Toccata

Blogger and I are Having a Trial Separation

2011-07-16T13:25:00.000-07:00

After pulling out too much hair over working with this blog site I'm switching over to wordpress.com. As soon as I set up a new blog site with wordpress I'll publish the new link. See you soon!!!

Meanwhile, you can try out the new site at
http://toccatamundi.wordpress.com/

Let me know how you like it.

Making Peace Through Golf

2011-07-02T21:03:00.000-07:00

Every year here in SeniorLand our street and the neighboring street celebrate the 4th of July by spreading it out over at least 3 days. The first event is the GOLF TOURNAMENT. I will try to explain this grudge match and how I got involved. Believe it or not, I was drafted! Not because I was going to be an asset--oh no--but because I was the worst player that could be found who lived on the street and didn't mind public humiliation.

Last year a new resident, not knowing the chiseled in stone rules for the tournament, asked a friend who did NOT live on our street to be his partner. This friend just happened to have a 3 handicap. Big surprise! They won! The win was contested--of course it was! The upshot was that the big prize of $36 split 4 ways was carried over and added to this year's winning team's purse. An unfortunate grudge developed between the neighbor who had to forfeit his First Place and his neighbor who was accustomed to taking First Place but didn't because of the ringer. Sigh......

So, this year the newer neighbor was on top of the 'hood politics. He asked moi to be his partner thus guaranteeing a probable last place showing and giving his neighbor no more cause not to speak to him. I agreed and comforted my coming embarrassment by buying a really cute pink golf outfit, pink vest, pink socks, 2 pink golf balls, getting an entire new hair style and fresh highlights.

These tournaments have some weird rules--all involving math, best ball, gender, distance from pin and how old your grandmother was when she died. I never did figure out whose turn it was, whose ball was being played, where I was to put my ball or how anyone could keep score.

All I know that the 4 person team was required to use one of my tee shots as THE tee shot on at least one hole in the tournament. They were running out of holes to play when there was a group vote and my tee shot was offered up to satisfy the Rules God of Golf. The only shot I actually remember was sinking one putt that seemed to count for the good of the team.

The winners were announced the next night at the Neighborhood Party. "My" team came in 3rd from last. Unfortunately, there was a 3-way tie for next-to-the last. Even more unfortunately, the grudge-holding neighbor was on one of those teams. So, the double-money First Prize went to someone new and the grudge continues. Oh well--there's always next year.

Golf, Choirs and Jumping Out of Swings

2011-06-27T22:12:00.000-07:00

I've taken a break from worrying about my favorite topic (body/soul dichotomy) in order to worry about a physics problem related to golf. I've grappled with this dilemma since I was a freshman in college taking "Physics for Music Majors." You can imagine the level of physics in that class!

Actually, it was taught by the chairman of the department and I know the poor man tried so hard to reach us on any level. He dressed up as a gorilla for the first class; he filled a balloon with something and set it on fire so we got to see a suspended ball of fire; he would spin the rotating lecture area around and around like a carousel just because we would applaud that particular stunt. But he might as well have been speaking a foreign language.

It wasn't made easier that he also sang bass in the University Choir and I sat either in front of him or next to him. (Basses and altos are on the same side in a choir) We soon got past that awkwardness by never, ever mentioning anything to do with science.

You might wonder where this is going. Well, one of the questions the prof asked us in lecture was this: when you throw a ball up in the air does it have a moment at the top of the toss when the ball is neither moving up nor down? I missed the rest of the lecture because I was transported into my rich interior life where a ball goes up and down.

Of course it doesn't stop--nothing can defy gravity. That's why it's called the LAW of gravity! Something is either going up or it's coming down--no suspension of the LAW of gravity for anything. Now, hang in here with me.

I refer all such heavy topics to Mr T who majored in physics and is the ultimate authority on all things to do with science/math. He told me that there actually IS a point at the top of the ball toss when the ball is NOT MOVING UP OR DOWN.

Reality crumbled for me briefly. I couldn't swing the club. All I could do was focus on stopping the club at the top of my swing. There I was--forever frozen at the top of my back swing. What to do??

So, last Friday at Golf Clinic, Johnny the Pro was pointing out that my back swing is slow and I pause before beginning my downswing. In fact I believe he pointed out I had time to read Gone With The Wind by the time I actually got around to making contact with the ball. He said there should be no time between the back swing and the downswing.
http://toccatamundi.blogspot.com/2009/06/if-its-friday-it-must-be-golf-clinic.html

Enter Lady Pro. I begged her for help. I begged her to give me an example that I could relate to. I pleaded with her not to give me any sports analogies. She thought about it. She did not use the word 'hozzle.'

She simply said, "Did you ever jump out of a swing?"

YES!! YES!! I've done that!

"Do you remember that brief moment at the top of the swing arc when you 'knew' it was the moment to jump out?"

YES!! YES!! I remember that!

"Then that's the moment on your back swing when you start your hips moving with the downswing right behind."

That was beautiful. I understood. I can't do it but I understand! Right now I'm at the place where I bring the club back, think of my old physics professor, remember singing in the University Choir, jumping out of swings, forget to move my hips first, then take a whack at the golf ball. Progress is being made!

A Local Multiverse

2011-05-26T23:08:00.000-07:00

Vineyards. Old Churches. Abandoned train depots. Train tracks that no longer go anywhere. Sonoma is a very old, well-preserved town. You could fool yourself that it might be 1911.
But don't look too closely behind the carefully landscaped wineries to see the state of the art machinery that puts out 300,000 bottles(?) barrels(?) gallons(?) of wine a year. Giovanni the old winemaker isn't there--but there's a wing of chemists and professionally trained tasters.

Did you know that the roses planted so carefully along the edges of the vineyards are not to please the tourists? They use roses much the same way miners used canaries in coal mines: the first nasty mold, virus or plague to come near the precious vines will be picked up first by the roses.

Look closer and you will see train tracks running everywhere but going nowhere.

The depot has graffiti and is now used to store pesticides. The nostalgia for all things trains can send one spiraling down pretty quickly--good thing the Irish Pub is close by.

A new discovery today was an old pump organ in the local Congregational Church.

My years working for churches stood me in good stead as I easily found the weak link in the security system and was able to uh, gain entry and snap some quick photos of a once-grand instrument that is now replaced by a piano. At least it was a real piano and not some appliance that pretends to be a piano.

Dang but it gets harder and harder to sort out the fake from the real. Parallel worlds--a Multiverse indeed.

Hey! You! Get Offa Mah Cloud

2011-05-15T22:17:00.000-07:00

I take my technical continuing education seriously so when Amazon began the hard sell with its 'cloud' I was curious. After all, cloud sounds like such a nice concept. I was promised 5 somethings of free storage and if I bought even 1 MP3 album and put it on this cloud I could have 20 somethings free storage. Now, I don't understand a word of this but I knew something had to be done about storing some music for our RV trips.

Let me back up. My 12 loyal readers will know that I have suffered with a POS Dell laptop for 4 long years. It was born a lemon and it stayed a lemon with no recompense from Dell and left me with a lifelong determination to badmouth all things Dell for the rest of my days. I taunt you, you Dell people--your mothers are hamsters and your fathers smell of elderberries!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QSo0duY7-9s&feature=related

Our last RV trip to Arizona left something to be desired in the music department.
http://toccatamundi.blogspot.com/2011/02/music-left-behind.html

So---when I read about keeping music on a cloud and being allowed to play that music from a total of 8 'devices', I thought I should pursue this.To sweeten the deal, Amazon went through a mad spree of giving away FREE MP3 downloads--if they went onto the cloud.

The cloud is like a TV--you don't have to understand it to use it. The free part I don't believe but all the free music was too much to ignore. Then they added the hook to sweeten the deal--the entire opera Don Giovanni for just $2.98!!!! That gave me my 20 somethings of storage for an entire year at no charge!

Now add a new laptop. Yes, the POS Dell is history and I'm trying out a new Sony Vaio. All the cloud settings have to be reset. In the midst of doing this I saw that Amazon was giving away a FREE album of Gregorian Chant. Somehow, I ended up with the new computer playing--I kid you not--simultaneously--a Bach Brandenburg Concerto, "Blessed Assurance"( free daily MP3 download) and the Gregorian Chant FREE album I was trying to upload to that cloud. I couldn't find any OFF button for the cloud. I could pause it but there would still be 2 of the 3 pieces going at once. Mr. T was practically begging for "Whiskey Lullaby."

I never did solve the problem. I had to turn everything off and don't dare go back to my cloud to see what is happening. Speaking of clouds, I will tell you more about this recent trip up to see the giant coastal redwoods. It has not been our finest hour.

Good Taste Above All Else

2011-05-14T11:35:00.000-07:00

In the midst of trying to plan a 3 week RV trip and Mr. T deciding retirement wasn't exactly what he had in mind when he retired last year, Mah Mama had a small stroke. She is living in Assisted Living which is yet to become assisted living so I am keeping a closer watch on how she is doing. (They took in residents with the promise it was only a few weeks from being fully credentialed for assisted living and that was 5 months ago!) I don't want my blogging to turn into a depressing chronology of trying to provide care for an aging parent with dementia but it might. Unfortunately, there's not much humor in dementia and watching the sad decline of a loved one--but Ah Declar'--mah Mama found it.

I'd called doctors, gotten ignored, sat in the ER for hours, treated by doctors who looked barely out of Junior High, rounds of tests, etc. The medical conclusion is "nothing can be done" which might be true but not what I want to hear. I hired a caregiver to come in each day just to make sure Dah Mama gets her meds and to take her down for at least one meal. DM can find her way to the dining room--she just usually finds her way there at two in the morning.

Anyway....I was helping her get dressed and we were doing pretty well. (Translation: she agreed to put on the clothes) But then we got to the shoes! I had pulled out some white sandals that I know don't hurt her feet.

STOP THE TRAIN! No, she was not going to put her bare feet into sandals--she wanted to wear hose. I talked her out of that by convincing her that it was acceptable to just wear sandals in May. Okay, that might be alright--she didn't think she'd run into anyone she knew anyway.

STOP THE TRAIN!! Daughter! What are you doing? Those are White Sandals! Yes, Mama, they are indeed.

But Daughter, is it after Easter???? I simply will not wear White Shoes before Easter!

Now how can someone have dementia when they can remember one of the first rules of dressing like that? True, she didn't know Easter was the week before but hot damn! she remembered not to wear white shoes until afterwards. Things are not as far gone as I thought.

Toc Is Reprimanded Yet Again

2011-04-24T20:18:00.000-07:00

A refresher about my last encounter with the gardeners back in 2008.
http://toccatamundi.blogspot.com/2008/02/hall-monitors.html

A tree is ailing at my mother's condo. The Wandering Neighborhood Gestapo (WNG) makes its daily rounds under the guise of environmentalism. What they really do is check and see if any resident has dared plant a new plant without filling out the forms, submitting a request to the Architectural Committee, and getting approval--which is never granted.

Like the rest of the country, the HOA is feeling the financial pinch and there isn't a lot of money for new landscaping on any scale. I feel my mother's property has gotten the short end of the stick in the communal landscaping general plan so I offered to pay and plant APPROVED plants on her property.

I WAS TURNED DOWN!!

It seems that if people are allowed to use their own money then someone might have a condo that looks better than someone else's! Did these small-potatoes terrorists take on-line classes at the Lenin Landscaping and Annoying Everyone site??? I offered to buy a few rhododendrums, azaleas and other "matching" plants and plant them myself. Apparently this would mean I would be violating the egalitarian nature of the HOA! I wouldn't be offering to do this if the property didn't already looked like the poor stepchild. Logic is useless with this crowd.

All this is prelude to reporting that I dared to speak to the traveling iSpies doing their snooping. I saw that the owner of the Landscaping Company was accompanying them on their rounds and I wanted to ask about the tree in distress. The poor man was obviously cowed by the Committee because he pretended not to understand English and answered "No habla Ingles" in the most awful Spanish ever uttered. Sigh.....bullies are the same everywhere and they had him by the delicate parts.

I must admit I called out from the deck that I knew he spoke English and that he looked as Mexican as Prince William. By now the WNG was getting loaded for bear.

Sure enough, a week later I got a letter from their lawyers threatening me with liability if any of the gardeners quit and reminded me that I had already been warned not to speak to any of the gardeners.

I guess they didn't get my response about my First Amendment rights.
I wonder if Home Depot has any rhododendrons in yet?

The Role of Community Organizers

2011-04-22T18:45:00.000-07:00

"Now the chief priests and the elders persuaded the people to ask for Barabbas and destroy Jesus."
--Mt 27:20

"And the crowd came up and began to ask Pilate to do as he was wont to do for them. And he answered them, "Do you want me to release for you the King of the Jews?"

For he perceived that it was out of envy that the chief priests had delivered him up.

But the chief priests stirred up the crowd to have him release for them Barabbas instead. And Pilate again said to them, "Then what shall I do with the one whom you call the King of the Jews?"

And they cried out again, "Crucify him."
--Mk 15: 8-13

2011-03-19T22:58:00.000-07:00

March 18, 2011

The desert is a place that dreams go to die. The ruins of someone’s attempt to make a living in the middle of the miles of sand and big blue rocky mountains litter the desert everywhere. There’s nothing ‘soft’ about the desert—anything living there bites, stings or scratches. It’s an unforgiving place.

Traveling through the dry rocky hills and the gravelly land that barely supports a bit of grass and a quick blaze of wildflowers in the spring has little appeal for most folk. But oh what a different story is told by those who have been bitten by the desert bug—to them the desolation seems a sleeping opportunity only waiting for the dreamer to bring his earth-changing visions to the desert and transform the dusty, gritty Mojave into a miracle, a Garden of Eden, a total transformation because of a “unique and great” plan.

But it never happens. Driving through the desert you can see ruin after ruin of dead dreams. Shacks, adobe, rocks, boards—anything that would make a dwelling. There are ruins of old barns, corrals and doomed wells. Along the edges of the first two original Route Sixty-sixes you can find old car parts, cans, the occasional coin and even the rusted stays from the women’s corsets. (The first dream the women abandoned was the hourglass figure—corsets were too hot so they were tossed by the side of the road to rot away—except the stays, dozens and dozens of rusting metal stays—they’re still out there in odd little patterns.)

Mr. T and I are desert rats. I was raised on the desert and learned to be both respectful and wary of the lure of the Mojave. The beauty of the desert imprinted early in my soul. I also learned how easy it would be to lose my bearings out there and learned early on the landmarks that marked my child’s world. (This would never happen today but my cousin and I from the age of 6 on were told our boundaries were that we had to be able to see my aunt’s garage roof from the highest hill we could climb. That was it! And off we went for hours at a time! Compared to today’s shackled children, our world was very large.)

My godfather was an early Canadian environmentalist-turned-painter-turned gold miner who happened to marry my well-heeled Bluebook godmother and brought her West. (She was promptly disinherited by her family—smash that dream!) My grandmother was teaching school in Richmond, Virginia, in 1921 when my grandfather who worked for the Santa Fe Railroad sent her a letter asking her to marry him—he enclosed a one-way train ticket to Ludlow, Arizona, because his dream of making a new life included her. She went. Eventually she found herself living in Barstow, CA, with her neighbor being the woman who would eventually be my godmother. I can’t imagine that they were living out the dreams they might have had as young girls.

