Museum Wish List

One of the things I was so excited about moving to San Antonio was the opportunity to check out the myriad of museums. From rare art, animal horns in all shapes and sizes to one of the largest collections in the southern United States of ancient Egyptian, Near Eastern, Greek and Roman art--San Antonio has it all.

I've been to the McNay Art Museum, which I loved, and I am adding the San Antonio Museum of Art to the top of my list. I am so jazzed about seeing so many wonderful exhibits. Dale Chihuly, is a well-known glass artist, and he did a permanent installation of one of his pieces at the San Antonio Art Museum or SAM. It is called "Persian Ceiling," and I am blown away just by the photo and can't wait to see it in person. The colors are so rich and vibrant it makes the blood tingle in my veins.

I was perusing the museum's site the other day and I was floored when I saw the teaser to its Western Antiquities collection. Seeing the photo of seated statue of the goddess Sekhmet made me stop cold. Wow. I want to see this in person and I will.



"The Egyptian collection represents nearly 4000 years of civilization, from the Predynastic through the late Roman and Byzantine periods. A colossal statue of the goddess Sekhmet greets visitors to the Egyptian galleries. Other highlights of the collection are a remarkable Predynastic female figurine carved of ivory and a group of 28 relief sculptures from Amarna, the capital city of the 18th Dynasty king Akhenaten. Among important works representing later phases of Egyptian history are a group of plaster mummy masks and two mummy portraits from the 2nd to 3rd century A.D."


Man, I love history. I can't wait to visit this place.

San Antonio Museum of Art
200 West Jones Avenue
San Antonio, Texas 78215
(210) 978-8100
info@samuseum.org

Wildflowers

I used to think I knew what wildflowers looked like--their breathtaking beauty. All around Bakersfield, if the rain fell just enough and the winds weren't too strong you could see fields of yellows and red and whites. But California has nothing on Texas wildflowers. They take their wildflowers here quite seriously.

Now, in the afternoons as I drive home, I get to enjoy the Texas Bluebonnets in full bloom in the highway divider. As I sit bumper-to-bumper on 281, all I have to do is turn to my left and a mere four feet away are bunches and bunches of blue flowers vigorously growing. We've had the perfect mix of rain and sunshine to nudge the wildflowers into blooms that are picture perfect.

The two dominate species of Bluebonnets are only found naturally growing in Texas and no where else in the world.

As historian Jack Maguire so aptly wrote, "It's not only the state flower but also a kind of floral trademark almost as well known to outsiders as cowboy boots and the Stetson hat." He goes on to affirm that "The bluebonnet is to Texas what the shamrock is to Ireland, the cherry blossom to Japan, the lily to France, the rose to England and the tulip to Holland."
http://aggie-horticulture.tamu.edu/plantanswers/flowers/bluebonnet/bluebonnetstory.html

I learned when we visited LBJ's ranch about Lady Bird Johnson and her passion for wildflowers. Lady Bird talked the government of the State of Texas into planting wildflower seeds along the state's highways. Every year, we are treated to splashes of color and beauty. Many a driver thanks Mrs. Johnson for her foresight into the beautification of Texas.

Jerry and I have visited Wildseed Farms outside of Fredericksburg, Texas. It is the largest working wildflower farm in the country. Acres and acres of flowers so pretty it makes you think it's not real. Something so perfect can't be real, but they are. It's an amazing sight. Trust me; it's something you have to see to believe.

Earliest Memories

What is your earliest memory? I had another one of my random thoughts and it flashed through my brain--A&W root beer. The earliest memory I have is when I was about five years old and my mother had stopped at the A&W Drive In by our house and bought me lunch. She had picked me up from kindergarten and it was a special treat to eat out. I had a hamburger and a root beer. It was just me and my mother. That was a rare treat for the youngest of five children. I still smile when I see an A&W restaurant, although you can't find a drive in anymore.

My next flash of memory was surgeries I had on my ears. Again, I was about five years old. My ear drums had burst and I was in the hospital. I still remember my head being wrapped like a gauzy white mummy head creature. The nurse had set me on a chair while she changed my sheets. (An unfortunate accident. I couldn't get to the bathroom in time.) My face still burns red at the embarrassment I felt so many years ago. It's funny what stays with you. The nurse was kind, and I kept saying I was sorry.

I don't have a continuous memory of my childhood. It's a hit or miss--second grade and seeing the spanking paddle the principal had hanging in his office. Never used on me, but my brother got spanked. Boy, my mother was furious. She threatened to use the board on the principal if he ever used it on my brother again. We kids laughed at that image. Mama could do it, too.

I remember chasing horny toads in the desert and worrying about stepping on scorpions. I remember a cookout on a California beach and family members teasing me that the crabs were going to grab me and drag me into the ocean. I still have a fear of deep water. lol I can close my eyes and still smell the smoke from the fire we built. We had so much fun.

I remember being at a park and to water the grass they would basically flood it. We'd lie down on the grass and soak in the water. It was the closest thing to being in a swimming pool.

I remember a guy who lived near us who didn't like kids crossing his lot, so he put nails upside down in a piece of wood so we kids would step on it with our bare feet. No pain like stepping on a nail. I think he got in trouble for that, but I can't be sure. I can still see the vivid red drops of blood dripping from my foot and crying so hard my eyes swelled up.

I remember a trip my family took to Tijuana, Mexico. The businesses were run down and there was a lot of dirt. I was afraid and excited at the same time. We had our pictures taken on a donkey painted to look like zebra. Even I knew at that young age that it wasn't right. I just enjoyed being on an adventure with my family.



What are some of your earliest memories?

Sounds of Silence

It's a bit ironic, that I struggle to hear every day and yet I find my most peaceful times when I turn off my hearing aids and block out the world. It's not that I don't want to hear what's going on around me. I do. I really do. But I find myself turning off my much needed hearing aids during the day just to calm my soul.

There are times that listening can be highly overrated. It's exhausting to hear. My concentration has to be so focused so I can understand what the heck you normal hearing people are saying that I feel as if I've run a marathon. No wonder I'm so flipping tired when I get home.

It's not that I can't hear what people are saying. It just sounds like you all are mumbling. Trying to clarify the sounds can be frustrating, embarrassing and quite awkward.

"Read my lips."

A former coworker said those words to be thinking he was funny. He wasn't. I wanted to slap the smile off his face into next week. I know I don't hear well. I sure as hell don't need anyone to point it out to me. I've been living with this since I was five years old. I think by now I have a clue.

Fish. Dish. Wish. Words sound alike if you can't hear well. I have responded to questions with wrong answers. I've been laughed at, teased, ignored and even made people mad.

"You hear what you want to hear. You have selective hearing."

I heard those comments many times over the years. Umm, nope. I hear what I can when I can. It can be a hit or miss situation. Not by choice. Trust me. If I had a say in this I'd have perfect fricking hearing. But, guess what? I had NO say in the matter. Crap happens and you deal with it. And I've been dealing with this a long time.

I hate and love the sounds of silence.

Want to know what my world is like? Take cotton balls, shove tightly in both ears. Take a set of ear muffs and put over your ears. Now go into the world and try to communicate to people. Try to work. Try to order food from a fast food drive thru. Try to carry a conversation over the phone. Try to be a good mom and be able to hear when your children cry out for you.

Welcome to my world.

When my sons were babies, I would go to their cribs and put my hands on their chests to know they were breathing. I couldn't hear them. I was petrified I wouldn't be able to know if something was wrong. When the kids and I were home alone, if Jerry was gone for the night for some work trip, I'd barely sleep. How could I protect my sons if I couldn't hear if someone was breaking in the house?

But I survived, and my kids turned out okay. I thank God everyday for letting me be who I am. Yeah, I'm hearing impaired, but the good Lord doesn't give you anything you can't handle. I have and will continue to handle this challenge.

A friend wondered how I could calmly study for a test at a noisy restaurant. Well, with my hearing aids turned off, the sounds are muted and it's peaceful. I can be in a roomful of people and read and not be distracted.

I hate and love the sounds of silence.

Woman's World

"I don't take orders from a woman, I quit." Those words were uttered last week by a young male worker and I am still in shock. In today's work world, women are everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere--from taxi drivers to doctors and every field in between. In all aspects of business life, females are successful. We show up in all levels of the professional world. Not only are we employees and supervisors, we are CEOs and owners of companies, too. Yet, the old ignorant bias still exists.

I try to wrap my head around how someone could say those words and I find that I can't. If either of my two sons even uttered those words I would have disciplined them in a nuclear way. How scum sucking ignorant do you have to be to say that to a woman's face?

