Monday, December 22, 2008

Am I Lunch?

A friend and I had finally gotten together for lunch and caught up on the prior year's events. As I grabbed my doggie bag and walked toward the restaurant door, I suggested we go together to the garage below where I was parked, then I'd drive him to his car.

When we arrived at my Trooper, I opened the rear door where Alex, my patient yellow Lab, awaited me. To my friend's shock, I said to Alex, "Look, honey, I brought you lunch!"

My friend thought I meant him.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Thursday, December 18, 2008

Death to Deer

I am pissed. Profoundly upset. This may not be a typical Auntie Eartha column, but it must be said.

Some limp, cowardly weakling is out there killing our deer with arrows in a populated neighborhood: Tuesday it was a large buck. These are deer you can pet (see me above). They roam our streets and yards, graze on our plants, mount our does. They upset us, because they try to mate with yearlings.

Some of us get perturbed because they eat vegetation we wish they wouldn’t and poop on every square yard of our grass. But dear God, is someone so lame and stupid that he reaches out and kills a dog or something he can rub, like his wife, his child, his pet, or a tame deer?! What is happening to our neighborhood? Break-ins, heroin, Mexican national drug distributors, meth. Who are the mentally disturbed morons living in my area?!? Let’s get them out!!

The demeanor of most of our bucks, does, and their children is placid, even the injured one shown here. Recently a young human driving inattentively and too fast on Parkview Boulevard severely injured one of our babies—its back legs were useless once the young driver in his Volvo hit the young one. A Colorado Springs police office came two hours after it had suffered and shot it twice to ensure it (the baby, not the young driver) was thoroughly dead, since the Volvo’s driver didn’t finish his own kill.

As I write this I want to go door to door and find the limp-membered idiot who thought he would make the world a better place by wounding a buck with his poorly aimed arrows till the buck suffered his death. Someone should do the same to this pitiful menace. Place an arrow strategically through his small part and later assess his situation, maybe stoke the fire…a very small fire.

When this slaughterer gets caught, and they always do, if we had the tax dollars and legal permission, we should send the cretin to Siberia to live on his “skill” to survive. But since it is so easy to call a deer into your presence around here, my prayer is that the bad guy lives a long, useless life starving…which he probably already is…mentally.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Thursday, December 4, 2008

What Sets You Free?

Boy, it’s been so long since I’ve felt free that I can’t easily remember what would set me free.

Ultimately…death.

Being with friends, saying what’s on your mind, not what they want to hear.

The freedom to feel and express without the fear of ridicule.

To say what’s on your mind without judgment.

To not feel obligated to say, “I love you.”
To remember a number from long ago and not be criticized for knowing something so trivial.

To unravel a truth so simple in life, and not be found stupid.

To make a mistake or say the wrong word, and find a smile or giggle rather than harsh words.

To talk with a friend and really be there without a criticizing ear, whose voice will fault every word and replace hatred with the love you had felt.

To write, without fear, your truths being found,
to share the depths of your heart.
To read with delight the words you enjoy,
to sing every song from the start.

To trust the voice that speaks so clear,
envelop yourself in another.
Take someone’s hand while you look in his eyes.
Freedom is what you’ll discover.

“What sets you free?”
Morning’s here, a sun-filled day,
your body’s firm, able, refreshed.
The cool breeze, birds, and mountains beyond
lead you to new elevations
of thought
and awareness.

Your spirit is pulled,
invisible attraction,
something’s waiting
for you to know.

Inside the eagle
envelops your being…
views like never before.
Your eyes see detail…
some of life’s answers
are open to you now.
Hold them, taste them,
captured in time.
Remember how they feel.
Now close your eyes
in darkness’s arms
Be held in what is real.

Roll in awareness,
savor simplicity,
life so complex
isn’t forever.

Invisible thread binds
(the) greatest of things,
beauty, strength appear.
Light and dark reach depths
never felt,
there’s no such thing as fear.
—July 8, 1991

(Puzzle piece number 29 of 38.)

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Me

What do you see when you look at me?
A cheerful, loving face?
Maybe you take another stand,
and I’m a hateful, sick disgrace.
But some who try a little harder
get a deeper view …
They see that love was once inside
until I fell for you.
They see a being more complex
than you ever thought of me.
That’s why you don’t understand the girl —
you simply just don’t see.
—June 25, 1991

(Puzzle piece number 28 of 38.)

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Tuesday, December 2, 2008

KittenSpeak

I have a friend who has rescued many basset hounds—those floppy, droppy, slow-moving, tail-wagging Hush Puppies dogs. It’s hard to believe, but these canines were bred to hunt rabbits—their sense of smell second only to that of the bloodhound, according to Wikipedia.* But can you imagine a basset chasing a rabbit?

“Spike, fetch that bunny!” you say, and off runs the basset. Two lopes and the overgrown wiener dog has tripped over his ears, somersaulted, and is lying in a puddle of himself.

Hunting was never very big to Joanne, so she just thanked the dogs to dust her hardwood floors with their ears.

One day while living in upstate New York, she went to a feed store to buy dog food. While there, my dear friend had a mental hiccup and came home with a kitten and all the feline accoutrements. I was amazed at the news; had she just forgotten the dog food? But with each conversation as months rolled on, her joy with Kate the cat grew. Between the two of us, stories of our critters abounded.

One day she came home exhausted after another day at the bank and was sitting next to her large, wood desk talking on the phone with a friend. Simultaneously she viewed her sticky-note reminders. She’s the type who has more stickies clinging to her fridge, desk, and bathroom mirror than a hippie has bumper stickers on his VW van. With each new “to do,” thought, or need from the store, she’d post another sticky note: Wack weeds. Get out of banking. Call Jim. Go to the bathroom. Find a decent and reasonable Christian man.

As Joanne leaned back in her chair conversing, Kate the cat jumped up on the desk for a stroke of attention. With raised tail and a swing of her fanny, Kate displayed a sticky note she apparently had sat on that read: Buy cat food and litter.
copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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* Please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basset_hound photographs, particularly the third one. Tell me what you see.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

“Take Me Out, It’s Garbage Day!”

My hiking buddy is a wild man and, maybe because I met him on Halloween 1999, he does some pretty scary things. I’ll spare him the embarrassment of his one swift move under a swing, but this story will inspire environmentalists and wildlife preservers.

One morning Bob (pictured below) got up and was going to take his garbage can to the curb, when he heard rustling inside the can. A quick peek revealed a cute little skunk looking upward into the eyes of its rescuer or its executioner. Apparently it had been too interested in the can’s contents as it peered down from the adjacent concrete wall, leaned over, and toppled in.

Perplexed, Bob went back inside and called me. “What would a person do if he found a skunk in his garbage can?”

“Invite the poor dear in for breakfast. It must be hungry.”


Not buying my advice, Bob pondered longer until the wildlife lover–conservationist spirit enveloped him. He put a cover on his garbage can and placed it, skunk and all, in the rear of his ancient blue Volvo station wagon.

When he later told me this story, I figured he was being his strange-humored bohunk self and selling me a line of goods. “You’ve got to be kidding. What if the skunk sprayed?”

“If its tail can’t lift up, it’s unable to give you a shot.” Mmm, now I’m satisfied.

