September 30, 2018 – New cleaning tips -  I am currently trying

Sinks:

         When I was a teenager, I read Cosmopolitan magazine.  I remember a romance article where the heroine hand washed her cashmere sweater in order to get her filthy bathroom sink clean.  The narrative of that sad woman upset with her love life deciding to wash her filthy sink before washing her cashmere sweater made a lasting impression on me. She actually shared more about her dirty bathroom sink than about her falling apart love life.

         Since those teenage days, I equate a dirty bathroom sink with a sad love life.  I’ve even commented mentally to myself in a jesting way when my bathroom sink looks grimy – time to hand wash a few sweaters and scrutinize my love life. [Yes, I do hand wash sweaters still.]

         I am retired and I am in my bathroom more often than when I was working. [Reason of course, I was in my work place bathroom during the hours 8 to 5].  Now, I am gardening and have to come and scrub up from the dirt and mud on my hands.  My bathroom sink is catching such heavy traffic these last few years of retirement.

         One morning I scrubbed the bathroom sink after I brushed my teeth and admired the gleaming faucets and sparkling bowel.  Three hours later, after I’d made a couple of bathroom trips, [You know, too much morning coffee], and I was washing the mud off my hands I noticed the sink faucet was covered in water spots and soapy hand residue splashes.  I wasn’t happy.  I’d just cleaned the darn sink that morning. Clean can’t last three hours?

         I thought I must be doing something wrong.  I obviously don’t know how to wash my hands if just washing my hands turns my bathroom sink into a pig sty in a matter of hours.  As I am washing my hands, I am staring at these hard water spots mixed with soap.  I rinse my hands, and turn off the faucet.  There it is – therein lies the problem.  My hands are wet and drip, drip, dripped all over the faucet I am turning off.

         I thought, what if I don’t turn the water off with wet hands, but instead grab a hand towel and wipe my hands first and then turn off the faucet.  I create no new drops that way.

         Maybe I’d fallen onto an idea to keep the bathroom sink clean.  I grabbed a stack of face cloths, stacked them near the sink.  I scrubbed the sink down until it glistened back at me.

         The rest of the day when I washed my hands, I left the water running, grabbed a face cloth, wiped my hands and then used the face cloth to turn off the water.  No hard water droplets left on the chrome faucet.  It wasn’t the action of the washing of my hands, it was the turning off the tap with wet hands that was creating all this water spot and spatter mess.

         I continued this for the next few days and noticed I don’t have to scrub down my sink very often.  The wet face cloths are tossed in the laundry basket and I grab a fresh one each time. 

         Yes – I am on to something.  It has been two months now and I am still grabbing a freshly laundered face cloth to dry my hands before I turn off the faucet. I turn the faucet off with the face cloth, then toss it in the laundry.  Cheaper than paper towels – I solved that little problem. My bathroom sink now looks presentable all the time.

         Then, I assessed the kitchen sink.  I splash that sink as well.  I took a dishtowel and rolled it up like a sausage and tucked it behind the faucet along the back of the sink.  I notice less mess to clean up and every few days I whisk it away and put in a fresh dish towel.  Yes, bathroom and kitchen sinks now looking better.

Shower stall:

         After my hamstring pull got better, I could get down on all fours and caught up on scrubbing my glass shower stall doors and fiberglass enclosure again. It had gotten short shrift when I had a bum leg.  [I actually think cleaning is exercise – even though doctors say it is not.]

I got it sparkling clean with using full strength Castile soap on one of those magic erasers making small circular motions all up and down and around.  Then I rinsed it clean and wiped it dry. 

On the glass shower doors, after I got the hard water spots off, I took baby oil and wiped them down and buffed them.  I found that technique in one of those “clean everything” books.  It works wonderful – give it a try.

My shower stall is not one smooth landscape and I’ve tried using a squeegee in the past and never seem to get enough of the water off and am left with hard water spots as the squeegee doesn’t get into the lips and edges.

Just a few days later after my robust shower cleaning, I noticed when the late afternoon sun came glinting in that bathroom – the shower looked awful.  Those darn hard water spots back again. The shower doors looked fine, it was the shower walls that looked like I hadn’t cleaned them in weeks – when I’d just cleaned them a day or two before.

Oh sure, I’ve tried that after shower spray and I don’t see how it keeps anything clean – it sort of sticks to the hard water spots and then you still have to scrub.  I consider that spray just like spraying hair spray on your head and the residue falling on your bathroom floor.  You have to scrub it up.  That is the reason I don’t use hairspray – I don’t want to scrub it off the floor. [Also, I don’t like the way it feels on my hair anyway.]

I had a pale yellow tiled bathroom in Kansas once and I used a bath towel to wipe it down after each use, but all that did was increase my laundry.

A few days later, I was well enough to give my car a serious scrub down and spray wax treatment.  In doing so, I use an Absorba chamois.  It is a synthetic chamois, and I wipe the water off the car by section, wring it out and continue.  It dries the car, gives is a nice shine, and then I proceed to the spray wax treatment.

