Response to Weather Matters

Snow yesterday when I got up at 4:25am preparing to go to on our ward temple trip to Albuquerque. Snowing still when I got to Leslie in her 4WD truck. Snowing still when we got to Hurley and waited for the others. Snowing still--all the way--to the Hatch turnoff at Deming. The roads were snow-covered, all the way down (60 miles) and on to Hatch and on to Socorro, according to the state police. Already we were late for our 11:00 appt. Couldn't make it until maybe noon--the snow slowing the 4 1/2 hour drive. We turned back and drove the snow-covered road home. I got home about 8:00am.

My sister, who lives with me (or I with her depending on--), is always cold now. She has said to me several times--"I hate people who say, in response to me saying I'm cold, it's 76 degrees in here. Like that would make me any warmer." But we do not turn on the heat in our house, except in my mother's room. I get up every morning about 6:30, clean the ashes from the woodstove into the ash tray, take it out and dump it down the slope in the back yard, and come back in to build a new fire. 80 degrees is what my sister likes. 68 is more my style. Luckily, my room is furthest from the woodstove. And it has a door that closes.

Wind today. Sunny, blue sky this morning but cloudy now and yeah, windy. It makes the dog door flap. It makes my sister come back here and say, "Build up the fire, would you?" She can build it up herself, but it is my job, as loading the dishwasher is hers.

I remember how hot it was last summer.

I recently read through several years of my grandmother's journals. Every day's entry begins with the weather. I'm not kidding--every, single day. She moved from New Mexico to Vermont and back, and back and forth she and my grandfather went testing the weather in each place, measuring it against the other--Vermont snow and trees vs. New Mexico sun and dry air. They both died in New Mexico. I hope the weather was good the separate days they departed.

The Traditional Square of Opposition and My Brain

All Swiss watches are true works of art.
Therefore, it is false that no Swiss watches are true works of art.

"To evaluate this argument, we begin, as usual, by assuming the premise is true. Since the premise is an A proposition, by the contrary relation the corresponding E proposition is false. But this is exactly what the conclusion says, so the argument is valid."

[This is logic applied to our everyday arguments between normal people on the street. Right.]

Some viruses are structures that attack T cells.
Therefore, some viruses are not structures that attack T cells.

"Here the premise and conclusion are linked by the subcontrary relation. According to that relation, if the premise is assumed true, the conclusion has logically undetermined truth value, and so the argument is invalid. It commits the formal fallacy of illicit subcontrary."

[No kidding! I thought only things that had to do with sex and drugs were illicit. I have learned--at age 62--that subcontrarys can be illicit too. And you wonder why I cannot write these days...]

I cannot seem to be able to THINK about these things. I got under, way under, 50% on the last series of "assessments." My brain is spongy. Perhaps it has been attacked by a T cell virus, but it certainly isn't running like a Swiss watch.

Snow in New Mexico

Well, what did I expect--living here at 6000 feet.

Holidays...

They seem to bring out the best and the worst in the people in my family. But this is not what I want to write about this beautiful late fall day--full of sunshine and a few high clouds and warm at 56 degrees. Not bad for the end of November. We will have turkey and ham and sweet potatoes and a fruit platter by Alexandra from her "Kids' Cookbook." And a chocolate pecan pie and a sweet potato pie. And I will be thankful for this year and its many trials and blessings, as all are cause for gratitude.

You CAN teach an old dog new tricks!

I have just popped the five-bean bake into the oven for our lunch today--my mother's and mine. Did you get that? I, Wendy, "popped" something in the oven which I made from a recipe. It wasn't that hard, not a difficult recipe, but a recipe nonetheless. Not a frozen dinner or a can of ______ or a boxed meal. Or a peanut butter sandwich. It's just a wonder a person could come to this in her sixties--hence the title of this blog.

Now, I will type a few more lines without going back to add in the missd spaces and letters that my keyboard has suddenly decided to leave out. Who knows why--jut oneo f those computer things that let you know you are not really in charge.

More on Bricks--

Remember when I wrote last month so proudly about my newspaper bricks? And how I had made ten of them? What a wimp I was then! Today, I made thirty-three. The sun shone down, a breeze ambled through, lifting the edges of the papers I was stacking, just to let me know who's in charge. (By the way, Washington, which part of the climate do you think you can control? Not the wind that listeth where it may) And it was warm--up to 75 today. So November feels like October should have. At least in Silver City.

