Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Monday, November 03, 2008
Hmmm
I received in the mail a post card from a Toyota dealer for a service clinic.
The service clinic takes place in Houston, Texas.
I live in Virginia. Bought my car (which is a Toyota) in Virginia. Haven't been in Texas since I was 12 years old.
Also, the card, which I received on November 1, is only good from September 8 to September 30.
What is up with this?
Did someone really think I would drive to Houston for a $12.95 tire rotation and a complimentary car wash?
The service clinic takes place in Houston, Texas.
I live in Virginia. Bought my car (which is a Toyota) in Virginia. Haven't been in Texas since I was 12 years old.
Also, the card, which I received on November 1, is only good from September 8 to September 30.
What is up with this?
Did someone really think I would drive to Houston for a $12.95 tire rotation and a complimentary car wash?
Sunday, November 02, 2008
The Shelf Life of Yogurt
Yesterday afternoon I visited Hollins University, my Alma mater, for a panel discussion with Lee Smith, Jill McCorkle and Natasha Tretheway.
The event was a kickoff celebration of a $125 million funding campaign.
The university wants to use the money for scholarships, adding to the endowment, student items, renovating or replacing specific buildings, conservation easements, and funding day-to-day operations of the university.
The last time I attended a Hollins event with Lee Smith, Danae Science Building auditorium was packed. The alumnae panel with these authors was advertised as being in the DuPont Chapel which holds a great crowd.
When I arrived I found the event had been moved to the theatre. Turnout was quite low for such well-known Hollins alumnae writers. I was disappointed in that for I had hoped to see professors or other alumnae I know. Instead I saw no one.
The topic of the day was "Writing and Publication: When Art Meets Commerce."
Natasha Tretheway, a 1991 graduate of Hollins' master of arts in creative writing program, in 2007 received the Pulitzer Prize for her poetry. She presently teaches English at Emory University. Her take on the whole "money versus art" thing was that money cannot be the reason for writing, particularly if you are a poet.
Poets do not make much money. She cited figures of less than $5,000 for most of her books.
I have not read her poetry or heard her read her work, something I will rectify in the future. I know her dad, Eric Tretheway, who is a professor at Hollins, but not well. I never took a class from him so I am not a student he will remember.
I went to the panel to hear Lee Smith and Jill McCorkle talk. I have read both of these authors and have enjoyed their work.
Lee Smith graduated from Hollins in 1967. She has written 11 books. I read On Agate Hill this year; previously I have read Oral History, Saving Grace and Family Linen. I forgot to take my books with me so she could sign them.
Saturday was her birthday. I overheard her telling someone prior to the event that her birthday was really October 31, as she was born just a few minutes before midnight, but her mother begged the doctor to say her daughter was born on November 1. "No lady can ever be born on Halloween," Smith said.
She did not tell that story from the stage but did note that it was her birthday.
Smith has a great sense of humor and she's very enthusiastic about her writing. However, none of these writers were very enthusiastic about the future of the book nor were they encouraging about making a living as a book writer, especially a fiction writer.
She told a humorous story about how her work fell flat when she worried about the dollars. She once sent off to Silhouette for writers' guidelines and proceeded to attempt to create a romance novel. The book was set on Pawley's Island and featured an orphan (as required by the guidelines) and a dark and swarthy artist.
The book was rejected.
Jill McCorkle, likewise, said she feels her art suffers when she is writing under contract. She prefers to write the book and worry about selling it later. Smith nodded her head in agreement.
McCorkle graduated from Hollins' masters program in 1981. She has written five novels and I have read three: Carolina Moon, Tending to Virginia and Ferris Beach. She is currently on the faculty at North Carolina State University.
McCorkle said trying to write for money is definitely hit or miss. She likened the time period for a book to sell to be about the shelf life of yogurt. If a book doesn't make it in that short span, then it's pulled from the shelves and that's that.
I came away feeling a little wistful and a bit sad. Writing as art is always a lofty goal and I have attempted for the "art" title. However, writing as craft is more what I do. Those are two different things, I think. The first seldom pays and the latter pays some. Neither pays very well.
Which isn't to say the two aren't interchangeable; I think they are. Otherwise there wouldn't be that ever-present hope of being the next Lee Smith or Kurt Vonnegut. Or even the next Janet Evanovich, who, while more a craft writer, does have a little bit of art about her work.
It makes me sad that our society does not value intellect or ideas or the ability to write good story. For example, I have never understood why the actors, who would have no work without screenwriters, tend to come out ahead financially. Shouldn't it be the other way around?
The ability to tell a story should have value. We should encourage young writers. In this society that means writing must be a commodity because we are so market-based. The arts suffer under capitalism, perhaps because art cannot be calculated. It is ephemeral and subjective and the value in capitalistic terms then because incalculable. Apparently being incalculable makes you either priceless or worthless, depending on your point of view.
The event was a kickoff celebration of a $125 million funding campaign.
The university wants to use the money for scholarships, adding to the endowment, student items, renovating or replacing specific buildings, conservation easements, and funding day-to-day operations of the university.
The last time I attended a Hollins event with Lee Smith, Danae Science Building auditorium was packed. The alumnae panel with these authors was advertised as being in the DuPont Chapel which holds a great crowd.
When I arrived I found the event had been moved to the theatre. Turnout was quite low for such well-known Hollins alumnae writers. I was disappointed in that for I had hoped to see professors or other alumnae I know. Instead I saw no one.
The topic of the day was "Writing and Publication: When Art Meets Commerce."
Natasha Tretheway, a 1991 graduate of Hollins' master of arts in creative writing program, in 2007 received the Pulitzer Prize for her poetry. She presently teaches English at Emory University. Her take on the whole "money versus art" thing was that money cannot be the reason for writing, particularly if you are a poet.
Poets do not make much money. She cited figures of less than $5,000 for most of her books.
I have not read her poetry or heard her read her work, something I will rectify in the future. I know her dad, Eric Tretheway, who is a professor at Hollins, but not well. I never took a class from him so I am not a student he will remember.
I went to the panel to hear Lee Smith and Jill McCorkle talk. I have read both of these authors and have enjoyed their work.
Lee Smith graduated from Hollins in 1967. She has written 11 books. I read On Agate Hill this year; previously I have read Oral History, Saving Grace and Family Linen. I forgot to take my books with me so she could sign them.
Saturday was her birthday. I overheard her telling someone prior to the event that her birthday was really October 31, as she was born just a few minutes before midnight, but her mother begged the doctor to say her daughter was born on November 1. "No lady can ever be born on Halloween," Smith said.
She did not tell that story from the stage but did note that it was her birthday.
Smith has a great sense of humor and she's very enthusiastic about her writing. However, none of these writers were very enthusiastic about the future of the book nor were they encouraging about making a living as a book writer, especially a fiction writer.
She told a humorous story about how her work fell flat when she worried about the dollars. She once sent off to Silhouette for writers' guidelines and proceeded to attempt to create a romance novel. The book was set on Pawley's Island and featured an orphan (as required by the guidelines) and a dark and swarthy artist.
The book was rejected.
Jill McCorkle, likewise, said she feels her art suffers when she is writing under contract. She prefers to write the book and worry about selling it later. Smith nodded her head in agreement.
