Since not much has changed aside from the grandkids growin’, From 17 March 2016:
Sure, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, don’ cha know. Fresh buds are sheeting the landscapes with bright greens as if they too arrived for the Irish festivities.
FirstBorn phoned me early this morning while drivin’ into Chicago for the first of the big parades this weekend. As we chatted, I envisioned he and his wife riding side-by-side, dressed in full celtic regailia.
Yeah, my son wears a skirt: a kilt, a sporran (or pouch), fly plaid (depending upon the weather), hose, garters, spats and depending upon the event they’re attending, either Balmoral or Glengarry headgear. An’ it’s proud I am of him – and all my family.
I was born in a Chicago suburb, surrounded by siblings and generations of family. We’d drive station wagons through gently sloped streets lined with maple, oak and elm trees year-round and lilac blossoms everywhere in the spring. Every weekend the entire family gathered at one or another’s home.
Family gatherings gradually changed after we all migrated to Phoenix. My grandparents and aunts settled over an hour’s drive away, my parents, siblings, and I on the opposite side of town. OlderBrother and I walked to school in a new, drier, hotter climate passing ocotillo, acacias, and towering oleander walls.
Discovering the areas surrounding our home gradually replaced weekly visits with family. For weeks we explored livestock pastures, orange groves and hay fields. Our favorite times were spent swinging from ropes tied to enormous trees over irrigation canals.
A week before I was to become an upperclassman at our grade school, we left my grandparents and aunts’ families behind. In two cars with trailers, our parents drove my five siblings and me across the dessert to southern California. Home became an apartment where there were more trees and a patio, but no yard.
Dad and Mother went to work immediately. Very used to caring for one another, my siblings and I took on the new climate, new society, a much faster pace and being strange, new kids in metropolitan schools.
Cool wasn’t about the weather anymore; you either were or you weren’t. In jeans, t-shirts and squaw boots, I wasn’t. My main concerns were hand washing laundry and getting dinner ready. When Mother and Dad were home together they usually argued. OlderBrother stopped being my pal and mostly worked on cars with friends. Still, we somehow got from day by day together. Some days were less together than others.
A few months later we moved into a house in a nicer suburb. Eventually OlderBrother discovered the bus lines to the beach, and went there often. The rest of us hoped to go with him some day.
Two years after coming to Los Angeles, one midweek day Mother pulled us from school and took us to Crystal Cove near Newport Beach.
The fresh ocean air lifted me from our life and for the first time in months I felt I could breathe. Tide pools, waves, kelp beds, sandpipers and sea gulls sent my senses and my imagination soaring. It was our last outing with Mother. Weeks later she left.
I couldn’t get to the shore often enough for my liking. But whenever I could, I would dig my feet deep in the sand as though that would keep me from spinning off the planet. The beach became my sanctuary.
I mostly came with nothing, only to gaze where the sky meets the ocean. Between that horizon and my feet I found everything I needed.
“In my desperation I prayed, and the Lord listened; he saved me from all my troubles.” Psalm 34:6 (NLT)
Our internet service has been uncooperative, (go figure, I’d recently commented that it’s improved). Today I’m resigned to sharing an early post from Blogging U and The Next Best Thing.
I was born in a Chicago suburb, surrounded by generations of family. We’d drive station wagons and family sedans along paved roads through gentle slopes lined with lilac blossoms in spring, and various maples, oaks and elms year-round. Every weekend the entire family gathered at one or another’s home.
Family gatherings gradually changed after we all moved to Phoenix. My grandparents and aunts settled a half-day’s drive away, my parents, siblings, and I into a square pink house. Brother and I started school in a dry, hotter climate walking by ocotillo, acacias, and towering oleander walls.
Our playgrounds gradually replaced weekly visits with family. For weeks we explored livestock pastures, citrus groves and our favorite toys were ropes tied to enormous, friendly trees which we climbed to swing across the canals. Later we practiced lying about swimming in the precarious waters.
Late in the summer before I was to become an upperclassman at our grade school, we left my grandparents and aunts’ families behind. In two cars with trailers, our parents drove my five siblings, our German Shepherd a box full of her 12 suckling pups and me across the dessert to southern California. Home became a three-bedroom apartment where there were more trees, but no yard. Dad and Mother both went to jobs immediately.
Very used to caring for one another, my siblings and I faced the new climate, society, a much faster pace and being strange, new kids in metropolitan schools. Brother and I entered junior high.
