warp speed ahead!

Tonight, I went to watch baseball with my first niece and her family. That means her husband was there, as well as their three foster children, ages 11, 9, and 7. She also had two other little boys in tow, giving a break to another foster parent. My nephew Michael (her brother) and his girlfriend was there, too, as well as my out-law with the yellow sports car (her mother).
As it so happened, last night was a double-header at the ball park, as well as the final fireworks night for this summer of baseball. We had all arrived an hour late, not knowing of the early start, so the Sand Gnats were already in the bottom of the fourth while we were still out front. We were still there when the "7th inning stretch" song came on after the top of the fifth. I have a little pantomime I perform for the song and tried to show the kids, but they were too busy trying to get someone to buy them some Kona ice.
Shortly after, we entered the stadium and took the girl, my nephew, and his girlfriend to meet Mr. Willie. I introduced my nephew as "Clark Gable's son" and Willie knew immediately I meant my middle brother. Of course, he would, as he was the one who gave Ronnie that moniker! My nephew got a kick out of it and I expect he looked up Clark Gable to see who he was.
We stayed there in the stands and watched the last bit of the game. I explained to the 9-year-old girl what was going on and I think she was paying pretty close attention. She also got a kick out of my cheering for the team! After that inning and a half, the Gnats won and we headed to the playground to reunite with the rest of the family.
That was the most cohesive stretch of game I was able to watch. I think I may have caught about four innings, total, of the fourteen innings in the two games. Well, I guess that isn't so bad, as we missed the first four innings of play.
I'll go tomorrow and watch the game. For sure!
Anywho, this isn't about baseball.
It's about being parents.
When Mama was the age of my first niece, she had a ten-year-old daughter and three sons: eight-years-old, six-years-old, and a baby. I have no idea how she handled it. I guess it's as my bff told me some years back: she did it because it had to be done and she was the only one who would do so. As much as I was a Daddy's girl, he was there for fun times and as the back-up enforcer. Mama ruled the roost and made sure the bills got paid and meals were made and laundry was done and everyone made it to where they were supposed to be every day, including herself. After all, she worked full-time as a department clerk at the paper mill and had for several years.
Now, my first niece and her supportive, loving husband have three foster children. The eldest, a boy, is eleven years old. The girl, as I said, is 9. The younger boy is seven years old, but is mentally a couple of years younger than that. They have all been together for about two months, maybe a little longer.
My niece and her husband have been providing a safe home for children since May of last year. Since that time, they have been experiencing parenthood at warp speed, so to speak. Their first charge, made official on my birthday, was an infant girl, only about six weeks old and fresh from the hospital. The baby had been born with encephalitis and had an implanted shunt in her head for any future drainage.
She was adorable! She had this tiny white scar, like a cross, above her ankle on her dark leg, and her soul shone through her sweet chocolate eyes. We had all thought she might be adoptable, so we allowed her to steal our hearts. It didn't matter that she might have developmental issues down the road. We would deal with that issue in its own time. Plus, that would not be a challenge for my first niece, as she has experience with those special challenges.
For five months, we had that little girl, watching her grow and flourish. Alas, the adoption never happened. Even though the little girl's mother had signed off on it, her mother would not allow it, eventually convincing the baby's birth aunt to become her guardian.
We were all heartbroken.
Soon, though, they were fostering two little Near East sisters. They were four years old and about fifteen months old; the younger child had a broken leg. We all knew the girls would soon be reunited with their parents, who were both working hard to complete the tasks of the Department of Child and Family Services. The children were gone in only a few weeks.
My niece and her husband then had respite care of a toddler boy for a week or so before their next long-term children came to their home. They knew before the children arrived that they would eventually be going home to their dad. The little girl was five years old; her brother was a year younger. It was thought that the children would only be there for two or three months. No. The dad's progress through the DFACS program was slower than anticipated, but he did finally finish and received the children in early June.
Still, we all enjoyed each other, going to movies and out to dinners and lunches. As the girl was in kindergarten, there was also the new experience of having children in school. This meant more organized home life, with enforcing of bedtimes and helping with homework and having morning routines. Definitely, this was a different level of parenting skills than previously needed, but those skills were attained!
Now, they have these older children. School-aged, but more advanced. Since they're siblings, they CONSTANTLY pick at each other. If one has something new, then they ALL have to have something new. Constant checking of each other's status, constant monitoring of each other's perks, constant vying for the center of attention. CONSTANTLY.
If you're unaccustomed to it, it can drive you crazy. There simply is not enough energy in the world to combat that sort of nonsense. Nor is there any way to stop it from occuring over and over and over. Because it is constant, except when the children sleep.
But it's just what siblings DO. I remember my three brothers, in particular, going at each other what seemed all of the time. I became quite adept at tuning them out by diving into a good book.
I think Mama was able to handle their bickering by tuning it out, too.
The time to worry was always when there was silence around the house. That meant the boys were doing something they knew was a bad idea. So, noise was okay. It meant: situation normal.
My niece and her husband are good parents and are becoming better ones all the time. They're getting on-the-job training and, though it's rough sometimes, I know they wouldn't change a thing.
The kids are bickering and whining again?
Good.
Situation normal.

so the coach says

So, the baseball manager walked out to the mound and said to the rookie pitcher, "Son, I think you've had enough."

"But I struck this guy out the last time he came up," the pitcher protested.

"I know, but we're still in the same inning."

This old joke was in one of my recent magazines. I had left the page open to it so I would remember to copy it and send it to my youngest brother in north Georgia.
Last Sunday, the peace Guy came to visit and see "Sweeney Todd" with me. He had arrived very early in the morning.
About seven hours later, we're dining on scrambled eggs and kale and conversation. I saw him glancing at the page opened to the jokes and told him I was sending the baseball joke to my little brother. He takes a moment to read the joke, but then tells me he doesn't get it.
Sports Guy he is not.
So I explained that in baseball there are nine batters in rotation. So, if it was still the same inning and the pitcher was about to pitch to the same man for the second time, then the pitcher had not yet gotten three men out. If you're a pitcher, that means you're not good. The goal is to get three outs with the first three men at bat, not to allow them to get on base and make runs.
Poor li'l' pitcher didn't get that!

I hadn't realized at the time, but that joke was destined to get around. Last Sunday, one of my old baseball-watching buddies, Arthur, was at the afternoon game with me, as was his granddaughter. I told him I'd had to teach the peace Guy about baseball and then told Arthur the joke and he laughed! His granddaughter didn't quite get it, so I explained about batting order to her. She thought the joke was funny, then.
Meanwhile, the peace Guy had gone to his Quaker meeting. Afterward, the group is socializing and the topic of baseball comes up. So, he regales them with the joke! Cool, n'est-ce pas?
I sure thought so, when he shared the tale with me later.
And I was glad I'd had that page open.
You never know when something you regard as a little thing is going to hold meaning for someone else.
If I had to guess, I'd say he'll keep that joke in mind for future outings.

Yesterday, I finally wrote to my brother and sent the joke wending its way northward. I also told the joke to my middle brother, who had come by for an unexpected visit. Then, on the cancer ward at the hospital, I told the joke to my stepbrother, longtime lover of humor and sports, and his French wife. He got a chortle out of the joke; she laughed to keep him company. Then, when I remarked that I'd had to explain it to my housemate, she confessed that she had laughed solely because we had, so she knew it had to be funny.
So I explained batting order to her, too.
Again, my guess is that baseball joke is going to have legs, so to speak. And my guess is that those who are new to the understanding of baseball will tell it as much as those who have been sports fans for a long time.

