Future of Mankind...

Curling up on the couch last night, I decided I would read a book. What else is there to do on a freezing Saturday night?!

I read "The Road", a Pulitzer Prize winner & Nat'l Bestseller by Cormac McCarthy whose chilly tones rang depressingly reminiscent of a 'Denizovichian' gulag winter or the survival(?) of Golding's "Pincher Martin". I generally reserve reading material of this sort to the 100 degree-getting a tan- heatstroke temp of July, when a fresh dose of bitter cold theme can hopefully cool down one's mind and body!

It was an easy read and naturally (like always) there were times when I yearned for more detail, but as I reflect back today, I'm glad the detail was sparse. I'm assuming that in my mad reading rush and tired state of mind that my thoughtless 'Eh' upon finishing it was based on my struggle to keep my eyes open, and I tiredly clicked off the TV remote, the light, and pulled the covers over my head. It was so morose and hopeless...

Details. I love details. While there were enough to prevent me from putting it down--I HAD to read this, I was anxious to finish this eery thing; perhaps the desolate sparseness of detail was what led to my vivid, full-blown imaginative horror in the middle of the night as I woke with disturbed waves dreadfully washing over my mind:
'On the mattress lay a man with his legs gone to the hip and the stumps of them blackened and burnt. The smell was hideous.'
Many pages later the small boy asks his dad:
'They're going to eat them, aren't they?'

While I won't give you any further comments on humanity's resiliance (that's the depressing part here) or the aspect of overall despair, I guess that the writer stirred up enough of my thoughts to leave an impression....I don't want any more scanty details of the basement scene playing through my dreams. Dear God, that was horrible. Is this our future?

Egad. Flight to Falconhurst

I think I began the whole blogging thing last year during our horrid ice storm--the one that devastated the countryside and wiped out power for over a week. Our house was amazingly only hit for an hour or so which is a miracle in itself...
School was released early today, due to the oncoming freezing rain on top of the 4" of snow from Tuesday--and that lovely 1 degree temp--dear God it's cold! Brig has (carefully) left for work at 2:45 am this week, then helps deliver packages in his little brown outfit during the day. Last night he come home at 7:00pm; tonite was 8:00pm, but he'd called me at four to meet him downtown with his YakTrax, since he couldn't stand up anymore!

I'd just helped Bill spread out some salt on the slick sidewalk while we discussed tallying up the 'stupid' marks of the last few days. Honestly, people! Just STAY HOME! Do you really need to get out in the ice to get a coke? And slow your a$$es down! I swear no one understands the word 'slow'--I remember living in Minnesota and those massive white drifts--people seemed to have brains up there. Well, and chains on tires too. Sorta like the YakTraxs for cars, huh?

I stood a while and drank a coffee at the gas station, mentally adding up my own tally marks as I watched a few (heavy, diabetic, unhealthy, acne-encrusted, bovine, sluggish, etc) customers try to add up the cost of a candy bar and huge pop; I told Bill that just having 'my presence + his' added up to 'a whole-lotta genius' standing at the counter at the moment! (Well, given the incoming company!) Ah.
Ok...on to other topics...

Wamego Ks may ‘be on the map’ soon, as one of my son’s classmates will be featured on American Idol. While I have known (guessed) this for a couple months, I didn’t say a word to anyone—but now its legally safe to type this up and I will look forward to watching some of these episodes since I know the girl. I’d watched Kelly C. win, then watched the season with Bo Bice, Anwar, and Constantine (mainly because I LOVE long hair and if I’d of ever had twins, Constantine was one of my favorite names [along with the name Augustin]), however I gave up watching the last few seasons out of boredom and since I was watching something else…of which escapes me now. Guess that 'genius' has run out!

I supposed I could type up something about old relationships but I'd have to be in a depressed mood, (God, what does that say about my relationships!!??) and I'm more in a blah mood instead. Dan had posted a Mandingo poster on his blog, which tickled me and caused a guffaw (thank you!) because I had been thinking about relationships and how mine either never get started, never work, or are way too young. So that 10 year age difference is no big deal for an older guy/younger gal—I had an interested party (not a gal!) that was 13 years younger, but there was no hot/heavy Mandingo thing going on because I was frankly a big chicken. WAIT! He was WHITE! I was referring to the sexual aspect there, not the color thing! Perhaps I should just shut up.

I remember reading that book (NATURALLY at a house while I was babysitting where I obtained all kinds of mature information!) back in the late 70’s—my brother will wonder whose house?…suffice it to say ‘the lady that made her son and husband pee sitting down in her bathroom’… anyway, I bet if I searched the bookshelf clear to the back there probably exists a Falconhurst paperback! Not something I'd want to read on a cold snowy evening. Alone.

Whoa--just heard that Wamego has officially closed school tomorrow. I shall draw...

Gift-wrapped!

Today I decided to warm up the kitchen by making a googled recipe of "Persimmon Cookies" to give away. I'd run a 1/2 bucket of them through a tomato-juice-siever-thingy and had about 3 cups of orange speckled goo. These things rapidly turn from a solid to a liquid in a short amount of time, ripening quickly-- some might think when you pick one up, that those speckles might be fly poop! I just worry that a pack-rat or possum might have licked one, so I'd rather pull one off a tree...

I am bemused every year when the first frost hits...my mom always extends her arm with a little ripe persimmon cradled in her palm and offers: "It feels just like a little boy's testicles!"

No, she's not some type of pervert tackling neighborhood youth to the ground to grapple their nutsack up the leg of their loose summer shorts. There is no other adequate way to describe a totally ripe persimmon and those of you who have changed a toddler's diaper would understand. Sometimes you have to just cradle/move/ adjust those fragile little jewels in order to clean up a messy behind! So think of very tissue-thin wrinkly skin that contains some little oval seeds and jelly inside...and if persimmons are still unripe, the testicle theory still stands, but more like a little boy that's been out playing in the snow--firmed up, yet shrively. (Are you protectively covering yours at the moment?)

All this has reminded me of one of our first summer USATF track meets in Emporia when Briggs was probably an 8th grader. A very handsome, well-built, gorgeous young man with long dark curls had been running hurdles, then a sprint, after which he proceeded to pull the top of his 1 piece singlet down over his impressively sculpted biceps.

I think everyone (female, of all ages) in the crowd was trying (not) to look at this spectacular speciman and he was disqualified from the 100m due to 'disrobing on the field'. This caused an outcry, as he'd only pulled down his shoulders (if it would of been someone else, no one would of noticed!) ....but as he was walking off the track and in front of us, we overheard 2 little white-haired old ladies, say: "My! Look at that Package!" We were trying hard not to let them hear us laugh and I must say I felt much better since THEY were ogling and MUCH older than I.

Briggs and I had different opinions of their use of "package". I felt they were referring to his overall striking good looks; Briggs thought it was the obvious, well-defined area protruding forward in his tight singlet. Hmmm. I wonder...
Anyway, later on when I told Brigham that AJ Beaudry had won 4 gold medals in 2a State the next spring, he had no idea...until I said..."You know, The Package!"

Persimmon Cookies
Rating:
Mediocre-- Not 1/2 as good as fresh persimmons or AJ Beaudry.
1/2 c butter
1 c sugar
1 egg
1 c persimmon pulp
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp salt, nutmeg
2 c flour
1 c nuts/raisins

powdered sugar w/lemon juice drizzle

Sluffin' Off...

