Gimpy Goose

On our way to Jack’s Drive-In the other day, we came upon a group of cars stopped for no apparent reason.  As we sat and looked around we noticed a gaggle of Canadian geese were beginning to cross the road.  Where we live this usually isn’t a problem. In the city, it definitely could become one.

 

Geese in the city.

 

We were getting a little upset with the person at the front of the line when a couple geese stopped crossing and they had room and time to go, but I’m so glad they didn’t.  I looked off to the right and there were two geese left, one slightly larger than the other.  The smaller goose was very noticeably limping.  The larger one was waiting for it.  Whether it was mom, dad, or mate it waited for that little injured goose to get across before it followed.  And it was so obvious once the gimpy goose started across what it was doing.  At first it looked like it was just hanging around, picking at the ground with it’s beak, checking out the tall grass around the telephone pole.  Once that goose started crossing it was there, at attention, and following.

This goose was cleaning his wing and waiting for the hurt one.  Just nonchalantly waiting around.

I never knew geese did that.  When I realized what was happening the simple beauty of it struck me and I started crying.  It made me think.  It made me wish that we were all like those geese in that way; watching out for our weak, our hurt, instead of exploiting them and leaving them in our wake.  I know that is not everyone and I still believe most people are good, but we need to be better and the lesson from this goose will stay with me.  We need to put down our phones and tablets, and we need to hold someone’s hand, or listen, or talk to them or whatever – in order to help them to the other side of what is happening to them.

He was so slow, but he made it across to be with his family - I wish I could have gotten the other goose in the shot but that car pulled up and blocked it.

Take a moment and see what you can do to help the gimpy goose in your life.  The results might surprise you, and the surge in your heart will amaze you.

Rambling...

Do you ever look at a white screen and wonder “What relevant words will pour from my fingers today?”?  I am asking myself this at this very moment.  I know I need to write, but what do I want to write about right now?  What do people want to read?  No offense, but I gave up romantic poetry when I was seventeen.  When I realized Romeo and Juliet were right to kill themselves.  Stupidity such as theirs needs to be destroyed.  Star crossed lovers?  More like co-dependent children.  Romance was for fairy tales.   It still is.

I was reading the newspaper earlier and there were stories that made me think that I should write about my opinion but sometimes (meaning most of the time) I wonder if I’m really agreeing or disagreeing with an article or passively aggressively sabotaging myself.  I find myself leaning farther and farther to the right either as I grow older or because I work in a largely republican atmosphere.  I’m not sure which.  Sometimes I hear something pop out of my mouth and I can’t believe I said something that may be construed as racist or non-gay. 

Here was a conversation a couple weeks ago with my boyfriend about facebook and gay marriage.  I’m not even sure how it came about to that but here is the gist:

“I am so tired of hearing about gay marriage!” – me.

“Well, it’s important to them and it’s their right to get married” – him.

“But I have gay friends and it is all I ever see on their facebook posts.  Gay marriage this, gay marriage that.  There’s nothing else” – me.

“Because they should be able to post pictures of their weddings like straight people do.  We post stuff all the time about our life, why is it not ok for them to post theirs?” – him.

“Because that’s all they post!  Not THEIR weddings!  Gay propaganda!  I want to know what my friends are doing on the weekend or what their gardens look like or what crazy thing their pets or kids did in the last twenty four hours!”  - me.

“Oh my God!  It’s not like I hate gay people.  Don’t look at me like that” – me.  I put my face in my hands.

“So you don’t like the political postings” – him.

“YES!”  - me, exclaiming it loudly. 

I HATE political posts on facebook because everyone sounds like they are expert assholes and I don’t want my friends to be assholes.

So no, I’m not homophobic, and I know equal rights for everyone is important, I’m just very tired of the political positioning everyone takes.  I think we should all just try to be nicer to one another.  Everyone, not just regular people. Politicians, criminals, lawyers, police, business owners, crossing guards, etc., etc., etc. 

Well, now.  There we are.  I have actually written something today.  Is it relevant?  Not really sure.  Will it be read?  Probably not.  If it gets read, will anyone comment on it?  I highly doubt it.  But I have reached the goal I wanted to reach today and it has actually made me want to write something else.

Have a great day!

Farmer's Market Friday

It’s Farmer’s Market day.  The last Friday I went over it seemed like a postcard picture day.  The sun was shining, a soft breeze blowing – not too cold or hot.  Our local Farmer’s Market is set in the middle of our little village in a park shaded by old maples with a large fountain set at the center.  The grass is green, and although I have never seen anyone mow it, it is the perfect length and softness that if you wanted to go barefoot it wouldn’t hurt.  The fact that there is no dog poo either is utterly amazing.  The people around here take care of their dog’s business.  It’s a sense of pride in the community, I think, and an all-around niceness of the community.