Even the monks could not make the dream of a desert monastery come true. Ten years of living in military cast-off metal portable “buildings” and battling the heat, wind and isolation eventually drove them to the mountains. More ruins added to the desert’s ongoing collection.

Everywhere you look, it’s just more evidence of someone’s dream that died. I wonder what happened to the bearers of all those dreams. They left no clues—just the detritus they couldn’t take with them when they finally gave up and moved on like the hundreds before them. Uncle Jack always thought the “Big Strike” was just one hill over. But it never was so he’d paint a picture, sell it, and that would grubstake his meanderings for a bit longer. I’m glad my grandfather didn’t live long enough to see the passenger train service evaporate for the railroads. He wouldn’t have believed it. He always thought the desert was his dream come true since he was lucky enough to be employed during the Great Depression and could provide for his family.

My desert dreams that have died have been mostly dreams that stayed in my imagination. The pull is still strong so we pack up the RV and hit the road. I’m my most comfortable out in the remote shadows of towns that are still holding on—but I’ve seen too much. I prefer to leave my desert dreams in my head and so I have the possibility of some of them turning out to be success stories rather than risk calling them into existence only to leave one more set of bones cluttering up the desert floor.

But when we park the RV, I put on my hiking boots, stuff camera gear in my vest, arm myself with a walking stick and slap a hat on my head that says The Crowbar I can still catch that whiff of a desert dream that just might materialize over the next hill.

And Now for Something Completely Different

2011-03-15T18:31:00.000-07:00

The Desert Golfing Outting Experience falls in the category of "I'm glad I did that one time." I opted to play 3 of the 4 days of the trip. Remember, I haven't ever played 18 holes on a full-sized golf course--and I think these courses were 'supersized.'

The first thing I noticed was that people here have a real rattlesnake fettish. Either they really do have more snakes than in "our" desert or they just love putting up rattlesnake warning signs. Johnny the Pro had warned us to bring plenty of golf balls because we would not want to waste time trying to find our balls in the rough. Well no kidding, shinola!!! What they call the rough is a canyon, arroyo, wash whatever you want to call it and it's filled with cactus. Being good green golfers they don't have water hazards--they substitute canyons, washes, arroyos filled with things that sting, bite, kill, scratch and snag.

I brought 50 golf balls with me--no problem, just pick them up from my backyard. I'm going home with fewer than 20. I also snagged my new pink golf pants and vest on the ever-present cholla. In fact, they even have a hanging cholla and a cholla that flings its needles at you! I never knew golf could be so fraught with danger.

And this was not the laid-back golf of SeniorLand. Oh no--this was "Hurry Up! Hurry Up! You're slowing down play" kind of golf. Well paint me gray and call me a jackass but we are all grandparents and playing these treacherous holes for the first time. It was rather stressful golf--not much time for taking photos--but driving the golf cart was fun.

The roadrunners came right up to our tables and the javelenas rooted around our patios. The company was great and tolerated having me, the miserable beginner in their midst. Everyone was very encouraging but no one was particularly interested in hearing my theory of the Corelation between the Decline of Western Democracy and the Adoption of the Golf Handicap theory. Maybe next time.......

The Music Left Behind

2011-02-27T21:28:00.000-08:00

It is not a good idea to go on an extended RV trip and discover that the only songs left on one’s dying laptop are 1) Close Up the Honkeytonks, 2) Yesterday’s Wine, 3) Whiskey Lullaby, and 4)Angels We Have Heard On High. (You know what else is aggravating? Having Word 2003 tell you that honkeytonk is two words! Gimme a break!)

Given the limited repertoire it means that we have listened to Whiskey Lullaby about 17 times in 36 hours. That plus the heavy rain and cold is contributing to a group wrist-slashing atmosphere. Dang—but that is one of the most depressing songs to ever come out of Mama, God and Country music. If we had internet access we could download a few more upbeat songs—like “Murder’s Been Committed Down on Music Row.”

At the next big city—which will be Quartzsite, Arizona—we might need to score some band width and download a little more varied selection of songs.

Quartzsite is the Mecca for RVers. You can't believe it--you have to experience it. Last week as it concluded the annual RV Fair and Gathering, the estimate was that about one million RVers passed through a town that has 2 stop lights and one real house.

We woke up this morning to sunlight and the sparkling blue water of Lake Havasu. We were suffering from the "No Room at The Inn" Syndrome when we pulled into Cat Tail Cove in the dark and pouring rain. The RV was so cozy and we had enough solar to run our lights. But other than that, we were dry camping in a parking lot.

As we cruised down Highway 95 in Arizona along the Colorado River we were once again reminded how thirsty California is. It's not as much fun being a Californian as it used to be. We've pretty much blown all our street cred and seem to be looking for more ways to self-destruct ASAP. We saw many self-haul trucks towing small cars and they were all heading just one way--out of California.

Now, as I peel yet one more orange from the RV park in Bakersfield I can't seem to get those words out of my head--She put him out, like the burnin' end of a midnight cigarette......We have got to get another song!!!

Who Wrote the Book of Love?

2011-02-27T21:08:00.000-08:00

Hey! I’ve got a great idea—let’s get out of this Sonoma County damp cold fog and go to Tucson and play some golf and catch some rays in the desert! It sounded good—but so far we have had cold rain and even snow. Yesterday felt like a Country Western song—hunkered down in Bakersfield in the trailer park waitin’ for the roads to clear to get out over the pass. Called up the pizza man and had ourselves some beer. Picked oranges off the trees and let the dogs run in the mud. No matter how we called it, we were still eatin’ crud. Or words to that effect.

Tonight we’re in the overflow camping area outside of Lake Havasu City. It’s called dry camping but the rain is still banging on the RV. No internet. There has to be a blog story in here somewhere—I’ll let you know when I find it.

Prepare to enter free-fall blogging: beginning RV trip, photos of weather and desert, and recounting the beginning of a Boomers group.

Meanwhile, back in SeniorLand the organization of Baby Boomers continues. While it has felt much like moving back home with the parents when we moved to a 55+ community, I suspect that to the “more seasoned” residents it has felt much too much like the kids moving back in with them! That being said it appears that Boomers have not outgrown liking to drink, eat munchies and listen to Rock and Roll.

Our first meeting had 84 Boomers show up—I was stunned. I was also glad I'd decided against holding the gathering in our living room. It felt like returning to college after summer vacation—the gang’s all here so let’s get down, be groovey—have a Happening! How nice it was to slip into the lingo of the 60ies and not have to see if you’ve embarrassed your kids by your lapse. When “The Book of Love” came over the sound system there was a discernable pause in the room when it reached that historical stomp—“Oh I wonder, wonder,(booboop bahbooboo boo----STOMP! Who wrote the Book of Love?” It’s been a long time since there’s been someone other than Mr. T to help with that stomp.

Continuing with the stream-of-consciousness ramblings I will just barely mention golf. Enough said. I’m still terrible enough that I can’t take it seriously or agonize over all the bad shots—after all, they’re almost all bad shots. It will sometimes strike me as hilarious that I’m trying to knock a little white ball that I gathered from my backyard into a ridiculously small hole on a patch of closely-mown grass and that this somehow constitutes an accomplishment.

I will not mention being mocked by a golfer I didn’t even know for wearing a pink outfit, pink hat, pink windbreaker and playing with a neon pink golf ball. Some people just don’t appreciate a sense of style, of flair. I suppose I should invest in those awful spandex black pants with stripes down the side and a black stretchy top. Can we say BOR—ING???? I will continue to wear bright colors, push my “crime scene tape” yellow golf cart carrying my shiny blue golf clubs and bag and wear my rosy pink hat with the bling. They should be thankful it’s not tie-dyed.

News from SeniorLand

2011-02-02T22:05:00.000-08:00

I am remiss in blogging. Despite 2 manuals and a mentor I remain a slow learner with the new camera. Few photos, fewer words. To compound matters, I got the Photoshop CS5 upgrade--again 2 manuals weighing more than a large sack of potatoes and me with a learning curve that is a straight line--no curve. So the few photos that are even worth posting I manage to botch up in the "digital darkroom"--which is cool talk for messing up your photos on your computer rather than just taking a bad picture to start with. However, I got a very cool photographer's vest for Christmas so I look much more competent than I actually am.

There has been another factor--I lost my sense of humor. That's never really happened before. Not losing it just for a day or two--it's been lost for months. Only those who have gone through a lengthy period of dealing with a much-loved mother as she has slipped into a different personality know the pain of the loss. After a year of declining mental abilities and increasing risk to herself, we had to force her into an Assisted Living facility. Of course she didn't want to go--who would? But after she took a nasty fall on a curb and hit her head on a bus bench we knew the living alone jig was up. Until you've been publicly interrogated in a bank lobby by firemen who ask you if you're the one who hit your mother and cut her forehead, asked if you've lost your temper and physically abused her and then hear them asking her the same questions, I'm not sure you really know embarrassment.

In any event, it seems the drama has decreased and adjustments are made all around and perhaps the sense of humor will return. In fact, I know it has. How can one not laugh when in ONE WEEK I met a golf coach named Sparrow and an antique dealer named Winterhawk??? Oh yes, I am still in California! Sparrow seems very nice and actually had some useful hints about hitting the golf ball. I'm envious of his ponytail but then, I was the one who chose to cut my hair.

The golf course is holding my interest more these days. We are thinking of going on a golf outting with some other residents here in SeniorLand and I've got to do better. I've added a hybrid club to my bag--I now have a driver(still forbidden by the doc but he is such a killjoy), an 8 iron, 9 iron, putter and now the hybrid. I'm not sure what the hybrid is but the ball goes further with it than with the 8 iron. I've also learned the hybrid is not for using on any kind of hill or rough or too close to the green. I've played with just the 8 iron for a year now and I'm ready to branch out. With Johnny the Grip, Coach Sparrow, and watching the golf channel I ought to be improving soon. I mean--if Rush can improve I'm sure I can catch on to this game. But then I remember the new camera and software--uh, maybe not.

The 19th Hole

At A Loss For Words

2010-12-13T20:57:00.000-08:00

I don't know why I can still be shocked by the cultural mores so common to Northern California--but I can. Blatantly written up in the local rag on PAGE ONE was the following article:
http://www.pressdemocrat.com/article/20101211/ARTICLES/101219902/0/NEWS

The Emerald Cup?? NINE days to judge the winning bud??? We sure ain't in Kansas! I really shouldn't be surprised. A medicinal marijuana shoppe is going in right down the road about half a mile from SeniorLand. I guess they know their target market.

I've been rather discouraged that I've not met friends closer to my own age here in SeniorLand. The Hall Monitors and Nazis-on-Golfcarts crowd seem a bit off-putting to me. So--after 3 years of grousing I decided to send out a tentative feeler for other Baby Boomers who are now entering retirement.

I placed a discreet notice in the local paper, hoping to get a handful of replies. It felt as if I were putting a blurb in the personals section of the newspaper. You know, "first-wave Boomer wants to meet other Boomers for staying up past 7pm, using words like "cool" and maybe even "groovy" if they happen to slip out." Or, to put it in Boomer lingo--We are, like, lookin' for a Happening!

I've been shocked to have had 80 responses to my article! So much for a quiet evening in our living room with a few bottles of good wine. It's morphed into a full-fledged meeting and definitely BYOB and not at our place!

On the other hand, maybe the local MaryJane Medicine Shoppe really does know it's all about location, location, location.

I'll be keeping you posted on the emerging Boomers
in Retirement group.

1066 and All What??

2010-11-14T09:20:00.000-08:00

Veterans' Day found me at one of the golf courses here in SeniorLand. I had signed up for a group golf lesson--Johnny the Grip was going to walk a group of us through some of the basics while we actually played at the game-you know that game--hit ball(most of the time) advance ball, wave 3 foursomes through, pick up ball and start again at next hole. That very same game.

While waiting I struck up a conversation with 3 Brits(Reggie, Reggie, and Ol' Reggie) who were telling stories about WWII. They spoke of being in Egypt and France as though it had happened just last week. There was no bragging, no navel gazing, just matter-of-fact recounting what had to be horrendous times in their young lives. None of them had been in the Pacific so I volunteered that I had been born at Pearl Harbor. At this glad piece of news one of them leapt out of his golf cart, grabbed me around the waist and proceeded to dance me around the pro shop! I think it might have been the best dance of my life--we didn't miss a step and surely turned heads as we spun and waltzed around the building.

This, of course, lead to a more detailed discussion of war topics and we got onto the topic of who had been the last English king to go into battle. I maintained Richard III(1452--1485) had been the last to lead his army into battle at Bosworth Field and Reggie One insisted it had been George II(1683--1760) at the Battle of Dettingen in 1743. This eventually brought all 3 Reggies into the lively discussion. (Dettingen???? What is that??)

Of course Reggie One had been correct. Richard III had been the last English king to die in battle while George II lived through Dettingen. Ol' George II was also the last British monarch to be born outside of England. It's amazing the things one learns on the golf course.

Later that day I stopped by our little market and ran up a tab of $10.66. Still enlivened by the Richard vs. George discussion, I joked to the boy at the register that 1066 seemed a fitting tally for this Veterans' Day. He just looked at me as if I'd lost it. I tried again--"You know, 1066?" (Dull look) "Battle of Hastings?" (His eyes glazing over) "William the Conqueror? The beginning, in a way, of our own history?" Nothing, nada, zip.

What's that about being bound to repeat it?

Chlorpheniramine 4mg and phenylephrine 10mg (KLOR fen IR a meen and FEN il EFF rin)

2010-11-03T20:23:00.000-07:00

Anyone with allergies knows that Actifed is the pill of choice. Anyone with difficulty breathing knows that Actifed lets you take in more air since your airway is less obstructed.

Anyone who has tried to buy Actifed in the last few years knows that somehow drug-type druggie drug makers need Actifed to make meth. (How did they ever figure that out?)

In California, to get Actifed, one has to show picture ID and sign that you will poke yourself in the eye if you're lying that the only reason you want Actifed is because you're sneezing your head off. Once the Solemn Oath Ceremony has been performed, the cashier doles out a two-week supply of the pills. It works well for the pharmacy since you have to go in every two weeks and Actifed is cheap--about $6.00. It's the fifty dollars of other stuff one throws in the cart that keeps the chain store running.

Today I went for my Actifed. Stop! Red Light! Call for Upper Management!

"I'm sorry Toc. We are no longer allowed to fill that prescription or provide Actifed. You will have to arrange with your doctor for a substitute medication." Now remember--Actifed is an OTC drug--well, behind the counter anyway. It needs no prescription.

I guess people who depend on the antihistamene to breathe more easily will be in the peculiar position of contacting a local drug dealer--not to buy meth--but to buy Actifed! Is it illegal to deal with a drug dealer of illegal drugs to buy the legal drug that only he now has????

Shake It Out, Baby

2010-10-18T18:35:00.000-07:00

First it was the Great Handcar Regatta. Then it was the Blessing of the Animals. Now it is going to be the Great California Shake Out. But wait--I forgot to bring you up to date with the local version of Blessing the Animals.