Haven't been blogging in a while--just reading them and reading a book called "The Physician", which includes quite descriptive passages pertaining to the 'medical field' in the year 1021 ad, beginning with a housewife giving birth in a barn filled with strawy manure--the half-drunk midwife has just wiped her hands on a filthy apron... "from her pocket she took a vial of lard already darkened with the blood and juices of other women. Scooping out some of the rancid grease, she made washing movements until her hands were well lubricated, then eased two fingers..." Barf. Well, naturally the housewife develops a horrid infection and dies. Her little boy, which witnessed this event, grows to travel Europe in search of better medical training.

So between reading, working at basketball games/wrestling tourneys, and going to my mom's to help my brother stack firewood/rake leaves...I have been falling asleep early! So sorry...

We've been talking quite a bit about 'nothing on TV to watch' with all the reality shows; I think the most eye-opening for me was to come home from work and see a couple teens enthralled by 'Flavor Flavs Flavor of Love' and the equally (demeaning/ridiculous/nasty) compelling 'Bret Michaels' Rock of Love'. Barf.

C'MON! What kind of girl/young lady/woman would debase themselves to crawling-on-my-knees-skank-level antics to vie for attention from either one of these near 50 year old has-beens? The scanty wardrobe shows off their bodies to a (dis)advantage when they get close to cat-fightin' or merely close to Flav or Bret. I simply cannot believe that these shows are popular enough to rate a 3rd season. Barf again.
Pardon me while I sigh; I'd rather read my icky book and learn of the crude advances in a dismal era...

Ladies, would you kiss this mouth? I think I'd toss in a cherry bomb!

'Oliver'

There's a little guy hanging out by one of our stores whenever I go in the evenings—I used to run into him when I'd ride down on my bike after work and he'd be on his bike too-- just leaving or riding aimlessly around the parking lot...first we'd nod, then a few days later we'd say 'hello'...now we speak full sentences to one another and sometimes he even comes inside the store and talks for an aisle or too.

He was there tonight when I ran in for some catfood, so I always make it a point now to smile and ask him a couple questions and listen carefully. I was struck (after I left) with incredible sadness-- I'd been thinking lately of a good friend of mine that had committed suicide many years ago. I remembered hearing that this little guy had lost a parent that way a year or two ago, and I wondered if anyone was ever at home (and I've heard not too often).

Was hanging by the store the only way this youngster was ever touched by humanity at any level? How bad is it to watch families-parents-kids going/coming/ laughing together/ jumping back in their vehicle to go home to a hot meal? What is it like for him when no one is there after school to ask you about your day? To see if you need a jacket? To put your clothes in the wash? Just to see if you're alright? How long has it been since he's had an arm around his shoulder? Months? Years? Ever​? I think I'll drive myself into a depression right now if I dwell...so I will make sure I talk more to him next time...

Texting Woes (I don't really feel left out!)

I was randomly reading blogs the other night and came across one about the prolific amount of cell phone texting by teens; that today's youth are closer to peers than parents; they are now committing more suicides due to peer rejection than the parental rejection theory of 50 years ago...if you're not included in so & so's circle of friends you are probably just a nobody anyway, so go die. Good grief.

Furtive text messaging under the covers at 2:00am with boyfriends or friends (besides leading to sleep deprivation) often results in miscommunication and stress-- you can't always detect the nuances and attitudes in leet speak and God forbid you actually call and use your VOICE. I guess you spend the next 3 predawn hours crying your eyes out cause dad just confiscated the cell anyway and you'd just inferred you'd possibly been dumped or something...

Faster than a speeding bullet, the letter/number jargon has far surpassed us old fogey capabilities in most cases—I was thinking about Thomas Murray, the Language Professor at KSU, who taught us this 15 years ago...[again, from a previous blog] that the English Language is not a constant, the English Language is forever changing.....technology will have extreme influences on tomorrow's youth, ...etc...

Coincidentally, the next morning's newspaper had an article about him entitled: A KILLER READ.

4 k][113/Z /Z34l)

Yeah. Like I really typed that book title correctly! I have no desire to learn 1337. But I probably will read the book about the man who murdered his wife and I bet it WAS written in proper English!

Puff.

Early this morning I went to get some inexpensive items at the grocery store in Manhattan—it IS worth the gas to drive over...but I'd arrived too early so I sat in the vehicle roasting in the morning sun.

Others arrived so I began to take notice—a darling little oriental tot and her parents all spiffied up for church, an elderly couple, construction (looking) workers.

I observed a 'being' behind a steering wheel, head obscured in a thick cloud of smoke. Holy Cow! By then my window was down for some cool air—this person proceeded to engulf themselves completely in a white fog, opaque as milk, then suddenly popped the door and slunk out into the world, still intent on suckin down that cancer-stick with all the might her throat could muster....

You could tell immediately by the half-lidded, covert eyes that people were trying not to stare...

Scraggly jet-black, artificial-looking shoulder-length hair with thick 'little Dutch Boy' bangs, long hideously scrawny legs/bony knees like an Auschwitz victim, dirty feet, bruises....and that early morning irritable glower of a crack-whore needin a fix... (Now, I've never seen a crack-whore needin a fix, only a high-pitched, jittery one jonesin for free coffee in the back of Waialua Sugar Mill's T-shirt shop that was promptly told to leave, but I have a vivid imagination... so in my mind....well, anyway....)

Probably close to her mid-30's (maybe she was 16), she suddenly crossed her chicken wings around her chest exposing a frontal bump which had been hidden by her overlarge tee—oh dear.

She was pregnant. You could almost hear the customers' thoughts. Sigh. You have to feel sorry for her/it—the baby. Oh no. The world is filled with too many little un-cared for children; neglected, alone, fending for themselves—food, drink, attention, love... rare occurrences for them at HOME. However, to discuss all this sadness on such a beautifully warm day...I will save it for another blog...

In the meantime...enjoy the link!

WWPT?

Horrors!

What will people think?!

I grew up in a household which overused this phrase.

It was an admonishment; a criticism, an attempt to produce guilt or shame. I learned that pretty fast and steadfastly turned mule-faced and silent. As a child, if I would have been allowed to, I'd of responded with “Who gives a rat's a$$ what people think?!”, but my mouth would have been washed out with soap!

I can look back wryly and laugh about some of these seemingly important perceived ideas, but there are so many instances to recreate. Some random examples:

My pre-kindergarten tiny white (or black) shiny patent leather church shoe has scuff marks on the inside heel...we are hurriedly (and me stubbornly of course) on our way to Sunday service...Dear God in Heaven! A mark!... roughly grab the ankle...rub rub rub “What will people think?!”

Same scenario... a wisp of hair is hanging in the wrong direction....spit spit spit, wipe, wipe...“What will people think?!”

That coat is buttoned wrong... “What will people think?”

Is that a spot of syrup on your toddler brother's chin? spit spit, wipe, wipe... “What will people think?!”

Don't you dare move, wiggle, or whisper (I want to go home!) in church or you will get your thigh pinched. Hard. “What would people think?”

A few years later we moved from Minnesota to Kansas unfortunately living right across the street from a small Catholic church. Skip a Sunday? Are you out of your mind? Everyone would KNOW! “What will people think?” I remember my surly attitude...grumble: Why doesn't DAD have to go?

