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 |  Just play: don't look at your hands! |
What a dumb title for a person who never got a single star  on her piano lessons!Daily practice is the thing though: the practice of noticing as well as of writing.  However, I'd much rather play duets than solos, so hop right in! You can do the melody or the base part, I don't care.  Just play along--we'll make up the tune as we go. I'll try to write regularly and deliberately. Sometimes I will do it poorly, tritely, stiltedly, obscurely. I will try to persevere regardless. It seems to be where my heart wants to go, and that means to me that God wants me there too. See you tomorrow. ![Merit Badge in Journaling
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| I am not naturally assertive. I sometimes wonder later, "Now why did I let that happen without saying something?" Sometimes I don't even notice later. Today I noticed. Chad, the contractor, who was supposed to show up yesterday at noon and never did come, arrived at 6:45 a.m.! I could hardly believe it when I saw him pull up with his trailer. He sat in his car for at least five minutes, probably eating breakfast or waiting till it was nearer to seven o'clock anyway. Then he walked up, coffee cup in hand, and opened the screen door. I opened the inner door, and he said, "I'm here to do the texturing." I said, "Not now you aren't. We're eating breakfast and will be getting showered and dressed to leave for work. You'll be in the way. You should have come yesterday at noon when you said you would." He looked amazed and apologized but gave no ground. "When will you be back?" I told him I could get here by noon again, if he would be here too. He agreed, apologized again, and was here waiting at ll:45. Since one room he textured is the one where Bill keeps his clothes and dresses (Yikes! I don't mean he wears dresses!  ) gets dressed, and the other is the hallway between the bedroom and bathroom, he would certainly have been right in the way. This afternoon we were both courteous to each other; and if he now thinks of me as a bitch, he didn't let on.  Tomorrow, though, he'll have someone here to begin painting the kitchen and hall at 7:30. That will work out all right, so long as we know in advance, and will actually get me to work earlier. Maybe we'll go out for breakfast. |
| Just came back from a party where Bill works, a pre-exercise party for the CSEPP people gathered at this site for the annual proficiency drill. I waited all afternoon for the stupid painter to come and finish the texturing and paint. He didn't show up at all. I am so frustrated with those two men. They come when we're not expecting them, like yesterday afternoon, and never arrive when they've said they would. Plus they aren't doing a very good job of the painting. The repair task went well, and the outside doors look nice, but the one guy must not use enough paint on his roller or go over it enough. Grrrr. All I've accomplished while waiting for them was to edit a story and enter a contest with it, which I'm proud of. It's the first short story-- not flash fiction-- that I've written that I felt very good about. |
Continuing my attempt at the trochee, I briefly tried a prompt from larryp contest, "what I cannot see." Read right, that's trochaic.
I had the poem itself here, but, since no one had looked at it, decided to spare you and just leave a link. The last line of it sounds a lot like the aforementioned, "When I pondered, weak and weary..."? Here's the link to my first sestina, thanks to Alfred.
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| I've learned, or re-learned, several lessons today. The first, of course, is that you can't count on workmen to appear at your doorstep at the hour they've set. You really need to make alternate plans. The second is, when you're all bunched up in a little room with three rooms worth of furniture so that the other two ceilings can be painted, and as long as you're going to have to wait an unlimited amount of time for the painter to appear, it's nice to be cramped into the computer room. That said, I wish I'd had a particular goal to work on, rather than anxiety about when I was going to be able to leave to see patients. I did try this morning to set up appointments for times after I could expect the work here to be truly underway. I did get to see one patient, and tried to make two appointments for this afternoon. Both of them wanted me to call back later. So I worked on a poetry assignment, reviewed a few things, and called back. "Call back later." So I did some other diddly things, knowing I'd regret later having had perfectly good time to myself that I was wasting away.  With the help of alfred booth, wanbli ska  I did finally manage to write a sestina. The idea had defeated me, despite the clear directions. Alfred's were clearer, and he gave me a prompt and some examples of ending words to use. I used all but one. So then I hopped through another easy poetry assignments and the first lesson of Short Story Pizzazz. I switched over from the Poets Talk Shop lessons when I reached one that, at least for the moment, wasn't fun. The assignment was to write a poem in trochaic meter. So, as I went through my day, the words running through my head all sounded like: "Round and round the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran," and "Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a volume of forgotten lore." The first example irritated my brain cells. The second overwhelmed them. |
| I had my blog half written on the annoying popdown screen I'm getting "for a quick blog entry" or some such thing. It's practically impossible to get my blog to open from the regular bar at the top of the page now. That is irritating enough, but it somehow popped back up and disappeared mid-blog. The truncated blog was titled, "Not much ado about anything," but was becoming a rant about the workers who haven't accomplished much around here this week. I won't go back over it. Suffice it to say, what could have been finished within the week will not be. So far I've had one worker show, or leave an indication that he's been here a few times, but not for long. He left some things on Monday, paint and supplies. Tuesday he sanded a little on two outside wooden doors, a little here, a little there, a little there. (I was at home for part of that; that's how I know his technique.) Today he arrived with more supplies, and went to back his car around to unload. Why he bothered to