Phyllis

0body Rites Nymr

How often in a day do you get a text from somebody, especially young somebodies, that you have to decipher? It’s like a paragraph of acronyms. But worse. It’s TextSpeak. Or would that be txt spk? Not only do they not use real words, they see no need for capitalization or punctuation. “hi c u sn bty need $” Where will it stop?

We already know kids aren’t being taught cursive in school. How long before they don’t know how to spell at all? Or write at all? Will there soon be a day when we walk into nursery school and see all the toddlers with iPads (maybe called totPads), learning basic communication with abbreviated words and emojis? Kids already text when they are in the same room with their friends; will oral communication become a thing of the past? Will our larynxes shrivel up as we evolve? I can see it now. In the distant future, giant thumbs on legs are studying archeological remains. They have found the missing link, a race of beings from the 21st Century. Odd creatures these ancients; they have long torsos with a slender apparatus upholding an orb on which are located the eyes, nose and eating orifice. In the apparatus is some bony structure. “wht cud this hav been used 4,” one archeologist texts to another.

This train of thought all began when I ran out to the store to get stationery. I wanted to write a letter to my mother-in-law, but realized I had no dedicated writing paper. All I had was copy paper for the printer and some legal pads yellowing with age. How long had it been since I had actually hand written a letter? Far too long, obviously, as I soon found that stationery had become an endangered commodity. Walmart had notebook paper, but no letter paper. I tried Walgreen’s and was momentarily buoyed when I spotted a sign proclaiming just such a dedicated section. What I found was a selection of envelopes of various sizes, mostly larger padded mailers. An office supply store then, I thought, but found the very same scenario.

A Google search yielded sources of “vintage” letter writing paper. I quickly ordered a supply, wondering what will happen when I follow through on threats of shutting down my Internet and stepping back to simpler times where you go to a store to find things. I can’t depend on grocery sacks to write on; it’s mostly plastic bags these days. I guess I will have to use the backs of junk mail until the postal service becomes obsolete. Then it won’t matter anyway, as there will be no way to send written missives. I will have to get in the car and go visit whoever I want to communicate with. Which isn’t such a bad thing. I only hope they still remember how to use their larynx when I get there.

I didn’t want to wait another minute to write my letter, now that I knew how unsure the writing future had become, so I improvised. I wrote a progressive letter on a series of aging notecards I found in a cubbyhole of my writing desk. OMG!! TTYL

by
Phyllis

TV after 50

I remember daytime television back in those early years when I was a stay-at-home mom. Not that I got to see much of it because you don’t sit still when you have young children lying, crawling, toddling, and running about. However, at nap time, I could set up the ironing board and watch a soap or two guilt free. The guilt came later when my three-year-old started singing “Old McDonald Carey had a farm.” Apparently the little darlin’ was not always asleep when the first soap came on, proclaiming, “This is McDonald Carey, and these are the Days of Our Lives.”

The soaps were turned off so I wouldn’t jade the toddlers. I turned to silent books after that for nap time so the kids wouldn’t suffer. The ironing was a different story. You just can’t flip pages and wrangle a hot iron at the same time. Thank God for the advent of permanent press!!

Today I was a stay-at-home. . . person. That’s all. There were no little ones; I just stayed home for a repairman to fix my Internet. I’ve been working for more than 30 years, so being at home during the week is not the norm unless it’s a holiday, which has its own set of chores. I couldn’t get online to update my Facebook page or the website, and I didn’t have a new book to read, so I did a little laundry and started thinking about what I wanted to post on here today. The repairman came mid morning and while he was outside working on the lines, I turned on the television so that when the service was restored I would know, no matter where I was in the house.

I was polishing the counters when programming resumed. Monk was on and I got caught up in the episode. After the first few commercials, I realized they had a common thread. The first commercial was for a GrandPad, apparently a communication device specifically so older folks can communicate with the kids. (Way back when, in olden days, they had this thing called a telephone. Grandma communicated with it just fine.) The next one was for AARP approved insurance. These were followed by Medicare benefits, a portable nebulizer, and a machine that creates oxygen from the air.

