Got a scary warning light complete with buzzer a few days ago when I started my car. Basically a coward, I contacted a couple of my mechanic folks before I drove anywhere. I started with my son’s friend, Randy, because he’s worked for VW for years and I drive a Jetta.
I texted him and said the warning light looked like a thermometer. Perhaps that wasn’t a great description as he called me and asked me to take a picture of the warning light – you know, the little icon thing – so I went back out to the car. Problem was when I turned the car back on, the light did not come back on although I had seen it briefly as the motor turned over. Not to be daunted by a light in hiding, I got my phone in camera ready mode and turned the car back on. Ah ha, the light appeared ever so briefly, but I was able to capture an image.
Randy got back to me right away and told me that the car needed water. He went on to explain that if I had the radiator looked at, the car needed a special type of radiator fluid. Appealing to my feminine side, he said it was pink. I’d know it was the right stuff if it were pink. Gotcha.
And since the light was gone, I ran a few errands before getting in touch with my grandson, who’s quite a mechanic in his own right. And a second opinion never hurts. Besides, he’s local and I was hoping he’d offer to take care of the problem. He didn’t, but he did confirm Randy’s diagnosis and suggested I just check the fluid in the overflow whatamacallit as Randy had also said.
However, as the light was still off, I decided to defer to my husband – who is definitely not a mechanic, but he does have the confidence I lack. He said he’d handle it, but hadn’t when three days later the light and the buzzer came on again when I drove him to work.
Before panicking, I decided to google “how to add coolant” this morning and felt better as I mentally checked it off my to do list. I did not feel so good about actually trying to do it especially as the light had gone off again. Pesky light.
With the words to Helen Reddy’s song going through my head, I approached the car again. “I am woman… If I have to, I can do anything.”
Task # 1 – find the gadget in the car that releases the hood
pull it
#2 – find the gadget in the engine compartment that releases the hood
pull it
#3 – lift the hood up
#4 – find the long metal piece that holds the hood up
release it
#5 – find the hole to place the end of the long metal piece in
place it there
#6 – locate the coolant recovery tank
#7 – open it
#8 – check the level
#9 – get some water
#10 – fill it to about an inch from the top
#11 – breathe
I am woman!
Tuesday, December 4, 2018
Friday, July 1, 2016
Don't Wait
Don’t Wait
How many times have you delayed reconnecting with an old friend even though you really wanted to see them and even though you really meant to make time? I confess that I’ve done this many times. In fact, I continue to do so. And sometimes, I’ve waited too long.
I was up early this morning, shortly before 6am, and I wanted to go back to sleep, but sleep eluded me. So, I did what all good folks do these days when sleep isn’t coming, I reached for my phone and checked my email. When I didn’t find anything of particular interest there, I tried Facebook. And there – about three posts down – was the sad news of the passing of my friend, Yvonne.
After the initial moment of disbelief, I realized that what I was reading was true. Another friend of hers had posted about losing her BF. And that sadness that accompanies loss came over me. I’d known she was ill, but we’ve all grown so used to cancer victims becoming survivors that I hadn’t worried that much nor for that long. Now, of course, it struck me. Yvonne had lost her battle.
I’m reminded of the words from the movie Calendar Girls when Chris makes a plea before council to go ahead with their risky project. She refers to cancer as “this shitty, cheating, sly, conniving bloody disease…” And that was my thought. This shitty, cheating disease has taken my friend. Had taken yet another friend.
I scrolled over to our FB messages and was surprised to find that our last posts were some time ago, way back in November of last year. I hadn’t realized it had been that long. Yvonne had recently moved from Long Beach to Pomona, and when I’d mentioned a holiday visit, she’d shared that she wasn’t settled in, yet.
I began then to think about the course of our friendship. We met in the mid 1980s in grad school at CSULA and hit it off immediately. We were among the oldest members of our class and perhaps that bonded us. Or maybe it was that we were both rum dumb by break time. The classes in our major met from 4 – 8p and both of us had quite a commute to school. I remember how hard it was at times to stay awake on the drive home.
In one class, we sat right next to each other and often whispered conspiratorially. Then one night we got a fit of giggles. I can’t remember what caused it. I’m sure it was just something stupid, but we got to laughing uncontrollably. The students near us looked anoyed and the prof sent several glares in our direction, but we couldn’t stop. Eventually, I think we had to get up and go outside.
I can usually control myself and, indeed, I can only think of one other time that I had gotten such a laugh. It was with my mother. We were on vacation in Hawaii and had gone to church one Sunday. During the homily, the priest, who was rather old, got stuck in his sermon. He’d preached for a few minutes and then started over. The first time he began again, I thought he was just making a point, but by the third time, my mom and I looked at each other and she let out a snicker.
You’d have to know my mother to know how truly unusual that was. She was a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic and the celebration of the mass was a solemn occasion for her. Thus, something had to really tickle her funny bone to get her to laugh in church. Well, by the forth or firth time the priest started his sermon again, she exploded with laughter. She was bent over. She just couldn’t stop herself and finally got up and left the service.