There was an excuse that he needed rest due to working the night shift, but I was jealous that George of the Jungle was on TV at that time...also Rocky, Bullwinkle and the fascinating Natasha of cartoon fame. (Can't we just say we're sick? And watch George smack the tree? Heck no. Someone would find out and God forbid... “What will people think?”)

This phrase emanated through every public faction of our lives...

Going to the store?! In those play clothes? Go change! “What will people think?” (Uh...that we're kids? That we've been playing?)

Is that a leaf in your hair? And look at those tangles....“What will people think?” (Uh...that I'm a kid? And I've been PLAYING.)

The grass must be clipped perfectly around all tree trunks and yard adornments... or.....“What will people think?!”

Dishes must be done immediately after lunch...(and the floor scrubbed nightly). What if someone stopped by? What if someone dropped in? “What will people think?!” (Uh...that we EAT?)

Come down out of that tree right now! It's time for church...I guess we'll go without you...and you're in BIG TROUBLE.....“What will people think?!” [smile to self at this creative avoidance of my childhood pet-peeve: church]

We better not catch you talking to that kid downtown. She's nothing but a street-walker...“What will people think?” (Uh...she's in my class...I should at least be polite and say hi!?)

That swimming-suit top looks a little too low...“What will people think?” (That my new teen-age boobs might attract some boy-attention? Hot damn!)

What do you mean you broke your arm in a truck accident tonight? Look who you were with! “What will people think?” ( OK, I'll give you that one!)

The perfectly-decorated cake has a teeny crumble on this edge....“What will people think?!” {Turn that side to the back...geez....or... I don't know...people will drop dead in droves when they notice the imperfection which throws their brain out of the space/time continuum and the world implodes into a fiery-blue frozen hell-ball? That's what I THINK!}

What do YOU think?

Hammer Time

Today was "1980's Day" (ick), but it proved to be pretty popular with many youth sporting side ponytails, high hairsprayed bangs, leg-warmers, and Don Johnson jackets. I participated too--shoulder pads and the parachute pants with the cuffed-pleated ankles, thanks to the remembrances from Dan's pics.
It's Spirit Week: yesterday was Cowboy Day, so I made a huge tacky cow-skull belt buckle with gold and silver glitter, the kerchief, hat, plaid western shirt. Yee-haw! (Boots came off after 5 minutes--who can take that pain?!)

Monday was best of all! Super-Hero Day! Jack Sparrow is my personal 'super hero' (it's a pretty loose definition), but I knew I'd roast with that wig and layers, so I decided to be...

CHUCK NORRIS!

It was so comfortable wearing Brig's white Judo gee (just like pajamas!)....I printed off some appropriate, clean Chuck Norris sayings and his dorky face and applied that to the back of the gee with another portrait on the front lapel. He he! I really dislike Chuck Norris, Texas Ranger. Just leave off the 'Tex'.

I love you Johnny! Hey....is that a side ponytail?!

Sybil Time.

Friday night around 11:00, my son came home from the football game in a somewhat crabby mood. By midmorning Saturday, full-blown Ferociousness stormed down the stairs, slamming doors and growling like a pit bull from hell.

"Good God in Heaven!" I thought.... “what in the world is wrong?!” I couldn't open my mouth to say anything without getting my head bitten off; even the slightest (positive) remark resulted in the emergence of 'the snarl'. Finally Paula whispered the problem to me....

“Oh. Now I see.”

It was strange, but about 6:30am, one of the gas station grandpa farmers was telling me that his giggly, sweet, chipper little granddaughter “turned into another person on Friday nights”. (He got to witness this phenomenon since he and his wife were watching the youngsters this week again.) I was puzzled until he said, “Their dad was coming to pick them up for the weekend...” Ahhh. That statement explains everything without saying anything more at all...

I can't tell you how many times over the years people in my job field get to see the 'different person' appear on Mondays or Fridays—no explanation by these kids' regular parent is necessary. All said parent has to say is: 'it's visitation weekend.' Ahhh indeed.

Thinking of this, upon hearing Paula's explanation, I recalled the mask of resigned doom frozen on my son's face all morning—a look I hadn't seen in almost a year and for good reason...it's been almost that long, since he's had to go. He was supposed to, at Christmas, and he left our family's fun game of Pitch to drive over, but they weren't even home. (A normal occurrence I'll call 'bait and switch' at kid's expense. Hey, I made a rhyme! But it's not funny....just mean, sad, and immature. For heaven's sake, I don't understand how anyone can break a promise to a kid...or at least have the courtesy to give them an explanation...Hmm. Never mind.)

I learned long ago not to be bothered by, or take to heart, the growly moods that permeated his return and I was glad that these visits were very random (and some years almost non-existent). If I am the brunt of his hurt, and that's the only way he can express it right now, so be it!
And that goes for any of my kids, cause I love 'em!

Mouths of Hiroshima

One of our friends, UPS Gary, introduced my son to a nightmare food on a hunting trip last year. A group of them stood around eying my son as he threw a Porubsky pickle in his mouth-- just to see his reaction as the top of his head blew off!

UPS Gary brought a couple tubs to Bailey's wedding this summer, and yesterday I jumped in Brig's truck and noticed some too. I had just tossed one in my mouth as the the smell from the open container hit my nostrils simultaneously-- and I knew I was in for trouble.

Holy Mother of GOD!

Thank heavens I hadn't started the engine yet; if someone had driven by they'd of thought I was having a stroke! I was shaking my hands, coughing, gagging, gasping, ½ screaming, tears and snot streaming down my face and I very nearly panicked cause I thought I might choke from the fumes or go blind.

Wow. Almost all the effects of mustard gas without the raised skin blisters!

Onward with the torture!

An hour later Brigham forced Paula to succumb to the pickle, pleading that she HAD to eat one—for his birthday.

And while weeding and rototilling at Grandma's today, I mentioned my sinuses were acting up—Brig had brought his mad green weaponry along to St Marys and pulled them from the fridge. Funny as heck: grandma never cusses, but she put a small pickle hunk in her mouth, sat quietly a few seconds, jumped up from the picnic table and grabbed the garage wall for support, with the beginnings of 'oh God, oh God!', bent over waving her hands, fell to her knees and crawled around fearfully gasping, giggling, choking, holding her mouth...'oh God...oh God... SHIT!' We were laughing so hard that we finally forced each other to take turns suffering incendiary sinus explosions—sorry everyone; perhaps the heat and the numerous Bud Lights and Smirnoff Green Tea's added to the humor.

After several rounds (dares) of this, we meandered down to the garden where Brigham was bidden to dig a horseradish root to sample its explosive fiery quality. He cried from that (ha ha) and we moved on to the un-ripe persimmon tree whereupon he cut one open and made everyone lick its surface. UGH. We were all rubbing our tongues with our t-shirts to wipe off the pucker wool-felt quality.

So it was a fun day destroying our tastebuds, but I do think that Porubsky must have pulled a fresh batch of pickles out of the barrel this week...I have never had anything produce a brain fireball on that level before. If you ever get to Topeka KS, try them!

A Foray Into the Life of a Babysitter

When I was a 6^th grader, about the only way to earn any spending money was to babysit because we didn't earn an 'allowance'. Having a younger sister and 2 younger brothers, I knew how to change a diaper—growing up in the country probably meant I knew how to work a little too—not a 'street walkin' city girl here! That's what parents tended to call the 'fast' girls that talked to boys on main street-- I probably didn't hear the word sl*t or wh*re until I was an 8^th grader --and it was one of those 'street walkers' that told the rest of us what that meant!

