CollageMama's Itty Bitty Blog

Dog and macaw show

2012-02-02T20:00:00.000-06:00

Flashback to last Friday--Oh, how can it be almost a week ago already? I took a break from sitting beside Dad's bed, and entrusted him over to the care of the round-the-clock nurse. Got a Subway sandwich and drove to my favorite Plano park. Starting down the trail I saw a young family soaking up the sunshine on this beautiful afternoon:

Two parents lounging on an old quilt next to a cooler
One toddler sitting up in a patch of grass under the watchful eye of a small dog
One preschooler sitting in a little red wagon supervised by a big dog

The scene did more for me than the sandwich, and I set off on a quick walk around the lake. Circling back toward the Buick the family scene got even better:

Dad throwing a frisbee for the small dog to the delight of the toddler
Mom flying a gorgeous macaw kite
Big dog pulling the red wagon and preschooler around in circles in the meadow

"That's a great kite," I hollered at the mom, craning my neck and squinting up into the bright blue sky. "Twelve dollars at Costco," she hollered back.

Back beside Dad under the hypnotic spell of the respirator, I wondered about the meaning of "dog and pony show". In my experience it is used to mean the peons are trotting out their whole underfunded bag of tricks to entertain an entitled, blasé audience. The dog and macaw experience seemed gloriously authentic. If I'd had more time I would have requested a ride in the wagon!

I still remember my dad taking me to watch many kite-flyers at Pioneers Park. Dad flew a basic Ben Franklin Five & Dime box kite, red and green. There were so many flyers I can't imagine how they stayed untangled.

I read The Kite Runner in Dad's hospital room five years ago, after he broke his hip the second time. It was a time suspended without night or day, tangled between reality and hallucination. This vigil I read Elmore Leonard's new Raylan, which was not so deep. Elmore Leonard is still writing entertaining crime dialogue at age eighty-six. I hope I'm still blogging about kites in 2041!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

The ducks at the end of the tunnel

2012-01-31T19:21:00.000-06:00

The bereavement counselor assures me I will feel much worse soon, but she will be available to assist me for the next thirteen months. This fails to dampen my general mood of relief bordering on resurgence. I feel like I'm emerging from a very long tunnel. I already have two more hours in every day, and an enormous weight off my shoulders.

Did Dad see the light at the end of the tunnel? I don't know. He was not able to provide hints to those of us monitoring his crossing.

My ducks are not in a row. I still don't know diddly about probate, except that it's beneficial for some attorney$. My ducks are under Custer Road up by Schimelpfenig Library. Make way.

If you're okapi and you know it

2012-01-30T20:01:00.000-06:00

Clap your hands!

WARNING: This will be a long commentary vaguely resembling that potpie in the oven when you realized your heating element bit the dust.

Hauled the box with the boys' baby things down from the top closet shelf, and an okapi fell on my head. This okapi is losing its fuzz, so I'm not going to save it with the Fisher Price Zoo for posterity. And, FYI, this is how you pronounce okapi.

Here are the baby things I saved for Mr. Speech and Debate. The tiny yellow Speedo will fit in a standard size mailing envelope. The hoodie will be right in style. There's a beautiful white blanket knit by one of my aunts that I will mail along with the fashions.

Turning pages in the latest Lands' End catalog I was stunned to find I could look like the bobble head gal in the Progressive Insurance ads for $40.00, just not in white. Why would anyone want to do that? I guess the Progressive ads are successful since they are burned on my retinas, but they never make sense.

In that same catalog I caught my breath on the page with the rope chair in the background. What rope chair? The same rope chair in the background of a hundred photos of my young sons.

Everything old is new again!

On the left, a deedly dumpling Danger Baby, winter '85-'86. On the right, Lands' End crop leggings with the chair. We got the rope chair in 1980, and had it at least a dozen years, along with a matching ottoman and rocking chair. That takes my family through the births of three sons and moves to five houses.

No matter how you search, you will not find this Lyle the Crocodile Halloween costume/fleece jammie suit in the Lands' End catalog. It is modeled by Mr. Speech and Debate in 1984.

The Woolly Mammoth lounges in the rope rocking chair, circa 1990. Obviously a good way to relax after a nunchucks workout!

When my life passes before my eyes, there will always be chairs in the background.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Howie

2012-01-29T17:15:00.000-06:00

HOWARD W. MASTALIR

4/23/1923 - 1/28/2012

Release

Relief

Exhale

Today a different pink

2012-01-26T14:05:00.000-06:00

I would go get some Pepto Bismal but it seems like way too much trouble. The preschoolers have shared their stomach virus, so here I am under two sweatshirts and six blankets waiting to see how the slice of toast and warm tea will sit.

Yesterday before the arrival of the intestinal insurrection, I began reading Stephen Glain's State Vs. Defense : The Battle To Define America's Empire. If I can make it through it may be as upsetting and eye-opening as The Omnivore's Dilemma.

My mom seems close. There is a busy junco out on the patio looking for soggy treats between the potted plants. The sun is finally out. Oh, now there are three juncos. It won't take many more than that to lift Dad and fly him away.

A nurse called to tell me the skin on Dad's heels is breaking down. Hospice says this is part of the process.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

and outside the window, falling rain

2012-01-25T21:43:00.000-06:00

Directed elsewhere. Looking for information about fingers and toes in the final stages of life. Instead I found myself reading "Aristotle" by Billy Collins.

Dad held his left side with his right hand when he wasn't raising that arm to help clear his airways. He got down a 4 oz. protein shake in tiny sips. His fingers look oddly red inside a translucent skin--raw hamburger in a latex glove.

An elephant crashing through the roof? Should I go upstairs expecting a leaking disaster? We had five inches of rain since school dismissal Tuesday. It seems better to stay downstairs in the condo and ignorant.

Swallowing a bit better, Dad got down three ounces of applesauce with cinnamon. The thunder and rain bands have move east.

The tv news is all about half-submerged SUVs under flooded overpasses. Soggy upholstery unanticipated. Weather reports unconsulted. Preschoolers arriving in capri pants and short sleeves. An elephant crashing? Be forewarned and forearmed in prophylactic attire. Dang cold in the sharp wind and mist at school dismissal. Oh, did you mean that weather was for moi????

The preschoolers would love it if I read The Piggy In the Puddle every single afternoon. The repetition helps them feel confident, and the language lights up all sorts of little twinkly synapses. The piggy is in the very merry middle of the muddy little puddle, diving way down derry. The preschoolers chime in, "What you need is lots of SOAP!"

The piggy may also be in the middle of a January NPR pledge drive. Wait, wait! Life is one long pledge drive, and then you finally meet your matching challenge grant?

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Say that three times fast!

2012-01-25T06:33:00.000-06:00

Severely diminished lower left lung lobe. That is Dad's latest issue, and if it wasn't so sad, it would be a good tongue twister. He started on a "prophylactic antibiotic" yesterday to ward off pneumonia. I would be happier if medical folks just said "antibiotic as a preventive measure".

You put that pink Amoxil in what???

Dad is breathing a bit easier this evening, so I let him sleep and came on home in the rain. Big Red will try to spoon in some pureed supper gunk if Dad wakes up.

I walked yesterday while fooling with my newly rediscovered digital zoom and optical zoom features on my camera. This did not make for an aerobic jaunt or good photos, but a January walk in shirtsleeves is a gift. And sometimes reading the owner's manual is actually helpful. Who knew?

This post was not about pink when I started, but these things happen. Maybe it's time for Lucy in the sky to wear rose-colored glasses.

Stunned to find blooming camellias in a little garden at the Dallas Arboretum. I listened to the The Elegance of the Hedgehog audiobook last year, but I didn't really understand about camellias. There's still a note in my bathroom drawer brain from that book about "the always in the never."

Having a brain in a drawer is helpful for those three a.m. questions. When Dad walked up the hill from the bus stop after a day at work, we kids would meet him. Then we would watch him as he emptied the change from his pants pocket and the brains from his shirt pocket. Dad's brains were printed in neat draftsman lettering on tiny folded bits of paper. My brains are never so tidy.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Moving on up

2012-01-22T20:45:00.000-06:00

Drainage is good.

Elevation is, too.

I am thinking about homes in the Fifties and Sixties after watching the powerful movie, "Tree of Life". As a Sixties tree-climber, I loved being able to see a long way to the east from the hill in our backyard. I loved riding down the hill from our house to the swimming pool on my blue Schwinn, but not pedaling back up.

Having a house on a hill was important to my mother. Fritzi had vivid memories of flooding on the farm where she grew up. The farm was in the vicinity of Marion, which was never much more than a "populated place" on Little Beaver Creek between McCook, Nebraska and Oberlin, Kansas in the Republican River Basin. According to Mom, it was a dismal spot to be a child during the drought and Great Depression. Her stories always included kerosene lamps, mean roosters, and stinky flood waters.

My eldest, Mr. Speech-Debate, is experiencing the soggy Joys of Home Ownership in a rapid immersion program. After buying a starter home in Salem, Oregon last fall, he is dealing with flooding in Marion County in the Willamette River Valley. More particularly, there is flooding in the HVAC ducts of his home's crawl space. There is little I can do for him, beyond directing cosmic blow-dryer thoughts in a northwesterly direction.

Dad also needs cosmic blow-dryer thoughts directed his way, but he's a bit better today. He swallowed tiny bites of chocolate pudding and Gerber baby peaches, but couldn't manage mashed potatoes. He swallowed a couple ounces of water, then said, "little bit" when I asked if he would like to try some coffee. He moved his arm to adjust his eyeglasses, lifted the Styrofoam cup to his lips, and pointed his finger toward the photos on his bulletin board.

To bring this weekend story full circle, my youngest, the Woolly Mammoth, is moving to a new apartment in Washington, D.C. After a year and a half in a basement apartment, he is excited to have windows and city views. D.C. is, of course, the city of Marion Barry. I'll be glad not to fret about basement flooding if the river of Republican presidential candidates overflows in an rush of hot air and polluted water.

Dad is awash in oral secretions that clog the back of his throat. This problem has escalated over five years, although it is considered a symptom of the final stage of life. We keep the head of his bed elevated to promote drainage.

And for the polarizing film "Tree of Life", there is much to admire in the sets, costumes, locations, and glorious photography. Much, too, to consider about doing the best one can as a parent in any decade.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Lavender pandas, Part II : Spirit guides

2012-01-21T19:45:00.000-06:00

I really needed a walk before I visited Dad after school Friday. A curve of the trail focused my attention on a red-shouldered hawk sitting on a low branch. It sat and watched me as I tried to figure out the digital zoom feature on my camera.

Kept walking to the turn-around and headed back. The hawk was still sitting there and willing to pose for photos until I took three steps off the trail toward it. Then it flew to another low branch, still close to the trail. Again we played photo op. Again I took three steps from the trail, and the hawk flew.

From its third perch the hawk waited patiently while I walked to the trail junction and followed a new trail. We played the three step game, and the hawk flew, but to a tree I couldn't reach. I had to let go of the connection, but the feeling lingered that this had been an OTHER experience. If you look between the tree limbs you can see the hawk flying away in the late afternoon sunshine.

Bothering both a hawk and a heron in one walk seemed significant. A great sense of awe accompanied by support and light filled me. I knew I needed to communicate with Dad in an honest, authentic way, to share that support and light.

I managed to tip a couple ounces of protein shake down Dad's throat only to provoke wrenching gurgles and rattles. "I know, Dad. I know." He stared deeply into my eyes, and I felt a locked-in connection beaming absolute love between us. "You don't have to be brave, Dad. I will do everything possible to make it not hurt." That is my solemn promise and responsibility.

Mystery lemurs, lavender pandas, Part I

2012-01-21T06:54:00.000-06:00

Preschoolers have a lot of trouble distinguishing the colors and remembering names for tan, gray, lavender, and olive. That speed bump must have provoked my construction paper choices for our latest art project. We have been making directed drawings of black and white animals on lavender and olive paper.