Why am I not using a chamois to dry my shower after each use?  That won’t fill my laundry with excess bath towels.

I’ve been doing that now for about a month and guess what – I don’t have to scrub the heck out of my shower stalls to get those hard water stains off. 

It took me a little bit of time to get the technique down.  I now have it broken up into sections on how much I wipe down before the chamois is wet and starts to leave water spots.  I then wring it out and continue.  I leave the chamois on the inside of the shower door to dry. 

Yes, it takes a little time, but I have it down to 78 seconds. I count a loud.  I work from the top to the bottom, I do the floor next to last and then finally do the doors.

I think I finally got a handle on a few more housekeeping issues.  Give them a try, see if they work for you, too.

        

September 29, 2018 – Is sleep important?

         “I find that when you have a real interest in life and a curious life, that sleep is not the most important thing.” – Martha Stewart

         There are times I don’t sleep and I turn out the light and re-wind the day wondering how all the time slipped so quickly through my fingers like sand.  Today, I had a nice surprise, a long visit with a dear friend.  A thirty-year plus  friend – you don’t have many of those in your life time. 

         Friends with that sort of vintage are just about as rare as antiques.  I can’t tell you how much catching up we did.  We went from one topic to another as easily as rain pattering the pavement.  One idea made us think of another idea and as she drove to the next county for lunch, our mutual talk and thoughts meandered just like the country back roads we traveled.

We discussed another mutual friend, Gerry, God Rest her Soul, she is no longer with us and I couldn’t remember a phrase Gerry used often.  After a few days of thinking about it, that elusive phrase came to me this afternoon.

         “Remember that phrase Gerry used to say when we got to a subject she didn’t want to talk about?”

“Don’t go there,” is what she used to say.

         We nodded and laughed.

         “I miss her snorkel . . .” my friend replied.

         We spent the next few moments imitating her snorkel.  That brought tears to my eyes and mutual giggles.

         "I remember how she hated the smell of my coffee when we used to go out to eat and the waitress always put my coffee in front of her and her sweet tea in front of me."

         My friend mimicked Gerry’s, “Eeww” she would gasp at the coffee aroma.  We laughed again.

         “You know, I still want to pick up the phone and call her sometimes . . . then I remember . . .”

         We fell silent for a moment.

         Later, it was fun, showing her my new projects and my new crazy ideas. It is easy when you are sharing something daring and adventurous with such a friend – you get nothing but positive vibes.

         Yes, a pleasant day, with someone else driving for a change. I relished just watching the rural landscape slipping past.  I noticed the green leaves of the tall tulip trees are starting to get yellow tinged edges coordinating with the massive patches of golden rod.  Fall is inching its way here.

         So many nice memories were dusted off today, refreshing my spirit and acting like Novocain on the new number of my age. 

         I don’t feel any different than I did yesterday – just my age has changed a digit.  Maybe my chronical age will catch up with me next month or next year or never catch up with me – now that is a thought.

         What was it Mom used to say about age – Yeah,  Curiosity keeps you young.

         Sleep isn’t coming - I’ve had a full day of exhilaration-I’ll re-wind it and “Play it again Sam.” 

         Martha Stewart is right, sleep is not the most important thing.

September 28, 2018 – Was it coincidence or heaven-sent?

         I miss my Mom.  This will be a difficult birthday for me, my first since Mom died; I won’t be getting a card from my Mom ever again. There won’t be a crisp bill with “In God we Trust” on it slipped inside with a note to buy something I’d like.  It’s not the money I miss – it is her handwriting – her choice of card and the sentiment she chose.  Sure, I’ll probably get cards from other people – but not from Mom.

Last year I drove up to Massachusetts and visited her close to my birthday when I helped clean out my parents’ home getting it ready to sell. She was frail then and lived with my brother, Ken. 

"The next time you see me, I’ll be in my box,” she had said with a lilt in her voice and smiling snap of her brown eyes.  She was being honest and humorous.  She always said, “Laughter is the best medicine” so she was serving up her final goodbye with her type of “sugar to make the bitter pill go down.”

 Just seven days after I kissed her goodbye, she passed away peacefully.

The whole time I was hugging her and saying goodbye; in my mind was the thought this will be the last time I will see her alive.  But, she was the brave one who actually verbalized it for the both of us.

I miss her optimism and her bravery. I’ve spent a year now reflecting on her life and now realize she had more than her share of courage or bravery in small things that added up to a well accomplished life.

I am not sure what I would say to her if she were here other than, “I miss you terribly.”

Thinking about her “courage” I went to my bookcase and pulled out a book I read a while back entitled:  Finding your Courage – unleash your full potential and live the life you really want, by Margie Warrell. 

What better time for me to re-read it.  Mom had an abundance of courage, I need to cultivate more for the rest of my life’s journey.

