Note from the editor: Hi, Mom! You're terrific! Love, M.
My editor and I had a warm friendly conversation last week about the use of the personal pronoun "us" instead of "we" in the Nomad piece, below. Properly speaking, "we" was the pronoun of choice, like in "we, the people" and "we band of brothers," etc.
My stand was, a simple peasant voman would be thinking in the vernacular subjective sense "us" rather than the patrician collective "we," and it looks like I won this one.
I understand that you can't argue with the rule book unless you wish to take up arms, be subversive, and put it all on the line for an idea (after you have raised a lot of money or received a grant). But you should choose your battles and maybe it isn't worth it for a personal pronoun, unless it is My or Mine.
So I guess this piece entitled Rules is Rules may open the door to communicating about the verb "to be" and plurals. (I wouldn't dare -- editor.) Isn't English exciting? And we haven't even addressed that comedic opportunity scenario, misplaced modifiers, my favorites. I love this job.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Euell Gibbons, Luther Burbank, and me
Weeds.
I read once that weeds are doing God's work, keeping the earth green. That's fine with me, but I just wish I could rid them from this little patch of a yard where I live in the summer.
It used to be the wild lettuce, and now it's the dandelions that have staked a claim to my yard, and although I am informed that both are edible, neither appeals to me. Being diabetic, I prefer sweet things, not bitter ones.
The pre-emergent killer stuff works, but then you lose the delightful johnny jump-ups and other volunteer surprises that pop up by themselves. There is just no substitute for getting down on your knees and pulling the unwanted plants up. It's life. You've got to "weed" out the interlopers, the bad guys, and encourage the nicer things... or go live in a high rise apartment and forget about digging in the dirt. There are always options. There are not always options that you like.
Philosophy aside, we are lucky to live in an area where you can actually stalk the wild asparagus. Old timers around here tell us that the asparagus that grows abundantly along the bar ditches in the county are escapees from pioneer gardens. All I know is that the taste of these volunteers is much more flavorful than the cultivated asparagus that you buy in the market. I sometimes surprise overnight guests with creamed asparagus with cheese on toast for breakfast, and they soldier on after the initial shock of eating something green so early in the morning. When we first moved to Colorado, the kids and I would come in from an asparagus foray with about a bushel of asparagus at a time, which we would eat, and/or freeze against "hard times" (summer, fall, and winter) to come. I didn't have a pressure canner then so freezing was the only way to preserve it, but we certainly had our fill while the season lasted, and it was for free.
There are a plethora of tomatoes to choose from when you plant a garden, or even a container. So many kinds, and so tempting, it is difficult not to try for some of each. But I have found that on balance, the very best tomato is the Brandywine, the old heritage stock. It grows luxuriously, with potato-like leaves, and they are large fruits with a wonderful taste. I had so many one year that I had to can most of them (we couldn't eat them all). I felt like I was butchering them to cut them small enough to get into the canning jar. I hope I have the same problem again this year.
I've been asked for gardening advice, and the only thing I can suggest is, Plant stuff that is expensive in the stores.
Besides tomatoes (my goodness, $4 a pound?), try beets, artichokes (fun to grow but you need a large space), peppers, cucumbers, string beans, and whatever your favorites are. A green thumb is usually spelled W-A-T-E-R with F-E-R-T-I-L-I-Z-E-R. Meanwhile, before tomato season, try this simple exercise to enhance the store-bought tomatoes so they won't taste like art gum erasers:
Slice the tomato onto a plate.
Sprinkle lightly with salt, sugar, lemon juice, and olive oil.
Let marinate for a few minutes.
Almost as good as home grown.
(The juice that is generated is good, too.)
Saturday, May 23, 2009
The Nesters
Remember the cowboy movies wherein the ranchers grab up all the public land and think that since they got there first, the land was theirs... until the Nesters arrived and staked out a claim to some of it? And put up fences to keep the cows out, otherwise messing up the landscape and causing a range war?
You may be glad to know that this lifestyle still exists in my backyard, that magnificent spread of about 36 feet by 24 feet, pretty small for a range war. But then, the participants are pretty small, too.
