THTSL Manual - "Friends"

"Friends"

A true friend is one who thinks you are a good egg even if you are half-cracked.    

     ~Author Unknown

In my ongoing ‘The How to Survive Life Manual”, or THTSL manual, there needs to be a special chapter devoted to friendship. There are a million different directions I can go with this, but one friend in particular comes to mind, and whose ongoing exploits (as far as I know) are definitely note-worthy. Her story makes a good ‘part one’ in this chapter.

I’ll call her Cora Jean. She was my height but super thin, which was almost grounds for hating her right on the spot! Worse, she had flaxen hair that looked good even if her head got caught in a tornado: each strand would simply float back in place, flawlessly. And, I always wanted to be a blond! Life sometimes just sucked; in more ways than one, knowing Cora Jean helped to make that true.

I met her practically in my backyard – or, just the other side of my backyard, down in the fields of the horse stable.  She would race her horse around and around, smacking him with a crop and yelling “Heeee.YA! HeeeeeYAAA!” in a voice that would wake the dead.  I took to going down to the stone wall at the back of my yard and just quietly watch her put her horse through his paces. One day, she looked up at me and rode her horse over to the stone wall.

“Hi!” she chirped. “My name’s Cora Jean and this here is Scout,” she cooed, patting the tall brown and white horse affectionately on his neck. Scout’s sad brown eyes looked up at me as if to say, “O, Thank God! I wanted to stop 10 minutes ago!”

“Hi, Cora Jean…I’m Rie,” I countered, “It’s nice to meet you!” With that, we two gals talked for quite some time and then suddenly, my new friend did the unthinkable: She asked me if I’d like to take a ride on Scout!  I quickly explained that I had an artificial hip and artificial knee, but she dismissed that as if I had said I had two mosquito bites.

“Not a problem! People with artificial joints ride horses all the time!” she reassured me, smiling a huge, toothy grin. My mind must have been out to lunch, because I believed her.  And, against my better judgment and using the stone wall as a mounting block, I got up on Scout.

Hey! Not so bad, I remember thinking to myself. Scout and I very slowly made our way across the field to the old, rickety post-and-rail fence, where he promptly put his head down to munch on the grass at his feet.  I could not believe that I was up on top of a horse! I, who over the past several preceding years had spent a great deal of time in a wheelchair and on crutches, healing from one painful surgery after another thanks to Osteonecrosis , was for all the world enjoying riding a horse! It was just unimaginable to me. I pulled gently on the reins to get Scout moving again. His head remained pointed down toward the ground.  Another pull, a slightly firmer tug,  gave me exactly the same results.

“Hmmmm….,” I thought, “he’s not responding to the reins.” There was a reason for that:  the halter had come OFF of his head! There I sat, holding the two reins with the horse’s head piece, called a halter, dangling on the end of it like an old, saggy stretched-out bra!

Now, if you are not into riding horses at all, you will miss the significance of this situation. The reins are the ONLY ‘brakes’ there are when riding a horse! Oh, sure….you can use your body movements and feet to kind of urge him along by kicking him; but to make him stop, which is essential at some point, you need the reins firmly attached to his halter.  I held the free-flowing leather straps in my hand, way out to the side of my body, and tried to signal to Cora Jean, who was way across the field, that “HEY....I HAVE A REAL PROBLEM, HERE!!”

She actually saw me and recognized I was in real bad trouble. All I could do was sit quietly on this horse that I didn’t know from Adam, and pray that he would not spook or decide to take ME on a joy ride, like Mario Andretti racing along at Salt Lake Flats! Cora Jean and her gangly legs trotted as fast as she could across the field and thank God, Scout acted as if he could not have cared less!  She got his reins around his neck and then helped me down off the horse. This was no easy trick! I felt as if I was at least 6 feet up in the air and the ground was a long way down. Still, I was more terrified of being kidnapped by Scout and taken for the ride of my life – which would most likely end it – than I was of the anticipated dismount! With an unceremonious thud, I was at last back on the sweet, kissable ground! I hurt like hell, but I was off of that horse, and that’s all that mattered.

 Cora Jean quickly explained that she didn’t want the halter to have the traditional metal type of snaps that held the halter pieces together. Instead, she wanted a more “natural look” and tied them together by hand herself with little straps of leather. Needless to say, she didn’t tie them tight enough.

Over the next few months, I got to know Cora Jean really well. I discovered that what had happened to me was not so unusual in her world. As the casualties mounted up over that summer, thanks to Cora Jean’s insistence to share her  ‘knowledge’ of horses and horseback riding with others, it became clear that she had not one lick of, pardon the expression, horse sense. Considering that at least three of her other friends or relatives wound up being taken to the ER that year, I got off very easy.  Lord knows, I know she meant well. However, there was another, murkier side to Cora Jean: she was one of those people who really and truly do believe they ‘know it all’ when it comes to a passion in their lives.  And, as far as Cora Jean was concerned, there was not one thing anyone could tell her or teach her about horses.  Those of us who were counted as her ‘friends’ were the ones who paid the price, sad to say.  To the great relief of the horse set in my town, she moved away a few years ago and as far as I know, she is still involved with horses, God bless her new circle of friends!

Ahhh…..friends!  Pick them carefully, and wisely. Avoid a know-it-all like the plague or be prepared to pay the consequences. Do not be afraid to speak your mind to a friend. If he or she refuses to listen – just be on your way.   

Make sure your medical insurance is paid up, at the very least – and if you come out of it all alive,  count yourself lucky!  

THTSL Manual - "Hobbies"

Hobbies

"Hobbies: a way to enrich your life, or at the very least, to annoy the heck out of others."

   ~ M. Shanahan

Long ago, my older brother once told me that the real measure of a person lies in their interests and hobbies. For whatever reason, that made perfect sense to me then – and still does.

