Down on the farm in Indiana

New Year's Resolutions-Bah Humbug!

I have always been curious to know where the practice of making resolutions for the New Year came about.  I would venture a guess that the idea was hatched by some beautiful, thin, well-read, organized young woman that wished the world to aspire to her level.  Alas I don’t think the yearly tradition makes one feel as warm and fuzzy as Mother’s Day or Valentines.  Maybe it would go down easier if it were named after a saint.  How about St. Gluteous Day for the monk that discovered step aerobics or All Crediticus Cardicus Day (in honor of the patron saint of shoppers).  It is a proven fact that the membership in Weight Watchers soars every year in January.  I am one of those winter solstice members myself.

 

            Perhaps it has something to do with the length of the days and the lesser amount of sunshine.  Many people suffer gloomy feelings during the dreary winter months.  Does this cause one to reflect on somehow improving one’s outlook by improving one’s self?  Whoa….did Bob Dylan write more songs in the winter than the summer?  I am not sure if people in the sunny tropics make resolutions.  For one thing if a person lived in bathing suit territory year round it would be rather pointless to aspire to starve for June, July and August when you have 9 more months to live on celery and rice cakes in order to be seen in public.  Martha Stewart working in cahoots with Dymo may have hatched this resolution thing out; the end result being to sell more products to become better organized.  Think about it, it must we a winter thing.   Do you really spend your Memorial Day weekend labeling the shelves of your linen closet?  I think that is why with the first sign of green spring grass the Six Pack Abs workout video falls into the abyss. 

 

            It certainly can be tough time of year to begin your campaign of good will to your fellow man.  Have you ever stood in an after Christmas return line between 2 women that have already had too many days of out of school vacation?  They are gnashing their teeth like junk yard dogs.  Not a good time to compliment them on how you think the color of their eye shadow helps divert attention from their crow’s feet.  Perhaps a better choice for a good will venture would be doing some mission work.  That’s it.  I could travel to the trailer park and share with ladies all my innovative recipes using Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.  I could show them how to stick a can of beer up the butt of a fryer and roast it on the grill.  Great entrée for when you’re having the girls over to watch your favorite reality show “My Name is Earl” on the tube.

 

            Maybe this resolution thing has been the brainstorm of psychologists all along.  We analyze our weaknesses and inadequacies and start the New Year with a fresh outlook that in changing these we will have the answer to contentment.  Doomed to fail from the start….because….they are weaknesses….duh…no surprise when we are not only falling off the self-improvement wagon but hooking our foot in the wheel and being drug down the familiar road of “been there before”.  We are then depressed by our weak spirit and feel the need for professional counseling and assessment…thus the Freud’s of the world are provided employment.  

 

            Every year I become less and less willing to go through the motions of throwing out the Ding Dongs and replacing them with Super Fiber Tasteless Crackers in the hopes of telling myself the gnawing hunger and lower bowel grumble is really improving my quality of life.   Maybe I just need to have an awakening of conscience.  We are constantly bombarded with reminders that we should be more in tune with the earth and how what we do personally impacts future generations.  I feel guilty now because I drink water instead of high sugar killer colas.  What I thought was making my skin look nice and keep my kidneys humming is leaving remnant plastic containers to be unearthed as the archaeological digs of the future.  Maybe I should just drink my water out of earthenware pottery or gourds.  In trying to be a better steward of the earth I think that I will look around the house and recycle items that are not being used and satisfy my artistic nature and incorporate these into some kind of “green” sculpture.  I already have a good start on the building material.  I think I spare an exercise ball, a stationary bike, a bunch of Pilates rubber bands in addition to several empty Slim Fast cans and spent Snickers wrappers.  I could call it “Ode to Al Gore”.   I have always felt that I had to be depleting ozone when I exercised because the amount of oxygen I was taking in and the sweat I was putting out had to put the ecosystem in a state of imbalance. 

           

            After giving it some hard examination I think it is better that I ignore all the “improve yourself” commercials this time of year.  Forget about strengthening my core…never even knew I had one.  We didn’t have it on the anatomy test in school.  I am not even going to try and learn a new language with Rosetta Stone.  Only if I can get the condensed version that will teach me to say “I’ll have a Snickers and a Coke” in Portuguese.

 

Happy 2009 to you all.

Christmas Greetings

We send holiday greetings from the Pruitt household. That’s right this is one of those quaint “information” letters sent out at Christmas. Here’s a bit of what we have been up to over that past few months: About July Leslie was already thinking about Christmas when he asked if I would like a fur coat to wear this winter. I was taken aback and mentioned that it was not really politically correct to harvest fur for this purpose. He said not to worry about that and he put me to collecting the road kill that shows up after those warm summer evenings. I am either going to have to loose a few pounds or find another kill or two if I want to have it done come zero weather. If you happen to spot something on the roadside by all means give me call.

In turn I could have bought Leslie a new car but with a bottle of “Super Synthetic Motor Slide” you almost can’t hear those valves rattling and knocking. Campaign time is always great too because you can hide those unsightly dents and scratches with bumper stickers. Who needs a new Lexus when you can have a Chevy with every party’s sticker making a colorful statement. This is also eco friendly by not sending another rust trap to the dump and we are recycling those bumper stickers because those guys that lost will most certainly run again so we have a head start on the next election. We have also decided given the economic crunch to not take that trip to the beaches of Jamaica this year. Leslie is going to set the water softener up for extra cycles and we can just stand under the shower and feel the spray of salt water in our faces. A plus is that neither one of us will have to be seen in bathing suit. I told him he could wear his sunglasses if he wanted to. In another effort to help and save money I have tried to be more creative with leftovers. A bit of food coloring here and a dash of paprika there can disguise somewhat. Al Gore would be proud because I have also discovered that if those leftovers last for more than a few meals I can always dim the lights, use candles for ambiance and maybe Leslie won’t know it was the same beef and noodles from 4 days prior. Look at all the energy we are saving.

