Lies, Damned Lies, etc.

I was enrolled in a Statistics class once. I didn't want to be, but it was required for graduation. Some things in life are like that, and if you've got to do it, you've got to do it.

The teacher, a Ph.D., was so cool. He was tall, quite handsome, and had an air of command. He really loved statistics, you could tell. As he made his logical points, he would sometimes confess that it made the goosebumps activate on his arms, and he would ask, Could we feel it? Well, for myself, numbers and logic never actually gave rise to any goosebumps, but I was there to learn, and I did try to feel them. Without much success.

Early on, to get us involved, he lectured about the bell curve. The bell curve is a concept that I had gone 68 years knowing absolutely nothing about, and furthermore I felt I could probably go at least another decade (or two) without knowing any more, but as I mentioned, it was a required course. Well. He decided to use Age for a demonstration of the bell curve. Oh oh! Right away, I sensed I was going to be outstanding in this class.

I looked around. I was surrounded by young, educated, beautiful people: a couple of physical therapists, two physicians who did stuff like bring sanitation and medicine to aborigines, a sweetheart of a physician's assistant, several dietitians, quite a few registered nurses... all of these folks were either babies or baby boomers, as far as I was concerned. Nice company, though.

"How many of you are in the 20 to 29 year old age group?" the professor asked. I sat quietly in my chair. Some hands went up. "How many 30 to 39?" That took care of one of the doctors, the dietitians, and all but one of the nurses. I fidgeted a little. "40 to 49?" He wrote the numbers on the blackboard. That got the rest of them, by golly. Maybe he will stop there. I scotched down a little. He looked directly at me. This guy does pay attention.

"50 to 59?" It was a direct question. I couldn't talk. I shook my head. "Well, how old are you?" Apparently, there is no need to be tactful in a situation involving science; there was a bit of impatience in his voice.

"68," I grudgingly admitted. A few giggles arose from the class. I had spoiled the symmetry of the beautiful curvy line up there on the blackboard. Instead of being outstanding, I was clearly an outlier, one of those results in Statistics that they tend to throw out when they don't want to deal with them. I had increased the range (wasn't that good?). I was an aberrant score (that had to be bad); I had skewed the results (and that didn't sound promising). But I had paid the tuition and we all had to get on with our lives. I wasn't asked any more questions that day.

The next session, bless him, he looked kindly at me, and said, in the middle of the lecture and in front of everybody, "My colleagues back in Greeley send you their warmest best regards and are very happy, though surprised, that you are in this class." It was my chance.

"Go back, then, and watch their faces when you tell them I am pregnant!" I said.

There was a moment of silence. Then the class howled. The professor stood there, playing with his chalk, with a look of disbelief that was worth the entire 70 mile drive back and forth to Grand Junction. He allowed himself the luxury of a tiny smile, and continued with the business at hand.

What I learned in that class was that I should not pursue a career in mathematics. The probability of success for me was very slim, like beyond several standard deviations worth, unless I could feel the goosebumps or could shed 40 years. Neither option has presented itself.

Molly's Lament

It was time to get up, early morning. The brain sent a warning signal to lower back, where the bad, bad, bad osteoarthritis thrived -- get ready, she is stirring and will be struggling to arise in a few moments. Lower back replied -- we are doing all we can down here; we are as ready as we can be, under the circumstances.


I got to my feet with the help of a handhold on the bookshelf. The foot with the ripe gout reminded me -- cradle me, I can't make it by myself. Clinging to the wall, the floor lamp, the door (something substantial at last), all three of us -- me, my back, and my throbbing appendage -- made it to the bathroom. I hobbled into the dining room my husband Dick already occupied. He began a litany of complaints: his sinus was killing him, he got very little sleep or no sleep at all during the night, the paper had not been delivered when he got up, and it was cold, really cold this morning, raining to boot, and...


The dog Molly, too, had risen with the man. She listened, laid back her head, and with eyes raised to the ceiling began a low rumble deep in her throat. It gargled up into a howlish moan, with a crescendo approaching climax, adjusting the wale of the pitch ever so mournfully...


when suddenly it all became clear to me: the emptiness of the ages past, the burden of humanity, the risk taken when the first wolf-dog ventured into the cave from the forest, lured by the warmth of the fire and the smell of cooked meat, thousands of years ago, with no promise of forever or gratitude in return for the devotion, the warnings of approaching dangers, the task of carrying loads both physical and emotional for the man, the work and thrill of cooperating in the hunt -- all for a few bones and the privilege of sleeping near the warmth --


I couldn't help it; I burst out laughing. The spell was broken.


The dog, interrupted in full swing, stopped her lament, and walked over to a corner in the living room where she pawed the carpet, turned around three times, and with a deep sigh, plopped herself down onto the floor and curled into a ball. With a last baleful look at me, she closed her eyes and buried her head into her tail. She retreated into her instincts.


I had been dismissed.


To his credit, Dick, quieted now, turned back to his soggy newspaper with a smile.


I limped into the kitchen for the coffee pot and the pain pill.


Another day had begun at the hearth of the descendants of that first family that banded together eons ago to ward off the perils and pitfalls of living.

The Return of The Frog and the Duck, or GERTRUDE'S TALE

Actually, Gertrude had lost her tail some time ago when she grew out of being a tadpole. One day, it was just gone. Back there, kind of where the tail had been, were two beautiful legs (a highly prized delicacy in some quarters). Luckily, Gertrude knew nothing about having delicious legs, as her preference ran to bugs and slugs.

One day, as she was hiding in the bulrushes, she heard a CROAK. She turned around, and there she spied a really nice looking bullfrog spying right back at her. After a significant pause, he said "Do you come here often?" and she replied, "Well, I am new to the neighborhood." One thing led to another, and then Gertrude found herself kissing the bullfrog and .... ZAP! He turned into a handsome prince (though he had a few warts scattered over his body). Nevertheless, he was very good looking, and of Irish background, besides. He picked her up tenderly, placed her in his pocket, and away they went through the swamp.

The only trouble was: there was a chameleon in the pocket with her. Gertrude called up to the prince, "Hey, it's pretty crowded in here." That came out a little muffled, and we'll never know exactly how the prince interpreted that protest, but although he did not reply he did reach in and pick her up and throw her out.

