Blog Index - January 2018

January 1, 2018	Index all from September 1, 2016
January 2, 2018	Gloves
January 3, 2018	Thank you for the gold tone earrings
January 4, 2018	Gloves 25 years later
January 5, 2018	The cost of a little white lie
January 6, 2018	Burnt Toast
January 7, 2018	Word of the day
January 8, 2018	Bubbler
January 9, 2018	FROZEN
January 10, 2018	It’s a heat wave at 64 degrees!
January 11, 2018	A Christmas play from 1984
January 12, 2018	I’m like a steamroller these days!
January 13, 2018	Old Garden notes that were worth keeping
January 14, 2018	I miss Mom’s optimism
January 15, 2018	Laugh of the day
January 16, 2018	Writer’s class exercise, the 10 word challenge
January 17, 2018	Julia Child’s cat
January 18, 2018	You can afford it
January 19, 2018	The cost of my laziness
January 20, 2018	Is there nothing sacred
January 21, 2018	Family heirloom re-purposed
January 23, 2018	FLU in the house
January 24, 2018	“Let me tell you a secret.”
January 25, 2018	What do they call male ladybugs?
January 26, 2018	Edward Elgar’s Sospiri, Op. 70 (1914)
January 27, 2018	Additional ounce stamp
January 28, 2018	The Silver Bell
January 31, 2018	Flu

January 31, 2018 - Flu -

This is a short note to my friends, and followers that I am down with this nasty flu and words on the page are not spilling forth and won't be until I am better.

Hopefully, it won't be too long of a gap before my next blog.  But, I know you don't want to hear from this cranky person - I don't do colds or flu well - never have.

You'all stay well, and I will do my best to get better soon.  

TYS

January 28, 2018 – The Silver Bell

         Among the many things, my Mom left me was a diminutive silver bell.  It had been in the china cabinet sitting on top of a piece of paper with my name scrawled on it.  Tarnished from non-use for a few years, it tinkled cheerfully when I lifted it to verify it was for me.  It is a little treasure and I describe the sound as ‘pixie bells’ after my Mom’s not often used nom de plume.

         Even tarnished, the handle has a smooth, well-worn feel to it. I immediately tucked it in my box to bring home.  I don’t know the history of it – a gift or a purchase, but it was used by both my Mom and Dad during their convalesce periods.  I know it was used during Dad’s recuperation from gall bladder surgery, or Mom’s long weeks of broken leg convalesce, or colds and flu over the years. One would ring the bell and the other would come to give assistance, fetch something, or fluff the pillows.

When I unpacked it, I first set it on my bureau and slowly it migrated to the hall then eventually to the kitchen table.  At Christmas time, I gave it a good polish and parked it on a bookcase in my writing office.  Often when I am near it, I simply lift it and give it a little pixie-bell ring.  Yes, Mom’s little bell needs a special place and I have not yet decided on one.

This week, my husband came down with the flu and I brought him a tissue box, a bag of cough drops and the little silver bell.

He tried the bell and said, “It must be broken, I don’t hear a thing.”

I smiled and said, “I can hear it loud and clear, you are just deaf.”

He still didn’t believe me.

That is when I said, “I’ve got dog ears, you might not hear it, but I sure can.  Ring it and I will come.”  I tucked him in bed for the night.

Later I woke from sleep hearing a feeble tinkling of the bell.  I jumped out of bed and went to him.

“What do you need?” I asked.

“Nothing, why?”

“You rang.”

“No, I didn’t.”

I noticed the little bell had rolled about two feet away from where I had placed it.  I surmised he must have knocked it over when he was rolling over.

A simple system of ring and someone will come and it won’t work in this household.  Even one sided – him deaf and him ringing for me to come is better than no system at all. But, he won’t go for it, since he can’t hear it, he has no faith in it summoning me.

What a shame. Now that I know he can’t hear it at all, I can ring it, ring it, ring it to my hearts delight.

