Venus Rising

I have emerged. Four days and nights of writing, sleeping, quick showers, quick nibbles, and then back to work to meet a (soft) deadline today. [See last post below.] I did it according to the tempo my body and mind set, so I typed awhile in the predawn and I slept some during the daylight. I escaped once each day to go to an AA meeting and I got up occasionally to stretch and work my body. I have spent much time alone with myself. Too much? I don't know. I reviewed many things from life and played movies the reader may laugh about. I concentrated 100% on my writing project for long periods of time and then took brain vacations wherever I chose to go. I won't approach a deadline in the same way again. Although it worked, it was not ideal for me. We live, learn and modify. Last night I blurted "Finis!" And it was finis - at least this first draft. I got up from the chair, stretched, grinned, sipped coffee. I almost immediately got an e-mail from David. "I'm not recuperating as quickly as I'd hoped from Thursday's surgery. I won't be able to work tomorrow. Can we play it by ear?" I sent back a sincere, "Just get better. I'm totally ready when you are." I thought to put up a post as I'd not done any writing for fun in several days. What I managed to do was put up the appearance of a post with a title from Byron's "She Walks in Beauty . . " and no other content. I can't even blame Blogger. I was just done and ready for insertion of the fork. "Go to bed, Les. Give it all up. This gig is over." And so, I did, French doors wide open to let in the warm night, cats curled up at the foot of the bed, content that their part in my writing marathon was now complete.

I have always enjoyed writing as part of my work, and I have always approached my work both feet forward, "Let's go!" But writing for work used to look different. When I worked for the union, I was acknowledged the writer of post-hearing and post-arbitration briefs in our office. This didn't make me unique. We each had a specialty. Writing just happened to be mine. When it was possible, various labor reps would trade off tasks, making each of us look good in all areas of our work. It was a different era. Our office was equipped with a fine word processor approximately the size of a small condo and an enormous printer that required a monstrous "cone of silence", as we dubbed it, to keep the noise within legal limits. The floppy disks were about the same dimensions as an old 33 rpm vinyl record. We were also gifted, in this office, with a Secretary I and a Secretary II for our combined needs. No Administrative Assistants, yet. These women were "secretaries" and proud of the title. I had served as the Secretary II in that office for years before my meteoric promotion to labor rep. I was likely pretty difficult for the two ladies to please, and in truth, I'd have preferred to boot one of them from her chair and bang at the keyboard on my own as we do today on our PCs. However, I was a true union believer. Each of us had our work to do, and I needed to let the women do their jobs.

My preferred secretary was Chris. She was my cousin's best friend since junior high school and I'd helped her to get the job for which she probably didn't qualify. I met her at the office on Saturdays and helped her get up to speed so she would be able to do the job. She rewarded me by becoming very good at what she was asked to do. On weekends, Chris, Cousin and I were an unholy trio of fun-loving, hell-raising 80s-90s women, residing in the vast 4-square-mile metropolis of Lemon Grove. We thought we were the queen and princesses of that cloistered little world. I could lean on Chris a little with my work demands and she'd dig in for me. That doesn't mean it was always sunshine and roses. She learned to enter the office before 8:00 a.m. and listen for the sound of my music. She could tell my mood by what I was playing. I learned to bring peace offerings and deliver them sincerely - "Chris, you know it's just the pressure I apply to my work." She understood that and loved me anyway. She was in the birthing center with us when Amber was born. Chris and I used a love name for one another when it was time to give a warning tone that we were reaching the end of our good nature: "Sea Hag". Yes, Popeye's Sea Hag, the one with the pet vulture, Bernard. The Sea Hag had always fascinated and repelled me, and it just popped out of my face one day. When others would ask "So which one of you is the Sea Hag?", we'd respond in unison, "She is!" I once found a gloriously beautiful Sea Hag and Bernard action figure in a funky little shop in a mall. There was only one, and of course, I bought it. To my credit, I gave it to Chris. I've searched and searched for another Sea Hag, but I guess I will have to accept that she will only live on in my dreams and on old, old cartoons.