My 6^th grade summer, I watched 2 kids daily while the dad slept upstairs until 1:00pm, whereupon he growled downstairs, snarfed up Hamburger Helper or some type of leftover I was instructed to rewarm, and took off for work. No big talker there; don't even remember him acknowledging his children! It was terribly boring-- out in the middle of nowhere and no books in the house. Just magazines filled with smut stories. I didn't tell my mom this, but I think I learned or interpreted or imagined a lot that was entirely dissimilar to the birds/bees talk I was given!

That fall, I either babysat in town for 3 darling little boys whose beds were filled with pee stains, food, and roaches—the crawling kind; or for a toddler boy and his baby sister whose bottles lay strewn about the house filled with clabbered milk that almost made me vomit. Whichever family called first reserved me for a Friday or Saturday night—something going on at the Tavern most likely.

I tried to do the dishes at both places and always boiled dozens of bottles—poor kids. Roach Motel left 8-Track tapes all over so I listened to the Beatles, while Clabber House dad tried to lure me into his bedroom to look at a dirty magazine, pulling at my arm until I became frightened and he let go and left.

Later his wife called to reserve me for the next evening and I burst into tears: 'NO!' They got a return phone call after I told my mom what happened, but I guess back then nobody would of thought of turning the bastard in.

Then there was the beautiful Southern mansion home with the lovely white fluted columns, the gorgeous dark-eyed, dark-haired wife, the 2 sweet little girls, the dad who kept putting his hand up my thigh when he drove my home. For heaven's sake! Does stuff like this happen all the time?

Or the dad that left me have his car to take his kids to the swimming pool all summer—I would of been a freshman then—maybe he did that so he could 'see' his high school gal while we were splashing around and his wife worked her buns off all day long. Hmmm.

Or the couple that littered every room of their squalid rental with hard-core porn within full reach of their 3 youngsters. Glad they didn't have any prying questions when I moved it out of their reach!

But back then a candy bar cost a 15cents or a quarter, so earning $7 or $10 bucks was worth it. I guess.

Kind of opens your eyes to a darker aspect of life...

“Hit Me, Whip Me, Beat Me Like I'm Jesus!”

Imagine working in your flowerbed, peacefully digging the soil, knees pressed in the earth, to look up across the lawn and see a man ripping off his belt, flailing it wildly through the air, & spouting the above phrase!

Wouldn't this make you a bit surprised? A bit unnerved? A bit FRIGHTENED?

I tell ya, some people are just freakin' crazy! This was just one of the scenarios my mom had to endure when a would-be 'suitor' didn't understand the concept of “NO”. Last Thursday was the sentencing trial for my mom's stalker—don't know how many times this man has been to court now, but it seems to be dragging on forever.

Thinking back, I was pretty lucky with my whacko—scary yes, but I only had to drive up to the courthouse twice. This old guy though—wow! Numerous incidents with the police/sheriff's dept.; the meaning of a “restraining order” obviously didn't register in his brain. (Mine at least quit during the year of the restraining order, but resumed once his year was up. Now, what kind of person bides his time, waiting, waiting, for that year to pass by? Possibly the same type of person that ties SLOTH to the bed for a year like John Doe did in Se7en—but instead of pinetree air fresheners there's Natural Light beer cans piled up 3 feet deep!? How can you ever tell which verbal threats are real and which aren't? But this isn't about me........)

After months of harassment by phone, mail, car, bothering relatives and friends, this 70+ year old coot had managed to somehow get charges reduced to 4 felony stalking convictions—this was a slight fine, mandatory mental evaluation, and supervised probation for 6 months. I wonder how that equals out—2 years of hell for her/6 mos for him. ?

I keep trying to figure out which is more potentially 'dangerous'; hers or mine—mine had the Jekyll & Hyde thing going on—get shit-faced drunk and let the harassment begin, while mom's doesn't drink and believes himself to be a 'detective' and 'curious'-- my definition for him is 'downright nosy old bastard' and 'conniving liar' and 'psychopathic serial bully'! Let's not forget to throw in plain old 'asshole'.

People have told her that she will 'never get rid of him' and this I find very irritating if not downright frightening after reading about it...follow that link! And did I mention the he is a church minister?! [rolling my eyes here]

I'll try to write up some more details at a later date...right now we hear he is back in court for bothering another woman and her family...oh brother. What a guy!

Fresh Bread and Killer Whales

I found out this week that my son has been baking bread up in his bedroom. He had a loaf of plastic-wapped bread one day and I'd just assumed his girlfriend's mom had given it to him—but no, he'd bought supplies and a breadmaker that he'd found on sale. I had no idea—the smell must dissipate by the time I get home from work.

I was trying to find some bread recipes since I'd seen his—my cinnamon rolls are fabulously kick-butt and delicious, but I wanted something non-sweet and 'artisan'. Crusty. Hot. Mmm. (Never mind the fact that I'd put back on the 10 lbs I lost for my daughter's wedding in one tiny month—what a loser I am.)

There are tons of “No Knead Bread” recipes online which looked wonderful, but it was this awesome site with this doll-face, kick-ass, bad-ass baker that drew me in!

Damn! I was already yanking the flour from the kitchen cabinet before I finished reading the blog! If he can do it, so can I, by golly gee. I mixed up a batch but since I don't sport a tattoo, I guess I was jinxed from the start.

I could of cheated with a fine-line Sharpie like I've done in the past (it's a good way to get the idea of 'tattooing' out of a young kid's head-- “Let's DRAW one on ya for a couple days, so you can see if you'd like one or not...” You, know, get it out of their system. I've even drawn the 'twisted barb-wire tattoo' around my thigh one day out of boredom and it looked real!)

Anyway, I was bound to fail...since I've always held a vendetta against white bread (bad, bad, bad white flour!), naturally I tried to substitute way too much wheat flour. And my bread really did look decent on the outside and fairly decent on the inside, it was just a little too chewy-- think gummyworm candy—well, not quite that bad, but not that soft, melt in your mouth consistency.

So, bad-ass baker, cook on! I'll try again some other time and though I hate to admit it, I might even try 'pure white'.

The Green Kingdom, Cry to Heaven

I started reading another book, Lost Man's River yesterday, begins about 1908 like my last one...but I think I am still on a rain forest kick.
I scrounged around my piles of books until I came to The Green Kingdom by Rachel Maddux, which isn't about the typical rain forest, but is an awesome book in which a 'lost' land is 'found' and everything inside is green—all shades/hues/tints. The descriptions are remarkable and enables the reader to conjure up all types of imaginary plants and animals based on her descriptions. The characters which become trapped here must experiment and virtually start their new lives from scratch, as everything existing here is totally foreign. What is poisonous? What is not? There's beauty and horror in this book as the strengths and weaknesses of each person are revealed.

I found that old, dusty book several years ago when I worked out at The Sharing Place in the summer—brought it home and love it. I think the author was from Wichita, KS—which surprised me at the time because I'd never been introduced to it, nor her, in my college days at KSU—maybe they didn't want to push an author that graduated from the enemy college—KU. (I took a lot of Lit. classes in college and am certified to teach English too, though you'd never guess that NOW.)

Music is incorporated into this book, an area in which I am totally UNfamiliar—never did learn how to read music—my piano teacher had marked our keys and fingers with numbers, which really screwed me up. While I can appreciate reading about music, there is another book that I love to read in which I can actually HEAR it while reading—Cry To Heaven.

