This, That, and The Other

I hate to do this. I really like to post about one thing at a time, but I can't seem to find the time to post regularly. So here goes.

This.

I feel that having knowledge that a certain vice-presidential candidate didn't know that Africa was a continent, not a country (My children, who aren't old enough to vote, know that Africa is a continent and consists of many countries.), and not telling it until after the election is a mal-practice of journalism. The idea that Fox News would save this morsel until after the election is just plain telling. Yet, I suspect people who wanted to know, could guess the state of preparation from the Katie Couric interviews.

How demeaning to our intelligence and sense of right and wrong it is to try to play off a poser on the American people for the sake of a win. What a scary thing is this lack of knowledge especially if it is indicative of the state of education in America and America's curiosity about the world beyond our doorstep. How did we get to this place? Is she really an everywoman? The world is so global now that I find it difficult to imagine how you could leave school without a clear idea of continents and countries. And if you didn't have this base information, what would make you think it was appropriate to say yes. Was it ignorance or complete lack of respect for America?

That.

Jove, who has never lacked curiosity about anything, wanted more of my opinion about the bee decline. I don't think the decline is caused by one single thing. Insects, as are most animals, able to adapt to many stressers. Noticeable problems arise when there are a combination of stresses.

Jove asked specifically about the over harvest of honey and supplementing with high fructose corn syrup. I do believe, as I preached here, that commercializing bees and feeding substandard supplements is problematic. Dragging bees all over the country in 18-wheelers for commercial pollination just seems stressful, not just because the bees are separated from natural honey and fed cheap supplements, but because with the bees in such close proximity any disease, fungus, or mite can be easily transmitted. Any problems become noticeable quickly.

Add to commercialization of the pollination business, the use of genetically modified seeds, specifically corn that produces an insecticide in the pollen, and you create an additional decline. Yet, there is one other problem. The attempt to rid the nation of mosquitoes and other insects by broadcast spraying is devastating. Even in my rural county, a grant was sought and given for mosquito control. Instead of using the grant for education (emptying standing water, mosquito biting times, and effective larva control) they bought a sprayer and drove through the county roads spraying insecticide into the air. Because of lack of education about mosquito behavior, spraying started too early thereby killing bees that were still working and was rendered ineffective because it is impossible to spray the entire county from the road. Mosquitoes instead became immune to the chemicals and West Nile Virus was not reduced, yet bees were.

The Other.

I promised a book review of David Guterson's The Other back in the summer. Here it is.

When I first began reading this book, I was a bit disappointed. I thought it was nothing more than a thinly masked autobiography. You see I have read everything David Guterson has written including the homeschool book, so I knew he was a teacher (Countryman was a teacher), lived in the Northwest (the novel was set here as his others have been), and had other basic similarities of the character. I wasn't impressed because it seemed like a loosely tied journal purge.

But I kept reading. I kept reading to find that I could have been correct, but that the quality was hypnotic. I kept reading to struggle with questions of when to intervene if friends are damaging themselves. I kept reading to struggle with questions of hypocrisy, idealism, and worth. I kept reading because I was mesmerized. I had to know what happened to the Hermit of the Hoh in his attempt to live his convictions and how Neil mollified his conscience. I kept reading because the language was beautiful.

Barracuda

dnshepard at webshots.com

• Barracudas are fearless marine fish known for their fierceness and ambush style hunting. They lie in wait and catch their prey by surprise.
• Barracudas have a large mouth filled with teeth that look like tiny daggers.
• Great barracudas don't nurture their young.
• Barracudas eat young barracudas.
• Barracudas sometimes hunt in a group by herding small fish into shallow water.
• Barracudas strike anything that moves.

With barracuda swimming around the Republican National Convention, McCain (There was a moment there that she got so excited, I think she forgot she was not the presidential nominee. Did you notice?) and the rest of the country should know the predator. Information is good. More information is better. Becky has great links, too, as usual.

I'll leave you with the lyrics of Kris Kristofferson's song Killer Barracuda which I got from here. You should hear Helen Reddy singing it.

