nedful things

Poetry is a mystery to many people, some of whom do not enjoy or employ it in any way. Although many have to endure poetry for some period of time in literature classes, they would never seek it out.  Others find poetry on purpose.  How they view it may differ.

There are two ways to analyze poetry.  The first is by form - counting syllables, analyzing structure, meter, and rhyme scheme.  This method can be taught.  The second way is to analyze what a poem does, instead of the way it was made.  This method is the one that I myself employ.

There are two kinds of people: those who hate poetry, and those who write it. It seems nearly universally true that if someone enjoys poetry, they have attempted the writing of it at least once in their lives. Although not all of those in the second category will be in the running for poet laureate, at least there is something about the art of poetry that speaks to them. Those in the first category will learn what a teacher or professor tells them the poem is about and remember it long enough to pass the test or write the essay.  Those in the second group will remember the images and emotions evoked by the words so artfully crafted to reach into their hearts and minds.

A poet, with an economical use of words, chooses only those which may best strike at the innermost part of his readers.   He writes for himself always, because to render beauty, love, hatred or despair, he must first feel it.  His words must touch the humanity we all share, or it cannot be art.

A poet does not lay his words out haphazardly, even though it may appear that way. ee cummings often left words seemingly hanging in mid-air, attached to nothing, when in fact they were the anchor of his meaning. To analyze poetry one must approach it with the willingness to see words employed in unexpected ways.  ee cummings, by shunning capitals and using punctuation to achieve his own ends instead of in accepted ways, revolutionized modern poetry. Consider how much less effective this ee cummings poem would be without the impact of his strategic word placement.

                 i have found what you are like

        i have found what you are like
        the rain,

                (Who feathers frightened fields
        with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

        easily the pale club of the wind
        and swirled justly souls of flower strike

        the air in utterable coolness

        deeds of green thrilling light
                                      with thinned

        newfragile yellows

                          lurch and.press

        -in the woods
                     which
                          stutter
                                 and

                                    sing

        And the coolness of your smile is
        stirringofbirds between my arms;but
        i should rather than anything
        have(almost when hugeness will shut
        quietly)almost,
                       your kiss

When analyzing poetry, allow the words to create their illusions, paint their pictures and stir the emotions.  There will be phrases, small bits and lines that attach themselves to your heart and reverberate within you.  If the poem does none of that, it is not for you.  Then you can count syllables, analyze structure, meter and rhyme. Those things are important too.

I was asked the question: If you could decide how long you would live, how many years would it be?  My initial response was to brush it off lightly by saying "just long enough to finish the housework" but the truth is, I really don't know.  I am in no hurry to die, but the world is not a lovely place to live, not as it is, not as I now know it. But I didn't always know it this way, once I knew it as a child knows it.

If I held the keys to time, if I could bend it to my will and lengthen some days, make others rush by, I would make time give me more of my child's world.

I would learn the language of water on the banks of rivers rushing by me on their way to the sea and by calm lakes whose waters utter rebukes as they slap against the wooden beams of invading docks.  I would hear cries of seagulls who punctuate the bold speech of the ocean as it crashes to the shore.

I would spend many days in quiet places.  I would once again hear the whisper of a pine forest, muffling my footsteps, trapping sound in its thick, yellow carpet of needles as the trees plead for silence. "Hush, hush" they urge as the breeze brushes through their branches. "Listen, hush, listen, hush".

I would spend days under the summer sun, watching clouds being made and remade into childhood visions.  At night I would lie upon my back in the cool grass, grass that is thick and soft and hasn't been mowed in just the right amount of time.  The sky is limitless at night - a child with his eyes on the sky knows no limits.

But could I?  I wonder.  Once time has control and has chopped your life up into tiny pieces, each of which belongs to someone else, can you revisit the timelessness of youth?  How does one recapture forever?  Would I lie silently listening to nature as it explained everything to my soul or would my conscience interrupt with nagging schedules and things to be done?

Perhaps it is only in memory that time is vanquished. It may be that it is the escape that allows sanity in a world insane.  We gather beauty and store it, to be taken out and viewed when life gets too close. Perhaps it is not many more years ahead that we yearn for, but for the years now behind us.

Related Post:  Boston & Maine

I have hated Mondays my whole life.  I have cursed them and dreaded them and wished them away.  I have heard the songs and sung them: "Monday, Monday, can't trust that day".  But Mondays are a cakewalk compared to a Wednesday following a four-day weekend.

I looked forward to that four-day Fourth of July weekend for months.   I planned for weeks, all the things I could accomplish in four days off from work.  Of course, none of them actually were accomplished.

Two day weekends, although technically time off, are fairly tightly scheduled. Saturdays are for madly running errands, Sundays are for laundry and housework and if you are lucky, a spare moment to sit in front of your computer with a cup of coffee and a blank stare and try to remember why you are there.  Then Monday arrives and you re-adjust quickly to that schedule, after all, you haven't really altered it that much.

A Wednesday that follows a four day weekend is a grim thing. A four day weekend looms as a great expanse of time in which to do everything.  So you do nothing, because there is always tomorrow to do that chore if you don't do it today.  You begin to fall into natural patterns of sleeping and waking, your body's natural rhythms start to take over.  You become used to deciding what to do or not to do or to do nothing at all.  Four days is all it takes for you to revert to a human being from a corporate robot.

As I drove the long road to work, it was like the death march of the weekend, for this is where it truly ends.  The car is still full of sandy towels and beach toys and other evidence of its occupation by children on holiday.  The four days are conveniently stored in the back seat as I determinedly drive towards the office, where the weekend must go to hand me over to the work week. And so I drove.

I noticed that the corn in the fields had grown appreciably.  I mean, it grew when I wasn't there.  For some reason this disturbed me.  I had been away from this road long enough for corn to grow and yet I knew it was only the blink of an eye, a few brilliant moments - how had I been gone long enough to miss inches of corn?

The parking lot was riddled with empty spaces although I arrived at nearly the last minute.  Ah ha!. I thought,  some furloughed workers have not returned or perhaps they would be in at the very last minute.  Certainly it was not an army arriving en masse as usual; rather the work force arrived in numbers of a few stragglers at a time.  No morning banter was heard, there may have been a nod or two exchanged.  They all looked straight forward at the doors or down at the ground as they walked, measuring out the last of their self-determination by paces.

I rode the elevator with two co-workers instead of being on the usual overcrowded lift.  We rode in grim silence.  No one spoke.  I wanted to say something to break the silence, to cut through all the unexpressed laments that hung in the air, but all I could think of was "The corn has grown".

When we arrived at our floor, someone waved a card at the door and it opened.  Words that may have been "thank you" escaped my lips finally as I pushed the door open and returned to our reality.  Someone may have said "you're welcome".  Maybe not.  It didn't matter, I understood the great burden of speaking on such a morning.

I understood that time bends itself and shapes itself and follows us.  Here, in a world where we succumb to sameness, each minute resembles its brother that came before and the one that comes after.  Each hour is a twin of the last but older and slower, creaking unwillingly through each movement of its hands.  Watch the hands, they play tricks and when you aren't looking they go back and start again.  

And when we are free, when we are carefree it moves on quickly, our spirits jump and sing and time dances on with its own sprightly step.  Every minute calls to its brother to come quickly and play with us and the hours run on ahead until they are spent.

But out in a field, under a sun that moves predictably east to west, even when we are not there to see it, there is only the true measure of days. The corn has grown.

The rain has stopped.

For a time there I had forgotten the look of a blue sky, the feel of the sun's warmth on my face.  I had not squinted at a sudden glare assaulting my eyes as I stepped outside in over two weeks.

It started the day my car door wouldn't close.  The door that usually refused to open had given way easily and then decided to lock itself open.  It's hard to say why it does these things. It's something special that Ford built into the car, a certain capriciousness that makes it a series of misadventures to own.  Strangely, although I often resent and fear its gift for practical jokes, overall it is a most fitting vehicle for me. Bits fall off for no apparent reason, doors decide to stay open or shut at will, latches come off in your hand, the key refuses to come out of the ignition, but it starts and runs and does so reliably.  It's a workhorse that amuses itself by displaying eccentricities that keep us on our toes. When I noticed from my office window that it had started to rain, I went out to the parking lot to apply some duct tape to the top and sides of the door.  I had tied it shut but because the latch was stuck in the locked position, there was a space and I didn't want to fill the back seat with water.  Later when I went to have my mechanic spring the latch, the falling rain was steady and soaking.  It never really stopped again for two weeks.

That first week there was every manner of rain: sudden bursts, steady drizzles, winds of fine mist.  In early spring the rain intensifies the color of the newly unfurled leaves and grass, they are a tender green but vibrant, not yet dulled by the sun and droughts of summer.  The leaves of summer become dark and lackluster, but these trees of spring pour every bit of life they can into these newborns.  Flowering bushes burst out in brilliant pinks and purples, a few trees still show white blossoms, the pavement is slick and black.  The effect fills the eyes and overflows the senses with beauty unspeakable.

