It Takes a Lot of Balls...

"Let me tell you one thing that I've learned," he says. "If you are tolerant and speak kindly to people, the world will love you."

I’m not sure where I garnered this quote, as I keep copious notes and often fail to list the reason for my notation. It’s similar to the way I often carefully freeze a leftover sauce that I’ve cooked and fail to label it. Two or three months later I will pull it from the freezer and think, “What in the world is this?” Anyway, I’m fairly certain that this quote hit some point that was pertinent at the time, I copied it and I am now using it for a completely different reason.

***

As I’ve matured I’ve tried to program myself to be more tolerant, respectful and tactful. Maxims and aphorisms taught me by my 7th grade teacher, Sister Beata, my grandfather and that tour guide in Mexico come back to me: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all,”  “Don’t put forth that to which you can’t attach your name,” and “It’s not right. It’s not wrong. It’s just different.”

I constantly struggle to balance the polarities of my brain. So, if I allow my left brain to dominate, I find myself uptight in my thinking. And though my brain may function like a well-oiled machine, I become bossy and opinionated and a drag to be around.

Now, if I permit my right brain to take command, I’m like a puppy off-leash. I feel creative, but in fact I am so ready to “go with the flow” that I tend to space out, thus am as dangerous behind the wheel of an automobile as a texting teenager.

This struggle is never more apparent to me then when I gaze out at the lovely view from my backyard during a summer weekend day.

I live on a golf course. Did I mention that? We bought the house not exactly on a whim, but without much forethought other than “wouldn’t this be a nice weekend getaway place?” It was a nice place, and we liked it, liked it enough to sell our city house and move here, sort of permanently.

***

Once on a trip to Asia, I was introduced to an elderly farmer. Because it was our first meeting he knelt before me and placed his forehead to the ground as he recognized a sacred or divine essence in me. It’s meant to increase the humility of the person kowtowing, but, for me, it was a pretty humbling experience to have someone kneel before me. 

***

My yoga studies say that the mind seeks confirmation for your preconceived ideas. So, if I view the world as negative and filled with disagreeable people engaged in nefarious activities, that is exactly what I will experience.

***

"Each golfer is a divine being," becomes my mantra. "Each golfer is a divine being." "Each golfer is a divine being." Before I know it, I begin to feel a sense of warm affection for the golfers that frequent our community’s golf course. Community. Now isn’t that a nice word? It conjures up thoughts of fellowship and unity. Aaahhh, I feel my breath slow, along with my pulse and heartbeat.

“Each golfer is a di- “ Just then I spot something that puts my spiritual practice to the test. I see yet another golfer with complete disregard to the etiquette of the game of golf. As I gaze out of the back windows of my home at these buffoons divine beings, my spiritual compassion and tolerance evaporate like drops of morning dew in Death Valley.

I picture myself with a megaphone- no wait! Better yet, an address system with speakers lining the fairway all the way from the tee box to my back yard.

“Hey you! Yes, I mean you, with the so-last-year plaid shorts. How about not putting your lit cigar on the green while you putt?” 

“Ahem, (throat clearing) uh, guy with the blue shirt, along with the big dude-with-the-orange-shirt, do you think it’s possible to park your cart any closer to the green? Does that look like a 30 foot distance to you? I don't even think that is 30 inches, you sluggards!” 

“Argh! At least make a pretense of raking the bunker! It took you two shots to get out of that sand." 

“Mr. Fancy Pants with the tricked-up cart, how about bending over, just once, and replacing those huge divots you take?" 

“Geez! Fix your ball mark on the green. I can see it from here, for goodness sake!" 

"Lenny, please come back and pick up that lit cigarette butt you just discarded or I'm telling your wife."

