I started this blog quite awhile ago, but did nothing with it, then I got serious about keeping up with my writing and posting regularly. Well, sort of regularly.
Lately, I've felt the blog might be going in too many directions, but then I realized that's because I go in different direction. Problem is, sometimes that might make it hard to follow, and so I decided to add a little focus. Remember, I said a "little". What I did for a start was I rewrote the little paragraph under my picture that's titled, "About Me", and now I feel better about the shape the blog is taking. The About Me paragraph is a much better description of where I am presently, and I hope give you a better understanding of why I write what I write. If it doesn't, that's okay because it's giving me a better understanding.
On a different note; in the event you think this is all about me, let me just point out it doesn't have to be. You are welcome to add to the blog. As a matter-of-fact, I encourage any feedback as well as an opportunity to hear your stories too. At the end of each of my posts, there is a comment link. You can click on that, and share your thought. FYI; your comment doesn't show up automatically but rather comes to me in an email, so that I can review it for inappropriate content. When I get the email, I approve it and then your comment gets posted.
One more point I'd like to make is that I'd love to grow my list of followers. More followers, means more feedback, more shared experiences, resulting in more inspiration for all of us and more motivation for me to keep going. So help me out here, when you read something you like, think of who else might like it and share it with them. There's a link for that, too.
Thanks again for following. If my blog makes you smile, my mission is accomplished.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
A Rare Anniversary Gift
I’m the one who chose where we would lodge on our 29th anniversary. if it had been up to my husband, Doug we would have stayed somewhere with a little less lace. Not that he doesn’t appreciate old world charm; he was captivated when the proprietor, Jennifer, while giving us a tour of the property, explained that the six-inch-wide, immaculate-condition woodwork was the original, never have being refinished, or so she said.
We arrived in Sparta at 1:30 in the afternoon and went straight to the old depot, now housing the Sparta Chamber of Commerce, where we bought annual Wisconsin trail passes. From there we hit the Elroy-Sparta trail with our bikes. The 32 mile rail-trail was the reason we’d chosen the area for our weekend getaway.
We didn’t go far that afternoon, we’d only planned to put in an hour of riding and we stopped a couple of times along the way to snap photos with our phones.
Frankly I could have passed on the inn tour; we’d spent nearly four hours in the car before our hour bike ride in ninety degree weather, a temperature we’re no longer acclimated to having spent the last twenty years in Wisconsin. All I wanted to do was get to our room and climb in the shower described on the inn’s website as being equipped with a multilevel shower massage. Personally I would have preferred a room with a whirlpool or even just a claw-foot tub, but there was none available at the time of my booking. The so-called shower massage was a vertical bar with six nozzles that spayed streams comparable to an old man pissing in the wind.
It didn’t seem to matter to our host what I wanted. We were instructed to sit our bags down in the tiny vestibule and follow her. Thankfully, the tour ended up being of only three of the home’s twelve or so rooms; a parlor where we could watch television, had that been how we chose to spend our weekend away, and the dining room, where we could look forward to having breakfast at a table with six complete strangers, probably all weirdos, I thought and finally, our private quarters, “The Master Bedroom”.
I love old houses, but I’m not an antique aficionado. I prefer furnishings and decor of a more eclectic style, or at the very least modern classic, and in general I’m a minimalist. This 1900s Queen Anne style home turned B & B, boasted Victorian decor. In fact, the name of the establishment employed the description “Victorian”. Now my understanding of the Victorian era is that it was marked by a stifling level of prudishness. While Queen Anne of that era might be associated with lace, to cover every square inch of flat surface with lace doilies I think is decor slaughter.
The “Master Bedroom, ironically the one without a whirlpool, was furnished with a comfortably-firm, king-sized bed, a settee and a small table with two chairs. There was a groaning window air-conditioner in one of the three lace-dressed windows and a fireplace complete with electric insert...how charming. There were no drawers to store our clothes or necessities. The room was cluttered with plastic display holders bearing advertisements for various items in our room and around the inn that could be bought in the event I wanted to take any reminders of the inn home with me. I did not. For that matter, I decided right there and then I probably would spend as little time as possible at the inn.
A sideboard right outside our room, contained refreshments including cookies for all inn guests which our tour guide said we could have anytime we wanted. Apparently prior guests hadn’t much wanted them. The two I had were a long way from fresh out of the oven. I’d venture to guess they were of the day old variety purchased perhaps at an outlet store in LaCrosse the week before.
After breaking away from our host we fled to the “Master Bedroom” to put away our things. Remembering there were no drawers or closets I realized what a silly thought that was and we retreated back out into the warm breezy afternoon. The wicker furniture on the wide columned porch was inviting until I sat on the hard lumpy cushions. Those were enough to make me long for the comfort of my gel bicycle seat, which believe me can be torture in spite of the gel. We decided we may as well go to dinner early.
The innkeeper had recommended Angelini’s on Main Street. It was a tad more casual then we ordinarily would choose for our anniversary dinner but we liked the idea that it was in walking distance. We feasted there on authentic Chicago Italian food and too stuffed to walk back to the inn we hoisted ourselves onto two empty stools at the bar, and ordered a couple more glasses of Chianti. It wasn’t a familiar label but it had paired well enough with the lasagna.
The Chicago Bear Photos lining the wall in the bar caught our eye, as did the notice to customers which read, “At Angelini’s the Customer is Not always right.” This seemed to be somewhat gutsy for a conservative small town in Wisconsin so we just had to question the bar tender, Kevin, who come to find out was one of the restaurant’s owners. He explained that he and his partner, Tony, who then joined us at the bar were just a couple of Chicago boys and had graduated from the same high school in Franklin Park, IL. as Doug, only thirty years later.
It was still early when we finished our wine and since we were too full to eat or drink another thing we had no choice but retire early to the inn. We tried the porch again, but the cushions hadn’t gotten any softer. There was nothing left to do but return to our cave of a room and read by the dim light of the bedside lamps. I would have given anything to turn on a television and fall asleep to the banter of Jerry, Elaine, George and Kramer, but thought better of going downstairs to sleep on the parlor divan. Instead I drifted off to the sound of the window air-conditioner that seemed to start and stop like clockwork every twenty minutes throughout the night.
