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Category: Free at Last

  • Weather ladies

    April showers bring May flowers. Except in the case of the Pacific Northwest, where April showers are a precursor to May showers and sometimes torrential downpours. You just never know. The weather lady on the TV last night said yesterday was like March. So I got that wrong. March showers (and January and February showers, for that matter) beget April showers and May showers and probably June showers too. Who knows?

    While we’re talking about TV weather ladies, I have a confession to make: My #1 source for weather is the nightly news. It’s also my #2 through #9. I make a habit of watching the weather every weeknight at 6:18 on my local station. The local news comes on at 6, but you’d have to be a real hero to watch it. It’s the same top stories every night on this particular station. Either 1) a shooting and/or a murder that happened earlier that day, or if not today, then yesterday, and 2) the homeless situation in Seattle. Altogether, not great news, so I choose not to watch it and get in a funk. People say, why don’t I watch one of the other stations where the news varies. And I could, but their weather, to use the vernacular, sucks. It was the same when I lived in New Orleans: The weather, with weather lady Margaret Orr, was great. Well, not so much that the weather was great — because it either was or it wasn’t — it was the presentation of the weather that was great. The news, not so much. On Margaret’s station, instead of shootings and homelessness, the #1 and #2 stories were shootings and government corruption. I love a good government corruption story, but seriously, you’re a hero if you can sit through that every night without drowning in sorrow over what the world has come to.

    Their weather, though, is something else. Their graphics are the best, and what I just realized is that both the New Orleans and the Seattle stations are CBS affiliates, and so their graphics (not to mention their top two news stories) must be down to CBS dictum. I am a visual learner, and so must be the VP of Weather at CBS. We both enjoy all the colors for this and that, the arrows swirling about, and Hs and Ls drifting across the screen. I eat it up every night.

    And you know, through it all, the weather ladies never go crazy about the temperature or the wind or the rain, or anything. It’s all just weather to them. They’ve seen it all before and there’s no need to get hysterical. Which seems like a good way to be. Don’t worry, be happy.

    The weather’s going to happen one way or the other, and there’s nothing I can do to not make it happen, so I don’t worry, I be happy. I read the other day that Antarctica has gained an abundance of ice around its edges. I’ve never once thought I’d like to visit Antarctica, primarily because I don’t like cold — and that extra ice sounds extra cold. I suspect they don’t have a CBS affiliate in Antarctica, likely because there are no shootings or homeless or corrupt governments to report on, but if they did have a station there, I bet the weather ladies would be cool as cucumbers. More ice, less ice, it’s just the weather. Yep, that good ol’ climate changing on us again.

    For our listening pleasure this morning, Sam Cooke …

  • The circle of life

    Yesterday, my nine-month-old grandson and I engaged in a blowing raspberries contest. We both love this game, which is obvious by the expressions on our faces every time we play it. That turns out to be several times a day if it’s a good day.

    Not to brag, but I’ve got the “grandma raspberry blowing” pretty much mastered. He definitely has, if quantity is anything to go by: plenty of bubbles, lots of spit in the air, and drooling like an open water faucet into his waiting bib. Which gets changed as often as his diaper. A river appears to run through both ends.

    So, yesterday, I was watching his raspberry drool into his bib and thought, “Today it’s him and his drool, but down the road a piece, it’s going to be me doing the drooling. I’m not there yet, but if there is to be a future, drooling is in mine. Diapers too.

    And that got me thinking. Babies’ and elderly people’s lives are a mirror image. And it’s not just the drool and diapers. Here’s how I see it: You’re born, and for the longest time, all you do is sleep, wake up, drink a liquid concoction, and go back to sleep. Repeat. That sounds a lot like a lot of elderly people I have known, tossing back those cans of Ensure between ever-lengthening naps. This has me written all over it.