Late in the 80s, I'd sit up as late as necessary, writing for work, sometimes following a 16-hour workday. Hey, I had coffee. I'd drive to Chris' house at 5:00 a.m., tuck maybe 153 pages of hand-written yellow legal pad sheets under her windshield wiper, go home, rest a short while, shower, dress for the day, and land in the office - looking pretty fresh, I think - to find my first draft ready. When I needed to include an infant's needs in my night shift work, I managed that, too, though it took a lot more out of me. Sometime I shall write about the dawn day that I was hurrying to drop the writing off to Chris and accidentally locked my baby and the keys in the car. She slept through it. I nearly melted into a puddle in my driveway. The Lemon Grove Sheriff said, "Lady, if you want us to, we'll break out a window. But the baby is sleeping. Look, you can see her." AAA took an hour to arrive. But I digress. And I think I just told the entire story of baby locked in car. My point is that I could pull the occasional (or semi-frequent) all-nighter, present a good piece of writing, look perfectly appropriate the next day, work another 16 hours of intense enjoyment, and continue on. I thought I was a young Venus rising, but no longer.

Let's see. This time I preplanned almost to a fault. Had the apocalypse come, I'd have been ready. Man, that sounds an awful lot like my mother. I had a fine, fast PC, dual monitors, reference materials and office supplies at my fingertips. I was working on a project that has no right or wrong. I designate right, wrong or appropriate, verifiable or not, anecdotal or witnessed by many who will come forward in writing. There is no element of anyone (like a union member) winning or losing in this endeavor. There is no prior written biography of my subject to be challenged or bested. And yet, it was far more difficult for me to execute than any previous crunch-time assignment. Oh, some of it is that I'm rusty and don't fully trust myself. Yes, I had some concerns whether my recent illness and its artifacts would hinder me. They didn't. And yet, it took a lot out of me. I had to acknowledge it: I am no longer she who was. I can still deliver the goods. It just takes more of me to do it.

Last night, when I finally decided to throw in the towel, I stepped into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. Of course, I got a look at myself in the mirror, "the writer at the end of the project". Oh, it wasn't quite as bad as death eating a cracker. But it was pretty bad. I felt as if I might smell kind of cobwebby like an old lady, and I looked - oh, yeah - like the Sea Hag, with or without Bernard perched upon her shoulder.

April Alliteration - Alcohol
My month-long musing about my alcoholic journey
Happy ending ~ 100% possible
Installment 5

Fast forward to April 16, 2011: The AA meeting I attended was something else altogether. Saturdays are not de rigeur at the club, so it helps break any tendency to complacency and forces me to try other things. The Feather Meeting intrigued me. The AAs there appear almost 100% to be breakaways from the enormous biker gatherings in appearance and presentation. I would say most of them have many, many years of sobriety and AA experience. A huge "bong" (sorry, no other word for it) of sage is burned in an abalone shell and passed one to another, the smoke purifying the environment. I detested the smell of the burning sage and after the meeting, my clothes and hair reeked of it, but I held in. An eagle feather is passed from one AA to another as each speaks. One holds only the beaded handpiece, and not the actual feather. There is no evidence of the Big Book or any other AA publication, but I must underscore that these AAs are veterans and recite entire pages of the Big Book from memory, so I wasn't too offput by that. "god" is universally referred to as "the creator". I have no problem with that. Going around in the circle, the AAs talked about stuff one hears at every other AA meeting, but then I was struck by something I didn't care for very much. These renegades, these outlaws, these very-far-from-mainstream folks are extremely rigid about their own little version of the AA "talk circle" and its "rules". There is all manner of bad juju surrounding the utterance of a curse word while one holds the eagle feather. One man supposedly committed this sin (I swear I did not hear him swear, and I was paying attention!) and all manner of grief and finger-pointing ensued. This was intriguing to me. Across the campus at the middle-of-the-road group operate all the freedoms I've come to associate with AA. And in the room populated by the wild bunch, restriction and required orderliness and rule-following. This intrigues me. And I marvel that I've now been doing this long enough to form opinions and preferences for certain meetings.

Something that charmed me: Two somethings, actually ~ Sunday afternoon, I pounded the keyboard in temperatures of more than 90 degrees outdoors. "Hmmmmmm, " thought I. I savored the first iced coffee of the season! And ~ I lost weight during my writing project! No, no, not the difference in weight effected by whether or not I am sporting a pencil behind my ear. Real loss. I wasn't a slave to The Bean, either. Go figure.