When we moved from the mountain cabin into the house in the village, this was the best place available for the dime, and it had some advantages. The elevation was lower and tomatoes grow better here than at 7,500 feet above sea level. So we set to work and the first thing you knew, we had five fruit trees, a garden spot, a postage stamp of grass, wild asparagus, a solar fountain, 42 (count them) tomato plants, and a bird house in that tiny space. Naturally, we then had to add bird feeders, a swing set, raspberries, a rhubarb plant, an artichoke plant, and a table with an umbrella. Plus a sprinkler system.
I had hoped for a glamorous renter for the birdhouse -- say an oriole, or a bluebird. Instead, our Nester turned out to be Mr. English Sparrow. In nature, a nest isn't needed unless you intent to start a family, and to start a family you need one each of opposite sexes -- this is not going to turn into a political/social essay, relax -- and to attract a female, Mr. E. Sparrow does what other bird dudes do: he sings his mating song. It is nothing like the symphonic arias of his cousin the mockingbird, or like the rhapsodic melodies floating down from the trees of the house wren.
It goes like this: Chirp. Chirp-chirp. Chirpchirpchirp. Chirp.
You may be glad to know that this lifestyle still exists in my backyard, that magnificent spread of about 36 feet by 24 feet, pretty small for a range war. But then, the participants are pretty small, too.
When we moved from the mountain cabin into the house in the village, this was the best place available for the dime, and it had some advantages. The elevation was lower and tomatoes grow better here than at 7,500 feet above sea level. So we set to work and the first thing you knew, we had five fruit trees, a garden spot, a postage stamp of grass, wild asparagus, a solar fountain, 42 (count them) tomato plants, and a bird house in that tiny space. Naturally, we then had to add bird feeders, a swing set, raspberries, a rhubarb plant, an artichoke plant, and a table with an umbrella. Plus a sprinkler system.
I had hoped for a glamorous renter for the birdhouse -- say an oriole, or a bluebird. Instead, our Nester turned out to be Mr. English Sparrow. In nature, a nest isn't needed unless you intent to start a family, and to start a family you need one each of opposite sexes -- this is not going to turn into a political/social essay, relax -- and to attract a female, Mr. E. Sparrow does what other bird dudes do: he sings his mating song. It is nothing like the symphonic arias of his cousin the mockingbird, or like the rhapsodic melodies floating down from the trees of the house wren.
It goes like this: Chirp. Chirp-chirp. Chirpchirpchirp. Chirp.
All the same note. No inflections. No harmony. No crescendos. But it does the job, because sooner or later a few female sparrows arrive, and he shows off the nest he has discovered, and finally one of them likes it well enough, and they start moving in their furnishings (dry grass mostly). The insemination of the female does not occur within the privacy of the birdhouse, well maybe it does, but if it does, it is in addition to the flirtatious behavior they exhibit on the fence. My land! Such abandon!
Eventually they do get down to filling up their house with selected straw -- some pieces so large it takes two swipes at the entry to get it through. Both of them work at this until is passes muster. Several weeks go by with Mr. Sparrow bringing in worms and I guess taking his turn at incubating the eggs until one day, out pops Mrs. S. and she is followed by five or six little S's and they all fly away to continue the line.
Now enter the ranchers, in this case, wasps. It was a bad year for wasps; that is, they were everywhere. Eventually, they moved into the birdhouse and the sparrows stayed away. Finally, we sprayed the birdhouse to be rid of the wasps -- who wants to watch a wasp? -- but the sparrows didn't come back; I suppose due to the smell of Raid. So we took the birdhouse down, washed it in soap and hot water, and put it back up again. This year, we were disappointed to see wasps going back into the birdhouse again. Phooey! But who else was in the picture?
This little sparrow (I think he was wearing a cape with a big yellow S on his teeshirt) appeared, took out after the wasp, and chased him away. He actually went into the birdhouse (his, now) and came out with wasp cocoons in his beak and spit them out! Several other soldier wasps appeared, and he gave them the boot, too. He had taken charge. The underdog ruled. A sparrow with Spunk. Now we listen to:
Chirp. Chirp-chirp. Chirpchirpchirp. Chirp!
It is music to our ears.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Us Nomads
Definition: “a member of people... wandering from place to place usually seasonally and with a well defined territory in order to secure a food supply.” Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary.