I’ve always been interested in a number of things, hobby-wise, and have managed to immerse myself in one pastime or another as my life trundled along. Among many other hobbies and interests, I turned music into a career, have sewed most of my clothes since the age of 15, baked my own bread and made home-made pasta like nobody’s business, and have painted life-sized murals on people’s buildings, the trusting souls! And, at the mid-life point I took up two pastimes that became passions for me: horses and photography. Lucky for me, those two things really go together. Not so lucky for my family and friends, however, I managed to amass approximately 2,000 pictures over the past 8 years alone – and the number continues to grow.

Believe it or not, there used to be an actual horse stable just behind our house. It was all torn down about 5 years ago to make room for a new housing development.  Built upon an old farm dating back to the early 1800’s, the stable became a place of refuge, fun, and excitement for folks, as well as for the horses that once lived there. That’s how and why I got super-interested in horses and what led to my getting Roxy, a Welsh Cob pony who thinks she’s a full-sized horse. More about that in another story; but for now, I want to focus on one special picture that I took one day…..

I was a lovely spring day and the sun was shining in all her glory. It was one of those “all is right with the world” days, and I headed on down to the stable. I had just bought my very first SONY digital camera and was busy taking pictures of everything in sight. It was only fitting I should take some great shots of Roxy and her companions, and the barn, the grounds, and so on.

That day, Cowboy, the stable manager, and his 4 year old son, Boot, were working with Dakota, a Shetland pony, in the barn. They were only too eager to have me take some pictures of them; and very proudly, little Boot got up on Dakota and began to trot down the aisle of the barn, with Cowboy at his side, “jes’ in case.”

I grabbed my camera, fiddled with some setting or other (I sometimes don’t believe in reading manuals and sometimes regretfully feel experience is the best teacher), and snapped three or four shots. I also photographed many of the horses as well as my own Roxy, and couldn’t wait to get home and see the results of my first photo shoot at the barn!

Slowly and carefully, I uploaded my pictures to my computer. “Wow! It’s working!” I giggled to myself. "I actually did it!"

One by one, the pictures appeared on my screen…until…..I stopped dead in my tracks. There, on the screen, was a picture of not two people and one pony - Cowboy, Boot, and Dakota- but one pony and four people!  The only thing is, two of the people were not there in the barn that day. In fact, when I showed Cowboy that photo, I found out they were never there and were no one Cowboy had ever seen or met. They simply did not exist. I also discovered that by accident, I had set the camera to night-time mode, which changed the shutter speed. Cowboy and Boot both look a little blurry; but the couple, while transparent, was as clear as glass.

This all led me to do some research on the old stable and what I discovered was a bit chilling. At one time, back during the mid to late 1800’s, it was an old farm. The entire Philadelphia area was a well-known part of the old Underground Railroad, where former slaves found refuge on their way to complete freedom. Many of the farms had hidden rooms in or around their barns and silos which were used to hide former slaves from those that were pursuing them.

When the old barn and homestead were demolished, some sort of hidden room was discovered, I was told by a real old-timer. The new stable was erected back in the 1950’s and no one ever gave the old farm very much thought after that – until I happened to capture two people in a picture who appeared to be from a different time and age. The man is barefoot;  the woman seems to be holding a baby in some type of swaddling. The man appears to be black, and the woman seemed to be either black or of Native American descent. What is odd is that there are two faces for the woman: one is looking dead-ahead, and the other seems to be a profile. You just have to sort of focus on it, as for one of those curious 3-D illusion images.

I went on to take many more pictures of the old stable and never again did this couple appear. However, over the next 2 years,  I took dozens and dozens of shots of orbs -- perfect, bright little circles floating in the air -- that filled the barn! One photo was so filled with orbs that I really thought my camera was defective. I had it checked out, but it turned out that there was nothing wrong with it at all. The orbs showed up just one more time, out front of my own house during a terrible storm, during which an electrical wire came down and fell in front of our car! We could not see the downed wire in the darkness, but when I showed my husband the picture, he went outside and very cautiously looked around. That’s when he spotted the wire!

The really sad part is that once the stable was torn down, I never captured any more orbs  in any pictures that I took and feel that this might never happen again. It’s just that for whatever reason, I was ‘favored’ that day and invited to see a very small and mysterious part of the world that many never get to see.

I thought right now, at Halloween time, it would be a great time to show you all my amazing photo! See below..

                 Look at the left hand side of the picture, next to the black trunk. 

                                               Here is a close-up:

The couple that wasn't there

Barn filled with orbs

Mysterious orbs appear even in broad daylight!

This is "Cowboy", literally covered with those mysterious orbs in the barn!

Orb in motion

Our car, surrounded by huge orbs

Roxy surrounded by orbs -- even outside!

"Dakota"

THSTL Manual, Part 3 - "Thrift"

Thrift

“Thrift: the art of not getting what you want, but wanting what you got.”

  ~ Anonymous

I love that saying! It has carried me through most of my adult life and is probably the number one reason why I never jumped off a bridge. In my first marriage (the ‘old days’), it was not just a saying, it was a way of life for our family.  Well, for at least one of us, anyway.

I always wanted a swimming pool. Not one of those blow-up types where by the time the rings are all filled with air, you aren’t – and when your bluish color returns to normal and you come out of your coma, then the kids can jump in and have a blast. But, I dreamed of a real, live, water-deep-enough-that-your-whole-body-is-covered-with-water-at-the-same-time kind of pool. My then-Mr. Wonderful always said, “No.” Excuses given: we can’t afford to buy a new, $300 pool (honest…that’s what they cost back then), the chemicals and what-not to take care of the pool cost too much money, the water bill will go sky-high, and further more, you can just go to the lake with the kids each day and we won’t have the muck and mess of muddy foot prints all over the house…and so on.  Then, one day, my brother took pity on me and decided to give me his old above ground pool. His family no longer used it, he said, and it was a shame to see it go to waste.  

