Are they Brats or Simply Bored Children?

Posted on August 25, 2011 by This Woman Writes

I just spent 90 minutes in a 12 x 15 room with a bored two-year old.

It’s not enough that the room didn’t have toys and books, it also didn’t have padded walls, which I would have used even if the Toddler did not.

Madonna and Toddler, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

What it did have was a flat screen, and apparently the idea was this:

While one family member disappears to the back room for an unspecified time with a dental professional, the rest of us read tattered fishing magazines or watch educational fare on the screen.

I’m sure you can guess how well the fishing magazines went over with both of us, but does it surprise you to learn that the Toddler was uninterested in obscure miniature monkeys of Borneo?

Well the receptionist was flabbergasted, having changed the movie several times for another small person, a bored four-year-old who, after 80 minutes, was probably wondering if she was an orphan.

“Now just sit here and watch the movie until your mother comes out,” the woman instructed the child.

Sumptuously attired in a red princess dress with velvet sleeves and tulle skirt, the four-year-old twirled around the room, skipped into the wall, then pirouetted in front of me and demanded,

“Doesn’t this look like a wedding dress?” which led me to believe that she wasn’t interested in the miniature monkeys of Borneo either.

Little One, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

But for a glorious 15 minutes, she and the Toddler clambered over chairs, peered out the window, and stuffed their arms through the mailbox slot, which I agree with them was the most interesting element of the room.

In other words, they behaved like normal children in a 12 x 15 room with nothing in it but fishing magazines and a flat screen, and they didn’t sit still, and they weren’t quiet, and they didn’t just watch the movie and stop bothering people the way adults, trained to glue their eyes to the screen, expect them to.

The amazing thing about this particular office is that a healthy percentage of its clientele is under the age of 10, and while great pains are taken that the movie collection is superlative, there was not a single block, a single puzzle, a single book, a single toy of any kind to occupy a mind that races as fast as the feet that rush it around from place to place.

And so the kids climb the chairs, shove their hands through the mail slot, and act like brats, which they’re not, in this case – not only because one of them is part of my tribe – but because they’re really not interested in watching monkeys pick through one another’s hair.

This is normal, you know  — kids being active and noisy and unwilling to sit still for long periods of time, but we have forgotten this. A generation ago, parents and teachers sighed, “Kids will be kids,” and sent the beasties outside with strict instructions to run until they collapsed.

Youth, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Today, however, the default is to rely upon a screen, video drugging the culprits into submission while reassuring ourselves that we are providing rich, edifying, scholastic content. It is more important to us that our child read by three than that he can climb a tree, or that she know how to run a software program as opposed to actually run.

Or that he or she just sit still and be quiet and color within the lines. This, apparently, is how the next generation of scientists will come about.

There’s a reason God gave us kids – to keep us from being old, boring, static, dull, inactive, unengaged humans who don’t know how to skip anymore.

Awakening, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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Internet Disconnection

Posted on August 18, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Amber Waves, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

You’ll be happy to know that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with my Internet connection, even though it cuts out a dozen times in a day, sometimes, and on other days it merrily chugs along.

I would share your joy in my smoothly running variable speed situation if it weren’t for that random “cutting out a dozen times a day” part.

But the cheerful woman on the other end of the phone line — on the other end of the planet, actually — was definite that there was no problem with my modem, no problem with my connection, no problem of any sort anywhere in my vicinity, and was there any additional way that she could help me, please?

Well, no thank you, I think you’ve done about all you could do which is . . . nothing.

It reminds me of adding minutes to my month-by-month cell phone, which, when it doesn’t go right — and this is frequently — involves further conversation with friendly people living in a nation known for hot curries, Darjeeling tea, tigers, and high mountains.

Ascension, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

The positive part of all this is that I’m learning to be more patient, because it really isn’t the “Customer Service” representatives’ part, but I’d thought that, after parenting for more years than many of these representatives have been alive, I was pretty easygoing in my pushy, thrusting, aggressive way.

“The Internet’s out AGAIN!” Tired of Being Youngest, who isn’t a parent yet (Thank God) and thereby hasn’t picked up on easygoing and patient, does not deal well with blips and bleeps.