One last note: I ate sushi in Silver City today. At the fairly new Asian Buffet where the young man who did not speak English made it right before my eyes. May these food wonders never cease.

Medicophobia, Part 2

This part 1, part 2 stuff is catching...

So I took my sister to the pharmacy and then I went back to the endoscopy center at UNM hospital with the purple latex glove in plastic bag in hand. I ran right up against the check-out nurse, so I told her and showed her. She was nonplussed. Which is to say, she had no explanation except to call the supervising nurse over. I told this nurse the story and showed her the purple latex glove. Explanation: It must have been stuck to her behind because we don't use those for anything except the rectal exam (sorry--part of the story) and there's no way it could have been inside her. I accepted this and said I thought they would want to know about it for quality control. She laughed and said, "Oh, we don't reuse those."

Really. Hmm.

End of story--at least about that visit to the UNM hospital.

Medicophobia

Well, I kind of made that word up to fit the following story. I went with my sister to Albuquerque for her colonoscopy last week. (Don't stop here--it's not about drinking all the yucky stuff and sitting on the toilet for three hours.) Afterwards, the check-out nurse warned her that she would have a lot of air--6 feet of it--to pass during the day. Fine--no real news there. I drove her back to the motel room, and a bit later, she went into her favorite room and did her business, plus air. She came out with a purple latex glove in her hand. This, she said, had been in the toilet when she stood up to flush. Yes, a purple latex glove. So where did it come from? (Do you want to know, or is this enough?)

Must post

I cleaned the toilets this morning. That's my day so far.

Retired in Silver City

Today I made newspaper bricks for the first time. I ordered the nifty brick maker from Lehman's--the huge, wonderful everything-Amish hardware store in Kidron, Ohio. I've been there, wandered around and up and down and in and out of all the rooms filled with treasures you never even thought of needing for your home. Especially if you have electricity.

Anyway, I made ten bricks from a two-foot high stack of Wall Street Journals. I filled one of those white plastic buckets with water in which I soaked the newspapers "thoroughly." Then shoved the wadded mess into the metal frame, put on the mashing part, and by stepping on one handle and pushing the other with my hand, I squeezed and squished out the water. The first ones weren't very, um, brick-like, but I got better as I went on. It took me about 45 minutes to make ten bricks. Just to put that into perspective, the brick maker cost me $39.90 including shipping and handling. Wood around here is $200 a cord. I don't know how long it might take me to make a cord of newspaper bricks (actually, I may die first...). But hey, free papers, free labor, free dummy!

A satisfying occupation in an otherwise difficult morning of getting my hair cut too short on the neckline again.

More on Scrub Jays

No, I did not mean moron scrub jays because they are not. But I have figured out the segregation issue. Well, my mother helped me. First, I bought a new apartment building kind of bird feeder with 12 feeding stations. Second, I bought two more varieties of bird food. Third, my mother suggested that we dump the water and put just sunflower seeds in the former bird bath. It worked. The jays fight each other over the sunflower seeds while the smaller, nicer birds have a jolly time visiting and eating at the apartment. Segregation can be a very good thing.

Fall right on the dot

That's when fall came to Silver City--right on the dot of September 22, the official first day of fall. Chilly. Mid-40s in the early morning and mid-60s by afternoon. It's really kind of nice because my bedroom hasn't been above 77 for awhile. And fall is in the air in other ways too. The feel of it, the greedy birds at the feeder, the sun sliding south bit by bit. At 3:30pm there's still no sun coming in my window.

But back to the greedy birds. We have scrub jays here in Silver City, and I am beginning to feel about them as I feel about the magpies in Boise. Big, greedy (did I mention that?), pushy, noisy birds. Bullying their way to the feeders, pushing the nice smaller birds away and down to the ground where they pick and peck at the seeds the jays fling out in their search for the sunflower seeds. They are striking birds, like the magpies are. Bright blue on head and back with some gray and a bit of white. But they needn't think I'm going to fall for their big, handsome selves. I'm too old for that.

I am trying to figure out how to segregate them. I need to run a separate but equal bird feeding operation here. I will allow them to share the drinking water, though.

Any ideas?

One for the books...

