"The Adventures of MeMe and Gramps"

101 YEARS OLD AND STILL PARTYING

2020-08-10T14:41:00.000-07:00

                                       101 YEARS OLD AND STILL PARTYING
                                                 Tommye.Wieland Allen
    Amazingly, she really is 101 years old and still traveling and partying several times a year. Not only that, but she is often the center of attention because of her age and her love for activity. Lately we have limited her activities to the wedding events of family members which occur several times a year. Yes, with her length of age and her ability to still survive traveling, she continues to be a part of the celebrations of her many admirers.
     She's lost a bit of the beauty of her youth so she's not much to look at these days, but after 101 years of traveling to 570 big events and lots of small events attached to the big events, for her to still travel and party, let alone still survive, is amazing to everyone who encounters her. Her appearance has faded from her original coloring a bit and the elasticity with which she used to easily adjust to circumstances has relaxed considerably, but she still adjusts to the festivities attached to the events to which she has received special invitations months ahead of the events, while the event is still in the planning stage on the bride's wish list. Yes, she keeps right on trucking, as people say. She enjoys being the honored guest and that thrill keeps her going at her advancing age.
     She doesn't dance anymore like she used to do at the receptions. Because of her advanced age, after she makes her appearances at the weddings and receptions, she is quite pleased to just rest in the special place set aside for her after having done her duty of giving special blessings to the marriage of the bride and groom. Her blessing is almost as desired as is her valued attendance at the weddings. She is always an honored guest and her presence at the festivities warrants all the many oohs and aahs from everyone who is alerted to her presence and her remarkable age. Her history is quite well known by then to all of the wedding guests.
     This famous old girl, although faded and again in need of repair, has already had nine "facelifts." She is a blue lace garter which has been worn by 570 brides in her 101 years of traveling and partying.
     Her first event was in 1919, her attendance having been as a gift especially made by Marguerite Trowbridge for her college roommate's wedding in Denver, Colorado. Her appearance at the wedding was a special surprise gift for Marguerite's roommate. Then her second wedding came after the suggestion was made by the roommate that she return the garter to the maker for her own wedding, to the delight of Marguerite who married Robert Jarrett Allen in June of 1920. After that event the garter had a ten year rest until Marguerite was attending a wedding shower and the talk among the female guests began to be about the tradition of "something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue." That began her legacy of traveling to weddings as an honored guest after Marguerite offered her blue wedding garter to the first bride.
     At that time the garter was bright blue satin and the lace was still pristine white and those colors lasted for about 20 years. Inside of a blue satin pocket attached to the garter by Mrs. Allen she placed a 1919 six pence coin commemorating its beginning of its many trips down the aisle for the first time in 1919.   Since the garter fulfilled the tradition of being something old, something borrowed and something blue, that solved the problem for many brides who usually considered their own wedding dresses as fulfilling the "something new" requirement in the tradition. The garter, as I said, has 101 years of history as of this year. She has traveled up and down several hundred miles of church aisles, and has attended many receptions where she danced on the leg of the brides. That was before she got too tired as the evening's dancing progressed, Understandably, because of her fragility and age, the tradition of the throwing of the garter was discouraged many years ago because of the age related condition of the heirloom garter. During the last few years she has only been worn during the ceremony and then she has been retired to her ornate silver box to be boxed up and returned to me for her eventual trip to another city in another state. She will be the honored guest at the wedding of one of Mrs. Allen's great granddaughters in Arizona three months in the future.
    The garter had one mishap. The 1919 six pence was lost during the wearing, possibly after being thrown by the groom to a group of attending eligible men as is the common tradition, and the coin was replaced by a 1956 six pence. The father of the bride searched many coin dealers for a 1919 six pence to replace the original one, but none was to be found. He settled for the 1956 one, which was agreeable to Mrs. Allen. Somewhere in the garter's travels a bride added a 1919 penny to the box and another bride added a different garter to be thrown to the group of unmarried young men for the tradition of whichever guy catches the garter is the next one to be married, per the same tradition of the bride throwing her bouquet to eligible women.
    This famous old garter, although now faded and again in need of repair, has been worn with pride by 570 young brides. Since 1970 it has been limited to being worn by women who are relatives of a former bride who also wore it. I am the custodian of the garter, being the wife of the Stephen, the youngest son of Mr. and Mrs. Allen. It has been discussed by family members that maybe the old girl is too tired to continue to travel and party; but as long as a relative of a former bride who wore it requests our fulfilling of her important family tradition she will keep on traveling in her ornate silver box inside of a cardboard box via U.S. Postage into the waiting arms of an excited bride and her mom.
    In her first 50 years, the garter had the reputation of there never having been a divorce of a bride who wore the garter. However, that reputation died a long time ago. The garter has been delighted to grace the leg of brides on second marriages with no condemnation from the garter for the bride having chosen the wrong man for her first time down the aisle. She still enjoys the attention and is such a sentimental gal that she blesses every marriage, first, second or even more as if it were the first marriage.
    I feel honored to have been selected by Marguerite Allen as the caretaker of the garter. It has been endearing to converse with the brides and mothers of the brides for the last 30 years and hear over and over again their exclamations that the bride cannot, absolutely cannot, get married without wearing Marguerite Allen's wedding garter. As long as I keep on trucking, she will keep on trucking. Then my daughter can decide what to do with her. Until then, it's one wedding after another for the old girl as long as she holds together. She's pretty resilient, kind of like the woman who first made her, Marguerite Trowbridge Allen.

2020-04-07T08:55:00.001-07:00

                                              WHO WAS THAT MAN?
                                                      T. Wieland Allen

     I just returned from my 6:00 a.m. trip to Walmart to do my bi-weekly grocery shopping. Fortunately it wasn't raining because the bigwigs at Walmart had implemented the caution of only allowing a certain number of oldies, speaking of seniors, in the door to shop because of the pandemic scare. We "oldies" have our own allotted time to shop at Walmart, fortunately. However, I never knew there were so many of us in our town. Since I arrived there at 6:05, there was a reasonably short line standing outside to enter, considering that we had to stand on the consecutive yellow lines which marked the six feet distance we had to keep from the person in front of us and behind us. I suddenly did not feel like a senior but instead I felt like a kindergartner filing into the school who had been assigned distance markers to keep Billy from harassing Sarah or vice versa. In this day and age it's more likely to be Sarah harassing Billy.
   We were obedient to the Walmart worker who stood halfway between the line and the door. For some reason, I had to resist the urge to tattle to the Walmart line monitor about the man standing two people behind me who was refusing to stand on the yellow lines and instead insisted on standing between the yellow lines. I normally am not a judgmental person, but I have noticed that the more rules and regulations we are asked to follow during this worldwide pandemic the more tempted I am to be a little bit rebellious to the guidelines.
   There is a voice in the mind of most of us humans that when we are told not to do something, we instinctively want to do it just to see what is so important about it to warrant a warning. I always relate it to my grand nephew who was visiting us one time when he was 5 years old and my husband took him to the street in front of our house, picked the boy up in his arms, stood on the curb of the busy street with him and told the young boy not to go into the street under any circumstances because it was a busy street and the youngster might get killed by a fast car. My husband put the young boy down in the yard to play with the other kids while he went into the house to get something. No longer was my husband's back turned than the kid walked right out into the middle of the busy street and looked up and down the street to see what he was going to miss that his uncle didn't want him to enjoy. No car hit him, but I could see on the kid's face what I always thought God must have seen on Adam's face when God cautioned Adam, for his own good, not to do something. There was a look on our young relative's face of, "I knew Uncle Steve was lying. There must be something great out here that he doesn't want me to have." You know that voice in your head that tells you nothing is going to happen if you don't obey the rules. It has caused humanity problems, destruction and even death since the beginning of the earth. There were those people in line with us at Walmart who insisted on standing between the lines instead of on them.
    Back to my story about my trip to Walmart to pick up some groceries. I was glad to see that 99% of the seniors who were shopping along with me had masks on their faces and many had plastic gloves or rubber gloves on their hands, just like I did. I even had a big scarf around my neck, covering up every spare inch of skin from my shirt to my chin. You can't be too cautious. My very cautious son had warned me to be extra careful at Walmart because his brother-in-law had fed him a horror story about how few people were obeying the new rules and regulations pertaining to the pandemic by shopping without masks and even in shorts and summer shirts. My experience was contrary to what was reported to him. Now, for Me, a confirmed rule follower, the only skin that might be exposed to the drops of the pandemic virus was the skin between the top of my mask, which was right under my eyes, and the beginning of my hair. I felt like I had been a very obedient person and had, to the letter of the law, obeyed what the CDC experts had advised. It was a somewhat eerie feeling to see everyone covered up with masks, scarves, long sleeved shirts, long pants, shoes that covered their feet and various kinds of gloves covering their hands.
   Suddenly something happened that surprised me and it has left me with some consternation about my appearance. Almost every person in that store was covered up completely and some people had hats on their heads, just to make sure the drops of virus did not lodge in their hair. I had not thought about that precaution myself. The scene in that store reminded me of some movies about the world being destroyed and everybody was rushing to make sure they had enough food if they died, which always defied logic to me. So there we senior citizens were, decked out in our homemade camouflage gear, thankfully, as prevention against the drops of virus that were supposedly in the air, pushing our baskets on which we had sprayed the handles thoroughly cleaned of any suspicious "drops" using the paper towels that had been sprayed with disinfectant as we entered the store. Happily feeling like I was incognito in my gear, looking like everyone else, suddenly a man pushing a cart said to me, "Good morning, Tommy. How are you?"
   I was flabbergasted. How had the man recognized me with only a few inches of my face being exposed to the air? I was amazed how he had recognized me with so little of "me" being exposed. I answered the man politely that I was wonderful and asked how he was, mindfully keeping six feet between us. I was trying to act like I knew the man who had kindly spoken to me because few people were talking, either because of the early hour or because of the fear of breathing in a drop of the virus. I had no idea what the identity was of the man who had spoken as if he knew we very well. All I could see was gray hair, but every head there in the store that was exposed had gray hair in various poses of disarray, considering the early hour.
   As the nice, friendly man and I pushed our baskets further apart, making sure we were at least six feet from each other, I began to think, okay, what about me is so recognizable that the man recognized me with only a few inches of my body exposed when I didn't recognize him with the same number of inches of skin exposed. Let's see, was it my ample derriere of which I used to try to cover up until JayLo made well shaped rear ends on women popular, for which I am eternally grateful to Jaylo?   No, that was covered up with a long vest. Was it my distinctive German nose that I inherited from my dad? No, it was completely covered up by the mask. Was it something about my hair? No, I had dyed it the day before and it came out a darker color than usual. There was no logical explanation to me on how the man recognized me while I did not recognize him in his cautious pandemic coverings. All I could see on him were his eyes and gray hair, just like me and everybody else in the store. He looked like every other man in the store.
   That experience will give me something to keep my mind busy, at least for the day, on what is so recognizable about me that a man could single me out in a store filled with people who all looked alike from a distance of much more than six feet, when I was completely covered up except for my eyes and hair.
   I rarely look in a mirror except when putting on makeup, but I might have to don my pandemic gear again and stand in front of a mirror and figure out what is so unique about my appearance for me to have been recognized quickly and easily by the man, whomever he is. No, I won't do that. Just as curious to me is who the dadgum man is! Now, that is the real mystery! That will keep my mind busy at least all day. I may never figure it out.
   Isn't it kind of pitiful that here we are in the middle of a worldwide pandemic with not much encouragement that it will be over soon, and things are so boring from being cooped up for three weeks that the only exciting thing to happen to me is being recognized in the grocery store by some mysterious man. I guess the question in my mind is, should I be complimented or should I be insulted? I think I'll consider myself complimented to have been so easily recognizable.
   Life does keep getting more and more interesting as we get older. Not in a bad way, but in a good way. My preoccupation in my mind with wondering how the man recognized me caused me to do an "old lady thing" when I got home. After I had washed off my plastic gloves to make sure any virus drops went down the drain, took off the gloves and disposed of them, washed my hands the required length of time of five ABCs, put my vest and mask in the laundry room for the rest of the entire day in case there were "drops" on them, unpacked the groceries and threw away the plastic sacks after grabbing them from the inside bottom instead of the outside to avoid "drops", left the unrefrigerated groceries that were in plastic containers on a remote cabinet for the rest of the day to allow the "drops" to die, washed the outside of the containers of refrigerated food with Colorox wipes, put those food items in the fridge, changed my shoes which was suggested by the CDC officials in case Walmart didn't do a good enough job sanitizing the floor, I finally was able to fix breakfast for myself, having thought all of that time about why the man recognized me. I scrambled the raw egg and the egg white in a bowl, added the spinach and cheese, all the time thinking about the man. I made coffee, heard the microwave oven beep that my scrambled omelet was ready. So I opened the door to the microwave only to find it empty and the bowl with the omelet raw ingredients was still on the cabinet. I had microwaved nothing. I had done another old lady thing, as I call them, which always warrants at least a giggle from me and sometime outloud laughter as I laugh at myself. That was a signal that I had spent enough time on wondering something concerning myself and it jolted me out of self reflection, which often is the devil's temptation to give too much mental attention to one's self.
   Maybe the incident happened for me as an opportunity for me pray for the man. I just thought about that. It was really a supernatural event. Okay. I got the message. The man needs prayers. Thank you, God, for the reminder. You got my attention! God knows who he is. I'll just pray for the mystery man.
   Thank God for having the privilege of belonging to God's Prayer Co-Op, a name that a friend and I called the cooperation between a person, God and us when we know that we are called to pray for someone. We bring someone into the unity relationship we have with God. It's like when Jesus prayed that we would be One with other people and with Him just like He and God are One. When we pray for someone for whom God alerts us to pray, it's cooperation between God, us and the person, a spiritual co-op!
   God's Co-op is much more important than any thought relating to ourselves. We can always trust Our Father to bring us back to what is important, praying for each other and praying against the demonic force behind the pandemic or any other catastrophe that is going on in the earth. That's what His kids do, enjoy the Co-Op's call for prayers.
   There's nothing to be bored about when we are engaged in the call of God's Prayer Co-Op. It's a full time profession which has magnificent results which bring unspeakable joy to us.
   God bless the mystery man!   I know He will!