“You’ve got to call these people and DO SOMETHING!”

I love this.

Waiting, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

The problem is, calling these people never takes under 20 minutes and rarely results in results. My latest conversation ended on this note:

Me: “Let me get this straight: because according to your information, nothing is wrong with my connection, you haven’t actually done anything in the process of this call — like press a button or jiggle a wire or write a little sticky note to upper management, and when I hang up, I’m going back to the same situation I had when I called you in the first place?”

Representative: “That is correct, Mrs. Middle Aged Plague, there is nothing wrong with your connection, and we are delighted to be your high speed Internet provider. Is there anything further that I can do to help you?”

I’m not sure what she meant about the “further” part.

It’s not so much that the young woman comes from a culture diametrically different from mine, and that, even though we’re both speaking English with drastically different accents, we’re really not communicating; it’s not even that she’s probably Tired of Being Youngest’s contemporary with about the same amount of training and experience; it’s that I Never Get My Problem Resolved.

If I lived in a non-rural area, where things like telephones, electricity, and indoor plumbing weren’t such recent additions of the last 100 years, I would find another company, but competitors aren’t muscling one another out of the way to serve a population smaller than the average urban high school.

So I pull the cord out of the modem, jiggle it around, say a little prayer, sit with the kitty and chat — it reminds me of the days that we whacked the TV on the side to get rid of the snowy screen.

Works about as well now as it did then.

Awakening, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

I’m not the only one frustrated. College Girl introduced me to Peggy on You Tube. Funny!

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Sleeping Felines and Why They’re So Important

Posted on August 11, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Garden Gatherings, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

It’s amazing what you can learn by sitting on the porch all afternoon, watching the cats.

Like this: cats sleep a lot. What is it — 18, 19 hours a day? I can understand why lions get exhausted, what with the difficulty of running down a zebra or a water buffalo, but lolling around the ceramic food dish picking out golden fishy shapes from animal cracker cows just doesn’t compare.

In frisky moments that have nothing to do with dinner, the scratching order comes into play: for some odd reason, Edward the Thug decides that he’s fed up with Pyscho-Kitty, snoozing 15 feet away, and 20 seconds later with poofs of fur floating through the air, no one’s on the porch anymore.

Later that afternoon Psycho-Kitty and Edward are entwined on the wicker couch.

One of my favorite summer activities is sitting in the sunshine with my knitting, while felines, canines, and chickens wander about. Ruby the Rat Dog chases off everything larger than she is, which is . . . everything; Xena the Bedraggled and Haggard Warrior Princess sits between me and the knitting needles; the Old Cat stares, rheumy-eyed, off into space and thinks of his younger days, when he spent hours gazing at the ground doing about what he’s doing now.

Reflections, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Perhaps this seems like a waste of time, and obviously, I could be inside getting things done — it’s not as if I ran out of stuff to do.

It’s also not that, when I’m not busy, I’m not doing anything. I just look like I’m not doing anything.

For most of us, the brain never turns off. And even when, like the Old Cat, we  seemingly stare off into nothingness, we’re tucking away little facts here and there for future use.

Do you know that, even though she is the smallest cat on the farm, Mia The-Me-and-Me-Alone never runs when she is threatened — even by the far larger What-Has -She-Done-Now-Dammit Roxy the Boxer/Lab?

And that Roxy will not stand up to Ruby the Rat Dog? Ruby commandeers the giant dog bed, while Roxy sighs, grunts, and flops down in front of the door.

Ruby, however, won’t fight with a chicken. If the fowl old bat doesn’t run but looks down her beak with that Evil Primeval Eye, Ruby quavers off.

Ruby, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Watching this interplay, I interpolate that even small, weak beings can dominate over brawny big ones:  if you hold your ground, keep the fear out of your eyes, and don’t give in — you can keep from being run over.

Sometimes, though, if you’re dealing with a particularly large and aggressive chicken, it’s best to be somewhere else, quickly.

I’m sure that I could have learned about this in a sociology class or at a seminar on bullying or from a psychology textbook, but I didn’t. I picked it up by sitting on the porch, letting my mind idly drift, and gently observing the seething, swarming mass of animal energy pulsating around me.

