The Oglethorpe Echo

Guys and Beasties

What is it with guys and those living creatures we gals aren’t fond of? Perhaps my view on this is restricted by the circles I now live in, but I think it has wider implications.

I was fortunate that my son wasn’t too interested in the bugs and beasts, so I escaped the type of episode my brother subjected my mother to when he was about 12. He had developed an interest in biology, of which we all, of course, were very supportive. Finally, little Bro was developing some type of academic leanings. Our support, however, led us into new territory when Bro arrived home with a dog carcass he had obtained from the local vet. His autopsy efforts kept all of us out of the basement for days! Well, at least he didn’t bring home bugs or snakes.

It’s not that I am particularly afraid or repulsed by bugs and snakes. I’m not like my daughter-in-law who freaks at the sight of a spider or wasp. I consider myself pretty grownup about such things. Being a military wife and later a single parent for years has instilled in me a streak of self-reliance and practicability that many men and women may lack.

I mean, after all those gigantic flying cockroaches and lizard-infested rooms on Okinawa, Japan, how could I be too squeamish?   Well, I’m not, but, guys, you do astound me sometimes!>

For example, we have three entomologists at our karate school. Not one, three!. One showed up at my Christmas party 2 years ago with chocolate chirp cookies.   The chirp means the crunch in those tasty treats was crickets, not nuts.   The cookies were better than your usual run of chocolate chip though that was probably due to a good recipe and not the inclusion of the crickets.   What was funny that night were the numbers of folks (men) who refused to even try them! There were leftovers.

This summer our pool party featured deviled eggs with bug parts.   I did not ask what bugs.   I did not need to know that piece of information. They were quite tasty with a little added crunch. The party hostess reached the buffet as I was taking the last one. She exclaimed, “Oh, they’re all gone. Too bad.” Her face fell when I offered her half of mine. She accepted and slunk off to the side.

Yep, the plate was clean. The past years had instituted a dare system with both entomologists harking their wares. No one dared not to try those eggs!

Now I find these guys are swapping recipes. I’m not sure whether to fear or anticipate the next party.

Now, if that isn’t bad enough, there is my husband. I won’t tell you about his phobia. His fear of one specific member of the insect world simply doesn’t compute when you discover his interest in snakes and other creepy crawly things. He loves snakes and turtles and all sorts of other living things. And what does he do? As if he were my young son, as if he were still a boy, he brings them home.

First, snakes. He had one when we married. I believe it was a king snake. That aquarium went into my teenage son’s room. Eventually my son let it lose. Nowadays, my husband is constantly reporting to me what snake he’s found, how he moved it off the road, you know, like pygmy rattlers and copperheads. I was relieved when he didn’t bring them home.

But now, our neighboring entomologist has requested a rattler. He said to bring it home for him! Boys will be boys, I guess.

My hunter husband is always relaying bits of data to me about the animal kingdom. I know an incredible amount about deer, bears and other denizens of the forest. Last night we even watched a national geographic special on snakes. He is forever turning to the discover channel to watch informative, yet boring, programs on fierce, poisonous or weird things.

I must admit, though, that a baby box turtle turned out to be an episode to cherish. He found one the other morning during his jog and, of course, brought it home. It wasn’t the first turtle he had walked in with, for he seems to have a particular fondness for them. He announced he was going to keep it. I took the 4 inch beastie from him all the while wondering did we still have an aquarium?

A moment later he changed his mind and said he would let it go instead. Feeling fonder of the critter at that point, I was letting it roam around my hands. It wasn’t as shy or scared as the ones I’ve handled before.

I looked down to see my dog, Micky, the basset/golden retriever mix (yeah, I know that’s weird). Micky was very interested in my little friend. She has a wonderfully large heart and loves everything and everybody and was interested in either gaining a new friend or eating it. I leaned over to let Micky sniff the turtle. She really didn’t know what to make of it. Then the dangedest thing happened. That little 4 inch turtle bit Micky’s nose!

Micky’s offense was noticeable. She withdrew. Our delight in our turtle friend’s self-assertion has not faded even today, a week later.

Ah, yes, memories to cherish. So what if it’s the grownup and not the kid who furnishes them? Yep, boys will be boys--and they will be men, too.

Summer Vacation

One unanticipated benefit of living in the country is a feeling of permanent summer vacation. This I just realized today as I was picking the wild blackberries that line one side of our property.