Maybe a little friendly explanation about matters one assumes everyone knows would go a long way to making life on this blue-green world a little nicer for all of us.

hoot like an owl!

This conversation took place late last night between my first niece and myself. I thought it was cute and want to keep it. Also, it reminded me of some of the crazy talks Mama and I used to have. Definitely fun times!

her: Honked at your house again today..
me: It didn't tell me! bad house!
me: Why r u up?
her: I am a night owl... whoooo whooo
me: Hoot hoot! :)
her: unfortunately though this night owl has to be at work again at 530 in the morning
me: Then off to bed with yer bad self!
her: I am in bed.
her: I need to go to sleep. That is the hard part.
me: Put the phone away, dear. close ur eyes!
her: Love you... r u going to Sams? How is George?
me: Will see him 2morrow. love you 2.
her: Yes, ma'am. <3 ;-)

yippeekiiaye

So, what was your first thought when you saw this?
I know the card was meant to be a congratulatory message.
That isn't my take on it.
Nosirreebob.
That's why I added the exclamation point!
Want to guess? Come on, just one guess!
*
*
*
*
*
Still no?
*
*
*
*
*
Okay, are you ready for this?
*
*
*
Think banditos and a stagecoach... Yeah! It's straight out of a Western, isn't it?!
That's what I told my youngest brother when I was writing to him today.
I think he'll get a churckle out of it.
I did!

music at a ball park

Sitting in the ball park on a Sunday afternoon, watching the game with friends, chillin' in the breeze from the huge overhead fans. From the speakers we hear: "We will, we will ROCK YOU! We will, we will ROCK YOU!"
Black girl says, "I should know who that is, but I don't."
White girl says, "Queen..."
"... you know, Prince's mother."
Both girls look at each other, chuckle, and give a high five.
Fun!

fencing, u say?

I miss the peace Guy.
Sure, he comes to town about once a month and stays with me, so I get to see him when a lot of folks don't.
That's very nice and lets me know I am special to him.
But I miss talking with him every night.
Now, we have texting, though not every day.
It's not nearly as satisfying, but we do have some good talks.
Here's one from three days ago. Keep in mind that the day before all of this is when he found he had been given his desired work shift for the next few months: 10 AM to 6:30 PM, Monday through Friday, with weekends off. This is the first time he's had evenings and weekends off for several years.

me: I am sure that when u wrote [on fb] 'men in ATL suck' u meant 'men in ATL bars suck'. which means, as always, u r in the wrong place, dear.
me: Men in bars r looking 4 sex. Period. U need other social outlets. Srsly. U have lots of time to find Mr. Right. U r going to b in ATL for a while.
me: Slow down, you're moving too fast, got to make the moment last... and meanwhile, u have Rocky Palmer and and his 5 talented dancing fellows to ease ur tension.

him: Feeling groovy today. But not having any luck online, either.

me: U need real people, not cyber dudes.
me: Glad u got the song reference!
me: No queer quaker group? srsly, there should be.
me: Got class @ 6. u get Creative Loafing, check out some group activities. please?
me: U may even take up fencing! :-)

him: Fencing? You've got 2 b kidding. Do i look like erroll flynn 2 u? Lol

me: Well... U would have to lose the chin hair! hahaha!

after class...
me: I am so glad you will soon have 'normal' working hours! u will be able to hang out with people who r not energy vampires.
me: I think when u start getting off @ 6, u will have plenty of time to wind down. that will be great!
me: Plus, u will be tired. Fencing is hard work!

6 empty bottles of tequila to keep me company

The song is from Royal Court of China and appears on their "Geared and Primed" album.
Of course, that song is special to me, as tequila is my poison of choice.
In particular, this brand of tequila.
Cabo Wabo Reposado.
Mighty fine.
I've been enjoying it since... well, ever since fall of 2007. As you well know, that was the prelude to my AD world and the times were very rough on my psyche. I needed something to take the edge off, to allow me to sleep peacefully.
Tequila has been my choice of poison since I was in my late teens. (Yes, I'm old enough that 18 was the legal drinking age. Yes, tequila, like all alcohols, is a poison. If you don't believe me, try watering your plants with it and see what happens.)
So, there it was, fall of 2007, and I was wandering around in the liquor store. And what did I espy with my little eye?
A beautiful blue gem.
A beautiful blue gem filled with tequila.
A be-yoo-ti-ful blue gem filled with sipping tequila that was crafted by one of my favorite rock singers.
I guess I was predisposed to like it, as I've actually been to Cabo Wabo, once upon a time. We (when I was still wed to the Detroiter) didn't tour that paricular tequila factory, but we did go to Todos Santos to visit the Hotel California.
Yes! That Hotel California!
And we did tour a tequila factory earlier on the cruise, when we had docked in ...hmmm, Acapulco? Puerto Vallarta? It's been a few years... Anyway, what I recall most was how good the sipping tequilas were and - are you ready to learn something? - the lack of a hangover when drinking 100% blue agave tequila.
Seriously.
That is 100% true, too. I've performed several experiments over the past six years, with the same result every time. No hangover, regardless of quantity imbibed.
So, no cheap tequila for me. No mixers, either.
I like it neat.
I just wish it still came in those beautiful blue glass bottles.

blue moon, you knew just what I was there for

I've not been sleeping well this week.
No, I take that back. When I do go to sleep, I feel that I sleep soundly, so that is not the problem.
I've had difficulty going to bed this week.
Yes. Yes, that is definitely right.
I have found myself staying up until 2, 2:30, 3 AM...then I get up at 8 or 8:30...then I do it all over again. I went through a similar sleep cycle when the peace Guy left. I finally figured out that I was waiting for him to get home from work. Still. And once I realized that, I found I was able to go to sleep at my usual midnight or midnight thirty.
Well, not this week.
I had noticed on Monday, after class, that the moon was nearly full. We'd had a cloudless night sky and the moon was at the 2 o'clock mark, beaming brightly over the nearly empty parking lot. In other words, it was a very lovely night.
And that is when I had my first up-until-two evening.
No big deal. I didn't have anywhere I needed to be on Tuesday morning, so I slept until 9:30-ish.
Then I was up until 2 AM again.
I made myself arise at 8:30. After all, I knew from previous bouts with odd sleep cycles that the best way to break them was to maintain a constant wake-up time. Fewer hours of sleep would lead to earlier bed times within only a day or two, tops.
So, Wednesday night, I see the moon and the moon sees me.
Fine.
I'm bopping around on fb, doing my touch-and-go routine, when I'm suddenly stopped in my meanderings. One of the cool pages (either "Science is awesome" or "From Quarks to Quasars") has a post about blue moons! Oh, really?
So I read it. Then I wander off and find this.
Ah-hah! That is no ordinary moon! It's a seasonal blue moon!
In other words, this summer, instead of only three full moons from June 21 to September 21, we're going to have four. And, since each month's one full moon has it's own name, then a thirteenth moon needs a special name for itself, so the other moons don't get out of whack in the naming scheme.
I swear, I am not making this stuff up. Check the references.
It's all based on solid math, too, jsyk. I mean, just so you know.
The lunar cycle, or length of time for the moon's orbit around the Earth, is 29.53 days. That's a pretty odd length and, when divided into the length of an Earth year, there's about 11 days left over leading into the next Earth year. Those remaindered days add up such that there are "extra" moons, i.e., more than the usual one per month. In fact, there are seven extra full moons for every 19-year span of time.
In other words, for every 19 years, there will be seven years with thirteen moons.
That's a pretty cool fact.
So, it works out to one month having two full moons, which, of course, means a season with four full moons.
Again, that's pretty cool.
So, to toast this seasonal full moon, I went out into my front yard to stare into it. And also, literally, to toast it with my birthday tequila. I even recited my rap to it!
After all, there won't be another blue moon until May 21, 2016.
Go ahead, look it up for yourself.
Me? I'm going to bed.
'Night!