This morning, my mother and I went to the monthly book sale held by the Friends of the Silver City Library. I was browsing through the paperbacks right next to a woman doing the same thing. Her husband was browsing for her at another table. He said, "Here's a V.C. Andrews." She said, "I've read all those." A minute later, he said, "How about this?" She went over to look at the book and said to him, "It's the second book in a 'treeology.' I don't want that." I stood pondering the term treeology. If I hadn't been where I was--at a book sale--I would've thought it was a specialized branch of botany. But context is everything, they say.

9-11-09

Eight years ago this morning, I got to school about 7:30 and passed another teacher in the hall who told me an airliner had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York. Oh dear, I said, and went on to my classroom. I turned on the TV to look for some news. The story unfolded then, to my shock and distress and fear.

I drove home that afternoon, passing car after car after truck after truck with Old Glory, our beloved flag, taped to doors and windows, flapping from antennas. I went on my walk in the eerie silence of quiet, blue skies.

This morning, I got my commemorative silver coins out of their black, velvet boxes, and examined them. The first has "God Bless America" and the twin towers engraved on one side, and "'Land of the Free,' '...One Nation Under God Indivisible With Liberty and Justice For All,' September 11, 2001" on the other. The second is engraved with the Tribute In Light for the missing towers, a timeline of events from 8:45am through 5:25pm, followed by "This coin will only be struck until April 13, 2002 when the lights will be turned off."

I weep for the horror of it, for the terror of it, for the brief blooming of patriotic love and determination that followed it. All these are, I hope, as the card says--"Lost, but not forgotten."

09-09-09

Yes, it's oh-niner oh-niner oh-niner today. A date none of us will see again. It will come around, of course, in 2109, but I'll be dessicated beyond belief by then. So what did I do today to celebrate this once-in-a-lifetime event? I got up at 6:30, went to Curves AND walked, worked on my talk for church, took my mother to the newish Trader Joe's-like place here, went on to WalMart (wouldn't want to miss that on a day like this), and then on to Wendy's for lunch (chili w/cheese and onions, side salad, baked potato), ending up at Tinda's for a haircut. It rained hard while I was there, but not as hard as it rained yesterday at the same time. Yesterday's was a momentous rain--huge drops pounding, pounding, a 6-foot wide river racing down Hudson as I drove up it--but only countable drops on the cement at my house when I got home. Very localized (I live maybe 1 1/2 miles from the flood on Hudson), and probably somewhat like today's date--momentous for some and gone unnoticed by others. I will complete the celebration by going to a choir practice at church for a funeral tomorrow, then coming home to watch Melanie Oudin beat the pants off whoever she's playing at the US Open. A good, all-around oh-niner kind of a day.

Not about plantar warts

So, what do you do?? I know you can't answer me unless I tell you the "about what" part, and I'm not sure if I want to do that because it would take up probably months of your time and mine. I'm crossways with myself today and would be better off alone. However, that isn't an option for me, ensnared as I am by the invisible but ever so strong cross-currents that wrap this household in a tight web.
Instead, I'll say this about that (as my friend used to--and may still--say)--at least some can see their plantar warts. I can only feel mine.

More about Carnivals

We went back to the carnival this evening, Alex and I. She had 9 tickets left--3 per ride. I stood and watched and waved and took a few photos. I watched more than Alex, though. And I wondered about why people go to carnivals and ride on rides that swoop and spin and dive and scare them half to death.

I looked at the kids as they were getting off of/out of the baskets and swings and cars. I looked at many of them, but only one got off smiling and laughing, running to her dad, so excited her little face shone. The others were expressionless. Really. Even the 4-, 5-, 6-year olds. I wondered if these days of computer games and reality TV have dulled them, dulled the wonder of childhood's surprises and discoveries.

My little Alex, though, enjoyed everything. And she's already 7. Nearly an adult by today's standards, I'm afraid. Her face lights up at the deer and fawn next to our house. She laughs delightedly at the big scrub jay trying to balance on the bird feeder, flapping his wings wildly. The most important decision of her life today was pouring over the rock samples, trying to pick the best ones from "so many choices." Thank goodness.

