Summer on the Flip Side

Our county fair is almost over, and so is July. Face it, folks, we are on the back side of summer. There is still plenty of time to enjoy it, I hope! I just wanted to call your attention to the fact that we are on the slippery slope into fall. None of us would mind fall so much if it weren't followed by winter. I always start thinking about that this time of year, maybe because of my melancholy trend.

It's all good, though. I love every season, for some reason. I love summer because we get to run around with no clothes on...I mean, barely! At least we get to fore go the coats and hats and scarves and sweaters and even stockings! I love the fresh vegetables and watermelon and strawberries. I love family reunions, county and state fairs. I love, love, LOVE Indiana tomatoes! I love fall because of the rustic colors in the woods and the fields. I love the cooler days and even cooler nights. I love seeing the farmers in the fields, harvesting. I love the fall parties. I love winter because I have always enjoyed snow, and I enjoy it even more when I can go ski on it. And cold, if you are dressed for it, can be enjoyable, believe it or not. (Just not extreme cold, with blowing, drifting snow. But we won't think about that right now.) And I love spring for the fresh air and increased sunshine, flowers, and just the end of winter/beginning of summer.

No matter what time of year it is, I think we should all always observe it to the best of our ability. Too many times, we get wrapped up with work or business and we forget to pay attention to the day. Me! I am so guilty of this. I dread something that is going to happen tomorrow, and I forget to enjoy today! I forget to tell the people I love that I love them. Intensely! I forget to make my surroundings beautiful. I forget to make my co-workers feel brighter. You know, sometimes we are the sunshine, and we forget to turn on our rays! SHINE PEOPLE! Let's shine!

So, here we are on the flip side of summer, and I just wanted to remind you, again, to make every day count!

Newsies

Every morning since about the middle of May, I have been getting up around 3:15 a.m. For two hours, it was more in the beginning and always more on Sundays, I am on a race against the clock to get my newspaper route delivered. I roll out of bed, take care of bathroom duties, take my thyroid pill, pull on some underclothes, pants and a shirt, and I leave to go down to Harding's Friendly Market to sit in the car and wait for my papers to arrive. When they get there, I thank the driver and wish him a good day, take my papers to my car and bag them and put them in a box. I deliver some South Bend Tribunes, but mostly, The Elkhart Truth.

Most days, out on that route so early in the morning, I feel like some sort of sub-human. My husband thinks I have the anointing to do this job. But, honestly, it's just a job. I'm only doing it for the money. And it isn't much money, either. It really isn't much once you deduct the gas mileage and wear and tear on the car. BUT, it is extra money. It's money we would not have if I didn't get up in the morning and go do this. (Sometimes I think I must just be crazy to keep doing this.) I don't really like getting up so early in the morning, but it beats staying up at night working at Meijer's or waitressing after I leave from my other day job.

You do not meet many new people when you are doing a paper route. You hardly have any human interaction whatsoever. If you do, it isn't likely to be pleasant. Earlier on when I was still learning the route, I met Mr. Grumpy Pants. He was waiting, barefoot, by his mailbox in one of the subdivisions where he lives and I deliver.  I smiled and handed him his paper and said, "Good morning!" He just scowled and said, "You sure are late with your papers." I apologized, "I'm sorry. We received them an hour and 15 minutes late today." He didn't say anything else, he had already turned to go back to his nice, comfortable chair to read his newspaper, I guess, before I could even finish my apology. His real name is...oh, it doesn't matter; he will forever be Mr. Grumpy Pants to me.

I did meet one very nice lady while delivering papers. Her name is Lucille. One morning, while I was out delivering the papers to the retirement center where she lives, she was waiting for me. By the time I get there, it is usually 5:15 to 5:30 a.m. She was waiting because she wanted to correct me. I had been told early on in the delivery process, to just leave the papers for the retirement center at the front desk and leave. Lucille explained to me that not every resident that was receiving papers there was a spry as she was. (Lucille walks with a cane. She told me she can "race right along.") Many of the residents are quite handicapped. If I leave the papers at the desk, she told me everyone else helps themselves to the paper, whether they subscribe or not. Sometimes the true subscribers never even see their papers. She insisted that I must walk them around to every room. She walked me around and showed me what rooms all the six newspapers were to be delivered to. She was there every morning after that for a few weeks. She would smile when I came in and tell me "Good Morning." I would smile back and say, "Good morning, Lucille." That was so nice, I felt a little more human, then. But I felt sorry for her, getting up so early every morning and waiting for me to get there. I told her one morning that she didn't have to do it. She said she didn't mind, but one day soon after that, she wasn't there anymore.