I know you are wondering about our dog Shelby. Sure you are. Two adults without children and they have a dog they dote on …you just can’t wait to hear all the cute things she does. She almost has her training of us complete. We pretty much do whatever she wants whenever she wants it. I know my place in the pecking order in the house. I once had aspirations of moving up in rank but no more. The family was riding around in the car one afternoon when Leslie had to stop abruptly. In doing so Shelby slid out of the back seat onto the floor. My head hit the doorpost by the windshield. Leslie kept asking me (while I was nursing the goose egg on my forehead) if I thought Shelby had gotten hurt. I told him that I had hit my head and he kept saying he sure hoped that Shelby wasn’t injured. Thankfully I didn’t need medical attention because I doubt if the vet’s office was open on Sunday afternoon. As they say at the end of the movies “no animals were injured in this story”.

We did have a bit of a concern with my cat. We decided that she was showing signs of possibly having an eating disorder because she sat on the bathroom scales all the time. I told Leslie only those with tendencies toward anorexia would spend so much time on the scales. So in an act of intervention I hid the bathroom scales. Alas Leslie and I can’t step on them but that is a small sacrifice for the psychological welfare of Fluffy. Everything is pretty much as usual on the farm; cows getting out, equipment breaking down, costs of planting and fuel going up, price of grain going down. I am still working away from home and with the looks of my 401 (not so O.K.) I have been brushing up on my skills for my after I reach 65 job. How does this sound ”Hi welcome to Wal-Mart”.

If you happen to drive by you will see that we have our Christmas lights up. I got a really good after holiday deal a couple years ago on some outdoor lights. The problem is that the only color they had left was red. I had no idea how many people were partial to red lights. We have all sorts of strange men stopping in just to say “Seasons Greetings”. So with this we say best wishes to all our family and friends that we hold dear. May your year hold good health, happiness and good fortune and if fortune doesn’t find you I can give you some pointers on disguising leftovers.

 Merry Christmas from down on the farm

The Big Sunday

Today is a great day for us that belong to the Benevolent Football Haters of the World.  I know it is Super Ball Sunday the day of gluttonous hype and foreplay (aka pre-game bore).  In our creed of the BFHW we stand by the fact that football has the highest ratio of wasting time to actual action of any endeavor since watching Big Brother on TV.  You ask why someone as myself that detests the game of football would claim the "day of holies" to all the worshipers at the temple of pig skin to be a day of happiness for me.  I realize this day provides opportunities to a number of old has-been jocks that sadly hang on to the theory that they can be a football player forever.  These sad examples of ultimate denial find gameful employment providing "color commentary" which translates to stalling for time while you wait for another 60 secs. of actual action.   Who cares if that All American tight end draft pick once read Huckleberry Finn from front to back. I have come to believe that the use of steroids does promote senseless mundane comments.

I am convinced that there is a conspiracy going on that the football fanatic has fallen victim to without his knowledge.   Yes it is a conspiracy by retailers to prey on the unsuspecting disciples of the gridiron.  What do you think for retailers to be their saving salvation after the holidays?  That's right it is Super Bowl Sunday.  Let's clear out all those big screen T.V.'s that didn't sell at Christmas even if we marked them down.  Let's mark them back up and you bet your beer nuts Joe Armchair Quarterback will be throwing down the rent and grocery money just to see Bill Madden all blown up in digital...Yikes.  How about all those stale chips and booze that didn't sell for New Years.  Don't worry Mr. Retailer we can palm them off on the unsuspecting party thrower.   All they want is quantity to satiate the rowdy hoardes flocking to watch the game on their new big screen T.V.  (purchased by aforementioned Joe A. Quarterback).  When the inventory tax was still in effect in our state Super Sucker oops I mean Super Bowl Sunday was the last hurrah to shove that old inventory out the door before you had to pay taxes on it.  Let's not forget the professional cleaners.  It is one of their most revered holidays.  After the boys throw back all those brewskys and the 3rd and 4th pizza land upside down on the carpet...Mrs. Joe A. Quarterback has to call in the pros to reclaim her carpet from squaller.  There is nothing that truly shows the finest elements of capitalism at work than unloading a bunch of marked up merchandise to promote raucious, degrading behavior watching a over sold, over promoted blow out sporting event where the overpriced commercial is clamored for.  And what conversation do you hear the most on post Monday?  That's right the bad half time show and the commercials.   Well viewer you have just been duped for another year.  You ingested the biggest dose of commercial manipulation imaginable and here's the plus...you get to have a hangover the next morning.  Isn't free enterprise wonderful? 

  Enough of my assessment of the positive points of football.  Today will be last day for a while that we will have to work our way around the T.V. channels to avoid this "sport?"  The most important thing about today is.....fanfare please....  that's right it is PUPPY BOWL IV on Animal Planet.  For this and only this today deserves to be circled on your calendar.  This event is a physical contest with players that play because they really love to play with each other.  They are not playing to try and secure a place on a Chunky Soup commercial for Bubba and his momma. They don't care which team wins.  Heavens they even switch teams mid play.  Unlike football we don't have to watch a embarrassing juvenile display when a goal is scored.  And here is another plus.  At half time we don't have to worry if we have to watch a half-time show that is in poor taste or no-talent.  The only wardrobe failures here are in the privacy of your own home not on the T.V.  The kitties provide the half time show so there are plenty of babes for the fellas to watch and lots of glitter, flash and feathers for the ladies.  So I leave you with this thought

Puppy Bowl on T.V.=$0.00, Extra Microwave Popcorn=$1.50, Not having to worry about watching a Michael Jackson commercial-

                                                                       PRICELESS.

