There is an old saying, you can't go home again. That is obviously untrue, since I am writing this little post while sitting in the bedroom I grew up in. And it looks pretty much the same as it did when I was seven. Meaning blue ruffles and lace, and an antiqued dresser that my mom painted for me when I was little.
Of course, the cliche isn't referring to a place. It is really about a state of mind. And perhaps it is true that you cannot return to your childhood. But would you really want to?
My childhood was not a bad one, as childhoods go. I grew up on a farm, outside of a tiny little town where everyone knew everyone, and probably your grandparents as well. When you did well, the entire town rejoiced with you. When you screwed up, the entire town knew about the family disgrace. While it can be embarrassing to have everyone knowing your business, it can also be comforting to know that everyone cares when something goes dreadfully wrong.
A farm life is not an easy way of making a living, and I worked hard as a kid, like every other farm kid. Seeing hay being baled in a field still makes me tired just thinking about it.
But it wasn't all work, either. I got to drive a tractor when I was barely old enough to reach the pedals, and mowing the lawn involved a riding mower that you could pretend was a car you were driving around. We learned to make our work a part of the play, so it wasn't as hard as it might seem from the outside looking in.
Part of the work was to feed the animals, of course, but at the same time, we also got to see animals being born. We had to feed the horses hay and oats and water, and we had to brush and groom them, but we also got to ride them whenever we wanted to. We bottle fed calves, and mucked out barns, it is true. But we also got to make forts out of hay bales, and had a rope swing in the haymow that we could ride from one side of the barn to the other.
Hard work came with some compensations, and from the garden we got fresh carrots and peas and sweet corn and beans that tasted sweeter than anything you will ever find in any store. We went organic long before it was a trend - manure on a farm is plentiful, and free for the asking. I actually carry inside my head what kinds of manure are best for growing plants, and which kind will burn them up. That kind of knowledge comes from life experience, and it can't be bought, let me tell you. Not that anyone is in the market for it, but I'm just saying....
For farm kids, when the work is done, the play begins, and it is exciting. For one thing, we had more space than most kids could ever dream of. We played FBI agents following the criminals, hiding in buildings and pretend driving the tractors and other farm implements. We played sales clerk at the hardware store and modeled and did everything in between. There is never a moment to be bored on a farm, not only because if you are, an adult will definitely find something for you to do, but also because there is always something fun or interesting available to do.
One of my happiest memories was riding my horse to the far outside reaches of our pasture, and then letting him stand there and rest while I laid on his back and read my book. I would bring a little snack or a drink, and it was heaven. I have rarely, if ever, been as at peace anywhere else in my life, as I was in the pasture with my horse and a book.
I grew up with tree houses and newborn kittens and gravel roads and granaries as a part of the landscape, and I don't regret a moment of it. I was a very fortunate child, I think, because instead of city streets, I had country roads. Instead of schedules and play dates I had bike rides and neighbor kids and sitting on the roof of a chicken coop. It may not sound glamorous, like dance lessons and soccer practice, but it was fun and free and taught me a lot about what is important in life.
I didn't want the hard life of a farm wife when I grew up, and I very intentionally shunned any situation in which that would have been a possible outcome. But it sure is a nice place to visit, even if I don't live there any more.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Groundhog Day....
I was amused this week to learn that the old Bill Murray movie, "Groundhog Day," has apparently come to life for someone I used to know all too well. My ex-husband, Peter Pan, has apparently found the key to turning back the clock, because this past Tuesday, he turned 40. Again.
But he wasn't satisfied to quietly turn 40 for the second time. Oh no. To my entertainment, and now yours, he threw a party to celebrate the special event, bringing his friends and family along for the ride.
I shouldn't have been so surprised, I suppose. He's been lying about his age since I've known him, [although amusingly, he is now going in the other direction.] But throwing yourself a birthday party for an age you turned six years ago, and for which you have already had a big celebration, seems excessive, even for him.
But it was a birthday party, after all, and he was the gift that kept on giving.
Because, even more fun, he invited other people to the circus. Not only were his two children there, one of whom is almost 24 [you do the math,] but there were actually other attendees who were present the first time around, and really should have known better.
I think that is testament to the gullibility of human beings, because they apparently chose to believe what he told them, rather than what they should have known of their own experience. Not to mention what their eyes should be screaming, but I digress again.