McCorkle graduated from Hollins' masters program in 1981. She has written five novels and I have read three: Carolina Moon, Tending to Virginia and Ferris Beach. She is currently on the faculty at North Carolina State University.
McCorkle said trying to write for money is definitely hit or miss. She likened the time period for a book to sell to be about the shelf life of yogurt. If a book doesn't make it in that short span, then it's pulled from the shelves and that's that.
I came away feeling a little wistful and a bit sad. Writing as art is always a lofty goal and I have attempted for the "art" title. However, writing as craft is more what I do. Those are two different things, I think. The first seldom pays and the latter pays some. Neither pays very well.
Which isn't to say the two aren't interchangeable; I think they are. Otherwise there wouldn't be that ever-present hope of being the next Lee Smith or Kurt Vonnegut. Or even the next Janet Evanovich, who, while more a craft writer, does have a little bit of art about her work.
It makes me sad that our society does not value intellect or ideas or the ability to write good story. For example, I have never understood why the actors, who would have no work without screenwriters, tend to come out ahead financially. Shouldn't it be the other way around?
The ability to tell a story should have value. We should encourage young writers. In this society that means writing must be a commodity because we are so market-based. The arts suffer under capitalism, perhaps because art cannot be calculated. It is ephemeral and subjective and the value in capitalistic terms then because incalculable. Apparently being incalculable makes you either priceless or worthless, depending on your point of view.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Here We Go Again - Up in the Air
Two hot air balloons flew over our house this morning around 9 a.m.
The cows stampeded to the other end of the farm.
The balloonists were flying too low. They are supposed to be a certain height over the area and these fliers were not.
It is the "whoosh" of the propane gas burners that scares the cows. This noise like a dragon sets them off and they will run from one end of the farm and through the fence in order to get away from it.
My husband ran outside and began calling the cows to try to calm them. "Whooo cow... Whooo" he cried.
They were not reassured. They ran off like they had Satan on their heels. I took pictures of the low-flying hot air balloons which I will deliver to the Commonwealth's Attorney's office on Monday.
We also yelled at the balloonists. The balloon operators hit their burners and quickly went higher (where they should have been to begin with) and then the wind currents took them in another direction.
I know they heard us because I went up in a hot air balloon once. You can hear everything on the ground, even conversation at normal volume. Sound apparently travels up.
My husband jumped in the truck and went after the cows. They were on the other side of the farm, huddled in the corner at the fence. He had to fire up the tractor and take them a large round bale of hay to coax them out.
After my husband calmed the cows, we called the sheriff.
If the cows go through the fence or if one breaks a leg while running away from these balloons, we are the ones incurring the loss. Not these hot air balloonists. As it was it cost us time, gasoline and a bale of hay that we can ill afford in these times of drought.
Cows are not cheap. We have many thousands of dollars invested in these animals. I understand horses also go nuts at the sound of a hot balloon. I was told last year that one horse badly injured himself trying to jump out of its stall when a balloon went over.
One of the reasons this is so vexing is that if these people would go just 10 more minutes down the road, they could fly over thousands of acres of public National Forest land and not disturb anyone. With all of that National Forest you'd think they could find some place down that way to take off and land that did not inconvenience others. Not all of the National Forest is wooded; there are open fields.
This is the problem with the world today. Everyone is "hooray for me" and "screw you." I don't think for a moment that these balloonists care that they cost my husband an hour of his morning or that he is very upset.
We have had problems with a balloonist in the past. So this is not new, nor is this the first time we've filed a report. We know the drill and that is how I know to take my photos to the Commonwealth's Attorney.
If I were a hot air balloonist and I knew I had people yelling at me, when I landed and was able to locate a computer with the county's GIS on it, I would figure out who those landowners were and I would contact them and apologize. Even if I had to make several calls to get the right farmer.
However we have never had any contact with any of these balloonists and of course we don't have any way to know who they are. I think one of them operates a ballooning business here but I have never seen the multi-colored balloon before.
I wish people would think about their actions. Hot air balloons are lovely but like everything they have their place.
And that is not over a farm full of scared and frightened cattle.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Happy Halloween!
My great aunt and uncle’s home in West Virginia supposedly was haunted.
When I was a child, we would visit and I remember my mother talking about the strange things that happened in the old house.
She did not like to stay there.
My mind is misty as I try to recall these spooky stories. Legends tainted with the eye of an imaginative youngster can often take a turn otherwise unexpected. I lay no claim to the truth herein.
The trip to Canvas, West Virginia was a long trek through the mountains, over winding roads that threatened us all with carsickness. It was always a relief to emerge from the vehicle into the sweet West Virginia air.
The house sat back in a hollow, shaded by huge old trees. The yard was a children’s paradise, with rocks covered with moss and beech and sassafras trees from which we would strip the bark. It tasted sweet and was a treat to us urchins.
Inside, Aunt Helen was always baking. The place smelled like a heaven of bread and fried chicken. The food spilled off the table in great abundance the entire time we were there.
Uncle Carmen and my father spent their day together picking guitars, singing bluegrass until the late hour forced my mother to ask them to be quiet so we could all get some sleep.
I have a teasingly faint memory of the sounds of a banjo playing late at night. Maybe it was my uncle or my father – but both men play guitar and mandolin. As a young musician myself, I knew a banjo when a heard it.
I rose and went to investigate. I hit a creak in the stair and the music stopped. Something rattled, like the sheathing of paper. I slipped on down the steps, shivering in a sudden chill. When I cut on the lights, there was no one.
The next morning I asked Uncle Carmen at breakfast why he played his banjo in the dark. Aunt Helen’s spoon froze on the way to her mouth.
“I don’t play the banjo,” Carmen said. Out of all my visits to his house, those words are the ones I most remember.
They told me I had dreamed the sounds.
On another visit, a clock in the living room where I slept on the couch that had never worked started chiming for no reason at all, waking me up.
It struck thirteen.
Suddenly the pipes in the bathroom sang, rattled and moaned with a fierce desire that made my hair stand on end.
And the rocking chair at the far end of the room began to creak as it rocked.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Then the water in the bathroom just off the living room turned on. The faucet handles apparently moved all by themselves, sending a splash of cold water down the washbasin.
This was a lot worse than a banjo singing out in the night.
If you think I sprang out of that room and hightailed it into the guest room where my parents stayed, you would be right.
**This originally appeared on October 29, 2008 in The Fincastle Herald under my column, Country Crossroads.
When I was a child, we would visit and I remember my mother talking about the strange things that happened in the old house.
She did not like to stay there.
My mind is misty as I try to recall these spooky stories. Legends tainted with the eye of an imaginative youngster can often take a turn otherwise unexpected. I lay no claim to the truth herein.
The trip to Canvas, West Virginia was a long trek through the mountains, over winding roads that threatened us all with carsickness. It was always a relief to emerge from the vehicle into the sweet West Virginia air.
The house sat back in a hollow, shaded by huge old trees. The yard was a children’s paradise, with rocks covered with moss and beech and sassafras trees from which we would strip the bark. It tasted sweet and was a treat to us urchins.
Inside, Aunt Helen was always baking. The place smelled like a heaven of bread and fried chicken. The food spilled off the table in great abundance the entire time we were there.
