Live Your Dream ~ That's My Theme

With thanks and a tip of the hat to blogging friend Kirk Jusko, [He doesn't post his picture, so I can't either.] for the title, it occurs to me that really is one of my strong life themes. I want everyone to land on their dreams and achieve them. I've had some lofty dreams of my own and on the odd occasion, I've found myself existing in my dream just as I dreamed it. Maybe I should have bought that bracelet for myself, or at least a matching one. I wonder if the catalog . . . . maybe . . .

I lean toward being generous and pretty engaged/engaging, so if I find out that you have a dream, likely I'll cheer for you at some point. If your kid wants to sell the most Girl Scout cookies, I'll walk her around the neighborhood, sit with her in front of the store, buy some cookies myself and take her to lunch to celebrate after the sale. If you need a 12-step program, I'll take you there and stay with you. If you want a meal or a drink, I love providing those things maybe more than any other. I'm not shy about asking others to support you, either. If I watch you chase your dream and fail to reach it, I'll love you and keep hoping. If I watch you chase your dream and grab it, I'll holler right out loud.

Those who come here often, know the Badger had an important two-stage race last weekend. Not for the first time, I asked other bloggers to join me in some collaborative effort to cheer the man on with words - show our support and humor and admiration. I was pleased and touched once again to see the work of those who commented "I'm in!" Bloggers are creative, of course, but I never cease to be amazed at the generosity we show one another.

It is not for me to tell you all about the two-day race and how it was the most difficult thing he has ever done on a bicycle. It's not my deal to tell you about the dead rattlers and what the weather and road gradient were like. It isn't my job to explain that he found the experience transcendent. Click on the link and read the last few posts of his good blog. You'll get the picture! I will share the words I'd never heard him utter before. As he stepped out of the car for the pre-race course test, he e-mailed, "I don't know if I can do it." I wasn't sure whether to e-mail this: ;~} or this: "How serious are you, since I can't see your face?" He was serious. He didn't know if he could propel that Cervelo up those hills.

No, my job is to present the works of my wonderful blogging friends. Here you are, Badger, applauded and encouraged from spots all across the globe and blogosphere. In absolutely no order whatsoever, behold the offerings. Congratulations on your first place, you climbing old mountain goat. Transcend and do it again! Ride on and live your dream!

I used the offerings as stand-alone poems this time. One will see why! Each was that good.

From my dear friend Rachel Fenton, a published author in Auckland, New Zealand, comes wonderful poetry she constructed using some of the language from my prompt in the original post:

His mighty steed is the white Cervelo R3. A hound
with an orange saddle and handmade wheels.
Encircled: the heart monitored, wrist bound
by Garmin to give data, feed the needs he feels.

Erin O'Brien - yes, we all know she's Hot in Cleveland! - also a published author, rang in again:

The weather sure did make it hard
he did not end the Boulevard.
But upon the Callville Stage he stood
wearing proud a winner's hood.

He needs no introduction to you, Badge, but you knew friend Tag would play. His offering was dropped into my e-mail account, so this is the first public viewing:

Dead rattlers on the road
where Badger dares to fly
on wings of sinew and steel,
pushing to the summit
toward verging indigo sky.

All right, here we go. She hails from Sugarhouse, Salt Lake City, Utah. She is a poet, a fact recognized by many, many bloggers and readers. She is classy and sassy. She is Kassie. Her offering follows. I bow:

Listen, dear bloggers, and you shall hear
of Badger Morehouse with passion clear.
On a fine day in May he took his Cervelo R3
down to the floor of dry Death Valley.

Who remembers his spokes and tooth low gear?
Who remembers the miles he’s logged this year?
He says to friend, Les, “I’ll attack upslope,
I’ll ride with the wind, chase the ringer and hope.

Hang a bottle of water off of a tree,
one on the land, and two that I’ll see
on the opposite side of the valley.
Ready to ride, chains over the cogs,
I’ll attack the headwind and slide through bogs.”

Then he sees decayed asphalt and muffles a cry,
stands up out of his saddle and lets fly
a clatter of swearwords aimed at the sky.
His wheelness illness is evident now;
he’s careened with something left by a cow.

A paceline perfectly is formed,
under his slicker, his heart is warmed.
He’s mastered the switchback, he’s leading the pack;
he thinks of the past and takes a look back,
remembers the shot in his upper left thigh;
thinks of his death, of how he could die -
a punch in the kidneys by a teen upside down?

“I’m third in the nation,” he says with a frown.
I’ll not pass on in a way that is lame,
I want a sure victory, I must win this game.”

So laying a finger aside of his nose,
(Oh no, I’ve muddled, I’m in the wrong prose).
Let’s see, where were we, we’re talking of Jim
and how he cycles on more than a whim,
but now his heart is much like a wheel;

He won’t let go, his ambition is real.
His derailleurs will never derail his dream;
he’ll win this race, or so it would seem
to one who is waiting at his door,
with words that will echo forevermore!

For borne on the night-wind of the past,
through all their history, to the last,
in his hour of darkness and peril and need,
stands one without malice, corruption or greed.

Her heart will waken, she’ll welcome him home,
she’ll hand him the print-out of our collaborative poem.
He’s bound to listen and then he will hear
the resounding love of his cheerleader dear -
a love he can count on as simple as cycling -
it’s Leslie who’s waiting to announce, “You’re my King!"

And what does anyone have to say about that?

I didn't write any poetry this time. I'm not good with it. But I know it when I read it! My written offerings this time were my post, the endless e-mails as he traveled, prepared, and awaited the results. The Andy Griffith Show was my white noise - the episode where Thelma Lou's "dog" of a cousin, Mary Grace, comes to town and dazzles Gomer Pyle. It's one of the funniest things I've ever seen. It comforts me when I pace while absentmindedly getting dinner organized. I got an e-mail. "Outskirts of Las Vegas." I sent one back. "Would you like me to organize a parade, come out there and carry you, the Prius and your mighty steed into the city on my shoulder so you can bow and wave?" "Oh, no," came the reply. "That won't be necessary." He's modest, too! Enthusiastic, but modest.

In my ears right now: This is fun music. I was 22 years old.

Something that charmed me: This entire endeavor charmed me. The outcome charmed me. The 60-year-old dreamer charmed me. You may say I'm a dreamer. But I'm not the only one.