Anyway, I am going to try to keep this up for a year. Some days I get quite tired of it all. If someone complains because I am late with the papers, I lose $2.00. I only get 16 cents to deliver each paper, every single day. I try not to give anyone reason to complain. But I don't control when the papers get there, I can't deliver them until they are delivered to me. And sometimes they are delivered to me quite late! Jay helps me on Sundays. Until recently, though, he has had a job that he had to leave for before I would get done with my route on the weekdays. I learned to do it by myself and have gotten pretty quick at it. So, I'm a "Newsie", for now. Think of me, if you are ever awake at 3:15 a.m., and you get to roll over and go back to sleep for a few more hours!

Folk Tales

Upon pondering what I might next write on my blog, I realized that I have always loved folk tales. You have heard them; stories passed on from generation to generation, usually meant to teach a lesson, but, sometimes, just to entertain.

This is the story of Sleepy the Donkey. When I was a girl, I had an undying love and desire for horses. I had an imaginary horse named "Candy". Since she could be anything I wanted, being imaginary, she was actually a flying horse. My parents knew of this affection for horses of mine, but we were too poor to own a horse. When there are five children in the family and sundry dogs, (Dad raised beagles) you have more important things to spend money on than trying to keep a horse.

One day, Dad packed all of us into the car. We were "going for a drive".  Out in the country, Dad pulled into a house near a railroad crossing. Someone lived here that Dad worked with, and he wanted to stop and talk for a few minutes. This was going to be cause for patience on the part of the rest of us. Little did I know what he had up his sleeve. He came back to the car with his friend leading a little donkey. He didn't seem so little at the time, really. But I have seen pictures since, and he was little. The friend explained that this was Sleepy the donkey.

Now, you must understand something. Our Dad was a rather stern and unaffectionate man when we were young kids. He was very quick to discipline us, if we were out of line, and you knew you did not sass or talk back to Dad. He never said "I love you" in words to us. But that day, my Dad was trying to show me that he had my desires in mind. Yes, the donkey was for all of us kids, but I always thought of him as more MINE than any of the others.

Sleepy was the most contrary animal. Dad's friend had explained they named him "Sleepy" because he had a trick of faking sleep when he did not want to be ridden. That wasn't his only trick. If we wanted to ride him, there were lots of tricks we had to watch out for. He kicked up both heels if you came near him with the bridle. You had to avoid walking behind him. He bit if you weren't watching. But we were all determined enough, we rode him!

One day, my brother, David, and I wanted to ride the donkey. We got him bridled, and we decided that, instead of riding him around the farm yard, we would let him out and ride on the driveway and maybe out in the (harvested) bean field. We always rode bare back, there was no saddle. My brother got on and I climbed up behind him. Sleepy took off. He would not be guided. He ran off to the back yard and was running toward the clothesline to run under it so he could wipe us off his back. But we were clever enough to duck. As soon as we both ducked down, Sleepy slammed on the brakes, and we went tumbling down his neck, over his head onto the ground. Mom was standing there and she got a laugh out of that, after she saw we were okay.

Another trick of Sleepy the donkey was to walk over to a fence or by the side of the barn and walk so close as to try to crush the rider's leg between the fence or barn and his body. I would always pull up the threatened appendage when he would do this. But of course, that put me off my balance if he decided to buck, which he did, sometimes. I was thrown from his back more than once.

