The Significance of Lighting Farts

It's not that I can't hear, it's that I hear too much.  That constant buzzing noise, phantom cicadas.  Is that a car, a plane, the ceiling fan?  I can't say.

And it's not that I have nothing to write about.  I have too much to write about.  The life-changing rays of enlightenment that shine like a 100 watt, unshaded bulb in my mind when I should be sleeping, just bounce around like numbered ping pong balls, waiting for their chance to be memorialized in a blog. So, of course, it's difficult to focus on just one thing

Which leads me to the significance of fart lighting.

I am so happy that our spaghetti group didn't burn down Jacque's parents' new house.  I'm sorry that Julie's jeans were singed.  They were groovy jeans.  But dang!  Every time I remember it, I laugh until tears roll down my cheeks.  We were such nerds.  We were a bunch of teenaged girls whose worst sins included getting together on weekend nights for a sleepover and spaghetti and lighting farts. It's just amazing how much methane a 100 pound girl can muster, when she's adequately challenged.

Yeah, okay, so we lived on a tiny island in a sea of corn and bean fields.  There wasn't all that much to do.  We stayed busy, though.  We'd pile in Honey, my '66 Ford, turn up the Philco and hope to catch some Carole King as we did the lake, the strip, the square, the college, the lake, the strip, the square, the college. We could tell by head or tail lights who was coming or going and we could guess where.
The lake, the square, the strip, the college. . . . .

We'd go bushwhacking to see whom we might catch parking.  Even when we dated, we ended up together somehow.  Jacque and Jerry would ride in the back of Dan's bean truck.  Well, that's sort of a date, right?  Riding around?  And pre-bucket seats and consoles, you could tell how serious a relationship had become by if the girl sat right next to her boy as he drove around the lake, the square, the strip, the college.

Burlings had a rubber raft and sometimes we'd schlepp that out to the lake and paddle around.  The town had a softball league and I sometimes would climb up into the box and announce the game, even though I didn't have a clue what was actually happening.  Once - I swear to you this actually happened - Carol and Nichols and I were all drinking Pepsis and blew into our bottles and made a perfect chord!

It was 1972 and there was just so very, very much to do.  And if we got bored, we could always light a fart.

Out Catted

This afternoon I was working on the copper roof of the grotto in the Garden of Many Groovy Things, when Margaret got into a tussle with what at first I believed to be a cougar, bobcat, wolf, or fox. I was immediately at her side to save her, yelling as any mother would, at whatever was fighting with my baby. The monster that was making Margaret yelp loudly enough for James to come running out of the house turned out to be . . . .. duh duh duh daaaaaaaaa!. . . .a killer kitten!

The golden yellow kitten, has white rings around it's tail and body. On either side, she has a white circle. She has strange yellow eyes, and by now, we are great friends.

But a lot went down before that came to be.

First of all, the kitten got free from Margaret (or vice versa) and the feline went up an oak tree. James took Margaret inside to inspect her booboos and keep her occupied while I tried to coax the terrified kitten out of the tree.

Yes, I stood at the base of the tree, reasoning logically and emotionally pleading with a feral cat for a long, long. . . . long time. Finally she came down, the last bit was a jump into/onto my arms, all claws extended.

That was when I noticed that this charming little monster was pretty fur over bones. So I snuck into the house and borrowed some of Margaret's special food. I set the food and some water out for her and then just sat back in the garden and read my mail.

Did the cat disappear? Nope

She came closer and closer to me until she was routinely rubbing against my hand, making occasional eye contact. Throughout this bonding time, I kept thinking that I heard another cat mewing. But I wrote that off as the imprint on my brain of the recent kitten rescue.

Later in the day, I was once again working in the GMGT and heard an increasingly loud mewing. My hearing isn't quite as acute as it used to was, so it's not always easy for me to track down a sound. But I finally pinpointed the noise. Yep. A yellow kitten way up in the oak tree. This time, the kitten was farther up the tree and much more timid. Why? I didn't know. I thought we'd become great pals.

I pleaded, I debated, I reassured. I told her she was a very strong, brave, kitty. I moved a hammock against the tree as a ladder. Did she come down the trunk?

