Thursday Thirteen

Thirteen great things about being a woman:

1. I can bring home the bacon. And work harder to make less. About 70 cents on the dollar less, actually.

2. I can fry it up in a pan.

3. I can never ever let you forget you're a man.*

4. I can give birth to children.***

5. I can sing alto and soprano. And country and western and pop and opera... heck, I can sing pretty much anything I want to. I can even play the guitar.

6. I can cry if I want to.** And not worry too much about the consequences (unless your name is Hillary).

7. I look good in a skirt. Those kilts are so not in fashion.

8. I have that maternal instinct thing going on.

9. I am soft and don't need to apologize for it.

10. I have brains. And lots of them.

11. I look good in men's clothes. Men don't look so hot in feminine garb.

12. I can take one look at you and read you like a book just by taking in the way you dress and the way you carry yourself.

13. I live longer.



* From an Enjoli perfume commercial in the 1970s, I think.

** From a song in the 1950s or 1960s.

*** I can't personally have children, having had a hysterectomy, but this is an all-inclusive list and not just about me.

Hypochondria

I have lately been experiencing weird sensations about the chest. I am pretty sure this is because I have pulled a chest muscle lifting weights. My acupuncturist has hypothesized that it could be, at least in part, from a problem I have had with my back for several weeks (a slipping rib or disk). A pinched nerve kind of thing, she suggested, because my arm feels a lot like I've bumped my elbow.

But because of the location of the pain, and because the commercials on TV are always advocating various illnesses in the pharmaceutical industry's efforts to sell more drugs, I immediately think I am having a heart attack when it hurts.

This makes me very nervous which makes my heart race, which makes me even more nervous.

I know I am stressed because I have been working hard. I have written 62 articles since January 1; this is the 56th day of the year. That is more than one article a day, or at least 1,000 words a day every day, including weekends.

That's difficult to sustain without some kind of burnout.

So I think I'm in a self-fulfilling prophecy sort of thing. I was exercising to relieve the stress of working too much; the boo-boo from exercising is adding to the stress.

I am 90 percent sure the pain isn't my heart; it's the other 10 percent of me that I am unable to convince.

It is no wonder many people race to the doctor when any little thing goes wrong. We are told to do this with every bottle of aspirin, with every bottle of vitamins, with every exercise video. Do nothing without your doctor's OK. As if this person with the MD is some god who can ordain how we live our life, a being who knows better than ourselves what our body can and cannot do or withstand.

My mother hauled me to the doctor for every little thing. I am not so sure she wasn't one of those mothers who create hysteria and illnesses in their children in order to see the doctor for whatever reason, because I certainly spent a lot of time in the doctor's office. I was given every new drug to come along, or so it seemed.

My body was filled with antibiotics and steroids before the age of 10. I had terrible allergies and problems with my left knee that required cortisone shots. Prednisone was the drug for my poison oak and poison ivy. Keflex was the antibiotic of choice for me for a long time; Benedryl was a constant friend.

I once made for my acupuncturist a list of drugs I could remember having taken at some point in my life. There were 44 different drugs on it. I did not take them all at once, mind you, but at some point all of these poisons (and that is what they are, I now know), were put in my system.

I continued the pattern of doctor visits well until my 30s. It took me that long to realize I was in charge of my body and my health care. I was 40 before I really took control. By that time the damage was tremendous.

Now I try desperately *not* to go to the doctor unless I really must. Doctors scare me with their pill-pushing, invasive X-rays, low-fat diets that don't take my food allergies into consideration, inconsistencies, and their inability to deal with wellness instead of illness.

My husband, who is seldom sick, does not understand my change of mind about the health care system. He blames it on my mother's death, the problems we had with her care, the fact that nothing they did saved her but instead made things worse as terminal cancer slowly ate away at her.

Perhaps that has something to do with it. But I prefer to think I am smarter, more savvy, more interested in being well than in being sick. Less sucked into the system.