Another day, I was out in the barnyard riding the donkey by myself. On bright, sunny days, it was just the thing to do for entertainment. On this particular farm, there was a loose piece of fence that served as a makeshift gate between the barnyard and the middle pasture. You could pull the fence across the opening and fasten it to the barn. That fence was shut, but the donkey had worked his way under it so many times that it was pretty easy for him to walk under it, when he didn't have a rider. He decided to go under it that day with the rider on. I was wiped off and fell WHUMP flat on my back. It knocked the wind out of me and I could not breathe. I started to panic because I couldn't breathe or make a sound, and I thought that I was going to die. I finally got a breath, and then I got mad at that donkey. I caught him and locked him in the barn for his crime!

There was many an episode of escape for the donkey. The fences on the farm we rented were fraught with holes and bad posts, and our donkey was a regular Houdini. One night he got out and went trotting around the neighborhood. My Dad got home from his second shift job, when one of the neighbors called to inform him that Sleepy was in his yard. There was another donkey and two ponies that lived the next farm down, and that was where Sleepy was visiting. Well, Dad went off to try to catch him. Several times he would get within reach of catching him and the donkey would spin and kick up his heels and take off.

The situation was serious. If the donkey ran out in traffic and someone hit him, Dad knew he would be liable. He reluctantly came back to the house and got his twelve-gauge shot gun and went donkey hunting. Very early the next morning I heard Mom and Dad in the kitchen talking quietly over coffee. Dad was telling Mom something about he "shot him several times" and "finally, he just gave up." I got up and went into the kitchen to ask what had happened, and Dad told me the whole story. When it became light, I went to the barn. My donkey had bullet holes all over. He had blood dripping from many wounds. I began the task of washing him and picking out buckshot. But, you know, that ornery donkey survived that episode. He wasn't really any worse for wear. The fences got patched. I think he never got out again after that.

One day a guy came by the house. He had been to our neighbor's and traded a pony for his donkey. He wanted to trade us a pony for a donkey, too. I don't know what he wanted with our old, contrary donkey. But a pony was a lot closer to looking like a horse, and the trade was made. That was the last I knew of "Sleepy the Donkey." Then began the adventures of "Fury the Pony". But I will save that for another day.

Ode to Mowing

  My dad gave us a used mower, which I am very thankful for. The grass in our yard gets pretty tall. Our landlord doesn't like it if we go for a week without mowing. And, besides, I think mown grass looks good.  But I was mowing pretty shortly after I received the new mower and I started thinking about Shakespeare. Why is that? I don't know when I started doing this, but sometimes when I am doing something mundane, I like to picture historical figures doing these same things. I guess that it is a form of entertainment to me. So, I think of Abraham Lincoln changing dirty diapers. I think of Florence Nightingale and Julia Roberts doing dishes. I sometimes think of Albert Einstein sitting on the toilet, maybe with diarrhea. I don't think I'm weird to do this. I bet there are other people whose minds work this way.  (But, if not, it's okay.)

    Anyway, I was thinking of Shakespeare, and wondering if he ever had to mow a yard. I don't even know if they had such machines as mowers back in the 1500's. I decided that he did not ever mow. Maybe he pruned hedges, or rose bushes. I am almost certain that he pruned rose bushes and almost as certain that he did not mow yards. I believe that if he had ever mowed a yard, he would have somehow worked it in to one of his writings. He would have had "The Ode to Mowing" or maybe a sonnet. But he didn't. He did mention a rose in one of his writings; "A rose, by any other name..."

   I am convinced that Shakespeare would have written about mowing if he ever did mow. See, when you are out there mowing grass, you have all this time to think. It doesn't take much thought to cut grass, at least, not the way I do it. So you push the mower and you think of other things. (Like the question, "Did Shakespeare ever cut grass?") You think about what you did the week before. You think about how all this rain we are having this spring makes the grass grow faster, and that makes you have to mow more. You think about the fact that it is going to rain for the next three days, and the grass is going to grow again, and you will have to mow it again. How futile is mowing! (I think this would be the first and maybe the last,  line to Shakespeare's "Ode to Mowing".)

   Just saying.

In the Name of Fun

Once upon a time, a man that I know very well used to think that the fun thing to do was to get drunk. I am not going to tell you who the man is, and I will ask you not to ask, please. Anyway, when the man was young, from his late teens, the way he and his friends had fun was to get drunk. I cannot say how long this lasted. I think that there may have been a number of years. I lost track of him and his habits. I know that it was rather a lifestyle thing with him.