Oh, one last thing. If you can figure out what that extra little spot is that seems to be orbiting the moon, how about letting me know, okay?
And don't try to say it's a plane or a satelite, either. Those travel in straight lines.
Thanks!

someone's father, someone's son

My outlaw Bunny's mom sent this to me. It isn't the first time, probably won't be the last, either. I'm sharing it here, partly so I'll be able to find it anytime I want it.
I like the piece because it is a prime example of someone in the right place at the right time, even though they didn't realize it at the time.
There are no coincidences.

****************
A nurse took the tired, anxious serviceman to the bedside.

"Your son is here," she said to the old man. She had to repeat the words several times before the patient's eyes opened.

Heavily sedated because of the pain of his heart attack, he dimly saw the young uniformed Marine standing outside the oxygen tent. He reached out his hand. The Marine wrapped his toughened fingers around the old man's limp ones, squeezing a message of love and encouragement.

The nurse brought a chair so that the Marine could sit beside the bed. All through the night the young Marine sat there in the poorly lit ward, holding the old man's hand and offering him words of love and strength.

Occasionally, the nurse suggested that the Marine move away and rest awhile. He refused. Whenever the nurse came into the ward, the Marine was oblivious of her and of the night noises of the hospital - the clanking of the oxygen tank, the laughter of the night staff members exchanging greetings, the cries and moans of the other patients.

Now and then she heard him say a few gentle words. The dying man said nothing, only held tightly to his son's hand all through the night.

Along towards dawn, the old man died. The Marine released the now lifeless hand he had been holding and went to tell the nurse. While she did what she had to do, he waited.

Finally, she returned. She started to offer words of sympathy, but the Marine interrupted her.

"Who was that man?" he asked.

The nurse was startled, "He was your father," she answered.

"No, he wasn't," the Marine replied. "I never saw him before in my life."

"Then why didn't you say something when I took you to him?"

"I knew right away there had been a mistake, but I also knew he needed his son, and his son just wasn't here. When I realized that he was too sick to tell whether or not I was his son, knowing how much he needed me, I stayed."
"I came here tonight to find a Mr. William Grey. His son was killed in Iraq today and I was sent to inform him. What was this gentleman's name?"

The nurse, with tears in her eyes answered,
"Mr. William Grey..."
**************

The next time someone needs you ... just be there. Stay.
Today, I attended the funeral of the younger sister of my friend Boo. The sister was only 58 years old and had been on the road to recovery from cancer. Instead, her body took a southward turn and ran right off a cliff. Such a shock to everyone.
My friend is a lot like me. We're both in No Kidding!, we're both teachers, we both attend many of the same films and plays and musical events, though not necessarily together. She's a strong woman, generally keeping to her own company, but with some very close friends.
She and her sister had a good relationship, but they were certainly not each other's best friends. The biggest hurdle between them was a difference in religious beliefs, with one being far more evangelical than the other.
The religious hurdle was not limited to Boo and her sister. No, it extended to her sister's family, too, and all of her sister's friends and her sister's church family. Boo was concerned that she would be an outcast at the visitation and at the funeral.
I was there for her.
I met her sister's husband and her son and her daughter.
I met three cousins who had traveled from Florida and North Carolina to give love and comfort to Boo and to her sister's family.
I'm glad I was there.
I'm sorry I never had the opportunity to meet Margie.
But, mostly, I'm glad I had the opportunity to have Boo's back.

arf arf!

Dear Tony,
Hey, hey, hey! This puppy dog looks like he needs a home, doesn't he? Poor little thing... I hope he soon finds one.
Life is rolling along here. My finances haven't improved, but my attitude has. After all, it takes far too much energy to be unhappy and miserable. I just don't have that kind of energy, you know?
I have pondered what to do with your son's address. I really hate that his kids are not receiving any support from him, but I don't want to be the one who turns that information over to DFACS, either. Such a quandary. I'll continue to think about and pray that he will initiate the right behavior toward his responsibilities. His daughter and son are wonderful, smart children and you should be very proud of them!
School is in its second week. Next week, I'll give my students their first test. I do hope they have been doing the homework I've assigned! I plan to put a few of those problems on the test. That way, when see those problems on the test, they should recognize them and get a boost of confidence, making them more relaxed when they work the other problems on the test. At least, that's my philosophy!
with much love!

ain't it funny... how time... slips away

This is the day my life AD began. I hadn't known at the beginning of the day just how momentous it would turn out to be.

I've been trying to organize all the bits and pieces scattered around. This bit was in a container with a bunch of magnets and school pictures of children and souvenirs of shows past.
At first, I just thought it was another Sand Gnats ticket, put away safely for who knows what reason. Perhaps attended with someone that made the event more special? Perhaps because it was an away game? What was that date?
Saturday. 7 July, 2007.
Damn.
Why on Earth had I held on to this?
Well, you want to hold on to something when it leads to a life change... right?
No longer. I'm going to have a ceremonial burning after I write this.
Oddly, I remember far more of the details of that day than I do of most.
Details from the early part of the day, when life stilled seemed to be "normal."
Not that life was very normal at that point. My dear mother-in-law had died on April 15th and my husband and I were still flying back and forth to Michigan to attend to her estate. Then, just before my 49th birthday at the end of May, I had my gallbladder evicted. The latest disruption, a week earlier at the tail end of June, had been the arrest of my youngest brother for the death of his girlfriend.
So, yeah, I guess the month of July needed to up the ante.
So to speak.
Sigh.

You know, I had thought I would go into the details here, but I've changed my mind. Bad memories seem to persist far too long on their own; why allow this particular one to remain in the ether forever?
No.
Far better to destroy the physical vestige, transform it into carbon dioxide and water vapor and soot.
Good riddance to bad vibes.

it's raining, it's pouring!

But we weren't snoring! We were out for Family Day at the Jepson! Fortunately, it didn't rain on us on our way there, nor as we were leaving, just while we were there and engaged in the many activities. The rain falling on the glass ceiling was so very pretty that I was compelled to take this photograph.
Why were we there?
Well, it was the monthly Family Day, so it was free.
Amen for free, right? Especially when you have three kids in your family, as does my first niece, and you're only working part-time, as I seem to be lately.
This was to enrich our minds with its Near East theme. Each of the three floors featured special events for the day, featuring cultural bits from Egypt to India and all points in between. Books were read aloud! Puppets were made! Fun clothing was worn! And the band played on, too!
There was live music?
Yes!!! And Turku was so very good! I even danced several songs with my niece's foster daughter and the younger of her two foster sons!