Yesterday (That's a Little Known Beatles Tune)

Everyone's tolerance level is different from another person's. Some people are rock solid. Some of us are more the consistency of Jell-o. Some of us can do both of those, at different times, given different circumstances. I can whine with the best of them once in awhile, even though I mostly am pretty level, pretty positive, pretty upbeat, pretty OK.

I work a lot of hours. I walk a lot of hours. I sleep very little. I eat very little. I never, ever have enough time in the day to do half the things I want to do and I get damned resentful about that. (Note to self: "Limes, whose fault is it that you don't do the things you want to do?") I am so sun deprived I feel nearly ill from it, and we're entering the heart of darkness part of the year. I will walk in the dark, go to work in the dark and go home in the dark. For quite awhile.

Having gone camping for the previous full weekend, my home looked pretty bad. I'm not sure why my coffee mugs land near the dishwasher, rather than in the dishwasher. The clothes and shoes lying throughout gave the place the look of a college dorm or a thrift store. The jacket still smelled of the campfire, attracting the constant attention of Dylan and Virginia Woolf. The pantry and refrigerator were empty. It was clear I was going to have to spend my one day off working my butt off, if I wanted the reward of a few short hours of pleasure in my day.

Having treated myself to a luxurious sleep-in until 5:00 a.m., I rolled out to check the weather and get ready to walk. Below 40-degrees (for the first time this year) and wind screaming - yep, just like meteorologist Sherry said it would be. I bundled up and went for 9 hard, fast miles. I reminded myself again to order a couple of warm knit caps from Kass's friend Holly. My hair is so short my ears nearly freeze in cold weather!

Arriving home, I brewed coffee, soaked in Epsom salts and completely enjoyed the Beatles-fest Tag had posted. Without knowing my personal favorites, he certainly landed on several of them. I enjoyed listening and kept following links. I enjoyed it . . . . until I didn't enjoy it any more. For I got a little down, a little sad, a little melancholy. It was the John Lennon videos that did it - it never stops hurting, and Ringo Starr's tribute tune makes me weep every time I hear it. But a pity party can only go on so long and then the party's over. I had work to do.

Every appliance in the home was running. Virginia Woolf cowered in some unkonwn location as she is terrified of both the vacuum cleaner and the broom. I played music I shouldn't have played. It didn't lighten my outlook. Finally a few, short e-mails were exchanged. "How's your morning? Have you walked yet?" "I have and it was miserable. I have to tell you, I'm struggling to get right today. I'm not doing very well. I'm going to need a little TLC later on." "OK, you shall have it."

I was pleased with myself when I noted the time, looked around the now sparkling, fragrant home and thought, "Time to relax. Things will look better soon." I showered and dressed, made the grocery list, and the BlackBerry rang. The area code from San Diego does not please me when it pops up on the display, but it's almost always an important or necessary call. I answer it every time. It was a person I dislike, calling to tell me about the death of a person I liked. This man hadn't been in my life for some years (after Cousin divorced him), but nevertheless, he was a good man and I liked him. He was considerably younger than I. He caused himself to have congestive heart failure due to his alcoholism. This was not playing out as the most pleasant day I'd spent in awhile. OK, shed a tear for the deceased Dan and move on . . . .

Fresh & Easy pleases me. It's no Trader Joe's, but I like it very much. I It has all manner of prepared dishes I enjoy (best shepherd's pie I've ever enjoyed outside the U.K., all manner of pasta creations), good organic produce, unusual foods, good prices, and it's smaller than a megalomart to trudge through. Sometimes I walk there, tucking an extra 3 miles under my belt for the day. But yesterday, I drove. I had a long list to fill. I became intrigued at the premade salad case by a chicken caesar pasta salad. I wanted to check the percentage of calories that come from fat, so I turned the container over . . . . and poured gloppy, wet, white stuff all over my gray peacoat, black pants, black tights and black shoes. Grrrrrrr . . . . the clerk was nice about it, offering me a paper towel that caused little white paper balls to adhere to the salad glop and I moved on to complete my list. Yes, I bought one of the pasta salads that was in a container with a lid that was secured. I turned the corner into the next aisle I wanted, and there was Bob. Bob, with all the color draining out of his face. Bob making surreptitious, snarky little motions at me with his hands. Bob's snarky hand signals made me angry. Bob is a fortunate man. I do not usually cause great scenes in public places.

