If It Doesn't Fit...

Right now, I bet any number of you reading this have already filled in the rest of the line "you must acquit".  Well, you're wrong. 

I could also entitled this "Third Time's a Charm"--except that it isn't. OK, what am I talking about.

Trying to buy shoes for someone who is no longer able to be out and about to get shoes fitted.

So, here's the story. My step-mother is currently living in a nursing home. She has Parkinson's disease and, frankly, is far too unsteady for me to try to take anywhere. I  have observed staff at the nursing home when they work to get my wheel-chair bound step-mother up for a once-a-day walk. It takes THREE people--first, they attach a strap around her chest to have something to hold on to, then one stands in front of her, while two lift her up.

OK--you get the picture. No going shopping for shoes.  So, when I was informed by the nursing staff that she needed new shoes--I did the logical thing. I went to her closet and checked the shoes sizes of her existing shoes.  Size 8, or size 7, or size 9. Maybe 9 1/2 -- all were in her closet.  She also informed me she has a narrow foot.  My solution--take a piece of paper, have her "stand" on it (remember, with three people helping her up) and I trace around her barefoot.  

Off to the store I go, and the shoe salesman goes along with my placing the cut-out foot shape on the shoe fitting device (it's called a Brannock Foot Measuring device, for all you purists out there).  And he announces size 8.  I am skeptical, so I decide to go up a size, and I buy an 8 1/2 size shoe with a velcro strap closing.  Back at the nursing home, the shoes seem to fit.  But within a week, I hear from one of the nurses that the velcro strap has "broken"--too tight. But, the nurse very kindly sews the strap back on.  That works for another few weeks, but then my step-mother's one foot gets irritated.

So, off to buy another pair of shoes. This time I went to size 9 and bought a pair of clogs. Well, yes, they fit, but my step-mother complains that they fall off.  I am trying to visualize this for someone not walking, but nevermind.

Finally, I visit a shoe store (Skechers) and buy a lace-up sneaker style shoe in size 9.  Laces--perfect. Soft fabric--perfect. Size 9--not perfect.  Too tight. (Remember the narrow foot description???)

I return those shoes, and get the exact same shoe in a size 9 1/2.  Yesterday, I delivered these to the nursing home.  And then I waited--for a phone call: do they fit or not?  Today that phone call came--no, they are too tight.

My final recourse--return the exact match shoes. Give up on Skechers (which I like a lot...most comfortable shoes). Then sometime soon, I will visit a local department store.  There, I will buy a pair of 9 1/2 WIDE shoes with laces.  And that's it.  

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The moral of this story:  If it doesn't fit, you must buy another pair.  (I know, I know it doesn't rhyme, but it makes more sense than the original quote.)

The Broken Branch

Herewith a brief photo essay. 

We have a lovely row of trees that flower in the spring. 

Just a few weeks ago, on my daily walk with the dog, I noticed one branch has severely broken--the right angle is the break. The buds were forming all over the tree, including on the broken branch.

Today, as I walked by the same tree, I noticed that the downed branch was in full bloom, as was the whole tree. 

So, I take heart in this sweet message from nature--a broken branch can still bloom.

Helping Malik

A couple of weeks ago, as I was walking our dog around the block, I encountered a young man.  It was one of those miserable days in what has been a miserable winter.  True, we were inching toward spring, and had had a day or two with temperatures above freezing.  But this day which had promised to be a touch warmer turned out to be cold—with a wind that cut through my jacket.

As this young man approached, it was evident that he must be a student at the nearby high school walking home. We live near a large apartment complex, and frequently have students cutting through our neighborhood.

What caught my eye about this young man was that he had NO coat on.  He had his arms tucked down inside his pants, in an effort to keep warm.  I always make it a point to acknowledge the students I see walking through our neighborhood—so, I said to him “you look cold.”

His answer surprised me a bit—“I’m lost.”  Thinking he might want directions, I asked where he was going.  “To ____ High School.”  Now, he was walking from our school district high school and the one he named was another school which is over three miles from where we were.  Such a walk could take him over an hour.