It is fascinating, this cult of youthfulness that seems to permeate our society. I am not immune to it, of course. I am pushing 50, and I hate it. I do not want to be 50, because that is middle aged, and I am not middle aged, at least in my mind. I have heard 50 is the new 40, whatever that means. I think 50 is the old 25, myself.
And since we apparently get to choose what age we want to be, I am going to just go ahead and pick 25 and be done with it. I feel 25, I could see better when I was 25, and I would enjoy reliving my young adulthood and getting it right this time. I was a lot thinner then, too, and it was a lot easier to stay that way. So if we're going to lie about our ages wholesale, I am going to pick 25.
Of course, it makes that 23 year old son a little awkward to explain, but if that's the only bump in my road, I'll take it. I've already bottomed out, any how, so what's another dent, I say?
Which brings me to the part of this whole episode that most perplexes me. Mr. Birthday Boy only shaved off six years. If you are going to lie about your age on that kind of scale, and even throw a fraudulent party to "celebrate" the occasion, wouldn't you at least make it worth your while? I mean, in what way is 40 a sexier, more thrilling age than 46?
It makes me wonder if somewhere along the line, even Peter Pan will get grounded.
In the meantime, I am happy to be standing on the sidelines, instead of wandering the carnival midway. Roller coasters can be fun, but they make me nauseous when they go upside down.
I'd rather be Tinkerbell, I think. That way I can throw pixie dust around and fly away. Now that's a ride I can enjoy.
But he wasn't satisfied to quietly turn 40 for the second time. Oh no. To my entertainment, and now yours, he threw a party to celebrate the special event, bringing his friends and family along for the ride.
I shouldn't have been so surprised, I suppose. He's been lying about his age since I've known him, [although amusingly, he is now going in the other direction.] But throwing yourself a birthday party for an age you turned six years ago, and for which you have already had a big celebration, seems excessive, even for him.
But it was a birthday party, after all, and he was the gift that kept on giving.
Because, even more fun, he invited other people to the circus. Not only were his two children there, one of whom is almost 24 [you do the math,] but there were actually other attendees who were present the first time around, and really should have known better.
I think that is testament to the gullibility of human beings, because they apparently chose to believe what he told them, rather than what they should have known of their own experience. Not to mention what their eyes should be screaming, but I digress again.
It is fascinating, this cult of youthfulness that seems to permeate our society. I am not immune to it, of course. I am pushing 50, and I hate it. I do not want to be 50, because that is middle aged, and I am not middle aged, at least in my mind. I have heard 50 is the new 40, whatever that means. I think 50 is the old 25, myself.
And since we apparently get to choose what age we want to be, I am going to just go ahead and pick 25 and be done with it. I feel 25, I could see better when I was 25, and I would enjoy reliving my young adulthood and getting it right this time. I was a lot thinner then, too, and it was a lot easier to stay that way. So if we're going to lie about our ages wholesale, I am going to pick 25.
Of course, it makes that 23 year old son a little awkward to explain, but if that's the only bump in my road, I'll take it. I've already bottomed out, any how, so what's another dent, I say?
Which brings me to the part of this whole episode that most perplexes me. Mr. Birthday Boy only shaved off six years. If you are going to lie about your age on that kind of scale, and even throw a fraudulent party to "celebrate" the occasion, wouldn't you at least make it worth your while? I mean, in what way is 40 a sexier, more thrilling age than 46?
It makes me wonder if somewhere along the line, even Peter Pan will get grounded.
In the meantime, I am happy to be standing on the sidelines, instead of wandering the carnival midway. Roller coasters can be fun, but they make me nauseous when they go upside down.
I'd rather be Tinkerbell, I think. That way I can throw pixie dust around and fly away. Now that's a ride I can enjoy.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
A Mowving Experience....
Am I alone in thinking that the American obsession with grass is a little odd? Is there any other group of people out there that pours more time, energy and money into the raising of a product that they will then cut down, for no apparent return whatsoever? I spent a solid hour pondering this yesterday while I mowed my own patch of paradise, and I remain perplexed, as always, with the fascination for it.
