What Speed Bumps?

Buffalo Bill Reservoir, towards the North Fork of the Shoshone River

When you love a man, he becomes more than a body. His physical limbs expand, and his outline recedes, vanishes. He is rich and sweet and right. He is part of the world, the atmosphere, the blue sky and the blue water.

Gwendolyn Brooks

Monitoring the burn along the canal.

Smoking Up the Neighborhood

The Tree Musketeers 

Sometimes someone says something and years later you're still pondering what they might have meant.  A friend's comment comes to mind...that Jerry and I were a good balance for each other. At the time I smiled and pretended I knew exactly what he meant, but must admit that the more I think about it, I wonder what caused him to make such a profound observation. Perhaps more precisely, my husband must be wondering what our friend could have possibly observed that he would make such a comment, since he seems to be constantly attempting to correct my mistakes.

I seem to be the fiery trial to his patience, the interference to his plan,  the risk to his caution.  The fool that rushes in to his prudence, the distraction to his focus, the indulgence to his self denial, the idiot to his savant.  The worst of it, for me, is how often it appears he's right.  Every time a personality test comes up, we're opposites.  I turn out to be the fun-loving green to his responsible red.  He always thinks his nature is better, serious, dependable, while I humbly think fun is good, even harmless. Diametrically opposed, like thumbs always hitch-hiking in two different directions, I'm the wrong to his right.  Learned early on that, right or wrong, something's got to give, and that something is usually me.  But every so often, I take the bull by the horns and live a little dangerously, and suffer the consequences.

 Take for an example our week-ago-Sunday project. Broadly stated, we were putting a myriad of finishing touches on an apartment for Mindy with Duane's help, but after moving the oven and hooking up the stack-able laundry set, he got a phone call, and was gone for the duration.  She commented about 10 p.m. that she thought I might be a night owl. I think it was the KFC that Duane brought to us.  It did appear I'd gotten a second wind somehow, and was organizing tools and supplies to the porch ready for the move to the truck.  Paint cans had a spot, brushes with them, screw drivers, wrenches, tape measure and saws in a pile, boxes of nails and screws in another, extra base trim, and so on.  Moving out. Cleaning.  Scrubbing paint off the sink.  More moving tools.  I was on a mission when Jerry and Mindy were ready to call it a day.

Everything was so close to finished.  I could see the end in sight, and after following instructions all afternoon, I finally knew what had to be done. I was a force that wasn't going to stop easily.  They reluctantly caught some momentum and transferred everything except a couple of sponges and rags, and the mop I was using for the final spit and shine, from the porch of Unit #147 to the S-10.  We were on a roll, although it was quite dark and hard to see. Tools and supplies of every kind were being piled in the truck bed: paint, cut-off saw, plumbing fittings, supplies, duct tape, three brooms. small compressor, air-nailer.  Jerry wonders, "Three brooms???" Whatever... three brooms, I say.  No, I don't know why Mindy has three brooms.  All I know is that one of them works the best, so that's the one I want to use.  Mindy could have 10 brooms for all I cared, for a one bedroom apartment fixer-upper, just get them out of here, but it was a mystery Jerry was ready to solve.

Being unable to distract me, off he went, walking (stalking?) to the other unit, #14, also a fixer-upper in progress, where we were going to be storing and using, at least temporarily, some of the tools and supplies, carrying something, while Mindy finished loading the truck, and I took one last swipe of the sink and counter with a sponge, and another of the window seat, shut out the light and locked the door.  Whew,  Eleven p.m., exhausted, but finished, and out.  I briefly wondered if Jerry was mad at me, but, due to my focus on the current goal, I was only fleetingly concerned.