back in behind my car (leaving me ample room to get out, which was considerate) rather than back into the empty space closer to the house I can't imagine. So he managed to save himself the length of his car for delivery. Then he didn't have the right thickness of cedar for the repair to the board and batten. So he said he'd paint two inside doors. When I returned from a funeral, he was gone again, and one door was painted, just on the side that faces the hallway. The funeral, for one of our patients who was just admitted last week (Sigh...that happens far too often!) was interesting. It was held in a church I was curious to see inside of. It's an old church with steep steps in a square sanctuary Methodist style. The ceiling was very high, the walls and ceiling white and bright. The carpet was a few shades darker than a typical pool table cover green, or a banker's eye shade. There were nine windows, three to a side, the middle of each three a combined window three times the size of the singles. All had Gothic arches of dark wood with clear glass panes. The rectangular, lower parts of each were covered with an accordian pleated shade in the same green. The shades may have lowered, but it looked as if their main use was stationary. All in all, a very attractively done room, much more tasteful than I'd expected. Why would I expect less? Sometimes the "refurbishing committees" are hampered by a lack of funds, well meaning hand-me-downs, and decorating advice that is either more practical or more trendy than liturgical. Often a combination of the above flaws produces a decor that is less than uplifting. This was not. It was inspired. My only previous connection with this church was that I'd parked in front of it often when I worked at the nearby hospital, and I'd officiated at a funeral service for a man who was a member of that church. His wife requested that the service be at their home. She and one of her daughters were handicapped, and, she said, it was not a church that was at all respectful of women. By that she meant it was extremely fundamental and male dominated. Today's widow, I'm happy for her sake to say, looked very comfortable there. The man, whom I regret having not met sooner than the day he died, had been a high school English teacher and wrote stories for children. He'd written a few children's books, but mostly was published by Jack and Jill magazine. He had seven sons, and a daughter, and several step children as well. He and his wife had known each other since grade school but had only been married thirteen years, a second marriage for each of them. Sadly, not many people were there, certainly not seven sons worth. The front pew was filled, probably with family, mostly women. The next to farthest back pew was half full. Otherwise, just a scattering of people were here and there. Maybe because the man who died had been living in a nursing home for the past year, people had forgotten him, lost touch. The pastor said the man had asked him to play chess with him, but he didn't know the game. The man, the "deceased" (isn't that an awful term!) had been the sponsor of a chess team in the high school where he taught, and had competed well with much bigger schools in the state. I'm not sure why I think the funerals of these people unknown to you and even, sometimes, to me, would interest you in the slightest. Maybe it's to urge you to get to know some of the elders of your communities whose lives have been illuminating and worthwhile. Not "important" people, just ordinary people, who are too easily forgotten. We all hope it won't happen to us. Maybe we can be a light for someone else. (I could have played chess with him and talked about writing.) There are plenty of people out there who would love to stay connected to life while they can, and we would be the wiser for their wisdom and experience. |
| I think I've succeeded in writing a headline that's more interesting than the blog it relates to. Is there a contest for this? Maybe there should be. No, I haven't been ripped off. I've been ripping off more wallpaper tonight, in preparation for someone to come tomorrow-- I hope-- and begin several jobs around the house. He said he'd start the outside ones first, and that he'd be here this morning. Bill, who found him in the first place by reading the sign on the side of his truck as they drove the highway home, said that he told him we would both be at work this morning. The only evidence that he's been here is a pile of purchases, including paint, outside the back door. I guess that's a good start. The first two jobs are to replace a small piece of the outside wall where a dripping faucet has rotted the wood, and to remove a window style air conditioner and replace it with a window. After that, the fellows will be ready to dry wall around a piece of furnace pipe in the guest room that was necessitated by our putting in central heat and air last summer. We also have baseboard heat units that need to come out of all the rooms, and all the rooms need paint. Only the ones that were papered or are new dry wall need texturing. I'm really not looking forward to rounding up everything in each room and moving it elsewhere. I'm starting with all the little, easily transportable things, putting them in boxes and taking them to the basement. That will leave just the furniture to huddle in the middle of the rooms, covered with tarps, I guess. My daughter is in the middle of the same process, trying to get her house ready to sell. They need to find a much less busy street to live on, now that the twins are old enough to want to be riding their bikes around. *** On an entirely different subject, the social workers at hospice have been visiting various programs in the northwest that focus on children's grief. Today we talked a little about it in a group. I'd assumed that this was a project directed by the board as part of their future planning, but it is not. The director would like to have a needs assessment done. Two of the social workers want to just jump in and start. They know what they want it to look like, and seem oblivious to the fact that if there aren't enough kids of similar ages in the area, there won't be any groups possible. Since we've had some difficulty getting adult grief groups for fall and winter, and the spring group is very diverse, I'd think a needs assessment would have happened prior to sending anyone to look into other programs for children. The current adult group, while all the members are dealing with loss by death, includes widows, mothers, and siblings. Some of the deaths were by suicide or murder. How easy is it to have a group where one loss is a child, another a murdered husband? Not very. |