Nope. She went out on the proverbial limb. I gave up several times and told her so. I sat down on my garden bench and tried to ignore her crying.

But this was no ordinary feline. This was a member of a gang of con kitties. An expert in the art of manipulation and emotional torture.

So I followed the kitten to the end of the limb, which hung low over the thyme garden. On my tiptoes, I reached up and grabbed larger and larger twigs, all the while encouraging, coaxing, pleading with the kitten to come down once again.

During one of m neck relief sessions, still holding down the limb, I noticed, a yellow kitten with white rings around it's tail and body, standing nearby, watching the whole fiasco.

What? Who?

So! There are two such strange kittens. One, who was rubbing against my ankles and purring, while her presumed sibling was crying just a foot out of my reach in the tree.

ARRRGGGHHHH! I'd been duped. . . . . . . Again.

One last reach and I grabbed (or was grabbed by) Yellow Kitten #2, who was quickly returned to terra firma, and scooted back into the woods.

Yellow Kitten #1, remained rubbing against my ankles. I asked her her name and she told me, "Miel," which is one of my favorite names and very appropriate for such a sweet, honey-colored kitty.

I made a comfy, cozy bed with a crocheted fluffy thing in a bucket in the grotto, fed her again, showed her where her fresh water was and gave it up for the night.

I may be hard-headed, but I know when I'm beat.

I'm grateful.

Two Autumns

As I sit here with my coffee, munching my granola of oats, nuts and dried fruit, I can't help thinking how the change of season makes me want to eat things made with Velveeta and cream of something soup. Oooooh, or with condensed cheddar cheese soup and sour cream. Maybe there is some way to get some home made egg noodles in there, too. I don't have any particular recipe in mind, you understand. I just want a bunch of stuff that isn't really good for me. This urge must be left over from when humans had to fatten up for the winter - you know, before pizza was delivered. 

Maybe it has more to do with my mood, which on a scale of one to ten has lately been stuck on suckwad. Can't sleep then sleep through a day or two, I'm pretty sure the light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train, and I'm surrounded by things I have to do and I don't have the energy or the focus to do them. 

Honest to gourd, it took me two hours to figure out how to return a dress. Let me just add that the reason I had to return it is because it is too small and the only dresses I can find for an upcoming event that will fit me look like they're made for a sixty year old woman! Oh, yeah, and then there's that. Sixty? Really? Who in the world said that it would be okay for my next birthday to be sixty? 

My phone is dead because I left my charging cord at my sister's house. I can't tell you how many times I've tried to call her to tell her that. And the ants that are moving into the kitchen refuse to pay rent. 

I promised myself that if I got up and had a cup of coffee, I could go back to bed. My purple desk, where I'm now having my second cuppa, is under two windows where birds often come to visit and which give me an excellent view of the area from the shoulders up. 

The leaves are now mature green, not the chartreuse green of spring which look ever up to the sky, but a confident, emerald green. Here and there are clusters of bright orange or yellow and against the pure, clear blue sky they look almost too real. With the slightest hint of a breeze, the leaves turn to encourage their neighbors. They whisper among themselves about the next big adventure. Then they look back down toward Earth without hurry, without angst, but with surety and confidence. 

I should live long enough to be as wise as these old oaks.

Do It Yourself

I just watched a youtube video about how to replace a toilet. I know, I know. . . . . . how sexy can I get, right? Anyway, I'm going to attempt it tomorrow, I think. A brand new low flow, dual flush toddy. 

I told my daughter I was going to attempt this and she quite strongly advised against it. However, I know where the water shut off thingie is and there are a couple of other toidies in the house, so really, the worst that could happen is that I get stuck and have to call the plumber dude.  

While I was talking to my daughter, I could hear my father laughing. He's been gone for a couple of decades now - since before youtube self-help videos. But when H1 and I bought our first home, a 130 year old "cottage," there were many, many fix ups we needed to do. When I told Papa that we were going to do them ourselves, he laughed and asked me why I thought that would work. I always told him that I'd read a book and then he'd laugh and laugh.

"So you're going to refinish the oak floors yourselves?"  

Yes. I have a book about it. . . . . "

"Hahahahahahahaha!" 