Which brings me to my point, and I do have one:

It’s Back to School Time, in case you haven’t noticed the ads for crayons and notebooks and clothes and dorm furniture, and there’s the yearly lament about how much math the kids have forgotten over the summer, or how they’ve been throwing rocks in the river or at each other instead of reading Pearl S. Buck’s Good Earth, or how they’ve been staying up and sleeping in too late, and they just haven’t been learning.

But they have, even if it’s nothing more than that while Eddie the Thug is indisputably butt ugly and mean, he snuggles as well.

Ruby the Rat — small, skinny, and shaky — can chase off a deer.

Deer above Dixie, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

An aggressive goose is more menacing than a Doberman.

These are things that — unlike the purpose of logarithms (is there one?) — you never forget, and they are things that cannot be expressly taught. They are absorbed via mental osmosis during those times in which we are not doing anything particularly useful or educational.

Rather than harangue on about longer school days and more of them, perhaps we adults can think back to when we lolled in the grass, staring at the clouds and perfecting our tan. Was that so very bad?

Would it be so very bad if we did it again sometime?

Clouds, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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Men Are from Mars; Women Are from Earth

Posted on August 4, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Pamplona Plaza, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

I know that we’re not supposed to observe, much less talk about, the differences between men and women, but no place are they more obvious than behind the wheel of a car.

Okay, so the bedroom runs a close second, but I don’t want to get in to, or out of, that.

I was departing on one of my nameless and numbing errands the other day when I noticed that the arrow was pointing to E, which I’m pretty sure has something to do with the word Empty, but according to the male in my life, the Norwegian Artist, E stands for Easily, You’ve Got Three or Four Gallons in There.

“You don’t have to worry until the little light comes on, and even then there’s nothing to panic about.”

I suppose that hiking three or four miles to the nearest gas station produces no lasting harm, but all the same, I prefer spending five minutes at the pump as opposed to an hour walking in them, or in flip flops, because I’m sure that the engineers were serious when they set up the sensor to alert you when you have one gallon tinkling around in there.

Rugosa Rose, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

One time, we were 25 miles from our destination when the Norwegian Artist observed,

“The little light’s on.”

I stiffened.

“Nothing to worry about. We’ve got easily a gallon left, maybe more.”

I’m not listening, rapidly calculating the distance to our destination (25), the miles to gallon (35) and finding a cushion of 10 to be uncomfortably thin.

“Of course, that depends upon how long the light’s been on,” he continued. “I just now noticed it, but it could have been on for awhile.”

Less than 10.

“No need to worry. What happens happens.”

Most of the time it’s wonderful to be married to an easy going man. Given that the Norwegian Artist spent two years bicycling from Alaska to Argentina, it’s no wonder he has no problem strolling to the nearest gas station with an empty water bottle, and I do, after all, have my knitting to occupy me, but I find myself staring at too many trees and not enough signs of human habitation.

Youth, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

“Beautiful scenery.”

Indeed.

The only good thing about the situation is that Tired of Being Youngest, who hyperventilates when the needle drops off of the F, is not behind us, rapidly losing her self control. But come to think of it, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, since she could burst out with all the things that I am too wise to express aloud myself.

Body language must be pretty loud though, because the Norwegian Artist glances sideways at me and smiles.

I’m still subtracting 25 from 35, and I’m still coming up with 10, when Gracious Mercy Me Thank You God a ratty, dumpy, lean-to shack with gas pumps in front and a bored attendant slouching against the grease-grimed windows comes into view, and the Norwegian Artist says exactly what I know he’s going to say:

Wading, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

“We’ve still got a little gas left; we could make it to a better station and save 10 cents a gallon.”

He’s joking. He must be. You’d think that after 28 years I’d have figured the man out.

And I say what he knows I’m going to say:

“You’ve got to be kidding. Do you really want to spend another ten minutes with me in this state in this car?”

The Dump, normally something I would avoid because I don’t want to catch a communicable disease, is still a Dump, but by God it’s got a working gas pump, and we’re going to use it.

