Fraidy's Christmas Card

This is from Fraidy Cat. I got a few of my friends to pose for my Occasional Christmas Greeting. They weren't too excited about the hats, but all in all, were good sports. The one 2nd from the right looks quite a bit like me, and the one on the other end resembles my kitty mother, but in a better humor. I'm not altogether sure what this holiday is all about, but our Mom seems keen on it, so it must be OK. It's nice that Little Brown and I get extra cat treats. I've even invited that cute little yellow and white kitty across the street to come over for a snack now and then, but don't tell Mom. She frets about the cost of our food. Well, of course, we deserve (and demand!) the best! I'll keep this brief -- have a Merry Whatever!
Love, Fraidy
P.S. Hope your holiday has no wind, no rain, and if it's cold, may you have lots of blankets to curl up in.
F

A Seadrift Christmas is a Day at the Beach

Or, as some say, a piece of cake? a slam dunk? Or, well, whatever homily you use to say something is easy to do. Certainly, without a gathering of family (wonderful and much-loved tho they may be) with which to coordinate for the Christmas festivities, it is fairly stress-free to schedule what I’ve come to refer to as CJ’s Holiday Tradition.

Once I was divorced and on my own living in Texas, I devised my own version of a Christmas celebration on those occasions when I was not going home to family in Kansas. In the Austin days, it meant baking pumpkin pie and peanut butter cookies, roasting a turkey breast, and packing a picnic thereof and heading for Lake Travis. Central Texas Decembers usually were not of a nature to inspire a dip in the lake, but a repast spread on a picnic table in a park, under a live oak tree, beside the sparkling water, was a worthy commemoration of the coming of the Christ Child.

For more than half of those 25 years in the Austin area, I was accompanied by my miniature dachshund, Gretchen, on jaunts of this nature. She was consistently at the ready to assist with any challenges regarding left-over turkey or pie.

These days, I’m living my dream of palm trees and Big Water on San Antonio Bay. Kansas and family, unfortunately, are even farther away. CJ’s Holiday Tradition continues, however, with that celebratory dinner at the beach. A 30-minute trip has me ensconced amid sand and shells, with lapping waves at my feet. Texas weather being what it is, enjoyment of Christmas Day at the beach sometimes requires remaining in one’s vehicle. Waves are waves, tho, and they come rolling in regardless of the temperature. A storm makes them even more picturesque. A mug of hot coffee from a thermos, a thick-sliced turkey sandwich, a wedge of pie, and hot-diggity-dog, it’s Christmas!

Staying in almost daily communication with my lovely family has been greatly enhanced the last few years with e-mail. My Big Sister, and 9 of 10 nieces and nephews are e-mail advocates, along with uncounted great- and great-great-nieces and nephews. Far-flung friends, as I call them, also stay in touch this way. No fear of ever feeling alone!

I get together with two couples, that I have called friends for 40 or 50 years, to toast the season, our friendship, and everything in-between. Boy, do we have lots of memories from those years.

So, here you have it, my Christmas Letter. You didn’t read about every single thing I did or that happened to me this year, but you already knew all of that anyway, communicator that I am. I wish you a very happy, Merry Christmas. May you feel the peace and love that is Christmas.

Destiny: Path to the Future

Way back before I became a typesetter, one of my more rewarding jobs was a seven-year stint as church secretary at my church in my Kansas college town. Previous jobs as store clerk and card assembler had not taken advantage of my heretofore unacknowledged clerical skills, and I took to the full-time position of executive secretary, as they say, like a duck to water.

This was in 1958, and confidence in my skills and talents was still a work in progress. The pastor of the church was a joy to work for, always clear in what he needed done, and regularly praised my work.

One of the lasting legacies I left to that church was a library. From the pastor and the parishioners, I came to an understanding of various books that would be helpful to everyone. Quite a few of the flock were not financially able to purchase many books, and I saw the need for a church library. I researched titles, and encouraged the church leaders to purchase them for a library. We started with a small 3-shelf bookcase, and when I left seven years later, the library covered one whole wall of the office.

Mary Gordon, in “The Winds Were Warm, Then Bitter,” said of the decade beginning with 1958: “the world changed from a place of security to a place of insecurity, of certainties cherished to uncertainties demanding to be witnessed.” And so it was with myself. I came into this era from a loving home and a rural upbringing on the plains of Kansas, with a naivete that viewed the world as safe and uncomplicated. As the late 50s and early 60s progressed, I and my peers suffered the onslaught of racial violence, war that was called something else, and, on November 22, 1963, the assassination of our 35th president, John F. Kennedy. Not having encountered racial prejudice firsthand, I was stunned at the television news of race riots and controversy. I could not imagine why anyone was refused service, lodging, or a certain school because of their color. I had thought that was something in the distant past.

In 1965, my church wanted to send me as their delegate to the World Convention of Churches in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Now, keep in mind I had never traveled outside the United States, had never flown in a commercial airplane, actually had not traveled anywhere without parents or husband in control. It would be a 10-day excursion; I would have vouchers for all the tours, airplane and hotel expenses would be paid by my church. With a big gulp of apprehension, I decided to go.

I could sign up to room with other ladies attending the convention, which would reduce the expense, and being a frugal gal, I did so, wanting to minimize the cost to my church. I also thought it would be more fun than staying by myself in a strange city, not to mention a strange country. The two ladies I was assigned were from South Carolina. We corresponded briefly to get a bit acquainted.

Even though I was 30 years old, I was still quite bashful, and this adventure was way out of my comfort zone. I agonized about the possibility of getting mugged, losing my vouchers and tickets, or getting lost somewhere along the way. Making my way through the Miami International Airport was an education in itself. After I started spotting other church people I recognized from events at my church, I relaxed somewhat. Arrival in Puerto Rico was amazingly uneventful, as local church members had arranged transportation from airport to hotel.

These were the days when one was escorted to one’s room by a bellhop, who brought your luggage. He showed me where everything was and how it worked. (Perhaps I had no familiarity with a flushing commode?) He presented a map of the hotel, pointing out the pool, snack bar, restaurant, and convention rooms. After adjusting the drapes and wishing me a pleasant stay, the young man departed.

After unpacking my belongings, my roommates not having arrived yet, I decided to don my swimsuit and investigate the pool, being an avid swimmer. With towel and key in hand and heading for the door, I heard a commotion outside. Thinking it was my roommates, I immediately opened the door to welcome them.

The tableau in the hall was straight out of a movie. The wild-eyed bellhop was frantically (hysterically?) babbling to the two ladies that he had made a mistake and had brought them to the wrong room. He would take them, please! please! to the correct room if they would just come with him--come now! please! In between words he would lapse into Spanish. As I appeared, my roommates, still smiling bravely, said their names, I said mine, and we fell into an embrace of welcome. I say to the bellhop, it’s all right, this is their room. Thank you very much. I offer a tip. (I was fast learning the ways of travel.

I thought the bellhop was going to faint dead away. His eyes were as round as the proverbial saucers, his hands fluttered as if he wanted to fly away. He wouldn’t take the tip. He finally turned and ran, yes, RAN! away down the corridor.