Ah, the pain of a broken heart. Poor Gertrude. However, the thought "Easy come, easy go" did eventually penetrate through the noise of her self-pity, as well as "Handsome is as handsome does." After a while, she felt a little better ("Good riddance?"). (Gertrude subscribed to a marvelous blog by the name of apleasantpeasant that had all of this wisdom in it, and more, and sometimes it came in handy, like just then.)

Some time later, she met and settled down with a REAL frog who had nothing to do with chameleons. They were very happy, and managed to avoid all restaurant providers, but unfortunately not all of their offspring were as lucky. Altogether, it was a good life, even if a little wet at times.

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Now, I know you're wondering about Splash (remember our Duck?). Don't let anyone tell you that females are the weaker gender, but they do have a few peculiarities. For instance, many girls surviving puberty like to change their names into another fancier one. I thought, during that time of my life, that I would be happier if my name was Madeline, but somehow my Mom and Dad never took to it, and I remain Adelma Lucille. Go figure.

So when Splash met Mr. Drake that day on the lake, she introduced herself as Shasta. (Frugal and wise beyond her years, she didn't want to have to accumulate a new set of monogrammed linens for her hope chest.) Mr. Drake didn't really care what her name was; he thought she was beautiful, with all those colors she wore. Mr. Drake was a Peking duck, white all over, and he always thought of himself as rather dull, but Shasta, seeing a duck wearing a different suit, thought "Gosh, this duck is really different" and that appealed to her in a strange way.

Like Gertrude and her mate, Splash and Mr. Drake settled in to start a family. Splash made her nest in a tree that overlooked the lake, in spite of the fact that Mr. Drake could fly but didn't do it often. He took up guardianship of the home by pacing back and forth underneath the tree, trying to act nonchalant, and waiting for the eggs to be laid and for the fun of raising his clutch to begin.

Splash/Shasta brought forth seven beautiful eggs: one white duckling and six multicolored ducklings hatched out in due time. Shasta waited until their feathers were dry, and the next day, she quacked "Moving day," and she pushed all of her colored babies into the water. "Don't worry!" she told them. "You can swim!"

Now the white duckling didn't really want to hear that. He peeked over the nest into the water far below (well, it looked far, far below), and he tried to avoid the shove when it came. But he, too, entered the water like an old pro and Yes! he could swim, after all. Then Shasta swooped down out of the nest in front of the babies, and they all hopped up onto her back. Joined by Daddy Drake, they swam all around the lake and had a nice dinner of whatever they could get from the bottom of the water. Finally, they pulled up onto the shore for a little nap. Whew! that was some experience.

A duck and a frog, a duck and a frog,

So many things happened when they left the bog.

Their hearts went agog, their hearts went agog,

But they didn't give up like a bump on a log.

The end, with love, from Grandma.

Caught in the act

When I was enrolled in the third grade, Daddy and Mama found a larger, new, rental house, and we moved into it. It was only four blocks from school, and I loved the independence of walking back and forth by myself. The rental had a large living room opening onto a front porch, a large dining room, a kitchen big enough for a kitchen table, and a back screened porch that Daddy made by rolling up canvas curtains to protect from rain and winter. On the other side of the house were two large bedrooms, a bathroom and a sunroom.

Like most South Texas houses built in 1933, it was built up on piers–stacked bricks–about two feet above ground. I was cautioned not to ever explore under the house as that space was home to snakes and spiders and scorpions, and no telling what else, lions maybe. I watched my cat Kiki drag out snakes with their heads bitten clean off, and that was enough to convince me about the other occupants. Thus dismissed, the space under the house did not exist for me excepting to give it a clear berth.

The house was bounded by the Southern Pacific railroad tracks, and a tall board fence on the other side. Which side of the tracks you lived on didn’t seem to matter; there were houses all around because it was a new rail line that cut directly through the neighborhood. People got used to it, I suppose, and I loved waiting for the train to come after supper and feel the vibrations in the ground and the overpowering noise with the train being so close. The other side of the yard that had the high board fence proved to be of even more interest. It sheltered the neighbor’s chicken yard. A chinaberry tree had grown up right beside the fence and I claimed it for my very own playhouse.

The tree grew straight up out of the ground with a sturdy trunk about 8 inches thick, and branches in all directions –- the branches to the north made a seat just right for surveying our yard as well as the chicken yard on the other side. The chickens scratched around for worms, and there were a few roosters who claimed the hens’ attention, and probably because of the richness of the soil, the fencing around the henyard was covered with bleeding heart vines, flush with little pink flowers. The yard itself, save where the hens dug it up, had periwinkles a foot and a half tall, white ones with red eyes, and purple ones–altogether it was a lovely place.

Each time I struggled up the tree I would drape Kiki over my shoulder and deposit her unceremoniously in the south branches of the chinaberry tree. Kiki would rather have made the trip in one bound without assistance, but she was patient, knowing that she would be left free after her release to watch the hens strut around. Kiki rarely stayed in the tree, however. She most often jumped over to the top of the fence, and defying gravity, would take up her watch from that vantage point. When something caught her fancy with the hens’ antics, Kiki would make little “marwrow, marwrow” calls, softly, and her tail would twitch. I admired the way Kiki could walk that fence top without falling off, but I knew better than to try it myself.

If you have ever seen a chinaberry tree, you know that in the spring they are covered with delicate, lavender, scented flowers, which turn into horrid stinking berries when they are overripe. But the spring time ecstacy is enough to make one forget about the fruit to come. I wished the berries were good to eat, but they were not. One time I tried to stop a fight amongst the hens by
throwing the chinaberries at them, but the berries were light, did not travel very far, could not be aimed with any accuracy, and made no impression at all on the hens’ attitudes.

Perhaps, I thought, if I coat the berries with mud, they will be heavier, easier to aim, and they may travel farther; the hens would feel it when they were hit, and they would stop fighting. Mud was easy enough to get; once a layer of mud had been added to the berry, and it was set out overnight to dry, the berry-and-mud bullets would travel farther, with greater accuracy, and indeed, it was great fun to see the hens’ reaction when one of them landed on her back. The hen would jump into the air, look around, squawk loudly, shed a few feathers, and run off clucking to herself and anyone else who might be listening about how difficult it was becoming to be a proper hen anymore.