At this point, I turned the television off and began to reflect. Who, exactly, is watching TV in the mornings these days? Kids are enrolled in some kind of school by the time they reach nine months, and women are almost pitied if they aren’t pursuing high-powered careers straight out of school, families notwithstanding. Men have never been the day-time television demographic, so who does that leave? Unless I just happened upon the Geezer channel, television programming is geared to people who are sitting at home thinking about getting a ride to the doctor.

I plan to retire soon, so this was a little scary for me. Is this what the future holds? Should I keep on working just to avoid a life of endless sitcoms broken up by Life Alert commercials? I sat gazing at the black screen for a while, then shook my head, throwing off the depressing image trying to take root. No, I am master of my fate, captain of my destiny. I willed the Universe to send me a sign that I was bound for greater things.

Filled with optimism, I turned the television back on and randomly selected a different channel. Judge Judy dismissed a case and a commercial followed. Beano. Apparently my aging system will need help digesting. If I don’t take Beano, I may need my Medicare benefits to provide a ride to a doctor. Otherwise, I could end up using Life Alert to get me some help before I require a portable oxygen machine. Really, Universe? That’s the best you could do?

by
Phyllis

Telegram, Telegraph, Teladoc?

I keep getting notices in the mail from my insurance informing me that I can save time and energy by not bothering to go to a clinic when I am sick. I can just call up Teladoc. Right! If I want someone to just guess what may be wrong, I can call my sister. I hear there are also virtual clinics. I will want a virtual doctor when I have a virtual illness. If I am sick or hurting somewhere in this flesh-and-bone body, I want a flesh-and-bone doctor to see me, take my temperature, get a blood sample maybe, pat my arm, or say, “Does this hurt?” Or all of that.

I have not used the Teladoc service, so I can’t say it is good or bad; I just know I don’t want it. I know from experience that appendicitis can feel a lot like a stomach virus. How can a doctor on my phone or a website tell the difference without ever seeing me?

And think of this. What if it’s the first step to replacing real doctors with robots, and even then you don’t actually get to go into a clinic and see your primary robot. You can get a RoboMed app for your smart phone. I don’t want to pick up my phone and say, “Hey, Robodoc, I have a pain in my right leg. What’s up with that?” Robodoc may diagnose me with bone cancer when I actually have a torn meniscus. Or vice versa.

Now, I have admitted—right on this platform, in fact—that I have technophobic tendencies. I think my phone is eavesdropping and my computer is spying. Microwaves may be frying my brain and even electricity may be short circuiting my physiological wiring. I openly proclaim that I want to go back to a phone on the wall with an answering machine. A cell phone where you can be found anywhere is just an electronic cowbell. I don’t want to be called when I am in the produce aisle, or the toilet. At most, a cell phone should be an emergency device when you are on a trip. A pre-paid flip phone would work for that. I have a road atlas; I don’t need GPS on my phone. Besides, my car is already equipped with enough “helpful” devices to get me where I need to go, call emergency services, spy on me, and play my favorite music.

While I am on this soapbox, I will go further. We are a nation–maybe a world—of people who think everything should be instant and easy. I saw a sign proclaiming a drive-through window to pick up ashes for Ash Wednesday. Really? Maybe we should just do away with churches altogether and have a Salvation App for the fundamentalists, ConfessaPhone for the Catholics, and WatchtowerWeb for Jehovah’s Witnesses. We already have Amazon for shopping, and Waitr and GrubHub for meals. Folks who can telecommute for work need never leave home at all. Ever. If they miss their friends or family, they can just Skype or FaceTime. Is it just me, or is this an unhealthy path we are on?

I am protesting. I am going to unplug my microwave, go grocery shopping, pop in at a chapel, visit a friend face to face, eat at a restaurant, then stop and make an appointment with a doctor, any doctor. My cell phone is not going with me. And tonight I am reading a bona fide hard-cover book instead of streaming four episodes of Grace and Frankie.

Take that, technology.

by
Phyllis

The Call of the Wild

You hear so many stories about the tiny house movement and about retirees (and people of all ages, for that matter) who sell everything and go traveling around the country in an RV.  It has an allure, you know?  Simplifying, adventure—the call of the wild.