National Geographic documents real nomads every now and then. It looks so glamorous. The man of the house rides up on this Mongolian pony, hair in a pigtail, face bronzed from the sun (a direct descendant of Ghengis Khan), dressed to the nines in rawhide and fur. He swaggers into the yurt, and tells the little woman, Honey, tomorrow we pull up stakes and head south because the horses are having trouble finding grass. Honey looks around–her priceless Persian rugs hug the walls, the cookstove heats the tea for supper, goat meat sizzles on the spit, she knows she is pregnant but she hasn’t told him yet. She will have to leave all of this, strike the tent, roll up everything else, search anew for herbs to flavor the meat and buffalo chips for the fire, secure the stores of foodstuff packed away for a rainy day, find all of the dogs and coop them up, make sure the children are dressed appropriately, and be ready by daybreak to trudge at least 10 miles uphill where the grass still grows, all the while having dinner ready and keeping track of the kids and keeping in place the smile, smile, smile..
I never thought of myself as a nomad, a transient person, but excepting for the search for a food supply, it fits me pretty well. As a matter of fact, it fits a lot of folks pretty well, although I will wager that they don’t think of themselves that way, either. Ask us, and we will tell you “We’re following the sun; we are tired of shoveling snow; we don’t want to fall down on the ice in the driveway; we don’t like winter,” and other excuses. They call us snowbirds. I’ve been doing it for eleven years and it is beginning to wear on me. I took my snow boots out of the Colorado closet last week, and they looked downright comfortable compared to my sandals. When I complain to friends about the difficulty of pulling up stakes every six months and beginning anew, they take this holy attitude that they have no trouble at all with the transition, what’s the matter with you?
I’ll tell you how some of them cope.
Example number one: They don’t even pack their car. They hang their clothes on a rail in the backseat of the car and Away They Go. Pretty simple, eh? Yeah. And they have everything they need in duplicate. That's solution number one.
Solution number two: They fly back and forth and have a car in both places. But they are beginning to rail at that flight surcharge of $25 for the second suitcase and they pack some stuff and other friends take it in their car to the destination they share. Lucky they have a laptop. It’s a carry-on.
Solution number three: They too fly back and forth, but the lady of that house digs up her geraniums and mails them to herself back home the day before her flight leaves (really!). You’ve got to admire that.
In my case, there are lots of things I just don’t need two of. So our van looks like part of a gypsy caravan when fully loaded to the Plimsoll line. It was bad enough before we got a dog, because Molly’s crate takes up a space 42" Long and 36" High and 36" Wide and that is a considerable amount of cubic inches that I used to be able to utilize. For my plants. For the sewing machine. (Who wants two sewing machines? Suppose someone’s seams get ripped? Suppose you want to make something? It’ll have to wait six months because the sewing machine is at the other place.) For the new printer. For the golf clubs. For the ice chest. For the foot bath. For the tool box. For the Simpson meter. For my seeds. For the bathroom stuff. For the favorite CDs. (Who can live 6 months without listening to your favorite artists? Jimmy Durante. John Gary. Any Italian tenor singing Tosca. For Gilbert, for Sullivan. The list is endless. Thank goodness they don’t take a lot of space.) For the garage sale end table that will just fit under the window where we are going? We are old. We take a bunch of medicine. I can’t cut down on the Christmas trees; I already have one of them in both locations, just in case. Et cetera.
We’ve been home for two weeks now and we are still eating food I brought along from my Arizona pantry. So here’s the thing. I can’t just not nomad any longer because it has become a health issue for my husband. He thinks he can’t live in a cold climate again. What is the use of marrying a Scandinavian if he doesn’t like snow anymore? (No, that’s not an option, and I’m keeping the dog, too.)
So: 1. No more overstocked shelves even if groceries are a lot cheaper in Arizona than here.
2. Adjust to being frugal. Do without some of that stuff. Where to start? I need all of that clutter.
3. I have 5 3/4ths months to think of something but I already know what the answer is. I’ll do it all over again in October. Well, everything but the smile, smile, smile...
National Geographic documents real nomads every now and then. It looks so glamorous. The man of the house rides up on this Mongolian pony, hair in a pigtail, face bronzed from the sun (a direct descendant of Ghengis Khan), dressed to the nines in rawhide and fur. He swaggers into the yurt, and tells the little woman, Honey, tomorrow we pull up stakes and head south because the horses are having trouble finding grass. Honey looks around–her priceless Persian rugs hug the walls, the cookstove heats the tea for supper, goat meat sizzles on the spit, she knows she is pregnant but she hasn’t told him yet. She will have to leave all of this, strike the tent, roll up everything else, search anew for herbs to flavor the meat and buffalo chips for the fire, secure the stores of foodstuff packed away for a rainy day, find all of the dogs and coop them up, make sure the children are dressed appropriately, and be ready by daybreak to trudge at least 10 miles uphill where the grass still grows, all the while having dinner ready and keeping track of the kids and keeping in place the smile, smile, smile..