Here's the write-up from the museum's website:
"Near East Family Day celebrates the arts of many countries and cultures represented in the Touma Collection through hands on activities for families, storytelling and a performance by TURKU, a band who call them­selves ‘Nomads of the Silk Road.’ TURKU’s music har­kens back to historical musical traditions from Tur­key, Persia, Kurdistan, Caucasus and the Balkans. TURKU’s high energy performances, featuring a blend of authentic historical songs and traditional improvisational techniques, have enrap­tured audiences from Turkey to Portugal to Uzbeki­stan. Their performance at the Jepson Center is sure to be a delight for the whole family. Sponsored by the City of Savannah"
As I said, the band was excellent!
We all toured three of the exhibits while we were there. The first one, up on the third floor and next to the hands-on activity site (known as the ArtZeum), was the most disturbing, even though it was my second time viewing it. Sure, you would expect that for an exhibit titled "Arsenal". Even though all of the pieces in the work are white and made of paper, it is still an alarming sight to see the wide range of weapons, hanging from the ceiling on nylon strings. However, the most alarming aspect, by far, is the origin for this work. The artist had happened upon a video on youTube.com, a video posted by a young boy making a paper duplicate of a weapon. A working model, which could even shoot paper ammunition. Then she found there was a community of young boys out there, all making these weapons. It really is quite a story.
Our second exhibit, toured after the concert, was "Allure of the Near East", on loan from the Huntingdon Gallery. Filled with art objects of many types, the trick was to get the children to actually look at the pieces. So we broke them into groups, my niece taking the two boys, me taking the girl. That worked quite well, I think, especially for me. I would have the girl read the descriptions, for the Magic Bowl and the books and the Prayer Rug. Soon I found she was initiating the discourse on pieces she found of interest. Yeah!
The final exhibit we explored was, again, one I had viewed before, on May 9th, before the lecture by the artist, Jerry Siegel. Titled "Facing South: Portraits of Southern Artists", the large space featured photographs of many artists. My favorites are those in which the artist is pictured with some of their works. Again, the trick was slowing the children down so they could actually absorb some of the art around them. Again, having them read the markers helped a lot. Also, since I had attended the artist's lecture, I had a bit of backstory which the markers didn't have and that made it more relevant to the kids, too.
So, be sure to put it on your calendars for next month's Family Day, scheduled for Saturday, September 14th. It's free, it's informative, and it's fun!

the middle wife does THAT!

Remember the old show hosted by Art Linkletter? You know, the one called "Kids Say the Darndest Things", later turned into a show on television hosted by Bill Cosby? Well, this would have been right comfortable there!

The 'Middle Wife' by an Anonymous 2nd grade teacher

I've been teaching now for about fifteen years. I have two kids myself, but the best birth story I know is the one I saw in my own second grade classroom a few years back.

When I was a kid, I loved show-and-tell. So I always have a few sessions with my students. It helps them get over shyness and usually, show-and-tell is pretty tame. Kids bring in pet turtles, model airplanes, pictures of fish they catch, stuff like that. And I never, ever place any boundaries or limitations on them. If they want to lug it in to school and talk about it, they're welcome.

Well, one day this little girl, Erica, a very bright, very outgoing kid, takes her turn and waddles up to the front of the class with a pillow stuffed under her sweater.

She holds up a snapshot of an infant. 'This is Luke, my baby brother, and I'm going to tell you about his birthday.'

'First, Mom and Dad made him as a symbol of their love, and then Dad put a seed in my Mom's stomach, and Luke grew in there. He ate for nine months through an umbrella cord.'

She's standing there with her hands on the pillow, and I'm trying not to laugh and wishing I had my camcorder with me. The kids are watching her in amazement.

'Then, about two Saturdays ago, my Mom starts going, 'Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh!' Erica puts a hand behind her back and groans. 'She walked around the house for, like an hour, 'Oh, oh, oh!' (Now this kid is doing a hysterical duck walk and groaning.)

'My Dad called the middle wife. She delivers babies, but she doesn't have a sign on the car like the Domino's man. They got my Mom to lie down in bed like this.' (Then Erica lies down with her back against the wall.)

'And then, pop! My Mom had this bag of water she kept in there in case he got thirsty, and it just blew up and spilled all over the bed, like Psshhheew!' (This kid has her legs spread with her little hands miming water flowing away. It was too much!)

'Then the middle wife starts saying 'push, push,' and 'breathe, breathe. They started counting, but never even got past ten. Then, all of a sudden, out comes my brother. He was covered in yucky stuff that they all said it was from Mom's play-center, so there must be a lot of toys inside there. When he got out, the middle wife spanked him for crawling up in there in the first place.'

Then Erica stood up, took a big theatrical bow and returned to her seat.

I'm sure I applauded the loudest. Ever since then, when it's show-and-tell day, I bring my camcorder, just in case another 'Middle Wife' comes along.

B C F H I K N O P S U V W Y

Alphabet soup?
Nope!
A word with Slavic origins?
Wrong again!
The letters for all of the elements which have a single letter as their chemical symbol?
Bing, bing, bing!!! Correct-o-mundo!
And so I ended yesterday on a high note, playing trivia with the Liquor Posse at a local watering hole. What a nice way to finish a day which had begun so poorly! Even better, this particular answer was the final question, worth forty-two points if all fourteen parts were correct. And I nailed it, with some assistance from the team for U, V, and Y. Woohoo!
That final question was not the only one I nailed, either. The game had started with a question about SNL's Jeopardy skits: who played Trebek? Why, that was Will Ferrell!!! And I knew it! Oddly, I seemed to be the only one who did, too. Still, we wagered our maximum bid on it and we were off and running!
I know, I know. It's just a trivia game, right?
True, but I am usually not good at those games. I may know one question, or think I know it, but usually not so much.
Tonight, I was the team leader on that first question. Amazing!
Then, I knew the one about the sports figure on the most Wheaties boxes.
Michael Jordan, of course!
Then, the game-changing final question came along. You get 3 points per correct answer, but lose 3 points for every wrong answer. For a 14-parter, you stood to gain as many as 42 points... but you could also lose that many if you blew all of it.
We weren't in the lead, for a change. We weren't even close enough to the lead to be in second place.
We were third out from the win, behind by 19 points.
Ouch.
Then the final question came and the answer slip flew in front of me! They all know what I do for a living and this was definitely in my field of expertise! I wrote nine of the 14 immediately, seeing the Periodic Table with my mind's eye. Carbon, Hydrogen, Oxygen, Nitrogen, Sulfur, Phosphorus: the backbones of the molecules of biochemistry and organic chemistry, the mainstays of our lives. Fluorine, Iodine: halogens, in the same family of chemicals. Potassium: that's a K, y'all, not a P or a Po, and we can thank the Romans for that confusion. Then came, Tungsten, aka "Wolfram", a favorite W-word for me and another team player. Thanks to him, and his methodical perusal of the alphabet, together with my knowledge of the names of the elements, we finished up with Uranium, Vanadium, and Yttrium.
Woohoo!
That didn't give us enough gain to win (the winning team also had a science teacher in their ranks), but we did take 2nd! Yeah! $20 gift card for the team's next visit!
This visit, my dinner was free. That's right, free! Along with four other members of our team, we split the 1st-place and 2nd-place gift cards from previous weeks.
Ah, such sweet victory!

boom shaka laka laka, boom shaka laka laka

I have been a girl on fire today.
It began with a phone call to a colleague. He is teaching one of the sections of lab with me and had a few questions, to make sure our classes would be in synch.
No problem!
Then I found out that not only does he have my old office (leaving me with none), but he has also been given a fourth year contract for temporary full-time. Say what??? After the department head had told me there was nothing he could do for me because "the policy is three years maximum for temporary full-time."
Really.
Unless you're a man, is that what he meant?
Because that's what seems to be what he meant.
Maybe I should bring a lawsuit for discrimination against the department and the college and the university.
Maybe I should just not sign this horrible contract for part-time work this term.
Of course, if I were to not sign it, then I guess I couldn't legally teach at the university.
Right?
Then the department would have to rush to find someone to teach my lecture and two labs.
All of which are at night.
That would certainly make for an interesting scramble of personnel! What would be hilarious is if the department head himself had to teach those classes because everyone else's schedules were already too heavy.
Truly.
I'm going to find out if I would be better served by filing for unemployment this term.
Then I'll decide whether to sign or not.
Since it's clear the department head doesn't want me around, chances are I'm not ever going to be offered a full-time gig there.
May as well look out for me.
I do hate it for the students, though.
It's a shame what the aftermath is going to do for them.
Still, $250 per week is not going to be enough for me for the rest of the year. Not after a summer of no income.
What ugliness.

ice, ice, baby

Here's a joke I had forgotten about until recently. It's perfect for a hot summer day!