As a youngster, I did spend time in country with relatives that owned farms years ago. I can even recall picking cotton at my great grandmother’s though I don’t really remember her. I can’t even remember actually picking berries as a child though I must have. Surely I picked berries during those years as well as cotton.

Now I’m spending my free time slowly picking berries, liberating my peach tree from its heavy burden/bounty and putting some walls and windows in that decrepit shed behind the house. All these tasks performed in the muggy, hot weather speak to me of long ago summer days when the world seemed so full of opportunity.

I can forget the pressing issues of grownup life out here. I can forget the necessity for making a living; I can forget the marks of time on my body; I can forget the hallmarks of that cruel (faraway) world. Time has slowed around me as I have adapted to the rhythms of country life.

We did some planting earlier in the spring: some Leyland cypresses for privacy, some azaleas for beauty, some morning glories for memory (Daddy used to wake me whispering “morning, morning glory”), and some caladiums for spot color in my “garden”. I’ve never been much a one for growing stuff. I’ve even insisted for many years that I had a brown thumb, that I would kill it if it couldn’t remind me to water it like my dogs do when they get really thirsty. (Beagles can really give you a stare that communicates!)

But now, I have found myself watering, watching and worrying. Seeing those sprouts come up from the morning glory seeds was a triumph quickly diminished when the deer decided they were tasty enough for breakfast. The caladiums have finally made an appearance without any special care or watering-a miracle in itself. The azaleas might last the summer. We’ve lost some of the cypresses as the drought has progressed due to less watering (we are trying to do our part to preserve the water table).

Our “grass” in the meadow that is our front yard bloomed beautifully white in the spring with some sort of ground cover but it all turned brown in May. It’s now looking greener with the recent rains we’ve had and we are grateful for the reduced growth since the riding lawn mower isn’t running.

I never imagined that sky watching would become a habit, that rain would be an occasion for porch sitting. I never imagined that I could care so much about the weather.

Especially in the summer. Although I was raised in North Georgia, I’ve always hated summers as an adult. Asthma doesn’t mix well with heat and I hate sweating. I spent many summers as a child in the swimming pool or lake: that’s a reasonable activity for a southern summer. Without a pool or lake, I’ve been huddling in my air conditioning since the mid-eighties until last year.

That summer I started working in the yard up there in at my last house. I love buying old houses because they usually come with automatic landscaping. There does come a point though when the yard starts taking over. Because of my decorating interests, I have been exposed to many magazine articles about gardens. I’m talking about decorative gardens, not the eating kind. It finally has started affecting me.

My first efforts at taming the overgrown views from my front porch were not incredibly successful. First, though I didn’t spend much money, I did manage to kill off some dollars planting in the heat of August. Secondly, I proved that I really couldn’t recognize poison oak. Of course, I did get my Girl Scout merit badge for plants; I used to be able to point out many things to be avoided. Since I’ve never broken out from poison anything, however, that knowledge has totally disappeared from my citified brain. Those tiny red spots on my ankle last year were a warning I managed to forget.

This year in an effort to start taming this new yard, I kept rooting around in hedges and flowerbeds before everything bloomed. I would spend 15 minutes here or there on the way to or from the mailbox. After one day when I had spent a fair amount of time pulling vines, I suddenly had a thought. “What if there was poison oak or ivy in those bushes? Did I even notice?” Well, the answer quickly appeared on my legs and arms. I am so grateful that I really am not very allergic!

I had my husband walk the yard with me that week and I was horrified to find I had been wallowing in all sorts of unhealthy stuff. That thought has effectively curtailed my weeding tendencies since then.

Besides a thorough coating of sweat (ick), I only gained a few scratches today gathering my juicy blackberries, ha, ha. I spent the time thinking about writing another column. It’s so easy to wax philosophic out here while listening to the birds, frogs and crickets. The country quiet is definitely tempered with a wide range of natural, soothing noise, once again awakening in me memories of long ago summer days.

Oh no. What if there were poison oak or ivy in amongst the blackberry thorns? Did I really forget to look again? Well, I think it’s time I quit writing now. Perhaps next on my summer agenda will be a thorough shower and a change of clothing. Oh, dear, now I’m itching!

Country Paranoia

Do you lock your doors at home? What about your car? Do you secure it every time you get out of it? Boy, I’ve been doing that for years. What about you?