You see, it was 1965. My roommates were black. He had brought two black ladies to a room where he had just ensconced a white lady. This was Puerto Rico, he knew the ways of the United States. It was not done.

My roommates and I quickly settled down for a get-acquainted visit. We had a few chuckles over our bellhop, and wondered if he had just kept going, never to return to his job. Through subsequent conversations with my new friends, I discovered, to my consternation, they frequently encountered such.

We were staying at the convention hotel, the El San Juan, and it was very nice to just go downstairs for breakfast and the morning events. Various tours of San Juan and the area churches were available in the afternoons, and we could choose which to attend, but we had to take buses or taxis to the beginning point of each tour. We discovered the taxi fare was geared to distance only, regardless of how many people rode, so we would crowd in as many as possible to a destination, and split the fare among us.

One day, I choose one tour and my roommates another, and when the tour was over, I could not match up with folks going back to my hotel. Reluctant to pay the whole price for a taxi, I checked out the city buses waiting nearby. It appeared I could take a certain bus, change to another bus at a particular intersection, and thus reach my destination at a fraction of the taxi cost.

I dropped my coin in the slot, received a transfer slip for the next bus, and, in pill box hat, high heels, tailored suit (with 60s short skirt) and white gloves, convention badge pinned to my shoulder, I took my seat. I think I stood out. After all, I had no goats, chickens, or gaggle of giggling children on my lap. We arrived at the stop I thought was my transfer point, and I got off. There I stood, as bus after bus came by, none of which was going to the El San Juan. I queried one friendly-looking driver, who shook his head sadly, nada, no El San Juan. That same driver came by a couple more times, each time looking more troubled.

As minutes became 30, 40, an hour and a half, I began to get anxious. The sun was moving ominously closer to the horizon, and evening loomed. The concerned bus driver came by once more. He leaned out, called “El San Juan?” I nodded with a great deal of angst. He motioned for me to get on. I got on.

In short order various chicken-wielding passengers began to shout and point out the window. The bus was obviously off the regular route. In about 15 minutes, we pulled up in front of the El San Juan Hotel. Other bus drivers were calling and making funny remarks to my driver, who merely beamed a huge smile and helped me down the steps. I was so overwhelmed I hugged him. He drove off smiling with his buddies teasingly calling after him. I completely forgot to tip him.

At the end of the Convention, I headed home determined to share with my fellow churchmembers all that I had learned and experienced on this extraordinary sojourn. A special gathering had been planned on the Sunday after my return. My presentation included a big thank you for my trip, slides of San Juan and my roommates, a typewritten “speech,” and hand-outs. I was not accustomed to speaking in front of a group, but I had enormous momentum, fueled by my exciting participation in this event.

I sailed through my performance with aplomb. I was downright euphoric. I had done it. I had made it there and back, didn’t lose anything, attended every session, represented my home church with professional acumen, made notes, taken photos, met many interesting people, and shared it all with those at home.

This church group, with whom I had found myself for the previous seven years, were friendly and affectionate, and often we would hug when greeting each other at church. When we gathered in the church hall for punch and cookies after my Puerto Rico presentation, I expected more of the same.

To my total dismay and shock, those hugs, for the most part, were not forthcoming. In fact, several of my closest friends actually backed away, appearing embarrassed, but definitely not making contact.

To say I was stunned was the understatement of the year. I moved on through the group, accepting verbal accolades and answering the occasional questions about my trip, but I was wounded to my soul, confused as to why.

After a bit, it began to dawn on me. They saw the slides of my roommates. I had roomed with black people. I was contaminated. It was as if my home church “friends” thought something had rubbed off on me. Well, it had. My new friends from South Carolina had brought me a new understanding of the world we lived in, a world I had barely begun to comprehend. It was a hard truth.

The following week, it was back to work as usual. Sermons to type up, letters to write, Sunday bulletins to prepare. Meetings were held and the choir practiced. In a mere six weeks, my church was hosting the State Convention, so there was a lot to do to prepare. It came to me, the church secretary, to document the list of parishioners who were willing to house out-of-town attendees. A committee member came by with the lists to which the latest volunteers could be added. I stared down at the two sheets of paper on my desk. My heart thudded in my chest. It was as if part of my mind sailed away, unable to grasp the concept.

One list was parishioners who would accept all attendees. The other list was parishioners who would accept only whites.

I made it through the state convention. I could not bail out when there was so much to do. But in late October, 1965, I tendered my resignation. A long talk with the pastor, for whom I had great respect, helped me a great deal. I explained that I could no longer face those whom I felt had no right to call themselves Christians. He counseled that it was not for we mortals to judge others, and I understood that. He guided me to the understanding that none of us, church members or not, were perfect. I understood that. But still I had to go. I would find other avenues for my skills, other friends with whom to share my values.

Who knows where my skills would have led me had not this devastating revelation set the stage for a career change? I have come to not believe in coincidences. We are led in mysterious ways. There is a plan for each of us, our destiny, if you will, and we do not know in advance what it is. The choices we make along the way provide the path to the future, to the person we become. With a little luck, we may look back, and see the plan in action.

Walking Around the World

Some times you are just in the right place at the right time. In 2001, I was working in a nearby town, Port Lavaca, Texas. One morning in February I read a newspaper notice about a guy from Canada that had set out to walk around the world for peace, and would be coming through Port Lavaca that week. I spoke to my supervisor, Ana Pena, about it, hoping we could find time to at least see him as he passed through. Walking around the world! How in the world, so to speak, would that work???

Ana did some checking, and discovered he was camping overnight at the Lighthouse Beach RV Park. We tootled out there, and sure enough, there he was, with a tiny blue tent and a three-wheeled stroller to carry his stuff: a bit of food, his clothing, a first-aid kit, and a sleeping bag. His name was Jean Beliveau.

His native language was French, but he said his English had improved quite a bit by now. He had left Montreal, Canada, on August 18, 2000, traveling alone down the east coast of the United States, across the southern states, to Texas. He talked about his mission to promote peace and non-violence to the profit of the children of the world. Jean showed us his map of the world, depicting his projected route. He plans to walk across all the continents, from North America to South America, then across South Africa, up to Europe, then the Middle East, South and Eastern Asia, Australia, New Zealand, and finally back to Canada.

This journey will take 12 years to complete, which is in accordance with the United Nations proclamation: 2001-2010---International Decade for a Culture of Peace and Non-Violence.
Both Ana and I became totally entranced by his story. How he missed his family back home in Canada, and how he felt called to take on this mission. I thought, how can one man make any difference? His calmness and serenity impressed us. He was totally, how would you say it, totally modest and unassuming. The more we visited with him, the more I came to realize, he COULD make a difference—to one person at a time. He was making a difference in ME.

Ana arranged for him to speak the next afternoon to the school children at her church. Children of all ages listened intently to his talk, and clustered around him afterwards for autographs. One child had asked him how many shoes he had worn out. He told how people had donated new shoes when he needed them, and later a shoe company began donating shoes. She held up her foot for him to autograph her sneaker. He solemnly did so, then with that infectious smile of his, said a foot-signing was a first.