I never thought of myself as a nomad, a transient person, but excepting for the search for a food supply, it fits me pretty well. As a matter of fact, it fits a lot of folks pretty well, although I will wager that they don’t think of themselves that way, either. Ask us, and we will tell you “We’re following the sun; we are tired of shoveling snow; we don’t want to fall down on the ice in the driveway; we don’t like winter,” and other excuses. They call us snowbirds. I’ve been doing it for eleven years and it is beginning to wear on me. I took my snow boots out of the Colorado closet last week, and they looked downright comfortable compared to my sandals. When I complain to friends about the difficulty of pulling up stakes every six months and beginning anew, they take this holy attitude that they have no trouble at all with the transition, what’s the matter with you?
I’ll tell you how some of them cope.
Example number one: They don’t even pack their car. They hang their clothes on a rail in the backseat of the car and Away They Go. Pretty simple, eh? Yeah. And they have everything they need in duplicate. That's solution number one.
Solution number two: They fly back and forth and have a car in both places. But they are beginning to rail at that flight surcharge of $25 for the second suitcase and they pack some stuff and other friends take it in their car to the destination they share. Lucky they have a laptop. It’s a carry-on.
Solution number three: They too fly back and forth, but the lady of that house digs up her geraniums and mails them to herself back home the day before her flight leaves (really!). You’ve got to admire that.
In my case, there are lots of things I just don’t need two of. So our van looks like part of a gypsy caravan when fully loaded to the Plimsoll line. It was bad enough before we got a dog, because Molly’s crate takes up a space 42" Long and 36" High and 36" Wide and that is a considerable amount of cubic inches that I used to be able to utilize. For my plants. For the sewing machine. (Who wants two sewing machines? Suppose someone’s seams get ripped? Suppose you want to make something? It’ll have to wait six months because the sewing machine is at the other place.) For the new printer. For the golf clubs. For the ice chest. For the foot bath. For the tool box. For the Simpson meter. For my seeds. For the bathroom stuff. For the favorite CDs. (Who can live 6 months without listening to your favorite artists? Jimmy Durante. John Gary. Any Italian tenor singing Tosca. For Gilbert, for Sullivan. The list is endless. Thank goodness they don’t take a lot of space.) For the garage sale end table that will just fit under the window where we are going? We are old. We take a bunch of medicine. I can’t cut down on the Christmas trees; I already have one of them in both locations, just in case. Et cetera.
We’ve been home for two weeks now and we are still eating food I brought along from my Arizona pantry. So here’s the thing. I can’t just not nomad any longer because it has become a health issue for my husband. He thinks he can’t live in a cold climate again. What is the use of marrying a Scandinavian if he doesn’t like snow anymore? (No, that’s not an option, and I’m keeping the dog, too.)
So: 1. No more overstocked shelves even if groceries are a lot cheaper in Arizona than here.
2. Adjust to being frugal. Do without some of that stuff. Where to start? I need all of that clutter.
3. I have 5 3/4ths months to think of something but I already know what the answer is. I’ll do it all over again in October. Well, everything but the smile, smile, smile...
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Behavior Modification: People and Dogs (101)
Here is the way it began:
Molly finishes eating her dinner, and goes to her water dish. It is empty. She looks at me. I get up, fill the dish, set it down in front of her. She drinks her fill. Nonverbal communication, check.
Molly goes to the back door, touches the knob with her nose, looks at me. I get it. I get up, open the door, she goes out. Mission accomplished.
She brings me her ball. I am concentrating on the crossword puzzle. She sits quietly patient. She whines. I don't hear her. She barks one time, shrill enough to get my attention. Hey! Pick it up! Let's have some action here! I can't wait all day! Finally, I throw the ball, beginning the game that lasts for a while until she tires. She is a very strong dog and doesn't tire easily. When she does, she sets the ball down where it is within her reach and takes a nap. The day has begun.