    From liquids, a baby moves on to mushy — mushy peas, mushy carrots, mushy strawberries and raspberries, yogurt and applesauce. And everything is a finger food, which means a good percentage of breakfast, lunch and dinner is smeared across baby’s face. It’s the same approach for the aged. We can’t let grandma near a fork or spoon for fear she’ll poke her eye out. Far better to wipe the mashed potato out of her hair when she’s done gumming her food.

    Then there’s entertainment. When my getting-to-be three-year-old is watching his dinosaur or truck shows on TV, the nine-month-old (drooling a waterfall) watches spellbound. And that’ll be me when the time comes. They’ll sit me in my rocking chair, tie me in so I don’t up and decide to go somewhere I’m not supposed to, and set me in front of the telly. I’ll be happy as a clam.

    My not-yet three-year-old loves to play cars, and he loves it when grandma plays cars with him. Grandma, it turns out, loves playing cars. I didn’t use to, ever. For years, my younger brother played with his toy cars, which I thought was the stupidest thing. This, coming from a girl who thought tea parties with my dolls were the height of refined entertainment. I have no granddaughters, so no dolly tea parties and dress up in my future. But it’s no matter; it turns out I love playing cars.

    What’s next? Large print books with pictures on every page?

    For our listening pleasure this morning, The Byrds …

  • Adventures in our native tongue

    As far as languages go, English is one nasty piece of work. They — those know-it-all they — say it’s the most difficult language to learn, and while I don’t often bow to the “they authorities,” in this case, I am 100% with them.

    A few days ago, my son-in-law, my 2½-year-old grandson and I were looking out the living room window at a neighbor hauling his lawnmower across his driveway. Every moment is a teaching moment for 2½-year-olds, so son-in-law says, “Alan is going to mow the lawn” just as I was about to say, “Alan is going to cut the grass.”

    What can you say about a language that has two completely different sets of words to describe the exact same thing yet still can’t come up with a word to solve the she/he–she or he problem. It can’t be that hard. Some would say there already is a word: they. But no. “They” is plural. How can you use the same word for singular? It doesn’t make sense.

    Not so fast, bucko. We’re talking English here. Precedent. We’ve got “read” and “read” — same word, means the same thing, except one is present tense and the other is past tense, and good luck figuring out which it is on your first try. So if they can do it with read/read, then they can do it with they/they. It would be a heck of a lot simpler than she/he, he or she, or (s)he. Just saying.

    While we’re at it, speaking of simpler, wouldn’t life be a lot easier if the word “its” always took an apostrophe? But no, some would say. It’s is a contraction of it is. Its is a possessive pronoun, and like all possessive pronouns, it doesn’t take an apostrophe. Never mind that every other possessive takes an apostrophe: dog’s bone, camel’s bone, it’s bone. If nothing else, then you’d never have to worry ever again about whether its takes an apostrophe. I just want English to be easier, one word at a time.

    It’s an uphill battle. Sometimes you have to wonder who makes up the rules and bizarre spellings we have to contend with. They’ll tell you it’s because of word origins from the Latin or Greek or French or one of those other less nasty languages. I say, with all due respect, just because those languages have weird spellings, does that mean we have to copy their bad habits?

    In my high school French class, we had oral tests, when the teacher read out a paragraph in French, and we would copy down what she said, word for word. Spelling counted. I picture a foreigner taking an English oral test …

    Mie muther bot a cote at the stor yesturdaye. It is blak with a yello belt. Mie dawg eets the belt sum times. It likes to playe owt side and go for woks. I hav menee noo frens in this cuntree. I here Amarika is a veree big cuntree. I hope too see awl of it wun daye.

    Next week, the English teacher will explain why it’s caught and taught but thought and bought and don’t forget bough and though. Hey, don’t give up, class. We’re just getting started.

    For our listening pleasure this morning, The Band …

  • Cry, cry, baby

    Have you looked at the calendar? Have you seen what day it is tomorrow? Tax Day — that annual rite of spring.

