Fortuna's Wheel

Time is something we humans have been fascinated with for a long, long time. Even as individuals many of us think about going backward, or forward, in time. Backward to relive old experiences and possibly correct some errors in judgment we made. Forward to see what life will be like. We hate unpleasant surprises.

Not everyone is afflicted with this condition. Many people are quite content to live life in the moment. They could care less what happened in the past, or what is in store in the future. Now is the moment, and now is where they live.

I'm not one of those people. I'm a past person. I see past joys and wonder why they had to end. I see past sorrows and wonder if I would have averted them - if I had only known then what I know now.

But were past joys more joyful than current joys? Or is it simply that now that I can see them with a beginning, middle, and end, I recognize them as joys, whereas now I'm never quite sure what I have until it's done. I suppose that's the advantage of living in the now. Every moment is its own beginning, middle, and end.

There's an addage (I don't know exactly how it goes) that says we can only know the heights of joy by knowing the depths of sorrow. And vice versus, too. In essence, if I understand this aright, one cannot be any happier than they have been sad. Neither can they be any sadder than they were happy. Sounds safe enough. Also sounds dull. Almost robotic. I don't live that way. I don't want to. I'll take my great sorrows, because I know that coming my way is great joy.

Meanwhile, once again I haven't got anything intelligent to say.

A Warm November Evening

Here's wishing I had something clever and worthwhile to say. Once again, my lack of education and experience leave me a dull write and a even more dull read. Pity.

One of the things about growing up in a small town without cable, cell phones or internet: one can get a completely false idea of just how clever one is. The internet is quite an eye opener. I have only met a few people online, but generally they are quite fantastic people. Well educated. Well skilled in the things I wish I were well skilled in. There are some pretty impressive people on this planet.

Pity I'm not one.

Guess I'm jealous.

The Bear's Breath is Sweet

Yeah, I know. It's Animal Day. But I stumbled on another stupid test and I just had to take it. I mean, how can you pass over a test with the title, "What kind of Toothpaste are You?"

So I took it.

You Are (I am) Spearmint Flavored Toothpaste

You are thoughtful about most things in life, and you tend to spend a lot of time alone just reflecting.
You are a true introvert. You need your space and privacy to feel recharged. You savor your alone time, even when you're brushing your teeth.

You live a slow pace of life, and you enjoy every moment more than most people. You stop to appreciate what you have.
You are in touch with nature. Nothing makes you feel more at home than being outside without another human in sight.

Spearmint. Hmm. I was hoping for Wintergreen. Love the Certs lozenges of that flavor.

So, what about the results?

• I spend a lot of time alone - just reflecting

Well, when one is alone there isn't a whole lot else to do. And if people hate being around one, one is apt to be alone.

• I'm a true introvert. I need my space and privacy. Even when brushing my teeth.

What's with this even business? Who brushes their teeth in a crowd? Teeth brushing generally means bathroom time. And unless one happens to be a kinky sort of mood bathroom time is alone time.

• I live a slow pace of life and enjoy every moment more than most people.

I've always said people were unhappy. Now I've got proof!

• I'm in touch with nature. Nothing makes me feel more at home than being outside without another human being in sight

If things don't improve financially soon that's exactly where I'm going to be. At least I'll be happy.

So, because this is Animal Day, I also took another test: "What's Your Energy Animal". Apparently, there are only four possible results. Don't know what the other three could be, but there was a picture of a tiger. I would love to have been a tiger. Instead,

You're a Big-Hearted Bear

Although one animal is usually dominant, keep in mind that "we all have tendencies of all four animals," says Hadady. Here are the typical characteristics of a Bear:

Face shape: Broad, round or square.

Body type: Often stocky, carry excess weight in the belly. (I think being fat put me in the 'bear' category right off.)

Social style: You love to socialize with friends and family (SO NOT TRUE) and often cook, sing or tell jokes (SO TRUE).

Spirit: You crave the comfort and fulfillment of meaningful relationships, but too often you settle for a pastry instead. (Hey. The poor take what they can get.)

With others you are: Compassionate, warm and patient. (It's easy to be compassionate, warm and patient when one is alone. [see earlier test])

Best traits: Loving and kind. (What can I say? [humble smile])

Worst traits: Unadaptable to change, overly sensitive (Where the hell do they get off saying that? [get it?])

Ideal job: One where you can freely express your words, thoughts and feelings (NICE); one that involves food (VERY NICE). Bears are often writers (COOL), teachers or chefs.

Food cravings: Sweets. Unfortunately, your sweet tooth puts you at risk for abdominal obesity and diabetes. (I'm not at risk. I'm fat beyond description and I do have diabetes.)

Worst eating habit: Turning to food in times of emotional stress. (Only when there's food to be eaten.)

Ideal exercise: Any kind of team sport. (I said swimming. They changed my answer. Are they calling me a liar?)

Weight loss goal: Break your emotional attachment to food and turn to friends, not sweets, in times of stress. (Where in the hell did this come from? I thought I was taking a test about my energy animal and suddenly I'm being lectured by a quiz about how fat I am. Sheesh.)

So. So much for Animal Day, huh?

The Bear has spoken. Now it's time to hunt up something to eat. I'll eat slowly by myself, enjoying my reflective thoughts on my minty fresh breath.

Just makes you wish you could hug me, right? Well, buy yourself the largest stuffed bear you can find and squeeze it tight. The sensation should be about the same.

A Day Off

Took a lazy day today and didn't do much of anything. According to some that's what I do every day. Won't argue. They just may be right.

Thought a lot about Stephen today. Some of the things I was reading made me think of our friendship. What would life be like if Stephen were with me today? There is no way to know, of course.

That's the problem with aging. People start leaving and not coming back. Some day it will be my turn. There are those who are probably eagerly awaiting the day. Others don't like to think about it. I confess that it isn't something I like to dwell on. But when I think about Stephen, and Daddy, and Lynahr, and others, I find myself being forced to consider it.

If Stephen were alive I wonder if I would play more tennis. We used to play a lot of tennis. We drove around a lot. We didn't actually go anywhere. We just drove around. Went to a lot of movies, too. I liked going to the movies with Stephen. And after the movie we would find one of three pizza restaurants to visit.

Life has not always been hard times. There are a lot of happy memories. Lots of them.