I felt like I had died and gone to heaven! At last – a pool was finally going to be ours!! Happy, delirious thoughts of no longer having to trek four energetic, rambunctious kids to the lake anymore caused me to go into a kind of trance. Finally, the big day arrived and the pool and its components were dropped off at our house. “It won’t be long now,” I thought, “and we’ll all be enjoying summer like never before!”  As a kid, I also believed in Santa Claus and the Easter bunny way too long – but that’s just me.

We unrolled the skin of the pool and were a bit shocked to realize that a 15’ above ground pool measures approximately 47’, when stretched out on the lawn. That’s when the problems began. There were lots of rust spots in the metal – some of them huge holes, actually – that demanded fixing. Mr. Wonderful came up with a plan:

He spent about $50 on a new heavy-duty electric drill, $60 for special little grinding/sanding bits for the drill, $15 for a 100 foot specially rated extension cord,  $30 for a pop rivet gun, and believe it or not, about $150 for one large piece of custom cut sheet metal. The idea was, he was going to sand away the minor rust spots, then patch the sheet metal in where there was a huge hole. Hard to imagine, I know, but the best way to explain this is to take a tin can, cut it from top to bottom, spread it out a bit and ‘patch’ in another piece of tin, attaching it to both cut ends with pop rivets. Yeah…really, that was the plan. Every evening for about 2 whole months, that is what we did: unrolled the metal ‘skin’, and sanded and scraped it until I thought I would scream! FINALLY,  it was time to pop rivet the new metal onto the old. We had, at last, one complete circle of metal – and then it was time to buy the special, marine-rated paint (cost: $50 a gallon – we had to buy two).  Expenses thus far: $435, or about $135 more than the cost of a new pool already – and we weren’t quite done!

It was time to level the ground, and lay down a cushion of sand. This we did over the span of one week, working each night after dinner until after dark. Cost of sand: $40. Excedrin, Ibuprophen, muscle rub medicine, new heating pad: approx. $45.

At last, the moment arrived to put the liner in the pool. For some strange reason, it did not seem to quite fit. We pulled and pulled, stretched, coaxed and cajoled the plastic liner to its absolute breaking limit, and with about 1 inch to spare, for over-hang all around the perimeter of the pool, it was at last in place.  Something didn’t feel right, I told Mr. W.  Shouldn’t there be more over-hang?  “Nah….don’t worry about it,” he said. (We learned the very hard way that when a pool liner is left to dry out for a while, it shrinks. Who knew??)

The water tanker came the next day. Since we had a well, we figured it would take about 3 months to fill the pool and it was already July. So, he bought us some water. Cost: $50 (cheap, I know, but this was back in the ‘80’s).  As the water began to enter the pool, the liner began to slip. First one area, then another was sliding back in toward the inside of the pool. Like madmen, Mr W, the water guy. and I started pulling like mad on the liner to keep it in place.

“Go get some hot water, and that will help to stretch the plastic,” the water guy said.

“Uh…I think we’d better stop,” I ventured, “We need to get a new liner, I think.”

“No..no..it’ll be alright. I’ve seen this before,” Mr. Water- guy said. “Besides, I can’t get my truck back up your driveway with a load of water on it,” he concluded. I asked if he could just dump it on the ground and Mr. W almost had a conniption!

“And waste all of that money we spent so far?” he screamed. “We’re going ahead!”

So, kettles of hot water were provided and sure enough, the plastic did begin to stretch…and hold!

“See?,” Mr W. said smugly to me, “I told you it was going to work!”

The kids by now were in the pool, with the water nearly to the top. My life long dream of a pool in my own backyard was now within moments of being a reality! Visions of pool parties, tall cool drinks on a cute little patio table on the deck we were going to build, no more sopping wet bathing suits and towels making a mess in my car and so on filled my brain. I could barely contain myself!

At that point, I decided to go in the house to get a cigarette. I had been standing by the sheet metal patch, and left my post to go in the house. As I walked toward the back door, I heard a sound that I will never in my lifetime forget. I can’t quite describe it – words don’t exist to tell you what it was like. All I can say is, it was part way between a screech, a bang, and a tremendous “WOOOOSH!”, all at once.  I turned around to see my now nearly-flattened pool, in this monstrous, obscene “U” shape, lying in a heap on the ground, with my four kids riding a tidal wave down into far reaches of our backyard. (Don’t worry….they were fine).

The irony is, had I been standing where I was standing just moments before, I would have been cut in two. The break occurred exactly where the sheet metal patch was, and with the force of that much water suddenly escaping, pop rivets were found weeks later about 100 feet away from the center of the scene As it was, Mr. Water guy had a cut on his arm about 6 inches long that looked purely ugly – and he had been standing right next to me. It was the one time in my life where I can safely say that smoking saved my life.

Listen carefully – if you really want to save money, do it right the first time. Some things are better left alone and you will be richer for having bought brand new to start with. Our grand investment of $570, give or take, resulted in no pool and praying we weren’t facing a lawsuit from the water guy.  He was only too kind and we never heard from him again.

Incidentally, we never did get a new pool. Mr. W. just wouldn’t hear of it, and besides, we spent all of our ‘extra’ money already. For the next several years, I continued to truck my kids to and from the lake each summer.

I may not have gotten what I wanted, but I wanted what I got: four happy, tanned, and pleasant- memories- of-afternoons- by- the -lake kids. 

And, evenutally, a divorce.

"The How to Survive Life Manual" - Part 2

THTSL Manual, Part 2

“Exercising while communing with Nature is good for you”

Don’t believe that one for a second! Exercising is one thing; communing with Nature is quite another. Put them together and you could have a recipe for disaster.

