Song of Josephine

My sweet tiny girl...
your debut was not as we had hoped.
The waiting room was clouded with worry and fear
not the sunshine and flowers as we planned.

When I first saw you in the NICU
you were like a tiny marionette, lying broken on stage under lights
tethered to machines and monitors that controlled your life force.
But in those clicks and beeps I heard your secret message
of strength, courage and determination.

When I first held you in my arms
you took my breath away.
And as your tiny hand grabbed and held onto my finger
you became my oxygen and my lungs filled
with the breath of angels.
That's when I first knew you were our blessing from God
and destined for greatness.

My heart aches with love each time I see you or hear your name
It soars like a bird until I see what you must endure, and your illness
pierces my heart like a giant thorn.
And as the pain becomes most severe, I am suddenly stilled by a sound...
A most beautiful song rising a pitch above all others fills the air
and I see it comes from you.

You are the perfect song Josie...
Gods most special blessing to us all
Like the mythical thornbird,
the most beautiful song is brought about through great pain.

You are our song Josephine
the one most beautiful.
And we will hold those thorns to our own breasts because
your song is worth it.

All my love,
Nana

Treasure Hunt

Growing up as a child, I can remember my mother getting very annoyed with herself when no matter how careful she tried to be, a morsel of food, a drop of sauce or a spatter of dressing inevitably would find its path to the front of her blouse. These small culinary traces were like homing pigeons coming back to roost. We would all snicker, much to her dismay, at the sudden realization that the mystery of what to get her on the next gift giving occasion had simply solved itself!
Call it fate, divine providence or simply genetics, but as I’ve gotten older, I have found myself suffering from the same malady as my mother. I swear to you that if you went into my closet, more than 60% of my blouses would have the telltale signs of those culinary homing pigeons.
I have tried a multitude of stain removal products on the market, but all of them combined have not been able to restore more than 2% of my garments to the point that I can wear them in public.
It isn't that I don't try to eat carefully. In fact, there have been times my menu choices are made by the viscosity of the sauces and the ability of the food to remain on the fork until it is delivered safely behind the toothy cage beyond my lips. There have been times I've accomplished this successfully...that is… until my last forkful. Etiquette dictates that you should leave some food on the plate which signifies to the host that you have been satisfied, but I propose it is more likely a civilized warning that to finish to the last bite is simply testing fate and challenging the odds of successful delivery. I have tested this theory multiple times and indeed, there have been times that I have gotten through nearly the entire dinner feeling quite proud of myself that nothing found its way to my chest. Then it happens-- when I glance down at the plate, feeling so full I don't think I could swallow another bite, my conscience replays Sister Joseph Patrice’s' lecture on the sin of wasting food and visions of starving children in Biafra pass through my mind. I watch helplessly as my hand lifts the fork to impale the last morsel of food on the plate. And as I raise the final bite to my mouth, I detect a barely discernible weight change on the utensil and watch in embarrassment as the tasty little pigeon returns to roost on my chest.
So there it is. The more we try to climb out of the gene pool, the deeper that pool becomes.
Culinary Homing Pigeons are not the only thing I have inherited from my parents. Like my mother, I am overweight and sometimes grapple with a lack of self-esteem. I developed her bad habit of biting dry cuticles until my fingers become raw. I have my father's easy going nature, and like him, it takes a lot to set me off- but I  have a short fuse and once it’s lit,  it should come with a siren to caution anyone in the vicinity to keep clear or suffer the fallout.  Allergies, soft fingernails, and arthritis are among the other not so desirable inherited traits. But I don't believe I only inherited the negative. I think I learned compassion, and understanding, and a fierce sense of loyalty. However, the trait I inherited from both mom and dad that I am most proud of would have to be a sense of humor. Both had a wonderful sense of humor, and if I learned one thing from my mom, it’s how to laugh at myself and how humor can get you through an uncomfortable situation. This humor helped me through an uncomfortable situation last Tuesday.
It has been a very busy couple of months at the campground, and we were running low on some things needed for the upcoming weekend which warranted a trip to Walmart and BJ's. When I got to route 80, I noticed the backup of cars heading west toward the bridge, so I did an immediate U-turn and headed for the Portland Bridge so that I could avoid the traffic and drive up the PA side of the Delaware River. Entering Walmart, I did a quick recon of the department headings and made a beeline for the items on my list. As I backed out of my parking spot, it suddenly hit me that I had not eaten breakfast, and it was already past the lunch hour. I was feeling a little shaky and lightheaded and knew I needed to make a quick detour on my way to BJ’s. Arby's was the closest fast food establishment, and I quickly ordered a roast beef sandwich with bacon.  Pulling away from the drive thru, I hastily unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. The sandwich immediately began to disassemble and pieces of lettuce, bread, beef and bacon were showering down the front of me while I held onto the driver’s wheel.
I quickly ate the remainder of what was left in my hand and shook the debris from my blouse, as I slid into a parking space at BJ’s Wholesale club. I hurried inside with my list in hand and quickly began to go about my shopping when I noticed an elderly couple standing in front of me.  The gentleman had an air of gentility about him, and he was making a discrete attempt at getting my attention.  “Excuse me miss,” he said softly, “you seem to have dropped something” and he shyly pointed at me.
I glanced down and was mortified to see a chunk of bacon wedged in my cleavage! Flicking it out with one quick motion and falling back on my mother’s advice and humor, I rolled my eyes at him and said “what can I say, my husband enjoys treasure hunts, and he loves bacon!”  The man’s wife burst into laughter as did I, and we watched the man turn various shades of red. Even his gray hair seemed to get a tinge of pink.  “I’m sorry,” I chuckled, “but I thought if you were as embarrassed as I, it would help level the playing field.” 
“You certainly accomplished that” his wife said laughing uncontrollably.
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, “I guess I’ll have to tell him the treasure has already been found,” and turned and wheeled my shopping cart around the corner into the next aisle.
Upon returning home, I told my husband what had happened on my shopping trip.  That night he found a new treasure under his pillow.  It was a bag of bacon flavored jerky.  I winked at him and said “in case you miss me while I’m gone.”  We both laughed as I grabbed my cell phone and walked out the door to spend the night with my granddaughter.