Now those hens knew that I was there! Kiki liked it too, but prudence kept her from jumping down into the chicken yard. She never overlooked the fact that the chickens were much bigger than she was, and that she was outnumbered. But her tail would switch and she smiled her pleasure and voiced her agreement. We had made a difference in the chicken yard, all right.

One evening Daddy came home from work and I was still up in my tree. He came over to me and said, “Come on down, Pigsy, let’s talk a little bit before supper.”

Pigsy was not my real name, but I had earned it earlier in life by my table manners at the time. Daddy called me Pigsy until I was in high school. I didn’t mind; whatever Daddy did was all right by me. We sat down on the back steps together, and Daddy got right to the point. “I got a telephone call today from Mrs. McMullen”, he began. Oh oh! Mrs. McMullen owned the chicken yard beside our house. “Her hens have stopped laying eggs,” Daddy continued.

I had never made the connection between hens laying eggs and the eggs Mama bought in the store. Still, the conversation was decidedly not going well.

“Have you been throwing rocks at Mrs. McMullen’s chickens?” Daddy asked.

“No Sir!” And the forcefulness of truth in my response brought a pause in the conversation.

“Well, have you been throwing anything at Mrs. McMullen’s chickens?” Daddy continued.

“Yes sir, chinaberries, sir.” There was no doubt that I had been pinned down.

“But how could a chinaberry bother a chicken?” Daddy asked.

“You see, I coat them with mud to make them heavier because I couldn’t make them go straight, they were too light, and then I dry them overnight to use them the next day...” Although I hurried through the explanation, my voice trailed off... The silence deepened. I glanced at Daddy’s stern face -– he looked away.

“I see,” he remarked, and his eyes took in the perch in the tree, the mudhole, the small store of bullets drying on the fence. He cleared his throat. “Well, Pigsy, I have promised Mrs. McMullen that her hens will no longer be under attack by us. You do understand why the chickens were upset, don’t you? Why, I’ll bet they must have thought...they must have thought...the sky was falling in, when those chinaberries came raining down on them... it gave them a frightful scare. You are not going to scare the chickens anymore, are you?”

“No Daddy.”

Daddy stood up, took my hand, and said, “Let’s go see what Mama has made us for supper.” We walked up the steps into the kitchen, and Mama said, “Chicken and dumplings for supper tonight.”

Daddy squeezed my hand. “I’m sure Mama bought the chicken at the store,” he said, almost to himself, and he winked at me.

Mrs. McMullen’s chickens got the respite. I had been caught red-handed but not punished. Except for the talking-to. Kiki at least was out of trouble. I had to find another reason to climb up into the chinaberry tree.

The Gooma Gooma Lady

The Gooma Gooma Lady lived during the Great Depression. She was either a forerunner of homeless people, or maybe just a little eccentric. In those days, women didn't up and jump on a box car to escape the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune; she did what she did to stay alive. She was stuck, abandoned, mired in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on 44th Street.

No doubt she was the object of ridicule and fear. She dressed funny. She wore combat boots up to her kneecaps, long flowing dark dresses, and always carried an umbrella and a canvas bag. Like the Indian waterboy, she wore all the field equipment she could find.

Into the canvas bag went things she found that she thought keepers -- not trash, but bits of wire, hardware, string, someone's old sock. She never walked on the sidewalk, but kept to the plot between the sidewalk and the street, the frontage area. Children feared her, and they were admonished by their parents to Stay Away From Her, Don't Talk To Her, Leave Her Alone. Apparently, adults followed their own advice and didn't find the time or interest to approach her, or see if she was OK, or hungry, or lost. And the Gooma Gooma Lady never intruded upon their space, either. The sidewalk was her moat, her separation from others.

Perhaps she was one of those recluses who had thousands of dollars tucked away under her mattress, if she had a mattress. We'll never know. She was young once, maybe even pretty. She probably never harbored the thought "When I grow up, I'm going to be a derelict." Being the scavenger that she was, she may have been satisfied with her lot in life. The children who saw her gave her the name "Gooma Gooma Lady" which fit her. Her name might well have been Elizabeth, like the Queen of England. We will never know.

Likely, a mental disorder kept her from feeling like an outcast or neglected. If so, it was probably a good thing. She never hurt anyone. She served a purpose. While she never got a sign erected that said "44th Street is being kept clean by the Gooma Gooma Lady," she did clean that street. Actually, if she'd gotten such a sign, she would have moved.

Where did she stay during the cruel winter? What did she eat? Did she ever have a husband, children, a job?

She apparently never even had a country.

Depression Then, Recession Now?

The following is an excerpt from "The Chinaberry Tree," a true story about a little girl (me) growing up during The Great Depression. It wasn’t as bad for my family as it was for some families–my Daddy managed to keep his job. He made about $250 a month as a General Manager for the Southwestern Bell Telephone Company. When he took a salary hit of $25 a month, Mama went to the landlord of the house we lived in, and secured a $5/month reduction in rent from the $35/month he charged. It wasn’t much, but you could buy a lot of groceries for that $5. No longer a little girl, but now old and retired, I have written this recollection of those days to say to whoever wants to read: yes, it is scary. Yes, it requires fortitude. No, we didn’t have a lot compared to the things we take for granted today. If we grew up into the Greatest Generation, it occurs to me that the Depression was a proving ground. Nothing much is ever learned by your success–surviving failure is the process for getting ahead, not only financially, but in every other aspect of life.

I was six when the Great Depression, as it was called, began in the 1930s.

I remember Daddy telling Mama that many factories had closed in the East, and men were out of work. Some of them left their families behind and hopped a freight train -– an inexpensive but sometimes rather dangerous method of travel -– to see if they could find work somewhere, anywhere the train took them. This method of transportation was chancy for health and limb. The trains were moving when the men ran alongside to hop through an open boxcar door, grab a handhold, and swing themselves in. Railroad “bulls” –- police -– made sure that getting in the easy way when the train had stopped was not encouraged. They threw the men off the train when they found them occupying it whether it was going or not; it made no difference to them.

