoy feud which went on for several decades and caused many deaths. Of course, when I think about it, it is with a joyful feeling of triumph. I am sure that whenever they look over and see that fence they have a mental reaction too.

Garbage collection day

Today is garbage collection day in our little community, and since we live very quiet lives, it sometimes takes on an air of drama and even dismay. First comes the chore of emptying out all of the wastebaskets and collecting all of the papers and depositing them in the recycle bin. Then the bin is dragged out to the end of the driveway and placed in position to be picked up by the garbage truck. Since my husband is a devout believer in recycling he monitors my efforts closely and will not tolerate a can or bottle going into the garbage bin. Since the garbage truck very often deposits both the recyclables and the garbage into the same truck, I feel no great compulsion to be fastidious about it. But it is easier to follow his dictates than to have a family row about it.
The garbage is then collected and deposited into the garbage bin. Where does it all come from? I empty out the refrigerator and the freezer and the receptical under the sink. We have no garbage disposer, so we really do have a lot of left-overs to throw out. Last but not least comes the garden bin, which holds garden clippings and small twigs and small limbs of trees.
Finished! We are ready. This is done the night before collection day.
The drama comes when we hear the huge automated garbage trucks come down the hill above us and house after house pick up all three of the bins waiting for them there. These trucks have a huge arm which comes down, grasps the bin and raises it high into the air, turning it upside down. at which point the lid falls open and the contents fall down into the truck. Then the arm comes back down, deposits the bin at the side of the street. If the driver has followed protocol, he will leave the other two bins where they are for the next trucks to follow. The drama comes if the driver fails to orchestrate the operation correctly and the bin falls on its side and rolls along the street. Then someone has to run out and pull it back into its place in the driveway. Dismay is generated on those instances when the truck breaks a tree limb or bangs into a fence.
Householders follow a strict code of behavior with these garbage bins. No one is supposed to deposit anything into another's bin without first asking permission. It is considered bad form to sneak out in the middle of the night to put bags into one's neighbor's bin. Many a time my husband has leaped out of bed to peer out of the window to see if the noise he heard was a poacher on his bins. Fairly often raccoons will manage to get into the bins with horrific results.
Today all went well. One by one, my husband brought in the bins and put them back into their places beside the garage wall. There they will stay for a week and then it is all to be done again.

Another Day of Politics

I missed blogging last night, and I am a little late tonight, because I have been watching the election results. I admit that i am beginning to be a little tired of it all, but history is being made and I felt I should watch. The news of Ted Kennedy's brain cancer is disturbing, along with all of the other catastrophies around the world. I was in San Francisco when the 1989 earthquake happened, and although no one in the house was hurt, it surely shook us up. I happened to be on the stairs from the basement up to the kitchen, and I crawled up on my hands and knees to keep from falling off. My husband was in surgery at U. C. Medical Center, and I was supposed to drive over and be at his side when he woke up from anaesthesia, but there were so many ambulances and police cars converging on the hospital that I could only stay at the house and listen to the car radio for news. We all know that sooner or later there will be another, but somehow we block the knowledge out and go on with our lives as if there were no danger whatsoever. I live about seventy miles north of San Francisco now, but we do have occasional small earthquakes around Sonoma and Napa.
I had one of my "lost" dreams last night, but for a change the action took place in the daytime and the sun was shining brightly. Usually I am cold and frightened, with no money and totally lost. In last night's dream I knew where I was, but I couldn't find the address I was looking for. I poked my head into the small shops lining the street and asked passers-by but no one could help. It was a rather pleasant dream, and I stopped at one point and had a sweet roll and coffee. I am trying to tell myself something, but what is it? Maybe time will tell.
Maybe it is time for me to buy the slipcovers I have been looking for. My economy-boosting check came (ha! ha!) and I had intended to go ahead and order them, but then a couple of unexpected bills came , and there will go the money! It has always been my theory that any "found money" will quickly find a place for itself and disappear in a hurry. And so it happened this time.
Anyway, it is bedtime. To sleep, perchance to dream. We will see.