I have neighbors who devote every waking moment to the pampering of their little patch of turf. They fence it off, they fertilize, they irrigate, they aerate and verticut and reseed, until the grass is a virtual monument to American chemistry and hard work. Is it really necessary, I find myself wondering, as I push my mower resentfully about the place? What is it that this green carpet I call my lawn is doing for me?
My lawn is not horrible, as lawns go. It is green, and mostly actual grass, with only a few weeds thrown in. In fact, the grass is, in places, too successful, as it has now fully invaded every bush bed I have, and is threatening to replace the very bushes the beds were intended to protect.
It doesn't surprise me that it invades the beds where it doesn't belong. It is, in nature, a weed, and as such, it will surely grow where it is not wanted.
Here is the fascinating thing about that grass, though. Why do you suppose it is, when I have an area in the middle of the lush lawn that is barren ground, nothing but weeds seem to take root? How is it that grass can climb high walls to invade a bed, can seemingly surmount almost any obstacle that man or nature can install, but cannot overcome an invisible line of demarcation in the soil from whence grass was originally taken?
I'll tell you, these are the things that plague me in the middle of mowing the lawn I didn't really want in the first place. And to which, I might add, I am highly allergic, making it even more ridiculous that I spend my time out there in the midst of it.
The very best part of owning a lawn in Kansas, however, comes in the middle of summer, when the only thing that is actually surviving in the heat are the chiggers that will make their way to the most uncomfortable areas of your body, to slowly drive you mad. Chiggers are surely the curse that we have to endure for living in Kansas, which is already punishment enough, if anyone wants my opinion.
Last summer, when I was suffering in chigger hell, I went to the store to get the only product known to humankind to be effective against the torturous itching. This product, known as Chigarid, comes in a (too) small bottle, and smells like mentholated nail polish. Which is probably what it, in fact, is.
I was gobsmacked to learn that the product had not only been recalled, but that no new product was expected to make it's appearance on store shelves until after chigger season had ended, if then. People in other parts of the country will not understand the distress, nay the panic and consternation, felt by those of us who do live in the part of the country where we suffer mightily every summer. But if you have once had a run-in with that invisible instrument of torture, you will sympathize.
I have checked this spring for Chigarid at the store, and am demoralized to learn that it still is not gracing the shelves. Rest assured, those who suffer, I have sent off a strongly worded e-mail letting the Colgin company know of our need for their product, and my distress at not finding it. I say we organize a mail-in, so that they are overwhelmed with the need to restart production of Chigarid. [Did I mention that it is the only cure for the itching known to humandkind? This is serious business people, and we need to get on it before the summer gets any older.]
But getting back to the curious tradition of grass, I wonder why we are so enamoured of the green stuff, and why we are willing to spend a virtual fortune on the care and feeding of something that is, essentially, useless? I wonder what it is about grass that makes us feel compelled to grow and nurture it, just so we can hack it back again?
I had a neighbor a long time ago who killed off all the grass in her front yard, and installed a huge bed of bushes instead. The entire neighborhood, except for me, thought she was crazy. I thought she had the right idea, but didn't have the courage to swim upstream.
But grass is perverse, and I watched her battle the infiltration of rogue grass like a predator. She would see a green blade sticking up, and she would pull it. If a weed dared to bare it's head, it would be Round-ed Up and killed. But it seemed, in the end, that she was as much a prisoner of her lawn as I am of mine, because she spent as much time pulling as I do mowing.
Perhaps, in the end, it is pure laziness that has made us a green nation, literally. Maybe somewhere along the line, we decided it was easier to just let it have its way than continue to fight a losing battle, and thus was born the American lawn.
Certainly gives you something to ponder while you shove your mower around your lawn, though, doesn't it?
I have neighbors who devote every waking moment to the pampering of their little patch of turf. They fence it off, they fertilize, they irrigate, they aerate and verticut and reseed, until the grass is a virtual monument to American chemistry and hard work. Is it really necessary, I find myself wondering, as I push my mower resentfully about the place? What is it that this green carpet I call my lawn is doing for me?
My lawn is not horrible, as lawns go. It is green, and mostly actual grass, with only a few weeds thrown in. In fact, the grass is, in places, too successful, as it has now fully invaded every bush bed I have, and is threatening to replace the very bushes the beds were intended to protect.