Photo credits: Good folks, I ask indulgence. I had to go a lot of places to get the pics. I'm going to take a flyer here, hoping that if you visit here to read, it means you've got a soft spot for me and you'll forgive me just this one time. Please. I don't mean to steal or offend.

OK, Who Wants to Have Some Fun? Join Me!

Perhaps the most fun I've had in my blogging life has been organizing collaborative efforts to produce fan poetry and virtual parties. Friend Kass has turned her hand to poetry collaboration that makes me drop my jaw. Both she and friend Tag have become brilliant at composing poetry by using words from the Comments section of their blogs, and they can make poetry from nothing, to my amazement. I'm not a poet or even poetic. I'm not that good. Or maybe it's just not what I want to do. But I'm a woman who knows how to tell a story and how to have a good time and how to ask for help, all while connecting with others, which - to me - is the most fun to be had anywhere, any time.

I'm not a cyclist, but I collect them like some people collect Hummel figures or Lladro pieces. I follow their blogs and I speak their language. I know about stage races and criterium races. I understand the categories into which the racers are placed. I get the flavor of the angst when a racer writes, "I worry that my 39x27 gearing might not be low enough for the challenge." I know how and where to buy the best clothing and accessories for the cyclist and I behold the beauty of the lost art of handmade wheels. If I were a churchgoer, I'd worship at the Church of the Big Ring, and all of this is saying something, because my own bicycle experiences and adventures have tended to be unpleasant ones.

I know one of the collected cyclists better and for longer than any of the others. We met in 1968. I know the provenance and the history of his single-minded fascination with the bicycle and racing with it. I know that he was dubbed The Badger by a racer who couldn't shake him back in the day . . . that ferocious tenacity hasn't diminished over 30 years, either. Badger is an appropriate appellation. With this cyclist, I made my bones as an official racing supporter and all-around cheerleader, hander-up of water while running, hander-up of water from a moving vehicle, waiter at the finish line. For this cyclist, I have driven his personal follow vehicle at the Skull Valley race two years in a row, driving 12 feet off of his back wheel for most of the 58 miles (obviously, I had to drive ahead and get out of the car to hand up water). At one memorable race, the cyclists were gathered at the starting line as the promoter was loudly promoting and hollered out, "Could we get a volunteer to drive my van and transport the race officials . . ." I was very surprised to hear my voice exclaim, "I'll do it. I'm experienced, too!" The Badger was pretty startled when I ran to the starting line to say, "I'm driving the Official Vehicle!" I followed him at very close quarters throughout that race, while pulling cyclists out for penalties whenever the official sounded the bullhorn. If it intrigues the reader, I've written many times on this blog about cycling races and one would look for the post label "races".

I won't try to tell you what cycling means to him. He does that very well himself on his own grand cycling blog. [One does not want to miss his fine photography blog, either.] A quick look at his last couple of posts will reveal that he is about to race in the granddaddy of all races, the Mt. Whitney Stage Race. Since the 1980s he has wanted to race this course of more than 50 miles at 10,000 feet of elevation. It finishes on the uphill, which will require him then to descend on some 180-degree switchbacks, but at least not at racing speed. And if all that is just a little too much about cycling, I'm nearly done going on about the race. Although it runs a bit long, the Fly By video will give one a tiny bit of insight into what is required for this endeavor. Simply follow the link and click on "Watch Course Fly-By Video". Drag the button a ways into the video and watch the drops off the sides and the switchbacks! Yes, those are running rivers - at one point he'll race across a bridge. Have I mentioned he is 60 years old?

The first epic race of this season - the dreaded/much anticipated Boulevard Road Race - was causing the Badger some anxiety. I wanted to have some fun and enlisted other bloggers to help me collaborate on a poem or a song or a whatever it turned out to be. The contributions began to pour in and it was wonderful to string snippets of words into a poem, crediting all the bloggers with what they had sent me. The result was a thing of great fun and beauty. His Wi-Fi was so erratic in the motel, he couldn't watch the poem develop on my blog. I read it to him at various stages on the phone and he finally got to take it in deeply when he arrived home. In his own words, the Badger stated it was "one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me." That production was simply a "Rah!" theme for a racing cyclist. I'm feeling playful again, and I have a little more experience than on my maiden voyage. So, who's in? We're going to have some fun!

Once again, I'm not sure what we can cobble together ~ a poem? An ode? I'd love to write a really good/bad country song if enough words are sent my way. It might even find its way to YouTube! So, here it is: all contributions will be accepted and used with joy. Send four rhyming lines, or two, or a repeating chorus or stream of consciousness. It doesn't matter. It will be received with gratitude. We'll need a title! Everyone will be credited. I will not edit, except to correct misspellings. Of course, we want to "Yay!" him to the finish line, but there's another theme I'd like to touch on - the ubiquitous shitty race weekend motel room. Imagine your own worst motel experiences and square them. Typically, these races aren't held in locations where fine lodging is available.

This time, I'm going to provide a few factoids that might help the reader form some thoughts:

• His mighty steed is the white Cervelo R3 with an orange saddle and handmade wheels. Encircling his chest will be the heart monitor and on his wrist, the Garmin will give up all the data he needs.
  
  
• He'll be wearing his Paramount racing kit as seen in the photos, black Rapha knee warmers, a Galstudio handmade winter racing cap, a red helmet, red SiDi cycling shoes, Assos jacket and full-fingered gloves. (It's cold at 10,000 feet!)
  
  
• At races he wears a leather bracelet that says "Live Your Dream" on a silver plate and sports a tiny pewter badger.
  
  
• Names of races run this year: Boulevard Road Race (Did not finish - stopped by weather after 45 grueling miles), Callville Stage Race (2nd place in his category), Howard Hughes Ranch Road Race (4th place in his category), UCLA Road Race (17th place, but judged with everyone age 45+), San Diego Omnium (3rd place in his category).



• Crappy motel annoyances: no stopper for the bathtub (the man likes to soak in Epsom salts after riding hard), Wi-Fi that shimmies in and out like a hula dancer, rarely any cell phone signal, coffee-making devices or not, microwave or not, sagging chair seats, holes in the walls, paper-thin walls, insufficient heat or air conditioning, no paper products, no drinking glasses, no pillows.