A different memory

Remembering Burma Shave signs brought up another memory of my youth that would seem to be depressing, but actually gives me a feeling of triumph. It is of the years of the Midwest Crime Wave when big-time criminals drove up and down old highway 12 from St. Paul to Chicago, a highway that was only about a quarter of a mile from our house. It was completed when I was about ten or so, and since the years of the crime wave were from 1932 to 1935, I remember it well. The movies portray these bank-robbers and kidnappers as being admired and emulated by the depression-poor citizens,, but that wasn't the case. We greatly feared them. When they would "pull a job" the telephone would spread the news up and down the wire lines. One night the filling station in town was robbed and the man who owned it, who happened to be my teacher's father, was shot and killed. The telephone operator called ahead to try to get them trapped but I think they got away. The town bank was robbed by men with masks on their faces and guns in their hands. They got away with the money but luckily didn't fire a shot.
There were many small gangs led by notorious killers, among whom were John Dillinger, Pretty Boy Floyd, Machine Gun Kelley, and Bonnie and Clyde Barrow. They operated all over the midwest, but one by one they were apprehended, usually resulting in several deaths, as the FBI grew in strength and numbers. By 1936 it was all over.
The telephone was our connection to the rest of the world. We were on a party line and when the phone would ring, everyone up and down the road would pick up the receiver. There was no such thing as a private line. Sometimes two or three people would be on the line giving advice on illnesses or accidents, and it wasn't unknown for help to be on the way as soon as the news was out. My grandmother always hurried down the minute she felt she was needed.
I guess my feeling of triumph is the same as one feels when a crises passes and all is once again safe. Well, one thinks, I made it. I made it, and I'm still here. The depression lasted from 1929 to 1941, when wartime needs provided everyone with a paying job. It was a war we all supported, a war we felt would make the world safe forever. Now we know we were wrong.

Burma Shave!

Does anyone remember the old Burma Shave signs? They have all gone away with the coming of the superhighways and fast-speed cars, but they used to be a source of amusement on the long, slow journeys along the old country lanes and roads of my childhood. We would bounce along, squeezed into the old Model T Ford or Overlander, all watching for the line of square wooden Burma Shave signs, and trying to read them as we rattled past.
That blue tube is like Louise
You get a thrill with every squeeze
Burma Shave!

The monkey took one look at Jim
And threw the peanuts back at him.
Burma Shave!

We tried to memorize them and had contests to see who could remember the most. Some of us were not above making a new one up on the spot if it would help win the competition.

Slow down, Pa, sakes alive
Ma missed number four and five
Burma Shave!
Times were more innocent then, and we were youngsters growing up on a remote farm with little contact with sophisticated society. We had no radio or newspaper service, and seldom got into town. I was in my teens before I ever saw a movie, and it was a silent film. I remember it almost completely - it was a war film and involved a battle scene where the infantry was attacked with poison gas. A large printed word flashed on the screen "GAS!" and the men on the screen began clutching their throats and falling to the ground. It almost scared me to death.
But the Burma Shave signs amused us and kept us entertained as we made our way from our farm to neighbors or relatives up and down the road. Signs were painted on the sides of barns to advertise various products - Blood makes good paint, Queen of the Pantry Flour, Deere runs good - some of them are faintly visible even now.
According to Google, the signs were still being used in the sixties, but I haven't seen one since the forties, if then. I remember them fondly as part of my childhood, one of the memories I cherish and renew now and then. Take care and let me hear from you, I treasure your comments.

The face-off.

