Radical Loving

My “neighbor to the south,” as he calls himself, rang me on a Tuesday November night to ask just how radical I am. “Are you a member of elf?” I heard him say.

“I’m too tall, and they won’t let me in,” I felt like responding, but instead, “No. What’s elf?” I assumed he didn’t mean extremely low frequency, because I generally have a lot of energy.

“ELF is the Earth Liberation Front. They’re the ones who burned down a [ski] resort in Vail several years ago.”

“Oh,” I sort of remembered. “No, not a member.”

“Well, if you’re so radical that you’d take a board out of my gate, I didn’t know if you’d be radical enough to burn down my house,” he surmised, not remembering that five of the eight feet of that gate are on my property. It’s my easement, and my real estate agent stated, “You can do with your part of the easement what you would like, but if Utilities needs to use that part of your property, you might have to remove it,” as it is with the front five feet of Colorado Springs residents’ yards, if the street is 50 feet wide or less.

“It’s a good thing our houses are brick,” I calmly and solidly replied.

“Well, you could throw a Molotov cocktail on my roof, and it would go up in flames,” my neighbor firmly lobbed at me.

Hmm, a crude incendiary device like a grenade: Now that’s radical. No, I won’t be doing that.

[For this story, I googled “ELF” and found the acronym 17 entries down. They’re a domestic terrorist group that finds many former members in prison, a result of their violent actions. And indeed, their original logo was of an elf—holding a weapon. On Wikipedia, I found that on October 19, 1998, the eco-terrorists ELF destroyed a Vail ski resort by arson.]

Monday, the day before my neighbor’s call, was a high-conflict day. I had to deal with Aetna, my health insurer who doesn’t keep its word after my gaining preauthorization. Then I was rejected for a marketing communications management position nearly identical to one I previously held in a department I established and operated. Later I was shorted by another organization that didn’t honor my honesty. I felt beaten up. And though I needed peaceful sleep, I awakened shortly after falling into it.

At 11:30 p.m. I awoke with a start and couldn’t shut my mind down. I felt the weather changing to cold. Isolated aloneness and shivering iciness crawled up my spine, and I wondered if an intruder were in my home. Not a physical body, but an amorphous being that wouldn’t leave a trace of either of us. I listened vigilantly.

Along with every invasive thought, a cracking or creaking sound emanated from a part of my house. No matter which of my sides I rested upon, I couldn’t find comfort. Every direction my mind traveled led me serenely, only to be severed with an abrupt slice of a cleaver.

By some godsend, my mind quieted at 3:30 a.m. and I started to peacefully dream.

But at 4:30 my daughter stood at my doorway and asked, “Mom, did you hear a noise?”

“No,” I mindlessly replied. Had she asked an hour before, I would’ve answered with a “yes, for four hours.”

But this was different, and our dog was barking continually. She scanned the backyard with the Maglite as we both looked through the cloudy old window into the muddy darkness. My eyes are bad and I was exhausted, so I moved away.

“Oh no,” she sadly said, “it’s a fawn. Its leg is stuck in our gate.”

“How do you know?” I asked, hoping she was wrong.

“It’s trying to get out,” she continued. I heard the baby’s cry, like a calf’s.

I rejoined her at the window and, with greater attentiveness, saw the hopeless sight. The gate was unlatched and swung back and forth as the mule deer fawn tried to break away from her trap. “Get dressed. Warmly,” I said, then called my neighbor to the south.

Wearing gloves, coats, and a resolve that was going to save this little life, we all quietly gathered at our back fence in the early morning darkness. With barely a word, the three of us lifted the seven-month-old fawn backward 14 inches to release the nearly severed bottom half of her leg from the decorative metal at the top of our gate. She screamed, crying for her mother who stood nearby with her other fawn. Gently, we set her down and my neighbor told me to get something to put over her eyes.

I discreetly ran inside, scattering the gathering ungulate crowd, and grabbed a bath towel. We wrapped it around her little head and taped it into place, allowing her large ears to flop out and her nose room to breathe.

Like a dog arduously panting after chasing a ball for a half hour or a child running from a perpetrator, her lungs filled with and released air every second. Around her bloody body kneeled three humans, holding her down, blocking any chance of escape.

Wearing his headlamp, my neighbor made his way back into his house to call the Division of Wildlife. My daughter and I kneeled in the darkness next to this hot, panting child of an animal, and we communicated through our senses to calm our unintended victim.

Throughout my life, I’ve been one to be able to see accidents before they happen, and so I take needed precautions to thwart any negative occurrences. I never saw this one coming, and my heart ached.

The wind would pick up and the fawn would stir, anxiously trying to escape with every breeze. A kick from her good hind leg slightly cracked my daughter’s pelvis, not her face a foot away.

My neighbor returned. “Jeremy’s on the phone. This is your land, you need to decide what to do next.”

“Jeremy,” I said, shaking, “thank you for answering the phone so early. You were here helping me before, in July 2008. [See auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/07/tragedy.html] Did my neighbor tell you what we have here?” and then I started to lose it. I came semi-unglued, though not nearly as I had the last time. I sensed I was going into shock.

