Buzz Kill

                I admit my bah-humbuggy feelings about the Christmas season are a definite buzz kill. I suppose I should keep my mouth shut, but I have a blog – so no way.

                Christmas isn’t my problem, nor are the general feelings  of good cheer and wanting to share with others. No. My problem with the season is that it’s too long and getting longer. Last year my husband chuckled as he caught me turning the four foot Santa to face the store’s wall the day after Halloween. I didn’t think anyone was watching.

                I swear someone could discover the cure for cancer and be told, “wait until after the holidays.” It seems people can’t keep their minds on task because half their brain cells are counting days to Christmas and how many gifts are yet to be bought.

                It’s a time of pure gluttony, too. I remember when my office was on the 8^th floor and I was struggling that year to keep to my diet. The third floor was taken over by cookie fiends hawking baked goods of all sorts. I skirted my way to my office and felt safe behind the closed door. Then I heard the cookie pushers “la la lalling” nearer and nearer. What am I? Some goose that needs stuffing?

                I see hoards of people pushing their way through store entries  to grab the latest must-have items that will fill dumpsters in two years time.

                Other than that, Christmas is such a jolly time.

Word Rant

       

                Do certain words grate on you? When you hear them used, or misused, do you cringe? There’s a term in the writing world called “weasel words.”  A weasel sucks the guts out of an egg, leaving an unbroken shell – a useless look-alike egg. A weasel word, like an empty egg, is actually useless and needs to be deleted whenever it pops into one’s prose. Can you find the weasel word in the last sentence? Which word could be eliminated without changing the meaning of what I wrote? I’ll give you a hint: I actually hate that word and whenever I hear it I actually want to scream.
            I was listening to the evening news and the reporter was talking about a house fire. He mentioned the name of a person who “actually” lived in that that house. Hold the phone! Stop the presses!  He actually lived in that house!!!!!????? As opposed to what? Not living in the house? 
            I think “actually “ is a 99.9%  useless word.  “The cookie actually tasted good.” Change that to “The cookie tasted good.” I could go on forever (actually???) but you get my drift.
            Are there words or expressions that drive you up the wall? My husband hates “At this point in time.”  He maintains the “in time” is totally unnecessary – weasel words.
            There, I ranted and actually feel better.

 

It's All Relative

If asked, I would say that today is gorgeous.  Years ago I was shopping in the mall when the clerk asked me about the weather, since she was nowhere near a window or door. I grinned and assured her it was just lovely outside– then proceeded to describe how the sky was overcast, with brooding clouds that threatened rain. It was nippy too and the wind was picking up. As I spoke I watched her face fall. Apparently, we did not share the same idea of lovely weather.

I’ve come to realize that I am one of the few who prefer dark days to sunny ones, but trust me when I tell you, I am not alone. Every once in a while a few people will nod their heads and whisper that they feel the same way. There’s not many of us. In fact only one friend in my quilting group appreciates a sky with a darker personality. The rest of the ladies just laugh and say “only you two” and shake their heads. I told one friend who lives in Florida that not only did I like cool overcast days; I thought day after day of sunshine was like a darn fool who doesn’t know enough to stop grinning. This summer during the heat wave I send her one sentence through Facebook : “The darn fool won’t stop grinning!” She knew immediately and responded “LOL.”  Now there’s a friend who gets me.

Fall is especially prone to dark, nippy days. Maybe it’s because I’m descended from European peasant stock; around this time of year a primordial need to prepare for winter bubbles from deep inside. I suddenly have the urge to make homemade soup and bake pies. I want to make a cozy nest. The more clouds, the colder it gets, the more naked the trees become, the more I want “cozy.”

That domesticity, mostly dormant, awakens when the weather  has a little edge to it. The rest of time I can find a thousand things to do other than bake pies. As one friend replied in an email where I spoke of being a “domestic maven”, he only stopped laughing after he fell on the floor and hit his head.