The Good Old Small-town Carnival

The thing is sitting down and taking 5 minutes to write something. Like this: I ate cotton candy last night at the carnival here. My great-niece wanted some but was unsure whether she should get any because her mother would not approve, but her dad said your mother's not here and we're celebrating--it's kind of like a holiday, August 28th--it must be a holiday somewhere in the world. So William bought the cotton candy ($4.00...) which these days comes in a plastic bag.

The last time I remember buying cotton candy was at the New Mexico state fair in, maybe, 1959. Then, there was a machine enclosed in glass and it somehow spun the sugar into cotton right before your eyes, and the person selling it stuck a white paper tube into the spinning cotton and it wound right around the tube and she pulled it out and handed it to you for about 25 cents.

Now, it's in a sanitary plastic bag, made somewhere--probably China--and you have to reach in and take a handful and get your fingers all sticky and lick them and get all the germs inside you from the bar you were gripping when you rode the ferris wheel. Instead of them staying on your hands like they did in the old days when you had a paper tube to hold your cotton candy.

That's progress for you.

Hot. That is what it has been here in Silver City, NM. Hot. Now if I were in Boise, 94 or 96 wouldn't be that hot. But in Boise, I had air conditioning. Not so here in Silver City. 6000 feet of elevation above the sea does not equal coolth.

I have done many things to lower the temperature of the room in which I live. I have tried:
1. closing the window when the outside temp rises above the inside temp
2. closing the blind when the sun starts its westward slide
3. buying an outside shade and lowering it
4. buying a roll of insulated reflective stuff and stapling it to the outside of my outside shade
5. buying another fan--floor model to augment my ceiling fan (sub-standard, 4-bladed weakling that it is)
6. wearing less clothing
7. moving to another room when the temp in here rises above 88 degrees (This doesn't exactly lower the temperature in my room, and so constitutes escaping from the problem)
8. counting the days left before I leave on a trip in my air-conditioned car (qualifies as another escape from the problem)
9. telling myself that many people in this world live without a room to be too hot in
10. looking at pictures of Antarctica
And one I haven't tried but may have to--taking the thermometer out of my room (current temp is 88.0. Time to leave.)

Is writing a talent I have been given and am now burying in the ground waiting for it to multiply? I don't have anything to say here, in this public spot. I write in my journal but, upon examination, find that really none of it is for anyone else's consumption. I write that as if anyone else was consuming this!

Too many of the things I feel to write are 1. mental or emotional vomit; 2. spiritual in nature; 3. fleeting, brief, not worth the time it takes to log into this and recapture.

That all said--
I turn my head to look out my window and see the clear blue sky, early sun warming the neutral earthly colors and features to vibrant life. Greens of pinon, juniper, oak, cottonwood (this last barely visible through the Arizona juniper in the back yard). I live just above Cottonwood Creek. Can't see it or hear it from here--it is nearly silent from right on its narrow, brushy banks. But the cottonwood trees follow it faithfully from up as far as I have walked down past our house and on. My sister loves cottonwoods. They are her favorite tree. I think mine is ponderosa pine.

Light is life, gives life to everything. But there is a difference between light as opposed to dark and light as in sunshine. It is light outside now, but when the sun is covered by the clouds--as it is right now--the life in things is muted, neutral, as I said. Words come to mind like vivid, vital, words that come from the word for life itself--vivere: to live. That's what sunshine, sunlight does to and for the world. No wonder we are a bit less lively on overcast days.

So there. I've dug up my talent and aired it. A bit dusty, but back in the light.

Hotter than...?

My mother and I were having our lunch at Wendy's today--chili, baked potato, side salad. In came a rancher and his son. I noted the rancher because he looked real--even had spurs on his work boots and a work hat on his head. He sat down near us and said, "They've forgotten to turn on the air conditioning." And as his son sat down across from him, he said, "Hotter 'n young love in a '52 Chevy."

I liked it, and him.

Memorial Day 09

I read today the military history of my father compiled by my mother after his death last year. I thought it was a good day to do it--memorializing him and his service to his country. That service began in September of 1934 when he was just 13 years old. He joined the ROTC at Lew Wallace High School in Gary, Indiana. He was honorably released from that duty in 1937 when he graduated and went to college in New Mexico.

Along came Pearl Harbor and our entry into WW2, and Dad's reentry into the military. He was rejected by the Navy for his hay fever, so when he went in to sign up with the Army, he "failed" to mention it. Then came his pilot's training, his jaunting about the country from base to base, accumulating experience and training as a bomber pilot. Just before the end of his training, the war ended and he was "demobbed."