Laughter is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? I’m glad I remembered Yvonne and me laughing because we’d had some things to cry over. Not long ago, her husband had decided to leave her and go back to the Philippians where he’d apparently taken up with another woman on a recent visit home. Indeed her move that delayed our last meeting was a result of their divorce. He’d been given their house by the judge, but had to buy her out. I’d wanted to talk about why she was relocating so far away, but… I guess when you emigrate all the way from the Netherlands, the move from Long Beach to Pomona doesn’t seem far.
This morning, knowing that sleep was not going to come my way, I got up and put the kettle on for a cup of tea. When my daughter came into the kitchen, I told her about Yvonne. And she reminded me that Yvonne had been our landlady. In fact, she’d saved our bacon.
I’d gone to OR to be with my daughter for the birth of her first son. When the baby decided to be late, I’d asked for some time off from my summer position and, now that I think about it, had arranged for Yvonne to be my substitute. After an emergency C section and a half dozen other events that seem to conspire against Sarah, she decided to move back to CA to my delight. Unfortunately, when I returned home, my boss didn’t give me my job back. Without an income, I got behind in my rent and my landlady asked me to leave. Fairly new to the landlord/tenant issues, I didn’t realize I had options. Anyway, Yvonne and her husband had just started managing some apartments and were running a “first month free ad.”
I was so relieved to have a place to go to, but it turned out to be awful. We moved in amongst 1000 dead cockroaches and poison spread from one end of the place to the other. It was clear that we couldn’t stay even after we cleaned the carpets and scrubbed the cupboards and ensconced the baby upstairs in the relatively clean bathroom. Fortunately, I got another job right away and I took my first couple of paychecks and moved us out. Yvonne wasn’t happy with me because it was her job to keep the apartments occupied, but she understood in the long run that it just wasn’t safe for an infant.
Friend who laughed with me, I’ll miss you.
Friend who rescued me and mine, I’ll miss you. You’ll be pleased to know that that baby just turned 23 this week. How the time does fly.
Even though we haven’t gotten in a visit in an age, even though most of our communication has been via social media, even though we haven’t shared much in recent years, I want you to know that I will miss even that.
Rest in peace, my friend.
How many times have you delayed reconnecting with an old friend even though you really wanted to see them and even though you really meant to make time? I confess that I’ve done this many times. In fact, I continue to do so. And sometimes, I’ve waited too long.
I was up early this morning, shortly before 6am, and I wanted to go back to sleep, but sleep eluded me. So, I did what all good folks do these days when sleep isn’t coming, I reached for my phone and checked my email. When I didn’t find anything of particular interest there, I tried Facebook. And there – about three posts down – was the sad news of the passing of my friend, Yvonne.
After the initial moment of disbelief, I realized that what I was reading was true. Another friend of hers had posted about losing her BF. And that sadness that accompanies loss came over me. I’d known she was ill, but we’ve all grown so used to cancer victims becoming survivors that I hadn’t worried that much nor for that long. Now, of course, it struck me. Yvonne had lost her battle.
I’m reminded of the words from the movie Calendar Girls when Chris makes a plea before council to go ahead with their risky project. She refers to cancer as “this shitty, cheating, sly, conniving bloody disease…” And that was my thought. This shitty, cheating disease has taken my friend. Had taken yet another friend.
I scrolled over to our FB messages and was surprised to find that our last posts were some time ago, way back in November of last year. I hadn’t realized it had been that long. Yvonne had recently moved from Long Beach to Pomona, and when I’d mentioned a holiday visit, she’d shared that she wasn’t settled in, yet.
I began then to think about the course of our friendship. We met in the mid 1980s in grad school at CSULA and hit it off immediately. We were among the oldest members of our class and perhaps that bonded us. Or maybe it was that we were both rum dumb by break time. The classes in our major met from 4 – 8p and both of us had quite a commute to school. I remember how hard it was at times to stay awake on the drive home.
In one class, we sat right next to each other and often whispered conspiratorially. Then one night we got a fit of giggles. I can’t remember what caused it. I’m sure it was just something stupid, but we got to laughing uncontrollably. The students near us looked anoyed and the prof sent several glares in our direction, but we couldn’t stop. Eventually, I think we had to get up and go outside.
I can usually control myself and, indeed, I can only think of one other time that I had gotten such a laugh. It was with my mother. We were on vacation in Hawaii and had gone to church one Sunday. During the homily, the priest, who was rather old, got stuck in his sermon. He’d preached for a few minutes and then started over. The first time he began again, I thought he was just making a point, but by the third time, my mom and I looked at each other and she let out a snicker.
You’d have to know my mother to know how truly unusual that was. She was a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic and the celebration of the mass was a solemn occasion for her. Thus, something had to really tickle her funny bone to get her to laugh in church. Well, by the forth or firth time the priest started his sermon again, she exploded with laughter. She was bent over. She just couldn’t stop herself and finally got up and left the service.