How many of you share the secret pleasure of gloom? If you don’t and think I’m nuts, click below on the “blech!” choice. If you’re one of an apparently small secret society of dark day devotees, click on “agree.”  Who knows, maybe there are more out there like me.

What's in a Label?

                I don’t think this story will ever make the national news, even though the issue effects  every man, woman and child in America. I wouldn’t have a clue about it if my son and daughter-in-law weren’t farmers and committed to the principles of naturally grown, pesticide and chemical free crop management. I listen to son John’s description of caring for the soil, using natural unmodified seeds and pest control that balances nature without poisoning it, and wonder why farmers would do anything else.

                Well, there’s lots of reason why not and I don’t plan to go into them. I just want to share two things with you.

                The first is a website I came across that I think is very informative if you wonder what I’m writing about  or are concerned about consuming genetically modified organisms  (GMOs) in your food (along with other goodies like Bt, Roundup, hormones and antibiotics). Visit www.earthopensource.com... and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

                Here’s the news you won’t hear. Because California uses initiatives to make laws rather than rely on legislators to introduce them, the regulation to make food producers add “GMO” or “Non-GMO” to food labels is currently up for vote by the people of California.  According to the polls, the majority of Americans, when given the choice, would choose NOT to consume food with GMO ingredients.  Agribusiness in America uses GMOs in food production so much that adding GMO on labels would be devastating to the industry. If California approves GMO labeling, making labels to comply with the new regulation for the California market alone would be prohibitive; most likely the labels will be uniform across America. And how will that affect sales in the U.S.?

                You would think Big Brother would be behind this labeling movement. It seems to me, Big Brother is into banning things (as in New York City vs  giant Coke beverages) and not into  truth in labeling so Americans (who apparently are too stupid to decide anything on their own) can choose not to become lab rats for big business and decide for themselves what to consume.

                Here’s your power. First, if you think I’m on a rant and just full of it, ignore me. But if you wish to have choice about what you put in your body, download the free app from Apple:  ShopNoGMO or visit  www.nonGMOshopping to download the shopping guides .

                Law of supply and demand rules - despite lobbyists, legislators, or courts. In the end, you get what you are willing to buy. You rule!

Robo-Virus and Ma Bell

It’s the mean season.  We face two months of political sound bites, mudslinging and skewed facts (better known as lies). It would be a miracle if we could vote a government into office capable of agreeing on anything – even what to order for lunch would be a good start. Oh, I forgot to add, without the lunch costing 1.5 billion dollars.

I hear each candidate claim he will create more jobs.  Just exactly how does Executive power create jobs?  Will the President wave the flag three times over the Lincoln Memorial and force Kodak to hire 200 workers?  

Some people know which candidate will get their vote. Others are still working through the hype. Personally, I dread the coming robo calls. Why do people who are supposedly bright enough to solve America’s problems (?) think these nuisances would tip the balance in their favor? Let’s see - in the last four days Candidate A has interrupted my dinnertime three times, assuming I will listen to a recording of political drivel while my ground beef burns. Yes! I want to vote for that man!

As I turn my phone on to stop the ringing  so I can turn it off immediately,  my only satisfaction is that whoever that candidate  was, he or she  just wasted more of his money  than my time. And if I fail to check caller ID and accidentally respond, like Pavlov’s dog to a ringing phone, the robo call will certainly make me reconsider voting for that candidate.

Because here is my question: since everyone knows the public hates these things, why would a person who wants my vote invade my home with aggravating, electronic drivel?  If the candidates claim it’s not them, but their campaigns initiating these calls, I wonder why they do not have control over their own campaigns. Choosing to implement robo calls on your behalf tells me you are not listening to the American public and have no intention of doing so in the future.  If you can’t control your campaign’s decisions, why should I believe you are capable of leading what is euphemistically called the free world?

My dream candidate would not make claims but would describe methods. My candidate would not snipe at his or her opposition in mind numbing sound bites that insult my intelligence.  My candidate will say to the electorate: I agree robo calls are a nuisance and you will not receive any on my behalf.