Back in New Mexico, he joined the newly-formed NM Air National Guard where he continued his flying and was reactivated in 1951 for the "Korean conflict." He escaped going by the skin of his teeth (and a visit to Washington, DC to examine his own military records), but continued in the Guard until fall of 1962, when he retired as a Lt. Colonel.

He was one of only 9 men nationwide to receive a Command Pilot rating in the late 1950s--and the only one from New Mexico. He loved to fly. And he loved his country. I am proud to tears of him and his 28 years of service. I love this Memorial Day.

Do It Self!

My mother has told me a story about herself when she was a little girl of three or four. Whenever someone tried to help her with something she thought she could do without them, she said, "Bobbi do it self!"

Our current leaders of this country are behaving as if we, the citizens, were little children. As if we could not function without their experience and guidance. Well, I say to them--We all, the vast majority of us anyway, wish to "do it self." Get out of our way while we make decisions for ourselves. I know it can be painful. I know we can lose things we don't want to lose. But what is our ultimate goal? Don't give up what we want most--freedom of choice--for what we want at the moment--freedom from pain?

Why are we knuckling under? Why are we sitting back and allowing the president and his advisors to make decisions for us? In the Book of Mormon we read that the devil will "lull us away into carnal [worldly] security" and then he can lead us "carefully down to hell" (2 Ne 28:21). So we get tired of making decisions, hard ones, by and for ourselves, and it seems good to have someone who appears to be strong and competent take over. And we are led, slowly, carefully, lulled by smooth tongues and "verbally agile quick studies" down to a hell we had no intention of visiting when we began.

That's one reason. Another is found in the New Testament, in 1st Timothy 6:10: "For the love of money is the root of all evil" and those who succumb to it "pierce themselves through with many sorrows." It is the love of money that seems to be driving Chrysler and GM and many others to their knees, begging for the proffered hand full of taxpayer dollars. It's too hard to solve the underlying issues alone. They want the help of someone else, someone they can then blame when things fall apart anyway as I am afraid they will. They appear to want to be led carefully away to hell. They are choosing to pierce their own selves with many sorrows. But not only their own selves, also all of us who are forced, through the honest payment of taxes, to support their decline.

There is a bright spot in this frightening morass, however. It is this: Today, the sun is shining, the sky is blue as a dutchman's pants, the air is washed clean by the rain, the birds--bless their little fast-beating hearts--are chirping and warbling happily, and I am secure in my knowledge that all will be well, regardless of what "Man" can do to try to mess it up.

Track Your Time, Anyone?

I'm tracking my time today. My sister tracks her food consumption. I'm tracking my time (see last post...). So here's just a little snippet of my day so far:

11:27-12:28 Went out to get in Karen’s car—no back seat—B and I got in mine and went to the doctor’s office--Karen followed. Can’t see him until 1pm. Drove back home--Karen went on to Walmart. Started sweeping the back porch (as I was walking in from the garage, remembered Karen wanted it swept), removed the carpet rug, threw the broom across the yard twice and one chair once (!), emptied and refilled the outside dog water, interrupted to go in and find mandarin oranges for B—opened another package of them and left one out for her, put the things in the garbage, took out the full sack to the rubbish bin in the garage, continued sweeping, B said are these your mandarin oranges—I went in and explained to her, laughingly, that SHE had asked for them, put a new garbage sack in the bin, finished sweeping, brought the hummingbird feeder in and mixed the sugar water—twice pouring boiling water on my thumb, filled the feeder and put the extra in the empty syrup bottle, came in here.

That's why I don't seem to get anything done.

Time Adjustments

I finally got back to "New Post" after much searching. Obviously, I don't do this enough... But when you are living in Quadrant 1 all the time--well, most of the time--you don't seem to have the time to write. Notice the repetition of time. You'd think I'd have more of it. After all, I am retired. I know--I have the same amount of it you do, we all do. Where does mine go??

