It's spring. Max and I put the top down on the car and drove at 10 this morning without freezing to death. The sun continues to shine today and I hear that the temperature has hit 82 degrees. I don't know what to think, but I haven't felt the languor of spring fever. Maybe that is because I haven't felt the dastardly iciness of winter this year. Our lives have undergone a complete turnaround in the past 9 months, and when I look back at it all, it takes my breath away.
Our daughter has graduated from college and has moved far away so that we can no longer buzz down on a Sunday afternoon and back on Monday afternoon so we can get an Emily fix. A good fried has died. My brother-in-law has died, after a year of living hell when he could not communicate or move or feed himself. We had to put down our blessed little Fluffy who had been a part of our family for 15 years. A friend with a long term illness has died. A young friend has died suddenly. The son of a friend has gotten married. My sweet cousin has had a baby. Another sweet cousin has been married, and I was the officiant. My mother has moved from her home to another house. I have struggled with stress from too much work. My husband has found a job that suits him well. We have celebrated Thanksgiving away from home and have driven two days to do it. Our daughter looks forward to receiving her master's degree in a few months. We got new carpet.
And yet, so much has stayed the same. The house, albeit the carpet, looks much the same. I still play the piano and organ each week, still spending every Wednesday night at choir practice. Max and I still cook dinner each night together, he the sous chef and I standing at the stove and stirring. I still worry about my weight. I still teach too many classes and have to grade too many papers. I still laugh at The Big Bang Theory. Emily and I still talk every day on the telephone, and I still count myself lucky that she wants to confide in me. I am yet again looking forward to spring break. I continue to question myself about what I want to be when I grow up. I drink wine with my mother once every week or so. I still plan vacations that I will never take. I still play for the praise team and am still surprised when I feel so energized after the service is concluded. I have the same friends and a few new ones. I still don't spend enough time with Vida. I still wonder what life has in store. I continue to dream about writing a book. And my book is still not finished.
I think we all grow up expecting life to be this exciting adventure, when really, life is simply a collection of short adventures that occur between long stretches of days when life gives us the opportunity to look around and see where we are - an opportunity many of us either take for granted, or do not take at all. I have come to uneasy terms with the gift of simple days, but I feel that something different is about to happen. Maybe the reason I feel that way is because so much has happened recently, and I am used to the upheaval. Whatever the reason, I look with trepidation and anticipation toward spring and what it will bring.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Electronic Nightmare
It all started when my computer screen kind of flickered, and then refused to light up. I kept hoping that I would see the familiar start-up screen, that all would be fine, that I would be able to access all my documents, grades, and checkbooks. I started to sweat when I realized that it was not to be, that my computer had gone dark for good.
Terrified and angry, I started saying very bad words very loudly, and continued doing so when I saw that the computer would not come to life even in the presence of such profanities. And why was I so paralyzed with fear? Because I couldn't remember when I had done my last backup, and even if I were able to remember it, I had no idea how to restore the darn thing. I finally told my husband what the uproar was all about, and he advised me to call his go-to computer guy, who is the smartest computer person on the face of the planet. After what the GTCG did for me, I tend to agree.
I was able to get in touch with him, and he was able to find time in his schedule to give my computer a once-over. I knew, deep in my heart, though, that the six-year-old HP was gone for good, and so I started looking for another one to replace it. Because I had purchased a teeny-tiny notebook, I rarely carried the laptop around anymore, and so I thought I could probably exist with a less expensive desktop model. As I checked prices, though, I found that desktops weren't as inexpensive as I had originally thought. I was becoming more and more depressed because I was not planning to spend any money on something as expensive as a computer - tires, maybe, but not a computer.
That was when my secretary called. When I bewailed my current situation, she reminded me that the bookstore at the local community college was selling, for a song, HP laptops; with my instructor's discount, that song would become a two-line melody. I was jubilant! I went to the bookstore, bought the little computer, and took it home, spending the next four hours installing all the software I knew I would need when GTCG was able to capture all my data on a disk or some other device about which I know little to nothing. I also set up my e-mail account and began receiving all kinds of e-mails, because my on line class had just begun.
And I waited. The GTCG called to confirm that my computer was, in fact, dead, and that he could retrieve most of my information, but NOT my e-mails. I hit panic mode. Those e-mails were chronicles of my life - my teaching life, my law life, my personal life, and my life in general. Why couldn't he retrieve them? He explained that to be the nature of the beast - e-mail cannot be retrieved. Once it is gone, it is gone - unless, however, a smart person has transferred the e-mails to a "cloud." It all seems so complicated. But I shall move on.
I waited, almost afraid to breathe, for him to transfer the data on my dead computer to the new oner, and my patience was rewarded. The computer went to him, the data went on, and I prepared for my next big event - a bankruptcy hearing.
Prior to the hearing, I had to transfer some pdf. documents to the Court's web site. So I put the documents in my scanner, pushed the button . . . and saw nothing I recognized. Something was wrong with my scanner! It was trying to scan a document to a .jpeg file! I DID NOT want a picture! I NEEDED a .pdf document! I checked the properties. Only picture formats showed up. There was no .pdf. Now I was beginning to get really mad. Not only was I going to have to buy a new computer, I was going to have to get a scanner, as well.
I rationalized this irritation by telling myself that I had lost my 15-year-old copier a few weeks before, so I was going to have to buy a copier regardless; I could just get an all-in-one and have a new copier and a scanner that would work with my new operating system (Windows 7), which I believed to be the root of the problem. So to Staples I went.