The next morning we had a typical B & B breakfast, consisting of several breakfast ingredients baked together in a casserole dish. It was tasty enough and provided adequate fuel for the day of cycling that lay ahead.
The breakfast conversation with the four strangers we shared the table with was unexpectedly delightful. The discussion revolved around bike gears, helmets and running shoes. It was very refreshing to be far enough away from Packer Country to not have to hear a steady stream of football talk, Brett Farve was mentioned only once.
The day was warming up fast so we wasted no time letting breakfast settle before mounting our bikes. It was a short ten minute ride from the inn to the train depot that marked the trailhead to the Elroy-Sparta. On our way through Sparta we passed Ben Bikin; a thirty-two foot tall sculpture of a gay-nineties gentlemen astride a Victorian-era high-wheel cycle which is the town’s testament to being the bicycling capital of America.
Our goal was to put in thirty cycling miles, a distance that once seemed like a walk, or should I say a ride, in the park, but that was a few years ago. The longest distance we’d ridden in the past year was a meager twelve. My motivation to again ride a long distance came mainly from my desire to experience the tunnels along the trail I’d so far only read about. The other B&B guests warned us that it would be tricky to traverse the tunnels without carrying a light. I hadn’t thought to bring our expensive german-made halogen bike lights so we purchased flashlights, made in China, for sale at the inn, for a buck a piece.
We took our time time as we rode out from the depot, enjoying the views of the rolling green hills of southwest Wisconsin, and the piney aroma of the woods. After about forty-five minutes we approached the first tunnel on our route; tunnel three on the map. Tunnel three, the longest of the three tunnels is three-quarters of a mile long. The massive wooden doors originally installed by the railroad to keep out snow and rock remain open from May to November.
The first thing I noticed was the rush of cool air, as though someone had opened a freezer door. The second thing I noticed was the Amish caravan walking their bikes down the hill from a trailside park. It looked like several families totaling thirty or more people. Instantly surrounded by this group whose attire covered ninety percent of their body I became a little self conscious of my spandex bike shorts and sports bra that plainly showed through my sheer tank top. At least I was comfortable I thought, but then again the Amish folks didn’t seem to notice the torrid heat.
I hadn’t realized we would be walking not riding our bikes through the tunnel until I peered inside and saw nothing but a wall of blackness. We dismounted our bikes and began following the first infantry of Amish as they entered the tunnel, the beams of our flashlights poised on the ground ahead. The remaining Amish appeared to be hanging back to regroup with family members, but soon entered behind us. We must have been about halfway through the tunnel when I felt a light mist of cool water on my bare arms. A few feet further and rain drops were pelting against my fiberglass helmet. Doug explained the water was coming from underground springs- apparently he’d been doing a little reading about the trail the night before.
Suddenly I heard soft music that seemed to be coming from the walls of the tunnel, it then rose to a crescendo and I realized it was coming from the Amish, they had at once broken out in song in front and behind us. The monophonic melody that surrounded us in the acoustics of the tunnel was like nothing I’d ever heard and yet it had a strangely familiar, almost primal quality to it. To be there at that moment, standing in the center of a natural stereo, was a rare and unexpected gift. Just as the song reached it’s end, we saw light at the end of the tunnel.
As we climbed back on our bikes in the sweltering heat that awaited on the other side of the tunnel, I was impressed by the site of the Amish women mounting their bicycles in their long skirts. How did they keep that billowing fabric out of the spokes I wondered, but they didn’t seem to give it a second thought. Self conscious still, but thankful for my spandex shorts with their padded crotch, we continued our ride.
Rolling into Wilton, we were in desperate need of refueling, and wishing we had sought out recommendations for lunch we settled on a bar on Main Street, where we devoured tasteless tuna salad sandwiches and diet cokes. Somewhat refreshed, Doug and I decided to head back in the direction of Sparta. As much as I would’ve like to bike the full trail, or at least get to tunnel two, I knew my stamina would give out and we wouldn’t make it back before dark.
On our way back to town we were alerted by cell phone that our grandson would be having surgery in Green Bay the next morning, so we decided we would check out of the B & B early and drive back to Green Bay. Concern over our grandson, who thankfully is fine now, outweighed any disappointment we might have felt over cutting our weekend short. In all honesty, there was no disappointment at all in knowing we would not be spending a second night in the “Master Bedroom”.
We haven’t decided how we’ll spend our thirtieth anniversary, but I’m pretty sure the venue will not be a Bed and Breakfast. I hope to get back to the Elroy-Sparta trail before then to experience the other two tunnels and I’m thinking when we do, the itinerary will begin with a campsite.
We arrived in Sparta at 1:30 in the afternoon and went straight to the old depot, now housing the Sparta Chamber of Commerce, where we bought annual Wisconsin trail passes. From there we hit the Elroy-Sparta trail with our bikes. The 32 mile rail-trail was the reason we’d chosen the area for our weekend getaway.
We didn’t go far that afternoon, we’d only planned to put in an hour of riding and we stopped a couple of times along the way to snap photos with our phones.
Frankly I could have passed on the inn tour; we’d spent nearly four hours in the car before our hour bike ride in ninety degree weather, a temperature we’re no longer acclimated to having spent the last twenty years in Wisconsin. All I wanted to do was get to our room and climb in the shower described on the inn’s website as being equipped with a multilevel shower massage. Personally I would have preferred a room with a whirlpool or even just a claw-foot tub, but there was none available at the time of my booking. The so-called shower massage was a vertical bar with six nozzles that spayed streams comparable to an old man pissing in the wind.
It didn’t seem to matter to our host what I wanted. We were instructed to sit our bags down in the tiny vestibule and follow her. Thankfully, the tour ended up being of only three of the home’s twelve or so rooms; a parlor where we could watch television, had that been how we chose to spend our weekend away, and the dining room, where we could look forward to having breakfast at a table with six complete strangers, probably all weirdos, I thought and finally, our private quarters, “The Master Bedroom”.