He was to head on south toward Mexico the next morning. I fretted a bit about whether he would be safe. There are sections of Mexico that are dangerous. Then I remembered: he had walked safely along the entire eastern coast of the United States, through Washington, D.C., and New York, to Florida (where he had to hole up with new friends to ride out a hurricane, then stayed several weeks to help clean up), then westward, through New Orleans and Houston. My angst began to ease up.

A few days later, I was still a bit distressed, worrying about his safety. Would he be OK in strange places and big cities? Where they spoke different languages, so many different cultures? In all extremes of weather? So alone he had looked, disappearing down the road.

That night, in my sleep, I dreamed about him. I saw him heading out from the park in Port Lavaca, heading for the rest of the world. In my dream, I saw him walking away down the highway, and he was totally enclosed in a large "bubble," three-wheeled stroller and all.
When I awoke, I was awestruck by the vividness of my dream. I knew immediately what the "bubble" represented: it was a sphere of safe-ness around him, generated by his essential goodness, the purity of his mission, and the best wishes and prayers of EVERYONE he meets! The farther he walks, the larger the "safe bubble" becomes, with the addition of each person's "God speed!" he receives.

I feel so blessed to have been in that place and that time, that February day in 2001, when Jean Beliveau came, literally, walking by. I do believe that one person can change the world. Jean is changing every one he comes in contact with. I thank his wife Luce for having the courage to share him with the world. I follow his progress around the world by logging on to www.wwwalk.org. It continues to be an amazing story. People of all cultures, from many, many countries, offer him shelter, serve him meals, buy him shoes, try to give him money. He refuses gifts of money, saying, with a wry grin, it would be dangerous.

Then he tells the story of what must have been a mugging in New York by what he calls "young toughs." He said they "roughed him up," and went through his belongings and threw them about. As they ambled off, they tossed back a derogatory assessment, "Hey man, you no got any good stuff!"

If they only knew.

Blazing Prairies and Canning Carrots

I read something the other day about our sense of smell--that the intensity of the memory is tied to the emotion you experienced at the time you first smelled it, be it fear, love, comfort, or safety.

And so it is. I get a whiff of smoke from a grass fire, and instantly I’m 10 years old again!

I grew up on the Kansas prairie, in the midst of oil fields. My father was what they called a pumper. Once an area of wells were drilled, someone was required to take care of them and keep them working. Each area would have a pump house, with an engine to run rod lines that connected to each well. These rod lines were moved back and forth by the engine in the pump house, and that motion moved the oil well structure up and down, thus pumping the oil up into pipe lines. Company housing came with the job, and our house, cow barn, garden, chicken coops, and underground tornado shelter would be surrounded by working, pumping wells. With the long dry summer months, and the ever-present wind, that waving prairie was an accident waiting to happen.

I never knew what sparked the fires. A carelessly tossed cigarette somewhere, someone’s out-of-control trash fire, sparks from vehicles perhaps.

Daddy would come racing home, in the pickup if he had gone farther afield, or on our horse Brownie (see photo with a young CJ) if he was working closer to home. He would wrestle the 55-gallon drums into the pickup bed, fill them with water from the cistern, throw in a pile of gunny sacks (from cattle feed), and off we would go to battle the conflagration.

Mother and I were in charge of the smaller creeping flames, while Daddy tackled the bigger ones. We would dunk the gunny sacks into the water, and whack the soggy material onto the blaze. Of all importance was keeping the fire from the oil wells, because if one of them went up, the house would go too.

Tho miles separated us from the closest neighbors, sight of smoke on the horizon would bring many folks to help.

Once all embers and sparks were extinguished, we headed home, dirty, ash-smudged, and coughing from smoky lungs, but in a state of euphoria for a job well done.

Another intense episode in my childhood instilled memories relating to the smell of cooked carrots.

One year we had a bumper crop of carrots from the garden, and Mother, sister Gail, and myself were up to our elbows in canning carrots when my father, all bloody and disheveled, came riding up on Brownie. Well, he wasn’t really riding, he was sort of draped across our horse, and Brownie brought him home. He had had an accident with the testing tractor, and was seriously injured. He recalls thinking he would be calm so as not to frighten us, not realizing how he looked!

Mother quickly called the boss (some distance away) for help and Daddy was transported to hospital and subsequently recovered in full. Brownie got extra special rations after that near-tragedy, as it would not have been good if Daddy had had to lay in a grassland gulley until dark, and we realized he wasn’t coming home, and would then go looking for him. My love of carrots remains, but I still get a frisson of fright when I walk by a buffet with a tub of steaming carrots.

Other smells that have impacted me include the fragrance of Mother’s cooking when I came home from school. Weather permitting I walked the couple of miles to and from the country school, and I could sniff supper before I even got to the yard. In winter it would be beef stew or ham and beans, and in summer there was chicken and homemade noodles, or veggie casseroles from the garden along with garden-fresh, just baked rhubarb pie.

I’m sure that’s why, when, during some distressing times of my life, I‘ve headed to the kitchen for a cooking frenzy, whipping up something fragrant and hearty. All it takes to make me feel comforted and safe is to encounter those wonderful aromas. I’ve come home. All is well.

Going Home Again

Willie, Waylon, Vince, Seal, Bob Seger and Kenny G always bring me home from Kansas, after the semi-annual visit to family. A radio station featuring my preferred artists is not always readily available on the road, so I assure myself of pleasing company by packing my favorite CDs. On this particular trip I attended my 55th high school reunion, the first visit with my classmates since graduation (see what's left of the Class of '52, above. That's me in the mostly blue tropical print jacket.). There were only 24 to begin with, and not everyone was able to attend this reunion. It was tremendous fun getting reacquainted, and hearing what everyone had been up to for 55 years. School and graduation were in tiny nearby Madison, but we gathered at the American Legion Hall in Emporia, Kansas, the town where I spent the 17 years of married life.

Traveling from my sister’s hometown near Wichita, I arrived in Emporia early enough to drive around a bit and see if I could locate the places I had lived. I found one of our houses, that my husband and his father had built, occupied and still looking presentable. The other places were either long gone, or the neighborhood had changed so much I didn’t recognize them. Brought back lots of memories, both good and not so good.

In this town I had been a card assembler at Hallmark Cards, church secretary, executive secretary to the Art Dept. head at Kansas State Teacher’s College, then typesetter and page-makeup artist at the same College.

In this town I swam and sunned at the city pool, rode my bike to work to the tune of 8 miles a day, bowled my way to numerous awards, crowned by placing 28th nationally in the Women’s Singles in Las Vegas, made lifelong friends, and generally learned to be a self-sufficient, independent woman, excelling at just about everything to which I set my mind.

In this town I came face to face with racial prejudice from people in my church, and it nearly destroyed me. In this town I struggled with my country going to war (1960s) that was not called a war. In this town I became disillusioned with my marriage, coming to the realization that it was not going to survive the disparity between my husband and myself.