Uncle Carmen and my father spent their day together picking guitars, singing bluegrass until the late hour forced my mother to ask them to be quiet so we could all get some sleep.
I have a teasingly faint memory of the sounds of a banjo playing late at night. Maybe it was my uncle or my father – but both men play guitar and mandolin. As a young musician myself, I knew a banjo when a heard it.
I rose and went to investigate. I hit a creak in the stair and the music stopped. Something rattled, like the sheathing of paper. I slipped on down the steps, shivering in a sudden chill. When I cut on the lights, there was no one.
The next morning I asked Uncle Carmen at breakfast why he played his banjo in the dark. Aunt Helen’s spoon froze on the way to her mouth.
“I don’t play the banjo,” Carmen said. Out of all my visits to his house, those words are the ones I most remember.
They told me I had dreamed the sounds.
On another visit, a clock in the living room where I slept on the couch that had never worked started chiming for no reason at all, waking me up.
It struck thirteen.
Suddenly the pipes in the bathroom sang, rattled and moaned with a fierce desire that made my hair stand on end.
And the rocking chair at the far end of the room began to creak as it rocked.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Then the water in the bathroom just off the living room turned on. The faucet handles apparently moved all by themselves, sending a splash of cold water down the washbasin.
This was a lot worse than a banjo singing out in the night.
If you think I sprang out of that room and hightailed it into the guest room where my parents stayed, you would be right.
**This originally appeared on October 29, 2008 in The Fincastle Herald under my column, Country Crossroads.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Thursday Thirteen
For today's Thursday Thirteen, I present a list of things I like to drink:
1. Irish breakfast tea (decaf)
2. Root beer
3. Coca Cola (decaf)
4. Water
5. English Breakfast tea (decaf)
6. Lemonade
7. Hot chocolate
8. Apple cider
9. Icees/Snow cones
10. Ginger tea
11. Ginger Ale
12. Gator Aid
13. Cranberry Juice
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here.
1. Irish breakfast tea (decaf)
2. Root beer
3. Coca Cola (decaf)
4. Water
5. English Breakfast tea (decaf)
6. Lemonade
7. Hot chocolate
8. Apple cider
9. Icees/Snow cones
10. Ginger tea
11. Ginger Ale
12. Gator Aid
13. Cranberry Juice
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Politically Pooped Out
Are you as tired of this election as I am?
I have stopped watching TV because I don't want to see the ads. I can't stand the smears, the attacks, the fear-mongering, the horrible warnings that doom is nigh.
Blech.
I have stopped commenting on some of the blogs I normally read because they've turned too political. I don't care about the cost of clothing or lobster dinners or who said what when where and how because none of that, not one little tiny iota of it, matters. Smoke and mirrors.
You will notice I have not mentioned a party. That's because I hold them both to blame. I dislike negative campaigns and campaign messages. Although I will say I see the negativity coming more out of the McCain camp. Obama has had a few positive commercials; they are always a relief.
I want to know what the person who wants my vote will do. I don't particularly care what he thinks his opponent will do. I can figure that out for myself, thank you very much. So positive messages always get my attention while the negative ones simply turn me off.
The negativity has corroded this campaign to the point where I am looking at alternative candidates.
I am Miss American Moderate, and frankly neither one of these candidates meets my criteria for president. They both have their faults and they are pretty big faults in my mind. One comes a little closer than the other to being somewhat what I think I want in a president, and I lean in that direction. But the margin is so thin that a good third party candidate could send me sliding along without too much trouble.
Of course there isn't such a candidate, not in this media-led world. Not when the media wouldn't let a good third party candidate through, wouldn't give them the time of day, wouldn't move to make it a fair playing ground for someone not of their choosing.
I want a discussion about things that really matter, not emotional hot-button issues that in the long run have nothing to do with anything.
Some of the topics that need to be discussed are education, health care, jobs and job security, and care for the elderly. Those are issues that matter a great deal to me. There is not enough talk about any of them.
I don't care what religion someone is. I don't care what color they are. I don't care about his suit or her shoes or who said what when talking "off the cuff." I don't care if they are pro or anti or if they want to cut or raise my taxes. None of that matters to me. Those are all scare issues, big bad boogies used to make people think with their emotions and not use the logical part of their brain.
I don't worry about national security, either. We will always have an army and we already have enough stuff to completely destroy the world if we want. What more do we need?
What does matter? What do I want in a president?
Intelligence. I want someone who is smarter than most everyone, including myself. If I think I can beat that person in chess then he or she has no business running for president. I want someone super sharp. MENSA material.
Affability. I want someone who knows how to handle people, from the very rich to the very poor. Someone who has compassion and empathy and the ability to make decisions based on the best information.
Class. I want someone who can meet with the best the world has to offer. Someone who doesn't throw up in the Japanese emperor's lap or faint or hug the German prime minister or squeeze the boob on the queen or feel up Josephine Sixpack. Someone who knows why there are two forks on the table and how to handle his or her soup spoon. Someone who knows the difference between a Monet and the black velvet painting of the dogs playing poker and has an appreciation for both.
Listening ability. I want someone who will listen. Someone who will listen not only to his or her advisers but also to the public. Someone who will hear and understand the issues that you and you and I face every day. Someone who will hear and then act with dignity, intelligence and compassion.
*Independent. I want someone who has the strength to break away from the corporations and the lobbyists. Someone who is beholden to no one and nothing except the U.S. Constitution.
*Respects my Civil Rights. That includes not listening in on my phone calls or reading my emails.
I honestly don't understand this need to have someone in office who is "just like me." I don't think I could run the country so why would I want someone just like me making the effort?
I want only the very best running this country. The best president and the best in Congress. Not the person who best pushes my emotional hot buttons but the person who will best ensure that the playing ground is fair and even and that those who are in need have a little bit of a helping hand because one day that person in need could be you or you or me or your mother or my father.
I want the highest office in the land to be held by a person who thinks things through and comes up with the best solution to the problem, not the most partisan solution to the issue.
I would elect Jesus but he isn't running. I don't think he could get on the ballot in this country anyway.
My disenchantment is such that I may not even vote for president. I might just let that one go unmarked.
This will be my only rant on the elections, so feel free to come back tomorrow for the regular farm and freelancing stuff.
I just had to get that off my chest.
*I added these about 8 hours later, after sleeping on it and realizing I hadn't put them in.
I have stopped watching TV because I don't want to see the ads. I can't stand the smears, the attacks, the fear-mongering, the horrible warnings that doom is nigh.
Blech.
I have stopped commenting on some of the blogs I normally read because they've turned too political. I don't care about the cost of clothing or lobster dinners or who said what when where and how because none of that, not one little tiny iota of it, matters. Smoke and mirrors.
You will notice I have not mentioned a party. That's because I hold them both to blame. I dislike negative campaigns and campaign messages. Although I will say I see the negativity coming more out of the McCain camp. Obama has had a few positive commercials; they are always a relief.
I want to know what the person who wants my vote will do. I don't particularly care what he thinks his opponent will do. I can figure that out for myself, thank you very much. So positive messages always get my attention while the negative ones simply turn me off.
The negativity has corroded this campaign to the point where I am looking at alternative candidates.