We are dog-sitting our granddaughter's boxer dog, Kaya, and it is an amusing drama that we witness from time to time as our little black cat engages in her stalking maneuver. Kaya is terrified of the little creature, and won't even look at her when she is in the room. She carefully keeps her head turned the other way, as the cat slowly and inexoribly moves closer and closer. Finally, when she is close enough to reach out with her paw and touch the dog, she nonchalantly sits down and holds Kaya prisoner, afraid to move an inch. We had expected the action to go the other way, with the cat cowering under the sofa in fear of her life. She exhibits not an iota of fear - flaunting her power. We love to keep the little dog. She is an affectionate little friend, following us around everywhere.
Today was hot again, but it cooled off tonight and is quite pleasant. We have a book tape on the tape player, which my husband is listening to, and we have all of the lights turned off. When I consulted with my doctor yesterday, he cautioned me against doing too much, and advised me to rest when I get tired. Great advice! I of course listened with all of my heart. Permission to rest! Having been raised with the tradition of being engaged in work of one kind or another every moment, it was wonderful to not only be permitted to rest, but to be ordered to do it. It was well worth the trip to hear his words.
Well, this was a quiet day. There are no lights on in the neighbor's house either, although they are home. We are all enjoying the cool breezes of the evening after the heat of the day. Good night all.

Proud to be a lefty

I visited my doctor today to consult with him about my peripheral artery problem, and in removing my shoes to examine my feet, he twitted me about the way I tie my shoelaces. My problem with shoelaces, knitting and writing is that I am left-handed. This brought about a little research on google, and I found that only 1 percent of people over 80 are left=handed. This may be because left-handed people die sooner than right-handed people, probably because of accidents. For those under twenty, the percentage is only 10 percent, and for middle-aged people it is about 5 percent. On the other hand, lefties are purported to have higher intelligence than right-handers and to make more money and become more influential. A good many world leaders and presidents are left-handed. Churchill, Queen Victoria, King George, Prince Charles, Prince William to name a few. Among our presidents, Ronald Reagan, President Bill Clinton, Harry Truman, George W. Bush, and several others. When I was in the third grade I trained myself to write right-handed because it is so much easier to write that way, instead of having to cramp my hand over the line to write. I still write right-handed but when it comes to doing math, I often find the pencil in my left hand.
I always knew that lefties think differently than righties. Sometimes this worked to my disadvantage because supervisors do not like subordinates who think differently. I was able to rapidly advance from a junior clerk to the position of accountant because I am a good test-taker, but I never felt that my supervisor appreciated my suggestions and attempts to improve the performance of the junior clerks . Then when I became involved in the Viet Nam protest movement, she was convinced that I was just not her type. Luckily, after a few years, the office was closed and I transferred to another position.
Think of the disadvantages lefties face. Everything is designed for right-handers. Door knobs, knives, scissors, typewriters, computers, cars, all of which are a challenge as it is almost impossible to use the left hand. Even can openers are hard to operate. No wonder we are thought to be easily frustrated.
I hate to impose this negative thought into my essay, but so help me, the research suggests that lefties are more subject to mental illness, while at the same time are often geniuses. Go figure.

Door to door salesmen

I sat outside in the warm sun this morning and something triggered my memory of the door-to-door salesmen who used to visit our isolated farm house in the spring, after the snows had melted. We especially welcomed the Watkins Man, who pulled up in his old Model T ford, carried his sample case up the porch steps, and spread out his wares on the kitchen floor. Spices, vanilla, pudding mixes, salves, cough syrup, lotions, liniment, even various remedies for the cows. We were always delighted to see him, and we had no qualms about letting him in the door. It was the same man who came each year, and whoever spotted him first would alert the rest of the family with the cry, "it's the Watkins Man!" He brought news of the farms he had already visited and linked us to the rest of community with his light-hearted gossip.
Another salesman who was welcomed was the Fuller Brush man. He sold high quality brushes which lasted forever. I think my husband has a clothes brush from the Fuller Brush man to this day. They were expensive but we usually managed to pay for them somehow.
In later years, magazine salesmen would appear, but I don't remember that we ever bought anything. They always said that they were working their way through college, but we didn't trust them. Sewing machine salesmen came by, and one time a nimble-footed lightning-rod man clambered up to the peak of the roof and affixed a llightning-rod, for $20.00 I think. It was supposed to carry the force of the lightning harmlessly down into the ground if lightning ever struck the house. In the years that we lived there, it never came into use. We did live through a tornado that took out the silo, and lightning struck a tree down in the pasture once, but not the house. I have always rather enjoyed a good thunder and lightning storm. We never have them out here where we live now. I miss them.
Today was a quiet day, even a lazy day. It was also a very warm day. Maybe we will have an early summer. One day follows another, a quiet stream of life. Take care.