January 27, 2018 – Additional ounce stamp

        

         I write letters by hand, they can get a little long, and it just irks me I go over 1 ounce and think I need to slap another full price stamp [at the moment it is 50 cents] on it to get it mailed. I have a weigh scale and today’s letter was 1.5 ounces. When I have time, I figure out how much I need and cobble together what I have from my little stamp box of small denomination stamps instead of throwing caution to the wind and nickels out the window with just slapping on another 50 cents stamp.

After sticking on twenty-one cents’ worth of stamps, [five of the 4-cent stamps and a one-cent stamp], I discovered I was low on these little denominational stamps. I’m down to two [1996 twenty cent stamps, Blue Jay stamps originally for post cards], and nine [2008 one cent Tiffany Lamps stamps]. I am rather shocked that I’ve had these stamps kicking around for many years in my stamp box.

Over the years, I have used my share of sarcasm at the United States Post Office when they increase the stamps for first class #10 envelopes with the often-asked question,

“Got a single stamp yet for the next ounce?” 

“No, you’ll have to use __ and __ to make up that amount of postage.”

That always irked me too.  The USPS was depending on human nature; just slap on two stamps and be done with it – yet, you are basically overpaying them to move your single piece of mail by 29 cents which is no bargain.

Also, the USPS always said they weren’t solvent.  Well, what about the sheets and sheets of stamps that collectors have in their stamp albums and vaults that services have been paid for. Money has gone into the till – and services – so far – haven’t been used and will never be used.  How could they possibly be in the red?  How many millions of dollars of stamps are sitting idle in collectors’ possession?  Does anyone even know?

When the USPS announced raising postal rates, I would buy myself and my Mom several sheets of one-cents stamps and send a few sheets to my Mom. For a time, it seemed the USPS was raising rates as often as you changed your socks.  I had no trouble buying sheets of one-cent stamps down here; however, my Mom in Massachusetts had a devil of a time. It was somewhat funny to me in a way, buying sheets of one-cent stamps to mail to my Mom so she could mail letters to me that had the right amount of postage on them.

Today, I asked the question with a better approach – more serene and polite, like a nice little old lady.

“This letter is 1.5 ounces and I added 21 cents of additional postage, is that correct?” I asked softly as I slid the letter smothered in small denominational stamps onto their scale, and added, “I hope the weight of the stamps didn’t put it over the mark.”

“It is fine, has enough postage for up to 2 ounces,” she announced after she calculated the total of the half a dozen stamps plastered along the top of the envelope.

“So, has the US Post Office come up with an additional ounce stamp yet?” I asked sweetly expecting to hear the work around method I have been using all these years.

“Yes,” she said and went to get a couple of sheets.

That surprised me. When I asked how much they were per sheet, she had to scan it in before she could tell me. That surprised me even more. I guess there is not much call for them, or no one actually puts just the sufficient amount of postage on envelopes anymore, or everyone is a big spender and tosses on an extra first class stamp worth 50 cents to cover just 21 cents of cost. 

I felt rich today and bought two sheets worth - $8.40 for 40 stamps.  That should hold me for a year or two.  Then I noticed they were “forever stamps.”

When I researched the additional ounce, forever stamp, I was even more surprised as they have been around since 2015. 

Did I have that many assorted denomination stamps piled up over the years unused or am I now just getting into writing longer letters?  My, my, how time flies: I learned something new that everyone has known, except me, since 2015. 

There must be some sort of Guinness World Record for not being up-to-date.

         

January 26, 2018 - Edward Elgar’s Sospiri, Op. 70 [1914]

         Often, I switch my Direct TV to Chanel 866, Light Classical, and let the musical carry me away while I am cooking, cleaning, blogging or whatever.

         I am not sure under what rock I have been, but the above-captioned piece was new to me until a few weeks ago when it suddenly appeared in the lineup of the music I listen to. Below is a link if you are unfamiliar with it. -  Enjoy.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1_JvCKBRpFA

         But, this isn’t the only piece of music where I have been under a rock, maybe the same rock, that I eventually discover.  Great music is found in lots of interesting places including commercials. [My husband notices those.]