And he was walking.  Without a coat. On a cold day.

Well, I said, I know where that high school is—why do you want to go there?

So I can get to the place I need to be, he answered.

I asked why he didn’t have a jacket on, and he shrugged with that mixture of nonchalance and cluelessness one sometimes sees in young teens.

I couldn’t just let this go—so I told him to walk with me to my house, a few doors from where we were.  As we walked, I asked him his name—Malik.  I asked what grade he was in—9^th.  And I asked about favorite subjects, which teachers he had.

As soon as we got to my house, I asked him to wait, while I could get a jacket for him.  While he waited outside, I popped in my house, and quickly filled my husband in on the situation.  Immediately, my husband said he would drive Malik to the other school. 

My husband then went to the basement, and got a jacket for Malik.  Then we went outside to Malik, who very quickly put on the jacket.  We told Malik to keep the jacket and that my husband would drive him.

I then asked—where does he need to go from the other high school?  Oh, from there I can walk to Zion Church, he said.

My husband and I knew exactly where he meant, so my husband said he would drive Malik there.  Thinking that Malik might want to tell someone he was getting a ride, I asked if he wanted to call his mother, but he demurred saying she was at work.

So, my husband headed off with Malik, took him to the church where Malik went up to the door and rang a bell, knew what to say to get in, and went inside.

We haven’t seen him since. Every now and then, I have thought about Malik.  I hope he stays the sweet young man he seemed to be—only with a touch more common sense in remembering to bring a jacket to school on cold days. 

Do You Believe in Martians?

This past Friday afternoon, as my husband and I returned from having gone to a movie matinee, as we approached the street where we turn into our neighborhood, we could see flashing lights further down the block. While we weren’t quite sure what the lights signified, we knew it meant there was some kind of emergency.  The flashing  lights appeared to be at a doctor’s office nearby our home.

We went on home, and then while I was walking our dog around the block, I came near the doctor’s office but decided against walking down to see the commotion. As I turned the corner, I heard a neighbor call out my name—so I walked back to her.  She then proceeded to fill me in on all the excitement—a driver just learning to drive had lost control of his car and hit the accelerator instead of the brakes. Somehow, while driving along a straight street he managed to turn his car almost a full right hand turn…right into the doctor’s office, taking out a large window.  The car then came to rest INSIDE the doctor’s office.*

When I got home and told my husband what the flashing lights had signified, he responded—well, there have been so many stories lately in the news of cars driving into house.  And that was true—within the past week there have been about a half dozen such stories in our general part of central Pennsylvania. My husband then continued to speculate—I think it’s aliens. We have been invaded by aliens from space who don’t know how to drive.

Of course, he was jesting (half) and recalling the scene from the movie “Starman” where Jeff Bridges plays an alien who lands on earth, and then proceeds to try to pass as a human, having taken such a form. One wonderful scene is when he is driving….well, it would be better to see it—rent the movie. Hence, the origin of my husband’s “aliens have invaded and don’t know how to drive” explanation.

Now, this hypothesis might sound preposterous, but hold that thought.

In a recent op-ed piece, Nicholas Kristhof, whose pieces appear in the New York Times, wrote that Americans are “much more likely to believe that there are signs that aliens have visited Earth (77 percent) than that humans are causing climate change (44 percent).”

Admittedly, the percentage of people who believe in something can’t make something true. . .or can it?

Remember Orson Welles’ 1938 radio broadcast The War of the Worlds?  No, I don’t  mean did you listen to it (although maybe one or two readers did).  But surely you have heard about it.  Welles was a wunderkind when he presented an episode of radio drama on October 30, 1938.  The program was staged as a realistic news casting of an invasion from outer space.  While there may not have been as much widespread panic as originally reported, those people who tuned in to the radio broadcast late missed the disclaimer.  So, there were some listeners who mistook the program as an actual news broadcast.  They believed we were being invaded by Martians.