Look into water, see the barracuda
Patient as the devil
Hanging still
Like a shadow in the water
Pretty barracuda,
Dagger of the devil
Waiting to kill

Little girl beware, of killer barracuda
He rules these waters like a king
He'll cut your heart out slicker than a dagger
Not 'cause he's hungry 'cause he's mean

You can see the shark now
Glidin' through the water
Ugly as death.
Eats anything
But the pretty barracuda, don't touch no leavins
Takin' what he wants to
'cause he's king
And you can't scare him or entice him
He won't move for the devil, 'til his own time
Then quicker than heartbeat
He'll turn you away girl just to
See you fall, and leave you dyin'

Little girl beware of the killer barracuda
He rules these waters like a king
He'll cut your heart out slicker than a dagger
Not 'cause he's hungry
'cause he's mean

Barracuda information provided by these fine sites.

Politickin'

McCain and Palin are coming to Mississippi to check on our preparations. What on earth? I just can't see what contribution they can make other than to slow traffic. If they really wanted to help they could go heave-ho some sandbags further south than Jackson or even go to Louisiana where the storm is scheduled to have the greatest impact.

Haley invited him. Funny, he didn't look like he needed any help overseeing preparations, but let's face it a hurricane is a great photo op. McCain isn't even subtle.

My parents are on their way here. Traffic is snarled.

Yellow Dog Books

Do you remember last month when I posted about the providence of finding Yellow Dog Books? I was thrilled to "have to" go to Madison, rather than Jackson for ballet simply because I knew I could walk across the street to this wonderfully personal bookstore.

Mr. W even bought me a gift card for my birthday, so I could shop without guilt.

They are closing.

They just didn't have enough business to merit hiring help, and 70 to 80 hour weeks were draining the retirement age father and mother of two small children daughter. Barnes and Noble moved a few miles from them at the beginning of the summer. I don't know if sales dropped, but I do know it couldn't have helped.

I hate that. I hate that BN advertises discounts on bestsellers creating the illusion that all books are discounted when they aren't. I hate that the perception of quantity and discounts moves us to shop, rather than quality of service shown in carefully selected titles and personal greetings.

I am so disappointed that I can barely enter the store to shop their 20-60% off every book in the store closing sale. The closing is just too depressing.

Okay, perhaps I have been able to purchase a few books.

Reconnected (Part 2)

Ever so much happened while I was unable to write. In fact I may have to write a few times a day for a while just to keep you current.

One of the biggest things for our family is that we did connect. Let me explain.

When we first moved to the hill, we bought a television antenna, but were stymied about how and where to attach it to this old house. It just didn't seem to fit and so many other things needed doing that the antenna was hoisted to the rafters of the tractor shed (now, bio-diesel shed) and forgotten for three years while we repaired fences, the roof, and cleaned up after Katrina.

As the opening ceremonies for the Olympics were being telecast, my children were sullen. "The Olympics are every four years and everybody is watching." When we went to town people kept asking, "Did you watch the ceremonies?", "Have you seen the gymnastics?", and other choice questions. My lovely children, with pitiful faces, always said the same thing, "We don't have TV. Mom doesn't like it." At this point all eyes would turn toward me. True, I hadn't missed the television, but I had never banished it, or withheld defining moments from my children. In fact, we owned an antenna. All someone had to do was install it. Since no one made an effort and I was perfectly happy without television service, I was made into the fall guy.

Neither child noticed that there was another party involved. In fact, that other party frequently made me into the fall guy, while complaining about not being able to watch sports.

Anyway.

Since the Olympics seemed so important to everyone, I suggested that since we used to have satellite internet service (before the phone company convinced me I would have better service with them) and the cable was still running from that ugly pole, hidden from view by a tree, to the house, that someone could erect the antenna in that pole. K, the action man that he is, dragged down the antenna and began assembling the unwieldy contraption. Mr. W brought home an enormous iron pole, pushed the pole into place with the help of a neighbor, fastened some wires, and like magic . . . .

We were connected to the rest of the world.

The first thing we saw was Michael Phelps swim. Every night for the remaining week and a half, we turned on the television and watched, savoring that connection to others who might be sharing the moment.

This week we watched the Democratic Convention - savoring well-chosen words and energy.