A surprise phone call

Today I received a phone call from a cousin whom I have never met, although I knew her sister and brother. She is writing a book, which will be published, about my mother's side of the family. She heard from one of my other cousins that i sometimes write little essays, and hoped I could write something about my Grandpa on my mother's side. I could indeed. I remember him well. He seemed on the surface to be stern and unbending, but there was a rapport between us that let me peek into his hidden side, and we shared many an experience. He had a sense of humor and a warm place in his heart for the red-headed, freckled little girl with the crooked back and skinny frame. He never had a sharp word to say to me and was always on my side. Whenever I was being taken to task for some transgression, he flew to my defense. He died before I had a chance to grow up, but I know he would have approved of whatever path I took.
What is it that draws a grandparent so closely to a grandchild? Why was he so kind to me? I wasn't by any means a perfect child. I had a temper. I took chances and got into trouble. I wasn't the quiet, obedient child that my mother wished me to be. I wasn't even pretty, although I was sometimes referred to as "cute". Did he see something in me that was invisible to other members of the family? I wish that he could have lived until I grew up. Like my Grandma on my father's side, he died too young.
It was sonderful to talk with my cousin today. We hope to meet some day and share memories with each other of our mutual ancestors and relatives, enlarging our understanding of how it all came about.

Cest la vie

What a great day! My granddaughter and her boyfriend came up with the baby, my daughter and her husband and my grandson were here, and I had a nice long chat with our son. We ate pasta and salad and cake, and i got to rock the baby to sleep. What is more satisfying that rocking back and forth with a baby on your shoulder? I covered her with a blanket and she slept for about an hour. What a joy!
Yesterday I got a chance to make a difference to a distracted Mom and I hope I helped her a little. I had been doing some last-minute shopping at the supermarket and stood in line ahead of a stressed-out Mom who was shrieking at her two little daughters and shaking the older one back and forth roughly. I stopped, put my arms around the little girl, and spoke to the Mom in a quiet voice. "I know it's hard. Sometimes it seems as though it will never get better. But time will pass and one day you will be an old lady like me, with your children grown, and with grandchildren and great-grandchildren of your own, and you will look back and say 'It was hard. But it was worth it.' Her face crumpled and tears ran down her cheeks, and my eyes filled with tears. I understood how she felt. We have all lost control from time to time. I know I did, and if I could go back and do it over again, I would. But that cannot be. We can only do the best we can now.
'That is one of the great benefits of being a very senior citizen. We can say and do almost anything! After all, what can the younger generation do to us? They can only shrug, smile and say Cest la vie!

Clean for a day

I was so energized by my excursion yesterday, that today I started right out with tidying up my house from top to bottom. The wood floors were swiffled, the carpet vacuumed. the bathroom cleaned, the laundry done, and I still had energy for a walk around the neighborhood. I titled it "Clean for a day", because even the best-run house cannot maintain an immaculate state for more than a day. There are dishes in the sink at this moment, and the dried laundry hasn't yet been put away. My husband has left his slippers in the middle of the floor, and we will soon be making a cake and all of the clutter that entails. But, as the title says, it was clean for a day.
I got a bit of a shock this morning when perusing the local paper, finding the obituary of a long-ago acquaintance who is my age, and who died alone in her sleep. She had a productive and satisfying life, and one cannot feel that she missed out on happiness at departing at this particular time. According to the obituary, she had been very active even up to the end. Although in later years we have lost touch, It gave me cause to ponder the ironic turns that one's life can take.
But back to today's events. When we went on our walk, we took a shortcut down a back lane and sneaked across our neighbor's driveway to make the walk shorter. There are beautiful flowers everywhere. The wild iris are blooming in profusion and banks of forget-me-nots are seen everywhere. Later a quail egg was found beside the road, empty, so the egg had already hatched. We will soon be seeing the little cavalcade of mother, father and babies scurrying down the street. We look forward to seeing them every year.
Now to making the cake. Best wishes to everyone! To all mothers out there, Happy Mother's Day!