Laughter is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? I’m glad I remembered Yvonne and me laughing because we’d had some things to cry over. Not long ago, her husband had decided to leave her and go back to the Philippians where he’d apparently taken up with another woman on a recent visit home. Indeed her move that delayed our last meeting was a result of their divorce. He’d been given their house by the judge, but had to buy her out. I’d wanted to talk about why she was relocating so far away, but… I guess when you emigrate all the way from the Netherlands, the move from Long Beach to Pomona doesn’t seem far.
This morning, knowing that sleep was not going to come my way, I got up and put the kettle on for a cup of tea. When my daughter came into the kitchen, I told her about Yvonne. And she reminded me that Yvonne had been our landlady. In fact, she’d saved our bacon.
I’d gone to OR to be with my daughter for the birth of her first son. When the baby decided to be late, I’d asked for some time off from my summer position and, now that I think about it, had arranged for Yvonne to be my substitute. After an emergency C section and a half dozen other events that seem to conspire against Sarah, she decided to move back to CA to my delight. Unfortunately, when I returned home, my boss didn’t give me my job back. Without an income, I got behind in my rent and my landlady asked me to leave. Fairly new to the landlord/tenant issues, I didn’t realize I had options. Anyway, Yvonne and her husband had just started managing some apartments and were running a “first month free ad.”
I was so relieved to have a place to go to, but it turned out to be awful. We moved in amongst 1000 dead cockroaches and poison spread from one end of the place to the other. It was clear that we couldn’t stay even after we cleaned the carpets and scrubbed the cupboards and ensconced the baby upstairs in the relatively clean bathroom. Fortunately, I got another job right away and I took my first couple of paychecks and moved us out. Yvonne wasn’t happy with me because it was her job to keep the apartments occupied, but she understood in the long run that it just wasn’t safe for an infant.
Friend who laughed with me, I’ll miss you.
Friend who rescued me and mine, I’ll miss you. You’ll be pleased to know that that baby just turned 23 this week. How the time does fly.
Even though we haven’t gotten in a visit in an age, even though most of our communication has been via social media, even though we haven’t shared much in recent years, I want you to know that I will miss even that.
Rest in peace, my friend.
Thursday, April 21, 2016
My 50 Cent Miracle
My Fifty Cent Miracle
It wasn’t until the IRS came calling that I truly realized that my husband was gone and was not going to support me or our children any longer. I had only $8 in my change purse after the government levied our checking account. Some women have enough sense to change things into their own names, but I didn’t or, at least, I hadn’t figured it out yet.
It was a humiliating time. My husband had been a good provider and we had a five bedroom home in an upscale community. I drove a Cadillac and we had a boat and all the trimmings of suburbia, but I could no longer afford anything. My kids were in summer camp at the Y and I had to go in and beg them for a scholarship so that I could run around trying to get a job.
I was mortified to return from a job interview a few days later to discover that a local church had brought us several boxes of food. It brought tears to my eyes to see the eagerness on my kids’ faces as they unloaded the boxes and I realized that they were aware of the rather dire straits we were in.
I hadn’t gone on a real job interview it was more of an information session. I’d been a stay-at-home mom for some time, but I had volunteered with some private companies that brought foreign students to the U.S. to study English and I’d gotten very interested in teaching. So, I’d gone to my local community college which had a huge English as a Second Language (ESL) program and asked them how one went about getting a job.
The department chair explained to me that I’d need a master’s degree. My heart sunk. It had taken me close to 20 years to finally get a bachelor’s degree. The woman must have seen my distress, so she shared that adult schools also had ESL programs and that one could teach with them with an adult ed credential which could be obtained from the state if one had a 4 year degree. And so I set out on a path.
Eventually, the path took me to get finger-printed one of the last in a series of steps along the way. And it was going to cost $20.00 which I had to scrape together. I did some bookkeeping for a friend’s mom who owned a business, but could only pay me a few dollars an hour. Still, I was happy as I pulled into the civic center of the neighboring city. Until I pulled into the parking lot and realized that it was metered.
Large signs around the public lot announced the various penalties for failing to obtain a permit which could be had for a mere $.50 – fifty cents. Even then that was a cheap price to pay, but – to me – it might as well have been a king’s ransom. I had the $20.00 I needed to pay for my prints and not a nickel more. I wasn’t even tempted to rummage thru my purse. I was quite sure there was no money there. I’d long since robbed my piggy bank and rolled the coins for grocery money.
I stood looking at the vending machine reading the instructions again as if I could make it say something different – like “first twenty minutes free.” That didn’t happen.
What did happen though was even more amazing. A woman who was leaving rolled down her window and hollered, “Betty?” “Betty?” I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone else> I pointed to my chest and she nodded which was when I realized she was talking to me. “I’m not Betty, “ I began and she interrupted me.
“Oh, I was supposed to meet her here. She works afternoons and I work mornings and we’d talked on the phone about sharing our parking permit.”
“… but she’s not here. Would you like it?” she asked.
Would I like it, I thought to myself? Would I like it, I wanted to sing.