Bob is a man I met and came to like very much. The feeling was mutual. We spent a good deal of time together and some niceties took form. He enjoyed having dinner ready for me when I got off of work in the evenings. The headwaiter at a lovely little trattoria located not 500 footsteps from my front door soon knew at which table we'd like to be seated, and which bottle of wine opened. We were in one another's homes many times. I liked Bob so much, I had decided it was time to tell some important people in my life about him. The Sunday approached when I would unveil Bob to a most important person. I'd given it a great deal of thought and knew just what I would say. The Thursday before I would tell about Bob, Shelly called me at my office. Shelly is Bob's wife. Shelly called me exactly the names I would have called her if the tables were turned. No, I never saw a picture of her or even any indication that a woman lived in his home. He claimed to have been long divorced. When Shelly called to tear my head off of my body, she had not yet confronted Bob, for there was one last sweet e-mail. I responded with, "Shelly just called to introduce herself to me." I imagine that was Shelly I saw with Bob in Fresh & Easy. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before (or since). For a long time, I felt like I was some of the choice things Shelly called me.

I hit full throttle scanning and bagging my purchases. What if they got in line behind me or next to me? I needed to get out of there. I felt my spirit sagging. It had been quite the day. I was out of sorts. I went home, put everything away, took one deep breath and the Badger called. "Still want to walk a few miles? The wind has died down, although it's chilly." We agreed to a routine we commonly follow: we each set out from our homes, meet on Desert Inn wherever we happen to meet, then set out for some serious miles. I plodded along to meet him, feeling weighed down in every way. Bundled up in heavy clothes, more day's events than I wanted to deal with, and - hey! - in much fewer than 12 hours, I'd be bundling up to go out walking alone in the predawn. But who's counting?

I saw him across the intersection. He'd walked farther than I had. Was I trudging? Plodding? Dogging it? He waited across the boulevard for me with his warm cap on and his red and black Filson coat. The driver of a small car played chicken with me, daring me to keep walking when he wanted to make that right-hand turn. I never made eye contact. I just squared my shoulders and kept going. Finally I crossed the street and said, "Hey, Badger, some kind of day." We started to walk due west and had taken perhaps ten steps when it happened. One of the concrete blocks of the sidewalk was slightly raised and my toe caught it. Wham! Faceplant. Hard. Water bottle skittering across the sidewalk. The wrapper of the string cheese I was carrying burst open. Me in shock and embarrassed. The Badger grabbing at me, "Limes, here, get up." I staggered to my feet and he took me in his arms. It must have been a fairly spectacular dive, because a nice man in a car put his head out the window to ask if I was OK or if we needed help. "No, but thanks!", the Badger waved him on. I started to cry. Oh, it didn't hurt all that badly. I cried for the day I'd endured. I cried for John Lennon. I cried for Ringo who missed his late mates ~ it was almost 50 years ago, and how did the time pass so quickly? I cried for deceased Dan. I cried for what Bob did to me. I cried because I was tired. The Badger just let me cry it out. "Come on, Badger, I believe I was promised a walk." We set off again.

"Limes, you're in for a treat 100 feet ahead." "Why, Badger, what's up?" "A dead rat on the sidewalk." Hmmmm - that is a treat! Soon we were upon RIP Rat. He was, decidedly, a rat and not a mouse. Long, long tail. Scruffy fur. And there on the sidewalk, in beautiful juxtaposition with RIP Rat, lay a golden desert marigold someone had uprooted and put beside him. "Did you do that, Bader?" He said he hadn't. "If I lay dead on the sidewalk, Badger, would you put a flower down for me?" He said he would.

By the time we'd walked a few miles, we were both laughing. Look, I can only wallow in misery for so long. After dinner, I was starting to stiffen up and said so. This morning I am sporting scraped knees (although my pants did not tear, they caused abrasions), bruised knees, scraped up hands, a black goose-egg on one knee, a banged up back, hip and neck . . . but I've got the long massage coming on Wednesday evening and things are pretty upbeat today. Homes helped me carry my week's worth of groceries up the stairs and the sun is out, although it's cold. "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks as though they're here to stay . . . . " Nah!