Yes, there are still glass ceilings that women have to shatter. It's better now than it's ever been, in my opinion. I'm not blind to the fact that a lot of women do deal with discrimination in the workplace, some successfully, some not so successfully. But having a woman boss is commonplace in many fields of business. It's not that unusual anymore.

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, "In 2008, 59.5 percent of women were in the labor force, and this share has been relatively stable over the past several years."

"In 2008, women accounted for 51 percent of all persons employed in management, professional, and related occupations, somewhat more than their share of total employment (47 percent). http://www.bls.gov/cps/wlf-intro-2009.pdf

So how can this young man say such a stupid comment? I don't know. Maybe it boils down to how they were raised. If they were raised in a household where the wife was subservient to the husband, stayed at home, told that being a "housewife" was the proper way for a woman to act, then I could see the problem.

Being a "good" wife/mother does not mean you have to stay at home, clean the house, raise the kids and not work. Yes, home life is incredibly important, but in this day and age, there has to be a balance. The economy has made it so that both husband and wife must work to maintain a decent life.

You have to respect what women bring to the workforce. We don't weaken it, we strengthen it. We bring empathy, understanding, intelligence, and multi-tasking skills that only benefit businesses and employees.

We've come a long way baby, but apparently we have a long way to go.

Random Origin Thoughts

My brain is always chugging away thinking, thinking, and thinking some more. Random things flitter here and there. At times, it can be quite entertaining what I think of--and today's thought were manila envelopes. Why are they called "Manila?" I said to myself, "Self, learn today why they are called this." And that's what I did when I got home.

The handy dandy Interwebs (which doesn't always tell the truth) educated me on the origins of manila envelopes. I bet you didn't know it's origins. I know I didn't know it until tonight.

The manila component of the name comes from manila hemp or abacá, from which manila folders were originally made. "Manila" refers to the capital of the Philippines, one of the main producers of abacá.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manila_folder


Or so they say. lol.

I don't know. I guess the explanation sort of makes sense to me. Why do we call things the thing we do? What's the point where someone said, "I shall call this steak. Or "from this moment on, I shall call this 'bowel movements. "

I crack myself up.

If you've ever found yourself wondering where words "come from," you might want to check out this site: http://www.etymonline.com/

With it, I learned the following:

Manila
1690s, capital of the Philippines, gave its name (with altered spelling) to manilla hemp (1814), original source of manilla paper (1873).

The dates beside a word indicate the earliest year for which there is a surviving written record of that word (in English, unless otherwise indicated). This should be taken as approximate, especially before about 1700, since a word may have been used in conversation for hundreds of years before it turns up in a manuscript that has had the good fortune to survive the centuries.

According to this site, the word steak comes from:

steak
1440, "thick slice of meat cut for roasting," probably from O.N. steik "roast meat," cognate with steikja "to roast on a spit," and ultimately "something stuck" (on a spit); related to stick (v.).

Maybe I should pronounce it with an accent--something from Monty Python or Shrek. "I'll take my 'steik' well dunnnne please. And make sure it dunnit stick in the barbie when you cook it."

By the way, constipation is an older word than bowel movement. Go figure?


Sometimes, it's a bit scary in my brain.

Smells like an Onion, Feels Like a Fair

I always have an instant sensual memory when I happen to smell onion rings. Tonight, I was picking up dinner at a local hamburger place and Jerry wanted onion rings. From the moment I put the bag in my car and I smelled the rings, the image of the Kern County Fair crossed my mind.

I can close my eyes and visualize walking along the paths with the booths selling corn on the cob, gargantuan hand dipped corn dogs, and mouth watering cinnamon rolls. But it's the smell of fried onion rings that brings those images to mind. Not the smell of corn on the cob or the other items.

Warm, summer nights, the bells and whistles from the midway and trying not to sneeze from the hay bales all these cross my mind. Cowboys, wanna-be cowboys and gang bangers alike walk around the kid goats, bunny rabbits and beautiful horses.

I remember grabbing the boys when they were younger and making goofy faces for the photo booth. We eagerly awaited the strip of photos and made fun of each other. It was geeky fun and I wouldn't trade those memories for any amount of money.

I have to say I do miss the Kern County Fair. We haven't yet gone to a fair here in San Antonio. They hold theirs in February and I just can't gear myself up to go to it. I need my fair at the end of September, beginning of October for it to be a "true" fair.

I think I will just close my eyes and sniff the onion rings and remember times past.

A High Note

I can still remember the talent show in high school. They had a special assembly where those who wanted to perform could sing, dance and play instruments. I had a fantasy of getting on stage and singing my heart out. Only one problem--I can't sing worth squat. In fact, I've been offered money not to sing.

A girl can't catch a break. Even with my lack of talent, I still had dreams of singing. Barbra Streisand, Helen Reddy (lol), and Carole King I was them all at one time or another. Heck, for a couple of months in 1976, I WAS Elton John. I would play my cassette of Crocodile Rock over and over again to learn the lyrics. This was before the Internet. I didn't have the ability to quickly look up the words of a song I loved. I have to focus my time and energy on memorization the hard way. Stop and rewind. Stop and rewind.

Benny and The Jets, Honky Cat, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and Daniel rocked my bedroom. I'd wrap my hand around my hairbrush and screech out the songs--out of tune, and slightly painful to the ears. But I loved it.

I can still watch a musical and dream that I am the lead singer. I'm the one mesmerizing the crowd and the roar of the crowd is for me and what I'm doing.

Hey, a girl can dream.

I remember when rock was young
Me and Suzie had so much fun
holding hands and skimming stones
Had an old gold Chevy and a place of my own
But the biggest kick I ever got
was doing a thing called the Crocodile Rock
While the other kids were Rocking Round the Clock
we were hopping and bopping to the Crocodile Rock

Well Crocodile Rocking is something shocking
when your feet just can't keep still
I never knew me a better time and I guess I never will
Oh Lawdy mama those Friday nights
when Suzie wore her dresses tight
and the Crocodile Rocking was out of sight

But the years went by and the rock just died
Suzie went and left us for some foreign guy
Long nights crying by the record machine
dreaming of my Chevy and my old blue jeans
But they'll never kill the thrills we've got
burning up to the Crocodile Rock
Learning fast as the weeks went past
we really thought the Crocodile Rock would last

A Different Sound

On cold, clear nights as I drove along Highway 99 in Central California I would occasionally catch strains of dialogue and music from a different world than my own. Pumping out 50,000 watts of unique sounds, KTNN-AM haunted me when I was lucky enough to hear it. The station is located in Window Rock, Arizona.

It was a song that first caught my ear--sung in another language. What I first thought was Russian (It was completely foreign to me) was actually Navajo. Drums, chants and a rhythmic movement made me smile. I had no idea what they were singing about--I just knew I liked it. The deep, male voices touched an inner spot in me and I felt an instant karmic kinship. It's goofy, but true.

They played a mixture of modern county music mixed with Native American songs. The night I first caught its signal the radio announcer spoke in Navajo. I didn't have a clue what was being said. It made me envious. I wanted to know what it meant.

It motivated me enough to go out and buy a couple of cds of Native American Chants and music. I still have the cds. I like listening to them when I can. I especially enjoy the flute music.

One called "Beyond Words - Native American Flute - by Wolf," is haunting and is completely relaxing. I could easily see myself getting a full body massage and listening to this cd.



It brings to mind another time, another world where buffalos roamed free across the plains and Native Americans controlled their lives and didn't answer to white men.

I can close my eyes and feel transported.

Phobos Dreams_Chapter Two

I had made arrangements with Cap to meet at my place at 2 a.m. That gave me plenty of time to finish my errands.

My step was lighter as I went from shop to shop. I mentioned to no one else about my plans. I had no other friends. To know that Cap would be going with me made me happier than I had been since the Rebirth had happened.

I had one last stop before returning to my apartment. Long ago, I had turned away from the Rebirth's idea of "Church." The government had altered everything when they took over and "Rebirthed" the Earth.

Any resemblance the Rebirth Church had to churches of the past was lost years ago. The church I walked toward was not in the new, gleaming, sterile building they called "Church." My church was a boarded up building two streets over from my apartment.

I looked both ways before entering the decayed building. Rats larger than small cats scampered across the dirty floor. The building was silent, and oddly peaceful. Filtered sunlight drifted into the room I entered. Against the wall leaned a tall, wooden cross. It displayed remnants of a time past, but not quite yet forgotten.

The rest of the building had graffiti scrawled everywhere. Windows were broken and doors take off their hinges, yet this room was unmarked.

The cross gleamed in the dim sunlight. As my eyes became adjusted tot eh dimness I noticed others in the room.