I say all of this now, in the middle of July, as the sun beats down on the tops of our heads and shoulders, warming my heart and soul and making me feel generous towards my fellow man and woman.  I don’t always feel this way.  In mid-February I could hibernate and never see another soul and I would be just fine.  Yet, in the summer, in this setting, even if I do only get a half hour, it is the best of times.

Sitting on the newly painted park bench (still looks wet, but the bright green is definitely dry), I watch the vendors selling fresh vegetables or baked goods.  Some sell organic meat and I think of what a sweet deal I get every year.  Not organic, but grass-fed and cheap.  Organic may or may not be the greatest thing, I don’t know, but it is way too expensive for me.

There is a man playing guitar and singing folk songs that I recognize from music class when I was a kid.   The music is not overwhelming and I can hear the murmur of people bartering or running into their neighbors or acquaintances. 

I look to my right and there is a group of folks of all different ages, sizes and in a totally different assortment of clothing that are practicing Tai chi.  Sometimes I wish I had an hour for lunch – I could get in on that too.  Watching them, however, is very relaxing and it helps me exhale.

At the fountain is a young woman and her best friend (I’m assuming).  She is a larger girl who seems to have a minor case of Downs Syndrome.  (If there is a better way to describe that, please let me know)  She’s crying over a boy who doesn’t understand.  I want to go up to her and tell her that they never do understand, but that it isn’t important.  What is important is that she understands and learns from it.  I don’t, of course.  No one takes advice from strangers unless they are famous strangers.  Her friend lets her go on to cry it out, like a good friend.  Her tears bring tears to my eyes, but then they walk away and she becomes the past.

I feel like I am in the opening scenes of a Hallmark movie.  The colors are so beautiful although somewhat hazy.  I have not worn my glasses, out of vanity, but also because I want this time.  If I see someone and acknowledge them I will give away this little bit of my own Twilight Zone.  This zone that allows me to be a part of this scene, but just as an observer, unless I choose to take that step and walk into it.  Once in I would have to make the choice to stay there forever or to step out and go back to my office.  Although I’d like to stay, responsibility sends me back to my desk.

Someday I would like to be able to step through that haze, but I will take this day and hold it in my memory and look back on it when it comes to mind on a warm sunny day.  The sights, the smells, the sounds all will remind me of a place where I could belong if I really wanted to.  If I trusted myself to society instead of my loner existence.  Where I would no longer be the anonymous girl taking pictures or buying flowers or eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich under a 200 year old maple.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!  I’m not talking Christmas.  It’s the beginning of school supply sales!  I love these times, because I have a fetish for paper and all things that go with it!  Staplers, paint, pencils, crayons – could it get any better?  YES!  Different colored notebooks!  Old marble composition books now in neon colors!  Textured paper, lined paper, college-ruled paper – do you see where I’m going with this?  I LOVE IT! 

Shopping in Wally-world the other night we saw the shelves were starting to be stocked with supplies.  We had originally entered this shopping establishment for two things – boat oil and a sympathy card for a wake that we missed.  However, once the oil was decided upon and we were on our way to the greeting cards we came upon the most amazing sight – school supplies in abundance on July 16^th, no less. 

By the way, I do have a problem with the stores rolling out seasons way before we are ready for them.  I think it is disgusting to see Halloween costumes and candy on the shelves at the end of August.  I feel the same way about Christmas stuff on the shelves at the end of October.  I also believe that if a store is going to sell Christmas items they should also play Christmas music.  I don’t know how many times I have walked out of a store because I want to shop for the holiday, but it has pushed me to shop on-line and either watch the holiday specials on TV or listen to Christmas music that I choose myself.  It’s just wrong that it isn’t played in stores anymore.  Is it like this everywhere?

But I digress.  My point is this – I got there before everything had been picked over so I got first dibs!  I tried not to go overboard and I think I did succeed.  I bought two sets of almost everything – notebooks in five different colors, composition books, colored pencils, crayons, markers, pencil bags – and then a couple odds and ends, like the fluorescent orange composition book and the teal one-inch binder.  The folders looked cheap, but weren’t priced as cheap as they looked.  I remembered a few years ago when I got folders for ten to twenty-five cents apiece.  Not the other night.  I walked away.  I couldn’t be persuaded to buy folders that looked like they would rip apart before their first use, let alone stay together for a full school year.  No, I will look elsewhere for my folders.  Glue sticks!  A six pack was 97¢ - not bad for something that goes to school and you never again see.