So Bob took the little feller on an excursion up Ute Pass, found it a nice green, grassy meadow, carried the garbage can out of his car, and let the furry creature waddle away. And he didn’t spray…nor did the skunk.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Regret

What a beautiful day. She glided on the crisp, cool spring breeze catching updrafts that lifted her higher. Though they had moved nearer to the city to avoid the crowded woods, the air was still so fresh up here.

Her mate, being a bit of a risk taker, soared so high she thought he might not breathe. Then she’d catch him in her peripheral vision, drawing in his wings so he’d drop a hundred feet. She’d turn her head and fly in a different direction, pretending she didn’t see him.

But how she loved and respected him. Of all the mates who could have chosen her, she wanted him most. And they’d had so many perfect eaglets. Each had left the nest and found a niche in the world.
She knew that even at this age she still had the energy to raise two more fledglings. Obviously her mate was preparing to make it so.

A month and a half later, she sat on her two eggs. One deeply warm, one warmed only by her body. When the sun was at last warming her nest, she flew out and hunted. Her mate had always hunted while she warmed the eggs, but now she had no choice. She had to hunt alone because of the two-legged creature taking her mate to the ground. The creature had seemed pleased; she wondered why. Her heart ached. She had never been alone before.

It didn’t take long to see four voles scurrying to safety, or so they thought. Shrewd, swift, and with accurate aim, she caught the third one and took it high into a leafless tree to replenish her energy. She then returned to her nest to rest and provide warmth.

At last, a month later, she found an eaglet’s beak protruding from its shell. She was exhilarated, yet sad, but she tried to mask her feeling of aloneness and envelop herself in this wonderful event.

She squirmed her body around in her nest to accommodate the struggling life’s movements, until finally all the shell’s pieces lay far below on the earth.

Later that week, she sat alone high in the sparsely leafed tree enjoying a meal, remembering her mate. Surprisingly, a blackbird flew onto a nearby branch and began a loquacious greeting. Just a couple of months ago, she would have feigned a hunt and dropped toward the ground to avoid such garrulousness, but today as she reminisced, she welcomed the talkative fellow.

He said he’d been in the area for a few years and wondered why they hadn’t talked before. She shared of her wooded home of last year, and her mate’s plan of settling closer to the city. And, oh, how her belly ached for him.

Acquaintance made, they parted company, and she flew back to her young one.

The next day, again dining on her morning meal, she was greeted by the blackbird who began his chatter. He had a pattern, she noted, of mentioning the condition of the day, then talking about his past, and seemed never to tire of his stories. The present moment and future didn’t seem to occur to him.

Nevertheless, the two very different feathered creatures became friends, more or less, sharing life experiences—the blackbird’s more than the eagle’s, for she had always been somewhat reserved, sharing only her most intimate with her mate. Their manner of communication dissimilar, they still found common ground to relate to each other’s lives.

Weeks into their relationship, and after her unhatched egg had provided sustenance for the six-leggeds below, her eaglet tested her own wings. It was glorious—short, though delightful to watch her take a brief flight to a higher branch. Soon she was flying to other trees, while still depending on her mother for food, but her mother didn’t mind.

Inspired by her young one, the eagle flew to the meeting place and shared the good news with the blackbird, who was already awaiting her. Together they flew and, in a spirit of fun and friendship, competed for airspace, soaring, falling, and flying toward each other so hard and fast that they screeched when they didn’t collide.

That spontaneous event built trust between them. Before returning to her nest, the eagle and the blackbird conveyed gratitude that they had forged their unusual, yet devoted camaraderie.

In the days that followed, they watched the eaglet fly. Even others would pause to breathe in the young eagle’s first-awkward, then smoother flaps of her wings. Eagles, the observers would share with the mother, were uncommon in this part of the city, and her offspring was certainly a sight to behold.

The blackbird observed how the mother gave more attention to her young and all the others than to him, and it bothered him. He had grown accustomed to bathing in her presence alone, without competition. The less time he had with the eagle, the more he would fill their scant time with his incessant chatter, until she felt so smothered, it was as if she would suffocate.

On a cool, cloudy morning when it appeared the sun would stay asleep, the eagle glided over a field searching for a meal to share with her young one. An unaware rabbit below nibbled on weeds and grasses until he sensed the eagle above. Sitting motionless for a moment, he planned to bound directly toward the gulley, or as directly as his genes would allow.

When the eagle perceived the rabbit’s fear and calculated his probable route, she targeted ahead and successfully achieved her aim.

She flew back to the nest to share the food with her developing eaglet, enveloped in the moment. Focused on their meal, she didn’t hear the two-legged far away. With a bang and a burning sensation on her back, she winced and briefly fell aside. Gathering her strength, she and her young flew high and away from the menacing danger.

Days later she was healing well, for the sharp fire had only grazed her body, but she was feeling old and not nearly as sharp and agile as she used to be. Her eaglet could almost be called an eagle, soon to fly to her own home. And the eagle’s mate, well, she still thought about his flying antics, displaying his strength and virility for all the world to see, though she knew it was all for her.

The blackbird had grown more caustic, complaining to the eagle how she didn’t seem the same since she was hurt and her young was spreading her wings, though he carried on his loquacious banter as if her life were just her ears. She didn’t hear how angry her blackbird friend had become, because she was not well-versed in such emotion. She was unable to help her friend in his time of need. Nor he in hers.

So he plotted. He had made an acquaintance one day over an unlucky deer—a coyote who was always looking for a meal for her young. The blackbird helped her understand the patterns of his slowly waning friend, the eagle, so perhaps the coyote might rid the field of such a large-beaked creature.

Gliding down to a pond in the field surrounded by cottonwoods, marsh bushes, and cattails for a drink, the eagle didn’t see or suspect a thing. An alpha coyote leaped on her, while two others came out from hidden brush and took her down.

Then one day her young one flew to her own new home, while the blackbird stayed near the same field, sitting in the now-barren tree, looking for others to listen to his chatter.

He missed his friend and wondered why he had betrayed her. He felt loneliness that he'd never experienced and a regret that would never leave him.
(Puzzle pieces 25–27 of 38.)

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Hot Tub Healer

Hot tub healer is not a misspell. It’s not saying to a cute young fella, “Hey, let’s tub,” and he heels. No, I mean hot tubs can heal and help a person lose weight.

A few years ago I discovered that when I was hungry and chose to tub rather than eat, I lost my hunger.

My daughter and I have noticed that when we have a scratch, scrape, or bite, soon after sitting in the tub, it goes away. Sooner than if we hadn’t tubbed.

And the healing is not just physical, it’s emotional. My friends and I have learned that with a bottle of wine and a late-night tub, all the stuff from the past that needs to come out, does. And the unspoken rule is, nothing leaves the hot tub. What you say in there stays in there. It’s what friendship is based on: trust.

For years I’ve said, I wish everyone had a hot tub, ’cause the world would be a more peaceful place. And you don’t have to buy a new one. Knowing they are mechanical devices, even you could fix one if it breaks down. I have several times (I’m a handywoman). Go ahead, take a tub, and feel peace warm your soul.
(Puzzle piece number 24 of 38.)

