Sunday, December 20, 2015

A Real Live Nut!

Upon reading my most recent newspaper column,
my friend, Carol, texted this:

"You are a nut!! A real live nut!!  What is it with you and your shoe heel?"

I laughed sooo hard!

What both of us were remembering was my visit with her in Florida about four years ago when I arrived with a broken shoe heel. One could hear me coming in the airport long before he/she saw me, as the noise of the floppy shoe heel rang out loud and clear... clickety-clack, clickety-clack. But, I sashayed along as if it were perfectly normal to make a noise like that with each step, even though everyone was staring and whispering behind their hands.  :) (paranoia, anyone?)

But never let it be said that I'm not courageous!  Carol's significant other repaired the shoe while I was there and I wore the very same red shoes on the return trip home!  :) 

Saturday, December 12, 2015

Memories of Chocolate Drops

What is it about Christmastime that stirs up memories? It takes only a simple everyday happening to trigger a wonderful long-ago mind picture!
For instance, this evening, when I made a cup of coffee in my Keurig, I watched, biting my lip, as the coffee kept coming until it was even with the rim of the cup. I was prepared to clean up the mess it was bound to make, but, lucky for me, it stopped just in time.
Instant flashback: my dad sitting at my kitchen table while I poured him a cup of coffee. When I stopped pouring, he pushed the cup toward me and said, “Give me a cup of coffee!” I laughed and finished filling it to the top of the cup. It was a pet-peeve – people who gave him three-quarters of a cup of coffee.
Remembering that led me to other memories of him that are just as sweet.
When I was a little girl, many stores had candy counters where they sold loose candy by the pound. They’d weigh out the amount you wanted, put it in a bag and charge you accordingly.
Every Christmas Eve morning, as far back as I can remember, Daddy would get up early, have breakfast and head out to do some shopping. When he returned a few hours later, he not only had some secret purchases, which he immediately hid, but he also had a large white bag. I always knew what was in it and watched intently as he took individual white bags out of the large one. One contained chocolate drops, (remember those?) another, chocolate covered peanuts, which I loved, and yet another had assorted hard candy. There were candy canes, cinnamon drops, and thick chunks of fudge. Even though my mother always made fudge, it was part of his tradition to buy it too. He also delivered bags of candy to some less-fortunate children in the area. He was a kind man.
Even though he’s been gone for many years, much of my life still revolves around recollections of him.
At Christmastime, whenever I feel overwhelmed and a little out of sorts, as we all do at times, all I have to do is think of my father and the things he'd be doing if he were here – and I smile.  Quote found here.

Monday, November 30, 2015

Can You Go Home Again?

When I was growing up—and when my children were young—holidays were celebrated one at a time. What a unique concept that would be today!
Only after celebrating the last summer holiday, Labor Day, with family get-togethers, picnics, boating and other activities, did we begin thinking of the next special day – Halloween.
Most people loved Halloween, especially children. It was enjoyed thoroughly and we didn’t even consider the next holiday until this one was over. Thanksgiving, one of the most important days of the year, finally arrived! It was anticipated with excitement by almost everyone. It was a day of giving thanks for our many blessings, and, for most families, it meant a huge feast, football and unforgettable family gatherings.
Then came the big one! The major celebration of the year! The cherry on the sundae...
Believe it or not, part of the beauty of each of those holidays was anticipation. One by one, we savored them – sucked as much enjoyment out of each as possible before going on to the next.
If you sometimes say to yourself, “Holidays aren’t what they used to be.” You're right. When they all run together from the Fourth of July through Christmas, something is lost to be sure.
C’mon, admit it. You’ve been seeing Christmas decorations in stores since early September, haven’t you? About the same time they put Halloween paraphernalia on the shelves, they go ahead and add Christmas items, too. Makes it easier, I suppose.
Everyone I talk to says, “Oh, my! the time goes so fast! It’s just whizzes by!”
Well, of course, it does! We measure time by holidays. Before one is over, we’re already into the next, and the next, and on and on.... Practically everyone I know had their Christmas tree up either before Thanksgiving or the day after. When I was a child, Thanksgiving weekend ushered in the Christmas season. There was no big rush. It was the ultimate “savoring” season.
Ahhh, to experience that feeling just one more time!
Thomas Wolfe wrote the words, You Can’t Go Home Again, but that doesn’t make me long for the past any less. 
Common sense tells me it’s not possible and that I must let go of the past, live in the present and look forward to the future.
But, unfortunately for me, “The mind can't erase what the heart won't set free."   