When I was a church organist I hated the Sunday when people brought their critters to church. Most of the pets were dogs, a cat or two but ALWAYS a snake or rodent. Those creatures inevitably belonged to 9 year old boys who felt compelled to shove the freshly-blessed trap bait up at my face while I tried to keep playing "All Things Bright and Beautiful."

But here in SeniorLand there is a winery nearby called the St. Francis winery and it seems only natural that instead of a church the Blessings should take place in the winery courtyard. And what an upgrade that turned out to be! There were HUNDREDS of people there and almost as many animals. How "sonoma-ish" can it get? Every breed of dog, a few exotic animals like a camel and macaws, wine tasting, wine buying, hired pooper-scoopers in uniforms, beautiful scenery.....sure beats bad hymns, inside and a long sermon!

I did have some coordination problems. While I can drive, use the cell phone(but never text), put on lipstick and manage a Starbucks latte, I could not handle a 70 pound Labradoodle, the new heavy camera, take pictures and do wine tasting. I never thought the wine tasting would have to go but since Mr T opted out for a hike, I was stuck --no wine. The line for animal blessing was long but the company was lovely. I think it was long because most dogs insisted on drinking the holy water as they were sprinkled so the supply had to be renewed about every 10 blessings. All in all, it was a very civilized event.

But now comes the really exciting civic involvement--I have been asked to be a "victim" in the Great California Shake Out next Saturday. This is going to be the biggest Pretend Earthquake ever. Of course, in my mind, it is very bad luck to do this. It was like Chevron naming their drilling platform in the Gulf "Typhoon" and then being surprised when Katrina smashed it to pieces. What do you expect when you tempt fate like that?

In any event, I am to be an earthquake victim, taken to the triage area, given a dread diagnosis and transported to the emergency care center. My only requirement was that I have no broken arms so I can photo-doc this entire Shake, Rattle and Roll. Meanwhile I need to practice my moaning, shrieks, and swooning. The pretend earthquake is supposed to be a doozy so maybe a few drinks from the wine from the Blessing of the Animals will make things more authentic when it comes to swaying and stumbling around. More to follow--I wonder if Hollywood will have agents watching.

http://www.shakeout.org/

(Sorry there weren't more pictures. After the first photo, I could only get "Server Error" messages.)

The Golf Handicap

2010-10-04T21:41:00.000-07:00

I haven't mentioned the links because it is too embarrassing. A quick update: one of the dread meds for the dread lung disease caused tendon damage in my hands. Right hand, permanent, left hand just annoyed. I was forced into a long break from the game and then slowly allowed to resume a rather limited version of golf--9 iron and a putter. I sneaked in a driver(half-swing) and cheat with the 7 iron. Hey--it's kind of golf!

I got a lovely golf glove with the American flag on the backside. I hoped it might offset the knock-off Chinese golf clubs. Of course the glove was also made in China so I'm not sure where I am in the balance of trade.

Oh yes--I bandage up like a mummy. Hand braces, elbow brace and full girdle that would have done my grandmothers proud. Then add Celebrex and Voltaren Gel and I'm ready to go.

My last time out I teed up and took my mighty half-swing drive. Somehow one of the stays in the girdle had worked out and snagged the back of my shirt which had the effect of a seat belt suddenly locking in place. I don't think one fully realizes how public a public golf course is until one tries to remove a piece of underclothing. Suddenly I noticed that both sides of every fairway were lined with houses. Every other house had folk enjoying adult beveredges out on their patios.

It could look
like this!

There is no place to hide even though I had to unsnag the stay and ease it out of my clothing. Modern girdles have lots of velcro--wrist braces also have velcro--it wasn't long before the velcro spots had all found each other. One hand was trying to undo the stay and the other was trying to unlace and pull the girdle velcro apart to get it off. All I could think of was getting to the 4th tee where I could slip under the eaves of the clubhouse patio, in the shadows, and get untangled. Wrong! There was a wedding reception on the patio with at least 3 dozen guests hanging over the rail admiring the view. So---for the next 3 holes it was swing, snag shirt on stay, try to push free, get velcroed hands stuck to the girdle. Not my finest round. Fortunately by the 6th hole there was shelter to run in and remove the girdle handicap. Never again!!!!

When I can, I attend Johnny the Grip's golf clinic. He's introduced the class to a little two-step and shake your bootie routine as part of addressing the ball. I can get into this! The last clinic was especially helpful when we discovered that the Firemen were having their annual golf tournament. Bet all those fine-looking firemen knew all about hozzles! Oh yeah--shake it!

The Great Handcar Regatta

2010-09-28T21:21:00.000-07:00

Sonoma County. 102 degrees. People encouraged to come in costume(how could you tell????) Handcar races. New camera. It was hilarious.

Doesn't he know smoking is bad for you?

Dah Bro.

Not a clue.

All ages.

Is that a LEER or what?

The Winners!

NOT part of the show.

Oh---kay.

Aliens?

C'mon girls. You're giving us all a bad name with that lame design!

A young 20-something man actually was excited that this vehicle could be the answer to all our energy problems. He told us--average age of the 3 of us was around 167--that if we all pedaled things like this instead of driving cars the earth would be saved! I asked him where I could put my dogs. He took the facetious question very seriously and finally decided a sort of buckboard/cart could be attached to the back and I would just have to pedal harder. I mean, like, you know, this dude was SERIOUS!

http://www.pressdemocrat.com/article/20100926/NEWS/100929561/0/news?Title=Santa-Rosa-s-Victorian-science-fiction-

Live Off The Land Portal

2010-09-28T20:56:00.000-07:00

While I'm busy reading up on the coming collapse of American Society as we know it, Mr. T suggested a trip to Hopland--aka Hophead Land. There is a locally famous survivalist store there--or so we thought.

I should mention everything you read about California is true--and then some. There are a lot of really crazy wackos living here. This is the car we had to follow out of town. They really make and SELL bobble-head Obama dolls? And what does it have to do with NPR?? And Moonbeam must have the largest collection of personal bumper stickers than anyone with the possible exception of Jesse Jackson.

We followed the beautiful Russian River up 101 past Cloverdale to Hopland. A wonderful local brewery is located here--the Mendocino Brewery. We would have spent our time better simply taking the tour and sampling their wares. But we were determined to see the "live off the land" crew.

Inside The Real Goods we were greeted with a Buddhist shrine to our left and gardening without any advancements since the 4th century self-published books. A peace sign made out of old Christmas tree lights was the focal point, hanging from the middle of the ceiling. Everything was uber-PC from the didn't harm the earth cotton clothing to the won't kill the ocean body soap.

There was a solar-powered merry-go-round--but no children around to play on it. Let the pictures speak.

The houses are yurts where volunteers come to intern in the store and learn how to live like primitives.

Retirement plus 50

2010-08-17T22:40:00.000-07:00

Mr. T has been retired for nearly 2 months now. I never before realized that he must have adult-onset ADD. He still gets up and has most of the known world organized for the day. So far, he has injured his rotator cuff and managed to get a pinched nerve in his neck. I wonder if it has anything to do with joining a local ping pong club and trying to get a year's worth of yardwork done in a week? So far he's had about 3 doctor appointments and at least as many physical therapy sessions! I'm convinced he sees retirement as something to get checked off his list rather than a new state of being.

He has also figured out how to use the Rat Zapper and caught the nasty rodent--electocuted that Norwegian roof rat as soon as it went for the bait.

http://toccatamundi.blogspot.com/2008/11/to-catch-rat.html

Work around the house? To the left is the "before" shot. And after all his hard work? The "after" shot. "Holmes on Homes" would be so proud!

He's also replaced the broken sliding screen door that the dogs went through trying to catch the same roof rat. If Byrdie were smart, she would be a dangerous dog! Talus would never be dangerous--he just stays annoying. When Byrdie spied the rat she just lunged for it--screen door never figured in her calculations of a battle plan. Talus never saw the rat but takes the lead in plunging and yapping. (He didn't really have to worry about the screen door since Byrdie had flattened it already.)

Talus headed around the corner away from the rat because he remembered a part of my garden he'd torn up and wanted to finish that job. Byrdie, seeing Talus having a plan, abandoned the rat destruction mission and followed him around the corner. Sigh....At least Mr. T. was able to get the Zapper up and running in Lethal Mode and replace the door.

I've noticed the beer consumption is going up.

Chronometer

2010-08-17T18:22:00.000-07:00

In stillness she observed

As had always been her way

Not yet knowing her detachment

Alone changed what she saw.

At some late hour she felt
Another’s eyes upon herself
Alarmed her pretense was laid bare
She lied deeper to her soul.

Although uncertain no one heard
She thought she’d keep it there
Tucked inside her heart in pleasing rows
Not breathing hard enough to show.

But now detected she withdrew
Reclaimed observer status
Once again but changed what she observed
Too late to warn herself.

Mama Toc Ventures Out and Scurries Back

2010-06-14T23:59:00.000-07:00

Vuvuzela??
Vajazzle???
Hozzle????

This is what happens when I venture outside SeniorLand. I am falling behind in culture vocabulary and events. I haven't watched American Idol in 3 years now and so am hopelessly sidelined on most au current conversations.

However, withdrawal from "24" and "LOST" drove me out to the polo field and adult conversation. I'm not sure it was an improvement.

First of all, there's Louie the Letch--a 6 pound, white toy poodle, 13 years old and no teeth so his tongue is always hanging out of his mouth. That's not all that is always hanging out. After his days in the show ring, Louie was a stud dog. He is only interested in one end of any dog--and he is not discriminating about the size of the dogs either!

After a particularly long day of "performing" Louie was, uh, in trouble. He could not return to "normal"--at least normal for Louie. The vet advised holding a sack of frozen peas to his underside until his swelling and discomfort subsided. But listening to six grandmothers discussing poor Louie's medical crisis was certainly entertaining.

The second topic was the beginning of a revolt of the elders who are being deprived of lawn chairs at the swimming pool.

It seems the grandchildren who are arriving in droves throw towels over the chairs and then are never seen again. The seniors arrive and are scolded by mothers when they move a beach towel in order to sit down while their own grandchildren swim.

This is going to be a big issue--a lobbying group has already formed to storm the administration with demands for more signs stating that the pool chairs are for residents. What has happened to GUMPTION? Toss the towels aside and then explain courtesy and respect for elders if the rugrats complain! But no...it is the way of SeniorLand to call in the Hall Monitors.

It is rather a sad commentary that youngsters don't notice that grandparents are standing in the sun for fear of moving a towel so they can sit down. Oh this new generation......

Slowly Crawling Out.....

2010-05-26T22:46:00.000-07:00

I lost my sense of humor for awhile. Coming to terms with a parent's dementia just sucked it right out of me. I shouldn't have worried--after the grief and worry and readjustment I should have known that there would be moments of humor that will stick forever.

The first time I laughed was an encounter my mother had with a mailman. I should explain that she believes all mailmen are her personal enemy. She thinks they steal her mail and pass up her house on purpose. She isn't quite sure why the mailman should hate her but postmen are now alerted.

After an exhausting morning of little errands, we were just leaving the bank. Money is not a happy topic: she had lost the $100 in cash I'd just gotten her and she's also convinced I'm robbing her blind. Fortunately the teller was very understanding and I'm pretty sure she didn't push the ROBBERY button under her window when my mother told her I was a thief, adopted, in cahoots with the mailman and had cleaned out her account.

We almost made it to the front door when dangnabbit! the mailman walked in. It wasn't even my mom's personal archenemy--it was just a regular mailman. My sweet, Southern, dressed to the nines mother went up to him, looked him in the eye, and spat out just one word: "Bastard!"

Well pass me mah salts and get me out of here. I'm pretty sure the bank security cameras caught me elbowing my mother in the ribs as I hustled her out the door before the startled mailman could start asking questions.

But it didn't end there. On the ride home we had to wait for a Fed Ex truck to turn in front of us. The red and blue markings on the truck convinced my mother it was the despised mail truck. The next thing I knew she'd rolled down the window of the Jeep and was FLIPPING OFF the driver of the Fed Ex truck! (Are smoked windows allowed in the front seats of vehicles????)

I have laughed over things like this. But I've been mostly grateful for the kindness of strangers who have noticed what is happening and manage to whisper words of encouragement to me, just in passing. That, and the understanding of Mr. T and friends have propped me up as I adjust to a new phase of daily life.

It's Finally Warm and After All, Tomorrow is Another Day

2010-04-24T23:58:00.000-07:00

After ceaseless wind, cold and even rain, today was 80o and clear. The excitement was palpable. We've been back at our favorite hot springs taking the waters and waiting for the weather to clear. Byrdie cut a paw pad on some sharp rocks, I fell into a nasty palm tree and sliced up a few fingers, the poodle whines about everything and Mr. T is the rock holding it all together.

Mr. T is also the one who decided that of course we could drive this 31' RV up Excelsior Mine Road to Horse Thief Springs. In the Jeep, washboard roads, rocks, and sand are no problem. But in the Minnie--it took us 2 hours to go nearly 15 miles. And did we get to our destination? NO WAY!!

Halfway there the road suddenly turned into boulders, washouts and deep ruts.There was no choice but to make a 39 point turn with the Minnie and head back to the RV park. At least we had plenty of time to brace ourselves for the hooting and "told you so's" we knew were coming from the old-timers who run the place. Ah well--it was nice to relax and clean up and enjoy the date milkshakes from China Ranch.

Tomorrow we will tackle the mountain again only this time we will reluctantly drive to the Interstate and go 100 miles around the "problem" and come in the back way. In the meantime, the flowers are fantastic, the views spectacular and the crowds non-existent.

We played on sand dunes last night and now we have an extra night of soaking in the hot spring water. The water is pumped up from a 600' well where the water is 119o. The flow of water into the pools is controlled so the water temp is "only" around 100--105o. The water is so smooth and silky--just don't try and drink it or wash the shampoo out of your hair!

Bakersfield, Barstow, Yermo but no Cucamonga

2010-04-19T23:13:00.000-07:00

I don't know what has come over Mr. T. After arriving at the RV park late last night he fired up the Minnie at 7:30 gerund-deleted AM. What is this? No morning coffee brought to me in bed? No checking of email? No casual lolling about and finally getting underway before check-out time at 11:00AM? At least he relented and grabbed me a Vente Latte before we headed down I-5. On the other hand, when the only soap I could find was an old hotel sample of Neutrogena soap that smelled like the nurse's office in grade school, Mr. T was the one who magically produced a tube of Crabree & Evelyn shower gel. What a guy!

Yes, the Congress-created dust bowl still lined both sides of the freeway. Yes, the smelly cattle feed lots still assault the senses. Nothing can make I-5 go by any faster and so we were grateful to listen to Rush Limbaugh and do the "country's goin' to the dawgs" comments. Somehow, it was fitting that we hit Bakersfield at High Noon when KNZR blares out the Star-Spangled Banner and Jaz McKay takes the mike. All seemed right again with the world.

The wildflowers were just beginning to come out in the Tehatchapi Mountains and as we passed into the long stretch of desert, everything was green with solid yellow wildflowers everywhere. It was stunning. I would post a picture but Mr. T was hell-bent on getting to Barstow and when we did stop there wasn't a flower in sight. However, there was this amazing pile of broken glass that was turning blue in the desert sun.