Briefly and as nondescriptly as I could, I trembled and asked for his help.

Jeremy said, “She’s already too old to take out east to rehabilitate, so we’ll have to put her down. Your neighbor could do it.” Jeremy knew about my neighbor’s previous affiliation with DOW and his hunter certification training classes. “Does he need the meat?”

My mind jumped several steps backward to my dad’s hunting days, the upside-down hanging deer in our garage, the blood, the pain I felt as he excoriated so many animals, so many species. My breathing jarred, pulsated irregularly, I shook. I moved forward to this moment, didn’t want to make a decision, thought about the little female life lying in our garden on her side in pain, bleeding into the cold ground.

“A cop from the CSPD put down a fawn hit by a car last year. Can we call them?” I asked.

“I’ll call the guy who’s closer to your house,” Jeremy pulled me back. I gave him my mobile number.

Quietly I moved past neighbor and daughter into our house to retrieve my phone and warmer clothes, then returned to the site. We taped her back legs together, one hanging on by her skin, then her front legs. We said little, just held her and offered solace.

Jeremy called. “I can’t get the guy who I work with to answer the phone, so I have an officer with CSPD coming over.” I gave him specifics, told him where the fawn would be.

It must have been about 5:45 a.m. when Officer Cope came over. Even in the dark, we recognized each other immediately—not by event, but by appearance and name. My neighbor had already gone home, my daughter moved into the warmth of our house, and I now sat on the grass holding the barely breathing baby.

“You can go in now,” Officer Cope recommended. “I’m going to call this in, because we’ll probably get some calls from the sound of this,” and he patted his pistol.

Sobbing, I walked into the house. Pop. It was done. Six o’clock in the morning and I’d already caused a fawn’s death, one who’d drunk from our bird bath the day before. Had she been human, sedatives would have been administered and the bottom half of her leg would have been amputated. So many of the deer around here limp. But now this one was dead.

My daughter didn’t go to school. We collected our tools and went outside. Within an hour and a half, we had scrubbed and hosed off most of the blood and skin from the gate. We also removed the swirled, decorative metal from three of our gates and took one horizontal board from the top of our fence, the one my neighbor called his gate, so the deer wouldn’t hit it anymore.

If you have an accident waiting to happen, I encourage you to alleviate the potential. It has been 52 days, and I am finally writing about this event. I’ve awakened in the middle of the night numerous times, panicked from seeing our little fawn trapped and unable to escape. I wish this on no one, especially not our wildlife.

Sometimes I think: To hell with fences. My neighbor to the south indicates that my anthropomorphism is wrong. To hell with that too.

Oh, and Officer Cope? I called to let him know that he had warned me to slow down one day after buying my new car—in 1994.

If animals behaved more like humans, we’d be doomed.
If humans behaved more like animals, we’d be ———.

Foamy Slippers

In December, the Institute of Noetic Sciences community group assembled in my home for our monthly meeting of the minds. Afterward, the 16 of us socialized for a while, drawn into smaller collections of conscious energy to expand on previously discussed topics.

I was initially drawn to share intimate God-time with one woman, who prayed with me for healing. This was interesting, because in the 10 years of my involvement with this evolving noetic body, I had been the only professed Christian (who, by the way, has been spontaneously healed in a prayerful environment).

Feeling pleasantly blessed, I sauntered toward the dining area, where another person engaged me with her feelings and observations. When I revealed recent self-deprecating events, she dragged me down the hall for a love-filled admonishment.

Slightly roughed up but now feeling a sense of purpose, I felt more empowered and cared about than I had been in ages. Walking three inches above the carpet, I headed toward the front door. There, the admonisher’s husband, Don, began a conversation about the eve’s events. Then with a quick glance, he caught sight of my feet.

“Whose slippers are those?” he asked quizzically, wondering if these huge flippers belonged to the guy screaming in the back room.

“Oh, they’re for guests,” I meekly replied. “We have a hot tub, so I keep extra slippers around—large ones.”

“They make you look like a clown,” he chuckled.

Sure enough, when I looked down and saw my Christmas stockings slid into oversized black slippers, I had to agree. I already felt they were dangerously cumbersome when walking up and down our stairs, but I’d never bothered to take in my ridiculous appearance.

I offered an excuse. “I washed my two pairs of regular slippers today and they’re still wet, so I slid into these. Plus they started disintegrating in the washer, and the process continued in the dryer. Some of the cardboard fell out, and now the foam is protruding.” I headed for the nearby closet to prove my claim. “Look.”

As I displayed my comfy, old burgundy slippers, Don looked from them to me. “Slippers don’t cost that much. You could go to Target and pick some up for a few bucks. Those things are shot,” he correctly observed.

“Aw, but they’re clean! I can’t just toss them.” I felt proud of my spartan lifestyle, though slightly embarrassed about being so cheap. I decided not to show him the other pair—my hot tub slippers.

“I think you should just throw them out,” Don advised.

So I ask, What’s the difference between frugal and downright cheap?

