Story, Jo's Notes, Clotheslines

 

I love my clothes dryer.

I don't want to wash clothes by hand, either, so I love my washing machine too.

My electric company caused this machine love by suggesting I dry my clothes on an outside line to save electricity and money.

Really? Let's find electricity that is cheaper and safer for the environment.

I remember, though, the fragrance of fresh sheets dried outside. One summer, between school semesters, Neil and I drove back from Oklahoma to work for our old bosses in McMinnville, OR. There, we rented a little house with an outside clothesline. I washed our clothes that summer in a wringer washing machine and hung them on a line. A year later, I opened a box where I had stored a few bed sheets. They still held the fragrance of outside fresh air.

After that clothesline suggestion, I wondered what I would be willing to return to. Having clothing freeze on the line and taken into the house where they would stand on their own like paper dolls? Please no. (Eventually, those paper doll clothes would puddle on the floor.)

How about running outside to save the dried clothing from a sudden rainstorm?

Nada.

 I see there are advantages of thinking in decades and wondering if I have something to contribute to our present times. And what could we do to slow down climate change or reverse it?

(Is all the present unrest distracting us from thinking about our home—our planet—that it is heating up, (I see the hump-backed whales are suffering from water that is too warm.)

What could we do to slow the process to give us time to perhaps halt it. This distraction threatens our sanity, security, and way of living. Is it taking away our love, ability to cooperate, negotiate, have rational thought, and treat people kindly, especially those who think differently from us?)

Once, we burned our garbage in a large steel drum. My family lived on a farm for a while, and it was during a time when most everything we burned was paper. We didn't even carry home packages in plastic or cardboard, and there were no straws or plastic cups by the gross. If we bought a Sub sandwich at our local Hand Out—(They were great, by the way) it came wrapped in paper.

Our water came from a well, so there is no need to recycle plastic water bottles. 

Occasionally, we threw cans into the incinerator. The fire burnt off the labels and sterilized them, and we swept up the rusted cans after the fire was out and, about once a year, carried them to the dump. Our plastic was built into radios and TV’s—that is things we actually used for years.  

Our school or picnic sandwiches were wrapped in waxed paper—that worked fine.

Our meat, purchased from the butcher, was wrapped in brown waxed paper and tied up with twine. That worked, too. And I remember we rented a freezer in town, and the meat was wrapped in waxed paper. Do they have freezers like swimming pool lockers now?

I could go back to that.

I guess, instead of placing our produce in a plastic bag, we carried it home and put it in the "Freshener." (My husband calls it "the Rotter.”) But then, we had abundant fruit and fresh produce on a farm. Fruit was sold or canned. (Please, no canning. Oh, but I long for my mother's pickled crabapples. When mom had peaches canned at a cannery, that saved her and my hands. I hated washing the jars.).

Eggs were kept in" water glass." (A sodium silicate/water solution.). Preserved eggs will keep up to 18 months. The trouble with that egg preservation is the eggs need to be clean and unwashed. (Eggs have a natural cuticle or "bloom" that seals the shell from bacterial invasion. However, it is easily washed off. The result is that eggs don’t keep as long.)

See, I do like modern conveniences. However, I would be willing to go back to some of these ways. (Yet today, hypocrite that I am, I used plastic bags to bring home produce. But if plastic was not available, and paper bags were I would happily use them.

Our Christmas packages were beautifully wrapped using licked stickers (No cellophane tape until later.)  Mom tied our gifts up gloriously in pretty ribbon. Toys were hidden until Christmas Eve, then placed under the tree.  That worked. It was fun.

I could go back to that.

I could go back to a horse and carriage if my family lived close by, but they live about 29 miles away, which would take a day on horseback or carriage. It takes about 33 minutes by car.

Many families live across the country from each other, so a visit requires flying or a long trip by vehicle.  

Once, I rode my horse Boots from our farm to our best friend's house across the town of The Dalles for the adventure. It was ten or fifteen miles, and I spent the night with her, so it was a two-day trip. I had taken a less-traveled route across town and encountered little traffic. (I used a saddle, that McClellan saddle my dad thought was so great, but it was more pain than pleasure, but it made me look somewhat presentable.) My second mother-type friend took the picture in front of her house with her little dog and me on Boots. She sent it to me years later. It is the only picture I can find of Boots and me.

 

 

The other day, I saw an entire trainload of lumber wrapped in plastic. Is that necessary? As a kid, we regularly saw great flotillas of logs chained in their own corral of logs floating or tug-boated down the Columbia River. Logs are kept wet until they are cut into timber. Keeping them wet reduces bugs, keeps the logs from "checking" (splitting), reduces fungi, and makes them easier to cut. I suppose the plastic wrap comes after they have been kiln-dried. I wonder about the value of that. That seems extravagant while telling us to reduce our use of plastic.

Hay is sometimes wrapped up in plastic. That hay needs to be kept dry, or it will turn to silage. (Never serve those big bales to your horse; they sometimes spoil in the center. Bovines can handle it; horses can't.)

Great pallets of merchandise are wrapped in plastic, and the packaging of foods has become extreme for the ease of preserving, storing, and shelving them.

We tried eliminating plastic bags for carry-outs from the grocery store. Then we debated which harmed the environment less: creating plastic or cutting down trees. Do you have an answer to that?

We do recycle. We save glass. We are trying.

I saw a story about a woman who tried to shop plastic-free for a week. It was a challenge, and she said her meals were boring. Yogurt?—in plastic. Cheese?—in plastic. Meat—in plastic. Even the pasta box had a little plastic window. And why oh why oh do Kleenex boxes have a plastic pull-through space in their cardboard box? Our recycle pickup warns against mixing plastic with paper.