• He has often commented that he nearly drove the wheels off of his Prius the first three months he owned it from chasing after races.

So, bloggers, let's do it! Certainly make comments on this post, as usual. But please drop your wordy offerings in the e-mail attached to my Blogger Profile. I'll start compiling the goods, and I'm certain we'll come up with a marvelous collaboration . . . . . If anyone wants to see the work-in-progress, let me know and I'll share it by e-mail.

It is a wonderful tech-forward age we live in. As he drove west across Nevada and California, we e-mailed frequently. He always "takes me" to the races. "I'm on the floor of Death Valley now." "If I'd raced that one contest I considered, this course would have broken me in two, now that I've seen it!" His mother and I e-mailed in the same time period, churning about the altitude and climb in this race. He mentioned yesterday his concern that he'll blow out a knee. I often get an e-mail just before the gun goes off - "We're off in 30 seconds!" Or, " *%&#, it's snowing and sticking to the ground here at the start!" I never fail to get the e-mail or phone call at the end of the race: "I think I took second - they haven't posted the results yet." Today will be a long wait. Once he runs the race, he'll have the long, frightening return. Who knows if there will be signal on the mountaintop? Reader, I can attest: it is far better to go to the race, where one can always find some occupation, than to sit home and w-a-i-t.

Yesterday we were communing deeply and he wrote, "I sometimes wonder why I am doing this kind of thing. Not in the sense of not continuing, but what is it that has appeared after all these years driving me to do things that have nothing to do with survival?" I laughed out loud at my desk. I typed a response to the effect that I had some thoughts on the matter, but couldn't possibly put them in good order for presentation on e-mail. That is a conversation that will take an hour. But I - the wordy woman - can encapsulate it! "Because that's just what you are meant to do, Badger." Does anyone besides me enjoy watching ice on fire? Flaming passion tempered by steely, cold consideration? I thank the reader for his or her indulgence today. That man deserves a party! And have I mentioned he is 60 years old?

In my ears right now: Friend Tag reminded me of the Beach Boys yesterday. They're era-appropriate to me and I liked them well enough. Their best known tunes were OK enough. But I prefer their take on things that have nothing to do with surfing or racing cars.

Something that charmed me: One e-mail I got yesterday contained an assessment of the race course, once he'd viewed it, and his ability to ride it. The words startled me because I've never heard him utter anything remotely similar to what he had to say about this course. I paced awhile. Soon came the next e-mail. He was steely. "I'm going to do this!" Well, sure, Badge. That's what you went there for.

According to my watch, he's been pedaling for 38 minutes. I've seen the pictures of the road. I imagine by now he's been up out of the saddle (pedaling while standing up) a time or two . . . . he'll have to do that a lot today and tomorrow.

Calling All Bloggers of Good Spirit

All right, it's been done here before. With great fun and good will and camaraderie. The Badger was on the long drive to the first big race of the season. The e-mails flew back and forth as he progressed toward his destination and an idea struck me. This man deserved a party! He would feel boosted to know that many others were rooting for him, cheering him on and interested in the outcome of his mighty battle. I put up a short post asking interested bloggers to help me cheer. I proposed that we compose a poem or a rah, or whatever it turned out to be. It felt just a little risky to me, for what if no one played and the notion fell flat on its face? But to my complete enjoyment, and to The Badger's, the bloggers rang in enthusiastically. The result was a most wonderful poetic tribute that truly touched him.

It's a bit of a different occasion, but I propose fun and glee of a similar nature. Sunday, April 25th, is the birthday of a most wonderful woman. When we first found one another in the blogosphere, I sent her an official fan letter and she confessed to having a girl crush on me. I have learned much about grace and strength and beauty, about honor and intelligence and art and soul from this woman I've never met in person, but know at a very deep level. I've observed her treatment of other bloggers. I'm not getting any special treatment. She treats everyone well. And so, readers, it is the birthday of the lovely Kass. Whether you know her from this blog or this one you know how special she is. I'd like you to join me in giving her a birthday tribute. Who's in?

I'm going to embellish on the way I went about honoring The Badger. This time, I propose a poem tribute and I propose we put together a virtual birthday party. For the poem, let's do the same as last time. I will start with a few lines. Anyone willing to contribute, please put your words in my Comments section and I will develop the poem. We'll need a title, and - yes - I'll credit everyone who participates. **LATEBREAKING ~ Sometimes I am not the sharpest tool in the shed at the end of a long day. Bloggers, please drop both poetry offerings and party contributions into my e-mail which you'll find on my Blogger profile. That way, the wascally woman will not be able to see the poem as it develops. For anyone who puts their offerings in Comments, I'll acknowledge I received your contribution, but I'll hold back on publishing anything our Kass should not see before her birthday. And a note to myself: don't try to be brilliant after 3:00 p.m. when you've been rocking for 12 hours and have many more to go.**

This time, however, let's take it up a notch. We're putting on a birthday party! We'll need decorations, food and beverages, music and gifts. Please send me a short list of what you would like to virtually contribute and I will put that party together for presentation on Kassie's birthday on this blog. Be quirky and creative. She is! [Please send your party list to the e-mail address in my Blogger profile.]

Please, bloggers, if you know others who enjoy Kass but may not frequent my blog, shout me out to them or put a link on your own blog. Spreading the word is a good thing! And, Kass, it wouldn't be unbecoming of you to put the word on your blog, either. ;~}

And, finally, a disclaimer: if I am avalanched with material, we may have to make this a belated birthday party. I remember the html nightmare the Badger's poem became after many, many contributions, but I will land that post as close as possible to April 25th.

AND FROM THIS VERY POINT ONWARD, KASS, YOU STAY OFF THIS BLOG UNTIL YOUR BIRTHDAY! Please.

Poem starter:

The lovely Kass, so fair of face,
Exudes a state of natural grace.
But while she shares with us a grand felicity,
There's also that spark of raw electricity.

Come on, bloggers! Party for Kass over at Limes' place.

In my ears right now:

Something that charmed me: The notion of celebrating a special friend in an unusual way, and inviting others to join me.

Some photo credits: Kass, herself.

