Who Is Everybody?

Posted on October 15, 2013 by janets123

I recently heard a newscaster say that, “Everyone is complaining about…” something our national lawmakers had done and I thought, Wait a minute! I’m not complaining. Where did she get the idea I was protesting? Then I came to myself and realized the reporter was simply using a common expression. Of course she didn’t think “everyone” was on the same side of the issue. Did she?

The term “Everybody’s doing it,” has become as overused and void of meaning as placing blame on the elusive catchall “them” or “they.”

If they are doing it, then we surely ought to be doing it and then everybody will be doing it. And the cola company sells plenty of products using that circular reasoning. So do the political pundits on network television.

I am neither a lemming nor a person easily hypnotized. I’m old enough and wise to the ways of persuasion so when I see the vast majority going a direction, I stubbornly brake and give myself time to think. Consequently, I often miss out on the best of a buffet line, but little else of benefit, I think.

Remember when everybody was refinancing their homes? Imprudently using hormone replacement therapy? Eating and drinking saccharine? Microwaving in plastic?

Who is "they" and "everybody" and if we don't know, should we follow?

Who is “they” and “everybody” and if we don’t know, should we follow?

Perhaps we ought to keep a journal to track all the things everybody is doing or ought to be doing, because it changes with the wind.

I look for a day when nobody trusts political commentary and everybody thinks for herself. If that ever happens, perhaps “they” will stop using such suggestion and innuendo to persuade the masses.

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Fighting a Ferocious Fiend

Posted on October 4, 2013 by janets123

Mr. Tom, the semi-feral, half-grown kitten has adapted to a life dependent upon people. He is almost adopted, pending his willingness to submit to the vet. We feed him and protect him as much as we can, as much as he will allow. On a recent evening, he needed us a lot.

I had just fed him, petted him, turned out the light and locked the front door. Walking into the next room, I heard an odd, raspy vocalization from outside. Thinking the cat might be choking, I flipped on the light and opened the door. A huge raccoon looked up from Mr. Tom’s food bowl.

He doesn't back down easily

He doesn’t back down easily*

“Scat!” didn’t do a thing so I ran down the hall shouting for reinforcements and fetching the broom. The broom didn’t do much except aggravate him; neither did soapy water in a spray pump. When he stood up and growled, he looked like such a ferocious fiend I retreated behind the storm door.

Our B-B gun was empty so I rushed for a .22 rifle. “Ptwang” at the big guy’s feet made him retreat to the end of the hedges and wait to see if we meant or were capable of harm to such a beautiful, fuzzy face. Mr. Tom dashed to the opposite end, just in case he was next.

Mind you, this was surely the culprit who has been scattering the contents of our trash can and digging inexplicable holes in the mulch. He might even be the reason behind Mr. Tom’s scuff marks a week prior. We still didn’t want him bloody; we only wanted him elsewhere. Feeding him was clearly not going to have the desired result.

That evening I stood guard with the broom while the little cat finished his kibble. I’ve never seen him scarf kitten chow like that!

This gargantuan granddaddy raccoon comes back every night to toss Mr. Tom’s dish around and make a muddy mess playing in his water. He’s smart enough to do it while the house is noisy with conversation, television or music so we haven’t again caught him in the act.

We are taking steps to discourage the raccoon’s nightly visits. There is a bungee cord on our trash can, we don’t feed the cat after dark and I’ve even started bringing in his empty bowl.

Every evening I perform safety checks, flipping on the light to see Mr. Tom and his water bowl. If I catch the raccoon out there, I know better than to charge without a plan, unaided and unarmed.

This pest puts me in mind of other of life’s adversaries who sneak up and take advantage. They are clever and determined. We may never see them, but only the results of their interference. They fight to keep the ground they’ve gained and if we don’t put up a strong offense, they’re going to dominate us. They are ferocious fiends.

*Original photo found at The Woodlands Tamarac, where I also found helpful tips for discouraging the midnight marauder.