Happy Sunday to all of you....regardless of your "persuasions"

Our First Plastic Christmas

As I turn over to the last calendar page for the year I begin to realize that the Christmas season is upon us.  I had tried to ignore the merchandising hints in August that yuletide was eminent.  I am afraid that the Easter Bunny is going to get bumped out of a job when the retailers start playing Christmas carols in April.  It is only natural to relive Christmas memories of the past when a chill hits the air.   Many families have a favorite Christmas movie that they ritualistically watch every year.  For many “It’s a Wonderful Like” or “Miracle on 34^th Street” is a family tradition.  Our family may be a bit different in that “A Christmas Story” the movie based on the stories of Jean Shepherd holds the place of reverence as the film that warms our hearts.  This movie and the humorous antics surrounding an Indiana family still makes me laugh.  Much of the dialogue has become a standard part of our genealogical vocabulary.  None of us will ever pronounce “Fragile” properly again just out of respect for the movie.  The number 2 seasonal movie would have to be “Christmas Vacation”.   Just one look at the relatives in this film would deter anyone in researching their lineage.  I envision myself in years to come as Aunt Bethany. She is totally out of touch reciting the Pledge of Allegiance as grace at the table and wrapping up the cat as a gift each year.

 

            I feel the reason these two films are endearing to me is that they are not too much of an exaggeration.   Some of these scenes in most families are possible if the holiday is allowed to meander unrestrained on it’s own course.  I remember when we were young that my brother found this time of year most difficult for him.  He had a problem keeping secrets and it was know that he could succumb during interrogation.  You can take comfort in the fact that he did not choose a career in the CIA.  The memory of the day that we took that first step into adulthood…never to return to childhood innocence is most vivid over 40 years later.  This was the day that we were told that there was no Santa Claus.  Of course it fell upon our mom to do the dirty deed.   Smart thinking on the part of fathers everywhere.    Why not etch that earth shattering revelation in your memory with the bearer of the bad news being your mother. Most dads dodge that bullet.  Their time will come soon enough though as their sons reach puberty and they have to explain the cycle of life.  From most men I envision this oration of life science to be like the play by play of a ballgame.  “He comes out of the dug out.  He hasn’t had too good of record so far in his rookie season.  He has yet to get to first base but today we feel he has the chance to get on the scoreboard.  Here comes the pitch; a little erratic but he manages to take a swing at it.  Not the best of form but he connects.  The hit is low but he frantically heads for first base.  The play is stopped dead before he gets there.  In a flurry of dust and disappoint his first attempt was not glorious.  Another day he will be victorious…” as his father explains.

 

            My mom sat down my brother and I when we were probably six or so and told us the cold hard truth.  The big guy does not exist!  I have come to decide the Santa entity was created to show kids how parents will twist your psyche.  This head manipulation most likely will continue well into your married life.  When Mom dropped the Santa epiphany upon us I think we took it pretty well.  Moms have a way of making bad medicine tolerable.  Of course it is always bolstered with the “you are growing up” compliments.  I have news for parents everywhere.  Kids are not so anxious to grow up until they begin to see the driver’s learners permit in sight.  This Santa disclosure came with a confidentiality clause though.  We were not to tell my cousin Rodney as he still “believed”.  Rodney was 10 months younger than I, and 3 months older than my brother. 

We swore that we would not tell and I personally thought it might be fun have “one over” old Rod by knowing the scoop.  It just so happened that we were going to my uncle’s that very day.  We were reminded shortly before the car came to a halt about the “Big” secret we knew and were not to share.

The car barely came to a stop before my brother flung open the door and ran toward Rodney as he came to meet us.  I can see vividly my brother whispering to Rod as soon as he came within ear-shot.  There was no doubt about the content of the hushed conversation.  Rod began to cry.  He had been denied the benefit of motherly interpretation as we had when we received the news.  My brother felt it best to state the facts to him plain and simple in one painful strike.  I think Scott did a service because Rod was ready.  He processed this revelation and also came to the conclusion that “well there probably isn’t any Easter Bunny either”.  This was not the only time my brother had a problem with a Christmas secret.  A few years later my mom wanted a new set of wedding rings for Christmas.  She had made all the hints and suggestions.  My dad had gotten her a new set of rings and told my brother and I this secret.   Scott and I were sitting with Mom at the kitchen table.  My mom could be one of those police interrogators just like on Law and Order.   Her tactic was build up my brother’s confidence and then come in with the bare knuckles question “Did your dad get me new wedding rings for Christmas”.  I chose this moment to leave the room.  I wasn’t his lawyer and could be of no help to him.  This was before Miranda so he was wide open to subversive tactics.  Mom even offered him a plea.  I can’t say for sure if a bribe was discussed but recollection has it that there was some mention of money.  He was weakening fast.  Just as he began to crumble under the millstone my dad walked past the kitchen doorway. To this day there are varying eyewitness accounts as to the exact gesture that my dad used to convey to my brother that it would not be in his best interests to spill his guts.  What ever it was it got the point across and my brother left the interrogation room confidence battered but with his secret intact.

My dad always knew how to make Christmas memorable.  Like most men he believed that the best present you could buy your wife would be something that plugged in and ran on electricity.  This belief is still prominent today.  Just walk down the aisle at Wal-Mart and see all those kitchen appliances that some poor unsuspecting wife will receive and never use.  How about that combination electric snow cone maker and waffle iron…man that is a great idea because it saves so much counter space.  Don’t forget to pick up that 18 volt electric mixer.  You know the one that dims all the lights in the house when you beat egg whites.  I remember well one of the gifts my dad bought my mom.  That present was a pair of electric scissors.  This was before the days of infomercials.   Were they produced by Ronco?  I can’t say because fortunately this was the only pair I have ever seen.  My mom did very little sewing.  She didn’t like to sew and actually avoided it if at all possible.  But boy she had a pair of electric scissors that were guaranteed to streamline cutting out patterns.  Now you had to almost use an extension cord  to be able cut out a dress because the scissors had a rather short cord.  Duh….the guys in R & D missed that one.  Now this was during the era of polyester and double knit.  If you were sewing you were using these types of fabrics.  These scissors sure didn’t waste anytime getting dull.  This was another miscue by the manufacturing team.  You really had to see a pair of these dull scissors knawing to cut a 3 inch length of knit.  It was not a pretty sight mind you.  It looked somewhat like a man without dentures eating jerky.