Frugal is buying a good-quality pair of slippers at a reasonable cost that have the potential of having a long life. Cheap is keeping them two years after they’ve died.

I think there’s a law against that.

So, Don, the blue ones are headed for a landfill, but the worn-in, comfy burgundy ones, well, we might have to kick that idea around a bit.

The Guy in My Bed

For more than two weeks, there’s been a guy coming into my bed. I can’t see him, but I know he doesn’t sleep. He waits until I’ve slipped into a somewhat peaceful place, then he violently throws evil into my head, waking me suddenly, causing throbbing beats of my heart and pain therein. As I gasp for air and abruptly raise my head to see who’s there, he moves into the next room.

I sense him there.

After lying horrified for three hours, I apprehensively tiptoe to the bathroom, then back to my chamber and stumble into a half-awake doze until streams of light creep into the place he should leave. But he knows when to return and that scares me.

I trick him by doing the right things during the day in the hope of allaying his repeated presence. I hike and run, inform potential employers of my existence, repair the crumbling ranch, care for all those living in my midst, and learn something new each day—not always by choice.

After dark I warily crawl into my bed wearing socks to keep me warm, and in case I need to run, and read one of several partially read books till my eyelids signal their lack of muscular strength. But three hours into dreams, precognitions, and telepathic communications, he sends a clairaudient scream and terrifies me. My heart tries to escape my body. I cough a high cough to rid myself of my breathlessness and beckon my heart back. He reminds me of incomplete commitments, that I can’t eat, that I’m nakedly alone, and he can kill with his mind.

My light taps on, but I don’t feel safe, because now physical beings find me more easily. There is nothing alive and corporeal around me but a dog, two cats in the garage, and my plants, except for that one morning that I cannot write or talk about, whose thought pervades me like an impaled child.

I get up and make coffee. It’s only 3. Three hours till daylight.

When it’s light, his ominous presence will still be behind me, sometimes ahead. He will travel through my veins, follow me into my hot tub, cause strips of pain in my left chest making me sit firmly to throw him out. I hate him.

I wish he would let me go.

Let me go.

Let me drift away.

Barefootin’

When I was a kid, I thought I had blackheads on my ankles. Specks of dirt were ingrained in the pores behind my ankle bones, and I thought they were permanent. At night, however, some of their permanency lost their hold and became affixed to my sheets. By washday, the foot end of my bed was lower from the weight of dirt ground into my sheets.

Barefootin’ was the way we lived during the summer in Minnesota. Rich, black dirt begot thick, healthy grass and clover that felt luscious underfoot. Of course the dogs felt that way too, so when we rolled in the grass we first looked where we were rolling.

As the population grew, so did asphalt, concrete, and less porous surfaces to walk. Our opportunities to walk barefooted became far fewer and more treacherous. It seems disease runs rampant, so any crack in the skin is a breach to test the immune system.

A recent story in the Colorado Springs Gazette talks about the trend toward barefootin’,* so I immediately asked my trusted friend of 25 years what he thinks of the idea. He runs almost daily, training for almost every race in the Pikes Peak Region and beyond. Always an excellent athlete, Don ran the 2009 Boston Marathon in 4:00:08!

Here’s what Don, who now sells running shoes, has to say about running shoeless:

The vast majority of people are not going to be running barefoot anytime soon. No worries there! We do get lots of requests for the Vibram FiveFingers** shoes, but we don't sell them. I have VFFs, as do a couple other footwear associates, and we often wear them to work.

Many people seem interested in them because they are unique; however, most people don't seem to understand that the VFF requires a much different running technique than is typically employed. Since there is no cushioning, people who run with the standard overstriding, heavy-heel striking method will receive instant feedback that these shoes can't be used in that manner. They require a forefoot/midfoot landing with the foot being almost directly under the body. This is the same way a foot would strike the ground if a person were running in place. Forward momentum is made by a slight lean, and instead of swinging the foot forward, the knee is moved forward with the lower leg/foot hanging down—sort of like a much less pronounced lunge.

After I mention these things to people, they seem less interested. Plus the typical shoe buyer seems more interested in the color of his or her shoes than if the shoe is a good fit for running style and gai and the VFF tends to be kind of ugly.

For me, the VFF is utilized as a training tool to reinforce good running technique. Because they require good form and weigh almost nothing, I often find myself running faster than normal. Due to this I tend to use them for my speed workouts.

Our ancestors who ran barefoot didn't have to deal with modern hazards. Concrete, asphalt, and all kinds of debris make barefoot running something most people won't be doing. I see broken glass on almost every run as well.

There is a movement toward minimalist footwear. This article is one of many. Runners World magazine had a lengthy article in November’s issue.*** There are other shoes that look more traditional but are designed to be used like the VFF.

That may have been more than you wanted to know. Anything else?

* http://www.outtherecolorado.com/latest-blogs/kicking-the-shoe-habit.html
** http://www.vibramfivefingers.com/
*** http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-240-400--13691-0,00.html

Rejection

I feel like a dandelion would, if it had feelings.