I have been healthier in the last three years than at any time in my life. Is it because I see the doctor less? Eat better? Exercise? See an acupuncturist? All of the above?

When I watch TV and the ads come on for various drugs - Ask your Doctor about Liptor, Prilosec, Prevacid, the purple pill, the one for bladder control and the other for restless leg syndrome - I cringe at the list of side effects. May cause bleeding, ulcers, black tongue, dry eyes, confusion, dizziness, irritability, swelling in the hands, and death. Among other things.

And we're supposed to go ask our doctors about this?

There will come a time as I age that I will be on more drugs. I will have no choice but to enter the system again, against my will, while they prop me up with drugs for whatever is ailing me at that time. They will feed me poorly prepared processed food which will slowly kill me, along with the poisonous drugs.

All in the name of saving me, amen.

Until then, I hope I can stand firm against my own fears, against the desires of the very sick health care system that is ruining the citizens of this wonderful country, and against the concerns of my husband who wants me to see a doctor because he's worried.

It is a very hard thing to do.

No Smoking Restaurants

The other day my husband and I set out to have dinner. We could not come up with too many restaurants locally that are entirely smoke-free.

We ended up at K&W Cafeteria for our Valentine's celebration, because I was not in the mood to inhale second hand smoke and we couldn't think of another completely smoke free restaurant in the Hershberger area.

Many restaurants have a smoking section, but let's face it. Those don't work. The smoke wafts over and you smell like you're the one inhaling tar and nicotine regardless of how far away you sit.

I looked for a list of smoke free restaurants in the area on the Internet but could not find one.

So I am making my own list. Please contribute if you know for sure a restaurant is smoke free.

Most that I know about are close to home. I am pretty clueless about restaurants in Roanoke. I do not eat out a lot; smoking sections are the reason why.

Smoke Free

Three Little Pigs (Daleville)
Country Cookin' (Daleville)
Bellacino's (Daleville)
IHOP (Roanoke)
K&W Cafeteria (Roanoke)
Pizza Hut (Daleville)
Harbor Inn Seafood (Roanoke)*
Famous Anthony's (all locations, I think)*
Pizza Hut (Hershberger Road)*
Pete's Deli (Town Squre Blvd)*
Jersey Lilly's (Rt 460, I think is non-smoking)*


Smoking section

Cracker Barrel (Troutville)
Shoney's (Troutville)
O'Charley's (Roanoke)
Shaker's (Roanoke)
Coach & Four (Roanoke)
Shang-Hi (Salem)
Logan's @ Valley View*
Texas Steakhouse @ Valley View*

Everything else?
Others? Recommendations?


* Added after original post*

Administrative

I am having problems with Blogger. I lost my spell check for several weeks. That was frustrating.

Upon its return, I find I am having problems accessing the page elements/layout.

When I finally did get it to work briefly this morning, I managed to add Jen's Bike Blog, House on Glade Hill and Going Crunchy to my links listings. And then it stopped being cooperative again.

At any rate, if you'd like to exchange blog links, just let me know and I will be glad to add you to my readers list, once the thing is working properly again.

Books: The Hornet's Next

The Hornet's Next
By Jimmy Carter (yes, the president)
Copyright 2003
Read by Edward Herrmann
Abridged



This historical fiction was a surprise. When I picked it up at the library, my first thought was "how bad is THIS going to be."

I enjoyed listening to it. The reader did a good job. And while the book was short on character and long on events and read a lot like a history book, it was an entertaining account of the American Revolution as it took place in Georgia and the Carolinas.

The book follows characters from both sides; neither are treated with kid gloves or favoritism.

I understand some of the characters are based on Carter's ancestors.


3 stars

Thanks, June

June over at Spatter last week gave my blog an excellence award, for which I am very thankful.

I am just now acknowledging it because I have been incredibly busy with work. I managed a few blog entries lately because of time constraints, but my mind was full of things I wanted to write.