This could give city planners a challenge as many people live in apartments. Some apartment complexes have incorporated parks and playgrounds into their plan, some even with gardening spaces, so we don't all have to live on a farm.

Time for us to give our creativity a workout.

Wouldn't it be fun to do designing for housing units? Consider the possibilities.

I read once that in France (The Land of Milk), they had pastures and milk cows next to villages, and their cows were healthy, lived much longer, and produce milk for more years than American cows.

Let’s eliminate the crowding of cattle into stinking, filthy, disease infested feed lots. Animals do not like to stand in their own dung. If given a chance they will choose a restroom area.

I’ve mentioned this before, but I was so impressed with my two horses who used one side of their 24 x 12 foot run -in barn, that is three sided, and the size of two stalls. They had their hay on one side and used the other side for a bathroom. I cleaned it every morning.

Okay Dokey, Chapter 44 from Your Story Matters

 

 44

 What? Hawaii Again?

 Or, “Life Exists Beyond the Horizon.

 Although the Hawaiian experience is in my book The Frog's Song, it only includes some of the incidents; thus, I keep returning and trying to make sense of it all. 

 Before moving to Hawaii, both DD and I felt it was something we had to do. That day in the horse paddock, when I asked the Great Spirit where I would be happy, the first thought that came to me was, "Look up Hawaii on the Internet."

We had already been looking around for other places, but none seemed right. When I found our Hawaiian house on the first search, I felt a hit of “this is it.”

I called down to Nina in her apartment. "There's 10 acres and a cute house for sale in Hawaii for a quarter what we are paying here."

 "Let's do it," she said.

 And we did.

 I chose the Big Island because it was large enough to suit my wandering needs. Once there, though, I heard that the Big Island draws in people who need cleansing. 

 Uncanny. 

 And, they say, it spits them out once the cleansing is complete.

 Maybe the cleansing was complete, but it didn’t settle in until a while after we moved to California.

 Before moving, back in Oregon, we were over our heads and needed cleansing. DD said later that we would never have sold the horses. (We didn't sell them; we gave them away.) Our first intention was to ship the horses, thus the 10 acres, but we decided against it. Still, we ended up with a piece of land and orchards.

One of my favorite things about living in Hawaii was becoming one with the weather and the sun. Hawaii has a 12-hour day and a 12-hour night. We had limited solar power and would, on occasion, overuse it. Suddenly, it would go off, and we would be in the dark. Thus, I guarded our electricity like a Hottentot guards his tot. 

 We needed electricity for the computers. A computer was necessary for Neil's design job. DD needed hers for an internet business, and I wanted mine for writing. So, to ensure I had electricity for my computer and thus save it for others, I often ran an electrical cord out the bedroom window to the carport and gave the Prius the job of supplying juice for my computer.

We didn't watch TV, as DD had sworn off it before we moved, and we didn't miss it. But we watched movies, and we needed electricity for that.

I loved the mornings at my desk in front of the window, where I could watch the morning's first light sneak over the trees and paint a glow on the field of green grass that grew between the main house and the Tiki Room. The green became enlightened, as though the Sun Goddess was slowly turning up her rheostat.

On one airplane trip, Little Boy Darling became so excited about the sunrise that we heard someone say, "I've never seen anyone so excited about a sunrise," and wanted a high five. Soon, everyone around us wanted a high five. And I thought we needed to get that child off the island and into the world.

At the Hawaiian City of Refuge, a native Hawaiian told the story that further solidified my intention to leave the Island. The storyteller said that when he was a boy, an elder would sit the children down and ask them, "What lies beyond the horizon?" They hemmed and hawed. Some said, "The ocean," And another, "The sky." They thought the island was their entire world. 

 "No, said the elder, "Life exists beyond the horizon."

 That is one of the reasons we left.

 For the writer, the creative, the hell-bent on pursuing their dream person, there comes a "Gun and badge moment," as Steven Pressfield writes in his "Wednesday's Writings."

 In the film, it is called the "All is lost moment." It is when the protagonist is stripped of their credentials; they must turn in their gun and badge. To further punish them, they are threatened with imprisonment, disbarment, slavery, or told they have no talent and suck at what they do.

 Do they stop?

 Did Jodie Foster stop in the movie Silence of the Lambs? Did Tom Cruise in Top Gun? 

Neither did we when we were hell-bent on moving to Hawaii., and hell-bent on moving back. And neither am I on my road to writing 50,000 words for this memoir.

I sold the horse panels in Hawaii, and DD sold the cast iron-footed bathtub she took to put in her bathroom. That airplane engine?

 We still have it. 

 

 

What on Earth Have I Done?

43

What on Earth Have I Done?

 

For *Robert Fulghum, it began the morning he heard a mother yelling at her son from beyond the solid fence that separated him from the schoolyard. "What on earth have you done?!" came a woman's voice, followed by a "Naannggnnhhh!" 

Of course, a plethora of images flashed through Fulghum's mind. What had the kid done? Did he carve his initials in the back seat of his mother's car? Did he throw up all over the back seat?

And then he began thinking of the questions his mother used to ask. 

"What on earth have you done?"

"What in the name of God are you doing?"

"What will you think of next?"

Fulghrum extrapolated. These are the Universal questions, the same questions we ask ourselves.

"What have I done? What in the name of God am I doing? What will I think of next?

I once read a story about a wolf mother being pounced on by her pups. They chewed her tail and ears and wrestled—a mass of puppies all over her body. Finally, she stood up and let out a great howl.

The cavalry came bounding over the hill in the form of a bachelor male. He was like an uncle. He took on the kids, wrestled them, and chased them until they dropped in exhaustion and all napped.