Here to stay

We went on a delightful day trip today, up the coast to the rhododendron forest where wild rhododendrons bloom in abundance among the redwood trees. The water off the coast sparkled in the sun and we passed the area where the trees were burned in a forest fire more than twenty years ago. The many bare trunks and branches made a dramatic scene and we saw many old-growth redwoods with huge trunks, stretching up into the sky. At the rhododendron park, we left the car and walked on a circular path around and through the blossoming bushes. To my surprise, I managed the walk with only one pause to sit down and rest. I have been having trouble walking for about a year, but I found that I could manage quite well with my canes and a folding chair to sit on when I got tired. After the walk, we drove back to a picnic area and had a delightful picnic, attended by several blue jays who waited around hoping for crumbs. Then a drlve back on a winding one-lane road and a stop for coffee and goodies. All in all, a perfect day!
We are fortunate that we live in one of the most beautiful areas in the world. All up the coast are numerous beaches and parks, many of them well-used surfing spots. We used to drive around (when we could still drive) and watch the surfers out on the water like black birds, poised on their surfboards. Suddenly, as if on a signal, they would all rise up and ride the wave until they either fell off or the wave carried them in. There are many resort areas and one especially, Timber Cove, is as spectacular a place as one could hope to find. Restaurants, beaches, parks, camping areas, all are here for our enjoyment. I have lived in many places, from New York to Texas, but this is the most spectacularly beautiful of all. This is where I intend to spend my last years. I have at last anchored my boat in a safe harbor.

Shame on me

Today I went in to the clinic for a routine blood test, which I greatly dread. Since they needed three vials, I braced myself for the ordeal. The technician always has a hard time finding a suitable vein, and sometimes it entails several tries. Sometimes I have to leave in defeat and come back another day after I have had a chance to hydrate myself with glasses and glasses of water.
Today I decided to steel myself and take my mind off the procedure by telling a risque joke. It wasn't my worst joke, but it was bad enough. Unknown to me, the connecting door to the waiting room was open, and my voice and my joke floated out over the waiting crowd for all to hear. When I came out, I noticed grins and looks of mirth on several faces, and my daughter informed me of my gaffe. As I said, I know several jokes that are worse, but thank goodness I had sense enough not to recite them. Anyway, that is over for a month or two, and I shall watch myself closer next time.
Although I have a blood test almost every month to monitor my warfarin medication, I almost never hear the result. I guess no news is good news, in this case.
Now that I think about it, if my joke brightened up the day for the anxious patients out there, I'll do it again. I'm an old lady and I can get away with almost anything!