However after a week or so, my protestations of "I like the rain" and my explanations of its aesthetic qualities were being met with snorts and sneers by coworkers, and to tell the truth, I, myself, was a little tired of being constantly damp. I think even the rain was tired of just being annoyingly predictable, so it changed.

It started on Saturday, the day I had satellite TV being installed.  The rain became heavy and steady, falling in huge drops.  Globs of rain fell like water balloons, striking your forehead and splattering over your face.  It continued throughout the day, soaking the poor man who had to attach the satellite dish to the garage roof, soaking the ground, running down the streets in rivers, making lakes of all low-lying areas.  It continued with that intensity all through the next day as well.  And the next.

It was serious now, this rain.  Rivers overflowed, streets and bridges washed out, schools closed, highways were shut down for stretches of miles in length.  It was raining, still raining, always raining.  The weather report was watched only for the video of impossibly flooded roads and houses.  Tides were high, flood watches were announced near every waterway.  Life became intense and every drive to work a series of detours around roads that were impassable.  

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.  The sun shone and I expected to feel the difference, to have some irresistible feeling come over me and to rise up with renewed hope and life.  That didn't happen.  Life is busy and we tend to notice only those things that hamper us.  In two days the waters had receded enough that schools and roads were reopened and life went back to normal.  It was hardly even noticed that after three short days of sun, it rained again.  

It was only rain, after all.

It's March.  The face of March is pasty, a pale and unhealthy grey and its clouds are a mottled beard, scruffy and ill kempt.  The grass is a sickly yellow, the sod clogged with rain and the runoff of melted snow.  March struggles towards spring as its wind woefully sings around the buildings, stirring tattered brown leaves that were never collected from corners and crevices but spent the winter huddled against fences and frozen into puddled soil.

It's empty.  Nothing has life in it, nothing owns beauty.  The sea is a mirror, flat and currentless, reflecting stone walls and weatherbeaten structures whose white paint bears marks that are the only evidence of winter's ice and summer's drying sun, for there is nothing extreme in this day.  The tide has come full and placid and lies just beyond my feet at the edge of the bridge.  I remember suddenly a dream of a few days past, the water finally lapping over the edges of the road and pooling at my feet.  I want to call out to it, plead with it to wash over and engulf me, to fill the emptiness of my soul.  But the sea knows its bounds and keeps them, and leaves me standing, alone.

 The sky looks upon me though, and in understanding it sheds empathetic tears.  I think one fell upon my cheek, yet it is warm.  Sister drops join it and it is lost.  

I hate chain email.  

That includes all the many varieties  of chain email.  I hate the danger email chains, the ones that warn you about things that have never happened (such as men lying under your car with knives waiting to slice your ankles or that you should not lick envelopes because spiders will hatch in your mouth).

These are just evil little missives hoping to whip people into a frenzy over imagined urban legends.  When I get this sort of email, I research it and email the true story back to the sender, relieving them of fear, encouraging them not to use the internet to disseminate such ridiculous falsehoods, and cautioning them against being so gullible.  Strangely, no one thanks me for this.

I hate the missing children email, they are almost always hoaxes.  There is never any real information given about where the child disappeared from and the contact emails may not even exist.  

Most of all I hate the good luck/bad luck chains.  The ones that promise wealth and riches if you follow instructions and sure death to you and all whom you love if you fail to pass it on in the specified time allotted or to fewer people than demanded.  

I got this email today.  I think I had different reactions to it than I was supposed to have.

Hope you can send the green dog back to ME!  Read Each One Carefully and Think About It a Second or Two.     
(a second or two doesn’t sound like reading carefully or thinking but perhaps for these sage words one or two seconds is at least one second longer than they deserve)

1.    I love you not because of who you are, but because of who I am when I am with you.  (Smack anyone who tells you this.  It says, I love you not for yourself but for what you can do for me.  Yeah, just lovely.)
2.    No man or woman is worth your tears, and the one who is, won't make you cry.   (Does anyone think that tears are a sign of abuse?  Love can make you cry, even when you are happy.  Instead, be happy you love someone enough that you would shed tears for him or her, and be happier if they will take your tears and count them precious.)
3.    Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.   (This is a lovely excuse for all sorts of behavior.  I mean really, I could use this line and get away with anything. " Sorry honey that I sold your wedding rings for drug money. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you, just that this is the most I can manage to love". )  
4.    A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.    (Well I can go with this alright as long as that reaching hand isn’t reaching for your wallet and the heart touching isn’t an excuse to pretend to miss and touch something else)
5.    The worst way to miss someone is to be sitting right beside them knowing you can't have them.   (Okay, this isn’t called missing.  This is called lust, longing, frustration and downright uncomfortable)    
6.    Never frown, even when you are sad, because you never know who is falling in love with your smile. (Yeah right.  I agree, if you are sad, don’t frown.  You go have a good cry, wail it out baby.  You are under no obligation to keep the world comfortable by being happy for them all the time.)
7.    Don't waste your time on a man/woman, who isn't willing to waste their time on you.    (First, if either of you are “wasting” your time on the other, then both need new partners.  If someone is worth your time, it isn’t wasted.)
8.    Maybe God wants us to meet a few wrong people before meeting the right one, so that when we finally meet the person, we will know how to be grateful.   (This is too close to the “God is a vengeful God”thing for my taste.  Don’t blame everything on God, He didn’t make those decisions, you did.)
        REMEMBER: WHATEVER HAPPENS, HAPPENS FOR A REASON.      (rationalization, clearly)
  True friends: How many people actually have 8 true friends?        Hardly anyone I know ! But some of us have all right friends and good friends!!!        You have been Tagged by the Green Dog!  (insert large green dog made up of keyboard characters and say Ruff!!!  This is so cute.  Did I mention that the whole thing is in eye-straining neon colors? )

  You will Have Good Luck For Two Years if you send this to 8 people or more and if this is sent back to you then you are a true friend. (Okay, I am perfectly willing to admit that I don’t have 8 true friends, but apparently the one who sent it to me does not get validation as a true friend unless I burden her inbox with a reply in kind.  I decided that since this is my one true friend that I will just send this back to her 8 times.)
You must send it in 5 minutes or your good luck will run out.  (And just a minute ago, I had two years.  How time flies.  I missed the deadline, needless to say.)

I tried to write a Valentine's Day poem but I couldn't decide on a theme - should it be funny? romantic? historical? or perhaps, should I just write about the proliferation of pudgy, winged children with arrows and explore the possibility that this is a mutation brought about by environmental pollutants?  After a time spent in the eye-straining pink and red card stores, I finally ended up with this:


I searched the aisles and the rows
of hearts and flowers and pretty prose
For words that said just what I meant
amongst the Hallmark sentiments
There were I "heart" you's everywhere
But does that say I really care?
When a bumper sticker thinks it's grand
To proclaim to "heart" the high school band
And those that "heart" horses and quilting bees
Make the heart's song a wilting wheeze
I needed a card that says that I comprehend
how rarely an acquaintance becomes my friend
When finally I spied just the right emotion:
"Congratulations on your promotion!"

Then while searching through my document files, I ran across this unfinished thing:

Do you see?
I have painted the room in sun-
washed colors, red and gold
I have made your bed
in tranquil tones
I have bathed you in moonlight
and lain beside you  
I pulled the petals from the single rose
and made a halo on your pillow

Which reminded me of one of my favorite poems by Christopher Marlowe:

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant poises,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherds's swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

So, there you have a hodgepodge of Valentines, and you can choose from them.

I think I will just go eat some chocolate-covered cherries and wait for a real holiday, like National Quilting Bee Day or something.

I love April. The signs of spring are all around me.  Daily, the sun creeps higher in the sky.  My morning drive no longer consists of hugging the bumper of the car ahead of me and hoping the driver of said vehicle knows where he is going as the slightly risen sun flashes between buildings and glares through bare branches obscuring the view.  

The sky changes rapidly, the wind carries it along tearing off pieces of clouds and depositing them in portents in the sky. Suddenly the sky becomes an open faucet, drenching with a rain that billows like a grey curtain whose departure is as quick as its arrival.  The sky then smiles in innocent blue, full of promises. No longer is the sun a cold light, but a fire whose warmth can be felt.  A lone bee ventures forth, too early to find food and seeks the baked interior of my car through a window I have opened to catch the freshness of the April breeze.  

The best thing about this April, of course, is that is has arrived in February.  Dusk settles and the temperature hovers at 50 degrees farenheit.  It's a gentle twilight that requires no layers of protection, winter seems to have forgotten to arrive.

I always say that what I like best about New England are the seasons, even the blustery and  bitter days of February.  I think what I like best about this February is that we are having so many seasons in rapid succession.  Before long we are sure to return to winter and learn again the art of dancing over icy parking lots and navigating our cars around slushy corners without fishtailing. In fact, I can feel spring slipping away already in these early morning temperatures.  But for now, I will take April for as long as it lasts.