I am Miss American Moderate, and frankly neither one of these candidates meets my criteria for president. They both have their faults and they are pretty big faults in my mind. One comes a little closer than the other to being somewhat what I think I want in a president, and I lean in that direction. But the margin is so thin that a good third party candidate could send me sliding along without too much trouble.
Of course there isn't such a candidate, not in this media-led world. Not when the media wouldn't let a good third party candidate through, wouldn't give them the time of day, wouldn't move to make it a fair playing ground for someone not of their choosing.
I want a discussion about things that really matter, not emotional hot-button issues that in the long run have nothing to do with anything.
Some of the topics that need to be discussed are education, health care, jobs and job security, and care for the elderly. Those are issues that matter a great deal to me. There is not enough talk about any of them.
I don't care what religion someone is. I don't care what color they are. I don't care about his suit or her shoes or who said what when talking "off the cuff." I don't care if they are pro or anti or if they want to cut or raise my taxes. None of that matters to me. Those are all scare issues, big bad boogies used to make people think with their emotions and not use the logical part of their brain.
I don't worry about national security, either. We will always have an army and we already have enough stuff to completely destroy the world if we want. What more do we need?
What does matter? What do I want in a president?
Intelligence. I want someone who is smarter than most everyone, including myself. If I think I can beat that person in chess then he or she has no business running for president. I want someone super sharp. MENSA material.
Affability. I want someone who knows how to handle people, from the very rich to the very poor. Someone who has compassion and empathy and the ability to make decisions based on the best information.
Class. I want someone who can meet with the best the world has to offer. Someone who doesn't throw up in the Japanese emperor's lap or faint or hug the German prime minister or squeeze the boob on the queen or feel up Josephine Sixpack. Someone who knows why there are two forks on the table and how to handle his or her soup spoon. Someone who knows the difference between a Monet and the black velvet painting of the dogs playing poker and has an appreciation for both.
Listening ability. I want someone who will listen. Someone who will listen not only to his or her advisers but also to the public. Someone who will hear and understand the issues that you and you and I face every day. Someone who will hear and then act with dignity, intelligence and compassion.
*Independent. I want someone who has the strength to break away from the corporations and the lobbyists. Someone who is beholden to no one and nothing except the U.S. Constitution.
*Respects my Civil Rights. That includes not listening in on my phone calls or reading my emails.
I honestly don't understand this need to have someone in office who is "just like me." I don't think I could run the country so why would I want someone just like me making the effort?
I want only the very best running this country. The best president and the best in Congress. Not the person who best pushes my emotional hot buttons but the person who will best ensure that the playing ground is fair and even and that those who are in need have a little bit of a helping hand because one day that person in need could be you or you or me or your mother or my father.
I want the highest office in the land to be held by a person who thinks things through and comes up with the best solution to the problem, not the most partisan solution to the issue.
I would elect Jesus but he isn't running. I don't think he could get on the ballot in this country anyway.
My disenchantment is such that I may not even vote for president. I might just let that one go unmarked.
This will be my only rant on the elections, so feel free to come back tomorrow for the regular farm and freelancing stuff.
I just had to get that off my chest.
*I added these about 8 hours later, after sleeping on it and realizing I hadn't put them in.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Halloween Facts
BOO!
Some Halloween factoids for your edification and amusement. These came from the U.S. Census Bureau in a press release. I put my own twist on the information.
Halloween observances date back thousands of years to Celtic rituals.
The day is associated with witches, ghosts, devils and hobgoblins. Not to mention presidential politics, pillowcases and pumpkin pails.
In the U.S., the first official citywide Halloween celebration occurred in Anoka, Minn., in 1921. (That's a long time for something that is thousands of years old to have government sanction.)
There are 36 million potential trick-or-treaters in the United States (that's kids age 5 to 13).
They could hit about 110.3 million houses if they visited every home. (That's a lot of bellyaches!)
The pumpkin-producing states produced 1.1 billion pounds of pumpkin in 2007. Illinois produced the most with 542 million pounds. Other top producers are California, New York and Ohio - those states produced at least 100 million pounds of pumpkin.
All of those pumpkins were valued at $117 million.
Here are some scary-sounding place names:
Transylvania County, N.C. (29,984 residents) - the major drink is red in color, of course.
Tombstone, Ariz. (population 1,562) - plus several hundred ghosts.
Pumpkin Center, N.C. (population 2,228) - where they eat a lot of pie.
Pumpkin Bend, Ark. (population 307) - where they toss a lot of pie.
Cape Fear in New Hanover County, N.C. (15,711) - where they people often tremble.
Cape Fear in Chatham County, N.C. (1,170) - where the people often shake and quake.
Skull Creek, Neb. (population 274) - where the headless horseman roams.
In 2006 there were 1,170 chocolate and coca product manufacturers. They employed 39,457 people and shipped out $13. 9 billion in goods (I ate my share.).
California has the most chocolate and cocoa manufacturing plants: 128, followed by Pennsylvania with 116. And here I thought Hershey, PA had the most.
There were 473 non-chocolate making candy facilities in the U.S. in 2006. These factories employed 18,733 people and shipped $7.2 billion worth of goods that year. California again led the nation with 72 establishments. I guess this would be gum and hard candy.
This is why I am fat: Americans ate 24.5 pounds of candy in 2007.
Some Halloween factoids for your edification and amusement. These came from the U.S. Census Bureau in a press release. I put my own twist on the information.
Halloween observances date back thousands of years to Celtic rituals.
The day is associated with witches, ghosts, devils and hobgoblins. Not to mention presidential politics, pillowcases and pumpkin pails.
In the U.S., the first official citywide Halloween celebration occurred in Anoka, Minn., in 1921. (That's a long time for something that is thousands of years old to have government sanction.)
There are 36 million potential trick-or-treaters in the United States (that's kids age 5 to 13).
They could hit about 110.3 million houses if they visited every home. (That's a lot of bellyaches!)
The pumpkin-producing states produced 1.1 billion pounds of pumpkin in 2007. Illinois produced the most with 542 million pounds. Other top producers are California, New York and Ohio - those states produced at least 100 million pounds of pumpkin.
All of those pumpkins were valued at $117 million.
Here are some scary-sounding place names:
Transylvania County, N.C. (29,984 residents) - the major drink is red in color, of course.
Tombstone, Ariz. (population 1,562) - plus several hundred ghosts.
Pumpkin Center, N.C. (population 2,228) - where they eat a lot of pie.
Pumpkin Bend, Ark. (population 307) - where they toss a lot of pie.
Cape Fear in New Hanover County, N.C. (15,711) - where they people often tremble.
Cape Fear in Chatham County, N.C. (1,170) - where the people often shake and quake.
Skull Creek, Neb. (population 274) - where the headless horseman roams.
In 2006 there were 1,170 chocolate and coca product manufacturers. They employed 39,457 people and shipped out $13. 9 billion in goods (I ate my share.).
California has the most chocolate and cocoa manufacturing plants: 128, followed by Pennsylvania with 116. And here I thought Hershey, PA had the most.
There were 473 non-chocolate making candy facilities in the U.S. in 2006. These factories employed 18,733 people and shipped $7.2 billion worth of goods that year. California again led the nation with 72 establishments. I guess this would be gum and hard candy.
This is why I am fat: Americans ate 24.5 pounds of candy in 2007.