Saturday, October 31, 2015


Mr. H. and I were discussing our early days this evening while eating dinner. The subject came up about how far back we could actually remember something concrete. I said, “I remember when I was five because I started school that year.” Mr. H. said, “I remember age five, too. Not many details; just that I started school and remember my first grade teacher’s name.”
That conversation didn’t last long, but my mind wandered on...
More memorable than starting school was the special birthday party I had when I was five years old. Seventeen kids attended.
It was a nice day and the party was outside. Actually, after a few games, we got a little too warm and my Aunt Betty urged me to go in the house with her to get a drink of water.
While we were inside, she wandered into my mother’s bedroom and decided to splash on some of her cologne. Turning to me, she said, “Here, let’s put some of this on you, too.” There was just one drawback, which we realized too late. It wasn’t cologne. 
It was fingernail polish remover!
Bad scene! We were wearing beautiful new dresses that were bought for the occasion. They were made of taffeta. Hers was blue and mine was peach. We often got dresses alike. I guess our mothers thought it was cute since we were so close to the same age and size.
When Betty saw that her dress was wet, she started wiping downward on it with both hands. I did the same. Oh my! The dresses started coming apart  - dissolving might be a better word. Betty began crying. I followed suit. So there we stood, our beautiful new dresses in shreds, both bawling like babies when my mother came in.
“For the love of Heaven! What have you two done?” she shrieked. 
“We thought it was perfume,” Betty said, wiping at her tears. 
“Are you mad?” I said, a question that was always uppermost in my mind. It was never a good thing for my mother to be angry! 
Without answering, she said, “Get out of those stinky dresses; you’ve ruined them! I’ll find you something else to put on so you can go back to the party.”
After that, the party wasn’t much fun. We played a few more games, had birthday cake and ice cream and I opened presents. But the luster was gone. And soon, my friends were, too.
Before they left, my mother took a picture of me with my party guests. But one thing was missing – the beautiful peach and blue dresses Betty and I had worn to the party.
Some memories live forever – no matter how young you were when you made them. 


Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Familiar Stirrings

And the rains came.
According to the latest weather report, we can expect rain every day next week except Monday. And since Monday happens to be the first day of October, that works out fine for me.
Is it really here – my favorite month? Is it time, once again, to enjoy thirty-one days of splendid color, clear blue, cloudless skies and cool sunny afternoons? Time for those familiar stirrings inside?
I’ve had those stirrings in October since I was very young. I once attempted to describe them to my grandmother and got back an interesting explanation.
“Wanderlust!” she said, in a rather disgruntled tone.
Bear in mind, I was only about eight to 10 years old.
“What’s wunderlust?” I ask.
“Itchy feet,” she said. “It’s what your great-grandpa Morgan had. You don’t want to give in to it. My daddy went to the store for Mama one October day and never came back! I was only six and my brother, Dan, was three.”
“Where’d Grandpa Morgan go?”
“Who knows? We haven’t seen nor heard from him since. He was a dreamer, like you. Sat around daydreamin’ all the time, talkin’ about seeing the world. Sure couldn’t get no work outta him! Mama was better off without him, if you ask me.”
“What about Grandpa Hester?” I asked her.
“Well, he’s better than nothin’, I guess. Married Mama and helped her raise us kids, he did, but she never got over John Morgan. When his name’s mentioned, her eyes soften like those of an old beer drinker and she tries to hide the smile that turns up the corners of her mouth.”
“Wonder what happened to him?” I persisted.
“Just never you mind, child! If he wanted to be here with Mama and his kids, that’s where he’d be. He was no good and you don’t want to be like him. When you feel those so-called stirrings you talk about, you just get them right outta your head and get busy. There’s nuthin’ like work to make you feel better.You hear me?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Now, go on outside and find something to do. I’ve got to get back to work.”
My stirrings were never mentioned again and I’m sure my grandmother thought she’d nipped that problem in the bud, but I’ve always had them. And it’s not about seeing the world. Truth is, I don’t even like to travel, and I’ve seen enough of the world to satisfy that yearning, if there ever was one. Still, it’s something that happens only in October and nobody seems to understand it, so, although I don’t agree with my grandmother’s assessment, I just “go with it.” It’s easier that way.
Once, a few years ago, at the beginning of October, I told a friend I had stirrings inside and she replied, “Are you pregnant?”
I giggled as the words of my grandmother spilled out: “No, it’s wanderlust.”
We both laughed and it was over for her. But not for me.
Never for me!