I managed a weak, “Yes,” as I walked over to her car. An answer to a prayer I hadn’t even dared to pray.
God promises to provide for us and he does – even in the smallest things.
It wasn’t until the IRS came calling that I truly realized that my husband was gone and was not going to support me or our children any longer. I had only $8 in my change purse after the government levied our checking account. Some women have enough sense to change things into their own names, but I didn’t or, at least, I hadn’t figured it out yet.
It was a humiliating time. My husband had been a good provider and we had a five bedroom home in an upscale community. I drove a Cadillac and we had a boat and all the trimmings of suburbia, but I could no longer afford anything. My kids were in summer camp at the Y and I had to go in and beg them for a scholarship so that I could run around trying to get a job.
I was mortified to return from a job interview a few days later to discover that a local church had brought us several boxes of food. It brought tears to my eyes to see the eagerness on my kids’ faces as they unloaded the boxes and I realized that they were aware of the rather dire straits we were in.
I hadn’t gone on a real job interview it was more of an information session. I’d been a stay-at-home mom for some time, but I had volunteered with some private companies that brought foreign students to the U.S. to study English and I’d gotten very interested in teaching. So, I’d gone to my local community college which had a huge English as a Second Language (ESL) program and asked them how one went about getting a job.
The department chair explained to me that I’d need a master’s degree. My heart sunk. It had taken me close to 20 years to finally get a bachelor’s degree. The woman must have seen my distress, so she shared that adult schools also had ESL programs and that one could teach with them with an adult ed credential which could be obtained from the state if one had a 4 year degree. And so I set out on a path.
Eventually, the path took me to get finger-printed one of the last in a series of steps along the way. And it was going to cost $20.00 which I had to scrape together. I did some bookkeeping for a friend’s mom who owned a business, but could only pay me a few dollars an hour. Still, I was happy as I pulled into the civic center of the neighboring city. Until I pulled into the parking lot and realized that it was metered.
Large signs around the public lot announced the various penalties for failing to obtain a permit which could be had for a mere $.50 – fifty cents. Even then that was a cheap price to pay, but – to me – it might as well have been a king’s ransom. I had the $20.00 I needed to pay for my prints and not a nickel more. I wasn’t even tempted to rummage thru my purse. I was quite sure there was no money there. I’d long since robbed my piggy bank and rolled the coins for grocery money.
I stood looking at the vending machine reading the instructions again as if I could make it say something different – like “first twenty minutes free.” That didn’t happen.
What did happen though was even more amazing. A woman who was leaving rolled down her window and hollered, “Betty?” “Betty?” I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone else> I pointed to my chest and she nodded which was when I realized she was talking to me. “I’m not Betty, “ I began and she interrupted me.
“Oh, I was supposed to meet her here. She works afternoons and I work mornings and we’d talked on the phone about sharing our parking permit.”
“… but she’s not here. Would you like it?” she asked.
Would I like it, I thought to myself? Would I like it, I wanted to sing.
I managed a weak, “Yes,” as I walked over to her car. An answer to a prayer I hadn’t even dared to pray.
God promises to provide for us and he does – even in the smallest things.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Rain Rain Rain
Well we are in day 2 of I guess the 3rd or 4th week of the long anticipated El Nino, and I’m going crazy. WTF do you do when it keeps raining and raining and raining?
My washer and dryer are in the garage-converted to man cave which is not attached to the house. It’s close, tho. It’s just across the covered patio and joined to the covered car port, so I only have a space of about 18 inches that isn’t covered between my back door and the garage door, but the water drips off the two roofs like a water fall and I get soaked no matter how fast I sprint. And sprinting is not encouraged as the concrete can be very slippery when wet.
I have often told the story of visiting with Sarah – many years ago – when she was living in OR and expecting John Rafael. Although it was June, the skies would often darken up with the next downpour. One afternoon she mentioned that we needed to go grocery shopping. And I said, “But, it’s raining. We have to wait for it to stop.” Except for her big pregnant belly, she would have doubled over laughing. “If we wait for the rain to stop, we’ll starve,” she countered.
I love rain, but I’m quickly discovering that I only love it on my terms – that is, once in a while, lightly, and preferably when I don’t have to go out in it anywhere.
In our normal semi desert and recent drought conditions, we look forward to rain like a camel coming upon a mirage in the desert. My students who are visiting here do not share my enthusiasm though, so I tell them it isn’t rain at all. Everyone knows, it never rains in California. This is liquid sunshine. When the next day dawns sunny and bright, they get a laugh out of it. This season, I don’t think anyone is going to think it’s funny.
I lived in Guadalajara for a season and the rain there was well behaved. It would start just about the time I got home – quite late at night and continue until just before dawn. By the time I was up and about, the skies were clear and the sidewalks were dry.
I also had the misfortune of living in Chicago for a time, but I don’t remember much rain. All I remember is bone chilling cold that permeated every bit of clothing you piled on. Although I’d been kind of exciting about moving there, I was never so happy to be leaving a place as when we set foot to go back to CA just days before Christmas. Of course, we weren’t actually on foot, we were driving home in our gto and, happily, without the trailer we’d pulled when we were coming. My Dad had arranged to ship our stuff via the trucking company he worked for which made our return trip much simpler. And, thank goodness.
