Gates, Girlfriends, and Nature

What an exciting few days ending with a somber canceling of a date with Angie and a simultaneous message to my client, “Microsoft, oh, Microsoft, it’s a good thing Bill Gates started a foundation, or I'd be really upset with him.” Why does Word have to be a necessary evil? Cannot all their social-disease-like bugs be vanquished, and can they not cease their busybody, ADHD upsets, aka upgrades? What a misnomer upgrade is for them.

I might be a geek, but is a person’s ingenuity continually required when using a single piece of software? ’Twould be cool to use something for a spell without a glitch. Que será, será. Let’s start with some fun.

Friday I escorted my down-in-the-dumps neighbor to my favorite towny pub, Johnny’s. Johnny Nolan is a guy who’s been serving me since 1989 at the Ritz. Though Rebecca had never been to Johnny’s, she knowingly greeted a fellow parent, whose child attended the same school as my now-social, maybe-not-so-shy-after-all girlfriend’s daughter. I then introduced her to a lady whom she’d seen walking her dogs. We were on a roll. The iced tea flowed and so did water from the heavens.

Wild ’n’ fun was the remainder of the eve, when alas! Saturday greeted me six hours later with slime. Good thing for two carpet shampooers, since dog puke was what I saw. Yippee, I thought, this is why God sent me to Earth, so I can clean up others’ messes. Sometimes I wonder.

During my morning therapy session, my daily check-in with nature, the reality that keeps me sane (my hike), I talked with my galfriend in Tacoma. This friend of 26 years went to high school with sculptor Dale Chihuly, famed glass blower (vs. some gas blowers I know). Quite a renowned artist herself, Nola vindicated me through our conversation about recent events that had left me underwhelmed. She reminded me of the hardworking, responsibility-taking, always-there human being I am, which, in this time of amnesia, was quite helpful and restorative, as justice ought to be.

After our conversation, I’d felt as if I’d dropped a 10-pound shit and was ready to start taking sustenance again. That afternoon after having read and listened to two books, I made a vibrant, colorful mahimahi dinner with pineapple, red pepper, and mango, intuitively appropriate for my next caller—from Miami.

Again, the heavens opened and cleansed the parched earth with heavy rains.

My sister, Cherri, rang from Florida, where the nightlife is hot, as are the Brazilians, Venezuelans, Dominican Republicans, and she. Known in Breckenridge for her unusual hats and bare feet, this girl needs to be rediscovered, and not just as the creative artist she is.

Comfortable in her own dark skin, you have to wonder why Oprah never found Cherri and her deep, warm voice speaking deeper, warmer words—unless she’s taking on a preacher’s role. Though we didn’t have a sleepover night when we’d fall asleep talking, we ended the night in peace, together.

Sunday’s puke free, sunny day refreshingly opened its arms. I developed a new set of greeting cards then set off on my explore. A hungry female coyote and red-tailed hawk being bullied by smaller species were my entertainment, less formidable than what I will see Wednesday morning.

My former high-tech-company colleague soon rang to wish me a happy belated and to impart news of her moving back to Colorado to share space with her daughter and grandson. I recalled little Stephanie groaning and whining as we scaled to the top of Mount Rosa 20 years ago.

I recalled Geri, our personnel manager, watching me vomit when I was pregnant, thinking I was dying of divorce. Friends. Good times and others, and always transitions.

After we ended our conversation, lightning shared time and space with heavy thunderous clouds drenching the receptive ground with water. At 10 p.m. a great horned owl hooted me to sleep from the southwest corner of my property. Ahh, nature.

A few hours after the robin pooped on me Monday morning, saintly Anita came over to help hem my new drapes—day two of her devoting life and talent to me. Long-time friend Joe had given me these enormous, new, burgundy window coverings after the Air Force Academy rejected them. Finally getting some of my 401(k) rollover tax dollars back. Thank you!

That eve, no storm, no owl, but a kind neighbor with a cold beer. Ahh, life.

Tuesday brought updates from Kelly in Wisconsin, Patrice in Virginia (soon to be Montana), and Bob, my old hiking bud. For the first time in 19 years, my life seemed normal in comparison. At 11 p.m. Thor reacquainted himself to those below in a fury. Torrential rain, lightning, and thunder pummeled those things earthbound. The household canine, whom I bought for protection and companionship, became a frightened lap dog and kept me awake all night bumping my bed. Try to move a 100-pound, growling Lab when he’s glued to the carpet. Just try.