It doesn't surprise me that it invades the beds where it doesn't belong. It is, in nature, a weed, and as such, it will surely grow where it is not wanted.
Here is the fascinating thing about that grass, though. Why do you suppose it is, when I have an area in the middle of the lush lawn that is barren ground, nothing but weeds seem to take root? How is it that grass can climb high walls to invade a bed, can seemingly surmount almost any obstacle that man or nature can install, but cannot overcome an invisible line of demarcation in the soil from whence grass was originally taken?
I'll tell you, these are the things that plague me in the middle of mowing the lawn I didn't really want in the first place. And to which, I might add, I am highly allergic, making it even more ridiculous that I spend my time out there in the midst of it.
The very best part of owning a lawn in Kansas, however, comes in the middle of summer, when the only thing that is actually surviving in the heat are the chiggers that will make their way to the most uncomfortable areas of your body, to slowly drive you mad. Chiggers are surely the curse that we have to endure for living in Kansas, which is already punishment enough, if anyone wants my opinion.
Last summer, when I was suffering in chigger hell, I went to the store to get the only product known to humankind to be effective against the torturous itching. This product, known as Chigarid, comes in a (too) small bottle, and smells like mentholated nail polish. Which is probably what it, in fact, is.
I was gobsmacked to learn that the product had not only been recalled, but that no new product was expected to make it's appearance on store shelves until after chigger season had ended, if then. People in other parts of the country will not understand the distress, nay the panic and consternation, felt by those of us who do live in the part of the country where we suffer mightily every summer. But if you have once had a run-in with that invisible instrument of torture, you will sympathize.
I have checked this spring for Chigarid at the store, and am demoralized to learn that it still is not gracing the shelves. Rest assured, those who suffer, I have sent off a strongly worded e-mail letting the Colgin company know of our need for their product, and my distress at not finding it. I say we organize a mail-in, so that they are overwhelmed with the need to restart production of Chigarid. [Did I mention that it is the only cure for the itching known to humandkind? This is serious business people, and we need to get on it before the summer gets any older.]
But getting back to the curious tradition of grass, I wonder why we are so enamoured of the green stuff, and why we are willing to spend a virtual fortune on the care and feeding of something that is, essentially, useless? I wonder what it is about grass that makes us feel compelled to grow and nurture it, just so we can hack it back again?
I had a neighbor a long time ago who killed off all the grass in her front yard, and installed a huge bed of bushes instead. The entire neighborhood, except for me, thought she was crazy. I thought she had the right idea, but didn't have the courage to swim upstream.
But grass is perverse, and I watched her battle the infiltration of rogue grass like a predator. She would see a green blade sticking up, and she would pull it. If a weed dared to bare it's head, it would be Round-ed Up and killed. But it seemed, in the end, that she was as much a prisoner of her lawn as I am of mine, because she spent as much time pulling as I do mowing.
Perhaps, in the end, it is pure laziness that has made us a green nation, literally. Maybe somewhere along the line, we decided it was easier to just let it have its way than continue to fight a losing battle, and thus was born the American lawn.
Certainly gives you something to ponder while you shove your mower around your lawn, though, doesn't it?
Monday, May 25, 2009
Memorial Day
Today is a day for remembering those who have fought and died in the service of our nation. Democracy, grand experiment that it continues to be, is not without a price. Those who have given their lives in the defense of this nation have done so for each one of us, personally, and I hope that every citizen takes a moment today to think about that.
They have preserved your freedom to pursue your dreams. They have preserved your freedom to worship as you wish. They have preserved your freedom to be a part of controlling those who control us, and to change the entire government around, if we decide that is what we want to do. They have preserved your freedom to think what you want. And, most importantly, they have preserved your freedom to publicly say what you think, out loud, without the fear of what our government will do to you.
There are billions of people on this earth who not only do not have those rights, but cannot even envision a world in which they could. Each time I approach my computer keyboard to write a post to this blog, it is something for which I am exceedingly grateful.
So today, I will fly my flag proudly (if it stops raining) and will say a prayer in my heart for each man and woman who gave everything for me to live as I do. I will also say a prayer for their families, who have sacrificed the most important thing they had, as well.
Thank you. It is not enough, but it is all I can do.