Mindy decided that I would drive the truck and she would follow behind to make sure nothing fell off the back of the truck, as we moved our supplies to the other unit.  Fine.  Go slow, Mom.  Right.  That's what Dad told me, too. Got it. No problem.  So about half way between the units and past the second of three speed bumps,  we met Jerry coming back to meet us.  Suddenly, he waved urgently, and I eased to a gentle stop to see what he wanted. Apparently, I wasn't going as slow as I thought, because, I was informed, Mindy was yelling, "MOM!"  "MOM!" and running as fast as she could behind the truck, trying to keep things from falling off the open tailgate.  While I went "flying" over speed bumps, she was picking up and catching things; the small compressor as it nearly tipped off the back of the truck, giving it a good shove, then picking up something else, a paint can, that had fallen off, and running to catch up again and so on, apparently this is how it had been going from the start.

I did not see or hear all this happening behind me, so was quite possibly ignoring the speed bumps.  I really, really dislike speed bumps, so  I tend to pretend they don't exist, but it seemed to be causing trouble for Mindy.  I don't know that very many people could have managed it so well, actually, but despite her successful rescues, she seemed more than a bit perturbed that night. Seems Jerry envisioned the neighbors calling the cops to see what all the commotion was about.  By the next evening, my sense of humor was getting the best of me, while my imagination reenacted the scene of Mindy's dashing about, grabbing falling supplies while hollering to attract my attention, and we laughed until we had to wipe away tears.  Mindy was even seeing the funny side by then, and we regaled our befuddled dinner guest with that story and some others.  Though Mindy seemed to wonder what I was thinking, I just can't explain it.  According to Jerry, this type of thing has happened before, something about bouncing across the field, while he balanced on the trailer I was pulling, hay bales falling on his head from the top of the bale-scooper-upper too fast for him to keep up with stacking them on the trailer, while I, driving the bale picker, aimed and fired.  No cops to call, no neighbors to disturb, no problem.  But that's another story.

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love. 

Francis of Assisi 

The very atmosphere of firearms anywhere and everywhere restrains evil interference - they deserve a place of honor with all that's good. 

George Washington 

In a Manner of Speaking

I think to be oversensitive about cliches is like being oversensitive about table manners.

Evelyn Waugh

Manners are a sensitive awareness of the feelings of others. If you have that awareness, you have good manners, no matter what fork you use.

Emily Post

Window Seat

Frequent and loud laughter is the characteristic of folly and ill manners.

Lord Chesterfield

Be simple in words, manners, and gestures. Amuse as well as instruct. If you can make a man laugh, you can make him think and make him like and believe you.

Alfred E. Smith

     Duane doesn't like Thai food, but that's where we ended up eating on Sunday.  We had chosen to eat at  Z's Cafe, a sandwich shop on Baseline Road, but found it closed.  Mindy had big plans for herself and needed help, so the plan was to eat a quick dinner, change into some work clothes, and get started.  We had a long way to go by evening: half of a dark African wood-look floor to finish laying, shower walls to grout, also a fireplace hearth, and a few kitchen tiles, then some base, trim and doors to re-install,  and finally clean up and move all our tools.  It all sounded possible.  When she mentioned that the sinks needed hooked up, the stove moved in, washer/dryer combo hooked up, and the closet doors needed to be hung, I knew things were getting out of hand. And she could do it, alone, she said.  We didn't need to help her.  Anyway, the plan was to get as far as we could.


       Sitting across the table from my kids, there were a couple of things that came to mind.  First of all, I had ordered soup.  Mindy had been making me aware of a couple of  habits I had; slurping my food and eating while on the phone. Cereal, soup, whatever.  We would chat away, and for some reason, I'd start munching on something.  Food for thought, maybe.  Eating alone, soup too hot, I slurped to cool it.   With cereal, the problem was less about slurping and more about eating noisily.  She reminds me NOT to chew my celery or carrots while I'm on the phone, in fact, no eating while on the phone, at all.  Very annoying, hearing someone chewing into the microphone of a telephone where the sound is magnified.  So I've been working on not slurping my soup, and check myself every so often when I'm alone.  