Feeling Very Simply Red ~ No, I'm Not Sunburned,It's Music

Writing about certain periods of time in my life is sometimes difficult. While I shared, with joy, about meeting an important person in my life's tapestry, much of the time leading up to that meeting and moving away from it was difficult. I've lived in the 1960s for a few days now and I've felt . . . . sometimes low. While I feel strongly compelled to tell my stories, one doesn't simply string words together and move on. Writing the words results in reliving the feelings. The good ones and the sad ones. Then some time is required to sort out those feelings. Let everything integrate. Where will that little bit of my past land after this latest reexamination? And will I ever be simply done reliving it? Will I ever be able to look at it without feeling pain?

It got even more dicey for me. When one goes to the cycling race, one is very busy. Help the cyclist find equipment and gear. Open the Clif Bar packet, but leave it on the bar, and slide it into the back jersey pocket. Put the water bottles in their cages. Figure out the start and finish lines and parking proximity to each. Watch for the photo ops and get a bead on the racing official. Eventually locate the turn-around point and hand up water, if needed. Calculate how long the race will take and when to starting watching for them to approach the finish line. There's always something to do. Not so when the race is "away". One waits for the phone calls and e-mails that always come later than one hopes for. Oh, I'm a seasoned support crew at cycling races and I know what goes on after the race. Kudos and a big drink of water, chat with the other racers, ask all the questions necessary and wait for the results to be posted. Perhaps something to eat and a trip to the bathroom. In my work world, the homes are very attuned to racing days. The BlackBerry begins to chirp a little too soon. "Les, have you heard anything yet?" "No, homes. If I'd heard anything you would have heard an all-call announcement."

I needed something to make me laugh a little and break the tension. I was noodling around on YouTube trying to locate music that was guaranteed only to make me more melancholy, when I came across something that made me sit up straighter in the chair and grin. It was an old MTV music video from the 1980s. I watched, listened and laughed right out loud. This video made me think of another from the era, and I located it. Same result: watch, listen, laugh out loud. I thought of the music and movies of the day and grinned like a loon. Clearly, remembering the 80s was going to cheer me up!

I did a little research as a memory refresher and I was reminded that the "Me Generation" manifested itself in conspicuous consumption in the 1980s. I was guilty of some of that, too. Cable television came to rival network TV in the 80s in the U.S. I remember getting a card in the mail describing how I could subscribe to Home Box Office. What? Pay for TV? I was nobody's fool. That scheme would never fly! Cheers and The Cosby Show got top TV ratings and CNN became the first 24-hour news channel. MTV came to life and when Mick Jagger said, "I want my MTV" in the advertisements, I knew I wanted my MTV, too. The AIDS epidemic was identified in the 80s and Margaret Thatcher dominated British politics. The so-called Regan Revolution introduced neo-conservatives to Washington, D.C. When I think of the clothing I wore throughout much of the 1980s, I remember industrial strength shoulder pads in my business suits and dresses. I remember power scarves, although I did not wear them. I remember enormous eyeglasses frames. There seems a theme of "too much is never enough" across the decade. On the part of just about eveyone.

On January 1, 1980, I was 27 years old, married, living in Las Vegas, working in a good career as an escrow officer. We had a nice little cottage industry: Stepfather built houses. My mother was the real estate broker who sold said houses. I escrowed them. Ex was a contractor who put in all the sprinklers and landscaping. We earned a good living, enjoying a nice home with lots of perks since we knew the contractor. We had an active social life because this young woman had learned how to entertain and pursued that avidly. We owned the first, gigantic Sony BetaMax on the block and drove good cars. We kept several much-loved cats and had houseguests constantly - everyone wants to visit Las Vegas. It was a nice, young peoples' lifestyle. And then the economy soured. It was Stepfather who taught me that Las Vegas had had the same cycle since its establishment in 1905: boom, bust, boom, bust, boom. It's still happening today in this place where I've been sentenced to serve two separate terms in my life.

We did the only thing we knew to do - run for the coast in January, 1981, and get jobs, try to cut our losses and try to keep building our capital, not dipping into it. As we drove southwest out of Las Vegas for the last time, I looked in the rearview and thought I saw my youth standing at the city limits. When I arrived at my destination 6 hours later, I felt older and mature. There followed a few years of jobs that didn't last for whatever reason, and a settling comfortably into the small city of Lemon Grove, California, a 4-square-mile speck completely surrounded by San Diego.

Ex landed a job working for the local school district. It was a good job with lots of perks and benefits and decent money. He became interested in working as a job steward for the union local. Then he became a contract negotiator and a greivance processor and then president of the local. He held the position for years and spent more time in the school district board room conducting union business than he did in the school yards working on the landscaping and sprinkler systems. We could not go to the market in our 4-square-mile city without him being tapped on the shoulder and asked for advice about three members' jobs. For years. I dubbed him the King of Lemon Grove. The state organization had a small office in San Diego and the labor reps there came to know and admire Ex as a savvy, hard working, fearless union leader. I'd met a number of them at various gatherings and when their secretary became ill, I was asked to come and run the offfice.

And so began the halcyon years. The union secretary promoted and I was hired to operate the San Diego office. I proved to be a quick study about most things concerning labor relations. Ex continued working at the local level, but the union hired him away from the school district for several long-term projects. Finally came his opportunity! Our union was willing to interview members who had spent a number of years successfully working at the local level, and hire them as labor representatives, if appropriate. The years of practical experience were accepted in lieu of a degree in labor relations, for the right person. A new department had been created and four statewide organizers were to be hired. "Statewide" meant he could be called on a Monday morning, told to report to Sacramento and expect to remain there for six months. We talked about it a long time. Because I wasn't going to move away. I saw opportunity for myself with the union if I just waited long enough and worked very hard. I've never seen a man as terrified as Ex was when he drove off to his interview 200 miles away. He didn't have to wait long for the results. By the time he pulled up in front of my field office, the message had already been left for him. He had no high school diploma. He was a man who thought of himself as one with a strong back and a weak mind. He had some trouble with dyslexia and reading was not his preferred way to obtain information. He would be expected to put on training events, and he was a man terrified of a microphone. And yet he had learned, by native intelligence, to do something so well, the union was willing to put a world of fortuitous chance at his feet.