If not a shopper, my dad did see to it to procure some memorable Christmas trees.  We lived in the country with acres of trees so my dad felt it was foolish to go out and buy a tree when we had such a forest of bounty.  In early years we bought trees from a fellow that had a Christmas tree farm.  They were really nice shaped trees and always decorated up really nicely.  In later years when my mom and I would begin to talk about going to buy a tree Dad would tell us not to go out and buy one because he had a nice cedar tree spotted.  We females would be anxious to put up the tree.  But like most men my dad was on the testosterone timetable so that meant wait to the last minute.  Finally he and my brother would venture out to cut the tree.  I would always have a sinking feeling until they returned because we never knew what they would return with.  Some acquisitions weren’t too bad, but one year particularly stands out.

Actually this was the LAST year that we had a live tree.  My dad and brother returned from the woods victorious…or so they thought.  The tree my dad had scoped out was not quite as full as he had originally remembered,  but against the wall one would never notice.  Mom and I watched out the window in horror while dad proceeded to put the tree in the stand.  If a evergreen tree could have the rickets this poor thing would be a textbook case.   As dad stood the tree up in the living room he had trouble deciding just which “side” gave the tree’s best profile.  This was an exercise in futility because a good side… Ole Tannenbaum had none.  The tree was so sparse that we could have hung basketballs for ornaments and they would not have touched another branch.  Like most men my dad sees a chance to make enhancement modifications.  You know like when men want to put a V-8 engine in the lawn mower?  My dad goes upstairs and gets his fishing tackle box.  That’s right boys and girls.  Monofilament fishing line is just the thing for tying up those tree branches for that special holiday effect.  Even my brother stood mouth agape as my dad proceeded to tie up the tree in foot after foot of plastic bondage.  Then the master artist stepped back to view his work and with a “doesn’t look too bad” he turned over closing up the patients wound to mom and I.  Close up the patient with what….there was no suture material left.  It had been used to crisscross from top to bottom.  The poor thing looked more like a warped loom than a stalwart sentinel of the forest.  As mom and I proceeded to try and hang ornaments we realized how impossible it was going to be.  We became entangled in the network of filaments like flies in a spider web.  We usually took pictures of our tree every year or had pictures of Christmas day activities around the tree.  If this tree was in any picture they have since mysteriously disappeared.  Not exactly one for the decoration memory book.

  The moral of this story boys and girls, the next Christmas found a new artificial in our living room.  That’s right a tree composed of branches made of plastic filaments.  In looking back maybe dad was on to something.

            

The Demon of Summer

     It's August in Indiana and the temperature and humidity are both in the nineties.  If there is one thing that is good about dog days is that it is optimum for the ripening of fruit.  Be it tomatoes, watermelon or peaches those hot humid days and sultry nights bring on the bounty.  I have just come inside from picking blackberries along the fence in the back yard.  Oh the domestic thornless blackberry.  Now that is a development that I equate on the level of importance alongside the availability of permanent press for moving man or rather woman out of the dark ages.  While leisurely harvesting fruits the size of Shaq O'Neal's big toe I began to think about the days before this fruit had been cloned, mutated and improved to serve modern tastes and yard culture. 

     Before the domesticated blackberry the quest for the wild fruit put fear and trepidation in all but the seasoned outdoorsman.  As the heat began to climb kids all across the heartland began to ready their pails for collection of the elusive treasure.  To return from the hunt laden with bucket overflowing meant you would be mother's favorite for a day or so.  If you happen to gather enough for jam you could milk the favor well into Thanksgiving.  Even the wounds of battle from the thorns were worn like badges of courage.  I always made sure not to think too much about the possibility of snakes in the underbrush as I quickly picked everything I could reach.   All the time I wondered if any young person had ever died of heat stroke picking berries.  I thought if this were to happen  I would be given a foragers honor like none had ever seen.

     Always thankful to have the bucket filled I would climb on the bicycle and feel a breeze as I rode back to the house.  That evening at supper was a hail to the conquering hero.  Mom made sure to get the blackberry cobbler done just on time so that it was still warm but not too hot because it would curdle the cream that Dad loved to pour over it.  Yes my position in the will was cast in stone.  Even if my permanent teeth did come in crooked or I fail at my first attempt at my driving test I was in like Flynn.  And it cost me very little to attain this stature just a bit of sweat and a bit of sunburn on my nose.

     As I lay that night in bed full of myself for the coup that I have scored I feel a bit of an itch pajamas south.  I scratch as dignified as one can in that region.  My I am sleepy.  Itch...scratch.  Did I put my bicycle on the porch or leave it...itch...scratch...in the yard...itch...scratch.  I know I don't have the measles because...itch...scratch...I had them....itch...itch...scratch...scratch...two years...itch...itch...scratch...scratch....scratch...ago.  Itch...Itch...I am not going to....scratch....scratch.........  As the night goes on forever the daylight brings the evidence of the sleepless frenzy...  The scourge of summer....CHIGGERS!

     The pest that is politically correct.  That's right...he cares not if you are rich or poor.  Donald Trump will have welts just like a pauper.   He cares not about your color.  White, black, brown or yellow you scratch the same.  He cares not of your religious affiliation.  He will pester you in the confessional just like he will in temple.   He can humble the most confident statesman or king just by making you itch where you shouldn't scratch.  And humble you he will for he really gets fired up when you put your glad rags on.  You know if you go out on a date or to church.  These are the times in church you hope for that LONG prayer so you can get a quick scratch in while everyone's eyes are closed.  Heaven forbid he digs in during a hot August night tent meeting.