     One of the things we worked on with our kids was manners, not expecting that they would always use them, but would know how to behave correctly.  To make sure we weren't teaching them incorrectly, we found a book called Miss Manners Guide to Rearing Perfect Children.  I already knew that there wasn't such a thing as perfect children, because Mom and Dad had some friends that tried very hard to change me and my sisters and brother into perfect children in Mom and Dad's absence.  We resisted with all our might.  I am probably the most responsible for that episode of defiance, being the eldest of five.  Nevertheless,  Judith Martin could name the book anything she wanted, as far as I was concerned.


    And here I was relaxing at the table, ignoring the lessons I'd taught the kids.  It's surprising how you can slip into a bad habit without even noticing it.  When I was a kid, I dragged my feet.  Yesterday at the airport, a teenage girl wearing white, loafer-style, backless flat-soled shoes was ungracefully dragging her feet, a strange kind of slide-flip, slide-flop, slide-flip slide-flop.  I was relieved when she got to the end of the line and stood still.  I'm glad that Mom pointed it out in a quite irritated tone, so now when I do occasionally drag my feet,  I hear it, and step a little more lightly. 


     As we sat  across the table from our kids, Duane, in his gray Sunday sports coat, was eating properly.  One hand in his lap, or using his knife to help scoop his bites of too-sweet chicken on to his fork, then putting down the knife, returning his hand to his lap, as he continued eating.  Impressive, considering the years it's been since we focused on table manners. Meanwhile, Jerry and I both had our forearms resting on the table, leaning forward, relaxed.  Doubtless we were talking with our mouth full at times, as well, but mercifully, I wasn't slurping my soup.  Wondered for a moment how we got to a point where the correct etiquette seemed a foggy memory, and then wonder how many other rules we were breaking.  When we began teaching the kids, I was unclear on plenty of etiquette myself, and Jerry seemed to be overly correct in some, and completely confused in other areas.  The solution was to turn to a third party, in this case, our "rule book".


     One of the things I was pleasantly surprised to hear when Duane moved away from home, was that other people complimented his table manners.  Best of all, for me, we hadn't accomplished it by nagging the kids.  When the manners discussions first appeared, I could see the whole exercise bordered on descending into negativity at the table, so we devised a game which we all played. Of course, the kids loved to catch Dad forgetting to say thank you, and Mom talking with her mouth full, and I thought it was good for us, too!  It only seems fair that the adults learn and obey the same rules as the kids were expected to follow.  I had gotten some tall champagne glasses from a yard sale, and we each had one at our place. We earned multi-colored chips for our glass by someone catching someone else doing something right, and a chip, a little clear plastic disk, was quietly removed from our glass if we got caught eating with our mouth open, talking with our mouth full, had an elbow on the table, or forgot to say please, or thank you.  As we got better at it, we added to the list, trying new food without complaining, asking to be excused before leaving the table, and each removing our own plate and taking it to the sink.  Extra points if you helped Mom in the kitchen without being asked.  Douglas was an especially great assistant and I enjoyed having a good helper.


    Friday night was reward time and we called it Late-night Dinner.  I fixed elegant meals and served them on china and crystal dishes, with cloth napkins and candles.  It wasn't long before we didn't need the game anymore, but the Late-night Dinner is a favorite tradition that we have not completely forsaken.  For the record, appreciatively sniffing with comments about the smell of dinner cooking on the stove, as you walk in the door comes naturally and doesn't hurt the cook's feelings.


    Monday evening, after a long exhausting day, we ate Papa Murphy's pizza at the house with the kids and had a wonderful time relaxing around their table.  I was pleased to note Duane leaning on the table with his forearm, unselfconsciously eating pizza with his hands while we told stories and laughed loudly together at funny stories from the weekend, and years before.  No eating hamburgers with a knife and fork, either.  When I first saw a lady cutting a hamburger elegantly into bite sized pieces with a knife, I thought I was really from the sticks.  It's probably the basis for my interest in learning how to behave oneself appropriately.