I am missing the blog.  One reason is that my trusty PC has developed a small hardware problem.

I heard it coming for quite a while, in the grinding groan that emanated from it when I turned it on. I knew it had to be a fan going bad, but I kept playing the odds, hoping I would get by one more day.

Then one morning, it shocked me by making this most alarming noise that sounded like...well, an alarm.  At that point I decided to investigate and found that the CPU fan was clogged with dust and dirt. Aha! I said to myself, this is something I can fix without replacing anything.  I cleaned out the fan and vacuumed out the inside of the case and the first time I booted it up, it was golden.  The next morning: groan.. grind... whirr...lack of whirr... alarm.

There was nothing for it then but to buy a new fan.  These come fairly cheaply and so all the effort to avoid purchasing one seems excessive but I am Danish.  Stubborn and frugal, we will waste hours trying to fix something rather than spend a dime.  I went on-line and checked out the computer superstore nearest me to see what they had before I set out shopping.

I think these computer stores hire all the same people.  The sales staff is almost always completely made up of males in their twenties. I want to like them, I like the way their hair is a little too long and that it was a little too long even before it started to become fashionable again. They have the best job in the world, they get to do what what they like best. They like talking about computers.  They like that they know more about it than you do.  They like to look at your bemused gaze as they explain it to you in language they know you will not understand. They will spend endless hours talking to some guy who has no idea how he botched the networking of his systems so that when he puts one online, another goes offline - but, they will not wait on the blonde in the faux fur coat.

When I finally manage to get someone's attention, all I find out is they don't have what I want. I knew that already from looking at the stock on the shelves  but I hoped they had more in the back or something.  I explained that I had first confirmed they sold the right fan; I had seen it on their website and so ventured forth to purchase it. "We have more online than we carry in the store", he told me.  As I was already mentally categorized under "Female - Subsection Blonde" I asked him petulantly: "how can you be a superstore if you don't have what I want?" (I didn't stamp my foot, however, that would have been overkill).  I was going to walk out without the power supply that I found on 60% clearance but then I realized it was too good a deal to pass up and maybe I should have one on hand.

So off I went to the next store.  I saw a perfect parking spot that would have saved my tired legs from a long trek, only to have it stolen from me by some young kid.  I was tired and cranky so I rushed to the next aisle to park within a few cars of him, intending to scar his conscience but he was too quick for me and scurried into the store before I could catch up.  Youths always scurry, I wonder why.  They have more time than anyone, but they are always in a hurry. 

But I wasn't just demonstrating the slow movements brought on by, well let's not call it age, let's call it the absence of youth. By this time I was tired from standing in the other store, attempting to appear worthy of waiting on.  I walked around  this second superstore in circles without even finding any section where they had such things as CPU fans until finally I managed to catch the tiny attention span of a young male who told me they didn't carry fans. Turns out he thought I meant the kind you put in the window. What else would a blonde in a fur coat want in the computer section? I set him straight and he led me to them but knew nothing about them.  He suggested I go online because: "We carry more online than we do in the store".

I gave up then and didn't even look at the bargains on keyboards. I headed back out to retreat to the safety of the Internet, where no one steals your parking space.

I went online.  I found the fan I want that is the right size, doesn't come with a heat sink and has the TX3 connection I need.  It is $4.99.  The shipping is $5.00. I will have to pay more than twice its price to get it but the best part is that is will take more than a week to arrive. There was an option to get next day shipping for $18.00.  Then it would take only 4 days to arrive.

I decided that the way the computer "superstores" stay in business is by making it impossible for you to find even the smallest and simplest item that would allow you to keep your own unit running by yourself.  They want the average person to give up and in a state of confusion agree to buy an entire new package.  This is their real business, selling  computer packages and waiting for them to break down so you will come buy another computer system package.

All of this is only to say that I haven't been blogging with any regularity and here is one reason why.  And since I didn't pay for the four-day express shipping,  it will be a while yet.

They're calling her Molly.

A few days ago Molly decided she wasn't going to stay in line and wait to be killed.  A few days ago, Molly was slated for the slaughterhouse, destined to be dinner. A few days ago, she didn't have a name.  But Molly decided to get out of line.

Her 1,200 pound frame jumped the fence, crossed roadways and railroad tracks, swam the Missouri River and wandered into town.  It took workers and police six hours to capture her.  When they did, they didn't insist she get back in line.

Molly is a cow.  A cow who was in line at the slaughterhouse and while all the other cows followed along, Molly decided to get out of line and follow her own path.

An off-beat story, to be sure.  Doesn't happen often, I hear you say.  No, it doesn't, but it does happen.  How about Louise the pig? Louise was being transported with four other pigs to slaughter when she decided to jump out of the window of the truck carrying her onto a busy highway.  Rudy, another pig, was found wandering a truck stop after he had left the vehicle that was taking him to the abattoir.

I wonder, is that all it takes? Is that all there is to it,  just getting out of line?  Had Molly gone along, stayed where she belonged and fulfilled her apparent purpose, I would have had no second thoughts about my burger.  She could have been my dinner and my conscience would be clear.  

If I stay in line, is it my purpose and my destiny I am fulfilling or that of those who make the lines?  Maybe greatness isn't being more than average,  perhaps it is the inability to go along quietly and soothe the conscience of the line drawers.  As long as you are content there, within the lines, nothing has to change.

So perhaps you should smile and be pleased the next time someone tells you "you're getting out of line". I hope you find more ways to do it, find fewer opportunities to go along, and if you escape, I hope you run.  Make trying to reclaim you an exhausting experience.  If you jump the fence, I hope they never catch you.  

I suffer from a rare disorder.  Sympathetic Vertigo.  Quite often it is misdiagnosed and thought to stem from an excessively nervous nature or an extended maternal instinct.  Sometimes it is even ascribed to personality disorders, such as Chronic Compulsive Buddinski's Complex.

I have no balance.  A friendly sounding of my name behind me and the subsequent turning of my head in the direction of the call, will cause immediate dizziness and loss of direction, often resulting in my falling headlong over a curbing.  I don't know about you, but headlong is one of my least favorite ways to fall.

I prefer to walk with a wall directly to my right or left, where a steadying and guiding hand can be run along the structure as a reassuring guide for my errant feet.  I caution companions not to walk to my left as they will inevitably be used as bumper guards when I start to drift.  I have a fear of heights as well, not a fear of being at heights, a fear of falling from heights.  One of my earliest memories is that of standing at the top of the stairs and upon looking down, falling the entire length of the staircase.  It could be the spotty memory of a child but it seems to me this happened more than once.  I must not have been a bright child. Possibly I suffered a closed head injury and believe me, that would explain a lot of things.

Over the years I have flown down many a flight of stairs and over a few porch railings.  I have learned never to trust my feet to land where I sent them and to be acutely aware of my body's attempts to hurl itself over the nearest precipice.  But this is my imbalance.

Most people I know are perfectly capable of running down a flight of stairs, or even walking through a store without major injury or damage to property.  So why is it that I can't trust them either?  

Sympathetic Vertigo.  

I can't look when people stand at the edge of railings and peer over three floors to the lobby.  I turn my head when I see someone standing with their back to the top of a staircase.  I won't go to the circus or even watch it on television.  The fact that it is video-taped does not mean you will be spared the sight of the untimely and ungraceful death of a formerly high, high-wire acrobat. Sorry, been there, watched that.

It's a lack of faith in equilibrium and a healthy fear of gravity.  Other people seem to lack what appears to me to be a huge self-preservation instinct:  try not to fall.  Don't jump off cliffs or bridges on purpose, even if you have a long elastic tied to your ankles.  Don't go very high on amusement park rides that were put up in a day and will be removed 5 days hence to be set up elsewhere.  Don't lean over canyons, don't stand with your back to a precipice.  Try not to fall.

I guess it is just my natural concern for my fellow human beings that drives me.  There seem to large numbers of the population that ignore this very basic survival strategy: try not to fall. Skydivers are a group who are particularly afflicted with a basic lack of fear.  For these and others I step into the gap left as a result of a devious side-stepping of the process of  natural selection; their ancestors apparently not having fallen until after having reproduced.

My doctor has suggested there is medication that would lessen the effects of Sympathetic Vertigo and if the truth be told, I could use the rest and peace it might afford.  But I cannot take that selfish step.  There is a world of people out there, teetering on the brink.  Someone has to warn them.

There are places that are beautiful in any season or in any weather.  Well-groomed gardens, nature's magnificent mountains, canyons that were carved by glaciers but now eternally reflect the orange glow of the sun and exude warmth.  These places end up on postcards and calendars, and sometimes on Christmas cards. They fit the commonly held concept of natural beauty.

I get a lot of Christmas cards.  I am ashamed to say I never send any, but that is my peculiarity and for some reason forgiven by most (which I think is rather decent of them and in-keeping with the general holiday spirit).

I love the artwork on Christmas cards.  There is always a peaceful winter scene, golden light shines from windows onto soft, rolling drifts of snow.  The stars glow bright against an azure sky.  We are overcome with beauty and the warmth of home.