I found a reasonably priced HP all-in-one printer and bought it. It was wireless, so Max would be able to use it, too, from his new perch in the house; it also had a top feeder for multi-page copying, which would come in handy with long documents such as bankruptcy petitions. I was feeling a little better, and even a little anticipatory about playing with my new toy. I unpacked it and hooked it up. I made one copy, and then another, using the top feeder, and everything was working well. My nerves were starting to settle down when I tried the scanner. I put the paper in, pushed the button, and saw only picture suffixes available, such as .jpeg or .bitmap. This simply could not be happening.
Too mentally exhausted to do anything about it at the time, I decided to just quit for the day and worry about it when I next had time, probably on Saturday, a couple of days away. In the meantime, I just kept my old printer hooked up to the computer, and made copies as necessary.
Saturday arrived, and I worked and worked with the scanning portion of my new piece of equipment and finally found a fix that allowed the document to scan as a .pdf as I needed. It took four hours to get to that success. Max was using the printer from downstairs in the living room, and I decided that this printer would be all right, even though the scanning portion was more work than the scanner I had before.
The next week, I continued to get used to my new computer and printer, and then I noticed that something was wrong with my e-mail. Prior to my new system, when I downloaded e-mail to my main computer, it didn't appear on any of my other devices, such as my teeny-tiny notebook or my smart phone. If I downloaded e-mail to my smart phone, it would still download to my main computer OR to my teeny-tiny notebook. Any e-mail that downloaded to my teeny-tiny notebook would stay there and not download afterward to my main computer. This was somewhat irritating, but it was workable, and over time, I got used to it.
Now, when I downloaded e-mail to my main computer, it didn't stay on my main computer; when I opened up the e-mail on my teeny-tiny notebook, all the e-mail on my main computer would disappear and re-appear on the notebook! What was worse, ALL my e-mail downloaded to my smart phone, not once, not twice, but over and over and over! I was, as my grandmother used to say, fit to be tied.
I sat down to figure this one out, and after a few more hours, found the problem to be the difference in IMAP and POP. I have no idea what each is, but I know they are different, and I know that the IMAP was causing the problem. So I was able to fix the part that had my e-mail disappearing from one computer to another; however, the smart phone still got all the e-mail over and over, and the teeny-tiny notebook got all the e-mail that went to the main computer earlier in the day. As long, however, as it stayed on the main computer, I decided that I could live with it until I calmed down.
The next week, I started to make copies on my new printer/copier, using the top feeder. Just as the page was about to disappear into the belly of the beast, the beast stopped working. Stopped. I got an error message: "Paper Feed Mispick." So I laboriously lifted the lid, worked gently with the paper, and pulled it out. Then I re-set the copier and started again. Stopped. Just as before, I got an error message, and just as before, I gently worked the paper free and re-set. Once again, I started the process, and once again, the paper stopped. This time, not so gently, I ripped the paper from the feeder and gave up. I decided then and there that this printer was a piece of junk and needed to go back to Staples.
So on Saturday, when I had time, I started packing up the dreadful machine when Max stopped me. He told me that he didn't think Staples took back electronic equipment, that we would have to send the printer to HP. I couldn't believe it, and right away called Staples to find that he was right. Staples had a two-week deadline, and I was one day past it. Furious, I started to call HP, but decided that I should probably wait until I cooled down.
So on Monday, I called HP and got a very nice tech support guy who took me through step after step, time after time, and finally concluded that I either had a defective product or had done something that screwed it up after I purchased it and plugged it in. He was too nice to say the latter, however, and agreed that HP should send me a new machine. He said it would take 7 - 10 days to arrive, and when it did arrive, I should call and get someone to step me through hooking it up. He gave me a case number and told me to have a good day. Good day, hah! I was STILL without a copier and a scanner that worked, and I was at least 10 days away from hoping to have one. I thought I would scream, but I was too tired and disappointed.
So imagine my surprise when, yesterday, a mere two days after my call, I opened the door and found a BIG box which contained my new printer/scanner/copier/FAX machine! I was very happy, but I didn't want to rush upstairs to try to install it because I had to go to choir practice and would not be able to sit down with the tech support people to get the job done. In fact, I decided I could wait until Friday, so that I would have enough time to listen to what tech support was saying and follow the instructions to the letter. I was breathing easily.
This morning, however, my helpful husband, who wants nothing more than to make my life easier, went upstairs without my noticing, and by the time I found him, he had unpacked the big box and was putting the printer on its new home. My usual morning routine has me on the treadmill by 9 so that I can get to class by 11; I must exercise almost every day or I get fat and stressed out. Unfortunately, I had to call HP to set up the printer before I could do anything, and doing so took so much time that I didn't have enough time to get on the treadmill. Max didn't know that, though, so I won't hold it against him.
To end a long story - by this time, nothing will make it short - I talked with HP's tech support, the instructor gave great directions, and now I have a printer that prints, a copier that will copy from the top feeder, and a scanner that will scan documents to .pdf. At this point today, life is good.
Now if I can just figure out the e-mail mess . .
Terrified and angry, I started saying very bad words very loudly, and continued doing so when I saw that the computer would not come to life even in the presence of such profanities. And why was I so paralyzed with fear? Because I couldn't remember when I had done my last backup, and even if I were able to remember it, I had no idea how to restore the darn thing. I finally told my husband what the uproar was all about, and he advised me to call his go-to computer guy, who is the smartest computer person on the face of the planet. After what the GTCG did for me, I tend to agree.