Well, I recently was smacked in the face with another country-living realization. We went out of town for several days and a friend agreed to feed the dogs while we were gone. My husband also requested she move the truck around the yard to make it look like we were still there. It’s a standard security precaution.

You should have seen her face when I handed her our house keys and relayed Tommy’s request. She laughed and said, “My husband doesn’t even own a house key—we don’t lock our doors.” She thought we were being paranoid, I guess!

I did realize that folks out here still leave their keys in their cars and weren’t necessarily diligent about locking up their houses, but my friend’s reaction (laughing, indulgent, a bit sheepish and a bit condescending) cued me into the fact that we have brought our “big city” ways out to the country.

After all we’ve had our car broken into, a house burglarized, my son’s house burglarized, (all in “the big city”—not out here); I’ve caught shoplifters, been physically threatened on jobs by customers, spent major amounts of time worrying about work safety in retail settings, delivered newspapers in housing projects in the wee hours of the morning (no, none of out here); I’ve traveled the world, met a lot of bizarre folks, seen a lot of troublesome things; my husband’s been a cop and a 911 dispatcher (he thinks he’s seen everything).

My “paranoia” isn’t unnatural: it’s earned! I’ve always locked the car doors when I get out, no matter where I am—like even at the gas station when pumping gas. We always lock the house when we leave home. My husband has always driven me nuts because he locks the doors when inside. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone out the back door and tried to come in the front a few minutes later, only to find it locked when I least expect it!

My husband prefers covering every window with blinds, shades or curtains. (I think he kept a record of the numbers of peeping toms while at 911.) Once he started working every night and I started eating out in the evenings, he even told me he didn’t want me out after dark. (Yeah, sure!)

I mean after all, right after I opened my store, a Christian bookstore in the same shopping center got robbed in broad daylight. Women do get abducted by men slipping into their cars while at the gas station. Houses get robbed, people get mugged, and violent arguments can erupt any where, right?

On further reflection, I can truthfully say I really admire my neighbors’ feelings of safety. It must be nice to feel that comfortable, that secure.

I have to tell you though—my habits are changing out here in the country. When you don’t ever see anyone walking your road, when the only vehicles you see either are folks that live or work out here, when you can’t even hear people most of the time, one does tend to relax a little.

Nowadays we still lock the doors but now we leave the windows open when away though I probably wouldn’t do that if it weren’t for the three noisy (and, of course, “vicious”) dogs. In the city, I wouldn’t at all. Tommy has quit keeping all the doors locked all the time. (What a relief!) I’ve put sheers on the living room windows and there aren’t any window coverings at all in the kitchen.

The bathroom blinds on the window above the toilet stay up and/or open. (I think he gets a kick watching our rabbits cavort in the back yard!)

I never lock my car doors at home anymore. Well, almost never. I occasionally forget and lock them. It’s just not a habit I want to break actually.

I just realized recently, however, that I’m gaining new habits that I wasn’t expecting. Now when someone drives up in the yard, I leap to the window to check them out before they even get out of the car. If I’m by myself, I find myself tensing, worrying once again about my safety.

I do know in parts of this country, folks “hello” the house before approaching. I understand today’s Indians in the southwest still practice the custom of “helloing” the house and waiting for an invitation before approaching. I can see where this might be necessary living in isolated areas. One could get shot by being too forward out there.

I guess I can’t expect my guests to “hello” my house; there’s too many city folk running around. They wouldn’t understand why it should be necessary. I think I’m going to start discretely “packing” a pistol instead.

Father's Day

Calling all Dads!

Father’s Day is a bittersweet occasion for me because my Dad died 11 years ago in the summer. This time of year I spend time remembering the man my father became, the man I miss.

My mission on Father’s Day is always the same: I don’t just won’t to tell you what a great father he was. No, I want to tell you who he really was and what he taught me.

My Dad was an alcoholic. He drank heavily, embarrassingly, from my preteen years until 6 years before his death—over 30 years of booze. My life with Dad was one of neglect and a perceived absence of love. He just was never all there, only bestowing upon me sloppy drunk hugs and other unwanted attentions.

In his sixties facing cataract surgery, he quit drinking. With no help from therapists, Al-Anon, or even us, he simply decided to quit and he did.

He died 6 years later on my honeymoon. When he said goodbye to my new husband and me two days before his death, he let me know I had chosen well this time and he said he was glad I found someone to share my life with. Daddy was not an articulate or educated man, so I was impressed with his words and all the unspoken things he was trying to convey. As it turned out, he knew that night that he wouldn’t see us again.