Golf etiquette pet peeves, I’ve witnessed them all. Fivesomes, cigar butts and granola bar wrappers lining the fairway, sunflower seed shells spit out all over the tee box, speakers on carts to enable listening to AC/DC while golfing, men who “take a leak” near the bushes, and those throwing the flag down on the green as if timber has been felled. But the most outrageous thing I’ve ever seen was a woman, golfing alone, who after putting, drove her cart across the green! I was sitting at my kitchen table, quietly sipping a cup of tea, when my peripheral vision spotted her. I nearly choked to death as I howled to Golf Partner Husband, “Look! Look at that woman driving the cart across the green!” If my phone had been closer I’d have taken a snapshot.

***

Our property is located just behind the green, so it’s to be expected that the occasional ball will be hit on our property. No big deal. We have purposefully not posted “No Trespassing” signs. It is our wish that golfers feel free to walk over and retrieve their errant balls. Heck, I’d invite them to stop for a beer, if I didn’t think it would slow down play, probably one of the biggest pet peeves of golf etiquette. Besides, I know there are plenty of hackers golfers who use expensive top-of-the-line Pro V1’s, Nike One Tour’s or Dixon Fire’s. Of course they are hoping not to have to kiss that ball goodbye. Come on, walk over and pick it up. Shucks, I’ll even help you find it if I’m outside.

But it’s the ones, who think no one is watching, that bug me. Only once, have I witnessed someone actually drive a cart past the OB markers and onto our property in search of a ball. More often I see the golfer who cannot stand the thought of taking a penalty stroke for being out-of-bounds and so proceeds, after taking a practice shot, or three, to hit it off of our lawn or out of my perennial garden bed.

One day recently, while reading on the deck, I saw a young man walk over to take a shot at his ball that was clearly three feet beyond the out-of-bound marker and on our property. “Excuse me,” I say in my most genial voice, “can you please pick that up and play it inbounds?” As he complies, I notice he is playing with a acquaintance of ours and I immediately feel bad as the acquaintance and I quietly exchange greetings.

I go inside and meditate. What would Socrates have thought? What would the Dali Lama say? What would Jesus do? My battling left and right hemispheres ache.

It isn’t worth it, my right brain decides. Tolerance it is. I’ll never say another word. It simply isn’t worth fretting about. The grass will grow back eventually, right? I feel my breath slow, along with my pulse and heartbeat. Aaahhh….

Does that look like "30 feet from the green?"!!?

Hmmm? Is that out or in?

Seriously, can they park any closer to the green!? (& I don't see a handicap flag)

ethereal Mount Airy

She had an eclectic collection of artwork throughout her home. As we stood on opposite sides of a 15 foot long kitchen island in her spacious home I admired a painting that hung next to a massive venting hood hung over a commercial stove. I expressed my admiration for this particular piece of artwork.

"Oh, the rooster? Isn't it nice? I bought it from some bohemian art colony we visited. I've since sought other works by the same artist, but was never able to find anything."

With a smile that begged forgiveness, as if her displays seemed slapdash, which they didn't, she said "I buy things that catch my eye." She waved her hand across the expanse of her first floor, "I bring them home and then, try to figure out a place to display them." 

She inquired about our trip home. I saw an immediate flicker in her eyes when I described the five-state route we'd be driving. Her voice became animated as she waxed on her memories of a small town in western Virginia, strongly urging Dutiful Husband and I make a slight detour that would take us through her home town, certain we'd enjoy the works of numerous local artisans and the great food and drink from nearby eateries. She recalled to me the names of streets and restaurants that were "musts" to experience. Her eyes misted, her voice took on a wistful tone and she gazed off to some unknown spot over my shoulder as she remembered the beauty of the area. Just behind and to her left, I peripherally catch sight of a couple eavesdropping guests and their shirking smiles and quick rolls of their eyes.

Later the eye-rollers would inform me that there was nothing worth visiting in the town she'd mentioned. "Quite frankly," said one, "I've no idea of what she could possible be remembering." The other commented, "Trust me, it's not worth going out of your way. There is absolutely nothing there."