When I hear some of my favorites listed below, I usually just drop what I am doing, and close my eyes and enjoy.  The music transports me elsewhere.  I can’t imagine what it must be like to actually be a musician and play an instrument or create music.

         I’ll toss out a half dozen examples to make my point:

I adopted Nadia’s Theme by Henry Mancini, the theme song from The Young and the Restless, as my wedding song. The only one who really knew where that came from was my grandma, Madeline Nixon, an avid fan of the soap opera. I rarely hear it now a day, but when I do, I stop and smile to myself and pity anyone in the room. I wistfully tell them it was my wedding theme and the poor dears don’t know what to say in reply.

         The theme from the movie, Laura, (1944) by David Raksin is another favorite. Anytime TCM has the movie on, my husband and I watch it again, and again mostly for the music.  It may be a black and white film, but it is stunning.

The theme from the movie The Ghost and Mrs. Muir [1947] by Bernard Herrmann I especially like when the waves crash on the beach eroding the wooden sign over time.

Another movie, The Big Country (1958) starring Gregory Peck and Jean Simmons [music by Jerome Moross] is another great movie we watch mostly for the music but also for the great scene of Charlton Heston yanking on his britches before the fist fight scene. We wonder, did he have any toe nails left?

The theme from Out of Africa [1985] by John Barry usually moves me to tears at some point in the film.  I consider it a long [tissue box] movie and I don’t watch it too often as I want to forget enough of it between showings.

        

Actor Tom Berenger in the movie Someone to Watch over Me [1987] is introduced to this music as he watches over actress Mimi Rogers. I got my first taste of Lamke - Flower Duet – from this movie and then went on a wild goose chase tracking it down.  One simply never hears it often enough.

The theme of the movie, Schindler’s List, [1993] by John Williams, I used to listen to the soundtrack during my long commutes to and from work.  I mentally disappeared and was often surprised to find myself magically at my destination.

 Lastly, the most recent one, the soundtrack of the movie Cold Mountain [2003] by Gabriel Yared moves me along with the incredible cinematography vistas. I hate to admit how many times I’ve watched it – thank goodness no one is keeping count.

Maybe the next time we say to someone, “Enjoy the view,” we should change it up and say, “Enjoy the music!”

January 25, 2018 – “What do they call male ladybugs?”

         Recently I heard that line spoken by a young girl on television.  I don’t remember if it was advertising a nature channel or what, but I filed it in the back of my mind under: Good question.

         Like many other people here in the Southeast, we have ladybugs slip in through window cracks and they congregate at night near lighted ceiling fixtures.  Our ladybug infestation localizes in the master bathroom and doesn’t bother me as I think it is a blessing of good luck.

         Ladybugs, actually beetles, are good luck symbols the world over.  In the garden, they feast on pests like aphids.

         When I watch the movie, Under the Tuscan Sun, there is a wonderful scene between the characters Katherine and Frances:

         Katherine speaking to Frances:

“When I was a little girl, I used to run around in the fields all day, trying unsuccessfully to catch ladybugs.  Finally, I would get tired and lay down for a nap. When I woke, I’d find ladybugs walking all over me.”

         No matter how many times I see that movie, I always pay particular attention to that scene.  I love the thought of it and the implication that we often have to wait for something wonderful to come our way.

         The other night I noticed ladybugs everywhere, ceiling, walls, floor, as I was pulling on my pajamas in the bathroom.  I turned out the light and crawled into bed.

         I was just dozing off to sleep when I felt this bite on my inner thigh.  I jumped out of bed, turned the light on and pulled off my pajamas. There I found a ladybug had been trapped in my pajamas and a red welt on my skin.

         I may not have an answer to the question, ‘What do they call male ladybugs?’ but, I can say I know from personal experience, they certainly do bite.

         

January 24, 2018  - “Let me tell you a secret.”

         “No! I don’t want to hear it. If you tell me it won’t be a secret,” I instantly replied to the woman that I had just met less than an hour ago at a company cocktail party.