I miss him terribly. His 6 years of sobriety, coupled with his strong, obvious love for me, was an unexpected healing for me. It had never occurred to me that those 30+ years of absence could be virtually erased, that I could—long after the years of counseling—find what I had been looking for: my daddy.

Discovering that my father loved me, had always loved me, started a set of chain reactions that continue to improve my life today, 11 years later.

By finally having a strong, recognizable male role model in my life, I found and married an emotionally stable, non-addictive, loving man who became my son’s best role model. This man took on the teenage responsibility abandoned by his biological father, just as my son has shouldered the responsibility for his stepdaughter abandoned by her dad.

Between my father’s love and my husband’s love and support, I have been able to provide my son with good parenting, grandparenting and “in-lawing”. I am constantly reminded by own experience that I can be a motivator, a supporter and a loving parent and continue to make a difference in my adult son’s life.

Dads, take it from someone who knows. It’s never too late to love your children; it’s never to late to repair the damage; it’s never too late to heal your children; it’s never too late.

Give the gift of yourself on Father’s Day; let your children know you love them; let your children love you because they do—no matter what you’ve done.

Fire!

Yep, here’s one more fire story: my personal saga with fire.

Sunday, July 16, 11:30 pm: we smelled smoke outside as we are getting ready for bed and then saw a haze of smoke around the house. I promptly called 911 and hopped into the car. We determined the smoke was centered around our house only. Another call to 911 gained the news that there had been a fire in the area that weekend, but that our brave volunteer fire department has been notified. Feeling guilty for probably getting neighbors out of bed, I watched until I saw someone drive by. We then uneasily went to bed.

Monday, July 17, 3:30 pm: heading home I spotted a cloud of whirling smoke to the west of Maxeys. When I stopped at the post office to check, William Dawkins knew nothing. He called the forest service who said there was a controlled burn in the area. I decided to go by on my way home since something didn’t look right.

After turning off Macedonia Church Road onto to dirt path, I found the fire. I thought about it for a moment. “Shouldn’t a controlled burn have someone nearby controlling it?” I drove past, thinking the road would continue on through towards my house where I could call the forest service myself.

Oops. A dead end. I turned around to retrace my route.

Oops. Smoke and fire has covered the road. I can’t see. Without hesitation, I hit the accelerator and dove into the smoke, emerging relieved on the other side.

Feeling stupid, I returned to the post office. William called the forest service again to insist this was no controlled burn. Someone was to come check it out.

Minutes later, after another 4 or 5 folks have stopped to tell us about the fire, a forest service truck passes. I left and decided to pass by again. (So I was a little excited by that time!) I found a pickup truck with stuff on the back parked at the fire. It was one of the guys from the controlled burn who exclaimed, “I came to find out who the competition was!”

Forest service guy was looking agitated. He tells me to move my car since the bulldozers were coming. I moved but once again, stupidly, not far enough and I hold up progress and fire fighting while trying to decide what to do. I left.

When I got home--less than a mile and half away—I called my editor. “Do you want pictures?” After ascertaining that I probably can’t get decent, usable photos with my equipment, he tells me, “If your house catches fire, be sure to take pictures then!” Thanks, boss.

Out of all the things I’ve worried about here in my new country home, forest fire had never occurred to me. Now I’m feeling uneasy after having to convince the forest service Monday was no controlled burn. I now know our local volunteer fire department is hurting for members. I am worried.

Wednesday, July 19, 10:30 am: I called the forest service to get some information about the drought, fires and what can we do. Ranger Tracey Graham invited me up the station for a sit down interview.

He provided me with the information I requested. He stated that the folks in Oglethorpe County were a responsible group of folk. I left feeling much more secure about my country (forest) homeplace.

Instead of writing up the article, I went home and took a nap, so my planned article doesn’t make the paper. (The ways of the world are mysterious indeed!)

Thursday, July 20, 6:45 pm: Leaving Athens at the end of the four lane just past Wal-Mart, I spot an enormous pink balloon cloud in the sky. My fears from earlier in the week come rushing back.

I pointed the car towards the cloud and sped towards home. I’ve always thought fire was the worst way to die and now I realize that there is a reason for this particular fear. My grandfather’s factory burned when I was eight. After it was all over, I found out my father was one of the last employees to leave the building. The terror and the shock of 40 years ago wash over me.