Wednesday before therapy, my iBook powered itself off. I was as scared as Shiloh was last night but with no one to rescue me, as usual. The geek in me troubleshot four times until I hit the target, of course, then excused myself for a hike.

Halfway across large, open lower Bear Creek Park, I saw a juvenile cougar sprint across my path. In the two decades that I’ve hiked this vicinity, I’ve never seen, nor have I wanted to see, a mountain lion. I stopped, did an about-face, and walked, watching behind me for quite a stretch.

And when I finally reached home, I found that the only thunder was, well, think “scared ——less.”

Nola: nola.nobullart.com, nola.sumi.org, pacificgalleryartists.org/Tresslar.htm

Poop

Shiloh’s a poop-on-demand dog. Granted, after seven and a half years of living with him, I know his schedule. But if I’m leaving the house for a few hours and want him to feel relieved, he senses some urgency and will produce the desired results at an alternate time.

Monday morning Shiloh went out at 6:30 before his breakfast—a meal that looks the same as his dinner, raw or canned meat with a dry food chaser. In recent weeks, an overprotective doe with a freshly birthed fawn has kicked, chased, and harassed Shiloh even when I position myself between the two, so Shiloh hasn’t been relaxed enough on his first trip out to muster number two. Although we haven’t seen the doe in a week, Shiloh’s recall is pretty good, and this morning he only wet the ground and returned for rations.

By 9:30 I figured all systems would be go, so I said, “Shiloh, do you have to go poopy?” He knows the word, so by my inciting his memory, I hoped his venture outside and back into the house would be a short one.

After we stepped onto the back patio, Shiloh conducted his normal surveillance to ensure he wouldn’t be in the midst of a personal moment when another creature interrupted his concentration. Once he determined the deck was clear, he moved forward.

While he sniffed every sprig of green, I tossed leftover cat food to the other side of the fence into my back forty. “Shiloh, go poopy,” I reminded him twice, pitching my request as if to a higher being. “Good dog,” I encouraged hopefully.

As if some cruel answer to prayer, I felt two dollops fall from the heavens onto my fresh, clean white robe. I looked skyward and saw a happily relieved robin swinging on the wire overhead. With a smile and a wink, he flew away in a hurry.

From now on, I’m going to think about the old adage and consider the consequences of my request when I’m in nature’s territory, because the fulfillment of my wish might come from a different angle than expected.

And as for looking toward the heavens and asking for a miracle, next time I’ll take an umbrella.

Gravity

The New Oxford American dictionary on my iBook defines gravity as “the force that attracts a body toward the center of the earth, or toward any other physical body having mass,” or maybe just parts of a body. I’m still trying to figure out how gravity found my negative-AAA breasts, which by now could be called belly nipples.

I recently turned 52—yes, finally playing with a full deck—and discovered that, though somewhat slender, I’ve not been able to hide from gravity. For my birthday, I drove to Breckenridge, Colorado, in an attempt to defy gravity by ascending one mile in elevation, but climbing those peaks every morning still made me feel gravity’s embrace, particularly when I collapsed under the ski lift. My friend helped me up and remarked how I resembled a smashed bug on a windshield.

“You can’t escape me,” I heard Father Gravity murmur after John brushed the dirt from my negative-AAAs.

“Well, try this on, you ol’ FG,” I shook my fist at the ground. “I might be old, but I can reverse your bulge-inducing effects by standing on my hands.”

Standing on my hands. It all began during my grade-school years in a Montevideo, Minnesota, summertime. While my parents were at work, I watched Lunch with Casey, a kid’s variety program on WTCN-TV based in the Twin Cities. Casey Jones was a railroad engineer and Roundhouse Rodney acted as his sidekick.

A former Ice Capades skater, Roundhouse would occasionally walk around the set on his hands. I was impressed with his balance and decided to give it a go. I was hooked. From that time on, I could rarely just watch TV. I stood on my hands, did the splits, reverse-curved my spine to make a bridge, did front and back walkovers, and exercised whenever the tube was making noise. If I were to watch TV today, I would probably fall back into the same habit.

Fly forward 10 years and two cities later. I was living in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, and still going to university. Rich, a college friend from Chicago, had graduated and moved to a Minneapolis suburb. He frequently invited me to visit on weekends, so in sunny or snowy weather, I’d tootle in my yellow-orange geometric form (Opel station wagon) two hours west.