As we drive off, needle pointing to F, the Norwegian Artist comments,

“We still had a quarter of a gallon. That’s eight miles worth.”

Men aren’t from Mars. They’re from some far off planet, light years beyond Pluto.

Moonlit NIght, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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Jiminy Crock Pot! We’re Eating Hot Food Again!

Posted on July 28, 2011 by This Woman Writes

The Fruit Vendor, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

This last month I discovered the existence of the crock pot.

No, not crack pots. Very funny.

I’m talking about the slow cooker, which, theoretically one fills with goodies at the beginning of the day, plugs in, and walks away while the veggies and the meatsies burble away until evening, when one wanders back in, lifts the lid, and says, “Mmmmm. Dinner’s ready guys!”

I played with the crock pot years ago, back when they were considered a modern convenience, but gave up because I wasn’t impressed with the sad gray mass of soggy drippings awaiting at day’s end.

Lately, though, with dinner more often than not consisting of graham crackers with peanut butter and a glass of milk, I started longing for a hot, savory meal, even a gray one, that would cook while I worked.

And when I stumbled on America’s Test Kitchen’s Slow Cooker Revolution in the library, I was bought, sold, trussed and tied. There’s a picture of lasagna on the cover that looks nothing like graham crackers, and the photos inside had me reaching for the phone so I could find some place to call and order what I was looking at.

I spent a serious Sunday on the hammock reading every single recipe and making a list. I spent hours  tracking down Thai green curry sauce, lemon grass, golden raisins and portobello mushrooms.

Waiting, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Oh, and I also picked up a crock pot. Not the $129 model that the book recommended, but the $20 special, which, as the book warned, runs a little hot, so that my Low is High and my High is Extra Crispy, and there’s no way I’ll put something on in the morning at any setting and recognize it by 5 p.m.

So it’s not a Slow Cooker, necessarily, as it is a Rather Quick Cooker, but since I’ve got the $20 invested, along with the groceries, I’m coping.

And we’re eating hot food again.

Thai, Mexican, Italian, German, Moroccan, Chinese, and Biblical, the latter being Shepherd’s Pie, and what’s more Biblical than that other than pottage, but who wants to eat pottage especially when it’s made in a crock pot?

Along the way I’ve discovered a novel concept that has never been a part of my cooking experience, and this is actually following the recipe. I learned to not follow a recipe from my mother when I was a teenager getting to know Betty Crocker:

Tropical Medley, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

“Mom? What are pimientos?”

“Are you making that tuna casserole recipe? For God’s sake, just put tuna in it. Pimientos are slimy things in jars and they don’t belong in tuna casseroles.”

“It calls for green peas.”

“Green beans will work.”

“Cream of Celery soup?”

“Don’t have any. Use Mushroom.”

“Corkscrew noodles?”

“Noodles are noodles. There’s a half pack of macaroni in the back of one of the cupboards. Oh, and I don’t think we have any tuna. Use Spam.”

It’s a wonder that anything I make looks, or tastes, like the recipe title.

But since crock pot cooking carries the risk of being distressingly unappetizing even when you do follow the recipe, I thought it worthwhile to disregard my mother’s teaching for this one endeavor and slavishly do what I was told — by the cookbook, not my mother.

Now generally, when you disregard what your mother says, you pay dearly, but this time — this ONE Time — I successfully ignored my mother (don’t make a habit of this), followed the recipe exactly, even down to not replacing anything with Spam, and reaped compliments in abundance with happy smacky sounds, second helpings, and even verbal statements of approval.

At this rate, I may even try that tuna casserole recipe again — in the crock pot, and with pimientos, whatever pimientos are.

Washed Ashore, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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The Many Little Rules of Mini Little Minds

Posted on July 21, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Many-Hued, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

One of my collection of odd habits is writing in public places — coffee shops, libraries, hotel lobbies, haven’t done the grocery store yet, but it’s chilly in the freezer section.

There’s something about being away from the people I’m related to and eat breakfast with that unleashes my inner tappy-tapper, and most places with public computers have these satisfyingly noisy keyboards that take me back to my manual typewriter days. Part of the fun is the exasperated sighs of the people concentrating at my elbow .