But I do miss Stephen more on some days than others.

Time to Vote

You have UNTIL SATURDAY to visit Writtenwyrdd's blog and vote on the Halloween Contest entries. Follow this Link. A reminder that mine is there some place. But don't worry. You're not likely to vote for mine. There are some pretty good stories there.

Other than that I haven't much to say. The Voice in the Wind has gotten kind of thin. Can't compete with the gale force winds which have been blowing.

Have a good day.

Cardinals, Orioles, and Indigo Buntings

We were watching To the Manor Born this morning and something Audrey fforbes-Hamiliton said made me think of something a manager once told me.

The manager was a strict conservative, meaning he was all in favor of rights, as long as they were for people who looked and thought like himself. It also meant he was very interested in money. How to get it. How to keep it. And how to avoid having to spend it and still reap the benefits of wealth.

He wasn't wealthy when I knew him, but I expect he is now. He strikes me as the type.

He also very much wanted me to be like him, and while we did have a lot in common, I think it was a great disappointment to him to realize I can never side solely with the Conservative point of view any more than I can ever side solely with the Liberal. Both viewpoints have things that appeal to me and both have things I find offensive. And having never been one to believe I have to 'belong' to one side or the other, I don't belong to either. Which is probably why neither the ultra liberals or the ultra conservatives are much impressed with me. (But then is anyone? [smiles])

Anyway, during one his hopeful indoctrination sessions he showed me an advertisement he had received in the mail. It was from some investment firm bragging that for the past 18 months all of their financial predictions had come true. He asked me if I ever got anything like that. It was all I could do not to laugh in his face. Money and I have always maintained a very casual relationship. It shows up in small quantities and then disappears quickly. I've never been any good at investments. Hence my current status.

But RC (I've got to call him something, so I chose RC - Real Conservative) was being indoctrinated by someone who was well-established in the investment world, and that someone told him a trade secret.

The way these investment firms work is this:

• They set up a mailing list of 500,000 names (or whatever the number).
• They mail out flyers to 250,000 names advising investment in something, and different flyers to the other 250,000 warning against the same investment
• Time proves one or the other correct
• Now they mail 125,000 flyers to the 250,000 who got the good advice, reminding them how they were 1-for-1 and advise for something else. They send the other 125,000 the opposite advice, but with the same reminder of their success.
• Time proves one or the other correct
• They keep repeating this process of only sending repeat mailings to those who got the good advice, but splitting them into two groups: advise to do and warn against doing.
  

And this is how they are able to honestly tell recipients that they haven't been wrong in 18 months. As their 'track record' extends they look more and more credible to their mail recipients who, in turn, begin using their company to make investments.

At some point in time their mailing list becomes too small to generate the kind of income they want and they start all over again.

And people wonder why I'm so mistrustful of the financial world.

Who can you believe?

The Sound of Words

Recently, a few email exchanges between myself and a dear friend brought to my attention how often we talk about how a person sounds in their writing when, in fact, whatever sounds we are 'hearing' are solely in our imagination.

Imagination is a powerful thing. We hear sounds that aren't there because we read feeling into words. It's not aways accurate. More than once I have been involved, or witnessed, an email exchange in which one person becomes very angry at an insult the other never intended.

There was a time when letters through the mail were the best way to keep in touch with friends and relatives living at great distances. Then came telephones and letter writing became a thing of the past for many. Now we have email, telephones, twitter, facebook and who knows what else, and we're back to writing.

Except we seldom writing in sentences anymore. Not that I'm the best at sentence structure and spelling, but I remember when I worked in an office and received business correspondence from customers. I was often embarrassed for the people who were sending supposedly professional letters in which spelling errors abounded and sentence structure was non-existent.

The main cause of poor spelling and grammar, I think, is due to the costliness of texting. I have never done texting, but my understanding is that every letter costs something. And so "I Love You" becomes "ILU", and "Talk to you later" becomes "TTYL". You save the cost of seven letters in the first example and 13 in the second. Money becomes the incentive to write poorly. What a shame. And there's nothing to be done about it.


But back to my original thought. Isn't it funny how we just can't read a thing? We have to put sound to words. It comes as naturally as breathing. And when writers talk about their writing, or someone else's, we frequently talk about our "voice". Voice becomes more than just sound. It's also the words we use.

Doing Nothing Takes a Long Time

Just been listening to music today. Listening to music and wasting time. I've done some reading, but no writing. Worked a bit on something I created for my own amusement with my old computer. But that computer died of a virus and took my creation with it. Remaking it is such a drag I have never got around to doing it. Tried a few times. Trying again lately.

Wasted days seem like such a waste. It's like, why can't I save these off and use the time when I need it? When I've got six things I want to get done and only time for one. Wouldn't it be great to be able to go, Hey, you know what? I had that Sunday back in October which wasn't good for anything. I'll just take that out and use it as a leftover.

Doesn't work that way.

Manna spoils with the dawn.

Simplicity is Not all it's Cracked Up to Be

Daddy didn't push us hard to get top grades. His attitude was that kids should be kids. We only get to be kids once without being put away for it. For that reason, none of us were advanced ahead of our grade and none of us were put into special schools for 'smart' kids.

At the same time Daddy did insist we get good grades. Failing grades - in anything - was not acceptable. "We didn't have any stupid kids," he used to say.

Well, I'm not so sure the jury is unanimous on that opinion, but as that is a different topic I will let it be for now.

Because (not supposed to begin a sentence with 'because') Daddy had this attitude, and for other reasons, he was usually fun to have around. When he was around. Most of my growing up years he was an over-the-road truck driver, meaning he would be gone for a day or two at a time. And when he wasn't over-the-road he was over-at-the-bar. Then he wasn't fun to have around. Especially in the later years. He became an angry drunk. He wasn't violent. Not physically. But he would get so - angry.

But even sober there were times when Daddy wasn't that much fun. These times usually began with the same question:

So, what do you think?

I got so I hated that question. On the surface it seemed fair and legitimate. What do you think? Gee, someone's interested in my opinion. But it wouldn't stop there. Once you said what you thought you were required to defend the position. And we learned early on it didn't help to say we thought what we already knew Daddy thought. Although just as guilty of making foolish mistakes as anyone else, Daddy wasn't stupid. Even if you agreed with his position he made you defend it. And he was a master at shooting down your arguments.