One day while Rich was in the bathroom, I found a wide, open space in his apartment to secretly drop my hands onto the floor and sling my fuzzy-black-socked feet up to rest against the wall. A while later after he emerged from the loo, Rich glanced up at his wall and said, “What is that?!”

“What?” I asked.

“Look at these black marks on my clean, white wall!” Voiced raised, he appeared to be turning red.

Being insecure, and at this point, scared, I sheepishly looked up into his eyes and said, “I was standing on my hands,” and when he couldn’t calculate the connection, I hesitantly demonstrated.

Rich exhaled an exasperated sigh and handed me a lint remover, so I could pull sock fragments from the popcorn-finished wall.

These days I’m more conscientious about where I place my feet, but ol’ Father Gravity is going to have a tough time keeping them down.

Mr. Boot

Have you ever been having a lovely time socializing when someone booted you into a tailspin? If so, while you were spiraling downward, did you catch yourself midair and realize that the object sticking out of your behind was actually a soft leather moccasin, so you asked for the other?

At May’s end, we threw a high-school graduation party for my daughter to celebrate the end of an epoch, the beginning of another—for Ivy as well as me. I’d looked forward to this day all Ivy’s life. We were blessed with good food, wonderful friends, an ex-husband, and Mr. Boot.

Mr. Boot is of failing health and aiming at gene therapy for his fix. A cigarette smoker since about 1961 and recent cigarillo puffer, his congestive heart failure and peripheral artery disease has steadily worsened. In years past, his lying-embedded-in-soft-skin Device that Injects a Cardio Kick (lessDICK) has on three different occasions shocked him as he fell toward the asphalt during tennis matches, scaring other players into the hospital.

For decades Mr. Boot has also enjoyed pot, made easier these days via marijuana’s legal, more lethal form that turns a cough into a lung-reversal procedure. But a deep inhale after lung expulsion draws them back into the chest cavity. (Another friend who smokes legal MMJ promised me he would quit after I mentioned his painful cough.)

So back to Mr. Boot. He seemed to be having a quiet, conversational time at the party talking with my ex, his former classmate, and meeting others. Eventually, though, I saw him move into the corner of the sofa, perhaps hoping he’d slip into the cracks. Soon after when I left the room, Mr. Boot slipped out of the house without a cough.

Upon my return and seeing neither him nor his car, I wondered if his premature ejection meant he had fallen ill—or worse. He could be going to play tennis. Researching, I didn’t find him between the sofa cushions, and his car hadn’t careened into the bush. My daughter said she saw him go outside to have a cigarette.

I immediately rang his number. No answer. I left a message for him to call me.

For four days, no call. No announcements in the obituaries. No word from his relatives. Had he really become debilitated or was he playing dead again? A couple weeks prior, he’d said, “Your number didn’t register on my iPhone.”

The more I stayed awake nights contemplating his vanishing act, the more memories I choked up, never swallowing again. In the 13 years of our acquaintance, he wouldn’t tell his longer-term galfriend that he spent time with me on Friday nights. I was treated like the paramour—by a single man. He’d toss chewed gum and lit cigarette butts out his car window. He could only perform on his guitar.

So on that fourth day I awakened rested, ready to tackle a procrastinated project: fixing my very large window blinds. This five-hour task was in the category of performing one’s own surgery without anesthesia, so when a friend of 25 years called to ask if I’d like to stroll around the Broadmoor Lake, I said yes, as long as he’d help me snap the blinds into place.

Within an hour, I was seeking solace, opening my guts to Ed about Mr. Boot. “He’s got you where he wants you,” Ed stated matter-of-factly.

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“He’s got you thinking about him. He’s got your attention,” without actually having to talk, I thought.

I realized that playing dead seemed most viable as Boot’s game of choice. He was really a zombie (pictured below). And just as Ed and I sat down in the hot sun to enjoy a cold brew, the clouds opened and a hailstorm of beeps pummeled my mobile phone—nine texts, six calls, plus two more at home, I later counted.

The departed’s feeble fingers finally pushed, pressed, and punished. Suddenly I became the only person Mr. Zombie wanted to talk to, and just when I was enjoying his silence. Why is it when someone wants to talk, he expects you to be ready and willing?

“Good beer! Refreshing. Lovely view.” I thanked Ed for being nonjudgmental through 25 years of friendship and my two marriages—one legal, one lethal.

At five o’clock we headed home, where Ed checkmated me three times. I steered him where I could win, outside into my backyard’s silence. Eyes closed, relaxed, I sensed a peeping presence. As I opened my eyes, there stood Mr. Zombie back from the dead, gazing accusingly, if not defeated in a small, weak way.