I was able to get in touch with him, and he was able to find time in his schedule to give my computer a once-over. I knew, deep in my heart, though, that the six-year-old HP was gone for good, and so I started looking for another one to replace it. Because I had purchased a teeny-tiny notebook, I rarely carried the laptop around anymore, and so I thought I could probably exist with a less expensive desktop model. As I checked prices, though, I found that desktops weren't as inexpensive as I had originally thought. I was becoming more and more depressed because I was not planning to spend any money on something as expensive as a computer - tires, maybe, but not a computer.
That was when my secretary called. When I bewailed my current situation, she reminded me that the bookstore at the local community college was selling, for a song, HP laptops; with my instructor's discount, that song would become a two-line melody. I was jubilant! I went to the bookstore, bought the little computer, and took it home, spending the next four hours installing all the software I knew I would need when GTCG was able to capture all my data on a disk or some other device about which I know little to nothing. I also set up my e-mail account and began receiving all kinds of e-mails, because my on line class had just begun.
And I waited. The GTCG called to confirm that my computer was, in fact, dead, and that he could retrieve most of my information, but NOT my e-mails. I hit panic mode. Those e-mails were chronicles of my life - my teaching life, my law life, my personal life, and my life in general. Why couldn't he retrieve them? He explained that to be the nature of the beast - e-mail cannot be retrieved. Once it is gone, it is gone - unless, however, a smart person has transferred the e-mails to a "cloud." It all seems so complicated. But I shall move on.
I waited, almost afraid to breathe, for him to transfer the data on my dead computer to the new oner, and my patience was rewarded. The computer went to him, the data went on, and I prepared for my next big event - a bankruptcy hearing.
Prior to the hearing, I had to transfer some pdf. documents to the Court's web site. So I put the documents in my scanner, pushed the button . . . and saw nothing I recognized. Something was wrong with my scanner! It was trying to scan a document to a .jpeg file! I DID NOT want a picture! I NEEDED a .pdf document! I checked the properties. Only picture formats showed up. There was no .pdf. Now I was beginning to get really mad. Not only was I going to have to buy a new computer, I was going to have to get a scanner, as well.
I rationalized this irritation by telling myself that I had lost my 15-year-old copier a few weeks before, so I was going to have to buy a copier regardless; I could just get an all-in-one and have a new copier and a scanner that would work with my new operating system (Windows 7), which I believed to be the root of the problem. So to Staples I went.
I found a reasonably priced HP all-in-one printer and bought it. It was wireless, so Max would be able to use it, too, from his new perch in the house; it also had a top feeder for multi-page copying, which would come in handy with long documents such as bankruptcy petitions. I was feeling a little better, and even a little anticipatory about playing with my new toy. I unpacked it and hooked it up. I made one copy, and then another, using the top feeder, and everything was working well. My nerves were starting to settle down when I tried the scanner. I put the paper in, pushed the button, and saw only picture suffixes available, such as .jpeg or .bitmap. This simply could not be happening.
Too mentally exhausted to do anything about it at the time, I decided to just quit for the day and worry about it when I next had time, probably on Saturday, a couple of days away. In the meantime, I just kept my old printer hooked up to the computer, and made copies as necessary.
Saturday arrived, and I worked and worked with the scanning portion of my new piece of equipment and finally found a fix that allowed the document to scan as a .pdf as I needed. It took four hours to get to that success. Max was using the printer from downstairs in the living room, and I decided that this printer would be all right, even though the scanning portion was more work than the scanner I had before.
The next week, I continued to get used to my new computer and printer, and then I noticed that something was wrong with my e-mail. Prior to my new system, when I downloaded e-mail to my main computer, it didn't appear on any of my other devices, such as my teeny-tiny notebook or my smart phone. If I downloaded e-mail to my smart phone, it would still download to my main computer OR to my teeny-tiny notebook. Any e-mail that downloaded to my teeny-tiny notebook would stay there and not download afterward to my main computer. This was somewhat irritating, but it was workable, and over time, I got used to it.
Now, when I downloaded e-mail to my main computer, it didn't stay on my main computer; when I opened up the e-mail on my teeny-tiny notebook, all the e-mail on my main computer would disappear and re-appear on the notebook! What was worse, ALL my e-mail downloaded to my smart phone, not once, not twice, but over and over and over! I was, as my grandmother used to say, fit to be tied.
I sat down to figure this one out, and after a few more hours, found the problem to be the difference in IMAP and POP. I have no idea what each is, but I know they are different, and I know that the IMAP was causing the problem. So I was able to fix the part that had my e-mail disappearing from one computer to another; however, the smart phone still got all the e-mail over and over, and the teeny-tiny notebook got all the e-mail that went to the main computer earlier in the day. As long, however, as it stayed on the main computer, I decided that I could live with it until I calmed down.
The next week, I started to make copies on my new printer/copier, using the top feeder. Just as the page was about to disappear into the belly of the beast, the beast stopped working. Stopped. I got an error message: "Paper Feed Mispick." So I laboriously lifted the lid, worked gently with the paper, and pulled it out. Then I re-set the copier and started again. Stopped. Just as before, I got an error message, and just as before, I gently worked the paper free and re-set. Once again, I started the process, and once again, the paper stopped. This time, not so gently, I ripped the paper from the feeder and gave up. I decided then and there that this printer was a piece of junk and needed to go back to Staples.
So on Saturday, when I had time, I started packing up the dreadful machine when Max stopped me. He told me that he didn't think Staples took back electronic equipment, that we would have to send the printer to HP. I couldn't believe it, and right away called Staples to find that he was right. Staples had a two-week deadline, and I was one day past it. Furious, I started to call HP, but decided that I should probably wait until I cooled down.