How did it happen that humans aren’t as smart as wolves, or horses as we will see below. How did it happen that men, raised by females, grew up to abuse them? Didn't those men have girlfriends, wives, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, or girls they liked? Did women drop the ball? Did those mothers have a chance with those boys? Women were often suppressed, downtrodden, beaten up, and sometimes killed for expressing their natural intuition. It's been a long, steady climb for women to pull themselves up from the ribbons of their satin slippers, or no slippers. And in many cultures, the mothers had to turn over their sons to be taught by men who believed power made right.

Monty Roberts, "The Horse Whisperer," when he finds a mistreated horse, says, "Someone should apologize to this horse." Abused women often find solace in Robert's presentations with horses. In his book, The Man Who Listens to Horses, Roberts tells of watching a wild mare deal with an errant foal. She was obviously older, with a big belly indicating many foals. And she was the Matriarch of the herd. (Stallions aren't the day-to-day bosses; they are the protectors, the sentinels, and the studs.) 

Roberts watched as this kid foal went around harassing the younger horses. When he took a bite out of the backside of a young filly, the matriarch mare sidled up to him and kicked him to the ground. When he scrambled up, she kicked him down again. Finally, she let him up but pushed him out of the herd. Horses have body language that tells another horse to stay away and another body language to say it's okay. She pushed him out every time that little bully tried to return to the herd. 

For a horse, being ostracized is the worst punishment. A wild horse alone is lion fodder. Finally, the Matriarch tested him by letting him back into the herd; when he behaved, she gave him plenty of rewards, scratching with her teeth, his back and neck, and withers. This was heaven.

That foal became so sweet he began wandering around, asking, "Do you need any grooming?"

*You may remember Robert Fulghum's poem, which gave him prominence in the United States. All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten(1988). The book, named after the poem, is a collection of essays that stayed on The New York Times bestseller list for nearly two years.

 Find a little sweetness and pass it on.

 

 

The future never comes because when it's here, it's today. 

 

Today is fresh, new, beautiful. I want to believe it's a fresh start. Since I'm writing this, I can say whatever I want. If you want to listen to me, come on in, it's a great day to be alive.

 

About aging, what can I say? I got so excited when I began reading Christiane Northrup's book, Goddesses Don't Age, and thought, Wow, we need this. We need women encouraging each other to be strong,  not to accept standard views, to stay ageless."

 

We can't really be ageless; the body goes on with its changes, but our attitudes affect that, and our attitudes can be ageless. We can stop saying things such as "At my age." We can stop giving our age entirely.

 

When someone asked my mother-in-law her age, she would say, " I forgive you for asking that personal question." I thought I was following her example, but a doctor's office is different, isn't it?

 

Once, I gave my age to my Naturopath. I figured she knew anyway, but she either hadn't done the math or  looked at the number. I don't know why I gave away that information, except we were talking about my recent birthday. 

 

She whipped out a Polst page--I didn't know what that was, but I soon learned that it is an advance directive of what I want if a medical team finds me unconscious, or not able to speak for myself.  (It stands for Provider Orders for Sustaining Treatment)  I was totally insulted. 

 

A Polst is a good idea, but at that moment I knew that she saw me differently. Before, we were contemporaries, but now I'm older. See, people, even doctors, judge you by your age.

So, people, men and women, we need to stick together. We need to encourage each other to live in an aura of agelessness. 

 

That's my desire. 

 

I posted this on my other site today--that is Goddesses 50 and Beyond. I thought I would offer a little preview.

https://goddesses50andbeyond.blogspot.com

 

Good News

This is tricky.

 

A fist-sized frog lives in an environment beneficial for its food supply but tricky for a home. His home is mobile, warm, and swarming with the frog’s favorite food—flies. The downside of this living arrangement is that he might suddenly feel an earthquake—the “land” beneath his feet lunging at a remarkable speed, or suddenly submerging into water. Water? Well,  that’s okay for a frog, but froggy dear, watch out for the mud.

The frog is living on the back of a Water Buffalo.

You know that the presence of frogs is one indicator of a healthy ecosystem. Scientists have found that when Water Buffalos move into abandoned areas, they bring with them, an abundance of frogs, bats, and plant life.

It is estimated that Water Buffalos number more than "200 million across 77 countries on five continents.” (BBC) These animals have long been used as plough animals and treasured for their nutritious milk. (Their milk is higher in protein and fat than that of dairy cattle.) Now, they are earning a reputation among conservationists as handy landscape managers.

For decades, local farmers have allowed their water buffalo to roam freely as they carve channels where fish, frogs, and other species enter. These, in turn, feed the wetlands migrating birds. 

 

P.S. I chose the title The Frog’s Song for my non-fiction book published by Regal House Publishing. The subject isn’t about frogs, although Coqui frogs are in there, but because I read that symbolically, the frog calls the rain that settles the dust for our journey.

The Frog’s Song is a journey.

One day, my family of one husband, one daughter, one seven-month-old grandson, two dogs, and two cats, and this narrator took leave of their senses, put their house up for sale, and moved to a tropical island to live off the grid.

The journey is what life is about. And this was our journey. It left a sweet spot in my heart where our ten incredibly green acres once existed. 

 

To read more about The Frog’s Song, please go to my website: https://thefrogssong.com. (Read about our leaving. It isn’t in the book.)

Better yet, go the Amazon.com https://www.amazon.com/s?k=the+Frog%3Bs+Song+by+Joyce+Davis&ref=nb_sb_noss.

I was hoping it was FREE on Kindle Unlimited, it sometimes is. Keep checking. I don’t know why the price varies. It’s like the weather.

 

And now...

 

 

41

 

Why is the Sky Blue?

 

 That question was my test for a potential husband. However, there were other prerequisites.