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Save a Tree, Take Your Sticks

I’m like Heloise with an attitude. Like her, I’m creatively conservative and environmentally conscious. Unlike her, I’m a geek.

One thing Heloise goofed on years ago was that https didn’t indicate a site was secure. However, hypertext transfer protocol over a secure socket layer is used for secure communications. She should have asked me.

But on the reduce, reuse, recycle course, I’m on her ride. I’ve been reusing things since I was seven, much to my parents’ chagrin. Maybe wastefulness was a sign of the ’60s and I was born too late or too early.

I have never liked misusing or trashing things, but I also don’t collect or save stuff I don’t need, such as food or relationships gone bad. As Tom across the street says, “When in doubt, throw it out,” and I do.

My weekday breakfast is NPR’s Morning Edition plus latte on steroids. Today a tree usage story piqued my cerebral branches. Take a look, particularly paragraph 10, where they mention chopsticks: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=96758439. The world currently is allotted 61 trees per person. In America, I would presume we use much more than that, especially if a person eats a lot of Chinese food.


Next time I go to my friend Mei’s Hunan Springs restaurant, I will take my own chopsticks and not use the wood ones I’m offered. I may even take the metal Korean chopsticks my friend Brooks gave me, though food slips off them easier than with Japanese or Chinese chopsticks (筷子), and I like a mouthful.

So save a tree with me. Eat less and take your sticks!

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Nice Guy, My (bad word)

I’ve ascertained that when a guy tells me he’s a nice guy, the worst is on its way. But he’ll still think he’s a nice guy. It’s you who has the problems (yes, plural).

Three of my best guy friends have shared: “All men are scum. They want one thing.” “I can be quite a stinker (actually a different term).” “Don’t trust men.” “I certainly have moments when I’m not very nice.” When I hear lines like these, my tension is eased, because they’re as imperfect as I am.

Give me honesty, not deception. Or just let me keep my freedom.
(Puzzle piece number 23 of 38.)

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Monday, November 10, 2008

Sniff, Sniff

I like my home to smell good, which is quite the challenge with a Labradog, two cats, a fish, and being a gastronome. And though I daily put baby shampoo on our Lab’s feet and rinse them off in a trimmed vinegar container filled with water, his feet still smell like Fritos.

Now that cold weather has dropped on my life like a Thanksgiving turkey, and I can’t open my windows without putting on a dreaded bra and sweater, keeping our home semiodor free is much more challenging. So I compromise.

I turn on Clarity, our Honeywell Enviracaire air purifier, and periodically move her to various places in the home. Then I spray peppermint water high in the air and in our trees and plants throughout. Sometimes I even add my friend bleach, but just a few drops, because intense bleach doesn’t like me quite as much as I like him.

One or two droppersful of peppermint in a quartsize spray bottle of water freshens with its mist and makes the dog sneeze. A little acidic wipe of doggie boogie from the wall, and voilà, I feel as if I’m back in college having a schnapps hot chocolate cleaning up after my roommates.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Irony

Magazines are published on nearly every topic these days. Every trade has its journal, every sport, its serial.

Back in my high-tech, physics, and chemistry days, I thoroughly enjoyed reading Solid State Technology, particularly when I suffered from insomnia.

When my daughter was in Edinburgh, she ate lunch at the Elephant House café where J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter. As she stepped out of the restaurant, she looked down and, lying on the sidewalk, was Concrete magazine.

I’m going to ask her to start reading Money.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Nurture vs. Jail, and Rappelling the Financial Wall

Across America, I’ll bet voters approved very few tax increases. Here in Conservative Central, we decided not to approve an entire one percent increase to build yet another jail.

Some of the one percent would have gone to worthy programs, such as scraping pigeon poop off the General William Jackson Palmer statue in the middle of Platte and Nevada avenues, but for two consecutive years 50 percent of that money would have been spent on building and maintaining another jail.

Colorado Springs voters decided, perhaps two years ago, not to build another jail. Still, the county cheated on us and built one anyway, on the sly, behind our backs, using COPs. No, not police, certificates of participation.* I did not participate, nor did a lot of other constituents.

If parents would nurture, educate, and hold their children accountable for their actions, we wouldn’t need to incarcerate as many deviants.

If judges acted judiciously, which is akin to saying, “if drug addicts wouldn’t take drugs,” fewer people would live free, off our tax dollars, like judges do. [Auntie knows there are three good judges out there. The criminal in the following story isn’t one of them.]

I know a judge who sent someone to jail knowing the person was innocent. For this example, we’ll call the judge Loser Larry. Larry was fully aware that an opposing party contrived a story out of vengeance. Larry knew, because he was a party to the conspiracy and played along with the setup scheme of two attorneys, Kimmie and Lizzie.

Loser Larry conspired with them in his chambers without the pro se victim present. His action was illegal. Then, through his course of action, Larry denied due process. This is the Readers’ Digest version, but in Colorado’s Fourth Judicial District, travesty against victims is not unusual.

But if the county’s leaders really want more motel space for judges to fill, maybe our voting against the one percent tax will discipline judges a mite. Disciplining a judge in Colorado is like trying to control crazed groupies at a Stones concert, yet both parties smoke pot.

Some of us can sleep better knowing our taxes have temporarily stabilized, while others are losing their jobs.

Why do people have to lose their jobs? Were their positions superfluous? If they were, why did the positions exist?

If the people are necessary, why can’t employers simply reduce pay? Follow the airlines’ lead: “You want to keep your jobs? Take a pay cut.”

In 1996 I quit my job to more actively parent my daughter. If anything in my life was unessential to living and breathing, I eliminated it. Bare bones, babycakes.

Remaining only as a memory were massages, lunches out, subscriptions, call waiting, and my excessive gift giving. I now work from home, earn $34,000 less a year than I used to, drive less (4,000 miles per year), pollute less, waste little to no time. Plus I have time to take a daily hike.

Abundance comes through peace of mind (except during financially freaky times), continued healthy gourmet meals, more socialization, and playing music with our group.

Even in poverty, thank God for a simple life.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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* certificate of participation: Financing in which an individual buys a share of the lease revenues of an agreement made by a municipal or governmental entity, rather than the bond being secured by those revenues.

Warm Milky Concoction


It’s chilly vanilly here in Colorado Springs today! My daughter has the day off from school and is working on a movie project, while I’m writing as writers do.

But once in a while, I get up and do what people do, then grab a cup of something, so I’ll eventually have to do what people do once more.

I just poured myself a huge mug of milk—I love huge mugs, should’ve seen the one on my last boyfriend—heated it in the microwave till it steamed (the milk, not his mug), then drizzled some honey, dribbled droplets of vanilla, and shook several sprinkles of cinnamon into the steamy white liquid.

A few spins of the spoon and yummers! a new Auntie Eartha concoction was born. And the one I birthed likes it too : )

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Sunday, November 2, 2008

To My Friend and Love

The skies are blue, but deep inside
I feel an ache my eyes can’t hide.
The cloud of tears my being holds
awaits release, the wind unfolds.

My body’s hot from holding in
mounds of fear and grief within.
But you walk in and share your smile,
you draw me near and pause awhile.