      As the tent gets warmer Mr. Chigger begins to giggle because he is going to test your resistance to temptation.  Not the temptation the preacher is howlin' about but the temptation to claw like a hound dog.  As you stand firm the tears begin to roll down your face.  You begin to breathe deep to try and ride out the itchy wave.  As you begin to squirm and fidget you are thankful that the crowd rises for a rousing hymn.  You think by letting the blood rush to your feet you will decrease your sensation of annoyance around your waistband.  But No, he is well into the throes of torture.  You shuffle your feet to regain your composure and the people next to you are watching. They begin to step out into the aisle to provide you with the clear path to answer your alter call.  You step out to take your misery outside but in reaching the aisle the throng gives an "Hallelujah" and lead you down front as the choir sings.  The preacher asks if you have been tortured by your indiscretions.  You answer yes because you know that the weakness for blackberry cobbler put you in this degrading state of angst.  The preacher asks if you are ready to go down to the creek and be washed clean of your distress.  All you can think of is that cold water running out from the mouth of the cave on the hill.  You think you can drown Mr. Chigger and send him down to the gulf of Mexico.  You answer yes to the preacher and tell him the sooner the better.  The processional is glorious.  The minister leading at the front as you follow jerking and jiving to try and get your underwear where they won't make Mr. Chigger mad.  The throng of well wishers follow in song bolstering your divine commitment.

     You reach the water's edge and you jump in before the preacher can even say a prayer.  As he sends you under you feel the cool wave of redemption.  When you come up the minister proclaims to the congregation that you are now free of your demons.  I know he thinks that demon to be Satan, but I would like to interject this possible item for consideration.  In the garden of Eden it is taught that Satan took on the form of a serpent...I have to say this.  If Adam and Eve were picking fruit in the garden....the sure demon of mankind had to be the chigger!

From down on the farm Smiles...itch...itch...scratch...scratch...Amen

Non-Conformity

I really am beginning to feel my age because I am finding it more difficult to understand the language of youth and technology.  I have trouble defining trendy catch phrases as well.  When I upgraded by cell phone a few months ago the salesperson felt that the text message feature was a big selling point.  Now the little gal selling me on this phone was probably all of 20 years old.  I am sure she is really into the text message jargon but I have seen some of the shorthand they use and I would never be able to understand a received message let alone be able to answer back.  I think these messages look like the typing from the girl that sat next to me in typing class.   Oh man I really told my age there.  Typing class…. is the word typewriter even in the latest version of the Webster?  Anyway this gal had to be the worst typist I had ever seen.  Her text looked like script from the Dead Sea Scrolls.  That gal would be a text message whiz today!

            I don’t even understand the whole cell phone mania.  I see these young kids walking around and everyone has a cell phone glued to their ear.  What matters of earth shaking proportions could they be subverting?  I don’t even like to talk on my cell phone.  After I sit at work, listen and answer the phone all day the last thing I want to do after the earn a living grind is “chit chat” on the phone!  I know adults are just as addicted to this “convenience” but I like to rationalize that just maybe their job as a secret agent or tollbooth attendant requires 24/7 availability.  And what is with these earpiece phone attachments?   I went through a period when these hands free innovations first came out that had me really questioning my sanity.  I was seeing all these people talking to themselves.  I begin to wonder if I wasn’t one of those super intelligent people that have an onset of schizophrenia.  I felt like I was in a David Lynch movie.  Then the revelation hit me that these people were carrying on one of those very important conversations as a tollbooth attendant on their cell phone.  These people were so much in demand that they could not tie up their hands with all the time that they were needed on the phone preventing world disaster.

            As I said before I am also having problems with some of the new catch phrases.  Now I know when I was growing up, who really could put a definition on the word “groovy”? At least we weren’t using the word for something serious.  One I find most confusing is the word “issues”.  What does it mean when they say “he has issues”.  Does it mean that he has a problem deciding whether to wear the brown socks or the black ones?  Or is his psychosis so advanced that he can’t decide if he wants to be a pyromaniac or just a fireman instead.   I think the word becomes very convenient for defense attorneys trying to pull an acquittal out of their behinds.  “Mr. Jones can not be held responsible for tying up his wife with clothesline and beating her with a clothespin bag because she starched his shorts.  Mr. Jones has issues.”  Did you pick out of that statement what really would sound wrong to most people?  Not the fact that Mr. Jones is a wife abuser but the reference to a clothesline and a clothespin bag.

Do you know the quickest way to get kicked out of an “exclusive housing community”?  That’s right….put up a clothesline and hang the old man’s tightie whitee’s on the line.  Gasp…..a flagrant violation of a covenant.  What is with that covenant stuff anyway?    That’s another word that has become a matter of everyday speech.   This farm girl is redneck enough to say that my back stiffens when a homeowners group tells me what kind of garbage can to have.  For 40 years the only place I knew there were covenants was in the Bible.  I guess that is why they bestowed the name to these outrageous rules of development living.  Give these outlandish demands prominence.  Where do these covenants come from?  Let’s speculate how it comes about.  You have Joe who lives in this subdivision.  He is his back yard burning brush.  He is really getting into the smoke and blaze and all that when a neighbor yells out “thou shalt not burn brush in this housing addition”.  Joe stares into the fire thinking this decree is coming from a higher power….ta dah….the sub-division covenant is born.   Problem now….Joe can no longer receive flaming revelations because he can’t burn in his back yard because it is against the rules.  What happens when you violate a covenant?  You know what happens to those you ignore in the Bible.  Do the sub-division council of elders come to your door and threaten to have you and your family shunned?  Or maybe you have to sacrifice little Earl’s hamster to the high priests of the association at the annual members meeting.  I must admit that I have had the urge to collect every bit of Johnson Grass seed I can find and in the dark of night broadcast these community front yards.  Then I can stand back and watch. Chaos ensues as they lash out at one another when their new landscape plantings wreck havoc with the covenants.

Wow does that make me sound like one of those non-conformists in the 60’s?  Oh well maybe so.  I guess I may seem like those that chose not to fit in with progress.  I live out in the sticks with my dog and cats. The old man makes his living off of the land and we could live for a long time off of the food we have stored.  We are content with the simple life.  But I will fill your backside with 00 buck shot if you try and take away my satellite TV.