Cool wasn’t about the weather anymore; either you were or you weren’t. In jeans, t-shirts and gym shoes, my main concern was hand washing laundry and having dinner ready before bedtime. Brother became cool. He stopped being my pal and was mean sometimes. I was not cool. To him I became nothing. Still, we had four other siblings and the dog that didn’t care about cool. We somehow got through our new life together, day by day, some days worse than others.
After an eternity of a few months we moved into a house in a much nicer suburb. Eventually Brother discovered the bus lines to the beach, and he went there often. Though I missed him, I appreciated his absences.
Two years after coming to Los Angeles, one midweek day Mother pulled us from school and took us to Crystal Cove near Newport Beach. The fresh ocean air lifted me from our life and for the first time in months I could breathe. Tide pools, waves, kelp beds, sandpipers and sea gulls sent my senses and my imagination soaring, changing everything.
Through the following years I didn’t get to the shore often enough for my liking. Whenever I could, I dug my feet deep into the sand as though that would keep me from spinning off the planet. The beach became my sanctuary and the God I knew as a kid in the dessert met me there.
Often enough I came with nothing, only to gaze where the sky meets the ocean. Between that horizon and my feet I found everything I needed.
“In my desperation I prayed, and the Lord listened; he saved me from all my troubles.” Psalm 34:6 (NLT)
Hey, all y’alls remember Larry the Cable Guy? Okay, after listening to the comedian for twenty minutes his bit got old with me. However, today’s whimper involves my cable internet and phone service, so I’m borrowing Larry CG’s persona.*
Restoring This Old House in particular could provide a month-long series on PBS, HGTV or DIY. So, Old School works well here.
Forget all the ads out there for bundles -and the fine print sales reps don’t mention till the end of the pitch. I’ve checked them all out for our area. Erin must live without her E!-TV, but we save for repairs and upgrades on the property from the entertainment and communications budgets. Utilizing satellite for television, cable for internet and phones we realize a minimum $20/month savings. Just don’t get me started on life without a DVR. Who knew one can’t program a VHS recorder without the remote?
So, our internet, land line and my (unlimited through Wi-Fi) cells services come to us from the wonderful people at “Mapper” Cable Company– who only recently came to our part of the Western Slope.
When I noticed cars stop in the street to talk to Mr. First Tech who was parked in front of the house, I thought, “My, this is such a friendly town!” It was actually the first sign that Mapper service is under par with my previous experiences in Chicago, Phoenix and Fort Worth.
Larry, our third tech in four weeks came in musing how customers don’t understand he’s dispatched from remote parts of the country, so he can’t just swing by to look into their problems too. “They seem to see red when they notice the Mapper sign on the truck,” he went on as he happily accepted some sweet tea. This actually is a friendly town – just sayin’.
So early Thursday Larry devoted himself to confirming Mr. First Tech and Mr. Second Tech’s reports – both now closed as PNF (Problem Not Found). A healthy hour later, he affirmed the frequent crashes I continue to experience are most likely ‘at the pole.’ To be sure he covered all bases he swapped out the modem and router for brand new ones (whoop-whoop) and promised to order a service check at the pole (technical paraphrase mine 😉 ). ‘Guess he liked the tea.
But this morning’s fitness walk complicated the whole unfortunate sequence of events when my flip knife wasn’t on my dresser where it had been Thursday morning – before Larry’s arrival. Seriously, flipping the car, every room, bag, laundry hamper… every square inch I use in the house for two hours didn’t locate the knife.
So try to imagine my reluctance as I explained to Ms Agent at dispatch, “I’m positive Larry isn’t a contractor. I have a keen sense about people. He’s not the kind of guy that would take anything from a customer. He’d been working on the dresser that houses the equipment where I also had the ‘tool’ that’s missing. It’s possible he inadvertently picked it up as he ever-so-considerately cleaned up after himself. I don’t want to generate a report that could ding the man’s record. I just want the tool returned.”
Ms Agent assured me contacting dispatch to reach Larry would be no problem for him or me. I know better. Back in the dark ages I worked dispatch for the same company (before Mapper acquired them). I told Ms Agent how to route a ‘Call Back’ (“it’s an industry term”). Amazed, she thanked me. For a moment I thought, “Cool, not that much has changed.” Then she had to go and say, “Yeah, going old school is healthy once in a while.” Shrew.
So, I no sooner hung up the phone when Girlfriend that had also visited us with Ellie Thursday afternoon, came bouncing up the walk. “Heya Roo! How ya doin?”