My frenzied ride takes me past Arnoldsville, past Crawford, around Lexington, past the forest service—the garage doors were closed. It looked abandoned. After cutting over to highway 77, I stopped at a friend’s. “Come with me,” I request. He does. 5 miles later we find a wildfire.

The fire was marching across 77 and also down to our left towards us. It was too close and too scary. We only stayed a few minutes. I dropped my friend off at his house, called my editor (yes, he had already been there) and headed back.

EMS had arrived by the time I got back and was greeted by Mary Pat Provost who I had babysat for as a toddler and hadn’t seen since. We caught up on the last near twenty years and recent family business all the while staring at the largest fire either of us had ever seen.

I finally admitted to her, “I’m supposed to be a reporter; I should thinking about what I can write about this. But I’m blank.”

All I can do is stand there muttering, “Oh, my God!”

Manners

Like many folks raised in the South, I was indoctrinated into a polite system of manners and communication that at times has proven not to be so helpful in making my way about the world. Different locales and changing times frequently have necessitated revisions of my personal set of manners.

I was raised by a mother and grandmother in a very traditional southern style. I was required to yes ma’am and yessir, to please and thank you, and to always, on pain of death, to write thank you notes. As I grew older, it all grew more complicated as life, because of the more rigid rules, seemed to be more complicated back in the 50’s and 60’s. For example, one had to know what was appropriate to wear and when. I had my white gloves but was grateful that I arrived at college in the first year that the coeds were NOT required to wear them off-campus. An occasion was either casual, Sunday school dressy, semi-formal or formal, with no blurring of the lines like today.

My first brush with an alternate ‘manners’ reality came in high school, though, when I rode a bus to Atlanta and then caught a taxi to my sister’s home. The taxi driver was asking me questions and, the good girl I was, I responded with “yessir” immediately. His reaction was astonishing to me at the time and may also be to my younger readers today. He got upset at my yes sir and told me not to yessir him. You see, he was a black male in his 40’s or 50’s. As a product of his generation at that time, he obviously felt that it wasn’t appropriate that I, a young white miss, yessir him. But he was my elder, so I did.

He certainly gave me some things to ponder. It was a shock to find out that the world doesn’t work the way my ‘genteel’ family told me that it did. After all, back then so many customs, good or bad, were unwritten, but I, however, only operated on the written rules, such as the yessir-your-elders one.

I ran head long into this again while overseas and became interested in language from a cultural aspect while teaching a variety of men from different backgrounds that weren’t southern. I was disturbed at our lack of communication. I decided to research communication from a cultural position and even did graduate work in the field later after returning to Georgia.

One acquaintance at the time relayed a story that highlighted this difference in language. She moved from the South to Chicago as a teenager. Soon after enrolling in school there, she answered a teacher with a yes ma’am and found herself sent to the principal’s office for sassing!

As the years have passed, I’ve found deciphering these unwritten communication rules takes up inordinate amounts of my time and thought. My first job as a reporter was very difficult for me because “it’s not polite to pry”. Asking questions for many years was just hard. I found it easier (and still do) to talk about myself instead. I know that folks have thought me 1) self-centered or 2) uninterested in them. I read some years back that asking questions is a better conversation gambit and I’ve worked very hard to develop that habit. I still, however, occasionally wonder if folks think I’m nosy or rude!

I’ve always tended to be an honest, up-front person (Never tell a lie) and I have always gotten my self in trouble that way as well! Not knowing how to evade a question or come up with a polite “white” lie, has hurt my chances for promotion, lost friends and has even gotten me fired!

When I first moved out of the big city, back in the early 80’s, my first encounter with the locals was in the “mercantile” store when I was trying to find out where to pay my water bill. After stating my question in my generic (overseas military) accent, the fellow returned with a question, “Ware you from?” I replied “Gainesville” in a very southern (hill) accent. He said “Oh, ok,” and then answered my question! I wasn’t a yankee so I got results.

But I found myself stumbling there as well. Just being polite with the right accent didn’t always seem to get the results I wanted but I was back in the South.

On my return to the city and my entry into retail, I did find manners to be an important element in business. They stood me in good stead when confronted by a difficult customer. “Excuse me, sir, I must ask you not to smoke in here.” “I’m sorry you have had that difficulty, ma’am.” No, sir, I can’t sell you that beer at this hour of the night.” Customers like being treated that way (or at least find it harder to get belligerent when faced with such). I continued the practice and delivered excellent customer service after opening my own store.