There came the years of him apartment dwelling and hotel dwelling during the week and coming home on weekends. The union was generous about picking up the tab decently. I worked on, absorbing everything I could from every labor representative I served. Contract language, grievance processing, legal research, Unfair Labor Practice charges, representation in administrative hearings, writing post-hearing briefs from scratch (I hadn't actually attended the hearing. I was doing it from the transcript.). I was the favored child of my field director and I approached him after some years. If we hired (certain) members after they'd done union work in their locals, could an argument be made that I should be allowed to interview, based on my absorbing information from all the professionals I served? It didn't happen quickly or easily. My field director lobbied his own boss and the other field directors. I gathered (basically) a petition from my own resident labor reps and others who had worked temporarily in our office, saying what they had observed that I shouldn't have known how to do, but did know how to do. Margins annotated and illustrations. I got my interview before the 15 formidable union pros and I aced it. "Best interview the panel has ever seen, Les. You're a union rep." Unions are very careful about spending the members' dues. If one accepted the monthly car allowance, one must drive a car made in a unionized factory. One must be able to seat four passengers (read this: seat members.). I went off to buy my car. I had a letter in my hand on the gold-embossed letterhead of that union. It set out my promotion date and how much money I'd make and the fact that I would also receive the auto allowance. The car salesman's eyes popped. This was the best thing he'd ever seen! Four hours later I drove off the lot in the hottest, reddest car that could seat four members. It had a Ferrari kit. I bought it alone on the strength of my own income and credit, because I could. Ex was off in some far-flung corner of the state. It was damned heady stuff.

Lest the reader think that all sounds like a couple of smart asses, too full of themselves, that's too easy and incorrect. It's about youth and recognizing opportunity and taking calculated risks and working relentlessly while reaching for the brass ring. This was a period when neither of us thought we knew everything. To the contrary, each of us thought we knew nothing. We were sponges. We spent a few years soaking up everything we could learn about the field we worked in. We bounced ideas off of each other and we cheered the other on. We worked hard and became well regarded. But for the two human beings that we were, there was more going on. We learned, the hard way, about human beings at their best and at their worst. We learned how to work sometimes 20 hours a day and remain effective, efficient, strong, leaders. We learned to advocate for others who needed our help. We learned to lobby legislators (school employees are paid from tax dollars). We learned to do things that we never expected to know how to do. We became professionals. We were a little bit startled by that. It hadn't been in the cards.

The actress Dixie Carter passed away on Sunday and that saddened me terribly. I remembered the rare occasions in the 1980s when I got a moment to watch TV. Designing Women was a firm favorite. I wanted not to be like Julia Sugarbaker, but to be Julia Sugarbaker. I liked The Golden Girls and I liked the movies of the day: Romancing the Stone, The Jewel of the Nile, Ghostbusters . . . it's been more than 20 years.


On January 1, 1990, at age 37, I sat watching Designing Women. Charlene was going to have her baby on this episode. At the moment this TV baby was born, an ancient woman in the same hospital who had been born a slave passed away. This while Linda Ronstadt and James Ingram sang "Somewhere Out There" and the TV new daddy dipped the wing of the Air Force jet he was flying, in tribute to his new daughter. I'd sob over that today. I sobbed over it then because I was very, very pregnant. Extremely overdue. Amber was due on December 13th. It was now past December 31st. I had muddled through a terribly difficult, surprise pregnancy. After we had tried for almost 20 years without success, we'd sadly accepted there would be no children for us. I'd come home from our first trip abroad in the spring of 1989 . . . . pregnant. I'd managed to get through the holidays quietly, but now there were no more of them to look forward to. The 80s were gone and the 90s beckoned. The child was born on the 6th day of 1990. I looked back and thought I saw my mature, professional, confident self standing on the calendar page of December 31, 1989. I felt very young and immature and scared by what lay before me. Things weren't going to ever be exactly the same again. How would I deal with it? Would I do OK or even well? Could I succeed in the next chapter?

In my ears right now: It's still Simply Red. It pleases me.

Something that charmed me: I stopped avoiding what troubled me. I took it on. I lit into it. I said to the other human being, "Would you care to dance? We've got business to discuss." We wrote and wrote. We talked. We communicated. I am reminded of a couple of things. I do myself no favors by avoiding. And after two people communicate, one is reminded of the goodness that seems to fade when avoidance is operating. I'm still learning. May my life be finished when I can no longer learn new things.

Brain Like a Flea on a Griddle

I can't assign it a light and airy allegorical name like dragonfly or damselfly any longer. To put it plainly, I can't land on a thought and stick to it. This has gone on for a few days and is most unlike me. My head jumps around from thought to thought, lingering on those that really don't matter and darting away from the ones that do matter. Uh-oh. Avoidance. Perhaps I'm lucky, actually. Because I know what has unsettled me. I even know the steps I will have to take to restore order to myself. But I'm not there yet. It will require work of the human being sort with another human being, and I'm not quite ready. So, as unattractive and uninspiring as it is, for today I'm just a toad. Slow moving, unthinking and decidedly not out to change the world. At least not today. It may be fair to call me lazy. Or perhaps, just for the one day, I'm simply not up to participating in the wrestling match required when one carries on a relationship with any other human being. I shall simply plop from one lily pad in the pond to another.

Notwithstanding my recent Sam Cooke addiction, it's now Otis Redding. If one Wikis Otis, one will find a statement saying he had a great ability to emote strongly in his singing. Very true. Wiki says he is the epitome of soul, that American amalgamation of gospel, rhythm and blues and more. I agree. I've written before to say that my 15th year was one that contained both joyous and torturous events. It is one of the years of life about which I have the most vivid memories. Few periods of that time from August 24th, 1967 through August 23rd, 1968 are blank. That part of my canvas is pretty fully painted. One of the headlines in that year was about Otis' plane crash and death. A month later his biggest hit, (Sitting On) The Dock of the Bay, was released. I'm always startled when someone can point only to The Dock of the Bay when Otis Redding's name is spoken. After all, that grand song was the end. There was an entire body of work that went before. And while some may call me an old fussy hen and others simply think I pay close attention to the details, I know this: had I put this tune up on YouTube, I'd sure-as-shootin' have typed his name "Otis" and not "Ortis".