Scott and I answered that call recently.  Well, we at least picked up the phone, so to speak.  We kept our house and all our stuff, but we bought a tiny camper and set off to see the world.  We went as far as Blakeley State Park near Spanish Fort, Alabama, which Google Maps places at 6.7 miles from our front door.

It was all so exciting.  Scott spit shined the camper exterior while I set about getting the interior outfitted and ready to go.  We shopped at Camper World, nodding sagely to our new peers, fellow adventurers.

The morning of our trip was clear and bright.  We hooked up the camper to the truck and set off.  Twelve minutes later, we had arrived at check-in.  We were given our site number and a map and off we went to set that baby up.  After a few tries we were in place and level.  Scott was outside hooking up the sewer connections, and I was trying to get a signal on my cell phone so I could order a pillow that said “I’m sorry for what I said while we were parking the camper.”  The fact that such a pillow exists in mass quantities tells you a lot about the realities of camping.  It’s all fun and games until somebody says, “Guide me in.”

After we were in place and hooked up, the pillow was forgotten and we had a wonderful weekend, just the two of us and our dog.  The site was woodsy and felt secluded, but we had neighbors a few trees away.  It was a young couple, living the tiny home life with their two dogs.  We made fast friends, as did our dogs, and the whole “parking the camper” fiasco was forgotten.

And then it was time to pack up, unhook, and hitch up to the truck again.  Do you know it takes over two hours, for novices anyway, to just get ready to drive out of the campsite?  There should be another pillow.  A much smaller one would suffice, though.

Twelve minutes after leaving the park, we were back in our driveway.  We sat around and did an instant replay of the weekend, memories of “Guide me in” softened by the camaraderie and fun of our experience.

A couple of months later, we went back to Blakeley to join my brother and sister-in-law for a weekend.  We were better equipped and more emotionally prepared.  We still needed the pillow.  And we still had a wonderful time once we were in place and all hooked up.

We were encouraged.  We could do this.  The wild still called, so we made plans to spend two weeks in the mountains to see the foliage and live the dream.  We purchased an annual camping pass so we could make several trips to different states for mini vacations.  We went back to Camping World.  We made reservations at a park that had basketball, a fishing pond, community events, and was surrounded by mountains.

When the day came, we loaded up, hitched up, and drove to North Carolina, with an overnight stay in Tennessee.  Rather than a play-by-play, I will summarize.  We drove backroads in pitch black dark to get to the KOA, where we put the first ding on our tiny camper by way of a rock wall.  We learned that you must remember to close and latch the refrigerator door before driving away or bad things happen to it.  We learned that a storm will blow up so quickly in the mountains it will twist your awning into a canvas-and-metal pretzel before you can say, “Should we roll . . . .”

Our campground was, indeed, full of amenities and mountain views, but it was also populated wall-to-wall with other nature seekers so close you could pass a cup of coffee camper to camper through the windows.  Scott and I had a long talk, after we passed the pillow back and forth, and decided that we are not campers.  We love being in the camper in a forested area, but we don’t like having to get there, set up there, pack back up, and then leave there.  And we don’t like spending our time in what looks like a used camper lot.

I applaud all those dedicated RVers who love the life.  It’s just not our life.  We left the tiny camper on a hill in North Carolina in the care of a son who promised to watch out for it and oversee the repair of the awning, and headed back south, just the two of us and our dog.

We agreed that we can retire the camping pass and the apology pillow for all time.  The wild still calls to us, but the wild is situated on a hill overlooking a cow pasture and never has to be hitched up or leveled again.

by
Phyllis

Time, Sweet Time

Things have taken a definite shift.  Downward?  That remains to be seen.

Some friends and I are going to a theater production and decided to meet beforehand for an early dinner.  Nothing surprising there.  However, in discussing dinner plans, someone said, “Yes, let’s meet early enough to have a leisurely dinner and a glass of wine.”  The rest of us responded in variations of my own response, “No wine for me.  I would be snoring by intermission.”

When did that happen?  Now, admittedly, in my younger years, a “drink” meant a glass of tea or a Coke, which only aided in my ability to stay awake through an event such as this.  Is it the wine or is it time, sweet time that has rendered me unable to keep my eyes open through anything that starts after 8 o’clock in the evening? And reading? I love to read in bed, preferring a good book to a movie most any time.  Nowadays, I get about three paragraphs in and wake up hours later with the book on my chest and my glasses sliding down my nose.