My walking buddy, Ann, and I love to explore beautiful, historic Fairmont Park, which surrounds the entire city of Philadelphia. In fact, of the two of us I am the lucky gal who lives right across the street from one section of the park, called the Wissahickon Creek area. (most natives here just shorten that to “Whistling Chicken”).  It is a beautiful, invigorating walk and will really get your heart pumping and the old blood stream flowing. Except….if I may offer some advice….there are a few rules that should be followed:

1. Never go walking in the park with your friend’s dog off-leash, and relying on the electric collar gizmo thing.

2. If you do, make sure you check the gizmo’s batteries beforehand.

3. Only take ONE dog at a time! This is crucial!!

4. If they are hunting dogs….leave them home!

5. Know the area, mark your trail somehow, and even better, bring a portable GPS with you. And, for good measure, a cell phone, map, flashlight, compass, extra water, pup tent, back pack, flares, and maybe some food.

6. Make sure you tell someone where you are going, and when you expect to return home.

7.  If the electronic collar gizmo should fail, and the dogs take off down a huge hill at break-neck speed, do not attempt to run after them – especially if you and your friend have a total of 7 artificial joints between you! Someone should have at least one good leg to stand on. Running, falling, tripping or rolling are not advised.

8. If you do run/trip/fall down the hill sprinting after the dogs, make sure you noted where the top of the hill was. This will come in very handy later on.

9.  When you eventually do catch up with the neurotic dogs who are going ballistic and determined to dig out some rabbit, chipmunk, or what-not under a rock the size of a small bedroom – do not attempt to put their leashes on them.

10. If you do attempt this, make very sure the one dog you caught doesn’t decide to excitedly leap in the air toward his owner, who is busy trying to get the other dog tethered and not quite paying attention to dog number 2, who is now pulling you up into the air after him like a streamer because you are attached to the other end of his leash!

11.  If you and the dog you caught should happen to crash into the other person and the dog she has finally caught, and you all go rolling down the hill in one huge human, dog, and leash ball – keep calm, cool, and collected. Spit the debris out of your mouth because it doesn’t taste very good and you can’t quite yell with a mouthful of leaves, grass and dirt.

12.  If your airway is clear, stop laughing. Get up and make sure everyone is ok. Yes, the dogs, too.

13. Look UP toward the top of the mountain from which you just rolled down and determine where your start point was. Note: all trees tend to look alike. Honest…they do.

14. Let the dogs pull you up the hill and pray they don’t spot anything else they’d want to chase.

15. Once at the top of the hill, look all around for familiar things. You know you got there somehow…right? Well, there has to be the way out, like going in reverse.

16. This would be a great time to double check and make sure your cell phone has a full charge. That is, if you remembered to bring one with you. Either one of you.

17. Do not panic! It is simply inconceivable that you would get lost in the deep woods that are right across the street from your own house! Just know there are two directions: down the hill (warning: do not pick that one) and going flat. Choose flat.

18. Listen for the sounds of cars on the road which you know whizzes right past the park.

19. Go in the direction of the sounds and ignore the fact that is it now getting kind of twilighty. It’s amazing how dark the woods can get all of a sudden! With all those trees’ leaves, hardly any sunlight gets through, anyway. Hiking in late afternoon is not such a great idea.

20. Once out of the woods (in more ways than one!), continue to your house and make a vow to never, ever try that stunt again! If you do, just stick to walking on the outside perimeters of the park, leave the damn dogs home, and better yet, just do some shopping at the local mall. You’ll get plenty of walking exercise, there!

The “How to Survive Life” Manual – Part I

My last entry got me to thinking that I might have sounded just a tad ‘angry.’ Who, me?! Nooo…not angry at all! I’m just a bit miffed. What I wanted to sound “funny” came out a bit caustic, and for that I apologize. I really am a great neighbor and love my neighborhood, and in fact, I am thought of as the “mom” of the entire block! I am the only one who is home during the day time, so I get to let my neighbors’ dogs outside, bring them back in and at times, feed them; I accept UPS deliveries for everyone in case it needs a signature, water their gardens and houseplants if they are away, and basically tend to the care and feeding the more mundane details of their lives, and their homes in their absence. Since I got ill and became unable to work outside my home, I have not been busier.  I’m seriously thinking of going back to work, just to get some rest!

It’s just that now I’m at the age group where I can look back over my life, and measure it against things that are going on in the world today. It’s called “Experience”, and believe me, what they say is totally true: Experience is the best teacher.  Trust me: we did it all without a self-help group, telethon, marathon, counseling, or how-to manual. And, we survived it all.

When I see today’s young couples’ quasi-mansion homes outfitted with the latest and greatest in electronic technology (huge flat -screen TV’s, computers throughout the house, Game-Boys left carelessly on the floor, and two or more vehicles in the driveway, plus a camper, motorcycle, boat or other large toy, etc., etc.) and then I am bombarded by their complaints on how they can barely afford next month’s mortgage or rent, I tend to get a little cynical, and more than a bit cranky. My compassion level dips a bit and I find it hard to “commiserate.” All I can think of is, “Just wait until Life steps up and smacks you in the face with a really painful, mysterious, and chronic illness like AVN and you need to deal with all of that – then, I’ll feel really bad for ya.” But, to feel sorry for someone who put himself into the poorhouse because he had to ‘have it all and have it right now’?? No. Not in this lifetime! In fact, to get completely down to the nitty- gritty, I know no less than four couples who filed for bankruptcy – and then went on vacations less than month later!! Their explanation? “We figured we owed it to ourselves to treat ourselves since we have been feeling so down!” Good Lord Almighty! Someone skipped a few chapters in the “How to Survive Life” manual! What more could I or anyone possibly say to them that would make any sense at all to them? Not a damn word. Bank on it.