The comfort felt from all those years
allows my pain, expressed through tears.
You know me, yet you love me still.
Listening, caring, emptiness filled.

Suddenly, I see the sun.
You know that you’re the only one
to help me through, to calm my heart.
You’re always here, never apart.

And when God takes my breath away,
and life presents a different day,
where peace will fill my lonely soul,
know it’s you who kept me whole.
(Puzzle piece number 22 of 38.)

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Wednesday, October 8, 2008

“Clutter” Postscript


Try this: Next time you run out of something, try to live without it for a while. Unless it’s love.
(Puzzle piece number 21 of 38.)

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Did Someone Utter “Clutter”?

I despise clutter almost as much as I do dishonesty and onions. Fact is, even a little clutter sends me into ADHD mode. I start bouncing off the walls and acting like my hiking buddy, Bob, before his glass of wine. I just can’t think clearly if my space is messy.

One way I keep things neat is by not accumulating stuff. When I receive mail that I need to keep, I look for older paper I can recycle, shred, or burn, just as one would do with old boyfriends. And with replacing myself: When I leave this earth, I will have one child to replace me.

I don’t buy things I don’t need and haven’t for a couple of decades. Okay, I probably don’t need wine, but…

When I find things in my home I don’t need, I give them away to the appropriate person or organization.

When a friend offers to give me something she no longer needs, I really contemplate the gift. If it’s not food, money, or a cute guy, I will probably decline the offer.

Some of us Wisconsin natives have a container fetish. After the 32 ounces of yogurt is gone, the container goes into the dishwasher for later use. I fill its emptiness with spaghetti, vegetable soup, dead cow for the dog, pieces of former boyfriend. I stick masking tape to the top or side and label it.

Typically I take excess containers to the soup kitchen, so they can fill them with food for the homeless and those with little to no income. But lately I’m becoming daring: I’m tossing very-used, dirty plastic containers into the recycle bin! It’s a strange feeling, but once I take it to the recycler, I feel relieved, like after taking a laxative.

So if you want to reduce clutter in your life, only accumulate good friends, not things. Unless you really need them…as you do friends.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Oh, Rubbish!

No matter what the weather—hot, rainy, cold—I would not want to be a garbage collector. I’m talking trash, not the type of garbage people spew from their mouths, though neither sounds appetizing.

The noise and pollution from the truck, the assortment of smells, inclement weather, and steep hills make me wonder why anyone would want the job. Yet we have five different garbage-hauling companies throwing stuff into their trucks on a weekly basis.

Why do so many companies vie to collect our refuse? Because it’s profitable! My junk is sort of their treasure.

As a Neighborhood Watch block captain for 11 years, I sometimes serve law-related services. But other times I serve as a complaint department.

“Auntie,” they say, “what are you gonna do about all these loud, disturbing, stinky, polluting garbage trucks on our street? Why can’t we have just one?”

Good questions.

So I went to work. I talked with my waste collector’s sales rep, and she came up with rates for my 41-household street. Once presented to my group, however, I learned that people didn’t want to change—even if it meant saving money.

Resistance to change was due to loyalty. Loyalty! Being loyal is so important to this old auntie, so I wasn’t sore for spending all that time on our trashy project.

Neighbors had made their choice to employ a particular company and over time found them reliable and considerate. One service knocks on their customers’ doors if their garbage hasn’t been set out. Another will search in the backyard to find the garbage cans!

Even I have left cookies and cheesecake in containers with utensils hanging in plastic bags from my tree for my hard-working guys, because I appreciate what they do.

It would be great, however, if our City would direct specific waste collection companies to pick up in specific areas. It’s the eartha thing to do!
(Puzzle piece number 20 of 38.)

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Wednesday, September 17, 2008

All Men Are Dumb

My best girlfriend at UW-Eau Claire shared a house with four other girls. I had the privilege of being included in a lot of their fun, thank goodness, or I’d have had a pretty boring college life.

When time would permit, or the need was severe, we’d go to the bars on Water Street to have a beer or two—except my girlfriend, who remains one of the most innocent, best Christians on earth. Why she ever chose me as a friend is a mystery, but I thank God she did.

When she and her roomies would see a cute guy, they would say, “Ooo, that guy over there has nice shoes!” And if, after talking with a guy, he was not only good-looking but intelligent too, they’d say, “Wow! He has great shoelaces!”

I wonder what they’d have said if the guy were barefoot. Might have to go up the leg a bit.

In their house, the girls hung a sign that read: All men are dumb. As I’ve grown older, I have my own ideas about that statement. But I wanted to know what those college girls meant, so I jotted my sweet friend a note. Here is an excerpt from her reply:

“When we said, ‘All men are dumb,’ it…referred to dating-type situations. The guys always seemed to have a knack for doing the opposite of what you needed at the time. They couldn't see the obvious!”

Then she shared how one young man seemed interested in her roommate, until one day the guy asked for her best friend’s phone number. A social zero. A nincompoop.

“In other words,” my friend continued, “all men are dumb. They just don't get it. They should be able to understand better how to relate to women. They should be more intuitive and should learn from experience. Somehow, they don't. And they keep disappointing women, most of the time without even being aware of it!

“This happened on a regular basis in our apartment. We would just shake our heads and point to the sign.”


If this happened with college-age guys, why does it pertain to today’s forty-, fifty-, sixty-, and seventy-year-old men? Men still use the same lines too.

“You’re different than other girls.” [Aren’t we all?]
“I’m different than other guys.” [Yes, you think you are.]
“I’ve never felt this way before.” [There’s sure to be a cure someday.]
“I really love you.” [Well, of course!]
“You’re the most intelligent woman I’ve ever met.” [’Been out much?]
“You have a hot tub?” [Tonight it’s a one-seater.]

Ah, let’s give men a chance. Maybe gals need to move past men’s words and glide directly into their meanings. But maybe guys need new lines, such as:

“Would you like to come over and smell my herbs?”
“May I please mow your lawn?”
“How about if we go out to dinner tonight. You look fabulous!”
“I love communicating with you.”
“I won’t try to fix anything unless you ask me to. Just let me listen.”

Then watch the amazed gal fall sweetly into the dumb guy’s arms. What a catch!

I look forward to any clever retorts! Soon, my best guy friend’s perspective.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
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When Writers Don’t Write


What is this writer doing when she isn’t writing and publishing her work?

• Writing or designing for clients.
• Cleaning up after animals and her child.
• Editing others’ work.
• Contemplating the universe, and envisaging ways to help it.
• Paying bills, setting or attending meetings and appointments, grocery shopping.
• Hiking.
• Wondering what her old friends are doing these days.
• Helping others in a variety of ways.
• Making a list of things to do and checking them off—after she’s done them.
• Thinking about all the things she needs to do.
• Keeping the neighboring area informed about Neighborhood Watch and crime issues.
• Repairing the continually crumbling house and its contents.
• Visualizing playing guitar and piano and singing.
• Working in the yard and garden.
• Mentally writing essays for publication.
• Wishing she were on vacation, on which she hasn’t been since 2006.

What are you doing when you’re not doing what you think you should be doing?

I think I think too much. Better start doing!

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Friday, September 5, 2008

The F Word

How do you feel when the f word is directed toward you?

