How do it know? It must me magic!

Here we are in 2016 and it seems the magic of Harry Potter, Star Wars and the mystery of Vampires and Werewolves are never old.  Maybe that's because everything else in the world is more confusing than the fiction writers can dream up after a bad Chinese dinner.  But the older I get, the more things seem like magic.

Years ago, the biggest question in my first innocent recollection was, "How does a thermos know how to make liquids put inside of it, hot or cold?"  Then at the age of six I was plagued by the query of, "Where do the voices come from that emerge from the radio. Is it a very small family living in there? And folks making music on little tiny instruments who live inside the box?"

Then I wondered if there were other little people inside the traffic lights to shine their red and green flashlights through their windows to help us all be safe...I had a friend tell me they were the cousins of the people who live inside the
TV box in your livingroom who change the scenery and quickly put on different costumes as you turn the knobs. This made perfect sense to my seven year old mind, and  I guess as the years passed the people in the boxes painted themselves colors because they got tired of looking so grim in black and white.  "Where do they go to the bathroom?" I said to myself.  "Oh, How silly those questions are now that I have other concerns."

At least these wonders had to be hooked up to a wall with a wire that went somewhere to make them work. In those days anything that turned on with a switch, knob or button...had wires.  Wires went all over the place running along inside your house then out to poles of power which were alongside the wires that connected to other homes so voices spoken into telephones could travel along to someone elses' wires and into their house.  "That totally makes sense, right?"  You are connected by wires which have information, voices, power to light up bulbs and appliances and also the pictures which run along wires to reveal themselves as you turn on a switch or knob.  "My, how dumb I was to think little people lived in the boxes."

All got confusing again because they cut the wires and you could carry the handset to the phone around unconnected, "wireless" (All those folks who made wire, too bad for them, as they had to find other jobs.) And still somehow you could talk to the person you wanted by dialing their number.  But did the voice travel through the air?...Yes! they say. But I say, It must be wizardry and magic to tell a message in the air how to know which house to land upon and allow it to hook up with the correct person. (Must be like the thermos.)  Then I thought, "Do the air messages bump and collide with other messages and pictures as they travel in the air.  So many are up there travelling around how can they get to the right place?"  After a while you didn't even have to be near the receiver and you could put the phone into your pocket and go mow the lawn. Just think, "That message knew you were outside cutting grass...Wow!")


Along came pagers who were for doctors and drug dealers and people who had the money to pay for a device that buzzed and informed of a phone number or a person who needed their attention. These were important people who had special messages come through the air by trickery to land in the small box they carried...and I was sure there was a little man with palsy who ran around inside to make it wiggle and let the person with the "box on their belt" know they were needed. ("I can blame those silly thoughts on the fact that during this time I had five children in our home and claim half my brain had gone amiss.")

When computers became the "thing", the world wide web was soon to follow...web what?  Like Charlotte's web and spiders?  "Well sort of," my Microsoft Padowan son Patrick would explain, and then launch into a detailed explanation of how the different parts of the computer needed to talk to each other. (I never let him know I was thinking in my middle-aged innocence, "So are we back to having little folk inside a box talking to each other?")

Cell phones and texting are the worst advances to arrive in this century, and in my estimation are "The Devil", invented to make we, more seasoned citizens, feel like dolts. But the worst is using these instruments to talk and text messages while driving, causing many a problem, and traffic tickets. I have also seen young people sitting next to one another who feel they must text each other rather than speak, and I believe soon, like our appendix, our vocal chords will be obsolete!... I have gotten on buses in Seattle that are more quiet than our Church during the passing of the Sacrament as the riders busily tap away on their phones and I-pads. (Please see previous blog, "I'm not in OZ", about our trip to Washington)

Downloading bits and bites through the magic that happens in the air; games, maps, school work, movies and inconsequential information can clog the phone and the mind...too much information can overload and confuse or kill, quicker than any accident.

Streaming TV shows and movies is a mystery that goes far beyond the realm of my grey cells to comprehend. I have
given up trying to understand because instead of the old days of going to a theater and having the guy up above you in the projector room turn the switch so the film rolls. A person can now (through the air, mind you) tell the TV box in your house to let some other person or machine very far away start up the reel of film you want to see, and have it pop up for you to view...or if you want...on your phone, if you are bored, and have the time to watch, most likely while waiting in line to pay for your groceries.  (When else would you have the time to watch a movie on your phone) and how 'bout the fact that without a wire you can play a game with some stranger in another land far far away  who speaks a dialect of Swahili. Hmm, I guess that's best because if the person in Africa or Taiwan does the happy dance because he is the winner and claims victory in front of his friends, no one in your vicinity need know you lost the war, or the journey, or the quest or whatever.

How do it know?...I am beginning not care one little bit...or is it simply Alzheimer's kicking in?


 

OLD PHOTOS AND BLACKMAIL!, Chicken for Halloween!

Pat the Dad

My oldest son is complaining about the old family reunion photo on this blog...he was a bit "fluffy" at the time. (I think he was still handsome...but I'm his mom)  He has worked hard to lose the weight for his health and now looks like he did when he was in high school...a really handsome guy with dimples. But he hasn't sent me any new pictures yet.  When he knows you are taking a photo he makes a face like a sour-puss, (so why did we pay for braces all those years ago)...I'll put up some better ones when he sends them, so far he has sent one where he looks like a terrorist, or a bad guy from some James Bond movie, completely covered in black from head to toe!

Chicken Me!

Now... I have some bad photos taken which seems to be the delight of my family as they post the odd and non-flattering images as often as possible.  With my husband, and his sense of bizarre humor and penchant for teasing it is amazing more of the awful photos haven't been posted for the world to see.  Okay, so here is another awful one of me and I am beating him to it.

You see he is always wanting to be a chicken for Halloween. This year when I was looking for a few props for my "Glenda the Good Witch" from Wizard of Oz, (I am usually a Witch or Gypsy but decided I didn't want to scare the little kids at the door.) I found a chicken beak for him to wear and when trying to convince he to wear it...he took a picture with his phone...(those things are evil)

Several years ago I made him a giant chicken suit....I can make really odd costumes and wonder why I was not a costume mistress (can you use that word anymore?) for film or theater as I am pretty creative.