I'm very sentimental about Barstow.(Take that, Jay Leno!) My grandparents came West in the early '20ies when my grandfather worked for the Santa Fe. I spent my first 7 years there--it's in Barstow that the desert imprinted on me. Too bad that now it's such a dump. So we pressed on to Yermo--also a place I lived in my childhood. (In case you think my childhood was deprived, let me assure you I also got to live in Daggett.)

Old tires are a desert staple--two examples of creative tire use discovered in the town of Old Boron off Highway 58.

So, here we are in Yermo--close to the old desert haunts that always draw us back. The saddest part is that the monastery has moved and so, for the first time in 10 years, we are on our own with no monks to regale us with desert stories or spiritual encouragement. The desert seems to be a place where dreams come to die.

But Barstow will outlast us all.

It's 7pm but hey! Mojave Here We Come

2010-04-19T21:57:00.000-07:00

Local crises notwithstanding, we finally got the Minnie loaded up and the Jeep hooked up to tow. We have truly arrived at Old Gramps and Gran'ma status. Leaving at 7pm only gave us about 3 hours of travel time before our first stop--but those 3 hours of traffic through the East Bay equals about 2 days of normal RVing.

The first half hour I had to watch out the back window of the RV to make sure the Jeep didn't break loose from its moorings and pass us on the freeway. Eventually, I gained enough confidence in the towbar to maintain the proper vehicle order and took my place in the co-pilot's seat. Usually we travel with me driving the Jeep and Mr. T driving the RV while we communicate via CB radios. Now we were in the same truck and he was too busy driving to keep up any patter of chit chat.

So----I began to play with the camera and all the lights from the bazillion cars trying to drive around us, over us and possibly through us. This camera waving at the car lights entertained me for a good 90 minutes and we arrived at Ye Olde Kit Fox RV park just in time to hit the sack. But, some of the photos are of interest so I give you some samples.

The Heritage Foundation--a Public Service Announcement

2010-04-12T22:46:00.000-07:00

This is a good group--a think tank that can be relied on to provide informatation about today's erosion of freedom that is happening in our country. I have certainly learned to stop expecting factual reporting from the old days media years ago. So--since I am a member and this is the first thing they ever asked me to do, I will copy and paste the announcement they requested of all bloggers.

http://www.heritage.org/

Every week brings news of a fresh liberal assault on fiscal responsibility and limited government.

For example, President Obama’s proposed budget would raise taxes by $3 trillion over the next decade, according to a Heritage Foundation analysis. Despite these massive tax hikes, the national debt would still double over that period.

Worse, many in Congress think this out-of-control budget doesn’t provide for enough taxes and spending.
Our country’s 535 Senators and Representatives need to know the facts about their reckless assault on the American taxpayer. That’s why The Heritage Foundation is preparing an all-out campaign to educate lawmakers and candidates about the consequences of runaway spending and ever-rising taxes.

To fund this effort, Heritage is conducting a Tax Day Money Bomb this Thursday, April 15. Our goal is to raise $150,000 by midnight Thursday.

Here are four things you can do today to make Thursday’s money bomb a success:

Forward this e-mail to ten friends and family members. We want to show Washington that there is a real groundswell of support for principled, conservative solutions to our fiscal problems—so the more supporters we can get, the better.

Post about the Tax Day Money Bomb on Twitter to help spread the word. Be sure to use the #heritage415 hashtag.

Blog. Do you have a personal blog? Keep your readers informed about this important effort by writing a blog post about the Tax Day Money Bomb.

Remember, your contribution Thursday—and those of your friends, colleagues and family—will help The Heritage Foundation directly challenge the tax-and-spend status quo.
I appreciate all of your support for conservative ideals, and I thank you for everything you do to advance our cause.

Sincerely,

Edwin J. Feulner, Ph.D.
President

Leaves of Three, Let Them Be!

2010-04-08T18:51:00.000-07:00

THE CULPRIT

There is a wonderful swimming hole down at the creek--it's just under the narrow bridge and behind a curve and small waterfall. It's my special place where I can let Byrdie swim and fetch the ball until I get too tired to throw it anymore. It's an idyllic sort of place--right out of a Walt Disney G-rated film.

I've been taking the dogs there almost daily unless it's been raining. It's a wonderful place to feel hidden, take photos over and over just because I can and be out of view of passers-by.

How could such a wonderful spot harbor the vicious, evil plant known as poison oak? Did I even know what poison oak looked like? NO. Did I know I could pick it up from a dog's coat? NO. Did I know how much pure misery poison oak could cause? NO. Did I know that 10 days from the first nasty blister I would still be breaking out? NO.

This is what poison oak looks like in the spring.

Don't look at the pretty fern--check out the POISON OAK in the left background--and under my feet.

Do you know that the chemical from poison oak, urushiol, is similar to carbolic acid? You have 15 minutes to wash it off your skin before a reaction occurs the binds the oil to your skin cells and then you're in for it.

After using the OTC creams and soaps I decided to see what the homeopaths were suggesting. Here it is:

Many people reported good results from rubbing the rash with banana peel--what a mess! And it didn't do a thing.

Box of the baking soda in very hot bath--that gets an F--made me itch and sweat and run for anything cold--sans clothing. Not a pretty sight.

Cucumbers sounded great but I ate it before I got around to plastering it on the blisters. Sigh.

Oatmeal sounds horrible but I trudged down to Safeway and bought a box of the real Quaker stuff. I'll let you know. I don't think there's anything to like about oatmeal.

Vinegar--now this stuff worked to stop the itching!! I filled a water bottle with it and now carry it around. There's only one drawback--one simply can't dab vinegar all over the body when one is out in public--that stuff stinks! People are not that understanding. But I give an A to the vinegar for itch relief that lasts nearly 2 hours.

So far, all these treatments are enhanced by a healthy dose of actifed and adult beverages.

http://poisonivy.aesir.com/view/kitchen.html

Exultet!

2010-04-02T09:16:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DpuQq1BO-Ww&feature=related
Rejoice, heavenly powers!

Sing, choirs of angels!
Exult, all creation around God's throne!

Jesus Christ, our King, is risen!

Sound the trumpet of salvation!

Rejoice, O earth, in shining splendor,
radiant in the brightness of your King!
Christ has conquered! Glory fills you!
Darkness vanishes for ever!

Rejoice, O Mother Church! Exult in glory!

The risen Savior shines upon you!

Let this place resound with joy,

echoing the mighty song of all God's people!

My dearest friends,

standing with me in this holy light,

join me in asking God for mercy,

that he may give his unworthy minister

grace to sing his Easter praises.

It is truly right

that with full hearts and minds and voices

we should praise the unseen God, the all-powerful Father,

and his only Son, our Lord Jesus Christ.

For Christ has ransomed us with his blood,

and paid for us the price of Adam's sin to our eternal Father!

This is our passover feast,

when Christ, the true Lamb, is slain,

whose blood consecrates the homes of all believers.

This is the night

when first you saved our fathers:

you freed the people of Israel from their slavery

and led them dry-shod through the sea.

This is the night

when the pillar of fire destroyed the darkness of sin!

This is the night

when Christians everywhere,

washed clean of sin and freed from all defilement,

are restored to grace and grow together in holiness.

This is the night

when Jesus Christ broke the chains of death

and rose triumphant from the grave.

What good would life have been to us,

had Christ not come as our Redeemer?

Father, how wonderful your care for us!

How boundless your merciful love!

To ransom a slave you gave away your Son.

O happy fault,

O necessary sin of Adam,

which gained for us so great a Redeemer!

Most blessed of all nights,

chosen by God to see Christ rising from the dead!

Of this night scripture says:

"The night will be as clear as day:

it will become my light, my joy."

The power of this holy night dispels all evil,

washes guilt away, restores lost innocence,

brings mourners joy;

it casts out hatred, brings us peace,

and humbles earthly pride.

Night truly blessed when heaven is wedded to earth

and man is reconciled with God!

Therefore, heavenly Father,

in the joy of this night,

receive our evening sacrifice of praise,

your Church's solemn offering.

Accept this Easter candle,

a flame divided but undimmed,

a pillar of fire that glows to the honor of God.

(For it is fed by the melting wax,

which the mother bee brought forth

to make this precious candle.)

Let it mingle with the lights of heaven

and continue bravely burning

to dispel the darkness of this night!

May the Morning Star which never sets

find this flame still burning:

Christ, that Morning Star,

who came back from the dead,

and shed his peaceful light on all mankind,

your Son, who lives and reigns for ever and ever.

Amen.

What Happened to the Glass Jar?

2010-03-25T17:48:00.000-07:00

I had an hour to kill while Dah Mama was getting her hair done. A craving that had only been lurking in the back of my mind suddenly burst through as a full-blown thought: I WANTED CHEESE WHIZ!!!!

I don't usually go to grocery stores--germs, you know--but I headed directly to the Safeway(keeping safely within all posted speed limits). I learned two things today from being in a real grocery store and not doing shopping online. First, anything marked organic is going to be twice as expensive and twice as ugly and second, Cheese Whiz doesn't come in cute little jars anymore.

Okay--I can live without the jars. But the amazement to find out that Cheese Whiz comes in flavors! I could get aerosol Cheese Whiz in American, cheddar, sharp cheddar and English(whatever that is) flavors! Life is good. And all the cans still had those wonderful words stamped under the lid--No Need To Refrigerate. What a world!

Back to beauty shop, yank mother from hairdresser's chair, fly back home(observing all posted speed limits, keeping the required distance from the vehicle in front of me, and moving to the left if I even thought I saw flashing lights on the road shoulder), plop mother in front of TV and sort out the mess from her trying to figure out the two remote controls required to watch the tube, snap off one shot of blooming iris, and home to eat Cheese Whiz.

I was about to toss back my 7th Whiz 'n cracker when Mr. T calls from office, "Say, how about we go out to dinner tonight?"

Timing is everything. Oh well, I can always ask for a doggy bag for food that must be refrigerated and have plenty of room to finish off the canned stuff before bed.

A Few Things

2010-03-24T18:49:00.000-07:00

"I think I need a few things."

I know Mama talk--she means she needs something that in a past day would have been called "unmentionables." You know--UNDERWEAR!

Since actually going out and shopping is no longer an option, I assured her I would go online and find the "things" she needed. Good Golly, Miss Molly! I just clicked onto Macys.com and typed in underwear. I might as well have wandered into a hookers' catalog.

What happened to regular panties? Underwear that covers what needs to be covered and is no big deal? Underwear that can actually go through the washer and dryer at least 100 times? Underwear that NO ONE is going to see except you when you fold it and put it in the drawer?

I was so glad I had not invited my mom over to do dual computer, online shopping. She would have needed the salts more than I do. And this is MACY'S--not Sluts-R-Us!

I made a discreet inquiry to a friend of a friend who has a daughter who explained to me that it's not called 'butt floss' for nothing.

And then the big bombshell--girls nowadays are deciding to go commando so there will be no pantyline at all. NO UNDERWEAR? Pass me those salts.

Don't these people realize that women from my mother's generation hung their underwear inside the pillowcases on the clothesline so they wouldn't be visible to any passersby? My mother can't even say the word 'panties'!!

I never did find something suitable to order for my mother. I told her "they" were "out." That's right--there's not a single pair of panties to be found in the hemisphere. I suppose I will be forced to put out an Ebay search to find regular old cotton panties that have an elastic WAISTband. I really must get out of my cave more often.

And to bring the story full circle, check out this link.

http://www.nbcphiladelphia.com/news/weird/Mom-Fights-to-Air-Her-Clean-Laundry-88018162.html

2010-03-22T10:14:00.000-07:00

POST-RACIAL

DOES NOT EQUAL

POST IDIOTS.

The Census is coming! The Census is Coming!

2010-03-12T14:32:00.000-08:00

US CONSTITUTION

Article 1

Section 2

Regarding the census......

(Representatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among the several States which may be included within this Union, according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole Number of free Persons, including those bound to Service for a Term of Years, and excluding Indians not taxed, three fifths of all other Persons.)
http://www.usconstitution.net/xconst_A1Sec2.html

The census exists to determination representation and states' shares of taxes collected.

Our government spent $42 million on sending out the letter last week telling us our census forms were coming in the mail next week. It is the perfect example of the old saying: IT'S IN THE MAIL!

You do not have to answer anything but your name and number of people in your household. You do not have to participate in a government-sponsored marketing survey.

Heaven Smiled

2010-03-03T12:49:00.000-08:00

I had a doctor's appointment and had allowed plenty of time so I wasn't in any hurry. My mind was on overload with the Mama events of the last month but I was also trying to form my argument to the rheumatologist why there has to be a way to manage the hands so I can hold a golf club. Although the 18th hole is presently under water from all the rain, the blooming daffodils and camelias are a big hint that Spring is here. What I'm trying to say is that as I navigated the trusty Jeep over the hilly road I was thinking golf grips and getting a grip on the "bad stuff" when I came up on a small white car just creeping along.

Obviously I slowed down. Then, to my surprise, I noticed these flashing red and blue lights in my rear view mirror. Thinking the cop was on his way to a real emergency I pulled over only to hear this LOUDSPEAKER telling me not to pull over there but to go to the next street and pull over there. WHAT? MOI? What could possibly be wrong? A tail light out on the Jeep?

Imagine my surprise when the cop came up and asked me if I knew how fast I was going! Well of course I didn't know how fast I was going and I told him I didn't have a clue, only that I'd had to slow down for that little white car. He told me he'd clocked me at 50 mph in a 35 mile zone! I was really surprised but told him I just hadn't been thinking about how fast I was going. He then wanted to know if I had an excuse for speeding and, out of curiosity, I asked him if my excuse would make any difference. He admitted it wouldn't and I said, "Well, I do have a doctor's appointment but I have plenty of time--I just wasn't paying any attention." That kind of surprised him and he asked for my license which I had. THEN he asked for some other things and I was wracking my brain to try and remember what and where those other papers might be. He told me to look in the glove compartment and all I saw was my cool khaki Jeep manual so I handed that to him. He wasn't impressed and said he thought he saw some papers still in the box. He was right! Oh thank you, Mr. T. Those were the right papers and I guess everything was okay because he simply handed them back to me.

Then he asked an odd question--"Have you had any moving violations in the last 18 months?" I knew if I told him the truth he'd think I was lying but I went for it: "Officer, I've never had a ticket in my whole life."

He actually didn't seem that surprised--did he already know that? Had I passed a test? In any event, he said, "Well, I'm not going to be the one who gives you your first ticket and break that record." You mean I wasn't going to get a ticket??? I held my breath and said THANK YOU. He really was a very nice man and he cautioned me about speeding. I thanked him again and said I had always hoped if I ever got a ticket for something it would be for driving the Jeep in a terribly dangerous fashion while tearing up a part of the Mojave Desert--you know, a ticket one could brag about to all one's friends. He then began to laugh and agreed--that was the best kind of ticket to get.

So I can now add being pulled over for speeding to my list of Life Experiences. It must be a turn in my streak of bad luck--even the doctor agreed to handwrapping and giving golf a try when the rain lets up.