As for me, I get excited, scared, maybe even uncomfortable, but not angry. Contrarily, I might feel warm and secure, depending on who says it to me.

But in the back of my mind, I wonder if the person using the word is serious. Maybe he’s just joking. I question his intention and wonder if he really means it. I ask myself, does the f word mean the same to him as it does to me?

Even if it’s in writing, I still can’t make him keep his word. It’s not a contract. Just a set of words. Anyway, it could be fleeting—maybe he meant it on the day he wrote it, but changed his mind the next. You know how fickle some people can be. I mean, when you use the f word, do you really think about it first?

Now what if the f word is delivered in tandem with the l word? How do you feel then?

I received a birthday card from my former beau, in which he used both the f and l words. Dumb me. I believed what he wrote, and by my next birthday, he was gone.

So now do I believe a person when he says the f word? Probably not. Especially when the l word comes before it.

You know what they say: Never say never, or always, or "I’ll love you forever." Because forever may end tomorrow.
(Puzzle piece number 19 of 38.)

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Thursday, August 21, 2008

Baiting Bears


(Puzzle piece number 18 of 38.)
Hiking with my buddy one morning, we noticed particular people’s garbage had been strewn onto streets in our neighborhood. As you know, there can be only three reasons this would occur.

One, a person is concerned about their neighbor and seeks to ascertain if he is eating nutritiously. So the person peruses the leftovers, leaves a mess, and, perhaps, a healthy meal on the porch.

Two, a neighbor is searching for treasures. You know the saying: One man’s junk…

Three, the person is intentionally or unintentionally baiting bears.

I’d guess the latter.

Now, it’s possible that a person must leave early for work and bears are still foraging. It’s also possible that silly gooses set their garbage out the night before pickup day. I’d like to cook those “gooses.” Garbage strewn looks bad, spreads disease, makes sanitation workers have to pick up some of the mess, and leads me to carry a bag and wear latex on my morning hikes—and I’m not talking condoms.

Bears don’t like stopping by my place—not enough meat, and by now my ex-boyfriend has disintegrated. I’ve been primarily a vegetarian since I was 18, which was, hmm, 16 years ago. Even when I toss my veggie scraps in the compost heap, the bears just poop and leave. I have yet to see my second bear, while most of my neighbors see them looking into their windows, hopping onto their cars, strolling through their yards, and bringing their cubs by to visit the lady who feeds the deer.

It’s just not fair! All I get to see are its spillovers, but I’m awaiting…with bated breath!

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Regulating Dust


(Puzzle piece number 17 of 38.)
Fall is in the air, which is sort of depressing. School has begun, days are getting shorter, it’s cooler in the morning, and I have to wear clothes.

I love summertime, long days, smiling spirits, sundresses on girls, poetry popping out of every living thing. I love the dance of people peeling off their winter doldrums and starting to socialize again. Neighbors nourish their plants, repair their homes, say hi, and seem to have more time to be friendly and say too much.

When it’s cold, it’s almost as if our arms are too frozen to wave, our faces too stiff to grin.

One of my routines for autumn preparation is to moisten cloths with bleach-water, place them over my registers, and start the furnace fan. Dust that has settled in the ducts blows into the cloth, and any bacteria or viruses will be seriously injured when bumping into the bleach.

Don’t use too much bleach, though. My ex-husband reminds me of his pink underwear. When married, working 60 hours a week, and clothes needed to be washed, I’d toss everything in at the same time. Eventually my ex didn’t let me do the wash anymore : )

Back to the cloths over the registers: Don’t leave them on for more than a minute, or the furnace may bite the dust.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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A Note to Burglars


(Puzzle piece number 16 of 38.)
If any of you guys ever enters our home again, just don’t take my food stamps!

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Monday, August 18, 2008

Violated


(Puzzle piece number 15 of 38.)
Something strange and scary happened yesterday, a Sunday. My daughter and I finally went out, had lunch, and shot pool. That’s strange in itself, because we’ve been extremely conservative and boring this summer.

The scary part was coming home. Our alarm had been disarmed, and my daughter found our chef’s knife lying on the kitchen floor.

Stupidly, she and I searched the entire house. It appeared that no doors or windows had been entered in the main two levels of the house. In the lower level were our Lab and two cats, one of which would have taken a serious bite out of crime had he been given the chance. But he hadn’t. He was blocked by a loosely hung door between the upstairs hallway and stairs that descend to our lower level. When the door is bumped, it bangs against its frame and makes an abrupt, jarring noise—enough to scare anyone out of the house. And we’re presuming that is why no one was in the house when we arrived.

After the initial shock, I realized I’d lost my reading glasses downtown and was on the phone trying to locate them. My daughter was in her room changing clothes. I then called the friend we had just played pool with to tell him about our experience, when suddenly my daughter shrieked and ran toward me, face flushed, frightened like I’d never seen before.

“Mom! Man!” she screamed. I immediately thought he was in our house, so I flew out the door expecting her to follow as I abruptly ended my phone conversation. I couldn’t understand why she headed in a different direction, until I saw she’d put her shoes on. “He’s on the side of the house!” she screamed, and proceeded to chase the guy! I immediately dialed 911, ran after my daughter, explained our emergency to the operator, then had my daughter describe the offender she saw standing outside her window.

Within about four minutes, four police cars were in front of our home, and my friend, who flew from across town to help, reported that two more police cars were on the adjacent street. We explained to three of the officers where the guy had run, and within four minutes, one officer ran for his car, which he mounted like his steed and drove at about 50 on our 20-mile-per-hour street.

Two officers saw the guy and chased him into a large field two blocks away, then lost him amidst some cattails and possibly into an apartment. Within another 10 to 15 minutes, the police had CSPD K-9 dog unit searching the area.

By 8 p.m. it was starting to get dark. The two officers who had seen the thug left the other officer to take info for the report. We deduced that the criminal had scaled a back wall with the help of a children’s swimming pool and entered through an open garage window 10 feet up. Like too many homeowners, the door between the garage and house was not locked.

We feel violated, trapped in a way. Does this mean we can’t keep our windows open? Do we have to stay home and guard our house like a dog would—if his owners don’t cordon him off from a particular area? Must we be hypervigilant about locking our doors, about whom we open our doors to?

Apparently.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Thursday, July 31, 2008

Duck, Duck, GOOSE

When I was 18 and preparing for college, I opted to take only 15 credits, rather than the typical 18. Being a high-school wild woman, I wasn’t sure how much academia I could handle. With fewer credit hours, I could have more time to do well with each class or get involved with extracurricular activities.

Shortly after school began, I realized paying for college was more important than partying and fitting in, so I got a job, and then another.

One position was working for my university’s Alumni Relations. The other job was a no-brainer: I was a female mail person—kind of transgender. I sorted mail delivered to my 10-story dorm, first by sex—men, women, other—then by floor, before sliding pieces into the appropriate slots.

One day I sat in the mailroom on a shelf that also served as the base for the bottom row of mailboxes. I was bent over, flipping mail into piles as if I were dealing cards. I was on the men’s side, masked by a wall of mailboxes, and I could hear the muffled sounds of a few guys talking behind me.