Livin’ the simple life…down on the farm

Ellen

Real Life in Perspective 4/16/07

The date of April 16, 2007 will not be remembered as a day of levity.  All of my other postings to this site are of a humorous tone but this posting is not in that same vain.  I am compelled like much of the rest of this country to express in words the feelings for the madness we witnessed at Virginia Tech yesterday.  I am still trying to digest the entire event.  When one works away from home you are somewhat cloistered from the immediate flash of images that being close to a television produces.  You instead rely on internet reports and radio reports.  This is just the way I spent 9/11 while practically a great deal of the world were glued to a T.V.  I spent the day much like most did on December 7, 1941 making visual images in my mind from the radio accounts.  No amount of imagination can recreate the actual horror of such events.   We have no precedent to base these attrocities on. 

I was thinking about the fact that I felt perfectly safe in my school rooms when I was young.  When I was in high school we had a rash of bomb threats for several days on end.  These always occured the first period after lunch.  We would have to be ushered outside and spend a good deal of the period outside while the building was checked.  This was in the 70's when streaking was popular as well.  These were all pranks but had to be taken seriously. My class after lunch just happened to be Algebra and to this day I use the bomb threats as the excuse for my incapability of comprehending x, y, z....go fish...my definition of Algebraic functions.

I can not even begin to think of my teachers having to fend off an armed mad man while the students tried to save themselves.  I am sure my teachers could have done it but we were focused on other fears.  My school tenure was after the time of nuclear attack drills.  We never crawled under our desks for fear of fall out...even though fall out shelters around town were still clearly marked in case of the red villan.  Our biggest fear was of mother nature and tornados.  Some in the school were probably anxious about locker searches but the worst that would have been found would have been pornography or a bit of weed....both poor quality at that. 

I am not about to postulate about gun control.  I was raised hunting and around guns and was taught respect for weapons.  I believe the availability of guns does not a maniac make.  Someone wishing to do devastating carnage can use a bomb or arson.  A mind bent on violence will find a means with which to carry it out.  I just read on the internet that the shooter had written very disconcerting things that the university had taken note of.  It had been noted that he needed counciling because he showed severe disturbing undertones.  This event should quelch theories that violence tends to come from depravity and undereducation.  I know nothing about the assailant student's background but apparently he was educated enough to know that he had access to counciling and help, but alas did not seek it. 

We as a nation in our profound arrogance have prohibited prayer in school.  How many of the students, teachers, and Americans witnessing the events of Monday April 16 were praying to what ever higher being they hold dear for their lives, salvation or the comfort of others.  We have nothing else to reach for when the demon of insanity runs rampant. 

Ellen

March Down on the Farm

People unfamiliar with farm life here in Indiana often ask me about what it's like at various times of the year.  It is definitely a seasonal and calendar driven life.  I believe that most people have a nostalgic impression of farm life and given its realities and the speculative financial nature it is best to let them think of Lassie and Timmy.  But none the less allow me to tell you about this season and what you could expect if you came here on the farm for a visit.......

As the days begin to lengthen and the thermometer begins to slowly climb the pace on the Indiana farm begins to quicken.  It quickens in preparation for the season ahead and the excitement if not the unpredictability it brings.  I as a farm wife do my share of the preparations for the changes that will dictate our waking hours the next few weeks.  I shop at the grocery store and lay in the appropriate provisions....quick energy food, sandwich items, anything that can be eaten with the left hand while the right hand operates the equipment.  All sorts of beverages are purchased that will quench the strongest of thirsts.  My husband Leslie does his part in making sure that all the equipment is in working order.  When I say working order I don't just mean it runs when you turn it on...I mean maintenance to make sure that it can run for hours without stopping because an equipment failure can be devastating in the overall outcome.  He also devours all the latest publication information so that he is up to date on the latest trends and statistics...because lack of information can also be the land mine that blows everything skyward.  He  consults with all his farming buddies and they exchange opinions and predictions.  And let's not forget the experts on T.V. and the print media because they are never at a loss to express their choices for the coming season.  With the preparations, fortifications and the badge of experience from previous years we enter the season.......the season.....of.....

MARCH MADNESS!

That's right folks!  Here in Indiana the cradle of civilization for basketball there is nothing as important as filling in your brackets and following your favorite teams.   Not only is college basketball important but as the movie "Hoosiers" so accurately depicted, high school hoops are the next best thing to marrying off your daughter to the farm implement dealer!  In Indiana traveling to a tournament basketball game is akin to a pilgrimage to temple.  Instead of a mark of ash on your forehead you get a thumbprint of nacho cheese or ketchup.  I was raised with Bobby Knight just down the road.  I saw him more than once show up in a local restaurant for "all you could eat fried chicken" night.  I graduated from the high school of John Wooden and I can almost see his birth place in Hall from my front door.  I played basketball myself in high school in the pioneer days of girl's basketball in this state.  I was going to take my Indiana High School referee test but the preparation for my upcoming wedding took more energy and brain cells than I could spare so alas I never wore the black and white.  I have given you MY background credentials but the March madness maniac at our household is not me...but my husband Leslie.

He loves basketball...boys...girls...college... he would watch more pro ball later in the season but by that time he has to go to the field.  He and his friend Bob, comrade in basketball passion , use to pick a high school team to follow for the season.  Now this team did not always fall geographically close to home so they were known to travel everywhere following their "Cinderella team".  I have sat in gyms pretty much all over the state.  I could write a blog on the pros and cons of gymnasium design from the prospective of a woman with ample cushion.  But where the real magic happens in our house is the NCAA tournament.  They named it the "Big Dance" appropriately because Leslie prepares for it just like he was going to the prom.  I  have to tell you that "I am the man" because I bought him a new wide flat screen T.V. for Christmas, we have satellite as well so he is  watching in the highest tech I can afford.