         Let me set the scene so you understand the situation clearly. I was born and raised in a 2,500 registered-voters-sized small town. I know there is no such thing as a secret staying a secret when one person tells another their secret.  Suddenly, the entire village knows it by the end of the next day.  It’s the same as a vindictive acquaintance saying something that is false, yet in days everyone you know believes it actually happened, and that rumor never dies no matter how you try to denounce it.

I was only five years into being a corporate wife and I was naïve, but not that naïve to strap on someone else’s secret that could get out. We had just moved from a Midwest City to a rural town due to my husband’s new job.  We were only three months into this company and still deciphering which folks were the corporate backstabbers masquerading as potential friends.



This woman was the wife of a man my husband now supervised. She was past her third drink, but not yet bobbing and weaving.  I perceived this overture as her attempt to make a new friendship with me, a ‘tight friendship’ that would come with future requests of favors from her.

“Let me tell you my secret,” She whispered again. She was perhaps ten years my senior and well dressed and at first blush, I had liked her, until now.

“No, I don’t want to be responsible for it getting out.  I might repeat it by accident and then you’d hate me forever and the whole world would know your secret,” I replied trying to get her to back off. 

I remember I stepped away a few feet, to break the intimacy of our conversation, expecting her to come to her senses.  I did realize she was under the influence of several drinks and wanted to help her from making a fool of herself.

“Oh, let me tell you,” She stepped forward and draped one arm around my shoulder as if we were long-time, intimate friends and hugged me and then pulled me along to the bar set up in the kitchen so that she could make herself another drink. 

She was my size and build, on the plump side, with a creamy ivory complexion devoid of freckles that redheads generally have.  I wondered, did she somehow see a glimmer of her younger self in me.

“No, I can’t keep a secret!” I finally stated flatly knowing it was my best course of action. I shook my head, and tried my best to untangle myself from her. We were alone now out of earshot from the other guests.

“AHH, doesn’t matter, everyone knows about it anyway, you might as well know about it firsthand,” She slurred her words, “It’s all over town, but I want  you  to know the real facts, not the fanciful lies.”  She mixed herself another drink, and I lingered for the inevitable bearing of her soul.  I braced myself in order to handle it with worldliness that I had not yet acquired, until that moment.



         That was over 30 years ago and I had almost forgotten the secret, but it was a well-remembered lesson in corporate wife politics.  The woman never became a close friend and never asked me for a favor. However, I did get a cherished recipe from her she never divulged to any of the other corporate wives. 

Sweet Potato Biscuits - definitely more delicious than her secret was.

         

January 23, 2018 -       FLU in the house

         It has been several years since either my husband or I have been struck down by the flu and I mean “struck-down” literally.  My husband might have had the flu about four or five times in his lifetime and he only acted like he had a miserable cold that was longer and kept up with daily life.  Me, I got it sometimes once or twice a year consistently when I was out in the working world, even when I got the flu shot. I would crawl into bed with the mental wish to die I felt so bad.  Now that I am no longer out in the public daily, I get it less often.

         My husband had a doctor’s appointment Friday morning and I accompanied him as his “hearing-guide-wife”.  He no longer hears the questions the doctor asks, yet he nods assent or agreement when the doctor asks the questions.  I’ve been tagging along now for the last six years or so and it is interesting to watch the doctor and the husband in there “non-communication mode” until I speak up.

         After the first four questions shot across the bow are missed by my husband, I speak loudly to my husband and repeat the doctor’s question.  That is when the doctor remembers – Oh Yeah, he has a hearing problem. Then the doctor’s questions are direct and loud and he moves to stand directly in front of his patient hoping he will have better luck being heard by one of his patient’s two ears.  [Why doesn’t he just ask the patient, “Which side do you hear well on?”]

         My mild mannered husband, doesn’t want to admit he doesn’t hear the questions.  I always mention to the intake nurse that I am along because my husband doesn’t hear well, and say, “Please mark his file.”  Sometimes that helps, sometimes it doesn’t.