Since most evenings now include a glass of red wine with or after dinner – heart health, you know – I am not sure if it is the alcohol-induced relaxation that has prevented me from seeing the end of a movie, or a chapter, for the last five years or if I am headed down that road to socks with sandals and coupons for a 4 p.m. dinner at Cracker Barrel.

I am choosing to believe it’s the wine.  If you read back in previous posts, you will understand that I am embracing the Law of Attraction, so I sure don’t want to attract more age-related incapacitation.  In fact, affirmations, at which I used to scoff, are becoming part of my daily ritual.  I just affirm very softly so Scott doesn’t think I believe the woman in the mirror is a visitor.

Now that I think about it, the shift is positive.  Time, sweet time has brought about good changes.  I am enjoying more, doing less hard labor, spending more time at things I am passionate about, and pretty much loving life.  As one of my cousins says, “Life is good – and then it gets better.”  I am taking time to read good books and watch good movies.  Perhaps I will forego the wine . . . nah, I’ll just go to matinees, and maybe occasionally look for some Cracker Barrel coupons.

by
Phyllis

Ah, Yes, I Remember it Well

I was sitting in the dentist’s office, patiently waiting to be called back for a filling when my cell phone rang.  It was my chiropractor’s office.

“Good morning, Ms. Pittman.”

“Good morning?”  This was said with a lift at the end, as I wasn’t used to being called by my chiropractor just for a chat.  I was confused.

“How are you?” she continued.

More confusion.  “I am fine.  How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.”

A bit of a pause here, then, “We were expecting you in the office.  Is everything alright?”

Now, I was really perplexed.  “I have an appointment for this afternoon,” I replied.  “Right now I am at the dentist’s office for a 10 o’clock appointment.”

“Well, we have you down for 10 here.”

“I am not sure . . .,” I began, then light started to dawn. “Hold on a minute.”

I got up and went to the front window.  “Is my appointment for 10?” I asked.  “No,” the receptionist replied calmly, barely looking up from her desk.  “It is for 2, but we had a cancellation for 10:30 and since you were here, I just slid you right into that slot.”

I returned to the phone.  “I am so sorry.  I had you written down for 2 and the dentist for 10, and the dentist didn’t mention that I was four hours early,“ I explained.

“Well, we have an opening for 1:30 if you can come then,” she graciously offered.  I accepted and apologized again.  How had this happened?  Was this the first leg of a long trip to not even knowing where I live?”

I went back to the front window.  “I don’t know how that happened,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” she interrupted. “It happens all the time.  People flip their appointments.”

Reassured, I returned to my seat.  The reassurance didn’t last long.  The chiropractor didn’t say it happened all the time there.  The chiropractor’s office tended to be full of vibrant young people maintaining their bodies and their Zen.  Even infants whose parents wanted to be sure they stayed aligned and healthy showed up at the chiropractor’s.  Probably on time, too.  My dentist just happened to also specialize in dentures.  Now, I know people of all ages can need dentures, but let’s face it, the usual denture demographic is far more likely to be starting on that unfortunate memory journey than the Zen seekers.

After worrying a bit, I decided not to place too much importance on the incident.  I got the filling, ran some errands, tried to chew some lunch with a numb lower jaw and lip, then headed for the chiropractor’s office a little early.  I wanted to get there before I forgot where it was.

by
Phyllis
,

Be Careful What You Wish For — or a Practical Lesson in the Law of Attraction

I learned some important things during my recent trip to North Carolina –the truth of the law of attraction (also understood as the power of positive/negative thinking) and the veracity of the premise that you learn who you are and what is important to you in an emergency. This latter can be understood as “When you are in a squeeze, what is deep inside you comes out.”

Now, I found out in a serious car accident some years ago, that when I am squeezed, I am apparently full, not of wisdom or depth of spiritual understanding, but of punch lines.

This recent trip taught me that if you precede every vacation for years on end with a marathon of Chevy Chase vacation movies, you will inevitably get some degree of  Griswoldian adventures. Ergo, the law of attraction in action.