I love old houses, but I’m not an antique aficionado. I prefer furnishings and decor of a more eclectic style, or at the very least modern classic, and in general I’m a minimalist. This 1900s Queen Anne style home turned B & B, boasted Victorian decor. In fact, the name of the establishment employed the description “Victorian”. Now my understanding of the Victorian era is that it was marked by a stifling level of prudishness. While Queen Anne of that era might be associated with lace, to cover every square inch of flat surface with lace doilies I think is decor slaughter.
The “Master Bedroom, ironically the one without a whirlpool, was furnished with a comfortably-firm, king-sized bed, a settee and a small table with two chairs. There was a groaning window air-conditioner in one of the three lace-dressed windows and a fireplace complete with electric insert...how charming. There were no drawers to store our clothes or necessities. The room was cluttered with plastic display holders bearing advertisements for various items in our room and around the inn that could be bought in the event I wanted to take any reminders of the inn home with me. I did not. For that matter, I decided right there and then I probably would spend as little time as possible at the inn.
A sideboard right outside our room, contained refreshments including cookies for all inn guests which our tour guide said we could have anytime we wanted. Apparently prior guests hadn’t much wanted them. The two I had were a long way from fresh out of the oven. I’d venture to guess they were of the day old variety purchased perhaps at an outlet store in LaCrosse the week before.
After breaking away from our host we fled to the “Master Bedroom” to put away our things. Remembering there were no drawers or closets I realized what a silly thought that was and we retreated back out into the warm breezy afternoon. The wicker furniture on the wide columned porch was inviting until I sat on the hard lumpy cushions. Those were enough to make me long for the comfort of my gel bicycle seat, which believe me can be torture in spite of the gel. We decided we may as well go to dinner early.
The innkeeper had recommended Angelini’s on Main Street. It was a tad more casual then we ordinarily would choose for our anniversary dinner but we liked the idea that it was in walking distance. We feasted there on authentic Chicago Italian food and too stuffed to walk back to the inn we hoisted ourselves onto two empty stools at the bar, and ordered a couple more glasses of Chianti. It wasn’t a familiar label but it had paired well enough with the lasagna.
The Chicago Bear Photos lining the wall in the bar caught our eye, as did the notice to customers which read, “At Angelini’s the Customer is Not always right.” This seemed to be somewhat gutsy for a conservative small town in Wisconsin so we just had to question the bar tender, Kevin, who come to find out was one of the restaurant’s owners. He explained that he and his partner, Tony, who then joined us at the bar were just a couple of Chicago boys and had graduated from the same high school in Franklin Park, IL. as Doug, only thirty years later.
It was still early when we finished our wine and since we were too full to eat or drink another thing we had no choice but retire early to the inn. We tried the porch again, but the cushions hadn’t gotten any softer. There was nothing left to do but return to our cave of a room and read by the dim light of the bedside lamps. I would have given anything to turn on a television and fall asleep to the banter of Jerry, Elaine, George and Kramer, but thought better of going downstairs to sleep on the parlor divan. Instead I drifted off to the sound of the window air-conditioner that seemed to start and stop like clockwork every twenty minutes throughout the night.
The next morning we had a typical B & B breakfast, consisting of several breakfast ingredients baked together in a casserole dish. It was tasty enough and provided adequate fuel for the day of cycling that lay ahead.
The breakfast conversation with the four strangers we shared the table with was unexpectedly delightful. The discussion revolved around bike gears, helmets and running shoes. It was very refreshing to be far enough away from Packer Country to not have to hear a steady stream of football talk, Brett Farve was mentioned only once.
The day was warming up fast so we wasted no time letting breakfast settle before mounting our bikes. It was a short ten minute ride from the inn to the train depot that marked the trailhead to the Elroy-Sparta. On our way through Sparta we passed Ben Bikin; a thirty-two foot tall sculpture of a gay-nineties gentlemen astride a Victorian-era high-wheel cycle which is the town’s testament to being the bicycling capital of America.
Our goal was to put in thirty cycling miles, a distance that once seemed like a walk, or should I say a ride, in the park, but that was a few years ago. The longest distance we’d ridden in the past year was a meager twelve. My motivation to again ride a long distance came mainly from my desire to experience the tunnels along the trail I’d so far only read about. The other B&B guests warned us that it would be tricky to traverse the tunnels without carrying a light. I hadn’t thought to bring our expensive german-made halogen bike lights so we purchased flashlights, made in China, for sale at the inn, for a buck a piece.
We took our time time as we rode out from the depot, enjoying the views of the rolling green hills of southwest Wisconsin, and the piney aroma of the woods. After about forty-five minutes we approached the first tunnel on our route; tunnel three on the map. Tunnel three, the longest of the three tunnels is three-quarters of a mile long. The massive wooden doors originally installed by the railroad to keep out snow and rock remain open from May to November.
The first thing I noticed was the rush of cool air, as though someone had opened a freezer door. The second thing I noticed was the Amish caravan walking their bikes down the hill from a trailside park. It looked like several families totaling thirty or more people. Instantly surrounded by this group whose attire covered ninety percent of their body I became a little self conscious of my spandex bike shorts and sports bra that plainly showed through my sheer tank top. At least I was comfortable I thought, but then again the Amish folks didn’t seem to notice the torrid heat.
I hadn’t realized we would be walking not riding our bikes through the tunnel until I peered inside and saw nothing but a wall of blackness. We dismounted our bikes and began following the first infantry of Amish as they entered the tunnel, the beams of our flashlights poised on the ground ahead. The remaining Amish appeared to be hanging back to regroup with family members, but soon entered behind us. We must have been about halfway through the tunnel when I felt a light mist of cool water on my bare arms. A few feet further and rain drops were pelting against my fiberglass helmet. Doug explained the water was coming from underground springs- apparently he’d been doing a little reading about the trail the night before.
Suddenly I heard soft music that seemed to be coming from the walls of the tunnel, it then rose to a crescendo and I realized it was coming from the Amish, they had at once broken out in song in front and behind us. The monophonic melody that surrounded us in the acoustics of the tunnel was like nothing I’d ever heard and yet it had a strangely familiar, almost primal quality to it. To be there at that moment, standing in the center of a natural stereo, was a rare and unexpected gift. Just as the song reached it’s end, we saw light at the end of the tunnel.