Snow. Definitely beautiful.  A snow can transform the most ordinary spot into something you wish you could paint.  Or put on a Christmas card.

But how about a couple of days later?  What about when the plows have made high walls that line the streets, and sand and salt spray from the wheels of passing vehicles have splattered them brown and black like old and dingy paint that needs a fresh coat?  What about when the delicate lacy edging on tree branches and the hollow tubing of long-dead vegetation has been stripped by bitter winds, leaving nothing but gnarled and angry fingers pointing at a sun that lends no warmth by its shining? Does anyone want to paint this?

I do.

Winter transforms the world daily.  It grants it beauty, takes the earth as its young bride and bedecks it in white; fresh and clean, a sparkling vision.  But the course of winter, like that of life, makes no guarantee of eternal beauty and peace.  It teases with a rise in the thermometer, it slaps down optimism with the cold wind of its hand, it rains down pebbles of ice and chases the blood from your fingertips.

I love the indecision of winter in New England.  I love the way it  pushes and punishes with arctic blasts, pummels the  body and spirit until in a capricious moment, it leaves off its bitter cruelty and lifts its icy roof to allow  the sun and an errant wind to warm and restore.  

Yes, I would like to paint the winter that is not beautiful, the one that reaches an icy finger into your soul and sends the wind to tear its own white coverlet off the shivering trees. I want to paint the muddy slosh of sanded parking lots, the dried salt that leaves a powdered sugar finish on every car, the puckered skin on bloodless hands, robbed of their warmth by subzero temperatures.

Of course, this is December.  Catch me around the third week of February after the 24th snow storm of the season.  I may find it all a little less enchanting.

  Thanksgiving is a very special day, symbolizing the hopes and dreams of the very first settlers on our soil. It's an interesting day really.  It's all-American.  These days I don't know if we are giving thanks or just celebrating our right to excess.  In any case, it's worth it if only for the pumpkin pie.

Every family has its own tradition and my personal Thanksgiving tradition has always been to find someone who was cooking dinner and wanted guests, someone who would feed me and feed me well. That's what holidays are all about, tradition.  For years the family gathered at my mother's house and she cooked, and cooked, and cooked.  She was great at tradition.  We ate, and ate, and ate. We were pretty good at tradition too.

The first year I broke tradition was the first Thanksgiving my mother was feeling ill.  It was a long time from when she started to slow down and fail to when we forced her to the doctor and got the sobering news that she had cancer.  That year, she just wasn't herself, not as strong and not as capable.  She didn't want to cook and she didn't want to make the trip to my sister's house for dinner.  That year, my children and I were the only Thanksgiving guests and I did the unthinkable but entirely logical.  I ordered the meal from a local supermarket and on Thanksgiving morning picked up a bird roasted to perfection with all the side dishes and dessert already prepared.  It was a good meal and very little trouble.  I briefly thought about making this a new tradition.

The next year it was clear that if my mother lived to Thanksgiving, it would surely be the last November she was with us.  Suddenly my traditions seemed unimportant and I had domestic urges.  I felt an overwhelming desire to learn to bake beans as she had, and I needed to learn to roast a turkey.  It was time for me to grow up, to take responsibility; and for the first time in my life, it was my own idea and not just forced by circumstances.  That year I bought for the very first time, my very own raised-to-be-eaten, fattened and plucked-naked turkey; the symbol of what America means to me.

I started two weeks before Thanksgiving to give myself a test run.  I was immediately thwarted at my first attempt because the roasting pan I had purchased was too large to fit in my apartment-sized oven.  When I moved in I had the choice of a large stove or room for a washer and dryer. Having spent far too many years at the laundromat, I opted for the washer and dryer. As we are a small family, I decided we needed only small meals. There is no such thing as small amounts of dirty laundry if there are children in the house.

Not to be daunted, I found a new pan, one that fit in the oven and still allowed the door to close completely.  I did everything that I could discover one was supposed to do.  I read about turkeys on the internet, I googled.  I asked friends.  I discovered that every single person on earth cooks the turkey a different way.

One wraps it in bacon so that the skin gets crisp but does not burn, another uses a special rack, some go for frozen turkeys, others for fresh, some cook it on the grill, some others deep-fry.  I didn't even get as far as stuffing the thing.  I didn't make the usual mistake that most new cooks do and leave the insides of the turkey inside the turkey.  I violated him like a professional, removing the entrails through the proper orifice and marvelling at how efficient these fowl are to keep all their organs in a nice plastic bag like that.  Not nearly as messy and probably reduces the risk of infection.  

To my surprise, I didn't completely ruin that turkey.  I opted for a cooking bag that promised I could not fail and amazingly, I didn't fail. I had one nicely roasted turkey under my belt and I was eager now for the main event.  I bought another turkey, another set of cooking bags, stocked all the usual vegetables and stuffing and chilled the cranberry sauce. Thanksgiving morning came, and I was ready for it.

There was something odd about this bird.  I prepared it exactly as I had done before,  I cooked it the requisite number of hours, the little pop-up timer had popped and all signs pointed to it being ready for consumption.  But when I went to carve it, the meat was pink.  I put it back in the oven and waited a bit longer.  When I removed it the second time, it was pinker, in fact it grew more and more pink-stained as cooking time went on.  The strange thing was, the meat was white and well done near the bone, but grew from faint to shocking pink near the skin.  I didn't know what was wrong with this glowing pink turkey.  I cut off some meat and put it in the microwave.  It got tough and rubbery, but it was still a faint magenta. I started wondering just where this "farm" was that was the supposed origin of this turkey.  I suspected it may be near a nuclear power plant.

I tried to find white and cooked meat to serve, it was a strange bit of carving.  I filled a plate with any meat I could scrape off that didn't look as though it came from a turkey with radiation sickness. Ultimately, I didn't have the guts to feed it to anyone and I wrapped that turkey carcasse in three plastic bags and tossed it out. I would have lined the trash can in lead if I could have.  We had a vegetarian Thanksgiving.  We gave thanks that the turkey didn't seem to be emitting subspace signals and there was no increase in UFO activity over my house.

I was feeling defeated so two days later I bought another turkey and we had Thanksgiving all over again.  This bird turned out fine.  I was told later by someone who works as a cook, that the pink meat was a sign it had been frozen, thawed and then frozen again.  I was thankful once more that we didn't attempt to eat it.

This year I fell back on tradition and sought out someone else to cook the dinner.  We gave thanks that my sister made the meal and required no outside assistance or anyone to bring dessert (I haven't had an urge to make pastry crust yet).  I have returned to the tradition of finding someone else to do all the work.  Tradition is so important.

Autumn comes and
sets fire to the trees,
And the Wind
sets fire to the air.

I got to wondering today about bird omens.  My mother always said it was a bad omen if a bird came into the house or flew into a window.  Well, yeah, I would think so really.  A bird in the house has to be unlucky, not to mention messy and there isn't anything good to be said about having a bird do a body slam against your window.  That one seems fairly obvious.  I did wonder then why she kept parakeets; which would seem to be birds in the house.  Omens are mysterious things.

I wonder if I have experienced a bird omen.

As a smoker, my employer only allows me to indulge my addiction if I will descend into the cavernous depths of the building, to the cement-pillared dungeon of the parking garage.  It was on one such excursion that  my fellow addicts and I spotted a large leaf shaped like a bird sitting in the middle of the entrance way to the garage.  I moved closer to see this phenomenon and discovered it was actually a bird, disguising itself as a leaf.

It was alive.  But it was hard to tell how alive it might be.  I determined it was a female cardinal, which was somewhat exciting since I had never been so close to one.  It blinked its eyes.  That was about it on the movement scale.

The spot where it was resting, and the mirrored glass above the entrance way, made it fairly clear how it arrived here, stunned and immobile. I don't know where my usual concern for injured creatures went but for some reason, I had no reaction whatsoever.  A bird has a brain that is only about the size of a grain of sand, I reasoned.  If it runs its head smack into a wall, how much damage could that do?  I figured the bird was brain dead or concussed or possibly in a persistent vegetative state.  Nonetheless, using a box top, we gingerly moved it to a sunnier and grassier location, thereby making it easier for predators to snatch the paralyzed bundle of feathers.

Later that day it was gone.  The prevailing theory is that it recovered and flew away.  That's possible.  It could have regained only the ability to stagger and toppled over the nearby embankment. It could have been Fluffy the cat's lunch.  

But I wondered what sort of omen it was.  If a bird tries to fly where there is no sky but only a mirage of open space, and in so doing conks itself in the head and falls as dead at your feet pretending to be a leaf... what does that mean?  If it then revives and flies away to go on about its bird-brained business, is that a good omen?

I wonder if I do the same thing at times.  Am I staring into what I imagine is ahead, but perhaps  is only a reflection of what is behind me?  Maybe I project into the future based on what I have seen in my past.  Could it be I keep slamming my head into it because I cannot find a truly new direction?  Do I see an open way where there is only a solid and unyielding wall?