The man I married could answer my question, but he's a physicist. A young man I dated after high school could not. No disrespect, I couldn't either. This non-knowing about Blue Skies boyfriend, a sweet kid, a farm boy, was fun to be with—we went to movies and bowling, and he fit in well with my folks.

One day, while the boy was visiting, I started my period but found that we had no Kotex. I told Mom, and she told Mike, who volunteered to go to the store for me. Mike invited my boyfriend to go along with him. I was embarrassed to have two men buy Kotex for me, but that's life, right?

This boy left for a while for a job in California. Soon after, I got a call from the florist down the street from the dental office where I worked. I walked in to pick up my gift and found it to be a carload of flowers—so many that I was embarrassed again. It was too bad for the florist and me; we should have celebrated that marvelous event.

Shortly after that, the boy came back into my life from California. This time, he was driving a brand-new Buick, cream-colored and beautiful, half a block long as cars were then. He sat me in the car, pulled out a ring, and asked me to marry him.

I was dumbfounded and squeaked out, "I don't know you well enough to marry you."

To my shock, he cried, and I didn't see him after that.

I watched Oprah interview Jean Houston, where Huston asked Oprah what she wanted. Oprah isn't afraid to put it out there; she wants to make a difference in the world and has. She is fearless in interviewing spiritual teachers, talking about souls, and interviewing prominent people in those fields.

In her effort to ask the hard questions, she doesn't let timidity thwart her forward movement. She gave up her talk show and is now serving the greater good. She isn't afraid to say she follows her inner guidance and attributes it to Jesus. 

I want a piece of that sort of action. 

 

42

Did The Big Bang Bang?

 

I am a seeker, and since you are reading this book, I figure you might be one as well. Although you probably didn't know what you were getting into when you picked up this book—but then, I didn't know what I was getting into when I began writing it.

I've spent hours writing, and if you have read this far, you have spent hours reading it. Thank you for spending your time with me.

 So, I ask, dear one, do you believe in God? Do walk-ins exist? Are near-death experiences real? Do you think the Bible says it all, and that's it? Like the Bible said it, I believe it, that settles it? Are we everlasting souls? Do we reincarnate? Did all souls come into existence with the Big Bang? Was there a Big Bang? 

Did the Big Bang bang when there was no one there to hear it?

Did we always exist? Are there other planets like ours? Is life a common occurrence in the Universe, or is it rare? Are we unique or common? What do other human-like people look like? Have you ever thought we won the genetic lottery by being born, one egg, one sperm, and viola, us? 

Many of those questions are on par with "Prove there is a God." They are theoretical. But we are getting closer to the answers.

 

"Me, Me, Me, or You, You, You?"

 

"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."-- Attributed to Abraham Lincoln. In reality, Lincoln never uttered or wrote those words or words to that effect. Instead, they were said about him.

The original version of the quotation came on Jan. 16, 1883, during a speech in Washington, D.C., by the prominent writer and orator Robert Ingersoll.

"If you" want to know the difference between an orator and a speaker, read the oration of Lincoln at Gettysburg and then read the speech of Everett at the same place. One came from the heart. The other was born only of the voice. Lincoln's speech will be remembered forever. Everett's no man will read. It was like plucked flowers."

 

From the Democratic National Convention came speeches we haven't heard the likes of in a while. No sound bites, full on speeches, given with conviction, truth, honesty, promises to lower taxes for the middle class, build more houses so the middle class can afford to buy one, preserve Medicare, and Social Security, feed the children, give teachers a living wage, maintain funding for schools, give our children an opportunity to be free of pollution and bullets, overturn Roe vs Wade to provide a reproductive freedom to women, give Americans hope again.

The American Dream raised its beautiful head again when two people from State Schools worked their way up the ranks; one was bussed to school, and the other who grew up on a farm could run for President and Vice President of the United States.

Remember when the strength of America lie in its strong middle class?

Yes, we had problems in the 60's, but we had the guts to protest wars, and march for civil rights, to change the dress code in schools--and champion men to grow facial hair.

Professor Robert Reich, former Secretary of Labor, now on Substack, helped me understand how Americans could vote for a tyrant.

Trump exploited their anger.

Americans, especially the working class, have been bullied.  They have been bullied by corporate executives, Wall Street, and upper-class urban professionals.

They're angry.

In Trump, they saw someone who they thought was different.

Except that Trump is a bully.

Trump used his wealth to gain power. He used his power to target people of color, harass and abuse women, lie, violate the law, and attempt to topple our Constitution. Instead of being a leader for the people, he became an advocate for himself. He was and still is vindictive against anyone who opposes him. And then he rages at anyone who calls him a bully. And he admires Hannibal Lector! What?! (Lector is fictitious character from the movie Silence of the Lambs, who eats people.)

Trump is a "me, me, me, person.

Kamala Harris said every day in court, she would say 5 words, "Kamala Harris for the People."

"Because," she says, "what happens to one of us happens to all."

"Kamala Harris is a You, you, you person." (Thanks, Bill Clinton.)

 

From Reich:

"We have learned that Trump cannot be beaten at his own game. He cannot be out-threatened. He cannot be shouted down. He is beyond shame or guilt. He emits lies at such volume and repetition they cannot be corrected.

"The only way to beat him is by playing an entirely different game that draws on qualities that are the opposite of his, that appeals to those aspects of the American character diametrically opposed to his.

"Lincoln spoke of the better angels of our nature. Those better angels are still there but have lain dormant since 2016. Biden tried reviving them, but he didn't have the energy or stamina to pull it off. Kamala Harris and Tim Walz do."

 

And why don't our adversaries trust women?

Women, we need to roar now to convince Americans to vote for Kamala Harris and Tim Walz.