As we climbed back on our bikes in the sweltering heat that awaited on the other side of the tunnel, I was impressed by the site of the Amish women mounting their bicycles in their long skirts. How did they keep that billowing fabric out of the spokes I wondered, but they didn’t seem to give it a second thought. Self conscious still, but thankful for my spandex shorts with their padded crotch, we continued our ride.
Rolling into Wilton, we were in desperate need of refueling, and wishing we had sought out recommendations for lunch we settled on a bar on Main Street, where we devoured tasteless tuna salad sandwiches and diet cokes. Somewhat refreshed, Doug and I decided to head back in the direction of Sparta. As much as I would’ve like to bike the full trail, or at least get to tunnel two, I knew my stamina would give out and we wouldn’t make it back before dark.
On our way back to town we were alerted by cell phone that our grandson would be having surgery in Green Bay the next morning, so we decided we would check out of the B & B early and drive back to Green Bay. Concern over our grandson, who thankfully is fine now, outweighed any disappointment we might have felt over cutting our weekend short. In all honesty, there was no disappointment at all in knowing we would not be spending a second night in the “Master Bedroom”.
We haven’t decided how we’ll spend our thirtieth anniversary, but I’m pretty sure the venue will not be a Bed and Breakfast. I hope to get back to the Elroy-Sparta trail before then to experience the other two tunnels and I’m thinking when we do, the itinerary will begin with a campsite.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Mother's Instinct
For those of us who’ve raised a child, we know and understand the importance of a mother’s instinct, and yet doctors still don’t get it. Pediatricians continue to snicker at the idea that teething sometimes causes fevers and diaper rash while there’s not a mother on the planet that hasn’t experienced it first hand. Rather than argue with the medical profession until we’re blue in the face, we just smile and nod then take our babies home to soothe their sore gums.
There are times however when we must stay and fight, and to know when the time to do so is necessary we have to trust our instincts. Thankfully, my daughter trusted hers when my grandson, Jax got sick.
Twice the pediatrician sent Carrie home with Jax telling her he had the flu, but Carrie knew it was more than that and she persisted taking him next to the emergency room. There, he was treated for dehydration which another doctor advised her was the result of the flu. Carrie knew there was more to it, for one thing, it wasn’t flu season and for another the symptoms the doctors told her would follow never came. The emergency room doctor wanted to send them home, but Carrie put her foot down. Something was seriously wrong with Jax and she wouldn’t give up until they got to the bottom of it.
The doctor condescended only because it was a holiday weekend, and admitted Jax to NICU where again, he was treated for the flu.
Carrie knew little Jax’s tummy was too hard and she felt a lump there that the doctors hadn’t. She insisted on an X-ray. The X-ray proved intussusception, a telescoping of the intestine that causes a blockage. Jax was given a barium enema that corrects the condition in 50% of cases but not in his. He was operated on and according to the surgeon, it was successful. For the first twenty-four hours, Jax seemed to improve a little, but Carrie was skeptical and vigilant in her watch.
The second day, Jax’s condition seem to be going down hill although not a lot, at least not so much that the doctor’s noticed, and yet Carrie did. For three more days the doctors ignored the symptoms of a recurrence, in spite of statistics that show when there is one it’s usually within the first seventy-two hours after surgery.
Carrie was talking to the doctors about moving Jax to Milwaukee’s Children’s hospital, but they said it wasn’t necessary. They came to Jax’s room a little more often but it seemed to be more of an attempt to grease a squeaky wheel rather than listen to what mother’s intuition was telling Carrie. “Wait and see,” they said, “give it a few more days.” Carrie put her foot down, and the order to move him was signed.
After a two hour ambulance ride from Green Bay to Milwaukee, Jax was whisked to radiology at Children’s Hospital where a second blockage was discovered. He was then rushed to surgery for a life-saving operation.
In respect to the level of care Jax was given, it was like leaving the Bates Hotel and checking into the Ritz. We knew he was where he should have been all along. Had it not been for his mom’s instinct and her persistence at following it, Jax’s bowel might have been replaced with an external bag, or worse, he might not have survived.
The sad thing is, it appeared to be nothing more than greed and pride that caused the doctor’s at the first hospital to discount Carrie’s intuition. After all, they are respected and experienced physicians.
There are times however when we must stay and fight, and to know when the time to do so is necessary we have to trust our instincts. Thankfully, my daughter trusted hers when my grandson, Jax got sick.
Twice the pediatrician sent Carrie home with Jax telling her he had the flu, but Carrie knew it was more than that and she persisted taking him next to the emergency room. There, he was treated for dehydration which another doctor advised her was the result of the flu. Carrie knew there was more to it, for one thing, it wasn’t flu season and for another the symptoms the doctors told her would follow never came. The emergency room doctor wanted to send them home, but Carrie put her foot down. Something was seriously wrong with Jax and she wouldn’t give up until they got to the bottom of it.
The doctor condescended only because it was a holiday weekend, and admitted Jax to NICU where again, he was treated for the flu.
Carrie knew little Jax’s tummy was too hard and she felt a lump there that the doctors hadn’t. She insisted on an X-ray. The X-ray proved intussusception, a telescoping of the intestine that causes a blockage. Jax was given a barium enema that corrects the condition in 50% of cases but not in his. He was operated on and according to the surgeon, it was successful. For the first twenty-four hours, Jax seemed to improve a little, but Carrie was skeptical and vigilant in her watch.
The second day, Jax’s condition seem to be going down hill although not a lot, at least not so much that the doctor’s noticed, and yet Carrie did. For three more days the doctors ignored the symptoms of a recurrence, in spite of statistics that show when there is one it’s usually within the first seventy-two hours after surgery.
Carrie was talking to the doctors about moving Jax to Milwaukee’s Children’s hospital, but they said it wasn’t necessary. They came to Jax’s room a little more often but it seemed to be more of an attempt to grease a squeaky wheel rather than listen to what mother’s intuition was telling Carrie. “Wait and see,” they said, “give it a few more days.” Carrie put her foot down, and the order to move him was signed.
After a two hour ambulance ride from Green Bay to Milwaukee, Jax was whisked to radiology at Children’s Hospital where a second blockage was discovered. He was then rushed to surgery for a life-saving operation.