As we headed across Arizona somewhere west of Flagstaff, which sits at 7,000 feet, we were overrun by flash flooding which brought the traffic on 1-40 to a dead stop where we stayed for some time. Eventually, the highway patrol came and escorted us through the flooded areas issuing strict warnings that we were to find a place to hole up for the night. We ended up in Peach Springs, a wee little town along Route 66 that I’m happy to say I’ve never visited since.
And today the folks in North County got three flash flood warnings. Two were broadcast over the TV and one came via the cell phone. Each time, a very stern-voiced gentlemen said this is the highest level of warning. You must move to higher ground immediately. The problem was, he didn’t say precisely where the danger was. Instead he mentioned the cities involved. His only specific mention was the area stricken by the most recent wildfires.
As I live high on a bluff, I figure my danger is more likely that I’ll slide down the hill. My other concern was of course for my family who are in Fallbrook, one of the cities mentioned in the warnings, but as they are on the top of a hill also, I figured they’re relatively safe.
The last warning predicted that we get from a half of an inch to a whole inch of rain per hour over the next few hours.
The good news is of course that the snow pack in Northern CA is already more than it has been in any recent year. As soon as that announcement is made though, the authorities are quick to say that it won’t likely affect our drought situation much. Really? Are you f*g kidding me?
Anyway, I just wanted to tell those of you who live in colder places and put up with rain and snow on a regular basis - that I take my hat off to you. Wait. Maybe I'll change that. I take my sunglasses off to you.
Saturday, November 7, 2015
Taz
There is a time for every purpose under heaven.
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about my friend, Kathy, and cautioned you and reminded myself to seize the moment. We just never know. Our mutual friend called me earlier this week to tell me that Kathy had died the night before. And I can see her dancing in heaven now – light on her feet, smiling at her unknown audience.
And this morning I woke up to find my soccer partner dead in his home. Taz, short for Tasmanian Devil, hasn’t been with me very long, but we’ve had a lot of fun together. Just last night we played some soccer with a couple of his balls. He was so fast. He could always beat me to the ball. And he often ran so hard to get to it before me that he’d go smashing into the gate or the garage or whatever obstacle had stopped the ball.
He was stubborn as bulldogs are. When he had the ball, there was no taking it away from him. He’d look up at me with defiance in his eyes, just daring me to try to take it away. Which of course is what he wanted and of course I tried. But he’d hold on for dear life. And most of the time, I couldn’t wrestle it away from him. He was too strong and much too determined. And if he could have talked, he’d have said, “Gotcha!”
Taz was a rescue. His owner was going to put him down when he was born with a hole in his heart. It was so bad that the vet would never operate on his cherry eye. When my daughter heard this, she offered to take him for whatever time he had, and he thrived in her care. Then, for whatever reason, she decided I needed a dog and so Taz moved in with me. And I loved him.
I don’t know how long he’s been here. I think it’s been about a year now, and I never dreamed I’d miss him so much when it was his time to go. Maybe my friend, Kathy, needed a dog. I’d like to think so.
His eye was ugly and I don’t think he could see out of it very well, but it never slowed him down. He was, as I said, one helluva soccer player. But he could put on the saddest face imaginable. If he wanted a cookie or more food in his bowl or more soccer time, he’d put on his “woe is me” face. If that didn’t work, he had a happy face that would light up the room. Hell. Even my husband liked him, and Salvador doesn’t like anybody.
He was generally well behaved. Although one of my neighbors owns a couple of prissy poodles that Taz barely tolerated. He’d often bark when they went prancing by – as if to say, “Seriously. Do you call yourselves dogs?” On the other hand, when the cops were on my street a couple of times recently, they stopped to have a word with him. Somehow, he knew better than to bark at them although he wasn’t particularly friendly towards them either. Let’s say he tolerated them, too.
When he came to live with me, his ugly eye caught the attention of my neighbors one at a time, and they frowned at me, silently accusing me of not taking care of him. Thus, one by one, I explained the situation – how that a surgery would likely kill him. And that he was a rescue and so forth. After they heard the story, they would admire rather than judge me, but I was reminded of the bumper sticker: “Who rescued who?”
But I wasn’t always kind. Just last night, the boys came over and Taz was beside himself to see his three buddies all at one time. So, he ran into the house, found a couple of strange bags, and peed on them. And I went off. I yelled at him. And ran him out of the house. I don’t like when animals pee in the house. It makes me crazy. Please forgive me, Taz. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. I know I didn’t hurt you, but I know I hurt your feelings.
Later, we had a good game of soccer, so I think I’d mended my fences, but I had no idea that last night would be our last soccer match. I don’t think he knew either. He played as hard as always and never once cut me any slack. Soccer was serious business with Taz and me.