PEAS PORRIDGE HOT, PEAS PORRIDGE COLD, PEASE PORRIDGE IN THE POT, EIGHTY-THREE YEARS OLD

2019-09-23T10:21:00.001-07:00

PEAS PORRIDGE HOT, PEAS PORRIDGE COLD, PEAS PORRIDGE IN THE
                            POT, EIGHTY-THREE YEARS OLD
                                                                       T. Wieland Allen
    Oh, the wonders of age and the things that happen to people of advancing    years. Some of us are still reluctant to act eighty, but things happen to us that require more attention to doing things now in later years that we did by rote or automatically for years.
   Take for instance my love for mowing the yard and trimming the hedges. I love doing both of them because of the sense of beauty and accomplishment when I gaze upon my job well done and admire the fresh, manicured look and, as my late husband used to say, "The results look like someone cares." Somehow it is more than a delight to me. It's a thrill. I love to iron, too, love to look at the finished results. Somehow it gives me joy.
   I know that most people don't view those menial labors as rewarding but I have been that way since childhood. I surmise that is because I always wanted to mow the lawn for my dad but he had the same love for mowing that I do, and so he never relinquished the job to me. In those days girls weren't supposed to mow the lawn; it was man's work.
    I admit that I have given up my job of trimming certain really tall hedges since my kids insisted on it. It's all because of that one little privet hedge limb that was just beyond my reach, and I leaned in to allow the hedge trimmer to snip it off, but I lost my balance since it was on a slight incline and I ended up off balance and slowly advancing in slow motion toward the ground in the middle of the hedge with the trimmers still in my hand. Fortunately the automatic cutoff worked on the trimmers so I was not in any danger of cutting my fingers off or something. But that little incident was enough for my kids to tell me that I shouldn't try to trim that particularly tall hedge again or I might end up finger-less or, much worse, hand-less.
    One would think that a self propelled walk-behind lawn mower would be safe
for a person my age and a person of my high activity level. Under normal circumstances the lawn mowing duty during that day would have come and gone with no drama. Not that infamous day.
    That day, while I was mowing, a neighbor stopped me in my enjoyable job of mowing the front lawn by wanting to discuss my newly built flower beds. We talked for a few minutes and I informed her about the reason for the new large flower beds, which is to prevent any further erosion of the soil in the front yard. After the huge amounts of spring and summer rains, my normally beautiful lawn is almost void of dirt on the front east side of the house. Instead of grass, it has big tree roots exposed and lots of dirt, hardly any grass. The lawn tech who sprays for weeds told me what to do, and so I worked with some helpers and we followed the tech's instructions. It worked out great. For a little while I will be relieved of mowing that large section of my yard while newly planted grass sprouts and grows. Because of not having to mow that section, I was able to complete mowing the other sections which normally I split into two sessions after having a blood clot in my leg three months ago. I am not supposed to get overheated. I felt like I was safe in going ahead and completely mowing the large west side of the front lawn since it was a much cooler day than in the past few weeks.
    After conversing for a few minutes with My neighbor, I resumed finishing up mowing the west side but I was mentally distracted, I must confess, by thinking about something I should have told the neighbor. Let me remind you, I am super conscious about being cautious about falling because while on blood thinners a fall could cause my lights of life to permanently go out if a fall caused a brain bleed so I am super careful. However, mental distraction is a problem if a person's thoughts are not focused. And that's how it happened, my most embarrassing moment.
    I was joyfully mowing a small section underneath a tree and I always just drag the mower a short distance backward at a certain spot onto the next section to mow. Being mentally distracted and thinking about what I wanted to tell the neighbor, I forgot all about the three really large flower pots on the sidewalk about 15 feet behind me. Cautiously pulling the mower backwards slowly, suddenly I felt something hit me in the back of the calves of My legs and I went down, down, down backwards into one of the large flower pots that sits on the sidewalk adjacent to the grass. Now, mind you, I am well endowed in the derriere so for me to land sitting down in the middle of one of the large pots took a rather large pot.
    There I sat poised, sitting all the way down inside of the pot with yellow mums sticking out from the back and both sides of the pot. My two legs, bent at the knees and hanging down the front of the pot a few inches from the ground, covered up the mums in the front of the pot. Bear in mind I was not on top of the flowers and dirt. The potting soil was soft and I was sitting deep inside of the pot. There I sat. At least I was surrounded by beautiful flowers if anyone saw me.
    The mower shut off, of course, the minute I let go of the handle, and there I was seated in the middle of beautiful mums in a place I wasn't supposed to be; in fact, no human was supposed to be.
    Now, it was easier to fall inside of the flower pot than it was to get out of the flower pot. Even though I had lost a few pounds, my ample buttocks was stuck tightly.
   First thought: Oh, God, don't let anybody see this ridiculous sight.
   At least I had the yellow mums surrounding me in the pot. Maybe they would distract anyone driving by the house or walking down the street.
   I was deep inside the pot and far enough from the ground that I could not use the sidewalk on which the pots rested for leverage by which to use my hands to lift myself out of the pot. Using the edges of the pot to lift myself up didn't help, either, because of my being stuck so tightly. My feet were at least six inches off of the ground, so no luck there, either, as far as pushing myself backwards or using my legs to lift myself out with the help of grasping my hands on the side of the big pot.
   Second thought: Oh, God, let me be invisible to human eyes.
   Comforting thought: at least I had the yellow mums surrounding me in the pot.
   Suddenly it came to me to start rocking my body back and forth and maybe the pot would turn over and I could crawl out of the predicament I had gotten myself into by being mentally distracted while mowing the lawn.
   Third thought: Dear God, if you will temporarily strike people blind who walk by, like you did Saul in the Bible before he became Paul, then they won't see me rocking back and forth stuck firmly in a flower pot with yellow mums protruding from the flower pot around me; and if you do that, I promise to never mow while being distracted again.
    I never bargain with God, but I sensed that He was chuckling at the silly scene and He wanted to work with me because of my pitiful situation of caring what people think about me. Truthfully, I just didn't want anyone to tell my kids or they might firmly "suggest" that I get someone to mow my lawn for me and take away one of my greatest enjoyments in life. Yes, it doesn't take much to make me happy!
   Lo and behold, it only took a few forward rocking motions and then a few backward motions of rocking back and forth before the pot bent forward and the dirt and crushed mums in the pot let go of my buttock and I landed on the grass in front of the sidewalk with the pot on its side.
   At my age and level of physical activity, if I am sitting on the floor or ground, it often takes my rolling onto my side and lifting myself up with My hands to enable me to rise from a sitting position. Under the embarrassing circumstance, I scurried up very quickly from a sitting position on the ground much like I did when I was in my twenties. Of course, I had to wiggle out of the crushed mum plants in the middle of the pot before turning on my side and boosting myself up, brushing myself off, and acting like I was just out for a casual stroll in my beautiful yard, checking on the many flower pots to make sure the flowers weren't thirsty. I casually walked around checking my legs, arms, neck and back to make sure nothing was broken and nothing was bleeding, acting like I was picking weeds while bending over to check everything.
    Everything was A-OK, even my ego, because I have a habit of thinking about my two sisters and how they would have bent over in laughter at the sight. I started laughing about how I must have looked to anyone who might have seen me and had maybe wondered if I was trying on the pot to see if I could fit into it for some silly reason. Maybe I could have blamed it on dementia but fortunately I still work at my profession so I keep my mind nimble.   I'm sure with My big turquoise sun hat, my big black cataract surgery sunglasses, my surgical mask covering my mouth and nose to prevent allergies, my husband's big giant gardening gloves on my hands, and My dirt covered derriere which looked like I had used the pot for another kind of pot, if anyone had seen me they would have just looked and thought I had gone looney, anyway, since they see me working in my yard all summer dressed like a female hobo.
    The next day I had no residual effects from falling backward into the big flower pot, only a tiny bit of a stiff neck. That probably came from the rocking back and forth motion in trying to work myself out of the pot. Praise God, no blood clot or increased bleeding, no headache, no nausea, and not even any bruising. It's a miracle.
    I've heard gun lovers say that they will never give up their guns until someone takes the guns out of their cold dead hands. I feel the same way about my mower. I began to feel the same way about my hedge trimmer, too, after I got a really powerful one. I finally figured out why some guys like power tools; it's the power! I understand perfectly now.
   Now you know my story about my few minutes stuck in the flower pot. At least the yellow mums framed my body. However, the ones in the center of the pot are crushed flat, never to bloom again, a reminder to keep my mind on the chore at hand. Those mums cushioned my backward fall so I am grateful.
   Thanks to my angels for depositing me in the flower pot instead of on the hard sidewalk. They used the mums to save my life. Thank you, God, for giving your angels charge over us to save us from tragedy!
   I'm covering all bases and calling my neighbor across the street and asking her if I can call her every time before I mow so she can keep an eye on me. She's young. She's only 75. She will be delighted to watch out for me. She's a great neighbor lady.
   Experience is sometimes the greatest teacher.   Thank you, Mr. Experience, I learned my lesson well!
   Actually, in mowing the back yard today, I learned that when you pull a mower backwards, that you must turn and look backward where you are going. Problem solved.
   I don't mind being laughed at or "laughed with" in this case since I enjoyed a good laugh, too. One of the workmen building a new pergola for me just told me as he left my house for me to watch out for wandering flower pots. He enjoyed the story immensely.
   Life is like a bowl of cherries. I love going cherry picking for the delightful fruit of joy. I always tell my kids and grandkids that there is always a solution to everything. Rocking back and forth in the flower pot solved my problem. I think there were God's angels behind that, too.
   Don't tell this to my kids, please. This is just between us good friends.

FAMILY BLESSINGS OR FAMILY CURSES

2017-08-11T17:10:00.001-07:00

FAMILY BLESSINGS OR FAMILY CURSES
                                                                     T. Wieland Allen
   Do not tell anyone about this, please. I won't swear you to secrecy, but please do not tell my kids about what I am about to tell you that I found in my house recently.
   First let me tell you about My family. I come from a family who laughs at everything. It's a family tradition, most often resulting in being a blessing but a few times it's resulted in being a curse. We laugh heartily at everything, people falling down stairs, mistakes made by pastors or choirs in churches, and most of all our own silly mistakes. Instead of persecuting ourselves for obvious mishaps, we have the habit of laughing hilariously at ourselves.
   I remember my dad being on a trip with his 82 year old professor friend who had stumbled over his own feet and then tumbled down an entire flight of concrete stairs at a state library years ago. My dad had marvelous restraint that time because he helped his elderly friend up, helped him to the car, drove him to their motel and helped the professor into his room. Then my dad entered his own room with dignity, but upon entering to his safe space Daddy fell on the motel bed in hysterical laughter for 15 minutes. It's just the way we are put together. Life is laughable to us.
    I have been known to laugh at myself when nobody else is around to laugh with me or at me. I am subject to make mistakes when cooking because I am a highly goal oriented person and I try to accomplish three or four things at the same time. Years ago I was baking a cake from scratch -- you know, with multiple fresh ingredients -- and I reached into the cabinet for the vanilla, always the last addition to baked goods, but instead of getting the vanilla I grabbed the Liquid Smoke bottle instead and measured a teaspoon of it, pouring it into the freshly combined sugar, butter, flour, cocoa and other ingredients mixture. Suddenly I got a strong hankering for barbecue pork sandwiches. After letting the mixer do its job of combining the many ingredients, along with the liquid smoke, I realized that we were not having cake for dinner and laughed and laughed at my mistake. That unbaked cake batter ended up in the trash and I dashed to the store for some of their commercial cookies with the proper seasoning. Our guests for dinner that night found my story as funny as I did and they forgave me for having store bought cookies instead of my special moist chocolate cake.
   In fact, just this week I reached in the fridge for a new bottle of vidalia onion and tomato salad dressing to put onto freshly cut home grown tomatoes for dinner but instead I grabbed a bottle of Head Country barbecue sauce. My daughter caught me just in time to avert a disaster. Ruining my son freshly picked home grown tomatoes by dousing them with barbecue sauce might not be a laughing matter to other people like it would have been to me.
    My oldest sister was visiting us years ago when we lived in a two story house. She kind of pranced with dignity when walking, much like our mother. One day I was sitting in the living room just in time to see her turn from the first stair landing onto the second landing, missing the first stair, landing on her buttock and bouncing with dignity all the way down the ten carpeted stairs to the bottom. I couldn't resist. I laughed and laughed at her effort to be dignified, even in bouncing down each step on her rear end. Fortunately, she was not injured but I'm not sure that she ever forgave me for laughing so loudly at her less than dignified descending down the stairs into the living room.
    Now to the current situation which caused me to laugh and laugh at myself which I ask you not to publicize to anyone that I know. Here's the scenario: My daughter and granddaughter came to my house for a five day visit. I cleaned and cleaned inside and outside of the house with meticulous efficiency, I thought. I moved things and swept under and behind most of them, I thought. I was really very proud of my clean house, I thought. My oldest son, his girlfriend and his two grown children came for several meals and we always gather in the den which is in the middle of the house. We moved a few chairs around to make sure everybody had a place to sit. I did not see any surprises during those five days. Thank God I didn't.
    A few days later, after the family guests left for home, I was recuperating from a minor operation so I was sitting in my usual reclining chair in the aforementioned den with my arm elevated, per the doctor' instructions. My cell phone was almost out of power, so I went behind my chair to plug it in. Beside my chair my eyes landed on something that I had not seen while cleaning the room during the last week. Huh, I thought, what in the world are those two pieces of white fabric? They had not appeared into my range of sight while I was cleaning the room days earlier. I bent down carefully to pick up one of the pieces of white fabric and realized that it was one of a pair socks which had been hidden from view for who knows how long. It was so stiff it felt like it was petrified. I picked up the other sock and it was equally as petrified, stiff as a board. Upon quickly smelling the socks I realized that they were a pair of socks that I often remove from my feet after I mow the lawn and sit down in my recliner before I take a shower. There was an aroma of what used to be called lady's "glowing", but those socks were not lady's perspiration. They were petrified with just plain old SWEAT. Take my word for it, both socks were stiff. No telling how long they had been under the small side table which is loaded with books. I always move the two reclining chairs and the table between them to sweep, but rarely do I move the side table because of its weight. Yes, ma'am and yes, sir, the socks were practically petrified, they were so stiff. They weren't necessarily dirty. They were just two practically new white socks which stood straight up in the air when I held them up, petrified stiff with dried sweat.

   I sat down in my recliner and laughed for ten minutes at the thought of someone other than myself finding them when the house was full of people. How embarrassing would that have been. Oh, no, knowing My family we would have all had a big laugh at my expense. My face would have been red, but I would have been laughing right along with them, just like I still laugh alone by myself today at the image of someone else locating the petrified socks which were stiffened by my sweat who knows how long ago after mowing the lawn.
   How long did it take to stiffen the socks? As I said, only heaven knows. They could have been there a month or only a week, but long enough for them to dry completely and cause them to stiffen. I could bend them, but they didn't soften. They stayed right where they were bent. Now they are in the washing machine waiting for a full load so that they will be back to their normal clean, white, soft condition.
   Being born into a family that laughs at everything is a wonderful family trait. It keeps people in the family young and vibrant. Both of my parents lived into their 90s, still laughing until the last breath. I don't remember either one of them ever having a good laugh at finding two petrified socks in their house a few days after their kids and grandkids left. If they ever did, I know they laughed about it. I can guarantee you something equally as bizarre happened to them and they laughed.
   Maybe I should not use so much of my trusty orange scented house spray. Maybe if I didn't spray so often I could follow the scent of sweaty socks and find them under the side table before guests come to visit.
   Thank God nobody acted like they were offended by a stinky aroma during the five days they visited. Oh, yeah, the socks were petrified and a person had to hold them close to the nose to notice the aroma of good old lawn mowing sweat. Fortunately they were new socks, so that was a plus.
    I found out that good old fashioned sweat is a substitute for laundry starch. There is a minus to it. The aroma of the dried sweat keeps people away from you. If that's your desire, to escape from people, try socks petrified by dried sweat.
    I trust you not to tell anyone in my family about my finding the petrified socks after they left to go home. Now that I am in my 80s they watch for any signs of dementia. They must never find out about the petrified socks. I want it to be our little secret. I will take it to the grave and I trust you to do the same.
    Hope you got a laugh. After the laugh, shhhh ----- please don't tell anybody.

HOW IN THE WORLD DID I GET HERE

2017-03-19T08:41:00.002-07:00

                                    HOW IN THE WORLD DID I GET HERE?
                                                  T. Wieland Allen
    I honestly don't know how it happened but I got to this place so suddenly, it seemed. It's almost like I was Rip Van Winkle and woke all of a sudden and I was at the most dreaded age for women, old age. Now, mind you, I don't feel aged. My face doesn't show it, my mind doesn't betray me, and my productivity doesn't mirror it. But, unfortunately, the number of years that I've lived often say it. LOUDLY!
    Honestly, I have refused to get old, preferring to say I am mildly and slowly aging. In fact, when my oldest child became 59 the other day, it was a shock to my self image because I feel 30, have the energy level of a 30 year old and lie to myself, telling myself that my body can do the work of a 30 year old, which I most often do, being very healthy. Now, I'm not a health nut, just a person who takes good care of my body, soul and spirit, preserving all areas of my life wisely. My parents lived until their middle 90s in great health, living a lot and laughing a lot because of good stock, my mom used to say. I want to honor their memory by doing the same thing.
    On the event of my oldest child's 59th birthday it occurred to me that the next number is 60 and the idea of having a 60 year old child is almost terrifying. It denies the fact that I still think that I'm only 30. It might be a miracle that a 30 year old woman could have a 59 year old man child, but I believe in miracles so I'll claim that one.
    On that fateful day of waking up with the realization that I am a real senior citizen, I chose to switch my mind back to lying to myself and telling the aging woman in me that I'm still young and vibrant. Lying to oneself is easy because nobody else lives in your body to refute the lie.
     Then the Rip Van Winkle rude awakening happened. I was getting ready for bed that night (a habit that everyone does automatically without deliberately being conscious of what we are doing ) and in the middle of my nightly change from clothes into pajamas, I suddenly had an awakening as if waking from a dream, and I suddenly realized that I was routinely wiggling into a pair of -------- Depends.
      How did I get here, in need of Depends? As they say, a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do. As a matter of necessity, Depends are a blessing when a person's bladder decides to activate at strange times and as a surprise to the owner of the bladder. With me, it happens only at night. Thank God it doesn't happen in the daytime or I would really feel aged. Maybe a person's bladder, as it ages, becomes self determined and just does its own job without the participation of the owner, which for me is at night. It's not a big deal, just some mild leakage that has been a real surprise to me for a few months. I ignored it for a while, thinking it would go away, but it became clear that there are supplies at the store or pharmacy that are made for just such times when a person's bladder become rebellious and has its own off and on switch, much to the chagrin of its owner. I decided to some day in the future buy the supplies that are made for people who have a bladder that has developed a mind of its own.
   Being a real bargain seeker, I have a store that I frequent regularly. Listen, it's a real bargain store. When My dad was the age that I am right now, I took him shopping at that store and he bought a Hart, Shaffner and Marx three piece suit for $10 which fit him perfectly. As he checked out and proudly paid his $10, he discovered that there was a bonus under the jacket, a beautiful white thick men's belt. Now, the belt had been out of style for years, but Daddy surmised that it would surely come back in style in a few years. He died with the much treasured white belt still hanging in his closet, unworn.   But, still, he got the joy of finding a real bargain and feeling like he had cheated Mr. Hart, Mr. Shaffner, and Mr. Marx out of the $700 price listed on the tag.
   For me at my current shopping spree at the same discount store, I noticed some big packages of Depends, even though I had not really decided to buy any yet because, if I did I thought, then I would turn into a wrinkled, derelict, stooped, babbling old lady who had lost control of all bodily functions. Maybe I thought that buying Depends would be a signal to my body of, okay, it's time to stop functioning properly now.
    But, the price was right at the bargain store, only a couple of bucks, so I placed the package of Depends under the other purchases in my basket so as not to reveal my need for them. I planned quickly in my mind that if the checker commented on them that I would tell her that they were for my mother. She wouldn't know that my mother had gone to heaven a long ago. I didn't have to lie since the checker wasn't the least bit interested in my purchases and was less interested in my bladder.
     After paying and on the way out to the car, I shifted things around in the sack and put that tell-tell package of Depends on the bottom of the sack and put the other purchases on top in case someone was at my house and would know my deepest secret, that I had to use Depends at night when my rebellious bladder refused to wait on me to turn it on and off myself.
    That evening while dressing for bed, I opened the package and found that I had bought Depends of the wrong size and for the wrong gender. In my effort to hide my purchase so as not to reveal my advancing age and slight problematic bladder problems, I had bought a package of Depends for men in an extra large size, extra thick and super absorbent. Well, you can guess what my thoughts were. No way I was going to march back into that store and exchange them for a smaller size. No way in hell, I thought. Not ever would I put myself through that again.
    My next thought was that I would go ahead and try out the men's extra large, extra thick and super absorbent Depends that night and see it if would work. In getting ready for bed I pulled one on and it didn't slip down off of my hips, so I knew maybe I could keep it on since I would be lying down and not going dancing in the Depends. Heaven forbid.
    The only thing about the men's extra large, extra thick and super absorbent size of Depends was that the super thick absorbent material was so thick that it hung down between my legs about two or three inches. As I walked around the room seeing if it would stay on my body, I started to think that that thick material hanging down between my legs must be what a man feels like walking around with one of his organs hanging down between his legs, which was very, very uncomfortable. I remembered what Yoko Ono said one time. She said that men are so constantly angry because of having something hanging down between their legs all the time. She said that it must be very burdensome because they are always adjusting and shifting it. I fully understood as I walked around my bedroom trying to get used to the extra large, super thick and super absorbent Depends on my body.
     Well, I didn't need that size, did not need that thickness and certainly did not need that extra absorbency for a mild occasional leak, but a bargain is not a bargain unless you use it so I was determined to use them until they were gone. They served their purpose and kept me dry and allowed me to sleep soundly during the night. I blessed the inventor of Depends after that first night. My attitude toward them changed completely.
     On my next trip to the pharmacy I will peek into the ladies feminine product section and see if they do make ladies medium size. thin, light absorbency Depends. I'll have to buy some other products also so that I can cover them up in my basket so as not to identify to the world that I am not only a senior citizen but a leaky one at that.
      Nope, I will never change My thinking. I still feel 30 during the daytime, but at night when I slip into the Depends my mind does a quick forward switch into reality and tells me that I am an octogenarian. Maybe the time will come when I don't hide my Depend purchases and I will proudly display them on top of my other purchases instead of hiding them on the bottom. I don't know why I feel like I am shop lifting or something when I buy Depends. Nobody cares. I need to stop caring. Maybe writing this story will allow me to treat aging with grace instead of disdain. Yeah, I like change so I'll do just that, change my thinking into thanking God for the dear person who invented Depends instead of being ashamed of needing them.
   I must face the fact that I am dependent upon Depends. It happens to all of us sometime if we live long enough. It is a sign that we have lived long, wonderful lives. I will celebrate my long life from now on instead of denying my age. Other signs of aging are sure to come and I want to look at them as evidence of the great wisdom that we gain from years of living. Yes, that's what I will do, rejoice in wisdom instead of being ashamed of the Depends.
    I feel much more appreciative of aging now. Thank you for helping me sort out the wisdom of aging by writing this experience. I guarantee that you will think about my first experience of buying Depends when you are called upon to do the same thing.
    Just be sure you buy the right size, though. If you mistakenly buy the men's extra large, super thick and super absorbent ones, unless you you have a bad back and are use to sleeping with a pillow between your knees you are in for the shock of your life. Just remember Yoko Ono's great wisdom relating to bulky objects between your legs and get a good laugh. Be sure you are wearing a Depend because, at our age, laughing and coughing often calls for changing our britches.
    Life is an adventure and it's gets more and more adventuresome as we age.