Bah—you say—too far-fetched.  (I assume that puts you outside the 77 percent group).  And I think I too would say that—except. . .  Except for the recent story about the Mars Rover.    The Mars Rover Opportunity is out and about on the planet Mars looking for rocks.  Opportunity is equipped with cameras and sends images back to Earth (including a “selfie”).  Check out the link to see the “before” and “after” photos.  The images were taken 12 days apart, with the first one showing flat Martian ground.  The second one reveals a donut-shaped  rock, right smack in the middle of where there had NOT been such a rock 12 days before. 

Cue the Twilight Zone music—doo doo doo doo.

And then there’s the whole Roswell scene. 

So, who’s to say that all these cars crashing into houses are not evidence of aliens (who don’t know how to drive) having invaded Planet Earth?

Well, maybe, who knows—maybe we have been invaded or at least visited.

Do you believe in Martians?

*No one was in that part of the doctor’s office at the time and no one was injured.

Find a Penny

Here's a test--if you are walking along somewhere and spot a penny that has been dropped, do you pick it up?

I confess I do.  And my reason for picking it up has nothing to do with whether or not I want "good luck."  As in: "Find a penny, pick it up; all the day you'll have good luck."
There is an alternate version as to what luck a penny might bring.  Once when I found a penny lying on the ground and went to pick it up, my daughter, who was a little girl at the time, said  "Don't, Mom" she said--"it's tails--bad luck."

No, I pick up pennies because I figure any found money is....well, money.

I am not a child of the Depression, as my parents were, but I have a healthy respect for not wasting money.  My parent's generation was a model of frugality--emptying their dinner plates, not wasting food, not throwing something away simply because it is out-dated or broken.

I can recall times when I did something that resulted in my losing money--no, I don't gamble.  One such occasion was not long after our son was born.  My husband was teaching and, as a new mother, I had cut back my working hours teaching, becoming an adjunct college instructor.  Now, I realize how little adjunct instructors are paid, but at the time I didn't know that going to half-time teaching did not mean earning half my salary--it meant earning far less than half salary.  

Anyway, to be frugal I would buy meat at our local farmers' market--usually in some quantity that meant I repackaged the meat before I froze it.  After I had done up all my packages, and after a day had passed, I looked in the freezer for a flank steak I had bought.  It was nowhere to be found.  I was puzzled--and then it hit me.  In my repackaging, I had obviously missed that flank steak, and carried it out to the trash along with all the brown wrapping paper the butcher used.  I went to the outside trash cans to check--and, sure enough, there it was.  It took me a long time to get over having thrown away a perfectly good cut of meat.  All I could think was--what a waste of money.

Another time, I did in fact lose money.  For more than 20 years, my husband and I went to home football games for Penn State University.  It was great fun to get away, visit a lovely location--as Happy Valley is--and to have time with friends.  Over time, the rules for entering the football stadium got more restrictive and carrying bags into the stadium was forbidden.  So, one time, I tucked a $20 into my sock, thinking I would have a bit of money if I wanted to buy a snack or soft drink.


When we got home, I looked for the $20 since I hadn't bought anything.  GONE. Apparently, it had worked its way out, and presumably fell on the ground.  At least, I managed to get past this loss a little more quickly--I consoled myself by thinking that some student found a spare $20 lying on the ground, and was happy at the sudden "wealth."

So, found money--whether a penny or $20--I'll take it.

The Bookends of Life

Between the bookends of life--birth and death--life gets lived.

Now, this assertion is hardly startling, but since my blog is entitled KGMom's MUSINGS--I am given to musing. And recent events have set my mind spinning on this somewhat trivial musing...that life gets lived between the time of our birth and the time of our death.

The recent birth of our granddaughter has been such a joyous occasion. Just days after she was born, my husband and I traversed the ocean between our home and our daughter and son-in-law's home to meet our granddaughter. Within days after our leaving them, more anxious-to-meet-the-granddaughter parents arrived. Then within days of their departure, an uncle and aunt arrived. And then there were friends who visited. In short, this sweet little girl was welcomed into the world with great fanfare of family and friends cheering her on.