Finally, I began making a list of potential blog entries, because I couldn't find the time to write the entries.

Today was the first day I've had a chance to visit my blog friends and try to catch up. I missed my near-daily visits to see some of you!

Anyway, I will pass on this honor to Jeff, Ms. E., Kitty at AROO and Becky at Peevish Pen. There are others I read who are worthy; June already tagged many of the blogs I take peeks at and I like to spread the love.

Primary Opinions

Last week when I went to vote in Virginia's primary elections, I could not help but wonder what my mother would have thought of Hillary Clinton's run for the presidency.

While I see it as a historic and momentous time in the history of women, a history that shows how little women matter (even today) simply because of the lack of women in the annals of time, I think my mother would see something else.

My mother was not a "wimmin's libber" and was disdainful of those who fought to progress the status of women. This in spite of the fact that my mother left home every day at 7:15 a.m. and returned around 6 p.m.

She worked for a Salem manufacturing company. She took her first and only job when she was 16.

She was a file clerk.

Mom was one of two women who worked in the company for a long time; the other was an executive secretary. She started out part time. She was working there on the day I was born.

I am not sure when she went full time, but I think it was before I started school. At some point they hired a third woman to work in the office.

Over the years my mother complained bitterly about her job, about the lack of respect that she had from the men in the office, about the lack of respect she had from my father, about her inability to move upward or even out of the place she found herself.

When I was teenager I remember her talking about an opening for a purchaser. She said she could do the job with her eyes shut. I asked her if she had applied for it. "I'm there. They should know to ask me," she snapped.

It was no surprise to me when my mother died at the age of 56, after having been retired for six years, that the information her estate received on an insurance policy still listed her job title as "file clerk." She never once asserted herself in the 34 years she worked there.

But it may be, also, that she couldn't, working as she did in a world where men ruled and women were belittled. I prefer to think she fought hard for promotions, for upward movement, for equality, even though I am pretty sure she didn't.

I tried to remember what my mother may have said when Geraldine Ferraro ran for the office of vice president when Walter Mondale ran against Reagan in 1984. I remember being thrilled by the idea; in my head I hear my mother snarling expletives at the very idea that a woman might aspire to the second-highest office in the land. I might be imagining that, though.

When I was in my early 20s, I did not understand the women's liberation movement. I did not comprehend how bad it is for women, what a glass ceiling was, why it mattered. I had not thought it through.

I am older now. Now I know that woman are routinely discriminated against, routinely put down, routinely belittled and beaten and treated like animals or small children who don't know any better.

The misogyny that has been in the media during Clinton's run for office has been the stuff of horror. It reads like the 1920s, not the year 2008. Hillary sheds a tear and its national news, debated ad nauseum as if crying is some kind of national horror. (Click here to read the February 5 blog entry of my friend Chris on this topic. Also go read AROO for more on the same vein.)

The national horror is the way the media is treating this campaign. The national horror is the lack of debate and the lack of acknowledgement of the true status of women in this country. The national horror is the way women accept, as if it is their due, their second-rate status in a land that is supposed to be leading the way for freedom for all.

My mother, alas, would probably not agree.

Total Eclipse of the Moon

Last night was a total eclipse of the moon. I understand there will not be another until 2010.

I thought with the cloud cover that all would be lost, but just after the event began, things began looking up.

I put my Nikon D40 on a tripod and then, not knowing exactly what I was doing (moon pictures have always eluded me), I snapped a few pictures, changed the settings, snapped again.

I didn't get shots that were worthy of hanging on the wall, but I had a good time.







After the shadow was about halfway across the moon's face, the clouds rolled back in and I saw no more of the eclipse.

This morning I saw the moon sitting fat on the horizon, so I grabbed my camera, which was still on the tripod, and hustled out to the front porch in my nightgown and robe.