He has the recorder all ready to tape games so he can go back and watch a play.  He has extra batteries because heaven forbid the remote control would go down for the count in the middle of a commercial.  Oh, commercial you say....that is when you jump to ESPN and watch the women's college tournament, the NIT or the Indiana High School tournament.  It's enough to cause a person to have gender affinity problems.  I needed to do some sewing this weekend so I sat up a table in the living room so we could "share some time together" while he watched the games.  I would sew a little and watch the men's college teams. I would then look up and remark that "those guys don't look old enough to be in college" only to find out that there had been a time out and he had switched to the high school game.  When I really began to doubt myself is when I looked up the next time and all the players had breasts!  You got it; he jumped to the women's games during the Lite Beer commercial. 

The living room looks almost like Houston control and it would be if I let him have a couple more T.V.'s in the room.  Last year he tried to watch the women's college tournament and the men's at the same time by...now make a mental picture of this...standing in the middle of the living room so he could see the living room television and turning the T.V. in the bedroom so he could also see it from his vantage point.  Both games were near the end and close in scoring, I thought I was going to have to get a crash cart and recuscitate him.  He is surrounded by all his print outs, remotes, pens and newspaper commentaries.   He works on his "bracketology" like I wish he would work on the porch light I need installed.   He gets up only to get nourishment and take care of necessities.  I personally think someone has missed the boat in not marketing the "Final Four Do It Yourself Catheter, designed so you won't miss a single moment of the action".   I can tell you the Monday aftermath around command central looks much like the Snake Pit after race day of the Indy 500 . 

I have to say that I am thankful that he chooses to indulge his passion at home and not go to some bar and watch the games surrounded by bar babes....like he would even notice a babe when a well executed hook shot has just sent the game into overtime.  I will continue to cheer on my team of choice and try and stay focused as the channel changer jumps from game to game. I am aware during this time of year for me to be wearing what he considered provocative attire I would have to have the Big Ten Stats pasted to my chest. I will not be seeing much of him later on as the planting time starts so I will treasure these intimate moments we share together like when a player suffers an injury and they break away to an update and we actually exchange a passing glance. I like it that we  can share this wonderful time of year.   Go Team!

All decked out in team colors down on the farm.

Ellen

Indiana Winter Tourism

Greetings from the Indiana Dept. of Tourism.  We would like to invite all our friends from Southern climes to come and visit us during this most enjoyable time of the year.  Why slather on suntan lotion hoping to add some color to that jail pallor.  When you are here in Indiana just leave some skin unexposed to the elements and in no time you will have a rosy glow like you did when grandma scrubbed you with lye soap.

And what about all the lovely ice sculptures.  The trees are just breathtaking with sparkle and so visible from your vantage point at the side of the road awaiting the tow truck.  Our capital city would like to welcome you with a blizzard warning.  There's no better way to meet new people than sleeping on a cot in a storm shelter.  Or better yet enjoy one of our farm bed and breakfasts when you get stranded out in the country far from the interstate.  You may even have the option to help with farm chores to offset your lodging fee.

For a taste of history simply venture out into the rural areas where you take a step back in time.  Heat and meals are prepared on a wood fire and the stories and games played by oil lamp light because of power failures.  And don't forget those nice therapeutic baths from cold water drawn earlier in the day because the well pumps and water heaters are electrically dependent.

And romance...make your Valentines Day trip to the Hoosier state and have an evening you will always remember.  Start off with a delectable meal of cold pork and beans and progress to a night cap of Old Grandad to ward off the cold before you put on 3 layers of clothes before climbing into bed.  What adventure for amore` with those Carhart coveralls ,Granny Flannels and battery operated hunting socks.

Make scenic wintertime Indiana your next tour destination.  No need to let us know you are coming...we can guarantee all the wintertime enjoyments we mentioned.  Just fill up the car with gas, batteries, first aid kit, blankets, clothes, food, water and lots of cash to pay for the wrecker service.  We are easy to find.  Just head North until you start to see cars and trucks slid off the road and you will be here.  We look forward to your visit.

Your Tour Guide,

Ellen

Bless His Heart

 

A fabulous artist that I like to think of as my friend, Mariela told me this story about a lady who said that you could say anything you wanted to about a person as long as you ended with "bless their heart".  So in essence you could say "Joan, she is worst home-wrecker in three counties....Bless her heart".  When she told that story we all laughed and now "Bless their heart" is the quite joke.   Now with that seed planted for future cultivation I will proceed.

God knew what he was doing when he made man the complete opposite of woman.  I am not speaking in the anatomical sense.  I am referring to the psychological sense.  If you take a motor and reverse the battery connections (i.e. positive to negative) you know what happens?  The motor runs in the opposite direction and that is what the good Lord seen fit to do.  After he wired man he said to himself "ah yes, this model will be most energy efficient and put out the most horsepower but ....." and so he reversed the polarization and woman was born!  A steady dependable (maybe not always the most quiet) model with all the fine luxury features for comfort.

     I know one time my friend and I were on one of our girl trips.  We were in one of those shops....you know the ones that women love and men hate.  The shops with all the candles, linens all the great stuff that make womens hearts go pitty pat.  Anyway we are scoping out all the great stuff in this store.  Here is woman and man together shopping.  This guy is pointing out all this cool stuff to this lady.  And I do mean "cool" stuff.  The things that we gals would grab each other and squeal over....and here is a mature male pointing out how neat this would look on the hall table with  those other accessories!  My friend and I look at each other and we immediately know what the other is thinking.  Reincarnation is real!  This man has been a woman in a previous life.  A woman with very good and artistic taste as a matter of fact.  We find a corner and share our dismay and we have come to the conclusion that this fella is either just the lady's date or a gay friend of hers.  We can't even imagine our husbands even entering past the threshold of this shop!  Hey,  Leslie my husband thinks Feng Shui is a type of jungle rot contracted by soldiers in New Guinea in WWII.  This guy is talking about the flow and contrast of colors in the room.  I almost wanted to throw him down in the potpourri aisle and ravage him it was so alluring.  And here comes the killer...after the couple left as we carried our bountiful purchases to the counter we remarked on our observation to the shopkeepers.  They were as enthralled as we were.  They even shared the information that this man of our dreams shall we call him "deco-man" (for man familiar with the principles of decorating) was actually this lucky lady's husband!  We all sighed in envy to reference to the woman's accomplishments in finding "specimen/male/certified for reproduction".  Oh well...scientists are still searching for the "missing link" and little do they know but my friend and I found him in a girlie shop in North Carolina.