Recently I’ve been truly amazed since my move to the country about how well I fit in out here. I’ve always thought as rural southern areas as just countrified with folks that I wouldn’t have anything in common with. I have been delighted to find that my manners, my language customs, work out here (not to mention how wonderful my new neighbors are). I’m glad to say I live here.

But this comfort has raised some old problems and presented some new ones. Over the past few months I have had occasion to leave messages (polite, genteel, of course) on answering machines and with live secretaries; however, folks frequently don’t respond. What is today’s effective phone etiquette or is there any at all? I’m clueless.

I’m having to deal with various and sundry contractors as work progresses on my 100 year old house. The carpenter disappeared after 3 days and never returned . The first 2 insulating companies never showed up in the first place and so on. I finally had a thought and asked someone (male, not female) if I had to be mean to these folks to get results. His answer—yes! Another man’s response (this guy was a yankee) was also a very forceful “you better believe it”.

Obviously, I have a lot more to learn about communicating effectively in today’s world.

My Car

Riding home last week I decided to use the time to plan my column. It was raining a little and the 5:30 traffic was pretty heavy. Naturally my mind centered on cars as a topic. Once again my changing priorities became the obvious theme.

In the past I’ve always tried to have new or nearly new vehicles for several reasons. First, because affording a car payment and repairs has been difficult. Second, because my choice of older, used cars just seems to create mechanical problems—I specialize in lemons. Third, because dependability has always been important and fourth, because they look so pretty! So I own Toyotas and, usually, not very old Toyotas.

Much has been made of the American love affair with automobiles and I am no different than most. A sparkling new car says I am mainstream America, that I, though not affluent, own a piece of that American dream. To be able to drive off the car lot with a new car with my name on the license plate (such is the cost of vanity at $25 per year)… I think some of my happiest moments have been just that.

Oh, and that new car smell! We Americans are really stuck on deodorizing our lives. My sojourn in Germany back in the eighties made me realize how very stuck on smells and or the lack of smells we Americans are. The Germans are some of the most civilized folks on earth. The countryside was so clean and they had no obvious ghettos back then. They, however, like so many Europeans just aren’t so deodorant dependent as we Americans are.

One of the reasons why that new car smell is so treasured by us car-crazy Americans is obvious during muggy weather like we’ve had recently. If you drive an older vehicle, then every spill, every dog passenger, every mold spore carried on one’s shoes, every bit of odor history is obvious to the nose. It’s no longer antiseptic; it doesn’t seem clean no matter how much effort I put into interior cleaning which I admit isn’t much effort at all!

And that new car smell also has such good memories attached to it. I’ll bet you remember that first new car and the overwhelming excitement and pride of that first day. I sure do. Every new car smell brings back that first one, in my case the year was 1974 and the car was—now don’t laugh—a Gremlin, a golden-colored, weird-looking mechanical contraption with the most uncomfortable backseat known to man (or woman).

I was so proud. That was such an exciting year. A move across country. A new baby. And that new car. What great memories to be triggered by only a smell!

One of the other great things about owning a new car is brought home to me every time I wash my present car. Now you must understand this is something I don’t do very often. I live on a dirt road and car washing has never been a priority for me. But, it’s gotten so bad, that a visit to my son’s home always gets an announcement from the two-year-old grandson. He makes horrible noises and points to my filthy car. “Ooooo, Nana, ooooo.” My son and his brother are always after me to wash it and they actually will do that for me occasionally!

But if you wash it, you reveal that great metallic black paint job with every ding and scratch that normally hides under the mud. It’s just not so pretty any more.

So my priorities have changed since my move to the country. I now own an aging Corolla that due to costs cannot be traded in any time soon. I keep checking every 6 months or so but the ever increasing mileage keeps depreciating that poor old car faster than I could ever pay for it.

I’ve finally had to accept the fact that I may keep this dependable, black (I didn’t want a black or white car!) old thing. After all, I now live on a dirt road. As fast as a new car depreciates, driving a brand new car out here doesn’t make sense unless it’s a big pickup or something similar, and I leave the truck stuff to my husband.

I can just see it now. Driving along and a big piece of gravel gets thrown into the shiny paint job or meeting a logging truck and getting so close to the edge that branches scrape the sides. Not to mention those commuting miles. It just wouldn’t be so practical to get a new car, right?