The year I made that big chicken costume, I went as Mother Goose.  He wore that suit with giant beak and huge chicken comb for several years until one year I made us matching Mickey-Minnie Mouse outfits.  I only wore that costume for one year because I caused a medical emergency.

I was teaching at the convent at that time and thought it would be fun to wear my "Minnie" suit during lunchtime when the patients (retired nuns and priests) from the long term care area of the "Sisters of Nazareth" convent...were having lunch.

I was fully decked out with huge ears and a polka dot dress as I wandered into the dining room passing out candy to the residents.  All was going well until one of the residents needed me to do the Heimlich maneuver as she sucked in a hunk of hot dog into her trachea and couldn't breathe!  I had scared her so much she panicked.  I totally forgot that some of the patients had dementia or Alzheimer's, and this one old lady thought I was really a huge mouse!  I had truly scared her as I came up behind her using my best Minnie voice.  I never wore that outfit again!

Last Year 2010 Halloween

Becca and Family

I love Rebecca,  her husband and kids getting into the spirit of dressing up (maybe it's genetic) Becca  is never shy about taking a photo...flattering or not...(She's a really good sport as her husband is the oldest of five boys and one sister...so like my husband he is a tease)...now with four boys...she is more than ready for anything.

Pat as James Bond with Broc, Meg and kids with Hershey the dog...on a Snow Board trip...so how is this better than the family reunion one at the top of the Blog?

Patrick NOW!

if Patrick will ever send a nice photo I will most likely faint...But...here is one of him I sneaked when he was eating.

Eighth Wonder, One Hour in Church

                        Eighth Wonder of the World...

Each day I see zombie people wandering aisles with their carts
Butts tucked into stretch pants along with other parts

The girl with a petition for the ballot, banning bacon accosted me first
However, it a large man in a wheelchair who protested her impudence

"How dare you deny me bacon for without it, I can not eat
Are you insinuating that's why I can't get up upon my feet!"

They have movies in a bin, some one dollar other's five
but why get a fiction film when this place has the action of a hive

For here you can get most anything your little heart desires
Like food, or drugs or guns to shoot and stuff to make a fire

Now some say Disneyland is the best place to people watch
But if you hit this wonder, your viewing pleasure goes up a notch

For you can get a parenting lesson on the aisle with all the toys
Which is near "Appreciation of Music," It's the place will all the noise 

Adventure and Romance is at the lingerie rack where a lone burly man
Tries to buy his wife a gift wishing she'd asked for a new frying pan

So if your cash is low for frills and can't pay the power bill
Just hit the local Walmart to get your entertainment fill

One Hour in Church

Can I dance the wool from my brain as this hour begins? 
Concentration is nonexistant so watch the big-cheek baby grin
I wonder, Do I have more sunsets behind me than in front?
Can I make this time count, so my rent on earth is paid.
Will I find the flakes of gold, from the small make something great
Why does the man who spoke for just a minute make more sense
Than the one with words abundant, voice thumping like a fan

I Skate for the T-birds? Never trust a Frenchman!

For some strange reason my husband has been blessed with an innocent face and most things he says folks believe.  I have heard people say he looks like a cop...and since his name is Patrick...he looks like, an Irish cop...an honest fellow.  Not So!   He is a Frenchman...and is as slippery as they come!

He is the master of words and can croon unbelievable stories that sound true...especially regarding me his sweet and innocent wife.  I have heard it said how rude the French speak, but I think mostly they are masters of disguise, and I know for a fact the phrase, "Never trust a French Man." rings true.

Please remember I came from a quite formal New York City family where dinner was only served on a white linen tablecloth, and one never told stories unless they were the honest truth...and his family of five boys were from a ranch in the middle of no- where and quite close to cave men in their behavior.  They also delighted in deception.

Soon after we married my husband would introduce me as his "little roller skating wife."  When people would ask, he then explained we had met when he attended a roller derby match at the Los Angeles arena and I was a jammer for the Lady Thunder-Birds rollerskating squad.  He did this with such a quiet and sincere voice and face everyone believed him.  At first I was stunned and would loudly protest, but he would shush me and say, "Now Dear, don't be ashamed of your past...and you were so cute in your tight uniform and were a very skilled roller derby girl! I fell madly in love." And much to my chagrin, over my complaints...most all believed him and were in awe of my talent and also a bit afraid that if confronted I would punch them out, since Patrick would then explain, "She has a bit of a temper, so watch what you say and don't set her off."

Soon I gave up trying to protest as I knew my words would fall on deaf ears once he had persuaded all within earshot, I was only shy and did not want anyone to know of my fame and talent.  So after a while I didn't try to convince others his words were a lie, hoping this would quell his enthusiasm for embarrassing me. Oh! not so.  It didn't work.  So, I then began to agree with him and added tales of my prowess and stories of my victories.  This did not stop him either, so I gave up and when he started with his deception of my past when introduced to new acquaintances, I would walk away in disgust and leave him to weave the tale of our meeting, much to the amazement of those listening.

I found this talent extended to the office where he told the office help his wife was a "little person" or quadriplegic, or double or quadruple amputee.  Most would feel sorry for him and amaze at his kindness and concern.  That he, such a big and virile man would have the consideration and compassion to care for such an invalid never questioning what he said.  All the while he was chuckling at their gullibility.

However, as the years past, some became aware of his deception and wild imaginative stories and knew he was a tease and that he would patiently wait to spring the joke that trapped his audience.  But they were never quite sure about his tales and always held in reserve the tiny possibility that he told the truth.  My daughter Rebecca and her family a few years ago dressed as nerds for Halloween and the photos were quite funny.   About a month later he showed the photo to a secretary in the office who had a particularly tender heart.  He told the story of how proud he was of his middle daughter who was handicapped..."Eugenia" and the husband she met at the institution, and the sweet, yet mentally handicapped children they bore.

 The secretary, slowly and (knowing Patrick was a tease,) quietly with trepidation responded with sympathy and concern.  It was several days later he showed her a real photo of Rebecca and her handsome...very smart boys.  This secretary didn't speak to him for several days saying she had wasted her emotions and worry about him and his daughter Eugenia.  From then on she called him "The Devil", and "Doctor Evil."  He wore the monikers with pride!  Imagine!