The only one who ever won out on one of these What Do You Think sessions was Lynahr. That was when Daddy woke up all of the eldest children (Helvie and I were spared) in the middle of the night to confront them about Mickey's having (several times) slept overnight at his girlfriend's apartment. Nobody dared say they thought it was 'good', but only Lynahr, the shyest member of the family, dared say what she thought.

I don't care!

I don't care is not really a position that needs defending. You don't need a reason. Your reason is in your answer. I don't care.

It can be quite a conversation stopper, and it stopped Daddy that night. He dismissed the family and everyone returned to bed.

What a pity I didn't learn about it until afterward, for Helvie's and my turns were the following morning. We were watching Saturday morning cartoons. Daddy came in and turned off the television. The older siblings (except for Mickey, who had left in the middle of the night) were all gathered around to witness Helvie's and my responses.

Helvie was never a good one for expressing herself in those days, so she wasn't always required to defend her position. Not only that, but Judayl had coached her. Nobody had coached me, so when Daddy asked me what I thought about it I responded honestly.

What are you talking about?

Daddy didn't like that answer. He knew we all knew what Mickey was doing at that apartment. Except, this time, Daddy was wrong. I vaguely remembered being told some time that Mickey had been sleeping over there, but so what? What was wrong with sleeping?

That was not acceptable to Daddy. He couldn't accept that I didn't understand when my younger sister understood completely. So he grilled me, using words which conveyed nothing to me. Daddy didn't use profanity. Even in extreme anger and drunkeness the worse word I ever heard him use was 'bunk'. "That's a lot of bunk." So, without being explicit, he tried to corner me into revealing my attitude on the whole thing. Only to discover through my sincere frustration that I hadn't a clue what he was talking about. He got up and drove to the bar.

Daddy was disappointed in me. He was often disappointed in me. He felt I should understand things that I just did not understand. Sexual things tended to top that list. But you know, he never volunteered any information, and God forbid that I should ask an adult anything about sex. And so I was left ignorant. In fact, to paraphrase M, who was jealous because L was getting all of the attention from D at our college lunch, "You could fill a library with what I didn't know." M was specifically referring to theatre, but it was really a sparring match between two girls hot for the same guy. By college, even I could recognize jealousy.

You know, I still think I'm fairly ignorant about things. That isn't necessarily bad, but it does leave me confused an awful lot.

Had a couple of interesting events yesterday. One was kind of disturbing and the other just kind of interesting.

It was mid-afternoon. I was soon to head over to the school to bring Son back to the apartment. About a half hour before I was to leave I lay down on the bed. The cat jumped up on my chest to take a nap. That was interrupted be the telephone. Another computer calling me up and telling me to "Please hold". How rude! Call someone up and immediately put them on hold? What kind if crap is that? If you're going to put me on hold - even for five seconds - don't bother calling me because I'm going to hang up. I don't care who you are.

Another set of computer calls goes this way, "This is something insurance companies don't want you to know!" I always respond the same: "Well, I guess I'd better not listen then." And I hang up. What a pity it's wasted humor. Computers don't give a damn if you hang up on them.

I hate those commercials. You know them. "Doctors don't want you to know this." Of course not. They want you to stay sick. According to advertising, nobody wants you to know anything. Bullsh*t. Nobody gives a damn what you know. Why? Because Americans are too lazy to use the information anyway. They'll continue to go to the doctor (when they can afford it) and buy the pre-packaged stuff and whatever. That's what we do. It's easy. Someone went to a lot of work to make life easier for us. Why not take advantage of it?

Anyway, I lay back on the bed and start to doze. I'm waking myself up every minute or so because it's less than twenty minutes before I have to leave. Then I hear the noise. Sounds like the door. I open my eyes. The cat has his head up and is staring toward the door. His eyes are wide. I'm assuming Spouse has come back early. Then I hear someone say "whoah", or something to that effect. Didn't sound like Spouse.

Now I'm uneasy. I get up and walk to the bedroom door and look down the hall toward the ktichen. I don't get a good view because of the clever wall which serves no real purpose. I wait. Spouse should be heading to the bedroom to make sure I haven't fallen asleep. No Spouse. So I walk down the hall to the main living area. Still no Spouse. I look at the door. It's locked. I check the entire apartment. Nobody but Cat and me. I leave the light on and start up some music when I leave.

On the way back with Son I asked if he wanted to check on the house we just lost. It's been raining steady for about four days now and I wanted to see if the dining room ceiling had completely fallen down and if the basement had flooded. The last time I was there plaster from the ceiling was all over the dining room floor from a leak in the roof.

We get there and the keypad doesn't open the garage. Maybe they've shut off the electricity. If so, it's a safe bet the basement is flooded. The sump pump ran almost constantly in that house all twelve months of the year. We got to the front door and I see remnants of the door handle laying on the step. The door has a new handle with a security lock. BUT - the door is open. We push it wide and go in. There is a sign posed in the foyer stating the house has been winterized and no water should be run. That would be a good trick anyway as we had it shut off back in August.

But now I'm thinking I may have just broken the law. If my key no longer fits the locks in this place then I probably don't have any business there any longer. So I tell Son that it seems someone else is looking after the place - and doing a right lousy job of it, too - and so we are leaving.

Didn't see if the ceiling had collapsed or if the basement was flooded.

I guess it doesn't matter.

Oh. I called the apartment office and they're having our locks changed today some time.

Here, There and Everywhere

So, we did pay the electric bill after all. That and October rent. Nothing else, though. We need the money for transportation, food and medicine.

There is the food shelf, but we're only allowed to go once a month. Actually, Spouse has been the one to go. She told them I wouldn't be showing up and so I'm not on the card to collect anything. That's fine with Spouse. I'm less inclined to come home with things we would not have purchased on our own. Spouse's attitude is those things are there for us to take. I don't suppose there is anything wrong with either of our approaches. But they are different, and we have discussed the matter. Which is why, I think, Spouse didn't include me on the list of people allowed to collect food for our household.

But we never bought dinner rolls, so why should we bring dinner rolls home from the food shelf? Why not leave them there for people who actually used to buy dinner rolls but no longer can? Same with pudding mixes. We hardly ever had pudding. Why should we be taking it just because it's free? I don't even do that in the grocery store when they are giving out free samples. If it isn't something I would normally buy I don't take it. (Although taking a sample does not mean I am going to buy that trip.)