Listen to Lady Gaga go against Trump. She  put it out there. (Trump lied with an ad stating that Gaga supported him.)

https://www.nbcnews.com/video/lady-gaga-slams-trump-at-biden-rally-in-pittsburgh-95211077945

"Vote to keep Trump out of the White House like your life depends on it, no, like your children's lives depend on it, because it does."—Lady Gaga.

And then listen to that Lady sing our National Anthem. Wow, those pipes of hers rang out over the U.S. Capitol and the Washington Memorial with the clarity of an angel.  

https://www.pbs.org/newshour/politics/watch-lady-gaga-sings-the-star-spangled-banner-at-biden-inauguration

 

And now for those following Your Story Matters, here are Chapters  39 and 40

First, Fun at the Grocery Store, then a War Story told to me by the man who lived it.

 

39

 

Funny

 May 21, 2023

 

The Pink blossoms of the dogwood tree have beaten me. (I'm up to 28,630 words, aiming for 50,000.)

 There are a few scraggly blossoms on the tree, but the ground beneath has pink all over it. The leaves have taken up residence where the flowers once were. The tree is moving on.

 

BUT WAIT. I could have an extension. Does it count if I switch trees? Mom's Tree in the front yard is still blooming. I planted a twig that came to my shoulders in tribute to Mom, who loved flowers, and I love dogwoods, so I planted one in the front yard on March 9, Mom's Birthday, in honor of her. Now, it is blooming. Okay, Mom, let's go for it.

 

A few days ago, I pulled Robert Fulgrum's book, What in the World Have I Done, from my cupboard bookshelf and read the best story I have heard all week.  

 Fulgrum offered two college boys on his street a ride to work one morning. He asked what they were doing besides school and work.

"We're eating a chair."

 "What?!"

 A chair! They were eating a chair. The college professor had assigned them to do something unusual, something they had never done before, and write about it. "This is going to fry the professor," one of the kids said. 

They bought an unfinished chair and ate the back and one of the rungs. They shave off a fine dusting of wood daily and add it to their morning granola. At night, they sprinkle some on their salad. They asked a doctor if it was dangerous, and he said no, not in small doses. They may not get it all eaten by the theme due date, so they have asked if others would help them and found a willing bunch.

To further carry on the conversation, Fulghum asked what else they were doing. They have been running around the lake each morning to keep in shape.

However, they tired of running in circles and decided to see how far they would run in a straight line. They got a map of Washington (they live in Seattle) and were mapping out a route; when they were almost to Portland, Oregon, they decided it was boring and chose a European map. Now, they are finding interesting things to do along their trail. And they are finding that large tasks done in small doses can get the job done.

 Fulgrum stopped worrying about the younger generation.

Inspired by Fulghum's wanderings, speaking with people, and finding funny tales, I decided to find something amusing as I set off for the grocery store last night.

 I asked the solemn-faced kid who checked out my groceries if anything funny had happened that day. Nope. Nothing funny.

 So, I walked down to the live-wire lady with white hair and a limp, who is nearly always laughing. I asked if anything funny had happened that day. "Not today," she said, thinking, "but something happened yesterday."

 "What?" I asked.

 "A lady came into the store with no pants on."

 We both laughed. "Really? Was she completely naked, or did she have underwear on?"

 "I don't know. We scanned the store but couldn't find her. Does that story suffice?"

 "Great. Thanks. You saved my day.” Thumbs up, I exited the store.

  

40

 

Hi Jack

Jack was our friend.

He might still be our friend, but he left to investigate something beyond those skies he so loved.

Jack was a pilot in the Second World War.

As he walked past the kitchen window of our house in San Diego on the way to the front door, I would call out, "Hi, Jack."

"Never say that to a pilot," he retorted. 

Jack had a story, a war story. It should be written into a book, but I only have the short version. 

He was a navigator during the Second World War.

The navigator sits behind the pilot, and according to Jack, that is the safest place on the plane.

That proved true for Jack, for he was shot down three times and twice the sole survivor.

The third time, he was captured by a German soldier.

There was a racket around the downed plane, shells were going off, shots were fired, and the German soldier was leading Jack away from the turmoil. Jack felt he was going to be shot.

As they walked through the forest, Jack tripped, and as he did, he pulled the gun from his boot, slid it up his body, laid it on his shoulder, and fired. He didn't know if his bullet connected with the man behind him, but he ran and thus escaped.

He hid during the day and traveled at night. While lying under a bush, he watched an aerial dogfight—planes in combat. Charles Shultz's Snoopy imagines himself to be a fighter pilot yelling, "Curse you, Red Baron." 

Jack developed pneumonia during his sojourn and ended up at a French woman's farm. (I know this sounds like a movie. However, she was not a young, gorgeous French lady, but an older French woman with a heart of gold.) She was alone and living off her land, which didn’t provide much. About the only thing that grew well was potatoes. He said she wore a dress that was woven together out of cellophane. She hid Jack from the Germans and shared her meager fare with him. 

One day, the US Military front advanced to her door.

Jack came out of hiding, gave his credentials, and told the group of GIs how this woman had saved him. 

The following morning, a glorious event occurred. The GIs returned with their jeep laden with goods for the lady, food and clothing, and a trip for Jack back to his troop

Your Story Matters 35 & 36 / Renaissance / Whew

 

 35

 

On Davis Mountain

How often had I mentally walked through our log home before we began excavation? Three thousand six hundred and eighty. (I exaggerate, but not on the critical issues.)

Isn't that what daydreams and visualizations are? First, you have a thought, ask for it, and then take action.

I loved living in the forest, building our log home, and living in the completed house. Our loft served as my office and a guest bedroom. My computer and desk sat in front of a window (of course), where I could look out over the forest below. After I got my horse, Duchess, we had a temporary fence below my window, and I could watch her from my window.