I could have spent more time browsing, much more time, but we were running late.  Dinner was waiting and we had already missed Jeopardy.  Happy with my purchase, we left the store.  As we drove away, I remembered what I was supposed to pick up – the sympathy card.  Guess I’m headed back to the store.  I wonder if new items have been added to the supplies.  This time I’m buying the card first!

 

 

 

Twenty-Seven Years

Twenty-seven years.  Twenty-seven years ago I woke up to the news that you were gone.  I know I’m not the only one who remembers, but I know that I only remember my version.  I know that others heard differently, maybe through a phone call, or a police visit.  I heard about it on the radio and when I yelled no, that it couldn’t be you, my family told me I was dreaming.  If only I had been.  Maybe the memories of you are made sweeter because you left us so young with everything ahead of you.  I know that we would have drifted apart, that we already had started to in some ways.  We were just kids then, as you will always be. 

I wonder who you would be today.  I have a feeling you would have stayed here and not moved on.  I can see you hanging out at the garage with the guys and running into you every once in a while at the river.  Would we even talk?  I know there are others that played, that stayed, and we never talk.  They don’t seem to have grown at all, and that would be my worry.  Would I even like you now had you never died?  Would you still be the jock living your high school glory, over and over and over?  Would you still believe that every girl wanted you?  Because they wouldn’t.  I still remember how I felt about 40-something guys when I was seventeen.  They were gross.  But guys of a certain age don’t think that way.  They still think that they are God’s gift and look at those girls like they are giving them a compliment, not the heebie jeebies. 

I say these things because I don’t want you to be a saint.  I also say them because this is the first time I realized that I might know who you would be and it almost makes me glad you are gone.

You were an alcoholic; you just didn’t realize it yet.  We all had an idea of it, but you were so much fun, up to that point where you wanted to fight.  And it was such a hairpin point too.  You never knew when it would happen but knew immediately when it did and it didn’t seem to bother you that you took everyone along for the ride.  I remember sitting in the backseat wondering if we would survive to see the morning.  Then, one day, you didn’t.

I took the lesson to heart.  For a couple years I refused to ride with anyone drunk, tried to pry keys out of their hands, talked to them about you so they wouldn’t do the same thing.  I didn’t stop partying.  I was just more careful, for a while, anyway. 

Then there were the nights I drove home holding one hand over an eye, trying to see straight.  Seeing shooting stars and believing they were deceased friends and family guiding me home.  Maybe they were – who knows?  I like to think so, because I saw more shooting stars at 2:30 in the morning than I have at any other time in my life.  I took on the attitude that you only live once, “Only the Good Die Young” became my song, I felt a connection to James Dean, and my life became one fast and crazy and sad place to be.  Sleeping with anyone I felt a strong connection to was my way to keep them alive, since I had refused to sleep with you. 

The ghost of you was always there in those years right after you died, influencing my decisions.  I hadn’t realized it until now.  Eventually you have faded from our minds.  We remember you fondly as a good guy, the ladies’ man, the good son, brother, friend.  Your name comes up at your family member’s funerals, maybe at the milestone of a niece or nephew, looking at school pictures, or just sitting around reminiscing.  It’s not awkward anymore, although it is still sad.  When I hear ACDC or George Thorogood I still smile and think that you’re the subject to “Bad to the Bone”.  I will always remember our secret late nights by the river, parked in your car and making out, never going any farther than kisses.  Our dream of a little house with a white picket fence became a reality without you.

 

Needless to say, I still miss you.

 

If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It!

Is anyone else disappointed with Bath & Body Works revision of the Vanilla Bean Noel lotion line?  I have contacted them to let them know that I wouldn’t be stocking up on it for the year this season because it doesn’t smell the same.  I asked them why they changed it and they said that their focus groups wanted it this way.  The customers said they wanted less grease.  Now I don’t know about anyone else, but I never thought that the Vanilla Bean Noel lotion was greasy.  It always absorbed quickly and felt so amazingly good and smelled so temptingly delicious. 

A long time ago, it was just Vanilla Bean lotion.  You could get it anytime.  They took it off the shelf and replaced it with Warm Vanilla Sugar.  WVS was not a good replacement for the Vanilla Bean and I just stopped hoping when VB didn’t return. 