With a jingle of keys, I heard a key being inserted into its hole. As quick as a prairie dog popping out of its hole, then dashing back into hiding, a hand came through a slot, pinched my rear, then its owner ran down the hallway with a howl.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Monday, July 28, 2008

Too Much Sex

I just read one of the dumbest stories.

The executive director of the Humane Society of the Pikes Peak Region, Dr. Wes Metzler, has asked the Colorado Springs City Council to pass a law requiring cats to be licensed. This guy has too much time on his hands and obviously believes his employees do too. Will he “hire” volunteers to handle this cat-licensing function?

According to The Cheyenne Edition, the $12 or $25 “annual cost…would go toward a more humane way of dealing with another part of the cat problem, Metzler said. The organization wants to reduce the population of ownerless feral cats by trapping and neutering them, then returning them to their colonies.”

This should be done to some humans. Many illegals live in Colorado and receive more benefits, including health, than residents who have been paying taxes in America all their lives. Do they wear tags or microchips? Should we start capturing and housing stray illegals in shelters (think of America’s current illegal alien–prisoner population already) and if no one adopts them in five days, euthanize them? Or should we neuter them and place them back in their native colonies. Hmm.

I think licenses should be issued globally to 18-year-olds to permit them to have one child in their lifetime. Therefore, each couple could have only two children. If they divorce, they are allowed to birth no more children.

Why not extend Metzler’s proposal to license the deer in my yard? “Tag or microchip? And while we’re at it, OFF with your gonads!” With fewer deer, maybe I wouldn’t need to call the Division of Wildlife requesting euthanization services (see “Tragedy,” July 7, 2008). Sure fawns are adorable, but they quickly grow, lean over barricades, and dine on our prized vegetation. Then they excrete indestructible poop all over our yards.

Euthanize or license? When I awaken in the morning and see three big bucks and eight does in my backyard, shouldn’t I be able to euthanize one for dinner? They’ve been getting free room and board while destroying my yard. It would be more sensible than licensing them.

For Colorado Springs residents, here’s an interesting link: www.hsppr.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=221&srcid=627. (I especially like the last answer.*) According to this page, “there is no ordinance prohibiting cats running loose, we do not have the authority to chase and catch them. We will come out and pick up the cat if you can catch it on your property and confine it to a box, room, cage or trap.” Under Metzler’s proposed law, would animal welfare officers drive around on $4-per-gallon fuel, capture stray cats, and if they don’t have a $25 microchip and missing body parts, take them back to the chop shop to do their deed, then drop them off at the same location where the officer found them? Goofy.

Twice, thinking I was a good Samaritan, I brought stray kittens into my home, then had them vaccinated and neutered (costs: $15 and $34). I do not let them outside. Now Metzler wants to punish me? If the City passes such balderdash, I’ll find new representatives. My councilman, Heimlicher, doesn’t respond anyway.

So the more responsible cat possessors should be charged and punished for the crimes of the irresponsible. Having to euthanize animals due to overpopulation is sad, but human overpopulation is worse. Humans do much more harm and are the source of most of our problems. And unlike cats that cover their excrement, a lot of humans consume much more than is required for sustenance and leave their trailings for the next generation.

Take responsibility. Demonstrate self-control. Discipline children and animals under your control, and hopefully they will learn about boundaries.

Since cats and some humans do not self-regulate, governments should step in and tell people what to do, as they have in China and might in Metzler’s world. Why don’t they self-regulate? See the bottom level on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

It’s hard to work on self-actualization when your basic needs haven’t been met. Meow.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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* http://www.hsppr.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=227&srcid=221
City/County Law: It shall be unlawful to own or keep a dog which, by barking, howling, baying or other utterance, disturbs the peace and quiet of the neighborhood. (6.7.115) (Res. 78-136, Sec 16)

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Filtered Cigarettes


My daughter asked me why most cigarettes have filters. “If you’re going to kill yourself, why do it so slowly?” she wondered aloud.

What are your thoughts? Do other habits fall into the same category?

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Finding My P’s and Q’s


Where can I find a little peace and quiet? While you’re at it, I’ll take a lot of peace and quiet!

I’d like real, honest-to-God peace where no offensive noises peal past my canal, strike my eardrum, vibrate my ossicles, fill my cochlea with fluid, tickle my organ of Corti, and land in my temporal lobe.

I want to hear sweet sounds, birds chirping, water flowing, a handsome young studmuffin asking, “May I bring you another drink, honey? How about a massage?”

No cars speeding on highways, no blaring train horns, no detestable television, no yipping or barking dogs, no people talking loudly, no men snoring or emitting flammable substances—nor women doing the same, for that matter.

My home should be my sanctuary. Lately it’s been more of an animal refuge at high-occupancy season. I don’t understand how people can allow their dogs to bark incessantly.

I need to feel safe and comfortable, so if you’re thinking, I know of a wonderful, peaceful campsite near a stream, I’ll take the stream, but you can keep the outdoors.

Sleeping outside is for animals. When I tinkle, I want to hear the whoosh of water afterward. When I arise, I want to smell fresh coffee brewing, feel a hot shower, see clean, fluffy towels. I love being in warm water, a tub or springs—it’s better than the hot water I used to be in.

When school ended in May, my daughter and I decided that Ojo Caliente Mineral Springs was the answer. Guests are asked to whisper, and we walk around in swimsuits and robes. First, we drove to Santa Fe to amble around in shops and galleries. Though shopping’s not my bag, nor am I an art aficionado, I love to meet people and dine in new atmospheres.

The first night, after swimming in the hotel pool, my daughter and I felt relaxed. We had packed some food that we enjoyed while playing chess. Suddenly at 9:00 p.m., like a bull charging into a plaza de toros, a hotel guest rushed in above us. For the next two hours, this 900-pound beefsteak stampeded back and forth as if dodging a matador. I politely knocked on the ceiling, as if petting the bull.

By 11:00 p.m., long after we’d turned out the lights, I was prepared to enter this bovine’s toril (entrance) with my little picador by my side and introduce the moose to my vara (lance). I came here for a little peace, and I was ready to give him a bit of mine. There would be no paseo tonight! My final, threatening ceiling knock took him down—and at last I slept.

The next morning we headed to Ojo Caliente, a place my girlfriend and I used to visit annually till work overtook our lives. Driving through an Indian reservation, curving on back roads, we arrived at the oasis! Too early to check in, we aimed at the bathhouse and slid into our swimsuits.

This is the life. Little to no conversation, a slow-moving environment, and pools of arsenic, soda, iron, and lithia—there’s even a mud pool. Pigs never had it this good, though several were spotted on location in swimsuits. A couple of wet hours later, we checked into our cabin and had a bite to eat before slipping back into the pools.

That eve, my daughter treated me to a delightful dinner at Ojo Caliente’s quaint Artesian restaurant with a gracious wait staff, where we observed a more-than-usual number of heterosexual guests. I like this place for a variety of reasons, and one is that I never have to worry about the men making passes at me.

Back in the cabin we again relaxed over a game of chess when, at 9:10 p.m., a member of the Harlem Globetrotters moved into the cabin next door. The floor in our cabin shook as the ball bounced repeatedly on boards that stretched through a string of cabins. We knocked politely on the bathroom wall.