I’ll never forget my first marriage and what-all I went through to keep things together. That was back in the old days, when credit purchases were starting to  come into their own, and people were buying stuff very timidly on the “buy now, pay later” plan. We had a credit card, too, but hardly ever used it. Our theory was “if we can pay for it, then we can have it.” Silly of us by today’s standards, I know, but that’s how we were. The credit card was for emergencies only, objection over- ruled, case closed (bang gavel!).

We managed to have four babies in four years, and had at least two of them in diapers at any given time– and owned no washing machine or clothes dryer. Pampers were just being introduced, and no self-respecting young mother would be caught dead putting them on her precious baby. So, my life revolved around baby care all day long, then laundry at the laundry-mat every other evening or so. Sun, rain, sleet or snow, I lugged baskets of clothes around until one day I had had enough!

“We need a washer and dryer!” I cried. My then-husband just looked at me as if I had said, “There is a little green Martian at our door and he’s demanding our first-born!”

As God is my witness, the man said to me, “What for?” (Maybe this helps to explain why he is a former husband).

“So that I don’t kill someone!” I growled. He probably correctly figured I meant him.

So, at work the next day, he inquired if anyone had a used washer they would like to unload. It just so happens, someone did. It was old, he told my Mr. Wonderful, but it still had some life in it. For $50 dollars, the new/old washer was all ours.

I could barely contain my glee as he hooked it up for me! Visions of relaxing in the living room while the machine beat the dirt out of our clothes filled my head. Shivering with excitement, I was almost in heaven!

“Come in here a minute,” he called out to me. He lifted the lid to the machine and I could not believe what I was seeing! Instead of those paddle-thingees that go back and forth to swish the clothes around, there was….nothing. It was just a big, empty round barrel. But, the most interesting feature was the barrel itself: it looked to be made of, of all things, rubber. Guess what? It Was.

My father, who sold furniture and appliances for years, came over to check it out for us.

“Hmmmm…., “ he said, peering inside the cavern of the machine,  “I haven’t seen one of these in a dog’s age!”

“What kind of washing machine is this, anyway, Dad?” I asked with growing dread.

“We used to call this model the “Douche bag” in the industry,” he replied, a grin spreading slowly from ear to ear. Well, I had news for him! That’s exactly what I was calling it right about then!

“No, seriously…the idea is the machine will pull the rubber liner in toward the clothes and out again, over and over….then in the final phase, ‘the big squeeze’ will push the water out of them, “ he said. “It’s done by some sort of vacuum system, but the idea never really caught on,” he finished. “You have a very rare piece of machinery here, and who knows? It just might still work!” he added with a wink.

The next day, I filled the machine with dirty diapers (yeah… I know…what was  I thinking?!) and let the water run into the machine. I turned it on. All kinds of noises ensued and for the life of me, it appeared the machine was doing its thing! Then came the glorious rinse cycle – the pointer on the dial was getting close to the “Done” letters, printed in chipped red paint. Suddenly, the washer fell silent. The pointer had landed on “Done.” Odd, I thought: precious little water had come out of the machine. I lifted up the lid and cautiously reached in to pull out the diapers. There was just one minor problem: they were totally soaking wet. I mean, the dam broke, tidal wave time, get Noah on the phone because it’s time to launch the Ark soaking wet. For what seemed like an eternity, I stood at the sink, hand-washing, rinsing and wringing out diapers until my skin started to slough off. (It was also at that moment in time that I decided never to get pregnant again!)

We hung on to that douche bag washer for the next six months or so, but never used it again. Back and forth to the laundry-mat I went, ad nauseum. Then, Mama stepped in! She got my dad’s ear but good, and one fine sunny day a brand new washer appeared on our door step, a gift from my mom and dad.

But, that’s how we did it in the ‘old days.’ We built up our homes and our material goods as we could afford them, or until someone took pity on us and gave us some. By the time my kids were in grade school, I had both a washer and a dryer and let me tell you, I felt like a queen! No one ever appreciated a pair of appliances like I did. They weren’t the latest, greatest, or most expensive, but they got the job done and I loved them.

Young people today have no clue how to survive! If it isn’t instant, it isn’t worth waiting for. If it’s not the latest and most expensive, it isn’t even worth considering. And, God forbid, if something newer comes along, well, then, out with the old and IN with the newer one. But, someone forgot to check the chapter on, “If you can’t PAY for it right now, then you can’t really afford it” in that manual I mentioned.

I swear, I think I know what the world needs right now: that book! If I get miffed enough, I just might start writing it myself!

"The road to Hell...."

You know the old saying, “The road to Hell is often paved with good intentions” ? What they don’t tell you is that the starting line is right here, at my own front door! I swear to God, it’s true. I get into more trouble helping out my friends and neighbors than anyone else I know! Here’s a great example:

A neighbor of mine who I only very casually knew (i.e., we had said “hello” a total of four or five times) came to me one day and asked me if I would let her dog out and feed him for one week, as she was going on a trip to Florida. It didn’t seem like too big of a favor to ask, and in my benevolent stupidity, I said, “Yes, of course.”

She told me where the dog food was, gave me her key,  and said thanks a bunch, phone numbers are on the counter in the kitchen, see-you-in-a-week -- and then happily ta-ta’ed me on her carefree way. 

Later that afternoon, I went over to let Spike (his name, for real) outside and give him his dinner. He was such a nice dog! Tail wagging like an oscillating fan, he trotted outside to do his thing. Meanwhile, I set up his food dish and set it right back where I found it, on the floor next to the doorway to the dining room. Odd, I thought: they have a gate there, which for a dog his age seemed a bit over-kill. Spike was about 10 years old, weighed about 60 or 70 pounds, I guessed, and seemed to be mostly shaggy, aging fur. Boy, was I ever wrong! 

Spike came back inside and went right to his food dish. Then, all hell broke loose.