Last year, on a whim, I returned to Bath & Body Works and was delighted to find that the Vanilla Bean was back in the Noel line.  It could have been back for a while – who knows – I just discovered it last year.  It was amazing to smell it again and I bought enough for a year (and several months, I’ve since discovered).  What rekindled my love for B&BW, has now thrown me into and icy shower of betrayal.  I received a bottle of the new Vanilla Bean Noel from a friend at the beginning of the Christmas season.  One night, while watching TV with my boyfriend I put some on my hands and massaged it in.  He said nothing.  Usually he’ll say something like, “Putting lotion on?” or “What smells like cake?”  That night he said nothing.  I asked him if he smelled anything and he replied in the negative.  The next day I wrote to B&BW and the reply was nothing short of a slap in the face.  I wish I still had the email.

My question is this – is there anyone out there as disappointed as I am?  Do we start a movement to petition for the return of the original Vanilla Bean Noel?  Does anyone care?  If you care, please share this blog post with your friends and family who might also care.  Please post to B&BW on their Facebook page.  Let them know we want our olfactory senses aroused by the warm inviting scent of vanilla!  This is a travesty that needs reversing!

And then maybe next Christmas we’ll be able to enjoy the smell of our own skin just a little bit more.

Peace

 

 

And That's The (Horse) Poop!

It’s funny.  I live in a rural area with lots of Amish around.  They pay school taxes and land taxes and keep to themselves.  They farm and bake and sell their produce and baked goods on the side of the road wherever they can.  Some build sheds, or craft chairs and other furniture or toys.  They keep to themselves and their ways.  But there is one thing people can’t stand about the Amish.  THEIR HORSE AND CARTS!

            If it’s night time you can’t see them.  There are some that will use just a lantern or two and you don’t see them until you’re almost on top of them.  Then there are some that cover the back of the cart with reflective tape and you can see them a mile away.  Most of the time it’s in-between.  There’s just enough reflective tape to let one know that there is a buggy ahead.  It has been a huge divide for the “English” up here. 

On one hand you’ve got the “live and let live” folks.  These are the people that admire the Amish.  They think it’s great that they’ve kept the old ways and haven’t bent to society.  On the other hand you have the morons that think the Amish are dirty and stupid and have no right to be on our roads.  These are the people who continually complain about the dark buggies and the horse poop.

When my parents moved up here from the city they were trying for a simpler kind of life.  Dad wanted a hobby farm.  Get a couple cows, a couple pigs, a dog, some cats and a horse.  Grow a garden and feed the family.  Fresh air to breathe, green grass to sprawl on in the summertime.  No asphalt jungle.  A very “Green Acres” type of existence.  They actually pulled it off and I had a great childhood. 

While I was growing up I didn’t realize the animosity some people felt towards the Amish.  They were always welcome in our house.  They would come by to visit with my parents and I could hear their different dialect and I thought we were pretty special because we had Amish friends. 

In the on-line newspaper today, opinions to a poll were published.  The poll asked whether the Amish should pick up after their horses when they pooped in the road.  (I told you we were rural)  The fact that this was a poll should have given me a clue as to the answers.  I was really surprised that so many people would want the Amish to stop and scoop.  A lot of respondents also said it was a stupid idea given that they are slow already and it would add to the danger they are already in, in a buggy on fast roadways. 

I was completely taken off guard by the number of people who complained that if they had to pick up after their dogs then the Amish should pick up after their horses.  Again, rural area here – I almost never see anyone pick up after their dog, including me.  Yes, I admit it.  When I take my dog out I always forget a bag.  In the more urban areas I do bring bags and pick up but we don’t go there together very often.  So when my dog drops a load, that’s where it stays.  And I’m guessing a lot of the people who said they scoop really don’t.

What I don’t understand is this – I’ve seen horse poop on the road.  I’m a walker and a part-time runner.  I’ve run around it and through it.  My dogs have rolled in it.  Comments about how gross it is make me wonder if these North Country “natives” have ever seen real horse poop, because horse poop is probably the nicest poop around.  It’s grass.  It falls apart when it’s dry and turns to dust.  It smells just like a horse.  I’d rather have my dog roll in horse poop than a dead frog or worse – a dead bird.  If I walk through horse poop I don’t get all grossed out.  It’s not slippery like cow poop.  It doesn’t stink to high heaven like dog poop.  You’ll never find it in your flower garden when you are planting, like cat poop.  It doesn’t stick to your sneakers.

Oh yeah, one other thing, its biodegradable, unlike the chemicals that we, the “English”, spew from our cars into the Amish faces as well as their horses. 

We like to think we are so advanced, but what would we do if the government shut down all computer systems?  No phone, no electric, no computers.  It’s not that far-fetched of an idea.  I think we’d probably need to go to our Amish neighbors and ask them for help.  Maybe even a ride.  And you know what they would probably do?  They would probably help us, even though we treat them like second class citizens, even though we complain about their old ways and the buggies they drive and the poop that their horses leave on the road.

Imagine that.