         When the doctor said, “We will keep an eye on that, the blood tests will tell us if it is progressing.”  I spoke up and asked a question,

         “So, are there any symptoms for that, anything that he or I should be looking for, or possible dietary changes?”

          “No, actually there are no symptoms.” He said with a look that I had the audacity to ask such a question? 

         As we were leaving, the doctor told my husband, “When the blood work gets back, I’ll phone you.”  Then he paused and looked at me. “I guess I’ll phone you and you can convey it to him, then?” 

“Yes, that will be perfect,” I said smiling sweetly. The doctor finally understood my “hearing-guide-wife” role.

Even not touching anything at the doctor’s office and washing our hands as soon as we got home, my husband came down with the flu that evening.  It came fast and hard and he says it is the worst he has ever experienced.

I’m doing the extra blanket thing, the medicine thing, the making sure he has enough liquids, etc., but this flu has knocked him flat.  I’ve never seen him sacked out on the couch curled up in blankets and a hot water bottle in my life time.

The first few hours I just sat and read to stay quiet, because housekeeping is noisy. Next, I thought I have to cook something for him to eat.  I suggested homemade Butternut squash soup.  He hemmed and hawed a bit and said, “Yeah, I might eat some.”

Of course, cooking with love, hoping the end product would make him feel better, I was only a few feet away from where he was trying to catch a nap on the couch. I am in the kitchen peeling the squash and dicing it.  Then I peel and dice some shallots.  I get pans out as quietly as possible and even I realize how loud I am when I am trying to be quiet.

“How can a person nap when you are making so much noise?” he calls.

“I’ll be quieter . . .” I say as the utensils and pans are out, all the dicing done, and I'm on to the quieter cooking part.

I put the diced squash in the steamer. I put the lid on ever so quietly and reach for my kitchen timer to set it for 20 minutes.

By routine, I simply start to twist it when I realize – heck, it will wake him up.  I try to shift it back to zero, but it still rings incessantly for almost a minute – even when I quickly wad a dishtowel over it trying to muffle the sound.

I hear a coughing, “Must you?”

“Oops, sorry ‘bout that,”  I cringe.

January 21, 2018 – Family heirloom re-purposed

         A few years back I got into a discussion with a millennial when she was using the phrase “re-purposing.”  I asked her what that meant and she said she had found a vanity table and chair and was refinishing it and using it in one of her young daughter’s room.  I didn’t ask my burning question at the time: Then, what is the difference between refinishing and re-purposing?  In my younger days, when we found something that needed love in the form a paint job we considered it refinishing. But, at that time we also casually used the phrase “recycled” for getting more use out of an item that someone had cast off.

I kept my mouth shut and later checked out the “re-purpose” phrase on the internet.  I found the definition as: Something that is being re-used for a new purpose or in a new way for a new purpose.  However, one definition also stated, “without alteration.”  So, I felt the example above, the vanity table and chair being refinished was actually “refinishing.” But, I also learned another phrase, “Upcycling” which is converting waste materials or useless products into new materials or new products.  They now define recycle as break down and reuse component materials or to reuse as a whole.  So, the old phrase, recycled, still works for me in the ‘reuse as a whole.’

But, the above definitions shouldn’t side track us from a family heirloom that I now treasure and the little bit of history behind it.



On the last two days of cleaning out my parents’ house last October with my brother, Ken, we dealt with Daddy’s work benches and the tools he used for a lifetime.  My brother, Ken, picked up a joint grooving tool that Dad had used in the 1950s when he was building the cellar with cement blocks.  The tool makes an expansion line between two layers of concrete blocks. 

“Do you know what this is?”

“It’s mine!” I claimed without hesitation and snatched it from him.  “It makes the lines between the layers of bricks or cement blocks.” Of course, he eyed me with the surprised look of ‘How did she know that?’

“I took bricklaying classes one semester,” I replied to his unspoken question with confidence and admired the smoothness of the wooden handle, the depth and sharpness of the v shaped grove making portion and then the raised lettering which read:

Miles Craft Tools

26A

Made in

Cleveland, Ohio USA

“Yeah, Dad used it when he built the cellar with the cement blocks,” he confirmed.