Thirteen Steps

My house sits atop a little hill, with a long stretch of forest leading down to a little stream. To get down to the bottom, one must wander down a little twisting path through redwoods and bracken. For the first time in three years, I walked down that little path yesterday and revisited scenes of the past.
Today I decide to repeat the experience.
To walk where I walk, one must carefully descend thirteen shallow steps of wood and gravel, holding carefully to a hand rail for balance. To the left, blooming here and there, is a thicket of rambling roses, carefully tended by my husband. I stop to pull out a long strand of periwinkle which has entwined
itself into the bushes, and remember when we planted them so many years ago. We had no idea that they would grow so densely and so tall. To my right is another rose garden, and several rose trees blooming, even though it is a little early..
But I have now reached the end of the steps, and I stand on a little flat area carpeted with dichondra and bordered by tall hydrangeas. Once upon a time we used it for a circular meditation walk, and I now circle it a couple of times, murmuring “Hari Om, Hari Om” softly to myself. But I still have a way to go.
The path turns to the right here, and becomes steeper and harder to traverse. Blackberry bushes have grown across the path and I have to be careful not to trip over them. Strands of spider webs brush across my face, and mosquitoes have discovered my presence. Over my head a squirrel chatters and blue jays squawk and hop from limb to limb of the redwood trees. I reach the wooden bench at the side of the path and decide to rest there and go the rest of the way another day.
As I sit there in the sun, I feel calm and rested. The air is warm and a little breeze stirs the branches of the trees. Myriads of insects are buzzing around and if I listen I can hear the barking of a dog in the distance and the answering bark of another off in the hills across the stream.
We had a dog once. She was a little Samoyed and we dearly loved her. She is buried in the pet graveyard just behind the bench where I am sitting, along with a couple of cats, a little canary and two pheasants. The pheasants were not pets. But they have a little plot in the graveyard nevertheless. I suppose there are more pets there, but I have forgotten now.
Just below the bench is the filled-in entrance to a mine shaft, rumored to be an old cinnabar mine. We were told that it was filled in to prevent children from crawling in and being injured or trapped by falling boulders. The story may or may not be true. It makes for a good tale, and I suppose we will never know the true story.
I sit so quietly that I begin to daydream. I am almost in a meditation mode, and my mind goes back to the old days when I used to attend the meditation seminars and study under Swami Chinmayananda at summer camps. Perhaps I fall asleep there in the sun, because I feel his presence beside me on the bench. “Swamiji,” someone asked him once. “Will you come back after you have passed on?” He laughed for a moment, slapping his thigh with his hand and jiggling his bare foot. “How should I know? Ask me that after I am dead.”
Was this his answer? Had he come back to me now after all of these years? I am struggling for an answer when a call from above rouses me from my reverie. “Lunch is on the table.” I struggle back up the path, leaving behind the ghostly presence of my long-ago guru.

You Never Can Tell What a Redheaded Woman Will Do

I was the third of four children and three of us had red hair. My sister Lorraine was what was called a “dishwater blonde.” She wasn’t happy with being different, and often shed tears over her outcast station, as she saw it.
“Was I adopted?” she asked our Mother one day, large tears streaming down her cheeks. “”Why am I different?”
Mother tried to reassure her and boost her morale. “No, of course not,” she said soothingly. “You are my own child, just like the others. But don’t feel bad. At least you have a pretty face. Just look – redheads always have freckles.” And she glanced my way, as if noting my unhappy state of freckledom.
Thanks, Mommy dearest. I needed that. I needed it like a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Why didn’t you tell the whole story? You could have mentioned allergies to every known brand of soap and shampoo, exzema and skin rashes, hay fever and wheezing, sneezing and coughing all night. Why didn’t you talk about insomnia, sleep walking and obsessive-compulsion disorder? Not that these were all caused by my red hair, but it is well known that red-haired people have sensitive skin and are subject to allergies of every kind. But if you wanted to make me sorry I had curly red hair, you failed utterly. I have never regretted my redheaded state and wish my hair had stayed red longer.
I got a lot of mileage out of that red hair. Strangers would stop us on the street and comment on my curly mop. My Aunt Doris, then a teenager, (I was about six) would wash my hair with special shampoos and set it in what was known as “Marcelle waves,” My grandma, herself a redhead, would bake me special cookies and let me have her sewing scraps to make clothes for my doll. My Uncle Lewis took me to the circus and showed me off as his “Orphan Annie” girl. If memory serves me right, he also bought me a box of Cracker Jacks. No wonder my sister was jealous. No attention was directed at her lanky brown hair whatsoever. I suppose she got over it after while.
I looked up redheaded people on Google. Only two percent of the world population have red hair. A large proportion of them are in Scotland and Scandinavia. Redheads are purported to be adventurous, passionate, quick tempered, and sensitive to pain. Redheaded women are seen as remantic and given to sexual excesses. I might modestly state that none of those myths applies to me except the tendency to be adventurous. I not only admit to being adventurous but I brag about it. As the old blues song says “You never can tell what a redheaded woman will do.”
Well, what did I do? I climbed an apple tree when I was four and got hung hung up between two limbs and had to be rescued by my mother. I helped my father paint the woodshed with red paint and got so much paint in my hair that part of it had to be cut off. I wrote on the side of the house with crayons and the words I wrote were still visible years later . When I was fourteen I sneaked out of the house one moonlit night and went swimming with the two neighbor boys. All pretty innocent pranks, really. But Mother could recite them like a litany when the mood struck, and I grew up thlnking I was an incorrigible miscreant.
I had my moments of triumph. When I graduated from grade school, I won the gold medal for scholarship, beating out all the other eighth graders in the county and astounding my teacher, for whom it was a total surprise. As indeed it was for me. I was awarded a scholarship to college, and when I was seventeen I took myself off and never looked back. And of course I committed the ultimate act of adventure and joined the army during the war.
All in all, it has been a great life. I have never regretted having red hair. Mother dear, if you are looking down on me now, I hope you know that my freckles don’t bother me a bit. Don’t now and never did. As an old flame once said, “A face without freckles is like a sky without stars.” Rest in peace.