They have preserved your freedom to pursue your dreams. They have preserved your freedom to worship as you wish. They have preserved your freedom to be a part of controlling those who control us, and to change the entire government around, if we decide that is what we want to do. They have preserved your freedom to think what you want. And, most importantly, they have preserved your freedom to publicly say what you think, out loud, without the fear of what our government will do to you.
There are billions of people on this earth who not only do not have those rights, but cannot even envision a world in which they could. Each time I approach my computer keyboard to write a post to this blog, it is something for which I am exceedingly grateful.
So today, I will fly my flag proudly (if it stops raining) and will say a prayer in my heart for each man and woman who gave everything for me to live as I do. I will also say a prayer for their families, who have sacrificed the most important thing they had, as well.
Thank you. It is not enough, but it is all I can do.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Summer fun?
A tidbit in the news yesterday caught my eye, in the worst sort of way. It was a brief item on the Memorial Day opening of the area public pools, and an associated cringe worthy problem that we all know exists, but which we try hard not to think about - people using the pool as their lavatory instead of going to the restroom. I don't mean to be indelicate, [well, I do, really, I suppose, since I'm mentioning it, but I try to observe the proprieties,] but apparently people, full grown adults even, are peeing in the pool at an alarming rate.
How disconcerting.
In the survey I was reading, fully 20% of the respondents actually admitted to the misdeed. [You have to seriously wonder about their social skills, even being willing to admit to this obviously anti-social behavior, but I digress.] Naturally, that leads me to wonder how many more people do it but won't admit to it.
Given the known statistic, I wouldn't be surprised to learn, what with the human tendency to lie about everything, even when it's not ridiculously embarrassing, to say nothing of something like this, that half of the people in the swimming pool at any given time are probably eliminating in there, as well. That is a really shocking number, making me think I will never set foot in a public pool again.
I don't know about you, but I would like to think that by the time a person is old enough to be in the pool unsupervised, they would also know better than to eliminate in there. Sort of gives a whole new perspective on the old "hand in the pan of water" trick, I think. [Any girl who ever attended a slumber party knows exactly what I am talking about, here, but as I mentioned, I try to observe the proprieties, so I'm not going to expound. You are on your own with this one.]
This is not just an icky thought. People are spreading germs which can make other swimmers sick.
We would never tolerate this lack of sanitary standards in restaurant kitchens or other public places. We demand high quality regulations any time the general public is exposed to the risk of contamination, in order to prevent the spread of disease and illness. It seems sort of pointless to slather up with antiseptic soap and antibacterial hand gel 24/7, only to dive into the community toilet the moment the sun emerges, don't you think?
But for some irrational reason, [wants versus needs?] we continue to expect chlorine and other vague treatments to be sufficient to overcome all the water borne germs floating in our public pools. Given the rates of people misbehaving, it seems like a Herculean task.
So I got to thinking that there must be a way to identify the perpetrators of this outrageous behavior. I have amused myself at some length troubleshooting solutions to this watery dilemma. I am surprised some chemistry genius hasn't already come up with something that would identify the miscreants at the time of their misdeed.
My ultimate solution? Peer pressure in the form of public humiliation. As a society, we seem to have gotten away from the idea of public disapproval as a discipline technique. As far as I am concerned, peer pressure is one of the most effective deterrents to bad behavior that we have available, and I'm not afraid to use it. [Just ask my children.]
I say we utilize it to correct a behavior which is not only bad, but dangerous, especially to those who have vulnerable immune systems. Surely there must be a chemical that would react with urine in the water, causing a color change, maybe turning the water bright purple or something, so it couldn't be missed by anyone in the vicinity.
Imagine the reaction, as the water gradually turns colors around the unsuspecting swimmer, with nowhere to hide. I know what you are thinking. But admit it, you giggled. Unless, of course, you are one of the people who do this, in which case, you shuddered and made a vow to never do it again.
See? Mission accomplished.
There is a real function to this idea, beyond simple embarrassment. This would allow other swimmers not only to know who did it, but where the contaminants are.
Equally importantly, it would give a clear indication to the teenagers working there when the water was so contaminated that everyone needs to exit the pool for some type of shock treatment. [I don't know about you, but I think putting the health of the community into the hands of teenagers, trusting that they will do the testing and treating on schedule, as they are supposed to, without a single parental reminder, is a bit of a stretch.] The entire pool as a test strip, so to speak, with the outcome obvious to everyone at all times seems like a more effective way to control the situation.