Goody, more tea…
The short story, Girlfriend saw the gruesome-looking flip knife on the vanity in the powder room – right where I’d set it so it’s hard, steel edges wouldn’t scratch our nice, oak toilet seat. Knowing we don’t leave things like that laying around for Eight-Year-Old-and-Very-Inquisitive-Niece to find, Girlfriend slipped it into her pocket meaning to hand it over to me. She washed her hands and promptly forgot all about it. Under a deadline, I didn’t walk the neighborhood on Friday, and I didn’t notice the knife missing from where I always, always keep it, on its very own tray on my dresser – until this morning.
Great, now I have guilt for ruining Larry’s career. At least I can now narrate in precise detail the whole new brand of frustrated humiliation, trying to contact Ms Agent again – it simply doesn’t happen. Fortunately, Mapper’s Billing Department STILL hadn’t called me back about crediting my account for all the down time. I spun the call so I could include cancelling the Old School, sequestered Call Back order to Larry.
Another Tech will be scheduled to check the pole issue tomorrow. Mapper’s got two strikes and one ball, so we’ll see. Now I must check next week’s schedule for the Elementary and NCIS episodes I missed during the move. Film at eleven…
“Dear brothers and sisters,when troubles of any kind come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy.For you know that when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow.” James 1:2
Sure, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, don’ cha know. Fresh buds are sheeting the landscapes with bright greens as if they too arrived for the Irish festivities.
FirstBorn phoned me early this morning while drivin’ into Chicago for the first of the big parades this weekend. As we chatted, I envisioned he and his wife riding side-by-side, dressed in full celtic regailia.
Yeah, my son wears a skirt: a kilt, a sporran (or pouch), fly plaid (depending upon the weather), hose, garters, spats and depending upon the event they’re attending, either Balmoral or a Glengarry headgear. An’ it’s proud I am of him – and all my family.
I began writing letters to my grandmother, my touchstone. That was when we drove graded roads through orange groves, pastures and cactus forests from Phoenix to Mesa. A long distance phone call on the only land line phone in the house was a costly event involving a telephone operator. Postage stamps cost less than a nickel. My parents moved us from a remote suburb of west Phoenix to Los Angeles. They called it a fresh start.
I learned as a young child that Grandmother saw right through a story to the truth. I mostly wrote fiction, so most of my writing never left my tablet. Fiction was nice. Outside of discussing the weather and describing the nearby landscapes, truth was rarely nice. I actually mailed an average of one letter to Grandmother each month.
I also wrote to my classmate Lanie about an exciting California lifestyle, most of which took place somewhere between books, black-and-white television, the drive-in movies and my imagination, all created from different hiding places in my parents’ house.
In writing I was somebody people liked. In print Grandmother didn’t notice a runny nose, crusty red eyelids, or dirt under the fingernails of a fat girl. From describing our new home far from Phoenix, I began to write to Grandmother about the lovely sunsets over the ocean (that I’d yet to see except on tv). I described the cars along Sunset Boulevard which was actually Leffingwell Road.
Grandmother always replied with her newsy updates. After some time she encouraged me to write more. I’d developed a knack for making my stories believable.
In my stories I was anyone and anything I wanted to be. I wrote about a smart, pretty, stylish, popular girl that blended into our neighborhood. In reality I could not see myself as anything but my mother’s stand-in cook, maid, and babysitter.
Early into adolescence I began to see myself as my characters and in 1966 the whole world began to change.
As my world grew with more characters, both genuine and those I imagined, I eventually realized many others felt entirely alone. Within that realization my awkward style became less gangly. A seasoned adult in Chicago, reading became my passion and writing became my touchstone. Ultimately, sharing with others and encouraging them along became my purpose.
“Books are like seeds. They can lie dormant for centuries and then flower in the most unpromising soil.” (Carl Sagan); “Nothing ever dies on the Internet.” (anon.); “This is not your father’s Oldsmobile.” (Madison Ave. [m]adman). My posts amalgamate these three philosophical elements into one novel experience; they champion critical thinking, human dignity / equality, levelheaded / even-handed / liberty-based governance and solid environmental stewardship. C’mon in!
Sure, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, don’ cha know. Fresh buds are sheeting the landscapes with bright greens as if they too arrived for the Irish festivities.
FirstBorn, FirstBride and OtherBrother are members of The Band of Brothers Pipes and Drums Corps. An annual tradition, they gather in Chicago with thousands of celebrants, for the Dyein’ of the Chicago River, The St. Patrick’s Day Parade and the Southside Irish St. Patrick’s Day Parade.
What Next: Behind Roo's Ruse 