Scott and I went to North Carolina to see two of my children and their families and exult in the fall foliage. Growing up in south Mississippi, I didn’t really get seasons–just swelter with a few days of freeze thrown in for variety. I remember once welcoming what I considered fall color only to be told by a good friend, “Phyllis, brown is not a color; it is just dead.” So for years I have been wanting to be where there is an actual fall. I moved from Mississippi, but only went further south into Alabama. Now, Fairhope, Ala. is a wonderful place, but fall there only means you tripped on the sidewalk.

So back to this vacation. We planned for October so we could glory in nature– and also take advantage of my composer son’s home studio to record The Trouble with Grits as an audio book. Michael and his family live in a charming old farm house in the heart of tobacco country, complete with a tobacco drying barn out back. It has interesting architecture and the personality and eccentricities of a historic structure. One of those original, eccentric features is a brass doorknob on the bathroom door with a unique locking system.

The first day of my visit, my son and daughter-in-law had to work, so I planned to visit Pages book store in Mt. Airy and take them more copies of the book. When I woke up, I made my way blearily to said bathroom, but when trying to make my exit, the charming knob just turned fruitlessly to the left, to the right, back to the left. It wasn’t locked, but neither was it willing to open. I surveyed my terrain. Okay, there was a window I could climb out if necessary. I opened the blinds and looked out. The window opened into the garage, which was a long way down on this historic structure. If I managed to jump down onto the cement, I would likely break or sprain something and not only still be trapped but be in pain to go with it. I looked around again. There was a toilet and there was water, both good things. The kids weren’t expected back before 7 or so that evening, so I began thinking food. Toothpaste was about the only thing on the menu, so I figured a water fast wouldn’t hurt me a bit.

I tried the door again. Nope, still eccentric. Assessing my options calmly again, I took what I considered reasonable action. I banged on the door frantically and yelled, “I am trapped in the bathroom. Anybody home?” After the third round of banging and yelling, Gizmo, their Jack Russell terrier came to my aid and began barking. On my sixth round, Gizmo’s third, I heard creaking on the stairs. Michael had not left yet–hallelujah!!!–and Gizmo’s barking had awakened him. Salvation! However, the doorknobs – and the doors—of bygone eras are very substantial and neither would budge. The screws were on the inside and the only tool I had was a toothbrush. However, there was still the window, and Michael managed to get a screwdriver through the window, enabling me to loosen the knob enough that he could forcibly remove it. Voila! When I came out of the bathroom, heady with my freedom, I noticed a note by the door, apparently taped there early in the morning by my daughter-in-law. “The bathroom doorknob is being finicky.” it read. “Please just pull the door to the jamb and don’t close it completely. Otherwise, you might get trapped in there!”

I made my ablutions and went off to Mt. Airy to fulfill my plan for the day, which included eating at the iconic Snappy Lunch made famous both by Andy Griffith’s references to it as the place to eat in Mayberry, and by their pork chop sandwich. Seated in Snappy Lunch, I learned that without the pancake batter coating, the deep frying, the bun, and any other possible wheat offenders (to which I have an intolerance), the famous pork chop sandwich deconstructs into a pork cutlet with cole slaw. But, at least I could mark it off the bucket list. No matter, there was still the glorious foliage in the mountains, although the Piedmont area was till surprisingly green. I drove north. I did not find color, but I did drive right into hairpin curves, fog, and heavy rain. At Fancy Gap, I gave it up, turned around, and went back to Pfafftown to read a book on my iPad and enjoy the rainy cool day on the porch.

The next day, Michel got the recording equipment set and sent me up to start the audiobook. I–who have been longing for pens and stationery rather than email, and landline phones with answering machines instead of cell phones and texts – was given a crash course in mute this, unarm that, set this track, now unmute, arm, and start recording. If you mess up, stop do it over, or delete if you hate the whole thing. Right! I will remember that. I finally got the first chapter exactly how I wanted it. The second chapter didn’t go so well, so I decided to delete. The delete worked just as it was supposed to, except that I deleted the perfect first chapter instead of the faulty second. An optimist, I didn’t let it upset me. I just went back and did it all over. About halfway into the fifth chapter, with my voice beginning to hoarsen, the power went out. Michael, the hurricane not Michael my son, had come to join us. I went downstairs and Michael, my son not Michael the hurricane, said, “Did you save it at all?” Save? Nobody ever said anything about save.