Monday, October 27, 2008
5 Things
Sweetfluttersby had this meme and since I am trying to write every day in my blog but sometimes I am brain dead I thought I would give this a shot.
So here goes! Feel free to do it yourself. Or not.
5 Things Found In My pocketbook
my checkbook
business cards
ink pens
those little cards you have to have to get the discounts at various stores
Chapstick
5 Things I would do today if I could
take a nap
eat chocolate
take a long walk in the woods
spend time with my husband
spend time with a friend
5 Things I love about my life
my husband
my work
my surroundings
my extended familyl
my friends
5 Things I’ve Always Wanted To Do
travel to Ireland and Scotland
write a novel!!!!!
have a child
go back into the past and meet my many-great grandparents
know that I mattered
5 Things I enjoy the most
my husband
reading
writing
silence
music
So here goes! Feel free to do it yourself. Or not.
5 Things Found In My pocketbook
my checkbook
business cards
ink pens
those little cards you have to have to get the discounts at various stores
Chapstick
5 Things I would do today if I could
take a nap
eat chocolate
take a long walk in the woods
spend time with my husband
spend time with a friend
5 Things I love about my life
my husband
my work
my surroundings
my extended familyl
my friends
5 Things I’ve Always Wanted To Do
travel to Ireland and Scotland
write a novel!!!!!
have a child
go back into the past and meet my many-great grandparents
know that I mattered
5 Things I enjoy the most
my husband
reading
writing
silence
music
Sunday, October 26, 2008
On Writing, Sort Of
I cannot remember when I decided I wanted to "be a writer" as my life's work.
Maybe when I started reading and discovered the joy of story. Or perhaps it was because my teachers always told me I could write and that it was what I should pursue.
It seems to me like I have always wanted to write.
It has not been easy. My parents were sure that writing was not a real career and encouraged me to look elsewhere.
I remember when I was about 11 I told my mother I would grow up to write for the weekly paper. Only I would do it better, I said. I don't know about the "better" part but that is indeed what I have grown up to do.
I never wanted to write for the daily and aside from a several articles about graduations in the last 1980s and features in the now-defunct Neighbors section, that did not happen.
These days I write the equivalent of at least a book a year, only it's in articles that cover local government.
I wanted to write poetry for a while, and so I did. I published a few pieces but nothing substantial.
I wanted to write fiction and I have published a very few short stories.
Several unfinished novels lie on my shelves or buried in drawers. I have never been able to settle on a genre. I like to read mysteries, sort of, mainstream fiction, and fantasy.
Growing up I thought I would write a children's mystery series a la Nancy Drew. Then I wanted to write Gothic novels like Phyllis Whitney or Victoria Holt.
It would be nice to come up with a savvy character like Stephanie Plum but I don't seem to have that ability.
Surely I could come up with a story about a small town, with a small town hero in a small town world. That is what I know.
I learned in school and by studying other writing all about plot and pacing, characterization, denouement, delighting and destroying. I learned to write about what I know and I had it drilled into my head to SHOW DON'T TELL.
I can do all of that if I can find the time. Or I used to be able to.
Sometimes I think that maybe I have a way with words but no ability to tell a story. This is something I've wondered about for a while now.
Or maybe I simply don't have the time to spend on a long piece, since I am so busy writing short articles in order to pay the bills.
I have read Dorthea Brande's Becoming a Writer, John Gardner's On Becoming a Novelist, Brenda Ueland's If You Want to Write and Zinser's On Writing Well, along with many other books about writing, both as a way of life and as craft.
These books all fired me up and I generally sat down and pounded out ... something... after reading them. Who knows what the something was.
There are many days when I feel like my creativity has taken a back seat to the work of writing. Can one find art in a government meeting, after all? Where is the joy and delight in a turn of phrase when one is writing about supervisors and town council meetings or upcoming elections?
I think so, actually. Sometimes the magic of living, of watching the public's work being performed before my eyes, makes my heart dance with wonder. I don't know that this is conveyed to the reader, but I try sometimes, if I have the time.
I often don't have the time for flourishes of phrase, however. Deadlines loom. Laundry must be folded. Work work work work.
I wonder will I ever write that piece of fiction? Will I ever finish my fantasy book, my story of magic? Will my mystery ever move beyond Chapter 2?
Maybe when I started reading and discovered the joy of story. Or perhaps it was because my teachers always told me I could write and that it was what I should pursue.
It seems to me like I have always wanted to write.
It has not been easy. My parents were sure that writing was not a real career and encouraged me to look elsewhere.
I remember when I was about 11 I told my mother I would grow up to write for the weekly paper. Only I would do it better, I said. I don't know about the "better" part but that is indeed what I have grown up to do.
I never wanted to write for the daily and aside from a several articles about graduations in the last 1980s and features in the now-defunct Neighbors section, that did not happen.
These days I write the equivalent of at least a book a year, only it's in articles that cover local government.
I wanted to write poetry for a while, and so I did. I published a few pieces but nothing substantial.
I wanted to write fiction and I have published a very few short stories.
Several unfinished novels lie on my shelves or buried in drawers. I have never been able to settle on a genre. I like to read mysteries, sort of, mainstream fiction, and fantasy.
Growing up I thought I would write a children's mystery series a la Nancy Drew. Then I wanted to write Gothic novels like Phyllis Whitney or Victoria Holt.
It would be nice to come up with a savvy character like Stephanie Plum but I don't seem to have that ability.
Surely I could come up with a story about a small town, with a small town hero in a small town world. That is what I know.
I learned in school and by studying other writing all about plot and pacing, characterization, denouement, delighting and destroying. I learned to write about what I know and I had it drilled into my head to SHOW DON'T TELL.
I can do all of that if I can find the time. Or I used to be able to.
Sometimes I think that maybe I have a way with words but no ability to tell a story. This is something I've wondered about for a while now.
Or maybe I simply don't have the time to spend on a long piece, since I am so busy writing short articles in order to pay the bills.
I have read Dorthea Brande's Becoming a Writer, John Gardner's On Becoming a Novelist, Brenda Ueland's If You Want to Write and Zinser's On Writing Well, along with many other books about writing, both as a way of life and as craft.
These books all fired me up and I generally sat down and pounded out ... something... after reading them. Who knows what the something was.
There are many days when I feel like my creativity has taken a back seat to the work of writing. Can one find art in a government meeting, after all? Where is the joy and delight in a turn of phrase when one is writing about supervisors and town council meetings or upcoming elections?
I think so, actually. Sometimes the magic of living, of watching the public's work being performed before my eyes, makes my heart dance with wonder. I don't know that this is conveyed to the reader, but I try sometimes, if I have the time.
I often don't have the time for flourishes of phrase, however. Deadlines loom. Laundry must be folded. Work work work work.
I wonder will I ever write that piece of fiction? Will I ever finish my fantasy book, my story of magic? Will my mystery ever move beyond Chapter 2?
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Thursday Thirteen
1. A two lane highway
2. North and South
3. A house .... cannot stand.
4. Cells
5. Black and White
6. Right brain and left brain
7. Israel and Palestine
8. East and West
9. Blue and Red
10. 50 (x) 2 = 25
11. Good and Bad
12. ... we fall.
13. Republicans and Democrats
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here.