 Can I vote for you twice?  

Drunkard's Path

                You may wonder what I’m blogging about with a title like “Drunkard’s Path.” But quilters know.

            Drunkard’s Path is the name of one of hundreds of quilt blocks and in case you’re not a quilter, here are some basics. Think of a quilt as fabric art composed of a designed top layer, inner batting and back layer. “Pictorial” quilts create pictures when all the little pieces are sewn together. The small quilt in the photo is a “crazy quilt” hosting all sorts of shapes and do- dads (thoughtfully) tossed together in a kind of freewheeling symphony of fabric. I did this one as a quilt challenge to use just three colors and was given black, red and white to work with.

            More “traditional” quilts use large square segments called “blocks,” like Drunkard’s Path, and a pattern emerges when the blocks are sewn together. Just change the direction of the blocks as they are placed in the quilt or switch out the lighter and darker hues, and a totally different quilt would appear! Mix and match more than one block and another quilt is born. Add sashing (1 to 2 inch strips of different fabric) between the blocks and…well, you get the idea.

Even if you’re not interested in quilting and have an allergy to sewing needles, I invite you to follow this link to Marcia Hohn’s Quilter’s Cache (www.quilterscache.com) and on the drop down menu click on “quilt blocks galore –free quilt block patterns.” Scroll down and each time you click on a page number, more blocks appear with a different old American tune. Click on any block you fancy to get the sewing directions for it. Sometimes I just admire and listen as I go from page to page. If the quilting bug just bit you, Marcia’s site also offers a lesson section.

The quilting bug took a chunk out of me when I went to a quilt show and found myself surrounded by the most beautiful, inventive, art gallery I could ever have imagined. I just have to do this, I decided and then, wonder of wonders! I discovered quilting is NOT that difficult. It only looks that way.

Not able to draw to save my life, but in love with color and design, I wander through fabric stores and see soft art rather than cloth. Creating or following a pattern, matching and selecting fabrics is so absorbing I have actually forgotten to stop for lunch. (I was born underweight and am hard wired to continue to correct the problem that is long gone.) At first, I created the entire quilt by hand and found it to be just as relaxing as if I were in the lotus position murmuring “uhmmmmmmmm.” Since then, I usually use my sewing machine, or as my daughter-in-law-the -purist says, I’ve “gone to the dark side.” Still, I occasionally lose myself in hand piecing and quilting.

Quilts are versatile. They keep you warm; they are also wall art, table runners, placemats, lap rugs.  (I made my first dog his own quilt.)  In fact, their value increases as families pass then down through the generations. Best quilts are made of 100% cotton and please don’t wash them unless absolutely necessary and then, very carefully. They can be literally constructed with the fabric of your life. You could use cloth from your children’s or grandmother’s wardrobe. Some people make quilts from assorted tee-shirts that have meaning to them.

True quilters grow a “stash” of assorted fabrics.  This way we quilters are always armed with sufficient fabric to sew at the drop of a rotary cutter!

            Quilts don’t need to be perfect. There’s a tradition that every quilt should have a mistake in it.  Some of my neatest work is the result of a blooper that forced me to add a creative “correction.”

            Oh, go on, try it. What do you have to lose?

AARP and Company

        

It was my mother’s birthday and I was about twelve, when my grandmother said, “Haven’t you noticed you mother’s been celebrating her 39^th birthday for the last five years?” When I later mentioned to the same grandmother that she was old, her response surprised me. She was walking through the side door when she turned and smiled at her impertinent granddaughter and answered, “But I don’t feel old inside.” 

She died at age 93 and I can honestly say she never did grow old. She aged, of course, but she never got “old.” Every day this woman rose at 6 a.m. and had her home gleaming by 11 a.m. I once overheard her telling my mother, “I had such trouble getting down the stairs today, but felt better after scrubbing the kitchen floor.”

As for my mother, let’s just say it was worth your life to offer her a “senior discount.”