While he was in Chandler he told the engineers and other Superintendents his wife was a "little person".  This happened when someone in the office was speaking negatively about some TV show regarding midgets.  He told the person he was offended by the word midget especially since his wife was a "little person."  Of course he said this all with a straight face, and then immediately walked back to his cubicle as if upset by the conversation.  I guess there was a buzz in the office for a while..."Is it true Pat's wife it a...ummm "little person?"  No one knew, and so they called to the office in Anaheim Calif...those guys had never met me and didn't know, or couldn't tell them for sure. And the men were not quite sure if he was telling them the truth or not, and when asked repeatedly, Patrick of course, would only bow his head and turn away with a few tears in his eyes.

I visited Chandler for the first time during Spring break from teaching at COC.  The first morning there I drove him to the work site at Intel and dropped him off so I could have use of the car.  I guess all the guys at the office were still wondering about the little lady who was Pat's wife...quite a match since he is over 6"2 " tall.  When I arrived to pick him up that afternoon I noticed the parking lot was loaded with quite a few men milling around and talking in groups.  Patrick stood by himself near the stop sign so I slowed to allow him to climb into the passenger seat.  I noticed several of the men had disgusted looks on their faces as they turned and walked away and when I questioned the behavior the reply came..."Oh, their disappointed your not a little person, that's all."

"Up to your old tricks again.  If you had told me I could have scrunched down in the seat and looked through the steering wheel to go along with the joke," I responded, as I had learned...It's better to go along with the gag than to fight city hall.  If not, he just would have invented some other story for his amusement!  It's amazing to me after all these years he can still pull suckers in (I guess there really is one born every minute) and hook someone to reel them in like an unsuspecting catch while he laughs like mad on the inside.  Often times the "catch" never learns the truth... "Leave 'em guessing and that's the best reward," or so he says!

Somehow, after all the stories he tells, I am starting to be convinced I was quite the skater,
yes I was....
I know I was...
wasn't I?

"Can I hug you?"

This week I worked two grueling 12 hour days of orientation with nursing students.  Each class has their own feel and nature.  Gratefully this cadre of kids seem eager to learn and actually listen, how nice!


I'm at a new, yet familiar, hospital (which has been purchased since I taught there a few years ago by the Sisters of Providence) so had to be on my toes to re-acquaint myself with the policy of the hospital and also with the education director, who at first seemed tough but ended up a concerned and welcoming softie.  I just hope the staff feel the same way when we show up next week and mess up their routine.


Seeing the photos of Sisters of Providence from years past in fur coats while serving in Alaska and others in boats crossing a river to care for natives on a remote island, then seeing several statues of Mary in the halls must have reminded me of a past teaching experience.  So I got into a discussion during lunch with my students about my sojourn teaching at a convent. 

It happened during the time when I was in a transition from an ICU nurse to education which was quite a while ago. I know it seems odd to be teaching at a convent, but I had a director at the now defunct Riverside Hospital who knew I liked to teach and asked me to join her group of educators during the beginnings of mandatory continuing education for Registered Nurses during the 1980's.  Every place with a long term care area of over 10 beds was required to have continuing education taught by a person with the proper credentials.  While the Mother Superior sent one of the nuns to school to acquire the necessary certificates and I had my teaching credential from UCLA I was hired to fulfill the state requirement. 

One day each week I went into Palms near Santa Monica where the high fenced facility with  ivy covered gates opened magically as I drove up the long entrance.  Right before I left my assignment teaching at the convent I was pregnant with my fifth child...and the cook, Sister Rose baked me into a chubby mom-in-waiting.  As I arrived early in the morning she had apple dumplings warm and ready for me when she discovered it was a treat I couldn't resist. She then would ask me what I wanted for lunch and seemed to be able to accommodate my strangest culinary wish. I now blame her for the 20 pounds I have never been able to shed.

Most of the Sisters I taught basic nursing aide skills were from Brazil or Peru as the Sister's of Nazareth originated in South America.  My Spanish of two semesters of beginning foreign language at Grant High School were put to the test, and grew during the two years I worked there.  At first I had a translator, but toward the end of teaching there I was able to teach CPR in Spanish.  I am sorry to say my Spanish has once again been reduced to telling a Spanish speaking mother in labor "empujar!"  (push)

My last blog entry was on my mind about possible loss of senses due to the use of technology (read...I'm not in OZ) and I was reminded of many discussions with the Nuns I became friendly with.  I clearly remember Sister Gabriel returning the gifts I had given her when she was transferred to another area.  She said her things would be searched upon arriving at her new convent and she was not allowed to have any personal things from friends or family to take her thought away from prayer or her calling.  She also confessed how difficult it was to be separated from everyone and everything she knew.

Sister Gabriel was a lovely young girl who was a novice and getting ready to take final vows in her order which maintained the traditional dress of a severe habit in white, and would be trimmed in dark blue after her final initiation.  Not long after that I was invited to the final vows of a young Samoan girl and her family came to wish her well and basically to see her for the last time.  It was a sad celebration to me.  Much like a wedding but somewhat without the joy.  There was even a wedding cake of sorts, which surprised me (I love wedding cake).  The family gave gifts to all the persons in attendance and then tearfully said good bye to their daughter who would live a life of solitary service.

"It is the lack of touch, and the training to hide emotion that is the most difficult." I was told by Sister Fernando.

"You mean I can't touch you or give you a hug." I asked.

"Yes, it's something we are to avoid so we don't form attachments and that's why we move from convent to convent within our order to avoid getting close to those around us.  It's to help us keep focus on our calling."


"But it removes you from feeling and emotion and even the compassion that is the foundation of nursing."

It is part of the sacrifice we make."

I couldn't understand and wanted to ask why?  But I knew the discussion was closed and walked down the long hall to my little office.  A few weeks later on my last day at the convent the Sisters surprised me with a baby shower and a beautiful handmade blanket.  Sister Rose was in her glory preparing a special lunch with a cake that was almost like a wedding cake as she had heard me express my favorite was that kind of desert.  She expressed her love through her deeds and actions...without human touch...no hug, no kiss on the cheek.