In respect to the level of care Jax was given, it was like leaving the Bates Hotel and checking into the Ritz. We knew he was where he should have been all along. Had it not been for his mom’s instinct and her persistence at following it, Jax’s bowel might have been replaced with an external bag, or worse, he might not have survived.
The sad thing is, it appeared to be nothing more than greed and pride that caused the doctor’s at the first hospital to discount Carrie’s intuition. After all, they are respected and experienced physicians.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Happy Father's Day
When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.
~ Mark Twain, "Old Times on the Mississippi" Atlantic Monthly, 1874
This quote is my favorite among the slim pickins' of Father's Day material I can find. In comparison, poetry books and internet quote sites alike abound with Mother's Day material. I'm not sure why, but it seems in our society the role of father has always been secondary to that of mothers. And it seems to be getting worse.
When I was growing up fathers played a less active role in the home. They went to work early in the morning and came home late at night and the work they did at home usually consisted of yard work. Maybe then, it was that they were seen less often.
Now days we have lots of stay-at-home dads, and I for one like the trend.
Even the dads that work outside the home seem to take a more active role in taking care of the children. I hope this will result in more nice poems and quotes. Fathers need to be celebrated as much as mothers, but instead they've become the butt of jokes. Just turn on the t.v. and you see them depicted as bumbling household idiots in most of today's sitcoms. Hopefully the result won't be that less children grow up to appreciate, as Mark Twain did, the wisdom of their old man.
Some would say that both Mother's Day and Father's day are just Hallmark Holidays, but I did some research and it just isn't true (see the excerpt from wikipedia that follows). Fathers as well as mothers need to be celebrated, so if your Dad's still around make sure he has a special day this Sunday. If he's not, find someone who is a Dad, and help him celebrate fatherhood.
It took many years to make the holiday official. In spite of support from the YWCA, the YMCA, and churches, Father's Day ran the risk of disappearing from the calendar. Where Mother's Day was met with enthusiasm, Father's Day was often met with laughter. The holiday was gathering attention slowly, but for the wrong reasons. It was the target of much satire, parody and derision, including jokes from the local newspaper Spokesman-Review. Many people saw it as the first step in filling the calendar with mindless promotions.
~ Mark Twain, "Old Times on the Mississippi" Atlantic Monthly, 1874
This quote is my favorite among the slim pickins' of Father's Day material I can find. In comparison, poetry books and internet quote sites alike abound with Mother's Day material. I'm not sure why, but it seems in our society the role of father has always been secondary to that of mothers. And it seems to be getting worse.
When I was growing up fathers played a less active role in the home. They went to work early in the morning and came home late at night and the work they did at home usually consisted of yard work. Maybe then, it was that they were seen less often.
Now days we have lots of stay-at-home dads, and I for one like the trend.
Even the dads that work outside the home seem to take a more active role in taking care of the children. I hope this will result in more nice poems and quotes. Fathers need to be celebrated as much as mothers, but instead they've become the butt of jokes. Just turn on the t.v. and you see them depicted as bumbling household idiots in most of today's sitcoms. Hopefully the result won't be that less children grow up to appreciate, as Mark Twain did, the wisdom of their old man.
Some would say that both Mother's Day and Father's day are just Hallmark Holidays, but I did some research and it just isn't true (see the excerpt from wikipedia that follows). Fathers as well as mothers need to be celebrated, so if your Dad's still around make sure he has a special day this Sunday. If he's not, find someone who is a Dad, and help him celebrate fatherhood.
It took many years to make the holiday official. In spite of support from the YWCA, the YMCA, and churches, Father's Day ran the risk of disappearing from the calendar. Where Mother's Day was met with enthusiasm, Father's Day was often met with laughter. The holiday was gathering attention slowly, but for the wrong reasons. It was the target of much satire, parody and derision, including jokes from the local newspaper Spokesman-Review. Many people saw it as the first step in filling the calendar with mindless promotions.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Looking for Inspiration
“I write when I’m inspired, and I see to it that I’m inspired at nine o’clock every morning.”- Peter De Vries
It’s tempting to blame the lack of inspiration on mere procrastination, but Peter De Vries understood that inspiration dwelled within. He didn’t go looking for it, nor did he sit around and wait for it to show up; he just got up every morning and turned it on like punching a time clock.
I admire his discipline, but for him writing was evidently a nine to five job, which is exactly the lifestyle I’ve chosen to eschew, or more accurately, the one I escaped from in the nick of time, dragging to safety by a loose thread my authentic self, while trying to kick off the greed monster who had sunk its sharp teeth into my right ankle; all this while searching desperately for the key that would unlock the golden handcuffs that bound me to that damned clock!
Now that I’m free, and living a totally new lifestyle (is this what being in the witness protection program feels like) I’m just not willing to punch that clock.
Even so, I refuse to succumb to procrastination. I keep my commitments without having to look for inspiration. After all they’re the commitments I freely chose for myself. Okay, with the exception of, scrubbing the floor; that one’s a trade-off, and the inspiration comes from knowing someone else will mow the lawn.
So while I know inspiration can be called upon when needed, I prefer sometimes to let it come to me rather than to try to turn it on based on a set schedule. It seems to know when the time is right. If I need to prepare for a class, there’s no use looking for inspiration to work on memoir, its just not going to come without a struggle. If a scene from my past is stuck in my head, I may as well not even think about trying to prepare a presentation. I get the scene on paper, and lo and behold, I’m inspired to get ready for that class.
And now if you’ll excuse me, my muse is calling; not to write or teach, but to scrub the floor. Oh wait a minute, that’s not my muse, it’s just a lawn mower outside my window.
It’s tempting to blame the lack of inspiration on mere procrastination, but Peter De Vries understood that inspiration dwelled within. He didn’t go looking for it, nor did he sit around and wait for it to show up; he just got up every morning and turned it on like punching a time clock.
I admire his discipline, but for him writing was evidently a nine to five job, which is exactly the lifestyle I’ve chosen to eschew, or more accurately, the one I escaped from in the nick of time, dragging to safety by a loose thread my authentic self, while trying to kick off the greed monster who had sunk its sharp teeth into my right ankle; all this while searching desperately for the key that would unlock the golden handcuffs that bound me to that damned clock!