2. North and South
3. A house .... cannot stand.
4. Cells
5. Black and White
6. Right brain and left brain
7. Israel and Palestine
8. East and West
9. Blue and Red
10. 50 (x) 2 = 25
11. Good and Bad
12. ... we fall.
13. Republicans and Democrats
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Extended Family
Several people have commented on my extended family. I had not considered this unusual but apparently it is.
My mother's side of the family was rather prolific. She had a sister and four brothers. My grandmother had three sisters and two brothers. My grandfather had seven siblings. They all had children and their children have children.
Some of them had children when they were quite young and their daughters followed suit, making them grandparents at the age of 40. Before my grandmother passed away last year there were four generations living at the same time. And if you add in the fact that my great-grandfather's sister passed away earlier this year at 107, there were actually five generations going strong at once.
I think that is pretty remarkable.
Another thing is that the family history goes way back. The family settled here in the late 1700s. That's 200+ years of cousins.
In fact, my husband and I are 5th cousins, which we did not know when we married. His great aunt kept telling us we were kin but we didn't believe her until I did the family history thing about a decade ago.
I am kin to a great many people who have long roots in this valley.
The thing about family and knowing all of these people is that it doesn't happen by accident. Well, accident of birth, perhaps, but it takes a little time and effort to get to know all of these folks.
I have gone out of my way to meet distant cousins. Sometimes we click and stay in contact, sometimes we don't. When we do I am grateful.
My Christmas card list is about 50 families large. If nothing else I stay in touch this way. I don't do the long letter thing but instead I generally hand write a note in each card. It is a short note but it's personal.
I do not know my father's people very well. They do not live here and I don't see them. That is a post for another day.
My great aunt's funeral is this afternoon. I have a ton of work and I really don't have the time to do the family get-together afterwards, but I will.
Relationships are more important than work. Family is more important than anything the money I earn can buy.
I don't know how we have managed to let this slip away from us. We need to bring it back. We need those connections with aunts and cousins. We need family, all of us.
May you find family wherever you are. The world is what you make it.
My mother's side of the family was rather prolific. She had a sister and four brothers. My grandmother had three sisters and two brothers. My grandfather had seven siblings. They all had children and their children have children.
Some of them had children when they were quite young and their daughters followed suit, making them grandparents at the age of 40. Before my grandmother passed away last year there were four generations living at the same time. And if you add in the fact that my great-grandfather's sister passed away earlier this year at 107, there were actually five generations going strong at once.
I think that is pretty remarkable.
Another thing is that the family history goes way back. The family settled here in the late 1700s. That's 200+ years of cousins.
In fact, my husband and I are 5th cousins, which we did not know when we married. His great aunt kept telling us we were kin but we didn't believe her until I did the family history thing about a decade ago.
I am kin to a great many people who have long roots in this valley.
The thing about family and knowing all of these people is that it doesn't happen by accident. Well, accident of birth, perhaps, but it takes a little time and effort to get to know all of these folks.
I have gone out of my way to meet distant cousins. Sometimes we click and stay in contact, sometimes we don't. When we do I am grateful.
My Christmas card list is about 50 families large. If nothing else I stay in touch this way. I don't do the long letter thing but instead I generally hand write a note in each card. It is a short note but it's personal.
I do not know my father's people very well. They do not live here and I don't see them. That is a post for another day.
My great aunt's funeral is this afternoon. I have a ton of work and I really don't have the time to do the family get-together afterwards, but I will.
Relationships are more important than work. Family is more important than anything the money I earn can buy.
I don't know how we have managed to let this slip away from us. We need to bring it back. We need those connections with aunts and cousins. We need family, all of us.
May you find family wherever you are. The world is what you make it.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
More Autumn 2008
The photos I posted Sunday were actually taken in Craig County. It's a higher elevation and the trees turned more quickly there.
I took these pictures yesterday during a short walk on the farm. These better represent the colors where I live. I don't think they are quite as lovely as the trees in Craig but perhaps they will be in a few days.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Up In Heaven
I am sad to report that my Great Aunt Susie passed away last night around 10 p.m.
She was living at The Oaks in Salem, where she has stayed for nearly the last two years.
Aunt Susie's real name was Alma Bryant. We called her Susie and she told me not long ago that the reason she had that nickname was because of a double date she and my grandmother went on. The two gentlemen insisted on calling my grandmother Rosie (her name was Melba) and Alma "Susie".
The names stuck and forever after they were known as Rosie and Susie.
Susie was 88 years old. She never had children but instead raised her husband's brood. His wife has passed away and Susie took over as substitute mom.
Those folks were all grown by the time I came along. She babysat me for a while. The first time I took my husband over to see her, she insisted he go in the dining room and look at the window sill.
I had cut my teeth on the wood and left marks where I gnawed on it. She loved to tell me the story of how I climbed up on a chair and stood looking out, chewing on the window, and how she found me. How she enjoyed sharing that story with my fellow.
As I grew from toddler to child, Aunt Susie's house was a wonder. She and my Uncle Carl spent a lot of time at auctions. They collected things like salt and pepper shakers, dolls, and model cars. There was always so much to see when you visited that you didn't know where to start.
All of her things were sold when she moved to the retirement community, including her home. She mourned that terribly. She had spent about 60 years there and the place had become a part of her. I can't imagine how hard it would be to give up all of those memories, particularly when you're not quite ready to do so.
My mother and Aunt Susie had a special bond. After my mother passed away I started visiting Aunt Susie more often. As she grew more frail I visited more frequently.
I always took her apples from Ikenberrys' Orchards. She wouldn't eat apples from anywhere else.
I will miss my visits with my great aunt. She was the last of that generation. She was a wonderful woman and I know that when she went to heaven her husband Carl, my mother and my grandmother were all there to take her in.
I want to thank you, my readers, who have helped me with your words of comfort during this time. I have greatly appreciated the encouragement. Many blessings upon you all.
She was living at The Oaks in Salem, where she has stayed for nearly the last two years.
Aunt Susie's real name was Alma Bryant. We called her Susie and she told me not long ago that the reason she had that nickname was because of a double date she and my grandmother went on. The two gentlemen insisted on calling my grandmother Rosie (her name was Melba) and Alma "Susie".
The names stuck and forever after they were known as Rosie and Susie.
Susie was 88 years old. She never had children but instead raised her husband's brood. His wife has passed away and Susie took over as substitute mom.
Those folks were all grown by the time I came along. She babysat me for a while. The first time I took my husband over to see her, she insisted he go in the dining room and look at the window sill.
I had cut my teeth on the wood and left marks where I gnawed on it. She loved to tell me the story of how I climbed up on a chair and stood looking out, chewing on the window, and how she found me. How she enjoyed sharing that story with my fellow.
As I grew from toddler to child, Aunt Susie's house was a wonder. She and my Uncle Carl spent a lot of time at auctions. They collected things like salt and pepper shakers, dolls, and model cars. There was always so much to see when you visited that you didn't know where to start.
All of her things were sold when she moved to the retirement community, including her home. She mourned that terribly. She had spent about 60 years there and the place had become a part of her. I can't imagine how hard it would be to give up all of those memories, particularly when you're not quite ready to do so.
My mother and Aunt Susie had a special bond. After my mother passed away I started visiting Aunt Susie more often. As she grew more frail I visited more frequently.