Like the weed, my taproot is long and grows deep, so I can draw nutritious knowledge and sustenance from the environment surrounding me. And like its bright yellow, sunshiny face, I maintain a cheery outlook with a good sense of humor—unless I haven’t slept enough or feel used up.

Like this daisy family member that gives up its leaves for creatures to enjoy, I give a lot of myself to those important to me and feed on appreciation. But when I sense toxicity around me, I cringe and shrivel up like a weed doused with chemicals. And I want to hide my face when I feel the long daggerlike instrument used to cut me from the rest of the world, my existence and talents dismissed before I’m tossed onto a weed pile with all the other rejects.

Like sucking marrow from the bone of life, I love learning and have garnered a repertoire of skills and abilities that I offer others to access. My curriculum vitae doesn’t describe exactly who I am and certainly not all I am capable of. Nevertheless, it can be found on servers throughout the States. Hoping that companies’ search engines will linger upon the special words in my document that will carry my potential to the next step in the job-acquiring process, I keep dispersing more of the same as I wait, anticipating a call or e-mail or invitation.

If God energy would give me what I truly desired, I would continue working from my relatively quiet home writing, editing, and becoming better at both. My clients would continue appreciating my detail orientation and extreme pickiness, and some godsend who receives my writing, either through me or others, would have a whoosh or aha! moment when reading my stuff and ask me for more.

Until then, I keep pursuing. Yesterday Kathi said, “You’re a survivor.” It’s true. I have survived huge negative events throughout my life and still smile. ’Course, I was dropped on my head when I was little and don’t know any better.

You know, I could really let all this rejection bother me…if I had feelings.

The C Word

Part 1
Some things are just difficult to talk about, even for me. My friends always say, “Go ahead, tell us how you feel,” after I’ve blurted out some intimate detail that most would never mention. Friends are accustomed to me, though, and some have been around since 1972. That’s tenacity!

I despise circumlocution. “Just get to the point,” is the thought that spills past my lips. But the point that follows hasn’t dribbled out as a public display—till today, because now it’s happened four times. It’s the C word.

We probably all know others who have heard the word directed toward them, but when it’s aimed at you, its implications deeply permeate the soul. The word pierces the mind like a knife, and there it remains, knowing that once impaled, the knife can turn again. But I believe, with good planning and luck, you can avoid receiving C news. Read on.

Strike one was in late September 2008 when I had an abnormal Pap: atypical, squamous cervical cells. My mom had a hysterectomy at a young age, though she was never clear about the disease causing such a drastic excision, e.g., cervical, uterine, or ovarian dysplasia, so naturally, I became concerned. But being a healthy person with a positive attitude most days (I was hiking when my doctor delivered her news), I figured my doctor scraped the only dysplastic mass in my body. After all, I was 49, and not all 50 trillion cells are going to be perfect at that age.

Three weeks later I went to a nurse at a gynecological facility for a colposcopy, a surgical procedure that mimics a Pap test but is less fun. Additionally, without my knowledge or my primary care physician’s order, the nurse took cells for another Pap test that I later had to pay full price for. That still burns me.

The costly Pap results were negative (good), and the colpo indicated two sets of my cells were mildly to moderately suspect and should head directly to the executioner: in this case, surgery again (strike two). Initially, the nurse wanted me to have LEEP (loop electrosurgical excision procedure), which I heard as a razor-sharp, bloody, scalding, scraping procedure with an anticipated healing time of six months. I slept little for two weeks contemplating this torture. When I met with the gynecologist himself a week before excoriation, I asked what he would recommend for his wife, also a gynecologist, and he said, “Cryocautery.”

Sold. In mid-November I wiggled in to be frozen like a Popsicle in the hottest part of my anatomy. Though this was considered surgery, it didn’t feel like it, particularly afterward when my face flushed like a lobster in boiling water. I hoped the carbon dioxide snow killed any nasty cells, but it probably took a bunch of healthy ones too. Unfortunately, four days later my body reacted negatively, but I stayed away from the doctor anyway. One appointment alone cost $800, and that was with insurance, so rather than calling on my guardian angel, I treaded alone.

Seven months later at my follow-up colposcopy and Pap, more atypical, squamous cells were discovered: this time, glandular uterine (strike three). How many organs can be squished into such a small area, anyway? So two weeks later I had my fourth surgical procedure, one I would only wish on a couple of people, and they’re guys. Oh my God, what an immense, excruciating pain. Gals, if you can avoid having an endometrial biopsy (EMB), do. If you’d like details, click the link on your right, Stirrup Queens, where I met Melissa, head stirrup queen, who extended her kindness and love from New York all the way to Colorado, wishing me well before and after surgery.

The results from that removal proved negative (good again!). So now I shall share with you why I believe women can avoid hearing the dreaded C word. This has not been proven by anyone but me, to my knowledge.

As we age, our cells have more potential to form and grow abnormally. If we expose ourselves to unhealthy habits for extended periods of time, our chances increase that we will acquire a disease. Now think about the menstrual cycle. Monthly, women slough off unneeded cells that are dying, so chances are, they will appear dysplastic, particularly from a more mature woman—me, on most days.