Now that I’m free, and living a totally new lifestyle (is this what being in the witness protection program feels like) I’m just not willing to punch that clock.
Even so, I refuse to succumb to procrastination. I keep my commitments without having to look for inspiration. After all they’re the commitments I freely chose for myself. Okay, with the exception of, scrubbing the floor; that one’s a trade-off, and the inspiration comes from knowing someone else will mow the lawn.
So while I know inspiration can be called upon when needed, I prefer sometimes to let it come to me rather than to try to turn it on based on a set schedule. It seems to know when the time is right. If I need to prepare for a class, there’s no use looking for inspiration to work on memoir, its just not going to come without a struggle. If a scene from my past is stuck in my head, I may as well not even think about trying to prepare a presentation. I get the scene on paper, and lo and behold, I’m inspired to get ready for that class.
And now if you’ll excuse me, my muse is calling; not to write or teach, but to scrub the floor. Oh wait a minute, that’s not my muse, it’s just a lawn mower outside my window.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Rules
I’ve committed the cardinal sin of blogging! I didn’t post anything last week. Awful isn’t it? I knew when I started blogging, rule number one was, post weekly- it’s the thing that kept me from starting for so long, in the first place. Now, I’m afraid I’ve posted weakly.
Do I feel guilty? You, who know me, know better. Instead, I ask myself, “Who made up these rules, anyway?” Then I move on to concocting an excuse as to why I broke them. And so, Blog Police, here it is: Being a devotee of Stephen Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, I was engaged in the practice of habit number three; Putting first things first. My “first things” being family, friends, fun and food, okay I’m kidding about the last two, but I’m telling the truth when I say, family.
The week started with Mother’s Day and, what other holiday celebrates family more than Mother’s Day? Without mothers, there wouldn’t be any families. Being a mother myself, I chose to go enjoy the day rather than post on my blog.
Sure, I could’ve posted on Monday, but instead…oh what’s the use, I don’t even remember what I was doing on Monday!
I do recall that sometime this week, I went to the bookstore. And by the way, I did add another book to my list of good reads and another label to my wine list. Do those count?
While at the bookstore, I noticed that Stephen’s son Sean has written his own seven habits book, geared to teens and Stacy Curtis a children’s book illustrator has written a seven habits for kid’s book. My fear is that someone is going to come along and write, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Bloggers, I can only hope, if it happens, habit number three will remained unchanged. Either that- or a new habit will emerge. It will have to be number nine, since Stephen already capitalized on the Eighth Habit. I propose that number nine be, “Before following a rule, ask yourself, “Who made this rule, anyway?”
Do you have a comment or suggestion? If so, feel free to click on comment and post it. It won’t show up immediately. All posts come to me first, for clearance. It’s how I keep the stone throwers at bay. If you think someone else might enjoy my blog, please feel free to pass it on.
Do I feel guilty? You, who know me, know better. Instead, I ask myself, “Who made up these rules, anyway?” Then I move on to concocting an excuse as to why I broke them. And so, Blog Police, here it is: Being a devotee of Stephen Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, I was engaged in the practice of habit number three; Putting first things first. My “first things” being family, friends, fun and food, okay I’m kidding about the last two, but I’m telling the truth when I say, family.
The week started with Mother’s Day and, what other holiday celebrates family more than Mother’s Day? Without mothers, there wouldn’t be any families. Being a mother myself, I chose to go enjoy the day rather than post on my blog.
Sure, I could’ve posted on Monday, but instead…oh what’s the use, I don’t even remember what I was doing on Monday!
I do recall that sometime this week, I went to the bookstore. And by the way, I did add another book to my list of good reads and another label to my wine list. Do those count?
While at the bookstore, I noticed that Stephen’s son Sean has written his own seven habits book, geared to teens and Stacy Curtis a children’s book illustrator has written a seven habits for kid’s book. My fear is that someone is going to come along and write, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Bloggers, I can only hope, if it happens, habit number three will remained unchanged. Either that- or a new habit will emerge. It will have to be number nine, since Stephen already capitalized on the Eighth Habit. I propose that number nine be, “Before following a rule, ask yourself, “Who made this rule, anyway?”
Do you have a comment or suggestion? If so, feel free to click on comment and post it. It won’t show up immediately. All posts come to me first, for clearance. It’s how I keep the stone throwers at bay. If you think someone else might enjoy my blog, please feel free to pass it on.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Back Up Recommended
A scary thing happened to me on vacation. My three-year old laptop was sending me error messages that it couldn’t save my files. It was a wake-up call. My anti-virus software has been telling me for months to back up my files, but it wasn’t telling me how. I’m not a computer geek and I have a habit of throwing caution to the wind, so I ignored the recommendation until now.
I mentioned the issue to my son who I was visiting with. He assured me it was an easy process, I just had to go out and buy an external hard drive. Mission accomplished. He was right- it was a snap. I can rest easy now knowing that when my laptop dies and I replace it, which I won’t, until it does, I can just upload my old files to the new machine.
What a glorious invention the external hard drive is! Now I just can’t help but wonder what a great thing it would be to hook one up to my brain. After all, it also sends me error messages. The difference is I don’t get the message until I try to retrieve the file.
How wonderful would it be, if my brain would warn me ahead of time of insufficient memory? Time to pull out the note pad and pen, brain- you’re not gonna remember this.
Let’s take it a step further. Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could add memory space? I’d gladly pay for a couple of gigabytes.
I for one would love to delete some files from my brain, too. The human brain never seems to have trouble remembering the things we wish to forget. All the times we stuck our foot in our mouth or made fools of ourselves. They seem to come back to us with ease. I know there are plenty that I would delete if I could.
Jokes abound on gradual memory loss in seniors and the medical profession assures us that some forgetfulness is normal, like forgetting a name, not being able to remember the right word, or why we went into a particular room. For some of us, I don’t think memory loss is as much the problem, as memory overload. I mean, there’s only so much space in there, right?
If our brains are really like computers, why can’t we add memory, back up our files and run a virus scan to eliminate the “bugs”?