Again that law of attraction went into action. For two days, I got to experience life without cell phones, computers, or those pesky old electric lights. When the battery ran out on the iPad, I borrowed a paperback and read until it got too dark to see the words by candlelight. Then we turned to actual conversation, with much reminiscing and laughter. Dinner morphed from a baked chicken dish to burgers and hotdogs on the grill. Bedtime came early, but a good time was had by all.

After Michael, the hurricane not Michael my son, moved on out of the way, it was apparent there was no fall foliage as yet and time had run out on my opportunity to record. Everywhere I went I heard people talking about all the unaccustomed green in mid October. A few disgruntled serious leaf lookers were complaining to management at hotels and RV parks about the disappointment and demanding their money back. I figured that complaint should be addressed to God, and I, for one, did not want to be around when that happened. Remember the Israelites?

There was still no electricity, so we booked a very nice hotel in downtown Winston-Salem. Formerly the RJ Reynolds building, The Klimpton is a beautiful building with a delightful mix of décor. We had a lovely dinner and a glass of wine, then retired to rest up for the next part of our trip. The bed was luxurious, which translated to too soft for my spine, so I awoke often, the last time about 7 a.m., to hear an alarm going off, followed by, “Attention. Attention. An emergency has been reported in this building. Please stop operations and follow evacuation routes outside the building. Do not use elevators.” They might as well have prefaced the announcement with, “Griswolds, listen up.”

I am pleased to say that we did not panic. Neither, apparently did anyone else. We got dressed and grabbed essentials. This is where the premise of understanding what is really important to you comes in. Outside on the sidewalk, I looked around and saw a woman with a great deal of jewelry on and carrying a large purse. One man had taken the time to pack a suitcase. I saw someone with their computer bag. What did I grab? The paperback book I had started at Michael’s. I could do without my suitcase, my cell phone, and even my computer, but I HAD to know how the story ended. I am apparently not terribly deep, but at least it is easy to make me happy.

by
Phyllis

Granny Get your Gun

Now, I’ve never been an activist. I am somewhat apolitical, or at least laissez faire. I live by the Paul Simon credo: “I get all the news I need from the weather report.” Don’t be haters. There is room in this world for Simonites.

But my point is that all of that has changed. I have now taken up not only a cause, but arms to defend that cause. “Freedom of the press?” you may ask, since I have a journalism background. Nah, that will work itself out. Freedom of speech, since I am a communications major and a writer? Nope, I hear plenty of free speech going on. The right to bear arms? Well, yes, but only incidental to my main cause.

I was on the front porch this morning in the first rays of sunlight, actively fighting for the rights of birds to enjoy their feeders and their supply of gourmet, species-specific seeds unmolested by marauding bands of rogue squirrels. There are oak trees in the yard with a billion acorns, for heaven’s sake. The lawless rodents have no need to go seed rustling. It’s pure greed and a lack of regard for their fellow  – ah – phylum mates. It really comes down to a class war, kinda like the Clantons and the Cowboy Gang against innocent ranchers and townsfolk. On the battleground of my little Fairhope habitat, the Sciuridae Family has become the enemy.

So that is why I was on the porch in my PJs in the dim pre-dawn light, wild-eyed and tousle-headed, armed only with random shoes for throwing at the gang leader. I do have a BB gun somewhere, but no ammunition, and I have packed up most of my belongings for an impending move. What I DID have at hand was a collection of shoes taken off at the front door, and the first cobbled missile hurled from the porch sent Curly Bill Sciuridae scrambling up the nearest oak.

After seven more forays toward the feeders, all defeated with footwear, the Sciuridaes had turned back and an array of blue jays, cardinals, and chickadees were breakfasting peacefully on black-oil sunflower seeds and such. I had regathered my ammunition and had a cup of fresh-ground coffee in my hand. I brought my laptop out so I could work and still remain vigilant. I didn’t dare take time out for a shower, so I was still garbed in nightwear with my hair sticking up on one side and plastered down on the other. Peace reigned in my world, though, so I was content.