My heritage may account for the difficulty I have with the word “retire.” (Nor can I bring myself to join the American Association of Retired Persons, as honorable and helpful as that organization may be. They have enough members anyway.)

According to my handy dandy dictionary, the word  “retire” means: 1) withdrawn from business or public life (what? As in holed up in a room somewhere and never more interacting with society?)  2) withdrawn; secluded (well I guess that’s what is meant by “ retire”!)

“Withdrawn” means retiring (seems to come full circle, doesn’t it); shy; emotionally unresponsive. “Withdraw” means 1) to take back or away; remove 2) to recall or retract 3) to remove oneself from active participation.

Based on those definitions when a new acquaintance asks me what I “do” I sure as heck am not going to say that I’m retired! I’ve merely changed my focus. I’m moving on. There’s a world of experiences waiting for me.

            Some people work all their lives and never develop an interest or hobby. Life is busy enough working eight or more hours five days a week, caring for home, children and various friends. Then suddenly those eight hours are gone; the kids are grown; there’s only so much the house needs and many friends have moved or sadly passed on. Time hangs heavy and television becomes a lonely wasteland. How to fill those long hours from sunrise to sunset becomes a challenge.

            Instead, now is the time to: learn to do woodworking, garden your heart out, take up quilting, photography, music lessons, join a book club, volunteer your services, join Toastmasters and master the art of public speaking even if there is no public to speak to. Embarrass your kids more than ever before!  It’s time to research that esoteric subject you never had time for and feed your inner nerd.

 You don’t have to excel at any of this. Excelling was for the dog- eat- dog work place. You’re free of that. Now, “good enough” is just fine and “just because “is reason aplenty.  There’s a well earned freedom now. Set the alarm early; you’re on YOUR time finally. Fill the day with new work, new people, new causes, and new ways to find and create beauty. Follow your heart, your soul, your whimsy. But for the love of heaven, don’t retire!

Sizzle and Pop

                Now that Mother Nature apparently hit menopause, her hot flashes force me to water my flowers and bushes daily.  Those who know me know that is not my first choice task. I prefer writing, reading, quilting, heck- even dusting – to gardening.  Yet, amazingly, the tomato plant my daughter-in-law brought me is still alive and growing.  No doubt Mr. Squirrel will dine on my efforts when they come to fruition and that’s another reason why gardening tasks my spirit.

                I have discovered my garden hose has invisible hands and grasping little fingers.  As I trudge along, nozzle in hand, from one spot to another that hose gets caught on everything.  It’s as if it doesn’t want to go with me and resists by clinging to every rock edge, bush, and flower stem it can get its phantom fingers around. And no amount of yanking frees the darn thing. No, I have to trace my way back to the hang-up and manually disengage the plastic snake from whatever it’s clutching for dear life.

                So how is it that my son – bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh – grew up to be, of all things, a farmer?  Maybe it’s the ultimate rebellion. There must be an agricultural gene somewhere in my husband’s and my combined DNA. Maybe our ancestors were European peasants who tilled the soil from sun up to sun down and were grateful!

                He and his wife own Bluebird Acres Farm where they produce Certified Naturally Grown (http://www.naturallygrown.org/) veggies and herbs in raised beds rather than plowed earth.  Their property is dotted with long enclosed rectangular raised mini-fields that sprout whatever crop is in the rotation cycle for that area. While I am pulling a reluctant snake of a hose around my suburban lot, my son uses the various hoses running from the pumps he configured  to bring water from their well and pond to his crops. It takes him about four hours to water his entire farm. And he loves it!

                Go figure. Meanwhile, I’ll settle in my lawn chair with a glass of lemonade. As the sun sizzles I will marvel at how uniquely our children forge their lives when left to follow their dreams.

               

Kiddies' Fun Day

                Combine lazy days of summer, little kids, an amusement park and anything can happen.

 I recall back when you could still find a few cars with running boards along the sides, my town’s police department hosted “Kiddies Fun Day” at the local amusement park.  Somehow, amid the crowds and rides, I lost track of my mother and, ever the obedient child, found one of the many policemen who were there that day and explained my plight.