Neil and I contended with beavers for a time. Those cute, gnawing, flat-tailed creatures caused the road to flood, for they had jammed saplings and debris into the culvert that carried the stream under our road. 

When we had the road excavated and culvert installed, we thought the stream would gurgle through and go on its merry way. The beavers thought differently. They would gnaw down a few saplings, jam them in a culvert along with debris to chink the cracks then sleep undisturbed from the sound of rushing water.

Apparently, the sound of rushing water is to them, like a dripping faucet is for us.

Their job is to quiet it. The people removed the plug. The beavers put it back in.

I don’t know how many times we that that, until our son-in-law came to our rescue!

 He built a beaver baffle (his term), a fence a foot or so out from the culvert into the water. That freed us from standing atop the culvert and leaning over while pushing a long swimming pool-hooked pole into the culvert and pulling out the saplings and debris. I said it was like doing a hysterectomy through the birth canal. Eventually, the beavers disappeared. However, I believe the neighbors had a hand with that.

We had sold our house in town, bought a fifth wheel, and lived on-site for two years. I casually mentioned at the Battery Exchange that I needed someone to move a fifth wheel, and a man there volunteered.

 There it was, the grapevine effect again, and state-side this time.

 During our time in the fifth wheel, I oversaw almost every aspect of the construction.

 Neil had emergency surgery while living in the fifth wheel, lost a cancerous kidney, and 20 years later, that one kidney is still going strong.

During those construction years, I would drive into town in the morning and pick up a kid, a helper. He told me his dreams as I drove us to the house. He spoke Spanish, and I didn't. (Two years of college Spanish had vanished unless you want me to count to ten or ask for your name.) However, the kid and I muddled through. He was strong and could carry couches and solid oak furniture, and we rented a tuxedo for him when he agreed to serve at Lisa’s wedding. 

I praise every person who worked on that house. I was the director, and every artist there contributed to the whole. They created a home better than I had imagined. I drew the floor plans, and the log builder set a perfect hipped roof on it and created the blueprints. A structural engineer ensured the house was adequately supported with rebar. A log home settles, so it must be built to accommodate that. The owner can tighten huge nuts on blots and thus tighten down the house every few years. It had a full daylight basement, where the necessary tightening could be accomplished at the ceiling space. Our logs were well-dried before construction, so there was slight shrinkage.

There was room in that basement for a two-car garage, storage for hay, a bathroom, and another bedroom, which later DD turned into an apartment for herself and her baby.

I called it "The House that Dave Built," for we had four independent contractors named Dave. The finish carpenter, Dave, was an artist par excellence. If you are building with logs, hire a mountain climber, for they know how to use ropes and pulleys. Dave installed a twelve-foot header log over a strip of sun room windows without help. He built a stained-glass window for the loft bathroom, cut logs (a mistake on a log cannot be spackled back together), and built cabinets. Many people have complained that building a house is wrought with pain and stress, yet I enjoyed the process. We even served Thanksgiving dinner at the fifth wheel with turkey cooked overnight on an outside grill. 

Ramtha said once that we do everything for the experience of it. We could argue that point. However, I decided to take on this job for the experience. 

Sweet Marie, our log designer's mammoth crane, remained parked in the driveway, ready when a truck of numbered logs arrived from Eastern Oregon. 

 The structure had been assembled on a lot, each log numbered, and then disassembled and trucked to our site. The log builder followed them in his camper and lived on the property for a few days while his crew assembled the logs. Then, he would be off working on another house until the next round of logs came. 

Those men could use a chainsaw with such skill it looked as though they were cutting through butter. Every log fit together so tightly that not a strip of paper could be forced between them. The structure needed no chinking, for a V-groove cut in the top log created a saddle that sat astride the bottom one.

I can't imagine how much time and expense our log designer (Greg Steckler of Log Rhythms, Inc) saved us by leaving his crane parked at our house. It was there when the logs arrived, and it was there to install four of the skylight windows, which were the largest allowed.

When DD sold her property in Southern Oregon and moved in with us, after she worked on her apartment, and we added another bathroom, she and I flipped the house I mentioned earlier.

DD waited 12 painful months for artificial insemination to work and another 9 months for Baby Boy Darling to arrive. We experienced a housing decline and a drop in business. We decided to move to Hawaii, where the house cost a quarter of what our present one did.  

We rented the log house and moved.

 

  

36

A Star Fell on Junction City

 

I found a star in my backyard this morning.

 It was purple and made of mylar. Once, I'm sure it once was a fat, puffed-up balloon, but this morning, it was limp and crinkled.

It tickled me that it chose to settle in our yard. Especially after I wrote about stars falling on Illinois that 4th of July many years ago. Don't you wonder where a fallen balloon came from? Were they released by accident or on purpose? 

Usually I don't like Mylar balloons. They hang around the house like an unwelcome guest you can't get rid of. Compared to the original rubber ones, I consider them a travesty. Rubber ones are fragile globes of living color, beautiful when the sun lights them and disappointing when they pop.

One of our fun experiences at Disneyland involved a rubber balloon. Baby Darling was about two years old, and we were there without his older cousin, who was five and lived in Oregon. DD suggested we write a note to Casey, the cousin, and send it to Oregon on a balloon.

Excitedly we bought a balloon and with a black Magic Marker we wrote notes on the balloon. We enrolled Baby Darling to ceremoniously release it and watched as it winged itself, its tail, aka ribbon, swinging back and forth as it grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared. Baby Darling thought that was the most fun thing. "Up, up, up," he said.

The older grandson is now seventeen, and we occasionally ask him if his balloon has arrived. 

As I have said, Disneyland is DD's favorite spot on the planet. The many visits we had when she was growing up, with friends, with family, with just us, still rings in her soul.

