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trifectas

There are occurrences that happen out of our control that maybe could have been avoided or prevented, but they happen all the same.

Something brought such an event to mind this week that made me laugh out loud. I recall at the time not being amused.

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One morning when my son was maybe 6 or 7 years old we had overslept, he was going to be late for school and me late to work. Throwing his lunch together and getting breakfast ready I realized I had forgotten to get any milk. Could he have survived one morning not having milk? Sure. As an obsessive single mom could I have allowed this?

No.

So I called to my son that I was running up the street to get milk, ran to my car, pouring rain, saw the dog had got out, put her in the car, jumped in, drove the short distance to the store.

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Leaving the car running, I ran in, grabbed the milk, paid the cashier, dashed back to the car to see my little dog, delighted to see me again, jump on the door locks locking all 4 doors. I stood for a moment, at a complete loss. I ran back in the store (this is 10 years pre-cell phones) and, explaining my predicament asked they call 911. About 5 minutes later the fire truck pulled up, chastised my thoughtlessness explaining carefully if a living thing had not been in the car they would not have come to help.

Well, I thought, that ‘living thing’ was the reason they were there.

No matter. I had the milk, got breakfast in my son. As we sat at the light to turn in to the school I jotted a quick note explaining his tardiness. A jarring jolt accompanied by crunching metal, I looked up to see the front of my little car neatly folded under the rear of the concrete mixer in front of me at the light. Apparently I could not maintain proper pressure on the brake pedal and write simultaneously.

”Why didn’t you say something?” I wailed to my son.

”I wanted to see what would happen,” he calmly replied.

** Days better spent in bed **

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International space station and fireflies

NASA has a fun, geeky program where you can have emails or text messages sent whenever the ISS flies your geographic coordinates. I know. Nerdy. With all the trees around my house it’s hard to see spring and summer but if its trajectory is high enough I can.

So last night it was visible for 7 minutes. As this bright dot of reflected light soars overhead I marvel at the genius of it all. My son and I visited Cape Canaveral about 20 years ago when it was under construction. We were allowed access to see parts and incredulous. The enormity, and the dot I see hurtling through space is hard to reconcile.

So as it diminished in brightness and disappeared behind a leaf here and there I noticed more tiny blinks of golden light. Fireflies! Or lightning bugs as we knew them. I haven’t seen any in years. I live in a humid summer climate so the county sends a fogger car to spray for mosquitoes. So far it’s killed everything but the mosquitoes- dragonflies, lady bugs, butterflies and lightning bugs.

So when I hear that car driving up the road I run to the end of my driveway to stop it. The driver kindly turns the fogger off and drives away.

So maybe that is why I am again seeing these magical bugs, flashing their tiny lanterns to each other.

Light and Seasons

The fresh green of spring is light in itself. Even under layers of heavy pollen the canopy illuminates itself. After a rain the bright shimmer rests in stillness as a tremulous orchestra’s first notes.

The awakening from winter colorizes slowly, and teems with birds, vines, dragonflies, songs, and joy. Life rouses from the quiet grey of winter, not yet the cacophony of hot, humid summer. Still young, tentative, soft-spoken.

Everything has a cycle. Nothing in life has a separation. Everything is connected or a continuation. It’s reassuring, in the depths of winter, to remember.

But families. I sometimes don’t get families. I have a niece, 22. I have never been included in a birthday celebration, nor her graduation. I likely could not have gone since they live far away. And the graduation was during covid, yet my son was invited. To be fair he lives close. But still no invitation to me, even if I’d had to decline. And nearly every gift I send I chase them down to see whether it was even received, never mind thanked for it. I have to conclude I am not considered part of what they want to celebrate. There must come a point at which I need to stop trying to be part of something I’ve never actually been part of.

As a child my place in the pecking order was bottom. Nothing I thought or said mattered. It’s weird the way you look for attention, not in good ways, when you’re at that place. Finally though I just have to stop. When you want to change that order of things, with or without them, they don’t like it much. But there comes a point where being the family doormat doesn’t work anymore. What people say and do does matter. Their opinions aren’t the only ones that count. Good manners matter. Courtesy matters. Being counted matters.