Directed drawings are a step-by-step way for students to feel safe and confident working with simple shapes and lines. It's also good vocabulary practice. "Make a circle in the corner" isn't as fun as "put stripes on your hot dog," or "begin with a question mark and add a sausage."

A lot of days begin that way. I will go visit Dad before heading to work at the library in the morning with question marks. We are in uncharted territory as his exit seems near. Or not.

Skunks wear four socks. Dad kicks off socks. Or did. Dad doesn't have enough energy to kick socks off. We take socks off to look at his feet for indications of approaching death.

Dad has lost the ability to move liquids or mashed foods to the back of his mouth for swallowing. He doesn't have the strength to suck a protein shake through a straw. He bites the straw. He bites the rim of a cup. A tiny bit of liquid tipped into his mouth just runs down his chin.

I will have to continue this later.

Put on your cheap sunglasses for the hot dog zebra drawing!

Bab-O eyes

2012-01-19T22:48:00.000-06:00

Dad has taken a new step down his end-of-life staircase. It is increasingly difficult for him to eat, drink, or clear secretions from his throat. He holds his skeletal limbs in rigid poses to avoid the discomfort of movement. His eyes look off into the far distant reaches of the galaxy. His eyes... yes, it is the ... hmmm. What is it exactly that is signalling the change? Dad's eyes look just like my playmate's Tiny Tears doll's eyes after she scrubbed them with Bab-O.

Nurturing is so very out of style. Kids of either gender do not rock or cuddle baby dolls. Their parents are too young to remember a time of gritty cleaning products without tiny squirting dancing foam globules on t.v. ads.

"My mom is better than your mom" my playmate taunted. "My mom uses Bab-O, NOT Comet!"

My playmate was jealous of the bright eyes on my Tiny Tears doll. She had given her Tiny Tears a good scrubbing with Bab-O, and her dolly had weird gray unfocused eyes ever after unhappily.

Dad has those same weird gray unfocused Bab-O eyes.

Waiter, there's a fly in my ointment.

2012-01-19T06:39:00.002-06:00

Vanna is wearing a turquoise chiffon gown with shirred empire halter bodice, front slit, train, and Aurora rhinestone trim around waist. So am I. No, wait. Not quite, but I am sort of dressed up by my standards. I'm attired in a knit top with 3/4 sleeves, shirred shoulders, and a draped neckline that shows a bit of actual cleavage. Shh! Don't tell. I have on slacks, too. I'm headed to the theater.

Except not. Dad, the Great Minimizer, is reporting pain in his leg. His pain is not relieved by Tylenol. Dad never reports pain, so this is significant. It minimizes the annoyance of the malfunctional t.v. in his new shared room.

The t.v. is on. The t.v. is off. The t.v. is possessed. Gremlins. Yup.

The t.v. stays on through a marathon of Judge Judy and Nightly News with clips of Newt chittering like a chunky middle-school hamster after a dozen Pixie Stix. [I have the sound down realllll low.] Then, inexplicably, right when I'm ready to solve the lip-reading puzzle on Wheel and win a trip to tropical paradise, the t.v. is off.

I'm blurting out "A PRIVATE EYE SEARCHING FOR FLIES", then all dark. Ten minutes later the t.v. is back on in the middle of "A KETTLE OF SEAFOOD GUMBO".

CLUES. Not FLIES. Well, duh. PRIVATE EYES IN GUMBO???

Some of Dad's discomfort may come from enraged eczema. Thus the ointment is needed in his stew.

fly in my soup http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1C8nl8eBoq0

fly in the ointment

Fig. a small, unpleasant matter that spoils something; a drawback. We enjoyed the play, but the fly in the ointment was not being able to find my hat afterward. It sounds like a good idea, but there must be a fly in the ointment somewhere.

Yesterday I rescued a June bug from the lunch room and "returned it to the wild!" I've been hanging out in preschool so long I can't even stomp on a overturned June bug with creepy wiggling legs, or at least not in front of the kiddies. Soon I won't be able to flush a cockroach in private.

Dad is out of pain on a narcotic. The x-rays showed no fracture or dislocation. The soup is in the crockpot. My life has too much drama and too little theater.

Forced to eat chocolate ice cream

2012-01-16T21:34:00.000-06:00

Dad did not want to awaken from his nap to eat the dip of ice cream, so I had to keep it from going to waste. Sitting on the uncomfy chair in the corner reading about the Cherokees and the Trail of Tears, I licked the plastic spoon.

Good to get out of the condo with the dripping bathtub faucet after working through an online training course about recognizing child abuse. Dripping faucets are bad. Catching drips = good. Using caught drips to refill toilet tank or water houseplants is not such a bad thing.

Child abuse is bad. Getting credit for doing free online training is good, especially while wearing my jammies and polar bear slippers. Nuking the leftover spaghetti and meat sauce for breakfast is neither good nor bad. It is just easy and comforting on the day off from school honoring Martin Luther King.

Moral or immoral? Legal or illegal? Black/white clarity seems just the stuff of fabric arrangements for my grandbaby play mat.

In 1977 we considered the world far too doomed to bring a child into. We fretted about the demise of small towns in the Walmart invasion, acid rain, the inequality in our economic system, the dang military-industrial complex, quality of life issues, whether using a crockpot to make lentil soup was selling out, and the inherent evil of polyester double-knit. We put henna rinses in our hair, grew alfalfa sprouts on the window sill, and gagged down carob chips. We read Wendell Berry poems.

Carob chips will never be chocolate. Few puzzles have the answers on the back page. Being an adult was not what we expected. It was soooo gray and blurry!

Being a parent was unexpectedly wonderful. Maybe being a grandparent will be as well.

I'm into cole slaw. Cabbage. Down to basics. Stone Soup! No frills, except:

Dad eventually awoke to swallow his afternoon meds and drink a 4 oz. protein shake. His new roommate groaned about cold lotion being applied to his itchy diaper region.

"Be joyful

though you have considered all the facts."

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Wendell Berry (1973)

Resting places

2012-01-14T20:06:00.005-06:00

Cutting and sewing like a mad fiend, I let go of Dad's transition issues. Dad will have to adjust to having a roommate, and I already feel a bit sorry for the roommate. We had to shoot Dad with a tiny tranquilizer dart Saturday. First time I ever saw Dad tear his hair out for real. The move had him very agitated and aggressive, hitting his aide. When he calmed down he was able to ask me a question with himself in the third person,"What does this mean for Howard?" It means for Howard that he is still in Texas, still has the same caregivers, and will still be visited daily by that annoying woman who claims to be his daughter!

And so, I sew 2.5" strips around 9" squares. Spray with diluted starch and press seams open. Arrange squares on the living room carpet. The project is a black/white grandbaby play mat. I have such wonderful memories of my tiny sons doing their first push-ups to better see the pattern of a blanket. Getting things in focus and tracking movement are big incentives for an infant's development of neck strength and head movement. Yes, babies are looking for faces, but they are building more nuanced visual perception almost from birth. They are imprinting their parents' faces, but also the high contrast patterns around them.

My first square fabric blocks have plenty of pattern and contrast. From a composition standpoint, the layout needs more quiet, solid visual resting places, chances to stand still in the snow and listen to the wind in the pines before following the footprints. And then my sister texts me reminding it is the seventh anniversary of our mom's death.

What does this mean for CollageMama? Well, she should probably clean and oil her sewing machine. Then she should spend some time in her quiet resting place...

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

A Three Hour Tour

2012-01-14T08:40:00.000-06:00

Darting away from school at three-thirty, I headed to the nature preserve for a walk in the woods. Without the leaves I'm more aware of the land. The trails on each side of the creek have seemed so far from the other. Now I can see how close they are, and spot landmarks on the other side.

This has been a year for learning about decline and decay and approaching death. Out of the loss I am trying to see the transformation of vital energy into a new form. I can't express it very well, but in the forest for that hour it made sense.

This barely clothed leaf is a Venus de Milo. How can humans transform stone into art of classic beauty? Mushrooms descend a staircase like Duchamp's nude as they dance of the living out of the dead.

Transforming
Transitory
Ballet

Movement
Short trip

By six-thirty we had moved Dad into a shared room three doors down the hall. I have upset his tiny island world again. Gilligan and the Skipper will have to make him comfortable and secure again.

On a lighter note I offer these Tammy Faye mushrooms in the haunted Muppet forest.

Mud thoughts

2012-01-12T20:30:00.000-06:00

No, not musing on ugly campaign tactics, walking under the freeway. Wednesday was so beautiful I made another trek under Over World. And there was joy in Mudville when mighty CollageMama looked up.

With color on hiatus, texture is much more visible. The many installations of mud tubes on the concrete support columns and beams under the freeway ramps impressed me with their structural precision and beauty. Thanks to a former teacher/365photographer in Tennessee, I've learned they are made by organ pipe mud dauber wasps. [No, that was not Mork's wife.] Male mud dauber wasps guard the nest while the females go hunting for orb spiders to stuff into the pipes to feed the little ones. Okay, I'm not going to make the manicotti for supper tonight...

There are many mud bird nests under the freeway access ramps, but not any under the main lanes of US 75. Too much noise and vibration? Or maybe to far a first flight to open sky? There is a shortage of graffiti, too. Will the birds and spray paint artists return to nest in the spring? What can I learn about teaching clay projects for children from the birds, the wasps, and the tire tracks?

Heading back toward the trailhead, a word that sounds ridiculous in this urban setting, I annoyed a great blue heron in the creek on beyond the graffiti column. The heron flew away against the traffic.

The hero or the goat

2012-01-10T20:51:00.000-06:00

You blog long enough and you eventually write about goats. Yesterday on a whim I pinned my mother's silver goat pin on my shirt, just thinking the preschoolers might like it. Plus, teaching preschool is a whole lot like herding goats or cats or turtles on a rainy Monday.

The children were entirely too busy smearing snozz on every surface to notice my goat pin. By naptime I was sooo glad to sit in the dark room and listen to the gurgles and snurgles of wee noses accompanied by one of our favorite/effective nap cds. Gather Round is a Starbucks recording that includes Willie Nelson singing "I'm My Own Grandpa". Trying to sort out the family relations in this song always makes my brain drowsy.

Speaking of family relations, I am still trying to make the decision to move my dad into a double room. "Good grief! How did I ever get into this?" I ask this question every time I have to deal with Dad's finances, feeling like Charlie Brown standing out on the pitching mound in the downpour. Will I be the hero or the goat? I'd be glad just to not be the troll under the bridge.

But back to goats, I've temporarily lost my copy of Gregory the Terrible Eater. Gregory is an average goat except he doesn't like to eat tin cans. Gregory would be a model recycler. He could even advise the condo complex residents about proper recycling practices.

Spell Check has been giving me grief about my spelling of "advisor". My eldest son has been a college adviser/advisor for several years, and he explains that institutions of higher learning make their own spelling rules for this matter. My Big Red Dictionary reminds me that advice is a noun and advise is a verb. Good grief! It seems to be a vulgar transitory desiderative with past participles:

Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember these items should not be placed in your condo recycling carts:

paint cans
rubber welcome mats
greasy Kentucky Fried Chicken leftovers. Ewwww!
Styrofoam cups, egg cartons, and packing "peanuts"
dirty furnace filters
moldy, disintegrating carpet padding
ugly chandeliers
pet poop
light bulbs
curtain rods
documents that included credit card and Social Security numbers. Oops!
clothes and toys
wire hangers
dead houseplants
bamboo wind chimes
hundred dollar bills

Let the goat eat them instead. (And that goat is a classic Provensen illustration for The Color Kittens. It convinced me for a dozen years of childhood that goats really ate tin cans and ONLY tin cans.)

Calendar challenged on the train

2012-01-08T18:38:00.000-06:00

It's time to play What's Wrong With This Picture?, boys and girls! Got a calendar for Dad's room at the nursing home. Last year he was stuck with a bees 'n' butterflies perky calendar that we both grew to detest, staring at it through each evening's supper.