   I think it's safe to say that while we make incredible effort and try to do well, we also make mistakes, unconsciously slipping up, so I am laying no claims to being perfect, far from it, or rearing perfect children, for that matter, although they are special, I think.  I love that we all need space to make mistakes, and encouragement to do well.  When my baby sister came for a visit, she quickly picked up the game.  Then my nephew came for a couple of summers, and we brought out the game again.  It was a little easier when there was more than one kid at the table, especially one who might feel pressured to do something that isn't required at home.  It took him awhile to cooperate, but we were liberal with the chips when he did something right. It was a little tricky explaining what you aren't supposed to do, and he hated the chips being removed from his glass.  After awhile, he got the hang of it, and was on board a little more willingly.  Just before he left to go home, he let me take a picture of him with his glass full of chips. Strictly speaking, it's probably best to be a good example and a very patient one, at that!  Kids are quite malleable, if handled wisely.  It does get noticed. What we do is so much more powerful than what we say.

 Fine manners need the support of fine manners in others.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sunrise

A tree covered in flowers with a pleasant scent.  Wonder what kind.

 

List for Home Depot

Amazing focus and energy.  Mindy presses on.

Parents are usually more careful to bestow knowledge on their children rather than virtue, the art of speaking well rather than doing well; but their manners should be of the greatest concern.

R. Buckminster Fuller

Marking granite cuts.

Manners require time, and nothing is more vulgar than haste.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Giving instructions on cutting the
hole for a sink.

    

“The real test of good manners is to be able to put up with bad manners pleasantly.” 
― Kahil Gibran

Window Seat again.

The Pursuit of Happiness

Set me a task in which I can put something of my very self,
and it is a task no longer; it is joy; it is art.

Bliss Carman

Just a reminder that some days 
have more of it than necessary.

Caution is the confidential agent of selfishness.
Woodrow Wilson

But what is happiness except the simple 

harmony between a man and the life he leads?

Albert Camus

Little Deer

Spring Bursting Out, Box Elder

Lost and Found

        I hate losing things.  Like keys, for instance.  Or my glasses.  I have three or four pairs of reading glasses, but the State of Wyoming now says I have to wear glasses for driving, so the green ones have to be set aside when I am on the computer, and put on for driving.  They disappeared under the calculator on my desk this week.  I looked in that general vicinity twice and didn't see them.  Then my  book vanished that I had just minutes before, and  after fixing a lunch, answering the telephone, unloading the dishwasher, taking a shower, and making a cup of tea, I can't find it for the life of me.  Aggravation.                            

         Really, how hard can it be to put your keys in one place every time?  I have wondered more than once if this problem is genetic.  I left my purse at Mr. Steak after my first date with the man I would go on to take as my lawfully wedded husband.  Probably "twitter-pated".  Except when my grandma came for visits,  we sometimes had to go back to restaurants to get her purse, too.  I left one once under a dark table in a booth, and when we called to tell them I had left it, and hoped someone would put it in a safe place, they told me it wasn't there.  So I went back and got it.  It was there, under the dark table, next to the wall, out of sight.  They couldn't believe it.  You can imagine how unhappy it makes me to unload everything for airport security.  Trying to make sure I'm all put back together after someone goes through my stuff is very unnerving.  I suppose everyone triple checks, and still feels harried.

         Maybe it should have been a warning sign to my future husband that he would have to help me find things after we should already be out the door, in the car and half way down the lane, instead of on a last minute treasure hunt.  Who gets the prize?  The one who calls out first..."I found it!" Then the sound of feet skipping up the stairs, two at a time, doors slamming hastily.  Ask my mom and dad...always I've been known as the cow's tail.  Who else could you count on every time to dash out the door when everyone else was waiting in the car...someone had to be last, right?  It was always me, at least it seemed like it.