I  thought immediately of a visit Dutiful Husband and I made last year to Mt. Airy, North Carolina...

I'd grown up watching and re-watching episodes of the Andy Griffith Show which showcased the fictitious town of Mayberry, North Carolina. If ever I'd wished to grow up in someplace other than where I did, it would have been this make believe town. Mayberry featured a charming main street which, depending on the episode, was home to a fix-it shop, a barbershop, a movie theater, a drugstore with an ice cream/soda counter, a church, grocery store, bank, beauty salon, a diner and the all-important court house/jail where the protagonist sheriff held court. Off a ways, maybe a block or two, was the school and the gas station, where the local mechanic was as honest as the day is long. Oh and there was a small town doctor, (someone wrote prescriptions for that drugstore.)

Crime was a rarity in Mayberry, moonshiners, the town drunk, the rare lead-footed speeder, an occasional vagrant or con man and once, heaven forbid, there was a thwarted bank robbery. In fact, the occasional trouble maker was always a new kid in town or someone just arrived or passing through, never one of their own townspeople. Aside from the town drunk sleeping off his "snootful" of moonshine, the jail was rarely occupied. There was an indication that raucous and rowdy establishments serving alcohol were somewhere beyond the town's borders, but Mayberry itself was a "dry" town.

Andy, the "sheriff-without-a-gun" ruled with a gentle hand. His inept deputy carried a pistol, but was permitted only one bullet, which he kept in his shirt pocket and only under the most dire of circumstances was he to load this solitary bullet.

Mayberry was as close to utopia as any harmonious community of everyday, working class people could ever hope to experience. The fictional town was based on Mt. Airy, North Carolina where the sitcom's star, Andy Griffith, was born and raised. So, when it turned out that we'd be in the Mt. Airy vicinity as we traveled from Virginia down through the Carolinas, I begged asked Dutiful Husband for a slight detour from our route that would take us for a visit to Mt. Airy.

Years earlier I'd read a real estate news article about "prospering" Mt. Airy. It told of a wondrous spot teeming with upwardly mobile young families and recent retirees. The story stated that the residents "fostered an atmosphere of friendly 'neighborly-ness' " and that it was a town where one could enjoy community events such as summer music festivals, old-fashioned ice cream socials and what not. The article described a main street now featuring a book store, a wine shop, cafes, and a variety of antique and other specialty shops. It boasted of an updated library, newly revived youth organizations, etc. If I couldn't live there at least I could visit this magical town, to see with my own eyes the place where Andy grew up and remembered fondly enough to memorialize it in a television show.

As the day arrived and we neared the town I marveled as the sun began to poke through the clouds, sending beacons of light to showcase some of the area's natural beauty. The first indication we were near the town was the impressive sight of Pilot Mountain, (remembered in The Andy Griffith Show as "Mount Pilot") rising like a pinnacle, seemingly out of nowhere.

Just miles later, Dutiful Husband turned the car onto a central street in Mt. Airy. Somehow, even though deep down I knew better, I'd imagined that I would somehow be taking a step back in time and that, like the news article said, I'd discover "a hidden treasure in the hills of North Carolina." So, much for trumped up publicity articles in the real estate section of the newspaper.

As we drove through the streets everything seemed wrong. I hadn't expect to see the town as Hollywood depicted it, but I also hadn't expected what I viewed from our windshield, and so the sight of H&R Block, Walgreens, McDonald's, Wendy's, Lowe's Home Improvement, Edward Jones, PNC Bank, Wells Fargo, Food Lion, and the likes, lining the streets hurt my eyes. And when I spotted Walmart, "No! Please, not in my Mayberry!"

We parked on Main Street and stepped out of the car and I was dismayed to see numerous duplicates of the black and white Mayberry patrol cars carrying paying tourists as they prowled the streets. Where were the quaint shops the real estate article suggested? Could my eyes not discern them through the garish fronts that cheaply recalled those original Hollywood sets?