When I pulled the book out of the bookcase, I opened it up to a bookmark protruding from the top.

It was a letter from my Mom folded up – three pages – all out of sequence with no envelope.  First, I noticed it was from Mom and Dad – that would make it rather old so I looked for the date.  September 28, 2008 – which was my birthday 10 years ago!  Was that a coincidence?

What do they call that - a heaven-sent message from beyond?

I then shuffled the pages, put the letter in correct order, and read it again – it transported me to a time when both my Mom and Dad were alive.

They’d gone out to dinner at The Olive Garden.  Dad has seven pieces of chicken in his entrée and Mom had the scallops and shrimp Alfredo and brought half of it home for supper the next night.  They watched the movie, “Sabrina” and stopped at a bookstore to buy the history books, Harvard and Fort Devens. [I have those books now; I brought all her local history books home last fall and have been reading them at random.]

“We are catching up with our fall equinox rain,” she writes. Funny, today, we had a heavy rain.

I miss her letters they were weekly treasures.  Mom basically jotted down a paragraph a day for seven days, then signed it, “Much Love, Mom & Dad” folded it and shoved it in an envelope and mailed it to me.  The next day, she would start another one. 

Her letters gave me a complete summary of their lives – week in and week out for all the years since I moved away from home – my entire married life.  How could I miss her then, when I was getting letters . . . it was almost impossible.

Later, when she could no longer hold a pen to write – I would call her almost daily.  Soon that became difficult for her. She couldn’t hear me, and I couldn’t ask much or convey much as she didn’t understand.  Just hearing her voice was always enough.  She always would end the call, “Be Good.”

I don’t know how she managed it from heaven, but the 10 year old letter eerily dated with September 28^th – seems like a celestial sign from her that I chose the right book from my bookshelf.  I think she is telling me, “Find your courage.”

“Yes, Mom, I will do just that. I miss you both. Much Love back.”

September 27, 2018 – Another miscommunication – HUH?

Back story - set up:

         In the fall and winter our church, the Immaculate Conception Catholic Church has bible study classes after the Wednesday evening Mass.  I’ve been to several in past years and this year I signed up for the new class.  I am always surprised what I do know which is reinforced and then what I learn anew. A few classes ago, I especially liked the Angels and Demons class.  I enjoyed most all of it except when we got to the demons – you can keep them – I don’t want them around me.

         The Bible and the Virgin Mary - journey through scripture is the title of the program this year.  The class usually has a DVD presentation which is filled with quality speakers, gorgeous artwork, and spiritually moving sound track. Then we review our lesson and answer the questions in a group setting and have a discussion.

It is a place for “sweets” too – we have many excellent bakers in our church and most of the time there are sweets or eats and coffee. Additionally, the workbook is filled with beautiful artwork.  There are no tests. Whew – good thing – my attention span in the evening is much reduced.  I am a morning person.

         It is a pleasant evening and I live just five minutes from church so it is “ultra” convenient for me.  It gives me the opportunity to socialize with others like myself or as I often say, “my kind”. 

[In the future I will share with you the comment by an employer after a few weeks of work saying to me, “We’ve never had anyone in this office of your kind.”  I asked, “Kind?” and he answered, “Catholic”.  One doesn’t forget about little incidents like that. I believe I will take that one to my grave.]

The miscommunication:

         I announced last week [the first week] to my husband about 6:15 p.m. as I am about to leave,

         “I am going to Church then to Catechism class.”  I call it catechism class instead of bible study out of habit.

         He looks up at the clock and asks, “You are going to get vitamins this late in the day?”

        

         This time I didn’t have a snappy comeback.  I paused with my mouth open in surprise. I tried to say it again, and he made no comment. I finally grabbed a piece of paper and wrote it out and handed it to him. 

“Ohh,” he nodded understanding. 

         On the way to the church I was saying aloud to my guardian angel in the passengers seat, “God love him, he doesn’t hear anything I say anymore!”  Then I smiled, it was sort of funny mixing up catechism with vitamins. Catechism-vitamins – do they sound alike or they are just multi syllable words and he made a wild guess?

        

         Was the TV on too loud or was he just tired? 

         All during Mass my mind is wandering back to the catechism and vitamins.  What drug store did he think I was going to that sounded like church – or didn’t he hear any of what I said except the last word?  He has mentioned occasionally that I talk too fast.  Is that the problem?

         After Mass, I mention it to a friend and she smiles knowingly.  She owns a deaf husband too.  That is why I go to the catechism class to share the ups and downs and miscommunications of life with dear friends.

Her knowing smile was the honey in my hot-tea-of-life at that moment.

September 26, 2018 – The delight of late summer roses

         I like tall flowers in my gardens so that I can cut them and bring them in to arrange into bouquets.  Having a “tall” floral garden takes more effort than the typical bedding out of edging plants that don’t need to be cut back just watered and fertilized.