I always took her apples from Ikenberrys' Orchards. She wouldn't eat apples from anywhere else.
I will miss my visits with my great aunt. She was the last of that generation. She was a wonderful woman and I know that when she went to heaven her husband Carl, my mother and my grandmother were all there to take her in.
I want to thank you, my readers, who have helped me with your words of comfort during this time. I have greatly appreciated the encouragement. Many blessings upon you all.
Books: Dance of the Gods
Dance of the Gods
By Nora Roberts
Copyright 2006
Audio Book 10 hours
Read by Dick Hill
This is part two of the Circle Trilogy by Nora Roberts.
The trilogy covers an apocalyptic moment between worlds as a vampire queen tries to take over this world and the world of Gaell. Six have gathered to stop the evil: Hoyt, Blair, Glenna, Cian, Larkin and Moria.
This is mostly Blair's story, and she is quite a Buffy the Vampire Slayer character.
Dick Hill does another great job of reading, although I wearied at times of the affected Irish accent. However, it went with the story so I mostly didn't mind it.
If you like magic and Buffy the Vampire Slayer you will probably like this trilogy, although Blair isn't featured much in the first one. The first one features Hoyt and Glenna, who are both sorcerers.
3 stars
By Nora Roberts
Copyright 2006
Audio Book 10 hours
Read by Dick Hill
This is part two of the Circle Trilogy by Nora Roberts.
The trilogy covers an apocalyptic moment between worlds as a vampire queen tries to take over this world and the world of Gaell. Six have gathered to stop the evil: Hoyt, Blair, Glenna, Cian, Larkin and Moria.
This is mostly Blair's story, and she is quite a Buffy the Vampire Slayer character.
Dick Hill does another great job of reading, although I wearied at times of the affected Irish accent. However, it went with the story so I mostly didn't mind it.
If you like magic and Buffy the Vampire Slayer you will probably like this trilogy, although Blair isn't featured much in the first one. The first one features Hoyt and Glenna, who are both sorcerers.
3 stars
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Remembering Aunt Ruth
Note to my readers:
This year has not been kind to my elderly relatives. My Great Aunt Susie lies near death in the nursing home. In the spring my Great Aunt Elsie passed away. Over the summer, I lost my Great Aunt Ruth.
This is a tribute to Aunt Ruth. It was published in the October 15 edition of The Fincastle Herald under my "Country Crossroads" column.
***
Remembering Aunt Ruth
Blueberry pancakes always make me think of my Aunt Ruth.
When I was a wee lass back in the late 1960s, she operated the Blue Jay Restaurant near Dixie Caverns.
On Sunday mornings, we’d pile into Mom’s blue Dodge Charger for the long drive. What a time of anticipation!
Aunt Ruth greeted us with a happy smile and her tinkling laugh. She joked with my parents and patted me on the head before kissing my brother, who sat in a high chair.
That’s because I was five years old and certainly too big for such a seat.
Once we were settled, Aunt Ruth handed out menus and asked us what we wanted to eat.
I always ordered blueberry pancakes.
They were exquisite kid-sized flapjacks, smothered with butter and covered with pure maple syrup. Plump juicy blueberries were cooked into the batter, not piled on top, just the way I like them.
Aunt Ruth was the cook, you see. And she must’ve made those pancakes with some kind of love to make them taste so good.
I don’t know how many Sunday mornings I spent eating Aunt Ruth’s blueberry pancakes. Maybe we went there for several years.
And then one night we went there for dinner.
My parents ordered fish – seems to me like maybe it was fish fry night – and when the time came, Aunt Ruth looked at me. “And what will you have, darlin’?” she said.
“Blueberry pancakes!” I announced.
Aunt Ruth broke out in a whoop. My father was not amused. “You will not have blueberry pancakes,” he said. He turned to my mother. “They’ll make her throw up this late at night.”
I am very sure that is what he said.
I pouted, a talent I believe I have outgrown. “I will not throw up, Daddy. I won’t!” I cried.
I imagine I was very endearing, sitting there with bows in my hair and a pretty little red dress on. I probably had tears in my eyes and everything.
Aunt Ruth laughed again. She was always laughing. “It’s no problem, I’m glad to fix them for her,” she said over my father’s protests.
When dinner came out, there they were. A stack of piping hot blueberry pancakes, made especially for me.
I was in heaven. I even remembered to say thank you to Aunt Ruth before I dove into my special treat.
Aunt Ruth surely had other customers and many other things to cook on those times we visited, but I remember her checking on us frequently. She always asked my mother about my grandfather, who was Aunt Ruth’s brother, and she followed up on other family members. The place might have been overflowing with people to feed but she always found time to spend with us.
My great aunt, Ruth Harris Morris, passed away on August 24, eight years to the day that my mother died. I now have double reason to mourn at that particular time of year.
Aunt Ruth lived a long and bountiful life. She had hardships and tears but she seemed to find more laughter and joy in the world than anyone else I know.
She had a family, my cousins, whom I am sorry to say I barely know, who she loved and pampered and cared for up until the end.
I saw her last in July at the family reunion, an annual affair she had insisted on for the last 15 years. She looked frail and she told me she thought it wouldn’t be long before she went on to be with Uncle Ted and my mother.
“When you eat blueberry pancakes, you be sure to think of me,” she told me before I left, because she remembered what I liked to eat, too.
I will never forget you, Aunt Ruth, or the wonderful kindnesses you paid to a small child who loved your fluffy blueberry pancakes.
This year has not been kind to my elderly relatives. My Great Aunt Susie lies near death in the nursing home. In the spring my Great Aunt Elsie passed away. Over the summer, I lost my Great Aunt Ruth.
This is a tribute to Aunt Ruth. It was published in the October 15 edition of The Fincastle Herald under my "Country Crossroads" column.
***
Remembering Aunt Ruth
Blueberry pancakes always make me think of my Aunt Ruth.
When I was a wee lass back in the late 1960s, she operated the Blue Jay Restaurant near Dixie Caverns.
On Sunday mornings, we’d pile into Mom’s blue Dodge Charger for the long drive. What a time of anticipation!
Aunt Ruth greeted us with a happy smile and her tinkling laugh. She joked with my parents and patted me on the head before kissing my brother, who sat in a high chair.
That’s because I was five years old and certainly too big for such a seat.
Once we were settled, Aunt Ruth handed out menus and asked us what we wanted to eat.
I always ordered blueberry pancakes.
They were exquisite kid-sized flapjacks, smothered with butter and covered with pure maple syrup. Plump juicy blueberries were cooked into the batter, not piled on top, just the way I like them.
Aunt Ruth was the cook, you see. And she must’ve made those pancakes with some kind of love to make them taste so good.
I don’t know how many Sunday mornings I spent eating Aunt Ruth’s blueberry pancakes. Maybe we went there for several years.
And then one night we went there for dinner.
My parents ordered fish – seems to me like maybe it was fish fry night – and when the time came, Aunt Ruth looked at me. “And what will you have, darlin’?” she said.
“Blueberry pancakes!” I announced.
Aunt Ruth broke out in a whoop. My father was not amused. “You will not have blueberry pancakes,” he said. He turned to my mother. “They’ll make her throw up this late at night.”
I am very sure that is what he said.