The Perfect Storm

2010-02-22T17:54:00.000-08:00

I hinted at this in the last post but have hesitated to actually write about recent events until I could find some humor in nearly two months of not very good times. With much effort there might be a smile in here somewhere. But I think right now there are more tears than chuckles.

Two days before her 87th birthday my mother just seemed to turn into someone else. Granted, in our family, it can sometimes take days to realize someone is not quite normal by our standards but this was pretty obvious. Okay--she did fall out of bed on her head; and yes, she did find my wedding rings and hid them under her bed and forgot; and oh alright--she did accuse me of rearranging the soda cans in her refrigerator door as well as stealing her underwear. But I swear I did not empty out her safe deposit boxes and I did not murder my sister!!!

You can see what we are dealing with--very sad. The doctor confirmed she needed placing in a more supervised living situation and so the last few weeks have been taken up with touring Assisted Living facilities, getting endless forms filled out, explaining to my mom for the nth time what was happening and digging up papers dating back to my Dad's discharge from the Marine Corps after World War II. Meanwhile, I got sick again!

No, Faithful Readers, it has not been an easy time.

Where has my mother gone?

(And she asks, "Where are you taking me?")

What has happened to my beautiful, competent mother?

(And she asks, "Why do you hate me?")

What right do I have to take her out of her own home and put her in a strange, new living situation?

(And she asks, "Why do I have to go away?")

I say, "Mama, you'll be safer here"

(And she says, "But I'll be good.")

I say, "Mama, you're not eating--you only weigh 100 pounds!"

(And she says, "I'll eat more--I really will.")

I say, "Mama, you're only going to be one mile from our house and you have friends there already."

(And she says, "Why can't I just die?")

No one ever told me about this chapter of life.

Attack of the Evil Microbe

2010-02-13T00:27:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time since the last post but I was bushwhacked by some foul germ that detected a weak spot in my lungs and moved in like an unwanted relative. In exchange for hosting this ugly bug I got to take to mah bed and play Camille--propped up on pillows and coughing into one of my antique lace hankies. Mr. T was very grateful that attempting to sing arias from anything was out of the question.

I spent the long days in bed listening to talk radio. This probably did not hasten the healing. The shows begin at 5:00 am with Lee, move on to Rush until noon, switch from radio to the computer so I could hear my buddy, Jaz McKay, from Bakersfield and then back to KSFO to wind up the day with Mark Levin. By that time I had usually fired off a few emails to the pack of thieves in Washington and was checking Google Earth for another place to live. Example of Jaz's way to handle airport security: "Yer name's Mohammed? Waterboard him! Your name is Jack? Go right on through."(Common sense reigns in Bako)

Since I did not heal especially fast, after 3 weeks of coughing and bedrest, Mr. T hauled my sorry self into the doctor's. I KNOW that when the doc is using the stethoscope to listen to one's lungs and his head snaps up and he exclaims, "Yikes! This is no good!" that I probably had waited too long. My choice? Hospital or steroids. I opted for the 'roids and kissed my professional sports career good-bye. I was sent home with pills, antibiotics and cough syrup.

I am a wuss about taking medicine and I especially hate cough syrup. What do they do to it to make it taste so terrible awful bad? But this stuff was different. (Besides costing $200.00 for one little bottle!!!!) The directions said 1 teaspoon and the scientist in Mr. T kicked in. Several different measuring devices were tried until the most accurate teaspoon ever measured was poured down my throat.

Surprise! That syrup had zero taste! Further surprise---that was dang fine stuff. Forget the micro-measuring. Mr. T had to take over meds supervision when he caught me gulping directly from the bottle instead of measuring. Oh well--if I had enough lungs left, I'd have applied for medicinal marijuana while there are still any shops left.

The good news? CT scan showed the MAC had not returned--just an opportunistic lung infection. The bad news? There were no more democrats left to fire off irate emails to.

Little did I know that this was just the first chapter in the saga of The Perfect Storm that has comprised my life these last 8 weeks. But that's a later post.

Malicious Microbes

2010-01-21T16:28:00.000-08:00

The new year has not begun auspiciously. The Bad Germs got back in my lungs and I have been in bed. Now, granted, being in bed is not your grandmother's bed! Being in bed means being surrounded by every techno-toy possible.

The bed resembles control central--laptop, new netbook, cell phone, portable phone, TV and remote control, iPod and radio. What is missing? MY CAMERA!! So, in addition to being pretty ill, I'm going through camera withdrawal. I figured that being out of action for so long would be the perfect time to send it out for "tweaking." There is never a good time for the camera to be gone but there's not much to shoot from a sickbed.

We are also getting badly needed rain--lots and lots of rain. The 18th fairway is under water! Picture to follow somehow.

After 3 weeks of this mess I went to the doctor. He said I was a hair away from being admitted to the hospital. He uses alarmist language because he knows I'm basically an uncooperative patient. He also knows I'm scared to death of hospitals because there are so many sick people there. And where there are sick people, there are GERMS!!!

What I wanted to blog about was the prescriptions I came home with. Wham-O antibiotics, check. Prednizone, check. Cough syrup, check. Inhaler, check. The total for the Prednizone was $3. The total for one bottle of the cough syrup was $200.00!!!! Are you kidding? The co-pay was $140.00!

My immediate thought was Wow!This must be some pretty good stuff-- should I take it or trade it?" Curiosity and total exhaustion from coughing made me keep it. I was expecting the best stuff since the 60ies. Well, 1 teaspoon later----nothing. No bright colors, no deep insights, no heightened senses. Just no coughing. Couldn't a good single malt have done the same thing? Granny would have said so--just add a little honey and hot water.

But the one little pill of Prednizone had the most effect. For the first time I'm starting to be able to get enough air to function(aka TALK). Go figure--for $3.00. We are so fortunate to have the health care we do.

Meanwhile, I continue to frequent my chat room cyberfriends, watch boring TV, and listen to Rush Limbaugh. However, I think things will pick up and I'll be able to return to blogs of SeniorLand, rainstorms and their aftermath, and just regular musings.

A special thank you to Mr T who has been a saint for the last 3 weeks and the dozens of quail who come right outside my bedroom door to eat the seed under the table. They are wonderful entertainment and for that courtesy to me, I won't eat them.

Hic et Hoc

2010-01-03T18:15:00.000-08:00

The desert is full of icons—not the church kind—the Real Life kind. The screwed up remote, four-wheel dirt “road” in Kingston that was so well-marked at the beginning and then totally lacking markers when the road dissolved into scrub and rock covered desert wash was an icon of the government running healthcare. Great at the beginning when you need nothing—does you zero good when the sun is going down and you’re really needing a sign to get out of the wash.

Ravens are iconic for the beta male mentality our country seems to promote instead of the Marlboro Man. Misguided yucca huggers have succeeded in making it illegal to kill ravens. But ravens are lethal, cunning interlopers who ravage the natural animal environment of the desert. They kill baby turtles as they hatch; they eat the eggs of native birds; and, ravish the snake population. (I don’t really care about the snakes but still, they have their purpose on the Mojave.)

Perhaps the most striking icon in the desert is WATER. Everything about this dry moonscape right here on earth sucks moisture out and seems to return nothing. Yet, ever so often, in the middle of the desert, there will be a small creek, a spring, a pool and even underground rivers. The Amargosa River is only stagnant ponds in places, a free-running creek in others. Gremshaw Basin is HOT water but you fight the mud mites to get out to soak in it. Of course you also fight the naked German tourists covering themselves with mud as well!

Death Valley didn't get its name for nothing. After dry camping up at Mesquite Campground we headed to sea level Stovepipe Wells and SHOWERS! Ahhhhh--the steam, the abundant water, the clean hair. Yet, at the same time, I was choosing to do something expressly forbidden by the doctors who have been managing my case. I opted for the immediate gratification rather than the risk of a set-back. Who knows? Tomorrow one could get attacked by ravens and end up a pile of dry bones in the desert.

Home Base Tecopa

2009-12-31T00:28:00.000-08:00

We can’t seem to move on into Death Valley. Here we have wonderful showers, private pools of hot desert springs waters, INTERNET and great people. So—we explore. Yesterday was the China Date Ranch.

First we stopped in Tecopa Proper. Here is the remnant of the old train station. I am a lover of ruins and here were wooden sidewalks, wooden post pillars and train ghosts galore.

Could anyone find a finer example of a classic pick'em up truck?

This wonderful bottle wall is a work in progress. I believe the final work of art will be in the form of a tiara.

Obviously China Date Ranch is a PC version of what it was originally called. But the ethnic settler was run off and a succession of horse rustlers took over the valley. It was lucrative. When the horse thieves made money they were Republicans. When they “redistributed” the land they were Democrats.

The Ranch has so many types of date trees it is amazing. The dates are protected from the birds by wrapping the bunches of fruit in old clothing—it’s a very colorful orchard! In back of the ranch is a wonderful hike back to an old mining site, 2 “rivers” that converge and a beautifully preserved old berm from the Tidewater Tonopah railroad. The waters are the Amargosa River and Willow Creek. The water is pure.

Hiking the 3 miles was a bit much for me and Mr T was great about carrying both fanny packs and yelling at the dogs so I could conserve breath. A cold beer on the desert is like nectar.

Today the sun was gone—cold and overcast and not good for photography. We embarked on a long circle recon trip in the Jeep—90 miles total of which about 60 were on dirt roads. The plan was to circle Kingston Peak.

The Kingston Wash Road started out just fine. Nice wide dirt road and twice as many signs as needed warning us of who and what was allowed and that we could not drive over 30’ off the road. OK—fine—we can comply. The road quickly turned to a Class 2 road. The Jeep took it in stride. Besides, there were still numerous signs and markers pointing out the trail.

THERE IS TOO A ROAD AROUND HERE!

But all of a sudden, we were in rocks and boulders and washes and unmarked desert. It was now Class 3 and there was not a sign to be seen. Back when it had been proto-dirt road, it was government overkill. Now that information was vital, nothing was in sight. Now—try to imagine health care run by the government—that is what it would be like. No TARP signs here.

Worse, we were quickly losing daylight as well as the road. The NavSys showed no roads of any kind so that was no help. We bottomed out, had to turn around, backtrack, guess, get out and scout—but eventually we found a stretch of desert that got us out of that wash just as the sun sank behind the hills. The last 12 miles we drove on a soft sand dirt road in complete darkness.

The Jeep has more desert pinstriping than it did and we bottomed out several times—but all the tires survived. All in all, it was a great day. Maybe tomorrow we’ll head into the Valley. And maybe not!

Into the Desert

2009-12-28T17:13:00.000-08:00

We visited the bookstore at St. Andrew's Priory yesterday. It's first class all the way including the prices. We have a new unit of measuring worth--a Netbook. Many of the icons were priced at $250 or the equivalent of one Netbook. Some icons were as much as 4 Netbooks! I think it's a sign of how our world view has changed after being away from the monks for 2 years. The book title that intrigued me most was Levels of Humility--if one is measuring humility doesn't that defeat the virtue? (Mr T was engrossed in Harlots of Egypt.)

We left our wonderfully isolated camp and headed down the mountain and across the Mojave--again in bumper-to-bumper traffic. At some point in Victorville Jeep and Minnie got separated and then we played leapfrog trying to catch up to each other. First attempt was trying to hook up again at the Lynnwood Outlet Mall--THOUSANDS of shoppers backing up traffic and the attempt failed. The 2nd meeting place was supposed to be the Barstow Walmart--failure. No CB traffic but cell phones got us straightened out. By this time Mr T was on I 15 and I was on I 40--no good. We finally caught up to each other at Peggy Sue's in Yermo--one of our all-time favorite haunts on the desert.

After that it was just plodding across the desert to the hot springs we like to visit. We take the waters and enjoy the last internet connection until Stovepipe Wells. It's cold, windy, cloudy and generally the last kind of weather we'd hoped for. But it will change soon and we are in no hurry. The space and barrenness are soothing and if we take a few days to recover from the days of travel, no one is complaining.

THE NAVY SHOWER

2009-12-28T01:00:00.000-08:00

We are dry camping on the grounds of a closed Christian summer camp in the Angeles National Forest. Amazingly we have 20 amp power and for water, a clear running creek behind the Minnie. We have to watch our gray water tank capacity very carefully. That means no real shower! Now Mr. T, being a mountain man at heart, has fine-tuned the art of the Navy Shower. I have avoided such an insult to civilization at all costs, preferring to take what is known in coarser circles as a PTA bath. I will leave the deciphering up to the individual’s imagination.

But I could avoid this mockery of a shower no longer. Mr. T walked me through the salient points. I insisted on a dress rehearsal.

1. Heater on in bathroom, doors closed, shower door open—check.

2. Towel at the ready, clean PJs warming up, dry towel hanging on door handle—check.

3. Shower cap on and get au natural—check.

4. Put shower head into bucket and turn on hot water(while shivering) and wait for hot water to kick in, add VERY COLD WATER to make semi-warm water, move collecting bucket aside and jump in shower—check.

5. Get wet. Turn off water—BLAH!

6. Soap up.

7. Shower nozzle back into collecting bucket and turn water back on. When you feel warm water again then rinse as fast as you can and turn the water off.

8. Collected water goes eventually into black water tank via flushing toilet.

9. While shivering violently, dry off, cuss out Navy, wiggle into jammies and swear never to get this far away from a KOA again.

The virtual rehearsal was clear. The actual practice was not so good. I got as far as Step Four before we realized that no one had bothered to turn on the hot water heater. DAMN! Cuss out Navy and Mr. T., scramble au natural into freezing bedroom and dig out sweats from bottom of ice box closet and leap under covers, turn electric blanket to high.

After much coaxing and sexist mocking of weak women from Mr. T, I gave it try number two. It worked with Mr T reporting a total shower time of 5 minutes including the water off minutes.

But I refuse to call whatever that was a “successful” shower. As soon as I get back in cell phone contact with the Real World I’m making reservations with Full Hook-ups.

Do RV parks come with room service???

I-5 OR HOW I LEARNED TO QUIT ASKING “ARE WE THERE YET?”

2009-12-28T00:53:00.000-08:00

Heavy traffic again today. But we’re heading south down the state’s main traffic artery. The further south we drove the more barren it looked. Pretty soon I realized what was usual neatly prepared and planted fields seemed to be just empty land returning to untended stretches of dirt.

Then these signs started appearing hanging on the fences:

I knew the idiots in Congress had cut off water to some of the fields in the San Joaquin Valley because of a bottom of the food chain fish that isn’t even endangered. Once again the tree huggers exercise power they shouldn’t have with decisions that put humans beneath low life forms. Flush the fish, let the farmers get back to feeding the humans and shoot the ravens just for kicks and giggles. But I digress.

The drive was depressing. Empty, wind-blown fields, bumper to bumper traffic and the allure of California seemed diminished.

Once we cleared Palmdale with its crazy 50 mph city streets and stop lights every eighth mile, we pulled out of the flatlands and began a climb up into the foothills of the Angeles National Forest. I had managed to find a Christian camp that was pretty much closed up for the winter. We drove on roads called “Big Rock Creek” and “Red Gulch Road.” It started to feel like the set of a John Ford western.

We finally found the camp and were greeted by a wonderful woman who showed us where we could park our RV. This is not an RV camp—just kind people who were happy to help out travelers who needed a place to stay for 2 nights. The water pipes had all frozen during the snow a few days earlier but we did have electricity. Alas, no dumping facilities.