One photo credit (Limes at the petroglyphs): J. D. Morehouse

One photo credit (RIP Rat): J. D. Morehouse, taken with my BlackBerry

In my ears right now: Natalie Imbruglia - Torn. My clothes were not.

Something that charmed me: The care someone took to place that desert marigold just so at RIP Rat's final resting place. I wonder who . . . . .

Something Else That Charmed Me

At a particularly difficult time in my life, I decided I needed a dog friend. This was unusual for me because I am a cat person. I would not offer to kick anyone's dog, but they aren't my favorites and I'd only ever loved 3 or 4 of them. But I needed some(thing)(one). My marriage was in its last desperate gasp. I was staggering from the blow of my daughter becoming an adolescent and not needing me in the same ways she had as a small child.

So Cousin and I set out on the search. I picked up Pomeranians and scoped out Scotties. I researched breeds, studying their suitability to me and my lifestyle. Jack Russells were struck from the list of possibilities with regret, and rescued greyhounds likely needed more than I had to give. Ultimately, I knew it would have to be one of the terrier breeds for me. We looked high and low, becoming regulars at some of the pooch emporia. One evening after Starbucks, we walked into a place where everybody really did know my name, and there - before my eyes - was a new arrival. My head spun toward Cousin. "Wire haired fox terrier on the left, Cuz!" That good woman had seen the price sticker, however, and said, "It's not a very nice one, Limes." She was wrong.

I visited that puppy four days in a row, for hours at a time. I placed a deposit so she would be held for me to make a decision in case someone else walked in and fell in love with her. She liked me and I liked her. On the fifth day, she came home with me. I extracted a promise from Ex that he would not feed her or flirt with her - dogs and children liked him more than they liked me. Amber was allowed access to the puppy I named JB (Jelly Belly - yes, like the candies). I felt the little dog was a good mom-daughter project.

This was about the time when I began to be a very serious walker, and that little curly/wiry-haired dog was my companion as I hoofed around Lake Murray every day of life. Afterward, we'd go to Barnes & Noble where she'd scoot under my chair and snooze while I read and had coffee. Some of the patrons looked oddly at me and my dog, but there was not a notice posted to prohibit her presence and she did not behave objectionably.


You see the lovely JB above in her Halloween costume that autumn that was so difficult for me. Yes, I was a pretty indulgent dog owner. I was about 2 stoplights from crazy, and those weren't the only clothes she owned. She was as good a friend as I could have hoped for. When I left the marriage, the little dog stayed back in the family home, of necessity. I couldn't take her with me. Sometimes Ex tried to rattle my cage by saying, "If you don't come and get this dog, I'll [multiple choice] 1) sell her; 2) give her away; 3) put her out at the curb on recycling day. . . . " But I never got too shaken. You see, there's a reason dogs and children liked Ex more than they liked me.

In my ears right now: Music I do not understand. Matt writes songs and is a pretty remarkable angry poet. He has put together some studio mixes that he clearly worked very hard to produce. He's very proud of them. Now I can do Pachelbel and Mozart, Hank Williams and I don't mean Jr., the British invasion, 80s stuff, REM, and even some musician's musicians. But, for the first time in my life, I'm struggling to find meaning and beauty in "young folks' music". I'm not delicate. I like the poetry of Charles Bukowski in its brutality. But I struggle trying to enjoy this.

Something that charmed me yet again: I moved to Las Vegas and began to walk in the park where I've walked almost daily for nearly 7 years. It is a lovely area, a circular park almost precisely 1 mile in diameter - it makes for easy counting. It is populated by families, older adults, teens, and pets. There is an older man who walks a wire haired fox terrier several times every day. I don't see them on the days that I walk in the pre-dawn, but most weekends . . . . his little dog likes me, too!

Same Old Tune: Communic8ing

People who know one another very well communicate in many more ways than verbally. Body language speaks volumes. A sudden change in the way a person usually operates can tell a story. But for me, there is nothing more compelling than all the different levels of information that can be exchanged through "the look".