In the in-between times of getting to see our granddaughter, we make do with Skype calls or Google Chat. Of course, it's not the same as an in the flesh visit, but it helps. We can see her smiling, and watch as she tries to master crawling. We can watch her parents interacting with her and doing a SPLENDID job of giving her the best possible start in this world.

As any parent knows, the life course of a child is not written in advance. But a good beginning certainly helps.

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At the other end of the spectrum of life--the other bookend--is death.

We recently saw, with shock, the obituary announcement of a former neighbor. When an obituary notice begins with these word: "W.G., 46, of Middletown, entered into rest suddenly on June 12, 2013 at his home"-- you just know that all was not well. A sudden death at 46.

This neighbor was indeed strange. In fact, since his first name began with W, I confess that I took to calling him "weird W." He lived in the house on the corner for 20 years. During that time, he had two live-in girlfriends, each of whom left under less than happy circumstances. He did minimal--and I mean minimal--work around the yard. He reluctantly mowed, but only when the "grass" had reached a foot in height. He had wood delivered for his wood stove, with which the house was heated, but the load of wood was simply dumped in the back yard, never stacked. The end cap on his roof broke, and he never had it repaired. External paint began to peel, and stayed that way.

All the while, W. would sit in his back yard, under the shade of a large pin oak tree, smoking a cigar and sipping on bottles of beer. He never put forth an effort to do... anything.

So it came as no surprise when about two months ago, I noticed he was moving things out of the house. I stopped to ask, out of plain nosiness, where he was going, and he indicated he was leaving the house. His most recent former live-in girlfriend was helping him, and she told me that he had been foreclosed on, and was losing the house. Apparently he moved in with his mother.

And then, two days ago, I saw his death notice. 46 years old. Dying suddenly at home. Not sick--just died suddenly. And no memorial service was to be held--as per his instructions. He seems to have failed at everything--at relationships, at holding a steady job, at keeping a house he had bought, and--presumably--at life itself. He seems to have succeeded at only one thing--he had a good dog named DJ.

How sad--a life lived between the bookends. I can't help but wonder--did W. have a good beginning? Was he loved? Was he happy? Did W. get to live the entirety of his life?

Musings--that's all I have here. Just musings.

Advent

This is a season of waiting.

The church of my childhood was not one to observe the liturgical year.  So, it was with some puzzlement that I slowly adapted to the concept of seasons of the church year--including Advent.  For years, our church has eschewed singing most Christmas carols in services until Christmas Eve.  And for years, I have chafed at this restriction.

I had conversations--not arguments--with our pastor (who is also a friend, and who recently retired) about the available carols that could be sung without breaking that Advent message.  And sometimes we might even sing on of those carols--for example "Once in Royal David's City."

But still, our services during Advent continue to draw on the repertoire of Advent hymns--most of which are in a minor key, and are usually sung in unison.  I guess to appreciate the import of that last description, you need to know that I am an alto, through and through, and I love--make that LOVE--to sing in four part harmony.

"O Come, O Come, Emanuel" or "Watchman, Tell Us of the Night" just doesn't put me in a Christmas spirit.

And then, last Sunday, our new pastor gave new meaning to me that helps me understand and even appreciate Advent.  He said:

 

"The work of these weeks before Christmas, then, this time that the church calls Advent, this season of pregnant hope and possibility, is not so much to prepare for the birth of the baby that happened long ago but to welcome the Christ in us in ever deepening ways. It is a time to get the nursery of our hearts and the manger of our minds ready to engage the ministry of Christ in us more completely and creatively than ever before."

Suddenly, it clicked--and I finally get it. 

When we focus on Christmas--on the birth of a baby--we forget that what preceded that birth was nine months of being pregnant.  Nine months is a long time.  Oh, certainly, it can pass by quickly, but when you are waiting for that nine months to go by, it can be a long time.

A long time for the expectant mother and father.  A long time for family members--grandparents, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and all manner of cousins.  All waiting.  Waiting for one singular day.  Waiting for a birth.

And so, I now understand Advent in a way I had not understood it previously.  So, thank you to our new pastor for giving me insight.