Once Mom, Dad, and their little Globetrotter had carried all their things in and slammed the front door for the last time, we smelled cigarette smoke coming through the air conditioner next to us. I turned on the back porch light, opened the door, and asked Mr. Fumé Cloud, “Did you hear someone playing basketball out here?”

“No,” he said, “but I heard someone knocking on our bathroom wall.”

I decided I didn’t like this guy. He was polluting my air, so I kept the porch light on, hoping bugs would bite him and make him swell up like a balloon, and he’d float away.

The next day we drove back to the neighborhood noises, and I’m still trying to find my p’s and q’s. Maybe I should have stayed in town and gone to the local pub. After a few pints and quarts, I’d forget about peace and quiet and join the rest of the noisemakers.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Monday, July 21, 2008

Freedom [A guest editorial]


A political right. A personal liberty. Freedom. So many times when people think of the subject of freedom, they think only of not being in slavery. So many times when a young child is annoying another and is asked to stop, he’ll say, “It’s a free country, and I can do what I want to.” But do these people really know what freedom means?

This simple, yet so complex idea has changed America, a country in which almost all black people were slaves, into a place where every man and woman is equal. Freedom means that one is able to do what one wants to do.

America’s government puts limits on our freedom, but why? To protect us, the American people, and still it protects our freedom. These restrictions make it so no one can take away our freedom. It has been securely put into place.

Freedom could represent an action, describing the ease with which somebody moves, the ease with which someone speaks.

In order to move freely, one must have a certain grace. This implies that grace and freedom have a connection. To speak freely, one says what’s on his or her mind, but does this mean that grace has gone away? Depending on the idea of the speaker, yes and no. Some people can be quite blunt, others, more eloquent.

Physical actions could not be performed with a physical restraint. External control would not allow one to walk, run, sit, or stand. Luckily, most of the people in this world are allowed to move without iron coveralls restricting every movement. So many people take this for granted every day, and so many people expect it to be there no matter what time of day it is or who is in charge of their life.

Freedom can also be mental—to have the freedom to think is something that is granted to every human being born. If we did not have the freedom to think, we’d all be vegetables lying around on dirt. Nothing would be accomplished.

Physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual freedom come easily to most people, but with these freedoms come great responsibility. This responsibility is to make the right choices concerning the person’s own welfare and the welfare of those around him.

Remember: freedom is ambiguous, yet versatile. It can be exhilarating, but it can also become a trap. This only will happen, though, if the free person ignores the responsibility that comes with freedom, his own welfare, and the welfare of those around him.

Freedom: what are you going to do with yours?

copyright © 2007 by ALW, age 14. All rights reserved.

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Sunday, July 20, 2008

Green Abundance

I just filled up my cute little 1994 gas guzzler. The pump showed a cost of $75, and I felt fumingly faint. Commiserating on the way home to my daughter about that charge on top of the huge increase in grocery prices, I decided to go on a driving diet, set the pets free, and quit eating.

After the groceries were cleaned and put into the freezer for the day I decided to start eating again, I walked to my file cabinet to record info on my fuel purchase, including mileage: 15 miles per gallon.

When I looked at my last entry, I turned green. It had been seven weeks since my last fueling! In seven weeks, I’d driven 305 miles! I used to drive more than that each week when I was in sales. Last year I drove 4,000 miles. This year it may be even less.

You may translate that into: Auntie Eartha sure has a boring life, but it isn’t true! My life is as rich as a hot fudge sundae…with nuts. I’ve hung around with more nuts and had more fun in the last seven weeks than most college kids do in Boulder. To balance the play, I’ve worked hard in my yard and home.

Daily hikes begin and end at my home—no driving.

My gorgeous, vivacious, overambitious girlfriend in Grand Junction called and said, “With the economy as it is, people are going to have to start living like you!”

Me? That’ll be the day hitchhiking becomes popular again. We’ll start with a green thumb.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.


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Monday, July 14, 2008

Update on Shiloh


Thank you for being concerned about Shiloh.

After his metal-edging-caused injuries, he looks like a football with stitches holding his pigskin together. He sports bandages to protect the wounds.

Still, he keeps telling me he wants to play ball and go for a hike. I feel so guilty. I’ve hiked almost daily for eight years with my friend Bob, and we’ve had variations of a routine. When we don’t plan our precise hike time, he calls me to make arrangements— scheduling, not flower. Shiloh, 4, knows my ringtone for Bob, gets excited, and starts looking out the window for Bob to come. This is no surprise, because everyone gets excited when Bob comes…then hides.

Next, I gather my shoes, keys, leash, ball, and drool towel. This step sends Shiloh whipping around in circles, flying in the air like a helicopter, touching ground occasionally on his worn-down nails, and bumping his nose against the door. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, Mom! You’re always so slow! Let’s go! Let me chase that ball!” You know how dogs are.

I then toss the ball for the fur-covered bundle of energy who resembles an equine more than a canine. When he sees Bob’s car, Shiloh runs up to greet it, ball in mouth, smiling. Then he runs back to me, tail bobbing around in circles, for another toss of the ball.

At last, I leash him—Shiloh, not Bob—and we’re on our way. Actually, Bob’s mom used to leash him, but that’s another blogging. Personally, I prefer the whip.

Now our routine is different so the convalescing pupper-dog doesn’t get aroused. Bob doesn’t call, so Shiloh has nothing to get excited about. I gather my shoes and keys quietly while Shiloh is eating breakfast. At the set time, I tiptoe up the street where Bob now parks, so Shiloh doesn’t hear Bob’s car. Sneaky.

Our veterinarian at Banfield gave a positive prognosis, though it may be a while before the big guy is mended enough to traipse the trail. It’s pretty strange to walk without stopping for frequent pee breaks, but Bob’s learning to hold his bladder.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Monday, July 7, 2008

Tragedy


I took a life today. It had been my plan since yesterday, but she slipped away. And today blood was spattered on the inside of our home and garage. I was shaking and breathing convulsively, approaching shock.

The blood wasn’t from the one whose death I planned; it was from Shiloh, our Lab.

My friend had called at 8 a.m. to say he’d be late to set more fence posts on my property, so I read the paper, then tossed the ball for Shiloh. My last throw was sloppy, poorly aimed. As Shiloh grabbed the ball, he landed on our neighbor’s metal edging, which had no protective cap. It was so sharp, it could slice a tomato.

Shiloh grimaced and limped over to me with his sweet enthusiasm. Though he was obviously in pain, he climbed the three stairs to go into the house. Reluctant, yet knowing I had to check, I reached down and touched his back leg. My hand came back wet and warm with blood. The edging had severely cut into him and ripped a huge piece of flesh that still hung from his leg.

I typically black out when I see too much blood—the fainting started when I was nine—but somehow I gathered the first-aid kit, wet towels, antiseptic, triple antibiotic, and courage, and became a para-paramedic, hands shaking as if I had delirium tremors.

It was while I gathered the health-care patching tools when I glanced into the backyard and saw the one whose death I was planning. I felt more ill, dizzy.