Besides getting out of town, without a job and with little or no money, the problem of eating was uppermost in the travelers’ minds. Sometimes in the larger cities they would band together in the woods, or safely out of town, to bed down for the night. These places were called “hobo jungles” and if any food was to be had, it was mostly shared. The men were not criminals, they were desperate people trying to get by.

On their way through towns, they would stop at houses, go around to the back door, and with hat in hand would ask if the lady of the house had any food to spare. Mama would always feed them. She kept a supply of brown paper bags (saved from the grocery store) and would make two sandwiches, place them in the bag along with a piece of fruit and two cookies if she had them. Many times she would add a cup of hot coffee which the person would sip sitting on the back steps while waiting for the meal. Although Mama and I were home alone during the time Daddy was at work, we were never afraid because the men were very courteous and thankful for the “handout.” The men would always say, “God bless you, Lady,” and leave to resume their travels on the freight train boxcars.

I had heard that places where the lady of the house was nice, and fed hungry folks, like Mama, were marked somehow, but I searched all around our block and never saw any pile of stones, arrows, or any other signs. I could not imagine my own father out of work, going from place to place, begging for a meal, without a bed to sleep in. It made my own home so comfortable, our supper of beans and homemade bread and canned peaches so tasty. I thought we must be rich.

It seems strange now, but there was a hierarchy of class among these homeless men. A hobo was a person who was a knight of the road -– he never took along a blanket, or a pot to cook in, or a change of clothing. Those who did were called “Bindle Stiffs”–the bindle meaning the rolled up blanket and other necessities carried by “Bums”. There was a song about it that I still sing out loud to the utter surprise of my dog:

My shoes are worn, my pants are torn, they’re baggy at the knees;
They’re worn so thin, I feel the wind blow through my b.v.d.s,
And as I walk along the road, the folks can hear me hum...
I know that I’m a hobo, but who said I was a bum?

I realize that today’s recession sees a lot of jobs outsourced overseas, and the same type of workers are out of work again. I know that many banks failed in those days, and when they did, it was the depositors who lost the money. When banks fail now, the deposits are insured up to $100,000 and the bank is bought up by larger banks. I realize that the scandal caused by the lending institutions has caught not only those who made inexplicable loans and have lost those homes to foreclosure, but for those of us who had plugged along thinking our houses were gaining in value and now we can’t sell them because of the glut on the market -– we are both feeling the same pain.

There was a saying that happiness was a good five cent cigar, but no one had a nickel. As a matter of fact there are few and far between freight trains for anyone to hop anymore, and where the heck is our song? that’s what I want to know. Yes, there are a lot of similarities, and so far, most of our menfolks are still at home drawing unemployment compensation. I haven’t had a knock at the back door asking for food in sixty-two years. Now the homeless congregate at stop lights to make their plea en masse. Somehow it is less personal.

It got so bad that President Roosevelt (Franklin, not Theodore) in his New Deal legislation persuaded Congress to enact the CCC and the WPA, two projects that hired out of work women as well as men to build public buildings and roads, and operate arts, drama, media and literacy projects. Many paths, buildings and monuments built by this labor still exist in National Parks and Forests. My male cousins joined the Army to get the $21 a month and room and board. Luckily, this was a time when there was no Korea, Vietnam or Gulf States skirmish.

Last year, a group of volunteers in Phoenix spent the time gathering blankets. They canvassed neighborhoods, beseeched stores, and purchased with their own money as many blankets as they could. Then on Christmas Eve they gathered at a parking lot where homeless people congregated. They hauled grills enough to do the job and cooked 40 gallons of chili, and gave away a blanket and a bowl of chili to all who cloistered there. One homeless man said “The chili was wonderful -– I had 3 bowls of it. It was the first time I didn’t end the day hungry in a long time. And I already had one blanket but it sure is nice to have two of them -- one to cover me and one to lie down on.” If that statement doesn’t pull on your heart, tell Ebenezer Scrooge to step aside.

It seems to me that the difference between Depression then, and Recession now, so far anyway, is that those affected then were on the move. Probably the existence of the railroads had something to do with it, mobility being free to those agile enough to take the train without paying for a ticket. Today, homeless people tend to stay put, and somehow in their familiar environments, they tend to blend into their surroundings so those of us who don't look for them may never even see them. But they are there.

Blog Makes Friends

Our frog is named Blog. There is no excuse for names; it is just how our mother identified us. That is why some folks are named Adelma and most aren't.

One morning, Blog woke up from his dream of peace and discovered that he could not pronounce "Ribit" any more. When he tried to say "Ribit" all that came out was "Rabbit" ... and that changed the whole meaning of his speeches, which left him wide open to criticism from the media.

He sought help from his friend Babbit the Rabbit, and Babbit said, "Well, it looks to me like you have an 'a' where the 'i' should be, and you have one too many b's in there." (Rabbits know about having too many b's because b stands for babies. They don't need any help along those lines as their babies come naturally and frequently and sometimes it is all a mother rabbit can do to raise them properly and keep them out of trouble. Rabbit was a Democrat.) (Think about Peter Rabbit in the cabbage patch, and Buffalo Bill Rabbit who found himself surrounded by angry Indians, and Killer Rabbit that even wolves avoid if he gets up surly.)

So Blog asked Rabbit, "How do I get rid of the 'a' and one of the 'b's?" and Babbit told him, "I just identify the problems; I have no idea how to fix them."

So Blog told him Goodbye and looked for help elsewhere. It was kind of like calling 1800MEDICARE and having the telephone answer with a busy signal at the other end. Or, kind of like having your 401(k) portfolio suddenly lose 30% of its value, and having the Secretary of the Treasury submit a 3-page solution that will require a 30% increase in your taxes to make it all better.

The next friend that Blog stumbled upon was Belly, the Jellyfish. He got that name because he had no arms, legs, or head. Just that big old stomach with some hangy-downs spewing out of it. They met, luckily for Belly right down by the seashore, because Blog had hopped down there trying to change his luck and luckily there Belly was, trying mightily to roll back into the surf. Blog squatted on Belly's hangy down strings and said, "Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit," --that was all that came out.