"Peace be with you," I said softly.

"Please be with you," they replied. Two women and one man were sitting in front of the cross, their hands raised together in prayer.

I sat down on the gleaming floor. This room was spotless. The walls were scrubbed to a point that the wood sparkled. No rats entered this room. The caretaker of the church walked over to me.

"Peace be with you, my sister. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Peace be with you, caretaker. I am here to refresh my soul with goodness and to ask for a favor if I may," I replied, lowering my head in the caretaker’s presence.

"And what favor might that be, my child?"

The caretaker was a woman of an undetermined age. Her long, black hair was braided around her head. Streaks of gray intermingled with the black.

Once, many years ago, I thought the caretaker was a pastor in a church before the Rebirth. I didn't know for sure and I wasn't sure how to graciously ask without offending the caretaker.

"I am going away to another city. I was wondering if I might purchase a copy of the "Book" to take with me. Is that possible?" I asked my eyes not leaving her gentle face.

The caretaker looked at me carefully. It was a federal crime to purchase the "Book." And it was even worse for the person who dared to sell the contraband.

"You know the consequences if you are caught holding the 'Book.' Are you willing to face these consequences? Possessing the 'Book' is also a very important honor. You must protect it with your life," she said reverently.

"Where I am going there are no 'Books.' I must have a copy to take with me. I will guard it with my life."

The caretaker looked around the room, the others seems oblivious to our quiet conversation.

"Come with me."

The woman led me to a side room I had never been in before. It must have been where she slept for there was a small, bare bed against a far wall. No other furniture or decorations were in the room except for a painting on the wall. I hadn't seen a painting like that since I was a child. It was of Jesus Christ nailed to the cross.

I fell to my knees in front of the painting. The caretaker smiled, and gently put her hand to my head.

"It's all right, child. God knows you are a faithful believer. There is still hope out there. Even though the government tells us there is none. Those who believe, those who still trust God, know there is hope no matter what the odds are," her soft voice reassured me.

Raising my head, I looked up at the painting and at the caretaker.

"I am going far away caretaker. I need to take some of that hope with me. May I please have a copy of the 'Book?' "

The caretaker nodded her head and reached under the bare bed. She pulled out a small box and removed a book. She carefully handed it to me.

"You don't have to pay me, child. Just promise not to tell anyone where you got it and guard it with your life. Follow those words and you will live a more wonderful life than many can imagine."

I accepted the book and slipped it into my life pack.

"I am honored by your trust. But, please let me pay you."

"No child, I have all I need. I have the Lord and I have the few faithful who still come to worship. I am already very rich," she said, a beautiful smile filling her face.

"Take care my child, and may peace always be with you."

Tears fell down my face. The peace and love the caretaker exuded filled me with warmth.

"Maybe peace always be with you, caretaker," I replied before quietly leaving the room.

Standing once again inside the room with the cross, I walked over to it and knelt. Saying the one prayer I remembered from childhood, I leaned over and kissed the bottom of the cross. I prayed for a safe journey for Cap and myself.

I was careful leaving the building, knowing the contraband "Book" was in my life pack made me far more aware of the surroundings.

I was finally ready to start a new life. I had all I needed in my life pack. Now, all I needed was Cap.

Phobos Dreams

I stood at the window overlooking the crowded, smog-spewing streets. Escape was the only thought on my mind. Escape from people, places and things. Sirens echoed into the sparse room. Even though I was on the 15th floor of my apartment building, I couldn't escape the harassing sounds of city life.

"God, I want out," I whispered softly. I felt hollowness in my chest. I knew I couldn't take another day in Los Angeles. I was suffocating.

The sharp ring of the telephone made me snap to attention.

"Hello?"

"Do you still want to go?" a deep voice whispered.

My heart felt as if it had stopped. I gripped the telephone so tightly that my knuckles had turned white.

"Yes," I replied. My chest felt as if icicles were stabbed into it.

"We leave at 4 a.m. Be ready," the voice ordered.

"What do I take with me?" I asked. I realized I was talking to dead air.

Packing what I thought were bare essentials, I realized I didn't have to worry about leaving anything behind. I practically owned nothing. My whole life fit neatly into a standard army-issued life pack.

I had twelve hours before I had to leave. I decided to run errands to pick up some needed survival gear. Better safe than sorry, I thought.

Sliding my life pack over my shoulders I headed out the door. I hated going into the streets and avoided it as much as possible. People were mean, animalistic and basically deadly on the streets of Los Angeles. They only cared about themselves and rarely looked out for anyone else. When their bloodshot eyes caught yours, you instinctively knew they were calculating what you had to offer. What could they take from you? Jewelry, money or your life, it didn't matter in what order. The only things important to the street dwellers were themselves.

Two generations before, Earth inhabitants were more caring. They were peaceful and caring to their fellow man. But that was before the change. Rebirth. Ever since then day-to-day life had changed forever.

I rarely thought about what life was like in the past. Hazy faces of my family--my parents and siblings--drifted in my memory. I didn't know if any of them were alive. And I didn't care. The Rebirth had changed everyone--including myself.

But, I knew if I could escape, I could start a new life. A dream life of peace, beauty and the freedom to learn.

I never told anyone of my dreams. I knew no one could make them become reality but me.

Since the Rebirth in 2157, schools were outlawed. Street dwellers had taken over the schools to the point it seemed useless to go through the charade of teaching. Students and teachers were assaulted daily. Murders casually happened in the schoolyard. Everyone carried guns. The government had finally decided it was safer to close the schools forever.

Heading out of my building I felt the full power of the steamy streets. Temperatures today were expected to hit 120 degrees, according to the morning radio report. Ever since the environmentalists got executed in the first days of the Rebirth, Earth's atmosphere had drastically changed.

No one was around to police the world's industrial companies. Large corporations began raiding countries—clear cutting the land, polluting the water and doing what they wanted to make themselves rich. Earth was paying the price.

Temperatures would rise so high during the day that water would boil and fish would die in the ponds. At night, it would get so cold animals would die in their tracks, their bodies stuck in a frozen motion of movement.

I carefully dodged dwellers on the crowded sidewalk. The human stench was unbearable. My stomach clenched as I tried to block out the stale, putrid odors mixed with the cooking smells of the street vendors.

The Army surplus store was only three blocks from my apartment. Sighing with relief, I slipped quietly into the store. Its dark interior was welcoming and familiar.

"Hey, Cap. I need a couple of things," said to an older, grizzled-looking man behind the scarred counter.

"You always need something, Arianne. What's it now? Stun gun? A magic powder to make people disappear??" he growled.

"What? You have something new in? A powder? Does it work?" I asked teasingly.

The old veteran who ran the store fought through more wars than I thought possible. He knew everything about war. He would have still been fighting if he hadn't gotten kicked out for assaulting a superior officer. Cap had a few problems--he had a hair-trigger temper and he hated all forms of authority. The military couldn't prosecute Cap because he was decorated more than most of their generals. He was a national hero.

So they retired him, and gave him enough money to start a new life. Cap opened up the surplus store. The Army was all he knew. And since the Rebirth, Cap's business had boomed. People wanted to protect themselves and to survive. That's where Cap came in.

Most of Cap's goods were probably off the black market, but I wasn't going to be the one to ask him.

I handed Cap the short list of items I needed for my trip.

"Do you have these things?"

Cap looked over the list. His clear blue eyes missed nothing. He glanced up at me, slowly looking at me from head to toe.

"You going somewhere, Missy? his gravely voice boomed across the room.

"Cap, I need this stuff, either you have it or you don't. I don't have time for bullshit."

Cap hesitated, quietly staring at me. "I've got it. Some of it is in the back," he said. "Follow me."

The dusty shelves in Cap's back storage room held everything from beeswax to bullets. No one would ever think of stealing from Cap. He had two bodyguards that sat in the front of the store, ready to kill anyone he pointed at--no questions asked.

Cap pulled some boxes out from under a bench and opened the flaps. He reached in and grabbed an ionic laser torch.

"There's not much call for these since they outlawed off-planet travel. Visitors haven't requested many of these things being that they only work in low to zero gravity. I don't think I will ask why you want it."

"Good, because I'm not going to tell you. And give me two of them. Also, I need a case of dehydrated e-rations, water tablets and do you have any seeds for low-gravity farming?"

Cap stopped in mid-motion and sat down on the hard, wooden bench. He took a deep, weary breath and stared up at me.

"Low-gravity farming? Arianne, what the hell are you going to do? he asked, even though he had already guessed what my answer would be.

Cap was one of the few humans I liked. Even through all of his orneriness I knew what he was like deep inside. We had a mutual respect for each other. What I didn't know until later that Cap thought of me as the daughter he never had, or ever could have.