And I had no idea that this dumb ole dog with a hole in his heart would leave such a hole in mine. I miss you already. So much.
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about my friend, Kathy, and cautioned you and reminded myself to seize the moment. We just never know. Our mutual friend called me earlier this week to tell me that Kathy had died the night before. And I can see her dancing in heaven now – light on her feet, smiling at her unknown audience.
And this morning I woke up to find my soccer partner dead in his home. Taz, short for Tasmanian Devil, hasn’t been with me very long, but we’ve had a lot of fun together. Just last night we played some soccer with a couple of his balls. He was so fast. He could always beat me to the ball. And he often ran so hard to get to it before me that he’d go smashing into the gate or the garage or whatever obstacle had stopped the ball.
He was stubborn as bulldogs are. When he had the ball, there was no taking it away from him. He’d look up at me with defiance in his eyes, just daring me to try to take it away. Which of course is what he wanted and of course I tried. But he’d hold on for dear life. And most of the time, I couldn’t wrestle it away from him. He was too strong and much too determined. And if he could have talked, he’d have said, “Gotcha!”
Taz was a rescue. His owner was going to put him down when he was born with a hole in his heart. It was so bad that the vet would never operate on his cherry eye. When my daughter heard this, she offered to take him for whatever time he had, and he thrived in her care. Then, for whatever reason, she decided I needed a dog and so Taz moved in with me. And I loved him.
I don’t know how long he’s been here. I think it’s been about a year now, and I never dreamed I’d miss him so much when it was his time to go. Maybe my friend, Kathy, needed a dog. I’d like to think so.
His eye was ugly and I don’t think he could see out of it very well, but it never slowed him down. He was, as I said, one helluva soccer player. But he could put on the saddest face imaginable. If he wanted a cookie or more food in his bowl or more soccer time, he’d put on his “woe is me” face. If that didn’t work, he had a happy face that would light up the room. Hell. Even my husband liked him, and Salvador doesn’t like anybody.
He was generally well behaved. Although one of my neighbors owns a couple of prissy poodles that Taz barely tolerated. He’d often bark when they went prancing by – as if to say, “Seriously. Do you call yourselves dogs?” On the other hand, when the cops were on my street a couple of times recently, they stopped to have a word with him. Somehow, he knew better than to bark at them although he wasn’t particularly friendly towards them either. Let’s say he tolerated them, too.
When he came to live with me, his ugly eye caught the attention of my neighbors one at a time, and they frowned at me, silently accusing me of not taking care of him. Thus, one by one, I explained the situation – how that a surgery would likely kill him. And that he was a rescue and so forth. After they heard the story, they would admire rather than judge me, but I was reminded of the bumper sticker: “Who rescued who?”
But I wasn’t always kind. Just last night, the boys came over and Taz was beside himself to see his three buddies all at one time. So, he ran into the house, found a couple of strange bags, and peed on them. And I went off. I yelled at him. And ran him out of the house. I don’t like when animals pee in the house. It makes me crazy. Please forgive me, Taz. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. I know I didn’t hurt you, but I know I hurt your feelings.
Later, we had a good game of soccer, so I think I’d mended my fences, but I had no idea that last night would be our last soccer match. I don’t think he knew either. He played as hard as always and never once cut me any slack. Soccer was serious business with Taz and me.
And I had no idea that this dumb ole dog with a hole in his heart would leave such a hole in mine. I miss you already. So much.
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Adjunct
Outstanding Adjunct Faculty – Who? You!
I think each and every one of you deserve the title, because you are outstanding. You do a job that offers very little in worldly rewards. It doesn’t pay well, it doesn’t provide you with benefits, and it has no job security whatsoever.
Don’t misunderstand. There are blessings. I’m the first to say that I love my job. I love my students. I love what we do together. That said, there are lots of things I could do without.
Little things even. I don’t know why my parking permit has to loudly proclaim my lame status as an adjunct. What difference does it make? We’re not given lesser parking privileges. We’re not expected to park in some adjunct faculty lot. Although neither of these possibilities are true, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were, but as they aren’t – What difference does it make?
For me, the hardest part to swallow is the lack of job security along with the idea that somehow that’s my fault. If my class retention is poor, it must be something I’m doing. Where is the logic in that? In my department, we expect our students to attend class four nights a week for 16 weeks. Ain’t any other department with those kind of expectations. I mean, seriously. Would you study Japanese four nights a week for four months? Would you do anything four nights a week for four months?
The deepest sadness of being part-time, for me, is the lack of camaraderie. Early on in my career, I had visions of sitting around a hot cup of tea discussing my trouble explaining the ToBe verb or cradling a warm mug of hot chocolate while commiserating with my colleagues about the lack of time my students have. But there is no time nor place for that.
Of course I mind the denigration as much as the next fellow. The sense, the feeling, the weight of being less than, not as good as, not up to it. The unspoken differences. The unwritten rules. The unuttered nuances. Like the elephant in the living room, they are there and we all dance around them.