Around day 14, our body begins tidying things up again, so our cells tend to be cleaner, healthier—even at an older age. My recommendation, therefore, is to have Pap tests done after day 14 and before day 26 in your menstrual cycle.

When my cells were taken on days 7 and 11 in my cycle, dysplastic cells existed.

When my cells were taken on days 21 and 22, my cells were fine.

An interesting note is this: The nurse who performed my colposcopies and endometrial biopsy said, “We can send your cells to four different labs and get three different results.” It depends on the person testing cells, the cleanliness and newness of chemicals, and other factors. Imagine that!

I firmly believe, after comparing notes with other women, that we are overtreated. I believe that had I not endured any of those surgeries and additional tests, I would still be fine. Why wouldn’t your doctor tell you these things? It would muck up their schedules and provide them and the labs less income.

Part 2
In early 2007 I noticed that a white, waxy dent, resembling a scar, had formed on my upper right forehead, seemingly overnight. For the next three and a half years I treated it with a friend’s precancer elimination ointment, vitamin E, triple antibiotic, and a dry-skin prescription. The dent grew.

I knew I should have gone to a dermatologist immediately but was concerned about the costs. When I finally made the appointment for Friday, August 13, 2010, the doctor walked in 35 minutes late, shook my hand in greeting, asked me what the problem was, took an alcohol-moistened pad, and rubbed my dent.

“You’re blue-eyed, blond, have fair skin, and you have cancer,” he said with the bedside manner of a guy who’s seen too many blue-eyed blondes with cancer. Strike four. Tears welled in my eyes as I stared at him in semidisbelief, hoping he’d slap me on the arm and say, “Just kidding.” Instead, he left the room while his assistant began injecting lidocaine into my forehead.

After a while, the dermatologist marched back into the room and declared that I appeared not to respect the medical profession, probably due to the prior shocked look on my face. Again tears erupted, and I cried, “I’m not aging well.”

He proceeded to use an electric grapefruit spoon to scrape away my dent, leaving me with a small landfill. Bandaged head and numb scalp, I paid my $50 copay and left. Cancer. Found in a building right next door to the gynecologist’s.

About a week later, a dermatological surgeon’s assistant called to set up my Mohs surgery for mid-September. The more I talked about my news, the more people shared their Mohs surgery experiences, so though I felt deeply sad, I felt as if I joined a club—one I wanted to be booted out of and not through death.

A friend of 25 years who had also had Mohs surgery offered to take me and stay by my side all day. When we arrived at the same dermatology clinic, different office, I requested a pain reliever for menstrual cramps. Eventually a gal handed me halcyon. Whee! I floated around on a cloud all day. Definitely couldn’t have done my taxes.

When the surgeon walked in, I felt immediate relief. Dr. Sniezek is young, bright, intellectually sharp, and knowledgeable. He patiently answered my list of questions and responded to my crazy comments with his own. I thought of cancer as a growth, yet I had an indent. It is still a tumor that is growing inward. Had I read that fact years ago, I wouldn’t have allowed the cancer to grow further. He asked if I noticed that the cancer was larger than the first dermatologist had noticed. I had.

Dr. Sniezek kindly asked my friend to return to the waiting room then drew lines around the cancer, which his assistant photographed. With lidocaine injected into my forehead and halcyon flowing through my veins, the surgery began.

After the first deep dig, hair cutting, and cauterizations, I floated to the waiting room for a couple of hours with a massive gauze bandage affixed to my head so my brains wouldn’t spill out. The way I was acting, though, I’m sure my friend thought it was too late. When I was finally invited back into the surgery room after noon, or maybe 10:00, he said they needed to remove more of me and that it was the rare, aggressive morpheaform type of basal cell carcinoma, invasive, fast-growing, and potentially disfiguring, since it can seep into and kill muscle, nerves, and bone. Insert halcyon number two.

After that excision, I think I stayed in the chair and thought about heaven and angels. At one point, Sniezek walked in and played with my forehead (pictured left). “What are you doing?” I quizzically blurted.

“I’m deciding how I’m going to put you back together and stitch you,” he answered. He described his artistry plan and left the room to go dig into someone else.

An eternity seemed to pass, so when he entered, I sadly said, “You abandoned me.”

Equally downcast, he slowly replied, “That’s a very strong word,” and he transmogrified into a seamstress.

Looking as if I were nursing a huge hangover, I stumbled to the front desk and scheduled my one-week follow-up visit and headed to Jim’s car.

For five days, frozen peas and my bed were my friends. It’s hard for an active person to rest midday, but I found it better than the dizziness I experienced plucking weeds. My hair has fallen out in sheets for three weeks, a condition Dr. Sniezek termed telogen effluvium, caused by a traumatic event. The guy knows everything. I even missed seeing him this past Friday following two post-surgery visits, but not enough to need him again.