"I can't take it anymore, Cap. This town is going to kill me if I stay here any longer. I am getting away. I am going to start a new life somewhere else. And I can't do it here on Earth. Please, don't tell anyone," I pleaded, my hand resting on his arm. Curled white scars stood out obscenely against the curly red hair on his arms.

Cap put his huge hand over mine and gently squeezed it.

"I won't say a word. If you are sure this is what you want to do," he replied, staring at me, as if to memorize my features. I wondered if he'd miss me not harassing him on a weekly basis.

"It's what I have to do, Cap." I hesitated a moment and then impulsively said, "come with me." I realized at this point in my life I didn't want to lose the only friend I had ever had.

Cap stared at me. He first appeared shocked at my words. Go with me? Leave his business, his life? It was then that Cap realized he had no life. He had no family, and more importantly had no mission since they kicked him out of the army.

He made up his mind in an instant. "Tell me all about your plans," he said with determination.

I laid out all of the details as quickly as I could.

"And this 'Coyote' is going to pick up at 4 a.m.?"

"Yes. I can only take what I can put in my life pack. He is going to smuggle me aboard a routine garbage scow to Phobos. There are still people living out in space, Cap. The government just don't want anyone to know it. They know that people will leave in droves and abandon Earth," I said, my pale face flush with excitement.

"Since the Rebirth, the government said they abandoned all space colonies. They outlawed all space travel except for garbage dumping and industrial exploration for minerals and such. What makes you think you can get away?" he asked, his hand gripping mine.

"Do you always believe everything the government says?" I asked in a sarcastic tone. "Yes, they have abandoned some colonies. It was horrible; they just took people straight out of their homes and brought them back to Earth. Many committed suicide once they returned. The government lied to them. The government also said when the Rebirth happened that the world would be a better place and crime would no longer exist. Look outside, it's a war zone. You can't go across town without being shot at."

"Okay, I get your point," Cap said. He hesitated for a moment, his eyes looking around the room.

"Will your 'Coyote' accept me, too? Will he let me go with you?" he asked.

"He will if I pay him. He will take whoever I want. It's all the money I have, but it's worth it to get off this stinking planet. I won't need their money where I am going. It will mean nothing to me in my ... our new life."

Cap moved around the room, collecting more items and stacking them on the bench. "I have more than enough money myself, Missy Mae. You don't need to pay my way. So tell me what you have and I will bring the rest. If we are going to start a new life, we need to be prepared for anything and everything."

Cap felt invigorated. He rubbed his hands through his shortly cropped red hair. It was amazing how a few moments ago he felt old and useless. Now he was making a mental list of items needed for their mission. He had a purpose again.

"Thank you, Cap," I said, hugging the grizzled veteran.

Cap looked startled as I hugged him. We rarely had any physical contact besides me occasionally punching him in the arm. He wrapped his bear-like arms around me.

"Let's get cracking, Arianne. We have a new life to start."


.... to be continued.

© Robin Bailey

Vindication

When Jerry and I moved to San Antonio I appeared to have picked up a correction echo. One of the major roads around here is called "San Pedro." Just like the city in California. So, me being me, pronounced it the way I've always pronounced it. "San Peeeee dro." Well, Jerry suddenly began correcting me. "San Peh dro." It an ongoing argument between us. I say it my way, he feels he has to correct me.

"I'm right," I defend myself.

"You're wrong. You don't call the guy Peee dro. You call him Peh dro," he argued.

Well, everyone around here, including the media, pronounce it Jerry's way. I was not happy. But I was vindicated when listening to KNX radio on my IPhone. A major news radio channel in Los Angeles, KNX announcers ALL pronounced it the way I do... San Peee dro.

I called Jerry to tell him how I was vindicated. I was pronouncing it properly. At least, in Los Angeles, I was. lol

San Pedro is a port neighborhood of the city of Los Angeles, California, United States. It was annexed in 1909 and is a major seaport of the area. The town has grown from being dominated by the fishing industry to become primarily a working class town within the City of Los Angeles. The name of the town is pronounced /sænˈpiːdroʊ/ by its residents, even its Hispanic residents, rather than by its Spanish pronunciation [samˈpeðɾo].

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/San_Pedro,_Los_Angeles,_California

You win some. You lose some.


I'm still right.

Silent Thoughts

The hands moved gracefully through the air. With a gentle tip and swish the woman communicated in a silent, yet incredibly boisterous language. Her long blonde hair was held back with a delicate seashell hair clip. The inner light that shone from her face was so raw, so powerful that it made Rae lose her breath. Rae stood in the checkout line at the grocery store and did her best not to stare at the young blonde woman and a man as they carried on their conversation.

"Geez, what the hell are they doing?" Rae heard a rude voice directly behind her. She turned around and eyed the person who had spoken. He stood slouched against the checkout stand. It was a twenty-something holding a bottle of Pepsi and a pack of cigarettes in his hand. Rae noticed his nails were jagged and bitten to the quick. His hair was cut extremely close to his head and dyed a shocking pink. Not only did his nose sport a ring, but so did both ears and his lip. She briefly imagined other places on him that were pierced, but quickly tried to erase the disturbing image.

"Looks like they are talking idiot talk to me." The man's companion, almost a carbon copy of his friend, looked at the couple and laughed.

Rae cringed and fought the urge to lean over and slap the man across the face. A white, cold hatred rose from her belly. The couple were not aware of what the men had said. They waited for their groceries to be rung up and continued with their conversation. The deaf man's hands danced a rhythmic dance, his face contorting, exaggerating his conversation. Rae tried to give them privacy, but she could tell the man was relating a funny story to his wife. They both wore smiles that instantly made others around them smile, without knowing why.

That is, except for the two rude men standing behind Rae. She debated what to do, whether to say something or keep her mouth shut. She knew she would say something. Her temper always got the better of her--especially in a situation like this. Her own personal safety flew right out the window when it came to such ignorance.

"That's not idiot talk, you moron. They're speaking sign language. They're deaf." Rae heard herself speak the words before she knew it.

The men stared at Rae as if she had just landed from another planet. It wasn't often that someone responded to their talk.

"Yea, sign language. You mean like this?" The first young man moved his dirty, nail-bitten hand and wiggled it obscenely in the air. He started to laugh and the other one joined in.

Rae took a deep breath and tried to keep the bile down that kept rising up in her throat. She turned to see that the couple was still oblivious to the teenagers’ actions. She returned her gaze back to the men who were slapping each other on the back for what they thought was a good joke.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves. Acting like this. You should know better than to treat people that way. Why don't you guys just grow up?" Rae stood there with a disgusted look on her face. The men looked abashed for a brief second then they went back to their antics mimicking the deaf couple's conversation.

"I wouldn't keep that up if I were you." Rae threatened.

The twenty-somethings laughed at her and shook their heads.

"Oh, I guess we'd better be afraid of this chick. She might kick out butt," the second guy said in an exaggerated tone. He moved his shoulders side-to-side, his leather Doc Marten boots squeaked as he shifted his weight.

Rae turned as her groceries were moved forward. She gripped her purse so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. She noticed that the deaf couple had finished their transaction and were headed out the door into the night. As far as Rae knew they were not aware of what happened. The men were laughing and goofing off behind Rae. They taunted and began making her the target of their attention.

"Knock it off you two," snapped the checkout clerk. The men quieted down. It probably helped that the clerk was a well-built man whose muscles bulged out of his blue and white shirt. It didn't make Rae feel any better about what had happened. She kept her mouth shut and as soon as the clerk was done ringing up her groceries she quickly left the store.

The punks laughed as she headed out the door. She could hear them calling her names.

It was less than five minutes later that the two of them came out of the store and walked across the parking lot to a dented blue Ford that was illegally parked in two handicapped parking spaces. The driver opened the door and tossed his soda and cigarettes into the dirty front seat. Empty beer cans sat on the floor alongside remnants of past meals. The driver didn't realize he'd been hit until he felt his body slam into the metal door frame.

"What the fuc...?" Another swift kick slammed him onto the ground. He heard his buddy yell and run around the car. Before he could raise himself up he saw his buddy fall beside him in the darkened parking lot. He felt a strong kick on his back as both he and his buddy were being pummeled. Kick after kick. No spot was spared. The kicks came so fast they couldn't move. He cried as each kick found tender spots on his body.

"Leave us alone. Leave us alone." They yelled, pain filling their voices. Both laid still, their hands over their heads to protect their acne-scarred faces.