It's a bit of a moral dilemma for me. After all, Son has to eat. I don't really have to eat anymore. All that weight I lost? It's back again. All of it, I think. Haven't stepped on the scale since early August. It still amazes me how fat poor people can get. When I had money I wasn't fat. The less money I've had the fatter I've become. The only exception to this rule was when I used to eat out at the Chinese buffet three times a week. Good food. Lots of weight.

But when I had money I ate more often, and weighed less. That's part of the equation. By eating more frequently one is less hungry when one eats and so one takes smaller portions. Only eating once or twice a day means one is quite ravenous and eats everything they can stuff in their mouth.

Another part of the equation is that a bag of chips lasts longer than an apple and costs about a quarter less. So, for less than the price of two apples, which would leave me hungry, I can eat two bags of chips, which leaves me filled - with garbage food and guilt. Probably not a good trade, but one I've been making on a regular basis.

Medicine wise I'm not sure what's going to happen. We're still buying my medicines, but the prescriptions for at least two of them are running out, and I can't afford to go back to the doctors for a checkup in order to get them renewed. One of those is for my heart and the other is for blood pressure. My diabetic medicine lasts a bit longer, but I can't afford to see the doctor, much less have more blood work done. (I was supposed to go in two months ago, but the money just isn't there to spend.) It still annoys me when I hear politicians cry that my NOT going to the doctor is costing THEM money. How? "Well, you're just getting sicker. And then you'll go to the doctor and can't pay." No, I won't. I don't live that way. If I can't pay for insurance and I can't pay for the doctor/dentist, I don't go. Lost a filling two weeks ago. God knows when I'll be able to afford to get it fixed. Once went two years with broken teeth before I could afford to get them fixed. If I can't pay for the medical help then I am content to die. It's just the way it is.

I have applied for work. Didn't get a job though. The jobs I've applied for are like being served lima beans for supper. It is possible to swallow them without vomiting, but it takes a lot of willpower. And lima beans are better than starvation. I think.

I remember watching this show on television a year ago. Don't remember the name. It was on public television (we don't have cable or dish). The show was put on by retired people for retired people. They would have famous/successful people over the age of seventy come and talk about what life was like now that they were senior citizens. Ed Asner was on once, but it was a woman (who's name I have forgotten) who left the impression on me. She was an author, apparently famous. (My not knowing her means nothing. I would be hard pressed to name ten authors.) She was talking about the physical problems which often come with being older and how she was discussing this topic with a man about her age. The man had made a very well-known jest: "Being old sucks, but just think of the alternative." And then she said something I cannot forget. "But what no one likes to admit out loud is this: There are days, like today, when the alternative doesn't seem so bad."

I was fascinated by her comment because it went against everything we're told to believe and feel. To be accepted we must "feel certain ways about certain things", and get joy out of the things we're supposed to get joy out of. Admitting to misery is a BIG no-no. No one is supposed to be miserable, even though it seems to me that so many are. Even those who still have money.

But misery is like a blemish on our skin. We can cover it up with makeup, hiding it from the world around us, but we know it's there. It's part of us, and we can't really escape it. One needn't "show it off" like a prize, which it seems I tend to do. But I think we need to admit it when we're unhappy about things. And I mean really unhappy and not just joking about how the kids, co-workers, spouse are driving us nuts. That's not misery. That's being annoyed.

Some things we're unhappy about are quite temporary. They are soon replaced by a joy which washes away the bad feelings. Other things last longer. Months, or even years. And still other things are permanent.

These things are part of all of our lives, and admitting them doesn't mean that's all our lives are about, even if that's all we seem to talk/write about.

I don't like it where I am, but mostly my circumstances can be directly attributed to decisions I have made myself. Cause and effect, you know? Sowing and reaping. I don't like it that I'm in an apartment instead of my house/home. I don't like it that I can't open the sliding door without letting in a fog of cigarette smoke from the neighbors who ALL smoke heavily. I don't like not being able to buy the food I want to eat. I don't like not being able to repair/replace the things I own. (My favorite pair of outside shorts got so threadbare they tore across the legs when I tugged them up from my knees. Probably just as well. If they were that threadbare they were probably not covering as well as they should. Not a pretty picture, I'm sure.)

But my life is more than that.

True, I can't get anyone to pay me so much as a nickel for anything I write, but I'm still writing. And I enjoy the stories, even when I'm struggling to get them out. Son is still able to play his music. (I am not. My bass is upset the people downstairs and so I have to quit.) I have online friends - some who visit this blog - who are so precious to me I could almost burst. Face-to-face, maybe they would all avoid me, but online we get along great, and I'm still searching for a way to use words in order to give hugs filled with love.

I am alive, which means I still have a purpose. Unfortunately, I don't know what that purpose is. I've tried and failed at so many things these past seven years I can honestly say without reservation that I'm tired of trying.

But it isn't all misery, even if I'm mostly unhappy right now. Things change, albeit sometimes with incredible slowness.

If I could have my way I would make others happy without bringing suffering to myself. I just don't seem to be very good at that right now.

No matter.

The Elastic is Gone From My Waistband

Posted on The Great Sea so I thought I should post here, too.

I've nothing to say, actually. Except, perhaps, that I never should have let myself expect anything. That was my mistake. I knew better. After all these years of living and feeling and experiencing, I knew better than to have expectations. But I did it anyway. And once again, my own expectations have cheated me.

It gets to be tiring. Not just reading more of my self-pitying crap, but never getting what I expect - unless it is crap. And as intelligent as I'm supposed to be, why is it I always fall back and believe that things are going to improve - when they never do. Never. Not ever. Not really.

I remember Betty telling me something way back in the 1970s. That's more than thirty years ago now. We (the cooks and waitresses at a then popular Italian restaurant) were trying to come up with one-word descriptions of each staff member. For most it was fairly easy - and comical. We were pretty much friends, and friends can pretty much say anything about and to each other. Real friends can, anyway. What I've seen of late is that people are no longer allowed this freedom and right. Say anything unflattering and you're blasted.