 Maybe all it means is that birds have brains about the size of grains of sand and it is not uncommon for them to fly breakneck into sky that isn't there.  Maybe it is a bad omen because it makes you look for meaning where none resides.

Some days, it would be nice to find meaning.  I wonder.  If I knew whether the bird had lived or died, I wonder if the meaning would find me.

Time.  

Time is a function of the universe we live in.  Scientists can so easily explain it. Days and nights occur because the earth is spinning on its axis.  We can study Einstein's theories, we can boggle our minds with the concepts of time, space, motion and matter.  None of this explains what time is in the human experience.

I wonder how it is that I get up so early and still there is no time and I am late for work.  Then I get to work and time goes so slowly, there is twice as much of it as there ought to be.

This past weekend we reverted to standard time from our cherished Daylight Savings Time.  Twice a year we change our clocks, hoping to remember the correct direction by reciting  mnemonic devices such as "spring forward, fall back".  I say, either way, someone could get hurt.

The clocks went back an hour.  Sunset crept up on us earlier.  It was only by an hour but due to the strange way humans divide their days, it arrived at a very important time marker: the end of the work day.  The time when we finally are freed from our partitioned cells and jangling phones.  Time to get into our cars and fight all the other humans who are also desperate to reach home.  

I noticed it the first day at work after the clocks went back. I stood at the window, looking out over the parking lot, noticing the absence of those gorgeous pink and purple streaks of sunset.  Dusk had already arrived with yet fifteen minutes to go until the 5:00 parole from our daily sentence. I couldn't help it, the realization that the months of darkness had arrived overcame me and I exclaimed "oh, it is pitch black already!  The night begins now before our day is even through".  The coworker behind me groaned and sarcastically thanked me for that uplifting observation.  I have that effect on people.

But we all know time moves when we want to hold it, stands still when we would hurry it and push it out of our way.  I turned to her and in a moment of remorse and manufactured optimism, I told her what is essentially true.

"Listen", I said.  "It is already November.  That means that in only three weeks it will be Thanksgiving.  You know what Thanksgiving means?  It means that after Thanksgiving, time will fly by in a flurry of too few shopping days left till Christmas.  Time rushes past us while we flounder, unprepared and suddenly Christmas is upon us."

"Now Christmas is four days after the winter solstice so that means we have already passed the shortest day of the year and are already gaining minute bits of daylight.  Sure these go unnoticed at first, but steadily they accumulate all through January until one day in the middle of February you will realize it is not quite pitch black when you walk to your car.  And as everyone knows, February is a tiny little month that barely gets noticed before it is gone. And after February, spring comes March-ing in."

I turned to her for the full dramatic effect.

"Clearly, the signs are all there.  Spring is just around the corner."

Einstein was right, you know.  Time is relative.

It's too early.  I don't know why I want to be awake this early, there is nothing but darkness and the pounding rain.  There is nothing but the sense that the world has been given a coat of black semi-gloss paint, slick and wet.

I wake with a chill that has settled deeply and won't be dispersed.  I wake to apparations of thoughts that did not escape into dreams, but wait for my conscious acknowledgment.  I don't know which doubts to entertain first.  They all dance and vie for my attention.  Each shows its neediness and works at appealing to my sleep-drugged mind.

It doesn't matter which I choose, any of them sends my morning spinning into a complete reassessment of my life and the decision to fix everything.  My resolve lasts only until the hopelessness falls on me like a cold, dark rain.

I wander into the bathroom trying to find a light so that I can see my watch and know the time. It doesn't matter what the time is, I have been driven from my bed by an inner force and will not return there.  I wonder if I ever know the time, or how much time has gone by, or how much is left and what I will pay for what I have wasted.

The face in the mirror seems familiar but unfocused.  I see that the lines on my forehead look deepest after sleep and realize that it is while I tarry in unconsciousness that they are etched and carved. What is it that I do or think or dream that leaves such marks of worry on my face?  Where is my rest? I sleep, but do I ever rest? I have a brief thought of putting on some cream to soothe the dry skin and smooth those lines of tension but instead I simply walk away from the mirror. I cannot face the fear that is reflected there.

 As I turn, I notice that lack of exercise is diminishing any tone of muscles I had in my arms and shoulders and think I should go now and do exercises in the morning; but instead I pour more coffee and go sit at the desk in the dark corner, only to stare and try to bargain with an unresponsive computer screen.  The immobility emanates from my spirit but my body acquiesces.

Something nags at my mind, something lurks beneath the surface of my consciousness.  It has clothed itself in shadows, it pokes a finger and tickles a neuron, then hides again as if it were a game. Perhaps this is the dream unremembered, perhaps it knows the story of the lines.  I try to will it into lines on the page but it slips from my grasp and buries itself deeper into my subconscious.

 I want to write, but the words have left me and I have nothing but my coffee and my cigarette for company and no sound but the endless echo of the pounding rain.

There is a trend I have noticed in society, an increasing level of rudeness.  Not your average rudeness, such as not holding a door for the next person, or forgetting to say "please" and "thank you" but a meaner and more personal rudeness.  A lack of civility of course, but something more.  

This is illustrated for me every day in everyday interactions.  It is the co-worker, who having spotted you hurrying towards the office building in order to not be late for work, still rushes to hit the "close door" button on the elevator rather than wait themselves for a few more seconds.  It is the driver who is unable to see that tailgaiting that elderly gentleman is not going to make him go faster, he is simply going to get nervous and it will cause an accident. A crowded store parking lot at Christmas shopping season will prove to you the war-like nature of man as cars circle like vultures and drivers breathe threats against other drivers who have not recognized the territorial meaning of a blinking signal of the car hovering by a soon to be open parking space. Are we never able to slow down enough in life to enjoy a moment and to help another?

Yesterday a friend of mine, a disabled friend, was attempting to go through a set of revolving doors  as she is unable to pull open the heavy doors that are provided as an alternative.  She didn't notice that there were two men hustling through from the other side.  Their  powerful push on the door sent it going around faster than she had expected and the suddenness of the door slipping away from her hands  that gripped the railing startled her, and the next panel of the door struck her, propelling her backwards onto the brick walkway.

The reaction of these two men?  They walked on.  They walked on even though she lay there on the walkway, unable to rise.  They advised her that she should use the other doors, one was observant enough to say "you were alright until you hit your head".  Neither inquired as to whether she was alright, was she able to get up, did she need help or offer to assist in any way. They kept going because they had somewhere to go and besides, one of them seemed to think it was rather funny.

Maybe it's a lack of empathy, maybe that is what I notice.  Maybe this is just the selfish generation.  Maybe people have lost the ability to function as if they are part of a whole.  It seems at times I am surrounded by a sociopathic citizenry.  The benefit or gain to them is all, nothing else matters in anything they do.

Maybe I am just feeling cranky and a little helpless, because I wasn't there and I couldn't lambaste them with my ire and I couldn't help.  Maybe someday I will get over my anger and if these guys are lucky, it will be before someone spots them and points them out  to me.

Maybe if I could just take the world by the scruff of the neck and shake them until they got some common sense and decency... well, it's probably better that I can't.   Not while I am in this mood anyway.

Something that Liz (ME Strauss) over at Letting me be posted got me commenting.  Then it got me thinking.  Worst of all it got me writing.

Now I know that genetics, like all other scientific and mathematical type equations, has set perameters and rules within rules and all gene combinations are going to fit within these perameters.  And one would suppose that by combining the genes of two completely different people, you would arrive at five offspring whose characteristics would have wide variations within those perameters.  But, it doesn't always work that way.

Let me post for you the comment so you have a little understanding of the situation:

"All those theories work fine until you get to my mother. My mother refused to have any children who didn't look just like her. My mother had genes that were predatory and they seek out and destroy all other genes even to the second generation.

I look in the mirror now, and each day I see her more than I see what I used to think was me. I look at my children and see her mother and "mini-me" and I realize, that science held no sway over this woman. I suppose if I have to look like someone, I should be happy to look like the woman who conquered genetics."

And over time, my mother seems to be proving right as I notice all my siblings turning into versions of her.  In any case, by the time I was an adult, I was sure we only had her genes too.  My father seemed to provide only a means of support as my mother sought to spread her genes to future generations.

Which led me once to ask her a strange question.

 I must preface this by saying that my mother, though compassionate and fond of animals, often grew tired of pets that refused to follow her rules or whose presence was becoming annoying. I remember being about 8 or 9, standing outside on a porch every night for weeks and calling a cat who never came home only to discover that he had been taken to the ASPCA.  A dog disappeared while I was at school, he had just had his third flea infestation and I guess the third time is the charm.  Pets  disappeared without warning. It gave my childhood that element of surprise and mystery.