On one wall of my office resides a utilitarian monthly calendar that is used to show when anyone wants a day off. In our world, days off are granted on a first come, first served basis, so this seemingly inconsequential item actually has great importance. At the beginning of each month, we renumber the blocks, change the name of the month, and we're good to go. For no particular reason, Troy re-did the calendar in January, February and March. The calendar was useful, not beautiful, during the first quarter. He never mismarked the date squares and his printing was legible. Last week when everyone was busy on the huge job at the church, I readied the calendar for April. In the header, I wrote "April, 2010" and I drew some simple vines with leaves. Then I was inspired to type, print and put up the best April quote of all, "April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain." The calendar began to be used as soon as April opened. I watched homes put their names up, notice the quote, read it, recoil as if snakebit and elbow other homes in the ribs. Not so this morning! Matt stepped closer to the calendar in order to read the quote. Then he turned to me and said, "Tell me about T. S. Eliot, please, Leslie."

Anyone care to join me for a little more Otis? Yesterday I had to pull the gray pea coat out of the closet. The wind has screamed for days, temperatures below normal, and it even rained. As I pulled the coat on, I reflected that I am damned sick and tired of the wind. It is affecting me negatively. Oh, I'd suffer being so full of antihistamines my lips and tongue stick to my teeth while my nose still runs nonstop. I'd learn to live with making Virginia Woolf a little bed tucked away in the closed bathroom so she doesn't tremble in fear. I'd shoulder the indignity of my hair looking wild for just about half of life. But it's about the miles and miles walking every day in it. Nose running, eyes streaming, chugging up to the end of Desert Inn Road into it, abs contracting with the effort, turning the corners facing into the mighty blast. I have crumpled tissues stuffed into every pocket of every jacket and pair of walking pants, making laundry day a merry hell because no one could possibly remove them all before tossing the clothing into the machine . . . Reader, I have to confess it, when the days go 115-degrees, I'll moan about that, too. But it won't grip me the way the unceasing, freakish wind has. Just one more moan and I'll stop. When the gale shrieks through the streets as it has recently, there is something that freaks me out. When stopped at a red light, one can observe the huge standards that house the traffic lights . . . bouncing in the wind. It scared me in 1976. It scares me now. The newscasters warn us to keep both hands on the steering wheel as the crosswinds can give a car a mighty jolt . . . and I am nearly maddened by it.

Monday, I carried my bags of the week's groceries to the office. I trudged up the stairs like a clumsy, overloaded pack horse, turned into the breezeway and was struck by the irony of the word "breezeway" as I was nearly sent airborne from the second floor deck. I struggled for keys from the purse, my BlackBerry already chirping as homes checked in with me to start their workday. Fumbling at the door, I spotted someone sitting at the patio table. Which one of them was sitting outside in the wind and the cold? Justin? What the hell? For Justin was put on shore leave in December and has been very quiet since. We knew he wasn't having any luck finding work, because some of the others keep in touch with him. Last week in staff meeting we talked about how we still needed more technicians, even after having hired Matt back. There is that much work. David is considering adding to the fleet of mighty war wagons. We are going into conservative growth mode. When Cesar spoke up for Justin, David asked me what I thought. Easy answer. He's experienced. He's experienced in our ways. He's not afraid to ask for the money. He doesn't get called for go-backs. He is something of a leprechaun who charms almost everyone who meets him. So the word spread in the way it spreads in our world, and now, on Monday, Justin was on my deck. He followed in Matt's footsteps, manned up, and asked David to hire him back. Done! Our little group is rejoined, with a few new personalities added. It feels good. Everyone we'd ever consider bringing back is back. Let's go make some money!

I had a wonderful weekend. I do not celebrate Passover or Easter, but I celebrate life and I celebrate Sundays and I celebrate regular old everyday days that have some warmth and friendship and love and shared laughs. I celebrate April. I like to cook a meal to be shared and I like lively conversation peppered with laughs. I like to sit and make plans for future good times. I like to revisit the past good times. I like to share dreams and my opinions and my advice and my support. I like to lull my guests into a relaxed state of bonhomie with food and liquor and then tear them up at cards. I did every bit of that, and more!

In my ears right now: There's no film footage. It's a recording of Otis live in concert in London. Try a Little Tenderness is some kind of song under any circumstances, but oh! This! He makes Three Dog Night sound like three whimpering puppies.

Something that charmed me: I plot a lot of routes throughout our valley. I see a lot of street names. Some of them are simply odd. Others are whimsical or hilarious. GPS told me that #4 was going to turn right at the intersection of Trotting Trigger and Sashaying Spirit . . . . I thought that if my spirit was out in the mean streets, I hoped she would do a little sashay so folks would remember she'd been through these parts.

Mother Badger Knew!

Well, she's more than 80 years old and she's been poking around online at some pretty objectionable sites [like this one]! Mother Badger e-mailed to tell me about bromeliads after reading my earlier post. "It will only bloom once, but now you will get a pup," she wrote. "Hmmmm . . . ," thought I. For I am not overly fond of dogs. Oh, reader, come on! I know a pup means a new, young plant. It's the same in cactus talk. MB went on to say that when she visited Youngest Badger in Panama, they went up into the mountains where the bromeliads were spectacular. The indigenous peoples offered them for sale, but she could not bring them back into the U.S. She also told me how to root the top of a pineapple to get it to throw a pup and then grow a new pineapple. And she had a sharp school teacherish remark for me to aim at the felonious Dylan and Virginia Woolf. Was I surprised Mother Badger knew a lot about a pretty esoteric subject? Not a bit! MB knows a lot about a lot of things, and especially about plants of all manner.

Now my interest was piqued about these bromeliads! Remember, I bought myself the original plant so I could nurture and enjoy it. I like to surround myself with things that are beautiful (to me) and observe what they do, how they proceed through life ~ my cats, my birds, my fish, my plants, the people I love. And if this pink wonder was now going to put on some kind of a show, like produce a pup, I wanted to learn more. I can Google! As two men who know me and care about me say, "You know how to learn stuff, Les/Lezzlie."

I noodled around and soon knew the name of my bromeliad species and learned that they are easily cultivated. That was my impression, for I'd cajoled mine into producing flowers already! I learned that they're easily propagated indoors and that made my eyes dance ~ more plants for free. I can reproduce them and give them away to those I care for! I learned there were nearly countless species, flowering in every color in the rainbow. That charms me! David has offered many times to have Troy put up a row of shelves in the office for me ~ I can house a veritable herd of bromeliads, here in the pasture safe from felonious felines. Fresh & Easy has countless new offerings each week, and this seems a fun new interest to explore.