I repeated, “It’s mine,” and held it to my chest.  I instantly had a “re-purposing” use for it.  I immediately stashed it away before he could re-think letting it go without even a whisper of dickering for it.

Dad built our house from the ground up. The basement area was first excavated and then he put up wooden boards for the cement footings and when the cement footings had cured, Dad then started laying the cement blocks.  We’ve a wonderful black and white photo scrapbook of Dad working on the blocks with his two helpmates, my two brothers, Alfred and Ken.

Later that day, when we took a break from cleaning, we drug out the “building the house” scrap book which chronicled in photos and captions the land clearing, the cinder block basement, the capping of the basement, then the upper story, and eventually the roof.  Lots of pictures of the day the front picture window was installed with a cute sign, “it’s in!”  You have to realize, that is how the men coming home from World War II did things. They found a good piece of land and then they slowly started with the basement and built as they could afford.  My parents and my two older brother’s actually lived in the cement floor basement a year or so as the house was built mostly by my Dad from cellar hole to the tip of the shingled rooftop.

At the time my parents’ house, our house, was half-built, I was only a glint in my Daddy’s eyes.  By the time the family moved up stairs from the basement to living in the house, my Mom was well into her pregnancy with me.

Ken, looking at the pictures of him and his older brother being little helpers for Dad, turned and searched my face before he asked the question.

“Do you feel you missed out not helping to build this place?”

“No, I was here, remember, Mom was pregnant with me.” I said casually.



Now about the fabulous tool I now own; my prized family possession that is already rusted and worn and ready for more serious hard work.  It is perfect for when you fluff up the soil and smooth it with your hand or a rake making it ready to plant seed.  You take this hand grooving joint tool and run it smoothly across the surface and you have the most beautiful, straight valley ½ to ¾ inches deep in the soil.  You can easily sprinkle your seed in the soil in the perfect straight line furrow where you can see and space the seed easily.  Then I just sift some compost/soil mix over the valley. Tamp it down with my hand a bit and violá – a perfect seeded row.

I put it to the test as soon as I got home from cleaning the house last fall.  I planted spinach seed and they have overwintered beautifully. Oh, how pretty they look in their straight row. I leave my 26A Hand grooving joint tool out on display, like a paper weight, on the top of the bureau I use as my seed packet and garden tool chest.  As I pass by, I sometimes just stop and pick it up and feel it's weight and the smooth handle warn by Dad.

Now, part of me thinks that Daddy’s joint tool is spreading his green-thumb  magic  in the seed bed as it makes that smooth valley helping my seed grow for me.

         

January 20, 2018 -       “Is there nothing sacred in this house . . .”

         I heard the washing machine give it’s little ‘beep, beep, beep’ noise from the other end of the house.  Of course, my husband doesn’t hear it from five feet away. [I file that under ‘selective hearing’ as some of you might understand that phrase.]

         He does his own laundry the majority of the time because he fills the washing machine as if it is his own personal hamper.  It drives me nutty.  Yes, it does get his clothes where they need to be – don’t get me wrong – but often it is inconvenient, because I need something washed right away and I have to unload his dirty laundry in order to get mine done to meet a deadline.

         It got to me yesterday when I entered the mudroom, where the washer and dryer are located, and a delicious lavender scent filled the air. Hubby was on his way out the back door to feed his birds, not in hearing range, when I switched the completed wash over to the dryer. I spouted off to myself aloud,

         “Is there nothing sacred in this house?  He’s gotten into my expensive laundry detergent . . . how dare he?” [I talk to myself often; I believe that is a trait of being intelligent or keeping my own counsel.]

         What is this sacred thing? I am trying to be frugal and I hold back using my delicious scented Mrs. Myer’s Clean Day Laundry detergent for only special things, i.e., the sheets, underthings, etc., [honestly, mostly my things] because it is “pricey” as they say here in the south.  Does his jogging suit need “lavender” scent?  I say, NO.