I read this statement about Rice's books: “To her admirers, Rice's books are among the best in modern popular fiction, possessing those elements that create a lasting presence in the literary canon. To her critics, her novels are baroque, "low-brow pulp" and redundant.” I'll somewhat agree. When in high school we all read Interview With a Vampire and enjoyed it. (I liked the movie too, except for the unnecessary nude scene!) I read Feast of All Saints and liked that.

However, when I tried to read some of the other vampire/witch books, they seemed so 'forced', like they were written for an audience that didn't care as much for the beauty of her written word, but the strange intrigue. Kind of like some of Stephen King's books—trying too hard/a pretense. If Rice could capture the aura of Cry to Heaven again—well it was awesome. Makes me cry with its beauty and emotion. If I revised the above italicized statement, I would exclude this one book, (and probably Feast of All Saints). Lovely, awful, sad, wonderful.

So, two radically different books that include the human condition and music—every time I loan out any copies of Cry to Heaven, I never get them back—from girls OR guys (you'll see why after you read it). I don't loan out The Green Kingdom—so that's the one left to read!

River of Doubt

I finished this book earlier today hoping for vivid details of Roosevelt's Amazon trip. I learned much about his character and that of the Brazilian Indian advocate Rondon. I wistfully wished for a writing style like James Michener, who has the ability to make his historical (and invented) characters come alive in his adventures, but this was not the case, so that part was disappointing for me. However, I did really enjoy the descriptions of the green rainforest itself--the ecosystems/coexistence and dependency of plant-insect-animal life. I will have to google more about that!

And if people stranded in the gloomy rainforest, or those left for long periods of time, tend to become more and more fearful and nutty-- well, just look at this plant I found online--talk about running into something creepy!:
Now, take a look at this: http://dearkitty.blogsome.com/2007/02/06/worlds-largest-flower-in-bloom-mild-winter/

Museum of Natural History

I started reading a book last night about Teddy Roosevelt's adventure trip down the Amazon; an ornithologist from the Museum would receive $150.00 a month salary for stalking specimens--3 times the average American wage at that time. I am reminded of this through Dan's blog--the pic he posted of a statue reminded me of the Yanomami tribe from South America that I'd written about in college--but on closer observation, I think his pic was a Somai gal (blurry text). Anyway, I left the book at work and was looking forward to reading about the pack animals slowly starving to death on their grueling trek! When the museum caught wind of Teddy's route change down a dangerous, virtually unexplored river...they disapproved.

I particularly liked the quote about people going off the beaten path to explore new territories rather than living life like a tourist(--the aggravating part of our Guatemala trip was having to stay with the group for safety reasons).
Back in the day, a job with the Museum would be a thrill--who wouldn't want to take part in an adventure into the unknown--be the first to see new land and life?

Sunday, I ventured down this road by Mudfeet Farmer's land. I thought I might find a snake sunning itself in the dust on a somewhat cool/warm weird afternoon, but I turned around 100 yds later after the grass was rustling and a distinctive odor of skunk arose.

Instead I climbed the north fence into an excellent fishing pasture with 3 ponds and scads of dung beetles clearing off the paths. Bailey and I first noticed this phenomenon when insect hunting/fishing on a hot afternoon. When the fish aren't biting and your mind wanders, you notice all the small things in life that you've walked past before.
Busy little creatures working with life partners, rolling dark marbles up and down the cow trails--pretty amazing to see the teamwork involved as they moved their creation around a rock or weed stem. Such intricately hard work! I read that these beetles save humanity (and cattle) from disease by annihilating cow patties, hiding their well-wrapped egg/larvae under the soil, thus ridding the world of germs and fertilizing the soil at a faster rate.

Sunday was different. I was rather puzzled--virtually no action whatsoever--just cow patties with little beetle feet and buns sticking out like stiff pokers no matter where I looked. For some reason, Jim Jones and David Koresh filled my mind...because I finally touched some of their little feet--and eventually received some slight motion--but one lil critter really appeared dead even when yanked from it's sticky prison.

Geez--was this some type of beetle mass-suicide? Dive headfirst into a shit pile and drown? And the mastermind behind this??--no GrapeAid--just gooey poo. "I command thee...step over into another plane...death is your friend." I don't think that "dying with dignity" would be an appropriate phrase here though, if your head was buried in a pile of crap! What would cause so many of them to stop work upside down and just 'freeze'? The only thing I could think of was temp...when the sun vanished under a cloud, the breeze was chilly. How sad. Too cool to move your joints, so you choke in ochre ooze!

No, I did NOT stick them headfirst into a cow pattie just to take a pic.

Newton's Law

For every action there is an opposite and equal reaction.

Been observing the candidates and I had to post these comments that I read, after I was dissin' Obama's lips below!:

"Let me tell you what. I don’t want to see McCain naked. Ever. I can barely look at him. His white hair and eyebrows that sit atop his plastic-like head have the blinding power of 10 millions suns and I’m just sayin’, I don’t wanna see his white-haired ass all over the boob tube for the next 4 years. Although Sarah Palin is kinda hot, she doesn’t even out the McCain blinding effect. McCain cannot be the next president because he downright creeps me out. He makes me feel like I just got molested and I’m pretty sure that might mean he’s a molester. A molester of the American people’s hope...."

Voting Booth

 

Stuff

Blogger Dan recently posted this: http://honkifyoureaknob.blogspot.com/2008/08/lake-of-fire.html and so I'm responding knowing that my unenlightened meanderings will probably tick some people off.

His blog brought to the surface some irritated thoughts regarding a church class I attended several years ago... 'unbaptized babies float around in limbo never reaching heaven or hell....' was one of the topics and another gal had many “if” scenarios: “IF a young couple were bringing their baby home from the hospital and wrecked their car, and everyone was hurt, would you baptize that baby before it died?” “No” was the snobby answer. (All of us gals were shocked.)

“What if the dying parents begged you to?” “And what if the baby was almost dead?”

“No” again. It all boiled down to only if he knew for SURE that the parents were Catholic and attended his church on a regular basis...

Think of the most arrogant and narcissistic man you have ever met and imagine him in a room with 6 gals between the ages of 24 and 28...one of those types that look down their nose upon women like females haven't a credible braincell or ounce of intelligence whatsoever....I guess I deserve a medal for attending a week of this and managing to keep quiet...Hoorah. (I'm envisioning Al Pacino's voice here.)

So, nevermind that the innocent little baby is a newborn hours old with no preconceived notions formed in it's tiny skull-- if that baby's parents weren't Consistent Church-Attending (I'd type Abiding, but they don't all Abide!) Catholics, then there was no way in hell he'd baptize it. (He didn't say 'hell'.)

I also noticed his ability to UN-answer some questions, roundabouting them worse than a politician. (He knows darn well some of this is a load of crap and he can't come up with a truth to save his soul. Ooops. I'm sure his was already saved, you know, guiding us all in the proper direction. Doing God's work... rolling my eyes here.)

There were so many other scenarios and situations, each answered with some type of snide comment, which makes me wonder—so, If you were conducting meetings to entice strays to join/rejoin the flock—you know, the correct church, the one true church and all, wouldn't you at least try to present your theories in a positive light? Wouldn't you try to be welcoming and friendly and graciously explanatory? Well, I guess Heaven was full that week... and when these nightly meetings were over I flat out refused to sign his paper stating that I was wanting to become a member and I was brave enough to say “NO” in front of him and all the other ladies, thank God. (I heard later he read my name outloud in church the next day anyway, with the other gals' that WERE in attendance—I seethed a little bit then! Outrage!)