Sunday, September 20, 2015

Will They Remember Me?

It was a beautiful afternoon. I’d been sitting at my computer for days. But this day, it was hard to concentrate. I kept looking toward the window – daydreaming the way I did when I was a young girl in school. 
The weather will change soon, I thought, and I’ll wish I’d taken advantage of days like this to soak up some sun and get a little exercise.
It finally got the best of me. I wasn’t writing anything worthwhile anyway, so I told Mr. H. I’d save him a trip by doing the banking he had intended to do and then I'd go over to Ridenour Lake and walk around for a while. He said, “Okay.”
So, I grabbed my sunglasses and car keys and off I went – to do something totally out of character.
I went through the drive-through at the bank, saving time and, about five minutes later, I was pulling into the main drive at the lake. The place seemed to be unusually deserted for such a beautiful day. I saw only two people fishing. Otherwise, it looked like I’d have the place all to myself.
I pulled over to the side of the road and parked and was ready to get out of the car when I noticed about five ducks right in front of my car apparently taking a midday siesta. Hmmmm... I thought. Do I dare get out? The noise of the car door will surely wake them and they’ll come after me. I can’t take a chance. So I sat there in my car trying to decide what to do.
You see, ducks have feathers and wings and beaks just like any other kind of bird – and everyone knows I’m terrified of birds! Ducks bite, too! My daughter was at this same lake once and a duck mistook her toe for food. He grabbed it and she thought he’d never let go. Her toe was sore for a long time.
Looking around, I saw – just down over the hill closer to the lake – a gazebo. There were chairs and benches beside the water and it looked so peaceful.  “I’ll go down there,” I said aloud. “I don’t see any ducks.” So I started the car and drove the short distance to the parking lot in front of the gazebo. Just to be safe, I looked out both sides of the car and toward the back before opening the door. No ducks! Great! I’ll go sit on one of those benches by the water for a while and soak up a little sun.
I opened the car door, got out, closed and locked it and, I swear, I didn’t take more than three steps toward the back of the car before I heard them. And then, I saw them... at least six ducks... coming toward me as fast as they could.  
I unlocked the car door and jumped in so fast my head was swimming and I hoped those silly ducks would go back to their swimming, too.
There I was – confined to the hot car again. Might as well go home, I thought. But decided to text my daughter who lives only a few minutes away from Ridenour and see what she was doing.
Me: Sitting in the car at Ridenour. Wanted to take a walk but the ducks won’t let me outta the car.
Daughter: “Lol. I’m on my way.”
She was there in a few minutes. The ducks were back in the water. So, I got out of the car and we took a short walk together laughingly recalling the last time we spent a beautiful fall afternoon at Ridenour. If you’d like to read about it, click here.
It was pretty hot so we didn’t stay long, but we decided we’d come back for a longer walk as soon as the weather cools off a bit.
Some people believe ducks remember certain people. I sure hope they're wrong!

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

X - Rated

The day didn’t start well!
When I first got up, I was deceived by the fact that there were no negative messages on my phone. Normally, I have at least one message that requires my attention or some news I don’t particularly like.
“I can’t believe I have no bad-news messages this morning,” I said to Mr. H.
But, by the time I walked through the house to the kitchen, the phone was ringing, I answered and learned of a mix-up about an insurance policy that I needed to take care of – right now – and it wasn’t a good time because I had an appointment at 2:30 and still had things to do before getting ready. However, after checking records and making three phone calls, the pressure was lessened to the point that it would keep until after my appointment although it wasn’t completely fixed.
That wasn’t all. There were more phone calls and interruptions until I began to think perhaps I should postpone my appointment. It was for a mammogram. Who wants to do that anyway? It certainly could wait another week or so, but my conscience kept nagging me until, with only a half-hour left to get ready (it usually takes me at least an hour), I told Mr, H. I was going to try it. “I’ll have to rush,” I said.
And rush, I did! When we walked out the door at 2:10, my shirt had only two buttons buttoned and my earrings were in my hand (I never go anywhere with naked ears!). I finished getting ready in the car. We had less than 20 minutes to get from Cross Lanes to Kanawha City – approximately 10 miles. Of course we couldn’t make it.
“So, I’ll be a little late,” I said. “I always have to wait anyway.” But we were lucky. It was a nice, sunny day, not much traffic and no road construction! We pulled onto the parking lot at 2:40. I was 10 minutes late.
There was no one in the Breast Center except the workers. It was as quiet as a tomb. I was taken right in and the whole procedure, paper work and all – took only about 25 minutes.
Mr. H. smiled when I came out of the procedure room and said, “That didn’t take long.”
We strolled to the car feeling pretty good about getting this yearly thing done so smoothly since it has, in the past, taken a whole afternoon and worn us out. Actually, I was feeling a little silly and impish, like I sometimes do when things are going well.
We got into the car and I said, “I have something to show you.”
“Okay,” said Mr. H.
(The next paragraph is for women only!
MEN, don’t read this! You won’t understand it anyway.)
I pulled the top of my shirt down just enough to expose what I wanted him to see and said, “Look at these cute little Band-Aids they put on me.”
“Uh-huh,” said Mr. H., and then quite seriously, he added, “I guess everyone has seen them now. There’s a camera on that pole in front of us.”
“What?” I squealed, pulling my shirt up so fast I almost tore it.
Mr. H. broke into laughter and laughed so hard that he shook – and I knew I’d been had!
I owe him one!  