I learned other things about bromeliads, some of which made me a little pensive. They bloom according to all kinds of triggers - plant age, day length, light intensity, water and temperature. I learned that once they bloom, the death process begins, taking a year or two. And that made me ponder. To begin to die off at the peak of one's beauty . . . . I learned that she (for now bromeliads are she's to me) will now produce pups until she dies. My duty is to remove those pups from her as they develop and put them in growing medium so they may become beautiful, mature girls in their own right. To remove them, I must use a serrated knife or pruning shears or a small hacksaw blade, and the reader should be very afraid of that. Learning about this life cycle made me very mindful of the beginnings and endings of things here on planet earth and the legacy some of us leave behind.

It promised to be a hideous, rainy cycling race weekend and it was. I planned to increase my walking miles to work off nervous energy. I love to feed people I care about, good nourishing food. This time was no different. I bought, I planned. I packed good Egyptian, long staple cotton towels to dry a cold and rain-soaked racer and thought about how I could offer support. I fed, I held umbrellas, I snapped the camera, I drove for miles at his back wheel. That doesn't make me a heroine. It means I'm loyal like a cocker spaniel. It means I can participate meaningfully in a detailed routine. I observed a woman racer take a bad crash and not get up from it. I watched the medics come and then a full-on ambulance. Before the helicopter came, a young man asked if I had a blanket or anything because she had been on the ground a long time and she was cold and wet. I glanced at my good pea coat and I couldn't do it. There was a car cover, but it was huge and soiled and not mine to give away. I gave my good Egyptian, long staple cotton towels. Seeing this woman take such a surprise in her sprint finish (for the finish line wasn't 100 feet away) made me very mindful of the beginnings and endings of things here on planet earth. Life is what happens when you're busy making plans.

I bought a new variety of bromeliad and she puts me in mind of shooting flame. Oh, what a treat to the eyes! It needed water before I put it into the closet to await transport to the office. I put the water down in the center "cup" and figured I'd give her just a minute or so to drink it. Those cats were nowhere in sight, I swear. I hung up my coat and purse and went to retrieve the plant. It had been on the drainboard maybe 90 seconds, literally. Clicking on the photo will reveal the shredded leaves. Chomped! I never saw them in the vicinity, but they got it good! And, yes, I do use the pink, LED light flashing, chinka-chinka noise-making hula hoop (in the background) for exercise in the office. But never when homes are around. One doesn't want to ruin them for life.

In my ears right now: It's an old friend, musically. Precious Stones. I haven't listened in a long time.

Something that charmed me: When I returned to work to start a new week and a new month, my original bromeliad had become a Mouseketeer and was flying her colors. It looks like I'm going to get a bloom from in between each of her tight grooves before she starts that dying off thing I don't care for!

Time to Tidy Up

I broke out the DustBuster on Sunday. Oh, it's literally true that there was some crumbly debris in the crevice between the carpet and the baseboard. I got it up and then tried to locate some coffee grounds or cat hair or anything, really, to pull up into my DustBuster. It took me a moment to notice the symptoms. For when I start obsessively vacuuming, it is metaphorical. It means I need to tidy things up. Ex used to joke that when I was "chewing on things", trying to restore some order to myself, he would run out to tell the neighbors to throw open their doors because I was on the way down the street with the vacuum cleaner.

I am not "troubled", exactly. It's more like my head is filled to maximum capacity and some of the voices are speaking too loudly. Some of it is about my writing and some about other aspects of life. I'm unsettled and dissatisfied with myself and it's time to regroup and become tidy again. I want to write and I also want to read the writing of other bloggers. I want to do something with the closet that almost contains all the crafting materials and - oh, yes - I'd really like to make something with said crafting materials. I want to make a huge crockpot of red sauce and feed people, but I can't focus to buy the thoroughly well memorized ingredients.

I have an unruly queue of posts waiting in the wings. I want to finish Chapter 2 of The Field Trip and I've still not told the best Sugarhouse story of them all, despite having written Chapters I, II, and III and about the Secret Order of the Sugarhouse Hoppy Taw Society. The holidays came and I got distracted writing about them. I need to get us out of Sugarhouse and on with the ensuing 50 years! I still have a mountain of photos to share from the last camping trip and the one before that, and there are three embryonic posts about the things I see and experience "out there".

The race weekend unsettled me as they always do if I cannot be present. One wants to be at the race, given some meaningful occupation. One wants to drive ahead, get out, wait for the peloton to appear, check out his position and form, assess his well-being, and repeat the process. One wants to hand up water at the designated place on the course, and if one fails to plant the water in his hand, she cobbles a plan to drive forward, get out where she can easily be seen and keep trying to give that water until she succeeds. Only the first race of the season has been completed. Knowing the hellish conditions he rode in, I found it particularly difficult to watch the clock, watch the radar, watch the hour-by-hour weather and hope not to receive a phone call too early for him to have finished. It's going to be a busy spring, with races near and far.

This morning, at the intersection of Desert Inn Road and Durango Drive, my (almost) four-year-old car turned 20,000 miles. At the moment the digital display flipped from 19999 to 20000, it hit me that I had an empty BlackBerry holster in my purse. I did the 360, went home, collected the device from the exact spot where I knew it would be, and made it to work on time. It is not like me to be so forgetful, and particularly about the BlackBerry that is always at my fingertips.

For Tag and for Kirk (and anyone else, of course), I saw a news article that revisits an old topic once presented on this blog. It seems the Neon Boneyard is undergoing some changes and perhaps some day soon, I won't have to contemplate jumping the fence to commune with those venerable things.

Friend Tag had something cool on his blog this morning and I'm going to snag it from him, as Kass has already done. Its theme is what happened in my birth year. I like trivia games and round robin games. I've been known to start one or two and participate in more. I'm going to process mine a little differently, however, leaving out the boilerplate stuff that applies to everyone's birth year and commenting on the things that strike me. I have a few entries of my own to add, as well.

What happened the year I was born.

In 1952, the world was a different place. There was no Google yet. Or Yahoo. I seem to remember that.