If anyone has any questions or comments, write to ol’ Auntie. She’d love to hear from you. It’s pretty lonely staying at home looking like Frankenstein’s ex-wife.


basal cell carcinoma www.mayoclinic.com/health/basal-cell-carcinoma/DS00925/DSECTION=symptoms

Mohs surgery and morpheaform BCC www.mayoclinic.com/health/basal-cell-carcinoma/DS00925/DSECTION=treatments%2Dand%2Ddrugs

telogen effluvium www.mayoclinic.com/health/hair-loss/DS00278/DSECTION=symptoms

African sky © 2002 Bob Groat

Islamic Community Center

If the proposed Islamic community center is built—and I presume it will be, because developers always get their way—I think it should have a heart-shaped, open courtyard in its center. Giving the proposed Cordoba* House a view of the sky and planes flying overhead will be a reminder for salat times, for all of us.

One thing I like about mosques, as I do with many Asian homes and places of worship, is that they are shoes-free zones.

What do you think?

* Cordoba, Andalusia, southernmost region of Spain: known for its architecture, particularly the Great Mosque.

See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_mosques_in_the_United_States for a list of mosques in the U.S. Note how many were built in 1996 in Alabama (six of nine). California contains eight mosques; Michigan, eight; Missouri, 11; New York, four.

Auntie’s Systems Flow

It’s me, your very own eccentric germ freak who doesn’t like clogged systems. As I close windows more often to keep warm air inside, I decided to share some household tips to keep your home fresher and operating more efficiently.

Send your cutting boards with your range fan cover on a trip through the dishwasher. Mineral oil your boards afterward.


Rather than use a toilet brush to scrape your porcelain bowl, use a long-handled dish brush that you can buy at Dollar Tree. The bristles are in the right places. Opt not to use the brush on dishes later.

After you run your toothbrush through the dishwasher, keep it cleaner by attaching a pinchy clothespin atop a glass and set the brush between the pin’s legs to dry it quicker and not lean it against a germy surface.

Put vinegar in the fabric softener and/or bleach dispensers in your washer when you start a load. Clothes end up softer.

Fill your washtub with the right amount of laundry detergent and hot water. Soak and thoroughly scrub pillows. Send pillows through your washer's spin cycle, then place on a drying rack or other vented surface in the sun, which acts as a natural antiseptic. Do a final hot fluff in the dryer.

Reuse plastic bottles to squirt bleach water and/or vinegar through a hole you’ve poked through its cover.

Wrap your yardstick with an old sock. Secure with a couple rubber bands. Moisten with some Murphy Oil Soap and water, and wipe under your fridge and range. Keep the yardstick under your fridge for an occasional dusting.


If your comforters are too large for your washer, take them outside and shake ferociously (a person on each side works well). Lay on a clean surface in the sun for the day—where birds won't perch above.

I use a lot of vinegar and don’t like to waste those jugs, so I carefully cut the top off, retaining the gallon jug’s handle. Uses:
• store newspaper and grocery bags
• scoop water with it
• fill with compostable leftovers
• place labeled electronics cords and cables inside one
• keep one under your sink to contain stuff that usually floats around down there
• carry in your yard and put plucked weeds in it
• fill with soapy water and wash your dog's feet after hiking [see auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/11/sniff-sniff.html]

When you drain your hot tub, use a canister-type shampooer to pull the last few gallons out.

Spray peppermint water around the house to keep the air perky.

Remember to snort your snout in private and thoroughly wash your paws.

Wear socks in the house to keep foot sweat off the carpet, presuming we don’t wear shoes in our houses.

Stay healthy, my dear friends!

(Dawn, now do you know why I’m not married? Plus I just shampooed my garage floor with Murphy Oil Soap and bleach. Smells yummyful!)

Bear-Proof Fence

My wild ’n’ natural friend had a bear-proof fence installed around his backyard that’s nestled in the mountains. He said he kept moving his grill back and forth from his rear deck to the front, but wherever his grill went, the bear, and sometimes her cubs, would follow.

On special mornings when the bear’s tummy was growling, my friend would open his garage door to find her standing in front of him requesting breakfast. Being accommodating, he’d quickly close the garage door. Actually, he’s not really like that. I just think Mama Bear’s size reminded him of his ex-wife’s mother who broke their toilet seat, and he hoped the bear wouldn’t ask to use the facilities.

I suspect he, also, tired of Mama’s constant appeals, but given two children to feed this year and a gigolo boar who’d gone into the mountaintops to forage for younger, hairy sows, what choices did she have?

My friend’s bear-proof fence is made of thick, sturdy metal, though he assured me it doesn’t have spikes. Seeing an impaled animal for a later meal wasn’t on his list of fence functions, and around here, we hear of impaled-deer occurrences. Subsequently, the suffered aren’t later consumed, but wept over.

So when my surprised friend discovered the bear in his backyard again, despite his new, expensive fence, he wondered how the persistent beast entered. Did she scale the fence with its intermittent horizontal bars (which is what my friend would have done)? Did she get a running start, use a pole, and spring forward? Did she get a boost from a friend? Did she climb a tree and drop in? And if she did, how did she get back into the forest?

And why does his yard have such appeal?