My attention turned from the birds to the young school children who were now making their way from the neighboring cul-de-sacs toward the bus stop near my house. I smiled and waved at the ones familiar to me, and at the parents who accompanied the youngest ones. Totally distracted by the morning ritual, I failed to see Curly Bill and Johnny Ringo sneaking in from the leafy cover of the overhead canopy. I sighed happily, then turned my head to gaze on my little flock, and there they were. The Sciuridae ring leaders were perched on top of the feeder nearest me, stuffing their nasty, greedy, furry little cheeks and staring at me in total defiance.

In my recovery of the shoes, I had discovered a cache of magnolia pods, and I quickly catapulted one of these toward the outlaws. They fled and I chased them from my yard to the neighboring trees. Maybe I was bleary eyed from doing battle before coffee, but I would almost swear Curly Bill had a red bandana tied around his hind leg. “Run, you lily livered gray coated fiends. RUN!” I yelled. Caught up in the moment, I continued, “Tell all the other curs the law’s comin’! You tell ‘em I’M coming… and hell’s coming with me, you hear?” Then I nodded to the startled young man who was hastily moving his four small children to the other side of the road and hurried inside to unpack a big box of shoes.

 

 

by
michael

Euripides and Me

“It is a good thing to be rich and a good thing to be strong, but it is a better thing to be loved by many friends.” Euripides

Old Euri, if I may be so familiar, was very wise. My riches have not yet arrived, and right now I am not very strong, what with all the falling around outdoors, but I have a wonderful circle of family and friends. And that is true wealth and a source of strength. Not a single relation or friend has ducked down to avoid being called upon. Rather, all have jumped out to offer meals, errands, dog walking —even a couple of shots of good whiskey.

My sister Wanda and her husband, Bryan, have taken me in and are caring for me while I get over surgery and until I can stand one my own one foot. My daughter and her fiancé have been here helping whenever they can, seeing that I have what I need, and trying to help Wanda and Bryan with things they have to neglect in the name of health, mine and their own. My granddaughters are ready to take shifts to come help me when I get back home —slated for today or tomorrow, in my mind anyway. My children who live too far to physically help, call and check on me.

And my friends? Elise came over yesterday to fetch and carry, armed with reading glasses with tiny lights in them –who knew? – and coloring books. Fun day! Nancy, who knows first-hand what this is all about, plans to ferry me to doctor appointments, despite the fact that she is in the midst of her own health crisis. Sheila offered to come walk my nine-month-old German shepherd puppy, Bruno. Ashton plans to come and keep me company on lunch breaks when she can.

Writers Group friends Jule, Joe, Ken, Vicki, Bob, and Ron all offered to help in various ways: shopping, food, company, and encouragement. Joe alleviated any fears of having to crawl to the cracker box for sustenance by offering to do grocery shopping – or at least bring a wheelbarrow to roll me to the cracker box. Vicki also offered to shop –maybe keeping the cracker box full, so the wheelbarrow trip will not end in disappointment. Jule, coming on 97 years young, sent a sweet card with her sympathies for my predicament and an offer to run my errands for me. She is my role model.

I haven’t named everyone who has been front and center to let me know they care, but I am grateful to all of you and feel very fortunate indeed.

And, Ron, I am off the pain meds and ready for those shots. Just disguise them as Irish coffee if you don’t mind.

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Phyllis

Turnip Juice

So, Friday night I got out of my recliner at 11 o’clock to take the dog out for one last walk before bed. I have a fenced yard, and I usually just open the back door for this purpose, but my dog has an affinity for mud puddles, and on this particular Friday night puddles were abundant. Bruno, a nine-month-old German shepherd doesn’t drink out of puddles, or step daintily over, around, or even in them. He digs until they are as thickly muddy as possible, then he pounces, paddles, slaps, and jumps in the puddle until he has sandy, icky mud dripping from his muzzle, underbelly, tail, and most of his body. The very top of his back, MAY be a mud-free zone, but the rest of his hairy carcass bears more resemblance to the back yard, than to a dog.