Later that evening we had a joyful reunion with our monk friends. Their new temporary digs are very nice and it was good to see the familiar icons and soak up the good smells of the new chapel. At Divine Liturgy back in Santa Rosa we had been admonished not to be seduced by the “pious, religious sentiment” of Christmas Eve. Well, when all you’ve felt for so long is emptiness, “pious religious sentiment” feels pretty good. I sure wasn’t going to knock it! So throw another Yule log on, crank up the carols and revel in sentimentality. Wassail All!

HERE WE COME A-RVing

2009-12-28T00:41:00.000-08:00

Christmas Day and we roll out of Sonoma County at 5 pm hoping to catch a break in traffic through the East Bay. Wrong—very wrong. Freeways were jammed but once again the Minnie and the Jeep begin the long trek to Death Valley via a stop in Valyermo to visit “our” monks during their long pilgrimage as guests of the Benedictines at St. Andrew’s Priory.

Although it was only 3 hours to Kit Fox RV Park it was hard time. Quick showers, a little TV, let the dogs chase a few rabbits and we were ready to hit the sack for a long driving day on Saturday. We were reflecting on how the Pope and I have something in common—we both have been attacked on Christmas Eve during Midnight Mass. I was attacked by a soprano in my choir who suffered a psychotic break and thought I was the devil; the Holy Father was attacked by a nutcake who slipped past security and pulled down an elderly man. What a sick world. I wonder if the red-jacketed woman who went for the Pope was also a soprano?

The weather is not promising but I long to be back on the desert. I will keep you posted on the inevitable stories that travel brings.

Laying Down Electronic Footprints

2009-12-05T10:35:00.000-08:00

Wiretapping? Interception of emails? Missing transcripts and birth certificates?

None of the above.

I'm talking about a basic female need to shop without being followed. It used to be very basic--you grabbed your wallet, cell phone and SUV and headed out. Sure, maybe you called over your shoulder, "Gotta run down to the drug store and pick up the photos." as you headed out the door. And then you went to the mall, downtown, Costco, antique stores and boutiques--whatever.

My cousin and I were discussing that those days are no more. Mind you, we are both married to men who love data, spreadsheets and online banking. Now, when we come home we are greeted with:

--Thanks for filling up the Jeep.

--The total at the drug store sure was a lot for just pictures--and $40 in cash?

--Why did you go to the mall? Didn't you just buy a sweater last week? And $30 in cash??

--I didn't know they had a boutique upstairs in the hardware store. And $20 in cash???

--Have a nice lunch at Vladamir's? Was it wise to have 2 glasses of wine at $8 a glass and then drive?

--You forgot to get my prescription for my colonoscopy prep while you were at the drug store.

--What's cloisoinne?

How do they know these things? Because they are FOLLOWING US ON THE COMPUTER!! Every transaction shows up immediately on the spreadsheet and online banking program! Even salting away a few extra dollars in cash is right there before I can even spend it!

How does one shop for Christmas presents? There's no point in trying to keep purchases a surprise for under the tree--forget it. "I see you got a vest in only a large. If that's for me you should know I wear an EXTRA large now."

Is there an App out there that will disguise how the credit cards are really being used? I go to Macy's and it shows up on the computer read out that I got an edger blade at Home Depot? We need more women in science. Forget George Bush. Forget Al Gore. Get me an App that covers my shopping footprints!!

La plume de ma tante est sur la table

2009-12-01T21:11:00.000-08:00

As Mr. T has observed, I know just enough French to be dangerous. How right he is!

Part of our family lives in France. I thought Amazon.com was global--just send Christmas presents from California and anything over $25 would get the free shipping. WRONG!!!! A little 10 euro candle cost 50 euros for shipping.

So I was directed to Amazon.fr and told I would already be linked up there. Well gosh and golly--I sure was!! I was greeted Bonjour Toc--and then it was point and click and guess. It was all in French!! No press 2 for Spanish in France. Uh-uh. But I bumbled my way through with what remnants of high school French I remembered and thought I'd gotten to the gift certificate section.

They didn't want dollars--they wanted euros! Provide a conversion feature--uh-uh. Not the French. Side trip to Google to find out what equals what. The number that came up just looked funny in the way that numbers can do. One doesn't give a gift certificate for what looks like $267.43--too weird--so I rounded up and typed in 500 euros. The number that came up looked more like 500,000 euros but it was missing a zero. I figured they just must do numbers differently in France so I clicked on continuer(must be the same, right??)

I think I was doing okay until I got to the credit card part. I didn't realize the French do dates differently. But I realized it early this morning when the bank called saying the charge to our bank card had been denied because a wrong expiration date had been given. Dang! Failure!

Another hour spent today sloshing through the French and making guesses. This time I actually got an email back saying

Merci d'avoir commandé un chèque-cadeau sur Amazon.fr !
Informations sur la commande :
------------------------------------------------------------

Chèque(s)-cadeau(x) commandé(s) (N° de commande

The bad part is that I've either sent them 500 euros, 500 euros twice, 500,000 euros, or 500,000 euros twice. Or all of the above. Je n'est pas a single clue! Oh well--joyeux Noel.

The First Thanksgiving Proclamation Thanked God, not the Indians

2009-11-24T21:22:00.000-08:00

General Thanksgiving

By the PRESIDENT of the United States Of America

A PROCLAMATION

WHEREAS it is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favour; and Whereas both Houses of Congress have, by their joint committee, requested me "to recommend to the people of the United States a DAY OF PUBLICK THANKSGIVING and PRAYER, to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favors of Almighty God, especially by affording them an opportunity peaceably to establish a form of government for their safety and happiness:"

NOW THEREFORE, I do recommend and assign THURSDAY, the TWENTY-SIXTH DAY of NOVEMBER next, to be devoted by the people of these States to the service of that great and glorious Being who is the beneficent author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be; that we may then all unite in rendering unto Him our sincere and humble thanks for His kind care and protection of the people of this country previous to their becoming a nation; for the signal and manifold mercies and the favorable interpositions of His providence in the course and conclusion of the late war; for the great degree of tranquility, union, and plenty which we have since enjoyed;-- for the peaceable and rational manner in which we have been enable to establish Constitutions of government for our safety and happiness, and particularly the national one now lately instituted;-- for the civil and religious liberty with which we are blessed, and the means we have of acquiring and diffusing useful knowledge;-- and, in general, for all the great and various favours which He has been pleased to confer upon us.

And also, that we may then unite in most humbly offering our prayers and supplications to the great Lord and Ruler of Nations and beseech Him to pardon our national and other transgressions;-- to enable us all, whether in publick or private stations, to perform our several and relative duties properly and punctually; to render our National Government a blessing to all the people by constantly being a Government of wise, just, and constitutional laws, discreetly and faithfully executed and obeyed; to protect and guide all sovereigns and nations (especially such as have shewn kindness unto us); and to bless them with good governments, peace, and concord; to promote the knowledge and practice of true religion and virtue, and the increase of science among them and us; and, generally to grant unto all mankind such a degree of temporal prosperity as he alone knows to be best.

GIVEN under my hand, at the city of New-York, the third day of October, in the year of our Lord, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine.

(signed) G. Washington

In Her Cups

2009-11-12T19:08:00.000-08:00

I'd forgotten how much work it is getting ready to serve lunch, tea and birthday cake! Fortunately I was able to pick up a great ecru embroidered tablecloth at a local estate sale for a mere $2.00. Costco flowers, fancy lemon girly birthday cake with little violets all around, the GOOD towels up in the bathroom--with stern warnings to Mr. T not to even think about drying his hands on them--it was finally already by Saturday morning.

In fact, I had a few hours before the guests were due to arrive and I was gazing out my window into my recently-deceased neighbor's back yard--and that's when I saw these beautiful white roses just growing there. The more I looked at them the more I could hear them calling my name. The house is empty, Ernie has "passed on" and these poor roses looked so lonely. How beautiful they would look on my kitchen counter. It took about 3 minutes to convince myself that Ernie was looking down from his celestial perch and urging me to climb over the hedge and cut those white roses for my tea party. So I did.

As I was arranging them in the vase I was suddenly overcome by the uncertainties of life and the certainty of death. This was not good. I decanted the wine and decided I'd better have a glass to make sure it was fit to serve. (This is a pointless gesture for friends who add ice cubes to their white wine and secretly wish I'd serve one of those pink wines.)

Well--one glass of wine, stolen roses, contemplating the deep meaning of life I made the mistake of putting on Merle Haggard on the iPod. Now NO ONE can sing about feeling lower than ol' Merle can. Pretty soon, I was in front of my computer playing Minesweeper, drinking a nice zinfandel and listening to Merle sing about looking for a soft place to fall. And this is how my first guest found me. Fortunately she took over immediately and got me snapped out of it. No more iPod, no more Merle, off with the Minesweeper, reassured me that dearly departed Ernie would highly approve of me pilfering his roses, and we were ready to have the party!

I feel the house has now been christened. Everyone seemed to enjoy the occasion and I enjoyed having so many familiar faces in my home. I just might be up for hosting Thanksgiving this year after all. It could be fun--and what are the chances of setting the oven on fire two years in a row?????

RSVP

2009-11-03T19:27:00.000-08:00

The LADIES are coming for lunch--all 13. This Saturday. I have not entertained in 3 years. I have also gone through two moves that produced Major Snits which usually resulted in me giving/throwing things away. Apparently during one of these snits I gave away the large tablecloths, all my cloth napkins, most of my collectible Homer Laughlin china, a fair amount of stemware and everything else involved in giving a LADIES LUNCHEON AND BIRTHDAY PARTY. I am sunk.

On top of this drop in inventory, the poodle has taken up a very bad habit--when I leave he scratches the carpets. He also sits on the back cushion of the love seat in the living room. It is permanently indented.

The sofa is a lost cause but perhaps I could do something about the scratched carpet--he had clawed it down to the backing in places.

The scratches only showed in the deep blue places so I thought why not get a dark blue magic marker and just color over where the backing shows through? Good idea--except it turned the spots a deep purple.

No problem--get a black magic marker and blend it all together. Wrong--now the carpet had big black spots showing up.

Then I had the Big Brainstorm: FOOD COLORING! And it was a good idea--I just wish I'd put on gloves first. The blue food coloring which was at least 20 years old(sure glad I didn't throw THAT out during one of my snits) worked great. Unfortunately the coloring will not come off my fingers, nails and cuticles. I have 3 days for it to fade or get scrubbed off. On the other hand, white gloves are never out of style and show remarkable good taste in an age that has forgotten the finer details.

Too Many Weddings, So Little Time

2009-11-03T09:15:00.000-08:00

Maybe I found this so funny because everything lampooned in this "typical" wedding story I have witnessed personally during my life as a church organist. In fact, if anything, these examples are quite sanitized.

The link for this comes from Don't you just love weddings?

Editorial Note:

Warning: THIS EPISODE OF THE REV. KNOW IT ALL IS EXTREMELY OFFENSIVE. IT IS NOT ABOUT YOU OR ANYONE YOU KNOW. PLEASE READ THE WHOLE ARTICLE. THE REV. KNOW IT ALL IS NOT OPPOSED TO ALL WEDDING CELEBRATIONS. HE IS NOT TALKING ABOUT YOUR WEDDING WHICH WAS A TRIUMPH OF PERSONAL SANCTITY AND GOOD TASTE. HE IS PROBABLY JUST HAVING A BAD DAY.

Dear Rev. Know-It-All,

I visited your church once and am thinking about having my wedding there. How long is your main aisle?
Mary O’Burne

Answer

Dear Mary,
I am often asked that question, and never quite understand it. Are brides curious about the length of the aisle because they think a longer aisle may give them a few more minutes to back out of the whole thing? Or, as I suspect, does a long aisle prolong the glorious promenade of which a young girl dreams as she thumbs through bridal magazine as she contemplates her special day, when all eyes focus on her as she approaches her enchanted prince and all the world thinks she’s gorgeous and knows that she has bagged her man just as surely as a Wisconsin bricklayer bags a deer and ties it onto the roof of his pick up truck? I have certainly seen a few grooms who look like a frightened deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

Why is it that weddings cause people to spend so much time, energy and money? And more money. The average American wedding costs almost $29,000, according to “The Wedding Report”, a market research publication. $29,000!” Oh, by the by, the usual donation to the church is about $200.00. That $200 goes to the church, not to the priest. The usual gift to the priest is a hearty handclasp. The usual cost of the photographer is $2,000.00. All this tells me that the photographs are one hundred times more important than the grace of the sacrament, in most peoples’ estimation. The usual fee for the DJ is $1,500.00. I am consoled by this. It means that painful, occasionally obscene music loud enough to cause brain damage is only 75 times more important than the grace of the sacrament.

You must be thinking why is this guy so down on weddings? I am down on some weddings because I am very “up” on the sacrament of matrimony and really in favor of marriage. That’s why the modern method of marrying and the wedding industry make me crazy. They militate against marriage. Here is the heart of my complaint. IT IS STUPID TO SPEND MORE TIME AND MONEY PREPARING FOR THE WEDDING THAN YOU DO PREPARING FOR THE MARRIAGE!!! I have known people who are still paying the credit card bills generated by the wedding years after the marriage is over.

The Modern Method of Marriage, a Reprise. The following is taken from my own experiences and things people have told me (outside of confession, you’ll be glad to know.) Here goes.

A young man and a young woman meet and have a few dates. They go for a weekend at a bed and breakfast where they bed one another, and then have breakfast. If he isn’t too much of a jerk and she isn’t too picky, they are then an item. She goes to the doctor gets a prescription and goes on to a more permanent form of birth control. At some time during this stage, the uncomfortable meeting with the parents happens. Everyone is polite and “supportive.” Secretly the father of the young woman who knows exactly what’s going on, contemplates buying a gun and the mother of the young man begins gossiping with whomever will listen about how her little boy could do better. After a while, if things hold up, they begin to have the conversation about taking their relationship to the “next level” by which they mean shacking up, as we used to call it. Now, I think it’s called moving in together.

Mom and Dad buy housewarming gifts in an attempt to, once again, be supportive. They don’t want their little dears to hate them and besides, it’s what everyone is doing these days, so it can’t be wrong. They have vague thoughts about getting married at that point and mom explains to grandma and to friends at church that they are just doing it to save money for the wedding. At this stage an engagement ring may appear. At some point, when they think about getting the house and the kids, because that’s what you do, they decide to have the wedding. They rent the hall and then go see the priest. He tells them there are four other weddings that day and they respond, “but we’ve rented the hall already.” Someone suggests a garden wedding if the church is occupied.

The priest says we can’t do garden weddings. (More on this later.)

The young couple begins to complain about how narrow-minded the Church is with all these rules and regulations. They eventually pick a date. Then the bottom drops out. It seems the groom is not Catholic. He was baptized in the First Reformed Church of the Druids, though he never practiced. This means there must be a dispensation for the marriage, another irritating Catholic invention, and the wedding date cannot be confirmed until the dispensation is received. The bride goes back to her doctor, this time for a prescription for valium. Her mother joins her on this visit. Finally the dispensation is granted, The groom’s druid will do one of the readings at the wedding, the loans are taken out, the banns are published.