    I hope you’ve filed already and have that nasty piece of business behind you for another year. Unless, of course, you like filing taxes, and then I don’t know what to say. Um, have a happy day?

    There are two parts to filing taxes I don’t like — the paying of the taxes and the filing of those taxes. I don’t see a path forward where I would ever like to pay taxes, but the good news is I have done a 180 on the filing part. The trick is, if you don’t make too much money, the IRS will fill out the form for you for free. Like, who wouldn’t trust the IRS? Pity the fool, but in this case, I do.

    It’s so easy. I pop in a few numbers, often zeros — in general, book writers don’t make a lot of money — and they do all the rest. I love it. I love Tax Day. Except for the part where I always owe the government money, which does leave a bad taste in my mouth. It just galls me to pay taxes of any description. I know it doesn’t do any good to complain, and most of the time I wouldn’t, but Tax Day — that’s my annual rite of spring: to complain.

    I blame that on my youth. Or more precisely, the first time I filled out a 1040. Except they aren’t called 1040s in Canada. But it was the same deal. In the days before “online” became one word, we filled out the form by hand — the original in pen and mailed off and a copy, done in pencil and stuck in the filing cabinet.

    I was 16 my first time. My dad and I had a date at the kitchen table one April night. He was going to show me how to fill out the income tax form that first year I earned a paycheck. It was meant to be a learning experience, but, sadly, I’m the type of person who needs to do something over and over and over again for that something to sink in. Once a year was never going to cut it.

    My father didn’t know that at the time, or if he did, he chose to ignore it and soldiered on, explaining that this number goes on that line, add this, subtract that, flip over the page, more adding, more subtracting, and finally, come to near the end of the page and a final subtraction, and Dad points to a blank line and says, “You owe $189 in taxes,” and then fills in the blank.

    “What!?” I said. Actually, it was more like “What!!!!??” “What do you mean I owe the government money? Are they going to do this to me every year?” I’m sure my dad did his level best to explain why we pay taxes to the government, but I was having none of it. Not then, not now. It’s my money (or at least I thought it was), and it should be me who decides how to spend it. Not to mention what a lousy job they’ve done with it. Anyone who can add and subtract could do better.

    Spring has sprung, the flowers are in bloom, taxes are done for another year, and now I have nothing left to complain about. Until next year rolls around.

    A little Janis Joplin crying, but not over taxes …

  • I can do that!

    Probably it was the mid-’90s when I saw the Hawaiian ukulele player Israel “IZ” Kamakawiwo’Ole at the Lowell Folk Festival. His performance was one of the most memorable live music experiences I have ever experienced. He was electrifying, especially when he sang “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” that segued into “What a Wonderful World” and back again. I couldn’t have been more stunned at the beauty of it.

    So much so that I said right then and there, “I can do that!” Now, you’re probably thinking, based on how great this guy must have been, that no, I can’t. I wouldn’t want to dissuade you of that notion, not entirely, but wait. Because, you see, after all these years, I’ve recently picked up the ukulele again. And by all those years, I mean more than 60.

    The ukulele was my first instrument (not counting the triangle in kindergarten), which my Uncle George gave me when I was around 6 or 7 years old. It came with a book of songs that included “Skip to My Lou” and “Turkey in the Straw.” I don’t remember any of the other tunes, but, honestly, I’m impressed that I can remember those two after all this time.

    I took to playing the ukulele like I was born to it, totally gung-ho. Right up until one of the strings popped. It’s just not the same with three strings. At 6 years old, I wasn’t in the financial position to buy a new string, and I hate to say it, but my parents were probably glad that with no ukulele, the caterwauling was over. And thus came the end of my ukulele career.

    But wait a second. A week or two after I finished writing my book last fall, there appeared in my town’s weekly newspaper an announcement for a ukulele group that met twice a month at a local theater. Beginners welcome.