But Belly, being a sharp Republican, knew what he meant and he said to Blog, "Go find a Bee's nest and see what you can do about getting rid of one of them," and just about that time the tide started going out and Blog kind of pushed Belly in the right direction and Belly jellied into the surf and was on his way to Cuba where he had to attend a meeting. He waved auf wiedersehn with his strings which means, until we meet again... which was highly unlikely because how many times have you seen a frog and a jellyfish in a conversation by the seashore, Marianne? Not even Uncle Charley has ever seen that.

However, now Blog had a clue and he went in search of a bee's nest. Before he found one, he literally ran into Mr. M. G'em, the lion. Now, running into a lion is not the best way to start a conversation, as you can well imagine. It as with great joy that Blog saw that Mr. M. G'em had just finished lunch and was feeling nice and easy. Blog croaked Rabbit a few times and the lion nodded as though he understood. Sometimes, saying nothing and smiling and nodding is the best of all answers; even better than all of the above.

Mr. M. G'em pointed down the road with his tail, and Blog saw that he was being referred to Mr. Bear whose name was Care (he was the original care bear) and he had a bee's nest in his sticky paws and was just finishing it up.

So. Blog hopped over to Care Bear, and noticed that a bee had fallen from the nest. Blog squished it. Now! That took care of getting rid of one 'b', for good.

He opened his mouth to speak, and he said Rabit, Rabit, just as naturally as if that were what he was supposed to say (even though it missed the mark by a little bit). Care Bear gave him a taste of the honey and kissed him on the mouth, but nothing happened. So Care Bear thought, "Well, you know, the story about kissing a lot of frogs before you find a handsome prince"... that doesn't stop you from trying again and again, whenever you get the chance. That story was originally written by political candidates, I think, but we can't stop this tale just for wondering about what a bear is thinking, now can we?

About this time, Blog looked down the road and spied a centipede, one of those insects that have a hundred legs or so. That's what centipede means, a hundred legs or so, give or take. I don't remember what the centipede's name was (you thought I couldn't get out of this one, eh?) so I can't share that with you, but old hundred legs waved at Blog and Blog went down to see what was happening. 100 legs already knew what Blog's difficulty was because he was photogenic. Like certain political candidates.

So you know what happened? Since 100 legs had 100 eyes, he popped out one of his i's and gave it to Blog to use instead of the a he was stuck with, and now Blog was restored to his former glory. Now he could say,

Ribit, Ribit, RIBIT!

Just as often as he wanted to, never having to change it ever again.

The end.

A Frog and a Duck

For my grandchildren...

A frog and a duck, a frog and a duck,
Woke up one morning sure out of luck,
Their pond had dried up, their pond had dried up,
Where would they live, with what would they sup?

It was a revolting development to be sure.

Splash, the duck, looked around. What had been their home was gone -- water gone, reeds wilted, insects vanished! All in one night-time. She wondered what to do. She looked around for her friend the frog, Geraldine. All she could see was two eyes peaking out from a lump in the bottom of what had been their home.

Geraldine didn't like to face problems; she most often retreated into the dirt and covered herself up, thinking no one could see her and she wouldn't be called upon to do anything. But Splash knew Geraldine was okay, and up to her old tricks -- they had been friends for a long time.

Splash was not like Geraldine. Her mother had taught her to take wings against a sea of troubles, or even a pond of troubles, and she spied what looked like a sign she had not noticed before, where the pond that was had emptied out onto the meadow.

Splash had taken English as a Second Language when she was a duckling, and she remembered how to sound out small four letter words. She also knew a little Spanish and could say a few phrases like, "Where is the ladies' room? Donde esta la bano? And, How much does this cost? Quantos? And Too much! No mas!" -- so she could manage to get by under ordinary circumstances in border towns.

Let's see, the sign said: The Road Back.

Splash sounded it out. The "The" was easy enough. "Qu-- row- ded -- Qu ack". That sounded pretty close. She was mostly sure about "Road" and everyone knows that roads go somewhere and are traveled by both man and beast, and automobiles and all sorts of vehicles, so that was at least an option.

She waddled back to the lump in the bottom of the pond that was her friend Geraldine and kicked sand in her friend's eyes and said, quite smartly, "Get up! We are leaving. There is a road that will go somewhere, and anywhere is better than here, so let's get going."

Geraldine took directions well and she hopped out, shook herself off, rubbed the sand out of one of her eyes, and she was all packed up and ready to go.

The two friends waddled and hopped out through the slough and found themselves on a dusty path, strewn with boulders and potholes. It was tough making progress until Geraldine, who was closer to the ground, noticed a barditch beside the path, and it had some water in it, enough for Splash to float in if she propelled herself with her orange duck feet. Splash was more at home in the water than she was on land, anyway, and she complimented Geraldine on her acuity and told her to hop onto her back, and away they went going in the proper direction to their new home, wherever that turned out to be.

They traveled the better part of the day. Now, everyone knows that if you are in strange places, it is best to stop before dark and make a shelter, and that is what they did. Splash noticed a tree overlooking the ditch that had an abandoned wood duck nest in it. She was a wood duck herself, a bilingual one at that, so she flapped her wings and was up in that nest: Splutt! Just like that. Left alone, Geraldine found a hollow at the base of the tree and she settled in for the night too.

Before long, it began to rain. Isn't that the truth? Just when you think you have it made for the evening, it starts to rain and everything has to change around. It didn't bother Splash particularly, but the wind began to blow too, and a gust just flipped her out of her nest

and she found herself on the ground beside Geraldine. So Splash did what ducks have always done, she stretched a wing out over Geraldine, tucked her head under her other wing, and settled in.

Now I have spent a lot of time myself, when I was very little, sheltered under a duck's wing. Oh yeah, you say? Well let me tell you -- it is soft under there with the tiny downy feathers under her armpit covering you like a comforter, and the warmth of her body and sound of her beating heart, kerthump, kerthump, lulling you into dreamland, and the strong waterproof flight feathers keeping out the frigid wind and water. You can't find a nicer spot in a five star hotel. Take my word for it. If I had to describe it with one word, it would be Ducky; that's it.

They spent the night warm and cozy and were quite ready for the sunrise. Geraldine found a nest of termites and she breakfasted on them; Splash pulled up some cattails growing beside the barditch and she feasted too. They were ready for whatever that day had in store for them.