It wasn't long before I understood what was so funny.  

One of our fix up projects involved moving a claw foot tub from one side of the 4' X 14' bathroom, to the other side. How tough could that be, right? There was a bit of a cellar, but not under the bathroom. To access that, one had to crawl through a long, scary, narrow crawl space. So, of course, we waited until our friend, Hal, all 6'7" of him, came to visit. He knew about plumbing and construction, etc. The bathtub got moved and miraculously, Hal still speaks to us! 

But the house really was an adventure in which ignorance provided quite a bit of the bliss.  

The master bedroom on the first floor had water damage to the plaster beneath the windows. No worries, right? Just tear out the plaster and replace with drywall. We got a cart from somewhere and put it outside the window to hold the bits of plaster that we knocked down. Ancient, horse hair plaster, it turns out, weighs about the same as concrete. So long before the cart was full, the wheels were sunk into the ground.  

(Sound track of Papa laughing.) 

And don't even get me started on drywalling! Who knew? We eventually hired my boyfriend from first grade to do that. He came in with stilts and everything. It's an art. One I've appreciated ever since.

When we first moved in, I could stand flat footed and palm the kitchen ceiling in some places. The kitchen was a step down from the rest of the house, and we discovered that it had been an old summer kitchen that was just sort of slid up to the house and roofed over. Okay, so we'll raise it - make it a cathedral ceiling. 

(Run the sound track)

The cabinets weren't anything close to "standard" of course, and they were sort of connected to the ceiling as well as the walls and. . . . well, it was a mess. When the ceiling came down, we discovered that the attic space above the kitchen was full of cinders and old ashes from a previous wood and/or coal stove. Lovely. And nothing - not a single corner - in the house was square. But how difficult could it be to build new cabinets to match the old ones. They are just wooden boxes with doors, after all.  

(Turn up volume on sound track)

I so loved that house with it's arched doorways and glass door knobs. It had a really good vibration and

I'm sure, an excellent sense of humor. I will think about it and Papa tomorrow while changing out the toilet. I'll let you know how it goes.

Just Say No to Plastic

Every bit of plastic ever made is still around.  Plastic bits in the oceans out number sea animals.  So let's do something about it, already.

1.  Just say no to plastic.

• Let's all give up plastic straws, forks, spoons, cups, and plates.  Let the big guys (McD's, Hardee's, all those fast food places) know that we don't need more plastics in our lives.  Straws can be made from paper, and get this. . . . . cutlery can be made from metal.  Keep a spork in your bag if you feel compelled to eat fast food and your fingers just won't work.
• When you buy a small item, carry it or put it in your always-handy cloth bag.  Tell the cashier you want to save a bag.  They often thank me when I do that.   And by the way, always carry your cloth shopping bags.  We keep ours in our cars, because you never know when you're going to have to stop at a store.  If I buy a bulb of garlic, a couple of onions, or some potatoes, I don't bother putting them in those flimsy plastic produce bags.  If you are buying tiny little things, at least reuse that flimsy bag.  Remember, it's not going anywhere.
• Determine not to drink anything that comes in a plastic bottle.  Just don't do it.  Where do you think bottled water comes from?  Do you really think it's better than what comes out of your tap?  If you do, get a filter for crying in a bucket.  
• Rethink anything "disposable."  Razors, combs, toothbrushes, (and my very least favorite) those plastic containers for leftovers.  You know you never have the right lid for them anyway. Use a glass jar.  

2.  Push, push, push for things made from recycled plastics.  Some dude in New Zealand figured out how to make giant legos out of shredded "sea" plastics using heat and pressure.  They are water proof, colorful, insulating, lightweight and people can build houses from them easily.   Brilliant in it's simplicity!  There isn't any reason not to do this on a large scale.  

3. Teach your children.  Before you buy your child one more bit of plastic that you're sure to trip over, ask yourself AND your child if it's worth it to know that bit of plastic will be around, probably polluting the oceans for his great grand children.  Teach by example when you buy juice and store food in glass containers rather than plastic.  Explain why.  You're doing it for them.  

These are little things, of course.  But when we all do little things, they become something big.  We must remember that "disposable" means it goes out of our sight for a while, not out of our lives.  