Now we are staring at this more graphic design. It wasn't until I punched out the circle for January fifth that I understood the problem. Just when we think life is too short and the weeks are too long, it turns out to be the other way around.

Dad's weeks are not a whirlwind of parties, meetings, campaign appearances, and doctor appointments. It won't matter to him that the weeks have only six days. Sunday won't be on the left. Saturday won't be on the right. For Dad it's pretty much all the same day anyway. And so, I am having a Janis Joplin "Ball and Chain" moment. *Beware a curse word below.

Dad's vision is poor, and his depth perception is way off. Maybe the high contrast calendar will be a cheering image for him. Looking ahead, I have a grandchild arriving just a few months from now. What can newborns see? I bet a baby would like this calendar, and not care much about the short week.**

*"I don't understand how come you're gone, man. I don't understand why half the world is still crying, man, when the other half of the world is still crying too, man, and it can't get it together. I mean, if you got a cat for one day, man - I mean, if you, say, say, maybe you want a cat for 365 days, right - You ain't got him for 365 days, you got him for one day, man. Well I tell you that one day, man, better be your life. Because, you know, you can say, oh man, you can cry about the other 364, man, but you're gonna lose that one day, man, and that's all you've got. You gotta call that love, man. That's what it is, man. If you got it today you don't want it tomorrow, man, 'cause you don't need it, 'cause as a matter of fact, as we discovered on the train, tomorrow never happens, man. It's all the same fucking day, man."

**A newborn infant can easily see many of the things most important to him or her: your eyes, your lips and smile, your nose, and his or her own hands, fingers, feet and toes...Infants reflexively prefer to look at high-contrast edges and patterns. Large black and white patterns present the highest possible contrast (100%) to the eye and thus are the most visible and attractive to babies.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

It's a bird! It's a plane!

2012-01-07T20:42:00.003-06:00

No! It's ornamental kale in a pot on my patio. Nature is just so very cool. The photos at that link to Princeton's "Art and Science 2011" competition are extremely fab, groovy, and cool. Happily, the January weather isn't. We are loving letting the preschoolers out on the playground to run in the sun.

The sunset had an odd stratification of clouds with a striking prismatic accent as I swooped over the high ramp from 75 to 190 West. Not a safe moment to whip out the camera, but awesome with Francis Poulenc's "Gloria" for soprano playing on WRR 101.1 FM to commemorate the composer's 113th birthday. Hours later I've got "Dialogues des Carmelites" is in the cd player.

In another portent of a rosy moment, a bizarre airplane seemed to hang in the sky above Coit Boulevard as I drove to visit Dad. The airplane had untamed nose hairs, just like my father!!

I'm hoping my walking bud/bra pusher's aircraft aficionado son can identify the plane this evening so I don't have to worry myself into nose hair nightmares.

a·fi·ci·o·na·do/əˌfiSH(ē)əˈnädō/

Noun:

A person who is very knowledgeable and enthusiastic about an activity, subject, or pastime.

The nicest part of this memorable Pink Letter Day was a brief convergence of minds, hearts, and speech. When I got to Dad's room he made a few false starts, but then managed to say, "I want to talk to you." It took him many more minutes, but then he said, "I think you're very nice." The effort wore him out. It was a moment I'll cherish. At least he knew for that one moment that I'm on his side in this long last battle.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Llama giraffe amaryllis

2012-01-06T20:44:00.000-06:00

Please meet my new pet amaryllis. LLama is its name, although it llooks more llike a giraffe. LLama is the tallest amaryllis I ever forced. LLama is forcing me to llearn to spell. LLama llooks llovelly in my mama's red Dansk bowl next to the Woolly Mammoth's volcano clay vase.

I've llooked up "amaryllis" in the Big Red Dictionary at lleast five times in the llast month. I'll probably llook it up another dozen times before the two stalks finish blooming. In the meantime, LLama will help me remember calyx, sepal, stamen, pistil, and corolla.

Not that corolla! The brown 1980 two-door Toyota Corolla still holds a fond corner in my heart. It was the first car with my name on the lloan papers. The truest thing my ex ever said was, "If we'd bought two of those Corollas we would still have one running." It was a great little car, although llacking air conditioning.

Back in 1980 I was very torn about buying a foreign-made auto which would seem unpatriotic to my dad, seem a tiny deathtrap to my mom, and require me to learn to drive a stick shift. For some reason I dreamed last night that I would have to drive a manual transmission vehicle to "save the day" and get us to the airport in time for the LLas Vegas flight. I couldn't remember how to shift gears. I couldn't hook the U-Haul trailer onto the car. Worse, I had misspelled all the names and numbers in my cell phone contacts list so I couldn't phone a friend for help.

We didn't have A/C in the '80 Corolla, but we were blessedly lacking cell phone technology. My mother has become a frequent character actress in my recent dream movies. So far, she rarely plays herself.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Alternative news flash

2012-01-05T21:38:00.000-06:00

Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Art teacher discovers petrified giant squid and the Loch Ness monster on the same afternoon hike in Texas.

Evidence that north Texas was once a great ocean inhabited by creatures with sophisticated nervous systems and complex brains astounds current observers. This petrified and fossilized giant squid specimen was discovered on the Caddo Trail at Oak Point Nature Preserve. CollageMama has been studying giant squid illustrations since she was just a wee paleontologist wannabe.

The World We Live In, by the editorial staff of LIFE, 1955 was my next favorite as a kid to the book about chairs. I loved the fold-out illustrations of dinosaurs, Ice Age mammals, and scary deep sea bio luminescent creatures. Inside the front cover there's a dibbies sticker with my initials:

Calling dibs is an informal convention to declare a specific right to something that no individual otherwise has any clearly recognized right. Such a declaration is often recognized in certain cultures, or sub-cultures, as a means to avoid arguments over relatively trivial issues.

There are many colloquialisms associated with this concept, and with specific instances of this concept. For example, an individual planning to ride as a passenger in a car may call shotgun as a means to assert the right to ride in the front passenger seat instead of the back seat.

Emerging from the woods with both Yeti and the Abdominal Snowman chasing her, this intrepid art teacher next found evidence that the Loch Ness monster has survived in the pond at the nature preserve. Okay, just squint a little bit, folks...

We are sick and tired of hearing about Iowa and seeing Republican candidates wearing jeans and barn jackets. Every four years the nation is hit over the head with a cast iron skillet known as the Iowa caucus, and then that state slips from our consciousness. This is sad, because Iowa is not that horrible a place, yet we all loathe it down to its very folksy mom-and-pop cafes. We want to drop anvils and pianos on all the reporters and commentators and anchors. Not that we totally approve of cartoon violence, of course. We are Peace-niks.

Yes, peace on Nebraska. Peace on Iowa. It's over there to the right. Choose E: None of the above. Get back to normal life.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Fewaffu

2012-01-04T06:34:00.000-06:00

Resolution #7 : To refrain from refilling the birdfeeder. Sorry birds, but the sight of a rat pigging out at the feeder is giving me nightmares. And, no, I probably won't listen to "The Nutcracker" for quite awhile.

Fewaffu is today's security word, which sets off all sorts of inner pinballs. It so sounds like a quicki-ethnic counter in a failing shopping mall's fast food court. Part loofah and part Luby LuAnn platter perhaps.

Falafel became so popular that McDonald's now serves a "McFalafel" in some countries. I get falafel mixed up with injera, that spongy Ethiopian flatbread.

I written elsewhere about the year we had our Thanksgiving at a Waffle House in Oklahoma. Ooh. I fee waffu sorry for you. This feline waffle is borrowed from link.

Resolution #8 : To actually read the tales of E. T. A Hoffmann for free [frewaffu] on my Kindle. But for now just put the opera dvd in the player for Neil Shicoff and Bryn Terfel.

Resolution # 9 : Learn to make pie crust. Apropos of nothing except maybe a potpie with pretty slits on the golden brown crust would be fewaffu satisfying on a chilly evening.

apropos of nothing

Without reference to anything.
Without any apparent reason or purpose.

Fewaffu it up to warf speed, Whoopi!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Private parts / Further resolutions

2012-01-02T22:25:00.004-06:00

I'm missing something here. My walking buddy and I walk side by side. In my neighborhood we walk a clockwise route, and I am usually on the left. In her neighborhood we walk a counterclockwise route, and I am often on the right.

Definition of AU COURANT

1. a : fully informed : up-to-date

b : fashionable, stylish

2. : fully familiar : conversant

We are fully conversant the whole time we walk, sometimes even three times around the neighborhood. Often we have leftover conversants and have to go for brunch at Corner Bakery to finish getting up-to-date and completely vented. It's healthy and perky and almost Katie Couric-esque, which would be au couric.

In the middle of a toasty panini combo lunch my walking/brunching bud announces she is becoming a bra pusher! Where are the cops when you need them? You think you know somebody. You assume you have walked alongside long enough to attain a certain awareness, and then your best buddy goes underwire-less!

Resolution #5 : To keep my household expenditure journal up to date.

Resolution #6 : To change the vacuum bag, actually vacuum the condo, and maybe attack those cobwebs hanging low wobbling to and fro.

And after these resolutions I visit my dad and find him again askew in bed and busy ripping off his diaper. Avert mine eyes, Ms. Couric. Sheesh! I'm descended from a fruitcake nudist who slaps me away when I try to feed him supper.

Sending you uplifting thoughts that allegedly won't cut into your shoulders.

Definition of A-BREAST [uh-brest]

adverb, adjective

1. side by side : beside each other in a line : They walked two abreast down the street.

2. equal to or alongside in progress, attainment, or awareness (usually followed by of or with) : to keep abreast of scientific developments; keeping abreast with the times.

Two's company.

Three's a crowd.

Four on the sidewalk

is never allowed.

Do they wobble to and fro?

Can you tie them in a knot?

Can you tie them in a bow?

Can you throw them o'er your shoulder
like a continental soldier?

"Your blog is too wide."

2012-01-01T18:36:00.000-06:00

Only a true friend would say that to your face. Does this template make me look fat? Please let me know if you can't fit my blog on your screen.

"Your hair is too scary. You look like an electrified Chia pet." At the staff holiday white elephant gift exchange I received a Prussian blue (old Crayola color) comfy-huggie-snuglee-cuddly blanket-with-sleeves. The fabric is amazing. It does NOT breathe.

I fell asleep on the couch watching "Midnight in Paris" under the blanket-with-sleeves. What happened to Owen Wilson's nose? I need to spend more time in waiting rooms with old People magazines so I know what's what. As a person with deviated septum issues, I kept fixating on the nose. Also, he walked like a guy I had a crush on once. Sigh.

There were some great costumes and cars, but the movie was sadly ordinary. Never thought I'd see the day when some input from Rodney Dangerfield could improve a Woody Allen movie. I pulled the comfy-huggie-snuglee-cuddly up over my head.

Woke up in 2012. Maybe it will be a new Belle Époque. More likely just it's another era of Chia pet hair.

Praise be. It's 2012.

Resolution #4--Stay more informed about pop culture.

Resolution #3

2011-12-31T21:06:00.001-06:00

You may wonder what happened to 2. It is in the comments to Resolution #1, and the bean soup is on the stove.

Resolution #3 is to sew some placemats that coordinate with my new plates and the dining area "graph paper" wallpaper. I am so excited to have a real set of turquoise Fiesta Ware.

"You must be a grown-up," said my longtime walking buddy. "You have plates that match." When she said it I knew she must be a friend. She would probably sew a button on my overalls, just like Lisa did for Corduroy.

"I like you the way you are," she said "but you'll be more comfortable with your shoulder strap fastened." "You must be a friend," said Corduroy, "I've always wanted a friend." "Me too!" said Lisa, and she gave him a big hug.

I have a few cups and saucers in very old Fiesta Ware colors. They won't commune with the new place-settings except for historic occasions.

Sending all of you a big New Year's hug. Wishing that everyone everywhere had nutritious food, clean water, adequate sewage disposal, and the opportunity to grow up and find sustaining work. Is it so much to wish that every child born on Earth could be loved, read aloud to, and learn to read?