My mother has virtually no sense of humor. She doesn't care for comedy and she doesn't get jokes. I don't think I've ever seen her toss her head back and just howl. Conversely, Cousin and I can be just plainly irritating as we roar and carry on. Mostly when others look at us oddly while we're amusing ourselves, we kick it up a notch. But I recall a dinner out at a restaurant when I was the advanced age of 48. Cousin and I were particularly hilarious with our bellies filled and we'd gone on for some time. My mother made eye contact with me, and I withered.Communication through "the look". Cousin didn't wither. Her aunt's facial expression didn't mean anything to her. It rolled off her back. I, on the other hand, was calling myself all the words and names I knew my mother would use if she'd verbally lit into me. "Limes, stop it, you ________. You're attracting attention."

A different view of communicating through "the look": Amber began competing in martial arts tournaments at about the age of 8. She sparred with adult men. Martial arts was Ex's thing, certainly not mine, but I supported it. He insisted that she be able to physically defend herself against attack from a young age. Martial arts did many good things for my daughter, beyond simply making her a pretty tough chiquita. This was one proud mother, and after her performances, I was prone to hugging, kissing, tearing up and babbling. It came to pass that she didn't want me to do that any more. It embarrassed her. I developed a "look" that spared her the hugs, tears, kisses and words, but still got my message across. I know this because when I threw her that look, she still blushed bright red! Oh, yes, she knew what I would have said and done if I hadn't used the "look".

Mother Badger was a third grade school teacher for many years. She still could call upon "the look" today! Folks, I'm not an 8 year-old boy, yet I know she could make me evaporate in my P.F. Flyers if she turned it on me.

So, I'd carried a little gift in my purse to Arizona and I wasn't exactly sure when to spring it on the Badger. The night before the race when he wasn't too preoccupied? The morning of the race when he would be preoccupied, but I'd feel snitty because he wouldn't be as gushingly grateful as I wanted him to be? After the race, when First Place was his (because I had no doubt)? Unlike myself, I did not pre-plan the gift-giving to death. I decided to just wait and see when the moment presented itself.

We were out on the highway. I'd just hoofed 5 hard up-and-down miles in considerable heat. The Badger had done a strenuous 29 in the saddle and on the pedals, preparing for the next day's race. He'd faced down buzzards. I'd found animal bones and garnered concern from passersby on the road. He pulled up to the car. "How'd you do, Badger? Good ride? Ready for tomorrow?" "It was really good! I'm ready."

And then we went to some other place to communicate. His arms moved first. He extended them. He was going to put them around my waist and hug me. But a fraction of a second after moving his arms, he got the "look". I am bilingual, so I read both arms and face. He felt strong and hopeful. His confidence was running high. He was happy to be right there, right then, on his bike, in his jersey with me for his support team. He intended to take that first place the next morning and he'd learned that sharp descent didn't scare him any more. The sun felt good on his skin and there are just some people you can hug even when you're sweaty. Hence the arm action.

The light came on for me! This was the time for the gift! I jumped out of his reach, dug into my purse like a badger, and came up with that box and its offering wrapped in purple tissue paper. I said, "Here's a little tribute, Badger." He opened it. He liked it. He said home dudes were right to give it their approval. He wears it every day. Even when he's indoors in a meeting, he can glance down and see his bicycle chain around his wrist. I wish I'd presented the gift and taken the proffered hug. Sometimes I get a little impulsive and miss out on an opportunity.


In my ears right now: Dead Flowers, Rolling Stones version. I missed another opportunity! I could have taken dead flowers and presented the Badger with a wreath at the finish line. Dang.

Something that charmed me: He fiddled with that bracelet a little, establishing the right look. "Too much on the same arm with my watch, Limes?" "Yes, probably too much, Badger." "Maybe I could intertwine it with my 'Live Your Dream' bracelet I wear in races." "That would be cool, Badger."

Granny-O's Pronunciation

Granny went to school and - remarkably for a young girl of her time and station - she graduated from Park City High School in May, 1917. She was 17 years of age and lovely. She had perfect skin and the mostly perfectly square face I have ever seen. Her hair was very dark. I only ever knew her with gray and white and blue hair. Her eyes were hazel, which is a color I've never quite understood. But I can tell you her eyes sometimes looked brown, sometimes green, sometimes almost golden. I guess that's what "hazel" means. She was tiny. I don't believe she ever reached 5 feet tall because I am that size and I think she was smaller. She wore size 4 shoes.