I had to walk past him and his food dish to leave the kitchen. An ominous growl filled the air – low decibels at first, it crescendoed to a full roar within about 5 seconds. HUGE white teeth glared at me and as he hunkered down for his forward-thrust kill- leap, I just about fainted. Never, ever in my life had I been challenged by a dog. Never, ever in my life had I been in a situation where if I got hurt, NO ONE was going to be around for at least a week! And….let us not forget, I am a bit physically challenged and sport no less than three artificial joints, which add collectively about 14 pounds of stainless steel and plastic to my body. There was no where to run and I couldn’t run, anyway, if my life depended on it. Which it did.

I managed to scoot around the kitchen table, with Spike following me every inch of the way, snarling, growling and purely salivating by this point. “Alpo, move over!”  I thought. “I’m here for dinner and I AM the dinner!”

At the last instant, as I rounded the far side of the table closest to the dining room gate/door, I picked up a chair and like a lion tamer, held it in front of me, warding him off. He lunged! And, got himself all tangled up in the chair’s legs long enough for me to make my escape.

“OH MY GOD!” I panted. “What am I going to do, now?!” There was NO way I was going to go back into the kitchen ever, ever again – but as luck would have it – where was her list of emergency phone numbers? You got it! ON the kitchen counter!

With Spike now totally p***** off, and snarling like a maniac, I prayed the gate would hold long enough for me to find a phone number – any phone number. Looking through a drawer in what appeared to be a little end table, I found some numbers! I dialed the first one and Holy Master of Mutts, it happened to be my neighbor’s sister, whose name was Marvella.

“I’m not coming down that far just to feed a dog!”, she complained. “Hey, I didn’t get to go to Florida,” she pouted.

“Look, you don’t understand, Marvella! I am NOT ever coming back into this house again –un uh – no way Jose, nada, nyet, nein, and in case you didn’t understand -- NO! You have got to call your sister and make other arrangements!” I concluded, sweat pouring down my face, with Spike now chewing on the gate!

I guess they did make other arrangements because that night I saw a car out front of my neighbor’s house and one very angry-looking woman walking Spike who now appeared to be a model of Pure Pooch Peace.

The following week, when Mrs. Neighbor returned from Florida, she came over to apologize and explain to me that she had forgotten to tell me one little thing: never to walk anywhere near Spike’s dish when he was eating.  With this, she kind of giggled as if I would find it somewhat funny, too. Sorry to say, and though I hated to disappoint her, I didn’t find it one bit amusing.

That week, I went out and bought an interesting book: “How To Say No.”

Good book, that one!

"I will not be home until after Christmas!"

Is it just me, or are there far too many kids running around out there selling stuff for their schools, sports teams, cheer leading squads, acne-no-more groups, and what-not??

Every year from about October 15 until New Year's Eve, I am flooded with cute little neighbors' kids (and not so little ones anymore), ringing my doorbell and asking if I want candy, wrapping paper, gift tags, scented candles, flower seeds for next year's garden -- just name it, and they're selling it -- until I find myself pretending I'm not home, just so I don't have to answer the door. If this keeps up, I am going to start claiming them as dependents!

Listen -- I don't mean to sound mean or anything, but I've been this route in my life. With four kids of my own all into sports, music, and other activities, we hit up our family and neighbors, too. I admit it: I was guilty of allowing my own kids to fleece the populace, too! But, now that my kids are grown, there are the grandchildren who are hawking wares. My closets are full of things I will never use and will probably pass down to them someday. The last thing I need is to buy more needless stuff from people I barely know!

The two kids next door, who were rather little when we moved here, are now both in college. Hooray!!! This lets me off the hook, I thought. WRONG answer. Just yesterday as I was leaving my house, the girl bolts out her front door, catalogs in hand, yelling, "Miss Marie! Would you like to buy some Yankee Candles for my (whatever) team?" My ears had shut off the instant I saw the catalog in her hand, so I didn't really catch what she was selling for.

"Uh, Megan...I'm in a rush here, but I'll take a look later on, ok?" I replied rather weakly. I think she could read my mind at that point, but happily trotted back into her house, promising to come back later. Make no mistake about it:  she will. 

Now, seriously...for real, my husband has very severe allergies. I can't even use deodorant that is scented! Just a whiff of a scent when he opens up the medicine cabinet in the bathroom would send him into fits of sneezing and pack up his sinuses as quick  as a flash flood in Texas! Then, I have to deal with the aftermath and trust me, there is no chance of  FEMA waiting to help me! I can run, but I can't hide!  I am somehow going to have to explain to Megan again, for the umpteenth time, that we can't have any scented whatever's in our house. You would think that over the past 10 years, she would remember that, but NO. No such luck!

The three new kids that moved in on the other side of us are all grade -schoolers. Oh, joy! We have how many years to look forward to, now, of door-bell dodging?? At least 7 to 9, by my count. Only, these kids are super smart! They will snag me as I exit my car, waiting at the fence with their big, sad eyes just pleading with me to buy some thing or other for their schools or teams. For good measure, their puppy is standing there, too, tail wagging and looking all lovingly pathetic!

It just isn't fair! I don't get the opportunity to return-fire! My family all lives about 200 miles away from me, so they're no help! All I can do is post a sign on my door (and hope all peddlers are old enough to READ it), that says, "I will not be home from now until after Christmas!"

I understand you, Mr. Scrooge. "Bah, humbug!" sounds about right to me right  now!

Saga of Wicky the Wat - Epilogue

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Epilog….

It had been a few days since I’d seen any trace of Wicky. The fat cat continued making guest appearances, prowling happily around the perimeter of our yard – and even Max began to treat him with benign neglect and apparently doesn’t seem to mind the intrusion at all.  Figuring that Wicky had at last found his way back home (I hope!), it was time to secure the rest of the yard for the coming winter. Peace seemed to have been restored in my micro-cosmic little war.