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Resolution #1

2011-12-31T12:39:00.000-06:00

Regain control of the cupboard full of containers and lids from sour cream, hummus, yogurt, cottage cheese, parmesan, and feta.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

An itty bitty bit better

2011-12-28T20:02:00.000-06:00

Phew! It was difficult to work today knowing that my blog was in such an unsettled and aesthetically appalling state. I can relax a little now. This design doesn't seem nearly as dreadful. I still can't get Blogger to accept any of my own photos for the background. Maybe I need to rethink and simplify all the labels.

Read book reviews all day, but no titles jumped out and grabbed me. Perhaps I'm still thinking of Wiley the jumping dog grabbing onto his favorite toy.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Removing plaque at the post office

2011-12-27T21:56:00.000-06:00

You can't go back again. Rats. I spent some discretionary and recreational time fooling with new Blogger options. This must be like waking up in Margaritaville with a scary tattoo. I am not in love with my new blog look or sure how I got it, but it seems I'm stuck with it.

At least I'm not married to my postal carrier. Literacy is important in a lifelong mate, and you would think it would be a requirement for a mail deliverer. But, NOOOOOO!

Headed to Oregon with a recent history of mailbox malfunctions, I used Our Postal Service's online vacation hold service. Please don't leave mail for me 12/16-12/21. When I get back I will pick up the accumulated mail at the post office. It seemed so simple and heart-warming, like leaving milk and sugar cookies for Santa.

My postal worker ceased delivery a day early. The automated system sent me an email saying my hold was canceled another day early. Having specified I would pick up my mail at the post office I just kinda, silly me, thought my mail would be waiting. But, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! My illiterate Pony Express dude put it in his truck. His (yes, a guy) supervisor didn't think it sad that the carrier had messed up on all three of the hold specifications. In baseball he would have been OUT.

This would be the same postal service that delivered an order of replacement electric toothbrush heads to the Woolly Mammoth in D.C. this week. The package was postmarked last January twenty-fifth! A lot of plaque and tartar can build up while you wait for the US Postal Service to bring your toothbrush.

At the opposite extreme of customer service, my homegrown mechanic shop is trying hard to solve the Buick's automotive problems without charging me for failed attempts. The Skylark may need a brain transplant, but Mario doesn't want to replace the brain if my car just needs a wisdom tooth removed.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Filberts frugging in an endless fog

2011-12-26T21:30:00.001-06:00

Still in Willamette Mission State Park north of Salem, Oregon I had a Bob Fosse moment. Be glad you didn't see me attempting the "Rich Man's Frug" from "Sweet Charity". I was just angling for a better macro shot of the filbert catkins on the trail to the Willamette River's bank.

The Filbert Grove Day Use Area seemed like a nice place to picnic on a balmier day. In a fog about filberts along the Willamette River.

Now, back in the real world of Google I find filberts are a type of hazelnut, and a cup of hazelnut coffee sure would be nice. The Frug was a dance back in the Laugh-In era. It is not an overpackaged squeezy fruit puree kiddie lunch product. Don't get me started on that! Well, I'm already started. We consume way too little fiber, and now our children are moving from an apple a day to a squeezable fruit puree that costs a buck a serving???

So, I wonder as I wander out under the filbert trees down toward the Willamette River what in the hey-ho is wrong with the world.

My sister and I have been on a collision course of wandering wondering about the Christmas LP recordings remembered from childhood. She sent me a CD of this old Firestone album my dad probably got with a new set of studded snowtires:

If I had the energy to crawl into the far dark back of the bottom kitchen cabinet there might be an old tree trunk nut bowl and cracker. Tonight I'll go nuts in other ways. Nighty-night.

Pucomen

2011-12-26T09:45:00.000-06:00

Pucomen is today's security word. It is defined as the financial acumen to not put all your money into Pokemon cards, or Star Wars, or even baseball cards.

At Labor Day the Woolly Mammoth left his baseball card album under my coffee table. He did a lot of cleaning out on that visit, but I wasn't sure of his intent about the album. So, being a model housekeeper, I left it under the coffee table until Christmas. When I mentioned it to him yesterday he said he meant to take it to the dumpster.

Oh, no you don't! Not without signing an affidavit that you yourself threw out your baseball cards. Mothers always get the blame.

So we spent a lovely half hour in 1992 baseball cards and diamond reminiscences. The Woolly looked up their values on his iPhone. Basically, each card is now worth nineteen cents, down from twenty. The whole album would hardly buy a biggie burrito with avocado and sour cream. If one had really believed baseball cards were the key to wealth one might puke.

Suggestible

2011-12-24T20:17:00.005-06:00

If you tell me I'm in a tsunami evacuation zone, my shoes will already seem wet. Mention, just FYI, that there have been no cougar sightings in a year and a half, and I'll spot one slinking at every turn of the trail.

Add to that a buddy who emails when she spots a bobcat on her driveway, and I can find a saber tooth tiger. And no, I don't want to go camping! Appearing large is the least of my problems. Make noise! So there I was singing "Frosty the Snowman" loud and off key on the self-guided nature interpretive trail at Willamette Mission State Park just north of Salem, Oregon on a dark and foggy Monday afternoon.

Except for the cougar possibility, this was a nice two and a half mile walk on level, soggy ground. I saw the largest black cottonwood in the United States.

My National Geographic Book of Mammals says bobcats (aka wildcats) are shy, solitary, strong, and twice the size of a housecat. Cougar is another name for mountain lion, puma, or catamount. Those agile felines can weigh up to two hundred pounds. Stay calm! What is that creature crouching by the trail and waiting to pounce on me?

Hark! I hear reindeer! Or maybe pumas on the roof.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Dog + Fog = No Blog Posts

2011-12-23T20:40:00.000-06:00

Watching t.v. with Dad, I'm creeped out by the endless commercials for Christian Mingle Dot Com. Apparently one can "Find God's match for you" online.

I am in love, but with a five and a half pound dog, possibly a divine gift for mental health and stress relief this holiday season. While my trip to Oregon included a wonderful visit with my son and daughter-in-law, scenic adventures in several environmental niches, and a break from both nursing home and computer, the best for my blood pressure was probably hanging out with Wiley the Wonder Dog. Wiley has two speeds, Doggie-A-Go-Go, and snoozing on your lap. Wiley is either a baby koala, a canine Einstein, or a Schnauzer-Yorkie mix. He does NOT like to have his toenails trimmed. Neither does my dad. Medicare doesn't pay for old farts to have their nails cut very often, and those poor podiatrists probably wait years to be reimbursed for their services.

Sunday my eldest and I visited the Mt. Angel Abbey near Salem. We went because Fodor's suggested the library was a "masterpiece of serene and thoughtful design", and one of only two American buildings by Finnish architect Alvar Aalto. Maybe the interior is a masterpiece, but the exterior was less intriguing than the monks' Weber grills on its patio. Since the library was closed, I will not add it to my Life List.

The hilltop abbey was itself a gem of serenity and mindfulness. Like Brigadoon, it seemed adrift in a sea of mist and fog, removed from real time and concerns. I felt near Christopher Columbus' edge of the flat earth looking out into the fog beyond the pines.

The Benedictine monks thoughtfully reminded me I should winterize my condo exterior faucets when I returned home. Please note the faucet cover at the grotto:

What makes a non-dog person in a foggy land go seeking Finnish architecture in the Willamette Valley? There doesn't seem to be an online specific matchmaking website with or without God's misty assistance. Sometimes we must find our own way or a comfortable chair. Why seek out an Alvar Aalto project? Because his chair designs are found in a book I loved as a child. We all find our places of calm where we can retreat. On a clear day we can see for miles in the valley, but this was a foggy day:

On a clear day
Rise and look around you
And you'll see who you are.
On a clear day
How it will astound you
That the glow of your being outshines ev'ry star.

You'll feel part of ev'ry mountain sea and shore.
You can hear, from far and near,
A world you've never heard before.
And on a clear day...
On that clear day...
You can see forever and ever more!

So tonight I have Arvo Pärt's "Te Deum" in the cd player. It fits the fog, the abbey, the aesthetic, and recent memories of a small dog snoozing on my lap.

Pairs of pears and polar bears

2011-12-15T21:11:00.000-06:00

Twas a hellish last day of the semester with flagrant nose goobies and a pair of preverts in the potty. Thunder and lightning prevented lightening our teacher moods with an outdoor recess. We all needed an energetic Strauss polka moment, but twern't to be.

I'm set to teach about pairs and matching. Have photos of pairs of socks, pairs of mittens, pairs of peppers, pairs of bears and even pineapples. My students surprised me by being one step ahead. They gave me a pair of polar bear slippers, and let me tell you my tired teacher feet are happy! I might wear them the entire break, even at the public library and in Portland.

In the random coincidence category, I received a gift of pairs--Noah dispensing Post-It notes. This is the best chuckle of the day, with pairs of giraffe, dolphin, and octopi. I plan to keep this for a little dose of levity all next year.

Our pair of preschool potty preverts were playing a version of show and tell. It's not likely to be a reliable predictor of future deviant behavior any more than a preschool art class incident of over-extended glue stick twisting.

Just don't confuse glue stick with Chapstick and hope you don't have to explain to Col. Bat Guano:

Group Capt. Lionel Mandrake: Colonel! Colonel, I must know what you think has been going on here!
Colonel "Bat" Guano: You wanna know what I think?
Group Capt. Lionel Mandrake: Yes!
Colonel "Bat" Guano: I think you're some kind of deviated prevert. I think General Ripper found out about your preversion, and that you were organizing some kind of mutiny of preverts. Now MOVE!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

A little less stressed with Wenceslas and Wences

2011-12-13T22:11:00.001-06:00

S'awright! I'm gonna be all right. Sure, I'm talking with my puppet hand, but it's all good.

Feeling relief tonight that all my little students have painted their clay trivets, wrapped them in bubble wrap, and have them nestled all snug in little gift bags ready to take home on the last day of the semester.

Haven't had enough time or daylight to hike at Oak Point Nature Preserve in December. The photo was taken in November. This type of seedhead always reminds me of a puppet saying "s'awright" way back in my black and white television childhood. It took a bit of Googling to track down the name of that ventriloquist, Senor Wences. He appeared often on the Ed Sullivan Show with his puppets, Johnny, Pedro, and Cecilia. Pedro was a head in a box, and said "s'awright." Johnny was a face drawn on a puppet hand. Cecilia was a chicken.

Perhaps this perambulation began when I spilled the paprika in my hash browns. My puppet hand had a chat with Billy Crystal!

Waiter, there is too much pepper on my paprikash.
But I would be proud to partake of your pecan pie.

I've always liked the carol, "Good King Wenceslas", but it's hard to say just why. As a child I enjoyed being able to pronounce Wenceslas, but there's also the Bohemian connection, and the legend of a kind, good king. Maybe I just liked it because I managed to memorize it for my piano teacher, a rare miracle!

Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Gath'ring winter fuel

...

In his master's steps he trod

Where the snow lay dinted

Heat was in the very sod

Which the Saint had printed

Therefore, Christian men, be sure

Wealth or rank possessing

Ye who now will bless the poor

Shall yourselves find blessing

1/2 inch Plexiglass

2011-12-11T20:18:00.001-06:00

"I Wonder As I Wander" is one of my favorite Christmas carols. Its melody is haunting, and the lyrics slowly seeped into my brain this week. It was a week of wandering and searching on spiritual, professional, and physical levels. Tonight I am learning that the song comes from Appalachia.

My wandering wonders are less momentous and will not haunt for long. I won't remember them any longer than I can hold the memory of last evening's gorgeous misty ochre full moon rising. Still, for just this moment I am amazed by the Schoolcraft College culinary students in Livonia, Michigan, creating the wonders of the architectural world in gingerbread and icing:

"St. Basil’s Cathedral," created by Matthew Fisher of Dearborn Heights, Morgan Massucci of Westland and Sheri Frader of Plymouth, won first place. Second place honors went to "Sydney Opera House," created by Anna Darwactor of Macomb.