Monday, August 31, 2015

An Unnerving Walk

"I’ll bet the evenings are beautiful up there by now,” said my friend, Carol, via text this evening.
“Yes, they are,” I told her. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, the last two times we talked, you mentioned that you were feeling a little depressed. It might be good for you to take a walk. In fact, why don’t you go take a walk right now and text me when you get back?”
I looked at the clock. It was a few minutes till 9. I didn’t really want to go for a walk this late. Alone. In the dark. But, on second thought, I have no right to complain about feeling “down” if I don’t try something that might make it better. So I simply said, “Okay.”
“Good,” Carol said. “Don’t forget to text me when you get back.”
“I will.”
“I can do this!” I said aloud, tho’ no one was in the room.
I ran to Mr. H’s den where he was in his recliner about to nod off.
“I’m going for a short walk,” I told him.
“A walk?” he asked – more than a little surprised.
“Yep. Carol sort of challenged me; I have to do it.”
He chuckled and said, “Okay. Enjoy.” He was used to these kinds of things between my friend and me.
I opened the front door and peered out into the muggy darkness as if there might be something lurking there to change my mind. But everything looked okay, so out I went, up the driveway and into the street. I reminded myself that I used to do this all the time. I don’t know when I became afraid to go for a walk after dark. I don’t think it’s fear, actually. More like laziness. It’s too easy to sit at my computer and write or watch a movie on TV after dinner.
One beautiful fall, a few years back, I’d go out about 10 o’clock every night and walk my whole neighborhood from one end to the other. I believe the distance is close to two miles. It’s rather hilly in places, too, but I considered this good exercise and took the hills with even more enthusiasm. I’ll admit that some areas were darker than others and I’d get a little nervous going through these, but that’s when I’d recite a poem or sing a little song until I was back in sight of a streetlight again.
I kept this up most evenings until the snow was flying and the temps were in the low teens. I loved walking in the extreme cold. One really doesn’t get that cold if she’s walking rather fast. I never felt better in my life than I did then! It was exhilarating!
But I’m afraid I didn’t do that well tonight. My mission was to go for a walk (she didn’t say how far or how many minutes) to prove to my friend that I could and would do as she suggested to make myself feel better.
And so... I walked to the end of my street and back. Not very far, but it is on a hill that renders one incredibly breathless about halfway up.
I might have walked farther, but there was an incident that unnerved me. Looking up at the stars, I noticed a small, black flying creature hovering under the streetlight. Shivering, I remembered my children coming home after dark in the summertime telling me that bats flew down from the streetlights – right at them. The kids would scream and run in all directions. They still talk about that when they’re all home for a visit.
I finished the rest of the hill in record time.
As I opened the door, I could hear my phone beeping and knew that Carol was checking to see if I’d actually gone for a walk. The message read: “Uh huh, the old text you when I get back trick.”
“Haha! No, I really did it! I walked to the end of the street and back. It’s still too humid for me.”
“Good girl!” Carol said.
She goes to bed much earlier than I, so we said “Goodnight” and promised to talk again tomorrow.
But she was right. I felt much better – even though it was a short walk. It may have given me the jump-start I need to get back into the habit of walking again. I could use the exercise.
However, since I prefer walking at night, I’ll probably wait until cold weather when bats hibernate.
Bats do hibernate, don’t they? 