They heard their assailant breathing hard. The person finally leaned over the first boy and whispered in his ear. "Don't ever make fun of someone who is different from you. Especially, if they are deaf. Or I'll come back and finish the job."

The driver was shocked at the voice he heard. A woman's voice threatened them. His face wore a look of disbelief. He heard footsteps and raised his head and watched as the woman from the grocery store walked slowly away. She tucked her shirt back into her pants and pulled out her car keys.

"A fucking woman kicked our ass?" The first punk was stunned into silence. His buddy just shook his head and painfully raised himself to the side of the car. There were no other people in the dark, empty parking lot. No one had witnessed the fight. No one had seen them get beaten up by a girl.

"Let's get the hell out of here," he finally said. They carefully sat in the front seat. Blood trickled out of the second one's mouth. He ran his tongue over a loose tooth in the front left side if his mouth. The driver was sure he had a busted rib.

"Do you want to go after her?" His passenger asked, using his dirty, plaid shirt to wipe blood from his mouth.

The driver looked at the retreating woman. She drove away as if nothing had happened. Her Toyota 4Runner leaving slowly, as if daring the boys.

"Hell, no. She ain't worth it."

Rae looked into her rear view window as the two men sat in their car. She took deep breaths and tried to get her pulse down to normal. She had lost her temper. She admitted it. But those two deserved it. If anyone deserved a good ass kicking it was those two punks.

She reached into her change tray and slipped her two hearing aids back into her ears. She hadn't wanted to fight with them on. Those little things were expensive to replace. Anyway, she decided she didn't need to hear to teach those two punks a lesson.

Her favorite song was playing on the radio and she loudly sang along.

© Robin Bailey

Irish Ties and Other Tales

Bernie heard the sounds in the darkness off to his left before he saw the killers. Mickey and Aaron were stalking him like a wild animal. Sweat dripped down his face, blurring his vision and burning his eyes. He dared not wipe it away.

The glare from their flashlights bounced off the walls, methodically searching for their prey. Bernie was sure he looked like a deer frozen in deadly headlights. He leaned into the cartons that hid him from the pair, trying to make his short body as invisible as possible as the goons walked past his hiding spot.

"Come on out Bernie, there's no way you are going to escape, you know," Mickey's whiny voice echoed in the large warehouse.

Aaron stopped almost even to where Bernie was hidden and turned his head as if he could hunt Bernie down through echoes. Bernie became as still as a statue. He held his breath, afraid Aaron would hear his ragged breathing.

Minutes--to Bernie they felt like hours--trickled by. Finally, Aaron moved forward. Bernie quietly exhaled and prayed once again to whomever it was watching over him to save his butt. He'd be good. He'd stop gambling, drinking and cheating on his wife. If only he'd get out of there alive.

Bernie's small eyes carefully looked over the piles of boxes stored in the marina warehouse. Rotten fish smells intermingled with the salt of the Atlantic Ocean. It was dark and quiet and Bernie knew if his rotten luck didn't change he wasn't going to live to see another sunrise over New York City.

"Bernie, you know I how I hate to do this, but you brought it on yourself." Aaron's deep voice still had tinges of Irish brogue behind it.

"You stupid fegger. Didn't you think that Little Moe would find out you stole his money?"

Bernie heard them yell more obscenities as they moved farther down the warehouse walkway. Bernie was starting to piss them off by not showing himself so they could get their job done and be on their way. They had things to do and places to go.

Bernie stole the money. He wouldn't deny it. The money had been there for the taking. Little Moe had tons of money. Bernie had figured he wouldn't miss measly $75,000. He was wrong.

"You shouldn't have stolen from one of your own, Bernie. It was really stupid. Little Moe is very unhappy. He trusted you. He loved you like a son. And you went and betrayed him. Very, very stupid," Aaron said.

Bernie heard a gun go off and he felt as if his heart left his body. A warm sensation slipped down his leg and he realized he had wet his pants. He slowly slid down to the cold cement floor and closed his eyes. He wrapped his arms around his knees and hugged them tightly, not saying a word.

"Did you get him?" Mickey asked hopefully. He had a hot date planned for the next day and he wanted to go home and get some rest.

Girls always went gaga for his looks. His red hair, blue eyes and big muscles made girls swoon. Then they got a taste of his hot temper. Most of his dates rarely went past the third meeting. But Mickey didn't care. There was a ready supply of unsuspecting women willing to date him.

"Shit, no. Must have been a rat or something," Aaron said, looking around the darkness. Where Mickey was bulky, Aaron was skinny. Many men had underestimated his strength and died because of it. Aaron boasted slim muscles that were mean and tight. That summed up Aaron's personality, too. Aaron was totally fearless. He had no relatives except his adopted uncle, Little Moe, to whom he was completely devoted.

Aaron silently motioned for Mickey to move over to the far walls of the warehouse and move back the way they just came.

"Bernie, come on out. Let's talk about it, you know. Maybe we can go back and talk to Little Moe and you can give him back his money and things will be okay."

Bernie held his head in his hands. Still squatting behind the cartons. He felt dizzy, sick and tired. He had a blind hope that maybe things could be worked out. Maybe Little Moe would forgive him and he could go on with his life.

"Bernie, listen. I'll make you a deal. You come out now and we will go straight to Little Moe. You can tell him your story and get him to change his mind."

Aaron and Mickey were closing back in on Bernie. He could hear their voices move toward him. He had no choice. He knew they were going to find him.

The room was becoming brighter as the sun came up over the bay. Bernie could discern more around him as boxes became visible. He read the words on the cartons. "This Way Down." Bernie had to stifle a crazy laugh. Those three words summed up his life at this point. This way down. Down to misery. Down to fear. Down to death.

He decided to take a chance and let the goons take him to Little Moe. Maybe he could talk his way out of this. He'd been in tight spots before and pulled his way out. Why not now?

"This is your last chance, Bernie. Come on out now and we won't hurt you."

Bernie stood up, pulled his shoulders back and stepped out into the walkway.

"Don't shoot. I'm coming out. You promised you wouldn't hurt me. I can explain everything, you know," Bernie said, walking into the open. He stood embarrassed and scared at the same time. An obvious stain was spread out in the crotch of his dirty gray pants.

"He lied," Mickey said, taking aim at Bernie and shooting him straight-on between the eyes. Bernie fell instantly upon the cold, hard floor.

"We've got to work on this lying of yours Aaron, me boy. It's not a very good personality trait, you know," Mickey said, stepping over Bernie's sprawled form and walking side-by-side with Aaron to the warehouse front door.

"I know, Mickey. It'll be the death of me yet," Aaron said, slamming the metal door shut behind him.

The sun rose quietly over the dark water. Mickey and Aaron climbed into their Cadillac, oblivious to the beautiful sunrise that was filling the sky.

© Robin Bailey

Pico de Gallo

It seems once I drove across the border into Texas, I developed a hankering for pico de gallo. The mixture of onions (I prefer red onions in my recipe); tomatoes, cilantro, garlic, lime juice, and jalapenos just seem to hit the spot. Many times the salsa that arrives to our table, along with the chips, is too thin. We always order a side of pico de gallo. Half goes into the salsa and the other half goes into our meal.

There must be restorative powers in that mixture because it always makes me feel better after eating it. Jerry's Aunt Wynema and Uncle Daniel taught us their way to eat chips. They take sliced lemon or lime and squeeze it over the chips, add extra salt and munch away. It adds another dimension to the chips and salsa.



Whatever way you like it, pico de gallo is the nectar of the Gods.

Here's a recipe you might want to try out:

Pico de Gallo
Bon Appétit | July 2000

1 1/2 pounds plum tomatoes, seeded, chopped
3/4 cup chopped onion
1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro
3 tablespoons fresh lime juice
3 tablespoons minced seeded jalapeño chilies (about 2 medium)
1 garlic clove, minced

Mix all ingredients in medium bowl. Season with salt and pepper. (Can be made 4 hours ahead. Cover; chill.)

These are a few of my favorite things

Red sauce on spaghetti and winters in Texas
Breakfast at Bill Millers and homemade fleece blankets
Watching the cat warm by the fireplace
These are a few of my favorite things

Clear morning traffic and Sea Island clam chowder
Dramatic sunsets and clear huge blue skies
Wild bats that fly with the moon on their wings
These are a few of my favorite things

Tourists with shorts worn in the winter
Weather that changes from hour to hour
Homeowners who buy corn feed for deer in the spring
These are a few of my favorite things

When the new books arrive
When the chocolate is bought
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad

at all........

Live Laugh Love

I love a good laugh. A day that I have a spontaneous belly laugh or even better, a good gigglesnort, is a good day indeed. A healthy sense of humor is appreciated. Someone who can make you laugh, that's what many women want. Personally, I don't want stupid humor. I like intelligent humor. Sometimes silly humor is appreciated, but what I call "toilet bowl" humor is a turn-off.