I mentioned the issue to my son who I was visiting with. He assured me it was an easy process, I just had to go out and buy an external hard drive. Mission accomplished. He was right- it was a snap. I can rest easy now knowing that when my laptop dies and I replace it, which I won’t, until it does, I can just upload my old files to the new machine.
What a glorious invention the external hard drive is! Now I just can’t help but wonder what a great thing it would be to hook one up to my brain. After all, it also sends me error messages. The difference is I don’t get the message until I try to retrieve the file.
How wonderful would it be, if my brain would warn me ahead of time of insufficient memory? Time to pull out the note pad and pen, brain- you’re not gonna remember this.
Let’s take it a step further. Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could add memory space? I’d gladly pay for a couple of gigabytes.
I for one would love to delete some files from my brain, too. The human brain never seems to have trouble remembering the things we wish to forget. All the times we stuck our foot in our mouth or made fools of ourselves. They seem to come back to us with ease. I know there are plenty that I would delete if I could.
Jokes abound on gradual memory loss in seniors and the medical profession assures us that some forgetfulness is normal, like forgetting a name, not being able to remember the right word, or why we went into a particular room. For some of us, I don’t think memory loss is as much the problem, as memory overload. I mean, there’s only so much space in there, right?
If our brains are really like computers, why can’t we add memory, back up our files and run a virus scan to eliminate the “bugs”?
Saturday, April 17, 2010
What Stays What Goes
As I pack for my vacation the question of what to take and what to leave behind has been on mind throughout the day. One minute I want to take everything and the next, I want to take practically nothing. Obviously I can't take everything. It won't all fit in my suitcase. Besides, if I were to take everything, it wouldn't feel much like a vacation. I'd be spending my time trying to take care of too much stuff. On the other hand, I have to take enough, or I'll end up having to spend time and money acquiring things at my destination point that I won't need when I get back home. By the time we load our bags in the car I know I will have found a happy medium.
In the journey of life some people like to travel light while others tend to carry excess baggage. If each phase of our life is to be better than the one before, we need to make a conscious decision as to what we'll take from our past experiences and what we'll leave behind.
If we bring along the excess baggage of hurts and disappointments we'll be too weighted down to move forward. On the other hand, if we don't bring along the lessons embedded in those hurts and disappointments our destination won't be any different from our place of departure.
On this vacation I plan to take along healthy habits, rather than excuses to over indulge. I'm also taking along my walking shoes, a good book, a writing notebook and most important, I'm taking open arms to hug my granddaughters. What I'm not taking is stress- it doesn't fit in my suitcase.
In the journey of life some people like to travel light while others tend to carry excess baggage. If each phase of our life is to be better than the one before, we need to make a conscious decision as to what we'll take from our past experiences and what we'll leave behind.
If we bring along the excess baggage of hurts and disappointments we'll be too weighted down to move forward. On the other hand, if we don't bring along the lessons embedded in those hurts and disappointments our destination won't be any different from our place of departure.
On this vacation I plan to take along healthy habits, rather than excuses to over indulge. I'm also taking along my walking shoes, a good book, a writing notebook and most important, I'm taking open arms to hug my granddaughters. What I'm not taking is stress- it doesn't fit in my suitcase.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Spring Cleaning
Ahhh Spring! Our Wisconsin April snow has melted uncovering the green grass and daffodils. Now comes the mud! Alfred Lord Tennyson said, "In Spring a young man's fancy turns lightly to thoughts of love." It sounds so alluring, but for women, at least those of my generation, in Spring our thoughts turn heavily to Spring Cleaning.
I don't mean to whine. Now days, at least it's our choice. Kind of. And men do clean too, or at least help. But have you noticed as much as the times have supposedly changed, the T.V. commercials for household cleaning products all still depict the woman doing the cleaning? We have to assume the manufacturers of these products have done some market research, which would prove, it's the women who the housecleaning chores rest the heaviest on. So, it's no wonder Spring is not my favorite season.
Give me Summer! When the mud has dried up and the work is all done. Oh, I forgot, A woman's work is never done. BTW, that little saying has been quoted so many times over history, I can't find the original author.
I apologize, my blog is meant to be educational and inspirational and I'm afraid I'm sounding negative. My excuse is the Spring cold that has invaded my head - so I'll just leave you with a couple more cleaning quotes. They were both authored by men of course- it's easy to find time to write when you don't have to clean!
"You sometimes see a woman who would have made a Joan of Arc in another century and climate, threshing herself to pieces over all the mean worry of housekeeping." ~Rudyard Kipling
"The obvious and fair solution to the housework problem is to let men do the housework for, say, the next six thousand years, to even things up. The trouble is that men, over the years, have developed an inflated notion of the importance of everything they do, so that before long they would turn housework into just as much of a charade as business is now. They would hire secretaries and buy computers and fly off to housework conferences in Bermuda, but they'd never clean anything." ~Dave Barry
I don't mean to whine. Now days, at least it's our choice. Kind of. And men do clean too, or at least help. But have you noticed as much as the times have supposedly changed, the T.V. commercials for household cleaning products all still depict the woman doing the cleaning? We have to assume the manufacturers of these products have done some market research, which would prove, it's the women who the housecleaning chores rest the heaviest on. So, it's no wonder Spring is not my favorite season.
Give me Summer! When the mud has dried up and the work is all done. Oh, I forgot, A woman's work is never done. BTW, that little saying has been quoted so many times over history, I can't find the original author.
I apologize, my blog is meant to be educational and inspirational and I'm afraid I'm sounding negative. My excuse is the Spring cold that has invaded my head - so I'll just leave you with a couple more cleaning quotes. They were both authored by men of course- it's easy to find time to write when you don't have to clean!
"You sometimes see a woman who would have made a Joan of Arc in another century and climate, threshing herself to pieces over all the mean worry of housekeeping." ~Rudyard Kipling
"The obvious and fair solution to the housework problem is to let men do the housework for, say, the next six thousand years, to even things up. The trouble is that men, over the years, have developed an inflated notion of the importance of everything they do, so that before long they would turn housework into just as much of a charade as business is now. They would hire secretaries and buy computers and fly off to housework conferences in Bermuda, but they'd never clean anything." ~Dave Barry
Friday, April 2, 2010
Letting Go of Time Management
I used to try to manage time. In fact I've been both a teacher and a student of time management. Now days I wish I had back all the time I spent trying to manage it- not to mention the money I spent on it. You see, when you're trying to manage time it requires a lot of tools designed to help you get organized. Now I realize that all these organizational tools are just more stuff that I have to organize.