So on Monday, I called HP and got a very nice tech support guy who took me through step after step, time after time, and finally concluded that I either had a defective product or had done something that screwed it up after I purchased it and plugged it in. He was too nice to say the latter, however, and agreed that HP should send me a new machine. He said it would take 7 - 10 days to arrive, and when it did arrive, I should call and get someone to step me through hooking it up. He gave me a case number and told me to have a good day. Good day, hah! I was STILL without a copier and a scanner that worked, and I was at least 10 days away from hoping to have one. I thought I would scream, but I was too tired and disappointed.
So imagine my surprise when, yesterday, a mere two days after my call, I opened the door and found a BIG box which contained my new printer/scanner/copier/FAX machine! I was very happy, but I didn't want to rush upstairs to try to install it because I had to go to choir practice and would not be able to sit down with the tech support people to get the job done. In fact, I decided I could wait until Friday, so that I would have enough time to listen to what tech support was saying and follow the instructions to the letter. I was breathing easily.
This morning, however, my helpful husband, who wants nothing more than to make my life easier, went upstairs without my noticing, and by the time I found him, he had unpacked the big box and was putting the printer on its new home. My usual morning routine has me on the treadmill by 9 so that I can get to class by 11; I must exercise almost every day or I get fat and stressed out. Unfortunately, I had to call HP to set up the printer before I could do anything, and doing so took so much time that I didn't have enough time to get on the treadmill. Max didn't know that, though, so I won't hold it against him.
To end a long story - by this time, nothing will make it short - I talked with HP's tech support, the instructor gave great directions, and now I have a printer that prints, a copier that will copy from the top feeder, and a scanner that will scan documents to .pdf. At this point today, life is good.
Now if I can just figure out the e-mail mess . .
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Paula's Falling
I watched the Today Show the other day, when Al Roker interviewed Paula Deen about the rumor that she had been diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. Paula (I feel as if I can call her "Paula" because for umpteen years I have been watching her cook the things the women in the Methodist church in Thayer cooked) confirmed that she did indeed have Type 2 diabetes, and that she had been diagnosed about three years ago. She had not divulged the diagnosis, and I couldn't really understand her answers to Al's questions about the secrecy surrounding her disease.
I assumed, and she said nothing to disabuse me of my assumption, that she hadn't told anyone because diet and obesity are two factors that trigger Type 2 diabetes - the one that people develop in adulthood because they eat and sit themselves right into it. And anyone who watches Paula cook and has done so for more than a few years knows that her recipes are filled with butter and sugar and sour cream and other fattening goodies, and that she has put on more than just a few pounds. The viewing public has also seen her husband grow from overweight to gargantuan.
My assumption is that Paula didn't tell anyone because to do so would have told the world, "If you cook like I do, and then eat the food, you will gain a lot of weight and you will get diabetes." Then people might have gotten the idea that cooking and eating that kind of food are not good things. Then those people might not have watched her show, or bought her cookware, or bought her cookbooks. Those actions could have detrimentally affected Paula's bottom line.
Further complicating the issue is that she divulged her health condition ONLY after she signed up with a Big Pharma company that manufactures a diabetes drug. This means that she was ready to tell only when it was going to make her some money. So we can again assume that what she did or did not do or tell or did not tell is based on that thing that makes the world go 'round, and I'm not talking about love.
Additionally, I admit to thinking that Paula seemed disingenuous in her interview with Al Roker. Al, who had to resort to bariatric surgery a few years ago to lose weight, pointedly asked questions regarding her diet and her recipes and whether she was going to change either. She sidestepped those legitimate questions by saying that she eats the way she cooks only in moderation, and that she urges her viewing public to do the same. As a long-time regular viewer, I can tell you that I have heard Paula Deen two or three times say that she doesn't eat like this every day, but I recall with much greater clarity her giving me the idea that adding another tablespoon of butter to a recipe is going to make it taste better, giggling while she looked mischievously at the camera.
All in all, that mischief is part of her charm. She makes just about everything sound like fun, whether it is cooking with her sons, or watching a comedienne imitate her right down to her wigs, her "y'all," and her laugh. She invites us all right into her kitchen, and if we really went, we know we would probably laugh right along with her for as long as we were there. She has made cooking and eating old time Southern favorites, replete with butter and deep fat frying, just a whole lot of fun. Her growing girth has given truth to the old adage, "Fat people are jolly;" those of us who would rather have fun than eat sensibly are drawn to both her and the food she lovingly cooks and tastes on the set.
Her camera personality has developed myriad fans, I among them, and those people have made her a very wealthy woman. Along with that celebrity and wealth, I believe, comes a modicum of responsibility to the people who have given her those things.
I think that when she found out about her medical condition, she should have told her producers and her fans, and she could have been a hero by doing the same fun cooking in a manner that was healthy for people with diabetes. Her show might have changed, but if she and her fun personality are the draws, her legion fans, me included, would have followed right along with her - and probably lost weight and been healthier in the long run.
I realize that we are all responsible for our own health and what we eat, but we humans are easily led. That is why so many girls were caught up in the fashion trend of baring their midriffs even when their bulging midriffs shouldn't have been bared, why so many men wear baseball caps inside and all the time, even when it is downright rude or unattractive, why women will ruin their feet and comfort by wearing high heeled shoes that don't really fit, why small children will recognize the Golden Arches at extremely early ages, and why otherwise sensible people believe that Fox News is "fair and balanced." Paula Deen is not responsible for our getting fat, but she sure has made it easy and fun. Wouldn't it be a wonderful thing for her to show us that getting un-fat can be just as fun - even though not quite as easy.