He was ready to talk but obviously not to listen. He coughed.

After realizing that the friend sitting with me was alive, Zombie man spewed pieces of his hardened heart toward me, missing every time, then he stomped to the front of my house and happened upon my daughter returning home. Blessed with a receptive audience, Zombie retched chunks of vile about all of my qualities from his dead perspective. She, in her teenage emotional tumult, swallowed his entire vomitous mass.

Feeling empowered because Zombie man had become her hate buddy and they shared a common enemy, she moved into her dad’s house and I haven’t seen her since.

Every opening creates space for something to take its place, hopefully something better. I love my daughter more than anyone and have given her 19 years of education, support, safety, love, and my life. She, I miss.

Filling the space left empty are focus, stability, peace, and people I’ve not seen nor really known well in my 26 Colorado years. I’m growing, sewing, reading, writing, and enjoying an adult life.

The morals of this story:

• If a person sees an imperfection and criticizes you, especially to your children, waste no time and excuse him or her from your presence.

• Enjoy life with those who like you.

God is good. There are plenty of wonderful people to share time and a cold beer with on a hot day. Ahh.

Addiction

An ad popped out from the page: “Addiction Kills.” It scared me, because I developed a habit 11 years ago, and at this point, I’d call it an addiction.

It began slowly and innocuously with a friend in 2000—no strings attached. Just two people, home alone most of the time, and no one else to do it with. He was twice divorced. Me, well, I was flying solo. We both seemed to need it and gently took our first step and then the next. After it was over, indeed, we both felt better, though, if we were to be completely honest, there were times when one or both of us might hurt a little.

“Too much of a good thing can be wonderful,” Mae West said, and my friend and I kept doing it year-round. Even in the depths of winter when it was an effort to get together, we’d be panting and hot when we were through. Though we were reluctant to partake when passing winds were so ferocious they’d almost bowl us over, we ignored the conditions as best we could and stayed on schedule. We were tenacious and aiming for the high.

I’ll admit, there were times when it would drag me down—usually when I hadn’t slept well, which made me emotionally and physically exhausted, but eventually it got to a point when I would feel high just thinking about it.

Then my friend had a stroke—not because of our activity, but a complication three days after his appendectomy. Since then, we’ve done it together only once because it wore him out.

So I started doing it alone. Performing solo is a completely different movement, but I’ve come to like it better. It’s much faster and less time consuming than waiting for my buddy to come.

Three months after his stroke, I had my own surgery, for cancer. Only three weeks afterward, I felt more energy coursing through my mind, body, and spirit. I gained momentum and increased my speed. Now I run three miles a day rather than just hike.

Does addiction kill? I hope not, but if it does, what a great way to go.

Dawn’s Thongs

When I was growing up, a thong was one of two sandals I wore to protect my feet. They weren’t very comfortable and sometimes caused blisters where the narrow strip of rubber rubbed between my toes.

Things change, however, and from what I’ve seen, today’s thongs don’t protect much of anything, but they certainly look as if they could cause one heck of a blister. Each is about five square inches of fabric strapped 35 inches northward from the foot and covers nothing but an area a person doesn’t shave unless that person likes whiskers in new, exciting places.

Today’s thong seems more of a torture device for hanging a cat from a ceiling fan than an article of clothing.

(Neither cat was up for stunt duty, so they offered up the bear for sacrifice.)

Given a good meal of rice and beans, a person wearing a thong the next day could turn the article into a musical instrument—a sound akin to blowing a blade of grass stretched between two thumbs.

My daughter calls the threadlike undies “butt floss,” which makes me think twice each night before I draw the glossy white string toward my mouth—not the undies. And appropriate to their sound in motion, she calls the foot protectors “flip-flops.”

To her, butt floss is comfortable and sexy. Comfortable to me is a sundress with no panties, and sexy is a silk gown wrapping a ready body. Also sexy are two of my friends, Dawn and Mary. Mary is 17 years older than I, but has worn undie thongs for at least 15 years.

“Ew!” I said when she slipped into the itty-bitty thingie. “How can you stand that thing?”

“Ever tried one?” she sprang back at me.

Guess it’s like flan or crème brûlée: Just because each dessert looks like coagulated pus, doesn’t mean it tastes like it (even though it does, only a bit sweeter). And given a thong’s seating location, I suspect its appearance gives it away: It can’t be comfortable.