“There’s a plum tree back there,” he told me. Itty-bitty plums, like my boobs. After all, this is Colorado, not Georgia. Being a health-conscious mom, and with all Mama Bear’s carnivorous fulfillment on Cheyenne Mountain, she knew she needed a balanced diet, particularly if she’s still nursing.

Going back in time, I’m sure my friend planted his plum tree thinking only of himself and not feeding the hungry, though he is of the thoughtful, God-like species. He had, perhaps, a plum pie or a scrumptious plum crisp in mind at seedling time.

But this is now, and Mama’s mate has done his seedling-ing, and she was hungry.

Aha! My friend watched the big ursine climb a large pine tree, reach over to his fence, and jump down, like Rambo or Arnold. He didn’t monitor her behavior and never saw her leave, so he’s unsure of her exit strategy, but I vote helicopter. After all, we’re talking Broadmoor bear here.

“Now that I know how she’s getting in, how can I keep her out?” my desperate friend asked. “I’m scared to walk out into my backyard.”

“I’d pick a few plums and toss them into your neighbor’s part of the forest,” I suggested. “Then find some fresh carrion and toss it near, but not on, your property. And post a sign with an accompanying map: Better Bear Food at the Zoo,” which is just up the street.

“Funny,” he solemnly replied.

“I know! Post a sign that says ‘Bear meat served daily.’ She seems quite smart!”

As I said that, a cub strolled up to my front door and asked for lunch. Fortunately, I still had some ex-boyfriend left in the freezer.

Children of Priests

I read an Associated Press story that proved again, Catholic parishioners are slowly being reimbursed for all their ancestors’ tithes and indulgences. A priest impregnated an 18-year-old, and her parents are suing, among others, the priest, his diocese in Reading, Penn., and the high school where he was chaplain.

At least the priest was with a girl. The pope would probably see this as encouraging news.

Charges in the parents’ lawsuit were breach of fiduciary duty, infliction of emotional distress, and gross negligence. Upon reading the story, these accusations could aptly be used against the parents for aiding and abetting procreative behavior in the first place.

Seems the daughter and priest were spending a lot of quality time together in the parents’ home behind a closed door. The rhythm inside the daughter’s bedroom didn’t coincide with the beat of the music she played, so logically, instead of communicating with their daughter and the priest, the parents set up a video camera in the girl’s bedroom while she was gone.


Now maybe I’m just not a good Catholic, but isn’t secretly videotaping people engaging in sexual dialogue pornographic? And when one of the participants is a daughter, isn’t it classified as incestuously close observation?

Instead of using this visual opportunity to confront the daughter and priest, since any communication to that point was ineffectual, Mom and Dad jump into their Chevy and head downtown where the big bucks live.

At this point I’m thinking the daughter must have conspired with ol’ Mommy and Daddio and thought a little extra cash for some new pumps, teddy, and camisole would be nice—stuff the diocese could provide for her, since the priest wasn’t enough.

I could be reading the journalist’s story incorrectly, but it sounds as if the whole family had secrets stashed between the folds of their robes.

If the priest and daughter really love each other, they should enjoy the life they created: their little girl. They could be blessed with a happy ending, especially if the parents win in court.

Silent Songbird

I’m a rare bird and not ashamed of it. And since birds of a feather flock together, my friends tend to be rare birds too. One rare birdism we share is, we think about our impact on earth and her people in regard to sustainability, noise, pollution, and consideration. In a word, respect. We know we’re not the only ones who matter, and tread lightly.

I feel deeply sorry for Earth. Like the old woman who lived in a shoe, she is providing for more human life than she is comfortably capable of sustaining, and her population is expected to keep growing. Each person in 1994 needed 1.2 acres to maintain American dietary standards, acreage that relates to food production.

But what about fresh water? (I won’t even get into oil consumption here.) Glaciers are melting, so we can sip off them, but what do human, animal, and plant lives drink after all our fresh water has been polluted or drunk and there’s nothing falling from the sky but ash?

Earth needs to go on a people diet and not have so many, not only because of sustainability but for our hearts. When Mother Nature binges, she swallows large numbers of Earth’s beings. Earthquakes, tsunamis, floods, storms of all kinds consume lives, and the more densely populated the area of impact, the more heartfelt tragedy we experience. That includes the tragedy of hunger from human overproduction. Fortunately, researchers and medical professionals have diligently worked to reduce deaths due to disease, so farmers no longer have to supply their families with more help.

Densely populated areas also means concentrated noise pollution. Though I lead a quiet life, it doesn’t suit everyone. There are TVs and electronic games to fill quiet spaces, dogs to bark how dreadful their lives are, vehicles creating tension and shouting for attention with other machines, sirens, and incessant chatter. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only person affected by noise, but reading The Unwanted Sound of Everything We Want: A Book about Noise by Garret Keizer, I felt less lonely.

“I was raised with a keen awareness of noise. As a child I was told ‘Keep your voice down’ whenever my voice was likely to disturb ‘the neighbors.’ When my family came home late…my father would insist that we latch the car doors as quietly as possible and then press them fully closed. This taboo against slamming a car door at night was part of a code whereby holding down a job and getting oneself to work on time were sacred.… Interfering with a neighbor’s sleep was something akin to horse thievery on the old frontier, as assault on another person’s livelihood, a hanging offense.”