How must it be to never feel skin to skin, touch.  When babies are born the most important thing is to place the newborn on the mothers tummy, skin to skin contact...a measure of love, warmth and acceptance...we call it bonding.  I left the convent that day with a heavy heart.  I had learned to respect their dedication yet was sad to think the care they gave others was denied to them.

Later I taught at another school who was started by an Episcopal church and a Nun was part of the staff.  Sister Eileen wore street clothing and her "Mother Home" was back east. She went there each year for a retreat and to renew her vows...which did not include lack of touch.  I didn't even know she was a Nun until I knew her for several months...I was a bit miffed she didn't think to tell me right away and hoped I hadn't said anything wrong to her during her stealth participation in our staff discussions.  I found her to be a fun loving and dedicated woman whose "Order" was definitely more progressive than the Sisters of Nazareth.

I know today in the public school system often it is not okay to give a student a hug.  This is really unfortunate as a hug should be considered an innocent expression of comfort, encouragement, support and love, so important to the human condition. 

I don't know if at this hospital the Nuns are allowed to hug...I haven't seen one yet.  I know there  are lots of ways to give service and I'm glad I can choose to give service to my family, my profession, my students and ultimately my Heavenly Father.  But just as Christ had children sit on his knee to show he cared (and I'm sure give them hugs),  I'm glad to be free to give my husband, children, precious grandchildren and even my students....hugs!

Am I in Oz? I know I'm Not in Kansas, or Arizona!

We spent a wonderful week in Washington...Seattle, actually Redmond...the land of Microsoft and computer geeks.  The last few times I got on a plane I landed in the land of tan and flat landscape, Arizona....this was green lush and beautiful even if there was a bit of rain. 

One day we went by bus to the Sea hawks game and I noticed it was strangely quiet.  As each person entered the bus and sat they immediately pulled out their phone...(most had Microsoft ones) and began to browse and put their heads down not glancing right or left. 

"A convenient way to avoid human contact." was the comment of our youngest child, Michael, who is a Psychology degree graduate and is always looking at people in a analytical way.  I began to speculate what will happen in 20 years or so.

The sense of touch will begin to diminish.  Vocal cords will wither and our only communication will by by text, computer, or some other yet not invented form of information transmission.  So then, I thought, "What if energy is cut off, by some natural disaster...would people talk and actually look at one another.  Eye contact which in the past was used as a way to determine honesty and conviction will once again be instituted as a new an innovative way to know the person sitting next to them.

In past college classes I've learned that communication, (I mean words, spoken language), are only a small part of letting a person know what you want or how you feel about a subject.  Body language, tone and timber of voice, the tip of a head...or how one looks can tell another person volumes.  Do you dress differently for a job interview, or a date?  All of these factors feed into understanding one another. Or maybe that is the purpose, afraid to make a commitment, or not willing to be hurt of disappointed, friendships in the world of cyber communication will be a thing of the past.  Our clinical cold inanimate communication by text or tweet is so lacking in emotion or true understanding it is amazing to me we have allowed this to happen.

Another thing happening with communication is the way we read books.  On a phone, i-pad, Zune or other device...straining our eyes to avoid the glare so we scurry to darkened cave like areas (including our homes) so we can see what is on the screen.  No longer can we enjoy the pleasure of page turning and getting closer to the end of the book, or regretting that a good read will soon be over, No! unless you scroll to the end of the data transmitted to your device, you have no idea if the book is 100 or 1000 pages (unless you begin to measure a book in gigabytes instead of pages) and you have no idea when to anticipate the conclusion of a story. 

I love feeling the paper between my fingers, the smell of the binding. Today most book stores are closing or gone and soon we will no longer have the joy of browsing  through the thousands of written chunks of thought and the records of days gone by, remembered by one or many. (I hope my novel will be included in that wonderful medium before paper and pages are gone and passe.)

Library hours have been cut in most cities and access to resources is becoming an on-line activity. (no one buys an encyclopedia any more...When our five kids were young I scrimped and managed to put in our budget the collecting of each volume of the cheap little encyclopedia books sold at one of the grocery stores...I don't think I could ever find the index or the xyz volume) The necessity of those wonderful stacks of records may soon be gone.

I worked as a librarian during college.  I knew the Dewey decimal system and could return books to their proper places in record speed.  I loved the football mandatory study hall nights where I met my future husband Patrick who made extra work for me by checking out all sorts of literature, only to return the volumes in a few minutes so he could talk to me.

Now substituted for all of these visual, tactile and even olfactory sensations are circuits and bits contained in smaller and smaller receptacles holding the words of others.  And just think of what would happen if the downloads, power sources, instant e-mails (no one can write a decent letter anymore)  texts and happy faces and the new language of tweets and face book were to shut down?

Something to think about....

Once and Future King!

The "Once and Future King"...is what they call Arthur in Camelot...(I told you I am a Classic Musical Junkie)...Being back in Santa Clarita is like being back in Camelot.  When I was on the School Board we often referred to our little valley as Mayberry...like with Aunt Bea and Opie...but I have always thought it was like Camelot, as there is a law in Santa Clarita that July and August can not be too hot...and there's a legal limit to the snow here! (once every 15 years or so, ask our Mayor).

Not like  Phoenix...where to go outside in June-Aug is like stepping into a kiln...it takes your breath away.  And for me, I usually turned and went back into my air conditioned apartment.  Air conditioning that never worked...or at least every few hours it went up to 82 as the set temperature until I began to sweat and realized it needed to be reset...We had the apartment complex engineer ( a guy who wore a work belt as his only qualification as to his expertise) fix it several times...each time he told me it was fixed, "I've re-set the thing." he told me with a firm voice...as if I had done something to the little dealio on the wall!

He fixed the air conditioner like the fountain outside our apartment got fixed, and the automatic gates for our secure complex...that never worked the whole time Patrick was there.  It was sad to look out on green scum and a huge (fake) rock stained with the water which once bubbled down the sides. I imagined that even it it got fixed it was a sad sight with it spitting up in the air from time to time...instead of a nice soothing flow of clear water.  As for the gates...I could never get the entrance to open so went out the exit which was always open.