I type fast and loud, in short bursts that mirror my brain activity.

But it was not my obnoxious nature that got me banned the other day from my little little hometown’s little little library.

(By the way, I’m not sure if I’m being too subtle here, but in employing the word “little,” I’m not referring to population or size.)

Little Barn, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

I had an hour to spare and looked forward to ensconcing myself in the center of a large room, surrounded by computers and sighing people, nestled in the confines of one of the most embracing places on earth: the public library.

“Sorry.”

The young woman at the front desk was an exchange student from another continent, exceedingly pleasant but unfamiliar with the English language. Now I’m all for cross cultural connecting here, but is there possibly a better place to put a person completely unfamiliar with the primary spoken language of a geographic area other than the front desk?

Apparently management recognized the issue, which is why they paid for a second employee to sit nearby and take over.

“You live within a 50-mile radius of the library, and you do not have a card,” this new contact told me sternly.

I need to read the criminal code for this township, as I am apparently in violation of it.

“You’re right; I live 35 miles away, and I don’t have a card,” I replied. “In the past, however, I’ve checked in as a guest. Can I do this?”

“No.”

“Even though I’ve done it before?”

“The policy must have changed. I don’t know.” (Impressive training these front desk people receive.)

Well, so much for the most embracing place on earth.

Canyon Silhouettes, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

And then my Assistant to the Associate of Auxiliary Affairs added the crowning touch:

“Rules are Rules.”

And she sailed away.

Excuse me?

Did somebody 30 years my junior — and a “public” “servant” — just scold me in a manner that incompetent nursery school teachers employ with their charges?

Okay, so rules are rules, and my Untrained Diva is not responsible for policy — conveniently, the people who are never work behind desks and deal with real people, exasperating though we may be. Before I skulked out, head held high, I peeked into the mausoleum that housed 18 computers, 16 of which had no human operator.

Well no wonder policy dictated limiting the number of users.

Today I’m writing from another library — a very little one in size but not attitude — and before I signed on I asked the librarian,

“If I were from another town — say, within a 50-mile radius — would I be allowed to use the computer as a guest?”

“Of course,” she replied. With a smile, no less.

Policies are made for a reason.

My diva didn’t say that, but she could have, to which I reply, “True, to a point.”

But here’s the point: libraries are special places, filled with books and magazines and, nowadays, new technology and opportunities for people to grow and learn. I am fortunate in that I do not need to go to a library in order to access this technology, but what if I weren’t, and I lived within a 50-mile radius of this place, and I couldn’t afford the out-of-area card (which is $135, incidentally)?

And even if you drop the whole computer thing, because, after all, I could have sat down in a chair and perused a book or magazine, despite my 50-mile-radius status (at least, I think I could have; we didn’t discuss that particular policy), wouldn’t it reflect intelligent design to train employees so that they are 1) knowledgeable, 2) conversant, and 3) nominally polite?

Before I left the first little place, I did a shocking thing:

I used the bathroom. I even used soap when I washed my hands. Even though I live within a 50-mile radius and don’t have a library card.

Evening on the Willamette by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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The Great Washing Machine Adventure

Posted on July 13, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Golden Beach, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

You’ll never guess what I’m doing right now, I mean, as opposed to sitting at the keyboard writing to you.

I’m washing a load of towels. In the washing machine.

Those of you who don’t know me, or those of you who know me but don’t pay attention to me (like my progeny, sort of) won’t remember my tale of bringing the new washing machine home in the back of my compact car (Don’t Say Can’t), but I did, and the Norwegian Artist unloaded it, and he and the Son and Heir hauled out the old one, cleaned up the cobwebs, and installed my white box in shining armor while I sat in the hammock and read through the user’s guide.

Honestly, if I knew it would be so easy to replace the thing, I would have done it years ago.

As it is, the Old One and I limped along for years, and in my caretaking position I stood in front of the open lid, applying gentle pressure to the agitator so that it would work, because otherwise it weakly trembled and sighed and burped. It was only the first ten minutes or so, but it was for every load, and every load was half size.

“Are you nuts?”