Shortly after getting my MA, I read an article in the LA Times about and by a woman who’d been working as a part-time instructor for 15 years. Having just come from the business environment where working generally meant in a real full time job with adequate pay and reasonable benefits, I was clueless. I read the article and thought, what an idiot. Now as I celebrate my 20th year at Palomar, I sometimes think the same thing.
I think each and every one of you deserve the title, because you are outstanding. You do a job that offers very little in worldly rewards. It doesn’t pay well, it doesn’t provide you with benefits, and it has no job security whatsoever.
Don’t misunderstand. There are blessings. I’m the first to say that I love my job. I love my students. I love what we do together. That said, there are lots of things I could do without.
Little things even. I don’t know why my parking permit has to loudly proclaim my lame status as an adjunct. What difference does it make? We’re not given lesser parking privileges. We’re not expected to park in some adjunct faculty lot. Although neither of these possibilities are true, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were, but as they aren’t – What difference does it make?
For me, the hardest part to swallow is the lack of job security along with the idea that somehow that’s my fault. If my class retention is poor, it must be something I’m doing. Where is the logic in that? In my department, we expect our students to attend class four nights a week for 16 weeks. Ain’t any other department with those kind of expectations. I mean, seriously. Would you study Japanese four nights a week for four months? Would you do anything four nights a week for four months?
The deepest sadness of being part-time, for me, is the lack of camaraderie. Early on in my career, I had visions of sitting around a hot cup of tea discussing my trouble explaining the ToBe verb or cradling a warm mug of hot chocolate while commiserating with my colleagues about the lack of time my students have. But there is no time nor place for that.
Of course I mind the denigration as much as the next fellow. The sense, the feeling, the weight of being less than, not as good as, not up to it. The unspoken differences. The unwritten rules. The unuttered nuances. Like the elephant in the living room, they are there and we all dance around them.
Shortly after getting my MA, I read an article in the LA Times about and by a woman who’d been working as a part-time instructor for 15 years. Having just come from the business environment where working generally meant in a real full time job with adequate pay and reasonable benefits, I was clueless. I read the article and thought, what an idiot. Now as I celebrate my 20th year at Palomar, I sometimes think the same thing.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Carpe Diem
Carpe Diem
Generally translated as “Seize the moment,” it means: “the enjoyment of the pleasures of the moment without concern for the future” according to Miriam-Webster’s on-line dictionary which goes on to say it literally means, “Pluck the day.” And I rarely do. And we all need to.
I just called a friend of mine who I met thru a Sacred Dance class that I took some years ago, and I usually see her at an annual week-end retreat we often attend. The retreat is put on by the ADT – Alleluia Dance Theatre. You can like them on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AlleluiaDanceTheater btw.
Anyway, when Kathy didn’t answer the phone, I started to leave a message. I hadn’t been able to attend the week-end and I’d wanted to see if she’d gone and how it went. She leads a dance group for young women at her church, something that I’ve wanted to do for years, and I was going to ask her if I could practice with them once in a while as my teacher no longer holds classes and I just don’t seem to have anyone to dance with.
While I was leaving my message, a phone call came in from her. You know how cell phones do that. Anyway, the woman on the end of the line explained that she was Kathy’s caregiver. And, of course, she is not at liberty to tell me what’s happened to Kathy to cause her to need a caregiver.
We last danced together almost a year ago, in October I think, at a local music festival that was held at St. Mary Star of the Sea, a small Catholic church nearby. We’d been recruited by our former teacher, Emmalyn Moreno, who is one of the most gifted people I’ve ever met. She, too, has a web site http://musicbyemmalyn.com/index.html. She sings like an angel, plays the piano flawlessly, and is a truly wonderful dance teacher always meeting her students where they are and even encouraging them to do some of their own choreography.
I can’t imagine what arrow has befallen my friend Kathy and I pray warring angels around her right now – on all four sides.
Raised by a really strict Catholic mom, I thought the idea of sacred dance was a bit far out, if not downright sacrilegious when I first heard of it. I appreciated that Emmalyn welcomed people of all faith backgrounds, but when she included African drumming, I had some serious doubts and wondered if this were something I should be involved in. But it has been a huge blessing and I was hoping to take it up again on a more regular basis, until my friend didn’t answer her phone.
There is, of course, scriptural authority for dance, as you probably know including perhaps the most well known from Ecclesiastes 3:4 “A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;” I hope and pray that Kathy still has time to dance. Or you may be from an even stricter background that disapproves of dance altogether. I understand. I just finished my MBA in 2012 at Point Loma Nazarene. And the male profs there were fond of saying, “Don’t drink, don’t dance and don’t go with girls that do.”
Not into the spiritual realm? Fine. Take the words of Steve Jobs who wasn’t either, but he said, “Don’t wait.” And went on to say, “Time is all you have.” I often tell my students this. Time is all we have. And you can either invest it or waste it. The choice is yours.
What about you? When was the last time you took the time to do something that brings you joy and didn’t fret about what you should have been doing.