      

     But back to the book I was looking for.  When I've lost my book, a substitute won't necessarily work, but I have been known pick up my Kindle reader instead.  I really prefer handling a REAL book, the bulk of it, and sizing it up.  I like the feel and smell of the cover.  I usually even remove the book jacket to see how they've designed the cover.  My Kindle has a leather case and I like the smell of it. I enjoy handling the weight of a book, turning the pages, and letting it fall open, and reading right there, but maybe not staying in one place, flipping to another, or picking up a different book.  I like placing a bookmark snugly between the pages.  I love going back to a book and and finding my place. I like using strange things for bookmarks that would otherwise be tossed in the trash, like a shiny, rectangular AAA sticker that is meant for the car, but since you don't really want it on the bumper,  it makes it feel useful.  I really like free bookmarks from the library, too.  Wish I didn't lose them so fast, and where is the hand lotion, anyway.    I know I ordered three tubes of it  last month.  And where, oh where has my toothbrush gone? 

     I have three or four other books that I've started reading, but set aside to finish this one, because the library says that since it's been checked out to me since January that I really have to bring it back.    They just can't check one book out over and over to the same person, you know.  I giggled.  "But it's a really large book," I said.  So I can have it two more weeks.  ONLY.  Librarians can be sticklers.   I don't think she thought it was very funny.  What are the books there for?  To be lent.  If someone is waiting for the book, I can understand the urgency.  If they are not, what could possibly be the problem?  Silly librarian.

       I thought about downloading it on Kindle.  I could have it for the rest of my life and maybe have time to slowly read every word of it.  I like this book.  It's big enough that I can spot it across a room so I don't lose it very long.  And I like its impressive size because it tells me something about myself.  That I'm now quite a bit more willing to plod through a book, instead of speed-reading it.  Although I did skip through some parts, naturally.  Sometimes I realize I missed something important, and have to go back.  Now I am more likely to savor the detailed descriptions that round out the plot, and consciously sink into all the parts of the painstakingly created story. 

      I could collect books,  and have stately and colorful titles lined up neatly across a shelf, tempting someone other than myself to choose to read one of them and fall in love with the author's perspective.  When I see books stacked on tables and in boxes at yard sales I am tempted to give some of them a good home.   Found out that, mysteriously, not everyone, even people I love very much and love me, like books especially.   But some do.  My kids.  They love books, and they have books, and they display books, and read books like Calculus, 1, 2 and 3,  and biographies, and books I've never read and am glad I don't have to.  I used to think I should build a library of my very own, and maybe someone else would laugh and cry over a story they found in my bookcase, just like me.  I know Algebra and Calculus makes some people cry, but I was actually thinking of Louisa May Alcott's works.  Calculus didn't make it to my bookshelf, but sure makes me curious.  I think I would like it.  It would probably make me cry, sometimes, too.

     I really liked this book.  Probably the longest story I've ever read and it has a lot of heroic battle scenes.  I love a really good hero, it makes you think about greatness and inspires you to be great.  But I'm not sorry I have finally finished my book.  It was an amazing story, and there are those other books, partially started, lined up on a shelf,  and some stacked neatly on a side table, waiting for me.  And I can come back to this book someday if I want to. 

      I never used to pick up any book of this size.  Takes too long to get to the best part, when everyone lives happily ever after, or not, and the descriptions are so long.  After all, I know very well what a desert looks like, and can easily envision meadows, mountains and houses of my own creation.  One thing I'm learning, about life and about books, it's not just about getting to the end.  You may as well take your time and enjoy it as you go along.  And who knows about happily ever after.  Sometimes endings aren't so very happy, and sometimes, although heartbreaking, the princess never shows up.  We can only hope.  Or perhaps we don't always know how much we are, to someone, a real life hero.

      Speaking of real life, I was informed, in a slightly superior way,  that my mother-in-law, did not read, therefore her children did not read.  She humbly told me later that since she couldn't read without being able to put a book down, then she ought not to be doing it at all.  So, in the interest of my reputation, I quit reading.  Cold turkey.  Fiction reading had been a relaxing escape for me, but no more.  Cookbooks and informational books were fine.  I learned to make balloon shades and roman blinds and cream puffs,  home made mayonnaise, bran muffins and lentil soup and invest in real estate.  No nonsense books.

