Common Sense

This past summer, the loss of common sense has become frighteningly real to me. I have watched people drive over the concrete flower bed that surrounds the dump station, back over planters that stand two feet high; drive over cement parking stops and take wrong turns, all because they are incapable of reading maps.  Several times we’ve had people arrive with their tent, but without their tent poles. This weekend, we had folks arrive with the poles and no tent.  You wonder, what were they thinking? But that is the problem in a nutshell, people don’t think anymore, nor are they expected to.

We’ve had those who walk into the office to register for a wolf watch, literally take three steps straight in from the door to arrive at the counter, turn around and are unable to retrace the three steps to find the door they just walked thru when they came in!   

 I recently observed a woman swaying in front of my office door.  At first glance, I assumed she was a little tipsy, but when I asked if she needed help, she suddenly realized what she was doing and sheepishly admitted she was trying to trigger the electric eye to open the door. I laughed, pointed to the doorknob and said turn and push.  People are used to having automatic doors or push bars; they do not know how to operate a simple door knob.  It was a short time later that I watched a woman struggling to open the door by pushing with both hands.  “You have to use the knob “I said and shared an eye roll with a nearby employee.  After a few more seconds of seeing her struggle with the knob, I added “you have to turn the knob first, and then push”.  She shot me a look as if I were to blame for her inability to operate a doorknob, and we all cringed when she slammed the door behind her so hard a box of Advil vibrated off a nearby shelf.  Verbalizing the instructions “turn the knob then push” has taken the place of “goodbye, have a nice day”.  It has become such a frequent necessity; I’m considering putting an instructional sign at the edge of the door above the knob.  However, I realize most wouldn’t comprehend what they are reading, and I’m not sure how to convey the message using pictures!

 Common sense is defined by the dictionary as “sound and prudent judgment based on a simple perception of the situation or facts. It is perceived as the knowledge and experience which most people already have or what we think they should have.” 

I have come to believe that as we as a society, advance in technology, the level of common sense diminishes proportionately.  The more technological advantages we utilize, the less capable we become.  If experience is the best teacher, then teachers have gone on strike!  Calculators in school have all but eliminated the need for using our brains to solve a simple math problem.  There is no need to memorize the times tables since that little hand held device solves the problem for us.  Escalators and elevators eliminate the need to exert ourselves walking to the second floor.  The internet has not only eliminated the need to learn the Dewey decimal system when searching for the book in the library, it has all but eliminated the need for going to the library.  Hit spell and grammar check on the tool bar, check wikipedia for a definition, everything is done for us, eliminating the “accountability” aspect of everyday living. The GPS and smart phones have eliminated the need to learn to navigate using a map. 

A product of parochial school, I can still recall the dreaded penmanship test.  The palmer method of writing was to blame for many a classmates’ sore knuckles.  Today, there are those who feel that children should not have to learn to write, when they have a keyboard.  Some have already lost the ability to read cursive. Soon it will be considered a skill much like archeologists who can decipher the ancient languages and hieroglyphics.  

I can’t help but wonder if we are sealing our own fates by shirking accountability and speeding toward advancements only to fall victim to our own self destruction.  There were the Mayans, the Incas, the lost city of Atlantis, all of whom stir the imaginations of archeologists across the globe.  Will some future civilization come to study us?  With all the advances in science, technology and medicine, I wonder what they’ll think when they unearth plastic bags imprinted with a warning not to put them over your head because it could cause suffocation, or finding those little tags on pillows and furniture warning of fines and possible imprisonment if removed.

Sunless Sunday

 I watched the NOAA weather station‘s radar loop light up the screen with a kaleidoscope of blues, greens, yellows and reds, and I could hear engines start up as campers were pulling out of their campsites. It was not even noon and the campsites were vacating rapidly despite the 3pm check-out.  When the rain arrives early Sunday morning and there is no end in sight, most people pack it in and make a hasty retreat to their dry homes. Some even ask if we could refund them since their vacation was cut short with rain, and become annoyed when we say no, explaining we have no control over weather. The disappointed and disillusioned first timers whose brand new tent leaked like a sieve plod into the office looking for coffee, not just to warm them up, but to give a caffeine boost so they have the energy to finish cramming the muddy equipment into the car after the sleepless night they had just endured.  Lesson learned, even the best of tents should to be tarped in a heavy rainstorm.