DING dong! Front door bell – and who should be at my door but none other than little Donnie.

“Hi, Mithith Thanahan!”

“Hi, Donnie.”

“Do you wanna buy any of my thcool’s thtuff for Cwithmath?” he asked, thrusting a thin little catalog and crumply jelly-stained order form at me.

“Sure thing,” I reply benevolently. “By the way, Donnie, did your little pet rat find his way home to you, by any chance?” I ventured.

“Huh?”

“You know…little Wicky, your pet rat,” I offered.

“Uh…Mithith Thanahan, Wicky ithn’t a wat ,” he replied, looking very puzzled.

“Let me guess: Wicky is a cat, right?”

“Yup”.  

Go figure!!

The End...really, I promise!

Chapter 11 - "When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on"

OK. This has gone on long enough. Now, I’m super ticked-off.

Not only was Wicky’s trap empty of all food – and the damn door remained open and the trap critterless – but Chuckie’s trap was in the same condition! Not only is this is the final straw, but my hair is starting to fall out (stress? lack of sleep? too much color??).  As for Wicky, I can’t catch him, can’t kill him, can’t figure out what in the hell I’m supposed to do next. I’m tired, and out of ideas, and haven’t seen Donnie since day 1, and……

WAIT! 

Be still my heart!!!! I looked out my back door this morning and saw something that just left me speechless: of all things, a great big cat was prowling around on the sidewalk between the gazebo and the side garden! The opening strains of "The Overture of 1812" suddenly filled my brain!!

Max stood at the back door, just itching to bolt at the cat, but I told him to just cross his legs and hold it for a little while longer. There was NO way I was going to scare this gift of the gods off! Besides, this cat looked awfully familiar. I’ve seen him around now and then and once or twice shooed him out of my yard (mainly to save his butt from Max)….but today, there he is!

Yeah, I know. Don’t get my hopes up. The way things are going around here, I’ll probably wind up with yet another “pet” that I didn’t ask for. Still, there was something about his attitude that gave me a little hope:

With my luck, this’ll probably be more like it…..

                                                                     ______________

     
One more chapter to go, "Epilogue"...look to the right for the link to it

Chapter 10 - "Intermission"

"Intermission" 

A not-so-brief Interlude...

I need to get a hold of myself here for a bit. This ongoing battle outside is ruining my entire “outdoor experience.’ As anyone who knows me can tell you, I live to be outdoors. Hailing originally from the mountains of upstate New York (Why is it that when you tell someone you’re from New York, they immediately say, “Oh! New York City??!” NO. New York is a huge state and has lots more than just one city!) there is a lot more to us New Yawkas than meets the eye.

Anyway, my neighbors see me constantly outside all spring, summer and fall long. (Not winter, though – I’m not totally nuts!) It is my desire to create an ‘outdoor wonderland’ for my husband and me to enjoy. I’ve even painted our old shed to look like a little Swiss Chalet, complete with stained glass windows and all kinds of flowers, birds, and so on, all over its walls. Needless to say, the care and feeding of the yards have fallen to me, a job I take very seriously.

When we first moved in to our new home, the property was just chock-full of flowers in these curious raised flower beds, 12 –foot long boxes made from 2 X 6 X 12 planks of wood. “This is going to be a piece of cake!”  I smiled to myself.

Unfortunately, the former owner was ga-ga over raspberries and there was an entire 400 foot square raspberry patch going on in full force toward the back of our property. Those were the first things to go. Mostly. Stubborn things, those original blasted raspberry plants’ kids and grandkids keep on popping up all along our fence line. You’ll see where I’m going with this in a few minutes….

I set about planting things that I liked, including a variety of vegetables. (I didn’t see it coming, but I was helping to set myself up for becoming the Howard Johnson’s of the wildlife set).  Also, I was thrilled to have space for my all-time favorite plants: hostas. In fact,  I became a total hosta fool -- and today there are more than a dozen different types of this lovely green plant in my yards, back and front.

This year something very strange happened: one of my favorite hosta plants suddenly decided to go ballistic, and it grew to such an enormous size that there was only one proper thing to do: enter it into a local nursery- plant store contest. Taking up one entire flower bed itself, a stately neighbor to my tomato plant patch, it was directly in the center of our yard. As the owner of the nursery told me one day, “It must really like its location since it’s growing so large!” 

There was just one little problem: on either side of my yard, and along each fence line, were some of those persistent and pesky raspberry plants – and they were in a direct line with my prize hosta!  It should by now almost go without saying, but all kinds of wildlife love raspberries, and I mean love them.  In fact, I truly do believe that over time, the original group became Chuckie’s very own personal raspberry patch – and he viewed me as the interloper!

Like an 18-wheeler speeding cross-country, he had a regular highway Route 66 going from fence to fence, with a convenient "rest stop" about half way – right at my hosta plant! A huge hole appeared one day right next to the hosta’s bed and I almost flipped out!  Wilted remains of some berries and tomatoes littered the ground, mute evidence that someone had a good thing going. I had to wonder what else good ole Chuckie was using the rest stop for -- restroom, perhaps? That would certainly explain the over-fertilized ground. This had to stop! As best as I could, I plugged up that hole. OK… really, I flooded it using my garden hose, knowing full well Chuckie had another escape hatch somewhere else in the yard, so he wouldn’t drown. But this one was treated to “The Great Flood” and believe it or not…it worked!

For two whole months, I watered, fed, weeded and guarded my prize hosta and waited for the judge to come to my home. Each time he was supposed to arrive, something would happen and he’d have to reschedule.  Meanwhile, it was no easy trick keeping Mega Hosta safe from Chuckie – which ultimately led to our Battle of Groundhog Hill. And…I was exhausted from keeping my yard in as meticulous a condition as I could. Still, the weeks dragged on – and no judge ever appeared. Finally, I went to the nursery and asked what happened. Very apologetically, the owner/judge explained that he “simply forgot.” He gave me a ribbon, anyway, as I had thought to bring a picture of the damn plant with me to show him. It was justice of a sort.