P.S. There are some really nice shots of the eclipse and the moon at CastleRuins, a new blog I found today from June's blog, Spatter.

Guitar Guy

Sunday we visited my sister-in-law and checked on the nephew. He had surgery in January and we've been keeping tabs on him.

E. turned 17 at the end of last month. He is 6' 4" tall, weighs 175 pounds, and wears size 16 shoes. He plays sports and his surgery cost him the baseball season this year. He is a high school junior.

He is also a very polite young man who says, "Yes ma'am" to me and always has. He is courteous and holds open doors and kisses me hello and goodbye.

I relate to him and his younger brother via video games, moreso than anyone else in the family, because I have always been the only one with any computer knowledge. I also am the only adult who plays video games with any regularity. I have been playing video games since the days of "Pong" but that is another blog entry.

Sunday E. showed off his new Guitar Hero III, complete with the guitar-shaped control. His mother said he'd been playing a lot - I watched as he blazed through an Aerosmith song with relative ease. He was equally good using the normal controller, too. It was rather amazing to watch because this young man has fingers that are as long as my entire hand.

He would have been some pianoist.

But he has never had an interest in music, only sports.



He showed me how to use the guitar controller and set me to "playing" on "Slow Ride" and the "Hit Me With Your Best Shot." In just two songs I went from hitting about 60 percent of the notes to 92 percent; a few hours and I'd have been decent at the game I suppose.

"I wonder which is harder, this or playing a real guitar," E commented as he watched me.

"A real guitar," I replied, without even thinking about it. I began playing the guitar when I was 11. I spent hours practicing on it, playing until my fingers ached. Sometimes they even bled.

"I wish there were more songs, this is sort of limited," E later said, after I'd played my two songs and handed him back the controller.

"If you put the time into learning to play a real guitar instead of this game, you'd be unlimited. There is no end to music when you are the one making it, not dependent on someone else to do it," I replied.

He just looked at me funny. And then this good boy, who is being invited by Princeton and Yale to submit college applications, smiled indulgently at the crazy aunt and went back to his video game.

For the Locals

Here's something to do in March: go to the Green Valley Book Fair.

These are remainder books, and many of them. The book fair is north of Staunton. Be prepared to spend the day. And your money.

Since you're up that way, drive a little further north to the Dayton Farmer's Market. This is an Amish market full of lots of goodies - sitty around stuff, candy, fresh meats, all kinds of things. Definitely worth checking out while you're there.

If you're coming from Roanoke, either on the way up or on the way back, check out The Cheese Shop in Stuarts Draft (some of these goodies are available at the Dayton Farmer's Market, too). I go here to buy some of the best cinnamon you've ever tasted, along with other spices. The prices are unbeatable.

I plan to make this trip in either March or May. Enjoy!

TV: Celine Dion

Last night I went to bed with a book and the TV on for background noise, like I generally do when my husband is working.

CBS had a special - Celine Dion. I like her music but own none of her work.

From the first song, the book soon lay forgotten beside me. I had no idea Celine Dion was such a compelling performer. I was impressed.

What I liked about it was she was so personable and comfortable on the stage. It was like watching an old friend. I really enjoyed her song with Will. I. Am; I thought that was exceptional, and her rendition of the Beatle's "Something" with Joe Walsh was extraordinary.

The hour went by very quickly. We need more shows like this, and less reality TV.

Valentine's 13

I could do 13 reasons why I love my husband, but I have several entries about why I love him. Today I thought I'd celebrate my friends.

So, 13 reasons why I love my friends (not necessarily in order of importance)...

1. They enrich my life. They do this by making me think, my making me love, by making me care.

2. They make me laugh. Laughter is really the best way to spend an hour, I have to say. I love making my friends laugh, too. What can be better than bringing a little fun into someone's heart?

3. They hear me out. When you've got a problem or a worry, then it's friends to the rescue. Your husband can only listen to it so much, after all.