I loved the Carol Burnett show--between her, Tim Conway and Harvey Korman I used to laugh so hard I'd cry. It was especially hilarious when they wanted to bust each other up laughing. I swear I think they loved making the other one crack up.



Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.
-- Kurt Vonnegut



Make sure to laugh every day. It feels good and makes you appreciate life. Go ahead and gigglesnort. I won't laugh.


Not. ROFLMAO

Ouranosaurus, Tumbleweeds and Giants

I lived a good portion of my life in a rinky dink town called Sun Valley, Nevada. It's about a 15 mile stretch of trailers, tumbleweeds and horney toads outside of Reno, Nevada. As a kid there wasn't much to do in my neighborhood. No playgrounds. No parks. No roller rinks. Pretty much all we had was dirt, sagebrush and scorpions to play with--and in the Spring the sagebrush could make you itch when it was blooming.

What I did have was a very active imagination. One of the things I used to imagine as I kicked back under my parent's weeping willow tree, was the mountains that surrounded us were actually sleeping dinosaurs. The rugged hills were brown, rough looking and definitely had the essence of an Ouranosaurus. Sometimes, their faces poked out of the rocks, eager to take a bite of me as I walked by.



With a huge holler (which strangely sounded like a jet engine of a passing plane), the Ouranosaurus would come to life and wander around our valley. He'd nibble on some sagebrush, stretch out his legs and occasionally chase a baby blue Ford pickup truck.

Every now and then, a black haired giant would step over the hills and join the Ouranosaurus in its chase of the elusive Ford truck. The giant often caught the truck and would lift it high into the air, peeking in at the screaming humans in the truck's cab. I'd laugh and he'd gentle set them down on Pearl Avenue to screech away, dogs barking and kids crying.

The dinosaurs and giants kept me company on those lonely summer days. They didn't wander in the winter. They hibernated until the following Spring.

If I'm really quiet, I can sometimes hear the dinosaur hollering even here in Texas. He knows where to find me. I'm looking forward to springtime.

Oh my!

I had a handful of crushes when I was a teenager. At the time, they were passionate and meaningful. Actors, singers and an occasional neighborhood boy captured my heart. I am the first to admit that I had a major crush on Leif Garrett. Hey, I was a kid and he was cute. I learned the words to all of his songs. I bought his albums. (I still own his albums) I played them over and over again. I daydreamed.

Yes, I know what he looks like now.



It doesn't change how I felt for him back then. It was real. Ah, young love. Another guy I had a crush on was Lance Kerwin. Come on, "James at 15," was the show I watched.



I think I mostly had a thing for blond guys. Funny, considering I married a dark haired guy. lol Lets just say most of the young guys I had crushes on when I was a teenager sure as heck didn't age well as they grew up.

I think Shaun Cassidy is one of the few that looked great then, and looks nice now.



I don't discount the attractions I felt as a teenager. My hormones were going nuts. It's a normal progression to the emotions I faced when I began dating. Life is not an afterschool special and, no, Scott Baio never did step up to my door to ask me for a date. It doesn't mean I didn't dream about it. lol




Young love is a flame; very pretty, often very hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. The love of the older and disciplined heart is as coals, deep-burning, unquenchable.

Henry Ward Beecher

Imaginations

Ever since I was a kid I've often wondered how other people live. As a passenger in my parent's car or even my own as I got older I would stare at the houses we'd drive by. Little houses, big houses, red houses, and even purple houses--they sat on the side of the road full of people and animals.

What did the owners do for a living? How did they wind up living where they did? Was the house left to them by a dying aunt? Did they purposely pay money to own the 600 square foot bungalow that looked more like a shed than a place someone would call home?

Are they happy? Are they like Mother Hubbard and have more kids than they knew what to do with? Or were they the grumpy couple who hated kids and chased them off their lawns?

I wanted to know who those people were--did they hug their kids or beat their parents? Were they honest souls or crooks who stab me without a second thought?

Were they teachers, bus drivers, chefs or businessmen? Were they allergic to strawberries or dance naked by the light of a full moon? Do they have a brother-in-law sleeping on the sofa kicked out by a pissed off wife?

In the briefest of moments as I drove past their homes I wondered these thoughts. I never really got my answers.

Did the wonder the same thing about me and mine?

Dreamy Christmas

Wandering around shopping one day, I happened to stumble upon a Thomas Kinkade gallery. I had heard of him before, but wasn't quite sure what the story was behind his artwork. I knew I sort of liked it, but it was way outside my budget. Yes, it's a bit smarmy, in my opinion, but also it's hopeful. It harkens back to a time some of us wish we could go--a simpler time, and a simpler life.

Okay, maybe just a dream life that is simpler. I would love to live in one of his paintings for just one Christmas. They always look like they are more enjoyable, softer, safer, sweeter and what Christmas should be like--perfect. Which, as many of us know, Christmas doesn't always work out that way.

Mine are usually pretty good, but I know if I lived in one of Thomas Kinkade's paintings it would be perfection.

What painting would you want to step into and live?

Passion for Pixar

The love affair began with "Toy Story." From the first moment I saw Woody strutting across the screen my heart was lost. At the time, there was nothing like it. The richness of the animation was a feast for the eyes. The music was captivating, the storyline sweet, sad and pleasantly entertaining. One after another hit the screens--A Bug's Life, Toy Story 2, Monsters, Inc., Finding Nemo, The Incredibles, Cars, Ratatouille, WALL-E and, now, Up.

I have seen them all. I own them all. I can't say I bought them for my grandchild, because I owned almost all of them before Gabriel was born. I bought them for me. Jerry is not as big a fan of Pixar animation as I am. I am a major geek about the Pixar movies. I have seen them more than once and I'm not embarrassed to admit it.

When I have chores to do, I pop in Toy Story 2 or Monsters, Inc. I can listen to the soundtrack as I clean and it's great. The animation is so pleasing to the eyes. The colors are soothing, the realism is amazing and I just really enjoy the movies.

If you haven't seen any of these movies, SHAME ON YOU. Even if you don't have kids, these movies are worth watching and owning.

Hey, I'm a Pixar geek and proud of it.

Where did this come from?

It seems as I get older I have new things appear that I never had before. And I don't mean gray hair. lol I suddenly realize I really don't like heights. They weren't my favorite growing up, but I never let it stop me from doing things. I got into a small plane with my aunt as a pilot. Trust me, if that's not stupid faith, I don't know what is. (You had to have known my aunt).

I easily climbed walls, roofs, trees and such. But as the years went by I became more afraid. For work, I went up in a hot air balloon, 1,500 feet in the air. There was nothing between me and the ground but a small piece of plywood. No parachute, no safety belt--nothing. I still managed to function, albeit a bit slower.

Three years ago, when we visited the Grand Canyon, it took all my will power to walk to the path to the viewing area. Jerry and the boys were fine. They laughed, pointed and enjoyed themselves. Me? I found I couldn't catch my breath. I became dizzy. I was experiencing a panic attack. The vastness of the Grand Canyon blew me away. Have you seen it in person? It's flipping huge. There is so much.... space, it's completely overwhelming.

And last year when I climbed onto our roof to help put on the Christmas lights I felt the icy cold breathe of fear. My knees shook and I leaned over to clip the lights in under the shingles. I felt if I leaned just one more inch over to adjust the lights I was going to fall on my head. I'm going. I'm a goner.

I hurried up and as I slid over to the ladder to get down I realized I couldn't do it. I couldn't step onto the ladder. My legs felt like Jell-O. I was shaking so hard. I sat there on the roof and realized I was going to be there all night. I told Jerry I couldn't do it. "Come on down," he urged. "You can do it."

"No. I can't." I wanted him to go inside and open up the guest bedroom's window so I could crawl into it into the house. But Jerry chided me to climb down the ladder. As he held it, I finally climbed down.

I'm not going up there this year if I can help it. I don't want Jerry going up there either. If I do go up, I'm coming down via the bedroom window. No more downward ladder exits for me.

Just the thought of going up there gives me gray hairs.

A Thousand Years Over a Hot Stove

It's fitting that I should pull out one of my favorite books as Thanksgiving is approaching. "A Thousand Years Over A Hot Stove," by Laura Schenone is great for someone who loves women's history and the history of cooking. It gives a different insight into the past than the normal dusty tomes.

Most of our history has been given to us from a male viewpoint. I don't mean to knock it, but that's only one viewpoint. The highlights have usually centered on men.