As I watched the mass exodus, I thought back to my first experience of camping in a tent.  I had just met my husband and decided I would show an interest in his occupation by purchasing a large canvas tent and various cool looking camping accessories.  I did a practice pitching in the back yard to be sure I wouldn’t look completely inept. Satisfied that I was prepared for my first camping experience, I reserved a weekend at his family owned campground.   

Feeling benevolent, I decided to invite my nephew, four nieces and my mom, not thinking of how I’d transport them and the equipment.  Although I loved my Volkswagen rabbit, it was not my first choice when I had purchased my brand new vehicle eight months earlier.  I really wanted to get the VW Westphalia van.  However, my mother would not hear of it.  After all, good catholic girls do not drive around with their bedrooms!  I piled my mom and five kids in my Volkswagen rabbit.  Obviously it was long before the days when seatbelts and car seats were required.  I had the tent and other gear tied to the roof.

 I was feeling quite proud of myself after I pitched the tent without any problems especially since my only other tenting experience prior to my practice pitch was draping a sheet over a table and playing under it with my cousin when I was a child. One of the cool purchases I had made was a set of pots, pans and dishes that all nested within the largest sized pot.  It didn’t occur to me that paper plates would have been the wiser choice with five kids and two adults.  I’d no sooner get done heating water; washing and drying the dishes then fitting them back "puzzle style" into the pot, when it was time to start the next meal.  My mother would watch me perform this ritual over and over and continually ask “and you call this fun?” 

Hot dogs and beans over the fire was dinner that night, followed of course by the mandatory s’mores for dessert. 

Finally, when dinner and marshmallow toasting time was over, I left my mother with her grandkids ranging in age from 5 to 11 years old sitting by the fire and walked over to the patio by the lake for some romantic moments with my new found beau. 

We had only been together for a few minutes when he stood up and said we’d better head back to the campsite.  I thought perhaps bringing five kids and a mother was too much for him when he explained there is rain coming. 

Seriously? I asked myself, who does this guy think he is, Daniel Boone?  Then I heard it; a drumming, far away and muffled at first, then getting louder and louder.  We broke into a run, but the wall of rain coming over the mountain was moving faster than we were, and by the time we reached the campsite we were drenched. 

I stuck my head into the tent and found my mom inside with the kids praying the rosary for protection against a chance lightning strike on a nearby tree that would surely fall and crush them all.  Mom and the five kids had pretty much filled the 8x10 cabin tent, and I decided to sleep in the back of Clate’s pickup, which had a cap over it and a mattress that spanned the width of the truck bed. The storm was raging outside and I must admit I may have said a decade or two of Hail Mary’s myself. 

Breakfast was spam and eggs.  It was surprising how that canned mystery meat actually tasted good when cooked over an open fire.  While I was packing away the tent and loading up the car, Mom stated this whole outdoor thing wasn’t worth the trouble and isn’t anything she’d want to repeat.  No chance of that happening, I thought, as I listened to five kids fighting over who would ride shotgun.

A shrill alarm coming from the weather radio beside me warned the possibility of flash flooding in the area and brought my mind back to the present.

A young couple came running into the office looking for a campsite. Rain is what separates the true outdoor enthusiasts from the weekend “wannanbes” I thought, as I smiled and handed them a registration form and campground map.

Lobotomy/Lobectomy, Po-ta-to/Po-tot-to

                                   

I watched the numbers on the odometer slowly roll to the next tenth of a mile and my eyelids seemed to be tugged further down as each rotation triggered another yawn.  I wondered how I had driven 14 hours to Georgia, just two months after my lobectomy, when I am now struggling to stay awake on a simple 20 minute trip to Pennsylvania.

This was the third lung surgery in 18 months, and I am starting to doubt that I am as recovered as I thought.  Though the initial pain has subsided, the occasional sharp twinge and hyper-sensitive patches of skin serve as a constant reminder of the fact that I am still unable to turn the page on this chapter of my life. This last surgery removed a nodule the size of a golf ball, yet the lab results are still inconclusive.

Perhaps the stress of the unknown is why I feel my mind wearily wanders from the task at hand, and I feel I’m viewing life peripherally, completely unfocused.  Two years…first the bloody cough, then the news that there are spots on both lungs…the words lung cancer” tossed about like an errant ball in the hands of children, coming ever closer to the neighboring window.  Eighteen months of fighting with the insurance company over bills that should have been paid from the first two surgeries, but haven’t, because of a simple typo on their end that they can’t seem to fix.   Anxiety levels getting ratcheted up a notch each time a CT or PET scan was postponed, waiting for insurance approval.