4. Who else would I eat lunch with?

5. They give me their honest opinions. Thankfully, if I am messing up big time, they care enough to tell me. When my friends say, "You'd better stop and think about that," I try to heed that as the warning it is.

6. They give good advice. From what doctor to see to what I should do about a specific incident, I can count on hearing good words from my friends.

7. They will sit with me when I cry. My friends will not leave me to drown in my own tears. Thankfully I don't have to ask them to pull me from the waters very often.

8. They make me feel needed. I am always happy to help out if a friend needs a hand. Usually I just listen or sit with them if they cry (which again does not happen very often). I think it is very necessary for someone to feel needed in a relationship, to feel like they're giving back. I mean, isn't that point?

9. They give good hugs. There are few things as warming as the hug of a good friend. Hugs are about the best things ever.

10. They are patient with me. I know I have whined about the same thing a thousand times. And every time they listen.

11. My friends don't need explanations. If I do something really stupid, they simply accept it for what it is, and we move on.

12. My friends honor me by letting me be their friend and granting me time in their lives. Their time for me is indeed a most valuable gift.

13. Here are some quotes about friendship:

Friendship make prosperity more shining and lessens adversity by dividing and sharing it.
Cicero (106 BC - 43 BC), On Friendship, 44 B.C.

A true friend is the greatest of all blessings, and that which we take the least care of all to acquire.
Francois de La Rochefoucauld (1613 - 1680)

Anybody can sympathise with the sufferings of a friend, but it requires a very fine nature to sympathise with a friend's success.
Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900), The Soul of Man under Socialism (1881)

The holy passion of Friendship is of so sweet and steady and loyal and enduring a nature that it will last through a whole lifetime, if not asked to lend money.
Mark Twain (1835 - 1910), Pudd'nhead Wilson

The only thing that lasts longer than a friend's love is the stupidity that keeps us from knowing any better.
Randy K. Milholland, Something Positive Comic, 09-07-06

Consult your friend on all things, especially on those which respect yourself. His counsel may then be useful where your own self-love might impair your judgment.
Seneca (5 BC - 65 AD)

Seated Dancer

(For an image, click here.)

Seated Dancer

(From: "Seated Dancer" charcoal & pastel on paper by Edgar Degas, late 1870's.)

Something about her hand
highlights her defiance.
This woman sits with pale orange arms,
smiles cool while green shadowed
ghosts of confusion
skirt disproportional eyes
painted seductively dark.

Her fault, the performance.
Though she uses her body proudly
her reactions are over-rehearsed.
A quivering voice forces
nervous naysayers to leave
her arena not knowing
her finish met great applause.

Her box of jewels enthralls her
improperly conceals sweltering ice
and her sunglasses make light
much harder to see.
She'd had jewels, had rights,
knew where to stop at a just agreement
but surprise, her gambling,
compulsive as granite clinging
to ground, systematically
sought the unfamiliar.

Leads on wealth added costs
to fame, warmed her desire
for dollars and dimes.
Once the city thought her cold
ignored her foggy looks, the miles riding
and days in boats when the time was right.

What words in print describe
jukebox joints, an annual stop
in her only routine?
With taxes to pay, brandy, a cold river,
bring welcome relief.
Angels on pins
greet her with true
quotes, explain
that however wronged she feels
she still reached the wrong finale.



Note: This poem was written about 10 years ago.

When the Mountains Burn

View of a forest fire in Craig County, as seen from my front yard. Photo taken about 6:30 p.m. with a Nikon D40.

Windstorm

I have never seen such wind. I understand there are downed trees every where, lots of power outages. Worst of all, there are forest fires.

The wind is gusting at 60 mph and is expected to last into early tomorrow morning.

We have fence down, but that is nothing in the big picture. One of our neighbors has lost half of his roof - and his house is brand new!

My brother is without power and has been told he will be for DAYS.




Above: Leaves dance across the grass, moving faster than a cheetah.