8 Months, that's how long we were there and nothing as far as I could see got fixed.  That makes me glad I'm a home owner and have control over my own fate.  So if it takes 8 months or even two years to get in a new door...that is my problem.  And by the way...the last door to go in still waits patiently in the girl's bedroom untouched by human hands for, hmmmm, now let me see  2 YEARS...but whose counting!  At least it's in our hands and not some guy who's only claim to being a fix-it man is his jingling fancy belt and the keys to a jitney to drive around the complex.

As a parting shot Pat told me the day before he left they cut down my tree...please see the previous blog on my escape from the Jacuzzi area when my key wouldn't work to get me out!   That very tree was my path to freedom.  I could have escaped from Alcatraz with how my mind spun and whirled around planning how to get out of the stinking pressure cooker of a place and not become a blob on the concrete...cooked to well-done in the enclosure where I was trapped.  I guess I should be glad they didn't cut it down until we were checked out of the place...as it gave me a bit of comfort to look out our balcony across the green scum of the non working fountain to see the tree which had been my salvation.

Ah! YES...I'm glad to be back in Camelot with my King finally home...and of all things after these many years we have decided we really like each other and enjoy spending time together...We've decided we hate being apart...go figure!   

As seen on TV never works!

Before we lived in California, we lived in New Jersey and my dad's office was in New York.   He rode the train into the city every day with his sister who worked in the city too.  Then he was told he had to move 3,000 miles away to Hollywood where all the work seemed to be.  He was the financial controller of a sound production company,"Westrex, Sound Services." The newest growth in this area was on the west coast where studios popped up like mushrooms to put together "talkie" films.  My dad was involved in the transition from silent to talking movies so my mother brother and I went with him, off to the strange land of Hollywood California.

Up until then silent films were enhanced with a few written words and the creativity of an organist or person on the piano to help the plot.  Often the music played had nothing to do with what was happening on the screen but soon specialized musicians became sought after for their ability to play music and other inventive sounds to enhance a film.  The musician had to do this in the dark while watching the screen.  The acting on screen was overdone along with exaggerated facial expressions, the makeup and costumes were very bold to help tell the story and convey the plot.  Once sound was added the exaggerated actions and other things were slowly done away with along with some actors who had raspy or unattractive voices.

I remember as a child seeing my first TV.  We were living in our little post war, plastic door knob California house.  The neighbors down the street were the first in North Hollywood to buy one of those things with pictures inside...until then my brother and I would listen to the radio every Saturday morning.  We loved "The Lone Ranger", and the "Creaking Door"....

Of course before TV came the talking films.  My brother and I were allowed to walk to the theater most Saturdays to see the latest release.  They had a great deal in the candy shop next door to the theater.  If you bought a big candy, you got a free ticket.  We always got the candy, I don't think we ever told our parents about the deal.  The theater would have a serial where each week some woman was in peril and just when the white hat clad hero was about to save her from a train or other life threatening disaster it abruptly stopped...to be continued next week!  And the next week without showing how the woman was saved the story continued.  Then there was a news reel about the armed services or war pictures and next came a cartoon and two movies....it took most of the day and the candy was gone long before the string of films was completed. I was only six, and got very squirmy, considering I even now have a hard time sitting through an hour of church, I guess I should apologize for my wiggly pestering behavior to my brother.

Most evenings that first summer of live TV the neighbors would drag their new contraption out onto the front porch facing the yard.  Many would gather on the lawn sitting on blankets to watch the very small square of black and white moving pictures.  I became severely attached to Beanie and Cecil, and Howdy Doody.

It wasn't very long before we got a TV too! (I think ours was about one inch bigger than the neighbors, with a yellowish tint screen  which made everyone look jaundiced).  After all, my dad's studio was putting the sound track on most of the shows...as well as most of the films in theaters so we were supporting his studio by watching those shows.

I continued to love watching my kiddie shows, except after a short time Howdy Doody was banned in our house...don't ask me why...my mom simply hated the show. But I would sneak watching it whenever she did the laundry and pulled the washing machine into the middle of the kitchen.  The machine made so much noise...I could have bombed the front room down and she would never have know.  I dreamed of being Princess Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring.  And sometimes still do.

Soon after my introduction to TV....I was introduced to TV commercials.  The Popiel potato peeler was amazing to my 6 year old eyes.  I wanted my mom to get one in the worst way but of course having adult common sense she never even budged to buy one.  I can't say I have always been so strong.  It could be I was  deprived of TV gadgets as a child so frequently feel I must sample many of the ones I can get my hands on...but I am finally beginning to gain some restraint. 

I have determined gadgets never work as advertised or demonstrated!  I havent' recently bought many "As seen on TV items" until I had a bank account hacked and my grand daughter saw a special metal wallet on TV.  It protected all contents from scanners so no one could get your credit card numbers. She told me I needed one of these wallets because it not only protected your credit cards it was said to be indestructible and could be run over by a truck and stay intact.  So I folded and got one for me and then one for my mom.  I used it for about a month and it seemed to work, then one day I dropped it!  Of COURSE...after it hit the concrete of the market floor with a tinny thunk,  the latch made out of plastic broke...now it won't stay closed. 

The wallet was only $10 but come on...if a truck can drive over it, how cum if I drop it, all of a sudden it breaks!  I guess, as with most of those gadget things...you can't win!  I am hoping Wallmart will take it back!   

Cleaning to Re-claim my home!

I returned from Arizona the state of guns and heat!...scary actually when you think of them together. I came home to an empty home, a blessed empty home!  I don't think I have had that pleasure in several years...because we have a large home it seems many of our kids have used it as a stopping off place...some for several years at a time; bringing "their" kids with them.

Closets I had used to put winter clothing (Yes in California there is a bit of change in the weather.) were confiscated by the "visiting" family member and hangers on...to have my stuff squished into a very small space in our bedroom.  I had one daughter state that growing up she thought I was selfish because I wanted my own things, including my own bathroom.  I think she forgot I shared most everything with a very large...often dirty from work, man.