I think would she do that in her own cute way, she would have just as many television fans and maybe more; however, her diabetes drug might not sell as many pills. I wonder which is more important?
I assumed, and she said nothing to disabuse me of my assumption, that she hadn't told anyone because diet and obesity are two factors that trigger Type 2 diabetes - the one that people develop in adulthood because they eat and sit themselves right into it. And anyone who watches Paula cook and has done so for more than a few years knows that her recipes are filled with butter and sugar and sour cream and other fattening goodies, and that she has put on more than just a few pounds. The viewing public has also seen her husband grow from overweight to gargantuan.
My assumption is that Paula didn't tell anyone because to do so would have told the world, "If you cook like I do, and then eat the food, you will gain a lot of weight and you will get diabetes." Then people might have gotten the idea that cooking and eating that kind of food are not good things. Then those people might not have watched her show, or bought her cookware, or bought her cookbooks. Those actions could have detrimentally affected Paula's bottom line.
Further complicating the issue is that she divulged her health condition ONLY after she signed up with a Big Pharma company that manufactures a diabetes drug. This means that she was ready to tell only when it was going to make her some money. So we can again assume that what she did or did not do or tell or did not tell is based on that thing that makes the world go 'round, and I'm not talking about love.
Additionally, I admit to thinking that Paula seemed disingenuous in her interview with Al Roker. Al, who had to resort to bariatric surgery a few years ago to lose weight, pointedly asked questions regarding her diet and her recipes and whether she was going to change either. She sidestepped those legitimate questions by saying that she eats the way she cooks only in moderation, and that she urges her viewing public to do the same. As a long-time regular viewer, I can tell you that I have heard Paula Deen two or three times say that she doesn't eat like this every day, but I recall with much greater clarity her giving me the idea that adding another tablespoon of butter to a recipe is going to make it taste better, giggling while she looked mischievously at the camera.
All in all, that mischief is part of her charm. She makes just about everything sound like fun, whether it is cooking with her sons, or watching a comedienne imitate her right down to her wigs, her "y'all," and her laugh. She invites us all right into her kitchen, and if we really went, we know we would probably laugh right along with her for as long as we were there. She has made cooking and eating old time Southern favorites, replete with butter and deep fat frying, just a whole lot of fun. Her growing girth has given truth to the old adage, "Fat people are jolly;" those of us who would rather have fun than eat sensibly are drawn to both her and the food she lovingly cooks and tastes on the set.
Her camera personality has developed myriad fans, I among them, and those people have made her a very wealthy woman. Along with that celebrity and wealth, I believe, comes a modicum of responsibility to the people who have given her those things.
I think that when she found out about her medical condition, she should have told her producers and her fans, and she could have been a hero by doing the same fun cooking in a manner that was healthy for people with diabetes. Her show might have changed, but if she and her fun personality are the draws, her legion fans, me included, would have followed right along with her - and probably lost weight and been healthier in the long run.
I realize that we are all responsible for our own health and what we eat, but we humans are easily led. That is why so many girls were caught up in the fashion trend of baring their midriffs even when their bulging midriffs shouldn't have been bared, why so many men wear baseball caps inside and all the time, even when it is downright rude or unattractive, why women will ruin their feet and comfort by wearing high heeled shoes that don't really fit, why small children will recognize the Golden Arches at extremely early ages, and why otherwise sensible people believe that Fox News is "fair and balanced." Paula Deen is not responsible for our getting fat, but she sure has made it easy and fun. Wouldn't it be a wonderful thing for her to show us that getting un-fat can be just as fun - even though not quite as easy.
I think would she do that in her own cute way, she would have just as many television fans and maybe more; however, her diabetes drug might not sell as many pills. I wonder which is more important?
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
A Poignant Look Back
Yesterday, at a joyous memorial service, Max and I reminisced about our personal contacts with Ron Jennings, the Sedalia Democrat's most well-known columnist. Ron died last week after finally succumbing to brain cancer, which had dogged him for about 20 years. He was diagnosed shortly after he and I shared the stage in Annie, I as Grace and he as an extra, but really as the proud father of the prepubescent star of the show, who now is a lovely, confident, talented young woman with two children of her own.
Ron was one of those guys who, when first we met, seemed to be comfortable in his own skin, although that skin seemed to be kind of geeky. It wasn't long afterward, though, that I realized that Ron was the real deal - a truly nice guy who had been dealt a hand that would have been difficult for most: he wore a hearing aid and had a slight speech impediment, and his glasses were thicker than mine. I found out yesterday that his situation was more dire than I had thought: he had been diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy after his birth, and his devoted mother had massaged his little legs ceaselessly to help him do what his doctors told him he would never do - walk.
And walk he did. He also, contrary to his doctors' predictions, went to school and to college, even attending the prestigious School of Journalism at the University of Missouri. That is how Max met him, because they were at that school at the same time. Ron went out of his way to be kind to Max when he found out that Max, a fellow BJ, had ended up in Sedalia, where Ron had made his home.
Over the years, our paths crossed often in different ways, but most usually having something to do with theater. When I decided that only I could be Nellie in South Pacific, and the director agreed, Ron came to preview night and gave me a fabulous review as a newcomer to Sedalia Community Theater. He never saw me without asking what play I was going to audition for next. Even after I quit trying because my schedule prevented three hours of rehearsal every night for six weeks, Ron always reminded me that I had talent and the community missed seeing me on the stage.