Most people, other than my progeny, were too polite to voice this sentiment aloud, but eyes and eyebrows express a lot more than you think. The Norwegian Artist, knowing that as long we both shall live he wants a claim on his quarter of the bed, was more circumspect:

“We could get a new washer, you know.”

Marie, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson. Private Collection.

Yes, I know. But our generation is the product of Depression era parents, and in this generation we are working through a Recession era angst. So you use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.

The Norwegian Artist understands this, which is why he has spent the whole season mowing the lawn with a modified weed cutter, but it always bothered him when he popped over to the house for a mug of tea and found me in the nether regions, crouching over the washing machine.

“We could get a new washer, you know.”

The longer the Old One and I limped along, however, the more of a challenge it became: just how long can we keep doing this?

And the time spent with the agitator, watching it go back . . . and forth . . . and back . . . and forth . . . and —

Oh, sorry. It was mesmerizing, the sound and the movement, and I used the time to think about things, or work out a difficult piece in an article, or just blank out and watch a red sock bob around from place to place. Sort of connecting with my right brain and giving the left side, which spends far too much time analyzing and worrying, a break.

Tropical Medley, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

But speaking of break, eventually it did, but not, ironically, the washer. Just my resolve.

One Sunday reading the ads I spotted a basic, prosaic, boring box of a washer on sale for a price I couldn’t resist, and the next day found me in the store, making the sales representative’s most easy sale of the year:

“I need a washer. This one looks good. I’ll take it. Can you fit it in my car?”

In what seemed like no time to me, the new purchase was in place, and I followed the instructions step by step (yes, I realize that loading and running a washing machine seems like a straightforward affair, but have you ever watched freshmen college students in the laundromat?).

In 22 years, technology had changed a bit, and everything was done in reverse order, but I mastered the process. The first load was on — and not only did it come out pristinely clean, it was twice the size of my former loads, which were really half the size of normal, meaning that now, in more ways than one, I was back to normal.

One by one I pulled out the damp, happy garments and marveled at the ease of the whole process.

And then I tossed the clothes in the basket, marched them outside, and hung them up on the line.

Isn’t progress wonderful?

Garden Gatherings, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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Don’t Say “Can’t”

Posted on July 7, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Daybreak, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Someone suggested to me once that when you use the word “can’t,” you append the word “yet,” afterwards, as in:

“I can’t skydive . . . yet.”

“I can’t understand quantum physics . . . yet.”

“I can’t play the oboe . . . yet.”

The concept that we not limit ourselves by words is a sound one, although like any idea, it can be taken to the extremes of fanaticism.

Without being strangely compulsive, however, we have always tried to be upbeat about the resources at our disposal, using what we have to its maximum, and not wasting time grumbling about what we lack.

For years we didn’t have a pick-up, which is a handy item on acreage, but it’s amazing what you can fit into a car; we’ve carried everything from bales of hay to a full grown goat to two-dozen paintings, but not, incidentally, at the same time.

Utah Juniper, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

My latest car coup was the new washing machine, tucked into the back of the  aptly named Honda Fit — it was amusing to watch the burly appliance loaders stride out, stop short in front of this deceptively tiny vehicle, shake their heads, and run through in their minds what they were going to say to the batty broad who assured them,

“It’ll fit.”

And it did. I dropped in on Eldest Supreme at work just  so I could casually mention, “Oh, by the way, I have a washing machine in the back of the car.”

There was even room for groceries.

There’s something fun about being odd, blithely moving forward to accomplish things that  everyone says you can’t — it’s difficult to do at first, but the more you practice, the easier it gets — to the point that, when you get really good at it, you find that you’re living your own life, as opposed to vicariously existing the way the people around you think you should be.

The downside is that you are odd, out of step with the other drummers, sometimes standing alone on a side street while the rest of the town is watching the parade on Main Street.

I thought of this the other day when I was running errands and every single person I encountered asked me, “Are you going to the circus tonight?”

In the Hollow, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

What kind of Scrooge says “no” to a circus?

“How much does it cost?” I asked.

“$18 for adults, but your granddaughter would be FREE!”