         After finishing the basket weave brick patio at the back of my house this spring, I have been re-working the gardens that flank it.  I left the tall Missouri Primrose, Oenothera macrocarpa, until they faded and produced seed. [They look awful at that stage, but I was desperate for the seed and had to deal with the messy look.]

         When I cut back the Missouri Primrose, I also took out the 20 year old blueberry bush that had seen better days, along with the poison ivy that had intertwined into a Chrysanthemum. [I had enough cuttings of that Chrysanthemum and it is doing well elsewhere in my gardens.]  I yanked it and half a wheelbarrow of mint.  That smelled grand while I was clearing the garden.

         To complete the garden clean up so that I could re-plant with some spring bulbs and continue the zig-zag Siberian Iris design, I cut the roses back. [Rose varieties that have been around for decades.] I have three, and remember the names of two of them, the third name escapes me at the moment. They are Queen Elizabeth which is pink and Mr. Lincoln which is red.  Both are fragrant.

         My husband always is shocked when I cut them severely back and by severely back I mean within 8 to 12 inches from the ground.  I took all the fallen dead leaves from around the bushes away and watered them heavily for the next few days.  Then, lucky for me – nature took its course and we received more than ample rainfall.

         Still thinking about the layout of the garden, I glance at it when I walk the dog or sit out.  In a matter of only a few weeks up shot fresh growth with buds galore! Beautiful blooms followed.  Always a delight!  We have fine weather here in the Carolinas way into fall and some years I think I have better late summer and fall roses than the spring flush of blooms.

         I haven’t always been this fortunate with roses – but these old timer varieties seem to be happy in this location and I have managed to keep them in good shape for almost 15 years. 

         The point of this blog is – roses like to be cut back in order to put out fresh growth.  So, if you want to keep the color in your landscape to enjoy do so, but after they bloom, you need to cut the faded blooms the correct way in order to get more.  [Not severely to the ground every time – but below I note a wonderful website that walks you through the pruning aspects.]

         That is why every time my husband complains, “You are cutting all the roses.” I reply, “That is what they are for – to be cut and brought in up-close and personal.” 

         What he doesn’t comprehend is that I am cutting them to encourage more growth to get more blooms.

         If you haven’t planted any roses in your landscape, now is the time to think about it and research it.  There are so many varieties to choose from.  But, research you must do as roses require ample care or you will only be disappointed.

Some gardeners have much luck with roses, while others don’t.  But, if you don’t try – you will never know – now will you?

Helpful websites to get you started on your research journey:

http://www.aces.edu/pubs/docs/A/ANR-0157/ANR-0157.pdf

https://homeguides.sfgate.com/trim-rose-bushes-back-five-leaves-65767.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rose

P.S.  If anyone knows the old wives tale – you need ___ number of roses to get a bloom – please advise me.  I once had a rose culture book that discussed how many leave were necessary for a rose to produce a bloom and I used to toss that number around when people came to my rose garden at Trojan Lane.  The number has escaped me, but I do remember reading it in a horticulture book on roses.   Thanks in advance if you know and email it to me. [Send it through the comment section.]

September 25, 2018 – Side dish – just some pondering thoughts

         Recently I came across a phrase: “side dish”.  The first time was an article about a Mom and her teenage daughter who was beginning to date – not seriously and when asked, the daughter said, “He is only a side dish”.  Later on after college, when she brought a fella home to meet her parents, the Mom knew he wasn’t a side dish but the main dish even before the daughter mentioned it. I found the article “amusing” as I’d not heard the phrase before.

         But, today in the Dear Abby column I noticed:

         “If it’s an affair, you will be his side dish and unable to form a meaningful relationship. . . .”

         So, I checked the Urban Dictionary – seems I am checking that more often now since I guess I actually do live under a rock . . . and found that it has a profoundly “sexual” meaning – as in ‘mistress’.

         But, what surprised me more about the two different written articles for the public was the naiveté of the first writer and the down and dirty understanding of the second writer.

         So, here is my quandary as a writer.  Did the first author make a faux pas, and the second writer, as a national syndicated columnist, just have more experience.

         Did the first writer get scathing emails that she used the wrong phrase?

         Will I get scathing emails when I make such a faux pas?

         But, then again, when I searched further, I find there is an additional phrase, “sidedish boyfriend” which is basically an escort that isn’t sexual or even emotional.

         So, I am honestly back to square one. From my understanding it is a case of what sex is the friend – in order to figure out if it is a sidedish that is ‘sexually active’ or a sidedish that is just an ‘escort’.

         I am going to crawl back under my rock now.  

        

September 24, 2018 – I took some flak from yesterday’s blog

         I ended it with:

P.S.  I don’t like to be bookmarked while you crack a dictionary for a word you don’t know. Look up it up on your own time, not while I am speaking.

         Maybe because I have worked with bosses that have extensive knowledge and language skills I’ve picked up a different vocabulary.  Or, maybe it is all those Agatha Christie books I inhaled as a pre-teen.  I also have a few friends that are extremely learned and have incredible language skills that I admire. 