The years passed. Somewhere along the way the lifestyle changed and the alcohol was not so important anymore. But the damage had been done. I wouldn't tell you about it at all, would I, if there had not been repercussions? No, because there would be no story in that. A lot of people do things in their youth that they aren't proud of later. It just doesn't profit to talk about it, so we don't. But this is different. I am telling you about this because maybe it will be something that will profit you, if you are wise.

The man is older, but not much older, than me. I saw him last about 8 months ago. He didn't look too bad then. But that was before he started dialysis. It was before the doctors told his family that the cirrhosis in his liver had increased significantly. It was before the operation that he had on his stomach for (yet another) ulcer. One of the man's family members told me that he now looks like a holocaust survivor. He is skin and bones, his face is sunken in, he has dark circles around his eyes. He spends three days a week for several hours at a time hooked up to a kidney dialysis machine. I looked up kidney disease in the encyclopedia. It told me that the people who have lost a kidney or have kidney damage are kept alive by this machine.

Ever since I heard about this change that has come over the man in the last 8 months, whenever I have time to think about it; and even though I am trying not to, I think about him. I am sort of frightened for him. Though he is only a couple of years older than me, I fear he may have an untimely end. His health has gone away. I hope he doesn't read this, yet I am going to post it. I am posting it because there are too many people that I know who might need to pause and think when they drink. "What permanent damage might I be doing to my body?" Permanent damage can be done even when you think it's all in fun.

Of course, not everyone who drinks ends up with permanent liver damage, kidney failure and so forth. But, I ask you, why take the chance? I understand that there are some alcoholic beverages that can be, for some people, medicinal. Maybe moderation is the key. But, please, dear friends and loved ones, please take the time after you read this to evaluate your habits. If you have made it a lifestyle to drink, frequently or infrequently, please consider limiting yourself. Do a study about the risks of alcohol use. Don't judge your use by how much less often you get drunk than your friends. And don't just assume that you are not causing yourself harm, that you can "handle it".  I love you far too much to see you become like the man in my story. (Yes, he is a real person with a name and a family who loves him!) Don't be slowly killing yourself in the name of "fun".

Youngest Son Turns 27

Yesterday, as I was driving in to Mishawaka, the rain turned to rain-and-snow-mixed. It reminded me of the day 27 years ago when we were driving home from the birthing center where our dear Andrew Joseph had just hours earlier presented to the world.  It was the same kind of weather! How nostalgic for me. I remember it all so clearly. It doesn't seem like 27 years have really passed by.

Andy has always been a unique individual. He was the only one of my three children who did not breathe right away. It was just a little alarming to me that they were dragging out the oxygen tank for him, but he finally drew his first breath on his own. Since then, I must confess that Andy has done a lot of things that have been more than "a little alarming." He was the first one of my kids to ever break a bone (his right clavical), and the first one to ever have a concussion, (same accident, fell out of our parked van while we were taking down the balloon after a flight.) He went off on a back-packing trip all over Europe and parts of Asia in 2009 and 2010 for about five months. He was the first one of our kids to graduate from college, even though he is the youngest. He is probably the most out-going and people loving man you will ever want to know. He has his own very strong opinions, but he is not afraid to let you express yours. (Though, watch out, he is ready to argue any point.)

Andy is such a fun guy. He met lots of people on his trip and made fast friends out of them. This weekend, his birthday weekend, he is hosting some friends from Norway. He is taking them on a Viking Bar Crawl. I don't even really know what that is, but I am sure that his friends will have fun, because Andy planned it, and he knows how to have fun.

Andy has a wish to move out of the United States and be part of another culture. He took a lot of Japanese in college, at one time hoping to teach english in Japan. That, so far, has not worked out for him. He has been exploring other avenues to make his dream a reality. I have no doubt that some day he will do just that. I will miss him so much. I already do. But I want my kids to pursue their dreams and to be happy in life.

Happy Birthday, Andy!