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Promise Breakers

Posted on September 26, 2013 by janets123
The Test

The Test

A wise man I once knew, said he would never discuss nebulous plans in front of his children, lest they be disappointed. “People,” he said, “don’t hear what you say. They hear what they think you mean.”

A famous man once said, “A man is only as good as his word.” Based on this philosophy, we must be very careful what we say we’ll do, or might do, or might like to do, lest we be thought of as promise-breakers.

My sensible husband applies this when dealing with customers. If he thinks he can finish a job by ten o’clock, he will tell the customer eleven.

I’ve discovered it is not only children who infer things and feel betrayed by plans we don’t keep. “We’ll have to have you over for dinner sometime,” is a sort of grownup promise, so often unfulfilled that it doesn’t mean much.

“Whoso boasteth himself of a false gift is like clouds and wind without rain” (Proverbs 25:14).

A promise, whether implied or implicit, must be kept. A person who breaks promises hazards being put in the same category as a Texas dust storm!

Life is full of disappointments without me adding to them so I try my best to:

1) be a woman of my word and

2) not say things I don’t intend to accomplish, whatever the cost.

Consequently, I get myself in some real pickles. I remember telling a woman I would copy a recipe for her, thinking I’d simply bring it to our next meeting. She wasn’t there, had moved away, and I was compelled to search out her relatives to obtain her address and mail it to her.

Also as a consequence of my determination to not say what I don’t know I can fulfill, I might come across as non-committal.

Will I be at your wedding? “I certainly intend to,” or “I truly want to and I’ll do my best,” is about all you can get out of me. And that is while I’m penciling it in on my calendar and programming it into my phone.

Some promises are simply inferred or implied. I started a blog, for instance, and when I write once a week, there is an unstated expectation I will continue. It’s really tempting to write a disclaimer on the first page.

Plans change, emergencies happen, and I believe in addition to being faithful to our word, we ought to also be flexible. I try.

(Don’t stand me up for a special dinner I’ve cooked, though. I get really testy when I have to throw away food!)

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Returning Dust

Posted on September 13, 2013 by janets123

I detest dust! Nothing is much uglier than a dark and beautiful piece of wood lightly coated with the fine particulate matter we call dust. Getting it off is called dusting furniture. I don’t like that either.

I’ve been known to stare at dust for a week before tackling it. The stuff is stubborn and ubiquitous as all get out. From whence does it come? Do we ever get rid of it or just move it about? It seems we spend a disproportionate amount of energy on its removal.

On occasion I sigh deeply and try to talk myself into simply accepting dust as a part of life. The planet is made of the stuff. As a matter of fact, so are we.

(God told Adam, “in the sweat of thy face shall you eat bread, till you return unto the ground; for out of it were you taken: for dust you are, and unto dust shall you return” ~Genesis 3:19.)

What is dust anyway? Searching the Internet turned up all sorts of answers, much of it speculative. Primarily, dust is dirt and that’s why we don’t like it in our houses.

My dusting has been put off because my knees have been achy the past two weeks. I’ve blamed it on a new exercise at the gym, pushing a weight with my legs but now doing it with my toes turned in. This new angle (recommended by a trainer) stresses the outer knee support tendons and I am sore.

Recognizing how mortal my puny body, I think of how one day my spirit will leave and the pain will stop. All my humanness will immediately begin to turn back into dust and eventually wind up on someone’s fine furniture.

Not knowing what great person might be lying on my TV cabinet and china hutch, maybe I should give dust more respect as I gently remove it to the waste basket, carry it outdoors and return it to the earth by way of the big solid waste disposal truck.

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The Skin We’re In

Posted on September 5, 2013 by janets123

I am often surprised by people, animals and things that don’t meet the expectations I’ve put on them. At my age, you’d think I would have learned not to have any prejudices.

There are names I don’t particularly like because I associate them with people who have hurt me or with whom I had a difficult relationship. Other names draw me, again because of association.

The name Shaurya will forever make me laugh because he was the young Indian man who inadvertently knocked me for a swim in the icy October waters of a roiling river in Colorado.