    Now, I just happen to have a ukulele, which I acquired in a roundabout way. What happened is, several years ago, we went on a family vacation to Maui, and on our last day there, we walked into a music store and my future son-in-law picked up a ukulele and started riffing. Cut to the future: With my elephant-like memory, when future son-in-law became actual son-in-law, I gave him what I thought was a brilliant present: his own ukulele. It turns out I was terribly misguided, and to make that story a little shorter, I am now in possession of said ukulele.

    So, twice a month I now go to a ukulele session. The average age of attendants is well older than my late first ukulele (RIP), and we all have a great time. With a few sessions under my belt, I’m way past “Skip to My Lou.” I’m talking “Blowin’ in the Wind” and “Octopus’s Garden.” This is the big time.

    I’m starting to think my “I can do that!” when I heard IZ play all those years ago is maybe not too far off. You remember, don’t you, what happened the last time I said “I can do that”? Right, I wrote a book. One song is nothin’.

    Here he is, my inspiration, Israel Kamakawiwo’Ole …

  • If it’s drowning you’re after, don’t torment yourself with shallow water

    Top of the mornin’ to ya. Ain’t life grand.

    You can always trust the Irish to put a positive spin on everything, including mornings. Just suppose that last night, one of those monster flooding type of storms came through and wiped out your back 90, and supposing in the morning after surveying the damage, you put on your billy boots and start out on your five-mile walk to the village to suss out the bigger picture of the storm’s damage. You’ve not gone far on the road when you see your neighbor up ahead, and when you’re within shouting distance of each other, you call out, “Top of the mornin’ to ya.” Of course you do.

    So let’s celebrate. Happy St. Patrick’s Day! The patron saint of green beer and drunken parades. You might not have known that. But the one thing you do know, I’m sure, is Patrick is the one who banished the snakes from Ireland.

    Not so fast, leprechaun breath. That snake story is a man-made myth created by the Roman Christians, the would be invaders and conquerors of Ireland. The reality is that there never were any snakes in Ireland. What there was instead was the pagan religion with its Druid shamans. Druid art includes many depictions of the serpent, often coiled around a staff, an important symbol for the pagans.

    What Patrick was sent to Ireland to do was not to banish the snakes, but to banish the serpents – the Druids. Which is what the Christians did. Out with the old and in with the new. It was in the fifth century when Patrick came to Ireland and Christianity took over, which, coincidentally, is when another Irish saint was said to be born, St. Brigit.

    Pre-Christianity, the pagans in Ireland worshipped the supreme goddess Brigit. She meant everything to them; she was their morning, noon and night, and so the Christian leaders realized that the best way to convert the pagans to Christianity was to adopt and adapt some of the pagan rituals as their own and thus become easier to swallow. Thus the old goddess Brigit became the new saint, Brigit.

    Celtic mythology is rich in legend. What’s most fascinating about myths for me is distinguishing the facts from the fantasy. I always thought the snake story was a fact, and here it turns out to be a euphemism, a mythical fantasy. I have to thank my friend Joyce for putting me on this fact-finding journey just in time for St. Patrick’s Day.

    Éirinn go Brách!

    To celebrate the day, Van Morrison’s lilting Irish lullaby …

  • Happy as a lark, or is that a pig in mud?

    I’m what you might call a happy-go-lucky sort.

    Hold it. That sounds like I’m frolicking in the fields where the deer and the antelope play. Let’s tone that down a bit. How about just plain old happy. And I am happy. But I didn’t used to be; I suspect being unhappy with one’s lot in life is not atypical – I see it all the time, and it’s a shame.

    So tell me, Miss Happy Pants, how did you go from unhappy to happy?