New year resolutions

It’s New Year’s Eve, and as I removed the calendar from the wall and tore off the page marked "December 2012" it suddenly hit me.  This is the 58^th new years eve of my life!  Although as a very young child, I did not know what it meant to make a new year’s resolution, I realized I have probably been making them for nearly half a century.  Although I could not recall any that I succeeded in keeping.  This day brings a chance at a fresh start and a chance of a “do over”; but instead, I can’t help but ask myself "what have I done"?    

I’m suddenly recalling all the New Year resolutions that went unresolved.  Failed diets, changed attitudes, ambitious plans, incomplete projects…….all fell victim to procrastination and buried with resolutions of days gone by. It’s depressing to say the least.

 Still, each year I set myself up for failure as I make a new resolution.  Even as I verbalize it, I brace myself for the disappointment I know will come at the end of December; and I wonder if I might be predisposed to self- flagellation. 

 I ball up the page I’ve just torn off, toss it in the trash, then look back at the wall and there it is.  That fresh clean page of the New Year; January 2013 still uncluttered with appointment and reminders glared at me.  What can I say? Hope springs eternal.  I start to wonder what new goal I should set for myself that won’t damage my psyche too much when it doesn’t come into fruition. Fifty eight…. Who would have thought…?  Looking back on the last couple of years, "Auld Lang Syne" may very well be best if left forgotten.  But here I am again, reviewing the events of the  "Old Long Since”.  Aside from the weight gain, there’s the torn meniscus in one knee, degenerative cartilage in the other, a damaged rotator cup,  vision requiring glasses for both distance and close up and  spots on my lungs which have yet to be diagnosed even after three  surgeries.  My joints tell me each time I have to stand up that  I have not only crested the hill, but am too far down the other side to reverse my course. And who can remember the last time I had a good night’s sleep?  In fact, my memory is so bad that I don’t remember ever having one.  I'm considering changing my religion to one that believes in reincarnation so that I could resolve to take better care of myself in my next life, in the event I live past 50.

Suddenly a decision is made.  I know I can’t stick to a diet, and I have no desire for orthopedic surgery. I have become accustomed to three hours of sleep, and who am I kidding, I probably won’t get the cellar cleaned or the yard landscaped.  With my luck I'll come back as a turtle in my next life, so I don't have much of a choice.  I’ve decided this year’s New Year resolution is try to keep myself in an arrested state of decay.    