So I wonder as I wander how one gets the gingerbread out of the oven and drapes it over curved forms while it is still soft to make the forms for the Sydney Opera Gingerbread House. Then I have to ponder why the rats on NPR have so much more empathy than either my students or the members of Congress. Maybe the Nutcracker Rat King that always gave me the willies just needed more chocolate chips.

For reasons I can't fathom, my father has begun eating like a horse AND talking. Two weeks ago we took him off Aricept, a prescription for maximizing mental clarity. A visit with him is more of a wander than before.

I didn't get to see Dad until 6:30 last evening, so he'd already had supper. He was talkative, and asked me to change the t.v. channel. Yikes! Yes! It was a telethon about cleft palates.

Dad said he'd watched a program about taxes... federal taxes... "Nobody minds paying fair taxes, but everybody minds paying unfair taxes". Yup!

Dad hadn't slept well the night before. He was thinking about "the prices. Out in the country." Oh, he's worrying what the farmers will get for their crops in Pierce County circa 1938.

Then somehow Dad got sidetracked to the Plexiglas problem. "Half-inch-thick Plexiglas protecting.... Protecting all the furniture... 45-degree angle out from the wall to the corner of the bed's footboard". Dad says the Plexiglas moves for me when I walk around the bed. Can't I see it?

"Get me some paper", he says. He folds a little piece of paper down to a 2-inch square. He holds it in the Hail Mary pass position, but doesn't throw it. He holds it in different places in front of him, and waves it some. I tell him he is not in a protective bubble. He says he knows, but without his usual note of exasperation. I ask if he wants a ball to throw at the Plexiglas. This is starting to match up with the times he has thrown his wadded diaper or a carton of milk at the wall. He often acts like he is going to pass a football according to his aides. I hunt around, we agree on a ball made from a pair of socks. Dad holds the sock ball, but never actually throws it. His arm raised shows the skin just hanging from his bones. Finally he asked me to put it away. Quite an hour to wonder, ponder, mentally wander:

I wonder as I wander out under the sky
How Jesus the Saviour did come for to die
For poor on'ry people like you and like I;
I wonder as I wander out under the sky

When Mary birthed Jesus 'twas in a cow's stall
With wise men and farmers and shepherds and all
But high from God's heaven, a star's light did fall
And the promise of ages it then did recall.

If Jesus had wanted for any wee thing
A star in the sky or a bird on the wing
Or all of God's Angels in heaven to sing
He surely could have it, 'cause he was the King

I wonder as I wander out under the sky
How Jesus the Saviour did come for to die
For poor on'ry people like you and like I;
I wonder as I wander out under the sky

As I've said before, I'm not a religious person. This is my favorite prayer:

Let me be receptive. Restore to me my capacity to wonder.

Wholesome fun with the kiddies over winter break?

2011-12-10T20:58:00.000-06:00

Pair this with an electric shaver for that super stocking stuffer!

Tsutaya, Kaori. Crafting with Cat Hair: Cute Handicrafts To Make with Your Cat. Quirk. 2011. 96p. tr. from Japanese by Amy Hirschman. illus. ISBN 9781594745256. pap. $14.95. FIBER CRAFTS Japanese cat lover Tsutaya was astonished at the amount of hair her cats shed during their daily brushing, so she decided to make felt out of cat hair, then turn the felt into cute, cat-themed crafts. If hair balls come to mind, think again—most of the projects are quite subtle and feature cat-shaped cat-hair appliqués on household items and accessories. The pieces are simple enough that supervised children could make them, and the directions are clear. Tsutaya also includes fun facts about cats and plenty of cute pictures. These crafts aren’t for everyone, but cat lovers will have a lot of fun with this book.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Exploring under Over World

2011-12-10T07:44:00.003-06:00

I'm still under the influence of the big Richard Diebenkorn exhibit at The Fort Worth Modern. Had a delightful girls' art getaway last weekend.

The Modern's architecture suits the Diebenkorn paintings perfectly. Soon I was seeing a potential painting in every space of the Tadao Ando building.

Monday I discovered some treasure. Finally found the parking and trailhead for the Spring Creek Nature Area. Had begun to think the city of Richardson, Texas created a trail system it didn't want anyone to use. Since these trails are close to my workplace I could have a little more walking time than driving to my usual Plano trails. Afternoon light is so soon gone this time of year.

My first trek took me under Renner Road and the 75 Central Expressway interchange with "The George Bush", as we call the 190 tollway. Chilly, and threatening to drizzle, this was an invigorating walk, especially because I found a bird-watching delight.

The rhythm of the traffic overhead was jarring at first, but gradually comforting. Only a little graffiti and day-glo orange spray-painted markings for utility crews. Trash in the creek, of course.

Every so often a bench and trash can. The city has an interactive map so you can locate the trash cans. This one is under the connection from 190 east to 75 southbound. I've looked down from the top so many times in traffic and never known it was a wilderness park down there.

The tree color was striking in the misty rain, and the bushes were full of tiny birds singing their songs and ignoring the road roar.

A hawk seemed to check out the strange intruder in pink fleece, then played a game with me. Come close, come close, no now I'm over here...

Tuesday, no treasure. The "LOW BTY" message showed on the thermostat. In a clumsy attempt to open the battery door, I pulled the thermostat too far from the wall and broke a wire. Spent a cold night in my old sleeping bag, grateful at least not to sleep under and overpass like too many homeless people in this country.

Wednesday's treasure was Mario the repairman. He's happy to arrive at the time I can be home, does a quick fix, and charges little. He's glad to help me with the other little things like the darn smoke detector hanging out of the wall while he's here. Mario, in fact, seems pretty much happy about everything, a lesson I need. I'm getting better understanding his accent. He's getting better understanding my vague descriptions of malfunctions.

Thursday's discovery was more jarring. I walked into the nursing home room to find Dad entangled but mostly uncovered and having removed his diaper. You might be saying "TMI". I sure was. He hollered at me to get him some help. Since he usually doesn't talk, that was note-worthy. I'm looking for the silver lining here! I found Big Red and she talked him calm and got everything put back together.

Dad insisted on being spoonfed as he couldn't shove the ham and yam in fast enough. He's eating like a horse lately. After I fed him I offered to soak his fingernails and trim them. He insisted soaking was unnecessary. I said I could only help if he soaked and softened the nails. He proclaimed he didn't "need any damn help" and ordered me to "sit on the chair." Hasta la vista, Baby!

Friday I walked a different part of the Spring Creek trail. Learned, too, that the Richardson police use the trailhead parking to set up a speedtrap for drivers on the 75 access road, so drivers beware.

I like the vague completion date on the sign. "F W I N T E R Y 2011" is just exactly this season.

I do like ramps, bridges, and boardwalks. All the under over possibilities make me happy.

Took Dad a poinsettia. I'd be happy if Scrooge's ghosts convinced Howie to keep the diaper on. God bless us every one!

Spring Creek Nature Area

51 acres south of Renner Rd extending from Central Expressway to Foxboro Park at Plano Rd and Braeburn Dr

Multi-use trail, natural areas, hardwood forest, pedestrian bridge over winding Spring Creek, picnic benches, horseshoe pit. Restroom facilities and parking located at trail head at SE corner of Renner and Central Expressway. Trail links with Galatyn Woodland Preserve.

At play with the English language

2011-12-08T20:56:00.000-06:00

My boss asked, "Do you mind if I play some Christmas music?"

"As long as it isn't that rump a tum tum one," I answered, "or the twelve days." That one always gives me flashbacks to Seventies t.v.

Long days with children who can't differentiate between pine cones, pineapples, and porcupines. I slip off to my mental playground.

1 pear
Pair of pears
Parrot
Pair of parrots
Partridge Family

1 apple
Pineapple
Pine cones
Coneheads
Corn on the cob

Pair of mittens
Pair of peppers
Pail of peppers

Puppy
Puppy puppet
Sock puppet
Pair of socks
Pair of dogs
Prairie dog

Peacock
Peanut butter
Peanut butter and jelly

Pizza chef
[Pepperoni with mushrooms, black olives, and green pepper]

9 potatoes
Potato Head in bed

Porcupine
Bongo polar bears
Poinsettia

Had to go forth to purchase pine cones, peppers, and pears for a photo shoot. DFW is not a conifer-friendly metroplex, so pine cones don't just hang around waiting to be photographed.

Good grief, about a decade ago I ripped this funny illustration of Mr. Potato Head off to snoozeville out of a magazine. Found the clipping while looking for something completely different, but it still makes me laugh. Nothing on the page or reverse indicates the source.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Recalcitrant with bur oaks

2011-12-04T21:08:00.000-06:00

Standing in the middle of the preschool classroom pondering our students' future twenty years down the line, "recalcitrant" popped into my mind. Didn't even know my slow mental search engine was seeking that word. True, I rarely realize my darn computer is searching the cosmos for updates or trying to run a comprehensive scan. My computer's refusal to do my bidding is spreading to my head.

This group of students doesn't so much kick (L. calcitrare "to kick," from calx (gen. calcis) "heel.") as push, distract, and wipe nose goobies on each other. They stare at me unfazed no matter what, which is why I wonder, "Did I take my blood pressure Rx this morning? Did I pop the vitamin D, swallow the big horse pill calcium and multivitamin, and manage to not drop the tiny hayfever generic fake Claritin on the bathroom floor again?" I'm getting too old to see a rosy future twenty years down the line.

Daily reviewing of calcium pill intake improved with beneficial fiber is Recalcitrant. I could be the spokeswoman for this wonder supplement according to my ex. Our relationship was already prickly that vacation on Galveston Island when he pronounced me "obstinate and recalcitrant". I pronounced a dictionary a prerequisite for all future vacations. "Obstinate" is easy to recall, but not so "recalcitrant".

Obstinate is obviously an anti-osteoporosis med, or I've been watching way too much local t.v. news between five p.m. and six-thirty. Ask your doctor if you may have low testosterone, chronic dry eyes, dry mouth, Frosted Flakes, insomnia, or marriage flashbacks.

As for the Brickel bush, I ran and found one, and hid myself away. A Dr. Seuss Brickel bush looks a lot like this bur oak nut-cap photographed out at Oak Point Nature Preserve recently. I got brickels in my britches, but I stayed there anyway.

One student has lots of splinters in her hands. She has been digging in the new layer of playground wood chips. Maybe that's not the best idea. Should the school have to eradicate every potential source of splinters? Perhaps that is the Rx in our current litigious educational climate.

Once upon a time in a city park a little girl rolled down a hill in the crunchy grass of autumn. Prickleburs covered every square inch of the little girl by the time she reached the bottom of the hill. Her dad scooped her up in his arm and set her in the '54 Chevy and drove her straight home. Once there, she sat atop the tall metal Cosco stepstool/chair while her mother and dad pulled the pricklebur splinters out of her skin with tweezers while she sat very, very still.

Was there a lawsuit? Did the little girl ever do that diggity-dog dumb thing again?

recalcitrant

1823, from Fr. récalcitrant, lit. "kicking back" (17c.-18c.), pp. of recalcitrare "to kick back," from re- "back" (see re-) + L. calcitrare "to kick," from calx (gen. calcis) "heel." Used from 1797 as a French word in English. Verb recalcitrate "to kick out" is attested from 1620s; sense of "resist obstinately" is from 1759.--Now flavorless and easily dissolved ....

obstinate

mid-14c., from L. obstinatus "resolute, inflexible, stubborn," pp. of obstinare "persist, stand stubbornly, set one's mind on," from ob "by" (see ob-) + stinare, related to stare "stand," from PIE base *sta- "to stand" (see stet). Related: Obstinately.

Hillary Clinton shops for PJs

2011-12-01T20:34:00.000-06:00

Thank heaven I don't travel as much as Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. I've got two trips this month, so I'm experiencing pajama stress. Sure, I should be worrying if the American Airlines bankruptcy will impact my flights, but last December's knit jimmy-jams from Target are looking mighty bankrupt, too. Don't want to traumatize my daughter-in-law or my old library storytime buddy.