One of the many skills in my repertoire is the ability to multiply a tw0-digit number by a single digit model, and $18 times four (me, the Norwegian Artist, and two progeny) plus $0 for the Toddler makes $72, which buys a lot of yarn, or, in the case of the Washing Machine Issue, meant that I stared blankly at the sales rep when he asked if I wanted to sign up for the six-months no interest plan or the 12-months one.

“If I didn’t have the money on hand to pay for this now, I wouldn’t be buying it,” I said.

After all, I’ve been holding my old washer’s hand for two years, or more aptly, applying pressure on the agitator mechanism, which doesn’t work properly unless I stand there and push down. Calling a repairman to a rural area and paying $100 up front  for the 70-mile trip means it’s worthwhile to save up and wait for a good sale, which I did.

And now, instead of a visit to the circus — which really, between animals and people and life’s circumstances I have on hand every day — I’ve got this box on the front porch, waiting for the Norwegian Artist to set down his brushes in exchange for a little aerobic activity and weight lifting.

I took a break just now to pat Edward, the Useless Porch Kitty, and then smile at the big box emblazoned with Washer/Laveuse/Lavadora.

If I get this much joy out of reading the box, then what will the actual washing machine produce?

Seriously, I think a circus would be too much for my emotional make up.

I can’t do it.

Yet.

Descent into Bryce, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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Heigh ho Silver — Away! Onward, Burnt Orange!

Posted on June 30, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Incandescence, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

For the first time in our lives, we own a car that is not silver.

Now I’m not complaining about a line of used, drab, yawningly prosaic vehicles, because I am grateful for the ability to drive 30 miles on an errand as opposed to walking it.

But I bounce in raptures looking out the window and seeing a jolly cheerful orange creature waving back.

Orange.

Effervescent, bubbly, vibrant, outrageous, easy-to-spot, sizzling and scintillating orange.

I would say one-of-a-kind orange except that, on the second day that we drove our proud, saved-up-for-years purchase down the only business district street (it’s the state highway) of our one stoplight town, I spotted the identical car — of the identical color — parked next to the dentist’s office.

To be sure I wasn’t hallucinating, I drove around the block and double checked, as did Tired of Being Youngest at my side.

Confirmed. Somebody else in the least populated county of the state owns my car.

Break in the Weather, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

To put this in perspective, we just returned from a 3,000 mile business trip to Arizona, and not once did we spot a barbecued orange model twin, until, that is, we hit hometown, at which point, somebody had the baldfaced audacity to pass us in our car.

Who are these people?

More importantly, are they good people, or bad people, and what kind of reputation are they making for drivers of orange cars?

“Oh, so you’re the person driving around in the little orange car,” the woman at the feed store commented as she heaved chicken scratch into the back of the vehicle (easy on the surface there, lady. Don’t mar it).

At that point, we had owned the car for two days, so we weren’t the people driving around in the little orange car.

Those of you who do not understand our dilemma have never lived in a town so small that one sneeze on the porch translates into stories of potential tubercular infections suffered by your family or retrieving the newspaper in your bathrobe sparks rumors about what it is you really do at night to cause you to wake up so late (8 a.m.) on a Saturday.

Dawn, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

In a small town, you don’t have to do anything outrageous to hit the top of the news chain; you just have to breathe.

For years I achieved a minor level of anonymity while driving, since an informal study done by my family reveals that 4 out of 10 drivers are in some sort of compact, silver car (the remaining six, at least in our section of the world, swagger around in shiny red or white pick-up trucks, none of which you would dare toss a dirty old piece of wood into).

I became accustomed to buzzing around without drawing too much attention to myself, and if I did something stupid, well, I could have been any one of 400 people or so.

Not so anymore. And I need to get this through my head.

The other day,  I was stuck behind one of those drivers whose mission in life is to increase the gas mileage potential and blood pressure of the rest of us by driving 15 miles per hour below the legal speed limit, regardless of what the speed limit is.

“People are in such a hurry these days,” they say to the air in general. “And they seem so angry.”

Not really. Just at you.