And it's true, as Disney said, that the outside world doesn't exist when you are at Disneyland.

 One year, we saw a real mouse scampering along the sidewalk and carried home that image as the fun aspect of the day. They keep cats on the property to control the rodent situation, so I’ve read. Strange, I've never seen a cat there—maybe they stay hidden in the daytime.

For some families, going to Disneyland is a once-in-a-lifetime event, unique to the kids, and exhausting to the parents. When time is limited, visitors try to jam in as many experiences as possible—I've been there.

But when we lived in Southern California and could buy season tickets, we found that you didn't have to exhaust yourself but could save yourself to fight another day.

One day, I complained about the crowds. Daughter Dear said, "It's a party." And I got with the program.

What if life is a party?

 

Whew!

Don’t you love fresh and new?

I was feeling that life was wearing out, becoming dull and joyless.

And then Kamala Harris came roaring in like that lady from the Cavalia Horse Show who whooped into the arena at breakneck speed, standing atop two horses who seemed to be having the time of their lives.

Now, that was fresh.

I felt like I had jumped on a trampoline. I am so tired of griping and complaining and getting caught up in it is so easy. It’s perversive, like a brown blanket of doom descending on us. It sucks the joy out of living. I know I’m speaking for myself, but perhaps others feel as I do.

I was tired of people telling me the world was going to hell and that people were manipulating and lying to me. I was tired of people asking for money by giving me a teaser and then saying that I ought to upgrade.

The trouble is, living that way just makes it more true. (Yep, I mean true and more true. Some think truth is absolute, but I have found that everyone has their own "truth.")

Right out of the starting gate, Harris was criticized for her quick smile and laughter. I know, when you are in an emotional quagmire and some shiny, glad-faced person comes into the room laughing and joking--it's irritating.

But then, we see reality.

Hey, this is fun. Let’s join the program. Get up and dance.

So, we go outside and see the green, and we praise the plants that are thriving and the ones that are struggling. I thank their determination to grow and to provide Oxygen for us. They aren’t just for beauty and use; they are co-creators with us.

Is it not so green where you live? Well, The Midwest is fun, too; the rock formations and the cliff dwellings tell us of long-lost civilizations who probably wanted what we want: food, shelter, security, friendship, and families, and who also wanted to believe in the goodness of life.

While we were so busy worrying, listening to the rabble in the marketplace, and contemplating our navels, we didn’t look out there to thank those who went before us and the freedoms they fought so hard to give us.

A few weeks ago, I was asking for a renaissance.

Maybe there is one on the horizon.

Your Story Matters 35 & 36 / Renaissance / Whew

 

 

 35

 

On Davis Mountain

How often had I mentally walked through our log home before we began excavation? Three thousand six hundred and eighty. (I exaggerate, but not on the critical issues.)

Isn't that what daydreams and visualizations are? First, you have a thought, ask for it, and then take action.

I loved living in the forest, building our log home, and living in the completed house. Our loft served as my office and a guest bedroom. My computer and desk sat in front of a window (of course), where I could look out over the forest below. After I got my horse, Duchess, we had a temporary fence below my window, and I could watch her from my window.

Neil and I contended with beavers for a time. Those cute, gnawing, flat-tailed creatures caused the road to flood, for they had jammed saplings and debris into the culvert that carried the stream under our road. 

When we had the road excavated and culvert installed, we thought the stream would gurgle through and go on its merry way. The beavers thought differently. They would gnaw down a few saplings, jam them in a culvert along with debris to chink the cracks then sleep undisturbed from the sound of rushing water.

Apparently, the sound of rushing water is to them, like a dripping faucet is for us.

Their job is to quiet it. The people removed the plug. The beavers put it back in.

I don’t know how many times we that that, until our son-in-law came to our rescue!

 He built a beaver baffle (his term), a fence a foot or so out from the culvert into the water. That freed us from standing atop the culvert and leaning over while pushing a long swimming pool-hooked pole into the culvert and pulling out the saplings and debris. I said it was like doing a hysterectomy through the birth canal. Eventually, the beavers disappeared. However, I believe the neighbors had a hand with that.

We had sold our house in town, bought a fifth wheel, and lived on-site for two years. I casually mentioned at the Battery Exchange that I needed someone to move a fifth wheel, and a man there volunteered.

 There it was, the grapevine effect again, and state-side this time.

 During our time in the fifth wheel, I oversaw almost every aspect of the construction.

 Neil had emergency surgery while living in the fifth wheel, lost a cancerous kidney, and 20 years later, that one kidney is still going strong.

During those construction years, I would drive into town in the morning and pick up a kid, a helper. He told me his dreams as I drove us to the house. He spoke Spanish, and I didn't. (Two years of college Spanish had vanished unless you want me to count to ten or ask for your name.) However, the kid and I muddled through. He was strong and could carry couches and solid oak furniture, and we rented a tuxedo for him when he agreed to serve at Lisa’s wedding. 

I praise every person who worked on that house. I was the director, and every artist there contributed to the whole. They created a home better than I had imagined. I drew the floor plans, and the log builder set a perfect hipped roof on it and created the blueprints. A structural engineer ensured the house was adequately supported with rebar. A log home settles, so it must be built to accommodate that. The owner can tighten huge nuts on blots and thus tighten down the house every few years. It had a full daylight basement, where the necessary tightening could be accomplished at the ceiling space. Our logs were well-dried before construction, so there was slight shrinkage.

There was room in that basement for a two-car garage, storage for hay, a bathroom, and another bedroom, which later DD turned into an apartment for herself and her baby.