The four Goldberg brothers, Lowell, Norman, Hiram, and Max, invented and developed the first automobile air-conditioner. On July 17, 1946, the temperature in Detroit was 97 degrees Fahrenheit.
The four brothers walked into old man Henry Ford's office and sweet-talked his secretary into telling him that four gentlemen were there with the most exciting innovation in the auto industry since the electric starter.
Henry was curious and invited them into his office.
They refused and instead asked that he come out to the parking lot to their car.
They persuaded him to get into the car, which was about 130 degrees, turned on the air conditioner, and cooled the car off immediately.
The old man got very excited and invited them back to the office, where he offered them $3 million for the patent.
The brothers refused, saying they would settle for $2 million, but they wanted the recognition by having a label, 'The Goldberg Air-Conditioner,' on the dashboard of each car in which it was installed.
Now old man Ford was more savvy than your usual businessman, and there was no way he was going to put the Goldberg's name on two million Fords.
They haggled back and forth for about two hours and the Goldberg brothers finally agreed on $4 million and that just their first names would be shown.
And so to this day, all Ford air conditioners show -- Lo, Norm, Hi, and Max -- on the controls.

2 txt is to talk - almost!

23 july 4:31 pm
me: Vroom, vroom!
joe: What? Did you buy a new car?
me: LOL! No, but that's a funny response!

23 july 5:12 pm
* * * about an upcoming PFS movie * * *
me: Jim isn't sayin'.
me: All we know is it's a movie with Albert Brooks.
bfe: BTW on a funny note, I thought the movie was called, "Jim isn't saying"!
me: HahaHA! that's a hoot!

1 aug 11:59 Am
hai: Soooo guess who got a job at the new learning Commons at AASU? (Points to self) This Guy right here!!!!
me: Heard that from Beer. Congratulations!
hai: Soooo I'm DEF thinking this Saturday at the Distillery after Last of the Mohicans. You in?
me: Yes!

3 aug 3:31 pm
hai: hey are you going to see last of the mohicans tonight? If so do you want to be my Girl Friday on a Saturday?
me: No, dear, am on my way to ATL with Joe. will be back later 2nite.
hai: Oh okay just checking. I'll see you later tonight right?!!?!!?!
me: Yes, dear! :-)
hai: Good good I better see you tonight ... or ELSE!!!!
* * * about six hours later * * *
me: Hai, I am not going to make it. But i do want to still take you to 17hundred90. Will that be ok?
hai: Gasp!!!! My soul is wounded!!!! J/K It's fine.
me: :-) love you!
hai: Love you more :-)

6 aug 11:09 am
me: Good morning!
joe: Good morning! Just putting things away. Damn, i have a lot of shit!
me: Working on stuff to Goodwill today.
joe:I do nelieve you have more stuf but also more room. And u r bribging stuff 2 goodwill and not even moving!
me: Every once in a while, i just have to get rid of some stuff. Keeps down my hoarder tendencies.
Joe: Need 2 examine my own hoarder tendencies. But right now i need 2 start getting ready 4 work.
joe: Thanks 4 checking in.
me: Call me 2nite to tell me about ur 1st nite w SW.
joe: will do

... and he did and we talked for 45 minutes... very nice!


8 aug 12:24 pm
* * * after a PFS showing of two episodes of "The Amazing Randi" * * *
me: I was a magician"s assistant 2nite!
Joe: Oooh! Did he make u disappear?
me: Hahaha! No, but he did make a dollar bill i burned re-appear!

give a boy an apple a day

Another from my fsil's mother, again from the days of World War II, but this time concerning civilians.

*** *** *** *** ***
"The Girl With the Apple"

August 1942. Piotrkow, Poland
The sky was gloomy that morning as we waited anxiously. All the men, women and children of Piotrkow's Jewish ghetto had been herded into a square. Word had gotten around that we were being moved.
My father had only recently died from typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded ghetto. My greatest fear was that our family would be separated.
'Whatever you do,' Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me, 'don't tell them your age. Say you're sixteen.'
I was tall for a boy of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might be deemed valuable as a worker.
An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the cobblestones. He looked me up and down, and then asked my age.
'Sixteen,' I said.
He directed me to the left, where my three brothers and other healthy young men already stood.
My mother was motioned to the right with the other women, children, sick, and elderly people.
I whispered to Isidore, 'Why?'
He didn't answer.
I ran to Mama's side and said I wanted to stay with her.
'No, 'she said sternly. 'Get away. Don't be a nuisance. Go with your brothers.'
She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood: She was protecting me. She loved me so much that, just this once, she pretended not to. It was the last I ever saw of her.
My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany. We arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night later and were led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued uniforms and identification numbers.
'Don't call me Herman anymore.' I said to my brothers. 'Call me 94983.'
I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading the dead into a hand-cranked elevator. I, too, felt dead. Hardened, I had become a number.
Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald's sub-camps near Berlin.
One morning I thought I heard my mother's voice. 'Son,' she said softly but clearly, 'I am going to send you an angel.'
Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream. But in this place there could be no angels. There was only work. And hunger. And fear.
A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, around the barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not easily see. I was alone.
On the other side of the fence, I spotted someone: a little girl with light, almost luminous curls. She was half-hidden behind a birch tree. I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly in German. 'Do you have something to eat?'
She didn't understand.
I inched closer to the fence and repeated the question in Polish.
She stepped forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet, but the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life.
She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence.
I grabbed the fruit and, as I started to run away, I heard her say faintly, 'I'll see you tomorrow.'
I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every day. She was always there with something for me to eat - a hunk of bread or, better yet, an apple.
We didn't dare speak or linger. To be caught would mean death for us both. I didn't know anything about her, just a kind farm girl, except that she understood Polish. What was her name? Why was she risking her life for me?
Hope was in such short supply, and this girl on the other side of the fence gave me some, as nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.
Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a coal car and shipped to Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia.
'Don't return,' I told the girl that day. 'We're leaving.'
I turned toward the barracks and didn't look back, didn't even say good-bye to the little girl whose name I'd never learned, the girl with the apples.
We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down and Allied forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed. On May 10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM.
In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many times death seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I'd survived. Now, it was over. I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited.
But at 8 A .M., there was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw people running every which way through camp.
I caught up with my brothers. Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open. Everyone was running, so I did too. Amazingly, all of my brothers survived; I'm not sure how.
But I knew that the girl with the apples had been the key to my survival. In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none. My mother had promised to send me an angel, and the angel had come.
Eventually I made my way to England where I was sponsored by a Jewish charity, put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the Holocaust and trained in electronics. Then I came to America, where my brother Sam had already moved. I served in the U. S. Army during the Korean War, and returned to New York City after two years.
By August 1957, I'd opened my own electronics repair shop. I was starting to settle in.
One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England called me.
'I've got a date. She's got a Polish friend. Let's double date.'
A blind date? Nah, that wasn't for me.
But Sid kept pestering me, and a few days later we headed up to the Bronx to pick up his date and her friend Roma. I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn't so bad. Roma was a nurse at a Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart. Beautiful, too, with swirling brown curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with life.
The four of us drove out to Coney Island. Roma was easy to talk to, easy to be with.
Turned out she was wary of blind dates too! We were both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the
boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by the shore. I couldn't remember having a better time.
We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the backseat. As European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had been left unsaid between us.
She broached the subject, 'Where were you,' she asked softly, 'during the war?'
'The camps,' I said. The terrible memories still vivid, the irreparable loss. I had tried to forget. But you can never forget.
She nodded. 'My family was hiding on a farm in Germany, not far from Berlin,' she told me. 'My father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan papers.'
I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear a constant companion. And yet here we were, both survivors, in a new world.
'There was a camp next to the farm.' Roma continued. 'I saw a boy there and I would throw him apples every day.'
What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy.
'What did he look like?' I asked.
'He was tall, skinny, and hungry. I must have seen him every day for six months.'
My heart was racing. I couldn't believe it.
This couldn't be.
'Did he tell you one day not to come back because he was leaving Schlieben?'
Roma looked at me in amazement. 'Yes!'
'That was me!'
I was ready to burst with joy and awe, flooded with emotions.
I couldn't believe it! My angel.
'I'm not letting you go.' I said to Roma. And in the back of the car on that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn't want to wait.
'You're crazy!' she said. But she invited me to meet her parents for Shabbat dinner the following week.
There was so much I looked forward to learning about Roma, but the most important things I always knew: her steadfastness, her goodness. For many months, in the worst of circumstances, she had come to the fence and given me hope. Now that I'd found her again, I could never let her go.
That day, she said yes. And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years of marriage, two children and three grandchildren, I have never let her go.
- Herman Rosenblat of Miami Beach, Florida