Then there is the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner. The best man comes to the rehearsal drunk out of his mind, the groom only slightly tipsy. The bride is furious at everyone for some reason known to her alone. Probably because the groom is far more interested in drinking and watching the football game on his hand held computer thing than he is in gazing lovingly into her eyes in anticipation of the great day. In fact they haven’t been, well... friendly in weeks. It is, after all, football season.

The special day comes, the best man is still drunk, the groom is hung over, no one knew about that interesting tattoo that the maid of honor had way low on her back, now revealed by the plunging back of her dress that is held up only by wishful thinking. Grandma, upon reading the logo of the maid of honor’s tattoo, has fainted. Somewhere in all this the vows are exchanged, and quite a few of the wedding party receive their first Holy Communion that day, however one of the ushers puts the host in his suit pocket not having a clue what it is. (This actually has happened to me twice.) The pictures have been taken. The noise level in the church reaches that of an English soccer match after the riot has broken out. The children are jumping off the altar and the priest is scowling at everyone. Now on to the pictures in the forest preserve, a “must” at every wedding. There the wedding party is attacked by mosquitoes, one of the children falls into the lagoon and the bride is having a hard time smiling for the photos. The best man passes out. On to the reception.

The bride loses it because the shade of fuchsia in the floral center pieces clashes with the shade of fuchsia in the wedding party’s outfit. The groom adjourns to the bar where the game is on the television. The wedding dinner is served as music is played at a mind numbing volume. Grandma is better now. She has turned off her hearing aid. The priest is seated with the pious relatives in plaid suit coats and leaves shortly after the grace before meals. The best man makes the toast which drones on about how he loves the groom and one begins to wonder. The college roommate/maid of honor does the same for the bride, going on for fifteen minutes about how she knew the bride would find eternal marital bliss the moment she met her in the third grade and they have been like sisters ever since.

Then at some point, there is a video presentation of embarrassing photos not unlike the ones that are now shown at wakes. The bar opens up again. The music reaches levels that cause blood to drip from some peoples’ nose and ears. The joyous event ends with the bride and groom being the last to leave the hall. They are slow to go up to the room they have rented in the hotel because nothing new or beautiful awaits them there. The groom promptly falls asleep, being heavily sedated already, and, as he snores away, with his shoes still on, our blushing bride, having shed her dress of virginal white, thinks back on this day, her special day, the most important day in her life, the day she has dreamt of since she was a little girl. They will stay an extra day at the hotel, but cannot afford the time or money to go on a honeymoon because on Monday they will both be back at work in order to pay off the colossal bill that their special day has incurred.

For some reason, the bride is depressed. Perhaps she is realizing that the high point of her life is now past and the rest of it will be spent with the lump that is now snoring beside her with whom she has never really had a serious conversation, except about the proper shade of fuchsia for the floral centerpieces. So it is that we celebrate the marriage of Christ and His Church in these enlightened and tolerant times.

Remember, none of these things happened at your wedding, thank God and don’t think from reading this that I am down on marriage or even weddings. I love a wedding celebration when there is something to celebrate. Also, it is never too late to begin again by taking Christ and His gospel seriously.

PLEASE SPEND MORE TIME AND MONEY PREPARING FOR THE MARRIAGE THAN YOU DO PREPARING FOR THE WEDDING.

Yours,
Rev. Know-It-All

P.S. Garden weddings: They look good in all the bridal magazines but they are just opportunities to feed biting insects and suffer from sunburn. It is however amusing to watch the bridesmaids sinking in the mud as they try, after a few margaritas to maneuver the newly laid sod in spiked heals. The bride is generally exhausted from not having slept for three weeks as she worries about the weather reports which are promising a 50 percent chance of typhoons and earthquakes that day. And destination weddings. Don’t get me started on Destination Weddings! You want to be married with just your closest friends on a beach in Maui. That means that Grandma can’t go because she hasn’t flown since the Hindenburg Disaster, and is thinking of cutting you out of the will, and all the friends and relatives who aren’t with you on the beach in Maui realize they aren’t very close to you after all. And I haven’t a clue how long the aisle is here at St. Dymphna’s.

Golf To A Different Swing

2009-10-11T13:04:00.000-07:00

I'd had it. The golf course beckoned and I wasn't going to be kept down any longer. After all, a doctor is just another person with an opinion, right? So---with back corseted tighter than anything my great-grandmother could have imagined, elbow strapped up, both thumbs and wrists velcroed into nearly rigid claws, I pushed the golf cart with my forearms down to the Pro Shop. I noticed only a slightly-raised eyebrow as the cashier took my money and handed me a scorecard.

This was my reasoning: the doc had said no REAL golf for several more months. He had given a half-hearted okay to chipping and putting. It took me a few weeks of mental juggling to figure out that what I was doing wasn't REAL golf.(Remember "what is the definition of 'is'?")

First of all, what I normally do out on the links couldn't be called REAL golf by any stretch of the imagination.

Second, if I only used a 9 iron and a putter there's no way that could be REAL golf.

Third, since I've never been able to take a full swing with that huge galaxy-sized driver anyway, that would surely disqualify my game as REAL golf. Great! Full justification acheived.

I was told I could wait for approximately 37 foursomes ahead of me on the front nine or tee off with a stranger playing as a single on #10. Duh! I flew out to the tee and simply told him I was joining him for teeing off. He looked very puzzled and I could tell he wasn't that pleased. I just told him to tee off, wait for me to "tee off" and then we'd go our separate ways. Kind of like a one night stand only it was daytime.

After seeing me use my driver with a quarter swing and sending the ball into someone's back yard BUT ACROSS THE WATER HAZARD, he scurried ahead of me and out of sight. Mission accomplished. I was once again alone on the golf course.

Golf is a very interesting game when you are only using a 9 iron and a putter. It's made even more interesting when your right elbow is constrained and your right thumb is not in the game. Add inability to grasp the club with much more force than moving your fine wedding china from cupboard to table, the only variable left is making the ball go straight.

Okay--so I took 10 strokes on the first hole. I was getting used to the new grip and approach. And yeah, I ended up in the same creek on the 13th hole twice--don't ask. Other than that, my score was only a few strokes higher than it had been 3 months ago. I was never in the rough and I never landed in a bunker. The new putting stance I've worked out--left toe pointed towards the pin and right toe pointed at the ball--makes putting without much wrist movement pretty accurate. I one putted two greens, three putted two greens and the rest were plain old two putts.

Here ends the first installment in Gimp Golf.

The Blog Is Not Dead But It Does Gasp

2009-10-06T21:40:00.000-07:00

One is barely coping.

On top of a boneyard-dead desktop computer and loss of two years' worth of photography, a much-loved camera falling out of the Jeep onto the street and shattering, a lost cell phone, a new one that I hated, a found old phone, a return to old phone, a new Mac, dislike of Mac and giving it the boot, a new PC whose video card immediately quit, new video card, PC switching which hard drive from which to boot and going dead in the water, hauling of CPU back and forth to Geeks, the heartache of dealing with an aging mother whose mental lapses cause all 'round confusion and THEN--the final bitch slap by fate--tendonitis from golf!

Both thumbs, hands, wrists, forearms, right elbow and lower back are in braces and trussed tighter than the Thanksgiving turkey. One is not pleased.
One has despaired.

One will return.

But not just yet.

Encore le Menu!

2009-09-10T22:04:00.000-07:00

The last post generated so much response in the chat room that the topic of TTF(Typical Tasteless Food) begs for a sequel.

At every dinner of my childhood, 4 slices of white bread on a serving plate graced the table. Everyone was expected to eat one slice each. (Remember the butter and sugar?) We never had pasta of any kind. Ever.But we did have potatoes--boiled, baked and mashed. No rice--that was breakfast food.

In addition to not allowing casseroles, soups were likewise banned. But chili beans were permitted. After all, Daddy was from Texas! How we loved that dinner. We could TASTE it! Also, chili powder was added in addition to the de rigeur salt and pepper. (Did I mention that hot dogs were on the banned list and hamburgers were reserved for kids' birthdays only.)

Although it came perilously close to spaghetti(banned as was pizza) porcupine balls were another staple. Did anything taste better than that can of Del Monte tomato sauce poured over those ground round balls with the rice inside? I admit it was a bit tough going if Mama hadn't had time to cook the porcupine balls long enough to get the rice completely cooked but that was the exception. It was only later on when I was asked if such a delicacy wasn't difficult to obtain did I catch the double meaning.

Since Daddy was a career Marine, like many military families, SOS was a regular item on the menu. We were told it stood for "Same Old Stuff" and that was close enough. Since not leaving a clean plate wasn't an option, we ate it dutifully--somehow thinking we were making a patriotic statement by choking it down. Semper Fi!

I mentioned canned hominy but left out canned waxed beans. Actually if anything came in a can, it made an appearance on our dinner table--beets, brussels sprouts, asperagus, beans, lima beans, navy beans, pork and beans and even carrots. Fresh veggies were limited to tomatoes, radishes and green onions. Period.

Please don't think we felt deprived. It was quite the opposite! We felt we were the luckiest people in the the most fortunate country in the world to have all this food just one (hand) can opener away. Even though everyone said the vegetables in the can were already cooked, they generally got a minimum of half an hour extra cooking aka BOILING just to be on the safe side.

If entrees seemed mundane, we excelled at desserts! Back then, dessert was obligatory. I'd lick the milky SOS gravy off my plate just to get the ice cream--2 flavors, vanilla and not vanilla, store-bought cookies, Betty Crocker cake with powdered sugar frosting, brownies(good ol' Betty again), frozen pies(after we got the larger freezer in the ice box), jello(with tons of sugar) or canned fruit cocktail if Mama's bridge game ran late and she didn't have time to thaw the pie. The only dessert I could never get excited about was--I am not making this up--crumpled up soda crackers or corn bread in milk--with LOTS of sugar!

Thank you for bearing with me in this walk down meals from history. Maybe some day I will relate the ONE time Mama decided to surprise the family with stuffed bell peppers. Now--where did that new can of Cheese Whiz go?

Red Yellow and Blue Balloons Printed on the Wrapper

2009-09-10T11:46:00.000-07:00

And where else would it be printed? On the bread? The other day cyber chat turned to the distinguishing characteristics of the Food of the Fifties. Conclusion? There weren't any. As one chatter commented, "A time when we all learned that food could be tasteless."

We had 3 seasonings at my house: salt, pepper and sugar. Yes, sugar! But how, you may be wondering was sugar used as a seasoning? EASY! We used sugar on sour cream, cottage cheese, white bread with butter, iced tea, coffee, bananas, rice, potatoes and anything else we could think of! Salt, of course, went on everything--tomatoes, cantaloupe and even watermelon.

It was a time of canned everything. The cans held faded replicas of original food soaking in puce-colored liquid. But it was opened, heated and served and we all felt so modern. My mom wasn't slaving over the sink and stove as grandmother once had to do.

As the small 1 square foot open front freezer in the "ice box" got a bit larger, we added frozen vegetables to the family menu. Do you remember those old frozen peas and corn? The ice crystals on each kernal made it look like a variant of the H1N1 virus under a microscope. Even after cooking those frozen pellets for at least half an hour to "make sure", they were still only one grade above sawdust in flavor and texture. And how could anyone forget hominey???

My dad wouldn't allow a casserole in the house. That, he would say, was for poor folk who couldn't afford meat. And we would have meat! Meatloaf, Spam, Vienna sausages, canned ham, tough as rawhide pot roast and fried pork chops and chicken. In fact, if it couldn't be fried, it probably wasn't worth serving. Maybe that's why we never had salad until we were well into the Sixties. Can't fry lettuce--besides, that's chipmonk food anyway.

I'm getting cravings these days for Cheese Whiz--the kind that came in a jar with the little red pimentoes. Then you used the jar as a glass afterwards. Aerosol-propelled Cheese Whiz ranked right up there with Yuri Gagarin going into space as far as the Advancement of Science was concerned. Let the Russians go into oribt--we had Velveeta "cheese" and Vienna sausages! (BTW, a favorite dinner was sliced Spam with Velveeta cheese melted on the top--served with frozen mixed veggies, of course.) Eat your heart out, Sonoma cuisine!

Bedside Manner

2009-09-02T21:20:00.000-07:00

How kosher is it for a doctor to tell his patient that the diagnosis is "you are turning into an old lady?" Harumph--is this preparation to go before the death panels in the future?

"Look at her--hands and thumbs all splinted up. Elbow bound tight. Using up perfectly good drugs. Why, she can't even look good on the golf course--perfectly useless. Matron--fetch an iceberg and send this one out to sea ASAP."

I wonder why when doctors are telling you all the things you can't do because of lumbars 1-4 and tendonitis, et cetera, they always phrase it in terms of fun things?

"Nope--no more golf for several months, I should think. Driving the RV? Wouldn't think so--not with those hands. Play the piano? Bit of a rough go with the splints and velcro holding your wrists still. Photoshop and typing? Probably not--rest those hands and arms."

Why don't they explain limitations in down-to-earth terms? I'd love to see this on a prescription pad!

"Looks like you won't be vacuuming those carpets. Forget mopping floors and wiping down counters. Cleaning toilets and carrying laundry baskets or groceries? Not a chance. Nope--not for months anyway."

But the coup de grace was being told I was turning into an OLD LADY!! This doctor seriously needs to work on his communication skills. But perhaps a little agriculture is in order--after all, he is a joint doctor.

One of My Favorite Websites

2009-08-31T18:13:00.000-07:00

I don't have to blog a topic we have recently experienced! "Stuff White People Like" has summed it up perfectly.

Since Mr. T, Son of T, SIL of T and 3 grandsons recently did the male-bonding camping thing, #128 on SWPL is perfect. The only claim to fame is that the camping was done with both the trip to REI, the tent, AND the SUV and RV--conflicted to the end.

http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/

A Shadow Blog by a Shadow Person

2009-08-27T16:45:00.000-07:00

(In keeping with my internet curse, you will have to put the correct pic with the matching paragraph. Blogspot is not letting me move images around and my fuse is a hair's width from reaching C4--and I don't mean Photoshop!!)

I may only be a glimpse from another parallel reality. In any event, it has been life at the edge for too many weeks now.

To sum up:

My own version of techno-hell:

Replacing camera body--no time yet to read manual

Losing cell phone--no time to read manual but I like the hot purple color

Getting Mac--didn't even come with manual; had to order books from Amazon

Decide Mac is a cult, not an operating system and there's not a damn thing wrong with Windows with exception for Vista

Trading in Mac plus books for PC that is running some version of Windows 7--no manual

I signed up for an online class to learn Photoshop CS4. What a disaster! Things were so disorganized and I kept being told to go to my "cubby." EXCUSE ME--my grandson has a cubby. Grown-ups do not have CUBBIES. This was my same reaction to the Mac--hey, dudes! Can I get a grown up 'puter now???? Can we drop 'cutsey'? As a friend pointed out to me, the Mac is totally, like, left wing. The close box has been moved--arbitrarily to the LEFT instead of the RIGHT where it used to be. And one does not close a window--one RED balls it! Can't say I wasn't warned about lib brain invasion merely through touching the keys.