In 1952, the year of your birth, the top selling movie was This Is Cinerama. People buying the popcorn in the cinema lobby had glazed eyes when looking at the poster. They were still showing it widely 8 years later when I was taken to see it. I remember the trip over the Grand Canyon and the virtual roller coaster ride.

Remember, that was before there were DVDs. Heck, even before there was VHS. People were indeed looking at movies in the cinema, and not downloading them online. Imagine the packed seats, the laughter, the excitement, the novelty. And mostly all of that without 3D computer effects. It was also before colored TV and transistor radios.

In the year 1952, the time when you arrived on this planet, books were still popularly read on paper, not on digital devices. Trees were felled to get the word out. The number one US bestseller of the time was The Silver Chalice by Thomas B. Costain. Oh, that's many years ago. Have you read that book? Have you heard of it? It resided on my parents' bookcase and I have read it.

In 1952, West Germany has 8 million refugees inside its borders. I was born not so very long after World War II.

Elizabeth II is proclaimed Queen of the United Kingdom at St. James's Palace, London, England. This pleases me as I am an Anglophile and I think she is a practical, likable woman who knows how to do things we might not expect of her. She did active military service in World War II and when an intruder entered her bedroom in Buckingham Palace, she talked him down while she rang for assistance. She shoots and is outdoorsy. Ex was fascinated by the pastel purse that always hangs from her forearm. He was convinced she kept a gun in there in case she had to take care of herself in a dust-up. She certainly wouldn't need to carry a wallet and ID and money. She has other people to do that for her.

The Diary of Anne Frank is published. I first read it very young. It was my first awareness of Jews and what they suffered. At the time I read it, I didn't know there were bad things one's father couldn't prevent from happening. It terrified me.

The United States Army Special Forces is created. A British passenger jet flies twice over the Atlantic Ocean in the same day. Martial law is declared in Kenya due to the Mau Mau uprising. The first successful surgical separation of Siamese twins is conducted in Mount Sinai Hospital, Cleveland, Ohio.

The Nobel prize for Literature that year went to François Mauriac. The Nobel Peace prize went to Albert Schweitzer. The Nobel prize for physics went to Felix Bloch and Edward Mills Purcell from the United States for their development of new methods for nuclear magnetic precision measurements and discoveries in connection therewith.

The 1950s were indeed a special decade. The American economy is on the upswing. The cold war betwen the US and the Soviet Union is playing out throughout the whole decade. Anti-communism prevails in the United States and leads to the Red Scare and accompanying Congressional hearings. Africa begins to become decolonized. The Korean war takes place. The Vietnam War starts. The Suez Crisis war is fought on Egyptian territory. Fidel Castro, Che Guevara and others overthrow authorities to create a communist government on Cuba. Funded by the US, reconstructions in Japan continue. In Japan, film maker Akira Kurosawa creates the movies Rashomon and Seven Samurai. The FIFA World Cups are won by Urugay, then West Germany, then Brazil. I think of the 1950s as cold and steely gray. No color. The cold war, men with gray hair in gray suits driving big gray Dodges, sterile scientific progress being made everywhere.

Dwight D. Eisenhower was elected president in November, 1952. For me, he epitomizes the men with no color, the men with gray hair in gray suits driving big gray Dodges. And yet . . . Stepfather was an aficionado of Norman Rockwell paintings and the art on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. He was generally Rockwell's age and he appreciated the images that reflected life in his era. I am not particularly a Rockwell fan, but when Stepfather organized a group he took to lunch and then to a Rockwell exhibit, I went along. I am not a Rockwell fan, but I was a Stepfather fan. The museum was packed with patrons ogling the magazine cover images. I roamed around, not impatiently, and landed before Rockwell's portrait of Eisenhower. Although painted mainly in white and neutral tones, this image utterly screams color. It is warm and exudes light. This must have been what the man was like in real life. Colorful and engaging. It was painted in 1952, the year of my birth.

Do you remember the movie that was all the rage when you were 15? In the Heat of the Night. I do, but Bonnie & Clyde rings my bell more clearly. My father took a girlfriend and me to see it at a drive-in. It was a grand outing until a bedroom scene showed itself and Clyde's lack of sex drive was discussed. One of the most uncomfortable moments I've ever spent in my father's presence. Today we'd just cackle about it. Then it was excruciating.

Do you still remember the songs playing on the radio when you were 15? Maybe it was Ode to Billy Joe by Bobbie Gentry. I remember. I didn't Google this, I have that thing for lyrics, remember? "It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty delta day, I was out choppin' cotton and my brother was balin' hay . . . ."

Were you in love? Certainly.

Who were you in love with, do you remember? I've never forgotten for a moment.

When you were 8, there was Pollyanna. I wanted to be as adorable as Hayley Mills. I still want to be as adorable as Hayley Mills.

6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1... it's 1952. There's TV noise coming from the second floor. Someone turned up the volume way too high. The sun is burning from above. These were different times. The show playing on TV is Kukla, Fran and Ollie. The sun goes down. Someone switches channels. There's The Ed Sullivan Show on now. That's the world you were born in. I was introduced to my Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show at age 11 in 1964.

"Progress", year after year. Do you wonder where the world is heading? The quotation marks are my addition. I'm not sure we are making "progress". I'm a bit jaded, a little cynical. I am terrified about where the world is heading.

The technology available today would have blown your mind in 1952. Do you know what was invented in the year you were born? The Floppy Disk. Optical Fiber. The Fusion Bomb. Anything would have blown my mind in 1952. I was a newborn that August.

Christopher Reeve was born. And Dan Aykroyd. Douglas Adams, too. And you, of course. Everyone an individual. Everyone special. Everyone taking a different path through life. Angela Cartwright (Ha, Kirk!), Annie Potts, Carol Kane, Cathy Rigby, Harry Anderson, John Goodman, Juice Newton, Leslie Morgan, Marilyn Chambers, Mr. T, Patrick Swayze, Roseanne Barr. I'm in some pretty good company here!

It's 2010.
The world is a different place.
What path have you taken? I'd say that differently. I haven't "taken" it. I'm still "taking" it. I'm not complete yet. I'm still standing.

In my ears right now: The Beatles. The End. Kass wrote about love being the great equalizer and I'll take one of those to go. Because I know that in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.

Something that charmed me: The Badger dropped in his sincere thank you comment this afternoon. He was touched by the kindness of so many.