Above: This is what my view of oak trees looked like yesterday morning.



Above: This is what it looked like at 3 p.m. Note the new addition of cedar where there used to be only grass...



Above: My little well house that covers my well pump has been blown over.



Above: Smoke rises from a forest fire out my front window. I believe that to be in Craig County.

Books: The Vineyard

The Vineyard
By Barbara Delinsky
Copyright 2000
Audiobook
Abridged
Read by Lauren Mufson

This is the story of Olivia Jones, only it starts out as the story of Natalie Seebring. If I had one quarrel with this, it is the point of view. The story would have been just fine if it had stayed with Olivia instead of hopping around at the beginning. It stayed with Olivia through most of the rest of the book, though it occasionally broke into omniscient point of view.

Anyway, Olivia repairs old photos for a living. She had a rough childhood. She has a daughter, Tess, who has dyslexia. She falls for the Seebring family via old photos she is restoring. When Natalie Seebring decides she wants to write a memoir, Olivia takes the job and moves to the vineyard in Rhode Island.

Natalie is 76 and is marrying a second time to 80-year-old Carl, the former manager of the vineyard. Her two children disapprove; hence, the memoir. We learn about Natalie's upbringing and life in snippets; we learn a lot of Olivia's heartbreaks and then watch her fall in love with Simon, the current vineyard manager and Carl's son.

No mystery, really, just good sentences telling a nice story. A nice little romance.

2.5 stars

Books: Pen Pals

Pen Pals
By Olivia Goldsmith
Read by Joyce Bean
Abridged

Martha Stewart goes to jail. Well, not really. Jennifer, a major player on Wall Street, goes to jail for insider trading that she didn't do - she is taking the fall for the firm.

She was supposed to get off with a slap on the wrist but instead pulled jail time.

The jail is going private. Jennifer gets wind of it and manages to end up owning the company that now runs the jail.

Lots of interesting characters. The book is told in multiple points of view, mostly via the warden and numerous prisoners.


3 stars

Thursday Thirteen

1. Time slips away.

2. When I get up every morning, I have a cup of tea. I put the microwave on for 2 minutes, 15 seconds, to heat the water.

3. In that short time, I can empty and load the dishwasher.

4. Or I can put on my shoes and socks.

5. It seems to me that those two activities should not take the same amount of time, but they do. Emptying the dishwasher sounds like it should take 5 or 10 minutes.

6. It takes me 4 minutes to get in my car and drive to the end of my (very long) driveway for the mail.

7. In 4 minutes I can have a microwave dinner ready if I'm eating something I really should not be eating.

8. It takes me 20 minutes to walk what I can drive in 4. That's because I have to stop halfway up the hill and rest.

9. Some days I can write an entire article in a half hour.

10. Yesterday I spend all day trying to write an article and accomplished next to nothing. Not even the first sentence (which is always the hardest).

11. I have a clock with an alligator face on it above my desk; my closest friend gave it to me for Christmas one year. It actually goes "tick tock."

12. I also have the clock on the computer, a watch on my wrist, two clocks in the bedroom, and five in the kitchen (if you count the clocks on the microwave and stove).

13. Time really is relative, fleeting and all the other stuff people say about it. Mostly there just isn't enough of it.

The Funnies

I learned to read when I was three years old.

My parents used to tell me this, and my earliest memories of books and stories indicate I was quite young indeed. I remember my uncle, who was five years older, telling me I could not read. I may have been four or five.

You just memorized the book, he declared. I challenged him to bring me something I had never read. He brought home The Cat in the Hat from his school library. I sat and read it to him.

No one questioned my ability to read from that day on.

Long before I started elementary school, I was reading the Roanoke Times. I started with the comics. I remember sitting on my grandmother's lap and sounding out the words as I read Blondie, Snuffy Smith, and Prince Valiant. Yes, I have been reading Prince Valiant for as long as I can remember. I still read it every Sunday.