Not more than anyone else, but as much. So don’t expect me to go along anymore if it makes me discounted. Or invisible. If there is no place for me, as I am, in this ‘family’, on your terms only, then I humbly bow out. I am not a game player or an enabler. You will never even know because you only knew me as whatever suited you.

And that was not me.

So I watch the seasons. They are what they are, as they are. And that is enough.

Gracie’s first snow

We don’t see much snow here in the coastal low country, so even sleet (which we got a couple weeks ago) is a novelty. But this storm has been talked about for weeks, and it delivered. Six inches in Houston, ten in New Orleans. Our amounts ranged from five to eight inches.

I do realize for most this is nothing. You are well-prepared for ten times what we have.

Several days before “Enzo” hit we brought in trucks to treat the roads. Main surface roads and the one primary highway, Ocean Blvd. We borrowed snow plows, but neighborhood roads depended on sunshine to do any significant melting since the temperatures were below freezing until yesterday.

Gracie is not a fan of anything falling from the sky so going outside in the sleeting part wasn’t great. But she likes the snow.

Even so, a warm pillow inside looking out is nice, too. Stay warm and dry, y’all.

 

monkeys

When I was young my parents went out a lot. My brother and I had our favorite sitters. One sitter I especially remember enjoyed reading Dr. Seuss books to me, especially The Cat In The Hat. This book terrified me. Here these kids are alone in their house, a total chaotic mess, and their mom is walking up the sidewalk to the house. They got it all clean miraculously, but I really stressed over this. Since I liked the sitter I never said a word.

So this week, day after the election, in a little town south of me there is a research facility that breeds little monkeys for research. 43 of them escaped when a caretaker, cleaning the area, left two doors unsecured.

I strongly dislike monkeys. I think they are the only animal on the planet I don’t like. There are many I hope not to encounter, ever, like alligators, but I really just don’t like monkeys. In the natural world they have no specific laws relevant to other species. I understand they are fiercely protective of members of their families. But they are chaotic, loud, make huge messes, are mean, and have no regard for or even fear of any other species. Unlike the Cat in the Hat they have no interest in restoring or even creating order.

So this research facility. They have set traps for these monkeys (what a joke), their employees are out hunting for them, the public has been cautioned to keep windows and doors shut so they don’t get in their house, not to try to capture or even pet them but to call 911. There are several of these escapees that are hanging around the facility perimeter fence “cooing” to the ones still in there. Probably encouraging them to make a break for it.

This same facility had this happen in 2016. Nineteen monkeys got out then. No idea if they ever recovered those, either. In the wind. Both are years Donald Trump is elected President.

Maybe this is a lesson in how to get inmates back in the asylum.

the ‘H’ storm

In 1954, the coasts of North and South Carolina were massively struck by hurricane Hazel, a category 4 hurricane. Unprepared and ill-equipped for the damage the areas struggled for months with recovery. Nineteen were killed, hundreds more hurt. The NC Weather Bureau reported “all traces of civilization on the immediate waterfront between the state line and Cape Fear were practically annihilated.”

Thirty-five years later in 1989 hurricane Hugo, category 4, blasted South Carolina near Charleston and charged inland still raging into Charlotte, NC where my son and I lived at the time, as a category 2 storm, 90 mph winds. The path it took through South Carolina left a war-zone-like devastation. In Charlotte it was months before the chain saw and wood chipper whine stopped from grinding the uprooted trees and 20-foot-high mounds of wood chips steamed through the cold winter until they finally got carted away. I can’t even remember how long the national guard were there. We were without electricity for two weeks. We were among the fortunate ones.

So this year, 2024. Another 35 years. I had a cataract procedure scheduled just as another tropical depression churned offshore. My son and I climbed in the car to travel to near Charleston. Lashing rain, some wind, not bad. Also not the dreaded H storm. It never made it.