But all my life, I had believed that Benny the dog had run away. He was just the kind of dog you would expect to run away, frenzied and impulsive.  I believed this, that is, until a few years ago. One evening as my brother and I sat in my mother's kitchen we discussed a dog who had run into the yard a few years after Benny had disappeared.  This dog taunted the owners who chased him, turning himself inside out with the joy of his apparent escape.  This dog looked and acted so much like Benny that we wondered if he had wandered home to say "hello".

It was then the truth was finally brought out into the open; a confession finally forthcoming from my mother and my eldest sister. All those years before, Benny and another neighborhood dog had  been involved in some incident with a neighbor's cat; an incident that ended badly for the cat. My mother had taken the dog and had him put down, never letting on to us children that he had not, in fact, just run away.  

It was then, at the scene of this startling revelation that a terrible thought occurred to me. The full impact of the ease with which my mother dispensed with unwanted pets combined with her insistence that all her offspring resemble her, compelled me to turn to her and ask:

"How many children did you really have?"

I haven't been feeling very well, feverish in fact.  In my febrile state, I decided to write a sonnet, a Shakespearean sonnet.  Well, more like re-write a Shakespearean sonnet.  This one.  I am too sick to finish it.

In my delerium, I am blogging it.  Please forgive me.

On sum'otha day, may I call you, June?
My homies tell me that you ain't that hot
Would I blow your mind if I speak too soon?
Rent falls due and you would stay, but cannot.

Understanding your children is a life-long process and a lot of hard work. Now, I don't mean understanding them in the sense of getting to know them as individuals or recognizing their inner motivations and drives.  I just mean that kids talk funny.

When the Girl was young, she had a difficult time enunciating words due to a hearing deficit that kept her from clearly discerning all the sounds.  Often words were mostly vowel vocalizations without many consonants, without the essential beginning or ending of a word so that all blended together into a string of lovely music without meaning.  In essence, she spoke Chinese.

But the Boy is a different story.  His mispronunciations are the usual ones common to his age, and they smooth over and are replaced almost daily with more correct sounds and consonants.  The problem I have with him is that once he decides upon a word, he is unlikely to change his mind about it.  The word is just what he says it is and nothing else.  Therefore, I still cannot buy him a hamburger, it must be a hangaburger.

A couple of weeks ago I picked him up at preschool and on our way out the door he told me "Mom, I want to play with attractive forms".  I was pretty sure I heard that incorrectly so I asked him to repeat it.  And he did.  I decided:  well forms are like shapes, this must be some learning game he played at school.

A few days later he mentioned them again.  "Mom, I want to get the Attractive Forms video".

This was a little more worrisome.  A video.  A boy.  A five year old boy but a boy nevertheless, and a video called Attractive Forms.  I was confused but concerned.

Over the weekend we visited the local video store where we regularly rent video games for his Game Cube. We have tried nearly all the age appropriate (or at least, not too gory) games available and suddenly he saw exactly what he wanted.

"Mom. I found it! The Attractive Forms game!"

We rented it.  He played it.  He was disappointed and found it a little scary.  I was only too happy to agree with him.  "Yes, son, attractive forms are scary, stay away from them".

He insisted we return it early and get another game he would like better.

So off we went to the video store to look for another game.  In the end we got Polar Express and Star Wars and returned "The Fantastic Four".


For more articles like this see these links:
S'no Day like a Snow Day
The Phone Rang Predictably
Every Child Needs a Pet

While running a few errands today, I passed a lemonade stand.  Some neighborhood kids had set up shop on a nearby street and were hawking their wares to passersby with entrepreneurial passion. One boy held a brightly colored handmade sign and two girls seemed to be in charge of supplying big smiles and waves for each passing vehicle.  It was on the other side of the street so I thought briefly "aww, wish I could stop" and kept going.  A little while later I was passing by again, on the right side of the street this time but I continued on past anyway. The faces on these kids, so eager and expectant caused a little nagging voice in my head to chide "you should have stopped".  When my travels took me by a third time, guilt took over and I stopped to purchase some lemonade, even though neither I nor my children wanted any.  I sent the Girl over with a dollar bill, told her to buy one cup (the going rate was twenty-five cents a cup) and tell them to keep the change.  Turned out it was a cup of somewhat warm iced tea, but no matter.  I just felt an urge to support their enthusiasm.

It reminded me of the things we did when I was a kid, the lemonade stands, the plays we organized in the neighbor's barn and the makeshift parades we put on for very small audiences.  It also reminded me of the time we held a bazaar.  I think it may have been my idea to hold a bazaar, but it isn't important. I got a lot of strange ideas and even stranger was the fact that everyone went along with them.  Once I found an old fringed bedspread, cut off the end of it and tied it around my waist like a fringed skirt.  I found some clothesline rope and we all made lassos.  For the whole summer we went about as cowboys and cowgirls twirling our lassos;  I in my fringed cowgirl skirt taking the lead.  Once we strayed into a different neighborhood and the kids there did not think we were as cool as we obviously thought we were.  Strange.

Anyway, the bazaar kept us busy for weeks, making items for sale out of bleach bottles and scraps of wood and fabric.  The items were of the sort that are only marketable to parents and friends of course, there is not much demand for piggy banks made out of Clorox bottles but we were sure that our little endeavour was going to make us all rich. The day finally came, our customers came and at the end of it a tally of the till was taken.  It was then that the oldest girl of our group decided that there was just enough money to buy an ice cream from the ice cream truck for everyone in the neighborhood, even those that had not been part of the bazaar.

 I objected strenuously at the thought of my hard-earned profit being squandered on an ice cream spree and insisted on keeping my share of the take.  But as she gave everyone a vote, even those who were not participants, I lost by a wide margin.  In the end she handed me a nickel, the cost of an ice cream way back then. I think that was when I first realized I was a capitalist.

There is really no point to this, except to say that I am glad I stopped at that lemonade stand.  Today there are some kids who have a little change in their pockets and a sense of accomplishment.  I am now going to make a vow to stop at every lemonade stand I see, no matter how busy or late I am running. The dreams of children, however small, are worth my time.

I was near the end of my day at work when I spotted a newspaper lying on the table in the reception area.  The headline caught my eye.  "SLACKERS".  Well, it was the end of the day almost, I didn't really want to work anymore anyway, so I picked it up. Seems the average American worker wastes 2.5 hours of each work day.  The article listed the favorite ways to waste time.  Since reading the newspaper wasn't in the top 10, I figured it was alright.

I was disturbed to discover that the average in Kentucky was the highest in the country with 4.0 hours per day of wasted time. Okay, so they waste half the day and still have jobs.  Obviously I am doing something wrong.

When surveyed, Human Resource managers believed that women waste more time than men but studies showed that they appear to slack off equally.  So, if you are female and standing idly by a co-worker's desk, you are more likely to be accused of goofing off than a man in the same circumstances.  Blatant, isn't it?  Obviously they have never listened to the endless hours of discussion over sports and cars and well, whatever else it is men talk about.  I mean, who listens?  And older workers, who often have a harder time getting hired these days by those same Human Resource personnel, work harder than younger workers.

The top time-wasting activity was internet surfing.  Having seen the number of bloggers who end posts by saying, "well, have to get back to work now", I  expect blogging on the net to make the top ten list by next year. An intelligent and industrious 1.3% of the time-wasting workforce are applying for other jobs while at work.  Of course, their companies probably don't have internet access and so they can't surf and blog.  Time to trade up.

Surprisingly, only 2.3% of time wasted was used on personal phone calls and 6.8% on personal business.  Considering that most of us spend the core hours of the day at work when any business or doctor's office we need to contact might be open, and considering the number of mothers who need to be available to schools and sitters, this is not bad at all really.  I think that companies have to realize that their employees have personal business than cannot be conducted after 5:00 or on weekends and this should not cause concern.  It is being able to handle the personal business of their lives that makes it possible for them to come to work.  And only 1% of time wasted was because of workers arriving late or leaving early.  I think we sound very dedicated.

The most upsetting aspect of the situation is that, according to this article, employers are aware of how much time employees waste and even work this into salary models. This means my employer could be paying me 2.5 hours less than I would get if they really expected a full day.  What's worse is that in my state, the average amount of time wasted per day is only 1.9 hours and so, I am working .6 hours more than they expect me to for no additional remuneration.

I knew I was working too hard.

It always happens, you can admit it.  You are standing in the checkout line at the store and even though you had no intention of doing so, you are reading the headlines that are screaming at you from the tabloids in the racks.   It's a long line and you're bored. You know the ones I mean, The Enquirer, The Star, etc.  Still, although I read the headlines I have no urge to pick one up and read further.  I never read any of them, well, except one.  The Weekly World News.

Now the Weekly World News does not flash Oprah at us or the newest and worst pictures of our favorite celebrities (although we do love those, don't we? the pics where they have their hair disheveled and no makeup and we think:  hey, I Iook better than that!).  No the Weekly World News just has the most interesting and completely incredible stories to tell us.