IT REALLY HAPPENED, I SWEAR IT DID

2016-07-23T15:06:00.000-07:00

IT REALLY HAPPENED, I SWEAR IT DID
                                                T. Wieland Allen
     Yes, it really did happen just the way that I am going to tell you. I was amazed and I know you will be amazed, also.
     The temperature had reached 100 degrees outside, 115 with the the heat index. It was so hot but I had to make a run to a store that had some things on sale. It didn't really seem that hot to me, but after purchasing my good buys at my favorite store, I only had one short stop to make before going home. Since it was so hot, I decided to stop by the drive through at McDonald's and get a large diet Dr. Pepper, which I occasionally do if I am out shopping for a good while. Besides that, it was happy hour at McDonald's and the large drinks were only $1.09, a real bargain. I could almost taste that Dr. Pepper and feel the cooling effects of that first drink through the straw.
     I ordered a large diet Dr. Pepper at the proper place, the faceless, windowless structure. At the first window with a real person visible, the young lady told me that the diet Dr. Pepper was flat and do I want a substitute. I told her that diet Coke would be fine and paid her my $1.09 plus a nice tip.
     On to the next window I went, adjusting my taster to take the first sip out of the diet Coke, wetting my thirsty palate, as they say.   The pretty girl at that window told me that the diet Coke was flat. I remarked that I thought it was the diet Dr. Pepper that was flat. She said that both were flat. I asked how long they had been flat and she said a week or longer. What an inconvenience since that McDonald's is on a busy highway and there are always cars backed up in the drive through line.
    The pretty girl asked if I wanted to substitute anything. I didn't want that much sugar if I had a regular Coke or Dr. Pepper, so I told her that I would just take one of their good iced coffee drinks instead. Eager to please, the pretty girl disappeared from the window and was gone for about a minute. Then she appeared again and asked what kind did I want. I asked what kind they had, expecting her to say a caramel frappe or a mocha frappe or some other tasty drink. Instead she said, "Decaf or regular." I was impressed that they had begun to have decaf specialty drinks, the frappes of which I am so fond with their thousands of calories. Elated that they had decaffeinated specialty drinks, I told her decaf and waited for her to ask which flavor. Her face disappeared from the window again.
    When her pretty face appeared, she said that it would be just a minute. I complimented her on her hair which was piled high upon her head in a long braid and her neckline had been tattooed with a razor, meaning that there was a pretty shaved design in the hair on her neck. She was grateful for the compliment.
     Suddenly I saw someone, probably her supervisor, appear beside the pretty young lady carrying a small McDonald's Styrofoam coffee cup in her hand. I surmised that she was going to make a frappe of some flavor for me there at the drink dispensers out of the cup of coffee.
     Was I ever wrong. The supervisor took the top off of the cup of coffee and added a big scoop of ice, put the top back on and handed it to the pretty girl with the elaborate hairdo. As she handed it to me I was stunned, but told her how much I appreciated her going to that much trouble for me. She remarked that it was her job to please the customer.
     I was still thirsty and the ice had melted in the coffee, producing weak coffee with no cream or sugar. What a bummer. There were cars behind me, several of them, and they were getting impatient, so I drove away letting the pretty girl think she had made my day.
     I was reminded of the time when we had first moved into town and my husband had a few hours to spare from work one day and asked a new neighbor to go with him to have a cup of coffee at the Walgreen's store which had a soda fountain at that time. They sat at the counter and my husband ordered a cup of coffee. His friend said that he wanted iced coffee. My husband noticed a confused look on the face of the waitress. The waitress brought my husband's cup of coffee to him, went and got another cup of coffee for his friend, grabbed a piece of ice from the dispenser and plopped it into the coffee that was sitting there in the white cafe style cup.   Unfortunately, my husband's friend was not as gentle with the lady as I was in my situation.
    Some things are not serious enough to make a fuss over, iced coffee being one. We can either laugh about the naivete of people later in a strange situation or we can make a scene at the time. I have always made it a habit to laugh about things; in other words to go with the flow and flow with the go.
    Both waitresses had done what was logical to them. Actually in my situation it was my fault that I had not made it clear that I wanted one of McDonald's specialty coffee drinks, frappes, instead of a hot cup of coffee with ice in it.
     I got my specialty drink. I made my own out of the cup of coffee from McDonald's, some almond milk, a teaspoon of stevia for sweetening, a dash of Hershey syrup and plenty of ice to replace the melted ones.
     Where there is a will there is always a way.
     I'm wondering if it ever occurred to the young girl with the fancy hairdo or her supervisor that what I was really wanting was a summer specialty frappe drink instead of a cup of hot coffee with a scoop of ice floating around in it. Something was missing in the translation, evidently.
    It was my translation, not theirs. I will be more specific next time.
    My frappe was much lower in calories than the McDonald's frappe.
    It worked out better in the end.

THE DAY FROM HELL, I MEAN LITERALLY THE DAY FROM HELL

2016-07-15T09:30:00.001-07:00

                       THE DAY FROM HELL -- I Mean Literally the Day From Hell
                                                       T. Wieland Allen
     Actually the day from hell started the night before the actual day when I discovered a tiny bump on my abdomen. It was itchy one minute and painful the next minute. Thinking that was a clever mosquito to be able to get under my lawn mowing shirt that I wore trimming the hedges that day, I immediately thought, "No, mosquito bites don't look that angry immediately." Well, could it be a tick that I have dreaded finding on my body ever since my dear husband died. He was my tick investigator. Now, no self respecting woman in her right mind would ask her adult son or his wife to inspect her in embarrassing private areas, especially the private ones of an 80 year old mom. In fact, checking myself for ticks and moles is a real adventure because the cataracts on my eyes are not "ripe" enough yet to be removed, so I use 2.5 dollar store glasses to read and try to find ticks and troublesome moles on my body. Sometimes the glasses are not strong enough for me to distinguish black moles from ticks on those private areas. So I switch into my contortion act, twisting and turning as far as I can with a magnifying glass in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other hand. I always think about being so glad that my two loving sisters are not around to see me or they would be laughing hysterically and being no help at all.
   You see, when female aged bodies change it causes body parts to sag in all directions. On my mole/tick adventures I have been known to tie particular parts of my body up high with a soft sash in order to see under sagging skin, inspecting every possible hiding place so I can tell my young, handsome dermatologist that I was a good girl and followed his orders perfectly. If he could only see an elderly woman in her efforts to follow his directions he would get a good laugh, too.
    Sorry for the digression, so now back to my literal day from hell. After finding the little bump on my belly (to heck with being proper) I put on some of Paw Paws Salve, which always works, and went to bed. The day from hell officially began at 3:00 a.m. that day, July 14, 2016. I woke with real pain around the area of the bump. Upon inspection with my trusty magnifying glass, I saw that the bump had had babies during the night and there were three bumps. The babies had blisters on their heads. Oh, no, those buggers were not mosquito or ticks bites, they were the much dreaded shingles. I ran to the kitchen, got some ice, put it in a plastic bag and slapped it on the fevered blisters around which redness was now prevalent. The pain stopped immediately.
     Back to bed I went but sleep was impossible. I made plans in my mind for the day for going to the Urgent Care facility at 8:00 a.m. in order to get to my dental appointment at 10:30 to get a root canal and cap. Not my favorite thing to do. During my awake time I planned to also call the dentist office before I left home for the Urgent Care to inform them that I might have shingles and since it can be contagious to anyone who has not had chicken pox, telling them that I might not make it to the dental appointment. I got out of bed at 6:00 a.m. in order to dress, make the phone call and get to the doctor early in order to be the first patient. Heaven forb
id that I would miss the adventure awaiting me at the dentist's office later.
     Sure enough, after examining me the nice doc at the Urgent Care said I had an early case of shingles. Bummer, just what I had suspected. Since I had his attention and no one else needed him at that moment I told him that I had had some lower back pain that I assumed was from pulling a child's wagon up a slight hill in my yard loaded with large bags of gardening mulch, one at a time of course. The nice doctor asked me if I had had any problems with eliminating urine lately. I told him that I had more frequent needs to urinate, but I have been drinking more liquids lately since I work outside a lot. He ordered me to urinate into a plastic container in the bathroom and quickly came back to tell me that I had lots of bacteria in the urine so I had a UTI, not unusual for women my age but no less painful in the lower back. He told me to cancel my dentist appointment since I was contagious with shingles to someone operating on my mouth and he told me that I needed to go home and rest because my blood pressure was dangerously high. He commented that he wasn't surprised at the high numbers since I was anticipating an extensive dental procedure and had shingles as well as a UTI. He gave me four prescription scripts and told me to go home, take another BP pill and get some rest. To be honest, when he told me the high numbers of my blood pressure I was concerned, too, and, as my handsome clever husband used to say, I'm usually fearless.
     I went to Walgreens, left the scripts and went home, sat down to rest when I remembered that the lawn needed mowing. I called two friends who help me in the yard with trimming trees, etc, and asked them if they could mow my yard the next day so I wouldn't have to worry about that. Joan said that she and Steve were working in my neighborhood and would be there in a few minutes if that was okay. Yea! She never fails me.
     They arrived and did a cracker jack job on the lawn while I rested in my recliner and got the BP down a little by doing deep breathing exercises after taking another pill. My efforts were rewarded and it's a good thing because hell was waiting at the door. Joan and Steve completed their task, I paid them and they went on their way. Finally, I thought, now I can have a stress free, relaxing time the rest of the day.
     Back to my recliner I went with two full glasses of water, following the package insert instructions on the new pills, an antiviral one for shingles and an antibiotic for the UTI. I picked up the newspaper to read, knowing that I would go to sleep and get some rest, having awakened at 3:00 a.m.
     The phone rang. I started to ignore it, but am I glad I didn't It was Steve, the yard helper, and he screamed into the telephone, "Tommye, close your garage door and head for the basement. Ninety mile an hour winds are headed our way. They are five minutes away." That storm was not predicted at all, just came up out of the blue.
     Oh, Lordie, I thought, this is surely a day from hell for me. I wanted to sit down and have a good cry, which is a great stress reliever, but I didn't have time. I grabbed a plastic bag of frozen peas out of the freezer, strapped them to the shingles which were hurting, found a sash quickly and tied the package to my belly. I grabbed a bottle of water, two automatic light bulbs I have for such occasions, a battery operated radio, my cell phone and ran down the stairs to the basement, grabbing from the garage on the way my hubby's bike helmet. The tornado warnings all say to put a helmet on your head in case the upstairs falls into the downstairs or basement and conks you on the head, killing you. Putting the bike helmet on my head and getting settled in the basement, I started laughing hysterically. I had visions of myself if the upstairs did fall in on me, with lying here dead and being found with a plastic bag of mushy peas tied around my waist and a bicycle helmet on my head. I laughed until I cried.
    Then I remembered reading years ago about the woman whose washer was in her basement and she carried a load of clothes down there to wash. She decided to take off her workout clothes and add them to her load of washing so she striped and added the clothes to the washer. She spotted her son's football helmet and knew he would need it that afternoon, so she put the helmet on her head since she was carrying the clothes basket back upstairs filled with already folded clothes. Suddenly the basement door opened and the meter reader walked in. There she stood, nude with a football helmet on her head. They stared at each other for a minute and then the meter reader said, "Lady, I don't know what team you play for, but I'll root for your team any day."
     Remembering that story kept me laughing while the tornado sirens blared outside for a long time. I was still laughing 30 minutes later, still thinking about being found with the bag of mushy peas tied around my belly and the bicycle helmet on my head, as well as thoughts about the football team. I could feel all stress leave my body from the literal day from hell. I'm sure it does not sound like not your favorite kind of day, either.
    After the all clear whistle, I went upstairs and deciding to sit in my recliner after looking out of windows and seeing that the wind was still blowing but nothing like the way it was when I was in the basement. While down there I could hear things hitting my house with a bang. I saw no visible signs of any big trees blown down so I just decided to enjoy the low blood pressure, the pain free belly as long as I had something cold strapped to my belly, no pain in my lower back from the UTI as long as I sat on the full body vibrator I had put on my recliner. It was so peaceful.
    As I sat there I remembered that God said to count it all joy when tribulation comes your way. Ah, such was the necessary laughter that I experienced. Then I remembered that God's Instruction Book insinuates one tribulation at a time, not five in one morning, and all of them from hell, definitely not from heaven. I found out that the joy that came from laughing so hysterically lowered my BP so much that I was tranquil after the storm instead of fearful.
     God said that if we are joyful during tribulation that it will produce patience in us. I can see that, because after that day from hell and then laughing at the circumstances worked good things for me. I will remember to be joyful the next time tribulation comes my way from hell, just hope it is one at a time, not five in the same morning.
     With the power still out that night, I knew that I had to write this story to encourage other people that what God says to do will work every time. I wrote this story by hand, no computer with the power out, and I felt like Abraham Lincoln who studied as a child by candle light. I had a battery powered light bulb that gave me enough light by which to write.
     Remembering also that Jesus said that in the world we will have tribulation, but He said that we should rejoice during our tribulations because he overcame all the evil in the world which confronted Him, yes, even to crucifixion and death. That is a promise. I experienced overcoming multiple tribulations that day, not to the extent Jesus did in his life, but knowing that the incidents were sent to defeat me, the gift of joy caused laughter and the laughter defeated all of the bad incidents.
    As I perused my property, there were only small twigs and leaves covering the yard, no problem to clean up. My huge heavy umbrella by the outdoor tables and chairs was blown out of its heavy iron holder and deposited by the wind only a few inches from the pool. I would have loved to have seen that huge angel protecting it from ending up in the pool. Even though I was lacking power until the next day, there was very little inconvenience. If there was, I didn't notice it because I was tranquil and peaceful, still enjoying periods of laughter at the thought of being found in the basement decked out in the package of mushy peas tied to my waist with the bike helmet on my head. I believe God gave me that vision to cause me to start laughing hysterically, having joy in the midst of several tribulations of that day.
    Oh, yes, there is one other thing that turned out great. With the power out, the fridge was silent. Inside the freezer were four Braum's chocolate/caramel ice cream bars rapidly melting. Somebody had to eat them before they melted. The good news is that I gave myself permission to indulge after not only surviving the literal day from hell but learning some things about joy and laughter. The ice cream bars made a great evening meal. That indulgence topped off the day, and I ate the slightly melted, messy ice cream bars with no guilt at all, just delighted that I could. Actually the circumstances demanded that I reward myself. God had rewarded me with joy and laughter. I like his reward equally as well, if not better.
    The package of peas lost their medicinal effect of helping the pain as they had gotten hot from the feverish blisters. I had seen a plastic bag of old dried up spaghetti in the freezer. Before it defrosted I applied it to the shingles blisters. They weren't particular as long as it's cold.
     My electric power came on the next day. "All is well," is one of my favorite sayings. Someone wrote a song that said that, 'It is well with my soul."
     It is well for my soul, for sure.