Well, guess what? Women have a colorful and interesting history, too. The writer pulls much of what she writes about from oral history of women. That's where people actually sat down and talked to the older women from all cultural levels of life and asked them first hand what it was like growing up. I love reading those accounts.

What I like about this book is that she shares historical recipes that I haven't seen anywhere else. I have learned how to cook locusts. That's right. Locusts.

Remove legs, wings, and head of insect. Brown the rest in the ashes and eat. It tastes like peanuts. Used to be eaten in the old days, but now mostly by children. Used as medicine to cure stomach ache and prevent measles, smallpox or other contagious diseases. --Flora L. Bailey "Navaho Foods and Cooking Methods," 1940

I know, I'm a slight freak. I can't help it. I love history.

I bought this book for my Women's History class at college. But it actually combines my two loves--history and cooking. I relate to the writer's comments in the intro of the book.

"Though the majority of American women may no longer slaughter pigs, preserve peaches, or make their own tortillas, the effort of cooking continues to be largely women's work, a major force in the rhythm of our lives, keeping us alive, and bringing us together around the table with those we like, those we love, and those we need. Perhaps this is why cooking still matters to women."

I have pulled the book out of my bookcase and I'm going to re-read it this week. If there is ever a time to remember cooking and women's history this is it. My husband made a comment to me recently that since the kids are elsewhere and we are alone, that I didn't need to stress out making a Thanksgiving meal. He didn't get it. I make our Thanksgiving meal because it shows how much I love them. I might look stressed out, but it's a good stress. It's my way of artistically showing them how much I love them. I care deeply about my cooking. It might not be perfect, but it's from the heart.

If you get the chance to read this book, I highly recommend it.

Foggy Thoughts

I can't help myself; I bust out laughing when people in San Antonio complain about the fog. Fog? San Antonio. Please. You want to complain about fog, try driving through Tule fog. Now, that's some serious fog. I once drove into Bakersfield from Arvin where the fog was so thick that I couldn't see the past the front hood of the car. I had to drive with the window rolled down and sticking my head out every so often to try to find the white line in the road. I drove what was normally a 30 minute drive that took me almost an hour and a half. I had to drive so slow to be safe. I couldn't follow the tail lights of the car in front of me, because they could be driving off the road themselves.

People in San Antonio get so nervous in their "fog." Geez. Their fog is pretty, somewhat thin and you can easily see down the road at least four car lengths. That's a clear day in Central California. lol

But, in Bakersfield I had to laugh when it snowed six inches that one year. Residents there freaked out. They had no clue how to drive in snow. I mean come on, this is not that much snow.



When I was a kid, I had to walk to school in snow that reached my knees. Just like those stories you hear about. lol Only they were true. I used to walk in the wheel tracks of cars that drove on the road just so I didn't have to keep sinking in the snow. Once I started to drive, then I learned of a new terror. Reno can get some amazing snow storms. I can still remember driving to University of Nevada, Reno with snow like this:



Man, scraping snow/ice off your windshield was a biotch. And what's worse than driving in thick snow was hitting black ice. With black ice, it's not like you can see it to avoid it like a snow drift. With black ice, especially at night, you hit it and before you know it you are doing wheelies in the middle of a busy road. Ughhh

I guess I'm a seasoned driver. I've driven in the worst of the worst. Snow storms, Tule fog and rain that flooded the road as I drove over it.

San Antonio fog is bad. Yeah, right. rofl

Military Dreams

When I was a freshman in high school I decided that when I graduated I would join the Army. My oldest brother, Tommy, was in the 101st Airborne Division in the Army and I was and am very proud of him. I was devastated to learn that because I was hearing impaired I would not be able to join.

It didn't matter that I was completely healthy, physically fit, intelligent and eager to join. I wasn't good enough. As a woman, I knew I wouldn't be allowed to be on the front line. I could deal with that--but as a hearing disabled person I apparently didn't have anything valuable enough for the military.

It sucked big time. I was so disappointed. I still feel I would have thrived in a military atmosphere. I could have been an asset in whatever position they put me in. I didn't care where I worked, I just wanted to help.

Military pride runs deep in my family. Practically every generation of my family has been in the military all the way back to the American Revolutionary War.

Samuel King was my 6th great grandfather. He was born in Clogher, Northern Ireland in 1746. He emigrated from Northern Ireland at age 23 in 1769. Samuel King enlisted December 9, 1776, as a Private in Co. K, 11th Virginia Regiment of the Continental Army commanded by Col. Daniel Morgan. He was captured at Germantown and listed as a prisoner on a muster roll call October 14, 1777. He apparently escaped and appeared on the Philadelphia Co., Pennsylvania muster roll on February 17, 1778, in Camp Valley Forge under General George Washington.

His patriotic blood runs in my veins. I hold my hand over my heart when I sing the national anthem. I know I wouldn't be where I am today if it wasn't for my brave ancestors fighting for our freedoms.

I honor and respect every soldier who has been in any segment of the armed forces. My oldest son is in the Air Force. My father and brother were in the Army. My grandfather was in the coast guard. My relatives were in the Civil War (on both sides). My ancestors have fought in every single war back to the beginnings of our country. Heck, they probably fought in more wars prior to that time in England, Scotland and Ireland where my ancestors are from. I just haven't found documentation of that yet.

I only wish I had the chance to add to that honor. Oh well.

This nation will remain the land of the free only so long as it is the home of the brave. -Elmer Davis

Here I Go Again

I am the first one to admit I can be a crybaby. I get emotional over tv shows, movies, heck even commercials. Right now, I am watching the tv show, "The Locator," and I'm teary eyed. I normally don't cry in my every day life. There's just something about sad tv shows, movies and the such that get to me. This episode shows a young woman wanting to find her father whom she hasn't seen since she was 12. This young woman has terminal cancer. My gosh, she's young, and she has four kids. Luckily, her father is found and they are reunited. I'm bawling like a baby.

I keep telling myself that crying at times like this is good for me. It's healthy to cry. It's not something to be ashamed of--no matter how much my boys and husband tease me about it. It relieves stress, releases toxins from the body and calms your soul.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. lol

That's also why I am so careful about what movies I watch. I am quite empathetic with the characters. I feel way too much. Yes, I know it's a movie, but I get into them. Especially if it's a good movie. I will stick to watching comedies. Those I can handle. I love to laugh and that also feels good.

I can watch sporting events and get emotional. Especially with the Olympics. Who didn't get teary eyed when the 1980s USA hockey team won? Huh? I dare you to deny it.



Go ahead, call me a crybaby. I can take it.

Take a Deep Breath and Relax

Lately, I've really gotten into meditation. I have an IPOD that I listen to every night as I go to sleep. I pop my ear plugs in and within minutes I'm out cold. It used to be that it would easily take 20 to 30 minutes for my brain to stop thinking and finally relax enough for me to fall asleep. Between an overactive brain and Jerry's snoring, I'm lucky if I got five hours of sleep a night. And, boy I dreamed so much I'd wake up more tired than when I went to bed.

I discovered Kelly Howell on ITunes. She offers up a unique style of meditation music. It utilizes subliminal brain waves. And it works. Her voice is soothing and is actually pleasant to listen to--and I'm quite picky. The first recording I listened to was entitled, "Deep Sleep," and it put me into a delicious deep sleep. I hadn't slept that well...since ever. I downloaded a couple more of her albums on my IPOD. The latest is "Healing Meditation."

I'm enjoying listening to it. It's relaxing and takes the stress right out of me. I'm not sitting in a lotus position meditating. I'm laying on my back in bed, lights off and just taking deep breaths as I listen to first a little bit of talking, then just music. But it's not merely music. It's about 30 minutes long and it's new age, but not new age. Ugh, you need to listen to it yourself to understand.

It works. I'm calmer, I sleep better and I'm more cheerful. I can't quite imagine myself sitting in a lotus position, but kicked back on the bed, I can handle.

Best thing is I don't want to rip off anyone's head at work. That's a nice change of pace. lol

Now, take a deep breath and relax.

Richard Davidson, a professor of psychology and psychiatry at the University of Wisconsin says, "Modern neuroscience is showing that our minds are as plastic as our bodies. Meditation can help you train your mind in the same way exercise can train your body." Therefore, each and every minute you meditate you're enhancing the biochemistry of your brain, building muscles that increase your mental, emotional and spiritual potential.