            He asked me to describe my mother. Without hesitation I declared she was “fat, grey and wearing a pink skirt and red blouse.” Now Mom was not fat and the only grey in her hair was a deliberate stunning streak of white; the pink and red outfit was one of her many stylish “ensembles.” After the police announced my name, a woman came forward to fetch me. She was my mom’s cousin Barb, but because I rarely saw her, when the policeman asked me if I knew her, I said “no.” – and he gave me to her!

            As soon as I spied my mother coming towards us, I let go of Barb’s hand and ran to hug her. Unfortunately, the sharp end of the barrette in my hair scraped open her cheek while we embraced. Later, as we were leaving, a policeman standing near the exit started to laugh.

            “I don’t think it’s funny!” my now totally aggravated mother exclaimed.

            “It’s not that, lady.” He shook his head as he continued to chuckle and muttered “fat, grey, pink and red.”

            Right then, my mother accidently turned the wheel just enough to lodge the running board on a rock. The narrow platform then sheared off while she drove forward. As she pulled into our driveway fifteen minutes later, congealed blood on her cheek and her hand grasping the  running board as it knocked against the side of the car, my father ran forward, asking “What happened?”

            With a bit of a growl, she said three words “Kiddies’…..Fun……Day.”

Fifty Pianos on the Run

            Last week, I stood in the room where I once played in piano recitals. Although time has altered the room’s purpose, its unchanged appearance brought a flood of memories.

             Long before two world wars marred the twentieth century, my then teen-aged Grandfather learned to play the French horn in Kaiser Wilhelm’s army. At the beginning of the twentieth century, my grandparents emigrated from Germany to America where Grandpa found work in the tool and die industry. Still, he never lost his love of music and was determined his daughter would become the professional musician he never could. To that end, he purchased a baby grand piano made by Aeolian Company in East Rochester (if you’re into makes and models of pianos) and made my mother practice three hours a day. Mom, a pretty terrific pianist by the time she graduated high school, couldn’t wait to find a job and finally have some fun. Grandpa, disappointed she did continue her musical education, declared she would never take possession of the baby grand UNLESS she had a child who played piano.

             My fate was sealed before my father even met my mother.

            The year I turned seven and could count up to six (kids progressed slower in the mid 20^th century), she had my dad knock out a wall in our small post war bungalow, so she could nestle the piano between the dining and living rooms. It was there I practiced “only” an hour each day for the next ten years while Mom became the neighborhood piano teacher and joined the National Piano Teachers Guild.

            One year the Guild joined forces with a music store to present a huge concert in the city arena. The store supplied fifty pianos and the Guild provided one hundred students. Mom paired me with one of her students and the two of us joined the other forty nine duos as we practiced our piece for weeks. We were all jammed in a room that was crowded with pianos on the second floor of the music store. Again and again, one hundred kids sweated through that piece while the conductor waved his baton and counted out loud. I can’t recall the name of the composition but I do remember that performance.

             We all began together, on the right note and the right beat. Things progressed well until somehow the tempo quickened. We started to go faster. I knew we were ignoring the conductor, but if I slowed, I would have tripped up the others. Instead, 100 kids played faster and faster and faster, like a runaway train, until we all finally crashed onto the last note.

            Many years later, when I resumed piano lessons, my teacher suggested I play in a recital. I smiled sweetly and said, “I’m an adult now and can say…..absolutely not.”

             

Dandelion Revisited



            I cannot tell a lie. I don’t like gardening. The only plants I purchase are perennials because I want to plant only once. I dig a hole, stick the plant in the ground, add water and pronounce: “Good luck. Live or die, you’re on your own – bona  fortuna.” And that’s that. You could describe my landscaping as “the Darwinian Style.” In other words, it’s the survival of the fittest in my yard.