The house was quiet, WOW! neato.  And to think I had longed for noise when the last kid moved out, now it was heaven.  The frantic cleaning and picking up began...don't forget I have a bit of OCD so I decided the only piles would be in the garage.  It took almost three days from morning until late at night to get all the stuff left in the two rooms most recently lived in, sorted and packed ready for pick up with the next visit here.  I folded and sorted and compressed toys, clothing and other bits into boxes...and piles for the garage.  After muscling them down the stairs and safely into the darkness of the garage.  I re-claimed the closets neatly putting my things in rows on new hangars getting all ready for when Patrick will move back from Chandler in a few weeks.

Purge is the word Patrick loves, almost more than any other.  Subsequently I always seem to have something to put out to donate to the blind...don't ask me how those blind folks find the house, but they do!   I have done my best not to bring anything new into the house for a few years now, except needed clothing, or food, so when we move, or go on a mission we can travel light...Ha! if packing up over 32 years of living in one house will be light.

I have decided for the most part we could sell a lot of the furniture in a garage sale.  None is as nasty as the green velvet couch that was propped up on a rock we wanted to take to the Rose Parade and leave it there!  But I am assuming the our much smaller abode will call for lots less stuff.  I don't want to use a storage place...I decided if you have so much stuff it won't fit where you live...you do need to purge.

The weird thing is I have discovered the majority of our stuff are memories.  Genealogy, mementos of trips that bring back fond memories...a plethora of photos.  (for the past 3-5 years they are now on digital Cd's).  I thought I could part with the two boxes I have stored under our bed, but after a very careful look I think I discarded only a few papers.  I'm not sure why, but some things are too difficult to put in the junk heap, and who knows it may be worth something someday.

For example, my 1984 Olympic box.  It has certificates, photos, my medical uniform...including shoes and hat, as well as daily dot-matrix print outs of winners and items of interest.  I collected pins during that time because as a thank you for medical treatment I was often given a team or other type of pin.  I usually did not have anything to trade back, so all my 50 or so pins I have in a case hung in the living room were gifts.

The journal I kept for the first few weeks at various venues was interesting.  I read that my first call was to work at Lake Casitas as medical staff for Rowing and Canoeing,  then soon after came another call to assist with the children who were part of the opening ceremonies.  Then weeks went by with no communication.  In August of 1983 I got a letter to send in my forms again and began to realize there was confusion between different agencies.  In October, then November I got requests to fill out additional paperwork.  I began to think I needed my own xerox machine.  Always the letters stated how lucky we were to be able to donate our time!  Two more sets of forms arrived in late November and again in December.

Then nothing for several months and in April of '84 I got a request to attend orientation at Daniel Freeman Hospital...we were all fingerprinted and told we would work at various sport venues for athlete or spectator first aid.  Some were told they would work checking for drugs (tinkle patrol) after each competition.  I was glad I was not selected for that job.

Four meetings in May resulted in my assignment to the photo journalists and International Broadcasting, mostly at CBS studio.  I finally got my credentials and uniform.  I met the other nurses working at the venue, and most are from Henry Mayo Hospital where I work.  So many meetings now I am away from the kids too much, but Patrick is picking up the slack.  We now are meeting many of the athletes who come to the venue to be interviewed and will be able to watch what is happening at several of the venues at once on huge monitors.

My Journal is very detailed and I am not sure how I kept it up as I was crazy busy at that time.  How can I throw it away! Or any of the papers, photos or memories...so I won't!  I cleaned off the dust from the top of the plastic container...and shoved it back under the bed.

Maybe I'll have better luck getting rid of some of my stuff in the den...maybe!

Herding the gophers next door; payback after all these years!

Happy to be home!  It took one hour on a bumpy plane to get from Phoenix to Burbank and then 20 min on the freeway to get back home.  Nothing had changed, it was nice to sleep in my great memory foam bed.  We bought a topper for the lumpy monster they put into the bedroom at the Chandler Apartment, but it was not the same.  You see I am a bit like the princess and the pea, and must have smooth sheets with a very very soft mattress.  Also since Patrick found a scorpion in the Chandler apartment dishwasher and a cockroach as big as a Volkswagen in the bedroom...I'm glad to be home with lizards...and some mice... but I think we have driven the gophers into the neighbors yard.

Now how fair is that. Oh, payback is sweet...you will soon understand, just stay with me.  I bought these thumpers like in the movie Dune.  In that movie the thumper attracted huge worms.  These thumpers seem to bother the gophers and send them elsewhere.  So where do they go???
I figure next door right under the fence.  That's not nice but I am tired of having my lawn ruined.  It's the neighbors' turn to figure out how to get rid of them...

I tried to be kind to the critters...filling the holes with water (one time the hole never filled up...It went to china)  I put burning negatives inside...my dad said the toxic smoke would drive them away...Not so!  It didn't work...Then I put a week's worth of dog poop in the holes...and drove it deeper into the hole with a little water...guess they ate the poop.  Maybe they thought it was chocolate.  It was embarrassing when my daughter found me wearing gloves on my hands and knees with a bucket of dog dooty carefully snaking those long turds down the many holes in the lawn.

"What are you doing!"  When I told her my plan she scornfully said I was nuts and walked away, not even offering to help.  WELL I NEVER!   Soon after that I got the battery powered thumping things. 

Now here's where the pay back comes...Ever since we got married my husband has never mowed the lawn.  Why you ask?  He gets severe attacks of hay fever and asthma.  His behavior for the next few hours after an attack is like a bear awakened from his winter nap...not fun!   So it was not worth it to even ask. 

At first we had a push mower. (It was all we could afford)  As a strong 20 something young woman it was good exercise...that lasted for a while and the neighbors always asked, (Especially when I was pregnant,)  "Where is your husband."  I took to mowing in the dark.

Then we got a power mower...I think for "Mother's Day", how thoughtful.   The first one was a push power mover, and when that thing gave it's last gasp, we finally got one that self-propelled...that one was scary because it mowed over anything in it's path and I continued to mow at night because I was afraid one of the kids would run in front of it and get hurt.

My worst nightmare came true when one day I heard the thing fire-up and soon after heard a yell.  Colleen must have been about ten and ran up the stairs yelling that little Pat hurt his leg on the lawn mower.  I heard screaming and loud yelling from outside.  I looked out the upstairs window to see little Pat rolling on the lawn clutching his leg with blood everywhere.  My worst nightmare had happened.