I will never forget the one time someone other than Ron did a review of the current play for the paper. It was Annie, and the reason Ron didn't review the play was that he was in it! The person who did the review instead didn't quite understand that the review wasn't really a review, but was instead a preview of pleasant things to come for the people in the community who attended the show. This person actually made critcal comments! Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, was buzzing about how the paper had made a terrible mistake in letting anyone other than Ron tell the community through the paper that the show would be worth seeing.
Ron and I also shared a most interesting night sometime around 1985 or so. I was the coordinator for the State Fair Queen contest, and Ron was the columnist who dug up the story that the very first State Fair Queen had moved back to and was then living in Sedalia. She was a piece of work, as they say, and was basking in the glory of being the most newsworthy item in Sedalia that summer. Ron did a column about her, and I invited her to be a part of the Queen contest by making an appearance and being interviewed as a time killer while the judges were out tabulating their ballots.
She, enamored with both of us for showering her with attention, asked us to bring our spouses to a dinner at her home a couple of weeks after the Fair ended. Max had something else to do that night (or so he said), so I attended without my steady date, and Ron and his wife Pat attended. The evening was a nightmare. We arrived around 7, on time, and The Queen served cocktails while the person who was cooking and serving readied dinner in the kitchen. Unfortunately, the server was not too experienced, and so dinner was not served until around 10, after we all had several cocktails and were a little unsteady on our feet. I left almost immediately after we finished dinner, knowing that my mother would not approve of eating and running, but Ron and Pat showed much better manners than did I, staying at least a little longer.
Ron showed good manners, too, in his writing, which was the highlight of our little newspaper. He, like I, believed that everyone has a story, and he spent time discovering and telling those stories. He had a wonderful sense of humor, evidenced by the loud laughter of the crowd at his memorial service when his words flashed across the video screen, interspersed with pictures of Ron's family and of him growing up in Maryville. I remembered reading some of those columns, wondering how he made the most mundane of human experiences come alive to be not mundane, but instead interesting and exquisite.
When Ron's brain tumor was found and when he was diagnosed with brain cancer, he underwent surgery, coming out on top of the world and cancer-free. He also came out without hair on one side of his head. Just as he had with his prior physical failings, he handled his semi-baldness with good humor and acceptance, all of that lasting for 20 years, during those years when most of us become discouraged about the ravages of time on our bodies and our physical appearances.
All in all, Ron Jennings was a gift to as many people as he knew. He lived life well, had a loving wife and two daughters, and was a light for many people who might otherwise not see that each of us is important in the whole scheme of things. I am thankful that I knew him and that our paths crossed. I wish I had taken the time to tell him so.
Ron was one of those guys who, when first we met, seemed to be comfortable in his own skin, although that skin seemed to be kind of geeky. It wasn't long afterward, though, that I realized that Ron was the real deal - a truly nice guy who had been dealt a hand that would have been difficult for most: he wore a hearing aid and had a slight speech impediment, and his glasses were thicker than mine. I found out yesterday that his situation was more dire than I had thought: he had been diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy after his birth, and his devoted mother had massaged his little legs ceaselessly to help him do what his doctors told him he would never do - walk.
And walk he did. He also, contrary to his doctors' predictions, went to school and to college, even attending the prestigious School of Journalism at the University of Missouri. That is how Max met him, because they were at that school at the same time. Ron went out of his way to be kind to Max when he found out that Max, a fellow BJ, had ended up in Sedalia, where Ron had made his home.
Over the years, our paths crossed often in different ways, but most usually having something to do with theater. When I decided that only I could be Nellie in South Pacific, and the director agreed, Ron came to preview night and gave me a fabulous review as a newcomer to Sedalia Community Theater. He never saw me without asking what play I was going to audition for next. Even after I quit trying because my schedule prevented three hours of rehearsal every night for six weeks, Ron always reminded me that I had talent and the community missed seeing me on the stage.
I will never forget the one time someone other than Ron did a review of the current play for the paper. It was Annie, and the reason Ron didn't review the play was that he was in it! The person who did the review instead didn't quite understand that the review wasn't really a review, but was instead a preview of pleasant things to come for the people in the community who attended the show. This person actually made critcal comments! Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, was buzzing about how the paper had made a terrible mistake in letting anyone other than Ron tell the community through the paper that the show would be worth seeing.
Ron and I also shared a most interesting night sometime around 1985 or so. I was the coordinator for the State Fair Queen contest, and Ron was the columnist who dug up the story that the very first State Fair Queen had moved back to and was then living in Sedalia. She was a piece of work, as they say, and was basking in the glory of being the most newsworthy item in Sedalia that summer. Ron did a column about her, and I invited her to be a part of the Queen contest by making an appearance and being interviewed as a time killer while the judges were out tabulating their ballots.
She, enamored with both of us for showering her with attention, asked us to bring our spouses to a dinner at her home a couple of weeks after the Fair ended. Max had something else to do that night (or so he said), so I attended without my steady date, and Ron and his wife Pat attended. The evening was a nightmare. We arrived around 7, on time, and The Queen served cocktails while the person who was cooking and serving readied dinner in the kitchen. Unfortunately, the server was not too experienced, and so dinner was not served until around 10, after we all had several cocktails and were a little unsteady on our feet. I left almost immediately after we finished dinner, knowing that my mother would not approve of eating and running, but Ron and Pat showed much better manners than did I, staying at least a little longer.
Ron showed good manners, too, in his writing, which was the highlight of our little newspaper. He, like I, believed that everyone has a story, and he spent time discovering and telling those stories. He had a wonderful sense of humor, evidenced by the loud laughter of the crowd at his memorial service when his words flashed across the video screen, interspersed with pictures of Ron's family and of him growing up in Maryville. I remembered reading some of those columns, wondering how he made the most mundane of human experiences come alive to be not mundane, but instead interesting and exquisite.