Well, Dawn came to visit me the other night for a sleepover. We hadn’t seen each other since my birthday last June, so I was downright excited to hear her say, “I’m comin’ your way!” I quickly changed the sheets and ensured the wine cellar was replenished.

When Dawn walked into my foyer, my eyes popped. She looked hot! Her hairstyle transformed her into a teenager, and most of her rear had fallen off. She’s a year older and has five more kids than I, yet Dawn looked like a 35-year-old virgin. If I didn’t love her so much, I‘d have been jealous.

We talked till 1:30 when I murmured, “I’m asleep.” Just like the olden days.

The next day we moved into a busy Tuesday, she on her phone, me on my computer, then she set off for an appointment. When she returned in the afternoon, she opened a bag and said, “Here. These are for you!”

With a quick glance and mouth agape, an “ew!” almost popped out, but I caught it in a gasp and accepted the two slingshots with attitude.

She said, “You’ll love ’em. I sure do!” Dawn’s so brave.

So I washed them, but I still haven’t had the guts or occasion to wear one. Oh, what the heck. Excuse me for a moment.

Hmm, I look like a sumo wrestler in a mawashi. My daughter would call me Muffin Top.

Maybe I didn’t put it on correctly. Oh! There.

Just like the olden days.

Is It Prayer?

Close your eyes and imagine him praying. The room is luxurious, yet simple. Plush latte-colored carpet rests atop thick padding to warm and insulate his sacred place. Woven artwork drapes the walls and matches the robe that wraps his body.

Diffused light glows from recessed, façade windows placed high on the walls, but whether the light is natural or artificial is indiscernible.

As he quietly and reverently speaks his consecrated words, he gently rocks back and forth over his knees on a meditation pillow. His focus is intent. Only an occasional presence and barely audible footsteps are heard outside the room.

A bird flying over the prayerful man’s anointed space chirps and swoops to capture his breakfast fare, then another that he dutifully carries to his brimming nest. Farther away, donkeys haul their burdens down a mountain, and men speak loudly as they travel.

Miles off in the distance through the cool, crisp air, screams can be heard—first that of a woman, then one from a child, followed by silence.

Still farther away bombs can be heard, shaking the earth like a quake. Missiles whistle through the air at lightning speed before making their resounding impact. Groans and cries from old men fill the air like thick smoke.

Thunderous noises envelop vast areas from range to mountain, earth to sky. All that once lived quietly dies. Animals cannot comprehend. Babies are terrified, a feeling that will not leave them in this lifetime—perhaps not the next.

While the holy one prays, he receives the death and destruction for which he asks. For all those who do not follow his beliefs as their own, he will destroy.

But first he will instill fear. Women to fear men. Children to fear their fathers. Former followers to fear rebellion. Christian to fear Muslim.

Fear will separate us, isolate us from each other. It is his hope. When we fear, we are suspicious, we react, we decide poorly, we destroy each other. He hopes we will do the destroying for him, so he won’t have to. He will stay home and have more babies with all his wives, all of whom will be as safe as he will allow.

If I were a Muslim, I would start a peaceful rebellion with all other decent Muslims and work together to cease the insane, destructive behavior of those giving our religion a bad name.

And so it is.

The idea for this story came from listening to Dina Temple-Raston’s story March 10, 2011, at http://www.npr.org/2011/03/10/134402971/muslim-americans-question-scrutiny-at-border

Thoroughly Modern Me (the giveaway!)

It’s February 13, and as promised, I am preparing to honor one of you with the CSN Stores $35 gift certificate code for answering
What is the craziest thing you have ever bought online?

My assistant and I are rating the only five answers on a scale of 1 to 10:
1 being “That’s not at all crazy.”
10 being “That person is a nut case!”

Domestic Diva bought a year’s supply of coconut butter, which we found normal. In fact, we’ve had enough of the stuff in our house to last, gosh, eight years. Honest! We gave her a 1.

Bill H. bought a third copy of a book he’d misplaced. I have him a 6. Not because the purchase was crazy, but because Bill must have been a bit nuts looking for the book. My assistant, on the other hand, gave him a 4, because the action wasn’t crazy. Average, 5.

Pkozuch bought an old telephone switchboard that weighed 400 pounds. Then the dinosaur had to be shipped, so someone had to pay for that. My assistant gave this nut an 8. “Who on earth would use a telephone switchboard? Then who’s going to unload the thing and move it around? Not even a treadmill weighs that much!”