I’m unable to throw away collection notices, which, in my mind have become ransom demands,  because of the Stockholm syndrome-like bond that has formed between me and the insurance company.

I continued to bounce from test to test, surgery to surgery, waiting for the inevitable shattered window, which came the day I was released from the hospital in the news that a family member had lost her fight with cancer.  It was hard to celebrate my good fortune of leaving the hospital, being told my tumor was not cancer, when the life of someone so young with two little children had been cut short so prematurely. A kind of survivor’s guilt overcame me, and I kept wondering why I was so fortunate.  I previously said I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, but now I wonder if it hasn’t been thrown, hitting me in the head and leaving me in some post operative state of confusion. 

Nothing is sharp.  Not that sharp would be a word I’d use to describe myself!  My face is round, as is every part of my body. Even my hair gets round with an increase in humidity! The only thing capable of being sharp would probably be my tongue.

I’ve heard of disorders such as postpartum depression, and post traumatic stress syndrome. I have to wonder if there is a post-op perplexity disorder and I’m the new poster child.  I feel like I am in a room, surrounded by people having a toke from some community reefer, and I’m stuck in the middle, feeling disoriented from the contact high!

There are so many horror stories of hospitals performing the wrong surgeries on patients and amputating the wrong limb. If it weren’t that I distinctly remember the doctor marking the surgical site with indelible ink, I would swear he performed a lobotomy instead of a lobectomy! My memory is shorter than the life expectancy of a mayfly. I would like to think if there was a problem like Alzheimer’s, it would have shown up on my periodic brain MRI, which monitors a spot found on my right frontal lobe.  I would think if it had grown, I would have at least gotten a courtesy call.  Hmmm, that is…I don’t remember getting any call…..

Sisters on the Fly

We get many types of camping groups during the season.  There are canvas campers, Pwp’s, Scouts, church groups etc.  Last weekend we had a group called Sisters on the Fly.  Intrigued by the name, I immediately went to the computer and consulted the google guru. Sisters on the Fly began with two sisters who liked fly fishing and were having such a great time, they started inviting their girlfriends along.  It reminded me of the old Faberge shampoo commercials.  Do you remember them?  The original user was so pleased with the product that she told two friends, and they told two friends and so on…and so on….capitalizing on the impact word of mouth has on advertising and marketing.  This sisterhood has done the same, growing from the original two to the over twenty-six hundred members currently signed up. I was awestruck by these women, and if I am to be honest, a little envious of these ladies, who could gather together for a carefree jaunt without husbands, boyfriends, children or pets.  Not that I have never traveled without husband or children myself, but that there were so many others who did so on a  regular basis in such an organized fashion impressed me.  I felt an immediate kinship with these women of all ages, occupations, and personalities.  Some of them were meeting for the first time, though their exuberance and excitement at seeing each other gave the impression they had known each other all their lives.    They are a sisterhood of fun-loving independent women with arms open waiting to embrace a new family member.   Several travel in vintage trailers, and tiny teardrops, tricked out and named to reflect their own personalities.  I had my doubts about fitting in, since my husband and I recently purchased a 30ft motorhome  on the hope that we’d be able to sneak away a few times per year. But I was assured that it wouldn’t make a difference what I was camping in.

Though I never had the urge to buy Faberge shampoo, I was compelled to buy into this sisterhood.  Rather than living vicariously through their friendly blogs on their website, I joined after that weekend, and am now sister #2615.  I wasn’t sure what to call my RV.  I am always looking for a reason to bug-out of my duties at the campground, and have been accused of doing it at lightning speed!  I relate to lighting more and more as I get older –as my mind produces an occasional brilliant flash before returning to a dark void of nothingness. And…. during a menopausal hot flash, I can not only rumble like thunder, I’m capable of vaporizing anyone or anything in my path just like lightning! And I almost glow, flushed with excitement at the idea of leaving the campground. In view of these observations, I’ve  decided on Lightning-Bug-Out.  My daughter even sketched a cartoon lightning bug standing thumb out, motioning an escape, a martini glass, wine glass and jug in the other hands.  Now I am anxious to attend a meet-up, to feel that I truly am a part of the family of adventurous Sisters on the Fly!

A very "Public House"

                                                          

I attended a convention in Sturbridge Massachusetts last March.  Even though I had to make the drive and attend the convention alone, I was looking forward to seeing other campground owners from the Northeast.