When Ron's brain tumor was found and when he was diagnosed with brain cancer, he underwent surgery, coming out on top of the world and cancer-free. He also came out without hair on one side of his head. Just as he had with his prior physical failings, he handled his semi-baldness with good humor and acceptance, all of that lasting for 20 years, during those years when most of us become discouraged about the ravages of time on our bodies and our physical appearances.
All in all, Ron Jennings was a gift to as many people as he knew. He lived life well, had a loving wife and two daughters, and was a light for many people who might otherwise not see that each of us is important in the whole scheme of things. I am thankful that I knew him and that our paths crossed. I wish I had taken the time to tell him so.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown
When I was growing up in Thayer, our family went to the dentist in West Plains, a mere 30 miles and 45 minutes of bad road away. One particular summer, which one I can't remember, my sister and I had to get lots of fillings or suffer some other such dental torture, and so my mother decided that we should just get it out of the way all at once. So, during one particular week, again, I can't remember which one, we drove to and from West Plains every day, going there dreading, and coming home grumpy and in pain.
On Monday, as we rounded one big curve in the road, we noticed a black dog standing by a fence. He was not inside the fence, but instead just standing beside it, about 15 feet or so from the road. We noticed him and made some kind of comment about how we hoped he wouldn't dart out onto the highway. On the way back, we saw that he was still there, and we were happy that he hadn't been killed by some inattentive driver.
On Tuesday, we rounded the same curve on the way to West Plains, and saw that the dog was still standing by the fence. It looked as if he hadn't moved a muscle from his stance the day before. My mother, my sister, and I kind of made uncomfortable noises, because we knew then that something wasn't right with either the dog or his master. When we saw the dog on the way back, we began to conjecture about what had happened and why the dog was still there. My mother told my dad about the dog when we got home, and he, too, was puzzled.
The next day, when we again saw the dog, we concluded that someone had dropped him off and he was waiting for his master to return - which, by this time, we knew was not going to happen. I can't really remember whether we bought some food in West Plains, or waited until we went back on Thursday to take some food to the dog - because we couldn't let him starve - but the important part of the story is that we put food in the car, pulled the car off the side of the road, and took it to him. He was grateful and ate it.
On Friday, the last day of our marathon dentist visit, we left the house with my father saying to my mother, "Do not bring that dog home." We already had Hildegarde von Clover, the meanest dachshund on the face of the earth (but that is another story), and my father knew the possibility that my mother would stop, pick up the dog, and add him to the family. He thought it best to remind her that doing so would not be such a good idea.
However, when we rolled in, about four hours later, with the dog in the back seat of our four-door sedan, my smart dad had already put out a water bowl and a full food bowl, and had made a bed for him under the car port. He knew that my mother would not be able to leave Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown on the side of the road, and figured "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." The dog's name came from an old blues/old time country song that wailed, "Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown, what will you do when the rent comes 'round?" Rufus, bless his heart, wasn't ever going to have to worry about rent again.
Rufus became a beloved part of our family for many, many years, giving us much to smile about and bringing with him an early understanding of brain damage - his first visit to Elmer Shaw, DVM, gave us the information that he had survived a puppy illness that had left him somewhat slow. He was gentle - I never heard him growl or even bark - and he did things such as walk into small trees and get lost in the back yard, so he became a house dog who house-trained himself.
The same visit to the vet was for surgery rendering him unable to sire puppies (!), and when we picked him up, Dr. Shaw told us that he had not urinated for the two days that he had been recovering in the kennel. It should have been no surprise to us that on our way home, in the same four-door sedan with black carpet and black interior, Rufus finally felt safe enough to let loose with all the bodily fluid he had stored uncomfortably for the past two days. I heard a noise, and an unfamiliar odor wafted through the car, and I realized that Rufus knew he was with people who loved him, so he could go to the bathroom wherever he needed to. I don't know if we ever got rid of the odor that permeated the car's carpet, especially in southern Missouri's hot summers. I think we eventually got rid of the car!
I wrote poetry about Rufus - Haiku, really - that garnered a good grade in my creative writing class at William Jewell. And when my parents divorced, many years later, Rufus went to live with a friend of my mother's, out on a farm, roaming the countryside, and probably, in his brain haze, forgetting all about the people who cared for him enough to pick him up off the side of the road.
Mother called me when she found out that he had died, at a ripe old age, and I cried. He was the sweetest dog ever.
On Monday, as we rounded one big curve in the road, we noticed a black dog standing by a fence. He was not inside the fence, but instead just standing beside it, about 15 feet or so from the road. We noticed him and made some kind of comment about how we hoped he wouldn't dart out onto the highway. On the way back, we saw that he was still there, and we were happy that he hadn't been killed by some inattentive driver.
On Tuesday, we rounded the same curve on the way to West Plains, and saw that the dog was still standing by the fence. It looked as if he hadn't moved a muscle from his stance the day before. My mother, my sister, and I kind of made uncomfortable noises, because we knew then that something wasn't right with either the dog or his master. When we saw the dog on the way back, we began to conjecture about what had happened and why the dog was still there. My mother told my dad about the dog when we got home, and he, too, was puzzled.
The next day, when we again saw the dog, we concluded that someone had dropped him off and he was waiting for his master to return - which, by this time, we knew was not going to happen. I can't really remember whether we bought some food in West Plains, or waited until we went back on Thursday to take some food to the dog - because we couldn't let him starve - but the important part of the story is that we put food in the car, pulled the car off the side of the road, and took it to him. He was grateful and ate it.