My childhood with parents and older sisters gave me values and belief in myself that sustained me well, in those good times and the bad. The formative, growing, and learning years in this town were the bridge between that childhood and my mature life ahead. When I headed for Texas, sans husband, I literally never looked back.

They say you can’t go home again. Well, you can visit, certainly. You can reminisce. You can remember.

And that’s a very good thing.

I Thought I Had Time

As my friends know, I'm a communicator, and when I think of stuff, it seems to have to come out my fingers in type. I often feel compelled to share my thoughts, hoping my readers will take my words to heart. This is one of those times.

In 1960 I had been married 5 years, living in Emporia, concentrating on building my life as a married lady. My parents were going, doing, living their lives. We visited maybe every week or so, as I remember. My mother was 63, no health problems that we knew of.

I thought I had time.

In June, 1960, at age 63, my mother suffered a massive heart attack, and 3 days later was gone. I still grieve that I had wasted time that I could have spent with her, things I could have told her, things I would have liked her to tell me.

I thought I had time.

In January, 1973, I kicked over the traces, divorced my husband, and, as I like to say, ran to Texas, where I had friends. My father had remarried, and was busy traveling with Edna, enjoying his retirement years by following a gospel group they liked. Tho in his late 70s, no major health problems. In those days before the internet, during those first 8 months in Texas, I wrote letters home, every month or so, but no phone calls. No hearing my Daddy's voice in my ear.

I thought I had time.

September, 1973, I got the phone call from my Big Sister Gail that Daddy, age 78, had had a massive heart attack, and literally fell over dead working in his garden, doing what he loved.

I thought I had time.

By now you can see where this is going. Most of the time, we don't know what tomorrow will bring. However, sometimes, we DO get clues, such as when our loved ones are seriously ill.

Dear Readers, whether you have gotten clues, or life is sailing along very nicely, do not, I repeat, DO NOT take your loved ones for granted. Take the time to visit, NOW, to communicate, go places with them, share your memories of the years.

My prayer is that you will not forever regret not spending time with your loved ones: parents, siblings, children, friends.

You might not have time.

Diary of a Weather Maven

On this fifth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, thought I'd add something from my archives, previously published on www.ourecho.com.

August 23, 2005
There’s another storm showing up in the Bahamas today. 35-mile-per-hour winds, named Tropical Depression # 12. They say it’s the result of an interaction of a tropical wave and the remains of Tropical Depression #10.

August 24, 2005
TD #12 has been named an official tropical storm, winds 40-miles-per-hour. The Hurricane Center has named it Katrina, making it this year’s 11th named storm. It continues to move toward Florida.

August 25, 2005
This morning, Katrina went from a tropical storm to a hurricane in 24 hours, reaching hurricane force only 2 hours before making landfall between Aventura and Hallandale Beach, Florida. It weakened over land, but regained hurricane status about an hour after entering the Gulf of Mexico.

August 26, 2005
Katrina is rapidly intensifying now that it’s in the Gulf and moving over warm waters.

August 27, 2005
This bugger has reached Category 3 intensity on the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale. It’s this year’s 5th hurricane, and 3rd major hurricane. Here’s a curiosity, described by NOAA: “an eyewall replacement cycle disrupted the intensification, but caused the storm to nearly double in size.” I’m not sure what that means but it’s likely bad news for somebody.

August 28, 2005
Katrina has intensified again--Category 5 status this morning, reaching peak strength at 1:00 p.m. CDT, maximum sustained winds of 175 mph, minimum central pressure of 902 mbar. It’s churning out there in the Gulf, the most intense Atlantic hurricane on record (so far) and the strongest hurricane the Hurricane Center has ever measured in the Gulf of Mexico. Up to now, at least! Voluntary and mandatory evacuations have been issued for large areas of southeast Louisiana and coastal Mississippi and Alabama. It appears to be headed right for Louisiana. The TV news is zeroing in on the potential catastrophe for New Orleans, because 80% of the city and 20% of the NO metropolitan area is below sea level along Lake Pontchartrain. Storm surge is forecast to be 28 feet, and officials fear it could go over the tops of the levees. I’m praying for New Orleans.

August 29, 2005
The good news is that Katrina made its 2nd landfall as “merely” a Cat. 3 today, with sustained winds of 125 mph, at 11:25 p.m. CDT near Buras-Triumph, Louisiana. The bad news is that at landfall, hurricane-force winds are extending out for 120 miles from the center, with 920 mbar central pressure. Hitting just east of New Orleans, maybe N.O. dodged the bullet? And next, oh my God, this Holy Terror is making its 3rd landfall near the Louisiana/Mississippi border, still a Cat 3, 120 mph sustained winds. Praying for everyone from Louisiana to Florida.

August 30, 2005, Early Morning
Oh no. Oh no. New Orlean’s levees have breeched. The heavy winds and storm surges have caused Lake Pontchatrain to overrun the levees along there, and the Mississippi River Gulf Outlet (MR-GO) breached its levees in approximately 20 places. Much of east New Orleans, most of Saint Bernard parish, and the East Bank of Plaquemines Parish are flooded. The major levee breaches in the city include breaches at the 17th Street Canal levee, the London Avenue Canal, and the wide, navigable Industrial Canal, which leaves about 80% of the city under water. Most major roads in and out of the city are damaged. The I-10 Span Bridge, eastbound towards Slidell, LA, has collapsed. It’s chaos. It’s terrible.

Days Later
I can’t watch TV anymore. I can’t write anymore. I can’t bear it. New Orleans is a sea of toxic soup, with dead bodies floating, ruptured sewage lines spewing. It’s a dying city. People are waiting for someone to come get them off their roofs. They wave at media helicopters flying over. But no one comes to get them. Why . . . can’t . . . someone . . . come?

Crying Days

Looking Back
Katrina maintained Cat 1 force well into Mississippi, but finally lost hurricane strength more than 150 miles inland near Jackson, Mississippi. It was downgraded to a tropical depression near Clarksville, Tennessee, with its last distinguishable remnants in the eastern Great Lakes region on August 31. The resulting extratropical storm moved rapidly to the northeast and affected Ontario and Quebec. Total loss of life from Katrina is listed at 1,836. Total monetary damages is estimated at $81.2 Billion, the costliest Atlantic hurricane in history. It affected the Bahamas, South Florida, Cuba, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Florida Panhandle, and most of eastern North America.

The name Katrina is removed from possible usage in the future.

Fleeing Rita

I had tears in my eyes. It was all over, and I was home again, observing storm-tossed pelicans riding the remaining winds, reading e-mails and answering phone calls from my many friends and family all over Texas and several states, concerned about my welfare. All of us were expressing joy that my beloved town and county on the Coastal Bend of Texas were spared the wrath of Hurricane Rita.

As I was preparing to evacuate I was overcome with decisions as to what to take. Of course it's just stuff, but it's my stuff, and I've scraped and scrabbled for the 32 years since the divorce to get it. And then there are the photos, the memories. I can't say it any better than an evacuating friend did: "gifts and mementos from friends and family now gone, each one treasured for the memories they bring, it's so sad to think you may never see them again."

