RevGals Meme … Many areas of the United States are having a heat wave. Global warming, anyone? Look on the bright side of melting glaciers and enviro-destruction by taking a crack at the Friday Five:
1. What’s the high temperature today where you are?
Wowzers … it’s supposed to be 90. But who know’s what the heat index (that’s the “feels like” temperature) is going to be
2. Favorite way(s) to beat the heat.
Is there anything besides air conditioning?
3. “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.” Evaluate this statement.
Humidity sucks the life and oxygen out of everything. Here’s how it works. Hydrogen comes sashaying along wearing sexy perfume and a lowcut dress. She sweet talks Oxygen into a romantic night on the town. Before you know it they’ve run off to Vegas for quickie marriage and just-our-luck it lasts. Since there are 2 Hydrogens for every Oxygen we have to assume they are into polygamy! Humidity is actually a sin.
4. Discuss one or more of the following: sauna, hot tub, sweat lodge, warm-stone massage.
Saunas are wonderful, awesome inventions … the only exception being when you step out your front door and find that the entire out of doors has been turned into a sauna. Then … they stink. Saunas are especially wonderful after a swim in the winter. Hot tubs are equally wonderful inventions.
5. Hottest you’ve ever been in your life
102 … I think.
Or maybe it was when I used to go out clubbing with my friends … I was pretty hot back then.
Non-temperature related bonus: In your opinion… who’s hot? Johnny Depp … ummm hm.
I’ve used that old hack, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” so often that I’ve forgotten what lemons taste like. I’ve incorporated it so deeply into my life that lemons just automatically become lemonade. For many years I’ve thought that to be positive was a good and necessary trait. This morning I realized it’s not always so. I think that it’s a tragedy of our culture that we do not allow ourselves to engage with the lemons before turning them into lemonade. To feel them, smell them, taste them … in short allow ourselves to feel whatever pain we need to feel in order to move on.
In April of 1998, LightHusband suffered what we thought was a short term back injury. It turned into a three year odyssey which included weekly doctor visits to Walter Reed, a year and a half on convalescent leave and high-powered narcotics. His condition remained undiagnosed for more than two-thirds of that time. Many of the treatments actually aggravated his condition and made it life-long. Much of the time he couldn’t sit or stand for more than ten minute periods. The children were quite small; it began shortly after LightBoy’s first birthday and we knew we were finally out of the woods around his fifth birthday. It was, to put it mildly, a nightmare.
We met way back when. Way back when we were both enthralled with fife and drum music. He was in The Old Guard Fife & Drum Corps. We both belonged to a civilian corps. We wrote music together, put together shows, wrote marching drill, taught students. But mostly we dreamed about the day when he would retire from the Army and we’d go back to New England with our own children and march in a fife and drum corps back there. That dream was shattered forever in April of 1998. He will never ever be able to march again. He can barely play his snare drum through a song or two without being in pain for several days. We’re still enthralled with the music. I love to play. I’m still quite good, the fingers remember. But how can I? It just hurts too much.
The Israelites called it “mara” or bitter water. I think it’s lemon water … lemonade with no sugar. I’m learning to experience the lemons; to feel the pain in order to move on.
I’m experiencing that rarest of gifts for a parent, peace and quiet. The LightChildren are visiting their grandparents for two weeks. They are with my parents this week, and with LightHusband’s parents next week. They are in Vermont. We are here. Ahhhh. I love those two dearly, but sometimes they leave me with my ears bleeding from all the words I have to hear. The ramp up to this trip was hair-raising. I have to apologize to the BrickDude. He and his lovely wife, GoldenGirl, came to visit and trade cars with us the evening before the LightChildren left. There came a point in the evening when both children were talking at the same time, in ever increasing volumes, about different subjects to BrickDude. It was horrifying. He handled it with aplomb. But they left shortly thereafter.
The next day, packed and ready to go, we set out for the airport. We stopped for lunch at a favored Indian restaurant. We got to the airport with plenty of time to spare for any “unforeseen circumstances,” such as identity needs, long lines, who knows. Nothing happened. There were no “unforeseen circumstances.” With one tiny exception. We checked the LightChildren in at the ticket counter, checked their luggage, filled out the “unaccompanied minor” paperwork, had a lovely chat with the ticket lady (who was very kind and just the tiniest bit frazzled when her key got stuck in the drawer) and then she spoke the words of doom in the most cheerful voice imaginable, “So, which ONE of you will be accompanying the children to the gate?” Me (reeling and looking around and the millions of people and imagining shepherding the children through the masses of evil humanity alone … and remember my lingering panic disorder which gets worse in crowds): “Ummm … One? You mean BOTH of us can’t go with them?” Cheerful Ticket Lady (who’s name was Eva): “Oh no, I can only allow ONE of you to go. So who will it be?” LightHusband is rather desperate to relieve himself of the duty because he had spent all morning with them while I went to a guild event and his ears were bleeding. Really. But I. Just. Could. Not. Go. I also could not stay and not go with my dear children. In the end, LightHusband graciously gave way and allowed me to stay back. We dawdled around as long as is possible in place that is so clearly NOT designed for people to wait. There are no places for sitting, only places for standing in line or walking. One is clearly expected to complete one’s business and go on one’s way here; do not dawdle.