         After I started the dryer, I snagged the half-gallon jug and put it in another hiding place.  Hey, it’s about $20 for a jug, in fact the current price sticker on the cap is $19.89 and our regular washing machine detergent is a quarter of that price for twice as much.

         I remember the first half-gallon I got of Mrs. Meyer’s Clean Day Laundry detergent.  It was a surprise gift from my friend, Becky the “ultra-shopper,” who finds deals of a lifetime just about every time she shops.  I think she bought a case of it at a remarkable price one day and was bragging about it and I mentioned, “ooooh!”

         She said she’d been using it for years and simply loved it. 

         I said, “I’ve seen it, but I am too cheap to buy any but I love Mrs. Meyer’s liquid dish shop and her All-purpose cleaner concentrate.”

         Out of the sweetness of her heart, she ran out to her vehicle, came back, and plunked one on the kitchen table for me as a love gift.  Of course, I said, “Oh, no, that’s too expensive . . .”

         But, Becky prevailed and I stashed it under the sink in my master bathroom and first saved it for my hand washed sweaters, and then I branched out into my fluffy bath towels and then the slippery slope began and next it was the sheets, and so on.  When that first jug was empty, I had to fork out big bucks for my next half-gallon; and I again became “stingy” because I really am a cheapskate half of the time. [Being a Libra, I swing from frugality to extravagance when it comes to spending money.]

         Okay, Okay, I hear you. I will get over it; I guess it isn’t really sacred.   However, when someone mentions that my husband smells like a woman’s lingerie drawer, trust me, I won’t suppress my laughter.

         

January 19, 2018 - The cost of my laziness

        These lazy bones didn’t want to budge Wednesday morning after it starting snowing late Tuesday night and was still snowing when I woke up to almost 3 inches of snow. I just wanted to snuggle in all day. I did just that and peered out the window every so often to check the status of the storm. [When it finally stopped snowing it was between 6 to 8 inches depending on the drifts.] What I should have done, what I have always done, is go out and sweep or shovel off the steps and sidewalks every so often before anyone [including the dog] walks on it.  And, as the storm progresses, I sweep or shovel again to keep ahead of it. 

But, being warm and cuddled up with a project and a hot cup of tea I turned into a lazy bones this past Wednesday.

        It didn’t take long to realize what a fool I was for being lazy and not the proactive, old-fashioned Yankee who knows you must keep up with the snow or it has the tendency of jumping up and biting you in the butt.

It did just that.  I got my come-uppance late Wednesday evening when it was my turn to take the dog out for his ‘business’ and I encountered snow trampled down on the stoop, stairs, and the sidewalks.  Wet, trampled snow, now frozen due to the plunging night temperatures were more than slippery, they were treacherous. 

When my dogs feet started to slip out from under him and he sat down suddenly, I realized I’d made the ultimate mistake of not taking care of the business of a well-run life due completely to my laziness.

The fear of slipping and falling and breaking an arm or hip hung heavy on me as I managed to get my dog and myself back into the house safely.

My Dad had a saying for this – you’ll recognize the proverb:

“You’ve made your bed, now lie in it.”

        Trying to fall asleep, I realized that it had been a long time since I had created my own problem. I thought about other people I had met on this life’s highway and noted a few people I had met that didn’t have the common sense to realize they had created most of their own personal problems.  Yes, I was raised responsibly and my life would turn out in direct relation to my actions.

        Some of you are wondering – where is your husband in all of this snow shoveling?  Well, he has had a bad back for our entire marriage and I have been the main snow shoveler so that he isn’t laid up in pain for days. He did as much as he could do and I simply was hunkered down in my project and wasn’t paying attention that what he did was not enough for our snow situation.

        Then, others of you might say – you’re in the South – what are you talking about?  It doesn’t really SNOW down in the Carolinas.  Well, you are right and wrong at the same time.