I don't know how much I actually comprehended, but I must have enjoyed it. I still do. I have missed maybe 30 days of comic-reading in my lifetime.

Before I was 9, I was reading comic books. My grandfather, who lived in Salem, would pay the four of us (my two young uncles and my brother and me) to help him mow the lawn, and every Saturday we'd trek to the Orange Market for a soda, a candy bar, and a comic book, all of which cost about 50 cents (or less).

I was a Marvel Comics reader and I devoured Daredevil, the Fantastic Four, The Black Widow, Spiderman, and Captain America. I read DC Comics, too, but with not as much gusto. In DC Comics I read mostly Wonder Woman, Batman and Justice League comics.

I also read Richie Rich occasionally. He was not a favorite but I'd read him when I was bored.

We tossed our comics into a huge box (it once contained a washing machine, I think) in my grandparent's basement. We must have had thousands of them, because the four of us bought different comics every week and swapped them around. The box went out in the flood waters of 1972 or 1979; I'm not sure which year. It was a small fortune in paper at that time.

I do not read comic books anymore, although I went through a spell of reading them about eight years ago. But I'd been away from them for so long I found it hard to rekindle my interest in those characters.

I still read the comic strips in the newpaper every day. I turn to them every morning before redirecting my attention to the rest of the paper. I don't read every strip - I always try a new comic for several months but if it doesn't grow on me, I stop reading it. Presently there are four of the daily comic strips being printed in The Times that I do not read.

Funky Winkerbean has long been a staple. This comic has undergone several transformations, the most recent last fall. The characters have aged 20 years now.

I am having trouble figuring out who is who in this new version of FW. I don't look forward to this comic strip like I once did. I may have to stop reading it even though I've read it for at least 20 years (or however long it's been carried by the paper).

Things change, I guess. Maybe I've grown older too and that's why Funky Winkerbean no longer makes me smile.

The Hill

Last week I drove to a dirt road that I once traveled on every day by bus. I had not been on this particular road in more than 25 years.

During my travels as a child on the bus, this particular stretch of what was then an hour and a half ride brought me joy. This was because my dinosaur lived down this way.

The dinosaur was a fallen log trapped in a fence beside the road, and to my mind it looked like a dinosaur. The monster greeted me up until about the seventh grade, when my imagination failed and I couldn't find him anymore.

The last time I traveled this road was in 1983; my husband and I parked at the dead end one night for a long chat about our pending nuptials.

The road is no longer dirt; it's been hard surfaced. Houses have sprung up along the road, decapitating what used to be farmland.

There certainly was no dinosaur. Just a lot of houses.

I came to the dead end, which was at the foot of a steep hill. My destination was the house beyond. I drove a long way on a gravel driveway, winding around and then up and up a rather stiffly inclined path.

I rounded the corner to the house and the view opened up. The first thing I saw to my left was this:



To the casual observer it's a mountain with a grassy spot.



To me, it was the place I grew up. Yes, I rounded the corner and there was one of the fields my father owns. If you look closely you'll see the corner of the house he built in 1976 nestled in the woods.

I had never seen the hill from that angle, but I knew exactly where that grassy spot was. I confirmed it with the homeowner when I gestured toward the view and nonchalantly asked if that field wasn't over on a particular road.

This is the field where my brother and I played. We chased cows, picked wild strawberries, ran up and down like wild things until we collapsed panting in chairs on the back deck. I once lay alone on top of that hill and watched the sky all night, waiting for shooting stars.

I have not been back since July 2000. My mother died a month later.

My father and I have been estranged since that time. I do not regret it. But sometimes it is a steep hill to climb.

Changing of the Guard

After you've watched out a certain window for as long as I have, you eventually begin to notice patterns.

Turkeys, for instance, only visit the oak trees when it is going to rain or has rained. I have no idea why.

So they came this afternoon.