In the end, I found a Cinnabon stand, purchased a tasty treat, a cup of coffee and a couple of magazines to read. It was interesting to me that when he got to the gate LightHusband also bought a magazine to look at. He got Food & Wine. This is a fun magazine. What do I get when I have a few hours to myself in a busy airport? The Economist, U.S. News & World Report, and another magazine about living green. That’s sad; it says something about my inability to relax.
On the other hand, I really enjoyed my little piece of time to catch up on some reading about world affairs. It’s a passion of mine that I’ve had little time to indulge since the advent of children in my life. I’ve even gone so far as to subscribe to the on-line version of The Economist. I used to read it frequently, now I’ll be able to again.
I spent most of my time reading about the current crisis between Israel and Lebanon. It’s a situation that is heartbreaking. Lebanon was just struggling back to her feet. There are times when I’d like to give Syrian president Assad a real talking to. Seriously, the Syrians need to own up to the underhanded work they are doing. A small splinter group in Lebanon has demolished it yet again. The picture that went with the article made me cry.
Then I read this sentence or two:
On each of these fronts the fighting was precipitated by an audacious attack on Israel’s army by fighters belonging to extreme Islamist groups that combine the functions of armed militias—“terroristsâ€, says Israel—and elected political parties.
The phrase, “armed militias,” caught my eye. We bluster on here in the U.S. about our highly touted “War on Terror.” But what was the Revolutionary War? It was many groups of “armed militias” using guerilla tactics against a much larger, colonial power who was trying to take away freedoms that our forefathers thought they had a “right” to.
I’m not sure how far out we or I can draw this analogy, but I have to wonder what tactics our forefathers would have used if they had had the weaponry at their disposal that the Arabs do today. I wonder if we were British would we consider them heros? or terrorists? Just what does it look like when it’s your land, religion and way of life that is at risk?
It’s really hard to define, that.
There has been an ongoing “discussion” between LightHusband and I.
I maintain that words have precise meanings. That they should be used within those meanings. I love words and I love to use them properly and appropriately. I think that being able to communicate well and clearly is a fine art. I enjoy this.
LightHusband, on the other hand, likes to play fast and loose with his words. He throws them around willy-nilly. They fall from his mouth in a waterfall.
Here’s a current debate. We both love to use WeatherUnderground to look at the weather forecast. We look at the radar blast.
He is fond of saying, “Look! The radar says there’s not a cloud in the sky. But there’s clouds all over the place.” I respond with, “The radar measures precipitation, not clouds. Therefore, the clouds will not show on the radar blast. They’ll show up on the satellite scan.”
He waves me off with a sigh, “Oh! You’re always so precise.” I roll my eyes and think to myself, “Well, isn’t that the point?”
Overheard at my quilt bee on Monday morning, “I’m not on a diet. I’m done with it. I’m just focussing on drinking water and walking every day. I figure at age 45 it’s time for me to start liking myself and how I look.” I loved that.
This morning during a discussion of what clothes LightGirl has and what she needs to take to camp at her grandparents, she surprised me with this, “I don’t like to wear shorts, Mom. I have fat legs. Especially up here.” and she indicated her thighs. And my heart shriveled and died for her. “She’s only twelve,” I thought, “I’ve done my best, I don’t want her to have that voice in her head.” I wanted to weep. I hope it doesn’t take her til 45 to learn to love herself. How does our culture do this to our girls?
Yesterday LightHusband and I went to the grocery store around supper time. Well, it was before supper because we needed to get food for supper. We also needed milk and stuff. Like envelopes, because our envelopes are buried in his former office closet which is now a nuclear dump zone (but you didn’t hear it from me). Anyway ….. as we walked around the grocery store sort of aimlessly without a list because all we knew was we had to get dinner, I noticed that a grocery store is a leveler. Everyone who is there is on equal footing. Some people get expensive bread and some get cheap bread, but everybody has to go to the bread aisle. There isn’t a hoity-toity aisle and welfare aisle. The food and other goods are sorted by type and within type by price, so everyone has to mix together to go up and down all the aisles. It’s the one place (at least in my town) where everyone from all income levels from illegal immigrant on up to the mayor comes together. It’s kind of nice.
Quilting is more than a hobby for me. It has become part of my dreams. When I look at scenery, or paintings, or anything of beauty, I see quilts. I see color and fabric and ponder how to best use fabric to represent that. Perhaps some would say it is a sickness.