Not only that, but I am remembering those lemons I have owned and I am grateful for my trusty, aging Toyota. It may not be as pretty as a new car but it is mechanically sound and very trustworthy.

So there I was, moving with traffic, thinking all these practical thoughts, feeling pretty good about how I had talked myself into accepting ownership of an older model car and accepting the fact that I can’t trade it in. I’m bouncing to the music and moving with the traffic. The road was wet but I was several car lengths behind a Jeep SUV when someone hit their brakes unexpectedly in front of the Jeep. I ended up getting intimately acquainted with the granddaughter of a Maxeys’ friend and her step-dad. Nice folks who felt very badly that the Jeep wasn’t even scratched.

That was last week. This week I’m driving a rental (new, pretty, good-smelling) waiting on the body shop to fix my crunched front end. I’m enjoying the attractive, clean car. I keep noticing how much better it accelerates and how much lower the hood is so this short person can see better.

But, this week I am grateful for car insurance and looking forward to getting my washed, scratch-free front-ended car back. It is truly amazing how sometimes life hands you what you wish for and for a lot less money!

Life's Little Lessons

Life's Little Lessons

A friend of mine, Eunice Spratlin, took a tumble last week. Unfortunately, her 80-year-old ankle didn't hold up very well. Since she's a big fan of my columns, I thought to write one for her. When I visited her, ensconced in a hospital bed in her daughter-in-law's front room, she didn't even give me chance to ask if she'ld like that; she just asked if I had already written one!

Well, Eunice, you have a place of honor this week in the Echo! Since I hadn't written one in a while, topics were not hard to come by - deciding which topic was the hardest part.

I decided that a look at life's lessons was appropriate for her and me and for my mother who was also hospitalized last week.

I've been remodeling bathrooms at my house for 7 months now. Some wise person years ago put the bathroom in my 100-year-old house in the largest room and lined up the fixtures against the back wall. One has had to walk over 13 feet from the door to get to the "throne". A bizarre thing indeed, not to mention really revealing since you could almost see that toilet from the front door as well.

This oddity did make it possible for me to divide the room into two bathrooms - one of those desperately required features of house in which my husband lives.

I took the slow week of July fourth this year to finish up this project that has been dragging on so long now.

I'm a firm believer that things in this life happen for a reason and it's up to us to find opportunity in disaster and tragedy. The disaster last week? Let's see, heat, humidity, arthritis, asthma, bruises - no, not Eunice's, not my mother's who is also 80, but mine!

The list continues - plumbing leaks, sheetrock dust, dog hair, etc.

I had an arthritis flare up in my left hand after the heat and humidity got really bad and of course, asthma and allergies rose their ugly little heads due to sheetrock dust and the normal effects of no housekeeping during all this work.

Time for clean up finally, thank heavens. Oops, time for remembering why keeping a house clean all along is important. Yuk, chest and head congestion, fatigue, sleep deprivation. What a lesson to have reinforced!

Turning wrenches and tightening plumbing connections got harder and harder. Swelling fingers gave way to stiffness and then to amazement.

I'm not 80 - only 50! Living to my projected lifespan of 100 (due to genetics and the rapidity of medical advancements) seems incredibly painful and possibly undesirable.

Oh, but positive thinking requires a life lesson. In desperation, I grabbed onto the fact that arthritis certainly will be my constant companion from now on. Lovely thought.

So last week was training for me. Learning to live with the effects of aging. Seems I've been doing a lot of that recently. Hmmmmm…

Aging does has its disadvantages for sure. I mean, the pain of doing things I used to breeze through, taking twice as long to do other things and not feeling like I'm a genius anymore. You know, those usual effects of aging!

Oh, but the advantages!!!

I was telling someone recently that I wasn't accustomed to making mistakes in my employment. They said, "What? You were perfect?" I said, "Yes, and now I'm just normal!"

The lesson learned from this little jewel? I no longer have to be perfect; I no longer have to give 150%. I can relax a little and enjoy life more. What a burden off my shoulders! Such a wonderful way to live!

Okay, so now that these lessons are firmly implanted in my brain, how can I renovate this whole house, establish a wonderful garden on my 2 acres, write the great American novel while making tons of money for my retirement and obvious disability that's coming.

I mean, I gotta do it all now in order to get ready for my retirement, right?

Wait, relaxing, enjoying life - didn't I just say something about that? Nah, must have been someone else's evil thoughts. Gotta go - got a bathroom to finish and a house to clean!