Anyway, no one could come up with a word for me. My suspicion - then and now - is that the words which came to mine were so unflattering they feared to speak them. Even then. But Betty told me she would give it serious thought, and by the end of the night she had a word she felt happy with: Perseverance. Even at the time I didn't feel especially flattered by it. I had been hoping for something like, Funny, Comical, Friendly. Instead, I got, Perseverance.

Well, maybe she was right. I mean, I'm still here, aren't I? Nobody's laughing, but I'm still here.

It's become a weary burden, though. There must be a reason to go on to the next thing, else why go? Why drive to the next town if there's nothing there? If one has no route, then who cares? If you don't know where you're going then why go anywhere? Here's as good as anyplace.

Only the decision isn't all mine. I'm being dragged to places I don't want to go and being forced to stay in places I don't want to be. I know there are others in and heading to worse places. Unfortunately, it doesn't make my life any happier. And that's the simple truth.

Told you I didn't have anything to say.

If Home is Where the Heart Is, Then I Am a Wanderer Indeed

Back in the 1960s it was the practice at the grade school I attended (in nice weather) to have the students line up by class out in the parking lot. There was a flag pole there and we would all stand and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Each day one lucky student would be chosen to lead the recitation. Students were chosen by rotating from class to class. With six grades, and two classrooms per grade, this meant twelve classes. Volunteers would be requested, and since most students never volunteered, that meant the leaders in the Pledge of Allegiance rotated through a small number of students. I was one of those students.

I took great honor in leading the entire school in the recital, and when it was my turn I spoke the words loud and proud. My sister, Gayanne, would make fun of me afterward. She and her friends criticized everything and everyone.

It wasn't so much that I'm patriotic. Not in the sense one thinks of when one thinks of patriotic people, waving the flag and blindly following even stupid and morally wrong decisions. I have never adhered to the "you can't criticize those you love" dogma, which seems to be the teaching of Republicans in particular. To me, that is phony. Following blindly is hardly respect. It's stupidity, and I refuse to be that way.

Still, I love my country, despite growing older and learning it is a far from perfect place. Of course, if we only followed the rules and dogma we have set into law, it would be a wonderful place for everyone. But the words of our constitution, while majestic and royal, have never been applied across all groups of people. From the inception of our republic there have always been vast numbers of people denied the things promised in the constitution because people of power don't like them.

I remember as a child being confused about slavery. For one hundred years we maintained slavery. This was not consistent with the words I was taught from the constitution. Women weren't allowed to vote. Politically powerful people took tremendous advantages against people who had no power. The freedoms promised to everyone only seemed to exist for those who belonged to the group/s currently wielding political power. That is still true today.

Who is in power shifts, but generally political power seems to reside with those who have connections to a lot of money. Historically, these people have been white men, and so all white men are grouped with them. I don't think that's any more fair than excluding those who aren't white men from power. But my Daddy was a white man, and I don't see that he got a whole lot of special privileges. Back when I was a baby my family lived in a neighborhood in which we were the only white family. We were also the poorest family in the neighborhood and the others felt sorry for us.

True, had Daddy been of the right mind, he could have made himself more like those in power and probably advanced himself, whereas non-whites did not have that luxury. Daddy's problem wasn't his skin color: it was his social attitude. He was working class. An old style person in a modern world.

Political power is an ugly power, and those who wield it often eventually become ugly. It's inevitable. One cannot work with sewers and not develop an odor in their very skin. Back when I worked in a pizza restaurant (not fast food back then) I actually smelled like a pizza restaurant when I wasn't there. That was a good smell, I thought. The smell of politics is offensive to my sense of rightness.

There are those who hate the idea of having children say the Pledge of Allegiance. They maintain it is against their civil rights. Personally, I think we get carried away with things like that. Does it really hurt to show respect for the country in which one lives? People argue that the country isn't helping them. Well, I know where they're coming from. But they are missing the point, I think. We live here. And even if we're not happy with our lot, it's still home. It is sad when home is not a happy place to be. But I know about that, too.

An Unpleasant Countdown

Less than a week to go now in this house. Legally, I believe we have until some time in September before we have to leave, but the movers will be here next Monday to take our possessions away. Hopefully, they won't keep them for themselves.

When Spouse and I got married we had the ceremony in eastern Wisconsin. At the time we would be living in eastern Minnesota. But Spouse's family was where we had the ceremony. One of my close friends at the time actually drove the 300 miles one way to attend the wedding. He, my mother, and a two sisters rented a van and he did the driving. After the wedding they brought back all of the wedding gifts while Spouse and I went off to spend some time together.

Two years later my friend got married. As I walked the receiving line to shake his hand (and his bride's) he introduced me to her.

DAN: This is my friend, Bevie. We're good friends.

ME: Yes. So good, in fact, that I let him take charge of our wedding gifts. How are they, by the way?

They're really nice. The toaster's broken. It was just cheap garbage.

Wasn't that your gift to us?

Yes. I believe it was.

That's one of the things I liked about Dan. He just flowed with a joke as though he were in on it from the first. But it's been nearly 30 years since I've seen him. Life goes on and often we head in separate directions from those we care about today.

Which brings me back to the point of this post. Less than a week to go in this house. When we move we will have at least interrupted telephone service. I receive my internet service via telephone. Don't know what kind of telephone service we will have. We'll have to have something, but whether that service includes an internet connection is not known at this time. So, what I'm trying to say is that I may be on a countdown to signing off for a very long time. Possibly permanently.

In the meantime Spouse and Son are all excited and moving things early. They're in the process of loading up for their third trip in as many days. Saving the movers work next week. Just as well. They charge by the hour. How can we afford to hire movers? We can't afford not to. We are moving to a third floor apartment/flat. I get wore out just walking the stairs carrying my own weight. No one we know is able and willing to help. The cost of renting a moving truck I could drive is almost as much as hiring someone else to do the work. Besides, we're keeping someone employed. Doing our part, you know.

Myself? I have not returned to the place since we signed the lease. I'm in no hurry. Once I get there I'm not going to want to come down. It just means having to climb back up. (No elevators. This place is not exactly the Ritz.)