Friday, August 21, 2015

Favorites Don't Last

Some things defy explanation.
For instance, why is it that an old article of clothing you care little for, stays bright and in good repair, while a favorite or brand new item always seems to get marred in some way?
While shopping at a department store with my daughters yesterday, I was standing at a cosmetic counter sampling some make-up, when the young lady behind the counter took an applicator sponge out of a bottle of foundation to show me the shade and somehow splashed it all over one side of my new shirt. It was only the second time I’d worn it and, just minutes before, I’d told my daughter that I had a feeling I’d be wearing it a lot more.
"It's already a favorite,” I said.
The saleslady either didn’t realize what she’d done or didn’t care because she didn’t even apologize. I was a little upset and hurried to the restroom where I dabbed cold water on the spots in an attempt to get the makeup out – to no avail. A sweet elderly lady with a cane saw what I was doing and said, “Honey, when you get home, spray Shout on those spots and let the shirt lie for a couple of days before you wash it. The stain will come out, I promise you.” I thanked her and left – only half believing in her advice.
But as I write this, the shirt is lying on my dryer, damp with Shout. I plan to wash it tomorrow. I'm keeping my fingers crossed the lady was right.

As I told Mr. H. about the incident, the memory of a similar episode surfaced.
I was in the fifth grade. My mother had just bought me a darling dress! I can still see it. I’d had nothing quite like it before nor have I since. The colors sound odd for a little girl, but take my word for it, it was very pretty. The top was white with little cap sleeves. At the waist, cotton fabric of brown and white checks was gathered onto the bodice and flared out into a full, circular skirt. That was part of the reason I loved it so – the way it flounced about when I walked. I felt so grown-up!
On the day I wore my new dress, I and my classmates arrived at our desks to find a bottle of ink and a fine-point Esterbrook Lever Fill Fountain Pen.
“Today, we’ll be having a Penmanship lesson,” said our teacher, Mrs. Hensley. “First, very carefully open the bottle of ink on your desk,” she said. “We’re going to learn how to fill the pen with ink. I was so excited! I’d seen the letters of the alphabet written with these fine-point pens and they were so beautiful! I couldn’t wait to learn how to make them myself!
But alas! my excitement wasn’t to last long. Just as I picked up my pen, ready to follow the teacher’s filling instructions, the boy in front of me, Raymond, turned around to say something and his elbow hit my bottle of ink knocking it into my lap – all over my beautiful new dress!
Jumping up from my desk, I screamed at him, “Oh, no! Look what you’ve done!” Tears welled in my eyes and threatened to spill over, but I held them back. Mrs. Hensley took me to the restroom and cleaned me up as best she could, but the ink in my dress wouldn’t budge. We went back to class, but Penmanship instruction was over for that day.
When I got home from school, I took the dress off and left it in the bathroom. I watched for my mother to come home from work and met her at the door. “Oh, Mother, you’ll never believe what happened,” I said breathlessly – and continued non-stop until I’d blurted out the whole story.
She hugged me and said, “I’ll see what I can do, honey, but ink – I’m not sure. It may not come out.”
“Oh, I hope it will,” I whined.
Sadly, although my mother tried every type of spot remover she’d ever heard of on the dress and then soaked it in a sudsy brew overnight, the ink was there to stay! My beautiful brown and white dress was ruined after wearing it only once. Heartbroken, I cried myself to sleep that night.
I’ve never forgotten that dress. After many, many years, I still remember how the circular skirt fluttered around my legs when I walked, making me feel sort of “impish.” I had countless new dresses throughout the years, but none of them were ever quite as special as that brown and white checked dress.
I hope the shirt lying on my dryer doesn’t end up in the same category.

Monday, August 17, 2015

Will You Take Five Ones?