            That explains my effort to upgrade the lowly dandelion from weed to flower. You will notice that  flowers need coaxing to thrive. Weeds just bloom where they’re planted and where their seeds wander or fall from the claws of birds.  I think their heartiness rates applause. They’re low maintenance.

            Of all the so called weeds, only the dandelion looks pretty with its bright yellow flower. Given half a chance, these hearty blossoms will spread a golden carpet over lush green grass from one end of your yard to another. Low maintenance.

            But that’s not all! One can make wine out of the dandelion, which I am told is quite tasty. Not only that, the dandelion greens added to a bit of olive oil and garlic can be savored alone or made  to grace a salad. If you are still not convinced the dandelion rates an upgrade, consider that the University of Rochester – a leader in science, medicine and fine arts - adopted the dandelion as its official flower. Yes indeed! The University even celebrates “Dandelion Day.”

            Now really, what more evidence do you need to protect these hearty flowers from becoming an endangered species? Why attack them like Enemy #1?

            I mentioned my philosophy to Good Neighbor Dave who lives next door. He agreed a dandelion salad is just delicious and kindly invited me to help myself to all his dandelions. Hmmmmmm. I wonder if that conversation went in the direction I planned.

           

Always a Crime Fighter

            When we were dating, my future husband wrote me unique letters. The best part was his hand drawn cartoon about the adventures of “Chicken-man, the Crime Fighter.” Chicken-man was a plucky forensic chicken who experienced many adventures.

            My real life crime fighter certainly had his adventures but he was no chicken.

            One afternoon he stopped at a popular watering hole in the city for lunch. The place drew saints and sinners alike. There were representatives of the legal professional as well as their customers who were not currently in “public residence,” so to speak.

            Gene was sipping his after lunch coffee when the waiter wiped a nearby table and held up a small clear plastic bag, about the size of a large postage stamp. He waved the thing in the air for all to see the white powdery contents. No one looked up at what was clearly a street drug.

            “Does this belong to anybody?”  he asked. Without hesitation Gene approached the waiter.

            “I’ll take it.”

            He left the restaurant and drove to the lab, all the while checking his rear view mirror. He tested the little white goodie and sure enough, heroin.

            Someone’s “tip for the waiter” ended up in the right place! Chicken man indeed!

Homely

            I like the word “homely.” My dictionary says “homely” means not attractive or good looking. Yet it’s the secondary definition that appeals to me: simple or unpretentious; plain, and finally, characteristic of the home. People tend to value perfection and unblemished beauty, which is understandable, but I think those qualities have their limits. A wild flower is exquisite even though it waves its petals over hard scrabble ground dotted with weeds.

            Reality is homely. We treasure cracked china cups because they remind us of our grandparents who brought them out on special occasions so friends and relatives could sit around an old scarred kitchen table to celebrate a special event. Or, what about the faded quilt with the too large quilting stitches – far less than the desired twelve to an inch? Homely. Not quite perfect…isn’t supposed to be.

            I find a lot of homely items when I browse the antique stores. They appeal to me because I remember many from my childhood. For me, an antique becomes more desirable with a homely edge to it. I recall my father flipping down the side of the metal toaster to turn the bread over to toast the other side and I remember pink plastic transistor radios. These things aren’t pretty; they’re even a little ugly or funny looking now, but they make me smile.

            Have you ever seen a dog or cat so quirky looking you had to love it?

            Homely has a place in our lives. It has its own wild attraction. Things that are homely don’t demand much from us. We don’t need to polish or insure them. They are a large part of the fabric of our lives and perhaps we lose something when we discard them for something perfect.

           

Birdbrain at Work

            I’m worried about the cardinal bouncing on the holly branch across from my husband’s office window. Every few seconds, she flies toward the window pane, flutters against the glass and returns to her perch. She returns every day to her branch and repeats the attacks for hours, never concluding she is getting nowhere, will never accomplish her task and really should move on and get a mate or a life – whatever it is that makes a bird happy. 