Fortunately, we're nearly out of furniture. Unfortunately, the furniture which remains is heavy. I have a beautiful cedar desk which weighs more than I do. We have the pool table, which nobody would buy. That's going to cost an extra $150 to move. And they won't set it up. Just as well. Son as a really nice dresser which is almost as heavy as me, and we have a nice one about half my weight. Other than those things our furniture consists of folding tables and chairs, a glider rocker we purchased when we learned Son was coming, three mattresses, two swivel office chairs, and a round bumper pool table. Everything else has long since been sold.

What we have are several dozen boxes filled with things from VHS movies to old record albums, my writing Archives, books (lots of these), knick knack things (I love these things), plush animals (I love these, too) and music cds. Basically, junk. But it's our junk. And so we keep it. As much because we couldn't sell it at the garage sale as any other reason. Which reminds me: we also have several boxes containing items from our gift business. Boy, didn't we get rich doing that?

So, I'll try to post daily through the week. After all, I may be signing off for good come Sunday or Monday.

Self and Other Centered

Not sure why, but I got to thinking about my time at a company around twenty years ago. It was at the beginning of my rise to financial comfort, although I was unaware of it at the time. I was establishing myself as a dominant force in an industry which had caught my interest: computer programming. The interest would not last, however, and by the time I was kicked out of it I wasn't sorry to leave.

But I met a variety of people in that short span of ten years. Two of them came to mind this morning. Both are women. Vastly different from each other, both in appearance and personality.

From the perspective of most, the first woman had a lot going for her. She was young, in her early twenties. She had a shapely figure. Wore clothes to accent her figure. She wore her blonde hair thick about her head. Nearly all of the guys fawned all over her. But she had a significant flaw which didn't seem to bother most, but completely turned me off. Which is probably why I cannot remember her name.

What I was remembering was a telephone conversation I had with her. It wasn't often we interacted. At that time the company existed in two buildings, separated by about five miles. I was at the northern building and she at the southern. I had just completed the creation of some special nursing home software and she was to be the support person for it. So I called her.

Hello, Cashlin*? This is Bevie from the north office.

Hi, Bevie. What do you want?

Just finished the NDMS software and I was told you are to be the support contact?

Yes. That's right.

Well, we're shipping it next week so I thought we should get together so I can give you the rundown on how it works.

Yes, that would be helpful.

Good. We need to set a date for that.

Are you asking me out for a date?

What?

You just asked me out for a date.

No, I didn't.

Yes, you did. I heard you.

No! I said we have to set a date for our meeting about the NDMS software.

Oh. I see.

Needless to say, I was rattled. And when Cashlin spread the tale that I had asked her out I got teased by some of the younger programmers, until I explained what had happened. Despite their own attraction to Cashlin, they understood. You see, Cashlin was an idiot, and everyone knew it. But that wasn't even her worst flaw.

The problem with Cashlin was her eyes. I would look in them - and see nothing. It was like there was nobody there. How others found that so attractive I'll never know.

* Still can't recall her name, so I chose Cashlin - because it means "vain"

The other woman I remember much better. Her name is Karen. She was around thirty. Perhaps a few years older. She was married, had son and daughter who provided her with lots of joy and frustration. She was in charge of the documenation department, where I had begun my work at the company. A wonderful person, she took the effort to behave mannerly even with people she didn't particularly like. She was quite intelligent and creative, and often managment relied on her during "crunch time". She was the kind of person people could trust and rely on. She was also fifty to one hundred pounds overweight.

I added that last because I find it significant that Karen was a much sexier woman than Cashlin, despite the differences in body measurements. When I looked in Karen's eyes I saw humor, intelligence - there was person there! But Karen would have mornings when she came in and closed the door to our office so she could sit at her desk and cry. She would still be smarting from the mocking criticism she had received at the hands of teenagers just the night before when she stopped to buy groceries on the way home from work. She could cry in front of me because I understood what it felt like to go through that. As wonderful, intelligent, and filled with potential Karen was, she never really believed in herself. I understood that. Maybe that's why we were friends.

Don't know why I wrote about this, other than that I got to thinking about it. Don't know why that either. I haven't seen either woman in twenty years. But it just seems sad to me that the better woman had the lower self-esteem. Life isn't really fair, is it?

Not a Day Off

I had been looking forward to a relaxing day today. Not the way it worked out. Too much to do. Too many things I didn't want to have to deal with.

Yesterday, Spouse, Son, and myself spent six+ hours at the Minnesota Zoo. Lots of walking. LOTS of walking. By the time we left I felt (and looked) like Walter Brennan in The Real McCoys. I could hardly walk. By the time we made the 54-mile drive home my muscles had stiffened up and I could hardly move. But you know, I wouldn't trade yesterday for anything.

Slept horribly. Muscles hurt worse than usual through the night. So I was looking forward to a nice, easy day.

Started out all right. Then Spouse and Son woke up.

With Son at my elbow I went through most of the 180+ pictures we took. Some were taken with a regular camera and we're going to have to wait on those. Meanwhile, Spouse is sending a barrage of questions my way. Eventually, I seek solace in the shower.

When I get out I learn that Son is having trouble with the computer. Oh, good! The computer problems are increasing again. Turns out Blogger had done something to his account and now he can't access it. We manage to get the password reset and he got in.

Then I had to go grocery shopping. Wasn't keen on that at all. The idea was that I pick out something I will eat. (Trying to lose weight, so I'm not eating the foods I used to eat.) Been having a run of bad luck with the so-called "fresh" fruit. After a bout of rotten strawberries, oranges, and grapes, and pineapple which made my lips bleed, I got some really fresh watermelon. It was so fresh it wasn't even ripe. The very thought of eating fruit made me want to gag. Checked out a couple of other things. Fat content way too high. So we left not buying me anything to eat. Made up for it by going to the meat market to get grill out food for the weekend. My weight may be getting ready to drop in a hurry. No food. Whatever.

Got home in time to deal with more computer problems. This time I rebooted. That's always fun because I'm never sure it's actually going to reboot. It did, but it took fifteen minutes.

So, here I am. I'm still exhausted and I haven't even done anything. Maybe I can relax tomorrow.

Whatever.

Like Father Like Son

Today is Venting Day, which means I get to post about anything I want. Of course, that's the way it is every day, so I'm not sure why I have a schedule.

As usual, I don't feel like venting on Venting Day. Somehow, knowing it's all right takes some of the joy out of it. Maybe I should rename Wednesdays to "Talk Nice Day". Then you'll read some real venting, I'll wager.