“May I have an extra twenty?” said Mr. H. to the Walmart cashier who’d just checked him out.
“Yes, Sir, here you go,” the cashier said as he handed Mr. H. a twenty dollar bill and slammed the cash drawer.
“But I wanted a ten and two fives,” Mr. H. explained.
“Too late,” said the young man. “I can’t reopen the cash drawer. You’ll have to go to the Money Center.”
So off to the Money Center went Mr. H.
“Can you give me a ten and two fives for this twenty?” he asked, explaining that the cashier closed the drawer and couldn’t reopen it.
“Sorry, Sir. I can’t open my cash drawer either,” said the young lady. “Try Customer Service.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Mr. H. and headed for Customer Service.
“Hi there, what can I do for you?” said a pleasant young lady.
“I need a ten and two fives for this twenty; can you do it?”
“Sure can,” she answered, opening her cash drawer.
“Oops!” she said. “I don’t have any tens. Would you take four fives?”
“Yes, that’ll be fine,” said Mr H. glad to have the matter settled at last.
“Uh-O! I only have three fives. Would you take five ones?”
“Sure,” chuckled Mr. H.
And then, with a little chuckle of her own, the woman said, “Oh, my! I only have three ones.” To which Mr. H. quickly replied, “No, I won’t take eight quarters!”
With a little assistance from another employee, the woman finally got the cash she needed and handed Mr. H. the four fives for which he'd been waiting.
When he told me about this, I laughed and shook my head in disbelief.
“You don’t believe me?” he said. “I couldn’t make up a story like that if I tried.”

Friday, August 7, 2015

It’s Psychological - Part Two

When my friend, Carol, read my post, It’s Psychological, she wrote to ask, “You do know that running late doesn’t count as a workout, don’t you?” I laughed and said, “Yes, I’ve heard that,” but then, being the good friend she is, she softened it with, “That’s okay. If you’re always on time, people will begin to expect it.” :)
Just to be clear – and totally honest, I was on time once. Early, actually. And so very proud of myself I was when I arrived a whole five minutes early at the place of the meeting I was to attend. But as I turned the doorknob, I noticed a piece of paper taped to the door with a note on it. It read: “Due to circumstances beyond our control, the meeting is postponed until further notice.”
Disappointed doesn’t cover it. (Prideful comes close.)
There I was – early for an appointment for possibly the first and last time in my life and there was no one there to witness it. Bummer! But to be fair, there is one more thing to my credit in this department.
I am never late for church!
How could I be? Mr. H. stands at the door looking at his watch, tapping his foot and every few minutes reminds me, “It’s time to go.” The car is idling in the driveway, the door on my side standing wide open.
“Okay, I’ll be right there!” I squeal – a definite edge to my voice.
So, off I go. finally. Earrings in my hand – sometimes shoes, too, I leap into the car, Mr. H. closes the door and we’re on our way while I finish getting dressed. It’s about a 15 minute drive and, by the time we pull onto the church parking lot, I’m all together and ready to greet friends and acquaintances. I smile coolly as we walk in - as if I'd been ready for hours - and hope they never guess I was an emotional wreck only 20 minutes ago.
One thing's for sure: they'll never find my picture beside the word, "Organized" in the dictionary!

It’s Psychological

Always late. That’s me.
I was born two weeks late and have been late for everything since. My mother made the age-old comment numerous times, “There’s no doubt about it – you’ll be late for your own funeral!” My tardiness drove her crazy. She was the opposite. Very scheduled. Never late. My eldest daughter is just like her.
Some say it’s inconsiderate and rude to be late. I suppose they’re right, but those who say that don’t know me. When I have an appointment, I get up three hours earlier so I’ll be sure to have enough time. You see, I have good intentions, but I’m still always late.
Mr. H. says, “You just need to get up earlier.”
“If I get up any earlier, I may as well not go to bed,” I tell him.
Somehow I think if I got up six hours earlier, I’d still be late. The more time I have, the more things I find to do. I don’t understand it.
So I did a little research and discovered that I may be “choosing to be late.”
Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?
Here’s what I read: "If you are literally always 10 minutes late, it's psychological. You're arriving exactly when you want. The question is 'why?'” Supposedly, the answer depends on your personality type. “For some people, it's a resistance thing – a carryover of rebelliousness from childhood. You don't want to do what other people expect you to do."
Nope! Not a rebellious bone in this body!
Another category is the "crisis-maker," someone who thrives on the mini-crisis of running late. "These are people who cannot get themselves together until they get an adrenaline rush," Psychologist, Linda Sapadin explains. "They need to be under the gun to get themselves moving."
I don’t think either of these categories describes me. I’ll probably never know why I can’t seem to conquer this flaw in my character, but I am quite certain that when I die, the hearse carrying my body from the funeral home to the church will have a flat tire or be delayed by a train on the tracks...
And I’ll be late for my “own funeral” just as my mother always predicted. 