Deer are out at all hours; it's a myth that they only eat at night. If they are hungry they will eat in the middle of the day.

They will even join the turkeys and not shy away when the flash on the camera accidentally goes off.



The deer is my birth totem; I relate well to the curious and shy creature. They are keen observers; they see me long before I think they should.

Turkeys? Do I relate to them? Not so much in my youth but now that I am older, maybe a little wiser, I think I relate better. Turkeys relate to the Mother Earth, the third eye, the harvest and to sacrifice. I used to never see turkeys; now I see them all the time. I think there is a message there for me in that.





Maybe I am a mix? My shadow self, my older self exhibiting perhaps the strength and abilities of the turkey, without sacrificing the courage and gentleness of the deer?

Too Much Stuff

I want to direct you to The Story of Stuff. This is a 20 minute film about ... all the junk we acquire.

It's about all of the stuff you have around you. It's about my computer and your chair and the books I read. It's about your house and my clothes and the cars we drive.

We have too much stuff, I think. I have spent a bit of time in recent years attempting to rid myself of some of the stuff I have thoughtlessly accumulated. Most of it I was sorry I bought; some of it I don't even know how I obtained. Or why, for that matter.

Stuff collects dirt, wastes money that might be put to better use, wastes time, energy, and resources. Sometimes I look at all the "sitty-around" stuff I have in my house and wonder why I need it. I really *don't* need to collect Department 56 figures and houses. Would my life be incomplete without that collection? Probably not.

I have no idea what resources are wasted in making such things. All of this stuff ... we can live without it. Can't we? If we're not careful one day we might have to.

You can read an article about The Story of Stuff and how it came to be here if you want.

Also, I had a bit of trouble with the video loading; I'm on a DSL connection. In case it takes a long time for you, too.

After the Storm

About 3 p.m., sun broke out and sky turned blue.



Ice began to melt and fog danced across the hayfield.




I grabbed the camera. Amazingly it felt quite warm to me as I stood in my yard surrounded by ice. All around it sounded like a downpour as the water dripped from trees and pine needles.



The reflections were such that I could scarcely see. I raised the camera and started shooting, first into the fog, then into the sun, trying to hit the blue sky as the light danced a wiley jig across the frozen limbs of oak, pine and maple.



I am pretty sure that somewhere in that majesty, there were fairies.

Books: Child of the Prophecy

Child of the Prophecy
by Juliet Marillier
Copyright 2002
596 pages

I can't recall the last time a book brought tears to my eyes.

This one did.

This is the last book in a the Sevenwaters trilogy. The first was Daughter of the Forest; the second was Son of the Shadows.

This last book features Fainne, a lost daughter of Sevenwaters. Of the three heroines of these three books, I disliked Fainne the most. She did not have the will or the strength of character of the first two books.

Yet her redemption at the end was strong enough that when she received her "punishment" I was quite moved. She did not deserve what lay on those two pages, although the ending made it much more palatable.

It was a suitable and satisfactory ending to this series of books.

These books delve into Celtic lore; they are full of myth, magic and mystery. They are set in a time when humanity actually cared about the earth and understood how central the world was to the art of being human. Humans were of the earth and not separate from it, and I love this series for setting that out.

4 stars

Ice Storm

As promised, I woke to ice and rain this morning. Fortunately yesterday I had enough sense to cancel several things I had scheduled today. I am not a drive-in-the-ice kind of girl anymore. I even have been too skittish to attempt to get the newspaper from the box. But then my driveway is about 1/4 mile long.



The above is my rose bush, taken with a flash in the wee hours. Note how green the branches are. I don't think the plant has ever really gone dormant for the season.



This is a cedar in my front yard. I took the photo from the front porch, where I was safe from the rain and falling icicles.



This is the tree in the back yard. The power has blinked only once so far. I am quite glad and a little amazed.



This is the forest out the back door. It is a very dreary day, with no sun bouncing off the ice diamonds to make things sparkling.