Judy, a good friend and campground owner from Cape May, assured me that I wouldn’t regret making the trip and she’d keep me company.  Most of the luncheons and dinners are included in the registration for the event but there was one night that dinner was on your own.  We met up with three other campgrounds from our state and decided to go to a well known restaurant called “the Public House”.  We looked forward to swapping stories and knew we always laugh and enjoy the time we spend together.

We hurried into the public dining area where our table for eight was waiting.  Our time was limited, because we had to return to the hotel for a “cracker barrel” discussion, so we put in our orders as soon as the waiter came to the table.

 “Oh my God!”  Judy exclaimed as she ducked her head behind the menu she still held in her hand.  “I don’t know where to look!”

All but the gentleman sitting opposite her at our table were now following her line of sight to a woman seated at the table a few feet from us who was breast feeding her baby. 

Although breast feeding is only natural, I must admit the public display was a little uncomfortable.   I was born in an era when discretion and modesty was an inherent condition.  Having had two children of my own, I know there are many ways to feed an infant discreetly when in public.  This woman, however, was not interested in utilizing any of them.   Judy, being older than myself, was of the Ozzie & Harriet generation and such things were not even discussed in mixed company, let alone demonstrated.

It became quite obvious that the intention of this mother was to attract as much attention as possible, and she was indeed successful in her endeavor. The fact that she used breast feeding to that end was nothing short of offensive. I remember wondering if she had chosen the “Public House” for the name alone. It was as though she purposely tried to expose as much of her body as possible, making no attempt at draping her chest but rather exposing herself from the top of her blouse down.  She was sitting at a table against the window, which would have given her complete privacy had she chosen any of the three other seats at the table, angling herself away from the other diners. However, her choice was the chair that faced the entire restaurant full of diners.  After an hour and a half went by, it was obvious the child was not the least bit interested, but she kept forcing his face toward her breast.  How much could a child so small drink? Especially when she had been nursing him in the crowded lobby only minutes before? Seriously?  Even a dairy cow would have emptied in less time. 

 As we glanced around the room, other customers sat with heads tilted, trying to obliterate her from even their peripheral fields of vision (not an easy feat due to the size of the room and placement of the tables). Discussion at our table deteriorated rapidly into bad puns and jokes as a result of our own discomfort which I’m sure contributed to our raucous behavior.   The woman looked to be glaring directly at us and called the waiter to her table several times. However, we weren’t sure if she was lodging a complaint against our table or trying repeatedly to draw the young man’s attention to her bare breast.

Service was extremely slow, and we just wanted to get out of there.  I usually drink my coffee black, but thought cream might help to cool it down and speed up our ability to depart.   Already late for the cracker barrel session and feeling the tension around the room, when my coffee was poured I turned to Judy and inquired “Got Milk?”  The laughter that ensued got the check to the table quicker than any of the dinner courses.

Wasted Youth

All dressed up to go, one last check in the mirror

I thought that I looked nice and neat.

I was half through the room, when I swapped out my shoes,

Cause the heels started hurting my feet.

Great dinner with friends, though we’re tired by the end

When the waitress came by with the bill,

I stood up to leave and, the pain in my knee

Told me, shit, I have crested the hill.

Youth has been wasted on red pimply faces,

Ungrateful with life so they whine.

Till one day that mirror reflects the years passing;

And they see they’ve been ravaged by time.

I’m watching the kids play, they’re all in their heyday,

The energy spent is a crime.

They’re running and jumping, my own heart is pumping

And telling me I’m past my prime.

Youth is just wasted on young lads and lasses,

They squander away precious time.

They sit on their asses with rose colored glasses,

And I wonder, what happened to mine?

As youths we would laugh at our old aunts and uncles,

 They’d sit tapping their toes ‘neath the table.

They’d watch us all dancing, to loud music playing

Reminiscing the days they were able.

Our feet seemed to fly as we’d spin and we’d glide;

We’d all drank and had eaten our fill

It never occurred to us, we’d soon be tapping

Our toes when we crested the hill.

The tick of a clock, is an audible mock

as we use up our time here on earth.

I’ve heard there’s a rumor, it’s God’s sense of humor

And how He will measure our worth..

Time is the stuff that a youth’s dreams are made of,

And time slips away when we’re old.

When you are over the hill, and your youth is all gone;

They’re the golden years, so I am told.