Oh, how I wished to hear the soulful bluegrass mountain music of the Darling Family, wafting magically across the hills and dales, as they played from the back of their beat-up pickup truck. Or the distant whistles of coal-carrying trains as they snaked their way through the mountains. Or the sound of fishing reels casting into the  lake. Or kids laughing and splashing in the swimming hole, leftover from the open-face granite quarrying. Or the sound of Opie's bare feet hitting the gravel path as he ran toward the water alongside his father.

I guess it's not much different than today's FaceBook or current social media, Andy chose to showcase only the best. There was, or is, nary a mention of the negative. It is the diaphanous recreation of the place or person we want the world to see that we put forth. A refusal to include, or in the case of my Virginia friend, an inability to take notice that the area where her childhood experiences, which shaped her attitudes about life and goodness, has faded a bit, and that time has eroded some of the beauty and charm.

I know that I will never visit Mount Airy again.

I'm still pulling for the young families and the retirees to recreate my childhood utopia as claimed by the real estate article- But after seeing it firsthand, I now know that Mount Airy has its share of drugs, crime, and "less-than-desirables," who have sought a place of solace there, and I surmise, “Well, why shouldn't they?” Are they not as much a part of life?

Hollywood-type fronts

knife-stabbing in "Mayberry"

Small Town Notes (from Bea Yonder)

Privatopia sits bucolically nestled between farms, farms and more farms. There is the nearby 3,000+ acre hog farm, due east, a family-farm, whose website states "each year we raise 65,000 hogs." I'm hoping that numerical figure is a misprint, but to date it has not been corrected.

Then there is the 800-head dairy farm, due north, which features a cutting-edge anaerobic digester that enables this family to sell back energy to the power grid and produce a solid byproduct which they reuse for cow bedding.

I'm not certain how I feel about all of this occurring so close to the aquifer that supplies our well water, and I'm fairly sure the farmers are skeptical about the runoff of chemicals from Privatopia's "championship" golf course upkeep, but so you have it.

Between and beyond are more family-owned farms that raise sheep, goats, chickens, alpaca, llamas, horses, and even more cows and hogs. And there are the ag-farms, mostly growing corn, corn as far as the eye can see, but it's not for human consumption, it's mostly for the government subsidized production of ethanol. All of these farms, a fledgling winery and small private airstrip, abut our private enclave. If you go out a few miles beyond Privatopia, the farms, winery and airstrip, you'll find a handful of small towns, all with populations less than 1,400. Basically, I live in an area where the livestock outnumber the humans.

One day my urban-reared grandson visits, and the prevailing winds happen to reverse and blow in our direction, he turns to me and asks, "Is there a zoo around here?"

Yet in three short years, I've come to love the colorful flavor of the region. (And, well, I'm working on the odoriferous part...)

Here are some incidents and quotes that I've gleaned in the last 3 years from the local humans- I'll write some other time about what the animals have to say :) 

***

She and I stand side-by-side as I help her sort and pack her belongings. “I’m moving out west, over 1,600 miles. For good, I hope… When? Well, just as soon as I can.” She leans in a bit closer and says, in a conspiratorial-type whisper, “Well, I'm going to try it out for a month, anyway.” She draws a breath and adds, "You know, I've never driven more than 100 miles by myself before."

***

"This fall, I'll start school at UW (out-of-state), majoring in music. Oh, and I can't wait," he stated. There was a pause as he looked wistfully out  the window and continued even more emphatically, "Anywhere but Carroll County. Anywhere!"

***

"People here drink a lot."

When I don't respond, she arches one eyebrow, looks me in the eye and adds, "Even way more than other places, I mean."

***

"Rye-cheer (right here) we got some excellent deer and turkey huntin'."

***

"You never see much in the way of mobility scooters out here. You know, maybe the golf actually helps."

**

"I always swore that I wasn’t going to ever marry a farmer. But guess what? I met a farmer that I loved. I married that farmer, and as he followed his heart, well I followed right behind. You know, you either are born into the farm or you marry into it- well, I'm a double-down."