2015-05-03T18:17:00.000-07:00

MISMATCHED, SMISHSMASHED AND HAPPY
                                                             by T. Wieland Allen
    Okay, I admit, it's time for cataract surgery for Me. Doc said I would need the surgery this summer and I thought, what does that young whipper snapper know?   My hubby and I were his youth sponsors at a church when he was a preteen and a teenager. Then I remembered he said that he is going to retire in a year. Maybe he does know what he's talking about. Figure it out, age-wise that puts me "up there" in years but not too up-there to stop mowing my huge lawn with a walk-behind mower, edge the lawn, trim my long hedges, take care of a large pool and big house, still hold down a 3/4 time job -- not a part time one but a 3/4 time one -- and I write three blogs, teach a Bible class every week, co-chair a neighborhood association and occasionally I will -- I'll be honest -- I tell people how to live their lives. I haven't been hit, run over, chased, cussed out or assaulted for any of my advice yet. So I live a full and exciting life.
   You ask what was the shocking occurrence that caused me to agree to have cataract surgery soon? All of my friends have had their surroundings brightened by having that surgery at least ten years or more in the past so I'm a Johnny- come-lately in that area. It took an incident that would be embarrassing for a much younger person but was hilarious to Me and shook my jolly tree, because I usually get the best laughs every day by laughing at myself.
   The crowning revelation that I might benefit from having the lenses in my eyes replaced with inter occular lenses so that I might see better came after I had run a few errands in the morning, had done some cooking, had taken a meal to a neighbor who is recuperating from hip replacement surgery, and then I had mowed the front lawn. I decided it was time to ready myself for bed and I sat down in a chair to remove my sport shoes, which used to be called tennis shoes but nowadays they are called sport shoes. You know what I mean, the sport shoes that are the everyday attire of most people my age, those seniors who are ten and more years older than you and those who might be at least ten and more years younger than you.
    After untying and removing the shoe off of my right foot, a leather New Balance sport shoe, I untied the left shoe and immediately said, "Well, Mr. Reebock, where did you come from?" Yes, I had on two different sport shoes, the leather New Balance one and the mesh fabric Reebock on the other foot. I had been walking around in them all day. At least they were both white, albeit they were made of different fabrics and were different styles. No wonder an old hip injury from a car wreck had started hurting again that day, the sole on the New Balance was a good inch thicker than the Reebock. Yep, I laughed and laughed at myself after addressing the Reebock shoe with such honor by calling him Mr. Reebock.
    Reviewing my day and dreading to even consider that someone I knew had seen me, I remembered that I had gone to several dollar stores for some colored napkins and party supplies. Whew, I was safe there. The patrons at those stores are glad everybody walking those aisles has shoes on their feet. One time I was shopping at a dollar store and a lady was there shopping with a shoe on one foot and a sock on the other foot. She could have been kin to Diddle Diddle Dumplin' who went to bed with one shoe on and one shoe off, I didn't know. If Ms. Dumplin' had seen me with two entirely different shoes on my feet, she would not have even noticed the mismatched attire.   She would have thought I was going to a ball because both of my feet were clad with shoes, mismatched ones but both feet were covered, anyway. The sign on the door said no shirt, no shoes, no service. It didn't say a word about the shoes needing to match. I was safe all the way around.
    I have heard that getting older is not for sissies. Personally, I love my life more and more as the years pass because all inhibitions can go to you- know-where, all sophistication can be exchanged for humiliation without a tear or regret, and I can wear purple, shocking pink and lime green together and at the same time, as well as unintentionally wearing unmatched shoes.
    The scary part is that I always think I look smashing, classy and youthful. Well, maybe not youthful because young people nowadays only wear jeans and black shirts all the time. At least I add some color to the world.
    I am looking forward to the cataract surgery. Everyone tells me that colors will be brighter and sight will be better. I'm just eager to see good enough that I don't put on mismatched "old lady shoes."
    With new eyes I guess I'll have to get a different ideosyncrasy. I'm sure there are some unused ones around. Life wouldn't be much fun if I couldn't laugh at myself. I entertain myself royally every day. Try it. You'll have a smile on your face all the time and people will think you are a simpleton. Actually you will just be laughing at your mature intelligence of thinking you are really clever and funny; plus, you don't give a darn what other people think, which is the biggest perk of getting older.
   A clever lady made a fortune off of a book called, "When I Am Old I Will Wear Purple." Well, I one-up her -- I wear purple, lime green and shocking pink all together, and at the same time. If you see a lady wearing outlandish colors, it might be me. Check her shoes and see if they match. If they don't, it might actually be me. I will be happy in my own little world of color and eccentricity. My motto is this: When I am old I will just be me. That's my gift to the world and my reward to myself, to be me and be worry free.
    Come to think of it, I have a relative, a Brother, who told people to love their enemies and do good to them. He told us not to return evil when evil is done to you but to return good for evil Now, that was revolutionary in a world in which striking back at someone who injured you was par for the course. You were considered to be a sissy if you didn't defend yourself; but His practices were completely opposed to the accepted behavior at the time. He told people to bless people who cursed them instead of returning curses to them. Wow, talk about eccentric. It's still considered revolutionary behavior. That would get you killed.
    Oh, yeah, it did. It got Him killed. But He fooled His enemies, He didn't fight back, He died and He rose from the dead. That put His enemies in an abnormal place, which was to be completely in awe. So I come by My eccentric actions honestly. It's a family trait that I share with my Brother Jesus. He even hung around with his friend John who ate locust and wore animal skins instead of clothing, and John told people to listen to his friend Jesus and do what he taught. I've heard of nonconformists but that guy was ridiculous. Of course, he lost his head as a result. I mean literally lost his head.
     I'll never be beheaded for being myself and I'll never be killed for wearing the colors I choose or wearing mismatched shoes. I might be ridiculed but I'll just tell people that I am eccentric like my Brother and his friends. That will really confuse them.
     I have found that when I do bless people who curse me, when I do good to the people who do mean things to me, when I refuse to fight with people who are different and hold differing beliefs than I do, I become very happy because I don't have any enemies anymore.
    I wish I could get that message to politicians today. I bless them every day, pray for them and hope their judgmental, toxic words don't come back upon them and curse them, as my Brother warned. Unfortunately for them, they always do. I choose not to listen to poisonous rhetoric because it poisons me. My mind is too precious to allow it to be contaminated.
     Practicing My Brother's eccentricity of being kind and loving to everyone has worked for me because, when you do, everybody plays on a level playing field in life and happiness is guaranteed. That's what my Big Brother says.

2015-01-22T12:06:00.001-08:00

AGING EARS, YOUNG HEARTS
                                                         T. Wieland Allen
   My Bible study sisters and I have been meeting together for praying and studying the Bible for 35 years. We feel like we have grown up together. We usually end up laughing for a long time as well as executing the primary purposes for meeting together. Last Tuesday was no exception.
At the meeting were Jane, 83 years old;
Dorothy, 81 years old;
Cathi, 65 years old;
I am 79 years old.
Blanca is the baby of the group and she is 55 years old.
Marcia was not in attendance but she is 79 years old.
Esthela has been meeting with us lately and she is 30 years old. Esthela occasionally brings her four month old baby with her. He is a dream child, a wonderful baby.
   Every week that we meet, before we begin praying together, we voice our prayer requests and then we pray in agreement for every need that has been mentioned.
   I had mentioned that Jan from Oklahoma City, who is 65 and also a member of the group, had asked us to pray for her daughter who has a chronic bladder or kidney infection every three months or so. I also mentioned we need to pray for my niece Joy who has chronic bladder infections and is recovering from one currently.
   Blanca, who is from Mexico and has a very strong Spanish accent said, "Tell them to make a tea out of the hair of an ear of corn and drink it. It will cure them."
   I don't know if it was because of the four month old baby who was there with us or not, but I heard her say, "Tell them to make a tea out of the hair of an umbilical cord and it will cure them."
   Dorothy heard her say, "Tell them to make a tea out of the hair of a gourd and it will cure them."
   Puzzled, I asked, "Where do they get the hair off of an umbilical cord?"
   Dorothy said, "Yeah, where do they get the hair off of a gourd?"
   Jane says emphatically, "You can buy it at any store."
   I said, "You mean you can get the hair off of an umbilical cord at any store?"
   Cathi, who is very astute and wondering if she needs to find a younger group of friends, said, "Yes, seasonably you can buy corn with the hair still on it at any grocery store."
   Dorothy said, "I've never been in any store that has a gourd with hair on it."
   Esthela said, "You can even freeze it and keep it."
   I asked, "Esthela, did you save the hair off of your baby's umbilical cord and freeze it?"
   Blanca and Esthela were both emphatic by this time about being able to buy corn with the hair still on it which must be dried and then boiled in water and drunk until the infection is gone.
   I was still muttering, "I can't believe you can buy the hair off of an umbilical cord in any store. Surely you have to go to someplace like Whole Foods."
   By that time Jane and Cathi were thinking Dorothy and I had developed dementia since the minute we started giving our prayer requests because we didn't know where to buy corn with the hair still on it. Looking at Dorothy and me they both emphatically said, "Of course you can buy corn that still has the hair on the ear at any store," which was echoed even more emphatically by both Esthela and Blanca.
   Dorothy said, "Well, I've never seen the hair off of a gourd anyplace."
   The young ears of Blanca finally figured out that we hadn't understood her heavy accent and said loudly, enunciating distinctly this time, "C-O-R-N. C-O-R-N. We said the hair off of an ear of
C-O-R-N."
   Oh, corn, Dorothy and I finally understood that they were saying the hair off of an ear of corn.
   Jane was still saying, "You know, that brown hair that is sticking out of the end of an ear of corn. They are saying that you can use it to brew a tea."
   By this time I am glad I finally heard the right word, that being corn, or I would have been really grossed out thinking that there would be brown hair growing out of the end of an umbilical cord. Dorothy was still trying to visualize hair growing out of the end of a gourd, but she caught on when all four, Esthela, Blanca, Jane and Cathi, said in unison, "C-O-R-N, the hair on an ear of C-O-R-N."
"Oh, corn," I said.
"Oh, corn, Dorothy said.
If they had said the silk off of an ear of corn, I might have understood. Nah, probably not. I would have been visualizing a piece of silk hanging off of the end of an umbilical cord.
We have prayed for some weird things and now I'm wondering if, in the past, we've prayed for the right things or not. Oh, well, God knows our hearts and He can figure out what we mean.
What are we going to be like when we're 90?
Get ready for some real miracles. We have great faith and have had some miraculous results from our prayers.
God loves our Prayer Posse so much, he grants our prayers whether we know that we're praying for or not. He discerns the intents of our hearts. That's something to be grateful about, for sure.

EDAN AND MEME'S EXCITING CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE

2015-01-03T14:47:00.000-08:00

“There are so many nice people in San Francisco,” is a direct quote from my granddaughter Edan when she was only four years old. While playing at a park that was close to her house she had struck up a long conversation with the young mother of a six month old baby, telling the mom that she really needed to let the baby go to day care because Edan, herself, had had so many happy experiences at Miss Carol’s Day Care. Later, on our way back to her house, she voiced the declaration to me about there being so many nice people in her birth city. I agreed with her completely. On the uphill walk back to her house, that four year old urban child of the City, said, “Meme, let’s talk British all the way back to my house.” Having had no practice in talking British, I did the best I could. I occasionally commented “bloody good”, the only phrase I could think of, as Edan conversed like British royalty. Now that Edan is eight years old she is riding a bicycle like she was born on it. It took a while for her to master it, but she “owns” it now, as they say. However, there are limited places in her neighborhood where she can ride her red Schwinn with ease because of the steep hills. We must descend long hills to get to the park which is several blocks away. After you descend, of course later have to ascend them in order to get home. The day after Christmas, we decided to go to the park for some fresh air, having not left the house for two days. Baking sweet rolls took up most of Christmas Eve day and opening presents took up most of Christmas Day. We left for the park with Edan pushing her Schwinn bike down the steep hills with MeMe relatively close behind her. I was having to walk at a fast pace to keep up with her young, adrenalin driven legs, which it seems to me haven’t been completely still for several years. We stayed at the park for a long time with her riding her bike in the park and also on one unoccupied tennis court after asking permission from a young couple who were volleying the ball back and forth on the other court. She didn’t want to disturb their game, but they were amenable to having her ride in circles and figures 8 on the vacant tennis court. She rode the bike with a look in her eyes of being free as a bird. As the sun began to set in the winter sky, it became apparent that we needed to start walking the bike up the long, steep hills back to her house. Edan looked at the heavy bike and said, “MeMe, there’s a back way that is shorter. Let’s go that way to my house.” This was news to me, having been at that park with her many times. She pointed to the “short way home” that was up a steep hill which looked like a mountain to me. There was evidence of a seldom traveled trail up the steep hill which started with five steps made from railroad ties. I told her that I was up for an adventure if she was sure it was a shortcut. Edan struggled to lift her bike up the first step but made it. That bike was an unusually heavy one. She again was able to lift it up the next wide step. I helped her lift it up the succeeding three steps and then we walked up an incline on a rugged trail that was only about two feet wide. I suddenly realized that we were going up a very, very steep hill. It looked like a mountain to me, the one on which I had seen young adults rappelling down a sheer cliff next to the park many times. I began to figure out that this was the same steep hill that lent itself to rappelling. My assumption was that we were going to cross the hill rather than climb it to the top. By this time I was doubting whether Edan’s assessment of this being a shortcut home was accurate, but I continued to assure her that I love adventures. We took turns pushing the bike up the primitive trail, welcoming more railroad tie steps when they came. By now it took both of us to lift the bike up the wide and tall steps, with Edan in the front and me in the back of the bike. The areas without steps were becoming more rugged as we ventured upward. Darkness began to fall quickly, as it always does in winter. It was obvious that we were climbing higher and higher up rather than across, and the top of the hill was nowhere in sight. There were no other “adventurers” in sight, either. If there were, it would have been difficult to see them because of the thickness of the trees and bushes. We were still on a narrow, rugged trail so it was obvious that it led somewhere. Edan knew where it led and she encouraged me over and over with assurances that we were almost to the top of the steep hill. By then I had complete ownership of the bicycle since we were still ascending slowly and my eight year old companion was eager to get to the top. Each step I took was a struggle since I was lifting and pushing the bike uphill. Suddenly Edan said inquisitively but with genuine concern in her voice, “MeMe, do you always breathe so hard when you are on an adventure?” I listened to myself breathe and realized that I was not huffing and puffing, I was merely huff, huff, huff and then huffing. I deduced that I was having trouble breathing because of the height, the lifting of the bicycle, but also the fact that I had a lung operation 25 years ago and the upper quadrant of my lung was removed. No wonder my labored breathing was beginning to alarm my precious granddaughter, as I sensed the concern in her voice. At that point I had the fleeting thought that we should leave the bicycle there in the denseness of the terrain, ascend the rest of the trail and if someone stole the bike, I would buy her a new, lighter one later. While entertaining that thought, I spotted a huge boulder ahead of us upon which we could sit and rest until I regained control of my breathing. I started to yell at Edan who had run ahead of me to see how far it was to the top of the hill, but I couldn’t get enough air to yell very loudly. I could see her ascending the hill like a young doe eager to reach the top. I stopped pushing the bike, stood there in the darkness, examined the trail to make sure I wasn’t on the edge of the tall hill and liable to slide down with red bike in hand, when I heard some sounds behind me. I turned my head toward the sounds and saw three young men hiking toward me. With what breath I could muster, I asked them to carry the bike the rest of the way and to accompany Edan and me up the hill. They were delighted to help us. If I could have kissed them I would have, but I was using my wide open mouth to breathe in what air I could. All I could do was huff, huff, huff, huff. A few minutes later the crest of the hill appeared, just like Edan had promised me that it would. We both thanked the boys profusely. I sounded like a locomotive as I sucked in air, but was able to get a few thank you words out of my mouth aimed at them. I told them to expect something wonderful to happen to them because of their good deed. Edan rode her bicycle on the sidewalk a very short distance down the hill to her house with me joyfully but laboriously speed-walking behind her. After all, I needed to restore my image to her of being a cool grandma who was still breathing. She burst in the door to her house and yelled, “Mom, MeMe and I almost died,” with emphasis on the word “died”. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how frightened she must have been. Of course she was. I was breathing loudly like the Little Engine That Could up that ominous hill which must have sounded to her like I was going to expire at any moment. I told my eight year old climbing companion that the three boys who rescued us were angels because they appeared out of nowhere and helped us. She grabbed onto that assessment easily and agreed that they were angels. We found out a few minutes later that Edan’s dad had gone with a flashlight to find us because of the darkness of the cold winter night. Fortunately he came upon some people who told him that they saw a woman and a child carrying a bike up the steep hill. I’m surprised they didn’t say a “stupid” woman carrying a bike up the steep hill. They might actually have said that but I was spared the actual truth. We have laughed and laughed about it. We call it our Christmas of 2014 Adventure. I’ll never forget it and I know Edan will not. Before bedtime, she had already told the story two times to relatives on Face Time. She was a brave little girl who will in the future only take the shortcut home when she is with her mom and dad, sans the heavy bicycle. I will remember that I do get winded when I climb four or five flights of stairs speedily because of the lack of having two full sets of lungs and that I also get winded when I climb up steep hills or mountains, especially carrying a bicycle which is meant to be ridden, not carried. I often think I am a 79 year old woman living in a 30 year old body. That new adventure cut me down to size a little bit, even through it was a true joy experiencing it with my precious and loving granddaughter. We will both remember it for years. The angels appearing as young men came just at the right time. We must remember to always entertain strangers because they might be angels of which we are unaware. The three of them helped Edan and me at the end of our adventure, lightening the load of the bicycle and accompanying us to the top of the steep hill. To quote a wise little girl, there are so many nice people in San Francisco. The adventure turned out to be enjoyable, even though I doubted at the time that the trail was a shortcut home. It really was. After we left the rugged trail we descended the hill only a short distance from their front gate. Yes, Edan, I must remember that I do breathe hard when I am on certain great adventures and I will make provisions for that. There are limitations to having had part of a lung extracted. That is hard for me to admit. I know what the readers are thinking; and, no, I didn’t have my cell phone with me. It wouldn’t have been such an exciting adventure if we had been able to call ahead for assistance. Next adventure, I will. I promise. Besides that, Edan had everything under control. She usually does. She didn’t have a problem on the adventure. It was her air sucking grandmother who had the problem. I don’t ever want to stop having great adventures with my grandchildren. Not ever. I’m ready for the next one!