Saturday several women from my guild gathered together to sew quilts for our community service projects. We make quilts for babies at our local hospital who’s mothers have nothing, and for the local Medicare nursing home, for children taken from their parents under stressful circumstances and for soldiers in the amputee unit at Walter Reed Army hospital. I have custody of the community service fabric and with the help of a friend made up kits to sew on Saturday. I loved the design process. Some of the fabric was, well, ugly would be kind. But in the right setting, it became lovely. I’m learning to design outside my box. I love that.
This morning I went to a bee. A gathering of quilters to sit and sew for a couple of hours and chat about everything and nothing. The conversation wandered down many paths. At a certain point we had to inquire as to the whereabouts of our hostess’ husband because the conversation had wandered into a canyon where only the bravest man might dare to go. The group involved many different women from all walks and times of life. Most of us have known one another for a long time. There is something about holding fabric and thread that breaks down walls and allows talk to flow. The masks come off. Stories get told and the atmosphere is one of acceptance. Gifts and experiences are shared with little thought of rejection. I realized this morning that it is a true joy to me that I share in this art of my foremothers and in so doing, I am participating in this dance of relationships that women have shared throughout the ages. That quilting uses fabric, but it also weaves the fabric of society. That I could not do this alone, and that my life is so much richer for it.
I wish I could remember who said, “Those who don’t remember history are doomed to repeat it,” but I can’t. However, the world is learning this lesson this week as we watch Israel and Lebanon strafe each other with rocket fire, among other things.
Why, oh, why was it so important to bust Iraq back to it’s borders when it overran Kuwait, but we are not even looking at Israel’s gross misconduct in Lebanon? Lebanon, which I might add, is a Christian nation in the Middle East. It’s not important to me. But that seems to be important to the Right wing these days.
I haven’t been keeping up on events there. I can’t. It hurts too much. I have Lebanese friends from college. It was the flower of the Orient. Beirut was the Paris of Arabia. The people are warm and friendly.
We have such leverage with Israel and we choose to remain silent in the face of this atrocity. We could do so much with so little and yet we ignore the bully on the playground. Diplomacy and our aid money can be used without ever sending one soldier. We have a history of brokering peace. But Israel is counting on this administration’s ignorance and/or hubris to do nothing.
I try hard not to wax political here. I get my dander up sometimes and I don’t like to get the dander of others up. But this gets under my skin and I can’t let it go. My mother drew our attention to it. Here’s a link to the whole article, but this is the paragraph that caught my eye:
The intelligence reform act incorporated recommendations from the commission that studied the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks; President Bush signed the bill in December. Supporters have argued the measure is necessary because terrorists could use vital records to steal identities, according to a Congressional Research Service report on the law.
You know, the critical word in that paragraph is the word “could.” Yes, the terrorists “could” do all sorts of evil things. But to date they have only done one. We have a lot of checks and balances built into our society and our culture that we have forgotten about. Our federal government (and for some reason the institutional church is playing along with it), is strumming the fear that we all have since 9/11 to institute all sorts of bad laws.
Ninety-nine percent of our population is honest. We are hard-working. We love our neighbors, we love our country. Yes, there are a few bad apples amongst us. There are in any population. So what? So we come together and look out for one another. The protection against bad apples is not more laws that restrict the freedoms of us honest people. The way to protect ourselves is to know each other. It’s to smile at one another on the street. To talk and laugh together. Greet one another. Hold each other up. Be gracious and kind and understand that while we all have faults, we all want what’s best for our children and our grandchildren. Laws do not change hearts or morality, people do. The government doesn’t know best and we’ve forgotten that. It’s time to remember that we do know better and we know how to take care of ourselves and each other. Let’s get together and do it!
I soldiered on yesterday evening. Doing my daily battle with my mortal enemy, the weeds! I am becoming triumphant; taking back more and more ground. I enjoy this battle. It is far more satisying than housework because once done, it largely stays done. I have to return and pick a few strays that pop up here and there, but as I come and go from the house, I can see tangible evidence of the work I have done. For the most part the work remains and does not get undone as so much of my other work does.
Part of my garden is centered around a large flat rock. The LightChildren used to use this rock as a battle station, or a lookout point in their many games. Now it is (or used to be before it was overrun with weeds) a focal point in my garden).
Yesterday evening as I clipped away the leggy yarrow and dug up the insolent weeds, I came across a miracle next to the rock. I had seen it there and wondered what this plant with the strange small red flowers was. I knew I would get to it soon. Yesterday I did. They were not flowers at all, but the beginnings of blackberries. Somehow I have a blackberry plant in the midst of my flower garden! How wonderful. If I had weeded earlier in the summer I would have pulled it up in woeful ignorance.
I’ll have just enough blackberries to have some for breakfast one morning. Lovely!
The sun is down and the day is almost done. My ennui is lighter now. I spent the day with a friend, talking quilts and pulling weeds. Full spectrum sunlight and doing battle against my mortal enemies is always good medicine for the soul. Not to mention all the little bugs I saw scurrying away as I uncovered them.