I gave pkozuch a 7. If this object was to become a functional part of life, that’s not crazy but shipping it is. I’d guess shipping cost more than the switchboard itself. How does anyone rationalize that? If the thing wasn’t functional, I go for a 10, but I’m surmising and will stay with my 7. Average, 7.5.

Ashley usually buys clothes. I gave Ashley a 3, because she probably doesn’t need another thing clogging her closet. My assistant wonders why Ashley even responded.

Finally, Shala Darkstone “bought 50 bars of glycerin soap just to get free shipping.” My assistant said that’s a 7—“that’s a lot of soap, but it’s justified.” Since I would do the same thing and I don’t consider myself crazy, I’d go with a 2. Soap in a pair is a great gift placed in a basket on top of a couple of washcloths. Average, 4.5.

That means our winner is pkozuch! Congratulations! I’ll email your code shortly.

We would just like to know the story behind the switchboard—and its buyer, the nut.


I asked our winner to comment on the product she bought online, and here’s the scoop.

“We bought [the switchboard] for $450. Weighing in at 400 pounds, we found that shipping from Connecticut to Wisconsin was going to be $500 to $700. Then a resourceful TSI employee found a company that specialized in shipping computers and electronics.

When we told them it was an old telephone switchboard, it seemed to fall within their usual guidelines. We had to get the seller to haul it up out of their basement, because the trucking firm wouldn’t do that. Once it was in the garage, the trucking firm came and got it and it made the journey from Connecticut to Wisconsin.

We did a little restoration on some wood veneer and got a few new cords for it. If we hooked an incoming phone line to it, there would be some functionality (being able to answer it), although we couldn’t really transfer the call out to an extension.

It is the focal point of my Telephone Museum in our waiting area. Mostly serves as a conversation piece. I have a friend who just got an old phone booth for her birthday. It was an interior phone booth made of mahogany that came from an old hotel. I was excited for her. She told me I was the only person who ‘got it.’ Most of her friends were very puzzled when they asked, ‘Did you want a phone booth?’”

Do You Live Up to Your Name?

Following a recent event involving a potential client and desperately needed income that didn’t materialize, I emailed an update to several interested friends. One scribed back that the prospect “has just lived up to his last name.”

Clever guy! Why hadn’t I thought of that?

I was still in shock.

My friend’s statement reminded me of a story I’d read in a 1988 USA Weekend about people’s careers coinciding with their last names. “Chiropractors named Bonebrake, doctors named Blood, ministers named Lord, dentists named Smiley and Brush, undertakers named Dye.” For that article, others submitted their names and related professions:

Barker, veterinarian
Burns, fire inspector
Hammer, hardware store owner
Looney, psychiatrist
Sparrowe, ornithologist
Lt. Speedy, state highway patrol
Suing, lawyer
Watts, power company official
Yawn, sleep disorder center manager

Thinking about this led me to draw upon a few friends’ names and their fields of expertise. For my female friends, I used their née names (sounds like a stammer, doesn’t it?), except for one, who said her married name suits her better. Let’s see if any could consider changing profession or name, as I did in ’86.

Surname (definition): former or current occupation [Auntie note]