***

"Are you kidding me?! The farmers out here ought to be f*^%-ing grateful that we're here," he belches, cracks open another beer retrieved from his refrigerated golf cart cooler, takes a long draught, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, nestles the can in it's holder and carefully selects one of his custom crafted golf clubs.

***

"I don’t think I could handle living in a big city or nothing like that," and as I wondered if that was a slight shudder I'd detected, she continued, "Nah, just give me my little old house in my little old town at the end of my little old gravel road."

***

"I've got a story for you," says a friend who resides in a beautiful waterfront home. "We found these deep hoof impressions in the yard and surmised that whitetail deer had passed through, and that the depth of the tracks was due to the excess of rain lately. But, it didn't seem right. So we replayed the nightcam and guess what it was? Three cows straying through our property. Where could they have come from?"

***

She's attractive, affable, efficient and intelligent, all evident to me from the first time that she rang up my purchases. I hear the customer in front of me ask her why she's now working at Casey's General Store and no longer teaching at the local school. She tilts her head, shrugs her shoulders and replies, "Ehh?"

***

"Back in the 60s I applied for my first loan for a new combine, $15,000. My dad said, 'Agh, they'll never give you that much money!' But, I got the loan. Ten years after that a new combine was $30,000. Now it costs me $30,000 just to replace a head on my combine. Today a new Deere will cost you upwards of near a half million dollars."

***

"Hey, M, what're you digging the hole for? Planting in a tree?"

"I'm burying-," he begins, hesitates, sighs, then blubbers, "I'm burying my dog." His grief is obvious, his pain at the loss of a beloved pet, palpable.

"Oh, I'm, I'm so sorry, so sorry," I stammer. "How, how long did you have him?"

"Sixteen years," he sniffs. "I'm burying him here because he always loved the golf course."

"My heartfelt condolences, M. Take care."

"Aww, poor M," I think as I walk away, "that's rough," followed quickly by the thought, "I wonder if he had to get a permit from the Privatopia Board to bury his dog on his own property?"

***

As I exit the building, she is entering. She carefully snuffs out the tip of her half-smoked cigarette on the brick entrance and tucks it into her purse as I hold the door for her. I smile and tell her a story of a high school friend, eons back, who used to do the same, until her straw purse caught fire, from a lingering ember during history class. "Really!?" She pauses a moment, shakes her head and adds, "Well, they're so darn expensive these days, I can't afford to lose even one drag."

***

"Do all of you know how lucky we are to live here??"

("Yes," I think to myself. "Yes, I certainly do.")

***

Happy Independence Day!

sincerely,

Bea Yonder

Ditto

I had the best of intentions to write a blog about Father's Day..., but I kept thinking about Beau...,
so I'm just going to repeat last year...

http://topeacenquiet.blogspot.com/2014/06/beauregard.html

(I hope that link works)

Wish There Was No More War

HEAR: “TEN HUT!”

SEE: aged, war-injured and arthritis-ridden military veterans immediately snap their stooped bodies to a seemingly unattainable erect posture

HEAR: the local scout troops lead the townspeople in the singing of "God Bless America,”

SEE: a young, freshly scrubbed boy with a crooked, self-combed part in his still-wet head of hair, holding just-picked flowers to place on a loved one’s grave

HEAR: junior high school kids’ drum & bugle corp, all seven of them, strike up their instruments

SEE: the beginning of the cadenced march to the cemetery, with elderly veterans riding in an open trailer, with younger vets marching beside, and with townsfolk walking behind

HEAR: 21 gun salute,

SEE: just tossed flowers floating down a river, dropped in honor of those buried at sea

HEAR: “Taps,” at the town cemetery

SEE: me, weeping with national pride as a tiny heartland town remembers those who gave their lives... 