It was a heartbreaking, devastating packing-up. At times I seemed totally disabled, unable to think clearly. I felt especially vulnerable about my mobile home; although it's anchored through 12 inches of concrete, a major hurricane will most likely leave only the frame, anchors and concrete. I wandered from room to room just looking at everything: collection of local artwork, curtains painstakingly chosen for just the right coastal look, comfort and things that make me smile in every corner. I couldn't take it all.

So, into the car went those irreplaceable things like photos (boxes and boxes--including three enlargements ready for entry in the county fair); treasured gifts from long-gone parents, sister, aunts and uncles; clothes, shoes, personal care and refilled prescriptions; the Macintosh computer with files of my writings and monthly newsletter "Livin' on the Bay"; much-used dictionary and thesaurus; a skeleton outlay of kitchen items; my companion cats and their supplies. Unable to fit anything else in the car, I decided, if necessary, I COULD start over with that much.

Pulling out of the driveway, with yowling cats beside me, heading for refuge with friends in Central Texas, I literally shook my fist in the air at Mother Nature, and cried aloud, "I made the last house payment in May! It's mine, all mine! Don't you dare take it away from me!"

Of course, I realize now that should that modest home, with the two fat 6-foot palm trees that I brought home three years previous in the front seat of my car, were to be blown away, the life that I've built for myself, the person that I am, the love I receive from my town and my county in the seven years I have "lived on the bay," would remain. I could create another haven of my own, whatever or wherever it might be.

Hard on the heels of Katrina, my neighbors on the Gulf Coast took Rita's threat seriously. Before evacuating, folks boarded up homes and businesses. Ranchers herded their cattle and horses to high ground. Shrimp boats were moved to safer waters in the Victoria Barge Canal.

Most did not regret the effort to prepare for and flee from a storm that ended up elsewhere, and vow to do it again. We must take to heart what we've learned, to be more prepared next time we're threatened. And from all forecasting accounts, there will be a next time. I'll be ready. I'll go.

Oh, the county fair photos? They received two first-place blue ribbons, and one second-place red.

Seasonal

There are times when I just can’t keep my mouth shut. For quite a few years now I’ve had the overwhelming conviction that I know how best to do everything from posing wedding photos to stocking store shelves.

As most of you know, I have an ongoing obsession with the weather. I like hearing the forecasts, and critiquing them according to what I think will happen, and comparing what actually happens with the forecasts. A few winters ago I began to hear rather ominous forecasts for February—the possibility of a truly hard freeze here on the Texas Coast.

With no central heat in my home, at that time I relied on electric heaters to get me through our occasional wintry spells. With the skirting project accomplished the previous fall, I’d been quite comfortable so far that year. But faced with potentially extended colder temperatures, I decided to invest in another unit. So off I go to pursue such.

Imagine my consternation when, in January (isn’t that the dead of winter?) I’m told by our local discount department store that they had sold out of electric heaters long ago, and they weren’t getting any more. The clerk explained, “They’re seasonal.”

Well, dang, I don’t know when I’ve heard such truth. Ya ever heard of anyone shopping for a heater when it’s 90 degrees? I went to a manager for confirmation, in case the clerk just made up a story to get me off his back. Yep, you guessed it, no more electric heaters—need room for air conditioners.

I couldn’t resist.

I asked how many ACs he had sold that day.

Manager: “I don’t think any.”

CJ: Why do you suppose that is?”

Manager: “Well, the weather has been . . .”

He trailed off, beginning to see where this was going.

Making no progress there, I set out in search of an entrepreneur more in keeping with stores of my youth, where service to their customers made the difference in staying in business or closing.

And I found Ace Hardware. On a Friday, they had only 1 electric heater left. BUT they had reordered, and would have more on Saturday. Clerk said they had sold out and reordered this winter about 7 times! What an excellent concept for business.

This seasonal business has confounded me before. I went in search of an oscillating fan a couple of weeks before Easter one year. The weather had turned quite warm, but not to the degree one wanted to turn on the AC. Nope, I’m told at the stores, they were “seasonal.” I tried to explain, to no avail, the notion that when it was hot, it was the season for fans. Lord, don’t they know we’re in Texas? Where the weather can switch from freezing ice cubes on the porch to frying an egg on the driveway so fast you’ll get whip lash.

Websters New World Dictionary defines seasonal as “Characteristic of, or depending on, the season or seasons.”

I never hesitate to propose improvements to everything from the daily paper to scheduling of road repairs. Why not Webster? I suggest an additional definition for seasonal: “Refers to items stores should be selling when the weather demands it.”

Folding, Folding, Folding

You've probably read all those forwards and columns, and tales from the media folks, about how to fold up fitted sheets. I've assembled tips from all that, and have pretty much mastered the art. It requires a cleared bed, where one spreads out the sheet, folds up the ends, then the sides, tucking the corners as needed, then left, right, left right, fold it up into a shape more or less fitting on a shelf. Actually, what I do is have only one sheet set, and put the fitted one back on the bed after laundry.

I've got a new one for you. At least it's new to me, I've not seen anyone wax eloquent on the subject. You know those snuggies they've touted the last couple of years in infomercials out the wazoo? They keep you warm on cold winter nights when you're settled down for the evening with book or TV. They do the trick very well, unless you're prone to leaping up to stir supper, or move laundry from the machine to the dry. In that case, one is most likely to be able to spout the famous phrase, "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!"

It's summer now. No need to bundle up in anything, much less a blanket with sleeves. I know, it's August, and you'd think I'd not just now be tidying up unused stuff from Valentine's Day. So I'm a procrastinator. At least I've launched into my spring cleaning before time to call it fall cleaning. Here's the rub. Worked my way down in a pile of tossed aside items and found that aforementioned fleece warmer-upper. OK. It goes in the drawer with sweat pants and sweatshirts. Wait, it has to be folded up, to take up as little space as possible.

Have you ever tried to fold up one of those suckers? Forget about how tricky it was to actually get it on and around you when you wanted to use it last winter. I tried spreading it out on the bed and rolling it up like a burrito. Lumpy. Bulky. I tried putting the sleeves together, smoothing it out elsewhere, folding in here and there. Unwieldy. Then I started at the collar area, folding in from side to side, as I went down. Still looked like a cross between a grizzly bear in hibernation and a 3-man tent after a windstorm.

The solution? I moved the sweat pants and sweatshirts out of their drawer and stacked them on a closet shelf. Shoved the wadded up Snuggie down in the drawer and slammed it shut.

Sometimes ya just gotta go with expediency.

A Place and A Time

Anyone who has spent any quality time in Austin, Texas, must read “The Great Psychedelic Armadillo Picnic: A ‘Walk’ in Austin” by Kinky Friedman.

Talk about a nostalgic trip down memory lane!

I got to Austin in the early 70s, about the same time Willie Nelson gave up on Nashville and came home to Central Texas.

It was a great town at that time. It was what I needed at this stage of my life, seeking that oft-mentioned freedom to be, to do, to become. Austin was the epitome of tolerance, everyone doing their own thing, with none of this “I think this way so you should too.”