A Better Day

Thank you all for your kind comments. Today was indeed better. My husband and I took a long walk down the hill behind our house and then walked up the road toward Cazadero. Meeting neighbors along the way gave us a chance to chat and enjoy the news of the neighborhood. The birds are everywhere and we enjoyed listening to their calls and spotting the ones we could identify. Although our roses are not doing well this year, I have never seen so many birds. We have robins, quail, mourning doves, blue jays, juncos, humming birds down in the trees below the house and we can sit in the family room and watch them flying back and forth.
My husband is playing one of his book tapes that he gets from the library, and I am listening sporadically. This one is a cowboy novel and quite amusing. We just finished listening to "Gettysburg" which was enthralling and well researched. It was also very long.
I am slowly learning to use my computer. I now know how to pay bills online (though I don't like to) and I can read several newspapers and send e-mails back and force. Tomorrow I am going to try to transfer one of my essays from my document file onto my blog, so we will see how it works. It is about redheads, of which I am one, and I hope it is amusing. So for now, adios.

Doom and Gloom

For some reason, even though I watched the Kentucky Derby and enjoyed it, I have been plunged into gloom. I have separation anxiety when I have no reason for it. I feel as though some momentous event looms over me and it will be a disaster. I think it came about because one of those mortgage salesmen called me this morning and wanted me to refinance with his company, whichever one it was. Things are coming to a pretty pass when one receives these calls on a daily basis, indicating that the mortgage companies are in a precarious position, boding ill for the economy and all homeowners who are having trouble meeting their mortgage payments. Luckily my husband and I are in a secure position, with only a small mortgage on one house, and no debts other than that at all. Our income, though moderate, is secure. We can meet the mortgage payment, which is small, with no problem. Why then, am I in such a state? My husband thoughtfully brought me a small dish of chocolate chips, thinking I might be having a chocolate craving, and I hope that helps. Having lived through the depression of the thirties, I can well remember the desperate plight of many of our neighbors and friends. Maybe the sight of President Bush on television set me off. Anyway, there is nothing I can do except say to myself, "Snap out of it!"
I will try to think of something pleasant. The Kentucky Derby was fun to watch, although the little filly broke both front legs and had to be put down. On principle, I object to horse races, since so many horses get injured and it seems cruel to make them run their hearts out for the pleasure of gamblers and watchers like myself. Big Brown came through, and he is a magnificent animal.
Well, that made me feel a little better. That and the fact that my husband is making dinner for us and I will soon be sitting down to a nice hot meal. Forgive me, everyone. I will try to be a little more upbeat in future.