POSTAL ENTERTAINMENT

2014-12-15T12:16:00.003-08:00

People don’t expect entertainment when shopping, mailing or checking the post office box. I’ve learned to expect a chuckle or two from my post office visits. My first really enjoyable visit to the main local post office was in the summer when I went to mail my youngest sister’s birthday present. I had wrapped it in bubble wrap, put it in a small box, then put it in a larger box which was marked Priority Mail, one having a set price to guarantee fast service. Good planning on my part, I thought. It was early morning on a Saturday in the summer when I drove to the US Post Office in our Midwestern town, parked my car in an available space and walked in to get in the line of about five people who were waiting to be beckoned to approach whichever window became free of other mail patrons that day. As I waited in line, I recognized the face of one of the officials manning the windows, an older man -- I say older but he was probably fifteen years my junior. It would be more accurate to say he was older than the other mail officials manning the windows. I heard the mail official tell the patron whom he was helping that he wasn’t supposed to be working that day but was called in to replace someone else who was probably fishing rather than working that day. He was not a really happy camper at being a substitute but he was handling it with humor, which infused an air of joviality into the hot summer day. When I approached his window, he said, “Well, young lady, what can the US Postal Service do for you today?” I replied that I wanted to mail the box to my sister for her birthday and had placed it in the Priority Mailing box which cost $14.95. He immediately became my adviser of good financial judgment. He told me that there were boxes adjacent to the counter in which I would find similar boxes which were not for priority mailing and one would, in fact, only cost me $4.95 to mail and the box would arrive two days later than the Priority Mail one I appreciated his help but I was concerned about the people behind me. I voiced my concern, telling him that I didn’t want to interfere with the flow of traffic in the line of patrons waiting to mail their packages. He immediately said in a loud voice, “Do any of you nice people object if I save this young lady ten bucks this morning? “ What could they say, they were at his mercy so they all said, “Of course not,” “Go ahead” and voiced other affirming phrases. Having their permission I took a couple of steps and obtained the box I was advised to bring back to the counter. I expected to be instructed to repack my gift in the approved box, but to my surprise the kind man ripped open my box, took the smaller box containing the gift out, emptied the packaging peanuts into the new box, and proceeded to repack the gift, all the time assuring the waiting patrons that he would be ready to help them in a few minutes after he saved me ten dollars. When he closed the box, before applying the wide shipping tape to my new inexpensive box, he said to me, ”What’s your sister like? Is she a good sister?” I replied that she’s younger than me and I felt like I had raised her, and we are very close. He added, “But is she a nice sister or is she bossy like my sister?” That hit a nerve since I had on occasion accused my sister of being a little bossy but most of the time she is kind and loving. I informed him of that truth. He said, “Well, my sister is so bossy she made my life miserable when we were growing up, so I’m going to finish preparing this box for mailing like I would a box for my bossy sister.” He proceeded to wrap the wide tape around, around, around and around. By this time he had all the waiting patrons laughing with glee. When he finished, he held the mummified box up in the air and everyone cheered. To which he said, “That ought to take her a while to get into that birthday present. She will love you for whatever is in there by the time she cuts through all that tape.” I was laughing out loud by this time, definitely not expecting to be entertained as well as being saved ten dollars at the Post Office. Now that Christmas is approaching, I usually mail my packages at the Postal Service satellite office at a drug store closer to my house. My last box to be mailed was not ready until Saturday morning, having had to work on the last gifts for grandsons the preceding night. Early the next morning I went to the downtown, main Postal Office to mail the box since the satellite one is not open on Saturdays. There were several people in front of me but the same comical official was working in addition to a young lady at another window. While waiting for my turn I was lucky enough to hear the comical official finishing up collecting the money and stamping the legal appearing box of a person. I heard him ask, “Is there anything else I can do for you today, sir?” The elderly patron said, “Can you estimate how long it will take for that box to get to its destination? The mail official answered, “I can’t tell you any estimate. It depends on what kind of monkey is driving the truck and how many times he stops to wet his whistle during the journey,” with a twinkle in his eye. He continued, “Sir, you should have been here yesterday. People were backed up out the door all day long. Nobody had an easy mail endeavor and we were overloaded all day. I could hardly walk when I left work because of never having a break in the unreasonable demands of the patrons.” Then he said, “And I rarely do this, but my good friend Jim Beam and I had a lonnnnggggggg conversation after I got home last night. I felt a lot better with his help until this morning when I realized I shouldn’t have had quite so long a conversation with Jim as I did. “ Of course the patiently waiting mail patrons and I laughed, which pleased the comical official immensely. When it came my turn, I had to go to the window of the young lady. I have to admit that I was disappointed to have such a dull time, only mailing a box instead of have my own personal comic who has a way to make the waits at the Postal Office endearing instead of taxing. After completing all the mailing tasks, the young female official gave me a long tape out of her machine and said that I might want to fill it out and rate the efficiency of the local Post Office. As I assured her that I would do it, I heard the comical, older official say, “All you people be sure and fill out the form. If you are pleased with the service, be sure and put my name down. If you’re not pleased with our service, put Bruce’s name down. There’s no Bruce here and that will confuse the heck out of the officials.” After I got home, I filled out the form. I gave the service of the Postal Service a C- because I mailed a Priority box the 15th of October loaded with Halloween decorations for my granddaughter. It arrived at her house three weeks after Halloween. That box went into storage for next year. Even though I gave them a C- for service, I wrote on the form that I gave them an A+ for entertainment since my experiences with my downtown Postal Office get my day started off in the mornings with laughs which affect my entire day. The twinkle in his eye tells it all, kind of like Santa Clause’s twinkle when he delights kids by telling them they will get everything they want for Christmas. He knows better than that, but it makes the kids happy. Whatever that comical official tells me makes me happy, whether the boxes arrive at the promised time or not. It’s all in the twinkle! Merry Christmas

KARMA? NOW I BELIEVE

2014-07-19T15:39:00.005-07:00

KARMA? NOW I BELIEVE T. Wieland Allen See, I’ve never had a problem believing that we reap what we sow, that what goes around comes around, and what you do to others they will do to you. But karma? Nah. Even though when I think about it, they are all the same thing. So if karma means that circumstances repeat themselves; then, yeah, I can attest to it as being real. Twelve years ago three of our grandsons from California were visiting us and the oldest of the visiting boys was getting ready to swing on a tire swing in the back yard. The tire swing was cleverly made to look like a horse. Grandpa had tied a heavy rope around it and tied the other end to a huge tree. We named the horse Prissy Sue. Prissy Sue was a thoroughbred, her craft festival papers proudly declared. Grandson Jarrett was going to mount the tire swing and have fun on the swing. As he put his hand into the mouth of the rubber horse to help him mount, he screamed “bloody murder,” as we used to say. There was a wasp’s nest in the mouth of the rubber horse and a wasp stung him on his hand. He wasn’t very old, so it was a real shock and the sting hurt the little guy badly. We immediately took him into the house and applied some of PawPaw’s Ointment to the area of the wasp sting. That was not a very good memory for Jarrett to have relating to his summers in Oklahoma. He was a trooper, though, about it. We were overly sympathetic about it since we were in charge of him and his brothers and felt like we had neglected our duties. I guess there was no karma necessary because we were compassionate toward Jarrett and his pain. Two years later our entire family was attending a family wedding in Sonoma, California. We were renting a big four bedroom house with three baths, a garage apartment, a giant kitchen, and a huge dining room which accommodated all ten of us. The living/den area, which the grandkids claimed as their own early on, had huge overstuffed chairs with ottomans which made into beds. All five of the grandkids had a ball playing in their own self adopted area. The house was an ideal place, very rural, with a large barn and many acres of land. The five grandkids explored the premises, loved being together, and enjoyed the rented house with its outbuildings. They became very adventuresome after they got over the fear that seven year old grandson Jesse instilled in them when he said he saw a bloody chainsaw in the old barn and he thought the chainsaw murderer was buried there. The youngest grandson, six year old Stephen, never ventured within 100 feet of the barn after that wild story. Their adventure on the second day that we were there was more memorable. Four of the five grandchildren came running into the house yelling and screaming that wasps were stinging Nathan, Sure enough, Nathan came busting into the door crying loudly, saying amid sobs that he had been stung many times. We treated him for eight wasp stings, gave him Benadryl and made him lay down and stay quiet for a while. After we quieted Nathan down, we asked the other four kids what had happened. They all talked at once and related an interesting story. It seems that the five of them were playing down by the pasture, standing behind the log fence bordering the pasture. We were told that there were some birds in the pasture close to the kids and Nathan bragged that he could hit one of the birds with a rock. The other kids included his cousin Jesse, his brothers Jarrett and Stephen, plus his cousin Lindsey, the only girl in the group. Of course they called him a liar and challenged him to try. According to all the kids, Nathan found a rock, threw the rock at a bird and, sure enough, downed the bird. According to them, all of a sudden out of nowhere a swam of wasps started toward them. The kids all took off running toward the house. What happened next was hard to believe, they said, but the grandchildren all agreed that it was true. They swore that the swarm of wasps flew right past the four of them and targeted Nathan as all five of them ran toward the house. Not one of the other kids was stung by the wasps, even though they were behind Nathan on the frantic run. The kids said that the wasps enveloped only Nathan and stung him. He was finally able to get away from them and run into the house with the other kids. The mystery was why the wasps targeted Nathan and only Nathan. He was the one who had thrown the rock and hit the bird. Maybe there is something about birds and wasps hanging together. Who knows? All five of the kids told the identical story. Fortunately, Nathan recovered from the eight wasp stings in time to enjoy the beautiful outdoor wedding the next day. I have told that story hundreds of times, even laughing along with other people at the image of poor Nathan running ahead of the other kids with the wasps chasing him and only him, even flying en mass past the other kids as if the wasps knew that Nathan had been the kid who had thrown the rock that knocked the bird to the ground. It was a funny image in our minds, kind of like a movie cartoon, and my telling the story has elicited many laughs from myself and other people at Nathan’s expense through the years. He didn’t seem to mind, seemed to kind of enjoy being the center of a funny story. So back to karma and my sudden belief in it. Ten years removed from Nathan’s experience with the wasps, the telling of the story came back to bite me, or maybe I should say “sting me.” I had been trimming my long hedge along the courtyard, enjoying every minute of it, looking forward to the end so I could stand back and admire the work I had done with my hedge trimmer and my new long pole chain saw which I use to cut the outer edge of the hedge that is too far for the hedge trimmer to reach. I was down to the last section of the hedge which is beneath a pergola which has Virginia creeper hanging from it, serving as a decorative vine. I love the Virginia creeper because it turns brilliant colors in the fall and the berries feed the birds in the fall and winter. In trimming the hedge I also have to trim the Virginia creeper so that it doesn’t hang all the way down but merely creeps along the top of the pergola structure. While trimming the last section of the Virginia creeper with the pole saw, getting ready to change equipment and trim the hedge, suddenly I felt a sharp sting in my upper arm. I grabbed my upper arm and a wasp flew off of my shirt. Suddenly there were two more wasps who came at me. One stung my other arm in two place. I started running to the house being chased by the wasps. Speaking of karma, while I was running to the house being chased by the wasps, I suddenly had the image in my mind of Nathan and his running ahead of the other kids while the wasps targeted him. It must have been terrifying for him. After reaching the house, running in and closing the door, I checked the places where I felt sharp pains and, sure enough, I had five wasp stings on my arms, two on one arm and three on the other arm. They hurt like crazy. I suddenly imagined how Nathan must have felt with eight stings on his little seven year old body. He was a tough kid to refrain from putting on more of a screaming scene than he did. Benadryl Topical Gel relieved my pain after a while and ice prevented the areas from swelling too much. PawPaw’s Salve finished the job, covering the bright red punctures with its greasy anticeptic properties. Karma? What goes around comes around? You reap what you sow? No doubt about it for me. The comments people make in jokingly saying, “It’s karma all over again,” fit this situation to a T. I had told Nathan’s story many times, laughing along with other people at the mental image of the wasps chasing him and bypassing the other grandchildren. Here I was ten years later being chased by wasps at my own house and also being stung. No doubt about it, it‘s karma. I took a long rest after making sure I wasn’t going into shock in case I was allergic to the wasp stings. Then I grabbed a can of wasp spray and took off for the courtyard where the chase had begun. I was loaded with arsenal and I was going to use it. Two wasps were flying around the before-mentioned area so I let loose long trails of the wasp spray, targeting the wasps. They were faster than the spray was, so they kept flying out of the area of the spray. My intent was to finish the job, only lacking one last section of the hedge, the one which obviously had the wasp nest somewhere in the Virginia creeper at the top of the pergola. I emptied the entire can of wasp and hornet spray on that small section of foliage. Just in case the wasps came back and wanted to play chase with me again and use me for their pin cushion, I put together a protective outfit. I donned my thickest down-filled ski jacket, figuring that if the wasps came back and wanted a better taste of me, even if they tried to sting me the jacket was so thick that their stingers wouldn’t make it down to my skin. I also put on a painter’s mask which covered my lower face. I found huge sunglasses of mine from the ’70s and wore them. I put on a small hat and then put a larger sun hat over that hat. There was no way those buggers were going to sting me again. I looked like one of the homeless people I see in cities wearing thick winter coats in the summertime. Maybe those coats are for protection from wasps and bees for the homeless people, too.

It worked for me. Don’t know if I looked so weird that the wasps were too busy laughing at my getup on a summer day to try to sting me or what, but I did make it through with finishing the job and cleaning up the clipped leaves without being stung again. Yes, it was karma all over again, as people jokingly say. I learned my lesson. Those wasps are persistent dudes. And, boy, are they fast. I must ask my grandson Nathan for forgiveness. He’s a precious young man and will forgive me willingly. I don’t want to run that race again with the wasps. Those dudes are fast. So karma is over. All is forgiven. Yes, even the wasps are forgiven. They were merely protecting their domicile. Buddha called it karma. Jesus said you reap what you sow. Maybe it is the same thing. I know one thing, those wasps are smart dudes. They knew who threw the rock and they knew who laughed about their chasing my grandson. They took their revenge out on both of us. Their brains must be bigger than the human brain. They learn faster and they never forget. I’m just glad loving grandsons always forgive easily, karma or no karma. Sometimes karma brings to mind good times with loved ones, so karma is not always bad. It cues us to write down the good times and the bad times, hoping we learn from the bad ones, and knowing that writing them down will help us treasure the good ones for years to come. Thanks to karma, or reaping what we sow, for bringing this loving occasion to mind, even though it came with stings of pain. They were worth it to bask in the heart warming memories of the unconditional love of grandchildren. Gramps was right, when people become grandparents they "turn just plumb goofy". We did. We became the goofiest of all. Maybe it was the over abundance of love that is shown to us. Whatever it is, I like being goofy. It's like being a kid again and you get to laugh all the time. Thanks, God, for the memories.

THE HAYSTACK PRINCIPLE

2014-03-07T13:41:00.002-08:00

You’ve heard of the saying that searching for something was like looking for a needle in a haystack. My latest experience has enlarged that concept to the highest degree, as far as I‘m concerned. I was married 57 years ago and I immediately started the craft of sewing, copying my mother who was a gifted seamstress. She had to engage in that craft because she had to dress four girls in the most up to date and beautiful dresses that could be made. We would travel to a nearby town almost every Saturday, meander through the big city department store, and Mother would look at expensive dresses, always keeping the impressions in her mind. Her intent was to create the same dresses for her daughters that were displayed at the expensive store. She would then go to JC Penney or Montgomery Ward stores who had a fabric department, buy material similar to the expensive creations we had viewed; and, lo and behold, in a few days we all had new beautifully created frocks. My memories of her from those days are of her sitting at the Singer sewing machine late on a Saturday night putting the finishing touches on one of the dresses or sitting in a chair under a dimly lighted lamp while hand sewing the hems of all four creations so they could be worn to Sunday School at First Baptist Church the next day. None of us appreciated her labors until years later when we, ourselves, started sewing. Her value increased in our eyes considerably as we realized the labor that was involved. After getting married I loved sewing my own clothes. Many years later as my children grew, the most enjoyable thing I would do was make darling dresses in current styles at the time for my daughter. It was like making doll clothes for the most beautiful real life doll. For several years I even made T-shirts for our boys as well as our daughter, my husband and myself. Halloween costumes were my annual creations during October. I tell you that background to let you know that I was always sitting at the sewing machine also, just like my mother did when I was growing up. Two things that a seamstress cannot do without are needles and thread. I always had many colored spools of thread but the needles proved to be a problem for me. I was always losing the needles. It was a consistent habit of mine to always put the needles into my one and only pincushion, which I’m sure I must have bought during the first year of my marriage.