As Kinky notes in the introduction, one of the most stand-out aspects of Austin is all those fantastic, incredible people. From the early historical days (Mirabeau B. Lamar, Sam Houston, and Stephen F. Austin) to J. Frank Dobie and John Henry Faulk, to Liz Carpenter, Molly Ivins, Barbara Jordan and Ann Richards, to Janis Joplin, Lance Armstrong, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Willie Nelson, and, not to be forgotten, Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys, one could wonder if the town made the people. Of course, it was the other way around.

This book is one in the Crown Journeys Series. I’m sure the series suffers from the fact that none of the other books were written by Kinky. His irrepressible humor and often irreverent style seems to be the quintessential flavor of Austin.

There’s the tale of the Treaty Oak. The village idiot poisoned the historic tree trying to improve his love life. The efforts to help the tree recover is classic Austin, worthy of a whole story by itself.

A treat to visit in this bustling metropolis is the Lady Bird Wildflower Center, down in the southwest corner of town (photo above). It is just one more of the multifarious delights evident in this diverse and complex city, epitomizing the unexpected and unusual. There is 6th Street music and nightlife, the sprawling University of Texas, and skyscrapers, along with the Colorado River in the guise of Town Lake, cutting through town. Perched on the cusp of the Hill Country, Austin’s terrain runs from rolling farmland to the east to rugged cliffs in the west side of town.

Austin was a place and a time in the years I lived there that will never be duplicated or seen again. In a way the change was inevitable, sort of like being a teenager, you can’t stay there forever. I fret that, with so many of those fascinating folks gone far too soon, all the newcomers pouring into town will fail to see and feel the essence of this amazing city.

Kinky’s book could help with that. A copy of “The Great Psychedelic Armadillo Picnic: A ‘Walk’ in Austin” should be given to every new resident. At least they would know there’s so much to look for beyond the skyscrapers and freeways.

Livin' at the End of the Road

When I seized the opportunity to buy my own piece of the Texas Coast nine years ago, I saw #1 on my living requirements list: a great place for my kitties. A place could be perfect in every other way, but if it wasn’t a good arrangement for my furry companions, it wouldn’t do. Here was no through traffic, a big shady yard, bayou behind for exploring, covered porch for sitting on and hiding under. Of course, all those aspects were great for me as well, except for the hiding under the porch.

What I hadn’t expected to find was the entertainment value of living, literally, at the end of the road. Some city work on the street-side drainage ditches awhile back made it very clear: spray painted on the street directly in front of my house were the words “Road Ends.” I suppose that was to make it clear to the equipment operators that the grassy expanse beyond the semi-paved end of the street was no longer the road.

It develops that a large sign with that same sentiment, up the street a ways, would be a good thing. Well, maybe it wouldn’t help. I’ve noticed, in various venues, not many folks actually read the notices and signs placed here and there for their benefit, such as “No printing available on this computer,” “Please use this door,” and at garage sales “These items not for sale.” The attention paid to these guides along our way seems to be seriously lacking.

Often, as I’m enjoying that covered porch with the cats, vehicles will appear from the west, going at a pretty good clip, obviously bound for someplace other than the houses on either side of the road. Most of the time the driver (or a vigilant passenger) notices the grass, trees, and church hall dead ahead, and, after screeching to a halt, make the right turn onto 7th Street, to continue trying to find their way through town. Occasionally the travelers are oblivious to their approach to the end of the road, and will be past my house and onto the meadow. Recent heavy rain will hinder the U-turn option of going back the way one came, hence numerous crop-circle-type depressions will decorate the terrain for some time. Back-ups would be recommended on most occasions, but no one asks me.

On one occasion, on a sunny afternoon, a scene straight out of a CSI show played out in front of the neighbors. The cats had the good sense to flee to their secret entry under the house, where the possibility of getting hit with flying debris is greatly diminished. First, an ordinary vehicle came hurtling down the street from the West, and made no effort to slow or avert, tore across the grassy sward, bounced through the slough, up the slope beyond, past the church hall, and ripped off to the South on 6th Street. Right behind it came a highway patrol car, and a county sheriff’s car, tearing across the grass, over the muddy hollow, up the little hill, making it past the church hall, and then off toward Bay Ave. The saving grace was that we hadn’t received 15+ inches of rain in the previous days. Or, if we had, the whole parade would have piled up in the bog, creating a whole different scenario.

Notwithstanding all of this, it’s more often than not a quiet end of the road that I have here, and I enjoy it tremendously. I DO advocate parking one’s vehicles in driveways, and off the street.

Those Sports Car Days

My writing projects and browsing through a lifetime of photo albums often go hand-in-hand. Sometimes a random thought I want to write about comes first, and I go looking for a photo to go with it, sometimes cruising through memory-laden photos inspires the writing. All those photos from my life! Which seems like it began after I divorced the husband and ran to Texas. While there were rough spots now and then, all in all I have to say I’ve had a great time these 75 years.

Once I began my tenure at G&S Typesetters in Austin in the early 1970s, newly single, I was totally focused on making a living and remaining independent. We had quite good vacation benefits at G&S, with the option of taking the time off, or taking the extra pay. For years I opted for the paycheck--what was I going to do if I took off work??? Well, that's another story for sure.

Taking the extra money gave me the great pleasure of buying a succession of 2-seater foreign sports cars. The first was a Triumph TR6, and subsequent trades brought a MGB-GT, a Triumph Spitfire (above with yours truly in her 40s), and a Fiat. All but the MG were convertibles. Foreign sports cars, to my dismay, were high maintenance, but I adored them all.

The MG was a nifty purple 2-seater hatchback, and was great for trips back and forth to Kansas (family) and New Orleans (friend). My little dachshund loved riding in the back shelf, where she could look out at where we'd been. The Spitfire was the only one I bought brand new, but didn't last long, as it appeared to have a mechanical flaw I didn't want to deal with. The Fiat carried me around while I flirted with trouble for about 8 years, until I decided it was time to grow up and have a car with air conditioning.

In the Fiat years, I turned 50, and to my consternation discovered my car insurance was going up because I was now in a high-risk group: over 50, female, single, and driving a sports car! Is that sexist or what. Yep, I inquired, and if I had still been married, or male, I would not have qualified as high-risk. I'd had only 1 speeding ticket in my life, in the MG on a trip to Kansas. I'm pretty sure the trooper gave me the ticket for 5 over the limit instead of a warning because my dachshund barked at him so severely. Hey, if I was still married to the jerk of a husband, I not only would not have had the money to be driving a foreign sports car, I would be more likely to have an accident due to aggravation and stress. I decided it was too radical to consider getting married again, and paid the extra.

In later years I had a 15-year affair with a Nissan Maxima, 4-door, 5-speed, with all the bells and whistles including moon roof and sound system that would warp road signs when playing "Like a rock" with Bob Seger. I killed it by neglecting maintenance such as timing belt, which let go at 80 mph, completely wiping out the engine, once described by a mechanic as in the realm of jet engine compared to ordinary motors. Hard lesson.