Saturday, August 1, 2015

August Perspectives

August 1st

More than half of another year gone – like smoke in the air. A month from now, summer will start to consider moving on and letting fall take over – if  we can wait out the mercury, that is.
After a rainy spring, it finally got up in the high 80’s and low 90’s – the kind of weather I always rail against. I hear it’s been so hot, even the snakes have sought shelter!  :)
To quote Bart Simpson, it’s craptacular!
However, no worries for me. I just don’t go out of the house! Mr. H. is good enough to run all of the errands while I do the housework (not much), laundry and cooking. Works out well – being total opposites as we are.
I’ve had the chance to do some things I wouldn’t have done otherwise. For instance, I spent the last week watching all five seasons of the Downton Abbey series that I missed when everyone I knew was so engrossed in them that I felt left out when they went on and on about the stories I knew nothing about. But I’m up-to-snuff now! I can discuss Downton Abbey with the most knowledgable of them. It was a wonderful series. Educational. Emotional. Engrossing. I can’t wait for Season Six in January!
With time on my hands, I tend to ponder the past. Remembering both the good and bad brings forth both laughter and tears. When I think of all those years ago when Mr. H. and I were first married, it’s like a dream. We both had our parents, grandparents and lots of aunts, uncles and cousins. It was a happy time. We thought we’d never grow old.
“Will you still love me when I’m old and gray and chubby like my grandma?” I’d sometimes ask Mr. H. His answer was always the same, “You’ll never be old, but yes, I’ll still love you, no matter what.” We’d laugh, but neither of us could imagine ever being old. The world was our oyster!
Then came our children and many chaotic, but joyful, years of parenthood.
However, it was during those wonderful years that we began to lose people we loved. Some, like our grandparents, were ordinary get-old-and-die departures; difficult for sure, but those that were not ordinary were the hardest. We had several premature deaths: sudden heart attacks at 40-something, two suicides, one senseless murder and one accidental electrocution. There was leukemia, an unnecessary death during surgery and premature babies that didn’t make it.
In recent years, serious, life-threatening health issues have arisen in two of our children and Alzheimer's in a beloved relative. No one knows what will happen next, but one thing for sure, as I await the season I love best – autumn, I will cherish every minute of every day!
“Time is like a river. You cannot touch the same water twice because the flow that has passed will never pass again.”

Friday, July 10, 2015

Nobody's Perfect

While checking on posts of some of my Facebook friends a little while ago, I ran across an amusing one and felt like sharing it.
Bobby, a lifelong friend of my son’s, posted a picture. Seems he got all the way to work one day before he looked down and saw this:
His explanation: his dog, Betty, an adorable little black pug, had distracted him. We’ll buy that, Bobby.  It could happen to any of us. 
I think we’ve all done something similar.
Many years ago, at Christmastime, my daughter, Tish, and I, in a festive mood and feeling kind of silly, went with Mr. H. to pick up an item at the grocery store. We didn’t intend to get out of the car, just went along for the ride and to enjoy the Christmas lights. Just before we left, I grabbed a red velvet bow, not
exactly like, but similar to this one: clipped it to my hair, right in front and said, “Let’s go.” My daughter giggled and we got in the car. But alas, you never know what will happen on any given jaunt and we had an unexpected mishap! A lady barreled out of a side street and hit our car in the side! No one was hurt and the damage was minimal. Nevertheless, it was frightening for a few seconds and even more upsetting because our car was new!
So outta the car I bounced and, while Mr. H. took care of all the boring stuff like
exchanging insurance companies, addresses and phone numbers, I walked around and around surveying the damage to our new car. Tish stayed in the car. At one point, I looked through the window at her and she was laughing so hard and pointing to her head. It took a few seconds for my brain to process her message, but it finally hit me! I had been parading around out there for ten minutes – with that big hideous red bow perched on my head! I immediately dashed for the car, my face as red as the bow, but I don’t know why I bothered. All the spectators had already witnessed my stupid look! I pulled the bow out of my hair and we laughed until tears ran down our faces. 

I just committed my latest blunder in May when I was rushing to get Mr. H. to the hospital for surgery at 5 a.m. I won’t bore you with the details. Let’s just say that, after being at the hospital for a couple of hours, I discovered that I had put my shirt on over my pajama top. I somehow managed to wriggle out of it inconspicuously, and stash it in my purse. Felt a lot better after that. It was awfully bulky!

Feel better now, Bobby?