And if you ever imagine air writhing and seething, joining us in a little side chamber of the funeral home after my dad's death would have been the very place to do so! Me and sister and my two brothers were asked to sit in there to listen to a very old priest lay the guilt on super thick. He said all those irritating things that priests say about going back to church and rubbing in how much dad wanted that....How dare he? Whoa...body language. Everyone was getting stiffer and angrier by the second and the tension felt like peanut butter. I'm surprised my brother didn't punch him.

But back to the Blog! So many situations, so many moods, tragedy/violence/injustice/caring, so many different types of people, so many different choices... when the abortion questions comes up I always think of Mrs Eames, rhymes with screams, a character in one of John Irving's books, along with several others (dead or alive)-- like Melody and her penis knife and the fetuses and the nurses and Fuzzy Stone and the cadaver, and then there's the ether, affairs, apples, STD's and rape—it all pretty much makes one consider the pro-choice pro-life question—an orphan or an abortion? Cider House Rules is funny/sad/informative/a good read, and I marvel that not once does Irving try to sway the reader either way....an orphan or an abortion? He develops these tiny scenarios, and sometimes elaborately detailed characters, hitting you with waves of sentimentality (if that's a word), but never forcing the reader in either direction. He serves as a guide...open up your eyes...see both sides of the issue from a very human point of view. Make your own CHOICE.

To the Batcave! (or Perils of Friendly? Wildlife)

I read a couple books lately (thus ignoring my blogging duties—sigh) that brought about waves of nostalgia—my brother gifted them to me from Amazon, so I did the same for Bailey and Nate: Narrow Escapes & Survival: 23 True Sportsmen's Adventures by Ben East. We adored these growing up.

So, when raucously loud snorting, snarls, and banging noises occurred right outside the darkened window where I lounged on the couch, I nearly jumped out of my skin!

BEARS!!!

Of course I knew this wasn’t so, but when you’re thinking of your daughter and husband traveling to Alaska soon and a guy has just had his face ripped off by one powerful swipe of a bear’s paw...and campers’ cabins and tents were ravaged and destroyed night after night and another guy’s ribs were torn out of his body and his thigh meat bitten off in chunks while trying to play dead…well, this ruckus was downright mean and LOUD.

The Fugitive and her FIVE babies eat supper here every night. Leftovers and catfood become their nightly meal—even peanut butter sandwiches from old bread (1 a-piece) or stale rice krispy treats! Their little faces are darling as they peer up through the screen, but they are very skittish and scamper away until the treats arrive—usually. (I almost crunched one’s head as I was stepping outside—it decided to have a look-see in the kitchen—yikes!) Here's Mama: her eyes don't normally glow!

But if the One-armed Bandit arrives, all hell breaks loose; horrible fighting that kept Brigs awake for hours--sounds just like the description of Bears...

Unfortunately, I woke Brigg up last night too…another bat entered the kitchen, flew a few livingroom laps and hightailed it upstairs. It disappeared; I eventually entered Brig’s room—it had crawled under his door and was rapidly circling, but was beaten down by a pair of dirty boxer shorts and shuffled into a new leather boot where it was ‘booted’ out the door. Brig’s room is pitch black, now renamed “The Bat Cave”, since the darkness must appeal to them—if any more take up residence I will name them Keaton and Kilmer, ha!

(Old partial painting found behind a door. I must of been bored out of my mind.)
Back to the books…so much for Global Warming…its unbelievable the temperature is down to the 50’s/60’s here in August. Where are the suffocating, sweaty nights and miserably hot days? Reading about frozen corpes in James Michener’s Journey, and the lost, starving travelers in Chilcot Pass or other areas of Canada/Alaska/Michigan makes me shiver and don a hoody, though I won’t be losing any limbs to frostbite or gangrene. I hope Bail and Nate take this trip seriously; where one can walk a few feet off a trail and grow hopelessly lost and never found, or where a bear will kill you for looking at its salmon! Don’t mean to be funny—read those books!

We've been having several meetings lately about 'children of poverty', 'the defiant child', and those that are 'chronic', or victims of situations that are constant and beyond their control, thus outside influences and ways of life are the driving motivators of some of their behaviors... and some of them just lack love or a kind word...
I was thinking of this when I saw a fellow blogger had posted a pic of Yolanda from Ecuador:

It occured to me to post a pic of our families' other children, so here is our son "Isaias" (Brigham's age) and the girls "Marcella" and "Julia":

Isaias lives in El Estor, while Julia and Marcella live Quezaltenango and San Lucas Toliman, the village we stayed in when we visited them in Guatemala. That's grandma in the middle.
When my parents first started receiving pics of the girls as toddlers, I criticized them many times for wasting their monthly monetary donation and was a huge disbeliever that their packages ever made it out of the US. What a load of CRAP!
Finally, they decided to go see for themselves, but dad passed away, and Brigham and I went in his place. Naturally, google told me that we would be robbed, knifed, and all manners of unsavory things that had my nerves on end...and when we got there, it was a terrifying thing to see guns all over--in fact, I thought one man was trying to rob my son of his backpack at the Guat City Airport, but it turned out to be one of 5 of our armed guards protecting him. In the corner of the next pic, you can see a couple of them--right after this picture was taken, they drew their weapons and scared us--but they were pointing them at a scrawny little dog-- and they would have shot it had it growled at us! We were visiting a church up this steep hill--absolutely gorgeous country.
We had only been in San Lucas Toliman for a few minutes when we were ushered down into some local houses (pitiful shacks) and I immediately received a nice wave of shame when these kind and gracious tiny people drew us into their homes to display years of American photos, gifts, cards and letters that were pinned to the walls of their homes:
Here, we'd consider them merely sheds or worse--wouldn't even keep your lawnmower dry, constructed of a variety of materials: pieces of wood, cement block, tin, trash bags, and corn stalks wired together. Almost any room in my house was way bigger than their entire homes; a very humbling experience, and the lucky ones had most of their walls constructed of blocks, or a single mattress, or maybe a stove. This kitchen was constructed of boards and a garbage can to cook on:Many organizations rip you off/take your money and run. I can verify with my own 2 eyes that CFCA does NOT. We ended up having 32 people in our overall group, and there were many tears shed as these Mayan people cried with thanks that their children were able to go to school and receive dental/doctor care and extra food. You are never asked to donate more... unless you want to, for a birthday or confirmation, etc. We saw many programs being implemented by CFCA, such as well-digging, forestry, irrigation, laundry house, and the ancient but clean hospital. Here is Brig with the hospital director (remember that Brigham is very short!):

We were told that their limited stature was due to hundreds of years of bad nutrition (basically based on oppression by the invading Spanish). I am 5'1" and I could put my chin on the tops of the ladies' heads!
But here's the thing: despite the horrors of their existence and their lack of almost every possible 'convenience', the kids were just smiles and grins and the families were truly grateful and sweet. The majority of these kids receive LOVE.
CFCA boys watching us visit Lake Atitlan.