        Normally, when it snows less than six inches it is usually gone by late afternoon.  Or, in the case where we have a good heavy snow one day, two days later it is melted and gone.  Well, this storm, started late Tuesday night and school was cancelled for Wednesday.  Thursday the roads were still frozen and school closed.  Friday the roads were still frozen and schools closed.  It is now Friday and the snow is still with us.  We were out before 9:00 a.m. this  morning and there are still extensive patches on shady back roads that are sending drivers skidding into ditches.

        So, lazy bones, me, got out mid-morning on Thursday and cleaned off my car and chipped off the trampled down frozen snow on the front and back steps and the sidewalk. Darn, what hard work and I won’t be forgetting it too soon.  Of course, I wrenched my back a little and just about froze my gloved fingers.  A heck of a lot more work than it needed to be. If I had just gotten off my lazy bones and done it when I should have it would have been three times easier.

        Yes, Dad, I’ve re-learned the lesson the hard way.  Now shovels and snow gear will be poised and waiting at the ready the next notice of snow in the Carolinas.

       

January 18, 2018 – “You can afford it.”

         I had just started a new job and I had to be “parked” at a branch location because Human Resources had hired me, Title Insurance Trainer, at the same time they hired the State Counsel (attorney) for the Title Insurance Company. 

         We both couldn’t show up at the small office and be indoctrinated at the same time.  Of course, the attorney, with the top pay and top billing, was installed in the office first and the Office manager shuffled me off somewhere for safekeeping for a week and sent me off bag and baggage, with an armful of work, to an affiliate to work.

         Lucky me! No, actually it was lucky me, as it was fun working alongside young people who were new to the industry and when they asked me a question I had a definitive answer which sort of made me feel smart as I actually had real title insurance answers.  It wasn’t a case of being smart, I’d only been doing it for 20 years, and I had 20 years of experience and the young staff had about six months’ worth.

         I learned how they were doing everything the modern, electronic way and that was a real eye-opener for me.  The internet is a great thing and they were taking advantage of it big time.  I learned some serious tricks from their little modern toolbox that I have used since.  [I miss that working out in the public in the real world – I feel I am getting technologically sluggish not out there with young people it is huge drawback in retirement.]

         I had my rolling computer bag and I had to stay in touch with the new office during the week.  By mid-week I had figured out the best way to “keep it together” – my computer, phone, phone charger, my purse, my keys, my hair brush and lipstick – all the stuff a woman carries around and needs but has nowhere to put.  I dumped it all into a stylish 14 x 16 inch carryall.

         From then on, I rolled my computer bag with the carryall looped around the handles everywhere I worked or visited.

One day I and a young agent were discussing automobiles.  I was explaining I needed to get a new one as my electric windows no longer worked and the complete dashboard was blank.  I was complaining about the price for a “mother board” for my dashboard.  I didn’t want to put the money into my current car as I also would need tires or brakes in 6 months.

         “You can afford it,” he said.

         “What are you talking about – I am as poor as a church mouse,” I answered.

He was incredulous.

“You’ve got the money. Any woman who carries a Louis Vuitton bag has the money,” the young man said and reach over and taped the corner of my carryall.

         He laughed and chanted, “Louis Vuitton, Louis Vuitton.”

         I finally had to ask him, 

         “What are you talking about?”

         “Your bag!”

         “This?” I picked up the carryall.

         “This was given to me from someone who came back from Korea on vacation.  This is not expensive.”  I explained.  I was clueless.

         “May I,” he asked taking the bag to look it over.

         “You are right, it’s an imitation, no initials on the zipper pull, the design doesn’t match on one side – but it is a really good imitation.” He answered and handed it back to me.

         “So, what is a Louis Vuitton?”  I was still in the dark; I assumed it was just a brand name.

         “Oh, let me show you,” he twirled around in his seat and showed me on the internet a “real” one and I gasped at the price tag.

         Any time I had to visit that branch office he always would look to see if I my ‘Louis’  was looped on the handle of my rolling computer case and comment on it. 

         “Louis Vuitton, looking good,” he would say with an amused smile.

         I always smiled back wondered why a handsome young man knew so much about women’s fashion accessories.

         Could it have been his girlfriend had “rich” tastes?