Or, maybe because we moved around on company business – ten states in seven years - sure does increase your experience, your vocabulary, and your recipe repertoire in short order.

         In the last few years I have mentally questioned “bandwidth” as in “not in my bandwidth” and “one-off” as in “It was a one-off.”

         Without being obtrusive, I made a mental note of the phrase or word and later I cracked the electronic dictionary on my computer to understand what she was saying.  I didn’t bookmark her.  I didn’t admit I didn’t have a clue what she was actually saying.  I obviously didn’t show my ignorance, because she still might assume I have a brain in my head.

         What I did realize that these were “new terms used in the modern office” among young professionals – something I was not – since the last ten years of my professional life I worked in a one-person office.  Secondly, I think they were more of a regional difference in language – they hit her area before I heard them on the local news being bandied about.

         But, most of my friends know I occasionally squeeze under a rock or go under cover for a period of time – sometimes to lick my wounds – other times to recuperate or rejuvenate.   Sometimes they know I’m out of the mainstream on certain issues and I am not on the same page as them. When we are speaking they can see me squint my eyes questioning something they say and they elaborate more to get their point across.  I try not to let on – but most of the time they can guess – they are educated at body language. I don’t bookmark them and ask what a word is. Like learning any new word or phrase, I gather the jest of it in the context of the sentence.

         So part of me was shocked that someone stopped me mid-sentence and demanded to know what the word denude meant.  I wasn’t Lording it over her – it is part of my regular vocabulary.  Now that I think of it did she think I was saying something risqué - the “nude” popping out at her?

I guess I need to find a larger network of friends that have a better vocabulary than I have so that the “shoe is on the other foot.”  Still, I would mentally jot it down and look it up later. I wouldn’t insult my own intelligence.

I don’t know how to apologize for something I don’t think I need to apologize for.  I wasn’t rude, in fact, I didn’t chide her that she didn’t know.  I simply gave her the definition thinking that she might have forgotten what happened in natural history or science class which is many more decades ago than we both want to admit. [Hey, I still wonder is it a peninsular or an isthmus – but I don’t broadcast I don’t have a clue.  I know how to look it up.]

Occasionally I am brave enough to say at the tail end of the conversation, that I am not familiar with that term. And, many know I don’t run in the same crowds as they do or it could be a regional thing or a generational thing.

But, mostly this happens when I am talking with someone by telephone.  That is my number one reason for not liking telephone conversations.  The other person can’t “read” your face like they can in person.  I prefer face-to-face conversations which are not always possible.  Telephone conversations,  I feel, lead to more little white lies than I can admit to and I often recognize when someone abruptly ends a call – “Oh, got to go, got someone is buzzing in” when I broach to change the subject to something I want to talk about.

I give no apology for yesterday’s blog.

As a Southern friend said recently as she gets older in a new mantra:  “Deal with it, I am not changing”.

I’ll add that mantra to my use of too many dashes.  It’s just my way and I doubt I’ll change at this late date.

        

September 23, 2018 – “I have actually been writing in my mind my whole life.”

         About a half-hour ago I just blurted that aloud – to no one in particular – probably just to myself as my husband wasn’t paying attention.  But, I did. Sometimes just saying something out aloud brings more clarity to me.

“Isn’t that the truth?” I questioned myself aloud as well.

         I had just been reading something in this month’s Writers Digest. 

         “My fingers trembled slightly as I picked up a red notebook emblazoned with the face of Hello Kitty.  My diary.  My heart raced and my hands clenched around the book, as if I were riding a rollercoaster making its first slow ascent up the big hill and holding on for dear life.  I was in no mood to reminisce on the insipid prattlings of my youth – there had already been enough of that with my mother the night before – but I felt an itch somewhere at the edge of my memory, and I opened the notebook’s cover.”

         The above is from an article:  Case Study: Suspense by Karen Krumpak assistant editor of Writer’s Digest.

         I remembered something I’d written to a dear friend in the last few weeks that had the allusion to a rollercoaster as well.

         My version:

“ . . . is a deep fear, an all-consuming fear.

The only way I can describe it is like a cheap roller-coaster ride.  The long wait in line to board a paint-chipped garish carriage and then the jolting chug, chug, chug to the top.  When the sudden dip at the top by gravity, you are expecting it and dreading it. The inevitable gasp, the scream of pleasure - or is it really pain? Then the slow, often stagnant coast back to the terminal to tediously unload with the clinging realization it wasn't "fun", wasn't even an "experience". 

         And, then I remember saying to a doctor one day when he asked if I was having headaches.

         “ . . . sort of - off stage, in the wings, waiting to appear.”

         I remember the look on his face – astonished – then he smiled and nodded.  Obviously, I had described it to his satisfaction because when he spoke to me during the rest of the medical consultation– he had compassion and understanding.  Not the usual theory of “it’s all in your head” that I’d witnessed on many occasions before.