The Lowly Black-Eyed Pea

I would guess that there is not a garden in this area that does not have at least one row of southern peas, lumped affectionately together as black-eyed peas. The ones I grow are technically pink eye, purple hull peas, but fill the same niche in our garden and larder. There are subtle taste and texture differences between crowders, black-eyed, purple hull, and lady finger, so you try a few and pick a pea. You don't really need to grow more than one kind in a garden unless you want a new variety. Bees just love peas and cross pollination is a sure thing.

In the garden, peas are nitrogen-fixing legumes that are also pollen rich. They love the heat of the south and are even drought tolerate. In the larder, peas are a staple of the southern table. Eaten along with greens or ham or with just cornbread, they are rich in Vitamin A, Folate, and Calcium. They also are a source of protein.

Perhaps, if Mississippians would remember their traditional foods and shun the fast food stands, they wouldn't be the fattest Americans, again.

Today, I will salute the lowly black-eyed pea. After I shell today's harvest, I will cook some, basically unadorned, to eat with some cornbread, accented with some pepper jelly - nothing better, really. Of course, having a hunk of watermelon for dessert wouldn't be bad.

Tradition. Not always bad.

Bees in the Corn

This morning I did a hive entry check because last night, while I was sitting on the porch as a thunderstorm went right around us, AGAIN, I thought I noticed fewer bees hanging on the front of hive number 1. Fewer bees could have been caused by the cool, damp breeze blowing in or it could be a sign of trouble. Anyway, I stood around in front of the hives today and I saw lots and lots of bees with enormous panniers of pollen. See the little yellow pocket to the right of the bee. Go ahead, click the picture for a better look.

I did a quick look around and realized the corn had bloomed and the bees were sneaking over the fence to partake. The bees love this stuff, though harvesting corn pollen has no economic benefit since corn self-pollinates.

Hold up a minute. Let me climb on my stump.

Many commercial beekeepers forget this important, natural step in the hive year. When the beekeepers become paid pollinators for crops requiring insect pollination, the needs of the bees are neglected. Years ago, bees were more viable because there were more backyard keepers and farmers who kept their own pollination hives, which allows them to stay on the property for the entire year. During the stationary hive year, the bees are allowed to forage for the nutrients needed to keep healthy, while those on the road are fed inferior replacements.

If we let the bees gather corn pollen, would we be any better off? With all the genetically modified corn out there, I'm wondering if the bees need to be left to their own devices. Could the genetically altered corn be the one thing that is killing the bees?

We grow only organic, non GMO, corn here, so I let (like I am in full control of all my 120,000 plus bees) my bees eat all they want, but I do wonder about the other, not so lucky bees (I'm also lucky, none of my neighbors are corn growers). If corn is genetically altered to produce Bt in the pollen, which it is, then is not the pollen an insecticide?

Perhaps cheap corn isn't as cheap as it seems.

Bloom

I changed my background color to match the blush roses climbing on my fence. I'm sure I showed them last year. Yes, here they are. This year I have even more, despite my lack of knowledge in the rose training area. Despite my lack of tender loving care, these heirloom roses that I started from cuttings are growing prolifically. A few buds were burned in the last frost, but most are near perfect?

Weeding the fence behind the roses is no walk in the park. Let me tell you. But having a wall of roses will be something to behold.

Do you think climbing roses are ugly in the off season? I've thought about this more than once, because I was thinking of growing them on all the fences, but they do look a bit unruly.


I'm knitting a sweater for my self with a silk, cotton yarn of this color (If you're a Ravelry person, you can see the details there. I'm tbwisteria). The yarn is expensive, not the most expensive by any means, but every 3 inches of sweater costs around $13 (I'm knitting in the round). Y'all needn't remind me that when I'm through knitting I will have spent a pile of money. You also don't need to remind me that I could have gone to a nice store and bought a similar sweater for less. I know. I know. The same goes for all the clothes I make for myself and princess, and for most home decorating projects.

What I do want to know . .