Necessity overcame frailty, and I began to cleanse, apply antibiotic into, and tape Shiloh’s wound, over which I placed sterile cotton and an Ace bandage. I spoke to Shiloh calmly, praising him, still shaking uncontrollably. Rugs and the garage floor were covered in red.

My daughter had stayed overnight at my ex-husband, Jonny’s, house. When I called him to ask for help, I realized I was in shock. I stuttered, spoke each word slowly, pronouncing each syllable. I couldn’t complete my sentences and stumbled through tears. I simultaneously wiped blood from the hallway. He said he’d awaken our daughter and come over.

I went back into the garage to nurse Shiloh and saw that he was still bleeding, from another foot. One of his front pads was cut in half, so I resumed rinsing, applying antibiotic, and taping the open pieces back together. My body still shook. I called Jonny again with more urgency and sobs, saying we needed to take Shiloh to the vet.

As I comforted Shiloh and tried to stabilize myself, I called the Division of Wildlife’s district wildlife manager with whom I’d spoken yesterday, hoping I could keep the wounded doe in my yard until he could shoot her. I knew there was no chance of repairing this badly broken girl. “Off duty today” is what I heard, thinking he was just blowing me off. But he said he’d contact another wildlife manager. I wouldn’t hold my breath. I know they receive multitudes of calls, so I explained in detail that this young doe needed to die.

I asked my neighbor Greg to stay abreast of the wounded doe’s location while we took Shiloh to the veterinarian. We couldn’t lose sight of her today.

The day before, I had carefully followed her to learn where she migrated, so we could do the right thing. Though badly injured, she had already adapted to her trauma by pulling herself with her front legs while maneuvering her hindquarters in a walking motion to propel her. She moved out of sight, so I had told the DOW manager not to come on that day, the Fourth of July. Could she even endure another night? a terrifying night of shots, barks, lights, and noises?

She’d been hit. Knowing teenage drivers, I presume he or she was speeding for no good reason but testosterone and ran over the yearling as she tried to cross a street. But it could have been any inattentive driver. She was emaciated. Her right leg’s bones were shattered inside a bag of skin and fur on which she landed with every stride. She dragged the leg at the knee. The skin had broken and infection was eating her alive. Her left leg wasn’t much better. That’s why I made the call. She needed to be quickly saved from an inevitable, painful, agonizing death.

But her eyes were alert. That’s the hardest part about taking a life: looking into eyes that indicate life beyond them. As dumb as a lot of these deer appear, her eyes glowed a will to live.

Soon Jonny and our daughter arrived. We placed Shiloh’s bed into the back of the car and carefully lifted him upon it. Amazingly, the wildlife manager called to say he’d be at my place around 11. At the animal hospital, I learned that Shiloh’s injuries were worse than I thought: the edging had cut his right leg’s tendon and muscle. Guilt overwhelmed me. If I hadn’t thrown that last sloppy shot. It was all my fault. I can throw better than that. I signed papers and left Shiloh with the veterinary team.

Back at home, my neighbor told me where the doe had laid. I put Shiloh’s bloodied rugs into the washer and began hosing out the garage.

At last the DOW district wildlife manager, Jeremy, arrived, apologizing for his lack of timeliness. He told me that killing a wounded animal is a last resort. Sometimes animals heal. I know this; I’ve lived this. But the DOW receives calls like mine all the time, so they doubt the severity of an animal’s injuries—people can be so compassionate—except when they drive fast, carelessly, and don’t think seconds into the future. I assured him that we needed to end her pain.

He walked slowly toward her in the backyard behind Greg’s. She spooked and dove onto a concrete patio five feet below her, falling on her broken body. Jeremy turned to me and nodded, “She’s pretty bad.”

When he loaded his rifle with a telescope, my past slammed me. I lost it. Covering my ears, I walked away sobbing in the middle of my street. I didn’t want to hear the shot, see the jolt, the shock, the fall that I had seen so many times before. A neighbor saw me. I waved her away, sat on the side of the street trembling.

The wildlife manager eventually came back to his still-idling truck in my driveway, saying he needed to get a tranquilizing kit. Why didn’t he have one with him? The doe was still too mobile, and though he didn’t like to waste the meat, he couldn’t risk shooting something other than the deer.

I felt relief not to have heard the shot. I felt an agonizing pain in my gut for the bright-eyed doe.

Forty-five minutes later, the DOW guy returned. I couldn’t watch this hunt. Other neighbors came out of their homes to watch the kill as if it were a public stoning. I was appalled. There was no dignity in this already tragic situation. After about an hour, another wildlife manager came to assist the first, to hold the yearling down while injecting the euthanizing fluid in case she kicked.

I later walked up the street to the yard where she had fallen and bleakly asked Jeremy what the status was. She was down. He explained that it was necessary, and they hadn’t initially responded to calls about her because of the volume they receive. The keywords to use, he explained, are emaciated, dragging leg, inflamed area by an open wound. Once infected, there’s nothing one can do to help them survive.

Empty relief flowed through me. It was over. She didn’t have to fear anymore. I felt responsible, yet someone else had hit her and run. Not a care, not a call occurred afterward. The result of his or her recklessness was death, and someone else had to strike the final blow. And today, it was the DOW and me.

(Puzzle piece number 14 of 38.)
copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Sunday, July 6, 2008

Birthdays and Blessings


I just turned 34 again.

I’ve been turning 34 for so long, I can’t remember how old I really am. And since no one is charitable enough to card me when I order a glass of wine, I don’t have to look at my driver’s license or even take it out of my car. I wonder if it’s expired.

To celebrate my big event, I invited 70 people from all over the U.S. hoping that someone from afar would surprise me with a visit and a substantial donation to my nonprofit organization, but no luck.

Instead, I received much more: respect, honor, and renewed friendship from 40 people closer to home and 20 more via phone calls, cards, gifts, and e-mails. I felt like a tsunami of love poured over me.

The best part about aging is being comfortable in one’s own skin—a condition some never achieve, making them difficult to endure. It’s looking into the trusty mirror, suppressing a gasp, and thoughtfully pondering, I wonder how many Botox treatments I’d need to spackle these cracks.

Beyond the weathered skin is where comfort lies…except on fat-stomach days. I used to have a plump body five days a month. The numbers have transposed: flat-stomach days, five; fat, 25. On those glorious five days, I try to be deeply comfortable, but the critic inside my head won’t shut up.

Mind, body, spirit.

My mind is still sharper than my tongue. I remember more than what would be expected if I worked as a firefighter, waitperson, or CIA agent. That’s why I’m not married. If I could forget some things, forgiveness would be so much easier. “Sure, I forgive you. What’s your name again?” I’ve tried to be more like Jesus and Gandhi, but I’ve only received the persecution.

True under-the-skin comfort comes through spirits. After drinking enough of them, you’re at ease. Okay, I mean spirit. Being comfortable in your own skin is deeply understanding and accepting who you are, continually getting better, living honestly, honestly living, and embracing yourself when no one else will.

Most of my friends make my life easier. They’re stable, fun, have no pretenses, and live authentically. Others move easily around them, because they love and respect themselves first. They are my role models. One of my best role models is my 15-year-old daughter—the best gift a mom could ever receive.

I am blessed…and I didn’t even have to sneeze. Thank goodness, because I forgot to put on my diapers.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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