• I live with two other people now. There seems to be less time in the day than when I lived alone, or with only one other person. Conclusion: More people in a house use up the available time faster.
• Two other people live with me. Is that different from the above?
• I ate too much chocolate this afternoon, and I lose time during the ensuing hot flashes.
• My mother wants me to listen to this --a statement from an article in the WSJ or The Week or Smithsonian or her latest double crostic.
• My sister wants me to help her decide which flowers (artificial) look best where in her room. Or are they better there?
• My missionary companion needs me to talk her down from hysteria over Vista and Word 2007 on her new laptop.
• I get up too late? 6:45am?
• I go to bed too early? 10:30pm?

This is a slow-living town I reside in now. When I went to get my new driver's license, we went out to my car to check the mileage. I had locked it. Told the young woman I have a friend where I used to live who locks her car when it's in the garage. She said, around here we leave the keys in the ignition with the car on the street! I am down-sizing to slow-living. Sydney, Australia--4.6 million down to Boise, ID--250,000 down to Silver City, NM--1o,000. Speed limit on all the side streets and through town is 25 mph. Hey! That's why I don't have time anymore. I spend it all getting places at 25 mph.

New Haven: Fiddling while Rome burns

It's not the test, guys. It's the people taking the test. It's time to look a little deeper for the reasons that black and white applicants don't score in racially equal porportion on job application tests. Maybe the NEA needs to look at their fight against charter schools and vouchers which help the minority communities gain a better education. Maybe the problem goes a little bit deeper than a test. Are we testing the individuals or the test? Is this test, which has been "scrubbed" clean of all/any raciality, what we will base our quotas on? Evidently so, according to the New Haven city board. Nothing seems to matter to them except the outside of a person.

Are you too fat? Are you disabled? Is your skin black or brown? No, no--don't tell me what you know. That will confuse the issue. I just need to look at you to determine whether you are fit to hold a position of authority in our fire department. Don't open your mouth to say you don't have the knowledge to run the computer on the truck, or to gauge quickly the stability of a burning building so you can either send men into it--or not. I don't want to know these things. I just want to see your outsides. That will tell me immediately whether you are able to hold the position.

New Haven, just admit that you don't care about qualifications of intelligence, knowledge, wisdom, experience. All you want is to avoid the racial discrimination lawsuits. Bring on the lawsuits that come after the burning building has fallen on the six firefighters your fat/black/brown/disabled lieutenant sent into it. Bring them on, you are saying. Call us accessories to murder, but don't ever, ever call us racists.

Bird Feeder Therapy

Two Curve-billed thrashers at the new birdfeeder yesterday afternoon while Barbara and I were eating our lunch. I don't think I've ever seen one, but my mother knew right away by my scant description--long curved beak. I got the bird book and asked her why not a Crissal's. She said they're not nearly as common, and it's a bit northerly for them.

My mother is a widow of 14 months. Fifty years of her life she spent watching, listening to, banding, studying birds--with my dad. When I got here to Silver City, she told me she has no interest in birds anymore. But all that knowledge is in her head, and she can't help it. The first bird to our new feeder was a plain titmouse. I hurried back to her room to tell her, and she said, "How exciting!" She can't help it. Though she has told me she doesn't get excited about anything anymore, she just can't help it because she is naturally a cheery person. Every bone in her body, and nerve and muscle, is filled with optimism. She had a "flat morning" the other day, but it wasn't an hour before she was back on her emotional feet. My mother is 92. She was married to my dad for nearly 65 years at his death. Half of her is gone. But she can't help being happy and optimistic and positive even so.

What an example she is to me--to us all.

Hey--free thoughts, dummy!

I didn't think it would be so difficult to choose a name for a blog no one really cares about except maybe me. But I guess it is/was, as I have now created two blogs and deleted one. I find that one shouldn't create a blog name in the evening just to cross "create blog" off the list before bed. I find again that one shouldn't create a blog in the morning while walking (at least after age 60) as one will have forgotten it by the time one gets back home. I find that today I just want to get it done and started, so I have named my 2nd new blog Free Thoughts. Kind of cheesy, but if I wait for the right moment to sit and think about just the right blog name, I may never start one. Here I am. Online, blogging. Slogging through a first blogging session. Logging a blogging so I can say I did. I may need a nog to help me through this blog. Or a better noggin for bloggin'. I wonder if a blah blog is read. I wonder if a blog in Australia is a bloggie--like football is footie and school kids are schoolies. Maybe an Australian will read this and let me know.