How is it that our raw materials prices have gotten so high, while our finished goods prices are lower? Much of the fabric and yarn are made with the same cheap labor used to make the finished goods. When I was young, many people sewed so they could have nice clothes cheaply. Wearing handmade clothes to school was not necessarily a positive. Now the only clothes that are more expensive than handmade are couture, which of course are handmade by the popular crowd.

Distressing.

Which leads us to the question of the day? Why do I do it? Why does anyone do it?

Does watching fabric grow beneath your needles from wonderful yarn have a price? Does creating a perfectly fitting garment have a price? Do I knit and sew for process? If I did, couldn't I just use some cheap stuff?

I noticed in the magazine, Interweave Knits (Winter 2007, because, yes, I am that far behind) which contains the pattern for my sweater, that Jove was quoted in the web watch section:

Since I have started knitting lace, I have found a use for the product. I now wear shawls. And have given shawls to people as gifts. . . . So while I knit lace primarily for the process, there is still some part of me that needs to see a use for the product.

Yep, at $13 plus dollars every three inches, finding a use for the product would be all important.

Handmade

Some time last month while my husband was away, the children and I were all snuggled in my bed reading. Princess asked, "Which is your favorite flower?" At first I began thinking of peonies, azaleas, wisteria, irises, roses . . . Then I realized she wasn't talking about botanical flowers, but the quilted flowers on the Grandmother's Flower Garden quilt on my bed.

We studied the flowers and each picked a favorite and while choosing the flower of the moment talked about the time and effort spent, and the number of stitches Grandmother Florence stitched creating this beautiful quilt, one of many. This quilt was pieced by hand in 1931 by Grandmother Florence and quilted by hand by Grandmother Florence and her mother in 1932. When she gave it to me about twelve years ago, she tried to instill in me the value of her time and the quilt with detailed care instructions. She needn't have wasted her words. I knew.

After Mr. W. and I got married, we visited her and I admired her quilts. I decided to try to make one, a garden quilt. She instructed me on stitch size, keeping the stitches even, seam allowance. To create is art, but is also labor. The next trip home, I brought my work. I watched in horror as she disassembled entire flowers, critiquing technique, while explaining that the piecing had to be near perfect especially at corners for durability. I knew she was correct.

Durability. How many things in your home do you still find beautiful and useful after 76 years? How about after ten years? one year? six weeks? one week? I've been thinking a lot about this quilt, constructed of bits and pieces during the depression. In fact, I am inspired to make more life changes because of it.

I want fewer things, beautifully made. I want honest products. I want to make things my children will value. I want my life and all the things in it to be like this quilt - as practical, durable, and beautiful as the lady who made it. Though she died last year at 101, her legacy of practicality, of quality, honest work, of beauty will live through me.

Pet Peeve

I wanted to write about something positively uplifting tonight - perhaps another of my favorite things, but I was caught in traffic on the way home from Nutcracker rehearsal and have just walked in the door. My delay gave me fodder for this daily madness for which I have dedicated myself, so all is not lost.

There were apparently two accidents on I-20. My husband called at ballet and told me about them (heard about them on the radio) and suggested I go around. I got distracted leaving the Arts Center and got swooshed out onto the interstate going straight for the accidents. Traffic came to a standstill immediately. I started trying to think of another way to go around the accident, but there wasn't really much I could do for a mile or so. It took me about 30 minutes to go the mile. I had a lot of time to watch people in that thirty minutes. What I saw wasn't particularly positive.

First of all, why do people insist on rushing at full speed down a lane that is obviously closed, just so they can get in line ahead of all the others who are waiting, just so they can wait? Do they not know that merge lanes in accidents are to help ease traffic flow? Can they not understand the concept of the time wasted when they have to needle their way back into the slow moving traffic, especially when those people they need to let them in are annoyed because they went around? Do they not realize that they have gained only a few seconds of drive time?

Secondly, when eighteen wheelers need to get over they need more room than a VW Beetle. Wouldn't traffic flow better if that eighteen wheeler was allowed some space to make a safe transition? When a truck and trailer turn on a blinker they are asking for a kindness. Why is everyone in such a hurry to wait that they can't help someone?