Now I spend the time I used to spend on time management, doing the things I couldn't get to, because I thought I had to manage my time first. Like spending time with my family and friends, walking & cycling, reading and writing.
Oh, I was reading before too- but I was reading about things like time management. Now that I've let go of trying to manage my time, I read things I enjoy.
I've tossed out a lot of planners and organizers and it's freed up a lot of the time I used to spend trying to organize. It saves me money too, which means I don't have to work so much and so I have more time.
Its taken my a long time - which is okay now that I know there's plenty more of it to come-but I realize the way to finding enough time, is to stop looking for it and let it go. After all, don't you have better things to do with your time?
Now I spend the time I used to spend on time management, doing the things I couldn't get to, because I thought I had to manage my time first. Like spending time with my family and friends, walking & cycling, reading and writing.
Oh, I was reading before too- but I was reading about things like time management. Now that I've let go of trying to manage my time, I read things I enjoy.
I've tossed out a lot of planners and organizers and it's freed up a lot of the time I used to spend trying to organize. It saves me money too, which means I don't have to work so much and so I have more time.
Its taken my a long time - which is okay now that I know there's plenty more of it to come-but I realize the way to finding enough time, is to stop looking for it and let it go. After all, don't you have better things to do with your time?
Friday, March 26, 2010
Defining Success
Today marks completion of the real estate pre-licensing class for my latest group of students. With the presentation of their certificates comes my wish for them. A wish for success in their real estate careers as well as in all their future endeavors. Most importantly, I hope if they haven't already, they will define success for themselves. After all, it isn't a one-size-fits-all outcome.
Webster's definition of success is: The achievement of something intended or desired, attaining wealth, fame or prosperity. The meaning itself is broad, but taking it in the most literal sense it will come up short for many of us. Just ask yourself, how often you've pursued a goal only to find out it didn't bring you the result you hoped for. I confess, I've been there- and it didn't feel like success. What I found out at the end of those paths was that the target I had aimed for was not really my own and the price I paid wasn't worth the prize.
I've come to know that for myself -the "something intended or desired" must be honorable, wealth and prosperity can't be measured in dollars and cents nor fame in sheer numbers.
If we are true to ourselves in defining our goals, success will be authentic when we achieve them.
Take time at the start of each day to set a personal intention, and may you go to bed at night, in the glow of success!
Webster's definition of success is: The achievement of something intended or desired, attaining wealth, fame or prosperity. The meaning itself is broad, but taking it in the most literal sense it will come up short for many of us. Just ask yourself, how often you've pursued a goal only to find out it didn't bring you the result you hoped for. I confess, I've been there- and it didn't feel like success. What I found out at the end of those paths was that the target I had aimed for was not really my own and the price I paid wasn't worth the prize.
I've come to know that for myself -the "something intended or desired" must be honorable, wealth and prosperity can't be measured in dollars and cents nor fame in sheer numbers.
If we are true to ourselves in defining our goals, success will be authentic when we achieve them.
Take time at the start of each day to set a personal intention, and may you go to bed at night, in the glow of success!
Friday, March 19, 2010
Bliss
Mythologist/Author Joseph Camblell’s urging to “Follow your bliss” becomes complicated as you discover there is more than one thing that brings you bliss. You see, unlike Jack Palance’s character, Curly Washburn, in the movie City Slickers, I believe there is more than “the one thing”. Personally, I have several and I hope you do too.
The trick to keeping the bliss in the things that matter to you is achieving balance. If you’re among the fortunate few to have found bliss in your work I guarantee the bliss will fade if you don’t discover and then devote time for other paths to bliss.
My grandmother - lecturing on the ills of alcohol - used to say, “You can’t find happiness in the bottom of a bottle.” She was right and yet on many occasions I have found bliss in one glass of good wine. By the end of the second –at least for me- the bliss is gone.
We all know, you can have too much of a good thing. A whole sack of chocolate versus one truffle, for instance. The question is; can you have too many good things?
Make a list of what brings you bliss and rather than following one, balance your time among them all.
Which reminds me- I have some labels to add to my wine list and a book to add to my favorite reads. Now I’m off to follow my bliss….
The trick to keeping the bliss in the things that matter to you is achieving balance. If you’re among the fortunate few to have found bliss in your work I guarantee the bliss will fade if you don’t discover and then devote time for other paths to bliss.
My grandmother - lecturing on the ills of alcohol - used to say, “You can’t find happiness in the bottom of a bottle.” She was right and yet on many occasions I have found bliss in one glass of good wine. By the end of the second –at least for me- the bliss is gone.
We all know, you can have too much of a good thing. A whole sack of chocolate versus one truffle, for instance. The question is; can you have too many good things?
Make a list of what brings you bliss and rather than following one, balance your time among them all.
Which reminds me- I have some labels to add to my wine list and a book to add to my favorite reads. Now I’m off to follow my bliss….
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Writer's Relief For Haiti
Check out the article arcgbw.wordpress.com/2010/02/18/writers-relief-for-haiti.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Getting Started
Okay- I've been told I should have a blog. It's supposedly a good networking tool and I'm all for networking. I have my real estate school and maybe past and future students will follow my blog and tell others and before long, I'll have a real following for my school.
I'm also working on a memoir book and enjoy writing memoir essays and other creative non-fiction, so supposedly I can post some of my writings here and somehow, friends and family will find them and pass them on, and before long, I'll have a following for my writing.
If none of that works, then oh well, at least I will have enjoyed the writing.
Oh and hey, if you're reading this and have something you'd like to post here on my blog. Go for it! I like to read too~
I'm also working on a memoir book and enjoy writing memoir essays and other creative non-fiction, so supposedly I can post some of my writings here and somehow, friends and family will find them and pass them on, and before long, I'll have a following for my writing.
If none of that works, then oh well, at least I will have enjoyed the writing.
Oh and hey, if you're reading this and have something you'd like to post here on my blog. Go for it! I like to read too~
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