    Two pivotal events – one of them a movie scene and the other a picture in my mind. The first of those I will describe in some detail on the off chance one of you is a Pauline Kael wannabe and knows what movie I’m talking about. Because I have no clue. Here goes: the scene. Two boys are standing under a leafy tree in front of their high school. One boy is our hero, and he plays the nice, boy-next-door type. Like a John Cusack, think 1990s. The other boy, the hero’s sidekick and best friend, is a nerdy, somewhat overweight, non-chick magnet. Think a young Jonah Hill. These two boys are talking when out the front door comes the school Queen Bee with her entourage. As she walks past the sidekick, she knocks his arm and his books go flying. She walks on, giggling with her girlfriends. The hero says something I can’t remember but I’m pretty sure was something demeaning about the Queen Bee, prompting the sidekick to say, and I paraphrase, “You watch. Before she gets to the bus, she’s going to turn around and walk back here and apologize, then she’s going to invite me to the prom.” To which the hero says, and I paraphrase, “Good luck with that! Not in a million years.” To which the sidekick says, “It’s my life, my movie; why would I make it sad and depressing?” Of course, the girl never looks back and there is no prom invitation, and most people would say he’s living in a fantasy world.

    I, on the other hand, said, “Exactly! This is my life. I’m the writer, star, director and producer of this movie, so let’s make it a happy one.

    Again, the whole point of me capturing that magical moment in film history is I am always searching for the name of the movie, if for no other reason than it’s good to cite your sources. But also, the idea of my life as my movie caught me at a moment when I was listening, and it got me thinking, mostly that a course correction of such magnitude was easier said than done. This was going to take a plan. (Me and my plans.)

    Simple life, simple plan: Picture this: A big plate, piled high with your life. A scoop for family, a scoop for job, for money, for friends – everything, the good, the bad, the ugly. Rule #1 (me and my rules): Identify one of the scoops on your plate that’s making you unhappy. Either fix it or get rid of it. Rinse and repeat. Rule #2. Don’t add any new bad things to your plate. Follow those two rules and eventually, every scoop on your plate will be a happy one. It took a lot of years to get my plate where it’s filled only with happy bits, but it was worth it – life is good.

    And no, there will be no actual movie of my life to view on demand. I’d be so afraid the musical director might choose Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry Be Happy” as the soundtrack. Voluntarily adding that song to my life, well … see Rule #2 above.

    Instead, this morning, in harmony, the Everly Brothers …

  • Monday morning quarterback

    Actually, there will be none of that. No quarterbacking. Not here. Patrick Mahomes is not likely to come around here and tell me how to do my job, and I return the favor as I am even less qualified to tell him how to do his. So we’re even. No quarterbacking here.

    Plus, I wouldn’t have anything to say that 12 million others haven’t said already. Football insight is not my bailiwick. But I do enjoy the game.

    Football is excellent entertainment when a) your team is playing and b) they’re playing brilliantly. Otherwise, it’s agony. But you watch anyways because there’s always a chance, or if not always, just often enough.

    It’s so easy to get caught up in the excitement when your guy catches the ball at his 10-yard line and dekes his way past everyone until he’s knocked out of bounds on the opposing 35-yard line. I’m hooting and hollering and high fiving just like everybody else. Uh oh. A flag on the play. Leaving us contrite and back in our seats as the ball goes back to the 10-yard line, still first down. Ah, the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat. By some miracle, though, four plays later and we’re first and goal and I’m back on my feet, delirious. They score a touchdown, and kick the extra point, and the next thing you know, my team is off to the Super Bowl. Or again, in any given year, maybe not.

    So what about all those “not this year” years when two teams you don’t know and don’t care about make it to the Super Bowl? What do you do then? I don’t know about you, but I tune in to watch the commercials. Not quite the drama, but, on balance, funnier.

    The other thing I do to keep up my interest is place a bet. This year, I went big – $1 on the Eagles to win. That dollar had me on the edge of my seat all night. Maybe not so much for the game, but for the ads.

    For those whose team wasn’t on the field last night, take heart, there’s always next year. Or if you’re a Saints (we was robbed!) fan, maybe the year after that.