On Friday, the last day of our marathon dentist visit, we left the house with my father saying to my mother, "Do not bring that dog home." We already had Hildegarde von Clover, the meanest dachshund on the face of the earth (but that is another story), and my father knew the possibility that my mother would stop, pick up the dog, and add him to the family. He thought it best to remind her that doing so would not be such a good idea.
However, when we rolled in, about four hours later, with the dog in the back seat of our four-door sedan, my smart dad had already put out a water bowl and a full food bowl, and had made a bed for him under the car port. He knew that my mother would not be able to leave Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown on the side of the road, and figured "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." The dog's name came from an old blues/old time country song that wailed, "Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown, what will you do when the rent comes 'round?" Rufus, bless his heart, wasn't ever going to have to worry about rent again.
Rufus became a beloved part of our family for many, many years, giving us much to smile about and bringing with him an early understanding of brain damage - his first visit to Elmer Shaw, DVM, gave us the information that he had survived a puppy illness that had left him somewhat slow. He was gentle - I never heard him growl or even bark - and he did things such as walk into small trees and get lost in the back yard, so he became a house dog who house-trained himself.
The same visit to the vet was for surgery rendering him unable to sire puppies (!), and when we picked him up, Dr. Shaw told us that he had not urinated for the two days that he had been recovering in the kennel. It should have been no surprise to us that on our way home, in the same four-door sedan with black carpet and black interior, Rufus finally felt safe enough to let loose with all the bodily fluid he had stored uncomfortably for the past two days. I heard a noise, and an unfamiliar odor wafted through the car, and I realized that Rufus knew he was with people who loved him, so he could go to the bathroom wherever he needed to. I don't know if we ever got rid of the odor that permeated the car's carpet, especially in southern Missouri's hot summers. I think we eventually got rid of the car!
I wrote poetry about Rufus - Haiku, really - that garnered a good grade in my creative writing class at William Jewell. And when my parents divorced, many years later, Rufus went to live with a friend of my mother's, out on a farm, roaming the countryside, and probably, in his brain haze, forgetting all about the people who cared for him enough to pick him up off the side of the road.
Mother called me when she found out that he had died, at a ripe old age, and I cried. He was the sweetest dog ever.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
A Year
364 days ago, Henry Holtzclaw took on a nom de plume: Fluffy's Christmas Angel. I remember so clearly, as if it were yesterday, coming upstairs to get Fluffy to take her for her 10 p.m. outside visit, only to find that she was not in her usual place, not in the chair, not snuggled down in her beach towel. She was gone. And I remember Emily's stark fear, our frantically searching the neighborhood until about 1 in the morning, believing that she was somewhere we could not see, curled up in a little ball, going to sleep, wondering where she was and wondering why we were not there to keep her safe.
Of course, all those things were happening, but not in our neighborhood. Fluffy, in her doggy-Alzheimer's state, had wandered off to the neighbor's house, thinking it was hers, puzzled, I'm sure, when no one let her in. Then she continued to wander until she stumbled down a drainage ditch, underground, safe from the snow that covered the ground, safe from the cold air that penetrated slowly to the bone, safe from predators that might have found a white fluffy dog a delicacy. She wandered for about a mile, until I'm sure she was tired from wandering, lost, confused, and then she curled up in a little ball, and went to sleep.
It was about this time that her Christmas Angel was walking his own dog and saw a little white fluffy ball, curled up on a flat rock, off the water that ran through the drainage ditch, sleeping, and waiting to cross the rainbow. He picked her up, took her home, fed her, gave her water, kept her warm overnight, and then, with special instructions that if no one claimed her, he was to bring her back home, took her to the animal shelter. They thought she might be the white dog that was missing, and on that Wednesday morning, about 36 hours after she eloped, they called us and told us they thought that Fluffy had been found.
Indeed, Fluffy had been found, and then we found her Christmas Angel, and tonight, long after she took her last breath, rightfully in the arms of the people who were obliged to keep her safe for as long as they could, I remember and thank him, who would have loved her well had we not been found.
Angels can be found in many unexpected places, and I am certainly glad we found the one sent to watch over Fluffy.
Of course, all those things were happening, but not in our neighborhood. Fluffy, in her doggy-Alzheimer's state, had wandered off to the neighbor's house, thinking it was hers, puzzled, I'm sure, when no one let her in. Then she continued to wander until she stumbled down a drainage ditch, underground, safe from the snow that covered the ground, safe from the cold air that penetrated slowly to the bone, safe from predators that might have found a white fluffy dog a delicacy. She wandered for about a mile, until I'm sure she was tired from wandering, lost, confused, and then she curled up in a little ball, and went to sleep.
It was about this time that her Christmas Angel was walking his own dog and saw a little white fluffy ball, curled up on a flat rock, off the water that ran through the drainage ditch, sleeping, and waiting to cross the rainbow. He picked her up, took her home, fed her, gave her water, kept her warm overnight, and then, with special instructions that if no one claimed her, he was to bring her back home, took her to the animal shelter. They thought she might be the white dog that was missing, and on that Wednesday morning, about 36 hours after she eloped, they called us and told us they thought that Fluffy had been found.
Indeed, Fluffy had been found, and then we found her Christmas Angel, and tonight, long after she took her last breath, rightfully in the arms of the people who were obliged to keep her safe for as long as they could, I remember and thank him, who would have loved her well had we not been found.
Angels can be found in many unexpected places, and I am certainly glad we found the one sent to watch over Fluffy.
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