Lastly, why do so many people insist on using the shoulder to try to speed ahead of all the patient souls who are trying to help by maintaining discipline during a frustrating situation? Don't you realize that the shoulders are used by the emergency vehicles and that if you and your 100 friends are in the way the tow trucks behind you won't be able to get to the accident to clear it quickly? Don't you realize that the added time for ambulances to get to the scene could be someone's life?

Maybe driving a happy, yellow bug car is responsible for my positive attitude, but gracious sakes alive I can just visualize a happy roadway in which everyone works together so bad situations are less stressful for everyone. I honestly think everyone would get home sooner.

Second Chance

I have been playing catch-up all day. My time spent away from work is showing in the piles on my desk and a to-do list that seems never ending. I started on one project - my least favorite- and while I was steadily working my way through a mail campaign list, a representative from a magazine starts emailing and calling asking for an ad that is obviously due, though when I bought the ad on Friday the art due date wasn't mentioned. I didn't answer the phone. I didn't respond to his email. He just kept emailing - over and over. Then he emailed and asked if I needed help with the ad.

I'm not sure why, but the last email struck a nerve. I clicked the respond button and tapped out a pert and somewhat snarky retort in which I may have mentioned the insignificance of his publication. Then, I clicked send.

For some unknown reason the email system had a momentary glitch and I got a warning asking if I'd like to send the mail later or use one of my other servers. REPRIEVE! I immediately deleted the email and started working on the ad because I knew he was just doing his job and though there was an obvious miscommunication about the art deadline, it was probably not his fault. I have since emailed the ad with a short note thanking him for his patience.

I'm glad I got a second chance. But isn't that weird?? What are the chances that an email doesn't go through right at the moment you said something totally unprofessional and completely inappropriate?

Voted

I just got back from the polls. Mississippi had some state contests and there were many county races. When I go to the polls I have a feel good, patriotic spirit. I took the children and I felt good about that too. Yet, when I walked away from my polling station, I felt let down. I've felt this way for the last few elections. Though I made choices, they didn't feel like real choices. Actually, in many of the races there was no choice - one candidate only, but that's not what I mean. Will choosing one candidate over the other really bring about change or even make a difference? Is there enough difference (besides sex, hair color, weight, height and what not) between our local candidates to even notice?

Maybe next year.

Shore Books

Last time I was at the beach, I read two books - the first book I purchased on the way down and the second was in the bookcase just waiting. Funny thing, both the books had similar themes that when combined moved me to think thoughtfully about my own life.

Between the Tides by Patti Callahan Henry was the book I bought because I walked past it in the bookstore seeing the word tides and a white crinoline showing beneath a child's white skirt. You know it looked and sounded beachy.

William Shakespeare wrote "What is past is prologue." Between the Tides explores the reality of the middle ground between the past and future, between high tide and low. Nine months after her father's death, Catherine still could not bring herself to sprinkle the ashes in the Carolina Low Country river of her childhood as her father wished. By sending his daughter back to her childhood home he hoped that she would be able assuage guilt, find truth, and change her perceptions, so that she could live fully in the future. Encouraged by Forest Anderson, her father's assistant professor, Catherine makes the trip, finds answers, and is able to embrace her true self and a future full of love and expectation.

Having heard of The Mermaid Chair by Sue Monk Kidd, yet knowing nothing of it, I picked it up to finish out my weekend of relaxation. Jessie Sullivan goes to the Barrier Islands of South Carolina to care for her mother who has intentionally severed a finger while cooking at a monastery. Though being contentedly married for years, Jessie falls in love with a monk who has not yet taken his final vows. Through this love she reignites her life and breaks out of her metaphorical box. In the end, she decides to reunite with her husband, but before she does she makes a commitment to herself.

OK, I guess everyone is wondering what sprinkling the ashes of a father and an affair with a monk have in common. Seeing it written does make it seem more improbable, yet each of these women chose a safe place, rather than finding a place of growth and full living. Each put life and love on hold while living a truncated life. True, one was trapped by the past and the other trapped by the needs and routines of life with a family, but what each failed to do(and in my opinion what many women fail to do) was to devote time, space, and energy to nurture herself.