And thank you to our daughter and son-in-law for giving us a very personal example.  Only a few more days--as we all wait.

It's Official

I don't mean to brag--honestly, I don't. Before I tell you my small story, you need a bit of background about me.

When my husband and I planned a church retreat some years ago, we settled on an introduction to Myers-Briggs personality typing. It was fascinating.

I have previously written about my personality type--here--which turned out to be INTJ. Now, I will spare you the arcane aspects of personality typing right now, BUT...you should know that the slogan for my personality type is--INTJs can improve anything; just ask.

So, I am constantly thinking about how things can be nudged into being just a bit better. Our friends (and maybe even our children) recognize this trait in me. More than a decade ago, one of our friends gave me a button that read "I Thought I Was Wrong Once...But I Was Mistaken."

That about sums it up. (And I hate to be wrong...ahem...but I'm working on that.)

Anyhow--now for the little story. I was looking on Google Maps the other day--looking for a store name. We have a cute little shopping center nearby us, called Shoppes at Susquehanna. When I got to the coordinates on Google Maps--nothing. No mention of that shopping center. What? It's been there at least 5 years. Then, I noticed--Google Maps lets you send them a message if they got something wrong.

Heh heh heh. So, off I sent a message. Then a couple of days ago, I got an answer.

TADA! "Your Google Maps report has been reviewed, and you were right!" So, it's official.

Even Google Maps acknowledges that I am right. Now, back to being humble.

Close Reading

In honor of A.E. Housman's birthday (March 26) and in honor of spring--herewith.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

I have used this poem many times in teaching poetry. It is an utterly charming poem, and most accessible. One of the first questions I ask is--how old is the speaker in the poem? Well, how old?

Maybe you all are too smart to be fooled, but invariably I would have students say--seventy. No, I say, look again. So then I can see them doing the math--three score year and ten, well that's 70. And they subtract 20 ("will not come again") and say--fifty.

No, close reading now. AHA--the light goes on and they answer--twenty.

Oh, such a young man is that speaker. He has enjoyed spring cherry blossoms for twenty years. It is almost ironic that the VOICE of the poem is a far older, maybe wiser, voice than twenty years might suggest. I think the speaker sounds more like someone who is three score years and ten.

Whatever age--enjoy the spring. And all the blossoms--cherry included.
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Image from http://www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink/foodanddrinknews/5898662/Traditional-English-cherries-in-danger-of-wipe-out.html

Taking It Easy

One of my favorite music groups is the Eagles. So, this week, I find myself humming one of their classics: "Take It Easy". We are spending a bit of time in the San Diego area. By circumstance--that is to say, not specifically precipitated by my birthday--we were offered an opportunity to visit southern California. The only birthday I ever celebrated in California (at least to my knowledge) was when I turned one. So, it was fun to celebrate number 66 here.

Many things impress a visitor to this area. First, what's with all the highways and the cars that are rolling rolling rolling--constantly on the go. Of course, there is traffic anywhere in the U.S., given that we are a car-crazy society. But in southern California, the traffic is non-stop. Thank goodness for our friendly little GPS unit--we have gone various places with nary a mis-direction.

Second, this is a place of great natural beauty. The vistas are stunning, the skies blue--except for the first rain of the year in the San Diego area, and the gentle winter sun is a welcome respite from a biting cold winter.

We managed a few adventures--or, at least what passes for such, at our age!

A view to lovely beach housing on Point Loma.

The Pacific in view. I loved the mostly unspoiled views of the ocean. I know if we traveled further north, these lovely views would disappear in over-developed areas.

The force of ocean breezes shapes trees along the coast.

We did one day's worth of driving--the California entertainment. We headed north, then turned east and drove CA Highway 74, the Ortega Highway. Oh my, what a fun drive--if you enjoy palms sweating, toes curling, and quick glances down the steep hillside. Once at the coast, we turned south and ended up at Point Loma, at the Cabrillo National Monument (pictured above).

But lovely cacti greet us along the road side almost everywhere.