Byers (dairy or other cattle farmer, one of the earliest recorded surnames): printing-business owner, marathoner, running-footwear specialist [one of my earliest Colorado friends; rather than rearing ruminants, he’s commingled with canines]
Craft (strength, skill): respected, conscious, skilled business owner, no matter which craft he has chosen
Farris (valiant warrior, farrier, blacksmith): she owned a horse, then a veterinary hospital [and valiantly raised three talented children]
Faucett (multicolored, flowery hillside): multitalented artist and spirited, enthusiastic teacher [who’s been one of my best influences for 33 years]
Fisher (fisher): software developer, troubleshooter extraordinaire, BGF, always fishing for solutions
Griffin (definitely a mythical creature): actor, producer, voice talent
Groat (silver coin worth four old pence): Harvard-educated marketeer, school bus driver [worth his weight in gold]
Hackworth (mystery name, first recorded in Devon, whose origin evades genealogists before 1663; probably a habitation name, Haca’s enclosure): landscape architect, business owner, pilot [has the need to escape his enclosure to explore the world]
Hall (one who lived in or near a large house, or hall): piano player, sound engineer, sound studio owner, composer of works for full orchestra, concertos, and chamber ensembles that are played in huge halls
Harloff (strong, brave wolf): U.S. Navy, genius, can do anything, notorious musician—banjo, concertina, fiddle, guitar—sounds like a dirty, ol’ wolf when he does his best Arte Johnson’s Tyrone F. Horneigh [whack!]
Hoffman (farmer): financial services advisor* [tills our fertile globe to grow investments]
Kugizaki (kugi means nail, zaki means point): artist, graphic designer, fine woodworker, cabinet maker [by viewing his new site,** his name hits the nail on the head, ahh, point]
Menza (middle, small stature): refueling, transport, and smaller jet pilot, USAFA Chinese History professor, attorney, writer, overall bright, shortish, fun guy
Mullin (monk, holy man, or if English, miller): musician, Mensa man, inventor, business owner, satellite communications [blessed with intelligence in more fields than a jealous God, but Mullin’s graciously humble]
Phillips (lover of horses): radio station manager, pilot, B-737 CFI, business owner [lover of things that fly, so his horse is a Boeing Pegasus]
Promack (no definitions found that aren’t Apple related, but she has deep meaning to me): dentist, massage therapist, Trager practitioner
Rice (ardour, enthusiastic): teacher, passionate manager of environmental discovery center
Roach (someone who lives by a rocky crag): cinematographer, pilot, sailor
Samolinski (hmm, salmon-shaped boards for strapping on feet and sliding down hills): nearly priest, electrician
Wolfe (cunning, ferocious wolf hunter): woodworking craftsman, ferocious sound engineer [he recently gave up hunting…anything]
Wood (forester, resident of the woods): math professor, systems engineer, symphony-notes writer, arts aficionado, and helper of this writer-editor to find the forest for the trees, to grasp the real issue whilst not overattending to details. How appropriate is that?

I hadn’t considered the prospect’s last name in doing my usual due diligence, but had I blended it with the statement, “My handshake is good,” after saying we didn’t need a written agreement, it might have piqued my mind.

And although my handshake is also good (from milking cows back in Wisconsin), so is my word.

* I will not spell it adviser unless someone pays me to.
** Great site! www.kugidesign.com [happy birthday, DK]

Name definitions came from the 2005 Oxford dictionary on my iBook and the following sites: www.surnamedb.com/Surname, www.ancestry.com

What about Them Packers, eh?

Yippee!! The Packers made it to the Super Bowl for the fifth time (the Steelers for their eighth)!

So Sunday, February 6, I’ll try to figure out how to turn on my old TV, which will probably be like turning on an old guy—just walk past with food and beer and press a button. I expect to see lots of action worth hootin’, hollerin’, and tootin’ for.

I’m an annual football viewer, only at Super Bowl time, and this year the game actually means something to me. I’m a Wisconsinite—born in Wausau, schooled in Eau Claire. Although I lived in Minnesota for seven and a half years in the late sixties to early seventies, the Vikings never elicited any emotion in me. Being a 26-year Coloradan, I’d root for the Broncos over the Vikings. But if the Broncos play the Packers, Green Bay definitely has my support.

While I was on my hike today, I thought, Aside from what Ed taught me a couple of Sundays ago, I know almost nothing about football, downs, defense, or offense. All I know is that a player needs to carry the pigskin across the goal.

From an amateur’s point of view, football appears ridiculous. A herd of huge guys dressed in pads and tights struggle to gain control of an oblong ball that each can easily crush with his hand. Then one guy grabs the ball and runs like hell while the other guys chase him.

So as I hiked, this amateur called her dad in Wisconsin. “So what about them Packers,” I said in my best Wisconsinian when he picked up the phone.

“Hey! Yeah!” I knew we were heading into a good conversation.

After talking about his beloved Vince Lombardi and listing all the old players and their jersey numbers, he filled me in on the rules. The good thing is, he replicated what Ed taught me, so the facts have less of a chance of escaping my skull. At our lesson’s conclusion, he mentioned that learning about football’s defensive strategies and each player’s job are important slices of information too. For another day.

So even though some entrepreneurial guy, Ralph Bruno,* concocted a foam cheesehead that crazy Packers fans wear, I’m not offended. Those folks have balls—something I also have. Mine just need a good pumping.

*http://www.npr.org/2011/02/02/133424492/Cheese-Head-Hat

Hungry for Chess

He left me. The emptiness I feel inside cannot be filled in any other way. I miss the occasional glances across the travertine marble table, the quiet comments, candles brightening the board, tumblers of Glenlivet Scotch.

Utterances such as “Oh no, I didn’t see that,” “Crap!” and “Can I take that back? My hand was only off the piece for a second” enveloping an otherwise peaceful environ added perfectly to the ambience.