A man with strawberry blond hair and a ruddy complexion is supposed to have an adventurous, entrepreneurial spirit like my old boyfriend, Tom.

When I meet someone who reminds me of someone else, it is hard not to attribute the same personality traits or character flaws to them or expect the same graces. I know it’s unfair of me. Most of us didn’t name ourselves.

If I’ve had a bad experience with a device, appliance or automobile, I tend to shy away from that model or brand. On the other hand, I expect Hewlett-Packard printers to last forever. They have a good name.

I think manatees are ugly, even scary-looking, rather like a swimming hippopotamus. I would not want to run into one in the ocean. I must allow, however, they can’t help the skin they’re born in. Just because one looks like a hippo does not predispose one to the aggressiveness of a hippo.

I met an Australian couple once, when I was a store clerk. They were looking for a spice we didn’t carry and I thought they were a little bit haughty in their disappointment. Does this mean all Aussies are arrogant? I think not.

When I was an Okie, I met a Dallas couple in the Tulsa airport on their way to gamble in Vegas. The woman had a syrupy drawl, blonde hair and tight slacks and her hands dripped with gemstones. She was a walking, talking cliché! So was her tall, muscular husband, who divided his time between the football game over our heads and the guy he was doing business with via cell phone.

Having moved to Texas, I can assure you they aren’t all rich, flamboyant business people. Or gamblers. Or blonde.

When I first relocated here, my car had an Oklahoma tag and the driver was often lost, hesitant and non-aggressive. Texans honked at me to get out of the way.

Within a month, I had paid the exorbitant fees, surrendered all identity from my native country and officially become a licensed, plated Texan. I was still lost and undone by the traffic and odd rules but they stopped honking.

Manatee

Would not want to meet him unawares!

I suppose I had changed my skin. I suppose I’m not the only one with prejudices.

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Places We’ve Been

Posted on August 3, 2013 by janets123

Mr. Tom, the half-grown feral kitten I’ve taken in, bit my hand this morning. Last week he scratched my leg. Both times I immediately bopped his head (like a good momma cat) and he backed away, apologizing with body language.

My husband thinks maybe we should run him off for his bad behavior. Perhaps the wild thing is incorrigible. Though I don’t understand his actions, I defend the cat by saying we don’t know the places he’s been or what abuse he may have endured. I persevere, hoping Mr. Tom will change.

Tamed cat wraps around my legs, demanding to be petted

Tamed cat wraps around my legs, demanding to be petted

He has changed already. In two months, he has gone from the wild cat too timid to get closer to humans than twelve feet, to one that wraps around my legs, demanding to be petted. His fur is soft now and his eyes are bright.

Mr. Tom has learned our routine. He cat naps behind the hedge at our front door. In the heat of the day, he sleeps under my car. At dinner time, he’s back under the hedge, waiting for his portion. At night he prowls, understanding our door will not open for a long while. He is adapting to domestic life.

He remembers his earlier existence, though, and insists on sampling the bread crumbs intended for the birds. He prefers the stale water in the bird bath to the fresh, cool water in his bowl. He bats at my hand if it lingers too long on his head. This is where he came from and it won’t go away quickly.

People have history also. They’ve been places, sometimes so disparate from our own, we can’t comprehend their actions or relate to their emotions.

When someone is angered by our joke or laughs at our calamity, we may label them odd. If their advice is consistently contrary to what we consider wisdom, we may avoid their counsel. If the “odd” behavior makes us too uncomfortable, we might even avoid their company.

Birds of a feather do tend to flock together. We feel most at home among people who look and act like us. When a person forces himself out of his comfort zone, he learns more in a short span of time about other cultures. S/he loses some of his fears and prejudices and becomes more accepting of behavior not like his own. It takes time; it takes experience.

A person can either embrace those experiences and incorporate them into her thinking, or she can balk and kick and insist every way except her “old way” is a wrong way. She can grow or she can be stunted.

I was out of fresh milk this morning so I put powdered milk on Mr. Tom’s brown rice. He yowled at me and refused to eat. This feral cat I’ve been feeding for sixty days, now no longer starving, is becoming a typical, finicky cat. We are indeed slowly changing the places he’s been.