| We had an evening adventure at a hummingbird garden. Several people from hospice met together the other evening with a picnic supper, and then visited a wonderful gentleman who loves hummingbirds. Tom was born on this homestead 81 years ago, and now lives there with his dog and hundreds of hummingbirds he attracts with over a dozen feeders. He had several albums filled with pictures of different varieties, and the groups that came to visit. There were campfire girls and church groups, real birdwatchers, and novices like us. The bird show doesn't begin in earnest till nearly 8P.M. Bill managed to get some really good pictures, even using one hand while pointing at the feeder with the other to give the picture some scale. The humming was loud and coming from all sides. One particular little guy did an arial display by climbing straight up very high and then zooming straight down.         Invalid Photo #1008201   Oh, yes, why hummingbirds hum. Because they don't know the words. |
| Today's blog is about things that actually talk, in a manner of speaking, as opposed to imaginary voices. I've written several stories, in a file called Small Talk, in which various objects interact with the character. Yes, it's a childish thing; and many people have said that they would make good children's stories, although I didn't write them with that intention and disagree. I was thinking about my own, or some other old lady's, comments when no one else is around. I mean, haven't you ever told your clothes dryer to stuff itself? Or your vacuum to suck it up? Or yelled at a pan of peas and scolded them for burning? And I'm sure some of you have screamed "All 'e, all 'e Outs In Free!" (or "oly-oly-oxen free") to your keys when you're finally tired of the game of hide and seek. Well, now we have a car that talks to us. (Or at least Bill does. I'm not trying to get any sympathy, mind you. I could have bought it for me instead. It makes better sense this way, since he drives about three times more than I do. Maybe more. And I am enjoying driving Robert "Red" Ford.) (The 1990 car I used to have "talked" to me once, but after awhile I learned to ignore it. When I first sat in the driver's seat and turned on the engine, a sign lit up saying "Air Bag." Wasn't that rude? )The Prius has a moving map display, which I did buy for me, for when I drive it. Bill doesn't need it, but it's another toy for him and so he plays with it. It tells him his gasoline mileage by the second, and whether he's using gasoline or battery. If he commands, "Go home," it will read out his approximate arrival time. The female voice (one of the options) tells him to get ready to make a right turn in a quarter of a mile, something I've never been good at when I'm navigating. She doesn't know all the short cuts he knows though; and so, when he passes her idea of the correct turn, she tells him to turn around at the next convenient spot and go back. He loves it. He totally disregards what she says, argues with her, and does what he wants. He's trying to teach her his off-the-map routes, but she isn't learning very fast. Isn't that a great invention? Now if he'd only get all that male dominant thing out of his system and remember that I'm not the voice to ignore. He has to do what I say. Here's a picture, taken from the plane, of the road I drive out to the boonies. The next picture is of one of the fields, which got much greener in the two weeks between them and the previous pictures. The third is of a hillside that totally burned last summer, brilliant now.    I have to enjoy all the green now, because Lauren is right. It's like Southern California. It will be all dried up and brown too soon. |
| We were going to fly up to Spokane after church and have a picnic with Lenore and her family, but I got to feeling bad during the service. So, instead, we came home and paid bills, etc. I'll go plant some tomatoes in a bit. Now that I have the hang of the picture thing, I'll show you the goldfinches that come to visit, and a pair of strangers that dropped in for the day. Maybe you can identify them. They look more like red-wing blackbirds to me than anything, except they don't have any red on them.   Now for some pictures of last Saturday's trip to see my son and his family in Newberg. It was cloudy, so we flew an IFR route on instruments, even though we could see ground most of the time. Pilots have to practice those. It took a little longer to get there that way, and into a head wind. |
First, the hurray is that I finally got my photo album to work. I did it by emailing Storymaster to ask how. As soon as the email left my fingertips, I figured it out by myself. Why I couldn't get that same result before, I do not know. You know how you swear that's exactly what you've been doing, only usually it's your husband who makes it work, doing the very same thing you did! Other than that, here are just a few 'trout.' I used to think they were 'chickens,' but now I know better. These are just single thoughts that come swimming by that I'm passing on to you.  My prayer plant has decided to quit praying. It has folded its leaves and turned the other cheek. I didn't even hear it say 'Amen.' We watched The Wedding Crashers last night, the 'uncut' version. The theater version must have been about half an hour long. Here's a terrific musical video called 'My Generation,' which I'm not quite yet a part of. I think those of you over 50 will appreciate it. http://youtube.com/watch?v=zqfFrCUrEbY And now, since the rest of the trout swam on downstream without my catching them, here are the pictures of my drive to work in early April. I didn't even crop or enlarge them, I was so excited just to get them into the album. Click on a picture and it will get larger.       Invalid Photo #1008106       Starting out, this picture was taken near home. The cherry blossoms are just beginning to bloom. I headed out into the Palouse, lots of wheat fields barely sprouted, rolling hills. The willow trees have yellow bark, no leaves yet. The dry grass looks like velvet on the hills. Saw wild turkeys, a pheasant, and nests of blue herons. Oh, cows too. Then finally the little town I was headed for, 45 miles away. Thanks for everybody's help with getting these pictures in my album and into my blog! |
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