When the opportunity to pass came I did so, and to express my irritation I gave them the index finger because, really, I’m not going to wave around that other digit. I don’t know who they were but they’re probably related to the lady I bank with or the guy who sells me bananas and I have irretrievably but justifiably offended them, but it doesn’t matter because nobody knows who I am because I drive a little silver car like everybody else —

Bay Sunset, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Oops.

I drive an orange car.

An easily identifiable orange car.

One of two in the county.

When I realized that latter fact, I relaxed.

The driver I just offended will think that it’s the other people.

Whoever they are.

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The Summer of Our Contentment

Posted on June 22, 2011 by This Woman Writes

Dahlia Girl, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

So, I’m sitting in a parked car, doing yet another one of those 20-minute chauffeur trips for the progeny that turns into 85, and I’m bored.

Ahead of me is a van with writing on it:

Water.

Wind.

Fire.

Whoa, that’s cool. When I’m not sitting in cars, I’ve been reading the Tony Hillerman Navaho detective series, so my first thought on seeing these elemental words is,

“Harmony with nature. Hozro. So Navaho — just like in the books.”

Then I read the rest of the list:

Sewage.

Fungus.

Dry Rot.

Poof. So much for the harmony with nature part.

Thirty feet from the van, two scrubby guys take a break from FireWaterSewageMold to eat lunch, and life goes back to being boring again.

Actually, life isn’t boring, just these progeny-generated, Quickie Trippie things are.

“What’s the big deal about popping over to the grocery store and picking up some ice cream?”

It even sounds whiny on the page, doesn’t it?

Autumn Road, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

Twenty minutes there, 20 minutes back, 15 minutes in the store, and it’s the middle of the workday even though I don’t look like I work because my office is in my home and I dress casually to put it mildly but I did run a brush through my hair and slap on some makeup this morning.

Colleagues at home, I know you know what I’m talking about, even more so now because it’s summer and there are extra people in the office for the next couple months.

And if your extra people are like my extra people, they sleep late, want to know what’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner, can’t drive, and need to be taken everywhere, NOW, and I am the only legal driver that they can find.

And wherever they’re going isn’t open yet; or whoever they’re meeting isn’t there yet; or there’s construction on the only road leading to their destination; or the town is setting up its annual Vintage Car Show and has closed every exit.

At least they are old enough now that I do not have to accompany them full time to wherever they are going: for years in the summer I braved the public swimming pool during its Free Time Afternoon Play.

Coastline, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

On lucky days, another mother wrested from the computer or filing cabinet would be there, and while we tread water and attempted to talk, the town’s under 12 population jumped, splashed, spit, sputtered, yelled, and “Marco!” “Polo!”ed around us.

Now and then the bored life guard monotoned, “Emily, quick whacking Jimsie on the back of the head.”

Personally, considering that Jimsie just jumped inches from our faces, screaming like a banshee (what is a banshee, anyway? And why do they scream?), I’d say Emily’s got a point here.

Nowadays, one of my own progeny is a lifeguard, not a bored one because she is watching those noisy obnoxious things like a benevolent hawk, and I toy with the idea of showing up for lap swim, but what if I do something wrong, like swerve over into the wrong lane or something?

Will I get yelled at by my own progeny?

Water.

Wind.

Fire.

They are powerful elements indeed, but not more so than the most dominating, unrelenting, unmitigating, unmerciful element of them all (no, not two-year-olds):

Time.

It’s something I never have enough of; it’s something I begrudge when I’m sitting in the car reading the side of a van owned by someone who seriously needs to edit; it’s something that passes by every day in a circuitous cycle that finds me surrounded by sopping wet screaming children one moment, then, in another, watching my very grown up former Flaxen Toddler level a swaggering bare chested 9-year-old Tom Cruise with The Look.

Breakfast, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson. Private Collection

That’s my Look. I perfected it on this particular progeny. It’s a bit of my legacy, so to speak.

So. Time passes. Someday my chauffeur duties will end, passed on to progeny with progeny of his or her own. Nothing I can do about circumstances — but I can adjust how I regard those circumstances.

Let this be the Summer of my Content as I walk towards Hozro — harmony with nature.

Just not the dry rot and fungus part.

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