There is a scene at the end of The Mermaid Chair when Jessie walks out into the water to complete a ritual that she had seen her mother and her mother's friends perform when she was young in which they tied some yarn together and cast it to the sea to show an enduring bond between the friends, but instead of making a vow to family or friends she makes a commitment to herself - a commitment to make room for her inner spirit.

I let the demands of family, work, and home smother the person I am. Even without having an affair with a monk or losing a parent I realize that I, too, need to commit to myself. I think I will walk to the top of the highest hill on our farm in the almost full moon, tie a knot in a ribbon and cast it into the breeze, thereby vowing to make a little time for me - not the mother me, not the wife me, not the daughter me, not the sister me, not the useful at work me. What about you?

A Few More Days of Summer

I drove south to capture a few more days of Summer at the beach. We left after ballet on Thursday night from the city, which is not my usual path and I learned so many useful travel lessons on the way.

1. Never leave the house without a map - a real map - if your route is not as familiar as the back of your hand. Looking at a MapQuest map minutes before you leave doesn't count because even if it looks like a straight shot that any fool could find blindfolded, chances are once the journey begins the Highway 49s and 59s will get confusing, bypasses will become available that look similar to the roads you actually need to use, and the food and bathroom needs of your 8 year old passenger will require you to get off the path.
2. Your vision of what things should look like and how things appear in the dark are two different things. Road signs seem to fly by in head-lighted, heavy traffic of metropolitan areas. Chances are you will miss the turn and not recognize landmarks that would guide you in daylight. Bring a map so you will know for sure.
   
3. Even if you think your sisters will be available for a directional consult since the route is their usual, don't count on it. It is possible that they have a life separate from yours in which they have school conferences, meetings, and other activities. They may not answer their phone, bring your own map.
4. Sometimes logic doesn't rule road size. Any reasonable person would assume that as you draw nearer to a major city the number of lanes would increase rather than decrease. Yet they don't. When the lane number decreases and the only signs are for the Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail, a map would be handy to avoid that chest tightening, forward leaning panic that arises when you've already been on one too many wrong roads and the clock is moving closer and closer to a new day.
5. Finally, if you don't have a map, don't be tempted to cut through on rural roads to make it back to the major highway for which you missed the exit 10 miles back. It's just not worth it. Unfamiliar backroads dimmed by darkness may not go all the way through making it necessary to get on other backroads, and then other backroads. While this exploration may be a fun-filled adventure during the daylight hours, when driving at night with a child who is rightfully worried that you don't know where you're going, it's not a good idea. Lose the 10 miles and backtrack.

You would think, after all these lessons, I had a miserable trip down, but I didn't. All the snafues (Can I use snafu that way? I doubt it.) began to be funny. By the time I got to where I knew the way for sure, I could barely drive for laughing. At least, I didn't get sleepy and clean the ditches for the Department of Transportation. But seriously, bring a map, a full sized, detailed one. Who knows, you may not need it, but you may.

Chicken Wisdom

Chickens have a reputation for being stupid. Though some of their antics appear foolish, I have found watching their interactions and behaviors gives great insight into human deportment. I'm not joking. Really.

Take this rooster for example. He is the same Buff Catalana rooster featured on my banner art, only now he is in molt which leaves his tail feathers and the rest of him lacking a bit.

Funny thing. He knows it.

He is not the same rooster when not fully plumed. He is not as haughty. He is kinder with the hens, not chasing them down for a quickie. He doesn't scream "Look at me!!!" with the same aplomb. He doesn't rush over to the scraps I throw out the back door thinking he is entitled to the best.

Chicken Wisdom

1. Looking your best gives you confidence to demand respect.
2. Balding men are probably more attentive to the needs of women since they are not so fixated on themselves.
   

Fat

Yep, Mississippi is ranked number one. The state desperately wanted to be number one at something. Yet, I doubt this is what they had in mind. We also rank way up the charts for infant mortality. The other day, I was reading the blog Kit Burns was Framed. He had that blonde Miss Teen USA contestant video posted. When I watched, all I could think was "Thank goodness she's not from Mississippi." You see we have this reputation to overcome. The reputation of being slow, backwards, prejudice, poorly educated, and stuck in the past.