Looking on the bright side, with my memory, by end of 2013, I won’t recall enough to make the comparison if I am better or worse than I am now!  I hung the new calendar feeling confident success is finally in sight!

It's all in the bottom right leg of the chromosome

There are countless books and complex theories as to why men and women are so inherently different.     I don’t believe the reason is as complex as scientists and psychologists make it out to be.  Do you remember basic biology when you were told that women were the X chromosome and men are the Y chromosome?  Let’s take a simple look at those two small letters shall we?  The x for example is made up of two equal lines which cross at the center at an angle.  What happens when you snap off the bottom right leg?  That’s right, you have the letter y.  So it stands to reason, that men are not like women because to put it simply, they’re broken.

What happens when the bottom leg is missing?  Let’s consider some of the most common differences by example #1 Why can’t men ask directions?

 I remember shorty after my marriage, before the GPS, we were invited to a wedding in Norfolk Va.  We had the name of the church and the street address. No problem; until we turned onto that street, and became confused because there wasn’t a single building on the road that contained a house number.  Now you wouldn’t think that finding the church would be a problem except that there were churches everywhere.  You know how each town has what they call fast food alley? You pass McDonalds, Burger King, Wendy’s, Pizza Hut, Bo Jangles Kentucky Fried Chicken, and Arby’s  in less than a half mile. It’s like running a fast food gauntlet and dodging the arterial blows till you emerge on the other end of the street where a development houses the local victims, peering out the window dreading the route back to the interstate.

This particular road in Norfolk could have been called the gauntlet of righteousness.  There were churches on both sides of the street. Catholic, Methodist, Presbyterian, Unitarian, Evangelical, Episcopalian, and Baptist along with churches of denomination I had never heard before.  We were running late, and I, being a woman, thought the solution was to just stop and ask a pedestrian. However, my husband, who contained that broken chromosome, decided the better solution was to turn the car around and cruise back and forth like ducks in a shooting gallery, till either we found the church or we were picked off by the righteous indignation of each denomination when we refused to stop at the prospective pearly gates of their parking lots. 

This leads me to example

 #2 why can’t men listen?

 Did I mention that I believe the bottom right leg of the X chromosome must also contain the tonal range that permits hearing?  Because it wasn’t until my voice hit a higher pitch that my husband’s inner ear became receptive and pulled alongside the next group of pedestrians we saw to finally ask directions.  As it happened, it was the bride and her parents, walking to the church.  To his credit, he did receive the telepathic message “I told you so”, from me with little effort. Which leads me to believe telepathy or mind reading, which is often credited to women is in one of the other legs of the X chromosome.

Example #3 Men like to think that women can’t manage without them. 
They want to be the providers. And though they accuse women of keeping score, they do the same.  The difference is the scoring curve.  Men tend to score a gesture or deed much higher than women.  Taking garbage out may be a ten in his eyes, but a 1 in hers, while taking care of the kids and doing laundry is considered menial and scores a one with him while his wife rates her time equivalent in accomplishing these tasks a bit higher than the time it took him to carry a bag from the kitchen to the curb. Consequently, they always seem to think things are off balance. Hmm, ever try to stand up a Y?

Example 4 men don’t talk.
 Men use as few words as possible and speak only when they have to...  Women want to discuss the problem until a solution is reached.  With one exception, when a woman is complimented on her salad, she graciously says thank you, I picked the lettuce fresh from the garden this morning.  But when men are complimented on an accomplishment they stand around beating their chests. It’s the old hunter gatherer stuff.    When a man goes hunting to put meat on the table, and someone takes notice, you are forced to relive the hunt with them.  They will go into excruciating detail from the weather to the type of ammo and on to a minute by minute description of the sights and sounds experienced before pulling the trigger and landing the shot.   I call your attention to the amount of cave drawings, depicting hunts.  I propose it was simply the woman who gave him the piece of charcoal and said “honey, write it down and I’ll read it later after I clean up the dishes and beat your underwear on the rock along the river and hang them to dry after I start the fire.

This leads me example 5, Men cannot multi-task.
Women are capable of rocking the baby, stirring the sauce and talking on the telephone while they supervise  one child doing homework and listening to yet another child reading aloud.  Men on the other hand can only manage one task at a time, with possible exception of performing certain bodily functions while reading.. The world comes to a grinding halt if they have to give so much as a yes or no question when asked during a sports game on the TV.  Oh, they will tell you they are thinking before answering, but must I remind you about the listening skills housed in the bottom right leg of the x chromosome?