The new issue's headlines caught my eye.  "RACE OF SCARECROWS LIVING IN KANSAS!" (check back here and you will see why I am partial to this one).  I had to have this issue, I simply had to have it. Especially since it says on the front that this is the world's only reliable newspaper.  It isn't published in color, it is all in black and white so you know it is a serious publication.

Now it seems there was a race of straw men living on this continent long before the Native Americans arrived.  They were very fragile apparently but had amazing ability to imitate bird calls and could scare crows easily.  Hmmm... possibly that is where the name comes from.  This is all according to the diary of one James Smith, who records that these scarecrow men were about six feet tall and wore overalls, plaid shirts and floppy hats.  One day, they all mysteriously disappeared and were replaced with inanimate replicas.  Or perhaps, one day Mr. Smith decided to lay off the peyote.

But I found other interesting articles, the surgeon who performed a heart transplant on himself, the evidence that our moon is used by aliens as a garbage dump (apparently we use it for similiar reasons as they found a World War II bomber plane up there too) and contrary to popular opinion, the startling evidence that Rome WAS built in a day. And I must remember to tell my blogging friend Emma Furlong about the farmer who was eaten alive by his chickens.  She predicted this way before it made the news.

If you want celebrity gossip, you definitely want one of the other tabloids.  But if you want the only reliable news in the world, you must read the Weekly World News.

I love coffee.  I have an unnatural lust for coffee.  I am not a purist either, I like many different types of coffee and will drink almost any kind if it is hot enough and strong enough.  Well, that's not true, I will sip the cold coffee on the desk too, if I am too lazy to go make more.

I do have favorite kinds of coffee, and specialty coffees I yearn for but morning coffee just has to be good and strong.  By strong I mean the flavor must be robust and stand up to you, not just the result of using too much coffee when you brew it, that only makes it bitter.  And trust me, I am bitter enough.  I want coffee that is at least as strong as I am.  I even love iced coffee.  It is like dessert. Even in January,  snow flying and  fingers frozen to the steering wheel, I can be found at the drive-thru window, ordering an iced coffee.

Coffee has been getting a bad reputation for years.  It has been considered unhealthful, an addiction (what's wrong with addictions?) and a cause of high blood pressure, stroke, and well, when the health conscious people get going, they can find a lot of reasons that you must give up anything that you actually enjoy.

 But lately the tide has been turning.  I don't know if it is the coffee growers or some huge corporate conglomerate paying the research scientists but the medical community is finding more and more health benefits to coffee.

Did you know, for instance, that drinking coffee helps prevent cavities? Science Daily reports that a substance in coffee prevents the adhesion of Streptococcus mutans on dental surfaces, thereby stopping their colonization and the resultant caries.  Ain't that a kick in the head?  So when someone tells you coffee is not good for you, just tell them your dentist recommended it.

But that's not all.  Coffee has been shown to reduce the risk of Parkinson's Disease, Type II Diabetes and colon cancer.  Research indicates that women who drink moderate amounts of coffee have better memory retention in their later years.  It reduces the risk of liver cirrhosis, boosts your mood and may treat headaches.

Some people are good to go with one cup of coffee in the morning.  I drink coffee pretty much all day, any time of day is a good time for coffee.  So I was more than pleased to read that for most health benefits, the more you drink the better.

 There hasn't been any research done on this yet, but it is my firm conviction that copious amounts of coffee is absolutely essential to blogging.

So, when it comes to coffee, drink up.  It's good for you.

The first thing I told the kid is, "your leg just fell asleep".  Friday night, the boy, five years old, had been scrunched up in one of those positions only five year old bodies can assume, watching his new favorite DVD, Batman and Superman - together! You may remember that the boy's secret identity is Batman.  Well, I didn't think very much about his protestations that he couldn't put his foot down or stand on his leg, this is the boy that just hours before had to be dragged out of the sand pit, where he was joyfully pouring sand down his pants in an expression of spring playground glee.  But as the evening progressed he continued to complain of his leg, eventually refusing to walk at all and I was not quite sure that he wasn't just stretching it a bit as he liked having Mom carry him from room to room.    

   I decided after he fell asleep that we would watch to see what he did in the morning.  He had suffered no injury, that was certain, so unless he strained a muscle or something, there couldn't be anything seriously wrong.  Or so I thought.

He awoke the next morning much as I expected.  He hopped out of bed and walked and ran around the house and I assumed I had been right, it was a little something blown up to appear to be a big something.  But within a couple of hours it was apparent that a real something was going on.  He started out walking stiffly and then limping and complaining of his leg again.  Soon he was complaining of pain in his leg, both feet, the left elbow and his wrist. There was a lot of edema in his hands and feet.  His doctor's office has a doctor in the facility on weekends for a few hours each day but as I knew they would just send us for to the hospital for x-rays anyway, I didn't  bother with that first stop but went straight to the ER.

 We had a torrential rain all day Saturday.  I had a 50 lb child who wouldn't walk.  The hospital had construction and no place to park.  On a normal day, the place we parked would have had to be explained as "I decided to park as far away from the emergency room as possible to enjoy the rain and lugging the kid through it".  In the end, I pulled out the old umbrella stroller though he barely fit, and wheeled him through the downpour.  Luckily, we were there for five hours so we had time to dry off before we had to go out in the rain again. There didn't seem to be that many people in the emergency room, yet we were assigned a low urgency ranking, a five year old child who can't walk apparently not being of much concern.

After x-rays and blood work, the only diagnosis they had was a reactive arthritis following a viral infection.  Except for the fact that he had no rash, I was of a mind to think it was Fifth Disease, having caught it from my daughter a year ago and having the interesting experience of going to bed perfectly well and awaking with rheumatoid arthritis in every joint, wondering how on earth I was going to get off the bed.  But the next morning the boy awoke, with no apparent pain and I thought we were doing fine.  Until he started scratching.  And scratching.  His lower legs had broken out in what appeared to be enormous hives or mosquito bites which within an hour or so settled down to a vast network of red lakes, rivers and tributaries all over his legs.  I will admit this, I did not want to go back to the hospital.

 I called his doctor's office and the doctor on call was of enormous help.  "If you are worried or his temperature is high you should go to the ER,  but if you don't want to, you don't have to, but if you think you should, then you can take him to the ER". What did he say?  That was just the kind of clear and concise instruction I needed.  We waited, I carried him room to room again as by evening he was unable to walk again and we waited to see his doctor the next day.

We saw the doctor the next day, and the next, and then two days later.  The real diagnosis was Henoch Shoenlein Purpura , or HSP, which is an immune reaction following a viral infection.  This seems to be a running problem in my family, the psychotic immune system.  I was not pleased to hear he had inherited this tendency.  Because renal failure, gastro-intestinal involvement and high blood pressure can result, the poor kid has to be checked almost daily.  He is getting very adept at providing a urine sample and thinks it is "besgusting" to pee in a cup and that someone actually wants his pee in a cup.  Thank goodness the blood draws have been few.

Well, the migrating arthralgia and arthritis seem to be slowing, the rash is fading and I thought we were sailing along. The sheer pleasure of a child who is able to walk to the bathroom on his own was overwhelming.  Until last night, while sitting quietly (amazing for him) on the floor eating his ice cream, blood began to pour from his nose.  This child has never had a nose bleed in his life.  Guess where we went?  Yup. the hospital.  After the five hour visit on Saturday, when Mom hadn't fed anyone lunch yet, nor had the foresight to bring copious change for the vending machine and the sheer boredom of the waiting room, the girl got smart.  She packed a bag with books, the Game Boy, some assorted snacks and juice boxes.  She is a born survivalist.

His blood pressure had been up some on his morning doctor visit, necessitating the scheduling of another for the next day.  His BP was even higher when we got to the hospital.  It was higher still when we got to the exam room and again higher when the doctor came in finally and took it once more.  Still, although the nose bleed was what had precipitated my visit there, I was assured over and over that it had nothing to do with the situation at hand.  I thought then, this is a marvelous coincidence, otherwise how would I know to have his blood pressure checked?

Only three hours in the emergency room last night, more urine samples, more consulting of physicians, more waiting, eventually allowed to go home with no answers or specific instructions.  Well, except the little discharge blurb on what to do in case of a nose bleed. Nothing about how to tell if his blood pressure rises, since the nose bleed is completely unrelated and probably caused by sitting on the floor quietly and not even getting to finish your ice cream.

Due to the boy's fitful sleep the night before, I had been awake since 2am. I calculated now, as the children climbed into bed that I had been up over 20 hours, so I did what any rational person would do.  I turned on the computer to check the blog and see how it was doing. It provided the only normalcy in my day.  At times like these it is good to have an obsession, umm I mean, hobby.

The circus came to town this week.

I hate the circus.

First of all, I don't like clowns. I don't trust them, you never can tell what they are really thinking. Notice all those fake, painted-on expressions? Well, I have to do that every day without the benefit of stage make-up. I have to settle for a little Maybelline and bravado. Remember that movie "Killer Klowns from Outer Space"? Based on a true story, I swear it. Trust me, clowns are evil and very poor actors. Let them try to convince you that bucket is full of water without the floppy shoes and rubber nose. If anyone other than a clown came up to you and dumped a bucket of confetti on you, you'd deck him.