Only once did it end in complete frustration, maybe twice. After all, it’s not about winning, it’s how you play the game.

He left me to move back to Delaware to be closer to his daughters. Although he loved Colorado, skiing, kayaking, gardening, and international travel from this centrally located state, he said, “If something happens to me, it makes more sense for me to be in Delaware than for both girls’ families to come here. You know, I’m almost 82.”

So the next thing I knew, we were throwing a love-filled farewell gathering for George and Jeanne. They had lived in Colorado for about 30 years: she, a retired school nurse, he, a navy guy with a PhD in chemistry who had worked until retirement for DuPont. In Telluride, he’d taken to gardening, and lucky for me, he taught me what I know in that department—and how to drink Scotch.

From spring till autumn, I’d garden with George—he in their gardens, me in mine, then his kindness drew him to help me, probably from pity. He could make a dirt pile become a terraced work of art. I’d pop a silk flower atop the pile and call it a day.

On warm summer afternoons, the three of us, which sometimes grew into eight or more, would enjoy happy hour in our back garden by the fire pit. Life couldn’t be better.

But all year round for about 10 years, George and I played chess together on Thursday nights. It is this game, the mental challenge, and his company I long for most. Unlike racquetball, whose competitiveness I quite enjoy, chess acts like fertilizer coursing through and enhancing my neurological pathways. Unlike golf when everyone’s eyes are on me, we closely watch the board, anticipating our challenger’s next move, and our own. And unlike sex, I don’t have to do it alone.

Our between-game conversations flowed with depth and humor, and our equally challenging Ping-Pong matches kept our hearts beating together. I have thanked Jeanne many times for loaning me her husband on Thursday evenings.

Concurrently and until recently, my daughter would challenge me to three games of chess a night, but as texting has become her favorite pastime, chess with her lacks appeal.

So the invitation is out: Join me for chess Thursday or Friday evenings. I might not be the best, but I’m up for a challenge, and maybe even a Scotch.

Television, Tennis Balls, and Kitties

In 1975 I quit watching TV because of something my high-school English teacher, Mr. Schumacher, said. “You girls, you cross your legs and nervously bob a leg up and down. Well, you’re just wasting energy.”

My mind immediately took that statement and nudged it a step further—into the living room. How much time and energy do humans waste doing nothing but staring at the box of movement, delighting in entertainment others have created for those less motivated? Perhaps you see the action of bobbing legs and the inaction of watching TV as unrelated, but you don’t live in my head.

After that English class, and except for occasional fixes of 60 Minutes and Saturday Night Live, I quit watching TV and soon became repulsed by the noise. By college, September 1977, I’d completely quit. Ironically, though, I was on TV as an evening news anchor for the college station, lights shining brightly, accentuating imperfections.

To this day, 35 years later, friends who’ve known me for two to nearly four decades will say, “Have you seen—? Ahh, right, you won’t know this, but on TV…,” and they’ll describe a show that has made an impact on them. Friends don’t mind sharing with me, and they respect my difference without rolling eyes.

Many of my Colorado friends don’t watch the telly, either. There are just too many outdoor, theater, arts, music, sports, literary, and social things to do. And don’t forget the book. God led two of my friends’ families to grant me their libraries after my friends passed, so when it’s cold and blustery outside, a hundred books raise their hands shouting “pick me!”

Of course, movies, tax preparation, and pussy cats cross my mind too. (Yes, it’s that time again to contact my preparer, aka my former.)

Last night before Ivy, 17, and I popped in the movie Pulp Fiction, our two puddy cats were rolling around the floor being fat, furry, and cute. It reminded me of when Ivy, herself, was still a scoop of mashed potatoes—a rolly, squishy, bubbly, babbling little dish. Her dad and I would watch her explore and learn, then pause and fill her diaper. It provided hours of aromatic entertainment.

So I ask, with all the creative things to do with time, who needs TV? And if simply watching a baby, cat, or dog doesn’t provide the needed excitement, try tossing a cat, three tennis balls, and a dryer sheet into the dryer (Ivy’s idea). It’s more fun to watch through a glass door (my two cents).

Just kidding.

It’s just as fun to have a metal door, then watch the cat stumble out after a few turns.

No, not really. Would I do that?

Author’s note: When I came upstairs after shooting the cat in the dryer, I said to Ivy, “That cat is such a sport. He handled the turns in the dryer so well.”

Ivy’s incredulous look said, “You didn’t. Did you?”