         I have one friend that will often stop me mid-sentence to ask what a word is that I am using she is unfamiliar with.  The first time it happened in front of my brother, Ken, when he was visiting and he thought I was tossing around “hundred-dollar words” is his phrase.  He chipped in, “I’ve never heard that either.”  I have searched my mind these last few minutes trying to think of that word, but I have failed.  But, it is a word that I read years ago in a romance novel when I was a teenager.  [I probably cracked the dictionary at the time as I often did back then.] Words with whole-paragraph meanings, meant a lot to me back then, and now - even more.

         The current offending word was – “denude” as in strip of all coverings or surface layers, to lay bare to erosion, and to strip land of forests.

         I was mentioning to this gal that I was a bit more concerned about the winds coming from Hurricane Florence since like her experience of last year, a forest had been denuded behind her house and a big tree came down in her yard once her neighbor’s forest was gone and the ground around her big tree had been saturated.  The lack of the forest to reduce winds had taken its toll on her big tree and it came crashing down on her house. I was concerned that I would experience this same result.

         Recently, this summer, the gentleman that owns about 12 acres that wraps around the front section of the property of the development I reside in, and which my land abuts to, had his forest timbered.  [Not the Kudzu owner, the other one.] Prior to the timbering, I could only see green leaves, [or wood trunks in winter] when I looked to the east, now in summer I can see blue sky and a few, left-standing trees.  I was concerned that violent storms from that quadrant of the compass would be stronger now that his forest had been denuded and the force of the wind wouldn’t be broken or reduced by his once standing forest causing havoc with my trees.

         So, I used the word denuded and instantly I was interrupted and I was more startled by this interruption because it had happened to her.  It is the perfect word – it is succinct – and in this day and age with all the “green people” on earth in the media for the last two – three – or even more decades to not know the word “denude” took my breath away.

         How do the words “roller-coaster” and “denude” relate? Well, they are both visual words and they should be considered common words among everyday-ordinary people.  Kids know what a roller-coaster is and teenagers in school must know what denude means – they learn it in science class when they learn about erosion.

         I keep hearing “write simply” in order to get your work published.  I want to scream from the rooftops – why? Why can’t I just use the correct words that say more in one word than three sentences?  What is wrong with being a wordsmith? What is wrong with beautiful language?  What is the dummying down theory going to get us in the end? Are we going to have to speak like cavemen in grunts and moans?

         Does anyone really want to hear that the bad guy rushed out of the house and raced off in a car?  Wouldn’t you prefer he rush out of the house and squeal away in a green S-type Jaguar? [Later, when the detective interviews the witness and who says, “I noticed it as it flashed by - had one of those silvery figures of a jaguar on the hood.”] The detective notes it as that vintage characteristic will make his search easier.

         I don’t talk “cut all the trees down” I say, denude.  I don’t just say, “car” I describe it.

         Again, I have been writing all my life in my head and when I speak, I am even writing then.

         P.S.  I don’t like to be bookmarked while you crack a dictionary for a word you don’t know. Look it up on your own time, not while I am speaking.

September 22, 2018 – Electronic subscription? Mistake or . . . .

         Obviously, something went kerflooey on my recent renewal of The Weekly Standard. It always comes due in September and I consider it a birthday present to myself that I pay for myself – my weekly intellectual gift to my mind.

         My last actual in-your-hand glossy paper magazine arrived September 3^rd and I’ve been waiting for my weekly dose of “conservatism” and have gone on wanting for weeks now.  HMMMMM – something is wrong.

         Not remembering it is actually Saturday, not a business day, I went to their web site to check out what issue was out and to snag the subscription phone number.  I was aghast – I’ve already missed three issues?

         Oh sure, I can catch up via electronic reading, but that just takes the sheer delight out of my weekly read arriving in the mail.  It is “excitement” when it comes in.  I clear off my desk, set the freshly arrived issue to the side on a bare surface.  Then, when my short To-Do list of usually no more than 3 or 4 items are done, I snag my magazine, grab a cocktail and curl up in my favorite easy chair with pen in hand.

         Yes, pen in hand.  I read it and shout at it in praise, agreement or disagreement with comments like, “on point” or “yes”  or “I don’t think so!”  I read the back page parody first then go immediately to the political cartoon in the first section, which, if you are unaware, is entitled “The Scrapbook”.  Is there anything better than a political cartoon?  Gosh, the imagination of Michael Ramirez never ceases to surprise and delight my funny bone.

         Next I read “The Scrapbook” which is so irreverent at times and amuses me.  It is the frosting before you get to the cake of the reading.  Often, I will read out portions to my just about “deaf” husband and we get a good chuckle out of it.

         If you want anything from me the rest of the day or into the evening, you are basically out of luck.  My nose is down and I might look up over the cover with my reading glasses if a crisis occurs. I might even take care of that crisis in short order, but I immediately return to The Weekly Standard.