Once, when I had my left elbow on the table, she stuck the ball up into my armpit. Imagine looking up from your puzzle and finding a ball stuffed under your arm and you weren't even aware that the game had started. Wake up!
We wake up at 3 a.m. I get up and go to the bathroom. Molly opens one eye. If I return directly, she doesn't move. If I take two steps towards the kitchen for a drink, she is at my side by the third step. Her radar is working. She never misses.
Although many toys have been provided for her, she keeps the amount down to about three. The others are either buried, eaten, lost, or otherwise indisposed. Shake the peanut jar, and she will drop what she is doing and stand at the ready. I tell her "Go long." And, she backs up for the high fly. I tell her, "Left field," and before I get it out of my mouth, there she is, to the left. Then she makes a beeline for right field because she knows the next peanut hit will be there, and she gets ready for "Line Drive!" wherein the missile goes straight towards her snout and she snaps it up and gives me a look that says, Is that all you got?
For some reason, she refuses to fetch her leash, even if I ask her, "Do you want to go for a ride?" Yes, she wants to go for a ride, and yes, she will stand still to attach the leash, but she will be damned if she will fetch it; get it yourself, is her attitude.
"Molly, do you want to watch the rabbits?" makes her run to the picture window and look outside. There are lots of rabbits, who if close, evoke the border collie Crouch and Stare. The rabbits somehow realize they are in the target sights and they hold really still, even though Molly is behind a glass window -- they seem to know or feel the eyes upon them. Seeing the coyotes makes her very nervous. She goes a bit haywire and doesn't calm down until a period of time passes. She wants no part of them, thank goodness.
But today was a little scary. She had been outside for a couple of hours while I worked on the income tax return. Needing a break, I went out on the patio where she greeted me. It is getting a little warm here in Arizona, and I looked at her and I wondered whether she would like to play in her washtub. I just thought that thought without glancing at the tub. She was looking at me and she immediately ran to the washtub, then to the end of the hose, and then looked back at me. I thought, Now she is reading my mind. This is peculiar, like Alice in Wonderland. What next?
Surely, the dog can't be anticipating my thoughts...can she? How could this be possible? She usually doesn't play in her washtub until late afternoon... this was before lunch, so there was no precedent as to time of day... Maybe it's like when horses learn to count.
I don't know... but I sure am impressed.
Molly finishes eating her dinner, and goes to her water dish. It is empty. She looks at me. I get up, fill the dish, set it down in front of her. She drinks her fill. Nonverbal communication, check.
Molly goes to the back door, touches the knob with her nose, looks at me. I get it. I get up, open the door, she goes out. Mission accomplished.
She brings me her ball. I am concentrating on the crossword puzzle. She sits quietly patient. She whines. I don't hear her. She barks one time, shrill enough to get my attention. Hey! Pick it up! Let's have some action here! I can't wait all day! Finally, I throw the ball, beginning the game that lasts for a while until she tires. She is a very strong dog and doesn't tire easily. When she does, she sets the ball down where it is within her reach and takes a nap. The day has begun.
Once, when I had my left elbow on the table, she stuck the ball up into my armpit. Imagine looking up from your puzzle and finding a ball stuffed under your arm and you weren't even aware that the game had started. Wake up!
We wake up at 3 a.m. I get up and go to the bathroom. Molly opens one eye. If I return directly, she doesn't move. If I take two steps towards the kitchen for a drink, she is at my side by the third step. Her radar is working. She never misses.
Although many toys have been provided for her, she keeps the amount down to about three. The others are either buried, eaten, lost, or otherwise indisposed. Shake the peanut jar, and she will drop what she is doing and stand at the ready. I tell her "Go long." And, she backs up for the high fly. I tell her, "Left field," and before I get it out of my mouth, there she is, to the left. Then she makes a beeline for right field because she knows the next peanut hit will be there, and she gets ready for "Line Drive!" wherein the missile goes straight towards her snout and she snaps it up and gives me a look that says, Is that all you got?
For some reason, she refuses to fetch her leash, even if I ask her, "Do you want to go for a ride?" Yes, she wants to go for a ride, and yes, she will stand still to attach the leash, but she will be damned if she will fetch it; get it yourself, is her attitude.