This time Helene completely went its own way, through the gulf into Florida’s Big Bend area. Category 4, again. Storm surge was the worst. But instead of slowing down it maintained its speed which meant it also kept its power. We had 14 tornado warnings in the 2-3 hour window where Helene passed through. But North Carolina. Those mountains. They had received days of rain before this storm. Helene tore out trees and flooded the inundated area where one river was 24 feet above its normal level. Unprecedented is too small a word. Catastrophic works because as waters receded bodies appeared. Whole towns, Chimney Rock, Lake Lure, gone. Indescribable destruction and damage and obliteration. Because of plain, ordinary Americans people are getting food, water, generators, internet service, by helicopter, many by horses, goats, pack mules. Most paved roads are gutted and impassable, even interstates.

And we learn, gradually, our government has nothing to give us. No help. So Americans are pouring our hearts out to help the people of Appalachia. People who have survived so much, who work hard and are so grateful for whatever little or much they have. God’s people. The bedrock of this country.

So fema? ‘Government’? Please stay out of our way. We have work to do.

Friendly?

It’s been a while since I wrote anything. I was a programmer, in the early days (1980s) of computers so maybe I should welcome the nanospeed of technochanges. Well I don’t. Could be at my ‘age’ I don’t want to be bothered, or I just haven’t anything substantial to write about. So many bloggers I follow make interesting, pertinent points and their minds are creative. I admire this.

But these constant changes on WordPress simply complicate things. Don’t get me wrong, I love a challenge, as with discussions or ideas. But this? Whenever I open this everything is different. Having to stop to figure out what an electronic platform wants in order to continue seriously affects the flow of words from brain to fingertips.

I enjoy writing here, having a spot to express thoughts, opinions, whining, joys, concerns, whatever. And I refuse to be intimidated by an intractable electronic device that does not communicate well. The programming I did nobody ever complained about. I attribute this to the coding and formatting which easily enabled creating a universal program anyone could use. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me.

I called an electrician recently to check some outdoor security lights that weren’t working normally before tropical storm Debby. Rather than test them they completely dismantled them, so now I have to buy new lights. Repair shouldn’t be so complicated. Neither should writing.

Really, life would be better enjoyed if things were simpler. But then I suppose our brains would stagnate if we had nothing new to figure out.

*sigh*

(courtesy Pinterest)

Gracie’s first road trip

Up to now Car rides with Gracie have been at most half an hour long, generally to her vet, her day care, the beach or the pet store for treats. Fun places.

So a drive upstate to our Blue Ridge/ Appalachia foothills was not in her wheelhouse.

Every dog I have ever had loved car rides. Long, short, several days of traveling, didn’t matter. He or she would sit quietly, passenger or back seat, signaling for a potty break by panting.

Pretty simple. Not Gracie.

After the first 40 minutes, when it became clear she was not going to any of her usual places and I did not appear to be stopping she got antsy. She whined. She bounced on the steering wheel. She panted. After a bit of this I stopped to let her walk around, get it out of her system. We returned to the car and started up again. Oh, no, she wasn’t having this (it’s about a 5-hour drive). So an hour or so later I stopped again. We walked around, Gracie convinced this must be our destination but it’s a Walmart parking lot. This made no sense.

So she’s not where she wants to be and the car becomes a torture chamber. We have another hour. I pull off into a parking lot marked “No Parking” and we get out. Gracie thinks we’re there. I let her drag me back and forth a few times until she looks at me again with, “ok now what?” I brought water, food, toys, a blanket, pheromones. Nothing helped.

Back to the car. The views are beautiful. Between snatching a glance while driving hilly, winding roads and holding her away from the car’s parking brake and turbo buttons, I see how lovely it is. We come to a pretty area nestled by a gushing rocky stream and get out to explore a bit. It’s oddly humid and buggy so we don’t stay long.

Surprisingly Gracie stays in the back seat practically all the way back. We stop once at a rest area and she wanders around, then back to the car where she returns to her comfy spot.