In the footsteps of the master continued

To make my narrative come to life. I am showing here a picture of Swami Chinmayananda .
It was a sight I was to see before me for many years as I followed Swami Chinmayananda from one college campus to another for the next twenty years. He sat rigidly upright, in the lotus position, his bare feet jiggling expressively as he talked. He was almost hypnotic, and although I could not at first understand him I enjoyed his antics and body language. Later I would become more accustomed to his accent and be able to follow his lectures easily. But that was in the future. On this first night I could only watch and observe the reactions of his audience.
He was an animated figure to watch. Chortling, slapping his thighs, pointing with the long pointer he held in his bare foot, he held his audience enthralled. As the evening progressed, more and more watchers slipped into the tent, until he was looking out over a closely packed crowd of seated students.
I was both puzzled and intrigued. He had a trick of looking right into my eyes, it seemed, until I felt that he was lecturing me alone, and I rather think his other listeners felt the same. We were motionless under his spell.
This was Swami Chinmyananda. He was already a renowned figure in India and had been imprisoned for his activities with Mhatma Ghandi in seeking independence for his country. Born into wealth and educated in some of the best Universities on the continent of Europe, he had already had a career as a writer, newspaper reporter, political activist and attorney. Before me sat one of the great ones of the world. He was a teacher in the truest sense of the word. He had given up all the privileges of a wealthy Brahman to roam the world, owning nothing but the saffron robe he wore, to bring enlightenment to the rest of mankind.
In the early years of his quest, he held meetings on College campuses, wherever he could arrange a gathering place. One year we stayed at Humboldt College, another at Stanford. I particularly enjoyed Santa Cruz and Lone Mountain College. Somewhere along the way his followers managed to establish a mission up on the Eel River, near Piercy, and from then on we held our summer camps there. He had an amazing memory, and I developed a rapport with him that I felt with no one else in my life’s experience. Some of his female followers fell romantically in love with him, but since he was a renunciate they could only dream of fulfillment. I admired him for his intelligence and commitment. He was kind enough to respond with warm interest to my concerns.
What did I learn from him? He opened a whole new way of thinking to me. He taught me tolerance, logic, concentration, commitment. He was both stern and kind. He was not above chastising a wayward student or praising one for an act he admired. He attained worldwide recognition, being asked to address the United Nations in l992. Although he was able to keep that assignment, he unfortunately died in August of l993. His study groups and missions in many of the cities of the United States continue his work.

In the Footsteps of the Master

Seldom is one privileged to meet a truly great intellectual, much less study under him for twenty years. Yet this was my great good fortune and I cherish the memory.
It was 1972 and my daughter was a student at Sonoma State University, when I first sat at the feet of Swami Chinmyananda. We had heard about a new lecturer who was coming to teach the Vedanta principles and my daughter was eager to attend his first class. So off we went to the campus, not knowing exactly what to expect, but ready for anything.
It was already dark when we got there and got my daughter's old VW van parked in the parking lot. As we approached the campus greens we could see that a tent had been erected and a few people were hanging around outside. No activity seemed to be taking place inside, but we removed our shoes and silently entered, hoping not to step on anyone. We could see only dim shapes, and settled down on the grass to await unfolding events.
All was still inside the tent. The air was warm and the scent of freshly cut grass was in the air. There was also the faint aroma of incense and an occasional whiff of perfume. We could feel the cool grass under us where we sat. There was a faint but perceptible sound of rustling and soft breathing as we waited in anticipation for the arrival of the master.
I almost fell asleep. It had been a long day and I had driven forty miles to my daughter's house after work. Then I heard a sort of murmur from the circle of waiting students and I became aware of a figure seated on the dias in the front of the tent. He had come in silently and taken his place in front of us. The light was still dim enough to make it hard to see him, but I could see that he was seated in the lotus position holding a long pointer in his right foot, which was bare. He was clothed in a saffron robe and sat upright swaying slightly from side to side.
He began to chant. "Ohm Shanti! Shanti! Shanti!" He had a pleasant and melodious voice, and as he continued chanting I began to feel lethargic and sleepy. I dozed off, and awoke with a start when lights were turned on and we could see the figure before us more clearly .
(continued tomorrow)