Memorial Day, Mt. Carroll, IL

Among the Embers

I have this story I'm able to put forth on the occasion when I'm asked how I met my husband. It begins like this: "He found me drunk in a gutter…" It's true, you know. But, I'll get to that later.

***

A couple of times I've watched the musical "Meet Me in St. Louis" a movie set in the year leading up to the 1904 World's Fair, centering around the wealthy Smith family. They live in a mansion which has running water and indoor plumbing, but also along side the standard faucet is an old-fashioned hand pump for water supply in the kitchen, where the older sisters have to heat water to shampoo their hair. The house has electricity, but uses mostly gas for lighting. The  Smiths also have one of the early telephones in the dining room. I assume this arrangement in homes of the well-to-do is historically accurate. However, I've never researched it.

There is one part of the movie, when first viewed, quite surprised me. It's the evening October 31, when the two younger Smith sisters, aged 5 and 10-ish, costumed as "drunken ghosts," go out to join the area children for a bonfire and the pranking of neighbors. They carry bags of wheat flour, that their mother cautions them to use care not to throw in the victims' eyes, while their grandfather urges them to "wet" the flour, so it will stick better to the prey. Apparently they partake only in the "trick," not the 'treat" part of Halloween.

The neighborhood children, between the ages of five and thirteen, have somehow gotten a huge bonfire going into which they throw discarded wooden furniture, some of which is left out by adult in the area specifically for the purpose of having the children burn the trash. There is not a single adult around to supervise this blaze. Five-year-old Tootie begs for her own piece of debris to toss into the flames that tower over her head. She shortly earns that privilege, along with the coveted title, "The Most Horrible," by rapping on the door of the feared Mr. Braukoff, whom the children claim beats "his wife with a red hot poker... and has empty whiskey bottles in his cellar." When he answers the door she throws flour at him, shouting "I hate you!" The children call this act "killing" someone. These children had very good imaginations. It was't necessary to actually carry out a "dirty deed." They'd only needed to  imagine that it occurred for them to be satisfied. 

Later that same evening Tootie stuffs a dress and throws it on the tracks in front of a moving trolley. Her neighbor, John, sees her and drags her out of the way so she will not be injured or caught by the police. Somehow she sustains a cut to the inside of her lip, requiring stitches. When asked about her injury the imaginative Tootie claims dramatically that John, "...tried to kill me."

These kids were unsupervised imps. And they were the ones who came from "good" families and lived in the "nicest" of neighborhoods. I can't imagine what the kids from the bad side of town were doing. Was this type of activity among young children historically accurate? Of that I am certain.

***

It's 1957 or '58 and I am, like Tootie, five years old, though I live in Chicago, not St. Louis. A couple of blocks from our modest middle-class home, over on the east side of Broadway and just south of Argyle, there is a bowling alley. Last night it burned to the ground. We could hear the fire engines wailing in the dark. My older sister and I quickly eat breakfast and rush over to see the ruins. There we join a group of neighborhood kids who comb through the ashes. There are no wooden horses or caution tape to cordons off this dangerous area of charred beams and a partially missing roof, nothing in the way of signs to warn us to stay out. There are no adults to supervise our exploit. We are careful where we walk, as some embers are still hot to the touch and emitting curls of smoke. Like scavenger raccoons we, opportunistic children, scour through the remains. We are here and, as such, we earn the right to claim any number of the remaining bowling balls and pins as our arms can carry.  We open machines designed to vend candy, gum, soda and cigarettes, machines from which the locks have melted from the searing heat, machines from which we rightfully claim the contents including loose change. There is a machine that is still locked and younger kids at the urging of bigger kids, shove their arms up inside. "Come on! Look how thin your arms are. You can reach up in there." Never mind the razor thin sheet metal slots inside those machines. We walk home with our treasures, eating now cooled but misshapen blobs that were once rectangular chocolate bars. We set up our claimed pins behind our home and laugh at the fact that we now have a "real" bowling alley.