I ran down the stairs across the kitchen and through the sliding glass doors like lightning.  BUT, the second I rounded the corner where I could clearly see little Pat my medical brain processed the fact that the blood, was not blood...at least it wasn't the right color...it looked like (and was) a mixture of ketchup and bar-b-q sauce.

The second I realized it was a hoax and had begun to react, a bucket of water hit me from above where Rebecca was perched on the roof and then the full stream from the hose hit me squarely in the chest, of course it was directed by my dear husband. The incident escalated with water from buckets, bowls and three active hoses.  The battle somehow moved inside the house without even a blink from dad-Patrick or me.  It was war!  I ended up with the girl team Colleen, Rebecca and Megan with the boys on the dad side.  Somehow that seemed quite even and we ladies held our own.  Then after an hour or so we called it a tie and declared a truce. 

Our neighbors looked on with amazement cheering on their favorite team and taking a few wayward buckets of water themselves.  In fact the third hose was contributed over the fence with the water coming from next door.  We girls called foul, but no one paid us any attention.  It took a day or two for the carpet to dry out, and we got the flood off the floor in the kitchen before the linoleum rolled and curled up at the edges, Thank goodness it was a very warm day.  

Hmmm.  Then I realized I've finally paid back the neighbors for the extra hose they passed over the fence to the boy team all those years ago...and no matter it's not the same neighbors living there...they get the gophers! 

Packin' heat in Wallmart...enter Arizona at your own risk!

(This is the "No Firearms" sign was on the door of the Italian restaurant where we had dinner...in upper state Az.)
 
Arizona is very different from other states we discovered last weekend.  We went to a little town in Northern Arizona to get away from the heat...it was only 92 in the daytime, instead of 115, and went down to 69 at night.  Even the water from the tap was cool...not cold mind you...but at least cool. There were a few pines and mountains which is a change from the flat around here in Chandler near Phoenix.  Flat, flat, flat....

We went out to dinner the first night we were in Payson.  I noticed on the door was a sign warning to not carry a weapon inside. Since neither of us had ever seen such a sign we decided it must be on all restaurants in Arizona.  But then as we drove back to the motel, I looked at the numerous fast food places...every fast food place I had ever seen was present within the space of two blocks...(except In-n-out) Anyway, none of them had the special sign.

It wasn't until the next night when we went to get a burger we figured out how the law must work.  The burger place had a small bar area in the corner of the establishment.  And there again was the sign...no firearms.  I came to the conclusion that any place where they serve alcohol you are not allowed to carry a loaded firearm...into the establishment. (See photo above) 

We recently discovered the State of Arizona has a state gun...the Colt 45.  An interesting and cool fact I thought, until I went into Wall-mart and saw a young man with a gun strapped to his hip in the check out line.  

It was out there for everyone to see, so it wasn't a concealed weapon.  (I wanted to get a concealed carry license for my Glock, here in Arizona, but guess it's okay if I just wear it hanging from my purse.) I know you need a permit to carry a concealed weapon, like in a shoulder holster under your coat...but this was in the open! 

I mentioned the semantics to Patrick..."It wasn't concealed...right out there in the open like when we were on a train in Italy and a bunch of guys came on with Uzi's over their shoulders."  That experience was intimidating and a bit scary.  But then again the military men were in uniform and you knew they had at least trained to use their weapon, quite different from feeling confident about a dad shopping for bananas packing a gun on his hip!  

After we got home our son Patrick shared and article he read about a guy in Chandler who shot his penis by having his gun in his waist band in Fry's groceries...the same store where we shop...I'm not sure if I would offer first aid help to a guy so stupid he didn't have on the safety...but most likely my nurse self would take over...Or NOT!

After seeing the Wallmart packin' dad, I thought...what if a guy was drinking at a bar without his gun...then went down the street to Safeway fully drunk...but he could have his gun in there!  Maybe that's what happened to the guy in Fry's

I'm using Helvecta type, sans serif (without curly cues)...the kind required at a book submission I recently sent off....(Still working on the "Chiasmus Cipher"), the deadline was close so after changing from my Times Roman, all my spacing was off...I quickly went through my 111,000 word novel...Ha! and it was sent in with many problems in spacing among other things I have found..so I don't have a rat's chance of anyone reading it...DARN!

"Mom, , Shut up! Muskrat"

Does anyone else have the problem of language accent copycat disease?  Gosh! OCD confirmation and now I admit my other problem, all my warts are hanging out!...Oh well...
It seems, or so I'm told that no matter what language I hear, or accent in particular, it doesn't take long for me to begin to talk like the other person who is talking.  It can't stay in my head...it just comes out my lips and lands most likely on unappreciative ears.

This ability is good for an actress, but not so good in our diverse society where everyone is oversensitive and the language police are ready to sue you.

This "talent" became a problem one time when I visited Rebecca.  It was January and I was there to help with the birth of her second son, Zachary.  (He came during a huge snow an ice storm on Jan 18)   It so happened that Becca and her husband were living in Upper Marlboro in a home owned by Harris's Aunt Carolyn.  She happened to be working in Japan teaching nursing at a university and asked Harris and Becca to house sit.

This town home was almost new and in a lovely area not too far from Washington D.C. where Harris worked so it was perfect for them to save money to buy their own home.

The issue came up that it was located in a predominately black area.  The people living there were business men and women and very friendly and generous.  During winter storms they would often shovel each others driveway at the same time they cleared their own.  It had a very neighborly feeling there.  Harris and Becca were one of the only white families living in this tight knit neighborhood.. 

So...back to my problem...The last thing Becca wanted to do was offend anyone she knew or even a stranger, so being aware of my little malady, she said..."Mom when we are around our neighbors, or any black people in stores or the mall...just don't talk.  If you forget, I'll remind you by saying Muskrat...and that means to shut up because you are imitating the black way of speech!"

"I don't do that on purpose!" I defended myself,  "but I'll try to not do it, it just comes out...It wouldn't matter if they were Irish, English or German, or from the south..it makes no difference...all of a sudden I become a native ...or whatever...speaking English with an accent.  I don't know what to do...the accent comes into my head and automatically come out...like a boomerang.  But I'll try to remember the magic word because I certainly don't want to offend anyone."