This story is being made into a movie called The Fence.
*** *** *** *** ***

This is a love story. It is also partly fiction, as it turns out.
That's too bad. I would have preferred that it were true.
But it's still a nice story of love.

paying it forward, one bird at a time

Sent to me by my fsil's mother, I like this story of the old World War II vet, paying off a debt in his own way. It reminds me of my stepdad, who passed away almost two years ago. He had a story or two of his own concerning downed flights.

*** *** *** *** ***
"Old guy and a bucket of shrimp"

It happened every Friday evening, almost without fail, when the sun resembled a giant orange and was starting to dip into the blue ocean.

Old Ed came strolling along the beach to his favorite pier. Clutched in his bony hand was a bucket of shrimp. Ed walks out to the end of the pier, where it seems he almost has the world to himself. The glow of the sun is a golden bronze now.

Everybody's gone, except for a few joggers on the beach. Standing out on the end of the pier, Ed is alone with his thoughts...and his bucket of shrimp.

Before long, however, he is no longer alone. Up in the sky a thousand white dots come screeching and squawking, winging their way toward that lanky frame standing there on the end of the pier.

Before long, dozens of seagulls have enveloped him, their wings fluttering and flapping wildly. Ed stands there tossing shrimp to the hungry birds. As he does, if you listen closely, you can hear him say with a smile, 'Thank you. Thank you.'

In a few short minutes the bucket is empty. But Ed doesn't leave.
He stands there lost in thought, as though transported to another time and place.

When he finally turns around and begins to walk back toward the beach, a few of the birds hop along the pier with him until he gets to the stairs, and then they, too, fly away. And old Ed quietly makes his way down to the end of the beach and on home.

If you were sitting there on the pier with your fishing line in the water, Ed might seem like 'a funny old duck,' as my dad used to say. Or, to onlookers, he's just another old codger, lost in his own weird world, feeding the seagulls with a bucket full of shrimp.

To the onlooker, rituals can look either very strange or very empty. They can seem altogether unimportant ... maybe even a lot of nonsense.

Old folks often do strange things, at least in the eyes of Boomers and Busters. Most of them would probably write Old Ed off, down there in Florida. That's too bad. They'd do well to know him better.

His full name: Eddie Rickenbacker. He was a famous hero in World War I, and then he was in WWII. On one of his flying missions across the Pacific, he and his seven-member crew went down. Miraculously, all of the men survived, crawled out of their plane, and climbed into a life raft.

Captain Rickenbacker and his crew floated for days on the rough waters of the Pacific. They fought the sun. They fought sharks. Most of all, they fought hunger and thirst. By the eighth day their rations ran out. No food. No water. They were hundreds of miles from land and no one knew where they were or even if they were alive. Every day across America millions wondered and prayed that Eddie Rickenbacker might somehow be found alive.

The men adrift needed a miracle. That afternoon they had a simple devotional service and prayed for a miracle. They tried to nap. Eddie leaned back and pulled his military cap over his nose. Time dragged on. All he could hear was the slap of the waves against the raft.

Suddenly, Eddie felt something land on the top of his cap.
It was a seagull!

Old Ed would later describe how he sat perfectly still, planning his next move. With a flash of his hand and a squawk from the gull, he managed to grab it and wring its neck. He tore the feathers off, and he and his starving crew made a meal of it - a very slight meal for eight men. Then they used the intestines for bait. With it, they caught fish, which gave them food and more bait . . . and the cycle continued. With that simple survival technique, they were able to endure the rigors of the sea until they were found and rescued after 24 days at sea.

Eddie Rickenbacker lived many years beyond that ordeal, but he never forgot the sacrifice of that first life-saving seagull... And he never stopped saying, 'Thank you.' That's why almost every Friday night he would walk to the end of the pier with a bucket full of shrimp and a heart full of gratitude.

Reference: Max Lucado, "In The Eye of the Storm", pp..221, 225-226

PS: Eddie Rickenbacker was the founder of Eastern Airlines. Before WWI he was a race car driver. In WWI he was a pilot and became America's first ace. In WWII he was an instructor and military adviser, and he flew missions with the combat pilots. Eddie Rickenbacker is a true American hero. And now you know another story about the trials and sacrifices that brave men have endured for your freedom.

It is a great story that many don't know...You've got to be careful with old guys, You just never know what they have done during their lifetime.

a lesson in bunting

What a marvelous night for a moondance! I mean, baseball game! Actually, last night was very good, too! And my boys of summer won BOTH games, shutting out the other team! Take THAT, you RiverDogs!
The games were fast both nights, too. Pitcher's duels generally are, as no one is getting on base. Strike outs, pop outs, and thrown outs, for those fortunate enough to get an infield hit. Whew! The games had six innings done in only 90 minutes. That's what I said: six times, each team had their at-bats, in just ninety minutes. Those are some pretty fast innnings!
After the sixth inning, the games slowed down a bit. Understandable, as the pitchers were nearing the end of their 100-pitch count. (You knew about that, right? They're only allowed to throw one hundred pitches, to keep them from buring out their arm.) The relief pitchers can make or break a game.

Last night, the relief pitcher for the Charleston team must have thought he was pitching for a batting practice. In the bottom of the eighth, the Gnats kept hitting whatever he served them, over and over and over. By the time the inning was done, we had another five runs to add to our one attained earlier. The Gnats win!!!

The next night, both teams were scoreless and the sixth inning came around. Here, we see the RiverDog at bat...

... then he changes his stance, crouching down into a bunt...

... success! Off he runs, allowing his teammates to advance around the bases! Alas, none made it to homeplate and their third out ended their turn at bat. Off to the field they went as the Gnats advanced to the batter's boxes.

Ah hah! That's the way you bunt, my boys said. So, when our catcher (Cordero) made an incredible second-base hit, we all went wild! Then, when he advanced to third on our shortstop's failed bid at a single, we really went wild! The Gnats' second-baseman (Jorge Rivera), having learned the lesson well, showed us he could bunt, too... and Cordero sailed on to home! Woohoo! That was the only score in the entire game!