        

         I find it amusing, enlightening, and it does expand my worldview.  I am never surprised when I say to myself – “article on _____” – I know nothing about this, let’s see what I can learn.  Some evenings turn out to be late into the night as I am reading not only the editorials and comments, but often lengthy in-depth articles, or features.  I am often surprised how many of the Books and Arts articles I read – some about archaic events or history. 

And, I made myself a rule early on when I subscribed to this magazine – if I start reading any article – I finish it and more often than not, I am delighted because I’ve acquired some knowledge out of my usual periphery.

         Pen in hand I marginalize – YUP, I write in the margin sassy comebacks or “Right on” or “What?”  I circle phrases or sentences – especially the zingers.  I am always wooed by the gorgeous writing – their wordsmith skills.  I think that is what I fell in love with it first – after the political cartoons.

         Then there is always some key topic addressed by the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, which is most welcome in depth information.

         I started this subscription decades ago . . . when I realized I needed more than a 30 second sound bite from a news program.  At that time, the sound bites started to sound more like someone just reading a front-page headline with little substance.  The political climate was heating up – or maybe I just had more quality time to pay attention to it and I needed more meat and potatoes coverage to get a handle on what was ‘almost’ being discussed.

         How much do I enjoy it?  A few times a year I send off a KUDOS to the author of an article of “perfection”.  And, surprisingly, they all send back a little note.   YUP – the staff if professional and polite to a little nobody like me. 

Hopefully, my phone call Monday morning will solve the mystery of what happened to my paper issues.  I sure hope they haven’t gone completely electronic issues only like many other magazines have – or I shall weep.

        

September 21, 2018 – Aftermath of Hurricane Florence

         It came – excruciatingly slow.  The more the news talked about the storm, the more I became concerned.  My entire life, I have been fortunate that I have never been a victim of flood, hurricane, tornado or fire.  I’ve come very close on a few occasions, but not devastated like the thousands of North Carolina and South Carolina residents after this Hurricane Florence.



         At our first apartment – no it was technically our second apartment but at the same complex and in the same building.  We’d just moved from the studio on the lower level to the second floor apartment the weekend before.  In the middle of the winter, in the middle of the night something woke us. We heard fire trucks and noise. The sound of a fire truck siren still makes my blood curdle, even now forty-plus years later.

         For some lucky reason, I rolled out of bed, didn’t just stand up and so did my husband.  We went to the bedroom window and below us saw a crowd of people and another fire truck arriving.  That is when we realized acrid smoke hung to our waists. What had actually awoken us – was not the smoke and not the fire truck sirens but the pounding on our apartment door.

         I could hardly see or breath, but I managed to find shoes, my purse, my car keys and pulled on my mid-shin length rabbit coat over my skimpy slip type nightgown.  My husband found his wallet and pulled on a coat. 

        

When we opened the door we were stunned, we could barely make out the full clad fireman in the dark acrid smoke filled hall.  He shouted at us,

         “Only you two?”

         My husband must have said Yes.

I don’t remember much more than the blur of being grabbed by that fireman and shoved to the next fireman a few feet down the stairs and then handed off to another and then another and several more until I’d been grabbed and tossed like a sack of potatoes down the stairs to the first landing and then down the rest of the stairs to the lobby and physically escorted out of black smoke filled building.  I only caught glimpses of the fire fighters through the smoke.

It was terrifying.  The crowd, the sound of the engines, the water hoses underfoot, the freezing cold.

         The fire fighters rushing to and fro as we heard snips of information from the crowd.

         “Fire on the third floor”

         “Papers shoved in a couch and set on fire”

         “Lover’s spat”

         “Did you get them out on the second floor, they just moved upstairs from the studio last weekend,” we finally heard Mike the apartment complex manager ask a fireman.  Mike was talking about us.  As soon as he saw us, he turned away to help the authorities.

         Not really knowing what to do next, we silently went to my car, and climbed in to stay out of the way and out of the driving cold wind.  I watched in horror as I thought the building would burn to the ground.  Who has apartment insurance?  We sure didn’t.



         Five years later, Bates City, Missouri – rural America. Flat farm land where there are fields of wheat to the curvature of the earth.

We’d just moved into the housing complex and I had just arrived home from work.  The wind was up, the sky was a funny canary yellow.  I heard one of the  metal chairs of the new patio set tumble over in the wind.  I went out to retrieve the glass top from the patio table.  Once I had lifted it up, the wind took me for a twirl and I was hard pressed to make the six steps to the front door steps and make it up those steps and open the door at the same time holding onto the 36 inch glass stop.  Slam went the outside door back to the house tearing off the chain at the top. I stumbled into the living room with my glass top and plopped on top of it on the rug.  Scrambling up, I pulled the outside door closed.

         There was no doubt in my mind this was a tornado coming.  I changed out of my office clothes and pulled on jeans and sneakers.  I pulled together a few things.  Where was my husband, he should be home any minute from work – what should I do?  Heck we’d been in this house less than two weeks.