No matter. Now that I truly had a prize hosta in my possession, I was obligated to keep it going. It finished out the summer in style and remained King of the Yard despite everything that Mother Nature threw at me.  As for me, personally, I looked as if I had aged about 10 years’ worth. So much for a pleasant outdoor hobby – gardening. NOT.

And, just when I thought that I had been able to keep things down to a dull roar…up pops Wicky! It just isn’t fair!

Did I mention I am thinking of becoming an “indoor’ person……? 

King of the Hostas

Spoon added to show relative size

Front of our shed

Side of our shed

Max "on guard" this spring...Hosta not yet fully grown!

 To be continued....

Chapter 9 - "And now, introducing: WWIII"

Chapter 9  “And now, introducing: WWIII”

I am not a happy camper today. Here I was, going along with my own private war and doing just fine, in a manner of speaking, when along comes an uninvited participant and decides to join in on the fracas. Seriously, I am trying to view this as the Military channel would: strategy-wise, this has suddenly gotten a bit too complicated. My battle plan has hit a snag – two of them, in fact – and I think this is going to spell disaster for the whole lot of us.

It all started with my trip up to see my horse….

Every Saturday, my friend Cindi and I take a 30 mile ride to go visit our horses. Roxy, my  horse, dances from one foot to the other at the gate eager to receive the carrots, apples, mints and other goodies that I faithfully bring to her. Meanwhile, Spanky, Cindi's horse, stands there, every inch looking like the proper English gentleman: calm, unruffled and giving Roxy a somewhat disdainful look. I don’t know why, but I found myself telling Roxy about the ‘adventure’ going on back home. In typical Roxy-style, she gives me a few licks on the face,  nudges me rather vigorously with her head, then snorts and stamps one foot two or three times. “Never mind all that, “ she says in horse language, “just keep the treats coming!”

After we visit our horses, it’s a trip to the local farmers market, where everything from fresh produce to yard-sale treasures can be bought. There is a candy stand there that has stuff like you would not believe! I usually get Roxy a pound or so of Canada  mints every week there – and that’s when it hit me: maybe Wicky would like some apple cider or blueberry flavored candy corn! Or, how about some butter-toffee roasted peanuts? Yeah! How about I make an “Autumn Mix” of a whole bunch of stuff?! Something here has got to catch his attention (besides, I’m running out of Kahlua).

Back home later on, I go to work and add a handful of the Autumn Mix to his trap. For good measure, I place a wrinkled, squishy little tomato on his concrete slab, almost as an after-thought.

Suddenly, Harry’s back door pops open and out bounds his dog, Haylie, who tosses a toy in my back yard. Max starts to bark, as does Haylie. The toy bounces along the ground and – you guessed it – smacks into the trap, causing the door to snap down.  If Wicky were anything closer than 50 feet to all of this, he is carefully hiding out, now. I reset the trap door again and toss Haylie her toy. Harry appears on his porch and slowly it dawns on him that I am fiddling with the havaheart trap again.

“What’s the string for, Marie?” he asks.

“That’s so I can pull it and make the little door close, Harry,” I patiently explain.  Harry laughs good-naturedly, and adds, “You still haven’t caught that critter yet?” 

I go on to explain recent events: how Wicky is still running around, making himself at home, eating up a storm, getting drunk, etc., etc. AND how Chuckie has made a reappearance.  Uh oh. This was a grave tactical error on my part.

Harry just hates Chuckie with a passion! If you think I’m fussy with my garden, you don’t know Harry! Where I have six tomato plants, he has 30. And….peppers, cucumbers, carrots, onions, and one year, even beets! The man is a regular Farmer Brown! To him, Chuckie is the devil incarnate and he will do anything in his power to get rid of him. NOW I have Harry’s attention. Suddenly, the laughter stops; and as a big thunder cloud appears over his head, Harry comes up with a plan of his own.  Grabbing the huge, raccoon-sized havaheart trap from his shed, he brings it over into my yard and proceeds to set it up in front of escape hatch number one, muttering the whole time to himself.

“Uh, Harry…why is this trap on my side of the fence?” I timidly ask.

“Because!”, he says, working like a mad-man. Because why, I ask.  “Because the hole is on your side of the fence,” he explains with his own logic, stuffing the trap with lettuce, carrots and something I didn’t even recognize. I wonder if it occurs to him that the hole also has another ‘side’ to it – in his yard. I keep quiet: better not interfere with a man who is on a mission, I correctly deduce.

Oh good grief!!! Now I have two traps set up in my yard…and even worse, Harry is absolutely determined to snag my only ally! It dawned on me that I have an entire world war developing  in the microcosm of my backyard – and somehow, I have lost control! To make matters even worse, I see a shadow out of the top of my eye and look up to see a huge bird (Hawk? Owl? Vulture??) go whizzing by over-head. The Air Force has arrived!

I go back up to the house; Harry goes back to his yard, all self-satisfied that he is doing something to protect his garden…and I look down at Wicky’s trap. The squishy little tomato is gone – that quickly!! The Autumn Mix in the trap is untouched, but that’s OK. He knows it’s there. I hope.

That night when Richie got home from work, he asked me about how things were going with little Wicky.

“I haven’t heard much about him lately,” he says.  With a huge sigh, I fill him in on the day’s events. He smiles, and even chuckles a little bit. Then, from out of nowhere, he adds….

“Hmmm..well, you’ve got one more week to catch him…then he’s mine!”

WWIII has officially begun. 

 Chuckie's trap 

(Angel garden just behind it)

"

"Roxy"