It was about the size of an average orange. It was thickly padded, like every other pincushion, and the covering was green velvet. The problem that began to emerge after a few years was that I never could find a needle, even though I had placed them into the pincushion when I finished my hand sewing. It became apparent that there had to be a needle eating ogre in our house or there was something around whose intent was to drive me nuts with curiosity about what happened to the previously used needle. I would occasionally go to the fabric store and buy another package of needles, which usually held about five needles of various sizes. Some were embroidery needles, too big to sew hems or tack on frilly lace, so those needles were rarely used. Sometimes the smallest needles had tiny eyes through which the tread had to be forced. Very often I would spend ten minutes laboring at getting the colorful thread all the way through the tiny eyes, then having to do it all over again after the long length of thread was used. Another contributing factor to the frustration was that we had cats for pets and it was a puzzle to me why the cats seemed to always take an interest in my sewing. One or another of the cats would always hop onto the sewing table and slap the pin cushion around, sometimes biting at the straight pins and pulling them out. So I blamed the cats for the disappearance of the needles, wondering if those darn cats had caused the needles to fall into the carpet. However, nobody in the household had ever complained with a piercing scream that a needle had been stepped on and was making its way into the inner sanctum of his or her foot. I had other things to worry about during those days, so I just took it as a matter of fact of life that there was a mysterious needle fetish belonging to some invisible being in our household. Occasionally, if I was desperate, I would push on the top of the pin cushion and cautiously feel on the opposing side. I could always feel the sharp point of a needle. The thin little metal shaft had to be completely submerged into the middle of the pincushion, so I would get my tweezers and make a desperate attempt to put enough pressure on the top of the pincushion so that a hidden needle would be peeking out the other side enough that I could take the tweezers and pull out the needle. Most of the time that maneuver worked. Other times, I would give up and go to the store and buy another small package of needles. Heaven knows, I would need them in the future. That scenario went on for years, my going on a treasure hunt, looking for a needle that I could have sworn I had put back into the now aging pincushion. The playful cats occasionally made their way to the top shelf where I kept the pincushion and I would find it on the floor with straight flatted pins strewn around the area. I made sure that I picked them up and put them back into the pincushion. It was strange that I never found a needle on the floor. Perplexed? Yes, I was. It only took 57 years to solve the mystery. Now that I’m older I have time to spend in solving life’s big problems, like is there a God, is the universe going to end at any time soon, why do men love to go to war, why do men always capture the remote control like they own it, why does a dropped vitamin always end up under the cabinet even though it had to go uphill to get there, and where did all my needles go. I finally had some time to decipher that last 57 year mystery. Recently I needed to take a few inches off of a pair of jeans and hem them, so I got the navy blue thread out and grabbed the infamous faded green pincushion. You guessed it --- nary a needle in sight. Okay, I was faced with deciding if that pincushion was so old that I didn’t mind sacrificing it to solve the problem. Besides that, I didn’t want to go to the store and buy another package of needles when there might be one or two needles hidden inside the pincushion, ones I wasn’t able to retrieve during all the years. I marched myself defiantly into the kitchen, grabbed the sharpest knife I had and started sawing on the faded green velvet pincushion. Nothing is holy after all those years and it had served its purpose. The filling inside of the pincushion resisted the butcher knife but I was a woman with a purpose. I applied more and more pressure. What in the world could that filling be composed of to be so stubborn? I had imagined all these years that the filling was shredded foam of some sort. Those insides were definitely not foam. The butcher knife finally broke through the faded green velvet and pierced into the filling. Out poured a combination of some sort of sawdust and finely ground leaves. Well, one mystery was immediately solved, part of that stuffing must have been ground catnip and that’s why the cats had such a fascination for it. I already felt empowered with that knowledge, that the cats weren’t weird at all, they were just normal cats drawn to catnip or some other cat loving plant. Then suddenly the innards of the pincushion revealed some thin, silver metal objects with small eyes in one end. Good, I thought, as I reached for one of the obvious needles, now I have something with which to sew. As I moved around the sawdust and ground plant particles, more needles appeared. Then more and more needles were visible. I was astounded, though now I know I shouldn’t have been so surprised. After all, there were 57 years of disappearing needles for which to account. I picked out more and more needles of various sizes. There were even two sewing machine needles among the others. I took a little break from retrieving the lost needles from the sawdust and plant matter because I certainly didn’t need a vast number of needles that day. But, the thought came that I might as well get all of them and put them in the new pincushion I had bought a few years ago but rarely used because I didn’t want to abandon the told green one. I didn’t want the green one to have feelings of rejection. After all, it had been so loyal. I finally found all of the needles, took the sawdust and ground plant matter and put it in with some dirt in a flower pot. The task of putting the newly found treasure of needles into the new pincushion became laborious so I put the task aside and decided to finish the job later while I was watching television. No, I’m not easily distracted from a task, but this one was too ominous to complete in one sitting. If you think I’m a weakling for quickly abandoning the project, stick with me for a few more lines of the story. The reason it took two sittings to complete the task is that the final count of needles that were nestled inside of that pincushion were 68. It was a needle swallowing pincushion, helped in its quest by the cats in the house who had probably pushed the needles down inside as they were slapping it around. The old saying of looking for a needle in a haystack is passe to me. Looking for 68 needles in a pincushion fits my 57 year adventure to a T. I will never run out of needles. Maybe I can sell some of them at a garage sale. They’re precious to me now. They hid for years and years right there in that old faded green pincushion. Each needle holds fond memories of creative garments I lovingly sewed for my family. Sixty-eight? Yes, I said 68 needles. How that pincushion that was the size of an orange held all those needles is a mystery to me. Maybe now I can solve the mystery of the jumping - bean vitamins that have the talent of hitting the floor when dropped and then bouncing uphill under the cabinet. I really do have an active mind, not always worrying about things, but vigorously searching out reasons behind every unexplainable phenomenon. Inquiring minds always want to know. The truth of the Haystack Principle is that we must be careful in looking for a needle in a haystack. There might be a vast number of needles with sharp points ready to prick you, or you might be overwhelmed with what you find in that haystack. It might be just what you’re looking for, or it might be something you don’t want to know. Sometimes inquiring minds don’t need to know. I’m 68 needles richer but I’ve stopped making creative garments. What project can I find that requires using 68 needles? One just might show up. I’m up for the challenge.

THE GIANT AND THE WHITE PETAL PILLOW

2014-02-06T07:16:00.003-08:00

My precious granddaughter Lindsey, her guy friend Major and their college friend named Richard came to see me Friday night. They are typical college students, completely enamored with college life. Major is a really nice fellow. I've grown to love him because of his wonderful character. Just to show you what I mean, he was sitting across the room from Lindsey and she accidentally dropped something. She started to pick it up and began to reach down for it. Major, who never hesitated in the story he was eloquently telling, hopped out of his chair and told her that he would get it, ran across the room, picked it up and handed it to her, returning to his story without an interrupted pause. “Wow,” I thought. Used to, when I dropped something it was always greeted with a laugh and maybe a sarcastic comment such as, “Well, clumsy,” or “Can’t you hold on to anything?” I was shocked at Major’s impromptu gracious act and I was enamored with his respect for Lindsey. Now to the theme of this story, the giant and the pillow. Their friend Richard is from a very small town in Oklahoma. He looks to be about 6’4” tall, and is huge, with a big cranium, wide shoulders, thick torso and legs The guy had on shorts because it was a warm day before the last cold front came in. His calves were giant, even bigger than My husband's dad's calves were and they were huge. Well, this guy’s legs were enormous, as was his body. He was a football player and I’m sure he was a very scary opponent. He also was of American Indian descent, making his looks even more ominous because of his size. Lindsey told me they had measured and that Richard’s ankles and calves are bigger than her thighs and she has very shapely thighs. I tell you that lengthy description because of something the young man did. Lindsey and Major had shown Richard all around my house, even the basement and bomb shelter. He seemed impressed, but his interest centered in on the most unlikely thing in the house.

He picked up a decorative pillow that was given to me by a friend. I have that pillow sitting on one of my antique chairs in my entryway.. The pillow is constructed with layer after layer of soft, white felt fabric cut into petal shapes, all layered together and forming a beautiful flower. Richard, that giant of a young man, looked to me so strange holding that white, frilly pillow. He caressed it like it was a rare object, even put it up to his cheek to feel the softness on his face. I was bowled over with his freedom in showing the feminine side of his nature, especially since he was such a massive young, sports minded man. He continued to hold it lovingly as if it was a piece of valuable art or a treasure. When they all left, I kissed Lindsey and Major, like I always do, and I also kissed Richard. I had to stand on my tiptoes and he had to bend way down to receive the kiss. His gentle eyes showed he enjoyed the loving attention from me. He had blessed me with his show of sensitivity when he embraced the frilly, white pillow, so I was compelled to place a big kiss on his cheek. His stature reminded me of the professional football player who did needlepoint, Roosevelt something, who was about the same size. I sound like it doesn’t take much to excite me, but for some reason that visit from the young people was a real gift for my heart, with Major being so gentlemanly with my precious granddaughter Lindsey and with Richard being so sensitive and gracious. I felt filled with love when they left, like I had been in the presence of unusual young people who give love and respect so freely. Lindsey is always very loving, but the young men were a surprise in their virtuous actions. While they were here, Richard and Major gave me good advice about my ailing computers and we discussed the upcoming Super Bowl at length, but I will never forget their actions, with Major and his gentlemanly respect for my granddaughter and Richard with his confident appreciation and admiration of the most unlikely object, a frilly, white decorative pillow. Maybe we can clone them.

IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

2013-10-07T06:38:00.001-07:00

There are so many opportunities in our daily encounters with people to find joy and appreciation. One such opportunity happened to me this week. I was at Big Lots shopping for birthday gifts, had made my selection, plus a few other unintended purchases, and I was standing in line to check out. The person in front of me had quite a few items, too, so the wait was longer than expected. It worked to my advantage or I would have missed a good laugh. A very pretty young lady of about 25 walked up behind me in the company of a strikingly beautiful little girl of about three or four years old. The little beauty had long, black hair, lily white skin, big blue eyes and was dressed in her Sunday best dress. She was a picture of health and happiness. Most three or four year old kids who are forced to wait in line are not patient like this little beauty, nor are they so well behaved. The little one was intrigued by the Halloween suckers at the end of the counter. She would pick one up, make a remark about it and show it to her mom. She never asked for one, never begged for the candy which was plentiful on the aisle. She was engrossed in the animal shapes of the suckers. Her mom was patient with her, not once sharply telling the little girl to put down the suckers. The mom knew her daughter and knew that the child would handle them with care and place them back in their proper place, which she did. That exchange between mom and daughter went on for about five minutes as the lady in front of me seemed to have some trouble writing her check. When the elderly lady’s purchase was complete, I knew the little girl needed to have her waiting time shortened, so I told her mom to go ahead of me and check out. Her mom was grateful and thanked me. The little girl joined in the graciousness and thanked me also. The mom told the child to put her desired purchase, which was clutched in her small hand, onto the counter so that the checker could ring up the price. The child laid it down and I was surprised that it was a package of Chap Stick. I was expecting a toy or maybe some candy because of the patience of the little one. It was almost like there was a 30 year old inside the body of the small child. The checker rang up the purchase and informed the mom of the price, who began searching in her purse for the right change. The little black haired, well mannered little girl stood staring at the checker with a look of concern on her face. Then the innocence and childlikeness came to the surface. She said to the checker, who had very dark maroon lipstick on her large lips, “Did you know your lips are dead?” Her little voice was full of concern, not criticism. She wanted the lady to know something was obviously wrong with the checker’s mouth, something to which the checker might be oblivious, that maybe her lips had died on the way to her work day. The checker was a good sport and laughed loudly, as did the mom and me. That was a surprise to the little girl because of the amount of concern she had for the lady. I appreciated the reaction of the mom. She quietly said, “Sweetheart, this presents an occasion for some instructions when we get to the car.“ That was quoted with a sweet, loving voice, not one of stern chastisement or harsh discipline. The mom and daughter walked out the door with the same sense of mutual love that had been shared by them while waiting in line. The mom knew how to handle the situation, with love and patience. As they walked out the door, the checker again erupted into loud laughter, telling the people in line behind me what the innocent, caring little beauty had commented with such concern for her. I’m sure the little treasured girl learned a lesson from her loving mom, one given with gentleness. I learned a lesson, too. I’m throwing away all of my maroon lipstick, not wanting to cause nightmares for any small child who might think this woman’s lips are dead, too.

JEANNIE'S EXTREME MEASURES

2013-03-17T11:12:00.005-07:00

     Jeannie works like a man, constantly cutting, trimming, cleaning out brush, painting, cleaning houses, doing carpentry work, manicuring flower beds, etc. You name it, she does it. She's a work horse, a human dynamo. She's aways looking for more work and uses most of her money on her family, sons, their wives and grandchildren. Her sons are good workers, too, with as many talents as their mom has.
     Grandchildren are another matter. I have a feeling that she spoils her grandchildren just like she spoils her animals, the pit bull especially. However, she handles things in a wise manner sometimes with actions that speak louder than words.
     Jeannie related to me an incident that she handled which caused my opinion of her to go up about 50%.
     Her teenage grandchildren, lovely though they are, always come to her house while she is at work slaving away at the houses of her clients, and the grands eat the food she has in her refrigerator. Her philosophy is what food that's there that's hers, it's their food also. It's my philosophy, too. My casa is your casa, and all of that.
     A problem arose lately when it became an overwhelming burden. The grands never took their dishes into the kitchen and washed them, so Jeannie had to be welcomed home after a hard, hard day's work and was welcomed home by a house adorned with dirty dishes, caked on spaghetti sauce, dried fried egg yoke, half eaten cereal bowls -- well, all moms and grandmothers know what I'm talking about.
     Jeannie had asked over and over that the grands please take the dirty dishes into the kitchen and wash them, not too much to do for the grandmother who grants their every wish. In one ear and out the other, like so often happens with young people.
     One day last week the proverbial you know what hit the fan. Jeannie got home from work where she was helping build a deck and a fence, at my house in fact. It had been a long, hot day and she had kept up with her son, the carpenter, as they toiled all day in the hot sun. There was still work to be done when she got home, unloading the trailer which carried the old rotten lumber they had laboriously loaded from my rebuilding project.
     Again Jeannie was met with dirty dishes all over the house. That was too much this time. Since words had never worked, Jeannie decided to take desperate measures. She took all the dirty dishes and threw them in the trash barrel outside.
    The next day, same thing, Jeannie took the dirty, crusty dishes that had been left in the house and threw them in the trash barrel.
    After a few days of that, there were no more dishes in the cupboard.
     When she got home there were a few grandchildren there to tell her that there were no dishes in the house so they couldn't eat. Just the point Jeannie was trying to make. She graciously told them that all the dishes were in the trash barrel and if they wanted to eat something they better go to the trash barrel, get a dish and wash themselves that dish on which to put their food.
     Talk about a valuable lesson. Can you imagine having to go into a smelly trash barrel and retrieve a few dishes with dried, caked on food and having to wash those dishes before you could eat? That would ruin the appetite of anyone. Her strategy worked. The emphatic words from the past never worked but the extreme measure of the grands getting the dishes out of the trash barrel worked. No paper plates and cups, she said, they had to get the dishes and utensils out of the garbage if they wanted to eat.
     Desperate times do require desperate measures. Jeannie's methods worked. Every time the grandchildren are tempted to leave a dirty dish on the coffee table or on the floor or in the bathroom, those grands will think about reaching into the dirty, smelly trash barrel, groping around inside it to get a dish and fork, take them inside, scrape them and scrub off all the caked on food before they can eat a single bite of their grandma's food.
     Experience is the best teacher, especially when it means reaching into a smelly trash barrel to learn a lesson. Jeannie taught her grandchildren through experience because they chose it rather than heeding her words.
     The grands didn't know that she had s few dishes and utensils for Gramps and her stashed away and hidden from the sight of the grandkids.
     We do that so often with our Heavenly Father. We don't heed His instructions, don't follow his guidance and then we learn by an unpleasant experience. Some of them might be groping in a smelly traxh barrel for a dirty dish that we have to clean before we can even take a bite of food. Sure would be better if we would listen to God and heed his teachings. It would save a lot of unpleasantness of having to learn by experiences which have dirty, smelly backlashes.