Peachy Keen

Hmmm. We were talking about the latest area crime...a 54 year old lady was the victim of a deadly hit and run and authorities are looking for...one of the 'Chas Manson look-a-like's' relatives. The vehicle was found, but not the driver... heard they'd had another party.... and as we are discussing this topic (maybe I better jog on the sidewalk/in the morning, not evenings!) Skinny Farmer Guy said he had some more peaches....I "stoned" 2 gallons for him (stoned--ha ha!) and he told me they were from the infamous LSD site. (Did I ever mention that 'Nuther Cop Buddy jmped on that criminal's back to bring him down...and that Cop Buddy had to work in that missile silo?)
Skinny Farmer Guy also showed me 2 more fruits--one looked like a small nectarine and who knows what the other was!?! Perhaps it had been chemically induced....
Maybe that's why he likes that Peach Wine...!

Pharmacuticals, Curls, African Babes

One morning when I went up by work, I remembered to grab my little plastic baggie of crystals that remained hidden under the sink. It'd been there forever, so it probably lost it's potency-- maybe I should mix up a new batch later today...

Mom can get Miracle Gro to induce numerous shoots/fronds/leaflets, all at freakizoid pace. Plants gone wild! Everything thrives for her; my stuff seemed to move at mediocre speed. Or stagnant speed—turtle pace.

I had my baggie of Miracle Gro to fertilize some of the many plants that greenhouse my room but it never seemed to do anything. I used it on lots of pineapple, plumeria, monkey paws, tamarind, elephant ears and other things pilfered during vacation. (If only I'd sent myself the coconut that was rooting...) but-- I'd rather use banana peels and organic stuff like fish guts than Miracle Gro, despite the smell...The problem? I haven't had any fish this summer, despite the fact that Brigg, Brett, and Shane caught over 20 5 pound catfish the other night on PEACHES, and threw them all back (whaaa).

I contemplated the Miracle Gro crystals, wishing humans could take it for hair growth-- wouldn't I love that?....SPROING! I would take it every day, just like a vitamin...SPROING!

I love wild freaky hair, the weirder the better (Many years ago during Christmas break, I tried the dredlock thing and went to a late night movie...a little girl coming out of the bathroom stall looked up at me and jumped. Sigh. I guess some people around here aren't used to it...I'll blog
about Nate and Bailey's 'getting beat up & bloody' incident later...)

This summer I'd cut off over 4 inches of hair allover right before Bailey's wedding and called mom bawling my head off... “I wanted C-C-C-CURLY hair, not WA- WA- WAVY! Curly LIKE A SPRING!!!” (Whaaa again. Sniffle.) I kept thinking it had too much weight and if I lessened the load via scissors, it would spring up like Shirley Temple, but it was just a wrong perm and I still can't get used to it... whaaa....so I added some blond stripes instead.

But I will never forget the time I was a little girl and all of us kids were with mom grocery shopping in Topeka. (This was back in the day when you didn't 'eat out' every time you drove somewhere-- you just bought a loaf of bread and a package of bologna...viola! Lunch was served, despite the disdainful curled lip!)

Here we are, ready to check out, all tired, whining, dragging our feet, probably begging for candy, when we became enamored by a little African-American baby seated in the cart ahead of us. It was a living dolly, with delightful boings of hair, curlylocks, very tempting to pull on them and streettcchh them out. We loved its hair and immediately began 'flirting' with and entertaining the baby, since it was quite unusual for us—no blacks in our tiny town-- and we grinned and smiled and made faces and played hide and seek with our fingers....causing it to laugh and flail its little arms...

My little brother was around 2; maybe I was in 2^nd grade? I began the whispered plea—whispered, but deliberately loud enough for my siblings to hear: “Mom, please can we have baby—like that? Mom, puuullleeeaaaassee.....look at its hair... will you have a black baby?” Immediately my 3 younger siblings took up the chant, pretty quietly, but GOD, did her face turn red! She tried her best to shush us and was probably wilting with humiliation as they clamored around her, pulling at her legs....“Yeah, mom—have a black baby, c'mom, please!” “Please have a black baby—why not?”

I can only imagine the faces of the other adults in line....trying not to snicker-- “Yeah lady, explain that to your little kids...why not?” Oh what a little rat I was...!

Tongue Pickles and Gravy Blue

I was slicing zucchini into lengthy slabs, thinking 'this is not julienne; what's it called?' We'd had the best cucumbers sliced similarly at a pulled-pork restaurant in Haleiwa—scrumptiously delicious.
The kids always wanted dill pickles on their hamburgers—not round, but the long ones--'you know, shaped like a a a tongue!”, thus “tongue pickles” became one of our household words which we still use today (not around regular people of course!). Another invented word was coined when we were admiring different paint jobs on automobiles and dreaming of what we'd buy if we'd win the lottery (fat chance—we never play), but we saw an SUV in an odd shade of blue—somewhat grayed down, thus “gravy blue” was born. And Tarzan, an old cat that wandered around the living room gently wafting his poker tail aimed toward heaven...the name Oreehole arrived... 'Oh Gross...!' He had a few dark butt crumbs under it's tail-- yes, disgusting but funny—perhaps this came from a movie and I just assumed the kids were clever....but I can't look at an Oreo cookie the same way!

To go on: I have always liked odd names; Brigham's new pet 'Fritz' didn't meet my creative standard—since it lives in an aquarial setting complete with river sand, rocks, my rat skull, and 2 succulents I bought, I thought it should be named something arid—like 'Mohave', or (since it's a Chilean Rose Tarantula,) a Chilean name—based on some of those ancient tribes that forced baby skulls into obloid alien shapes! But I guess a German 'Fritz' fits with South America, having hidden all those Nazis that hightailed it out of Europe, and Fritz does sit on top of his rock with one paw raised in a HEIL HITLER salute... and today I observed his ferocious attack of a cricket... he's a killin' machine!

And speaking of Nazi's...I went out to Flat Tire Farmer's house in the drizzle to pick a few climbing beans that he'd offered (+ sent on a grasshopper-hunting errand since Fritz ate his cricket and still might be hungry-- why am I collecting his meals??) and got to pick some of the coolest beans--some ranged from 8” to 18” and were a spectacular shade of burgundy!

Regular green beans grew adjacent, so I grabbed a handful of those (in the meantime, stashing wet grasshoppers in my pocket), but the green beans were bizarre. Some were plain, some were green on one side and splashed with burgundy spots on the other, and some had burgundy flecks on both sides! How peculiar.. I thought I thought of Mengele?, the pea scientist, performing countless experiments on peas...these green beans probably cross-pollinated with the red ones...but I knew my brain was malfunctioning...Mengele, Mengel, Mendelsohn, Mendel...ahhh...For heaven's sake I'd nearly confused the atrocious Josef Mengele: Nazi Angel of Death, with Gregor Mendel: Scientific Monk of Colorful Pea Flowers!

Words, names, nicknames...I thought it amusing this morning that the gas station gal called my Skinny Farmer Guy exactly that. 'Hey, Skinny Farmer Guy...what pump you on...?' He'd brought over bags of peaches from a hay meadow—I told him that I'd pit them for his winter wine making, if I could freeze some...so I did 11 gallons. I gave him 17 shirts that I'd picked up for him too.