Been meaning to write something for a while now, but just keep getting distracted with other things. Almost did right now, too. Only the new thought flew away as I was writing about Talk Nice Day. When the windows are open it's hard to keep the thoughts inside.

Reminds me of one of the funniest cartoons I've ever seen. Won't be funny reading about it, but I'll tell you anyway.

I believe it was one of those old Merry Melodies or Follow the Bouncing Ball cartoons. Just a series of fifteen second shorts compiled together to fill time. Some of those were hysterical.

Anyway, the skit opens with a man standing by a wall in a room. Behind him is an open window showing a beautiful spring/summer day. Before him is a table. On the table are two things: an elaborate and intricate little circus, complete with tight rope walk, ferris wheels, and merry-go-round; and a cage containing several pigeons.

The man joyfully adjusts some of the circus pieces, sighs with satisfaction, and opens the bird cage so the pigeons can play on the equipment.

The birds all fly out the window.

I love that. It is so great. It's so like my ideas. All of these expectations. And then they just fly away.

Oh, well. Back to what I wanted to write. Another short nothing.

Son has begun his saxophone lessons. They are going very well, by the way. But that is not what I wanted to write. Before his first lesson, we chanced to be driving by the college where his lessons take place. It was a Saturday, and we were on our way home from Como Park. On a whim, I decided to drive onto the Northwestern College campus to see if we could find the fine arts building. As we drove around the campus we chanced to see some people out on the veranda of one of the buildings. There were three: a beautiful bride in a flowing gown of white; a handsome groom in a shiny black tuxedo; and a photographer. Nobody else.

At this point Son speaks up.

Not exactly packing them in, are they?

That's my boy!

Making and Recalling History

Today's topic is writing assignments. I came up with it because I used to write for the Evil Editor blog a lot more than I do now. There are weekly writing assignments, generally in the 200-300 word length category. These are good exercises for learning to say something in few words. I don't submit so often anymore because there's so much going on right now I don't have time to catch the inspiration and write . How I miss the days of youth when I seemingly had time for everything I enjoyed. They days were longer or something.

I remember we would occasionally get writing assignments in school. When the assignment was like a research paper I tended to wait until the last moment and toss together something to get a grade. When the assignments were creative in scope I would get all excited and rush to begin writing at every moment.

Mrs. SJ would announce to the class after story time: Okay. Now I want each of you to write a story about a little dog who gets separated from his family. Print. Use a whole sheet of paper. Turn it in tomorrow morning.

Most of the class would react with, "Oh, cr*p!" I would be excited.

The following morning papers would be handed forward to the front of the room. Some students wrote in extra large letters. Some didn't even try. They only used a half sheet. A few would continue to a second page. Mine were always five to ten pages.

I love to tell stories. I love make-believe. I love relating historical events. J.R.R.Tolkien wrote that he "much prefers history, true or feigned" over allegory. At my age I find I much agree with him. Allegory is a hammer beating upon a nail. It forces an idea into the thoughts of its readers. History is a park. There are paths leading to ponds, shrubs, wildlife, and a host of other things. Visitors are free to walk these paths and spend as much time admiring the beauty as they will. Nothing is forced. It is just there.

It's why, I suppose, I spend so much time relating my past on this blog. That is real history. Those things really did happen. And the people who were with me really existed. It seems a shame and even a waste to let those memories fade away without being shared. Those people who shared those experiences with me were important people. Many are no longer here. They shouldn't be forgotten. And often, I am the only one remaining who remembers what happened. And so I tell the stories. I try to keep them alive. Stephen. Daddy. Grandmother. These were people worth knowing.

The problem, of course, with my method of relating these stories is I follow no pattern. The timeline is not set. One day I may relate something from my early twenties, and the next I'm five years old again. Then it's back to junior high. The result - over time - of this wild and undisciplined approach is that I'm not always sure what I have, or have not, written about. And the history of this blog is now large enough that I don't always have the energy to search back to see. Between that and just being older I find myself repeating things. I expect in time I'll be some blabbering old fool who continues to relate stories despite not even having an audience. Saw a few of them at the place where Daddy's mother wound up. Old people sitting in wheelchairs mumbling to themselves.

Still recall the time I left work in the middle of the day and drove to see Grandma. It was on a whim. I had never been close to Daddy's mother. She was so prim and proper about her house. She wasn't a children's grandmother. She was an adult's grandmother, so I was only really getting to know her when she died.

I entered the place not even sure where I would find her. By chance she was sitting in a wheelchair in the main hall. Her head was down and her arms were folded across her lap. When I got her attention she perked her 6'0" frame up and was all animated. She made sure to tell every person who came by that her grandson had come to visit. This was after Daddy had died. Daddy had been her only child.

I didn't stay long. The place was so awful I felt uncomfortable. So we talked and then I left. Mother visited Grandma the next day. Grandma complained that no one had been to visit her in more than a week. She didn't remember that I had been there.

For a long time that bothered me. Then I realized something. When one is in a prison the days tend to meld together into one. Monday might just as well be Thursday. Spring is summer and fall is winter. Morning or evening. What does it matter? The food sucks. The atmosphere sucks. No place to go. Nothing to do. This wasn't a place to live. It was a place to die. No wonder she remembered it wrong. She probably remembered I had been there, but had since taken so many naps it felt like days had passed. Time had no meaning for that poor old lady in a nursing home prison. Except that it went on forever.

Was that my future I saw? Or, as I dearly hope, will I just go to sleep on my birthday one year - and wake up to see Daddy and Stephen waiting to usher me home?

What a tale that will be! Except I won't be able to tell it to you. You'll have to wait to get to heaven to hear it. Kind of worth living for. Don't you think? [smiles]

A Youthful Old Thing Going Through Second Childhood - Or Something

Yeah, I know. Books, Movies, Songs. It's review day. Sorry. Just did one for Inkheart on The Great Sea a couple of days ago. Or was it yesterday? Whenever.

Leilani Tahi Amorey posted a comment in response to other comments in which she mentions taking one of those online quizzes. Those are silly things, but sometimes fun. The one she just took is a "How Old is Your Soul" quiz. She didn't post a link to it so I just did a google search and found three.