       I love my husband.  He is sensitive, kind and void of the bad habits (i.e. drinking, carousing, etc.) that are grist for every good country song.  He had been single for seventeen years when we married.  I had never been married and dove out of the airplane without a parachute shall we say at the age of  forty.  So I had developed my sense of independence and he has always understood and respected that.  As a matter of fact it was his idea that I hyphenate my name since I already was somewhat known for my artwork etc.  My girlfriends and I like to travel and take trips to places that interest us.  We have gone to Texas to see the Bluebonnets, to Natchez to see the plantations and to Georgia to tour the gardens at Callaway.  My husband is very understanding of that.  He also allows me to travel and study with artists and attend china shows all over the country.   We are not just talking about a trip of day or so.  The last trip to a convention I was gone for 10 days!  Since he was single for so long, he is very self reliant.  Now a friend of mine her husband is not quite so.  He is a very smart man but could not cook a hot dog.  He would probably starve like a chained dog without meals prepared with specific instructions. 

     Since we girls have done quite a bit of traveling without our spouses my friend Ellen (same name as me) and I thought maybe we should plan a trip and take our husbands with us.  We took a weekend jaunt to Southern Indiana to tour old homes along the Ohio River in Madison.  Now my husband Leslie loves the river...any river.  If he weren't a farmer I think he would love to be a barge pilot or a train conductor.  Anyway we thought this would be a nice trip.  Oh My God!  Now Ellen's husband did pretty good.  He was pretty amicable but Leslie....woah!  When I drove he was constantly correcting me...when we got ready to go into the third house on the tour he proclaimed "I'm staying in the car...you see one old house you've seen them all".  How I have longed to make that same statement as we have driven the countryside looking at field after field of corn and soy beans.  After his proclamation I turned to my friend Ellen and she and I almost synchronized say to each other..."we will Never do this again!" 

     Leslie and I have sense traveled by ourselves with some pleasantries but usually not without some form of discord.  One of the later trips we have taken was over this past Labor Day weekend.  We were traveling over to visit the John Deere compound and museum in Molene, IL.  I thought this would be of interest to him.  Well I had made all the hotel reservations over the Internet and made all the plans and packing.  All he had to do was get in the car.  Our reservation the first night was in Peru, IL.  Since we left home after I got off of work we arrived after 9:30 P.M. to the hotel.  Even though I booked with a named hotel chain when we went in our room, I was aghast.  The lamp shades were so old they were in shreds.  The floor covering in the bathroom was worn so badly you couldn't even tell what the pattern was.   The clerk said they were knocking off $5.00 from our bill because we could not call out on the room phone.  We  could receive calls but we couldn't call out...not even to the desk! I nearly shrieked but it was late and I didn't want to try and find another hotel that time of night on a holiday weekend.  Besides Leslie really didn't see what I was so upset about.  The next two nights our accommodations were elsewhere and much more to my liking.  I remarked as soon as we reached the room what a difference there was between our stay from the previous evening.  That was until........later that night.  After we returned from supper and settled in for the night.  I was all comfy in bed and Leslie tries to turn on the T.V.  and havoc abounds.  Heaven forbid the batteries are not working on the remote control!  He rants and raves for nearly 10 minutes how none of these hotels ever check these things.  He has forgotten that the towels we had at the "dive" the night before could have sanded 2 coats of paint off of a car with 2 swipes!  But Oh.....a defective remote control is akin to the largest insult to one's mother!

     The next evening after we have dinner as we were going back to the hotel Leslie says..."before we go back I am stopping and getting some batteries for that remote control".  I could have suggested that he ring the desk and have them replaced.  But that is how much importance I placed on this staple of life.  So we stop and he buys batteries.  Back in the room I retire to the nice bathroom with thick fluffy towels and enjoy a nice relaxing bath only to return into the room to find Leslie mumbling as if in some trance saying that the batteries were not working.  He asks if I can look and see if he has placed them in correctly (because his glasses were left in the car).  Now for a point of reference....said television that said remote is linked to is maybe 4 foot from the end of the bed.  Now any woman would simply go and switch on the T.V. manually, select her channel and be done with it.  But we are talking Alpha Male here.   With testosterone comes the inability to watch any type of commercial or ad, watching a show from start to finish not changing the channel during that telecast, and try and watch no less than 3 programs at the same time.

     I found that Leslie had placed the batteries in backwards....so like any dutiful wife I corrected the error and presented the squire of the castle with the finished work ready for his enjoyment.  I make myself comfortable in bed to drift off to sleep but shortly...  what is that noise....I open my eyes to see that in probably a span of 15 minutes Leslie has fallen asleep...snoring with remote control safely in hand.  I get up and Manually switch off the T.V.  The next morning as we prepare to leave our home away from home I pack while Leslie works feverishly taking the new batteries out of the remote and leaving the old batteries out on the night stand.  He says.."I want to make sure they know these batteries are bad so the next person won't have to put up with what I did.  I'm sure not going to leave the good ones here."  I am certain the person he was looking out for was the next husband that a wife who had tried to include him by deciding to travel together. 

     That brings me to fact that I guess someone you can stand to live with might not be the best of traveling companions.  I don't know.  But just like most women I think the terms trip with husband and vacation do not equate to the same thing.  My dear husband Leslie sometimes the most trying of traveling companions.....Bless His Heart!

Down on the farm where maybe I should stay...

Ellen