And the Gnats win again! Another shut out! Mascot Gnate couldn't have been any prouder!
And I was very pleased, too! What a grand way to spend a summer evening: watching a ball game with friends on a warm summer eve!

bridge builder

I just heard back from the peace Guy. He had left yesterday evening, heading out to a new chapter in his life, heading into rain, heading for Grant Park.
He's found a new place to live, in his budget and quite pretty inside and out. The front yard even has a white picket fence! (Though I think the pickets are actually metal.) He and I had discussed white picket fences on Saturday, when I rode with him to deliver a load of his furniture. I had not yet seen the house where he now had a room and a shared lower floor, with kitchen, dining room, and living room. I was talking about my little sister in San Diego and how fortunate she was to have the very things she had wanted, including a white picket fence. The peace Guy mentioned that he had wanted those same things.
After we reached our destination and had offloaded the truck and re-installed the legs on the chest of drawers and desk, I was hanging out in the front yard, waiting on him to return to the rental truck. As I am wont to do, I snapped a couple of pictures of the house and yard, traipsing across the street for the shots. In particular, I had noticed the oval stained glass window with the hummingbird motif, against the wooden shaker shingles, and wanted a photograph of it. Then he came out, we got back in the truck, and away we went.
The next day, which was only yesterday, I posted one of the pictures on facebook on his page. I had not realized, until I had saved the picture and really looked at it, just what it showed. White picket fences.
I know he did not realize it until I pointed it out on his page.
He had once wanted them and now he had them.
Coincidences are funny things.
Good things.
I like this new phase of his life.

before and after pics

I had meant to post this last week, but I forgot/got busy/was lazy. You decide!
No, really. This should have been an addendum to the post last Thursday. Well, actually, it should have been the following day.
But it wasn't.
Better late than never!

Anywho, as you may recall, I had gone over the border to visit with my stepmom. We'd done our meal-and-a-movie thing, catching up on life, then she had returned home to responsibilities to others. I did not have any such things, so I stayed and had another movie. Actually, "The Way Way Back" had been our alternate choice that afternoon, but we had opted for age before youth.
Now, I was passing time before the concert film I wanted to see at 7:30 PM. It's been a while since I went to a concert and I had never been to one of their concerts, so this seemed a prime opportunity. Who? No, I wish! I'm talking about The Grateful Dead. I was never a stoner, so, even though I liked their music, I never felt compelled to shell out the money to see them.
So, long story short: I enjoyed seeing Steve Carrell play a twisted jerk in the movie about the teenager. I enjoyed seeing naked young folks in the Sunshine Daydream. I did not care for the extended and discordant guitar jam (in the latter) that went on and aon and on for nearly thirty minutes, lulling all of the audience into a stupor. Maybe it's a good thing I never went to one of their live concerts!

Between these two movies, I had dinner, again at Cheeburger Cheeburger. Something different, something different... yeah, I'll have the footlong hotdog! And so I did, adding banana peppers, pickles, and pineapple to it. That last item surprised the waitress, but proved to be the perfect touch!


I also had the split basket of french fries and quite tasty onion rings.
Yum! You see the picture at the upper left, right? They're every bit as tasty as they look, too. Not having time (or room) to finish them, I took the remainder home with me. The next morning, I broke the fries and rings into small chunks, then heated them in the skillet, adding scrambled egg to the hot mix. Instant frittata! Two tasty meals! And rather pretty, too, as the upper right photo shows.
I'm going to have to remember to do that combo again!

wise guy, eh?

This joke was sent by one of my old chemistry professors. It isn't a new joke, but it is a favorite and I want to be able to see it whenever I want!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
You are on a horse galloping at a constant speed.
On your right side is a sharp drop off.
On your left side is an elephant traveling at the same speed as you.
Directly in front of you is another galloping horse but your horse is unable to overtake it.
Behind you is a lion running at the same speed as you and the horse in front of you.
What must you do to safely get out of this highly dangerous situation?

[SCROLL DOWN for the ANSWER]













Answer:
Get your butt off the merry-go-round!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Today marks the anniversary of my visit to The Merry-Go-Round Museum in Sandusky. How did I end up there? Wandering around in O-hi-O and surroundings last summer on my Midwest-Canada Adventure, as the bfe titled it.
I had started the trip with my focus on The Field of Dreams, as you may recall. Well, that's what I told folks was my primary rationale, but I also wanted to spend more time with the bfe, back when I was crazy delirious and had fingernails. Twelve hours in the car together up to Cincinnati and environs, then another twelve hours on the way back should do quite nicely in the "getting to know each other" realm.
But that's not my focus here.
How did I end up in Sandusky, admiring painted ponies?
Well, you know how one thing leads to another? The Fixx certainly nailed that one!
Ahem! Back on topic? Right?
Right. So, my original travel plans were to drop off the bfe at his folks' house in the sticks of O-hi-O, then get up the next day and bop up to Ontario to visit one of my Sues and her daughter, cross back over to Detroit and see the ex and the Adams, travel to Iowa for some corn-gazing, then, if time permitted, shoot down to northern Tennessee to visit some family and friends before returning to pick up the bfe for our return southward.
Yeah. Well. That is most assuredly not how it all worked out. You know why, right? You betcha: my blonde roots necessitated an immense change of plans.
You see, one needs a passport to travel to Canada. A passport. Mine had remained in Georgia, sadly. At one point before the trip, I had gone to the safe deposit box and retrieved it, placing it into my travel bag to be sure I would not forget it. Then, as I was packing, I had emptied the travel bag of all the packets of coffee and plastic ziploc bags and empty vitamin containers...and my passport. And somehow, somehow, I had managed to convince myself that I had placed the passport back into the bag.
Alas, no. After my late arrival at the hotel, I had crashed out, only to be awakened at 5 AM by a thought: I didn't see the passport when I was unpacking here. No, that can't be right. I remembered putting it into my bag. Well, I didn't see it when we got here. Really, I have to get out of bed to reassure myself that it's here? Fine.
But the passport was not in my bag. It was not in my purse. It was not in the car.
It was not in the bag. I took everything out and put everything back in three times.
Nope, no passport.
I did the same with my purse. Then, I rummaged through the car.
Nope, no passport.
A frantic series of phone calls to my first niece, telling her where the passport was (or so I thought, but I was wrong in my memory. Fortunately, she did find it.), having to wait for her to get home from work to go look for it, to send it by overnight post to Michigan. Phone calls to the Adams, rearranging the visit day, asking for her to watch for my passport and let me know when it arrived. Phone calls to the ex, letting him know of the change in plans, hoping he could still work it into his schedule. Emails to the Windsor Sue, letting her know of the change in schedule and hopes to still visit.
Sheesh.
Then, what to do?
Well, I still wanted to go to the Field of Dreams. I had a day wide open before me, with its schedule all askew. Why not head in that direction and see if I could make it there in time? That would certainly distract me from this tangled mess, especially with Dire Straits (Communique) and Def Leppard (High 'n' Dry), on repeat, to keep me company.
So, off I went, making it to that baseball diamond in the cornfields in plenty of time to do what I went there to do. I'm so glad I had the Nuvi to guide me, because the corn was taller than my car and there were NO signs to point the way to that special field.
But it was DONE! I could cross that destination off my list and head elsewhere.
I made it to Rockville, Illinois, just before nightfall. As luck would have it, I had reserved a room there - for Wednesday. That was still two days away. Would they switch it for me?
Yes, yes, they would! Wow!
Then I talked with my first niece. She had found the passport, on my bed, not on the couch. She had successfully mailed it to the Adams' correct address (I'd had the street name slightly wrong, but the post office straightened it out). The passport would be arriving in Troy, Michigan, on Tuesday in the early afternoon.
I talked with the Adams. As good fortune would have it, she would be home all day on Tuesday, so she would be sure to stay until it arrived. Also, did I have a place to stay yet? No? Good, she said, you can stay with me.
Very nice! Wow!
The ex and the Sue both reassured me that the change in my plans was still going to work for them.
Yea!!! Incredible!