QuizFarm, which seems to be geared to a younger audience.
Quizilla, which I liked best.
MyYearbook, which was really short.

So, I took all three. Did so within a matter of a few minutes of each other. Got three different results. That sounds like me, all right. All confused.

Anyway, MyYearbook gave me this: Your soul is as old as the hills. You have lived more lives than you probably should have...maybe because of an important lesson not yet learned. Your soul has seen the human race rise and fall so many times because of a misjudgement and the unknown. Your goal in life is to learn as much as you possibly can about anything and everything, keeping your closest friends and family at arms length. This is probably one of your last lives. You may have one more before you souls journey is complete.

How cheery. Not sure I agree with the results - except the part about this probably being one of my last lives. I'm of the mind that we only get the one.

Anyway, QuizFarm did okay. It didn't have much to say, but it provided a cool chart.

You Scored as 20-35
You are in your prime, but are feeling a little up-tight about life. Chill out!

20-35 ......... 65%
Age 36-70 years 60%
Age 13-19 years 45%
Age 71+ years . 15%
Age 0-12 years .15%

And finally, there is Quizilla, which provided an embed object.

How Old Is Your Soul? Your Result: Adolescent Rebellious, Angry, Confused, and Misunderstood is you right now. You often feel separate from others and disconnected from reality and take many of the wonderful things you do have for granted. You may be considered to your peers as a social misfit or outcast because of how you choose to express yourself at this point. Experimentation is important here because you are beginning to learn the lessons of life and of others. The worst is over now for you so can look forward to a happier adulthood where you have a better understanding of who you are. Don't forget to take risks during this period and rise up to challenges that normally you may be too lazy to try. It will pay off later.
Adult
Senior
Child
Toddler
New Born
How Old Is Your Soul? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

You know I don't necessarily mind being labeled "rebellious, angry, confused, or misunderstood". Not sure I appreciate being labeled "childish" and "lazy" though. I'd take action - but I just don't have the energy. So I think I'll just sit about, mope, and suck my thumb. Then I'll feel better.

The Life of an Ant

When I was young I used to enjoy watching the ants around the yard. Not the entire yard. There there small red ants along the sandy driveway. These would make what I am sure were lavish tunnels below surface, bringing up the grains of sand one at a time and piling them around their little escape holes. The uniformity of the mounds they created was beautiful. Occasionally, there would be a two- or three-level place. In a very short time there would be dozens of this little mounds spread across that portion of the yard where grass just refused to grow.

As the giant in their world I felt compelled to inflict tornadoes and rain upon them. Having no control of the real weather I would use the hose for rain and an inverted hoe or rake for the tornado. Undaunted by my cruelty, the ants returned to work and rebuilt their little city time and again.

My behavior reminded me of a Charlie Brown (Peanuts) comic I once read. Lucy is talking to Charlie Brown. She describes the work of ants and how they built this incredible structure. Then, in a moment, it was gone. Aghast, Charlie Brown asks what happened. Lucy replies, "I kicked it over." Yeah. That's what kids do.

In the back yard some larger ants had made their nest in the side of a large oak, where Daddyhad hung the tire swing. There were red ants here, too, but mostly black ants. These ants were harder to annoy as they had built their home in a tree. No self-made tornado was going to bother them. And rain didn't go much into that hole they had made. But they took their lives in their hands (feet) every time they crossed the space below the tire swing. We didn't pay any attention and I'm sure more than a few lost their lives crossing that grassless plain. Why they just didn't go around I'll never know.

There was a third place where ants had built a home in our yard. It was in an area we didn't go to much, although it was close to the house. A large tree had once stood on this spot, but at some point in time, for some reason, somebody had cut it down with a chainsaw. In, and around, this stump was a monstrous colony of giant black ants. There had to have been thousands upon thousands of them, constantly milling about like the churning of a bubbling hot spring. The activity was so immense it looked random and aimless. Yet the colony could not have survived such a long time without each ant having a purpose in its work.

Disrupting this mass was easy to do, but hard to notice effect-wise. The whole pile was just a disgusting, churning mess anyway. Occasionally, we would toss in leaves and things like that, just to see what the ants would do with them. If an object was small enough, the ants would remove it. But some twigs were just too large for a single ant to move, and they didn't collaborate in this regard, so larger sticks (two or three inches long) remained.

I suppose watching ants back then was kind of like having an aquarium, or living beside a deep flowing river. The endlessness of activity was hypnotic, and I would periodically find myself going to the hideous mass of black and just watch without intruding. Once, Ranger, my idiot part shepherd part lab mutt dog, found the ant pile and dug in it for a bit. Then I got to see the giant white eggs being hauled back to safety. I suppose Ranger thought it must be interesting since I was staring at it but, finding nothing on his own, he left it alone after that.

After the house burned the ants were gone. I doubt they were all destroyed, but where they had maintained their houses was just as gone as ours. The heat from the house destroyed the grass through the roots for a nearly fifty foot radius. This may have eliminated the little red ants. They were too close. The ants in the tree probably survived the fire's direct impact, but their tree was killed, and it was pulled down by a large piece of demolition equipment and pushed out to the back field and buried. Maybe they survived that. Maybe they didn't.

The ants in the giant mass simply left. As far as I could tell their home had not been directly affected by the fire. But after The Old House was gone, so were the giant black ants. It's like they were somehow connected. Don't know where they went.

The New House always seemed sterile to me. There was no place where nature could find its way in without using a door or window, such as been true with The Old House. Insects, snakes, rodents. The Old House was a safe harbor for all of them.

There were still red and black ants about the yard, but not like before. And the giant ants were gone completely. As was the lush yard we had maintained. (It was lush on three sides of the house. On the north side the grass just didn't want to grow.) It seems ironic now, looking back. The only things we ever did to maintain the yard was mow it ever other week in spring, summer, and fall, and burn it off once a year to remove thatch. That made it the finest yard within miles. Then, fire destroyed it. Too much fire lasting too long with too much heat. The root system was gone. Like the giant ants.

I had occasion to return to the site a couple of months ago. The yard never did come back. It still looks thin and weedy, although the property looks less sterile now. Trees and shrubs have filled in a lot in the past thirty years. But apart from the plants it all looks like decaying junk. It hasn't been kept up well.

I wonder if the giant ants ever came back.