So now I drive a rather sedate 4-door sedan, with AC, but it still has a bit of the sports car feel with 5-speed transmission. It startles mechanics, who assume the old lady would be driving an automatic. I have to wonder, would I fall into that high-risk group again, at this age, if I were to break for a 1995 MG F? Perhaps no one would consider writing me insurance at all, and instead called for the men in white coats.

Life Behind the Circulation Desk

“Mitzy, you must get your shoes down from the encyclopedias!”

It wasn’t something I thought I’d ever be saying when I took on the job of manager at the Branch Library in my small town a few years ago. I have an assistant that works Saturdays, giving me 3-day weekends, and this year we've been able add a part-time worker with Experience Works. Another blessing, since it's a branch of the county library in the nearby bigger town, the technical stuff gets done there.

On particularly stressful days, I’ve even been known to answer the phone in this fashion: “Seadrift Branch Library, Baby-Sitting, and Message-taking. How may I help you?” With a smile in my voice, of course.

These aberrations from yours truly, you understand, occur in the summer months, when school is not in session. Most days, from opening to closing time, the library is thronged with children using the library and staying cool, and my full attention is required to schedule time on the computers (an hour if others are waiting) and maintain a semblance of order, hopefully preventing out-and-out riot. In all fairness, I’ve only had to call the City Police once this summer.

Materials have to be checked out when presented, of course, regardless of mayhem. Other ordinary, on-going librarian duties have to get done when a snatch of time presents itself. It’s not wise to take my eyes off the children for any extended period.

These duties include reshelving returned materials and keeping the shelves in order, preparing book orders, making reminder calls about overdue books and fines, weeding out little-used and worn items to make room for new, processing donated books and movies, preparing periodical lists for processing, filling out time sheets and community service reports, repairing book, DVD and CD covers that were returned ripped and torn or merely run down at the heels. There are faxes to send, copies to be made for patrons, new patron cards to prepare, and research for requested information. Last but not least, picking up toys, books and games thrown about, and replacing chairs and tables where they belong. And, there is getting those shoes off the encyclopedias.

Now, I’m not complaining. Well, maybe just a little. Mostly I love the job: no commute to another town, a comfortable place to work, surrounded by and dealing with books, one of my very favorite things. The county library director comes over once a week with our new materials, and she is an absolute delight for a boss, giving me full support and guidance to do the best job I can.

It would make everything go a lot better if every now and then, a parent would give me a word of appreciation for looking after their children six and seven hours a day. The little devils are waiting at the door for me when I arrive to open up, and I have to scoot them out the door when it's time to close. Sometimes they've been dropped off by a family member with a car, but mostly they walk and ride their bikes over. Population of the town is around 1,800. Some days it seems like children using the library comprise half of that number.

It’s great our tiny town has a facility where the children can play inside out of the weather. Let’s face it, there are not many options in town. We don't have a movie theater, or a mall. We DO have, however, a brand new playground and skateboard park, and we have a bayfront park with new playground equipment, an open-air pavilion, and a couple of nets for various games. Being water-front on a bay, there's a lot of fishing going on, from children right on up to old folks. I get a kick out of hearing all the fishing stories. Yes, from the children right on up to my contemporaries!

Great support from the community is enjoyed by the library. A contingent from the local elementary school had a "Community Heroes" promotion, and came around to City Hall, Fire Department, City Judge, County Commissioner, and the Library, with a poster declaring us heroes for our community involvement.

Once we move the library into the larger building that is currently under renovation, we hope to be able to do so much more than we can now. Plans include a separate TV room, a game area, a little stage for presentations, separate computer areas for adults and children. With more space we can have reading hours and activities year-round. The aforementioned budget cut is worrisome. I'm afraid there will not be the additional full-time staff person that was promised.

Of course, as with any facility dealing with the public, it's the troublesome few that make it difficult for everyone. The way big majority of the children at the library are an absolute joy. Primarily they are just noisy! I've not found any way to impress upon them that a library is supposed to be quiet. Just when I think I can't take it any more and it's time to retire again, one of the wee darlings will pipe up: "Oh CJ! You are the best librarian! Thanks for letting us finish our game before you close."

Ah, well, I'm such a sucker for a sweet little smiling face and sparkling eyes.

Library Budget Cuts

I'm mad as h#*l -- and you know me, I'm not going to just sit back and be quiet. Got word yesterday that the County is cutting the budget for the county libraries by 10%. Do you have an opinion on that? Would you let the powers that be know how you feel? Without firing someone, we will probably have to reduce open hours, trim budget for books/DVDs, provide even less services than we do now. All four libraries in the county: main library and 3 branches.
OK, so the county is tight for money. I want to know what research has gone into the decision as to where to cut. I want to know what other services have been cut and how much.

Please let me know how you feel, what ideas you might have to help with this challenge, and DO let EVERYONE know your opinions!

We need MORE open hours and activities for our children, NOT LESS. The bad guys are out there, ready and anxious to provide them with nurture of a sort, inspire them to illegal activities, and give them a home that's called a gang. Then there is the larger facility under renovation up the street. We're going to move into a larger library, and there will be NO additional staff hired? Sounds like all of us are going to be asked to work harder and do more, for less money.

We have excellent Boy Scout troop, church programs, and the new D.I.V.A.Girls. But it is ALL necessary. Reducing what we have in place at the library NOW is wrong, wrong, wrong.

And I DO NOT want to hear, once again, that the librarian needs to shut up.
CJ (Carol J. Garriott)

Thwarting People's Expectations

I have to smack myself to keep from continuously editing what I’ve written, even after posting it somewhere or printing it in “Livin’ on the Bay.” Even e-mails! I can always see something that could be phrased better. Curse of the typesetter/writer/proofreader.

After reading and hearing the comments (thanks, everybody!) on “On Life and Love,” I remembered something I wish I’d included in it. A quote from a book by one of my favorite authors, Robert B. Parker (thanks for the adventures, Robert, may you rest in peace). Page 130 of “Early Autumn” has a dialogue between our hero and a young friend. It goes like this:

Our hero: “. . . I work too hard to thwart people’s expectations.”

Young friend: “I don’t get it,” Paul said.

Our hero: “The point is not to get hung up on being what you’re supposed to be. If you can, it’s good to do what pleases you.”

Now I tell you, does that sound like something I would write? Truer words were never spoken. I spent entirely too many years in my youth, trying to be what I thought I was supposed to be. I’ve come to the conviction that, to have something truly worthwhile to offer those you love, you have to take care of yourself, be yourself, totally apart from what others would expect of you. You can be, and have to be, unique!

Some would call this being selfish, I suppose. I liken it a bit to what the flight attendant tells you when an airliner is taking off. RE: in case an emergency requires usage of oxygen masks, everyone with children must put their own masks on first, then assist your toddler. You have to take care of yourself first, because if you pass out, you will be no help to your little nipper.