         The blaring sirens went off.  I swear they were right above my house.  I opened the outside door and held tightly on to it to listen.  Not a sound except the siren.  Then it stopped and the sky turned a glowing greenish yellow.  Not a bird could be heard and eerie silence then rising wind.  Coming through the development was a police car with a loud speaker. 

“A tornado has been sighted less than five miles away, go to the shelter as soon as possible.”  They repeated that phrase again and again.

         I thought, what shelter?  I could now hear a train, I didn’t know we had trains that close, I hadn’t seen any tracks, but then, I didn’t know the neighborhood at all.

         An unknown to me woman was running down the road with a bird cage in one hand, pillow under her arm alongside her young daughter clutching a kitten to her chest. She paused to look at me and catch her breath. 

         “You’ve got to go to the shelter – now,” she shouted at me.

         “Where is it?” I yelled over the sound of the train.

         “The basement of the clubhouse – quick – be quick.”  They ran off.

         A blast of wind, I closed the outside door and assessed the situation.  My husband didn’t know where the shelter was, I didn’t want to be separated from him.  Just then, I spotted his car coming up the road dodging all the residents running for the shelter.

         He burst into the house.  I quickly informed him what was happening. 

         “We’ve got to go!”

         “I’ve got to take a shower and change – I was pounding sprues all day.”

         Stunned I simply stood there. What was he thinking?  Didn’t he know there was a tornado in the area? While he was in the shower I laid out clothes and a sweater and then I had enough sense to find a flashlight. I kept prodding him and prodding him and he seemed to be take his time.

         A few minutes later, we left the house, but we were now caught in driving rain and wind, with not a glimmer of daylight left.  The rushing rain water was half way up to our knees as we splashed in a gallop down the street to the shelter, down side stairs and into a large cement walled open room.  Dogs, cats, birds, men, women and kids of all ages.  Total strangers looked up at us in unison, with frightened faces.  We were the last in the door as the complex manager was operating the door.

It was like a scene out of an old black and white film of London in the blitz bombings.  Families sitting on the floor in groups, couples leaning up against the wall. Teenagers grouped together trying to act cool. Pet owners holding onto leashes of their beloved pets or holding them in their laps.

         A new neighbor we’d meet a few days before, rescued us from the awkwardness.

         “Come sit with us.  They’ve sighted the tornado is it is headed this way, but there is a hill between it and us in its path.”

         Later I asked where the railroad tracks were in relation to where we were.

         “Honey child, you didn’t hear no train – what you heard was a Tornado.”



         Two years later:  Hollywood, Florida – tropical storm.  We lived a quarter of a mile from the inner coastal.

         I was on my way home from work. The streets were already flooding when I left Fort Lauderdale that afternoon.  I drove a small, low to the ground car – a Le Car.  At one intersection that had a little dip in the center of the intersection, I noticed when the light turned green that the larger cars were pushing water above their hoods as they entered and drove out of the intersection.  There was a police car to my left and another one across the intersection coming my direction. I needed to turn right but the water would still be too deep for my little car. 

I made a snap decision and boldly drove up over the curb at my immediate right and drove along the sidewalk and grass.  Half way down that road another low place and several cars were stalled in the water ahead in the street.  I made a second brassy choice and came off the sidewalk and grass and  drove up over the curb to drive slowy down the grass center median a few blocks to get to my street.  I got home without getting my car into flood waters, but kept looking in the rear-view mirror expecting police car lights any moment.

Hours later, still waiting on my husband to get home from work, I kept looking out the front door.  The street was overflowing the curbs.  Half-hour later, the water had saturated the lawn up to the one step to the door. Another half hour there were palm fronds floating down the rushing water in the street and the flooded intercostal waters were lapping at the threshold of the front door.

This was a rental house and our first tropical storm.  I went through the house and took everything at floor level that could get wet – shoes out of the bottom of the closets, baskets of magazines in the living near the couches, Christmas ornaments shoved under the beds, etc.  I lifted everything I could lift up above a foot and tossed it on beds and bureau tops, and tables. 

I had plastic egg crates in the garage, unloaded the books out of them and piled them on the washer and dryer.  I put a pair of egg crates at the ends of each sofa and love seat. My plan was when my husband got home, we’d pick up the couch and loveseat and at least get another foot of safety in keeping them dry.

I sat and waited.   Luckily the water never rose above the threshold and didn’t flood in. We didn’t have to lift the furniture. But, for weeks we had crabs scuttling in amongst the bushes around our house until they found their own way back to the inter coastal.

Again, we had been spared.



         I don’t do possible life threatening situations well – they stress me out.  And, when those occasions come upon me and pass me unscathed – you can be assured, prayers of thanks are sent on high that we’ve come through the storm unscathed.

         I only wish the rest of my fellow Carolinians could have been spared all the hardships they now face.