Maybe it was just the initial longer journey that flummoxed her, but if anyone has suggestions I’d love to hear them.

love

I’m not much of a church-goer. I was raised in the episcopal church, sang in choirs, christened, confirmed and married in the same church. When I was married I attended my ex-husband’s church. My son was baptized there. Church was a vital connection for me. I hungered though. Mainly because at the time, unbeknownst to me, I attended church for all the wrong reasons.

I wanted acceptance in the community. I wanted to do churchy things- altar guild, sing, potluck suppers -I wanted to be part of something I thought would make God happy.

That’s not how God works.

When we divorced I threw myself into a downward spiral. I worked hard at it. But we went to church, my son and I. I did this for him. I wanted for him what I never believed I could have. God’s love. Joy. Hope.

After many churches (and many years) I began to understand God’s love was enough for everyone. And I opened my soul and poured it all out. The dark blackness I never wanted anyone else to see, especially not God. And I cried. I thought I would never stop the tears.

So this morning I visited a church. I didn’t go for any other purpose than to feel close to God. Yes, I can feel Him anywhere, anytime. But there is something meaningful in worship. Confession. Communal prayer. I’m the first to complain when I think it’s too peopley. But as I sat this morning, watching dappled light move with a gentle breeze I saw people sitting together, by twos, in families, alone. But a unity I hadn’t sensed since one Christmas Eve as a young child. Protected. Safe. Loved. Not sameness or acceptance. A belonging. And it wasn’t from us, either.

This I realize, is what will heal.

recycling

When my son was growing up I made a big deal about taking responsibility, including cleaning up after yourself. Somehow this did not translate to his room, but he took great care to not litter, or be wasteful. Eventually recycling centers came into being where we lived and every week or two we’d haul our boxes of cans, bottles and newspaper and recycle.

(not my photo)

Who knew this would become a thing, spawning so much about climate, carbon dioxide and overpopulation.

So wherever I’ve lived this is something I’ve always done. One day cities offered bins for commingled recyclables. This made life easier and I didn’t have to drive it anywhere, trucks came and got it.

My last move three years ago I learned the companies offered trash pick up but no recycling. So I was back to the collecting, sorting hauling bit.

One day last week Gracie and I were out walking. I noticed a bright, shiny bin with my trash pickup company logo. And it said “Recycle”. I emailed, asking if this was for all their customers.

Yes. And they brought my bin that afternoon. I never thought such a mundane service would make me so happy.

It is half full now. Though I won’t enjoy the occasional encounters with seldom-seen neighbors or acquaintances at the recycling center, or the odd nail in one of my tires, it is so nice to have this convenience. Now if I could somehow figure out a way to have a garage built. First house in over 30 years I didn’t have one….

pay attention!

Normally I am mindful of where I am, what I’m doing. Last week was an exception. Chewing a gumdrop I felt a molar crown pull away. I hoped it would just be replaced, the dentist thought otherwise. So I was novocained and refitted for a new one. Three weeks with a temporary.

Next day I decide to trim the hedge between my angry neighbor’s and my yard, even though her yard guy promises he’ll trim it. He never has. I can’t quite figure why neighbor is angry. She’s divorced and has a very attentive boyfriend, good job, new car, cute house. Whatever. So I get the ladder and the hedge trimmer. Not sure how it happened but I noticed my left thumb was crimson. Got down off the ladder, used copious amounts of “BleedStop” and finally it did. Being mostly done with the trimmer I took a new pair of pruners and after snipping remnant stray stems stabbed my finger, the finger I broke.

At this point it’s clear I’m done. Any more and Gracie would have to stay to board at daycare. I’m generally very careful and mindful of what I’m doing, especially when it involves power tools. It’s way too early for injuries. But it’s also early for poison ivy which I see coming up now, amongst other, prettier flowers.

I live in a combination wetland/ woodland so most of what I have is natural. I like the ferns, dwarf palmettos and vines. But the little I have that’s cultivated, being in a subtropical climate, gets away from me fast if I don’t keep up with it. So I really can’t afford a whole lot of careless injuries. Well, the little hummingbird is squeaking. You’ll have to excuse me, her feeder has run dry and I need to fill it.