I pouted, a talent I believe I have outgrown. “I will not throw up, Daddy. I won’t!” I cried.
I imagine I was very endearing, sitting there with bows in my hair and a pretty little red dress on. I probably had tears in my eyes and everything.
Aunt Ruth laughed again. She was always laughing. “It’s no problem, I’m glad to fix them for her,” she said over my father’s protests.
When dinner came out, there they were. A stack of piping hot blueberry pancakes, made especially for me.
I was in heaven. I even remembered to say thank you to Aunt Ruth before I dove into my special treat.
Aunt Ruth surely had other customers and many other things to cook on those times we visited, but I remember her checking on us frequently. She always asked my mother about my grandfather, who was Aunt Ruth’s brother, and she followed up on other family members. The place might have been overflowing with people to feed but she always found time to spend with us.
My great aunt, Ruth Harris Morris, passed away on August 24, eight years to the day that my mother died. I now have double reason to mourn at that particular time of year.
Aunt Ruth lived a long and bountiful life. She had hardships and tears but she seemed to find more laughter and joy in the world than anyone else I know.
She had a family, my cousins, whom I am sorry to say I barely know, who she loved and pampered and cared for up until the end.
I saw her last in July at the family reunion, an annual affair she had insisted on for the last 15 years. She looked frail and she told me she thought it wouldn’t be long before she went on to be with Uncle Ted and my mother.
“When you eat blueberry pancakes, you be sure to think of me,” she told me before I left, because she remembered what I liked to eat, too.
I will never forget you, Aunt Ruth, or the wonderful kindnesses you paid to a small child who loved your fluffy blueberry pancakes.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Thursday Thirteen
1. What is the allure of Facebook? I started setting up a page but I don't get the point of it. The thing won't let me see anyone else's page even if I'm signed in, I guess because I'm not their "friend". But I'd like to look first to see if I want to be their "friend". What is the point here?
2. Why does David Letterman wear white socks and slippers with a $1,000 suit?
3. Why is it that when I am not dressed up and I just run into the grocery store for a single item, I see 10 people I know, all of whom want to stop and chat?
4. How many licks DOES it take to get to the Tootsie Roll Center of a Tootsie Pop? I remember licking one and counting when I was a child but I don't recall the number.
5. How lucky is it for the four-leaf clover if you find it and pick it?
6. Same goes for the rabbit... how lucky is that rabbit if you've cut off its foot?
7. If Trix are for kids, are Frosted Flakes for grown ups?
8. If banks are receiving billions to shore them up, will that money eventually be loaned out to citizens? Is this another part of the trickle down economic theory?
9. If you are a vendor and you see a rat in your establishment and you don't set a trap or put your food up out of the way, or at least report it to somebody, how is that the building owner's fault? Don't you as a businessperson have a little responsibility for ensuring the safety of what you feed the public?
10. If you are a multi-million dollar retirement community and you can't pay your bills, how is handing everything over to another company going to fix anything or reassure the residents that they aren't going to end up in the street?
11. If you wear blue all the time, does that make it your favorite color by default?
12. Why are little Styrofoam pieces called peanuts? And why does my vitamin company ship me a tiny little bottle in a too-large box full of the things?
13. Why do some people always feel the need to question everything?
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here.
2. Why does David Letterman wear white socks and slippers with a $1,000 suit?
3. Why is it that when I am not dressed up and I just run into the grocery store for a single item, I see 10 people I know, all of whom want to stop and chat?
4. How many licks DOES it take to get to the Tootsie Roll Center of a Tootsie Pop? I remember licking one and counting when I was a child but I don't recall the number.
5. How lucky is it for the four-leaf clover if you find it and pick it?
6. Same goes for the rabbit... how lucky is that rabbit if you've cut off its foot?
7. If Trix are for kids, are Frosted Flakes for grown ups?
8. If banks are receiving billions to shore them up, will that money eventually be loaned out to citizens? Is this another part of the trickle down economic theory?
9. If you are a vendor and you see a rat in your establishment and you don't set a trap or put your food up out of the way, or at least report it to somebody, how is that the building owner's fault? Don't you as a businessperson have a little responsibility for ensuring the safety of what you feed the public?
10. If you are a multi-million dollar retirement community and you can't pay your bills, how is handing everything over to another company going to fix anything or reassure the residents that they aren't going to end up in the street?
11. If you wear blue all the time, does that make it your favorite color by default?
12. Why are little Styrofoam pieces called peanuts? And why does my vitamin company ship me a tiny little bottle in a too-large box full of the things?
13. Why do some people always feel the need to question everything?
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
A Phone Company Puzzler
Let's say you're a nTelos customer and you're calling long distance within the same area code.
The call doesn't go through.
You try again numerous times. Occasionally you get through but just as frequently you do not. Sometimes the phone doesn't ring but someone eventually picks up.
Hello? Hello?
You respond but they can't hear you so they hang up, of course.
Now, who do you report this to?
In the old days you would have dialed 0 for operator and reported the problem. You told the operator what problem you were having. She said thank you very much and told you she would take are of it.
So now you call your phone company.
Your phone company (nTelos) says sorry, it's not on our end. You need to call the phone company that services that area.
Like you know what company that is.
Fortunately the helpful nTelos phone company people figure this out- it's TDS Telecom - and give you a number to call.
You call and attempt to make a report. After speaking to several people, the final helpful TDS phone company person says, essentially, so what do you want me to do about it?
Fix it?
He suggests putting in a "trouble ticket" but you don't know if that will cost the people you're trying to call anything, so you don't respond.
So what do you want me to do, he says.
You don't know. You are just calling to report that there is a problem. You aren't a telephone company repair person. You aren't even their customer.
A long time ago it didn't matter which company had the phone service (perhaps this was because it was all one big company) and you didn't have to turn into Sherlock Holmes to try to track down a phone number to report a problem.
Now you wonder, what exactly is the O for operator for? What does it do these days?
When you dial 0 in this day and age, what happens?
The call doesn't go through.
You try again numerous times. Occasionally you get through but just as frequently you do not. Sometimes the phone doesn't ring but someone eventually picks up.
Hello? Hello?
You respond but they can't hear you so they hang up, of course.
Now, who do you report this to?
In the old days you would have dialed 0 for operator and reported the problem. You told the operator what problem you were having. She said thank you very much and told you she would take are of it.
So now you call your phone company.
Your phone company (nTelos) says sorry, it's not on our end. You need to call the phone company that services that area.
Like you know what company that is.
Fortunately the helpful nTelos phone company people figure this out- it's TDS Telecom - and give you a number to call.
You call and attempt to make a report. After speaking to several people, the final helpful TDS phone company person says, essentially, so what do you want me to do about it?
Fix it?
He suggests putting in a "trouble ticket" but you don't know if that will cost the people you're trying to call anything, so you don't respond.
So what do you want me to do, he says.
You don't know. You are just calling to report that there is a problem. You aren't a telephone company repair person. You aren't even their customer.
A long time ago it didn't matter which company had the phone service (perhaps this was because it was all one big company) and you didn't have to turn into Sherlock Holmes to try to track down a phone number to report a problem.
Now you wonder, what exactly is the O for operator for? What does it do these days?
When you dial 0 in this day and age, what happens?
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