"Molly, do you want to watch the rabbits?" makes her run to the picture window and look outside. There are lots of rabbits, who if close, evoke the border collie Crouch and Stare. The rabbits somehow realize they are in the target sights and they hold really still, even though Molly is behind a glass window -- they seem to know or feel the eyes upon them. Seeing the coyotes makes her very nervous. She goes a bit haywire and doesn't calm down until a period of time passes. She wants no part of them, thank goodness.
But today was a little scary. She had been outside for a couple of hours while I worked on the income tax return. Needing a break, I went out on the patio where she greeted me. It is getting a little warm here in Arizona, and I looked at her and I wondered whether she would like to play in her washtub. I just thought that thought without glancing at the tub. She was looking at me and she immediately ran to the washtub, then to the end of the hose, and then looked back at me. I thought, Now she is reading my mind. This is peculiar, like Alice in Wonderland. What next?
Surely, the dog can't be anticipating my thoughts...can she? How could this be possible? She usually doesn't play in her washtub until late afternoon... this was before lunch, so there was no precedent as to time of day... Maybe it's like when horses learn to count.
I don't know... but I sure am impressed.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Aloha, Matilda
I think my 1995 IBM clone computer is failing in health. It doesn't want to turn off, and it will not turn off -- repeat, will not turn off -- unless you give it a breathing space of about five minutes to grasp the concept. Then it doesn't want to turn ON, until it has extolled the Powers That Be to gird up its loins, get the AC flowing, check its parameters (or whatever it does), and stand at the ready. Or almost ready. Ready in a minute or so. Ready pretty soon. What's the hurry?
Waiting for Matilda to respond is kind of like the fairy tale Rapunzel. You can emote, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let down your golden hair," and wait for her to come alive for you... until you wonder whether Rapunzel has eloped with the pizza delivery man. When the hair does fall down it doesn't seem as bushy as before. Is Rapunzel out cavorting at the marketplace and not paying any attention to business? Does anyone besides me wonder what is going on inside of the box? (Remember HAL? Be careful...)
Give the old girl credit, though, once she survives all the processes, she does a credible job, only occasionally acting stubborn or losing the place, and only attributable to her perhaps 50% of the time, the other 50% my fault; after all, I am no spring chicken either. Maybe we just suit each other. Heaven forbid that some young person should sit down and try to coerce anything out of Matilda the Rapunzel, she who waltzes to her own tune. If it became a matter of Wills, my money is on the machine, not the kid. After all, Matilda has survived neglect, power surges, eight years of Republicans, moving back and forth following the sun, and the rebuff of being replaced twice. It's a wonder she even responds at all.
In any event, it will be like saying goodbye to an old friend to abandon it. How can you young people blindly pitch your present devices for the siren calls of the newest techie marvels? Why I don't even like to trade in my 20 year old used car without a teary look back at the lot, where it sits disconsolately getting its tires kicked, wretchedly waiting to see if its new owner will keep the oil filled. Sob! That's the car that got me to the hospital on time, beating out the stork, the car that took me on the vacation where I fell in love with the mountains, the car the kids used to learn to drive... I understand why so many old cars (in the South, where I grew up) wind up in the back yards becoming space ships for the young 'uns or coops for the chickens, rusting away in peace, like in a nursing home. Do you think that rusting hurts steel more than pride? and how did a car get into this eulogy for Matilda, anyway?
Make way for progress. Youall write if you get work.
Waiting for Matilda to respond is kind of like the fairy tale Rapunzel. You can emote, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let down your golden hair," and wait for her to come alive for you... until you wonder whether Rapunzel has eloped with the pizza delivery man. When the hair does fall down it doesn't seem as bushy as before. Is Rapunzel out cavorting at the marketplace and not paying any attention to business? Does anyone besides me wonder what is going on inside of the box? (Remember HAL? Be careful...)
Give the old girl credit, though, once she survives all the processes, she does a credible job, only occasionally acting stubborn or losing the place, and only attributable to her perhaps 50% of the time, the other 50% my fault; after all, I am no spring chicken either. Maybe we just suit each other. Heaven forbid that some young person should sit down and try to coerce anything out of Matilda the Rapunzel, she who waltzes to her own tune. If it became a matter of Wills, my money is on the machine, not the kid. After all, Matilda has survived neglect, power surges, eight years of Republicans, moving back and forth following the sun, and the rebuff of being replaced twice. It's a wonder she even responds at all.