We spent two days visiting San Diego's famous zoo and Safari Park. Maybe I will post some other animal photos--but for now, enjoy these flaming flamingos. Love that raucous orangey-pink.

My birthday evening, we drove to Carlsbad, and watched the sun set across the Pacific. The changing light infused the red cliffs with a wondrous glow.

And the cloud formations put on a special show, until finally the sun slipped below the edge of the world.

I mentioned to my husband that next year's birthday celebration will be hard-pressed to beat this year's.

A Magnificent Trio

I wonder how many girls there are these days whose life-long reading careers start with Louisa May Alcott's Little Women? This marvelous book begins with these words:

"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.
"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.
"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured sniff.
"We've got Father and Mother, and each other," said Beth contentedly from her corner.

With those four lines of dialogue, the reader is introduced to the four little women whose lives and personalities dominate the story. The reader is also introduced to each of their personalities in brief.

Well, the purpose of this post is not to go on about Little Women. It is to celebrate the lives of three marvelous authors, all of whom have one thing in common. They were born on this day.

Of course, since you are an astute reader, you will have gleaned that one of those three must be Louisa May Alcott. Though most of us would associate Alcott with New England, she was in fact born just outside of Philadelphia, PA. When she was two, the family moved to Massachusetts, where her father was involved in an experimental school as well as an early commune. Among the people with whom she interacted as a child were Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Henry David Thoreau.

Her most famous work parallels greatly the life her own family was living. She had three sisters, and patterned her four little women on herself and her sisters. The Alcotts were poor, as were the Marchs. Her one sister died young, just as in the novel.

The second author of the magnificent trio born on this day is another author born in one country and mostly associated with another: C. S. Lewis. He was born in Belfast, Ireland. When he was a teen, he was sent to boarding school in England, a searing negative experience.

He wrote of that first encounter with England,

No Englishman will be able to understand my first impressions of England...The strange English accents with which I was surrounded seemed like the voices of demons. But what was worst was the English landscape ... I have made up the quarrel since; but at that moment I conceived a hatred for England which took many years to heal.

Of course, most readers would now associate Lewis with his long career both as a student and then as a professor at Oxford. There, he was part of a circle of friends that included J.R.R. Tolkein. While Lewis was a prolific writer, he is most associated today with his Narnia series, the first book of which is The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

The last of the magnificent trio is Madeleine L'Engle. She has something in common with each of the writers above--obviously, like Louisa May Alcott, she is a woman author whose works are popular among young readers; like C. S. Lewis she is sometimes referred to as a Christian author. Her own growing awareness of religion was a sense that "all will be redeemed in God's fullness of time, all, not just the small portion of the population who have been given the grace to know and accept Christ."

I first encountered her works when our son was a young reader and enthusiastically read A Wrinkle in Time, and then continued on to other books in that series.

I realize that with 365 days in any year (excepting leap year), there are always serendipitous syzygies of authors. Today's alignment seemed particularly note-worthy. Hence, my magnificent trio celebration.

Traveling Wisdom

My husband and I got behind a white van the other day. Perhaps you have deduced that I am a bumper sticker reader. Anyway, this van had on its bumper three somewhat puzzling stickers.

Now, I am not one to put stickers on my bumper. Oh, there are some sentiments that I could live with. Several years back, I was taken with and amused by the one that said "Visualize whirled peas." There's a current one I like: "God bless the whole world; no exceptions." There are also humorous ones I have been drawn to: "Support the right to arm bears."

But I have never found one that I would want PERMANENTLY on my bumper.

Not sure what the guy in the white van had in mind. Here are his three choices:

JUST SUFFER

(Was he Catholic? or did he have a Jewish mother? no, that would be GUILT, not suffer.)

CRUSHED STONE: FOUNDATION OF THE NATION

(Hmmm--he was perhaps a stone cutter? a quarryman? (wasn't that what the Beatles were originally called?)

And finally:

ONWARD THRU THE FOG

Oh, advice to the country! Now I get it. I think.

At any rate--onward. . .through the fog.