***

We enjoyed the sheer pleasure of freedom, afforded to urban kids in the 1960s, '50s and earlier. Once your filial and scholastic chores and duties were complete you were allowed to roam as you wished, take normal childlike risks, provided you showed up for evening dinner.

"Where are you going?" "To the beach" or "To the park" or, "Out with my friends" was an appropriate answer; to which a parent would reply, "Be home for dinner!"

Sometimes there were planned parish, library or park district activities, but more often it was left to our imaginations to find an activity, like empty lot pickup games, or jumping from one garage roof to another, or diving/jumping "off the rocks" and into chilly Lake Michigan, an activity which though strongly discouraged by city officials, was a common pastime of children and adults.

Visits to my cousins in rural Wisconsin proved that they were also imaginatively blessed. When they were not doing farm chores, picking wild berries or fishing, they were manufacturing their own wooden rubber band guns, a bit less harmful than a slingshot, which were used on bulls-eye targets, the occasional bird or squirrel, or turned on each other in an all-out war. They were crude, handmade and to be hit by the rubber band "bullet" stung like heck. The older kids would shimmy up a huge tree to hang a heavy rope from a strong limb over the Wolf River, which we youngsters would then run, grab hold of the rope as best we could and swing across, in hopes we wouldn't lose our grip and fall into the (now rated a class 2 or 3 rapids) shallow but swift-flowing river.

How did we survive? I wonder.

***

I read my blog to Faithful Husband and he comments, "You know, now that I think about it, my parents, nor any of my friends' parents ever asked us where we got those bowling balls and pins." Yes, Faithful Husband was there among the embers that very day as my sister and I scoured through the remains. We discovered this fact through an exchange of childhood experiences, sometime after we'd met (me, "drunk and in the gutter") as young adults. We'd grown up no more than a half mile from each other. 

***

Last month we celebrated our 43rd wedding anniversary. Oh, and I was supposed to tell you about how we met, now wasn't I? You know, how he found me "drunk in the gutter." Sorry, but I've already exceeded my self-imposed 1,000 word limit, so some other time.

My Dream Diary

January 27, 2011

A friend, Nelda, asks me to make Sangria at a party she’s hosting, but she’s missing a key ingredient (I’m almost sure my subconscious did not mean this as a metaphor for Nelda, but Reliable Husband might tell you otherwise.) Off I go, with Reliable Husband in tow, to buy the ingredient, which I determine to be the lemon-lime beverage, 7-Up. As we make our way through a jammed-together maze of assorted urban buildings, some of which we must scale to pass, I glance up and notice a couple of fighter jets scrambling  in the sky. "Is there an air show scheduled?" I ask Reliable Husband. He makes a cursory glance skyward but, whatever he sees does not deter him from the task at hand. Keeping us on track, he points to a shop off in the distance, one that he is certain will carry 7-Up. After much walking, climbing and maneuvering through this jungle-like urban setting we reach the store. The store is something I would envision finding in a communist-controlled state, long lines of customers waiting to purchase relatively few items. While they don't have 7-Up, they do have Cherry 7-Up. For some reason I feel it necessary that I act as if I am disappointed that it is the Cherry version of the 7-Up that I must purchase, when all along I am secretly ecstatic, being convinced that the cherry flavor and coloring will greatly improve the sangria I'm to prepare for Nelda. After the lengthy checkout process we step back outside to see that there is now an enigmatic “Star Wars” now going on in the sky. Reliable Husband suggests we look for shelter, but I counter that Nelda is waiting. So, we make our way back to Nelda's. The terrain has gotten even more unnavigable and more swollen with crowds of people, a few of whom are now weeping. As we walk, we stare blankly ahead, knowing that we all hear the same frightening metal-in-distress sounds. "Quick, follow me," someone beside us urges. We look over to see our younger son, Matt. We follow him as he confidently leads, bypassing the areas we formerly had to climb over. He seems aware of shortcuts, via which he quickly and safely returns us to my friend, Nelda's, home on the lakefront of Chicago's Rogers Park. We walk through the gate and into the yard of Nelda's condo building, to a party that has morphed to a grand Gatsby-like scale, (if you give a quarter turn to that "N" Nelda becomes Zelda) that now includes a swimming pool full of adults, mostly young men I notice. Matt, as if having been on some covert mission, which is now accomplished, has disappeared. Clutching my Cherry 7-Up, exhausted and exasperated at the venture we've experienced and anxious to share the telling of it with someone, I find Nelda busily overseeing the preparation of party food in the kitchen. She glances up at me and asks, in a voice in which I can swear I detect a slight tone of annoyance, “So, is that Sangria almost ready, or what?”...