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Anticipation

Posted on July 26, 2013 by janets123

We just booked a marvelous, overseas holiday and I’m simply bubbling over with anticipation, even though we won’t travel until cool weather.

I have all summer to look forward to our autumn adventure! I’ve already bought an inflatable neck pillow, eye mask and backpack for the flight and a new swimsuit, serape and sun block for the Mediterranean. We’ve figured out to ask the neighbor, who owes us a favor, to feed Mr. Tom, the feral cat. I’ve emailed a friend who has travelled to this place, for advice on things we don’t want to miss while we’re there.

On the Med

On the Med

I’ve realized that anticipation and planning is half the fun of an exotic vacation. As a matter of fact, anticipating things to come is probably half of life.

When we’re kids, we anticipate every little thing and it slows time down—the last day of school, a trip to the mall, grandma’s apple pie smelling good in the oven and then cooling on the counter—these things take forever.

Young people look forward to beginning their lives as a couple, wait impatiently for the first baby, baby’s first words, first day of school, job interviews and date night away from the kids.

The older we get, it seems like we have less to look forward to and time speeds up. We stop anticipating ordinary things, perhaps because we’ve experienced them before and they didn’t live up to the eager anticipation. When tomorrow looks just like yesterday, time flies and days blur as we race through them.

I’ve watched helpers in nursing homes try to get the residents excited about life. They bubble and fizz about bingo night and what’s for dinner and the preacher’s sermon on Sunday. A visitor practically sends them into outer space.

I catch myself falling into the everyday doldrums, thinking, Is today Tuesday or Wednesday? The trash can is at the curb so it must be Tuesday again. When that happens, I remind myself to celebrate ordinary things. I get happy when the floors are waxed, the AC is working and I have on my dancing shoes. Wait! They’re only fuzzy house shoes but they will work just fine.

And when days fly by? I try to anticipate something ordinary. Like Sunday lunch out or having clean sheets on the bed, the new season of Downton Abbey or the cookies I’m going to bake tomorrow. Should it be oatmeal raisin or peanut butter? I have all night to think about it. That ought to make for a long evening of anticipation.

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Deep Roots

Posted on July 6, 2013 by janets123

Clearing our patio and flower beds of unwanted weeds, I discovered native Texas plants have deep roots. Many of them also have stickers and burrs to deter my efforts at eradication.

One has to admire a weed for its tenacity. If I’m not mistaken, some of these look like the same ornery plants I plucked up last summer. They’re brave too, if you will, planting themselves in the most unlikely places, such as between the joints of a sidewalk.

Weeds don’t need any encouragement, but they’ll take what they can get and make the most of it. A tiny water spill intended for the bird bath, some animal dung, plenty of southern sunshine and the wild green sticker weeds will bloom with gratitude.

How unlike the big Masters of the Universe are these little unwanted plants! We shrivel and slink away if someone even speaks harsh words our way. We are ready to give up at the slightest hint of failure. I can just imagine how long I’d last if someone pulled off all my leaves.

Perhaps I can learn some things from my unsuccessful weeding.

  • Bloom where you’re planted, sure. But bloom even where one is not wanted?
  • Don’t procrastinate because one might not get another chance to bloom.
  • Hurry and produce fruit so if we get plucked up tomorrow, at least one thing has been accomplished.
  • Take what others don’t want and make something beautiful out of it.
  • Keep trying. One just never knows when the adversary might give up.
  • Tomorrow will come. Today might be hot and dry but rain is coming eventually. Be ready for it. And make the most of every drop of dew.
  • Don’t be afraid to try what others have failed to make prosper.
  • Everything and everyone starts out tiny and insignificant. Don’t despise small beginnings, even one’s own.
  • Never worry about the insignificance of the flowers; one can still produce glorious fruit from tiny blooms.
  • When necessary, grow stickers and burrs. They will deter the most stubborn weed-haters.
  • Put down deep roots. If your leaves get pulled off, grow more roots. The best nourishment comes from great depth.