In order to attend the high school, she had to move into town and stay there Monday through Friday. It was arranged that she would board with the local doctor's family in exchange for some light housekeeping on school days and go home on weekends. More will be blogged about that doctor's high school graduation gift to Granny, which now belongs to me - a venerable thing I shall have the Badger photograph.

Granny was almost 53 when I was born, so half of the time we had together, I was a child and she was the adult. But once I was also an adult, I observed that she had been decently educated. In 1960, she still recited Hiawatha from memory, with inflection. Her handwriting was perfect Palmer Method and she could spell. She spent time at crossword puzzles, Scrabble, Yahtzee, cards and was an avid reader. She loved a mystery story and could usually figure it out before the end. A good brain and a good curious mind had my Granny.

So, as Cousin [my favorite girl cousin to whom I was actually spiritually attached] and I used to say, "She's so sharp, but what the heezy is with "_______" ? [Insert particular words here - the ones that Granny had no intention of saying correctly, no matter who pointed out her faux pas. And when one pointed out such a faux pas, it was never acknowledged. Silence. As if it hadn't been spoken. The elephant in the room.]

A whole culture grew up around Granny's pronunciations. Various relatives learned to avoid eye contact with the others who would be most likely to cause them to howl out loud. One didn't want to howl out loud at Granny. She was a revered woman who didn't have a well-developed sense of humor. While 40 others of us would guffaw and roll around on the floor about something or nothing, Granny would sit in her chair completely straight-faced. She wanted to be in the mix with us, but she just didn't seem to "get" humor. She detested W.C. Fields and Bob Hope and Lucille Ball.

So ~ just the tiniest taste of Granny's fractured figures of speech:

Who knows why we were sitting around speaking of lesbians? Who cares? Maybe one of us had read a book or seen a movie or had a friend or was curious. When Granny first said "lisbon", Cousin and I exchanged a glance. The conversation went on. She said "lisbon" repeatedly. Cousin and I could no longer make eye contact for fear of unbecoming behavior. I never heard her pronounce the word in any other way. As if such women were Portuguese . . . .

My Granny wanted to visit Hawaii in the worst way. She finally did on several occasions after Grandpa died. She was attracted to all things Hawaiian, read everything about Hawaii, always bought a Hawaii calendar, bought leis, ate pupu, went to luaus, visited the Pearl Harbor Memorial about which she was sentimental because Pearl Harbor Day was her 41st birthday and she sent many sons to the war in the Pacific. She ate cottage cheese with pineapple for her lunch every day of life, giving a tip of the hat to Hawaii. The name of that place she loved was "Ha-WY-ya". I never heard her say it any differently.

When some family members moved to Las Vegas, Granny became a senior citizen good time girl. She loved to play nickel slot machines and she had a thing for Engelbert Humperdinck at age 78. My mother indulged her by taking her to the man's shows on practically every visit. Granny had the autographed photos, the personal mention from the stage - "It's lovely to see Granny with us again this evening." God knows how my mother managed that! Finally, through a labyrinth of smarmy Las Vegas deals, it was arranged that Granny would get to meet her idol backstage. She was 80 years old and wore a pink dress with a white corsage. Her hair had been made freshly blue and she wore lipstick. Very rare occurrence! I wonder what the man thought when she called him Engel-borg. Because that's the only way she'd ever been known to say his name!

Lest the reader think I am being mean by cackling at my Granny, I say this: although she didn't have much of a sense of humor, I do. Although she didn't laugh her way through her life, I must. Although she didn't work hard to get the snicker from others, I always have. I think she'd be pleased that I'm keeping her memory alive. Even if she didn't understand the vehicle. Hey, Granny ~ I thought of you and Engel-borg and your pink dress and corsage today. And it made me really, really happy.

In my ears right now: The sound of "yes, we can accommodate you." I fiddled around and failed to make a massage appointment until it was almost embarrassing to call. I didn't hold out much hope. But, "yes", for 2 glorious hours tonight! Hey, it's Las Vegas! We want everything and we want it right now. Mostly, we can get it, too. I book plenty of carpet cleaning appointments set for arrival at screwy hours.

Something that charmed me today: A friend was given some Starbucks gift cards in appreciation of extra effort at work. These were shared with me, and I hadn't done anything noble to deserve them. I protested. I was told, "I want you to have them."