One more thought before I head out into my day. When I’m on the road by myself, my mind runs to the oddest things. Coming out of P.L. again (I appear to do a lot of that!), I glanced over at this old house that was in the process of being torn down. It seemed to be taking them an inordinate amount of time to do so. My fanciful mind brought up the thought that it was like they only went over there when they needed a board for something, and would just rip one off.

Now to launch into a Tuesday. I’ll swing by the Bayfront, to see how many boats in The Texas Water Safari have made it in, then head to the library. Have a great day, everyone.

Giving Meteorologists Fits

For the February, 2010, Livin' on the Bay, I had started no less than three Coffee Chats. Maybe I could have stirred them all together. My little paper was coming out so late, you’d think I could have come up with a column. Hey, it was a hard, cold January.

I had the second one about 80% done, and then I opened the Victoria Advocate on Wednesday.

You all no doubt know how obsessed I am with the weather. So I jump on an article--not only on the front page and above the fold, but top of the left column.

Headline goes for a grabber: “Region braces for freeze.” Now, we go out and get our daily papers when we arise in the morning, unless, of course, we work a night shift (I've done that--5 p.m. to 2 a.m. for 5 years!). First line reads: “A freeze warning is in effect from 3 to 9 a.m. Wednesday.” So, if we weren’t already prepared for a freeze, it’d be a tad late for the warning when we read the morning paper? Ah well, we are so used to instant news on TV and the net.

Three paragraphs or so of the article go into the forecast for the next 2 days, with probabilities of rain, snow, sleet, cold, dark of night.

Now for the part that had me laughing so hard I scared the cats.

A National Weather Service meteorologist is quoted as saying, “From Cotulla to the Goliad area, there’s a slight chance for anything to happen.”

Talk about nailing it! You know, I imagine just about any moment in time there would be a “slight chance for anything to happen”! Then she compounds the consternation by going out on a limb and giving us the down and dirty:

“It would be cold enough for some wintry precipitation, but it’s kind of borderline because it could rain.”

Oh well, we probably ought to give weather forecasters a break. It has to be the worst job in the universe. If they come out and get specific about what they think will happen, Mother Nature will come up with just the reverse.

I gave up trying to finish with something stellar and riveting, and went with a short column. There ARE times when you just can't top some confounding words in the daily newspaper.

New Eyes on the World

I’m looking at the world with new eyes these days.

I’ve known for a long time that I see things along the literal highways of my life that others do not. When I was commuting to Port O’Connor a few years back, I would be struck by an arrangement of vines in a dead tree that resembled nothing so much as a huge brontosaurus, long neck stretched out, lumbering across the salt flats.

My imagination seems to run rampant when I’m held captive by the confines of a vehicle and my mind is like a search engine such as google, seeking something, anything, more interesting than the asphalt stretching out in front of me.

What makes the difference in people, that they see (or not see) different things when out and about?

I suppose it depends a lot on what other distractions or items of concern are whirling about in one’s brain at any one given time. You may be thinking about the job, or a project or relationship that is troubling you, and thus focused inward, not noticing much around you.

You may be a bird-watcher, on the alert for glimpses of a new feathered friend to add to your life count, thus focused outward, more likely to take notice of passing scenery.

There are times when I have been so full of joy about my life, my friends, my place in the world, and I think that makes me more aware of every aspect of my environment. It’s like I’m in tune with the world.

What about folks who are ill? Does one’s physical condition affect one’s observations and awareness of what’s around? Say, for whatever reason, one’s mood is either good or bad. That would make a big difference as well, I would think. An attribute of myself that is sometimes a good thing, and sometimes not so good, is my ability to sort of put myself in someone else’s place. Empathy, according to the New World Dictionary, is “the projection of one’s own personality into the personality of another in order to understand him better; ability to share in another’s emotions or feelings.”

This process can be rather devastating when the other person is undergoing great stress of some sort, say, after Hurricane Katrina, or 911 in New York. However, it can be very helpful in understanding.

In the pursuit of trying to understand the ramifications of a terrible disease to a dear friend of mine, I’m now looking at the world with new eyes. I’m trying to think what the world would be like if I was no longer able to do the things I’ve done all my life: drive a car, do my work, compose and type a story, do my laundry, decide what to wear each morning, cook a meal, read a book, be in control of every aspect of my life. But worst of all, for a time, I would be cognizant that I no longer know how to do any of those things.

What vicious, despicable, vile disease could possibly take all this away from one? Leaving one despairing, confused, so terribly lost? Never to see the world as before?

Its name is Alzheimer.

On Life and Love

“He stopped loving her today.
They placed a wreath upon his door.
And soon they’ll carry him away.
He stopped loving her today.”

George Jones was wailing out of the speakers when I walked in to my ex-husband’s funeral a number of years back. His brother had chosen the music.

Well, it was true. I suppose, in his way, he had loved me. He just didn’t know how to show it. Indeed, he never knew what to do with me. I was not the subservient, obedient homemaker with no opinions about anything, like his mother, that he expected.

And yes, I cried that day at his final services, in spite of the heart-ache, distress, even fear, he had caused me over those 17 married years and especially after I cut and ran to Texas. I still remembered the young man who had hopes and dreams for his life. It was very sad that he was never able to achieve them, or have a happy life.

Life is such a funny thing. In our youth, we think we know it all. We charge more or less blindly into our future, and about all we have to guide us is what we are expected to do.At least in my day (maybe not so much any more), expectations for girls was to graduate high school, get married, and have babies. In that order.

I aimed for that expectation, tho a tad late by not marrying until age 20, to the 2nd man that asked me (and that’s a whole other story!). But children didn’t happen, for whatever reason. I wasn’t terribly concerned about that, I merely thought it was what I was supposed to do. As aunts, cousins, and “friends” began to inquire, I fessed up to really not caring if I had children or not. Well, let me tell you, in the 50s, if you didn’t want children, you were considered a communist or a pervert or both!

I have to say, I worked at my marriage. For years I tried very hard to be what I thought my husband wanted: a version of a “trophy wife,” someone who would remain in the background, looking pretty, complementing him, maintaining a nice home, meals ready whenever he deemed to come home, without ever expressing an original idea of my own. Does it sound like the CJ you know? No, and it didn’t work, just made both of us miserable.

Why did I stay for all those years? That’s what one did. At the wedding, you vowed “for better or worse.” Divorce was not a readily considered option in those days.

Finally, the realization sank in that if I was to have any kind of life for the woman I was, I had to flaunt convention and launch out on my own. It was the beginning of “love many, trust few, always paddle your own canoe,” i.e., be very cautious where you place your trust, take care of, be responsible for, yourself. Accept help when necessary, but do not depend on others for your finances or your happiness.

Coming back from PL the other day, I noticed a highway sign as I turned from 35 onto 101. In big green letters, I kid you not, it read, “Rough Road Ahead.” Now, if there could have been a few of those tossed out along the freeways of my life! Maybe I wouldn’t have done anything different, but at least I would have been warned. I think such a sign should be mandatory in front of every wedding chapel in the country.

Lyrics that resonate with me these days are along the lines of one of my favorites from Vince Gill:

“You just never know
How tomorrow will go
So let’s make sure we kiss goodbye.”