What happened to the common courtesy of honoring another with respectful quiet?

When I had my baby, I purchased the quietest vacuum cleaner—a Panasonic, bought a push lawn mower, and played my music quietly in honor of her hearing. I had quit watching the tube in 1975, but bought one at age 35 so my daughter could watch Disney sing-alongs. And when two friends each wanted to gift me with a “real” mower, I passed. Sure it’s more difficult to have a perfectly manicured lawn with a push mower, and I have to pass over each blade of grass four times, but my posterior is a lot firmer than gas-blower pushers’.

Again, I am not the only one who likes quietness and thinks about noise’s impact on others. Noise Pollution Clearinghouse tested more than 80 pieces of lawn equipment, rating them by decibels. Wouldn’t it be cool if everyone mowed his lawn on the same day at the same time, so we would hear only one blended, powered blade noise?

What if we were all thoughtful of each other? Takes me back to the sixties “peace, make love (using contraception), not war, smoke this” culture. I’m not a liberal, but I’d certainly welcome a lot of peace.

I recently read “Revolutionary Road” in Smithsonian magazine. David Lamb wrote a story about Vietnam now and during the war. He quotes Le Minh Khue, who at 15 joined other Vietnamese youths helping to clean up immediately after war’s devastation. She talks about the bond these kids shared and says she “felt completely happy,” despite burying the dead, filling bomb craters, and ending each day covered in mud.

Khue recalls the kindness people shared with each other. “We came upon a mother and two children with no food. They were very hungry. We offered to give her some of our rice, and she refused. ‘That rice,’ she said, ‘is for my husband who is on the battle field.’ That attitude was everywhere. But it’s not there anymore. Today people care about themselves, not each other.”

Birds of a feather… Let’s quietly ruffle some feathers. Breathe deeply and silently smile. Open a door for someone and accept thanks with a namasté. Still your soul and turn something off when you’re not using it…even your mind.

Now that is something I am still working on.

1 David Pimentel, Cornell University,
Mario Giampietro, Istituto of Nazionale della Nutrizione, Rome. “Food, Land, Population, and the U.S. Economy.”
Nov. 21, 1994. http://dieoff.org/page40.htm (accessed 8/12/10). (Carrying Capacity Network, 2000 P Street, N.W., Suite 240 Washington, D.C. 20036, (202) 296-4548.)
2 Garret Keizer, The Unwanted Sound of Everything We Want: A Book about Noise (New York: PublicAffairs, 2010), 11.
3 Noise Pollution Clearinghouse, “Quiet Lawns,” NPC Special Report (summer 2005), http://www.nonoise.org/library/qz/QuietLawns05.pdf.
4 David Lamb, “Revolutionary Road,” Smithsonian (March 2008), 62.

Luck in Losing

Losing things makes me crazy(er). Once I realize that something isn’t where it’s supposed to be, I start digging.

But typically I stop myself, remembering the sentence: Americans waste two weeks every year looking for misplaced items. Scary.

After reading that line 20 years ago, I became much more conscious of what I do and where I lay my belongings, especially those things that could cause me embarrassment should another person find them, such as my vibrator or Viagra. But the sentence also reminds me that the item will generally turn up soon, since it usually does.

Today I couldn’t find my pen that normally resides in my appointment book, also known as my brain, nor could I find a pair of my cheater glasses for old people. Just as well, no old people ’round here. Since I just had both items in the past day or two, I waltzed around, bending over when appropriate, looking in places I normally dance.

After shaking my head of the debris that accumulates with stress, I found my pen in my bed and, shortly thereafter, found my glasses in a basket I transport from floor to floor. I was on a roll!

What the heck, I might as well try to find the earring I lost the weekend I had a guest. Hmm, we sat on the sofa, but I had already checked under the cushions weeks ago and only found my ex-boyfriend, who I quickly put back in the freezer where he belonged.

Ahh, we sat in the chairs by the big window. I dug my skinny hands between the chair’s arms and cushion, and voilà! Money! I started giggling. First I pulled out a nickel, then a quarter, then a peanut. It was like the game I invented for my little girl called What’s in the Bag? where I’d put various things from around the house in a paper bag and have her feel the texture and shape to guess what the objects were. Sometimes she’d even guess the color, but she’s a lot brighter than I am.

So while I was prospecting and pulling out coin after coin, I kept thinking, Most guys keep their change in their right pocket, and it seemed these changelings sat in my west chair. I tipped the chair on its side when the coins started falling into its bowels, thereby increasing my chances of scoring a winner.

After that archeological dig, I headed east to the other chair and found the treasure much less bountiful but rewarding, nevertheless. I don’t believe in gambling, but risking a hangnail digging in my own chairs made me feel risqué, like a proctologist.

My earnings? $1.78, two pencils, a piñon nut, and a peanut.

I think it’s time to have company.