In any event, it will be like saying goodbye to an old friend to abandon it. How can you young people blindly pitch your present devices for the siren calls of the newest techie marvels? Why I don't even like to trade in my 20 year old used car without a teary look back at the lot, where it sits disconsolately getting its tires kicked, wretchedly waiting to see if its new owner will keep the oil filled. Sob! That's the car that got me to the hospital on time, beating out the stork, the car that took me on the vacation where I fell in love with the mountains, the car the kids used to learn to drive... I understand why so many old cars (in the South, where I grew up) wind up in the back yards becoming space ships for the young 'uns or coops for the chickens, rusting away in peace, like in a nursing home. Do you think that rusting hurts steel more than pride? and how did a car get into this eulogy for Matilda, anyway?
Make way for progress. Youall write if you get work.
San Jose is West of Here...
And it is too far to walk unless you are into that sort of thing, which I am not, just like I am not into E-mail. So to respond to those tons of E-mails inquiring about the book, The Last Laugh, (both of you), I am forced to admit that The Last Laugh was a fantasy, too.
There were a couple of realities in the midst of the fantasies. Molly the dog is real as she appears in the homeless scene. And believe it or not, the handsome Prince was real in the out-of-this-world fantasy. Although handsome Princes can cause heartbreaks, I hope that most of you will someday meet up with one. For a while, life will be different than you ever thought it could be. For a while, you will walk on air. For a while, you will feel that quickening of heartbeat when you think about the two of you. It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all -- just as soon as you recover from the pain of rejection.
However, speaking about retribution, which we hope does not come after rejection, I do know how to cure the feeling of emptiness, and it is a four letter word. Now, before you stop reading because of your high standards (you are still reading this, aren't you?) let me rush to state that four letter words have been given a bum rap. Of course, there are vulgarities amongst them, just like some of our bankers, lawyers, and politicians are crooks. Perhaps the percentage (some) is understated.
However again, just think of all of the good four letter words we use every day without a hint of bad: like love, kiss, cash, kind, fair, shop! Play, life, pink, joke, Visa, tree, good, hope, cure, ease, fern, lace, warm, lake, snow, bean, idea (there's one for you, a four letter word with three syllables) -- but the finest of these is, WORK.
Work is a holy privilege. Are you mourning the loss of anything dear? A person, a job, a keepsake, a romance, a reputation? Work is the answer. Not all work entails performing something for someone else for pay. Work includes studying, thinking, sharing, cleaning, helping, practicing, planting, learning, and forgetting yourself and taking arms against a sea of troubles (thanks, Mr. Shakespeare). Work hard enough, and there won't be any room in your life for regrets or revenge, and you just may hit on something that will make the rest of your life just what you want it to be. Good luck!
There were a couple of realities in the midst of the fantasies. Molly the dog is real as she appears in the homeless scene. And believe it or not, the handsome Prince was real in the out-of-this-world fantasy. Although handsome Princes can cause heartbreaks, I hope that most of you will someday meet up with one. For a while, life will be different than you ever thought it could be. For a while, you will walk on air. For a while, you will feel that quickening of heartbeat when you think about the two of you. It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all -- just as soon as you recover from the pain of rejection.
However, speaking about retribution, which we hope does not come after rejection, I do know how to cure the feeling of emptiness, and it is a four letter word. Now, before you stop reading because of your high standards (you are still reading this, aren't you?) let me rush to state that four letter words have been given a bum rap. Of course, there are vulgarities amongst them, just like some of our bankers, lawyers, and politicians are crooks. Perhaps the percentage (some) is understated.
However again, just think of all of the good four letter words we use every day without a hint of bad: like love, kiss, cash, kind, fair, shop! Play, life, pink, joke, Visa, tree, good, hope, cure, ease, fern, lace, warm, lake, snow, bean, idea (there's one for you, a four letter word with three syllables) -- but the finest of these is, WORK.
Work is a holy privilege. Are you mourning the loss of anything dear? A person, a job, a keepsake, a romance, a reputation? Work is the answer. Not all work entails performing something for someone else for pay. Work includes studying, thinking, sharing, cleaning, helping, practicing, planting, learning, and forgetting yourself and taking arms against a sea of troubles (thanks, Mr. Shakespeare). Work hard enough, and there won't be any room in your life for regrets or revenge, and you just may hit on something that will make the rest of your life just what you want it to be. Good luck!
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