While there are slow, backwards, prejudice, poorly educated, and stuck in the past people here, looking only at those people without seeing the rest of the population leaves a less than truthful picture of us. Yet, when media is in the area, those are the people who get in front of the camera or quoted. Then, we have the problem of movies reminding us of our past and teaching others who normally wouldn't have a clue. It took months after Mississippi Burning was released for me to be able to talk freely when living in Chicago. People accosted us in restaurants and theaters when they heard our accents just dying for us to confirm the movie. "Is it like that?" or "Do you know anyone in the Klan?", they asked. The idea that the movie was based on events in the 60s and focused on a limited population of people seemed evasive. We deserved some of the finger pointing since justice was not fully served in that case until recently, but I always looked around Chicago and felt the neighborhoods were more segregated than anything we produced here.

There were and are problems in Mississippi. I and most Mississippians will be the first to admit them. Yet, given a chance we will step up, take responsibility, and find ways to solve them. Add fat to that list.

No, You May Not Borrow My Pen

After seeing an article about the waste of half used plastic pens cluttering the environment and our homes, I, of course, looked around my home to see if we fell within the norm. I was horrified to find hundreds of the offending disposable pens purchased by some office supply fiend (me), donated by politicians and salesmen, and stolen borrowed from desks when I go to the office. I immediately issued an edict,

“No more pens will enter this house until every drop of ink is used from the pens we have.”

As usual, I spoke without really thinking about the difficulty of achieving the goal, but we did slow the flow. True, our little household doesn’t effect the demand for throw-away pens, but making an effort to rid our house felt good. The first thing I did was cull pens – ridding my life of frustration producing skip writers and ink gloppers. Then, we started using pens, determined to use one until no ink remained. Most of the pens were so poorly manufactured (counting on our inability to keep up with them or our preference for new) we never had the satisfaction of watching the ink sink to the end of the tube. Even though I did succumb to temptation and purchase the children some markers for their timeline and map work (I can’t punish my children for every hair brained idea I get), I haven’t purchased a pen in a year which is an amazing feat for someone who drools over/on/into the office supply catalog.

Until last week.

When I was getting ready to sign payroll checks, I couldn’t find a working pen other than a uni-ball vision elite with orange ink. The bank had already warned me against using orange, pink, and green ink (though I think it adds a happy touch) on the checks since it adds extra work because their scanners don’t capture nonstandard banking colors. I used one of the children’s markers, which is also probably non-bankish, and then purchased a delicious lapis blue fountain pen, hopefully made in the USA, and a bottle of luscious cocoa brown ink.

Now that I have this pen, I wonder why we have moved away from these wonderful, more permanent instruments; why anyone would sacrifice the feel of a nicely made pen and the flow of the perfect shade of cocoa ink flowing from the perfectly fine tipped nib. This may be my last blog entry. I'll do all my journaling on my 100% post consumer waste paper with my non-disposable fountain pen feeling good about my contribution to the environment while enjoying a luxury. Seriously, after a couple of days, I'm hooked.

It really only took one day to become hooked, but I did have to make a few minor adjustments to my desk habits. Learning to fill the reservoir with ink left me with a finger and thumb stained brown. I will also have to train myself to be more careful with my ice cold Tab unsweetened iced tea that has a tendency to perspire and leave unsightly brown blotches on my work. Other than those small annoyances that should be easily trained away, the conversion was easy. If I was a lefty, I might have to mirror write like Leonardo da Vinci did in his journals even though the ink appears to dry almost instantly, but since I'm not, I won't worry about it.

I'm done with disposable pens. Like line drying clothes, baking bread, and keeping bees and chickens, turning my back on this environmentally unfriendly habit is painless, even enjoyable. So, no. You may not borrow my pen because I only have one, not one hundred.

Bye-Bye Nice Blogger Award

Angela will rethink all those nice things she said about me after I say this, but I can't resist.