After 2 weeks, I dropped the online class. When signing up, it was pretty easy to follow the step-by-step online process and pay them my fees. But try and withdraw and get a partial refund! Oh no--I'm to find the elusive 'cubby' and then do everything on my 'puter. Except there are not links and it is not at all easy to follow. Big surprise there! I finally got a real person on the phone who wanted me to drive all the way out to campus and stand in line for a refund--no way, Sean-O. After a blustering contest, Sean-O finally walked me through the maze of clicks and links to the site where I could withdraw from the class. His parting words were, "The check is in the mail."

I had actually driven to a neighboring town to sit in on a REAL college class. I was next to 2 young students, obviously fresh out of high school. They sat through the entire 2 hour lecture without opening a textbook or taking a single note. They didn't even have paper or pen supplies! They occasionally put their heads on their books or whispered back and forth to each other. I'm too old for this!

The Techno Nightmare Writ Large

2009-08-16T23:19:00.000-07:00

I am not the same Toc. Within two months I have had my faithful desktop PC crash and burn beyond repair or retrieval of anything on the hard drive. The POS Dell, of course, keeps limping along, backed up by Carbonite. No such luck with the desktop. For my birthday, Mr. T got me a Mac--trust me--it is NOT your daddy's Mac. I can't made heads or tails out of it.

Then my faithful Olympus camera fell out of the Jeep and shattered on the pavement. Even though I got as similar a model as I could, I am going to have to open the pages of the instruction manual. As we used to say, BUMMER.

And now the final insult--I lost my cell phone. This was the cell phone I've clung to for years. I refused to upgrade and have to sign a 2 year contract with Verizon. I wasn't going to get another cell phone--who needs one? Well, it turns out that I need one! All the time!! Off to Best Buy to stimulate the economy once again. I got the phone that resembled my old one but it doesn't really. The only thing going in the new phone's favor is that it's purple. Guess I'll be in bed with all those Verizon support folk for the next two years now.

Since I've moved so far out of my techno-comfort zone I then signed up for an online class to learn Photoshop CS4. On the Mac. Which I can barely turn on. Which looks nothing like a PC. Which is weird--sorry Users--it's weird. We shall keep you posted. How does one know what time to show up for an online class?

Some of you more astute readers might be wondering where the time will come from to play golf. Try and keep on the same page--golf is out. Racked up too many joints, tendons and soft tissue injuries. The doc has put me on the DL--at least for the next few months. At least I never got around to investing in all the ugly golf outfits.

So, for now, with both thumbs splinted and my right lower elbow trussed up like a turkey, I will try to amuse you with learning this new version of Photoshop on a computer that might as well have dropped from the planet Zenon. It's so pitiful it's almost funny.

Free Fall

2009-08-10T18:08:00.000-07:00

We did arrive home. Have you ever been hit with so many disjunct hits on your brain that you shut down rather than try and assimilate it? I think that has been my condition since crossing the state line from Oregon to California.

As we moved closer to the Bay Area the traffic increased directly proportional to the deterioration in roads. One wonderful night spent camped at Lake Almanor in Chester didn't compensate for the crazed drivers, pot holes and unrelenting traffic.

Poor Mr. T.--we pulled into SeniorLand and his back promptly went into spasm. Writhing on the floor in pain, I quickly tried to minister to him with adult beverages, drugs and elbow massage. He spent 3 days in a semi-conscious state until the spasm abated.

We returned to find that our neighbor had died. It's like that in SeniorLand. We knew Hospice had been called inn but apparently he (conveniently) died before the end of the month and his house had been completely cleared out and the "For Rent" sign was up. How blithely we slip out of existence and onto the "next" list.

Even though I have been off the nasty cocktail for my "hot tub" lung disease, the side effects have lingered. Apparently golf had aggravated my thumb and elbow joints to point of seeking medical help. Bad news--NO MORE GOLF.

Now this is getting serious. I was getting into that game. I agree it was a pointless game but it was somewhat interesting. True, the clothes were nothing to get excited about and very difficult to accessorize--but it was still the first exercise I've ever done in my life. Well--say good-bye to the links.

But I have an idea--I could invent an entirely new personna for myself. I could devote my days to watching chick flicks and reading trash novels. Swathed in matching floral muumuu and stretch turban, a few spit curls sticking out, I could get a Pekingese lapdog and entertain lounge lizards when I start pouring cocktails beginning at noon. Pink boa slippers, changing the nail polish color everyday and cultivating the company of lounge lizards could make for interesting posts.

Emptiness and Vastness

2009-07-29T19:58:00.000-07:00

The mood heading home from vacation is so different from the excitement of starting out. The distances seem longer; the scenery seems to change more slowly.

We're coming back a different way. I don't care to see the plains of southern Idaho ever again!

We traveled today from Grangeville, Idaho, to Burns, Oregon today. The climate got hotter and the landscape more dry and barren. Mr. T indulged my preference of avoiding Interstates so we traveled back roads.

It is amazing how unoccupied so much of this country is! There is so much beauty of all kinds. But we go hours and see only a few outposts. Folks here seem to be farmers and that's hard work. But most of the land just is there--being land. I'm surprised that we have driven along some river all day long--the Salmon River and the Malheur River being the largest.

Eastern Oregon is so sparsely populated. 3000 people live here in Burns and the RV Park manager has lived here 30 years--and loves it. These are not places I would ever fit in--if, indeed, there is a place I could ever fit in. Do most people travel through life--even if they never leave their neighborhood--feeling as if they don't quite fit?

Long stretches of open highway and no little towns will fill your mind with such questions. But no answers--just changing time zones and state lines.

The beautiful big skies and open spaces are soothing after so many closed canyons and thick trees.

Our stay in Burns ended with a grand thunder and lightning show and a great rain. Nothing smells better than rain on desert!

Glacier in the Rear View Mirror

2009-07-28T18:53:00.000-07:00

Goodbye Glacier—we’ll be back! What a wonderful place and I hope to have many more visits. But I noticed one thing about the scenery—it can be so overwhelming that it can be tiring. I’m ready to come home to Sonoma County and its more soothing, restorative beauty.

Montana is a state that will roll you down a huge mountain and drown you in a rough river. I need the “cuddling” of a place that will soothe you with vineyards, delight you with a perfect sirah and whisper “chill” with every snapshot. (Of course one would not chill a red wine but ‘chill’ in the slang sense of the word.)

We drove through an area called Flathead. It sounds like someone is being insulted with that word but I can’t figure out who. Oh well—the Flathead Lake and River are magnificent.

We stopped at the Swan River National Wildlife Refuge. It was wonderful! We were the only ones there and the quiet was exciting. It was a huge grassy, marshy valley surrounded by those great high peaks.

The Minnie had to take the dirt road very carefully and Mr. T had to execute one of his famous ten-point turns at the end.

The dogs loved rolling in the mud of the swamps—which, of course, necessitated another stop at one of the numerous clear lakes so they could swim and lose the doggy/marshy smell.

And now tonight, as an example of Mr. T’s sense of humor, we are staying at Jellystone RV Park. How many people even remember Yogi and BoBo?? In 10 minutes Yogi himself will make the rounds of the park in his own electric cart! How many times did we mimic Yogi saying, “Hey, hey, Bobo—I see another pic-a-nic basket!!!”

(By the way, is it just me or do RV parks glibly advertise wifi and then you GET NOTHING?)

It's Out of the Comfort Zone

2009-07-28T18:27:00.000-07:00

Mr. T used his persuasive way with words to lure me into a gondola ride up a HUGE mountain in a place called Whitefish. “It’ll be great!” he said. “Just think of the great photos from the top,” he said. And I believed him—much to my dismay.

I remember riding a tram up the side of San Jacinto back in ’66. The memory was only vaguely unnerving and we rode up that mountain in total darkness. I had no idea what it’s really like in a gondola (I don’t care if it’s made in Switzerland) until he pushed me in, the martinet running the operation slammed the door closed, and the cage rocked off and up.

TERROR! That little bubble started up the mountain—not just a few feet off the ground but so high up I expected oxygen masks to drop from the overhead at any minute. It also didn’t help that a few minutes into the ascent Mr. T said, “Come sit here next to me—I need to KILL something.” The “something” was a wicked looking, brown, hairy spider the size of a half dollar. Oh pass me mah salts and a strong drink. Kudos to Mr. T for his try at slaying the monster but he only managed to knock it off the ceiling and it scurried into some crevasse known only to the spider.

(I didn't have a picture of the spider but here's a picture I took of a dead snake back in Wyoming.)

Then the dang gondola simply stopped! Midway up the mountain we stopped. Is anyone reading this old enough to remember the monster movie “The Crawling Eye” from the late Fifties? (UP THE HILL! IT’S COMING UP THE HILL, PROFESSOR!!)

We finally reached the top and I nearly trampled Mr. T to get out. First stop—the bar. No way to get down except to walk 5 miles or ride that piece of bubble wrap down. Even though there was a perfectly good dirt road they refused to have someone drive up to take me down. I will hold a grudge for a long time.

Meanwhile, small children and young adults were flying down a narrow mountain bike trail called The Runaway Train. It was steep, fast, and contained both man-made and natural obstacles. I’ve decided I don’t need to get out so often. It’s too frightening.

Mosquitoes and No See'ums

2009-07-26T22:26:00.000-07:00

I need a vote—does anyone find that citronella works for repelling mosquitoes??? You light the little candle in the tin bucket and all you have after an hour is 15 mosquito bites and a cute little mini-pail that you just can’t bring yourself to throw away. Pass me that OFF!

The little annoying insects are everywhere. If I’m with Mr. T I’m generally ok because they prefer his skin to mine. But good grief! I want a bee keeper’s outfit on just to go outside.

Another question—is it just me or does Budweiser taste better than it used to? After a hot day in the 90ies on top of mountains, it really goes down easily. We’re only allowed to have our generator on 3 times a day and the last segment is from 5-7 pm. While we wait to get the A/C running and our dinner cooked, we sat at the picnic table, eye out for bears, downing Buds and lighting citronella candles. It’s an interesting way of life—but I’m starting to miss wifi, A/C, my cell phone, and especially showers with all the hot water I want!

It reminds me of a new road sign I saw today—ROUGH BREAK. Before we could discuss what it meant, we found out! The road breaks and falls in a few inches. Since I take nearly half of my photos from the moving RV/car, I figure I lost about 5 pictures for the blog. Gives a whole new meaning to "Road Pictures."

Road to the Sun

2009-07-26T21:40:00.000-07:00

We spent the day driving the Road to the Sun—1926 technology and still impressive. It was staggeringly beautiful. We did the whole loop all the way around the park. This park definitely gets an A+.

Although I am a desert rat at heart, this part of Montana will take your breath away. (I have to admit that the narrowness of the road and the overhang made me a tad anxious. I couldn’t help remembering the 7.1 quake of 1959 that killed 25 people are formed a new lake back in Gallatin.

Water is everywhere! Byrdie and Talus got to swim in lakes that can only be imagined in California. Speaking of California and water…….I looked at all the abundant water in Montana and couldn’t help feeling how nice it would be for California to get some of their water. They obviously have more than they could ever use—and we are so needy.

We will need to return to Glacier. I want to drive into the Canadian part of the park and have High Tea at Waterton. I want to take the boat tours on St. Mary Lake and Two Medicine. I want more time to just sit still and absorb the grandeur.

STOP READING NOW IF YOU DON'T WANT MY OPINION ON SOMETHING.

It's been odd being out of touch with news--no TV, no internet and no cell phone. I finally got a radio station and heard that CA has cut $9 billion for public schools from its budget. I say at least it’s a start! Maybe sex ed will be one mandated program among many that will shave off a few administrators. I could teach sex ed in about 3 minutes. If you do it, you’ll get pregnant. Or, if you’re a boy, she’ll get pregnant. What you say? Just kill off the baby with federal dollars? You say it’s just a blob, not a baby? Well, if it’s not a baby then I guess you’re not pregnant. No problem!

Buffalo Jam--Don't Put It On Toast

2009-07-26T18:28:00.000-07:00

I am tired of being held captive to wacked out tree-huggers. IMHO, they have way too much say in our lives. It’s bad enough farmers in the San Joaquin are denied water to grow crops because of a useless smelt fish. But now students are being frightened of their ability to hurt a fragile earth. It approaches idolatry.

Yesterday we stopped at the big Yellowstone Visitors' Center--a very nice place, by the way. One little girl--about 8 years old--was nearly in tears. And why? Because she was UPSET that the glaciers were getting smaller!!! I suppose that some over-zealous “Earth Only” convert had told her that the bad, bad humans were making the big, beautiful glacier go away. Give me a break! Might as well tell a gnat to go easy on the Hoover Dam! Of course they're getting smaller--the last ice age is still retreating. They could hardly be growing--and if they were, we'd better start worrying about something a lot more serious than this bogus global warming the fake scientists have worked up gullible folks about.

While I was buying maps and looking for Grandma souvenirs like mugs, magnets and t-shirts, Mr. T was walking the dogs in a beautiful grassy field. BUSTED! He was lucky he didn’t get a ticket. No dogs allowed. It doesn’t matter if you have plastic bags and pooper scooper in hand, no dogs—no way. Even the pioneering work of Harvey Milk held no sway here.

We finally found a turn-out with a picnic table next to a nice river that was not official forest service land. With a whoop we whirled that Minnie into the small spot and the dogs and us were on our way to the water. Byrdie is fine in the currents and loves to swim. Talus hates the water and never did master the art of swimming. Unfortunately, a bird chose just that moment to swoop down in front of the poodle and off he went! He chased that bird and must have flown across the creek or walked across it. When he came to himself, he realized he was stuck and no amount of coaxing from us would entice him to enter the creek and swim back.

Mr. T to the rescue—he actually waded into the icy water out to the small sandbar where the poodle was stranded. He scooped him up in his arms and then waded back thru the running waters. What a guy! But Talus loses water privileges for awhile.

You didn't think I'd leave out an account of Yellowstone without a generic pic of Old Faithful, did you? Mr. T and I had become separated. I was saving front row seats and I could see him half a park away looking for me. I organized my section of seats into a yelling section and, after only one rehearsal, yelled 'MR. T.!!!" and all waved our arms.

No response. But then the section of seats to the right offered to help out so on the count of 3, about 60 people yelled and waved again: "MR. T.!!!!!!!!" This time he heard us and we were finally reunited. It was truly heartwarming to see so many different nationalities coming together to get the attention of one person. There is hope yet for world peace.

We were stuck in a mammoth traffic jam trying to exit Yellowstone. The reason for our two hour delay? A buffalo had wandered onto the road and decided to take a nap. When this happens, no one is allowed to disturb the buffalo. Say what??? I can’t yell at the critter to move it? No one can drive a big diesel-pusher up to press the lazy critter just a tad to convince it to move along? This happens with some frequency and it is called BUFFALO JAM. Pass me mah salts.

Actually, I found the entire Yellowstone experience unsettling. I think it comes down to the atmosphere that people are the intruders and not especially welcome.

Although we had reserved two days, we didn’t return to the park the 2nd day. We just hid out in the Minnie, recovering from buffalo jam, hoards of people, tense driving and poodle rescue. Sometimes a day spent doing laundry in a KOA is pretty good R&R.