My Duck Dynasty Day

2013-03-14T15:59:00.001-07:00

     Jeannie's son Mark is an excellent carpenter, very thorough.
     However, I wouldn't want to tackle with Jeannie in a dark alley if she didn't like me. She's very deternined, a good worker and a good business woman. She and her great big son Mark are rebuilding the deck and the fence around my pool.
     Jeannie and I went to Lowe's yesterday. I put all the lumber, concrete, screws, etc., on my Lowe's credit card because I got a 5% discount and I wanted to make sure things were on the up and up. Mark and Jeannie tore out almost all of the rotten decking, broken hot tub, fence, rotten poles, bracing, etc. yesterday. The guy at Lowe's said that they would deliver the lumber/supplies early this morning.
     While we were at Lowe's Jeannie had her "spoiled baby" pit bull in her car. She can't leave him at home (I can hear all of you laughing at this red neck story) because he tears up her house. She has been leaving him in her car while she works but he started tearing up the inside of the car. He won't leave her side. Anyway, Jeannie told me that she was going to get the cement and poles and bracing on her trailer in case Lowe's didn't get everything delivered before they got here to work this morning.
      While we at Lowe's ordering and paying, Jeannie kept having to go outside to check on her baby (five year old pit bull with a head the size of a bowling ball and twice as hard) in her car. When I finishing paying at Lowe's, Jeannie said she was going to get her trailer and come back to Lowe's and get the necessary supplies so Mark could get a head start this morning.
     Later in the day yesterday she said she didn't get the stuff, but was going to get it early this morning on her trailer so Mark could get started rebuilding the deck this morning.
    This morning when they came, she said that they would get the holes dug for the poles, take up the rest of the rotten poles and bracing and Lowe's would be here by then.
    Nada. Lowe's is known here for that, a different time table than their customers. They have a horrible delivery reputation.
     At ten o'clock Jeannie called them and they said that they had other deliveries ahead of mine. Said it would be two o'clock. Jeannie was livid by now.
     At about 1:00 this afternoon she was griping about them not delivering when they said they would. I graciously reminded her about the fact that she said she was going back to get what Mark needed to get started, the concrete, the new poles and 2X6s for the bracings when we were there yesterday and she also said late in the day yesterday that she was going to get them this morning. She said that she couldn't get her other sons to unload the firewood off of her trailer. I told her she better get them hopping and then she could get the stuff that Mark needed and bring them here like she said she was going to do.
     She did that, came back after lunch with her trailer loaded with the stuff that Mark needed.
     By this time she was really livid, no delivery from Lowe's. She called Lowe's and the lumber guy said that they couldn't figure out what all she took with her, so they completely unloaded the delivery truck and started all over minus the list of things they thought that she took. While she was talking on the cell phone, Mark and the pit bull were busy setting the poles in concrete at this time. Remember, the dog won't leave Jeannie's side.
     I called Lowe's and the head lumber guy told me they were loaded up and ready to come this way. By this time it was funny to me, a real red neck (whom I really and truly love), comedy of errors situation.
    They finally delivered the huge load of stuff. You can imagine how much lumber it was with replacing the under bracings, the poles, the decking and the fencing all the way around the pool.
      So it's all delivered now and Mike, Jeannie and the pit bull (tied to one of the secured poles) are all out there doing more work.
     By the way, I bought them cheese burgers from McDonald's for lunch, cheese burgers for Mike and the pit bull and a chicken sandwich for Jeannie for lunch. No kidding, I did. I told them I would buy them lunch. They told me to get two cheese burgers for Mike, one cheese burger for the pit bull and a chicken sandwich for Jeannie. I really did serve lunch to the three of them.
     With all of that going on, I decided to vacuum the floors to let off a little steam. Darn new sweeper only picked up a little bit of dirt. The joke is on me. I just looked at the new sweeper. It said "Carpet Cleaner."   Yeah, it's been a real red neck and now a red faced day for me.
     I might not watch Duck Dynasty tonight. I lived it today.

CELL PHONE PACKING MAMA

2013-02-11T06:39:00.001-08:00

                                        CELL PHONE PACKING MAMA

                                                                                    T. Wieland Allen

     Okay, so I slid down the basement stairs on my tummy without a sled several months ago and all of a sudden I’m accident prone to my loved ones. It wasn’t a legitimate fall, just that the house slippers went out from under me as I ran down the stairs to the basement to get something.
     It’s not like I’m a decrepit old lady who falls all the time and needs to be monitored by one of those Life Line necklaces. I’m healthy. I mow and manicure my huge lawn, take care of a big house and pool, run a business and write several blogs. I’m young for my age, which is 77 years old. The slide down the stairs resulted in a broken bone in one foot and a broken big toe on the other foot, plus a few bones broken in the smaller toes. I have quickly healed from that unfortunate occurrence.
     Since the day of the fall, all of the people who love me are concerned about me and have been talking about making sure I don’t go sledding unintentionally again inside the house without a sled and break a hip, a leg or an arm. I genuinely appreciate all of the concern.
     I knew after the fall that my adult children were secretly thinking about assisted living places for me, even though they didn’t voice it to me. I told them that I would move to an island and get me a hunk of a native guy and let him wait on me the rest of my life before I moved to an assisted living complex while I‘m still totally active. In one of those complexes I wouldn’t have dirt in which to dig. I haven’t decided whether I’m part gopher or part horticulturist, but digging in the dirt seems to be my favorite past time.
     Don’t tell anyone, but maybe the hunky native guy is not too far fetched now that I just returned from a cruise and found the perfect island. I’m keeping that secret from my adult children lest they keep closer eyes on my traveling.
     I really do appreciate the efforts to help me in my active life. I have been advised many, many times to carry my cell phone with me at all times in case I fall again. See, they seem to think that I make a habit of falling. Heck, anyone can break something. My precious young niece merely stepped up on a curb and broke the same bone in her foot.
     Please don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to know that so many people are concerned about my safety.
     Carrying the cell phone from room to room and outside became a burden to me since I’m not really a phone person.
     I’ve worked 40 years answering a business phone at all hours of the day, so a respite from that seems pleasant to me. I understand the concern of my children and grandchildren. They are interested in my well being.
     Lord, deliver me from trying to remember to take the cell phone from room to room. It was always in the previous room in which I was engaged in either working or cleaning. However, when it was in another room, I’ll have to admit that I felt a little insecure without it being in close reach.
     One of my sisters graciously suggested that I put the cell phone in a fanny pack and then it will be accessible to me at all times. Well, Sister, you know me well enough to know that when I put a fanny pack on my waist that my buttocks grows about five inches, sticking out in all directions. I told her, after eating all the great food on the cruise, that I felt like if My derriere got any bigger I would topple over backwards because of the unevenly distributed weight gained from all the fabulous food. I don’t know why it always goes to that region of my body, but it does. So the fanny pack is out. My fanny is packed enough.
     It finally came to me that I can use the slender and small passport holder to hold my cell phone, keeping it close to me. It has a shoulder strap that goes over the head and rests on the other shoulder. It’s not burdensome or heavy and certainly doesn’t call attention to the area of the body which has become popular to highlight in the past ten years. There was a time when the backside of a woman’s body was girded-in by a tight girdle. I’m still locked into that ‘50s and ‘60s thinking related to fashion acceptance. No bells or ribbons on the real “bottom” for me. Mine doesn’t need to be spotlighted.
     After three days I feel relatively used to the cell phone being cradled in the passport pouch which is hanging around my neck at all times except at night. Then it rests on the night stand next to my bed in case I need to call someone for assistance.
     Do I feel more secure? Yes, I feel more secure, but I also feel like a mailman with the pouch hung around my neck and hanging loose at my side. I think of myself as Mailman Meme, Mailman Grandma or Mailman Mamma.
     I thought about referring to myself as US Postal Mamma, but that might be misinterpreted as me being a pistol packing mamma. I’m absolutely not a gun toting mama. If that’s your current identity, bully for you. I’m just not prone to use guns for protection when I know that the name of Jesus carries more power than any assault rifle. I read in the Bible that every knee in heaven and earth will bow at the name of Jesus. I had a friend who was being restrained by a man who was going to rape her and she merely said, “In the name of Jesus,” and he pulled up his pants and drawers (her word for underwear) and ran out the door. So I have more confidence in that name than I do in guns. If your confidence is in artillery, who am I to advise you to the contrary?
     So today I do feel like Mailman MeMe or Mailman Grandma with the cell phone hanging around my neck. At least I know where my cell phone is when I need it. Only problem is, the only calls I’ve gotten on it are from a security company who wants to put a system in my house and the other call came from a charity, of which I’ve never heard, who wants my money. Lord, deliver me from those kinds of calls.
     So my children and my other loved ones knew best. I do feel more secure as Mailman Mama with the cell phone hanging around my neck and down my side, ready to answer if someone calls and ready to use in an emergency.
     It’s really wonderful to be so loved and protected, but I’m still waiting to find the hunky native guy to wait on me hand and foot. I wonder if he would wear the passport pouch with my cell phone around his neck instead of me? I don’t plan to let him out of my sight once I locate that island again and find him. I know the cell phone holder will fit perfectly around his neck. He will be cheaper than any assisted living place. He will be better to gaze upon than the old skin which my brother-in-law correctly named which was abundantly displayed on the bodies that we observed at the outdoor pool on the Lawrence Welk cruise.
     Please, Lord, also deliver us from having to again look at bikini clad and Speedo clad proudly displayed “old skin.” Yuck.

AMEN, EDAN, AMEN

2013-01-03T06:41:00.001-08:00

     Out of the mouths of babes can come some amazing things. Most of them are not usually conflicted with bad memories which cause shadows on the psyches of the children. They see things with pure hearts, like Jesus said when He said. “To the pure in heart, all things are pure.”
     At six years old Edan sees life as a series of enjoyable adventures, especially when it involves playground jaunts. She is definitely a city girl but is not limited with parks in close proximity to her house.
     On a recent trip to visit Edan and her parents, she and I were spending an entire day together without parental involvement. The day began about two hours earlier than her usual holiday morning arousal with the proclamation of “Are you ready to start our day together, MeMe?”
     Of course I was, and wishing we could spend more frequent days together which are ony limited by the fifteen hundred miles which separate our residences.
     The morning was spent playing with her many Christmas gifts, mostly crafts of some kind. After lunch the playground beckoned us since it was a sunny day outside.
     Edan skipped all the way to the playground while I followed behind, hampered only by a healing broken foot or I would have skipped along with her.
     Her first venture on the play structures was on a U shaped metal ladder which was anchored to the ground at both ends. She climbed on it, hung from it with both legs, then with one leg. While doing those ventures many times she also rehearsed over and over the words to the Do, Re, Me song from the Sound of Music. She was determined to get it right. That rehearsal took about 25 repetitions, all while she was playing on the ladder. Her singing the words were done with a vibrato voice with very dramatic and sustained emphasis on the words, all which cracked me up. I was able to temper my laugher so as not to intimidate her.
     Swinging on the swings in the background was a young baby who was being gingerly pushed in the swing by her mother. I know they were enjoying the repetitive song that Edan was singing many times, determined to get it perfect.
     When Edan went to the big slide I admired the baby in the swing. The mother and I conversed for a few minutes about the beauty of the baby. Edan joined into the conversation asking the mom the age of the baby and if she could talk and if she could walk, etc., about which six year old girls always seem to have an interest.
     I exited the conversation as Edan and the mother of the baby began a long, drawn out dialogue with Edan contributing most of the conversation. She asked the mom if the baby goes to day care to which the mom answered, “Not yet.”
     Edan assured the mom that it was a good thing for the baby to go to day care since she had made really good friends at day care and they are still good friends even after going to different schools. The mom was gracious enough to act interested in Edan’s assessment of day care.
     After about fifteen minutes of the adult’s and six year old girl’s verbal exchange I sensed that the mom wanted to move on to another area of the playground with the baby in tow. She excused herself and walked away with her seven and a half month old baby.
     Edan told them goodbye, then infomed me that she was getting a little chilly so we should make our way to her home which was a few blocks up the hill.
     As we exited the playground Edan graciously proclaimed, “ There are a lot of very, very nice people in the San Francisco area, MeMe."
     My reply was, “Amen, Edan, Amen.”
     We started up the hill and my precious granddaughter suggested to her Oklahoma grandmom that we practice talking “British” while we walked home. I’ve never talked British before but I didn’t want to let her think that I was too inhibited to attempt it. So I chimed in with the only British phrase I could think of at the time. I said, “Bloody good idea.” That was a new phrase for Edan, so I had to explain what it meant. Then she began to talk with the most affluent British accent I’ve heard a six year old attempt. She talked “British” all the way home.
     I agree with Edan, “There are a lot of very, very nice people in the San Francisco area,” one of which is a very loquacious little girl whom I get to claim as my granddaughter. She’s a precious product of the San Franciso area and its culture, one of tolerance, respect and inclusion. Edan is a perfect example of the nice people in the San Franciso area. I know the mother of the baby agrees with me. She’s probably telling someone right now about the darling little girl who assured her of the benefits of day care for her baby.
     I've found that that's the way the people I've met in San Francisco are, always reassuring, just like Edan.

Edan does that, she reassures everyone, just like all the nice people in the San Francisco area.

QUITE CONTINENTAL

2012-12-10T08:46:00.000-08:00

     I disagree with the song that says that, “A kiss on the hand can be quite continental, but diamonds are a girl’s best friend.” I guess it depends on whose hand is being kissed and who is doing the kissing on the hand.
     A situation presented itself to me where I experienced the heartfelt thrill of being on the receiving end of a special kiss on the hand. It came from the most unsuspected source and it was accompanied with an infusion of a special kind of love, one that is steeped in respect.
      It was my birthday, my 77th, and I was feeling very, very special on that day. My son and his family who live locally were taking me out to my favorite restaurant for dinner. I had received birthday wishes from my other children, the grandchildren who live on the West Coast, as well as my local grandchildren, my sisters, sisters-in-laws, nieces and nephews who live out of town. It had already been a wonderful day. I had also received a birthday blessing from my husband who died several months ago. He had arranged for a yellow rose, which is my favorite flower, to be added to an arrangement of flowers which were sent by another relative. That was phenomenal and heart warming and unexplainable, yet wonderful.
    The added surprise of the kiss came from Ray, the owner of the restaurant at which we dined that evening. He has been very special to us for years, having owned, operated and cooked at his restaurant for many years. He originally came from another country but came to the US to seek freedom and become prosperous. My husband and I had befriended him when he originally opened the restaurant.
    On the evening of my birthday Ray came out of the kitchen to greet us and hugged me, which was his usual form of greeting.
     After we finished our meal and we were leaving, Ray again came out of the kitchen. I reached up and hugged him again. He hugged every member of my son’s family. Then he did the most unexpected thing. He gently took my left hand and with kindness and great respect kissed the back of my hand. It was almost a ceremonial kiss. The emotional result for me was that I felt very honored and respected, like a member of royalty.
    The act was so unexpected but it carried with it an attitude that I never expected from a person who is not a member of my family.
    We are all used to being kissed, hugged and honored by our families. We don’t expect it, but we treasure it when we know the outward signs of affection are genuine.
    This kiss on my hand was different. It was undeserved and unsolicited, with no family ties, but it conveyed a sign of deep and abiding respect which is an outgrowth of a special kind of love and regard.
     I left the restaurant feeling like a queen, like a member of a royal family. Only a person from another country who has been taught the importance of kissing the hand of an older person in a sign of deep respect and love can make that kind of an overture.
    What Ray intended to deliver to me was definitely received. His message came across powerfully Just a gentle, tender and lingering soft kiss on my hand was worth all the diamonds in the world. Its message came across loud and clear, that I am special to the man, to my family and to others.
     Not diamonds, not rubies, but what I consider one of my best gifts that I ever received is the special kiss that I will continue to treasure, the respectful, gentle, love-filled kiss on my hand from Ray, the pizza man, that warmed me from my head down to my toes. I will carry that feeling with me forever.
     Thank you, Ray, for portraying to me how special you think I am. That kiss came straight from heaven.

PRISONER OF MY PANTS

2012-11-11T08:53:00.000-08:00

                                                PRISONER OF MY PANTS
                                                                             T. Wieland Allen
     I'm hoping that other people have not been in the same predicament in which I was a couple of weeks ago. Maybe they have. Maybe I'm not the only one in the world who has found herself in a pitiful situation, the kind in which you don't know whether to laugh or cry. Preferring to laugh at myself, I ended up giving out loud laughs from deep within me for a few minutes. They weren't chuckles or little lady-like snickers, they were from deep inside of me, the kind that makes you tired when you finally compose yourself
     Here's the story. The morning had started off great. I did my usual morning breathing exercises, then went to the computer and typed up the words of encouragement that I put on one of my blogs every morning. Then I knew that I needed to shower and wash my hair to get ready to attend the funeral of a dear and wonderful young man who had died very unexpectedly.
     Previously I had sustained a broken bone in my left foot and in the big toe on my right foot in a fall down the basement stairs a few weeks ago and I found it necessary to wear one of those huge orthopedic boots, per the doctor's orders. I call it the Frankenstein boot because it makes me look like the monster when I weave back and forth and side to side while walking.   I had easily dressed every day and had been successful in pushing the left leg of my jeans into the boot before strapping it up.
      HOWEVER, the day of the funeral I had decided that I needed to find a pair of pants that were very wide legged, hoping that I could get the pants leg up over the huge boot.. I looked way back in the closet and found a black pair of pants that had much wider legs. They are very old but I thought they would suffice and at least cover up the boot, hoping very few people would notice the boot, which caused people to always ask what happened. I measured the pants legs, and the figures convinced me that I could get the pant leg over the boot.
       I meticulously put my makeup on because I had been out of the house very few times and was eager to be with people while looking my best. Then I put on my shirt and jewelry after fixing my hair. It happened to be one of those good hair days. My matching jacket was hanging on the door ready to be put on right before my friends picked me up for the funeral.
       The first mistake was that I had left the wide legged pants to be put on last, thinking that they would slide on easily over the really wide and long knee length orthopedic boot. After all, the measurements showed that it might be a tight fit but it would work. In actuality, I had also left the chore of putting the pants on until last because I knew I would need a short rest in my recliner with my legs up before completing the task of dressing because at that point showering, washing my hair and putting on makeup was an exhausting two hours effort with the broken bone in one foot and a broken bone in the other big toe.
       I sat in a large chair in my bedroom, all perfectly groomed from the waist up and then I started to slip on the wide legged pants. I put on the right leg easily over the taped broken toe, pulled that side of the pants up to my waist and began to put the booted leg into the left leg of the pants.  The toe of the boot went easily into the pant leg but when the pant leg got up to the wide part, the instep to heel width, it refused to budge. No problem, I thought, I'll just inch the pant legs slowly up until it clears all of the orthopedic boot.
        Tugging and pulling was of no effect. The little minuscule fractions of an inch that I managed to move the pant leg up past the heel and the instep of the boot only resulted in the pant leg getting more tightly stuck.
        There I sat, all beautifully groomed and coiffured from the waist up, feeling like a prisoner let out of confinement since the fall. From the waist down I looked like a three year old learning to dress herself with one leg in the pants and one leg caught in a vise on the ortho boot. I couldn't move it up or down. I was trapped there.
         A thought came to me to take the ortho boot off. Great idea, I thought. Well, that wasn't going to work since the tight pant leg was blocking the seven long straps that had to be unstrapped to get the boot off.
          Maybe you haven't been in that predicament before. Maybe you're smarter than I was.
          The phone rang and I knew it was my friends wanting to pick me up for the funeral. After all, I couldn't drive with one broken foot wearing a Frankenstein boot and the other foot having a broken big toe taped to the other toes. Luckily the foot with the problematic big toe wasn't quite as swollen as the other foot so I could get a big athletic shoe on it, being glad for the firm support.
        Sure enough, the call was from friends asking if I was ready to be picked up and escorted to the funeral. I replied that I had decided not to go to the funeral. There I sat, with one leg of the pants wedged onto the ortho boot so tightly the only solution was to cut it off.
         By this time I was exhausted from the preparation in getting dressed but also from having a tug of war with the pants, neither being able to get the one leg off nor geting it on over the orthopedic boot while having the other leg successfully pulled up to the waist. I was a hilarious sight; pitiful but hilarious.
         After the laughing spell ended from seeing myself in the ridiculous position, realizing that living alone does give a person opportunities to laugh at oneself because of the situations that can happen, I decided to move to my recliner and rest by either cutting off the leg of the pants or by walking ever so slowly down the hall to the recliner, dragging the pants. I chose to walk down the hall since the wooden floors would allow me to scoot the imprisoned pants down the hall so I could plop myself into the recliner. That worked.
          I fell into the recliner, put up the foot rest, took a deep breath and relaxed. I woke an hour later in the recliner with my pants still hanging from the boot.  What an embarrassing sight to wake to.
           Being refreshed, the task didn't seem quite so ominous. It took a while but I was able to move the pant leg quarter inch by quarter inch down until the pant leg finally fell off of the big ortho boot. I was free at last.
           I was sorry to miss the funeral of such a wonderful young man, desiring to extend my sympathy to the family. Some people to whom I've told the story have said that maybe I didn't need to be at the funeral since it had only been a few months since my husband died. Maybe that's right.
          You probably already have the situation figured out. It came to me later on. I should have put the wide legged pants on before I put the boot on. Then I could have inched the top of the pants down over the top of the boot because the width of the boot at calf level is not as wide as the distance from the instep to the heel of the boot.   My mistake.
           It called for more exercise trying to accomplish the difficult task than I had had in the two weeks since the fall which necessitated wearing the orthopedic boot.
           I still laugh when I envision myself in the compromised position.  It was either laugh or cry and I preferred to laugh at myself, of which I seem to be doing more as I get older and the longer I live by myself. I can be very entertaining to myself on occasion, never intending to do so, of course. It just works out that way.