Surely I could pop into Kohl's and pick up a nice flannel floral-print granny nightgown with the discount coupon that came in the mail....and don't call me Shirley. A flannel nightie for a Victorian B&B girlfriends' chat and art show weekend seemed just right. But, hey, no, Aung San Suu Kyi, no such thing at Kohl's. Instead, racks and racks of

neon-colored microfleece woven from fur of tiny sea monkeys forced to live their entire lives in black light.
cutesy doggie-woggy prints.
knits that hint at way too much middle-aged anatomy when the bed-headed wearer creeps toward the coffee-maker in early a.m. mixed company, but probably okay if one lives alone.
dreadful Gypsy Rose Lee Designs Exclusively for Montgomery Wards creations showcased for male gift-shoppers.
sleepwear made in China, Cambodia, Vietnam. Probably Myanmar, too, if I kept looking.

Poor Hillary. She has to sleep on airplanes across time-zones. Wherever she wakes up there are members of the press between her and the coffeepot, then diplomats and foreign heads of state. She goes home to Bill, and/or Chelsea and Marc. No wonder she has those bags under her eyes.

Time is short, and I still have to pick out an umbrella in the Totes department. I choose some pajamas, check out, and go spoon-feed Dad alleged ground-up sweet & sour chicken. Dad doesn't have to choose his PJs since aides help him into those sleeve-snapping/back-tying hospital gowns way before dark.

Once home, I try on the pajama set. Dang! Hillary and I need to save the receipt. I look like a cross between O, Brother Where Art Thou and an overstuffed bagpipe.

Signs in the sky point to Sibelius

2011-11-30T22:00:00.000-06:00

Odd fire-breathing clouds at sunset Tuesday. Tipped in a feathery spectrum they swirled,, more dragon than rush hour cloud. Thought I might be hallucinating in the left turn lane with NPR broadcasting an obituary feature about Stalin's daughter, Svetlana. Was this a Lone Star State occurrence of the aurora borealis?

No good photography options, without causing a traffic accident. Finally pulled into the parking lot of a Methodist megachurch, and got a few shots.

Not entirely crazy. Our high school Health Ed. teacher/basketball assistant coach warned us about psychedelic flashbacks. Beginning to think there should have been warning labels about assistant basketball coaches instead.. The t.v. weather news dude explained that ice crystals in the clouds caused the odd prismatic atmospheric effects. Not Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. More Sibelius in the orchestra room with icicles and violas.

Sibelius in deep slogging frigid depression opening into an aurora borealis of redemption, hey, what was that piece? Love that my high school carpool friend wrote back immediately:

I'm pretty sure it was Symphony No. 2 probably the 4th movement.

Not Sibelius in a Finnish funk. Not John Lennon. Just Lyle Lovett in the cd player singing Guy Clark's perfect fire-breathing quiet song, "Step Inside This House":

Hold this piece of glass

Up to the light comin' through the door

It's a prism glass I found on the road

Can you see that little rainbow

Well it's not really a prism I guess

It just broke a funny way

I was on my way from Texas

Headed for L.A.

Monet pops bubblewrap/writes cursive with sparklers

2011-11-28T22:07:00.001-06:00

Not exactly waterlilies, but still plenty of ripples. My visual meanderings and Art History 101 flashbacks were interrupted by a buzzer. ZZZZZ! Still your turn?

Splendid tiny milkweed pyrotechnics. Sparklers sold in a sulphur tent. Spinning faster than that busy bird buzzes ZZZZ.

Small.
Crest.
Gray.
Noisy as all get out
Smoke detector
Restaurant pager
Seriously pissed
Seriously buzzing tenor
with a chickadee
singing soprano.
Even a do-si-do or two.

Roasted sweet pepper glaze

2011-11-25T22:02:00.000-06:00

Rump roast perfectly done and topped with a taste sensation, if I do pat myself on the back! A tip of the culinary hat to Christine at Winnowings for inspiring my toe-dip into a pond of jelly.

Christine wrote about making a simple refrigerated plum jam early in November. She made it sound so easy I went straight to Sprouts looking for plums. Alas, no plums. So I bought strawberries and blackberries. Added sugar and lemon juice. Cooked it down to a delicious treat. I've been eating my jam on toasted English muffins with peanut butter, or stirring it into plain yogurt.

Feeling jampowered, I bought a bag of mini peppers. After washing and sprinkling with olive oil I roasted half the baby peppers in a big cast iron skillet in a five hundred degree oven, shaking the skillet every three or four minutes. It was easy to remove the peels and seeds under running water.

Put the peeled peppers in a sauce pan. Added the juice of one lime and one tablespoon of local honey. Chopped up some fresh cilantro. Cooked it all down over medium-low heat, slicing the soft peppers with the edge of my mother's metal spatula. The smell was enticing, never mind that the smoke detector was still agitated.

A small rump roast was in the oven now. For ten minutes after the roast reached "medium beef" on the meat thermometer it was slathered in the pepper/lime jam and staying in the 350 degree oven. Slices of good beef edged with sweet pepper are making for some excellent sandwiches---on sesame seed Kaiser rolls.

One tiny step at a time for CollageMama. A world of flavorful canning and preserving beckons, shadowed by ghosts of botulism, lead poisoning, and exploding pressure cookers.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Anachronisms of time travel and other Thanksgiving thoughts

2011-11-24T22:10:00.005-06:00

Just finished Stephen King's massive 11/22/63. Still in a fog.

Finding anachronisms in movies and books always makes me happy. The wrong color of Tupperware or a premature bundt cake can make my day. Two anachronisms jarred me enough in 11/22/63 that I jotted a note to myself. They 're not spoilers.

"Assisted living" is not a term that would have been used in 1963. The concept arose in the late-Seventies, and became commonplace in the Nineties. See abstract below.
I am really suspicious about a dirt-poor little girl living on Mercedes Street in 1961 Fort Worth knowing rules and techniques of soccer. Soccer caught on earlier in Dallas than in Nebraska where we played something called "kick soccer" that was really a rolled big ball variant of baseball in 1965. This scene seems really wrong. So I checked with one of North Texas' earliest soccer moms:

We moved here in 1972. No one new much about the sport. It didn’t cost much; shoes, a ball, a team shirt. I think soccer was popular in Dallas before it caught on in Ft. Worth. I can’t imagine what it would have been like 10 years earlier in ’61…and for a girl…and in Ft. Worth, But I certainly don’t know for sure.

I enjoyed the novel immensely, and read it in under two weeks, the library limit on my check-out. If I were a reviewer, that would certainly qualify the book as "compelling" and "a page-turner", but I'm too pokey of a reader to ever be a reviewer. This is also my first ever King book.

------------------------------------------------------------

Still with Stephen King here, our vocabulary word is obdurate, as in "the past is obdurate". My big red dictionary definitions include inflexible, intractable, stubbornly impenitent, unyielding, and hardened. The good old Online Etymology Dictionary has:

obdurate

mid-15c., from L. obduratus "hardened," pp. of obdurare "harden," from ob "against" (see ob-) + durare "harden, render hard," from durus "hard" (see endure). Related: Obdurately.

----------------------------------------------------

Veering off from King, but still with "assisted living", Dad was found on the mat beside his bed this morning. The nurse said he kept saying he wanted to "go home." We all do in some way for Thanksgiving. My sons could not "come home" in a geographical way, but we were all in touch today. I took a long hike on Planet Earth today and felt very relaxed and centered "at home". After my hike, I sat reading while Dad slept the day away, and so was able to finish the novel.

-------------------------------------------

I chose to read 11/22/63 partly because many years ago I picked up Don DeLillo's novel, Libra, from a discount cart at a used bookstore. DeLillo's portrayal of Lee Harvey Oswald's mother/son relationship stayed with me. In an odd circuit, I will pick up my reserved Angel Esmeralda and Other Stories, DeLillo's new book, at the library tomorrow when I return King's.

-------------------------------------------

Technology stuck its big foot out to trip me this week, and spilled coffee on the rug was only part of my problems.  In a panic to email a newsletter article containing a properly underlined book title, I hit Ctrl and underline repeatedly.  Down the rabbit hole went my readable text until it was nothing but a squiggle of unreadable DNA code. 

There was no Go Back Go Back GO BACK I MEAN IT RIGHT NOW key.  D'that ever happen to you?

After blindly trying all sorts of key combinations and Google searches, I did what any mom would do. I called the Woolly Mammoth, my youngest son, all the while feeling like a major geezerette. Thank heaven he didn't immediately know the magic formula for reversing the mistake, so I could salvage a little self respect! Here I was in my own rabbit hole of time travel trying to reverse a fatal error and change history for the better. Here's the secret fix:

Unshifted underline = Ctrl minus, therefore the reverse = Ctrl plus which is really Ctrl Shift =.  And yes, I was late to work.

----------------------------------------------------

Gerontologist. 2007;47 Spec No 3:8-22.

Historical evolution of assisted living in the United States, 1979 to the present.

Wilson KB.

Source

Jessie F. Richardson Foundation, 15900 SE 82nd Drive, Clackamas, OR 97015, USA. kwilson@jfrfoundation.org

Abstract

PURPOSE:

This article provides a historical overview of the emergence of assisted living in the United States over a 25-year period to identify goals and key concepts that underpinned the emerging form of care.

DESIGN AND METHODS:

The method is historical analysis based on records and my own personal experiences in conceptualizing and implementing assisted living in Oregon and nationwide.

RESULTS:

I identified four time periods: (a) 1979 to 1985, when a paradigm shift occurred on both the East and West coasts, motivated by distaste for nursing facilities and idealistic values regarding residential environments, service capacity, and consumer-centered care philosophy; (b) 1986 to 1993, when providers, consumers, and state governments became interested and four identifiable types of assisted living (hybrid, hospitality, housing, and health care) appeared, each of which informed the evolution of assisted living; (c) 1994 to 2000, a period of expansion, Wall Street money, dilution of the ideals, and emerging quality concerns; a crisis of confidence and a crossroads for assisted living; (d) 2000 to the present, a time of regrouping, slow-down in growth, and reexamination of earlier efforts to define and set standards for assisted living.

Mayhem anoles

2011-11-23T21:59:00.000-06:00

Ladies always do love outlaws, and I've got a crush on Mayhem, the guy in those AllState Insurance commercials that play on the tv during Dad's suppers. Sure, he's not as cute, genteel, or wise as the Geico lizard, but he's got that bad boy magnetism. The Buick wants to film a stunt chase scene with that actor.

I don't have a GPS, but if I did I would name it Bertha. I would update Bertha regularly, except for when I didn't. And then I might meet Mayhem, hollering about recalculating.

That's why I've popped my old Hunt for Red October into the VHS player. Connery's Ramius is the best possible combination of Geico lizard and AllState mad man when he orders a "recompute".

Captain, we are approaching the first turn.

Increase speed to 26 knots and recompute.

Aye, Captain.

The little lizards were out and about last weekend in the last blast of summer temps. Crawling on the warm, sunny bricks, they were recomputing and recalculating, upgrading and plotting locations.

Prairie Creek Park

2011-11-21T19:41:00.001-06:00

After work on this dark, misty afternoon I followed a sign to a nearby park knowing I needed to get in some nature, walking, and photo time before I could watch Dad eat jello with his fingers and soup with a fork. Prairie Creek Park was lovely.

NEEDED ...

Indeed I felt knee-dead, and knee-deep in the muck of preschool world. I needed my sewing sore shoulders kneaded, but that wasn't likely to happen.

The park is a jewel. Now that I've found it, I'll return often.

More Eve's Necklace berries.

Sore muscles from ...

2011-11-20T20:55:00.001-06:00

...sewing! Finally finished the comforter/quilt for Dad today, and glad to check that off my Big List. Spent much of the the day rassling the bulky project around the needle of my little sewing machine.