It was several days before Becca went into labor so i had the opportunity to go with her to the store several times.  We were standing in front of the frozen food section looking at the ice cream and trying to decide on the flavor to  buy when a huge black woman said in a friendly and kind way.  "Honey chile, see that there sign...you can get two for the price of one, and from the looks of you with that big tummy, you need some cheerin up, so ges get all the flavors you want, en yll feel better in a few days wehn it's all over...say...when you due...today? hehe..."

Becca responded..."Muskrat, muskrat...shut up mom"...under her breath, then louder in response to the woman, "Oh thanks, I didn't know it was on sale, I'm due in a few days and can hardly wait."

"I know how you feel, I got six of my own and they are the joy of ma life, a blessing and a curse...nice you got yer mama here to help."


I opened my mouth to respond, but Rebecca stepped hard on my foot and said, "yes, I'm glad she's here, thanks."

The woman continued on down the isle and Becca picked up two gallons of ice cream.

"I was good wasn't I?"  I questioned her while rubbing my throbbing foot.

"Mom, you almost blew it.  I could see it in your face, you were about to say something like mmmmum Honey chile, and sound like the south in a bottle.  I couldn't chance it.  You'll go home and I'll be left unable to shop here because they'll  think your a racist making fun of them....Look!, all the cash register ladies are black tool."

The next day, we went to a place near D.C. famous for ribs...they have bars on the front of the store and you stand in a line with others waiting for your turn to see the woman inside covered with barbeque sauce hold up on a hook, different racks of ribs for your perusal for you to decide which rack you want.  "Mom stay in the car with Jamie, I'll get the ribs."

It took a while but she returned and said in a perfect black immitation..."Had to wait for more ribs, those ones was too dri, not enough meat, or too much fat...so it took a while."

"Hey how come it's okay for you and not for me?" I asked. 

"The difference is, I do it on purpose, out of hearing distance of the folks it may offend, you on the other hand, have no idea it's emerging from your mouth, and the longer you talk the thicker and worse the accent becomes...so it's best for you...to Muskrat and not talk."

So I simply nodded and kept any words that came to mind...deep inside.  And if you ever hear anyone in the family say Muskrat around me...you'll know I'm about to say something with an accent or something out of place...I'm not sure how they know it's about to happen, maybe it's family telepathy or something, but I've discovered...they know, oh they know alright...and I need to listen for the magic words...Muskrat...and shut my trap.

I have OCD, a black thumb and mosquito bite resistance...But that's Okay cuz I got piles!

I am looking at some fake red and blue flowers in a water glass as I type. I put them there so I’m not looking at a blank wall, or the thermostat…If I had real flowers within a very short time they would be dead…so I don’t try to grow them anymore.  I know that sounds like a cop-out, but it’s true. I figure it gives the people who make fake flowers a job.

Now my mom has a really really green thumb…she planted a seed from a grapefruit one time in the back yard when I was a kid after we moved to California from New Jersey...and years later when she moved out to Santa Clarita after my dad passed away…one of the sad things was that she had to leave behind this huge grapefruit tree and the amazing crop of fruit it produced every year. 

At least I can look out the window here at the Chandler Apartment and see some grass…mostly rocks, but some grass and cactus too.  Arizona landscape is done up with rocks, and a few scattered cactus…and the Grackle bird struts about on the rocks;  an intriguing fellow who looks somewhat like a blackbird, but sounds like about 8 other birds and walks everywhere.  Must be too hot to fly!

At my Mom’s condo in Valencia…she has so many plants it looks like a jungle, and I don’t think she does much more than water them…but it must be like mosquito bites…Okay, how does that connect.  It does because it's one of those things no one understands. Some can grow plants...others can't. (mostly I forget to water, then water them too much!) 

The mosquito bite anomaly: (some are plagued by them, others never get a bite) 
I can be camping in an area where everyone is covered with bug bites and I won’t have one.  I’m not sure if they don’t like me, I’m sour or what but, I never get any, no matter how many of the critters are in the area…they just go for other meat!

One time we went camping and Patrick became breakfast, lunch and dinner for every flying insect known to man.  His forehead was so swollen it looked like Frankenstein.
I wasn’t even an appetizer…go figure…the same goes for plants…just not happening for me…go figure!

Well after being here in Chandler for four weeks I have confirmed my OCD.  Now I know I count steps, and have for some time.  This can be extremely annoying especially now that I am in an upstairs apartment.  I know there are 18 steps to get up here…, or 60 steps out to the car in the parking lot...the same as I know there are 13 steps to the landing and three down to the floor at our house in Calif…however that does not seem to stop me, every stinking time I go up or down…like a mantra in my head 1-2-3-4…for those of you who do not have this malady “count” it as a blessing.  Get it ha! Count.  There must be other symptoms, but mine are sporadic, so maybe my case is transitory.  Don’t expect my house to be spotless, like they say OCD victims have their homes...I have piles. It's the way I can be neat, and organized...Piles.

Piles of bills, piles of sewing and craft projects…piles of paper with half finished poems, or ideas for stories all over the place…don’t move one of my piles!  I will get to it eventually.  In fact while I’ve been here in Chandler away from distractions ...somewhat…I have completed several of my piles.  

I brought an entire suitcase of piles with me to work on.  You see...I start a project, and before it’s done move to another.  Sometimes it is years before I get back to that particular pile, but eventually I do.  Really I do!  Yes...I’ve finished several of the piles I brought with me, but sorry to say, I have started a few new piles…I like piles.  it's a way to be able to work on several things at once. I cannot sit still. I don't know why and have a terrible time sitting for 3 hours in church...I just must multi-task to keep from jumping out of my own skin. Watching TV and sewing, knitting and listening to a book, writing a book and thinking about my next nursing class.

 I know my kids for years have said I never sit down, or if I do it's not for long.  But with five kids, I got an amazing amount of stuff done because of multitasking and my piles, and pretty much doing two or three things at once.  Like today, I'm sewing, listening to a book and doing laundry...maybe some vacuuming too.

So in the long run, for me anyway, I guess OCD and a few other odd things have been a blessing, no mosquito bites, and I can just leave the plant growing to others with that special something...I don't have.  I have enough to do anyway. I Got Piles!