            We assume she sees her reflection and thinks she is approaching another bird. On the other hand, if she is seeing what’s IN that room behind the window, she may be entertaining thoughts of nesting. Goodness knows there’s enough stuff in that room to make a bird want to move in and stake a claim for life. 

            As I’m tisk- tisking about her little bird brain draining her energy and time in a fruitless endeavor, I realize there may be a lesson here for me. I want to tell the bird, “move on and get a life; you’re getting nowhere here!” Instead, I think it would be wise for me to direct that pearl of wisdom back to myself. For years I’ve been cajoling, begging, encouraging – OK nagging- himself to clear out his man-cave. I’m like that little bird, making one useless foray after another.

            I’m no birdbrain. I’ve got it now. I’m moving on.

Life With a CSI

            My husband Gene was a CSI long before the occupation became popular. Years ago, he needed to explain what a “forensic chemist” was to someone who asked what he did for a living. Of course, after forty plus years in the crime lab, there are stories – lots of stories and many are downright funny.

            One cold wintery evening, Gene gulped a quick dinner before leaving in a blizzard to testify at night court in a rather distant county. His car no sooner disappeared into the swirling white mist, when the district attorney called to inform him the proceedings for that evening had been cancelled.  This was before the era of cell phones so I had no way to call my honey back to home and hearth. I did what I thought was the next best thing.

            Knowing he would need to take the Interstate for a bit, I called the State Troopers and began with,”Now I know this isn’t an emergency, but….” Since troopers bring evidence to his crime lab, it did not seem unreasonable to ask them to help their colleague. I got a tired, “we’ll do what we can lady, but….” from the officer on the line. “Just keep an eye out for him when you patrol, that’s all I ask.” My request seemed quite reasonable to me.

            A bit later, Gene opened the door and chuckled as walked into the kitchen. It seems he arrived at the courthouse and decided since he would be the last to testify he would kill some time and enjoy a banana split in the local diner.

            “I was sitting there with my ice cream and out of the corner of my eye I see one state trooper car after another drive by with lights flashing. I thought it must be a raid or something. When I got back to the courthouse, there was a trooper standing by his car.

            “Where were you?” he asked me. “We were patrolling for you. The court was cancelled for the evening. Your wife called us.”

             Then there was the time………….

American Quilt

            If I were rich and had no ties, I would study a map of the United States to find where I would put down shallow roots and live for a year. And then do it all again the following year.  Perhaps I would settle in New England – land of Norman Rockwell and lobsters. How about the bayou in Louisiana where I could eat gumbo and listen to Dixieland jazz? The Southwest may be interesting. I could live near pueblos and encounter American Indian culture.

            When our son was stationed at the Twenty Nine Palms Marine base in California, we visited and took a day trip through Death Valley. Turn to the right or left, look forward or backward, all we saw was dirt. Mountains of dirt; valleys of dirt, plateaus of dirt. Occasionally there would be a house situated in a lot made of dirt. I wondered how people looked around nature’s sandbox and picked one particular spot amid all that dirt to call home.

            We arrived at an intersection and pulled into an all-service rest stop. Gas pumps with a convenience store offering fast food and magazines, comprised the usual roadside oasis (without grass) that dot America. As I purchased my can of soda, I asked the cashier if she lived in Death Valley area all her life.

            “Oh no. We used to live in Rochester New York.”

            “Do you like it here?” I asked, wondering how she could have landed in this place.

            “Oh yea!”   She sounded enthusiastic.

            I couldn’t help asking, “why?”

            “It’s rural”

            Rural!!??  Lady, you passed rural a long time ago. This is pure desolation.

            It’s amazing how adaptable we humans are. We somehow manage not only to exist in extremely, hot, cold, dry, rainy, verdant, arid places, we thrive in them! The other evening my husband was watching The Swamp People on Animal Planet. It featured four fellows who made a living hunting alligators. One hunter sang the praises of life near a swamp; he declared he wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

            Something for everyone in this great country! Wouldn’t it be awesome to make a traveling sampler from the  giant quilt called America?