Example number 6 -  If there was ever a doubt that God was all-knowing and all-seeing, just look at who he chose to bear the children. 
 Women will endure 36 hours of labor and be back on her feet, within hours of delivery, but if a man pulls a muscle, he’ll whine for sympathy for hours, maybe even days.  And Lord help us if they should get the flu!  You would think they were on their death bed and you begin to wonder if you should first call the priest to administer last rites, or grab the check register to be sure you made the required payment on his life insurance while racking your brain trying to recall where the will was stashed.  Perhaps it’s because they are trying to keep their balance on that one-legged chromosome .

And finally, you realize men have no opinion when it comes to helping you decorate the house or deciding if they like your new dress or your new hairstyle. And the ones who do, are said to be more in touch with their feminine side.  I’d be willing to bet if their genetic structure was examined closely, there would still be part of that lower right leg of the x remaining.  In other words, they’re probably gay!

Still, men blame the wife when they do not get the son they wanted to carry on the name; though basic biology tells you it is the man who determines the sex of the offspring.  The women have only the X chromosome, while the male carries both the x and the y.  So if the broken chromosome happens to swim faster, and produces another broken chromosome, they have no one to blame but themselves.

Some people explain it all as "It's a guy thing.  I maintain that it's a "Y" thing.

Men can be kind of like a cockroach.  Cockroaches have a similar system for determining the sex of an individual. The male cockroaches determine the sex of the offspring. The male cockroach contains only an x chromosome, and thus produce sperm that contain either an x or no chromosome at all.  Wanna guess what sex the no chromosomal sperm produces?

The hurrier I go the behinder I get!

It’s funny how a random thought or event can trigger a completely unrelated memory.  A recent conversation on a trip to Ikea brought to mind a family gathering I attended a number of years ago.

It was my aunt’s 65^th birthday party, and they were having a big family gathering at a hall in Lawrenceville, which is about an hour and a half drive from my place.  At that time, she was living in a senior home, and the invitation suggested a gift card  because they took frequent outings to the local Walmart.

Perfect, I thought, saves me racking my brain wondering what to buy.  Better yet, I can leave camp a little early and pick it up on the way, since I knew there was a Walmart not far from the party.

If experience is the best teacher, I am a bad student.    I had everything planned to the minute. 10am: leave the office to go home and get ready.  10:15: shower 10:30-11:00: blow dry my hair (yes, my hair takes longer than the shower) 11-11:30 dress and apply makeup then out the door by 11:45.  Arrive at walmart by 1:15, grab a gift card and back in the car heading to the hall by 1:30, to arrive at party at 1:45, fifteen minutes ahead of the guest of honor.   A piece of cake, I said to myself proudly as I wrote my itinerary down on paper the night before. 

I had not planned on the record heat and humidity when I bought my outfit, which consisted of a long sleeved top with mandarin collar and slacks.  No worries, I thought confidently, I allowed a little extra time to blow out my hair, and I would be in an air conditioned car, store and restaurant.

The first lesson I  never learned from experience is that something always happens at work that prevents you from leaving the office at the anticipated time.  That day, it was the unexpected throng of nearly 100 wolf watchers that descended on us at 10am, just as I was about to walk out.  Remaining, calm, knowing I can shave minutes off my shower and apply makeup as I drive; I proceeded to go back in the office to help register each car as quickly as possible.

 I tore a page from the registration book and started a second line at the other counter to speed things along.  It’s always when I am in a hurry that I notice how excruciatingly slow everyone else is moving.   How long does it take to write a name and address down? I wonder, as I watch the next person in line pick up the pen and start to write.  I am screaming “hurry!” in my mind, and I concentrate on the hand with the pen as I try to will it to form the letters faster.  I quickly hit a button on the register and state the amount they owe.   Then it happens-just like in a movie.  Everyone and everything around me shifts into slow motion, and I watch from what seems to be another dimension.   I stated the price two more times before the sound waves reached the customer’s ear, and I can almost visibly see her brain slowly processing what I wanted from her.  