Born to Work With Wood

It is just a shame in the day of manufactured housing and big box store cabinetry to know a true craftsman who cannot work his craft. See, that it what my husband is. He is an artist with wood. He created the kitchen you see in this photo. He designed it the old-fashioned way, with a pencil and an idea. True, he got a lot of the ideas about the design from the owner of the home, who knew what he wanted. But Jay put all the measurements together, designed the drawers to all work perfectly, the doors to all hang level, the cabinets to be sturdy, the island cabinet with it's hand made butcher block top...and in hickory wood with a natural finish. Then he built all of it, sanded every piece of wood through several processes. He put it all through his finish shop. I helped a little, and there was another guy at the time, helping. But Jay knew how it had to go together and how to finish it all and then install it. He was a wizard with wood.

This is a musical instrument called a hammered dulcimer. Jay made it. He made 24 of these when he was building them. He also made the cute little stand you see the instrument displayed on, which is adjustable so you can play the instrument while standing or while sitting. He also built the stool you see in the picture. He made a lot of those, too. I have a nice stool that he built at my bedside that I use for a table. It's very handy for keeping my water bottle and my thyroid medication on. Jay tells me that there are so many pieces and parts just in the stool and so much work in the stool alone. He would charge you $130.00 for the stool because of all the work he put into that. But, of course, you can go to Menards and buy one for about $25.00 on sale, so why would you pay $130.00 for this one?

See this table? The top opens and you can store things in it that you might like to display. You could put a hand gun collection in there, he would put a lock on there so it would be safe. Shhhhh, don't tell, but there is also a secret drawer on this table. Jay designed and built and finished this table, even the crazy legs! The legs are mahogany and the rest of the table is curly cherry. Have you even ever heard of curly cherry?

So, see, here we are, in this horrible economy, and all the craftsmen who build lovely things like these are being displaced. If they are lucky, they have a small shop where they can still build beautiful things, and maybe they can sell them and stay in business. If they are lucky. But, so many others, like Jay, have lost their very place in life. If Jay is not working with wood, then what else must he do? Perhaps, he can be a Security Guard. Oh, wait, he tried that. It didn't work out. Perhaps he can work at a trailer factory. Nope. They want people who can whip out ugly little wimpy cabinets in trailer factories. It doesn't matter if it is built to last, it has to just be built fast! Perhaps, just perhaps, he must go to McDonalds and flip hamburgers and fry french fries and come home at night smelling like grease. How very sad that he can't build beautiful things with wood and make a living doing that again. Maybe there is somewhere that he can go in this country and still do that. Maybe there still exists a place where they want things done the old fashioned way and where people don't want to buy the things to furnish their homes from Walmart. Maybe.

It is perplexing to me to see him try, time and again, to do something else. He must keep trying, and he does. But I know that Jay is not the only one who is in the same boat. There are men and women out there who used to build homes. Where are they now? There are very few homes being built, and you can bet the ones who are building them are barely eeking out their costs in building them. (See, there are a few people who still have money and they know that they have these guys over a barrel when the demand is so low for new homes; you can practically name your price!) The craftsmen also have families and bills to pay, and, if they can't do what they are accustomed to doing, what they have been trained to do, what they were born to do, then they become unskilled laborers for someone else. They are no longer independent, self-employed, masters of their trades. They have to go find labor and be happy possibly just working for minimum wages.

I shudder to think what will become of them. I hope, along with them, that things will soon pick back up again, and that they may happily go back to doing what they were born to do. But, I tend to be pessimistic about that happening any time soon. I keep thinking that it is in times like these when the creative thinker sees a new opportunity. What is that old saying "Necessity is the mother of invention." I keep thinking that this is the time to start some new enterprise. But what? What enterprise can you start with no money to invest and very poor credit (getting worse all the time)? We have friends that sell various things who would be glad to get us into their multi-level marketing schemes under them, of course. Been there, done that, not interested, thank you.

We are going to keep plugging away. We now agree that we must find more ways to cut costs and are going to need to move out of this nice, but too expensive place in Middlebury. We could probably make it on my income alone, if we had a smaller rent and less miles for me (or us, when he finds something again) to drive to work.  But how I miss the guy who was happy working with his wood.