Ergo, the leash walks when it is or has recently been raining. I put on the leash, grabbed the umbrella, slid my feet into flip flops and stepped out into the downpour. With the second step, my left foot went flying down the steps along with the umbrella, while the right foot, the leash, and the dog tried to stay put. I landed sitting at the bottom of the steps with the umbrella in the yard and the rain beating on my head. I stayed there, stunned, for a few moments then realized the right foot had followed, though more slowly and forcefully, and was resting two steps above with the leg twisted back at an angle it hasn’t seen in 40 years. The dog, however, had not moved and seemed confused by this new mode of exit.

My first thought was, “Now what?” and my second was to reflect with kindness and a hint of longing on the Life Alert commercials. I could send Bruno for help, but even if he could be counted on to run the mile to my sister’s house, bark at the door, then announce, “Timmy’s in the Well,” he couldn’t unlatch my back gate. So, with adrenaline and willpower, I got up and back into the house, where I took off the leash –the potty walk forgotten –and kind of thump-drag, thump-dragged my way back to the recliner. Bruno, seeing this unusual ambulation, decided it was some kind of new chase game and he was ready to play. I made it to the chair, punctuating my slow progress with, “No, Bruno, leave it. Stop, Bruno, I am not playing. Lie down, Bruno.” Once I plunked back in the chair, Bruno seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation and exerted amazing bladder –and everything else—control and lay quietly on the floor while I pondered my situation.

My injuries did not warrant a 911 call, and as it was 11:30 by now and still raining heavily, I didn’t want to ask family or friends to get out in the night, plus I was hoping I had gotten away with abrasions and contusions (sounds more impressive that scrapes and bruises). My foot was red and mottled, my ankle hurt all the way around, my leg hurt all the way up to my knee and my knee wouldn’t bend without prohibitive pain. I thought about using an icepack, but where to begin? So, I just sat there until I mustered up the courage to put Bruno in his crate and Hashimotoed (or Igored –yes, master) down the hall to bed.

I awoke at 4:30 Saturday morning and quickly gave up on the idea of a simple sprain, thump-dragged to the kitchen and made coffee, then, fortified, took a shower and got dressed. Then I sat down to wait until a decent hour to call someone to take me to Thomas Hospital for X-rays. My sister, Wanda, was the first one to answer so we went to the ER, where I was told I had broken the fibula, the smaller leg bone. With a morphine shot under my belt and a bottle of hydrocodon at hand, I settled into a recliner at Wanda’s and tried to watch television. I am not sure of the programming, but the commercials penetrated my fog and a plethora of attorneys kept asking if I had had an accident and urging me to call quickly to get the compensation I deserved. I agreed I was injured, but I couldn’t figure out what compensation I deserved or from whom I deserved it.

I fell out the back steps, so maybe I should sue the lumber mill that produced the materials the steps were made with, or the carpenter who built them, or the contractor – maybe even the people for whom the house was built. But then I realized that the wooden steps were not an issue in and of themselves. It was the rain. I thought about calling the Weather Channel to task, but realized that forecasting the weather was not really causative. I didn’t think anything good could come of suing God, so I moved on. It was the dog’s fault I went out the wooden steps in the rain, but Bruno didn’t own anything but kibble and a squeaky toy. Thinking further, I realized that Bruno would have been thrilled to go out in the rain—and mud—without me, so that brought me to the breeder. Aha! She bred – and sold to me – a dog with an affinity for mud puddles, laying the groundwork for this whole fiasco.

Dog breeding is not a lucrative profession, so what could I hope to gain? Punitive damages? You can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip, they say. At best I might come out with turnip juice–a litter of eight or ten more mud-happy little furballs who would want to go out in the rain. Still the televised attorneys pleaded with me to get what I deserved. Not wanting to leave anything to chance, I watched both Perry Mason andMatlock to observe procedure. I looked up voir dire and habeus corpus and, just in case it came up in court, accident.

I read the definition of accident: “an unfortunate incident that happens unexpectedly and unintentionally; an event that happens by chance or that is without apparent or deliberate cause. Unintentional, not deliberate. Sanity returned –maybe the morphine wore off. What compensation did I deserve for flying out the back door on a flip flop? None. So I turned off the television and tried reading. Even with no lawsuit looming, Bruno did offer a settlement. He brought me his squeaky toy.

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