The woman slowly reached in her right jacket pocket  then the left.  Coming up empty, she checked her two front pants pockets, taking what seemed forever to feel around and realize they too were empty.  As she slowly reached further down her leg, I quietly cursed whoever invented cargo pants.  Seriously, do we really need to have pockets halfway down our legs as well? Then the light bulb finally went on, albeit dimly, and she remembered she left her money in the car. She slowly turned to make her way through the crowd to her vehicle, and I wondered why she would get in line to buy a ticket without money on her in the first place.  I quickly hit cancel on the register so the person at the other counter could ring up their customer, and I motioned for the next person in my line to sign in. I looked up and wondered how the second hand on the clock can be sweeping around its face so fast, while everything else was moving so slowly.

Finally, I peeled out of the parking lot at 1030 and headed home to get ready.  After a frenzied shower and struggling to get my clothes on over a semi dried body, I tried to force myself to control my breathing and blood pressure as I plugged in the blow dryer.  My hair is like a barometer; if the humidity is over 45%, my hair will literally start to shrink into ringlets of curl and frizz, so sweating would be counter -productive.  I tried to retrieve the lost half hour at the office by only applying my eyeliner, and throwing the rest of the makeup in the car, intending to apply the rest while driving, knowing it won’t be the first time I did that.

Now on the road, I am reminded of the second lesson not learned through experience.  Posted speed limits to the average driver are open to interpretation.  On parkways and interstates, they are interpreted as the minimum speed required for survival.  On secondary roads, which my route required I take, they are interpreted as warnings of certain death if your speedometer gets within 10 miles per hour LESS than the posted speed. Having preprogramed my gps to the address of the party, I felt my anxiety rising as the ETA became later and later.

As I still hadn’t reached Walmart to buy the gift card, I tried to distract my mind from the stress of being late and started thinking about the event I was heading for.  My aunt was my father’s youngest sibling.  My father, one of twelve children, had passed away several years prior, and knowing he hadn’t been the first to die, I tried to recall how many of them were still alive.

Let’s see, I thought to myself, there is Mary and Junior and Samuel and Morris, Jeannie and Puggy and Pat - suddenly the lyrics for Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer popped into my head, and I smiled as I slowed down for yet another red light.

Ten minutes later, I noticed the clouds had gone from white to dark gray, and as I pulled into walmart, the first raindrops began to fall.  Panic began to rise again, as I found the closest parking spot was nearly a tenth of a mile from the entrance.  As I closed the car door and hit the remote lock, the sky opened up and it began to pour.  I ran as fast as I could, but apparently, another lesson that I did not commit to memory was my lack of agility in anything other than sneakers.  I burst through the doors, nearly colliding with a group of seniors aided by walkers and canes.  I headed straight for the rack of gift cards grabbing one marked $25.00.  I stopped short before getting in line for the register because I realized how long it had been since I had seen any of these relatives and how long it might be before I may see them again.  Why didn’t I think to bring a camera, I chided myself. I made a quick decision to buy an inexpensive camera to commemorate the occasion.  I was nearly soaked to the skin with rain, and I glanced up to scan the department headings looking for the word  “electronics”.  Of course,  it was way at the  back of the store, and I breathlessly hurried to the camera department.  I scanned the posted prices and chose a camera that was reasonably priced, but to my dismay, they were locked in a cabinet under the glass case.  I raced to the person working the register in that department, pacing impatiently while he finished with the customer ahead of me.  “I’d like to purchase a camera over there please”, I said to him. 