I called it "The House that Dave Built," for we had four independent contractors named Dave. The finish carpenter, Dave, was an artist par excellence. If you are building with logs, hire a mountain climber, for they know how to use ropes and pulleys. Dave installed a twelve-foot header log over a strip of sun room windows without help. He built a stained-glass window for the loft bathroom, cut logs (a mistake on a log cannot be spackled back together), and built cabinets. Many people have complained that building a house is wrought with pain and stress, yet I enjoyed the process. We even served Thanksgiving dinner at the fifth wheel with turkey cooked overnight on an outside grill. 

Ramtha said once that we do everything for the experience of it. We could argue that point. However, I decided to take on this job for the experience. 

Sweet Marie, our log designer's mammoth crane, remained parked in the driveway, ready when a truck of numbered logs arrived from Eastern Oregon. 

 The structure had been assembled on a lot, each log numbered, and then disassembled and trucked to our site. The log builder followed them in his camper and lived on the property for a few days while his crew assembled the logs. Then, he would be off working on another house until the next round of logs came. 

Those men could use a chainsaw with such skill it looked as though they were cutting through butter. Every log fit together so tightly that not a strip of paper could be forced between them. The structure needed no chinking, for a V-groove cut in the top log created a saddle that sat astride the bottom one.

I can't imagine how much time and expense our log designer (Greg Steckler of Log Rhythms, Inc) saved us by leaving his crane parked at our house. It was there when the logs arrived, and it was there to install four of the skylight windows, which were the largest allowed.

When DD sold her property in Southern Oregon and moved in with us, after she worked on her apartment, and we added another bathroom, she and I flipped the house I mentioned earlier.

DD waited 12 painful months for artificial insemination to work and another 9 months for Baby Boy Darling to arrive. We experienced a housing decline and a drop in business. We decided to move to Hawaii, where the house cost a quarter of what our present one did.  

We rented the log house and moved.

 

  

36

A Star Fell on Junction City

 

I found a star in my backyard this morning.

 It was purple and made of Mylar. Once, I'm sure it once was a fat, puffed-up balloon, but this morning, it was limp and crinkled.

It tickled me that it chose to settle in our yard. Especially after I wrote about stars falling on Illinois that 4th of July many years ago. Don't you wonder where a fallen balloon came from? Were they released by accident or on purpose? 

Usually I don't like Mylar balloons. They hang around the house like an unwelcome guest you can't get rid of. Compared to the original rubber ones, I consider them a travesty. Rubber ones are fragile globes of living color, beautiful when the sun lights them and disappointing when they pop.

One of our fun experiences at Disneyland involved a rubber balloon. Baby Darling was about two years old, and we were there without his older cousin, who was five and lived in Oregon. DD suggested we write a note to Casey, the cousin, and send it to Oregon on a balloon.

Excitedly we bought a balloon and with a black Magic Marker we wrote notes on the balloon. We enrolled Baby Darling to ceremoniously release it and watched as it winged itself, its tail, aka ribbon, swinging back and forth as it grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared. Baby Darling thought that was the most fun thing. "Up, up, up," he said.

The older grandson is now seventeen, and we occasionally ask him if his balloon has arrived. 

As I have said, Disneyland is DD's favorite spot on the planet. The many visits we had when she was growing up, with friends, with family, with just us, still rings in her soul.

And it's true, as Disney said, that the outside world doesn't exist when you are at Disneyland.

 One year, we saw a real mouse scampering along the sidewalk and carried home that image as the fun aspect of the day. They keep cats on the property to control the rodent situation, so I’ve read. Strange, I've never seen a cat there—maybe they stay hidden in the daytime.

For some families, going to Disneyland is a once-in-a-lifetime event, unique to the kids, and exhausting to the parents. When time is limited, visitors try to jam in as many experiences as possible—I've been there.

But when we lived in Southern California and could buy season tickets, we found that you didn't have to exhaust yourself but could save yourself to fight another day.

One day, I complained about the crowds. Daughter Dear said, "It's a party." And I got with the program.

What if life is a party?

 

Whew!

Don’t you love fresh and new?

I was feeling that life was wearing out, becoming dull and joyless.

And then Kamala Harris came roaring in like that lady from the Cavalia Horse Show who whooped into the arena at breakneck speed, standing atop two horses who seemed to be having the time of their lives.

Now, that was fresh.

I felt like I had jumped on a trampoline. I am so tired of griping and complaining and getting caught up in it is so easy. It’s perversive, like a brown blanket of doom descending on us. It sucks the joy out of living. I know I’m speaking for myself, but perhaps others feel as I do.

I was tired of people telling me the world was going to hell and that people were manipulating and lying to me. I was tired of people asking for money by giving me a teaser and then saying that I ought to upgrade.

The trouble is, living that way just makes it more true. (Yep, I mean true and more true. Some think truth is absolute, but I have found that everyone has their own "truth.")

Right out of the starting gate, Harris was criticized for her quick smile and laughter. I know, when you are in an emotional quagmire and some shiny, glad-faced person comes into the room laughing and joking--it's irritating.

But then, we see reality.

Hey, this is fun. Let’s join the program. Get up and dance.

So, we go outside and see the green, and we praise the plants that are thriving and the ones that are struggling. I thank their determination to grow and to provide Oxygen for us. They aren’t just for beauty and use; they are co-creators with us.

Is it not so green where you live? Well, The Midwest is fun, too; the rock formations and the cliff dwellings tell us of long-lost civilizations who probably wanted what we want: food, shelter, security, friendship, and families, and who also wanted to believe in the goodness of life.

While we were so busy worrying, listening to the rabble in the marketplace, and contemplating our navels, we didn’t look out there to thank those who went before us and the freedoms they fought so hard to give us.

A few weeks ago, I was asking for a renaissance.

Maybe there is one on the horizon.