Padraic/Patrick-- I think the first spelling is cool...I was reminded of this when reading Angela's Ashes last weekend—and if anyone ever thinks their childhood was bad... read it.

and the names Oryx and Crake really caught my eye at Bailey's last summer...so I read that book on the beach during vacation (a Margaret Atwood tale—hey, she's Canadian!) I'd also read The Handmaid's Tale years ago/The Wanting Seed/Brave New World/etc. So what are these books classified as? I guess they are science fiction, but not like---say, Star Trek or something! Futuristic?

And talking about 'futuristic' and 'names', Bailey and I had poked fun about 'spidergoats' on an older blog from the website cracked.com and then I found this:

Only 20 weeks old, 2 sister goats warrant tight security because their milk is highly prized by the U.S. military. Their 70,000-gene chromosomes have been manipulated to include a gene from the orb weaver, a palm-size spider that spins the world's toughest natural material. Researchers are "growing" the spider's silk inside Mille and Muscade's mammary glands. These strands of silk, just 3 microns thick, are three times as tough as DuPont's bulletproof Kevlar. A woven cable as thick as your thumb can bear the weight of a jumbo jet. Once perfected, the silk will be used for featherweight ballistic vests, medical sutures and artificial ligaments. The goats represent a promising new avenue in the controversial field of transgenics, the science of splicing one species' genes onto the genome of another. Most efforts, including the recent news of a disease-detecting rhesus monkey (bred with a glowing jellyfish gene), focus on improving the characteristics of existing organisms...

While I am not going to blog on whether transgenics is ethical or not, it sure is fascinating and I always look forward to what goes on in the field of science. In fact, a TV show concerning the pale blue blood of hideous horseshoe crabs caught my fancy and stole quite a bit of my afternoon one day...

Its scary to read these books seeing that the described future is not so far off...in 8^th grade I took an old sci-fi short story book because I loved it and one of the stories talked about a light that would cut through skin...mwaaa hhaaa haaaa haaa haaa!

Lasers.

Sorry. I got way off topic...but don't the names Oryx and Crake catch your eye?....Onyx and Cake...

Ummm. Chocolate.

Nitro, Cat hair, Death by Paint

I'm very sluggish lately—perhaps the 105 degree heat index this week makes one's mind wander…I have several items to blog, but can't seem to think! Actually, to say that I 'think' may be a bit excessive—let's tone that word down a bit—I don't 'ponder'—that implies heavy thinking and I don't want to think heavily, since my shoulder is aching from trying to move my ponderous rock again and the term 'heavy' just makes me tired.

I don't brainstorm—that implies quickness and actual work… (my brain neurons might need caffeine?)….perhaps I just DAYDREAM. It's so oppressive and depressive—is that a word? Hmmm, since my thoughts wander from here to there…I shall call this DAYTRIPPIN, cause I never know where I'll end up!

So here I am, daytrippin', still tired from working yesterday 8:00 to 4:00 in the heat (after a jog) and probably still bedraggled from the day before at Paula's pool…suffering alloveritchy skin—sunburn, complete with the shivers…

Realizing that I hadn't mentioned my summer Thursday 'job' (donation of my time), let me begin: There's a tiny town a couple miles away that has an abandoned rock schoolhouse in deplorable shape. The upstairs is cordoned off (danger), and downstairs 2 huge rooms are filled with racks of all sizes and heights. No, de Sade fans, these are not used for medieval torture—they are clothing racks and plumb full of hand-me-down, garage sale items. Other available spaces hold shelves of old dishes/shoes/books! (Explaining why I've multiple copies of the classics sucking up space in my own home—of which Paula needed 9 of them to read the other day, thank you very much!)

A long table and 4 volunteers receive or carry in sacks and boxes of donated items, spread them out and hang them up. All day long. Hour after hot hour. But it is FUN! It is an ADVENTURE! You never know what people are going to bring in…good books, Harlequin romances—yuk, antique dishes, or like the huge bag of expensive underwear that was so eye-opening and shocking to us poor countrified Kansans that our faces were red and we couldn't stop laughing hysterically…

By the end of the day, I usually have on some type of bizarre hat (if clean), several funky mismatched horrendously disgusting belts, and an atrocious pin or hideous set of beads or bracelets that were at one time considered hip, chic, or lovely (by someone). Halloween costumes are made from many of these articles…I like this place!

Did I mention that sometimes you will open a bag to discover dirty clothes & poopy baby diapers? Or clothes so white with cat hair, reeking with the stench of cat pee that it's immediately tied shut and thrown in the dumpster? C'mom people, don't bring us TRASH!… have some semblance of self-respect. Hell—now I have to run for the germicidal cleaner, ugh! Stained or torn items go into a trailer for the recycling plant.

So yesterday, I was discarding some old, pilled, 80's sweaters "You Should Be Dancin', Yeah!-' --(oops, wrong era; daytrippin again,) that NO ONE in their right mind would want—or perhaps I was saving some clueless soul from her worst fashion nightmare…when I found a tiny glass bottle, hmmm…I picked it up quick, because lots of little kids run around—mom's with 10+ kids depend on this place because a huge sack of clothes is only a donation of 1 or 2 bucks….And I stuck the bottle in my pocket since some lady asked a question. Last night I pulled it out and threw it to Brigg since I couldn't find my glasses and the text was as tiny as an ant's toenail.. (This reminds me of a line in a book describing the Farsi language—looks like worms f*cking—giggle)…

"What's Nitroglycerin Sublingual?"

"Oh my God!" Someone has lost their heart medicine! Thinking I knew the owner—a man that was supposed to move last week and had the phone/water/electrical turned off in his home. But the new place wasn't quite ready, so he'd spent the weekend without—and it has been HOT. He was at the gas station a few nights ago holding up the counter…ashen, and we tried to tell him to sit down in the AC and have some water… I jumped in my truck and drove to his home, then to all the gas stations, and restaurants, and all over town…finally finding his vehicle—and he said, "They're not mine!" Holy Crap. So at least I know that HE'S not going to die on me and leave me feeling a lifetime of horrible guilt! Hopefully no one else needs them… Copfriend asked if I'd actually opened the bottle—I hadn't—could be a vial of crack! But it's pills…

I had reason to be worried about this little man…years ago, in another little town, a tiny, plain saltbox house needed a new coat of white paint and I think 2 of us were paid $175.00 to do this. Back then, KS summers were usually 95-103 degrees for weeks on end, so the heat didn't bother us, but the fact that the little man that owned the house refused to go indoors—did. It was a sad situation—the couple had been together forever and probably in their 90's, when it was discovered that he could no longer do any type of menial task. You could tell he wanted so badly to work…we implored him to go back indoors and you could tell he wasn't trying to 'check up on us', but rather longing to participate and show his wife that he was still a caretaker and provider. She was as worried as we were, but her urging was also ignored. Finally she resorted to 'the cold lemonade trick'—insisting that we all come indoors for refreshment. This worked perfectly, but as soon as one of us tried to finish the job, out he'd go, and he was beginning to look pallid and gray. Should we just leave? We had to finish, as we had another job in another town the next day. It was difficult to decide what to do…we drank a LOT of lemonade that afternoon and evening and spent many hours indoors listening to stories. It was unnerving to get a call the next morning to inform us he had passed away in the night…I think I was 18 at the time, but looking back, we just should of left—but what did we know about bad hearts and old people and quiet pride?

So watch your friends and relatives in the hot summer sun and don't let them stay out so long... Guess I meandered over to a non-lighthearted topic…

And if you want to change your mood, you could always view the bizarre stuff on cracked.com, but its pretty gruesome stuff.