That’s when it happened for the second time that day.  You know - the slow mo thing; that parallel dimension that makes everyone look like they are moving through water against the current.   The salesman slowly raised his head and looked up at me, then even more slowly, swiveled his head down towards the end of the aisle. He had to be at least 350 pounds, and I was mentally screaming when I took in his girth and estimated the speed at which he would likely be able to move.  I was breathing faster than he was moving.    It must have taken a full two minutes before he was able to rotate his body and reach for the key hanging on the wall behind him.  I was in agony watching him struggle to displace the air in front of him and make his way down the aisle.  I was telling him the make and model  of the camera  I wanted when I realized that, although I had taken only a few strides  and the legs on my five foot four inch body were not all that long, they had put a greater distance between us than I had thought  possible.  I walked back to him, turned and proceeded in front of him trying to displace the air and create a draft that might pull him up the aisle quicker.  When we reached the cabinet, I could see him gauge the distance down to the little shiny padlock that kept the cameras from being poached by shoplifters.     It was all I could do to keep from becoming hysterical, as I watched him ever so slowly give a tug on his right pants leg to bend the right knee slightly, and then slowly reach with the other hand to do the same with the left.  Inch by inch, he repeated this motion as he slowly maneuvered himself into a squatting position, panting heavily from the exertion. He reminded me of a Sumo wrestler, and I was tempted to partner up and wrestle him to the ground for that key.  After what seemed an eternity he was finally able to lower his massive body enough to reach the lock.  He slowly inched the sliding door open only to discover they had no more of that camera in stock.  I quickly suggested the second cheapest camera.   He slid the panel open a fraction of an inch more which caused a shift in balance and his knee dropped all the way down and came to rest on the tile floor.  Damn I thought; now he’ll never be able to get back up!  Every muscle in my body began to twitch with desperation, when he slowly spoke up and said they were all out of that one too.  “Never mind then” I said quickly, “thanks anyway.”  I waited there, muscles twitching like a race horse at the starting gate, while he slowly rocked back and forth reversing the motion that got him to his current position.  Finally, he stood up and began to slowly shuffle his way back to the register.

 “I’ll just get this gift card” I said and handed it to him.  He slowly reached for the card and tried to swipe it through the machine.  Still in slow motion, he tried a second swipe before suggesting I take it to one of the front registers.  I snatched the card from his hand and quickly raced toward the front of the store. 

Perspiration was beginning to form around my hairline, which flanked the top hairs already wet from rain. The top of my head was beginning to itch as each individual hair surrendered its position and recoiled like springs that have been stretched beyond their limitation.   I made a quick detour to the health and beauty department and grabbed a travel sized blow dryer, remembering I had a converter still in my car that we had used to plug the computer into the cigarette lighter while traveling cross country.  Seeing that it was still pouring rain, I also grabbed a mini umbrella and made a bee line to the register that had the shortest line.  I dropped everything onto the conveyer belt and dug in my purse readying myself for a quick payment. An audible whimper escaped my lips when I realized the person in front of me had a blouse that had no tag, and a call for a price check went out over the loud speaker. 

What else can go wrong? I asked myself, as I finally paid for my purchases, grabbed my package and hurried toward the exit.  I promptly retrieved the umbrella from my bag, opened it up and began a mad dash to the car.  Just before I got there, a gust of wind answered my last question and turned the umbrella inside out.   Struggling to hang on to it, I unlocked the car, and threw myself onto the front seat and tossed the inside out mangled umbrella onto the back seat.  I was gasping, trying to catch my breath as I tried to tear open the package on the blow dryer.  It was sealed in hard plastic and I was using my keys to frantically cut it open. Once I got it punctured, I clawed at it viciously while praying that I wouldn’t slice my hand open.

By now, I was sweating profusely and wishing I had purchased some deodorant as well.  Finally the dryer broke free, and I took a deep breath as I plunged it into the converter and flicked on the switch.  There was a faint …whew… of air then a pause, followed by another faint. ..whew.  It was then that I realized a hair dryer draws more power than the cigarette lighter was capable of giving. I would have gotten more drying power blowing into a bendy straw pointed at my head.  I angrily yanked the dryer by the cord and threw it behind me with such force it landed with a crash.  I cringed, and then let out a breath of relief when I saw I had not broken the back window.

I slammed the gear shift into reverse and hurried to the hall. As I parked the car, I glanced down at the makeup I had brought with me but never applied.  I decided I had moved beyond caring and then thought, well, maybe just lipstick.  I grabbed the silver cylinder, gave the lipstick a quick twist, and flipped down the visor to access the mirror.  My hair was a mass of frizz and curls, taking on the appearance of a Berber carpet that was clawed by a cat and the eyeliner was smudged.  I looked down at the lipstick in my hand and threw it in the direction of the blow dryer.  It would have taken a whole lot more than that to fix what was staring back at me in the mirror.  I was exhausted and spent and frankly no longer gave a damn about what anyone would think of how I looked.  I stepped into the hall and mingled among my relations.  Perhaps it was because I looked like I’d gone through hell and back that they all seemed to be impressed and in awe of the fact that I came all this way and planned to return all in the same night.   “”I couldn’t do it” I heard one of them say.   The past few hours flashed through my mind as I smiled and calmly said, “It’s no big deal”. With that, the last piece of straightened hair surrendered its position and coiled backward to join the rest.

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.