Then there are the elephants. There is, of course, the basic question of the inhumanity of keeping such large creatures in man's small environments and taking them from the natural wild life they are supposed to have by birthright. But beyond this, I have watched enough Real TV to know that there is always the rogue elephant who after years of complacent and servile performance in the entertainment industry decides one day to stampede (usually with some hapless rider on his back) and wreak havoc and death all around. They have probably realized that other celebrities get better PR and luxury accomodations and as they are unable to express their need for a larger dressing room and more perks in any other way, simply trumpet and stomp. Who can blame them?

Worst of all are death-defying acts. I haven't figured out the fun in this part yet. I can't look as people go flying about in the air over my head, hoping that today is not the day gravity will get the best of them. This circus has advertised the Flying Wallendas as a special treat. Really.

I remember that fateful day in 1973. I was innocently watching some television, probably a soap opera, when that serious voice they employ just for these occasions broke into the telecast to say "We interrupt our regular broadcast to bring you this Special Report". Ever notice that "Special Reports" are never good news? When was the last time they broke into a sitcom to announce that the GNP was up or that gas prices were down? So, I should have known better when the video of an old man walking a wire on a windy day began rolling before my eyes; and yet I watched until the faceless voice spoke the words "Karl Wallenda of the Flying Wallendas, 73, fell to his death" and then ... he was gone. He flew well but landed poorly.

I hate that.

So when I drove by the caravans all gathering upon the spot that would host the show, I lied to the children. I told them it was National Camping Day.

It's a new season and I wanted to try something new. I decided to write a nice little poem about spring days and warmth and the promise of the changing season. But somehow, I am just too "Ned" and everything turned out all wrong. For instance, the sun shone brilliantly today so I tried a bright and cheery nature Haiku:

The sun glared at snow
Tickling out drops of water
Turning earth to mud.

Then I thought "ending with mud, that's not very cheery". And that glare thing. But hey, have you ever tried to drive on a sunny spring morning? The sun is exactly at the right angle so that between the glare off the snow and the dirty windshield, you can't see a thing. I know, I could finally break down and buy a windshield wiper. I did go to Walmart to buy one but I got distracted. Anyway, back to the poem. The Haiku wasn't working for me, I decided they are too short to be warm. So I tried a limerick, can't go wrong with a limerick, they are always bouncy.

What Joy! Today the sun shone
Spring's promises we now own
A few without fear
Sallied forth in gym gear
Showing off their testosterone

No, that wasn't quite right either. Started off alright but then went off on a tangent somehow. Well, it was probably that trip to Walmart and the people-watching was simply heinous. The first day the temperature breaks 50F and these guys with their fake tans and their "pumping iron" gym clothes are wandering through the Walmart parking lot trying to attract some female attention. It was disturbing to see that in March.

Okay, well time to get serious. And the way to show you are serious? That's right, a sonnet.

The sun's warmth, though far its journey may be
Infuses with life all that it touches
And nature's observer stands still to see
His unwary feet trapped in mud's clutches

Ah see, back to the mud. Well, that didn't get very far. No, I can see this isn't going to work. If you want a heartwarming spring poem you will have to seek elsewhere in the blogosphere. I have to get back to work, I am trying to write a poem about daffodils without using the words "dead" or "forsaken" and it ain't easy.

It is supposed to be March. The temperature is supposed to rise to a fairly consistent forty degrees farenheit and the snow is supposed to be melting and soaking the ground to beyond its capacity to hold moisture. The grass should be long and yellow, held tenously in the soggy, swollen soil, drowning and yearning for sunshine so it may put on its green coat. The naked grey branches of trees, like arthritic fingers, should reach into a greyed sky and shiver at the blustery March wind.

But for some reason, it is still January. The ground still has layers of snow lying upon it. Once soft and pure it is now crystalized and hard, mottled with black and brown from shovels and plows and the spray thrown up by tires of passing automobiles. Often melting, but never evaporating, puddles of ice re-appear each morning in predictable places. Snow never cleared completely, but often driven over, becomes like cement set in some grotesque jello mold; ridges and valleys that leave no safe surface for feet and trip the careless. Flurries still powder the tree branches that form lacy white cobwebs against the sky. It is the Tim Burton vision of winter, dark and unrelenting, too angry to allow spring to soften its edges.

Spring is due to arrive on March 20, 2005. The weather forecast for the next week looks very much the same as the weather forecast for the past several weeks. Temperatures mainly below freezing during the day, occasionally dipping into the twenties and the teens at night. Expectations of snow flurries dot the almanac. Perhaps Spring has missed its connecting flight and is on a layover somewhere...

I suppose that dates are just that. Humans like structure and we are impatient with the seemingly haphazard ways of nature. We mark our calendars for the first day of Spring and expect that Nature will expectedly on that day, bring about sudden change. But nature does not take its cues from our calendar, it runs a course of its own. I remember days in April spent on the beach in 90 degree sunshine, and I can remember snow in May. Perhaps if it were not so unpredictable, it would not fascinate us so. Do we really want Nature to punch in and out on a timeclock? The season will change, little signs of spring warmth and promise will appear, a little here and a little there. I just have to learn to accept that it will come and not make schedules for it. Nature pays little attention to our schedules. I know this, because it is supposed to be March, and it is still January.

Something odd has happened to me. I know what you are thinking, and yes, there are things odder than I am. For years I have been somewhat enamored of the phenomenon known as "chatting". I discovered chatting after my son was born and I was home from work for 8 weeks. Before that I surfed the net only to read news and online magazines, filliing my mind with the erudite opinions of well-educated and well-informed journalists and occasionally studying foreign languages. What a waste of time, when all along I could have been chatting!

I was home alone with a child who didn't talk much. I now realize this is the best age, when they are less than two months. They don't talk and they are not very mobile. They pretty much stay where you put them and are always waiting for you when you come back. You know what messes up this perfect situation? All those parenting articles that tell you when they are supposed to reach those important "milestones" and you as a proud parent, fearing that your child might fall behind, do everything in your power to help them achieve these milestones of walking and talking. Trust me, you won't be so foolish with the second child.

So anyway, with very little company or conversation I thought, I ought to check this out; I ought to see if there are any chatrooms containing people of like interests to mine. At first chatting seemed very strange to me, I felt very out of place in these rooms where everyone seemed to know each other and anyone new was subject to verbal brutalization (and this was Christian Chat). But there is a flow to chat and you soon learn it. Over the years I have made hundreds of acquaintances and a few very good friends through chat. They say chat is addicting, but I used to spend several hours a day, seven days a week in chat and I was never addicted.

Then this blogging business came along. I was on AOL when I first started a blog and I pretty much used it the way most blogs are used, as an online diary. And after a while, I wondered, what on earth am I going to to with this? Eventually I did the same thing we all do with diaries of the deeply personal thoughts we write down about everyday life; I read it on a clearer day and was embarrassed by my own stupidity and deleted the whole thing. But somewhere in the middle of it, I started a second blog. On this one I started posting poetry. Since I had both blogs designated as private, no one ever read them and it was merely a hobby, something to fill time when I wasn't chatting. One fine day, I escaped from AOL and deleted that blog too.

But the seed was planted. I discovered Blogger through a friend's blog. I began blogging but I didn't tell anyone so it was really just an exercise. I allowed one friend to read the blog and then after a time another, and when it got to the point that perhaps as many as five people were reading it, I froze. The idea of being read completely immobilized me. But I chugged on, here and there, posting this or that. Slowly the initial shock began to erode and I found myself actually inviting people to read it. Then I started worrying that no-one was reading it. That is where the obsession begins.

Soon I found myself stopping in the middle of the day and thinking "I should blog that" about all sorts of little incidents. Luckily, I think better of blogging most of them when I have given it a little time. But there is this need that develops and grows and finally overtakes you - the need to find a suitable subject to blog about. Suddenly, no-one is safe, nothing is sacred, nothing is beyond being blogged. Then there is the duty to read and comment on the blogs of others. There are some fine blogs out there and I have a daily ritual of visiting them and dropping the odd comment (there is that odd word again). A short list of some of the ones I enjoy can be found to your left (unless you are reading this upside down. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I believe in maximum freedom of personal expression).

And then the strangest thing happened. Last night I after I turned on the computer, I checked email and blogged and visited other blogs and commented and suddenly realized, I had not signed on to my instant messenger. I have some friends that I communicate with through instant messenger almost exclusively and so I did sign on but lately...

This blogging is starting to lure me away, first from chat, and now from fruitless hours spent talking to people who are bored (they usually tell me this up front). I assume this is why they have IM'd me. If they had something better or more amusing to do, obviously they would be doing it, at least that is what is implied. I am not sure, but it is altogether possible I won't miss this constant bashing of my fragile ego as the last refuge from their boredom. Hmmm... maybe there is a blog in that...