Splash noticed that the barditch grew wider, and deeper, and she no longer had to push with her orange duck feet to glide them along.

As a matter of fact, the current had taken hold of them and they were almost hydroplaning across the top of the water; Splash was horrified to see that the water disappeared into a culvert and she did not see where it resurfaced.

So she used one of her orange duck feet as a rudder, and she spewed herself (with Geraldine hanging on for dear life) out onto the bank just before the culvert swallowed the water up. Boy, that was a close one. They took time to rest before they reconnoitered.

They found that the water hadn't just disappeared, it came out a few yards down the hill and ended up in a waterfall.




Splash walked very carefully up to the head of the water fall, and there -- there was -- a beautiful lake. She heard the croaking of about a hundred frogs, and overhead was a flock of ducks, like herself, circling, circling about.


One of them, a young drake, had spied her, and came down and landed close to them.





"Quack," he said, and Splash thought to herself that she would have to teach him to speak properly, but he looked very dapper and she stopped thinking about language and began to feel a very warm feeling in her heart that she had never felt before.



Geraldine, in the meantime, dove into the cool water of the lake and was busily swimming towards the croaking of her kind. She turned her head and was intent on saying "See You Later,", but she noticed that Splash's attention was directed towards the drake, and understanding beyond her years, Geraldine turned back and continued swimming towards the sound she all of a sudden understood.




There were willow trees, rushes, and flowers.
There were shiners, and worms, and butterflies.
The sun shone in a quiet, warm, neighborhood manner.
There was no conflict.
So this story has ended.

A Duck May Be Somebody's Mother...

There's just something about marching bands, John Philip Sousa, and uniforms that thrill the heck out of me, making me entirely heckless...

Once upon a time, not so long ago, there was this little girl (my daughter), who played the flute. I thought, right from the beginning, how proud I would be when my flutist would pick up a piccolo -- that impertinent, feisty instrument whose high notes can clean out your ears -- and play the obligato from the Star Spangled Banner. Pride in one's child, Love of Country, the reveling in music; is there a greater joy anywhere in any combination? (Not if it's your kid, and you love marches.)

Time passed. The seniors' final performance was at hand. The high school band and its leader were all in full uniform. The auditorium was set with fold-up chairs. The end of the concert was at hand. What was the finale?

"Da dah dit da dah, da da da da da dah!" Crash of cymbals! It was! My heart jumped into my mouth. J. Sousa always repeats his themes every so often and the trombones and clarinets all had their turns. The piccolo solo was nigh. This wisp of a girl, my daughter, rose. It was the culmination of 17 years for me.

The piccolo music soared over the gymnasium. The high notes, sharp, urgent, compelling, were hit like nails. The percussion section (I always liked drummers) stood up and waved huge American flags, and can you believe it? Tons of glitter fell on the audience from the ceiling.

Too soon, it was over. There was a moment of silence. Then the school auditorium erupted into applause, whistles, hat waving. Parents, teachers, the principal -- all were one in the celebration of music, our country, our opportunities, our school, our children. We were rural Coloradans, but we were Americans, too. At that moment, there was no pettiness; we were brought together by the genius of music performed by our beginning-to-be-adult children, in a facility paid for by our taxes, in our home town, population 975.

If that's not patriotism, what is?

To My Comrades at the Senior Center:

We must be consoled by the fact that aging is better than the alternative. We have to deal with certain symptoms: there is a squeal in your head that occasionally will change pitch -- you think you've tuned into Conelrad and it's time to hide in the basement. You become extremely interested in all aspects of elimination. Worst of all, there is this total stranger every morning in your bathroom, brushing her teeth (I've accosted her a time or two, and she either snarls back at me or ignores me altogether. It's better if you don't look at her through the mirror; she is downright scary.)

It means you aren't as limber as you remember you used to be. It means you can be conversing intelligently and all of a sudden a common word escapes you; it is just GONE. When it does come back, you try to use it several times just so it won't slip away from you again. Does this happen to Chinese and Russians and Germans? I'd like to know; it must be more difficult for them, they would have to forget the word in a foreign language...

I keep a list now of when younger people forgot things. I consult it every time I get that look ("she's getting forgetful"). This database is written in pencil on a 69 cent pocket tablet, alphabetized, chronologically organized the old-fashioned way, sorted by perpetrator...so that I can whip it out and say, yes, but remember when you forgot to...and they can't remember...

It means that when you go to the auto parts store to replace the windshield wiper you broke when you were shoveling your car out of a snowbank, the parts man says, "I've given you the senior discount and it comes to $9.33" and your arm, acting entirely out of its own, reaches out over the counter and grabs him by the T-shirt and pulls him halfway to you so that you are eyeball to eyeball, and you sweetly murmur, "Thank you," and put him back down again before he can get his wits about him and call for the shop foreman. Hmm.

It's a mixed feeling. I'd rather pay retail.

I am aware, too, that the older citizenry drives more carefully, and carefully means 35 miles per hour in the fast lane. I don't drive that slowly but slower reflexes may account for the fact that I can, I have, hit every deer that comes across my path on the highway. I am famous in my role as The Deerslayer. Wildlife officers ask for my autograph. It is good to be known for something that involves cars and hunting, a little Redneck-ish, something I've always aspired to.

And yet, and yet -- it's not over. It is pretty amazing to still be able to become excited and invigorated. The possibilities are literally endless. It was not so difficult to give up the privilege and potential of childbearing, was it? Nor should we feel hesitant about taking on new challenges, certainly most are less demanding that what we have already accomplished. The reservoir of the past supports and enhances the new arenas of interest for the future. History is full of late bloomers.

So here's my summation, to my comrades at the Senior Center:

1. Eat lots of fiber, and "take thou a little wine for the sake of they digestion" (Note the temperance qualifier...)
2. Put a 15 watt light bulb in the bathroom.
3. Walk as much as you can, while you still can.
4. Take the senior discount and say thank you. Period.
5. Find something interesting to do. It keeps you alive.