I’m amazed at what deep thought comes from a morning of pulling weeds. Just think what I might have accomplished at the computer keyboard! Why, I might have written a story.

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The Start Over

Posted on June 21, 2013 by janets123

During recent evenings, I have been knitting dishcloths for my aunt. Fascinated, my husband remarked, “Who would ever think of making fabric like that?” This sparked discussion about the origins of knitting, crochet and macramé. I began to speculate about the process a pattern maker goes through.

I have just enough experience to realize which stitches make what patterns and can create variety in a plain, flat piece of knitted fabric. I can imagine the tedium of knitting several inches to see what effect a stitch change made, ripping it out and starting all over.

I detest starting things over and go to great lengths to avoid it. Determined to “get it right” I sometimes plan for an hour to execute half an hour of meal preparation. Dinner parties take me a week!

When learning architectural drafting, nothing upset me more than being told to “start all over.” I could plan for an hour and get all the drawings right but my page layout never quite suited my instructor. “Why didn’t you tell me that before I began?”

I’ve always seen do-overs as wasted time and effort. My logical mind tells me it is good practice; my emotions say something different. I want to get it right the first time!

As a writer, starting over is agony and throwing away a paragraph is like giving away my cat. I’ve had to do it many times, because it is part of the editorial process, and I’ve seen the sparkling results of paring away superfluous language. I still don’t like it!Jewels

Extra words can be like too much jewelry with a beautiful evening gown—they need to go back in the box for another occasion. Perhaps if I created a digital “jewelry box” for all my artfully crafted descriptive paragraphs, I wouldn’t feel so sorry about not getting to use them. Maybe then I wouldn’t see it as starting over, just trying on pretties.

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Where Are You, Mr. Tom?

Posted on June 10, 2013 by janets123

The new cat at our door is gray and white and we know little about him except he’s a shy little boy. I’ve dubbed him “Mr. Tom.”

He stumbled across the bowl in which I feed the neighbor’s cat, when she didn’t empty it one day. He wolfed her food down and waited to see if it would be refilled. It was and he’s been hanging around for a couple of weeks.

Mr. Tom has become as much of my routine as I have become his. He stares at me with round yellow eyes while I fill his bowl and speak nonsense. “There you are, little gray Tom. Is that kitten starving? You want some crunchies this morning? Oh, boy! Eat ‘em up.”

He stares at me with round yellow eyes

He stares at me with round yellow eyes

At first he ran to the corner of the house every time the door was opened, peaking around the edge of the hedge while I filled the cat bowl, then rushing in when the door clicked shut. He got a little bit braver each day. We had closed the gap to about eighteen inches, and I was confident he was soon going to let me pet him. Then one morning he wasn’t there.

I called, “Kitty, kitty, kitty!” Miz Kitty, who’s terrified of Mr. Tom, came to watch from the bottom of the drive. “Are you there, Mr. Tom?”

The gray kitty didn’t show up all day, nor the next. We had some scraps of chicken fricassee so I filled his bowl the second evening. “Somebody will eat it,” we said. And they did.

Twice I spotted the neighborhood stray—a big yellow male with a perpetual scowl, thick neck and heavy chest—slinking through the greenery. He’s an unfriendly guy who comes around only to spray corrosive stuff on our auto wheels and patio furniture.

I don’t want Mr. Tom to wind up like that ol’ yellow cat—mean and skittish and unwelcome. I want him to be our cat—pampered, well-fed and neutered.

Alas, the little gray kitten seemed to be determined to keep his independent state. It was, after all, what he was born into. His was a scrappy world, one in which only the strong survive and breed.

Should I force him? I wanted to throw a big towel over him, scoop him up and take him to the vet. If he was altered, would he be tamer? Or would he be so terrified he would run away forever and never trust another human?

After two days and nights of worry, my kitten came back to me, hungrier than ever.

Tom’s independent streak makes me think of God and how His children only come to Him when they’re desperate, never grasping how much he cares for them and wants to give them a better life. Mercy! Maybe he wants to alter us.

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