I believe this is an idea whose time has come. If I were anything like a chemistry geek, I would get right on it and patent it, and make my millions. Since I am the artsy craftsy type, and couldn't even memorize the periodic table, I freely give this idea to the masses. Surely there is some eager young inventor out there waiting for the right concept to come along. Consider yourself run over.
In the meantime, I think the only diving I'm going to be doing will be into a book. I'll see you on the pool deck, with my laptop aimed at Snopes.com.
How disconcerting.
In the survey I was reading, fully 20% of the respondents actually admitted to the misdeed. [You have to seriously wonder about their social skills, even being willing to admit to this obviously anti-social behavior, but I digress.] Naturally, that leads me to wonder how many more people do it but won't admit to it.
Given the known statistic, I wouldn't be surprised to learn, what with the human tendency to lie about everything, even when it's not ridiculously embarrassing, to say nothing of something like this, that half of the people in the swimming pool at any given time are probably eliminating in there, as well. That is a really shocking number, making me think I will never set foot in a public pool again.
I don't know about you, but I would like to think that by the time a person is old enough to be in the pool unsupervised, they would also know better than to eliminate in there. Sort of gives a whole new perspective on the old "hand in the pan of water" trick, I think. [Any girl who ever attended a slumber party knows exactly what I am talking about, here, but as I mentioned, I try to observe the proprieties, so I'm not going to expound. You are on your own with this one.]
This is not just an icky thought. People are spreading germs which can make other swimmers sick.
We would never tolerate this lack of sanitary standards in restaurant kitchens or other public places. We demand high quality regulations any time the general public is exposed to the risk of contamination, in order to prevent the spread of disease and illness. It seems sort of pointless to slather up with antiseptic soap and antibacterial hand gel 24/7, only to dive into the community toilet the moment the sun emerges, don't you think?
But for some irrational reason, [wants versus needs?] we continue to expect chlorine and other vague treatments to be sufficient to overcome all the water borne germs floating in our public pools. Given the rates of people misbehaving, it seems like a Herculean task.
So I got to thinking that there must be a way to identify the perpetrators of this outrageous behavior. I have amused myself at some length troubleshooting solutions to this watery dilemma. I am surprised some chemistry genius hasn't already come up with something that would identify the miscreants at the time of their misdeed.
My ultimate solution? Peer pressure in the form of public humiliation. As a society, we seem to have gotten away from the idea of public disapproval as a discipline technique. As far as I am concerned, peer pressure is one of the most effective deterrents to bad behavior that we have available, and I'm not afraid to use it. [Just ask my children.]
I say we utilize it to correct a behavior which is not only bad, but dangerous, especially to those who have vulnerable immune systems. Surely there must be a chemical that would react with urine in the water, causing a color change, maybe turning the water bright purple or something, so it couldn't be missed by anyone in the vicinity.
Imagine the reaction, as the water gradually turns colors around the unsuspecting swimmer, with nowhere to hide. I know what you are thinking. But admit it, you giggled. Unless, of course, you are one of the people who do this, in which case, you shuddered and made a vow to never do it again.
See? Mission accomplished.
There is a real function to this idea, beyond simple embarrassment. This would allow other swimmers not only to know who did it, but where the contaminants are.
Equally importantly, it would give a clear indication to the teenagers working there when the water was so contaminated that everyone needs to exit the pool for some type of shock treatment. [I don't know about you, but I think putting the health of the community into the hands of teenagers, trusting that they will do the testing and treating on schedule, as they are supposed to, without a single parental reminder, is a bit of a stretch.] The entire pool as a test strip, so to speak, with the outcome obvious to everyone at all times seems like a more effective way to control the situation.
I believe this is an idea whose time has come. If I were anything like a chemistry geek, I would get right on it and patent it, and make my millions. Since I am the artsy craftsy type, and couldn't even memorize the periodic table, I freely give this idea to the masses. Surely there is some eager young inventor out there waiting for the right concept to come along. Consider yourself run over.
In the meantime, I think the only diving I'm going to be doing will be into a book. I'll see you on the pool deck, with my laptop aimed at Snopes.com.
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