Plan Ahead

“When I went on my safari in Africa, someone forgot the corkscrew.
For several days, we had to live on nothing but food and water.” (W.C. Fields)

“Just do it” may sell tennis shoes, but it is chancy to try it for a lifestyle unless you have little accountability for, or interest in, the outcome.

In the real world, we have business plans, battle plans, financial plans, political plans, get-rich-quick plans, life plans, burial plans and planned parenthood. It is difficult, however, in the case of planned parenthood, to tell by looking just which one of us was planned, and which ones were delightful surprises. In this particular instance, planning didn’t affect the outcome, as what was done, was done. Do you see the difference? Me neither.

The planning process has many aspects. You need to have some idea of the results you want to achieve or problem you want to solve to be able to plan effectively. Then the method of operations must be formulated. Many times, a factor called unexpected results crops up and hopefully, these blips are positive, but don’t count on it. Expect the unexpected, and always have a Plan B, even if Plan B is to fall back and punt.

To regroup and fine tune may be all you need. As long as there is a tomorrow and you wake up in it, you have another chance “to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them”–the beginning of Plan B.

Thanks, Prince Hamlet. Sweet dreams.

Lep Cake

My mother, born to German immigrants, made it her passion to be Americanized in every facet of her life. Occasionally, however, an Old Country custom would steal into her life. Such was the baking of what she called “Lep Cake” at Christmas. There was dark Lep Cake, chocolate with a hard white sugar frosting, and light Lep Cake that had a thin crust on top and was chewy in the middle. The batter for each version was poured into shallow pans, and cut into squares about an inch long on each side when cooled. Then the cakes, cookies now, were placed in crocks and doled out frugally every night from Thanksgiving to Christmas. Daddy and Mama got one piece of each kind, along with a glass of port wine. I would get my choice of either kind and I usually chose the light ones. Wonders of all! I too had a thimble sized tiny glass of the port wine. I thought I must be growing up at last to be allowed even a smidgeon of such adult behavior.

This custom always happened after dinner, when the dishes were washed and put away. Daddy would set a fire in the fireplace, the refreshments were served, and he and Mama would talk about things that had happened that day and their plans for Christmas. Children in those days never interrupted their parents, so I listened quietly and was happy that we were all together in our pleasant, warm, peaceful living room.

I googled Lep Cake, but I didn’t find any recipes that matched ours. Maybe there is someone out there with the same memories who would like to regain this past custom for their family. Every year I think that I will make it. Each year I fail to do so. I must change my ways.

Here it is:
German Lep Cake (White)

6 egg whites, slightly beaten
2 cups granulated sugar
1 cup pecans
1 ½ cups citron
1 t cinnamon
2 ½ cups flour
1 t baking powder

Mix dry ingredients and add slightly beaten egg whites.
Pour into square or rectangular pans.
Bake in 350 degree oven until light brown.
Cut into 1" squares when cool.

German Lep Cake (Dark)

2 whole eggs
6 egg yolks
1 1/4 cups sugar
1 cup molasses
3 ½ cups flour
½ pound chocolate
1 cup pecans
1/4 pound citron
2 t baking powder
2 t allspice
2 t cinnamon

Mix in bowl eggs, sugar, molasses.
Sift flour, baking powder, spices. Then sift over pecans and citron.
Add to egg mixture and stir. Pour into rectangular or square baking pans–spread very thin.
Bake at 350 F for about 15 minutes. Remove from oven when still soft and slightly brown.
When cool, ice with confectionery sugar frosting.

The Necessity Bag

Besides their rifle, ax, horse, and grub, early mountain men carried what they called a “necessity bag.” In it they would keep herbal medicines, flint and steel, small tools, a spare bandana–anything they might need to keep handy and survive. It was such a good idea, that if you google Necessity Bags you will find all types of modern applications–the diaper bag, the fanny pack, the back pack, the book pack, the overnight bag, the cosmetic bag. The idea was born of “necessity” and still applies to our modern way of life, except the pioneer was intent on surviving in the wilderness and we are using them to accommodate ourselves in our civilization–no doubt the same circumstance, updated.

If you live near a National Park or Forest and if you like to explore and hike, it is a great idea to have one of these bags hanging by your door, all ready to go, so you can pick it up and run on a moment’s notice. Depending on where you live, the contents will vary. There is not much sense to have fishing gear if you are planning on a desert trip. But even experienced woodsmen sometimes get lost in the woods, and a fanny pack can hold a lot of stuff to make living through the ordeal easier.

My loaded fanny pack weighs a sturdy 5 pounds. In it, I have: folded up plastic trash bags, enough for a ground cloth and a shelter in case of (horrid thought!) a sleepover. There are usually 3 compartments in a fanny pack–the outermost and smallest contains a compass and a whistle; and a tiny penlight dangles from the zipper. The second compartment contains band-aids, cough drops, Neosporin, a pocket knife, mosquito repellant, vitamins, Tylenol, a Chapstick and a small mirror. The large compartment has enough dried food to last 24 hours, maybe longer if this trip is for real, an extra flashlight with spare batteries, fire making equipment, hand sanitizer, small soap, candles, cord, fishing line, bait, sinkers, hooks, instant coffee, tea bags, mac ‘n cheese, oatmeal, and
a plastic spoon, a clean bandana. There is also a tin cup or can with which to heat water–providing you can start a tiny fire. And a tiny pair of scissors. The trash bags can be cut to use as ponchos if it rains, and if it gets cold at night, which you can probably count on, you can cut holes in one, take off your shirt, don the plastic and put your shirt back on again. I am told this will keep your body heat right next to your body and make a big difference for your comfort.

If you have menfolk who hunt, this loaded bag is a welcome surprise gift at Christmas, and may even be gratefully employed in keeping them safe when they get lost. That is, if they remembered to bring it along.

I’m not a city person, but I suppose a city person’s necessity bag would include fifty dollars in small bills, a charge card with limited credit and a couple of Hershey bars, plus a cellphone. Looks to me like it could be a lot smaller than five pounds worth of necessaries. Come to think of it, a cellphone isn’t a bad idea for the country bag, either.

A Song of Six Pence...

Sing a song of six pence, a pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie,
When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing,
Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?