There is this ballet mom who talks constantly, and to make it worse she speaks in public address mode. She speaks to the room, across the room, to the adjoining studios. Her only volume is ear drum piercing loud. She has a better way to do everything. She has done everything more often and better. Even if you are talking privately to another mother or father she will listen in and start broadcasting her experience. Yesterday, I was taking advantage of the unpredictable audition wait time reading a book. A couple of mothers started talking quietly on the other side of me and BOOM!, the PA system was put into operation right across my head. I assumed that since I was obviously reading she would walk around the couch and move closer to the mothers to whom she was speaking. Not a chance, and I should have known since I have had the pleasure of listening to her squawk for a few years.

After giving up on common courtesy, I left my place on the couch, walked outside, and sat on the floor. I could still hear her. Then in spite of my best intentions, I got tickled thinking about those mothers left inside, who had no chance of politely escaping her recitation of her excellence, or her rage at whatever was inconveniencing that day.

Then, I felt terrible. She is obviously terribly lonely, wanting to be a part of a group, and feeling left out. I have been lonely and left out. I feel her pain. I have polished a few stories so that they show me in my best light. I should be embarrassed. Yet, I think I have always thought about others. Now I have a choice for the Nutcracker season, I can avoid her like the plague because her voice and demeanor are the equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard to my uninterested ears, or I can try to be nice and listen patiently nodding at all the appropriate moments in feigned agreement while she squawks so perhaps she will feel better about herself.

What tack would you take?

Staring into the Face of an Emergency

I've lived a life free of dangers that were not manufactured by myself or in my own mind. True, I've done some dangerous, scary things but I walked into all but a few of those situations with my eyes wide open. True, Katrina passed over our community, but we were waiting and planning, and it was only a Cat 1 by the time it got here. Yesterday, I got the chance to find out how I would react in an emergency situation without the benefit of prior knowledge. When visiting a museum yesterday, alarms started blaring, emergency lights flashing.

I calmly took my children to the exit while looking for answers to what might be happening. Alright, I dropped my purse spilling the contents, but I rarely carry a purse so forgot I had it. At the exit, we were met by security who pointed us to the door through which we could join the other visitors and the staff who were not seeing to the animals, where we waited outside in the 105° temperatures with the sun quickly making leather of our dehydrating bodies. Once the museum was checked, we were allowed back inside. Supposedly, dust from the construction of a new exhibit caused the alarms to sound, the fire trucks and police to arrive, and the building to be evacuated.

We were safe, though hot, and I got to see how I, and my children, face emergencies. When we got back inside and continued our tour, I noticed that we were 50 feet from an exit and yet walked almost the entire length of the museum to evacuate. When I pointed out the exit to the children and told them we should have gone out that way, my son said, "Mom, I tried to tell you." I guess I was too busy picking up the contents of my purse to notice or listen. I realized that though I remained calm and my pulse never elevated, I could have gotten us killed anyway (if there had been a real emergency) by wasting time taking the long way out of the bowels of the museum.

Have you ever been evacuated from a public building? Would you have stopped to pick up the contents of your purse?

Common Sense Fashion Tips

From the usually fashion unconscious stationed at the Neshoba County Fair.

1. Think of wearing proper foundation garments if you are voluptuously endowed and are planning to ride fair rides. Doing so will go far in reducing embarrassment to yourself and others when you are shaken, tossed, and revealed. I really didn't need to see all that.
   
2. If you weigh over 300 pounds, the tube top is not your best look, especially if you have to do major adjustments every few minutes. Honestly, I didn't know those tops had been sold since the 1980's, so why stop there. If you have reached puberty and need foundation garments, regardless of your weight, stay away from tube tops. They are not sexy, but everyone is looking while you drag, tug, and sag.
3. Teenagers, if you have to lie down on your bed to zip and button your low rider jeans, don't leave the house. If you leave the house anyway, please don't wear a form fitting belly button revealing tank top. You look like an over stuffed sausage hanging out all over the place.
   
4. Men over 18, if you win a silver winged hat with a dollar sign embroidered on the front, resist the urge to wear it. Give it to a child. You look ridiculous.
5. Men, dress shoes and socks do not go with shorts and scary white legs.
6. If you're planning to ride rides and eat junk until you vomit, bring an extra tee shirt or buy one of the lovely, but expensive Fair shirts. That splattered, stinky look is not flattering. Truly, do you really think people want to sit next to you on the rides?