Be clear, dear reader, this was not wrestling, a sport where varsity and JV teens of assorted bulks in silly uniforms turn red and pin each other to mats for black and white yearbook photos.

Indeed, this was a primitive tussle with a grizzly-ghastly, not a sport. When I walked into Dad's room he was wearing a teal green sweatshirt, a diaper, and some puke yellow crew socks. He had thrown off his blankets and was trying to get his waxy, skinny legs out of bed. "Out" and "off" were muddled in his brain. He wanted the tv off and the sweatshirt off, therefore he needed to get out of bed.

This sewing was rassling, but I got a hold on it. The comforter is finished. Dad seemed interested in the new visual stimulation. Being done with the project is helping my muscles relax.

ras·sle (rsl)

intr. & tr.v. ras·sled, ras·sling, ras·sles Nonstandard

To engage in wrestling or wrestle with.

My what big i

2011-11-17T20:38:00.000-06:00

The Occupy Alphabet owl protesters have made their point. Now it is time for them to move on and work within the system.

These hand puppets were a happy accident preschool art class project. If you haven't drawn across corrugated cardboard with a Magic Marker lately, you owe yourself some sensory fun.

My blog muse donated a craft pack of corrugated cardboard and a how-to book with a basic puppet plan. Never thought of cutting places for the little kids' thumbs, but I can see clearly now how that improves the design.

Already had a roll of wide wale corrugated paper. Also the bag of tiny paper cups that fell on the floor months ago. Too dirty for drinking, but too good to throw away, the cups became "art supplies". The playing cards for wings just happened to be in the same bag with the cups. Beaks are Styrofoam grocery trays, but of course! The great horns for the owls should have been shorter strips of paper, but they add to the owl personalities.

Blackland Prairie Raptor Center will present a program with birds of prey tomorrow. That's always a highlight of my school year. Glad the owl art helped the little kids get psyched.

Last evening I attended the condo homeowners annual board election. Whoooo was elected? Thankfully, not me.

Shared sightings

2011-11-16T23:39:00.000-06:00

The trails loop around and crisscross in the woods above Rowlett Creek. I was trying not to follow the young couple on the trail. First spotted them as they were having such fun balancing like gymnasts on the big fallen log that blocks the trail. I struggle just to get up and over the log each hike, praying not to break my hip. I instinctively like the pair, as they seemed to be good friends, not just hormonal adolescents. I miss having teen sons and their good friends gathered around my dining table.

The second time our paths cross, the couple was studying something in the tall grass. They excitedly waved me over to see their find, a very big orb spider. They were trying to take a cell phone photo without disturbing the web or getting into the weeds. Sensible young spider enthusiasts!

"I feel like I'm cheating," I told them. "I hike these trails looking for spider moments. You found the spider, not me." They finished their photo shoot then told me, "She's all yours now."

Fitting for a cheater, my photos of their spider did not turn out. This photo is a similar spider I found all by myself two weeks ago on the other side of the creek.

Third time we met I thanked the teen couple for sharing their spider and followed them on the shortcut out of the woods and back to the pond. Then they headed left to be hormonal adolescents, polite but glad to be rid of my chaperoning. I headed right looking for a great blue heron.

Bumbling along taking photos of dried seed heads and cattails, I met an older cyclist paused and staring at the empty fishing pontoon pier. He waved me over to see what he saw. What the hey-ho?!! A big dang water snake was writhing and slithering on the pier. It was at least as big around as a toilet paper tube. I can speak with some authority here, having spent part of my day with the preschoolers making festive Thanksgiving napkin rings using toilet paper tubes and gold tempera paint. It was a seriously goose-bump inducing snake, but the older cyclist was cute in a mature nature-watching way. The snake slid off the edge of the pier back into the pond. The moment was over, just a pushpin on the Geography of Bliss trail map.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Then you should get an ink, I think

2011-11-15T19:24:00.001-06:00

Target

Hello Kitty

for real nuke

not unEasy-Bake

Pink kitchen flashback

Princess Barbie coffee maker

Susan G. Komen pink ribbon blender

please explain intended demographic

need a fix from My Little Pony

unicorn margarita machine

plus a shot of soothing

fuchsia magenta

Pepto-Bismol

liquid

asap

Morticia and Gomez fix computers

2011-11-14T22:05:00.000-06:00

At the library where I work on Saturdays we are having lots of computer difficulties. The librarian put up a new sign on all the broken computers that says

IT is working

on a solution...

Nobody reads further down the sign. Everybody tries to log onto the broken computers thinking "It is working" when really "I. T. is working on a solution". Alas, I. T. is not working very fast.

So, order a plastic hula skirt from Oriental Trading Company. Gather the waist tight. Wear the skirt over your head. Add a hat and dark ZZTop glasses to become Cousin Itt. Snap your fingers.

Get away bliss

2011-11-13T16:59:00.000-06:00

Road trip! Road trip! I need to get away, as Southwest Airlines would say.

A girls' art weekend in Fort Worth's Cultural District is almost in view. Caravaggio at the Kimbell. Diebenkorn at the Modern. John Marin watercolors at the Amon Carter. Barbecue at the Stockyards.

Then a grandma-to-be getaway to the wilds of Oregon and Powell's City of Books. Lots of unknown territory out there for a CollageMama who has never been much west of Moab, Utah.

Thank heaven neither of these trips will require salt pills for heat prostration or carrying a heavy backpack. Will either make me happy? Will either refuel my creative gas tank?

I'm racing through The Geography of Bliss: One Grump's Search for the Happiest Places in the World. What is the recipe for happiness? Can it be pinned to a place like the hummus notecard under the magnet on my refrigerator?

Eric Weiner's book has not addressed the matter of landscape compatibility so far, and I am up to Thailand. I am always more content, at ease, and happier when I can see a long way to the horizon. I'm a prairie/plains girl. I love mesas, but get anxious hemmed in by mountains.

What I've gleaned from the book is that personal happiness requires:

An atmosphere of trust
Participation in useful work
A good personal fit with societal expectations
A strong cultural identity
Freedom from excessive poverty
Freedom from excessive affluence
Tolerance for boredom, failure, and waiting
Habits of mindfulness and attention
Choices that matter
Experiencing and practicing kindness
Moderation--Knowing when enough is enough
Cohesive family relationships
Being fully present in the moment
Realistic expectations
Freedom from envy
Connection to nature
Opportunities for creative expression
Belief in the act of believing in Something Other
Knowing that the author of Flow's name is pronounced "Sticks in my eye".

28,800 beeps

2011-11-12T19:48:00.001-06:00

The back-up battery in the fire EXIT sign high above the circulation desk is dead, so something up there is beeping at least once per second. Once per second for eight hours works out to 28,800 beeps, fifty questions, and a dozen jokes. "Your popcorn is done!"

Yup, really done. The building manager will "get right on it" Monday and change the battery.

This must be how Dad and all the other nursing home residents feel with the perpetual beeping of call buttons, fall alerts, and escape attempt beeps around the clock, day after day. The library staff is alternately zoned out on the beeps or agitated. We are trapped, just like Dad.

My blood pressure machine squeezes my arm, then beeps. Again, with the trapping and beeping.

Library reading pressure is on. My reserved books have come in all at once, and I'm feeling the squeeze. I have two jobs, and Dad, and beeping, and a half-sewn comforter to finish, and a blood pressure log to keep! Now I have Stephen King's hefty 11/22/63 begging me to time-travel.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Keep your nose to the grindstone

2011-11-10T06:52:00.000-06:00

You can keep your nose to the grindstone, or you can hold my nose to the grindstone. You can grin and bear it, or knee the bastard in the groin. You can grin and bare it but you better have a gimmick. You might have a millstone around your neck. It would not be a gewgaw, but it might come from France through the port of Galveston in 1851.

I had not properly girdeth up my loins for a long perusal of the Big Red Dictionary. You might say I was groping, and that's not so bad as long as political office is not my goal. You can stomp on a ground cherry calling it a Chinese lantern or a pop berry.

The historical plaque next to the grist mill stone reads:

THIS GRIST MILL STONE WAS BROUGHT TO TEXAS IN 1851 THROUGH THE PORT OF GALVESTON BY WILLIAM TERRY EDMONDSON. MADE IN FRANCE, THE STONE WAS ORIGINALLY LOCATED AT A GRIST MILL NEAR THE CORNER OF CEDAR SPRINGS ROAD AND KING'S ROAD. EDMONDSON'S DESCENDANTS CITE THIS PRESENT LOCATION AS THE NATURAL SPRING WHERE HE WATERED HIS HORSES WHILE ELUDING THE INDIANS. EDMONDSON'S DAUGHTER, ANNE ELIZABETH, MARRIED WILLIAM HARRISON PRATHER, A CONFEDERATE VETERAN AND THE GREAT GRANDFATHER OF HUGH E. PRATHER, JR., WHOSE FAMILY GENEROUSLY DONATED THE STONE TO THE PARK CITIES HISTORICAL SOCIETY AND THE TOWN OF HIGHLAND PARK. MAY 7, 1995

Here is my nose ready to be kept or held. Holding someone's nose to the grindstone is far different than keeping your own nose there:

grindstone

early 13c. “millstone,” from grind (v.) in sense of "sharpen" + stone; meaning “revolving stone disc used for sharpening, etc.” is from c.1400. Phrase nose to the grindstone in use by 1530s; originally to get control of another and treat him harshly:

This Text holdeth their noses so hard to the grindstone, that it clean disfigureth their Faces. [John Frith, "Mirror to know Thyself," 1532]

The main modern (reflective) sense of "work hard" is from 1828. Don't know about you, but it seems like my nose has been there since at least 1828. A dictionary diversion is in my budget.

Grin is related to grimace and groan.
Grind is bizarrely or burlesquely related to being a boring study buddy, a cup of coffee, or a striptease pelvic rotation.
Nose to the grindstone is to work diligently and continuously, but a large, heavy
millstone could be around your neck if you have a perpetual problem or responsibility that prevents you from doing what you want.
Grist for the mill means something that can be turned to one's advantage.
Grits are coarsely ground grain, especially corn, related to bran.
True grit is plucky, indomitable spirit, and two movies I've never seen.
Worms need grit in their gizzards, as do birds, reptiles, and some fish. My vermicompost worms are besides themselves over coffee grounds and smashed eggshells.

Ground cherry is the name for many plants that produce a fleshy fruit contained in a papery husk. When I was a kid we called them "pop beans" or "pop berries", and sometimes "Chinese lanterns". We love to stomp on them.

Groin derives from abyss or depression
Groin architectural the curved edge at the junction of two intersecting vaults

This would be Olga Korbut vaulting in 1974.

Then she called to the cat and the duck and she asked, "Now, who will take this wheat to the mill to be ground into flour?"
"Not I", said the duck.
"Not I", said the cat.

"Very well, then", said the little red hen, "I will take it myself".

So the little red hen trudged off to the mill, and in a few hours she was back with a sack of fine flour.

grist

O.E. grist "action of grinding, grain to be ground," perhaps related to grindan "to grind" (see grind), though OED calls the connection "difficult." Meaning "wheat which is to be ground" is early 15c.; the figurative extension from this sense is from the same date.

gewgaw

early 13c., giuegaue, contemptuous reduplication, possibly connected with O.Fr. gogue "rejoicing, jubilation; joke, prank, mockery, game;" or jou-jou "toy," baby-talk word, from jouer "to play," from L. jocare (seejoke).

gird¹

vb girds, girding, girded, girt (tr)
1. to put a belt, girdle, etc., around (the waist or hips)
2. to bind or secure with or as if with a belt to gird on one's armour
3. to surround; encircle
4. to prepare (oneself) for action (esp in the phrase gird (up) one's loins)
5. to endow with a rank, attribute, etc., esp knighthood
[Old English gyrdan, of Germanic origin; related to Old Norse gyrtha, Old High German gurten]

Can't play anymore.  Off to the daily grind.




© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Soup by committee

2011-11-08T20:53:00.000-06:00

How many crockpots does it take to screw in a lightbulb? We have three large crockpots pledged for the school "Thanksgiving feast".

After a lengthy discussion it was decided that both the Pilgrims and Indians would have multi-grain mini Club crackers to go with their soup and apple slices. Those Pilgrims had it easy. Kellogg's has ninety-seven kinds of crackers from which to choose.

Sometime after my eye muscle twitch became visible, the group decided to go with cheddar cheese cubes from Sam's Club instead of string cheese aka cheese sticks. I would be thankful if I never opened another cheese stick for a preschooler to consume in disgusting dangling ways.

Edamame was chosen as the protein component of the soup several meetings back. Corn and carrots were agreed upon last meeting, along with the veggie broth base. Today we had a quorum to elect potatoes for thickening the soup. Garlic made the flavoring short list, but celery was voted out. Peas, tomatoes, and onions were overruled on procedural grounds.

Baa bah humbug, have you any soup? Yes, sir, yes, sir, three crockpots full. Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold, pease porridge in the pot nine days old.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Not nuts

2011-11-08T05:53:00.001-06:00

Early staff meeting today, so I have no business even sitting down at the computer, let alone looking up the proper spelling of squirrely.

squirrely

[skwur-uh-lee, skwuhr- or, especially Brit., skwir-]

If this meeting goes as poorly as the last one, I'll be visualizing my special place.

The difference is night and day

2011-11-06T07:40:00.000-06:00

"He doesn't do that when the staff feeds him," says the hospice nurse. That being coughing, choking, and growling loudly to clear his throat. That is also taking forty minutes to an hour to eat a meal.

I help Dad at supper because it's easier for me to have a task. When I visit, any time between four and seven p.m., Dad usually doesn't talk, and if he does, he doesn't make sense. He stares into space, and often won't get his hands out from under the blankets. So I cut his food, put bites on the fork, help hold the coffee cup so he doesn't drench himself, and wipe his chin when he misses his mouth. I raise my arms in the air when he chokes so he will mirror the action.

The dear aide, Big Red, confirms that Dad growls, and she is more than willing to feed him his supper. Let the pros handle it, all the staff seems to say. Let the pros handle it, my siblings chime in.

Made a surprise visit to see Dad before work. He had finished breakfast, and wasn't growling. He spoke audibly in complete sentences. His eyes were bright. He answered my questions clearly and directly. He said it isn't because of me that he has trouble with supper. He asked me to please come back after work.

So I did. He was being spoon-fed by an aide with his hands in the blankets and dull eyes turned toward the Aggies/Sooners game. The aide was anxious to leave. Dad coughed, choked, and growled. He didn't say a word.

Is this the phenomenon known as "sundowners syndrome"? I don't know. The light level is still bright with Dad's west window. Is it fatigue? He sleeps much of the day. Is it noise levels? I don't think it is just me.

Sunrise, sunset, sundowners?

Sunrise, sunset,
Sunrise, sunset,
Swiftly fly the years,
One season following another,
Laden with happiness,
And tears

Image borrowed from Root Cause Analysis Blog.

We admitted we were powerless over fabric stores

2011-11-03T20:49:00.000-05:00

Just when did my therapeutic meanderings between the calico and corduroy cross over to the dark side? It started so innocently, choosing festive fall prints to sew ninety napkins for students, staff, and real family. The sound of the winding bobbin got my blood rushing. The smell of hot, steamy pressed-open seams was driving me wild! True, it is difficult descending the dank ladder into the sewer of true sewing addiction when no amount of squinting can get a needle threaded.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

depredations and depravity

2011-11-03T06:43:00.000-05:00

This week's duel between book and audio book is almost as strange as last week's. My choices are unusually gory for me, but work as restorative escapism seriously needed.

I can't seem to quit reading The Hypnotist even though there are no likeable characters, the crimes are incredibly gruesome, and the writing makes me feel like I have a groggy flu. That could be the effect of a collaboration read in translation, or maybe I should take my temperature.

In the car, I can't log enough miles listening to Empire of the Summer Moon. Since the audio book has eighteen cds, it may run longer than my old Buick has miles left. The history of the Comanches and Quanah Parker is also full of torture of captives and horrible cruelty.

Both books are full of depredation, deprivation, and depravity. I hauled out the Big Red Dictionary, but to save time this morning I'll go with the Online Etymology Dictionary information:

depredation late 15c., from M.Fr. déprédation, from L.L. depraedationem (nom. depraedatio) "a plundering," from pp. stem of L. depraedari "to pillage," from de- "thoroughly" (see de-) + praedari "to plunder," lit. "to make prey of," from praeda "prey" (see prey).
deprave late 14c., "corrupt, lead astray, pervert," from O.Fr. depraver (14c.) or directly from L. depravare "distort, disfigure;" figuratively "to pervert, seduce, corrupt," from de- "completely" (see de-) + pravus"crooked." Related: Depraved; depraving.
depravity 1640s; see deprave + -ity. Earlier in same sense was pravity, from L. pravitas.
deprivation mid-15c., "removal from office or position," from M.L. deprivationem (nom. deprivatio), noun of action from pp. stem of deprivare (see deprive).
deprived 1550s, "dispossessed," pp. adj. from deprive. As a euphemism for the condition of children who lack a stable home life, by 1945.

So, in this literary week of plunder and perversion, I will close with two lighter notes. First you may need the lyrics for "Dear Officer Krupke" from "West Side Story".

DIESEL: (Spoken, as Judge) In the opinion on this court, this child is depraved on account he ain't had a normal home. 

ACTION: (Spoken) Hey, I'm depraved on account I'm deprived.

Second, it pleased me no end to hear that my neighbor's little girl somehow got her Halloween wig stuck in a ceiling fan. These things happen!

Sensory dep

2011-11-01T20:21:00.001-05:00

Pinned new posters on Dad's nursing home room walls. He had been looking at Georgia O'Keeffe and Richard Diebenkorn for months with no say in the matter. Dad says nothing about most matters when he has the option. His eyes seem to be sucking new input data from these posters, or else he has gone blind. I'm never sure. He seems to be staring at the art, but not looking at his supper while he tries to feed himself with both hands at once. With his right he lifts the coffee mug and tries to get the straw between his lips while simultaneously attempting to maneuver a teaspoon of chicken dumpling soup with his left.

I just play the part of the trampoline spotter, keeping my eye out so Dad doesn't slide off the bed or spill hot coffee on himself. An ancient episode of M*A*S*H shows on the TV. Hot Lips needs an appendectomy. Colonel Potter's horse is constipated. My brain is running in the background like a slow-moving antivirus scan trying to visualize tomorrow's clay project with the preschoolers. My brain is grumpy because I haven't downloaded and installed either the important or optional updates.

Dad is pushing buttons on the TV remote. He doesn't look at the gizmo in his hands. He has no feeling in his fingertips. The TV image is grainy, but the volume is high.

The posters are teaching materials, not nice museum prints. One an arrangement of musicians as depicted by Matisse, Picasso, and Romare Beardon. The other a boogie-woogie of traffic scenes, Mondrian paintings, and piano keys. Dad is either looking or not seeing. Clearing his throat with loud growls and hollers, but nothing to say in this matter.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Optical high jinks

2011-10-30T00:23:00.014-05:00

Molasses stickiness on the lazy Susan started a cupboard cleaning attack. Before long the spice jars and three bottles of vanilla extract were all over the kitchen counter surrounding the colander.

I love this colander. Picked it out as a gift for my mother in about 1969. The orange/yellow/navy enamel wasn't really right for Mom's Mondrian color scheme preferences.

All those circle jar lids, circle oranges, and circle strainer holes demanded their camera moment. The images were an eye-popping op-art experience reminiscent of old Kodak flash cube afterimages. If you want to feel a bit dotty and spotty, look at these photos, then look away to a white screen.

By the way, I worry about Kodak. I sure don't miss the film camera process, just those plastic film cans with snap on lids. They were so very useful. As for George Eastman, the Kodak founder was a kid just like me once upon a time in those "Childhood of Famous Americans" books. George Eastman, Young Photographer was one of many in the series I read at Eastridge Elementary.

Snake needs Ben-Gay

2011-10-29T07:25:00.001-05:00

"Bad commute, Honey. Where's the heating pad?"

"Poor baby, what happened?"

"I was on Caddo Trail waiting for the left turn light, and some big dumb art teacher stepped right on the middle of my back. She said she was looking at the fall leaves."

"Did she say she was sorry?"

Very. And a wee bit freaked. Her Reptiles of Texas book is at school.

Wueƨsday all week long

2011-10-29T07:03:00.000-05:00

Trouble was, it was Wueƨsday right after Tuesday in the preschool class.

Then it was Thutƨbay, quite an Osterized day, chopped and pureed. Ranger fans felt they had been through the blender by the time Game Six was over.

When my blender went to appliance heaven, I decided to try an immersible blender this time around. Never could get all the hummus out of the old blender around the blades.

The school Halloween celebration was Friday, or Friboy if you are still reading the preschool writing on the white board. Girls in attendance:

Queen
Ariel mermaid
Princess Barbie
3 Rapunzels, although one called it Carpuntsel.
Kimono princess
Rodeo princess
Sequined singer
Leopard ballerina
Princess fairy
Minnie Mouse
Gypsy girl
Clown
Ladybug
Batgirl (superhero, not baseball assistant)
"Army sister"

Boys:

Dragon ninja
Darth Vader
Transformer
Ninja turtle
Football player
Fireman
Orange pumpkin

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Black and white and red all over

2011-10-26T06:30:00.000-05:00

Not able to post much because I cannot put down Erin Morgenstern's novel, The Night Circus. The book reminds me of trying to catch the spot images after a Kodak flash photo when I was a little kid. Birthday parties were so simple then. Kids chase optical spots from flash photography. Kids create static electricity rubbing balloons on their hair. Kids play "Drop the Handkerchief" and "Musical Chairs".

This photo is of the likely last canna bloom of the fall. My many cannas were slashed, bent, and broken in the weekend midnight hailstorm, so I was pleased to find a bloom emerging fresh from the wreckage.

The storm was a stunning display of black and white, just right for a reader deep in the novel. Sunday afternoon Act III of the Dallas Opera's "Lucia di Lammermoor" had a strobe lightning storm that tried but couldn't match nature. Lucia won with her mad scene duet with the flute, though. See part of it here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RfgOPNXWU2I

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Reading the signs, shaking them off

2011-10-22T09:50:00.000-05:00

Ironing my shirts through game two of the World Series. I was going to have to iron slacks if the game went into extra innings. Like the managers and catchers, preschool teachers have unspoken signs to communicate across distances. There's the "Please cough into your elbow" sign, and the "Don't pick your nose--icky" series of signals that ends with the "wash your hands with soap" pantomime.

My Chicken Little student has extreme difficulty retrieving the names of things from his brain. All week he has been doing an initial sound work about Y. Yuh, yuh, yuh, yellow, yarn, etc. The major challenge is the egg yolk. Each time he brings me the picture card he says, "Yuh, yuh, yuh, silk thread." Y, Y, Y, oh, why does this five year-old boy even have "silk thread" on his brain spool? I want to crack an egg on his head instead of an acorn.

There's lots of room for confusion with the signs and signals I get from my father. He speaks very little,and the associations are difficult to place in context. He makes up and down lines with his index fingers pointing at the end of bed. He closes his eyes in exhaustion and frustration with his clueless daughter. Finally he says "stick". Later he says, "straws" and "stand". In the middle of the night I wake up realizing he wants his cane or his walker so he can try again to escape. He is not really talking about the three little pigs building their houses.

In the Buick I'm listening to a cd of Norman Maclean's Young Men and Fire. It is painful to get out of the car and leave the storytelling, so clear, so ordered, so profound. I want to keep driving, perhaps all the way to Missoula.

Once inside, I am reading Erin Morgenstern's The Night Circus. It also pulls me into a fantastic world that is painful to leave. So I sit beside Dad as he naps and remain in the black and white tent.