DARN CELL PHONE

2012-11-09T10:36:00.000-08:00

                                                DARN CELL PHONE
                                                                                   T. WIELAND ALLEN

      So here I am, standing in my kitchen laughing out loud at myself. I must be the funniest person I know or I just do silly things that always make me laugh at myself. Today was the topper, I mean the absolute topper.
      I run a small home based business alone since my husband died and so I have to carry the business phone around with me everyplace in the house. Don't want to miss a single business call.
      Since my husband died, my adult children have been very attentive to me, calling regularly to check on me to make sure I'm not laying dead on the floor or maybe laying flat on the basement floor again, where I was a month ago after falling down the basement stairs. So that necessitates my carrying around my cell phone also.  If they can't get hold of me, they start calling around to make sure I'm still alive. I really appreciate that.
       Per usual, this morning I had carried the business phone and my cell phone to various areas of the house so I could answer whichever one rang. Feeling a little bit in bondage to the phones has been tough on me, independent soul that I am.   But, it's been a necessity to have both phones near by me at all times.
        Neither phone had rung yet this morning, but I had sent and answered several texts.
         I had done some office work and had sat down to finish a business chore when the cell phone rang. Surely it was my son who lives in sunny California because he usually calls at about the same time every week. Intending to reach for the cell phone sitting alongside the business phone, my hand came up empty handed. No phone there. The phone kept ringing its merry tune.
         Looked all over the kitchen. No phone.
         Looked all over the office. No phone.
         Looked all over the office bathroom where I take it when I take a potty break. No phone.
         Back to the kitchen, further tearing up the kitchen, there was no phone, even though the ring sounded like it was in that room.
         Back to the office, tearing up the office, moving papers, moving documents, frantically trying to answer the cell phone. The caller was obviously persistent.   No phone, even thought the ring sounded like the phone was in the office, too. Again, no phone and I left the office in such disarray that it will take a week to reorganize it.
          Back to the bathroom, where the sound now came from. It seemed to be saying that the lost cell phone was in the bathroom. I opened the vanity, thinking I might have inadvertently shoved it in there while putting away some cosmetics. No, no phone.
          However, I had dialed my own cell phone number with the business phone, hoping to be able to follow the sound of the ring to the right room. The mystery was that every room I entered, it sounded like that was the room where the cell phone was hiding.
           I had had too much coffee so that alarming feeling came upon me that said that I better go to the bathroom or I would be changing underpants and pants in a few minutes.
           The cell phone was still ringing from the last call I had made to my own cell phone, hoping to be able to follow the sound of the ring. I was desperate to potty so I sat on the toilet and was amazed that the ringing sounded like it was coming from the toilet stool. How could that be?
           Suddenly I remembered that I had decided to take the advice of a friend and put the cell phone in the back pocket of my jeans. There is was, all safe and sound, neatly enclosed in my back pocket.
           It didn't take me long, astute as I am at my age, to figure out that the reason the cell phone sounded like it was in every room I rushed into is because it was, in reality, in every room I entered. It was in my back pocket ringing its annoying little ring, trying to tell me where it was hiding.
           Never again will I put it in my back pocket. I'll do what I have always done in the past, put it right beside the business phone where I can see it and where it is accessible.
           It could have been worse, it could have ended up in the toilet stool like what happened to my youngest sister when she rushed to go to the bathroom after a long walk and it fell into the toilet when she pulled her jogging pants down. Her cell phone went to never, never land, flushed down the toilet and into the sewer system.
           At least my cell phone was retrievable, found in the back pocket of my jeans. Short term memory has never been a problem for me. Maybe I better check for other warning signs.
            Oh, well, the top of the cabinets in the kitchen need to be cleaned off anyway and the unorganized clutter in the office needs to be reorganized and the vanity in the office bathroom needs to be cleaned out. Frantically looking for the cell phone might have done me a favor. I'll need to get with the chore quickly now, instead of waiting until the mood strikes me.
             Now that I think about it, I kind of felt like a dog chasing his own tail, oblivious to the fact that what he is chasing belongs to him.
             My father-in-law always said that getting older isn't for sissies. It's not too bad, really, because I spend a lot of time laughing at myself. I think I'm funny, even if nobody else does.

COUNTRY COUSINS AND ALL THAT JAZZ

2012-07-23T13:49:00.006-07:00

COUNTRY COUSINS AND ALL THAT JAZZ
T. Wieland Allen
I am Texas born and Texas bred. My hubby and I moved to Oklahoma fifty years ago. That's not far from our roots, although when we moved here the Texans told us nobody moves to Oklahoma, everybody moves away from Oklahoma.
Let's face it, we moved to southeastern Oklahoma because of the trees. The tallest trees in the towns we left in Texas are considered bushes in the rest of the world. When we saw the huge trees lining the streets of the towns in southeastern Oklahoma, we fell in love with them. They actually gave a person shade, something we didn't know anything about.
Grass is green here, too, something we knew very little about from experience. All we knew about in Texas was lawns with stickers which a person would pick up every time bare feet tried to walk across the yard from one house to another.
Although growing up in Texas, my family traveled occasionally to California where our relatives moved after the depression. Those trips were like going to another part of the planet. It would take days for the slow living lifestyle of us Texans to adjust to the hurried up lifestyle of the West Coast.
One area of interest was the vocabulary and the rate of speed with which the California relatives talked. They spoke in lightning speed sentences, barely pausing for a breath. The words they used were confusing to us Texans. We were used to Southern talk, not the crisp, staccato pronunciation of words. We were occasionally laughed at by the Californians for our southern drawl but we never thought we were so very different in our speaking.
It all came back to roost fifty years later. Two of our children moved to California after college, quickly becoming West Coast talkers. After a few years we had to listen to them intently in order to understand their comments, as well as their crisp. rapid pronunciation of words. I'll have to admit, they only changed in their speaking, not in their sweet personalities.
They married and had children in California. Several years ago the grandsons from California asked us one day if their Oklahoma cousins still sounded like Deputy Dog. Huge laughs were generated by that comment. When we thought about it, we had to admit that yes, we had noticed the difference in the Oklahoma grandchildren's manners of speaking from the California grandsons.
I'll have to admit that years ago I wanted to tell my California cousins, "Slow down," when they talked. Then, years later, I wanted to tell my own children to slow down when their speaking began to evolve, changing from Okie talk to California talk.
Our six year old grand daughter from California solved the questioning in my mind that had been there for years relating to the difference in the speaking. She told me on her last visit to Oklahoma, "Meme, sometimes you sound like a cowgirl."
Now, really, I still can't figure out how to interpret that comment. Was it a compliment or was it a criticism? I'm sure it was a compliment, coming from the sweet grand daughter who wouldn't criticize me at all.
Later she told me, "Meme, sometimes you talk like you speak English."
Maybe I'm mixing the Okie and the California manners of speaking. It has to be confusing to her.
My daughter told me that the only exposure the grand daughter has had to cowgirls is in the Toy Story movies. Jessie is the name of a cowgirl in the movies, so she thinks I sound like the cowgirl Jessie.
I like that. That assures me that she thinks I'm a cool grandma and that her first remark to me was a compliment. She did say that she likes to hear me talk. I thought she was commenting on my wisdom, never thinking she was talking about my cowgirl manner of speaking.
Maybe you can never take the Texas out of a Texan, like the saying goes.
I'll settle for our grand daughter believing that she has a grandma who's a cowgirl. Maybe I'll sing Home on the Range to her at the next visit. That will certainly confirm her thinking that I'm a cowgirl grandma.
I particularly like the part where the song says, "Never is heard a discouraging word." That will make me proud to be a cowgirl grandma if she never hears a discouraging word from me or from her Deputy Dog talking Oklahoma cousins.

WRONG CONNECTION

2011-07-06T04:48:00.000-07:00

WRONG CONNECTIONS
T. Wieland Allen

Every time we wanted to watch a DVD on our big TV it took at least 10 to 15 minutes for Hubby to be able to get the DVD player to work with the big digital TV. Frustrating comes close to being an adequate enough word for what went on in our home. It was immensly frustrating for Hubby and frustrating for me as I sat there calmly waiting for the movie or family recording to appear on the screen. I can proudly say one thing for Hubby, he was tempted to give up every time but he never did. Magically, somehow, he would be able to push random buttons and the long awaited picture would finally appear. Every time Hubby professed that NOW he knew how to work the contraption.
Every time I cautioned Hubby to write down the proper steps so that he would know what to do the next time we decided to watch a movie. Every time Hubby professed that he would not forget. I never guessed that every time he had success in the endeavor it was purely a lucky combination of button pushing magic and he was counting on his random button pushing to accomplish the deed every time.
The last time it happened I told Hubby that we would sit down and read the instruction book together and go step by step until we had the mission accomplished. We never did take the time to do that and, boy, am I glad we didn't . Knowing what we know now, it would have ended up with insurmountable frustration for both of us, angry words and sure defeat.
Our oldest son was visiting one night with his children and we decided to watch some family videos that we had transferred to DVDs. As we all patiently waited for the beginning of the video I cautioned everyone that it might take a while to get the thing loaded. Sure enough, within a few minutes we were in the same frustrating activity with Hubby randomly pushing buttons, hoping that his luck would be good this time and the images would magically appear on the screen.
No such luck. Within a few minutes the room became empty of the teenagers who are not commonly known for their patience. They are never rude with their impatience, there were other important mechanical devices awaiting them that they knew how to expertly operate on their own.
Our son got the instruction book out, willing to help his dad figure out why it would take a computer whiz to operate the DVD player. So we had two men working on it now. I would say that it suddenly became clear to our son what the problem might be, but it wasn't suddenly with lightning speed. It was 15 or 20 minutes later when the only people in the room were me and the two men with instruction books in hand. Teenagers had vanished from the room long ago.
Finally our son remarked, "Dad, you have the wrong cord connecting the DVD player to the TV." Sure enough, two years of frustration was wiped out by that revelation, that the wrong cord was connecting the two machines. Now it truly was apparent that any success we had in the past was luck or magic. How Hubby ever managed to get it to work in the past was pure luck, random acts of magic for sure.
Our son attached the right cord and it took only two button pushes to get the movie to play. Success was sweet.
I began to think how often in life we have the wrong connections but we keep expecting life to get easier. Often we are connected to the wrong friends who are demanding and they cost us our peace, our joy and our love.
Other times we are connected to the wrong avenues of entertainment, ingesting damaging information into our minds. The effects of that kind of entertainment will result in bad thoughts, bad attitudes and possibly bad actions.
A more damaging cord is the one connecting us to limited human reasoning. Human reasoning can only go so far in helping us solve our problems. There is spiritual help available from God who has a complete view of things from His dimension and He knows the ins and outs of every troubling situation that we encounter. He has what is called supernatural spiritual power that He can give to us through His Connecting Cord who is named the Holy Spirit.
I tried for years, searching for answers to my problems, endeavoring to have them supplied through human knowledge and reasoning. It never sufficed. It only put Bandaids on spiritual problems.
When I found the Holy Spirit, the proper connecting cord to God, then supernatural wisdom, insight and solutions to problems began to flood into my mind. The strange thing is that I immediately recognized them as Truth because Truth always sets a person free, and I became more and more free of the limits of human knowledge.
I often think about the life changing time when was I sitting in my living room faced with a decision of whether to ask God for His Holy Spirit to enter into me, connecting me to God in a supernatural way. As I was contemplating whether or not to make such a dramatic and life changing decision, these words ticker taped across my mind, "You can continue to live in familiar garbage or you can choose to have unfamiliar gold."
It only took a second for me to choose to shuck the pig pen and it's garbage where I was barely existing, and I made the decision to have God's gold. I immediately was covered with an invisible comforter, a tangible feeling of supernatural comfort. The garbage immediately fell off. That was only the beginning of a joyful, love-filled, exiting life.
When you have the proper cord to connect you to Life's solutions, just like the proper cord our son attached between the DVD player and the TV, everything falls into place and the images become clear on the screen of life.
It's interesting that our son provided the proper connection for the mechanical devices, just like God's son Jesus provided the proper connection to Him when He went to the Father and sent the Comforter, the Holy Spirit, to be available to men.
No wonder it's called the FULL GOSPEL, because God provides everything we need to have fullness of life through the proper connecting cord, His Holy Spirit, who connects us to God's love, through which His wisdom, His insights, His knowledge and His gifs flow to us.
Seek God and His proper connecting cord, His Spirit, and everything you need will be supplied to you.

ANGEL ON THE COMPUTER KEYBOARD

2011-03-31T06:07:00.000-07:00

ANGEL ON THE KEYBOARD T. Wieland Allen I was only five years old when I heard the song Kitten on the Keys. My sister was taking piano lessons and that song was in one of her books. As a small child I thought that was the cutest name for a song and I would imagine in my mind the picture of a kitten walking up and down a piano keyboard making musical sounds that might or might not be pleasing to the ears of the listeners. We experienced a similar experience lately which I would call Angel on the Computer Keyboard. After writing a tribute to my husband relating to the heroic way he had handled two serious surgeries and six rounds of very strong chemotherapy, emerging cancer free, I sent a tribute writing about him to friends and family who had prayed for and lovingly supported us during the adventure. In the writing I wrote that my husband deserved the Medal of Honor for bravery during his war against cancer. Everyone who received the email of the tribute responded, agreeing that my husband Steve certainly deserved the Medal of Honor. While working on a particularly hard work assignment later during the day, I decided to check my emails as a diversion. One relative, who will remain nameless because of her embarrassment, responded with a loving comment, that she agreed with the tribute and that Steve certainly deserved the MEDAL of HOMER. I immediately busted out laughing, which pushed the dreariness of the cold, wet March day right out of the house, the town, the country and off the planet. I continued to laugh every time I thought about it, wondering who Homer was. I actually knew that it was a typo, but I became convinced that the typo was the work of an angel on the computer keyboard who typed the wrong, but really right, keys and that the angel knew that I would respond with joy and laughter to the Medal of Homer comment. It was a wonderful thing to happen, causing me to laugh every time I thought about it. The thought also came to me to send the pertinent email to a friend whom I knew was also having a bad day, with a son in a foreign country who was lost in a flood, a pregnant daughter whose raging hormones were causing conflict in her house and a worker who had betrayed her. I obeyed the prompting, and immediately received a reply back stating that she was laughing uncontrollably and had changed from sadness and worry to life-giving laughter. The typo ministered joy to her also. My laughter continued into the next day. While taking my vitamins, the thought about a Medal of Homer crossed my mind and I spewed water and vitamins all over the cabinet. The angel accomplished what it intended, bringing joy and happiness and laughter to two women who were bogged down with earthly pressures. God does such wonderful things and we never know what to expect. The mistype by my relative, although accomplished by an angel for sure, provided the necessary impetus to catapult two women from the doldrums into hysterical laughter. Maybe there is a Medal of Homer. If so, my relative deserves it for her part in changing worry and fretting into laughter and joy. She deserves some kind of medal, why not a new medal called the Medal of Homer. Maybe I'll get to work designing that one.