The Big Race

Okay, it's time to talk about "race," that non existent, divisive bit of crap we perpetuate at every opportunity.
You aren't black and I'm not white.  I'm sort of ecru.   Actually, since living in the deep south, I'm a bit light tan.  Other friends I know are darker brown, a few are lighter brown, but we are all shades of brown.
I've been told by someone I love and respect (whom I won't name, but her initials are Devin Ruth) that I should allow others to "identify" with whatever label they choose.  After giving it some thought, albeit mostly while feverish and possibly under the influence of medicinal hot toddies, I think that is wrong.  You can identify as a blue legged lizard from Alpha Centauri if you wish - doesn't make it true and doesn't help much of anything.
The fact is, we've had a bit of time on this planet all together and we've interbred.  If there ever were such a thing as "race" surely it doesn't exist now.
I refuse to identify as a specific "race."  And I particularly dislike people referring to me as white.  I am pale.  I admit it.  If I've been in the sun too much, I'm pink to red, but I'm not white.  My eyes are brown and my hair is. . . . . . well,  what remains of it is what ever color I choose.
When we identify as race, we are labeling ourselves as "other."   Je suis une Americane.  (forgive if I've misspelled, it's been a while.)
My point is, we've got some problems, Baybees. We've really upset Mother Nature.  She's not happy. America has the most embarrassing presidential election I can imagine.  Even in this country, we can't rely on our water being safe to drink, and greed rules over all.  Our school turn out people who can't read.  How far down on the list of important factors is skin color?
White and Black have connotations.  Lightness and darkness, good and bad, diametrical opposites.  That's fine, but it has nothing to do with people in relationship to their skin color.
Get the flip over it.
I'm not saying I'm without prejudice.  I admit that I have my share.  But for crying in a bucket, if my prejudices ever have anything to do with the shade of brown of someone's skin, just put me out of my misery.
Now, if a person is chewing gum in public or speaking overly loudly, or showing the masses the crack of his ass because he just fails to pull up his pants. .. . . . . .let me have a word or two.
But unless you just got off the boat, please don't refer to yourself as African American or Irish or Aryan, if you are an American citizen.  That'll do it for me.  You're an American, I'm an American, and more than that - we are both (I presume) human.  That's enough, eh?

Brody

Brody and I are curled up, taking a break in a suspiciously quiet house. He is definitely the best grand dog in the universe. He's now just a wee bit older than I in dog years and we commiserate. When I give him a T R E A T I don't ask him to do any tricks. We both know he can do the whole routine. I just give him some the tiny canine cookies and then we discuss how embarrassed we are about the recent political circus. 
 
He still assists me in the kitchen, snarfing up any crumb I drop. We have to be very careful because the Brodylator has a very particular digestive system (sooooo familiar) and while he thinks he wants to eat anything, his pancreas argues. 

His hearing isn't as acute as it once was (also quite familiar) and he subwoofs at things that are probably not actually threatening - the neighbor getting home, a car parked in front of the house, etc. And allergies (oh, tell me about it!) keep him from running around in the damp grass any more than is necessary. Now one short game of run and hide and seek is enough to tucker both of us out.
 
Brody and I go back a long way. He adopted Tim and Devin nine years ago. He was a city pup then. A working man. He worked for FCB with Tim, as an encourager. The company paid his adoption fees, food, medical, toys, grooming and incidentals, but he had to go to work each day and inspire people. He was excellent at his job, and like a lot of people wasn't really ready to give it up when he was retired a few years back.

But you know how it is. One enjoys a big corporate job with all the excitement and responsibility and then one adjusts to having kids and moving to the suburbs. It's not that life slows down. Oh, certainly not with Bump and Bell around, it's just that it's different.
 
And at this age, Brody is certainly grateful that the nanny comes every day to take the major responsibility for the kids, though he still has to defend them from real and imagined dangers, serve as a model for strange costumes, and a mountain for toy cars from time to time.
I've noticed that his bones seems to stick out through his muscular body more than they used to. He says the same about me, though he did mention that much of me continues to get "softer" (his words, not mine.)

Oh, the Brodster and I agree that things change and remain the same. It's a special bond between a Nana and a grand dog.