Sometimes I can’t remember when or even how, but then I get nostalgic – as often happens in September. Tomorrow would have been my husband’s 69th birthday. He passed away when he was 50, but he’d lived much longer than anyone expected. He was diagnosed when he was 29 with the disease that would kill him.
The day after his birthday, the 17th, would have been our 49th anniversary. Actually, we were legally separated for many years before he finally filed for divorce, but both decisions were largely for financial reasons. And, besides, you never really stop loving your first love. He stole my heart. And, then, too, he is the father of my children. No one will ever replace him in my life. And with the softening of time, I only remember him in the fondest of ways.
We met when I was just 15. And we married the day after he turned 20 because he didn’t want to be a teen-ager when he got married ;) We had our son a few years later, but not before people began to tease us. Why folks thought our childbearing was their business I don’t know, but we both came from large families and were quite sure that we wanted some time together before the babies came. And then we only had two. We talked about three, but I had a miscarriage very shortly after my second daughter was born and that – I don’t know – kind of make me think.
I’ll leave you with another favorite of mine. A quote from William Purkey,
“You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching,
Love like you'll never be hurt,
Sing like there's nobody listening…”
Generally translated as “Seize the moment,” it means: “the enjoyment of the pleasures of the moment without concern for the future” according to Miriam-Webster’s on-line dictionary which goes on to say it literally means, “Pluck the day.” And I rarely do. And we all need to.
I just called a friend of mine who I met thru a Sacred Dance class that I took some years ago, and I usually see her at an annual week-end retreat we often attend. The retreat is put on by the ADT – Alleluia Dance Theatre. You can like them on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AlleluiaDanceTheater btw.
Anyway, when Kathy didn’t answer the phone, I started to leave a message. I hadn’t been able to attend the week-end and I’d wanted to see if she’d gone and how it went. She leads a dance group for young women at her church, something that I’ve wanted to do for years, and I was going to ask her if I could practice with them once in a while as my teacher no longer holds classes and I just don’t seem to have anyone to dance with.
While I was leaving my message, a phone call came in from her. You know how cell phones do that. Anyway, the woman on the end of the line explained that she was Kathy’s caregiver. And, of course, she is not at liberty to tell me what’s happened to Kathy to cause her to need a caregiver.
We last danced together almost a year ago, in October I think, at a local music festival that was held at St. Mary Star of the Sea, a small Catholic church nearby. We’d been recruited by our former teacher, Emmalyn Moreno, who is one of the most gifted people I’ve ever met. She, too, has a web site http://musicbyemmalyn.com/index.html. She sings like an angel, plays the piano flawlessly, and is a truly wonderful dance teacher always meeting her students where they are and even encouraging them to do some of their own choreography.
I can’t imagine what arrow has befallen my friend Kathy and I pray warring angels around her right now – on all four sides.
Raised by a really strict Catholic mom, I thought the idea of sacred dance was a bit far out, if not downright sacrilegious when I first heard of it. I appreciated that Emmalyn welcomed people of all faith backgrounds, but when she included African drumming, I had some serious doubts and wondered if this were something I should be involved in. But it has been a huge blessing and I was hoping to take it up again on a more regular basis, until my friend didn’t answer her phone.
There is, of course, scriptural authority for dance, as you probably know including perhaps the most well known from Ecclesiastes 3:4 “A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;” I hope and pray that Kathy still has time to dance. Or you may be from an even stricter background that disapproves of dance altogether. I understand. I just finished my MBA in 2012 at Point Loma Nazarene. And the male profs there were fond of saying, “Don’t drink, don’t dance and don’t go with girls that do.”
Not into the spiritual realm? Fine. Take the words of Steve Jobs who wasn’t either, but he said, “Don’t wait.” And went on to say, “Time is all you have.” I often tell my students this. Time is all we have. And you can either invest it or waste it. The choice is yours.
What about you? When was the last time you took the time to do something that brings you joy and didn’t fret about what you should have been doing.
Sometimes I can’t remember when or even how, but then I get nostalgic – as often happens in September. Tomorrow would have been my husband’s 69th birthday. He passed away when he was 50, but he’d lived much longer than anyone expected. He was diagnosed when he was 29 with the disease that would kill him.
The day after his birthday, the 17th, would have been our 49th anniversary. Actually, we were legally separated for many years before he finally filed for divorce, but both decisions were largely for financial reasons. And, besides, you never really stop loving your first love. He stole my heart. And, then, too, he is the father of my children. No one will ever replace him in my life. And with the softening of time, I only remember him in the fondest of ways.
We met when I was just 15. And we married the day after he turned 20 because he didn’t want to be a teen-ager when he got married ;) We had our son a few years later, but not before people began to tease us. Why folks thought our childbearing was their business I don’t know, but we both came from large families and were quite sure that we wanted some time together before the babies came. And then we only had two. We talked about three, but I had a miscarriage very shortly after my second daughter was born and that – I don’t know – kind of make me think.
I’ll leave you with another favorite of mine. A quote from William Purkey,
“You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching,
Love like you'll never be hurt,
Sing like there's nobody listening…”
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