I always thought this was a nonsense poem, such as Humpty Dumpty. Like a multitude of similar times, I was wrong. The pioneer mother of Laura Ingalls Wilder (of Little House on the Prairie fame), baked blackbird pie and served it partly in self defense, and partly because of revenge, because the pesky blackbirds were eating everything in their corn patch -– the corn which they
depended on dried, to sustain them during the coming winter.

If you ever find yourself in this predicament, here is the recipe for blackbird pie:
12 starlings, plucked and dressed
1 medium yellow onion
2 whole cloves
2 T browned flour
Salt and pepper
Sour milk biscuit dough

Cut the cleaned birds in half along breastbone and backbone. Put birds, giblets, onion and cloves in a saucepan with 2 cups of water and simmer covered about 2 hours until tender. Preheat oven to 400F. Remove starlings from broth and place in baking dish. Discard onion and cloves. Stir browned flour into broth, season with salt and pepper, add to starlings and cover with biscuit
dough. Bake for 10 minutes, lower heat to 350F and bake 10 minutes more, or until crust is cooked through. (Barbara M. Walker, The Little House Cookbook)

It gets us back to the “Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without” philosophy that was so life-saving during the Depression days, or in other hard times. I’m not suggesting that today’s homemakers go out and trap sparrows and eat them -– not much meat there -– but cheaper cuts of meat, braised into
exquisite tenderness, day-old bread, toasted, or home gardens, all come to mind, as well as refurbishing yesterday’s apparel, taking fewer auto trips, saving change, and “doing without” to make the paycheck last until the next one arrives …that’s due diligence.

Of course there is more than one way “to skin a cat,” as evidenced by that pile of naked felines outside my cabin door. It’s just an idea. Run with it, or not.

P. S. Ask me for my recipe for Haggis...you will need a sheep’s stomach.

Back to School...

“Personally I’m always ready to learn,
But I do not always like being taught.” (Winston Churchill)

There was a time when one hundred dollars was more than enough to buy school clothes and supplies for one or two students to start school–now it takes almost that much money to buy tennis shoes for gym class. The nickel Baby Ruth candy bar was as large as the ninety-nine cent bar is today.

There weren’t any TVs, or calculators, or computers. We had to learn how to read and cipher the old fashioned way, in our empty heads.

We lived in fear about being sent to the principal’s office, and today a teacher can’t lay a hand on an obstreperous student for fear of dismissal. (Remember how we learned to spell “principal”? PAL, they would say, the principal is your pal.) Yes he was.

If a female teacher married, she was no longer employed. Girls began to wear make up in high school. Only boys smoked. In the forties, high school was cut to 11 years so the “boys” could enlist in the military. There was a war on. Everyone had a draft number. Our country was at stake. Many of our high school graduates didn’t wait for “their number to come up,” but joined the service on their own.

Mothers didn’t work outside of the home as a general rule. This meant Mom was there when you arrived home from school. Dad came home at a regular hour, because he only needed one job to care for his family. There was an aunt or a grandmother nearby. There were chores to do before you went out to play. You played marbles, or jacks, or if you had a knife, mumbly peg, or you skipped rope. We didn’t realize we were deprived.

The childhood diseases that we suffered through then we are vaccinated against now. We had telephones, but we hardly ever used them to call each other. The phones were for the grownups, along with many other things we used to reserve for adulthood. Maybe that’s what is different.

Youngsters are older now.

That's Profound!

1. The worst home grown tomatoes taste better’n the best store bought.

2. A burned bridge will not allow a round trip.

3. Learn to swim. A 6 foot man can drown in a lake with an average depth of 3 feet.

4. On December 15, take a $5 bill and break it into ones. Place them in a special place in your purse. Then, whenever you see a Salvation Army bell-ringer, put one of them into the pot until the stash runs out. You’ll have a better Christmas.

5. Always keep something in reserve. Remember your Grandma’s cookie jar containing the egg money? Whether you are a Grandmother, or an Army General, always keep something in reserve.

6. Never trespass into the carnival through the lion’s cage just to save admission money.

7. It won’t improve your fishing prowess to change seats in the boat.

8. Of course, spend less than you earn. What you do with the rest will determine how successful you will be.

9. Do you really want for better or worse, for sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death? Get a dog.

10. Never plant more than two zucchini seeds.

Dirty Fingernails Are Real

I've heard it suggested that one way to enhance your self-esteem is to stand mother naked in front of a three-way mirror and tell yourself out loud, "I love you." A better definition of narcissism cannot be found. I actually tried this once and easily remembered why I had stopped looking into mirrors even fully clothed more than 35 years ago. Maybe this system would work for young girls, but what have you got for us mature women who have been affected by gravity? That was my first question.



It's not enough, either, to count your blessings by telling yourself that you are still vertical, fairly quick-witted, and have achieved your hearth and sustenance needs. Sometimes, that does not achieve happiness by itself. Still you throb. Something is awry.



If your inability to solve your problems -- whatever they are -- awakes you at 2 in the morning, here's what you do: Get up. Turn on the light. Take a hot bath. Get dressed. Fix breakfast. Let the cat in, the dog out. Clean the refrigerator. Keep moving -- the key here is action. You'll find, after doing this for a while, that you'll need less sleep than you thought you did. You will have the cleanest refrigerator in six counties, and you will enjoy sunrises you may otherwise have missed. You'll get to bed earlier, too, but it's probably just you and the dog in it anyway. The dog will adjust.



Rent funny movies. If a "broken heart" is your problem, stop listening to love songs. No sense just wallowing in it! While you are nourishing yourself, take stock of your finances. Make a plan to get out of debt and follow it. Pay off the smaller bills in full, first, then progressively concentrate on the next larger, until you are economically unchallenged. No need to worry about money, too.



Give yourself time. Begin with the assurance that you will rise from the ashes smarter, more skeptical, healthier, and readier for the rest of what life has in store for you; or, more positively stated, what you have in store for life. And you will have the enormous advantage of knowing that you overcame the feeling of inadequacy -- you are truly liberated. And you grew up some, too.



The sun, meanwhile, continues to rise, the electric company still wants to be paid, the laundry accumulates, and you remember that one of the funniest comedy sketches you ever heard ended with Andy Griffith observing: "This whole thing has sure been a lesson to me."



For us, too.