       Then my kids got this or that little illness.  One night when Douglas was about two, I found him standing in his bed, crying and frightened.  Very unusual behavior for him.  I took him to the doctor and he was scared of and by the doctor whose rough handling didn't impress me much either.  Concerned that they might get something serious, and I would lose the power to make easy decisions about their health, I devoted myself to keeping my kids well.  A friend from California told me about a doctor and the success he had recovering from cancer.  So I bought books.  All kinds of books, and began to learn.  Soon I had a Materia Medica, along with a variety of manuals and home health handbooks: books of provings, history, and repertory so I could cross reference information.  I learned about Aconite, a remedy in which the patient is feverish, frightened easily, has nightmares and the symptoms appear quite suddenly.  It pretty much described my son, that night, and I wished I'd known about Aconite then.  In the process I learned about the concept of homeopathy, (the law of similars, i.e., that like cures like), about potency, the direction of cure, as well as the mysteries of susceptibility and energy fields.  We focused on getting and staying healthy with lots of home cooked meals, and a mostly sugar and desert free eating style.  We got rid of our aluminum and cast iron cookware, and we got sick less often.

      And I read to the kids.  We read To Kill a Mockingbird a couple of times.  They loved hearing stories, so it was a great family activity.  I was a little worried that they would pick up some of Tom Sawyer's ideas,  about convincing other people to do your work for you, but it doesn't seem to have worked that way exactly.   Not a bad thing to be good at delegating, right?  

        When they got into junior high and high school, where the classics were assigned reading, already beloved stories to them, it was no hardship to read the familiar stories.  They had seen me study homeopathy, and then begin a long session on the civil war era.  While they were browsing at the library, I brought home books about Abraham Lincoln and a book of letters that had been written during the war.  Recounting the interesting things I had learned was great quality dinner table conversation for a family.  Why not feed their minds on healthy thinking while feeding their bodies wholesome food? 

      One of the kids is especially interested in history, and family stories.   "Tell a story, grandma," became a familiar plea.  I didn't do a lot of reading, with three kids, a husband, a business and rentals, cooking, cleaning, sewing, laundry and errands.  Surprising what you can fit in here and there, though.  Some homework and school deadlines slipped through the cracks, and a busy mother sometimes wonders where she went wrong,  but they turned out to be bright, generally healthy and well-adjusted.  And one of my friends had assured me, grades aren't everything, so pick your battles.  Anyway, I couldn't say too much, after all, I had locked us out of the car at the circus.  Also, socks had a way of losing their mates at our house, and  finding my keys was a frequent family event.  

      

Projects

New shower walls at the rental.

Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go.

Oscar Wilde

Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.

Mahatma Gandhi

             

     View from my bike ride.  About half a mile after a close call when my shoelace became wrapped around the bike gears. Tense moment, then I pedaled backwards and it unwound, and I managed to get stopped, without falling over, so I could I re-tie in a double knot.  Reminded me of Shep. He wanted to go with me and for a change, I gave in, and put him on a leash.  When I turned onto Sage Creek Road, I thought it would be handy to loop his leash around my handlebar.  Twenty-twenty hindsight reveals the remarkable imprudence of that move. It took about five seconds for him to spot some deer across the field and jerk directly left, making a bee-line after them, indifferently dumping me and the bike on the pavement.  Took the wind right out of my sails.

This was a very pretty day, but windy.  First bike ride of the year.  Worth it. Even against the wind.

Never permit a dichotomy to rule your life, a dichotomy in which you hate what you do so you can have pleasure in your spare time. Look for a situation in which your work will give you as much happiness as your spare time.

Pablo Picasso

di·chot·o·my

   [dahy-kot-uh-mee]  Show IPA

noun, plural di·chot·o·mies.

1.

division into two parts, kinds, etc.; subdivision into halves or pairs.

2.

division into two mutually exclusive, opposed, or contradictory groups: a dichotomy between thought and action.

3.

Botany . a mode of branching by constant forking, as in some stems, in veins of leaves, etc.

4.

Astronomy . the phase of the moon or of an inferior planet when half of its disk is visible.