February 11, 2012

It’s the year 2016 and I am Chief of Staff to President Obama. The U.S. has suspended the term limits for the office of the president, mostly because neither the GOP nor the Democrats can come up with suitable candidates. So Obama is to run for office again, unchallenged this time. And to top it off, it’s also the celebration of the engagement of Malia. As in dreams, it doesn’t add up, as Malia’s now 22, I am a 30+ year old career woman with no children, however I am married to Reliable Husband. But, it's a dream and so I dismiss any illogicality. Anyway, the Obamas love my work ethic and they adore Reliable Husband and the two of us revel in the moment, as we work, plan, hobnob and celebrate with the elite...

August 26, 2012

It is some future date, but I am my current age. I’m gliding solo through space in some sort of intergalactic vehicle, with only a unbelievably thin piece of futuristic temperature/shatter/scratch-proof (let's just call it cosmos-proof) glass protecting the upper portion of the craft and its contents. The view is awesome, better than any of the stuff I've seen on those Neil deGrasse Tyson-hosted PBS shows. The ride in my vehicle is ultra-soft, not the rough ride I'd somehow expected. It's like gliding in a hovercraft with marshmallow-like shock absorption, over the calmest of seas and with the loftiest of breezes to propel me. Asteroids? Meteors? Space Trash? Yes, I see it but, it's all zooming off in the distance and not one bit of it poses a threat to me. I have a sense of joy and serenity as I peacefully glide along to my destination, enjoying the gorgeous vista of cosmos at my command. Suddenly, I notice that my craft is headed straight for a seemingly impenetrable wall of various undulating strings. "Avert!", screams my panicked brain, but when I look at the controls before me, I realize I haven't the slightest clue about how to operate this vehicle...

April 8, 2015

In this dream I am about 40-ish in years, an unmarried woman -without a partner.

You must first rear a half child, and

then you may rear a whole child.

I don't even know how I know this dictum, only that I know it to be true. Oh, and I so want a child of my own to raise. Well, actually what I'm wishing for is a whole child and thus, if the only way to obtain one is to first successfully prove that I can responsibly rear a half child, well, then gosh darn it, I'll do it!

And I do a pretty bang-up job of beginning the upbringing my half child (BTW, it's the top half, from the waist up.) I quickly find myself eligible to receive another child, a whole child. As they grow, both of my children seem genderless, or rather they seem to frequently change from male to female and back. And they have a chameleon-like ability to change their racial background, from curly red-headed Irish-looking kids to Asiatic kids with stick-straight black locks, to blondes with blue and green eyes, to kids with African features and such. And gosh, they are all cute, and each super-smart and funny! 

In retrospect, I find the half-child to be half the work, the child weighs less and is easier to transport, the child also eats less and is therefore cheaper to clothe and feed, yet the child seems to bring every bit as much joy to my life as the whole child. I have the sense that I am doing a pretty good job rearing my one and one half children all by myself, but as I analyze the situation I come to understand that it's because they are both still so young, being only of preschool age. I start to picture my life with them as teenagers and I find myself so terrified that I must force myself to wake up...

Perhaps I should stop watching PBS specials and Werner Herzog films and start watching Dancing with the Stars.