    This morning, a little bit of Franki Valli and The Four Seasons …

  • Live free or die

    Each time I return to New Hampshire, I fall in love with it all over again. Sadly, however, my time here is coming to an end for this visit. Tomorrow I fly back to Washington and return to my non-holiday life. It had to happen sometime.

    In last week’s post, I was all over the natural beauty of New Hampshire. There’s no doubt about it, the place is gorgeous. And while its pretty face is its best feature, it is simply the gateway to everything else that the state has on offer. At the top of that list is freedom. The state’s motto, Live Free or Die, is as meaningful to today’s residents as it was for those who lived here when New Hampshire became a state in search of a motto.

    Don’t quote me on this, but I believe I read that New Hampshire was voted the #1 state for freedom on a recent quality-of-life survey. If true, it couldn’t happen to a nicer state. In addition to the live-free-or-diers who populate New Hampshire, there’s a whole group of liberty lovers moving here, if not in hordes, in a steady stream, to be among other freedom lovers. All of that movement is thanks to the Free State Project. You can read all about when the group formed and why, but in essence, a bunch of libertarians decided that New Hampshire would be a great place to create a liberty community. I was one of those libertarians and an early mover. We were a trickle at first, but 20 years later, the trickle is now a steady stream, except in summer, when the banks threaten to overflow.

    It’s been good this week to mingle among free minds and spirits, if only for a wee pick me up. Sometimes it’s just nice to talk about Ron Paul.

    You might be wondering if I love New Hampshire so much, then why did I leave?

    It’s the cold. The kind of cold that goes right to the bone, which I find unbearable. It drove me away. I was reminded of such a couple of days ago, when the temperature dropped below freezing and hasn’t budged since. So cold that now, on my daily walk, I can see the ponds* have frozen over, like little skating rinks. While stopped to enjoy this little piece of nature, a stiff, frigid breeze blows through my coat and down my neck and goes right to my bones. Brrr.

    That’s why I left. But no matter where my physical bones lead me, my heart always remains in New Hampshire.

    *In the South, we call them swamps. In New Orleans, ponds are what form in the potholes when it rains.

    For your listening pleasure today, Amos Lee …

  • Christmas in New Hampshire

    I expect the question on your mind ever since my post last week is how did the six-person, one-bathroom thing work out?

    Honestly, far better than I expected. At one point before post-Christmas Christmas arrived, I thought the situation might call for a chamber pot under every bed. Seriously, I did. As it turns out, we haven’t needed any, and just as well, because where in all of creation was I going to find a chamber pot or two or six on Christmas Eve?

    One of the coolest things about New Hampshire is it is full to the brim with picture postcard scenes all year – but perhaps winter is best of all when a shimmering moon glistens on a blanket of newly fallen snow. Quintessential New England – my home for 25 years, eight of them in New Hampshire. But there’s no quintessential falling from the sky this week, so you will have to imagine white where it is green.

    What we lose in snow we gain in not having to shovel. Which gave us plenty of time to spend on other kinds of holiday exercise, namely getting the Christmas tree to stand up, decorating it without knocking it over, wrapping presents, hunting for bedsheets, and an assortment of other housewifely duties. In a cause for great joy, it all got done in time for the arrival of our son and his family from Akita, Japan. It’s been two long years since I’ve seen them, so this time together is ever so special. Precious time.

    No question, the gathering of family over the holidays is by far the best part of Christmas. Second best: the lights. All the rest – the food, the presents, the music, the snow – it’s all filler. As for the lights, I get my fill every year, randomly driving around streets in town oohing and aaahing to my heart’s content. Top of my list this year is the humungous display put on by Tulalip Casino in Washington. Acre upon acre of lights. Tons of wattage, and simply a feast for the eyes. Here in our neck of the New Hampshire woods, a little less ostentatious.

    I wish you all a splendiferous new year. Keep the joy forever in your heart, and peace, and love, and all that good stuff.

    And for our musical interlude this week, Lloyd George …