The next day, I headed toward Detroit, passing by Wrigley Field, traveling the toll road through Illinois and Indiana. (Not especially by choice, but because Nuvi doesn't differentiate between toll roads and free roads. Sigh.) I lunched at Theo and Stacy's on fabulous Greek salad and a piled-too-high-to-pick-it-up gyro.

I arrived in Troy before rush hour, preceded by my passport. Yea! Then the Adams and I waited for the ex to get off work and sashay on down from Saginaw. Then off we went their old stomping grounds in Warren for some Buddy's Pizza and Erma's Forzen Custard. Those are must-haves for Michiganders .. and those who love them!

Finally, on Wednesday, August 1, 2012, I was on my way to the Great White North! Woohoo! After a trip to London to visit the younger daughter and to dine on Chinese, Sue and I stopped off to get coffee. Where? Need you ask? "Fresh, friendly, familiar" - it may be the mantra of Tim Hortons, but it also describes my Canadian contingent!
The next morning, we said our goodbyes and the border guards allowed me re-entry to the 'States. Where to go? I didn't have to meet up with the bfe for two days. So, that meant this was "free time"! I could have gone to Tennessee, but then I would have been rushed to get there and rushed to get back to the 'Nati. No, no more rushing!
In went the Tom Jones (the lead and how to swing it), bringing to mind Mother Pat and that concert in Las Vegas for her birthday. Well, I had never seen her headstone... off to the cemetery, then. With a little help, I located her plot, as well as those for her parents and younger sister. The rose-hued stone really would have pleased her, I think.

Then off to points south, just barely ahead of the early lunch crush. I drove until a sign caught my eye: Luna Pier. "Luna", you say? That sounds like me! Oh, wait, that should be "looney", maybe. I dined on Lake Erie yellow perch, wandered around on the beach and in the tiny town, then hit the road again, refreshed.

Where to next? Well, the visitor center pointed toward the museum in Wapakoneta, only an hour down the road. Sah-weet! Space travel and Neil Armstrong! I would even have a couple of hours to spend there before closing. Very good! And, when I joined that museum, as I do when traveling, they told me my card would also give me discounted admission to other museums in the USA. Like which ones? Well, the Merry-Go-Round Museum in Sandusky, for one.
No kidding? A museum dedicated to carousels and painted ponies?
And THAT, my dear, is how I ended up in Sandusky.

drivin' my life away!

This was the mileage reading when I had returned to Savannah from my wonderful, cheery lunch in Waycross. 136425. I took the picture because I thought it was a pretty cool scramble of the first six numbers.
And it is!
But today, I was looking at those numbers for another reason. Just how many miles had I been driving? More than the 12,000 a year average? Less?
Actually, I doubted it would be less. I bounce back and forth twixt midtown and southside daily during the school year, adding easily ten miles a day to the total job-related miles I once drove. Each semester is fifteen weeks long, plus a week for Final Exams. I teach for two semesters, meaning 32 weeks, five days per week, about 16 miles per day. That comes to 2560 job-related miles. So, there's that.
I also have been driving to many more events downtown than I once did. The Truman Partway makes those trips much faster than they once were, but the distance hasn't changed and is roughly the same as that to the school. During the school year, I mostly go two or three days a week, but in the summer, my trips into downtown are more frequent. Let's just say another 2560 miles. So, those miles get logged in, too.
Then, there are the increased trips out of state and in state, on adventures with and without the bfe. That includes the trip last summer, partly with him, through endless tasseled fields, which accounted for at least 3050 miles, when all was said and done.
When I had thrown that number in his direction, he had several guesses. Was 3050 the number of birds his Chloe chases in a dream? Not to my knowledge, but that does sound like a lot of birds.
Was 3050 the answer to chemistry question 25 in chapter 11? Um... no. That chapter is on alkanes and has nothing to do with any numbers greater than ten.
And I forget what the third guess was, but it was incorrect, too, as I recall. (Of course, he may still have that on his phone log, but my phone isn't nearly as generous with space for old texts.)
So, anyway, I've logged an impressive number of trip miles of late.
How many?
Where to look? Receipts for oil changes? Those service centers always record the mileage.
Yeah, maybe look there... Oh! Better idea! I had blogged about mileage while I was up in O-hi-O! Yeah, here that post is!
Oh, and here is the post with the palindromic odometer reading!
Wonder of wonders, there is roughly a year between each of those posts! Then, another year between the O-hi-O post and this one! Okay, let's do a little analysis of this data and see what's up, shall we?
Sure, let's!
Okay, so the earliest of these three was written on September 19th of 2011 and the mileage was 100,001. That will make the math easy.
Onward! The next data entry was captured on August 3rd of 2012. The odometer had just clicked over to 117,000 and I had snapped the picture. So, in that span of almost eleven months, I had driven 16,999 miles.
Wow. Saying it out loud like that makes it a bit more real, n'est-ce pas?
Okay, how about the mileage for this past year? Well, we have 136,425 and 117,000. You do the math. It's 19,425. Roughly, 2400 more miles driven than in the previous year. Well, maybe you can't actually say that, as the previous value was over less that a year's time.
Fine. Let's call it an even 2000 extra miles for trips to South Carolina and north Georgia and north Florida. That is, about ten per cent of the total miles for this past year.
And that total mileage, again, is 19,425.
Wow.
No wonder it's already about time for new tires.

daddy's trees

Today was spent in the cheery company of my stepmom. Such a nice way to begin this eighth month of the year!
This visit was initiated by an email I'd sent to her about Daddy's trees. You see, a death in my ex's side of the family had led me back to the Arbor Day Foundation website, to order a group of trees for Gwen, dead after a four-year struggle with breast cancer. The site allowed me to choose where her trees would go: north to Minnesota or south to Florida. I opted for the Superior National Forest, as it will be better for family outings for those in Michigan and Minnesota.
Tucked on the sidebar of the site was the listing "View the Tree Registry." Curious, I clicked it and then followed it down the path to Michigan. Daddy's seventy-two trees are part of the Huron-Manistee National Forest. They'd had four and a half years to grow into new homes for birds, new food sources for small animals, new shelters for larger fauna.
Positive action, positive results.
She said, "Wouldn’t it be wonderful to go see them? Maybe in a few years, life will have slowed down a little for me ... I would love to take a long road trip up that way."
I agree. I wonder, in what part of the forest do they live? What types of birds call them home? Will the forest rangers be able to guide us to those particular trees?
Maybe, when we go, we'll just regard the entire forest as Daddy's.
That will work just fine.
Oh, in case you're interested, we dined on fried pickles and fried mushrooms. She had a huge BLT and I had an actual cheeseburger (!) topped with roasted red peppers, artichoke hearts, black olives and minced garlic. Quite tasty, and neither of us cared that I had dragon breath for the rest of the afternoon.
The movie we chose was "RED 2", mostly because it was an action flick that featured actors older than us. And who can resist Bruce and Helen and John? Not us! And who knows? Maybe one day we will be Retired, Extremely Dangerous, too!