Aliens Among Us

I was in junior high when I wrote my first play. I'm not sure why my writing career started with a play instead of a short story, but a play it was. I know I was heavily influenced when I read Erich von Däniken's "Chariot of the Gods?" My play was about alien astronauts who land on earth and what they find when they get here. Not only did I write the play, but I directed it as it was performed in front of my classmates. It wasn't performed on stage, but in front of the classroom. We made props and everything. So began my writing career. lol

I've always been a behind-the-scenes kind of person. I've never sought out the limelight. That's why I like writing. I can create my own worlds, my own characters and live vicariously through them. I'm shy. I always have been. I can socialize with the best of them, but with my hearing disability it's always made me uncomfortable to be in front of a group of people. The more people there are, the harder it is to hear properly--hearing aids or not.

But with writing, I can always be in control. I can "hear" everything that's going on and I won't make a fool of myself. Normal hearing people have no clue how awkward it is to not understand what's going on around you. I can't count the many times I've misunderstood conversations and embarrassed myself. I swear I'm going to get a bumper sticker for my Jeep, "I'm not stupid, I just can't hear you right."

Writing allows me the chance to say what I want, how I want and I like that a lot. It's good therapy for me to work through frustrations with writing. I had one short I did where I worked through some aggressions I had--I call it my "Jean-Claude Van Damme" moment. It felt good to kick someone's butt even if I don't do it in real life.

There have been times when I have felt like an alien on this planet. Not fitting in the hearing world and not fitting in the deaf world. I've always been on the outside looking in.

I've been working on a book for the longest time. My protagonist is a hard-of-hearing lady who deals with a mystery. What are the odds? lol They say to write what you know. Well, I know what's it's like to face hearing challenges. So that's what I'm writing. One day, I might actually finish it. I work on it, and then set it aside. I tinker with it and push it away.

It's a challenge. But I think I will stick with it. Unless an ancient alien arrives in my backyard and entices me to visit his planet. Then all bets are off.

Theme Songs

I once watched an episode once of Ally McBeal that had to do with theme songs. Tracey Ullman played a therapist who helped Ally develop her own theme song to make herself happy. Ever since that show, I find myself humming my own "theme" song as I go about my day. The point is it should make you happy. There are times I crack myself up. The theme from "Shaft" will go through my head at the oddest times. Suddenly, I find myself giggling.

Other songs I have considered my theme song include "On a Clear Day, You Can See Forever," by Barbra Streisand. (I adore Babs, especially in that movie). If I could sing like anyone, it would be her.



Also, when I started at the SA dealership, I heard this song over and over again. It became "my" song. "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley



I can hear it now without cringing, but four or five times a day, every day for a couple of months, was driving me.... certifiable crazy. lol

I don't need to listen to radio to enjoy music. It will free float in my head. If you can't make yourself smile, goodness gracious, who will?

Rain in San Antonio

This past Saturday, Jerry and I went to a concert that featured the Beatles tribute band, "Rain." We love Beatles music and spending a couple of hours listening to great musicians play some of our favorite music was completely cool.

Yes, I know they aren't the Beatles. They do their damndest to look, talk and sing like them, but they aren't the Fab Four. I'm not delusional to believe I was listening to the original band. But they are pretty darned good singers and musicians in their own right. The guy who portrayed George Harrison could play some serious guitar. He had two solos that were amazing.

They are more of an "event," as much as a concert, as they do videos in between the songs. There were easily three generations of fans in the audience. Everyone had a great time. It was held at the Majestic Theater, which I've mentioned before, is a gorgeous venue. The concert was sold out. In fact, Rain, sold out all eight shows they held here in San Antonio.

I think I can honestly say I enjoy the earlier music of the Beatles. "Love Me Do," "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," "Twist and Shout," and "Help." Man, I can hear those songs and instantly want to get up and dance around the room. Jerry appreciates their later studio music, "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band," "Come Together," and the such. They had such diversity. There is something for everyone.

It was a sad day when the Beatles broke up and a devastating day when John was murdered. What a light of goodness he was. We haven't seen Paul McCartney in concert. He's a bit expensive. If I go to see him in concert, baby, I'm sitting right up front. He's a living piece of rock and roll history.

Going out made me realize how I want to do more of it. We've seen concerts in Bakersfield--George Thorogood, Tom Petty, Doobie Brothers, BTO and others. I think I'm going to like the diversity of the bands that come here to San Antonio.

Since it's just Jerry and I now, we can get away to do things. I'm starting to like this middle age spurt we are going through.

If Rain comes to your town, check them out. It's a great night out and will give you a chance to hear some great music.

The Perfect Steak

There's nothing quite like a steak from Texas. If that sounds like bull pucky, it's not. It's true. Since moving here, I've learned that they truly know how to create the most mouth-watering tender steak I've had in my life. And it's not just one restaurant, we've had amazing steak meals at multiple places--Texas Roadhouse, Texas Land & Cattle Company, and Saltgrass Steak House. There's even more places that are highly rated here in San Antonio, that Jerry and I haven't had a chance to visit yet, but they've had great reviews. They include Boudro's On The Riverwalk, Bohanan's Prime Steaks & Seafood, Fleming's Prime Steakhouse & Wine Bar, The Little Rhein Steakhouse, Morton's The Steakhouse, Myron's Prime Steak House, and Ruth's Chris Steak House.

It's so flipping cool to live in a place that offers a myriad of fine dining choices. I am so not used to that at all. I'm slowly learning the benefit of well-seasoned meat and what exactly quality meat tastes like. My favorite dish at Texas Roadhouse is their sirloin beef tips with mushrooms. It is really good. Their steaks are specially aged and hand-cut every day by their in-house meat cutters. We aren't talking pre-cut frozen steaks bought from a place states away.

By the way, everything made at Texas Roadhouse is made from scratch every day--from the salad dressings to the yeast rolls. Those are to die for. I'm hungry just thinking about it.

If you want a great steak, come to Texas. You will find it.

When I Grow Up

By junior high, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up--a librarian. Go ahead, laugh your butt off. It's true. I fell in love with reading when my parents bought me a handful of hardbound Nancy Drew mysteries. It was love at first paragraph. The deal was closed in the 5th grade when I won a contest in Mrs. White's class and the reward was my own copy of “The Prince and the Pauper.”



I knew then, I needed books—lots and lots of books. Although my real life was dull and boring, books could transport me to other lands, other times, and if I wanted help me be a different person. Every time I opened a cover of a book an adventure awaited. I have literally read thousands and thousands of books, plays and magazines. I think it would be fair to say I'm a bookaholic.

From 7th grade forward I worked in the school library. I knew the Dewey Decimal System backwards and forwards. I was an assistant to every librarian up through my senior year of high school. I even took a library class in college. I was stymied in my attempt to become a librarian due to a couple of reasons--I paid my own way through college (I had no help from anyone) and the University of Nevada, Reno didn't offer a degree an ALA–accredited master’s degree in library and information science. The closest schools that had that program were either Berkeley or UCLA. I couldn't afford either one. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

I wound up moving to California with my parents right after my first semester in college. Yeah, I was closer to UCLA, but boo, I still didn't have enough money. Then a couple of months later I met Jerry and wham bam thank you ma'am, we were married. Before I knew it, we had a family and my college dreams were put aside.

But books still held their allure for me. I never stopped reading. Heck, I even took a book to Vegas when Jerry and I got married. lol

As I raised my son, then my second son came around, I always took them to the Arvin library. It was a small place, but I loved it. I enjoyed being around the books so much, I donated my time to help them shelf books. After doing that for six months, they hired me on. I was thrilled. Even though I was a temporary library clerk I was in seventh heaven. I was around all those wonderful books, helping people, and they paid me for it!

That was such a great summer. I was seriously thinking about applying for a job at the central library in town, but was discouraged by coworkers on how political it was there.

By a strange twist of fate I wound up working at the daily newspaper in Bakersfield. I started as a news clerk (a glorified typist/phone gal) and again opportunity fell in my lap and I became a writer. I had the job before I had the degree.

More than one "real" reporter asked me how I got the job. To my face, mind you. How can I be writing if I hadn't gone to college? I was able to write because I was a professional reader. I wasn't just a casual reader. I can honestly say I have probably read more books than most all of the writers combined from that newsroom. Okay, that might sound a bit arrogant. But in high school, I read seven books and two plays per week. I'm a serious "reader."

I think the key was when I worked at the newspaper that I kept myself humble and I was always learning. I had some incredibly talented teachers--some of them even reporters from the newspaper where I worked. I continued my college career, working full time and raising my sons. It was hard, and without Jerry it would have been impossible. But I did it.

My love of reading carried me to places in my real life I never even knew possible. When we bought our house in Texas, I was able to finally purchase what I always wanted--beautiful custom-made oak bookcases.



I finally had a place to display my beloved friends. That and I have a library in my house. I might not be a professional librarian, but I play one at home. lol